The pure blue sky and slight nip in the air suggested a longer than usual walk. I decided on Manningtree as my destination, via the ultimate Constable route along the River Stour, through Stratford St Mary, Dedham and Flatford.
I started from Homey Bridge, then followed the route to Withermarsh Green and on down the green lane of Snow Hill to the Stoke-by-Nayland to Higham road. The sun was forcing its way through the leaves, which are in places just starting to acknowledge autumn. Although the soil is dry underfoot, the long grass stays wet with dew until mid-morning, so I was soon regretting having only trainers on my feet.
I stopped to admire a hovering kestrel which was surveying a field with murderous intent. As I wondered whether I could access my camera fast enough to capture it, there was a sudden screech and four crows, flying in close formation, arrived to escort it forcefully from the premises. It didn't argue.
At the bottom of Snow Hill, I turned left, then took the track on the right towards Langham and the footbridge over the Stour beside the Victorian pumping station. An army of workers were harvesting salad crops from the strips of many colours growing in the flood-plain fields. They had arrived in what looked like an old railway carriage, hitched up to a giant tractor.
I paused at the footbridge to look for fish. I couldn't see any, but the surface of the water broke rhythmically into spreading circles of wavelets, each showing where a fish had touched the air through the surface. The dragonflies still rule this world at this time of the year, though now they are the huge, brown hawkers rather than the dainty, electric blue damsels of earlier in the season.
For the first time in many months, I turned left at the footpath sign by the pumping station, on to the combined route of the Stour Valley Path and St Edmund Way. This marches in a straight line across a ploughed field, through a gap in the hedge, then on across another arable field until it reaches the driveway of a farm house. A further sign leaves the walker in no doubt that the path does not continue round the house, but follows the edge of the next field, alongside a series of small lakes (the river here is invisible), all filled with water birds. There were geese of various kinds, but I don't know whether they were visitors arriving for the winter, or passers-through on their way to the warmer South.
I followed the path along the river, under willow trees that have, so far, avoided the chain saw and a career as an Indian cricket bat. I passed a solitary fisherman on the bank, the only other human presence here, and continued diagonally across a bright green field, where the grass looked so lush and healthy that I was almost tempted to taste it.
At the other side of the field is a metal bridge over the weir at Stratford St Mary. I found the fish here - a shoal of large, red-finned specimens, hovering in the strong current, almost as motionless as the kestrel.
Although the church of Constable fame is not visible as you walk south through Stratford St Mary, I noticed how varied and intricate the old houses are. From Tudor to Victorian, they line the wide main street, which runs parallel to the river. It also runs parallel to the A12 on the other side and the constant roar is an unwelcome intrusion into what would otherwise be a pretty riverside village.
I investigated a footpath, signposted down a gravel track, which looked from the map as though it would lead to the path along the river towards Dedham. It didn't - it ended abruptly in an impenetrable wall of brambles. I retraced my steps to the end of the high street, over another bridge carrying the road over a tangled marsh, and found the gate on to the Dedham path at the back of a small lay-by which entreated people not to park in it.
The path led under the thunder of the A12, through a murky tunnel (is there a planet out there somewhere which sends humanoids to every part of the Earth to assert their existence with a spray can on concrete underpass walls?). It was a relief to emerge into the extreme contrast of the next section - the path opened out into a water meadow, the sparkling, sunlit Stour running prettily on my right.
Canoes appeared on the water, then an astonishing number of people walking, most with canine companions of every colour and shape. There were young cattle in one of the meadows, but they showed none of the usual nervy skittishness: these were so used to people with their dogs, their mobile phones and their noise, that they took no notice as I and my many, carefully distanced fellow walkers (and even one brightly clad runner) passed through.
The path led past a mini classical temple on the opposite bank and on to Dedham Bridge. Here, the crowds grew even greater. It felt as though half the world had come out for one last look at the sunshine before either winter, or the repeated nightmare of enforced lockdown, confined them once again to four walls.
After the bridge, I followed the path along the north (Suffolk) side of the river, through more tame cattle, past a flotilla of hesitant rowers in small, wooden boats, and into a corner formed by a bend in the river. I had expected to find Fen Bridge here. People walking on the opposite bank were so close that it seemed I could reach out and touch them, but a bridge? No sign of it. Then I saw it, a sturdy-looking metal structure, in the other corner of the field, just to my north. I marched towards it, only to find a succession of people backing away and a sign saying "No entry - unsafe". No crossing the river here, then. I would have to continue on the Flatford side instead.
The well maintained path gave clear directions for East Bergholt and Flatford, confirmed by my map as up the side of a hill and on to a small road. The views opened out on my left, the churches at Dedham and Stratford St Mary, painted so many times by Constable, visible a surprisingly long way below. The direction signs continued helpfully, up the hill again and along the edge of a beautiful meadow, edged with oaks that must have been here when Constable strolled down from his studio at East Bergholt to take inspiration from the countryside, which has changed little over the centuries since then.
The way was so well marked that it came as a shock when the path ended in a barbed-wire fence and no apparent way out. I walked to the corner of the field - no way through. I came back and walked along the top of the field in the other direction - still no way through. I was just wondering whether to brave a small opening in the barbed wire to freedom on the Flatford road, when I saw a couple walking confidently on into the next field to my right. I followed them - at a discreet distance, just in case.
The view from here was even more impressive. On the far horizon, I could just make out the tower of Stoke-by-Nayland church. Although I couldn't see it, I could feel the salty estuary to my left and the North Sea beyond it. The sun, which had been fickle for the last hour, came out gloriously and lit up two counties.
An opening in the fence eventually appeared, along with a signpost indicating the car park at Flatford Mill. I followed the road down the hill, past a beautifully restored farm house, and came to the car park entrance. "Car park full" shouted the sign. Cars arrived every few seconds and went in anyway.
I skirted the car park and its intimidating National Trust hut (almost certainly manned by a brace of green-clad enthusiasts clutching ticket stubs) and followed the smaller road marked "Field Study Centre only". It sounded worthy and serious and full of more green-clad enthusiasts, but I soon found myself in Disneyland.
More people than I could imagine on a weekday in September filled every available space along the banks by the mill. They jostled (as far as Social Distancing allowed) for the best spot for a "Hay Wain" photo, or settled in for a picnic, brought from home to avoid a masked assault on the cafe. I knew that a really convincing Hay Wain photo is difficult to achieve (Constable employed a certain artistic licence in his famous painting) so I didn't even attempt it. Any photo of Flatford Mill today would have been "Hay Wain with Ceramic National Trust Thermos and Fruit Cake".
I couldn't resist standing for a while, though, to stare at the famous scenery, before taking the gravel path beyond the footbridge (having finally crossed to the Essex side of the river) and on towards Manningtree. For the first hundred metres or so, it was me and a flip-flop-shod throng leading dachshunds, yorkies and cockapoos. For the next hundred metres, it was me and the sensibly shod (plus labs, springers and retrievers). Then it was just me, the marshes spreading out on my left, separating me from the river.
Marshland always feels remote and vaguely threatening. Huge stands of reeds and sedges closed in on the path, at this time of year topped by brush-like flowers. At other times, the landscape opened out, totally flat, with mysterious bodies of water suddenly appearing, straight-sided in places, like canals.
The path turned into a gravel track, then almost a road, then finally an actual road, beside Manningtree Station car park. The contrast was stark between the last couple of miles across the silent marshes and the sudden noise of traffic at the roundabout. The route along the river continues to Harwich, as the first British stage of the European long-distance route E2, but my lift home was on his way, so for today, my walk ended at the industrial estate.
It seemed strange that the estuary was still not visible, although something in the light hinted at its presence, just out of sight beyond the road and the commercial units, the equinoctial high tide waiting to smooth out all the muddy contours and leave an enormous water-filled vista.
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