Nashoba, Base Green, near Wetherden, Suffolk

In the intervening days England has enjoyed high summer temperatures, pleasurable for those who enjoy the heat, but not for those whose rail trips have been delayed by track conditions hampered by the extremes of the weather. Tragedies continue in London, first the terrible fire and then the attack on Muslims emerging from their early morning prayers. I am glad we are restricting our wanderings to the more rural counties.

The evening after we arrived back here in Suffolk, we were wined and dined by Chris’s godson, in fine style in his bachelor pad. There was much animated discussion about the table, in part fuelled by the wine, and the hour was late when we emerged and found our way back home. The day had been one of celebrations for more reasons than one; it was Father’s Day here in the UK, although not DownUnder, and my older son’s 38^th birthday. Our children are reaching an age when we can no longer call them “our children” although I suspect we will continue to do so until they become “our carers”, God forbid!

The following day, Chris and I ventured into Bury St Edmunds and found a garage willing and able to fix the car’s air-conditioning, then wondered what we should do with our day. We drove to Nowton Park on the south eastern edge of the town and picnicked in the shade, watching the sycamore seeds helicopter down onto the ground about us. Chris was delighted, not having seen this since he was a child, and for me, it was a first. 

We had come here last year, then on a weekend with the crowds that come with leisure time. Today we enjoyed a walk of the park’s perimeter, mostly in the shade, of the woodland and today without the companionship of dogs and their owners.

Chris suggested we travel home in a very roundabout tikki-tour, so we set off south toward Lawshall along narrow country lanes and through charming villages, many of the villages sporting thatched roofs, then across to Felsham where we stopped to check the church out.  St Peter, a listed Grade II structure, dates back to the 14^th century, although it was restored in 1872, during Victorian times. The list of rectors shows the first recorded to be in 1307; I am always amazed to see these lists, appearing in most of the old churches we bother to visit. We were glad we had stopped by and took the time to wander about the extensive graveyard all about. Some of the graves very very old, as you would expect.

Chris had noted the sign for Bradfield Woods Nature Reserve and we decided to check that out too. This is one of the finest coppiced ancient woodlands in Britain according to the signs about. For at least seven hundred years, these woods have provided fuel and timber for local people and homes for a rich and varied wildlife.

The woods are still managed as they have been since medieval times as “coppice with standards”, the woodland appearing in historical records since 1252, but was probably a working woodland long before this time and there are several ash “stools” that are thought to be over 1,000 years old. 

Among the tall standard oaks, other tree species such as alder, ash and hazel are cut to the ground every eight to twenty years. The stumps or “stools” quickly regrow a new crop of poles. The main wood products are firewood and hazel for thatching.

The reserve was bought by the Royal Society for Nature Conservation in 1970, principally through the efforts of local people and with the help of the World Wildlife Fund. The Suffolk Wildlife Trust took on a fifty year lease in 1983.

There are several walks, or “rides”, through the woods, and we chose to take a two mile trail that would take two hours. It did not of course, however we did find the walk and the trail notes of great interest. Here the squirrels were as numerous as they had been at Nowton Park, and just as delightful.

The next day we juggled a trip to the National Trust’s Ickworth House with hanging about the garage who did successfully repair our faulty air-conditioning unit in the car. It was just a matter of re-gassing the unit which is a simple process to those in the know.

Our car almost knows its own way through to Ickworth, having visited it at least half a dozen times over the last couple of years, and having reported its fine attributes in past postings. This time we wanted to access the second hand bookshop in the basement of the House where we had bought some excellent travel books a couple of years ago, but now we learned that Health & Safety Regulations, or those that interpret these weird and wonderful rules, had decreed the wealth of paper treasures to be a fire hazard, and now the collection is spread about here, there and everywhere, and the non-fiction section we were keen to inspect was a mere fraction of what it had previously been. 

We did however make our way to the walled garden in the false hope of checking out the summer wild flower meadow. Alas this was a disappointment; instead there were large squares of thistles bordered by narrow strips of colour. We learned that funds had not allowed for re-sowing. The alternative of having last year’s crop reseed had not been successful; the soil was fertile and preferred to grow everything but wild flowers. Very recently there has been a very generous donation of £3,000 specifically for seed, but the soil is dry and rain seems far off. 
 

We did find the more formal Italianate gardens closer to the House more satisfactory, the squirrels numerous and I was treated to the sight of a field mouse, which I nearly stepped on. Actually “treated” is not really the right word, but I did refrain from falling into a hysterical mess.

Today had been ear-tagged for spending with Chris’s sister, it being her birthday and her having nothing planned to mark the occasion. But on reporting our intentions to her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren living in the immediate vicinity, they had to come clean and reveal their alternative plan; of course we were delighted for her. 

So our day was a blank canvas, apart from popping over to Stowmarket to drop our card in her letter box, which of course here in the UK is a slot in her front door. For me I am constantly surprised to find little red “Postman Pat” vans, parked on the edge of narrow lanes, while “Pat” sets off on foot into gardens and up private lanes to deliver snail mail literally to the doorstep. And this happens six days a week! The Poms have no idea how lucky they are!

Newmarket, even though it sits just off the route through to all places west of our base in Suffolk, had been up until now left off our touring schedule. Newmarket was frequented by Chris in his youth when he “managed” a pub band on weekends, but the trips had been undertaken in the evening, and always centred on the job to hand. I had passed through here on a bus when I travelled down to London back in 2008, when in reality my visit to Suffolk had all been a bit of a blur.

Newmarket is so very attractive on arrival from the east; large gated estates behind trees and hedges, and closer to the city, we were stopped from time to time in order to give way to mounted horses, moving from stable areas to exercise tracks. It is after all the centre of the horse racing universe from a British point of view, and for good reason.

Charming Stoke by Clare

Newmarket was little more than a way station for those travelling across the country until around 1200 AD when Sir Richard de Argentein married Cassandra of Exning, receiving land as part of her dowry and obtaining permission from the King to hold a twice weekly market here, and so in time the spot came to be known as “Newmarket”.

But its claim to fame began in the 1600s when James I moved his court to the town and Newmarket became the unofficial second capital of England for the rest of the Stuart period. His successors, Charles I and II continued the tradition and in 1752, the arrival of the Jockey Club, racings first administrative body, established Newmarket as the headquarters of racing.

The town has two racecourses; the Rowley Mile Racecourse and the July Course, together meeting the eccentricities of England’s climate. A great proportion of the world’s most important stud farms are here in the Newmarket area, and it is here that Tattersall’s, founded in 1776 and the biggest equine auction house in Europe, is to be found. Newmarket is home to over five thousand thoroughbred horses, approximately half those in training and the other on stud farms in and around the town.

We easily found a car park, and fed the machine allowing ourselves up to four hours to check the town out, too long as it turned out, but the parking fees were fair by UK standards. We wandered up and down the main street and the shopping area immediately adjacent, attracted by the numerous charity shops. We came away with books, a “new” skirt and similarly experienced handbag, to replace the one I brought from New Zealand which is already looking very jaded. We had printing done at the town library with a minimum of fuss, far less than at Peterborough and others with similar complicated systems. 

We were disappointed to find so little outdoor space for those who wish to dine al fresco on their own sandwiches, be they homemade or bought from the local superstore. We found a spot in St Mary’s churchyard, where the mower-man was also working. Alas we were driven off; this was not the most fun place for a sufferer of grass allergies.

Our tour guide literature advised us that flint-clad St Mary’s was built on the site of a medieval chapel and that many of the parts of the building date from the 15^th century, including the tower and the doorway in the southern porch.  I was intrigued to see that this was the location of the British Jigsaw festival; who would have imagined there was such a festival? 

We left Newmarket about two and a half hours after our arrival, not bothering with Palace House which includes the National Horseracing Museum, an art gallery of equine art and other things pertaining to horses. Neither the tourist brochures nor the website rustled up on my iPhone were able to advise the admission fee, or if there was free admission. Without this important advice we were in no position to choose whether we would visit or not, so did not bother at all. We may well have done so if the fee was fair, and certainly would have had it been free, but neither of us are passionate about the racing industry to make any further effort.

Instead we were more interested in setting off home via a long southerly swooping route, calling at villages reputedly to be some of the most beautiful in the country.

We travelled south on the B1061 now driving through beautiful rolling rural land across the corner of Cambridgeshire, then once we turned east on the A1092 re-entering Suffolk, roughly  following the flow of the River Stour, that of Constable fame which flows out into the Channel south of Ipswich, but far upstream.

Impressed by the charm of Stoke by Clare, we pulled onto the village green and wandered back up the street.  The village has a population of less than 500, however I am not sure whether this includes the inmates who are kept behind the walls of the independent school, Stoke College,  for 4 -16 year olds boarders and day pupils. I am a great supporter of boarding schools, but surely any “school” that takes in those so very young should be called an orphanage?

There are some stunning residences here, all which are surely of heritage listed status, many having wonderful plastered patterns on the exterior, some with thatched roofs, and most painted in pastel shades.

The market town of Clare is only two miles further east, and it had been that we were initially heading for. While this too is full of architectural delights, it is not a village, hence does not quite have the same charm as the first settlement. Still, we parked up and spent some time wandering about the streets, exploring the church and busy centre.

Clare has four times the population of Stoke on Clare, and also lies beside the River Stour. As so many of the towns and villages in this part of the county, it was once a cloth, or wool, town, but does have a longer history and still holds some evidence of those days.

The Clare Priory, the first house of the Augustinian Friars in England, was founded in 1248 by Richard de Clare. Following its suppression in 1538, the house passed through many hands and uses until the Augustinian Friars purchased the house in in 1953 and returned to its origins in England. The Priory today acts as a parish and as a retreat centre. Access for the public is restricted to the ruins, such as they are, and to the church which has been remodelled almost out of recognition. The house is off limits, and I guess that is because those religious who are in residence do not want their peace and quiet interrupted by dog walking public or families communicating in their more often than not obliviously inconsiderate manner.

The remains of the castle are even more obscure, apart from the motte high above the town, from which one has splendid views over the area. 

Soon after the Norman conquest, William the Conqueror granted a barony to Richard FitzGilbert who built a couple of castles on his newly acquired land, one of which was here at Clare. The earliest records show evidence of its existence in 1090. In the 14^th century the castle was the home of Elizabeth de Clare, one of the richest women in England, who maintained a household here. The castle passed into the hands of the Crown and by the 16^th century was in ruins. Further damaged by the construction by the construction of the Great Eastern Railway in 1867, the remains are now part of the thirty five acre Clare Castle Country Park.

We spent some time wandering about the perimeter of the park after descending the castle mound, admiring the wildlife along the way, including a clutch of moorhen chicks.

The day has been very warm, perhaps even hotter than those earlier in the week; however we have enjoyed the comfort of our repaired air-conditioning.  It was a pleasure to make our way home via another set of rural roads and lanes, via Long Melford and Lavenham, stunningly picturesque, and others only a little less so further north.