Abbey Wood Caravan Club Site, London

We left our familiar camp at Onehouse yesterday, but not before a couple of outings worth reporting. 

The first was a reunion of old timers at Blo’Norton near the south border of Norfolk on Saturday evening. We had attended this last year, then with the same family group and while both Chris and I viewed the prospect of this event with mixed feelings, more an obligation to represent the Clarke family who lived less than ten years in the village, it turned out to be even more enjoyable than that the previous year. We picked up Margie from her new house (or bungalow as one should call any single level dwelling in this neck of the wood) together with her basketful of baking,  and headed up through the rural lands of Suffolk, following the route we had taken just one day before. Chris’s brother and his partner soon joined us and we held court; old school mates and neighbours drifting over to renew acquaintance. The attending crowd was smaller than the previous year, but in fine form as the tales of even older old-timers were recounted, keeping us all highly amused and begging for more. Before we knew it, the great supper spread was consumed, along with the bottles of wine that had crept up from handbags to rival the cups of tea, and it was well after 10 pm and we had to head back across the fens and flats.

The previous day we had called on a cousin and her husband, who still farm up near Diss on the county border, despite being nearer seventy than sixty years old. Both still find time to work offsite; she helping run a food bank and he driving the local school bus. These days the dairy herds are long gone, with only a very old lonely dairy steer living up the back of the garden to remind them of the animal husbandry years. Without a passport, having slipped through the cracks as it were, he is and has never been saleable, but I still think it would have been kinder had he ended up in the freezer than pass his years pleasing human visitors. Alas he is past good eating and must live out his days waiting for the Bovine God to arrive in his own good time.  The two hundred acres barely eek a living after contract cultivators and harvesters are paid; such is the dilemma of arable farmers in Britain these days, or for that matter, any kind of farmer. 

The other noteworthy happening was a walk about the Onehouse area after we had stocked up with provisions in readiness for our London trip. I had set out six months ago through autumnal fields along the River Rattlesden, finding my way through a network of country pathways, and was keen to share this charming walk with my best mate. This time of course, Chris saw the trail in spring, but it was no less lovely and offered different delights, including the sight of a couple of deer leaping across a bean or lupin fodder crop just beyond the ancient round towered church on the outskirts of Onehouse. We emerged from the hedgerows beside the Shepherd and Dog, the pub opposite our camp where we had dined the night before with Chris’s sister.

Our trip down to London would have been without event if the catch on the fridge door had not miraculously deteriorated in our absence. We had noticed that there was something wrong with it and should have taped the door shut. Instead when we stopped at the Thurrock Service Centre just north of the Dartford Bridge and found the entire contents of the fridge, with the exception of the freezer, scattered across the caravan floor. Amazingly the lids had not come off the cottage cheese and yoghurt, and so for that I was very grateful. Needless to say after we had restored order, and lunched, we taped the door up tight and will remember to do so every time we relocate in future.

We were duly delighted when we arrived at this Caravan Club site; it really is lovely. The sites are spacious and there are trees everywhere. According to the information sheet, there are foxes and squirrels which delight in foraging amongst food items left outside caravans and motorhomes. We have yet to spot either of these critters here in the camp.

Yesterday afternoon was spent dealing with domestic matters such as the never ending laundry, however this morning we were ready to head out to discover this corner of the capital, despite the drizzly rain. We walked down into Abbey Wood township, topped up our Oyster cards and set off on the train to Greenwich. The station here was opened in December 1838, as the eastern terminus of London’s first railway. I was quite surprised by the very early date.

There we wandered about the waterfront, admiring the Cutty Sark now high up on a glass base all the better for viewing, the beautiful buildings which are protected with World Heritage status and discovering that there is an under-river pedestrian tunnel running from round tower to round tower. 

The Greenwich Foot Tunnel was opened in 1902, is 370 metres long and is over 15 metres beneath the Thames. Tonight I have suggested we walk our way across tomorrow to explore the Island Gardens. Hopefully I will manage to overcome any fear of closed spaces to do so. 

The Cutty Sark is the world’s last surviving tea-clipper, although I do wonder whether a beached and mounted ship can be considered “surviving”; it is not likely to go anywhere in the near future. The Cutty Sark was launched  from the Clydeside shipyards in 1869, and was more famous in its day as a wool clipper, returning from Australia in just seventy two days. She has been more or less sitting in the same spot since 1954.

Greenwich Park covers an area of seventy four acres and was once owned by the Abbey of St Peter at Ghent, but reverted to the Crown in 1427 when it came under the ownership of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, uncle to Henry VI. He built a small castle by the river, which in time evolved into a much grander estate, incorporating the Queen’s House, Greenwich Hospital for retired sailors and of course, the famous Royal Observatory. Both of Henry III’s daughters, Mary and Elizabeth I, were born here and there are many other notable events and dates that are anchored to this place.

We found the Information Centre, which doubles as a mini-museum, an excellent first stop, and there found ourselves on an almost hour long free tour of the precinct and the Chapel of St Peter and St Paul. This lovely chapel is not the first on the site; the first was burnt  down when gin sodden tailors were careless with their candles. This second was rebuilt in the early nineteenth century and sports lovely pastel coloured  plaster work and still is used for the purpose for which it was built, albeit not for the several thousand legless or brain damaged sailors.

We walked up to the top of the park from where there are lovely views over the city, but did not visit the Observatory, which was crowded with tourists and school children. Instead we suddenly found ourselves the subject of a photo; a new-Britain insisted we be photographed with his eighty five year old Nepalese father. This diminutive nut-brown Sherpa remained silent but smiled and smiled and seemed so happy to be here with his son.

Back down in the historic precinct, we popped into the Royal Maritime Museum and joined an intimate tour of the gallery dedicated to the history of the East India Company which exploited  east and south east Asia for trade, the English company incorporated by royal charter at the end of 1600. Over the centuries, the trading operations became entangled with politics and imperialism, until the British government stepped in during the 18^th century. Of course this is all common knowledge, however I had not quite realised the extent of the interference by this private commercial enterprise and how the manipulative trading influenced the history of the nations effected.

Although we had only seen a small corner of the museum, we were ready to return home and  caught the bus back to Abbey Wood, a trip that took three quarters of an hour, so much longer than the train trip but so much more interesting. Tonight we agreed to return to Greenwich on the morrow; there is still plenty more to see.

Lakeside Fishing & Camping, Onehouse, near Stowmarket, Suffolk

It seems that at least a week has passed since I last posted, but I see that it is fact only a matter of three days. Such is the sense of imprisonment I have felt stuck inside under virtual caravan arrest. But truth be told the results have been worth it and I managed to convince my “gaoler” this morning that we should head on out for a breath of fresh air now I could manage that without collapsing into a paradox of coughing.

We headed off after breakfast with our eski packed with lunch, heading up toward Swaffham in the county of Norfolk, an hour distant.  A few days ago when I was engaged in the sedentary task of marking our new National Trust directory with places we had visited in the past, I had spotted a fairy-tale- like moated castle in the East of England section, and drawn it to Chris’s attention. He was more intent on seeing me well rather than any forward planning, sensible man he is, however I bookmarked the page for future reference.

Oxburgh Hall is a country house built in 1482 by Sir Edmund Bedingfeld, and while some of the architectural features within the property suggest it might have once been a kind of fortress, it has only ever been a family home to all the Bedingfelds that have come after, even today in the ownership of the National Trust.

The property was auctioned off in 1951 in a desperate attempt to recoup some semblance of economic face, and while the great estate of farmlands and village was divided up, the Hall fell into the hands of an outfit buyer intending to demolish the palatial residence and sell off the bricks and bits for profit. Learning of this, Bedingfeld family members, outside the direct line of baronets, passed around the hat and sold off their personal homes, thus managing to scrape enough together to buy the Hall back, for the grand sum of £5,000. The property, such as remained, was then gifted to the National Trust on the proviso that the three women, the heroines of this story, were allowed to live in part of the house. And so it is today that the 10^th Baronet resides from time to time in one corner of the Hall with water views across the carp and other course fish filled moat.

The Trust has also been able to buy back some of the adjacent land along with some of the chattels that had been dispersed in that 1951 auction, and so today there is not only  this many times altered family home, but walled and extensive gardens, woodland walks and the very ornate chapel to enjoy. The Beningfeld family have remained staunchly Catholic through the centuries which, as we have discovered in our earlier travelling history lessons, has not been an easy road to travel. 

Among the treasures to be found throughout the rooms open to the public are beautifully decorative carved elephant tusk ivory, a spread-eagled tiger skin complete with head and the Oxburgh Hangings, needlework hangings handcrafted by Mary, Queen of Scots and Bess of Hardwick. 

After wandering along the walkways in the glorious sunshine, we investigated the Hall and while entranced by the wonders laid out before us, I was disappointed in the lack of family tales, giving the Hall the soul that so often National Trust volunteers do so well. But after lunch we joined the Garden Tour and then learned so much more about the Hall and its inhabitants as well as the heritage pip fruit being nurtured in the garden, the flowers lined up for planting in the parterre being so lovingly prepared by a team of more volunteers and the fallen timber waiting for collection by a builder providing bonus income to the Trust . We should have joined the morning Garden Tour and then would have been so much better prepared for our exploration of the house. 

It was well after 3pm when we left Oxburgh Hall, heading back through the Thetford Forest, stopping briefly at Thetford’s Tesco where we invested in a sandwich maker; maybe we will vary our lunchtime menu tomorrow?

We have not been entirely lazy over the intervening days; we have booked our accommodation out for the next fortnight, leaving this charming spot by the lake this coming Sunday and heading to South East London for a week. 

We have mixed feelings about this little camping spot; I managed a gentle wander around the artificial reservoir yesterday afternoon, checking out the level of the River Rattlesden and the flora and fauna. Despite the fact that England is in the grip of a drought, a situation nearly as noteworthy as the approaching election, this particularly river and lake seen unaffected.  

This spot is indeed picturesque however the facilities are not as well attended to as last year. And tonight there is a very large group of bikers (or bikies) gathered at the café which has opened specially for them and their entertainment, a very noisy heavy metal band. We may seek out a different camping spot when we are next in the area.

Lakeside Fishing & Camping, Onehouse, near Stowmarket, Suffolk

Several days have passed since we arrived in the country of our forefathers, and while we had promptly sorted ourselves out in our caravan, we spent the rest of our days concentrating on regaining our health. International flights are notorious breeders of disease, and despite the quantities of Vitamin C tablets we had consumed in preparation, we emerged in an unhealthy state.

Just two weeks or so later than when we arrived last year, this spring is so much more advanced. The trees around this lakeside camp are already clothed in their fresh new greenery, and while the daffodils have long gone, the Hawthorne hedgerows are a mass of white and the horse chestnut trees heavily in bloom. The canola, or rape, crops light up the patchwork of fields with their brilliant yellow flowers and Suffolk is just as lovely as I remember it. 

We have enjoyed replenishing our pantry from the now familiar superstores of Asda and Lidl, and refuelled at the more economic Sainsbury rather than find ourselves at the mercy of the highway service stations.

We have been entertained, even in our phlegmy state, by family providing sumptuous welcoming banquets and offered acceptable touring conditions by the weather gods. We did call up to lovely Ickworth House to sort our National Trust membership out, but the effort of walking from car park to gatehouse was quite enough.  

The weekend just gone was a busy one for the camp, or at least the café that leases a spot from the lake proprietor. A rally of sports cars congregated at one end of the lake, dozens of fisher people arrived to dangle their lines for the prescribed fee, but ne’er to take home their catches. A band entertained the masses from the café porch, which would have been all too much had one been eating inside, but proved a bonus to us just along the way.

We wake to the geese, ducks, crows, blackbirds and a myriad of other birdlife and I am itching to take Chris out for the walk I did here last year when we were in the process of packing up. If I recall correctly, it was Chris’s turn to be sick then and mine to roam without companion.

So you see it is all before us still, tantalisingly close, but requiring a little self-nurturing in the meantime. (I am so very glad I came with my own little store of antibiotics!)