The Mill to Knettishall Heath.

Hardly a church in sight today. 

I’m at the end.

I buy a coffee from the friendly mobile man in the car park of Knettinshall Common and talk about the walk and things in general. More regulars come and go. Casually, I wander off to sit down to try and find an Uber taxi. The connection is not good to start with, and then they link me in. But after 10 minutes or so, they ( or it) admit they can’t help.

I phone the pub in Thetford where I’m staying tonight, but all I get is a recorded message from Greene King, which is useless for my enquiry.

Back to Phil, I’m on first-name terms by now, for a second coffee. More regulars, mainly dog walkers, come and go. Some chat longer than others. One, long-haired Steve with his dog, lingers longest and seems interested in my predicament.

“You don’t live in Thetford, do you?” is my direct question. “No, I don’t” is the reply. He stays in the opposite direction, but it was worth a try. The chat continues as the car park starts to empty. “How far is it to Thetford?’ he asks. “About 6 miles or so, I think.” Phil confers. After a bit of thought, he offers to give me a lift using an expression I didn’t recognise, but literally meaning just for the friendship of it. He refuses payment, also, just for the friendship of it.

More chatting with Phil and others whilst I make friends with Steve’s dog, my soon-to-be travelling companion. Then bidding farewell to Phil, we wander across the car park and onto the road where a battered old open-back Land-rover is parked, probably illegally on the verge, to avoid the parking charges. It is unlocked, but Steve pulls a steering wheel from his rucksack, which he then attaches to the stem, his effective anti-theft device. What next? Well, the passenger door doesn’t open easily, so I climb in over the back.

Then we are off, and despite the rattles and the draughts through the missing windows, we sail along happily with the engine purring away. I navigate the few miles to the outskirts of Thetford, where I get him to drop me off without getting caught in complicated traffic. I leave some money in his dashboard for a bottle of wine for his genuine kindness. I have to be helped out of the cab before he can turn round and roar off. A special encounter.

And what of the walking today? Outside the towns, Suffolk is a patchwork of large fields and woods. Well, it isn’t the best.

A long trudge up the dusty lane from my B&B, A short but very noisy walk on a narrow verge of a hectic road. It takes some time for my senses to settle down once I reach the relative calm of the next byway. One doesn’t always realise how polluting noise is.

The sandy track passes more pig farms and vast harvested fields.

Not a farmhouse in sight. Modern farming just needs storage, heavy machinery and workers, probably living in nearby towns.

I found out where all the mashed-up maize goes before it is permanently stored. A tumulus of mulch. For a time, I drift off and imagine I’m on the beach.

Somewhere along the way, I go off to investigate this hummock – is it an anthill? Sadly not. It gets me thinking, when did I last see a wood ant’s nest?

I see, only just, my first horse rider trotting off down the Duke’s Way, where I’m not allowed.

Another busy road lies ahead at Euston, where maybe I could catch a train home, well, not from this Euston. I cross a bridge over the River Blackbourne. The flint wall around the Euston Estate has some unusual additions.

I sit by the village green, all is part of the estate.

In the hall’s grounds, but a little too far off track, is an interesting church. I think you have had enough interesting churches this week.

Capability Brown was responsible for the design of the estate’s grounds.

Despite signs directing the IW walker off down a public right-of-way outside the walls, the route leads inside the grounds on a permissive footpath between mature oak, beech, and sweet chestnut trees.  I’m bombarded from above by acorns and beech nuts; it must be a mast year. 

Giant puffballs are the size of footballs.

On I go, a trig point appears in the middle of nowhere. 49m, I’m feeling dizzy.

After crossing another road, smaller paths are used through the woods. Finding a tree trunk to sit on for a chocolate break. The trunk is a work of art. 

The path narrowed, and I find myself pushing through the shrubbery. The aroma from the Ivy flowers is quite strong, something I’ve not noticed before. The insects are buzzing around it – a late supply of nectar.

Hidden in the brambles is an Icknield Way Milestone. I’m nearing the end.

Entering Knettishall Common, the scenery changes to a more pleasing vista; gone are those vast agricultural fields. I end up walking on the agar of Peddars Way Roman Road.

The last time I stood at this sign was in 2015 with my old mate Mel, we had just completed the Angles Way from Great Yarmouth. We walked the Peddars Way back in 2003.

It is good to be back.

All I have to do is walk down to the car park, have a coffee, and hail a taxi.

*

The Bell Inn, Thetford.

It seems a long time ago I stood on Ivinghoe Beacon. Now, what about the Wessex part of the Great Chalk Way?

Icklingham – to New Zealand Cottages, The Mill.

King’s Forest was named to commemorate the Silver Jubilee of King George V and Queen Mary in 1935. The forest was planted in the 1930s and is primarily composed of pines, Scots and Corsican. There are belts of deciduous trees, and the Icknield Way follows one of these. Glacial sandy soil covers the chalk. I have a walk of about 4 miles through the heart of it.

But before we arrive there, I have the pleasure of viewing All Saints’ Church on the edge of Icklingham, A medieval thatched church in the care of The Churches Conservation Trust.  All Saints’  was built largely in the fourteenth century, although it is of Norman origin. Since it has not been used as a parish church for over 100 years, it remains one of the best examples of an unspoilt Suffolk church. Of course, it is built of flint and stone. With all roofs, apart from the tower, thatched, the last time was in 1999. There are some fine gargoyles on the tower roof. Click on any image to enlarge.

The door handle is cleverly crafted. A cross, a heart and an anchor.

It is light and airy upon entry, with lots of plain glass in the windows. Not being in use, it is sparsely furnished. Most of the woodwork dates back to the 17th century. All the windows feature elegant tracery, and there is some medieval stained glass. The thatch can be seen in the roof space, giving the space an agricultural feel.

Traces of paint indicate that the stonework would have originally been decorated.

A highlight of the church is the chancel floor, laid with fourteenth-century tiles. With a variety of colours, shapes, and designs, they form a unique mosaic. They have been here for 700 years!

That was a fascinating hour, but time to get on the way. Fields are traversed behind the church, and then I’m into the King’s Forest for four miles. Sandy and  flinty, the trail gives easy walking. The trees, beech, oak and birch, line either side, but beyond them are the conifer plantations managed by Forest England.  There are the prints of deer, but I never saw any, despite sitting quietly for long periods. Fallow, Roe or Muntjac’s?

What’s out there?

Another diversion was the bird song from the trees. Robins are common, and where there are bushes of broom gone to seed, flocks of Blue, Great and Long-tailed Tits flit about. The occasional Buzzard soars overhead at the margins of the forest.

A fork in the track is my only navigational decision. I choose left, which turns out to be right if you see what I mean. There are still some flowers hanging on into autumn.

At some stage, bored with the track I take to the beechwoods in search of fungi.

Eventually, there ahead is a monument, and I hit the road at Shelterhouse Corner. I can just about make out the inscription celebrating the Jubilee of 1935.

A path through the pine shelter bed is provided to avoid the busy road.

Then it is back into the woods on a byway. All of a sudden, it becomes busy with outsized agricultural vehicles.

A monster of a machine, squirting muck, is raking the field I have to cross.

The watering equipment for these fields is also on the large scale.

I eventually escape the arena…

…back into Breckland forestry.

Now on well used tracks passing massive pig farms, with a choice of housing.

And then in the middle of nowhere, I’m at the very comfortable Mill for the night. An oasis of calm.

I don’t know why the cottages are labelled ‘New Zealand’ on the map, and I forget to ask.

Stretchworth to Kentford. 

Making my own breakfast is a help, as I’m able to get away before nine. I just walk up the road to Stretchworth.

As usual, leaving the villages, I find myself in a narrow corridor. Little do I realise that I will be doing the same for most of the morning.

But first, a few fields to get to cross the Devil’s Ditch, which here is more like an embankment. This was the border country between Mercia and East Anglia.

There are views across the fields to the flat Cambridgeshire countryside- Newmarket must be down there somewhere.

A gent walking his dog stops to say hello. Perfectly normal on a lovely sunny morning in the countryside, I always do the same. Twenty minutes later, I manage to get on my way. He never draws breath, informing me of all things medical, sharing findings from his personal research. Advice on diet, posture, tracking poles, walking, etc., etc

Feeling shell-shocked, I stagger across the following fields before I regain my composure. I almost walk past Woodditton Church, St. Mary the Virgin,  somewhat hidden in the trees. A simple structure of great age with an outstanding tower. Unfortunately, it is not open. There is medieval graffiti I would have liked to see.

And then I’m down the one-way alley: high fences and hedges on either side. I can’t see what’s on the other side, but I can guess—horse paddocks. Not the little ones for Jane’s pony, no, these are large for the thoroughbred horses. We are only a few miles from Newmarket – trainers’ fields and stud stables. Vast acres are utilised for the sport. It would be interesting to see the aerial view.

I plod on for miles of this. Easy walking, but with no variety.  And yet I still haven’t seen anyone riding on this trip. Horses are spotted in the occasional clearance, even practice courses, but no riders. 

I escape into Cheveley past some stables, looking for a coffee. Unfortunately, the shop is having a major overhaul, and all I end up with is a pint of milk. The bus shelter provides a bench – the lot of a vagabond. Some smart properties line the main street.

The church down the high street is massive.

And then I’m back behind the hedges.

I don’t escape easily. 

 I wonder where these gates lead?   Buzzards wheel above.

Ashley is a smaller place with even fewer facilities. But it does have a duck pond with a bench for lunch.

Before leaving, I check out the church; every village has one. An ancient one has been replaced in 1845. A simple design, one that lends itself to functions not necessarily of a religious nature. The back half of the nave has had its pews removed, creating an ideal space for families and clubs to hire. A way for churches to survive. The ukulele group practice is later today. 

Road walking is needed across the next stretch of countryside, but the road is quiet. It drops down to the River Kennett, which is running dry.

Now in the woodlands bordering  Dalham Hall estate. The guidebook suggests a diversion on paths around the estate, but I am happy to continue on the quiet road to Gazeley. (Dalham Hall is owned by  Sheikh Muhammed bin Rachid al-Mactoum, the ruler of Dubai, who has a murky past.) 

Gazeley is similar in style to the other villages visited today. There is no pub or shop.

The church is, however, a Medieval masterpiece.

The chancel, which is rendered, is C14th with Decorative Style windows. The aisles and tower are C15th with Perpendicular Style windows. You can see the contrast in the photo above. 

There is so much medieval woodwork inside, pews, pulpit, roof and screen. 

 My phone camera can’t capture the detail in the chancel, but there are photos provided.

There is a good collection of brasses on the floor. 

Even the carved font is C14th.

I spend more time than usual in this church, not just for its treasures, but to shelter from the only rain shower of the trip—time to move on. 

The road passes a converted windmill and its associated cottages. 

And then I’m crossing fields once more with just a narrow path through the sugar beet.

The sound of the busy trunk road to Bury St Edmunds becomes irritating. And then I’m hemmed in until the end on the narrow pavement alongside the main road into Kentford. But salvation appears in the form of a transport cafe. I’ve been hankering for a coffee all day. Can you spot the difference?

Yes, the sign was changed as I was yards from the door.  

My pub for the night, The Bell, has unusual hours for a Tuesday night, with the bar and restaurant open from 6 to 7, mainly for the residents, of which there are a few workers, as well as myself. They say they can’t get the staff.  I don’t even ask about breakfast.

I can’t complain, they have bright, comfortable rooms in the courtyard, and the food is decent. 

*

Balsham to Stretchworth.

I’m in no rush. I eat my DIY breakfast in my room. Let the day warm up a little.  There are shops open, but I don’t need anything. When I do, there won’t be any. Sod has something to do with it.

Across the green is a small shelter, the ‘Prince Memorial’ to a local family at the beginning of the C20th, and a stone marker for The Icknield Way,  Ivinghoe Beacon, 63 miles, Peddars Way, 43 miles. So I am more than halfway. 

Thatched cottages are scattered throughout the village; this one, with its ducks and hens, is on the church approach.

Holy Trinity is another large church. The oldest part is the tower, C13th, with some impressive buttresses holding it up. Inside, the nave, supported by massive columns, clerestory and chancel date from the C14th.

The chancel features ancient carved pews, some of which have their original misericords.  Wood that is over 500 years old. 

Large, well-preserved medieval brasses to both  John Sleford and Hugh de Balsham are present in the chancel. 

Alterations were made to the church in the early 20th century, including stained glass windows and an imposing font cover, carved in the late 1920s by the then Rector, Edwin Burrell.

I wind my way through the village recreation grounds; all these little villages seem to have good facilities. The town councils must have their priorities right and the backing of a young, dynamic populace. As I said, they are dormitory towns for Cambridge.   

A sign points the way to Fox Lane, and I know when I reach it. Yet another thatcher’s animal adornment.

The lane that I follow for about three miles is no longer a greenway; attempts have been made to surface it in the past. However, it provides easy walking, with the chalk and flints visible through the surface.

The lane undulates between large fields. Prominent wind turbines are passed as height is gained.

Partridges run ahead of me, and there is an accompanying bird song from the hedges. Buzzards and kites fly overhead. Crabapples, haws, blackberries, and sloes are in profusion as I’ve mentioned many times this Autumn. These diversions keep me occupied on this three-mile plod.

A couple of small roads are crossed on the way, but no habitations. The lane ends abruptly at a dry ford, where I take a right turn on another lane. I soon realise why there were so many partridges about, they are feeding them to shoot them later.

Past Crick’s Farm, which turns out to be just two large sheds. 

 High fields give far-reaching views; those wind turbines don’t look far away.

Horsey fields, as I call them, are navigated until I’m alongside some neat allotments. A member is doing a bit of mowing but is happy to stop and chat. I learn a little about Brinkley, and he points me in the right direction of The Red Lion, which I might have. missed otherwise.

The Red Lion doesn’t look inviting from the outside. Have I become too thatch addicted? However, it turns out to be very friendly and accommodating,  a pint and a sit-down are enjoyed, and I stay for coffee.

Back in the village, I spend some time looking around St Mary’s church. On the gatepost is a stone skull and crossbones carving, intended to ward off evil spirits.  This church underwent many alterations in Victorian times, although the tower dates back to the 13th century, with diagonal buttressing and an unusual chequered flushwork base course. I like the red brick porch, apparently added in Tudor times.

Inside, most of the space is a Victorian restoration of the old structure. The Ensign hanging in the nave was presented to the church by the company of HMS Brinkley when it was decommissioned in 1962.

The tower arch is very tall and thin. Under the tower, there is an early 17th-century clock mechanism, an interesting survival.

 Bits of Medieval glass have been incorporated into the windows. 

I like the simplicity of this wall plaque. 

I read, too late, that the base of an old preaching cross, predating the church, is in the churchyard.

The way to Burrough is straightforward, and I come out onto the village green. A fine circle of field mushrooms is so obvious that I wonder why nobody has picked any.

St. Augustine Church is tucked away down a side lane. The church strikes me as unusual in having three chantries on the south wall. The tower is squat compared to many and remains unchanged from the rest of the C14th church, which has had many alterations over the years. At one time, there were chapels on either side of the chancel. Their presence is still visible in the exterior stonework.

Upon entering, the interior is devoid of pillars, and the chancel arch has been removed, leaving a boxy feel to this end.

The east window is beautiful, and contains some glass from before 1350.. The Puritans, led by William ‘Basher’ Dowsing under the 1643 Parliament Ordinance, destroyed the majority of the stained glass in the church – and what else?.

The three sedilia and double piscinae, seen in the south wall, are the oldest surviving features in the church.  Opposite on the north wall of the chancel are the three ornate niches containing medieval effigies of the local De Burgh family.

Originally, they would have been open on each side, linking the chancel and the lost north chapel. (We saw the outline of one on the outside) 

A further pair of later effigies sits in the north aisle. They show better workmanship, but are also badly weathered.  John Ingoldisthorpe and Elizabeth De Burgh, died 1420 and 1421 respectively.

Leaving the church, the path crosses the green; the old schoolhouse looks interesting.

Around the back of the Bull Inn, the path becomes enclosed for some way between horse paddocks – we are only a few miles from Newmarket.

Briefly, I join the E2 path (also the Stour Valley Path) in some woods.

Open countryside at last, before a sunken track takes me to the front door of my Airbnb.

A wonderful cottage with converted outhouses. Perfect. Another fascinating day in this region so unfamiliar to me. 

*

Great Chesterford – Balsham.

A good sign – sun shining bright through the window at 8 am. Breakfast is enjoyed whilst trying to get used to the waitress’s languid local accent. Am I in Cambridgeshire or Essex?

Somehow I’ve picked up a head cold, but fortunately, the little shop around the corner sells Paracetamol, along with everything else. A pleasant village with some old houses, I’m back in flint country.

Over to the flint church where a Sunday morning service is taking place. I don’t intrude, but I am intrigued to see the congregation watching a video screening, possibly from another church. Perhaps a joining of forces for these isolated churches with small congregations. I was hoping to see some of the medieval graffiti inside the church.

I’m reunited with the Icknield Way waymarks on the edge of the village.

The usual slow climb back up onto the flinty chalk hills. There is a Trig point at 114m I probably won’t reach any higher in the next few days; this is not mountain walking.

The views are clear in the polar air which is pushing down the country.  The calmness of the day up here blots out the turmoil of the world below. Alongside ploughed fields and down a drove road.

As the village of Liton drew closer, I could see ahead, above the treeline on Rivey Hill, a prominent water tower, a landmark for miles. First stop was the Crown Hotel, in the pretty High Street, for a coffee before they started Sunday lunch. They were busy mopping out a flood in the bar area.

The centre of the village was a delight for a Northener.

Across a ford on the River Granta is St Mary’s Church. A large church that reflects the wealth of Linton as a historical market town.The church dates, as most around here, from the C12th.

The tower from the 14th Century has four unusual inlaid black flint crosses.

Also on the tower is a small exterior doorway; maybe a priest lived in the tower when it was built.

Is that a ‘lepers’ window around the side of the chancel?

The morning service has just finished, and the remaining friendly parishioners are all too pleased to chat. In comes a chap with one of those sticks that take pictures from above and then magically disappear. He had come in to film a 360-degree vision of the church interior. Whilst we are talking, he produces one with us in the centre. I don’t know how to show you the 360-degree moving one he sent me.

The arched nave is supported on solid stone piers with a clerestory above. On the southern side are three c.1200 unusual circular clerestory windows,

On either side of the chancel are two small chapels. The northern one, mostly filled with the organ, contains a fascinating marble monument to Sir John Millicent, who died in 1577. In the middle, Sir John and his second wife rest their hands on a skull. Above and below are shallow carvings of their children and of Sir John’s first wife,

Back outside, I find a seat for a spot of lunch. The attractive village appears to be popular with day visitors. A thatched pub along the way has the dog and duck displayed, as is the custom, in straw on the roof ridge.

My guide mentions the Linton Clapper stile. A listed monument and one of only four in the country. I crossed the busy recreational field to where it was supposed to be. No sign of it. I ask a passing local, and he points out I’m standing right next to it, so underwhelming it is. I prevailed upon him to demonstrate it in action. This is a recent reconstruction, so I’m unsure why it is still listed. I leave the park with my tail between my legs.

Suddenly, out of the village, a familiar white track leads up the fields. At the top, a seat offers a place to catch my breath with a view over the Granta valley. Built of sturdy metal by an engineer in 1981, but unfortunately suffering from timber decay.

Onwards, the water tower I saw across the valley this morning comes into sight, and I’m surprised to find some houses up here also. I walk down their gravel access lane.

Escaping a short stretch of road, my path crosses several harvested fields.

Arriving at a Roman Road running from Colchester to Cambridge. The ancient Icknield Way is possibly 3000 years older. I follow the Roman road eastwards for some distance.

A byway heads off towards Balsham.

I’m getting into a slower stride for the last mile. Balsham is one of the highest villages in Cambridgeshire, and once again, there are those extensive views. I enter the village by the Old Butcher’s Shop, with the dog running away with the sausages.

Time to find my inn for the night. Somehow, I have ‘The Bell’ in my head, but upon entering, I’m informed they don’t have rooms. Am I in the right village? Have I cocked up my forward planning? They suggest trying the Black Bull down the road. Checking my booking, that is where I should be. Another tail between my legs moment.

Once at the correct pub, I book in, knowing that they are closing early tonight for their staff party in Cambridge. As arranged, they provide an evening meal to take to my room and a self-service breakfast for the morning. This suits me fine. Second night in a row for a long soak in a spacious bath and an early night with my paracetamol.

*

                                                                  Kentford. A L Collins.

I started planning this next section of the Icknield Way Path as soon as I arrived home from finishing the first half to Great Chesterford in Essex. If I complete it, I will link up with the Peddars Way, which I walked with Mel way back in 2003. All part of the Great Chalkway, though I didn’t know it at the time.

My walk from Ivinghoe Beacon through Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Cambridgeshire, and Essex was a success, with well-maintained paths, diverse wildlife, a selection of pubs, and interesting churches and towns. I’m heading into a different scenery, after Kentford, the chalk is overlaid with sand. This is the Breckland – open sandy heath with Scots Pines. 80% of Breckland heathland was lost between 1934 and 1980. Huge areas have been planted with conifer plantations, and many heaths have been ploughed for arable crops.

I won’t be passing any large towns. Sorting out accommodation in the small villages along the way hasn’t been easy. But for a change, I’ve been able to find somewhere each night virtually on the route, so no faffing with bus timetables. Perhaps restocking with food might be difficult. The weather will take care of itself. I have a day’s journey down by train to Cambridge and on to start in Great Chesterford.

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans, an old Yiddish saying.

*

Since my last walk, I have sourced a copy of a book, The Icknield Way, written by Edward Thomas in 1913, with illustrations by A L Collins. Thomas had walked the route in 1911. He talks of byways and paths and gives a vivid, if lengthy, description of the chalk highways. I realise, upon reading bits of it, how much has changed over a century. Lanes that he used are now dual carriageways; hence, the current guidebook seeks out the most interesting way as close as possible to the historical road.

Thomas (1878 -1917) gained a second-class degree in History at Oxford. He then decided to pursue a career as a writer, encouraged to publish essays based on the detailed notes he took on his walks. His first book, The Woodland Life, was published in 1897. He endured years of poorly paid writing but became one of the foremost critics of the day. He developed a close friendship with the American poet Robert Frost, and it was he who encouraged Thomas to write poetry. (Frost’s most famous poem, “The Road Not Taken”, was inspired by walks with Thomas and Thomas’s indecisiveness about which route to take.) In the last years of his life, Thomas wrote over 140 poems. He was killed in battle in France in April 1917. The poems that made his name were published after his death.

Cambridge here I come.

*

I leave a dull and rainy NW. The Preston Station waiting room had this message—an apt start to my journey.

I didn’t realise I’ve booked a first-class seat to Birmingham, all for £30.

The ongoing cross-country train wasn’t as comfy. Nuneaton, Leicester, Melton Mowbray, Oakham, Grantham, Stamford, Peterborough, March, Ely, all pass by in a blur.

The sun comes out as I reach Peterborough. Cambridge is somewhat chaotic, with no trains going further south. Eventually, I find a bus taking me back to Great Chesterford, where I finished last time. The bus takes forever to negotiate Addenbrooke’s Hospital, what a place.

My hotel is an old English Grade II listed house with lots of character inside; ie somewhat dated and jaded but perfect for my tastes. It dates back to the 18th and 19th centuries and was once a coaching inn on the London to Newmarket road. Somewhere below it are Roman remains.

The name Chesterford is of Roman origin, but little remains as more recent builders plundered the stone over the centuries.

The room upgrade was a bonus: a bath and a four-poster.

I’ve become accustomed to a bit of luxury at the start of my trips.

An early night is called for after a journey of nearly 10 hours.

Chrishall to Great Chesterford.

My Uber taxi drops me off back in Chrishall. Large fields are crossed before a lane brings me to the next village, Elmdon.

 The house in front of me was previously The Carrier Inn, one of five pubs in the village at one time. Beer was safer than water. These agricultural settlements reached a peak population at the end of the 19th century before mechanisation made much of the labour force redundant and drove people to the towns. And now they are probably inhabited by workers from the city.

The Church of St. Nicholas is prominent above the village. 

The tower is C15th, but the rest of the church was rebuilt in the 19th century. I don’t find much of interest inside except for a C16th marble altar tomb and an embossed coffin lid. 

I stroll around King’s Lane …. some delightful buildings.

Once out of the village, little byways pass through the fields. I seem to be on the local dog walkers’ route. Everyone is happy on this glorious morning.

I wind my way up to the isolated church at Strethall, its tower just visible.

Small compared to others, it is plain inside with a splendid arched chancel. Much is C12th. The stained glass is Victorian, and the east window is so large that the structure of that wall has been compromised. An iron cross bar was inserted, but more recently, oak beams have been installed across the chancel for extra strength. Some of the pews are over 600 years old. I have been meaning to mention the tiles I’ve seen in the churches this week. Many have been encaustic tiles. Encaustic tiles were traditionally created using different colours of ceramic clay, with the pattern inlaid into the body of the tile. The different coloured clays can extend into the base tile by up to 6 millimetres. This means the patterns remain visible even after centuries of wear. I spent time in a tile museum in Ironbridge last year learning about this process. I wonder if these tiles originated in Coalbrookdale, Shropshire?

There is a hall and its farm nearby, and that is Strethall – all is peace and quiet. Even the narrow lanes have no traffic apart from a couple of cyclists out from London for the day.

The following field of beet is massive; my narrow path takes over 10 minutes to traverse, about half a mile. Sign of things to come?

Ahead is an equally massive and newly ploughed field, and I’m dreading crossing it. Thankfully, a narrow hedged strip has been preserved and what a wildlife corridor it proves. Full of birdsong and berries galore, as is the norm this year. Covies of partridges fly out as I progress—Roe deer disappear across the fields. This is what rambling is all about, but then the distant rumbling of the M11 slowly impinges on the senses.

You hear it long before you see it.

They have gone to a lot of expense to bridge over all the lanes and slip roads. A Flag of St. George decorates the railings – I wonder about the motive of placing it there. In the interests of safety for the motorists below, I remove it.

Over the bridge, a lane takes me into Great Chesterford. Sounds as though there is a Roman connection there. I don’t think that when this house was built, they would have expected a motorway to go past their back door.

The train to Cambridge is just down the road. Getting home is more tiring than the few miles I’ve done today.    My kittens are pleased to see me. I’m surprised they recognise me, as my hair is a tangle, having forgotten to take a comb on my travels.

*

*

I think I am about halfway on the Icknield Way Path, Ivinghoe Beacon to Knettishall Heath, 106 miles. Thanks for sticking with me so far. I have probably followed some of the Icknield Way, but lots of it is lost in the mists of time. I certainly felt I was on an ancient way much of the time; there was that mystical atmosphere around. Whatever, it has made for an excellent LDW so far. It’s time to go home for a while, but I hope to be back before the end of September to finish it and join the Peddars Way on Knettishall Heath.