London to Mundon and beyond. An adventure with George, Charlie and a Gazelle.
Rain. BBC Weather had promised us a solid 24 hours of rain on Saturday, and only a little less for Sunday. Ah well! I had been craving the cold wind and green landscape. Duvet days are wildly overrated.
Escaping from London is always a pleasure. The urban fabric slips from the iconic to mundane, before leading us up, up and away to the Forest of Epping. We drank in the panoramic views of retail sheds, industrial units and the M25, perfectly framed by stately beech, gnarly oak and bristling holly. With this great prospect ahead of us, we each rammed a slab of Christmas cake down our gullets, savouring the rich sweetness as both flavour and fuel.
We followed our noses, heading more or less East, taking the track least travelled at every turn. Rolled stone paths lead to a muddy track over the M25, to concrete roads and potholed lanes. We ended up wading through mud and ditches at the edges of fields, scrambling through brambles to find our way home. Maybe that was one dead end too far.
Back on firm ground we inadvertently picked up the NCN 1. Well signed on quiet roads and metalled byways, the gentle landscape scrolled past at speed. Thatch and weatherboarding squared off in the quaint stakes, each village vying for a place on the Tourist Board calendar. As we flew I head bird song; I realised that aside from the bicycle’s gentle whoosh-hum, it was the only sound around. The city was a long way away.
Moreton offered us the White Hart, which won us round with a roaring fire and cheesy chips. We toasted our toes, lolling on the deep leather Chesterfields while the outside drizzle receded.
NCN 1 took us on East, past Cow Watering Lane and Writtle College, along the River Chelmer through Chelmsford, making this town one of the more charming surprises. As the official route turned North, we made our own way to Mundon. Because it rhymes with London. Sustrans really missed a trick on this one. With daylight fading we plugged on to Bradwell Waterside, trundling ever East to the edge of the land.
The Green Man welcomed us like old friends. We ate and drank, and sat and talked, while they rallied round filling our flask with hot tea, and offering up lawns for us to camp on and wishing us well.
The drizzle splattered on my steamed glasses, reflecting lights in stars and glares over the lens. I gave up trying to see any road, just pedalled on into the night.
The morning light slowly brought us round. I unzipped the tent to be greeted by a 1300 year old chapel, bold and alone in this bleak peninsular. To the other side a slither of saltmarsh was all the lay between us and the North Sea. In this place we had slept.
The chapel was opening up, inviting us in. High walls of Roman stone and tile engulfed us, high windows let in the light, without the risk of a distracting view. A couple come from an Iona community in Milton Keynes were inside, bearing a cross covered in post-its of prayers.
“We paste them on every week, building up the layers over time.”
This cross of hopes and dreams, requests and gratitude reminded me of another Tribe. We may not lay our hearts so much in the hands of God, but the process is the same. Coming together, sharing ideas, building a community. This need for belonging is a human need, wherever we choose to find it.
The road beckoned, and we headed on, through cabbage fields and battery chicken sheds to Burnham, another surprise discovery. The waterfront was made of abutting houses, old buildings jostling for space with a river view. The greasy spoon doubled up as a gift shop, toy shop and card shop - selling everything anyone had ever asked for. There appeared to have been a recent shipment of Thomas the Tank Engines, a hundred smiling grey faces eyeing up your coffee.
Onwards, onwards we rolled. Battlesbridge, the most easterly bridge on the Crouch, was good 10 miles from the sea. The bridge spanned a tiny trickle, leaving no clue as to why no bridges had been built further downstream.
We had been hoping to explore Foulness Island, only to find QinetiQ had got there first. The whole island is barricaded off so the MoD can practice blowing things up. Or shooting things. Or something. I don’t really know. An entire landscape dedicated to obliteration. We made do with Wakering Steps, leading down to the Broomway - the most dangerous footpath in the country - an oozing mudflat causeway leading to Foulness. The sea already licked our ankles as we stood on the beach. We hastened back to safety.
Shoeburyness was another unexpected delight, green roofed beach huts, disused gun turrets on a seafront park, and couples determined to picnic on the beach no matter how the wind howled, blasting sand into their sandwiches.
Cycle ways led us back into Southend. Fish and Chips in a seafront bar, sunsets reflecting off the sea and sheet glass. Sunday had been a beautiful day. Never trust the weatherman.
On the train home we rested, safe in the knowledge that a week of feeling down was thoroughly cured, blasted away on the wind.
