It had been a pretty emotional couple of weeks. I had been preoccupied (and greatly concerned) by the health concerns of one of my oldest (and closest) friends as well as those of a dear and much loved family member, I'd been worried about my own, increasingly penurious, existence and my own health, I'd been drinking too much, I'd been eating crap, I'd been upset by the continuing (and deepening) catastrophe of Brexit and the far right fervour it's given way too, and I'd been sleeping abysmally.
So, to put it mildly, I was looking forward to getting the ol' walking boots on again, catching up with friends, and hitting (for the fourteenth time - not including aborted attempts) the LOOP. I was so excited I was up before 5am which gave me plenty of time for Cornflakes and chores before making the relatively quick (if involving FOUR changes) journey to Chigwell, bumping into Pam at Woodford along the way.
On arriving in Chigwell we briefly kidded ourselves we'd actually beat Shep to the start of the walk. Of course, we hadn't. We soon received a WhatsApp message informing us that him and his workmate Tom (a firm Liverpool FC fan and one from the area too) were having a coffee in the nearby Village Deli. A place Marvin Gaye would surely have described as "hot just like an oven".
We picked them up and headed off up Chigwell High Road, past apartments that looked as if they should be facing out to the beach, past increasingly large houses (ones that didn't so much boast of taste or architectural prestige, but cold hard cash), and up to St Mary's, described as "a typical rural Essex church" with a "weather-boarded belfry" and "a broach spire". Most amusing to us was the fact that the rector was a Reverend Ben King. Please turn to page 444 in your psalm books and join me in a recital of "Stand By Me".
Just across from the church stands what used to be the Kings Head pub. A fairly large timber-framed building that seems to lean precariously into the road. It's where, when Chigwell used to lay deep in the forest, the Verderer's Court used to meet but it now houses a top end and, I think, Turkish eaterie called Sheesh.
The next building of note was the brick schoolhouse founded and endowed by one Samuel Harsnett in 1629. Harsnett, once the area's vicar, made it to Archbishop of York and that's perhaps not a surprise when you consider pious, or pompous, statements such as this one describing his conditions for future occupancy of the schoolhouse. The occupant should be "neither papist nor puritan .... no tippler, haunter of alehouses or puffer of tobacco, but apt to teach and severe in punishment".
That ruled all four of us out so, instead, we dipped through a hedge, crossed Vicarage Lane, and climbed up into the Essex fields along farm tracks and beside hedges. The sun was high in the sky and was illuminating vistas more spectacular than you'd have thought possible on the outskirts of Chigwell. It really was a beautiful day for it. One of those days where conversation and laughter flow easily and wrong turns don't matter much because nobody is in much of a rush.
We rambled along Pudding Lane (seeing the first of the day's more irregular signs), passed by a waterworks, and came out on Chapel Lane where the yellow brick chapel had been described in our trusty tome as 'charming'. That's allowing a fair bit of artistic license but it was pleasant enough. In a municipal kind of fashion.
As well as unorthodox signage another feature of the day's walk became damaged signage (some tipped into nearby ditches, others defaced, and some simply no longer there) and peculiar gates and stiles. Though none as odd as the one Tom recalled Shep opening with his chin during an outing by one of their other walking groups. One we tend not to talk about on here. Lol!
We read a little history about Hainault Forest. How it never found local defenders like its neighbour Epping and, after Parliament gave its consent in 1858 over 100,000 trees were felled and the land drained and fenced, how it is now a shadow of its former self and, thus, much much less famous than Epping.
It still seemed a pleasant enough area though. We ambled over Chigwell Row Recreation Ground with its swings, roundabouts, and tennis courts and took in the view of the Victorian church and the boarded up Maypole pub before crossing the busy A1112 Romford Road and dipping between two 'squeeze-posts' (see!) and through a kissing gate into Hainault Forest County Park. Where we got lost. Not for the last time. It's part of the LOOP experience. There's no point complaining - and none of us do/did.
Once we were back on track, cutting through some felled trees and overgrown shrub, Hainault Forest Country Park proved a delight. Shep, unlike the rest of us, was unimpressed with Woodhenge but he was cheered up, as he always is, with the sight of an impressive amount of waterfowl on the lake. There were swans (upping), coots, moorhens, mallards, tufted ducks (misidentified by me as pochards), and geese. Hundreds of geese. Making quite a noise. One Shep thought sounded like Tom and his mates in the pub before a Liverpool game.
The lake, and the birds, were beautiful but, perhaps, better still was being able to sit outside the Global Cafe (a surprisingly diverse menu, though Tom was unlucky with his orders, for a parkside cafe) for our brunch/lunch/whatever you want to call it. I had cheesy chips and a veggie hot dog (not proper hot dog sausages but plenty of tomato sauce from an impressively stocked condiment corner sorted that out) while I sipped a cappuccino. Children kicked balls. Birds flew overhead. All felt well with the world.
It took us a short while to get back on track and there was no sign of the advertised Millennium Beacon (the book is getting old and some things aren't as they're described) but the sun was only getting brighter and the great expanse of the country park made for an impressive sight. After a few forested hills we opened out into a golf course (as regular a feature on the LOOP as it on some TADS walks) and took an overgrown path through the Mile Plantation (that seemed to almost involve hurdles at one point) to avoid being struck by the errant balls of a wannabee Sam Snead.
Once we came out from beneath the canopy we were afforded views of Havering Country Park and, beyond, a Romford tower block reminding us that we're not so far from civilisation after all. If Romford can be called civilisation, that is!
Children rode horses along muddy bridleways and farm equipment sat idly on its weekend break as we trudged along a difficult path, occasionally stopping to look back at the hazy views of the London skyline. So hazy was it that if you squinted you could kid yourself you were in LA.
After a reasonably stiff climb, one that had me regretting the donning of my winter coat, we turned right into a broad avenue where soon we were flanked by giant sequoia. I didn't even know we had these in Britain but, apparently, Havering Country Park has England's second largest collection.
Also known as redwoods, or wellingtonia, they became 'fashionable' (can trees be fashionable? guess so) after the Californian Gold Rush and these were planted here not long after to make for an impressive entrance to the no longer there mansion of Havering Park. These trees are about 150 years old and they're still pretty huge but to see how big they've grown in California then you should check the photos recounting the trip Simon and I made back in 2016 on this little blog here.
The wellingtonia lined avenue brought us out past an old church (where I think I may once have been best man at a wedding), an unlikely burger van, and expansive views across the Roding Valley to the pretty Essex village of Havering-atte-Bower. One that looks like it should be far more rural than the Romford outpost it really is.
On the village green we took a look at the stocks and the whipping post but these days the worst punishment you can get is a pint of Courage Best at The Royal Oak pub. According to Shep and Tom, anyway. They took theirs back and got a Moretti like me. Pam took a Guinness. The landlady and her friend had, it seemed, the best idea. They sipped cups of tea and ate buttery toast as France beat Scotland in the Six Nations on the television.
On a sunny day like this I'd been looking forward to a summer ale (they didn't have any, lager sufficed) and a beer garden (they didn't have one, we sat inside) and, for such a pretty village, the pub was underwhelming. We laughed at how much their Charles II (behind a fruit machine) looked like David Mitchell, perhaps working through some ideas for a pilot of Upstart Crow.
On leaving the pub we noticed a car (bearing the numberplate G666WAR, Satan's War?) had crashed outside while we'd been resting our legs and we took a little snicket round the back of the garages, sadly no discarded porn - the internet is destroying British culture, and continued through various fields full of almost stationary horses and past some iron gateposts (not quite as 'magnificent' as described by Sharp & Saunders) that once graced the entrance to Pyrgo Park.
As ever, there was some GPS (and map) consultation to keep us on track and we even met a fellow London LOOP walker (an anti-clockwise one) who we briefly exchanged rambling anecdotes with before dipping down into Paternoster Row, a peculiar collection of heavily fenced properties, ramshackle cottages, and static caravans.
This lead us down a slip road and to The Bear pub on Noak Hill. Famous, you can discover, for once having real bears in cages there. Something for the kids to play with it while you drink. There's no bears there now - and, again, very little ale. Or even decent lagers. It looked nice outside but, truth be told, it was a bit tatty within. Not unpleasant but hardly a place to settle in. I had a Carlsberg, there was more rugby on TV, that says it all. Essex pubs, at least so far, don't seem to do ale. Or character.
It was starting to get dark when we left and we wandered into a field of heavily antlered, and twilit, deer. Right in front of suburban homes. Not sure I've ever seen deer in such an unlikely environment before.
They watched as we passed by and as the skies darkened our pace got brisker. Eager now to reach our final destination. The last hour was a pretty straightforward schlep along a pathetic brook, crossing various roads, skirting brutalist playgrounds (thanks, Pam), and traversing Dagnam Park Drive, Central Park, and Paines Brook Play Area before, quite suddenly, reaching Harold Wood.
The (King) Harold pub did not look good. It was as brightly lit as a fast food takeaway joint and as we pondered our next move we were approached by a local lady, out in her slippers, who told us it was horrible and that a kid had died there recently (something confirmed by a brief Google). She went on to tell us there were no nice pubs in the area and that the only Indian restaurant was awful too (though Bombay Palace smelt good to me). She said not to go to Romford on a Saturday night because that was terrible too. It's fair to say she didn't work for the Harold Wood tourist board.
There was a bus replacement service so we hopped a bus to Newbury Park, took the Central Line to Liverpool Street (a journey so dull I ended up talking about biros), and all got off there. Pam, who was struggling to stay awake after a White Denim gig on Friday night and a stressful week/month/several years of work, said goodbye and headed off to Shepherds Bush for a night of Ukrainian music and Tom, Shep, and myself wandered circuitously towards Brick Lane. We had a pint in the Pride of Spitalfields and then I had chana masala, tarka daal, pilau rice, and a chapati (washed down with a nice cold Cobra) in the Brick Lane Brasserie. As with most places on Brick Lane it was serviceable, it was decent, but it was not outstanding. Shep and Tom had never eaten on Brick Lane before so I thought I'd give them the full tourist experience and they weren't let down there.
Legs tired, belly full, they left for Aldgate East and, eventually, Waterloo and I headed to Whitechapel to catch the Overground to Honor Oak Park. When I got home I'd walked nearly 37,000 steps and I was in bed before midnight (which is far from always the case on the LOOP). The day may have been a long one but, for me, it had been both a good, and a much needed, one. The title of this blog, Essexual Healing - I ask you, may be corny but sometimes in life the corny things are what matter. Friendship, laughter, countryside, and more condiments than you could ever wish to consume.
Next time it's the final stage of the LOOP. The book claims it's thirteen and a quarter miles from Harold Wood to Purfleet but we're psyching ourselves up for many more. Maybe we'll even find an Essex pub that serves decent ale. In the meantime, TADS resumes in a fortnight for a stroll from Gomshall to Dorking and it'll be great to see as many old (and new) faces as possible. Last year's season end walk got messy but, this time - at least in March, we're gonna do it clean (know what I mean?). See you soon.
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