Glemsford to Sudbury: E2 Day 96

Another sunny day to enjoy England's green and pleasant lands.

My first conversation of the day was with the lady serving me a breakfast Cornish pasty at the local convenience store (helpfully opening at 6:00 am). We agreed that a lot of strange ingredients go into some vegan foods but that at least with a proper Cornish Pasty you knew what you were getting (meat, potato, pepper and pastry). As I was taking down my tent my second conversation was with the campsite owner, a man of mature years who drove around in a golf buggy. He told me in his younger days he was a long distance runner, even though it was not obvious from his current figure. We then discussed the grass, how it had suffered in last year's heatwave although it now looked green and healthy. I was glad it had not been cut recently as the clods of cut grass tend to stick to your shoes and get spread to the toilet floors, tent and anywhere else you go.

Leaving the little community of Glemsford behind I was soon crossing large fields of young, green wheat, the haze making trees a progressively lighter grey the further away they were. As I walked, there being no-one nearby, I was singing "Jerusalem", or at least the bits I could remember. 

Approaching Long Melford I began to see people in clothes similar to those worn in centuries past. Then I saw the grand façade of Kentwell Hall. They were hosting a Tudor themed May Day festival, hence the clothes some people were wearing. As the event did not appear to have started yet I carried on down the long straight drive. The driveway, lined with trees, must have made the hall look very important to people arriving. Now old and ravaged by age, many of the trees had large growths of mistletoe, easily visible as this year's leaves were still in the making. Ahead of me, peals of bells were sounding from a grand church of many tall windows. Judging by the length of the performance, the bell ringers were enjoying themselves. 

Kentwell Hall.

Mistletoe.

So entranced was I that I missed a turning. On recovering the Sour Valley Path I was led past the church as the Sunday service was starting. Beside the church was an old, red brick Almshouse of ancient foundation (1573) but still providing accommodation for the elderly. Long Melford seemed blessed by old buildings. Melford Hall was nearby, a National Trust property that looked closed when I walked by, and the towns attractive main street had houses, pubs and shops in various pastel shades.

I continued south, following the Valley Trail, an old railway line now a good path shaded by trees. Deviating onto riverside meadows I soon reached Sudbury, where, despite bring a Sunday, I found a café open for lunch. On the table next to me one of the other customers seemed very "picky", of his various complaints he said the bacon in his lunchtime cooked breakfast tasted like sweet ham. After his harangue of the apologetic waiter, the cook came out and assured him it was bacon but without success. Leaving the dispute unsettled I left and shopped for a few items then continued through the meadows as my campsite lay a few miles to the south. Gainsborough, the landscape and portrait painter was born here and drew and painted meadow scenes. I tried to take a photo that would capture a similar view, but the camera is too literal, when painting an artist can enhance attractive features in brighter tones, make ephemeral details disappear and move objects around. 

My Gainsborough shot, but the cows were too far away and modern signs intrude.

I passed one of the many weirs on the Stour, which controlled the water levels, and maybe made the water deeper for fish. Sometimes they were associated with old, wooden clad mills that used the power of the falling water. It is a pity that this renewable source of power is not still used in micro hydroelectric plants. The mill buildings that remain have been converted to other uses, such a pub and restaurant that I walked by today. As I crossed the meadows a man with his daughter asked how far I had come and other questions. On telling them I had walked from Darlington, the daughter, about five, said she was going to walk to her Grandma's in Yorkshire. They were impressed that I had been walking for over a month, which gave my morale a boost, it helped as the edge of my heel was hurting. The landscape also become unexpectedly hilly for the last few kilometres to my campsite.

From where I pitched my tent I could see down to the river on which people on paddle boards and inflatable kayaks were enjoying the afternoon. A beer garden ran down to the river and later I walked to the pub for some food. I chose the Sunday roast, which was nicely arranged in a tower, with vegetables and roast potatoes on the bottom, slices of roast beef in the middle and Yorkshire pudding as the castle on top. After finishing with a cheesecake I wondered how long it would take them to bring me the bill.  In the congenial atmosphere of the pub's restaurant, surrounded by the hubbub of other people's conversation I read several chapters of a book on my kindle before I gave up the test and went to the cash register. After paying a slightly harried young man, I walked down to the river and looked at the meadow beyond with grazing cows, trees in the distance and a willow to my right, and thought of Gainsborough and the composition of a bucolic scene. Turning to my left the image was jarred by another concrete pillbox, with its empty black holes for guns should the Germans have invaded Britain in World War II. It was my second today, and I had seen several since leaving Peterborough. There must have been a very real fear of invasion to have built so many, so far from the sea.