Holiday Slide Show

 

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.   

Testing the Theory

 My friend Claus who is German and has lived in the UK for years told me to open my eyes and notice how ubiquitous stories about WWII are (sometime WWI) in the British media.  He is used to this as a German living in the UK.  I took up his challenge.

So let's see.  I read the Independent and I have Saturday 18th July's paper here in front of me.  This is not a particularly nationalistic paper.   It's not jingoistic. But let's test the theory.

On page 8 there is an article on the knighting of Captain Tom Moore.  This article does not mention the war at all, so it doesn't count.

Page 19 there is an article on a new headstone for the dambusters dog. There it is.  The second world war started 100 years ago (minus 19 years.) It is still omnipresent in the British psychic.

It is interesting also that this article refers to the removal of a racial slur from a gravestone.  Today I watched a short film presented by Obioma Ugoala (RSC and Hollywood actor).  In it he highlights the fact that British History has a dark side that we (the British) understandably shy away from.  During the Second World War it can be argued that the Nazi's had a strange respect for the British because one of the Nazi objectives was to emulate Britain. Germany wanted an Empire, and a 'world presence'.  One of the conditions presented to the UK by USA when it entered the war was that the UK was to relinquish it's empire.  The history of European empires put Nazi war crimes into the shade.  

Part of the British narrative of WWII is that plucky Britain stood up to heartless fascism and won.  There can only be good vibes emanating from these WWII stories, reminiscence and commemorations.  But perhaps it also acts as a shield from the darker stories of British history that, as Ugoala highlights, are largely to do with greed and prosperity.  The challenge for all declining empires is to not experience the injustices inflected on others being returned in vengeance upon themselves.  

Know Your Limits

 "Can I be of assistance?" enquired a kind-faced officer in a blue uniform.   As he drew up I could see his short fair hair, and a finely plucked chin, setting him apart from his hirsute neighbours.  The southern accent, and calm politeness gave a gravitas of seniority that required attention.

It was evident that we had inadvertently strayed into a sensitive military operation, but absolutely nothing was being given away.  I had imagined a rough track tapering off into the mists of the godforsaken north.  Here was a well made road, as good as anything in the south.  

"We are on our way to the sacred shrine at Cramel Lin", 

I explained, with open innocent eyes. 

"Indeed, a wonderful site, well worth visiting", 

our protector assured, 

"Though it's a tricky time at the moment.  A few weeks ago the place was descended on by barbarians.  Awful acts were committed.  A bull was  sacrificed.  The site was badly desecrated, and a legion had to be brought over from Birdoswald to tidy up.  Very sad, because it denies the innocent devotee like you from rightful homage.  You can still try and go if you wish, but be aware, the legion is still about and if they spot you, they are likely to exact a tribute.   At this time of day they'll be nursing sore heads from the night before, so you can try your luck."

Everything was civil about this encounter.  We were presented with the facts, and allowed to draw our own conclusion.  

In summary the message, expertly crafted, given to us, rude, unwitting, ignorant travelers, was clear.

  "Why stray north across the safety provided by the the wall?  There is nothing up here."