The Garden Wall

 A high wall- at least twelve feet, surrounds a garden in Hoxne.  The stately home has long since gone, swept from the earth as in a biblical prophecy.  We are staying in a lean-to against this wall.  Its foundations are deep.  The wall has withstood, and stands complete.  

Three acres encloses a small kingdom.  Around the wall are name tags nailed to the bricks.  Letters stamped onto strips of lead.  The names are of fine old pear trees.  'Piedmont Duchess', 'Crabbs Favourite' and 'Castilian'. Ancient pear trees, bent like people of burden.  Elegant pears drooping, heavy, hard as marble. 

Across from the garden is the Golden Brook Bridge.  This bridge is  the site of betrayal.  From here the righteous king was dragged and strapped to a tree; shot dead with Danish arrows.   When the tree collapsed in 1841, it is said that arrow heads were found spilling out of the wood.  Was this the tree of legend where King Edmund of East Anglia was strung up?  The King, the Martyr, and the Saint.  Arrows, the crown, on a red cross; the flag of Suffolk.  Was this is the spot?  Edmund's relics were taken to Bury, once a mighty abbey, now a modern cathedral.  We visited it and saw the new tower, completed in 2005.  Edumdsbury they called the town.  Burial place of St Edmud.  

I start my morning walk.  This is a village of bridges.  White Bridge, Red Bridge,  Gold.  The river looks green as a mill pond.  Up  on the other side, a sandy bank through trees. A tall row of poplars stand like giant sentinels. Stinging nettles slash at my shins.  Then deadnetttles, the harmless enemy, just pretending, turning a blind eye.  Up the steep slop.   Now a sandy road zig-zags down below me to a modern dwelling hidden in the trees. I can see a tennis court.  Large expanses of fields open up.  The golden stubble is all that is left form the harvest frenzy last week.  Two hares lollop off into the distance with stiff erect ears.

This field has a smattering of white snow, drifting in the tractor tracks.  It pick a flower to examine it.  It looks like a flowering chamomile.  Clover-like white flowers.  No smell.  Not chamomile.  At Capon's farm a damson tree showers the grown with spilled fruit.  I stuff my pockets.  Some make it all the way back home.  Every now and again, along the road I spy a small thatched cottage.  In this county the thatch is turned up at the ends on the roofline, like a saddle.  They remind me of the roofline of Thai houses.  A case of convergent evolution? Next, I anticipate a grand estate, as marked out on my map, with formal avenues, and large gardens, and lakes.  But this estate that has seen better days.  The farm buildings and clock tower are collapsing.  The actual house has had a dramatic 'down size' and now sits like a contented child seated on a large throne.  The drive continues, a tunnel of trees, with a slight curve. On and on it goes.  I wonder whether it will complete a full circle and eject me where I started.   A friendly joggers comes towards me.  We glance at each other, knowing that we could chat, but we are both on a mission, the the thought flicks away.

Now I am on a road to the small town of Eye.  A flock of twittering birds, may be up to fifty, advance ahead of me as I approach.  On and on I come, and they move before me.  They chatter away.  My presence herds them forward.

We arrive at Mustard Pot Hall.  This old building displays a fine picture of a pargeted 'mustard pot'.  Next to this is 'Mustard Pot Barn', and next to that 'Mustard Pot Farm'.  This creates quite a stir.

Across the field I go toward Eye, The mist is thick.  A lady walks her two dogs ahead of me. As I draw near, she disappears, then there she is ahead of me again.  I catch up with her and she explains the route.  The map is not the territory. The locals know what's best.  "Follow the stream to the Bolser Council Estate" she says.  The route is easy, and not marked on the map.

Eye is silence and closed.  The High tower of the church, not as high as the Castle, shrouded in green trees, high up on its hill.  High Mass at 10:45 the church says.  "That's fine" I thought "but it still won't do for the Catholics."

I am returning now, past Rettery Cottage.  What happen there I wonder?  Retting perhaps? I learn that it's an essential process in the manufacture of flax.

The route follows the road, but a very fine Suffolk Council footpath sign guides me into Oaklawn Farm.  This is a trap.  The path goes up the drive into the farm's elegant back garden.  No one is around.  A pond, children's climbing frame and play house.  A hedge guides me discreetly to a small gate into a field.  But at the end of the field I see a stile into a large bramble patch.  The road, my destination, is visible on the other side.  Annoyed, I strike out, determined to find a way through.  Father down the field is wooden gate, tightly closed shut with a rusty hook. I manage to free it and cross an old rotten bridge.  Here is a hidden world, under spreading branches.  An ancient bench, paths going off, and another bridge (I can't trust my weight to this one and jump across the dry steam bed.)  But like the one who puts their trust in a botched scheme, I'm getting deeper and deeper into trouble. Time now to concede defeat.  Back I go though the farm.  Into the garden, through the hedge tunnel, back onto the road.  I walk past large hen houses.  From time to time a building erupts into a sound of blood curdling frenzy.  It feels like murder, but I see a worker stepping calmly out through a door into from the vast packed building.  The noise is like the roar of high pitched irate football fans.  But they settle, and I am walking away down the hill.  This is East Anglia, and this is the noise of the countyside. 'The Happy Egg', it says on the side of the lorry   I now pass the old tile and pipe factory.  It's up for sale.  A fascinating circular brick building.

And I am back, safely back to the security of  my wall.