19 March 2015 - Upminster, Essex, England

Ten days ago we left Christchurch, New Zealand in rather a hurry and spent about thirty six hours travelling from our home, our motorhome, which we left parked up in an NZMCA storage paddock, to Heathrow in an altogether undignified manner, at least for people of our age. But to be fair, after having spent the first night bunked down on bean bags with backpackers in Christchurch airport, we were treated to premium economy privileges on the first leg of our journey as far as Brisbane. In fact we were the only passengers in that particular section of the plane and had first class service from the Virgin Air stewardess, as well as full use of the Air New Zealand lounge prior to boarding, a stark contrast to the Spartan facilities of our overnight doss pit. Alas that was the extent of the pampering; the next legs were tedious with long spells spent in the airports of exotic Singapore and Abu Dhabi with time enough to people watch and no more.


By the time we reached England and had spent about five hours hanging about waiting to meet up with our niece, we were all done, and the niceties that should have passed between long separated relatives were strained. For myself, it took a week to feel half way normal, and so it was quite fortuitous that the funeral that had brought us to the other side of the world was so very delayed.

Past experience had taught me that the English are in no hurry to bury or cremate their dead,  that they are in no way like the Jews or Arabs who hasten the practicalities of death. Sadly the burgeoning population of the country along with the more modern preference to cremate rather than over populate the cemeteries, has led to absurd queuing at crematoriums. My sister-in-law was given the optional dates of 17 March, almost two weeks after her husband’s death, or a date well into April. Naturally she chose the earlier date even at the late hour of 5.15pm. And so it was that we spent the long days with family grieving and waiting, waiting…

Fortunately Chris and I hired a car early in the piece and while we were kindly hosted by one of our nieces in Stowmarket, we did take advantage of the days to see some of my husband’s home county of Suffolk.

The hiring of the car was interesting in itself. Rather than hire from one of the recognised providers at the airport, we approached a garage situated on a farm property just out of the small village of Tostock. The operation, which seems to be much more than the repair of vehicles and random hire of old cars, fills the extensive area of the old fashioned walled farm yard. They said they did not normally hire out to “foreigners” but since we were staying with relatives in the locality, they would bend their rules. We ended up extending the initial week’s hire all for a very fair 120 GBP. While the Vauxhall Vectra was a dog to drive, had stuffed shock absorbers and poor gearing, we were glad to have the independence without it costing us an arm and a leg.

Our first grand outing was south to one of Suffolk’s most visited historic villages; Lavenham was once a centre of the region’s wool trade and has a wonderful collection of half-timbered houses. This village, and nearby Sudbury and Bury St Edmunds, along with much of the county were,  by 1490, very prosperous, producing more cloth than any other part of the country.  They continued to prosper for several centuries until the Industrial Revolution, when they became a rural backwater, unable to modernise, hence the fact that the architectural legacy of medieval and Tudor times survived, these days a boon to the modern tourist industry.

Lavenham’s Market Place is particularly attractive, an airy spot flanked by pastel-painted medieval dwellings, whose beams have been bent into all sorts of wonky angles by the passing years.  The lime washed Guild Hall of Corpus Christi, erected in the sixteenth century, is a National Trust building but was not open on the day we came through, but it served as a backdrop to our picnic spot. We wandered up and down the streets delighting in the quaintness of the place.  We walked up to the Perpendicular Church of St Peter and St Paul, a building that features gargoyle water spouts and carved pigs above the entrance, and a 141 foot tower funded by the rich merchants of the time to celebrate the Tudor victory at the battle of Bosworth in 1485.

On our return northward we drove through the equally attractive village of Long Melford, time not allowing for a visit to Melford Hall and Kentwell Park, and spent some time exploring the Abbey Gardens at Bury St Edmunds.

This town of just over 40,000 people started out as a Benedictine monastery, founded to accommodate the remains of Edmund, the last Saxon King of East Anglia, who was tortured and beheaded by the marauding Danes in 869. Almost two centuries later, England was briefly ruled by the kings of Denmark; King Canute made a gesture of reconciliation to his Saxon subjects by granting the monastery a generous endowment and building the monks a brand new church. The abbey prospered so much so that by the time of its dissolution in 1539, it had become the richest religious house in the country. Most of the abbey disappeared long ago leaving little to remind one of the grandiose Norman complex which once dominated the town.

But the locality is also historically important because it was here that the barons of England gathered in 1215 to swear that they would make King John sign their petition, the Magna Carta.

We walked in through the bulky fourteenth century Abbey Gate, through the gardens I saw six years ago in full bloom, but now were still contemplating the prospect of spring growth. I spotted a squirrel and was not content to move on until I had captured him with my camera lens. Needless to say squirrels are hugely fascinating for those from DownUnder; we don’t have them at home.

Bury, as the town is more commonly known by the locals, was home to my husband for at least half of his life spent in England before emigrating, so naturally he was pleased to be able to show me his old haunts. One such was Hardwick Heath where he played as a child. Here we walked across the playing fields, nowadays so much more formal than the wild “heath” of his childhood, and up into the woods. There we saw the first buds on the cherry trees, daffodils and snowdrops, harbingers of spring. We saw thousands of mole hills, rabbits and a grey squirrel scampering away. The big trees had all gone and the woods had lost the mystery of yesterday, but that so often happens when one revisits past haunts.

Hardwick Heath consists of around 55 acres of open parkland, now owned by the Bury St Edmunds Borough Council and managed for conservation and recreation. Its varied history includes use as a mediaeval grazing area for the Abbey and as a Prisoner of War camp during the Second World War. Its grazing history lasted from 945 until the Dissolution in 1539. The Hardwick flock of horned sheep with black faces and legs was for centuries considered one of the finest in the country. The ancient name Herdwyk is thought to derive from the wick, or rent, paid to the cellarer of the Abbey for the right to feed flocks and herds on the heaths and pastures here.

The Cullum family which owned the estate from 1656 to 1921 greatly improved Hardwick House. By the 1920s the house was a handsome Elizabethan mansion with a range of long conservatories and an indoor riding school. The surrounding grounds and formed gardens were as grand as the house itself. In 1921, when Gery Milner-Gibson-Cullum died without an heir, the estate became Crown property and sadly the house was demolished and sold for building materials. This particular fact startled Chris because as a child he always understood the house to be intact and still very grand, albeit hidden in the woods beyond his play area.

During and after the Second World War, Hardwick Heath was used as Prisoner War Camp number 260. The prisoners, mostly Germans, lived in Nissan huts, structures built of corrugated tin and wood. After the prisoners left the camp, local families were housed in the huts while their homes were rebuilt. The only remains of the camp are the concrete surfaces around the football pitches.

The Heath is renowned for its beautiful specimen trees which have been planted since the 1700s. The Cedars of Lebanon and Copper Beeches are the main trees, although these two are not as numerous as they were back in the 1950s and 1960s.

One day was spent up at Ickworth House, just out of Bury St Edmunds. We spent several hours wandering about the gardens and up and through the house. We had happened upon a “live” day which meant that “servants” were all dressed in 1930’s period dress busy baking and cleaning in the bowels of the mansion adding to the ambience of the place. The kitchen was a hive of industry with baking underway, but later when we returned, it was only the staff in their period costume who were enjoying the fruits of their labour.

It was here at Ickworth House that we signed up to the National Trust, paying an annual subscription of 99 GBP for the two of us, allowing us free entry to the many properties under the jurisdiction of the Trust, and free parking where they have a part interest. We figured that four visits to Trust buildings would cover the cost of the subscription, so once paid, we were now duty bound to extend our touring to such attractions.

Another day we headed south to Constable Country; East Burgholt where famous landscape painter John Constable was born in 1776, to Flatford Mill and Willy Lott’s Cottage on the River Stour, the well-known subjects of his canvases. We also spent some time walking about Dedham were Constable went to school and is one of the region’s most attractive villages. Sadly we arrived on a day that the Information Centre, the Bridge Cottage and Willy Lott’s Cottage were all closed, however we enjoyed our wander about and walk down the river toward Manningtree.

The hamlet of Flatford inspired some of Constable’s most famous paintings, including “The Hay Wain”. Willy Lott’s House is thought to be around 400 years old and was probably built in three phases. When Constable was painting at Flatford in the early 1800s, the house was the home of William Lott, a local farmer. During his long life of eighty eight years, he never spent more than a few days away from Flatford, but then that was how most people lived in those days.

Flatford Mill was once owned by Constable’s father, Golding, and was one of the many mills on the river where grain from local farms was turned into flour. The nearby Valley Farm is the oldest building at Flatford, dating back almost 650 years.  The house was probably built by a wealthy local farmer and features a large open hall. Alas this too was closed to the public on the day of our visit, but still invited a hundred photos as did the area all about.

From here we headed north again to Sudbury, an ancient market town with a long history. By the early 14^th century it was one of only three towns in the county (with Bury and Ipswich) to appear in a list of England’s wealthiest towns. The woollen cloth industry was a major contributor to that wealth.

It is not clear exactly when or why the cloth industry developed in the Stour Valley. The Domesday Book of 1086, recorded many sheep. The local streams and rivers would also have aided the fulling and dying processes. The wealthy and powerful abbey at Bury, along with other local monastic houses would certainly have contributed to demand.

One afternoon we drove to Needham Market, just ten kilometres or so from Stowmarket where we were staying, and walked around Needham Lake, previously a gravel pit and now a haven for water fowl. We returned to the same location several days later, with hours to fill, and walked half way back to Stowmarket along the Gipping Valley River Path and back.

The River Gipping rises above Stowmarket and flows down the valley until it joins the River Orwell at Ipswich. The river was navigable as far back as 860 AD when the Danes used it to establish the village of Ratles-Dane. It was once thought that between 1065 and 1095 Caen stone was brought from Normandy, up the Rivers Gipping and Rat to Rattlesden, then to Bury St Edmunds to build the Abbey. The river was still in use into the 1600’s in its original state. In the early 1700’s plans were made to improve the navigation, but these received a lot of opposition from the Ipswich Corporation. This opposition was eventually overcome and in 1790 a Board of Trustees was appointed to administer the Ipswich and Stowmarket Navigation and in 1793 the Navigation was opened.

A tonnage charge of 1d per ton per mile was levied for use of the Navigation, but there was a minimum charge equal to a 35 ton load. A 30 – 40 ton horse drawn lighter completed the journey in about eight hours. In its heyday about 30 lighters a day were regularly using the Navigation. The main cargo was manure which travelled toll free, gun cotton, corn and hops. In 1846 the railway arrived and with it a large decline in water borne trade. By 1900 there were very few boats left on the water. There followed many years of neglect which resulted in the Navigation becoming completely impassable. The Ipswich Branch of The Inland Waterways Association started restoration work on the river in the 1970’s assisting with the clearance of the towing path to create The Gipping Way, a public footpath that runs the length of the Navigation and it was that we took advantage of. Our own path took us up past the defunct Hawks Mill Lock as far as the Badley Mill Lock which is in a similar state.

Another day was spent driving around through Chris’s past haunts not covered on earlier jaunts; Blo’Norton where he was born, Hopton whence his maternal family harked, Barningham where he lived with his parents for a stint at an ancient pub, Market Weston where he attended school, and so on. His sister and now deceased brother-in-law had taken me here when I visited before, but this time, armed with a map and my husband to recount his own memories, the trip was so much more meaningful.


On leaving New Zealand, even on short notice, given that we were travelling together in contrast to earlier such trips back to the United Kingdom for family reasons, we had decided to extend our trip out to five weeks or so and spend part of that time touring about the country. In principal, the idea of hiring a motorhome and whipping about the country had appeal, although we were not in any position to make firm plans as we booked our tickets out of the country. Hence it was not until we arrived in England, and understood family timetables that we were able to go online and look at options for such travel. And that is how we came to settle on hiring from a small company that initially caught our attention suggesting on their website that we could hire from Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk. Delving further, we discovered there were no motorhomes available in Suffolk, perhaps never had been, that our best option was to return to the outskirts of London and that we just might have done better to have arranged the whole business out of Heathrow, however hindsight is a marvellous thing! The downside of all this was that we had to rely on the goodwill of family to co-ordinate the pick up and everything else required for the project.

And so we spent yesterday repacking our bags and accumulated borrowed paraphernalia: duvet, sheets and pillows, heavy wool blankets and a pile of DVDs in the event we had no television to watch. Then this morning we returned the car to its rural home and came over eighty miles south with Chris’s brother and sister. We arrived in the Upminster area too early for our appointment, so passed the middle of the day in a charming pub in the middle of Upminster eating and drinking as you do. At the appointed hour we were at Woodcroft Farm in Folkes Lane to meet with Ben, who turned out to be as abrupt as his earlier emails had suggested he might be. We had put his poor telephone manner down to the fact he was obviously a foreigner, English not his first language, but the customer who left as we were arriving summed Ben up well; a salute and a smirk.  Margie and John headed off back to their respective homes leaving us to head away, firstly to hunt down a supermarket with a large car park, easier said than done, and to make our way to the first of our CL camping spots.

We have joined the Caravan Club and are now armed with an excellent directory of Certified  Locations which we hope to use on our travels.