Diss, Gissing and Attleborough
I have made a map of East Anglia, decorated with blue spots representing churches with evidence of Anglo Saxon features, and red spots denoting railway stations. The intention is to launch raids from the railway stations and visit these churches, over time, in this way, conquering all of East Anglia by bike.
Why. Well, I like the old churches. It gives me a sense of calm to think of a community not quite destroyed throughout a thousand years, to touch the evidence, which, if not concrete, is at least flint and mortar, or perhaps dressed stone. I like the Saxons; I like their proud and gloomy nature, the disaster of the battle of Maldon (ofermode - allowing the enemy an advantage to make things more fair), the despairing tone of Bishop Werferth's letter to King Alfred, regretting how the country had gone to the dogs. I share it.
Nonetheless, the churches provide a route, but of course, the real purpose is to get out of the house, to attempt the trip, to meet the problems, deal with them, and come back. A need to conquer dragons, my own personal little dragons encountered en route. The churches generally lie in scenic areas, so there is a good chance of genuine pleasure of the ride as well, and I have no intention of undertaking route marches, or in any sense undertaking serious cycle training. Still, it is the background threat of little dragons to be conquered that lends enchantment to the actual pleasures of the journey.
So what of this first trip. The intention was to take the train from Cambridge to Stowmarket, then change to a train to Diss, then cycle north through Gissing, Aslacton and Forncett and on to Wymondham. The length of the ride was only 18 miles, hardly a demanding day. The weather was good, mild for the time of year, but a strong westerly wind. Should have been easy, but then I am a novice, ill equipped and inexperienced. But one learns.
The first little dragon reared its flaming head at Stowmarket. The trains were on time, there seemed to be no problem, until the connecting train came in. It was 9 carriages long, I looked in vain for one labelled "bicycles", and failing to see such, asked the station staff. "Bad luck - it's at the other end of the train, and the train will not wait for you to get to it." I felt mildly peeved; I had looked for the station staff for a good five minutes before the train arrived, and he had been nowhere around.
Wait an hour for the following train. I took the time to look in the town for a map to supplement the route I had downloaded to my phone. If Stowmarket has a bookshop, I did not find it, nor any other shop that might have been willing to sell me a map. It had no fewer than three funeral services within a single block, which made me wonder whether it was a healthy place. I bought a pasty from a pieman, and being too anxious to delay my return to the station by a coffee went back to eat my pasty in the waiting room.
Another cyclist was waiting at the end of the platform to load his bike. We got chatting. There is a similarity of solidarity, solo cyclists and solo peregrino on the Camino. It helped extinguish the dragon. It is a *very* big step from the platform into the luggage van by the way. The bicycle and I made it, just.
Off the train at Diss, the adventure begins. It takes a few tries to get oriented, partly through a fault in the iPhone, in which the compass function is off by a variable number of degrees, but think 20 or 30. Not to be trusted. Fortunately there was sun, and I knew I had to travel north. For next time: compass mandatory.
Fortunately the weather was mild - gloves unnecessary, as following the route required stopping, re-centring google maps, and learning the next few steps along the way. Still it worked, with only short wrong turnings.
Of the three churches Gissing was dismissed in my authority (two thick volumes, Taylor and Taylor, Anglo-Saxon Architecture) as being of limited interest. I was prepared to rush past, being anxious about the daylight, the route and almost everything and anything else.
The door to the church was open, however, so I stepped in. Wow! The company of the heavenly host, on the wing, just as it says in all the nine lessons and carols services! Stunning! I will continue to read Taylor and Taylor beforehand, but I will reserve judgement til I see the church myself.
Onwards, and oh dear. No signal. No saved route. Second dragon. On top of all that, third dragon, for reasons best known to themselves, Google maps default uses minimal contrast, very hard to see minor lanes which are delineated in very nearly the same grey as a the surrounding countryside. I could not pick out the route I had planned to Aslacton and Forncett. There was still time, in spite of the late start, but not time for getting lost. Nothing for it but to stick to roads that were big enough to show up on the map. It had been a pleasant ride thus far, one that I would not mind repeating. Head north, and find a bigger road.
Onwards, very pleasant cycling until the wind hit full face on the exposed stretch called Long Row. Join the B1077 to Attleborough, the wind now more of a broad reach, but heavier traffic. Still, the cars are generally respectful, travelling more like 40 than 60mph, and I do not feel threatened.
Before the junction with the B1133, I, and the cars, come to a halt, eying thoughtfully a small impromptu lake that must be crossed - did I tell you it has been very wet this last week? I dismount and proceed gingerly - I can see tips of grass marking the verge of the road, some unspecified height above the road bed. The bike and I wade through nervously. Some of the cars pluck up courage and swim through, generating a broad wake, their noses just above water. I, on the high ground, am wet to the shins. On the far side of the junction a young cyclist is ruefully standing by his machine, taking off shoes and socks and wringing them out. "It was only two inches deep this morning" he laments. I like the lad immediately. I don't wring out my socks or take off my trainers - they are quite holey enough to let out any amount of water they might let in.
Thus Modestine's baptism, and a dedication of our mission. A similar experience on day 1 of my travels from St. Malo to Torce with the old bike served a similar purpose. The Adventure had begun.
Squelching slightly, and getting unsolicited showers from cars gaily splashing through lesser puddles and streams, the remaining miles passed uneventfully, the light low but still strong as I peddled up to the station at Attleborough. The train had departed four minutes earlier, nothing to do but make the best of it. A tea shop calls. Mr. Google identifies one, and I follow instructions to it. It is closed. Happily there is another, which is not closed, which is small, jammed full of small tables, jammed full of local people enjoying their paper or their gossip, the sort of shop that is full of little notices - "Keep Calm and Drink Coffee", "Everything comes to those who bake", and a particularly severe notice discouraging parents from allowing their children to frequent the premises without an adult in attendance: "Unaccompanied children will be given an espresso and a free puppy". I get a coffee and a cheese scone. If not exactly heaven, then certainly close enough for me.
No problems on the train home. The bike was in good company, four on a rack designed for two, but they travelled ok. One of the bikes had romped its muddy way from Cambridge all the way to Norwich and now was lording it over its less splattered companions. It might have made me feel small and insignificant, except I was determined not to feel that way. We are not in that league, nor do we wish to be. Our expedition answered its purpose well.
It was a good day, we will attempt that route again, next time heading for Wymondham, knowing which end of the Stowmarket to Diss train to get on, with adequate maps, in adequate daylight, with a compass, and perhaps without the wind, next time taking in Forncett and Aslacton, and maybe even Tasburgh.
Why. Well, I like the old churches. It gives me a sense of calm to think of a community not quite destroyed throughout a thousand years, to touch the evidence, which, if not concrete, is at least flint and mortar, or perhaps dressed stone. I like the Saxons; I like their proud and gloomy nature, the disaster of the battle of Maldon (ofermode - allowing the enemy an advantage to make things more fair), the despairing tone of Bishop Werferth's letter to King Alfred, regretting how the country had gone to the dogs. I share it.
Nonetheless, the churches provide a route, but of course, the real purpose is to get out of the house, to attempt the trip, to meet the problems, deal with them, and come back. A need to conquer dragons, my own personal little dragons encountered en route. The churches generally lie in scenic areas, so there is a good chance of genuine pleasure of the ride as well, and I have no intention of undertaking route marches, or in any sense undertaking serious cycle training. Still, it is the background threat of little dragons to be conquered that lends enchantment to the actual pleasures of the journey.
So what of this first trip. The intention was to take the train from Cambridge to Stowmarket, then change to a train to Diss, then cycle north through Gissing, Aslacton and Forncett and on to Wymondham. The length of the ride was only 18 miles, hardly a demanding day. The weather was good, mild for the time of year, but a strong westerly wind. Should have been easy, but then I am a novice, ill equipped and inexperienced. But one learns.
The first little dragon reared its flaming head at Stowmarket. The trains were on time, there seemed to be no problem, until the connecting train came in. It was 9 carriages long, I looked in vain for one labelled "bicycles", and failing to see such, asked the station staff. "Bad luck - it's at the other end of the train, and the train will not wait for you to get to it." I felt mildly peeved; I had looked for the station staff for a good five minutes before the train arrived, and he had been nowhere around.
Wait an hour for the following train. I took the time to look in the town for a map to supplement the route I had downloaded to my phone. If Stowmarket has a bookshop, I did not find it, nor any other shop that might have been willing to sell me a map. It had no fewer than three funeral services within a single block, which made me wonder whether it was a healthy place. I bought a pasty from a pieman, and being too anxious to delay my return to the station by a coffee went back to eat my pasty in the waiting room.
Another cyclist was waiting at the end of the platform to load his bike. We got chatting. There is a similarity of solidarity, solo cyclists and solo peregrino on the Camino. It helped extinguish the dragon. It is a *very* big step from the platform into the luggage van by the way. The bicycle and I made it, just.
Off the train at Diss, the adventure begins. It takes a few tries to get oriented, partly through a fault in the iPhone, in which the compass function is off by a variable number of degrees, but think 20 or 30. Not to be trusted. Fortunately there was sun, and I knew I had to travel north. For next time: compass mandatory.
Fortunately the weather was mild - gloves unnecessary, as following the route required stopping, re-centring google maps, and learning the next few steps along the way. Still it worked, with only short wrong turnings.
 |
| St Mary the Virgin, Gissing |
 |
| The angels of Gissing |
Onwards, and oh dear. No signal. No saved route. Second dragon. On top of all that, third dragon, for reasons best known to themselves, Google maps default uses minimal contrast, very hard to see minor lanes which are delineated in very nearly the same grey as a the surrounding countryside. I could not pick out the route I had planned to Aslacton and Forncett. There was still time, in spite of the late start, but not time for getting lost. Nothing for it but to stick to roads that were big enough to show up on the map. It had been a pleasant ride thus far, one that I would not mind repeating. Head north, and find a bigger road.
Onwards, very pleasant cycling until the wind hit full face on the exposed stretch called Long Row. Join the B1077 to Attleborough, the wind now more of a broad reach, but heavier traffic. Still, the cars are generally respectful, travelling more like 40 than 60mph, and I do not feel threatened.
Before the junction with the B1133, I, and the cars, come to a halt, eying thoughtfully a small impromptu lake that must be crossed - did I tell you it has been very wet this last week? I dismount and proceed gingerly - I can see tips of grass marking the verge of the road, some unspecified height above the road bed. The bike and I wade through nervously. Some of the cars pluck up courage and swim through, generating a broad wake, their noses just above water. I, on the high ground, am wet to the shins. On the far side of the junction a young cyclist is ruefully standing by his machine, taking off shoes and socks and wringing them out. "It was only two inches deep this morning" he laments. I like the lad immediately. I don't wring out my socks or take off my trainers - they are quite holey enough to let out any amount of water they might let in.
Thus Modestine's baptism, and a dedication of our mission. A similar experience on day 1 of my travels from St. Malo to Torce with the old bike served a similar purpose. The Adventure had begun.
Squelching slightly, and getting unsolicited showers from cars gaily splashing through lesser puddles and streams, the remaining miles passed uneventfully, the light low but still strong as I peddled up to the station at Attleborough. The train had departed four minutes earlier, nothing to do but make the best of it. A tea shop calls. Mr. Google identifies one, and I follow instructions to it. It is closed. Happily there is another, which is not closed, which is small, jammed full of small tables, jammed full of local people enjoying their paper or their gossip, the sort of shop that is full of little notices - "Keep Calm and Drink Coffee", "Everything comes to those who bake", and a particularly severe notice discouraging parents from allowing their children to frequent the premises without an adult in attendance: "Unaccompanied children will be given an espresso and a free puppy". I get a coffee and a cheese scone. If not exactly heaven, then certainly close enough for me.
No problems on the train home. The bike was in good company, four on a rack designed for two, but they travelled ok. One of the bikes had romped its muddy way from Cambridge all the way to Norwich and now was lording it over its less splattered companions. It might have made me feel small and insignificant, except I was determined not to feel that way. We are not in that league, nor do we wish to be. Our expedition answered its purpose well.
It was a good day, we will attempt that route again, next time heading for Wymondham, knowing which end of the Stowmarket to Diss train to get on, with adequate maps, in adequate daylight, with a compass, and perhaps without the wind, next time taking in Forncett and Aslacton, and maybe even Tasburgh.
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