Nashoba, Base Green, near Wetherden, Suffolk

Yesterday was the thirtieth anniversary of The Great Storm and the beginning of the Ex-Cyclone Ophelia, three people killed even by nightfall. By the time we retired to bed, the winds were strong even in this eastern corner of the country, far from the storm centre over Ireland and Wales. 

But happily we had enjoyed an excellent day, the morning with clear skies, the temperatures pleasantly unseasonal, although by late afternoon, there was a strange haze about, partially obscuring the sun, a phenomena that was apparently due to wild fires down in Portugal or winds whipped up from the Sahara Desert in Northern Africa. Such matters bring to mind how very close we are to the continents to the east and south. 

Chris was keen to pay a call to the storage space reserved for our caravan through the winter and our absence, so we headed north west up through Ixworth and Thetford to East Wretham,  delighting in the autumnal colours and pretty villages we passed through. The farm is about twenty five miles distant from our current camp, although when we do take the caravan up there next week, we shall take a slightly longer route in an attempt to avoid the narrower lanes out of here.

Out came the tape measure to check we could still open the door when it is reversed snuggly back into its hibernation; we were pleased to find our space a little roomier than last year. As we made our way out of the yard, we were accosted by the business owner, the father of the chap we have previously dealt with. What a treat, what a delightful man! Like us, he is a motorhomer and has travelled about New Zealand, so we swapped stories before attempting to solve the woes of the world. We could have spent the rest of the day with him, however he had places to go as we did.

Driving south to the northern edge of the Thetford Forest, we spotted a bare parking space and decided to check walking suitability out. There was a man and his dog just returning to a car and we were soon engaged in lengthy conversation. The fact he was “elderly” was evident only later, because he was a sprightly youthful looking chap; here in the UK under watery sun even nearly eighty year olds manage to retain their smooth complexions. Like us he had spent many years living a nomadic life, but ten years longer than us, equating with his seniority.

He told us of a geological feature just up the pathway, and of the walk on through the woods, as well as another further on which sounded appealing. After cups of coffee and delicious sticky pastries oozing “fly cemetery” (or “Christmas mince” for the more discerning) acquired when we swung by Thetford’s Tesco, we set off following the ex-RAF chap’s advice.

The Devil’s Punchbowl is one of the two depressions in the landscape we found along our path, a “doline”, a circular depression formed by ground subsidence or collapse in areas of limestone bedrock. There are apparently numerous dolines in the Breckland of Norfolk, where the acidic groundwater has attacked the chalk, causing fissures and caverns to form.

I have written of this forest before, when we called to explore the flint mines and the Forest Centre (this latter turning out to be a disappointment). It is the largest lowland pine forest in England, managed by the Forestry Commission for timber production, wildlife, archaeology and recreation. According to the information panels, this forest contributes over £3 million a year to the local economy.

We walked on through the forest, leaf litter up to our ankles and beyond; it was so very beautiful and we were disappointed when we arrived at a side road, prompting us to return the same way. There were no way markers but numerous fire breaks crisscrossing the forest; it would be quite easy to get lost if one was not careful.

Back on the road, we continued on down into the Forest, turning toward Santon Downham, crossing the rail line but turning before the river, just as we had been instructed by our local guide. Soon we found ourselves at the St Helen’s Picnic Site, a cleared spot in the forest beside the Little Ouse.

We lunched al fresco, giving our deck chairs an airing for perhaps the fifth or sixth time in all the time we have been here in the UK this year and last. Then we set off on the five mile circular trail, crossing the river, clear and clean, home to a pair of swans and a small family of ducks. The trail skirted around several agistment plots, an amazing number of horses being grazed for town folk. The forest varied, little of it as picturesque as that walked through earlier, but still a delight. Squirrels darted off at the sound of our boots, fluffy silver flashes across the landscape. Noisy crows announced their displeasure at our presence and little finches chirped high in the trees, too far up for us to identify them more accurately.  

The picnic area was once the site of the medieval village of Santon; the moated site of the medieval manor evident in the low scrub, the whole site having been dug up and explored some time in the recent past. The Domesday Book recorded the village having thirty inhabitants in 1086, however by the mid-1650s, the population had shrunk to just one householder. The Black Death of the mid-14^th century possibly played a part and the nearby establishment of rabbit warrens, with their promise of easier paid work could have attracted villagers away. And then there was the Great “Sand Flood”. The Brecks was always a notoriously sandy area and, in the mid-1600s, severe sandstorms drove a huge mass of sand to Santon. From 1665 to 1670 it progressively buried most of the village to finally drive the last parishioner out. This is probably why there is nothing but a recreational space left today.

By the time we returned to the car we had walked for over two hours in total, and were satisfied with the amount of exercise. Our route took us via Brandon, down the B1106 toward Bury St Edmunds, then we turned east toward home, but taking the scenic route via the attractive villages of Great Barton, Thurston and Tostock.

Today, apart from attending to more the mundane chores of life, we headed back through Bury St Edmunds after lunch, to Ickworth House, this time to revisit the house itself rather than enjoy the walks through the extensive parklands. We had explored the house in 2015, then taking in the architecture and history, a varied and long drawn out affair which we had found tantalisingly curious as only the whacky peers of England can be. 

Ickworth had already been home to the Hervey family since the mid-1400s, but the grand house that stands today was built between 1795 and 1829. It was the 4^th Earl of Bristol and Bishop of Derry who commissioned the Italian architect Asprucci to design him a classical villa such as he had seen during his Grand Tour through Italy.

Frederick Hervey was rather an accidental Earl, his oldest brother, George Hervey, the 2^nd Earl had been a prominent Whig politician and ambassador for King George II in Turin and Madrid, but died unmarried at the age of fifty four years old; read what you wish into that.

His father, son of the 1^st Earl of Bristol, was a notorious bi-sexual and prominent at George II’s court despite, or perhaps because of his reputation. He was a successful politician and pamphleteers, and rose to high government office as Keeper of the Privy Council, becoming one of the most famous figures of his time. He is best known today for his outspoken memoirs of the court of George II and for his devotion to Queen Caroline. He was evidently a man adept at juggling life; he shared a mistress with the Prince of Wales while having a ten year relationship with another man, while still remaining married to his wife, who was herself much admired for her wit and good sense.  He died before his father hence never inheriting his father’s title.

Frederick’s second brother, Augustus, the 3^rd Earl of Bristol, had a distinguished naval career and rose to be Vice-Admiral. He was known as the English Casanova, his battles and amorous adventures recorded in his own scandalous diaries. He died four years after his older brother without legitimate issue.

Prior to Frederick’s inheritance, he had secured himself the Bishopric of Derry, the wealthiest diocese in Ireland. It is said that he directed all income from his diocese be kept within his control, hence he incurred the wrath of the English hierarchy, but his parishioners in Ireland respected the efforts of agricultural innovation, social improvements and general goodwill toward his tenants and donors. Reports of his behaviour differ greatly and it seems to depend which side of the political and economic divide you sit as to how he is remembered. He died in 1803 on an Italian road, having his life’s treasures and art confiscated by Napoleonic troops, however it was his vision that created Ickworth house as it is today.

Further down the decades, in 1907 Frederick, the 4^th Marquess of Bristol, inherited a now antiquated property in dire need of maintenance, on the death of his uncle. This Hervey heir had made a canny marriage, to railway heiress Theodora, and it was with this new wealth the property was saved. Over the course of the next thirty years, Ickworth was restored and improved.

In 1910 major renovations were undertaken, including improved heating, electricity and hot running water. They were more down to earth folk who actually met the needs of their staff and tenant neighbours, and with only daughters realised that something would have to be done to save the house from the clutches of the profligate nephew who would eventually inherit.

The Hervey’s who followed included the 6^th Marquess, also known as the “Mayfair Playboy No 1”, a member of a gang of “gentleman” jewel thieves, who was convicted in 1939 of two counts of robbery. He also dabbled in arms sales, a very bad egg indeed. Amazingly he did turn his life around, embracing respectability when he inherited in 1960.

His heir, the 7^th Marquess, was a drug addict, known for his flamboyant lifestyle and homosexuality, even though he did marry, albeit briefly. He died in 1999 almost penniless, thus justifying the previous disposal of the House and immediate farmlands and grounds, albeit brought about by the villainous tax-man.

In 1956, the house, park and a large endowment were given to the National Trust in lieu of death duties. As part of the handover agreement, a ninety nine year lease on the sixty room East Wing was given to the Marquess of Bristol. However in 1998 the 7^th Marquess sold the remaining lease on the East Wing to the National Trust. When his half-brother, the 8^th Marquess, inherited, the National Trust refused to sell the remaining lease term back to the successor.  This Wing is now run as The Ickworth Hotel on a lease from the National Trust. 

When we visited the first time, we took a tour through the house and learned much of this scandalous history and so much more. There were also a series of large interpretative boards in the orangery café describing the degenerate lives of the Herveys, but today they were gone, although the battens on which they were pinned still remain. Perhaps it is no longer considered politically correct to reveal the skeletons in the cupboards?

It was late in the afternoon when we left Ickworth, but just in time for afternoon tea at my brother-in-law’s. We sat over cups of tea and coffee, and packets of doughnuts and pastries, all rather excessive but very tasty, the two brothers reminiscing their youth interwoven with their parents’ working lives. The traffic was dense as we made our way through the roundabouts of Bury St Edmunds, and it was dark soon after we arrived back at camp. The nights are certainly closing in.