Diss, Gissing, Aslacton, Forncett, Wymondham round 2 29/6/18
I said I would go back and do it properly, and I did. It was something of a last minute affair. The afternoon was free. I could just get on the train, there would be plenty of available light, there was no need to stress. The distance would not be a problem.
With two unfortunate earlier expeditions, dark questions had called into doubt the whole concept of trying to roam around this corner of the country by bike on my own. Things go wrong; am I really up to the matter of getting out of tricky situations?
One way to find out. This time I was adequately equipped: compass, check. Map, check. Food check. Water, well, juice, check. And this time I knew which end of Stowmarket station bikes loaded from.
The short story is it all worked. It came during a spell of idyllic weather. No problems with the train to Stowmarket, my anxiety entirely unjustified. The train at Stowmarket turned out to be the friendly little ones, that you just push the bike on and fit it anywhere it can fit. Yes, I got a bit turned around trying to escape Diss station, but somehow it didn't matter. The compass was redundant; the strong sun very clearly using me as a gnomon.
An open church door at Burston tempted me in. One of the tribe of sixty something women parishioners that keep churches cleaned, beflowered, and above all open was in the doorway, and very keen to tell about her church and her village. The church has gained a second use as village hall; the dual purpose possibly being closer to the original working practice of the church. I wonder. At any rate, it seems to work well. From her I learn of the strike school, where the children went on strike when their teachers were dismissed, but education continued first on the town green, then in disused workshops, and then in a purpose built school building. The longest running strike in history, as I understand it, broken only by the death of the assistant master.
The Gissing angels were there as before, but this time with the map in the panier I had no hesitation in continuing north to Aslacton. This is another round tower, with a shady tower making a very pleasant spot for a light lunch.
Onward to Forncett. At a crossroads I stop, unwarily to study the map. Confirmed in my choice of road, I continue, accompanied by the sound of velcro tearing apart and an unpleasant sense of stickiness. I had unwisely paused on a patch of sun warmed tar, sufficient to coat the tyre. I sought out the dusty boarders of the road, but it was half a kilometre before the tyres rolled free of the road again.
Forncett St Peter appeared to be a private house, the old vicarage, with an impressive locked gate barring the unmetalled drive. There was a side gate, I pushed the bike through and on to a gate in the fence that allowed pedestrian access to the church yard. No one came to chase me away, but the feeling of tresspass remained strong. The church was open, so I had a look round.
Forncett St Mary's is not a Saxon church, nonetheless I thought I would stop. It was even more hidden, this time with no approach road, but a very lovely lane leading from behind the village war memorial. Well worth the diversion.
From Forncett it was straight pedalling, to Fornsett End, Tacolneston, and on to Wymondham, for the most part very pleasant and easy pedalling. I passed the station at Wymondham and cycled on to see if Arthur were in. He was. He was distinctly surprised to see me. I had a cold drink and we enjoyed half an hour's chatter.
I am on something of a campaign to re-instate the art of calling on people un-announced. The informality of it benefits both; I do not look in angst at my watch to see if I am early or late, and I can cancel at will at any point. Arthur does not need to look at his watch and fret if he is going to get back from sailing in time to be there when I get back. Yes, we might miss each other, but there will be another time. The interaction is from another era, one that was less hurried, and it brings a tranquiity that graces the meeting.
Onwards, diverting via Mary's bench at the Abbey. Peaceful, with roses behind it still in flower, and a great deal warmer than the last time we visited, en famille, in April.
I had looked up the trains, and resigned myself to just missing one, but it was late, so I caught it. Alan met me at the station.
With two unfortunate earlier expeditions, dark questions had called into doubt the whole concept of trying to roam around this corner of the country by bike on my own. Things go wrong; am I really up to the matter of getting out of tricky situations?
One way to find out. This time I was adequately equipped: compass, check. Map, check. Food check. Water, well, juice, check. And this time I knew which end of Stowmarket station bikes loaded from.
The short story is it all worked. It came during a spell of idyllic weather. No problems with the train to Stowmarket, my anxiety entirely unjustified. The train at Stowmarket turned out to be the friendly little ones, that you just push the bike on and fit it anywhere it can fit. Yes, I got a bit turned around trying to escape Diss station, but somehow it didn't matter. The compass was redundant; the strong sun very clearly using me as a gnomon.
An open church door at Burston tempted me in. One of the tribe of sixty something women parishioners that keep churches cleaned, beflowered, and above all open was in the doorway, and very keen to tell about her church and her village. The church has gained a second use as village hall; the dual purpose possibly being closer to the original working practice of the church. I wonder. At any rate, it seems to work well. From her I learn of the strike school, where the children went on strike when their teachers were dismissed, but education continued first on the town green, then in disused workshops, and then in a purpose built school building. The longest running strike in history, as I understand it, broken only by the death of the assistant master.
 |
| Aslacton |
Onward to Forncett. At a crossroads I stop, unwarily to study the map. Confirmed in my choice of road, I continue, accompanied by the sound of velcro tearing apart and an unpleasant sense of stickiness. I had unwisely paused on a patch of sun warmed tar, sufficient to coat the tyre. I sought out the dusty boarders of the road, but it was half a kilometre before the tyres rolled free of the road again.
 |
| Forncett St. Peter |
Forncett St Mary's is not a Saxon church, nonetheless I thought I would stop. It was even more hidden, this time with no approach road, but a very lovely lane leading from behind the village war memorial. Well worth the diversion.
 |
| Lane to Forncett St. Mary's |
I am on something of a campaign to re-instate the art of calling on people un-announced. The informality of it benefits both; I do not look in angst at my watch to see if I am early or late, and I can cancel at will at any point. Arthur does not need to look at his watch and fret if he is going to get back from sailing in time to be there when I get back. Yes, we might miss each other, but there will be another time. The interaction is from another era, one that was less hurried, and it brings a tranquiity that graces the meeting.
Onwards, diverting via Mary's bench at the Abbey. Peaceful, with roses behind it still in flower, and a great deal warmer than the last time we visited, en famille, in April.
I had looked up the trains, and resigned myself to just missing one, but it was late, so I caught it. Alan met me at the station.
 |
| Mary's bench, Wymondham Abbey |
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