Proper winter has arrived. Blustery, showery days with hardly a leaf left on the trees, but that doesn’t mean there’s no colour in the landscape. A thousand shades of green glow from the grass and winter cereals and the sun, when it arrives, picks out highlights that you never notice in summer.
I walked from Whitestreet Green towards Polstead, down the hill and past the pond. Or rather, past the gloopy moonscape of deep grey mud that used to be Polstead pond (and will be again, when the de-silting work has been completed). Strange hieroglyphs cover the surface, left by streams of water inching their way across. When it was first drained, a couple of inexplicable, loopy doodles appeared which had me baffled. Closer inspection showed they were stranded eels of considerable size. I knew that the pond contained huge carp (temporarily accommodated elsewhere), but had no idea that these mysterious creatures also inhabited its depths.
Past the pond, I continued up Marten’s Lane. January is not a dead month: already hazel catkins line the hedgerows and the first shoots of what will be lords-and-ladies are pushing their way through last autumn’s leaves. I stopped in my tracks as a buzzard burst noisily skywards from behind the hedge. When you see them up close, it’s surprising how huge and menacing they seem, like something primaeval that doesn’t quite belong in gentle Suffolk.
Hills don’t belong in gentle Suffolk either, but this route has its fair share. Marten’s Lane was just the first of them. At the top, I turned right, along the path to the side of the wood, then left through a kissing-gate and across the field towards Withermarsh Green. This field also has something primaeval about it. The soil here is littered with big pebbles, some cobble-sized, now high and dry, but worn perfectly smooth by running water millions of years ago.
By now the rain clouds had given way to a grey, patchy veil. The sun looked as though someone had pencilled it in, then smudged it with a grubby thumb. But it was trying its best. By the time I reached the green at Withermarsh Green, it had gathered itself together enough to pick out brilliantly the whitewash on the ancient cottages.
I continued past the green and then right, on the route of the St Edmund Way. After a while, the track turns to the left and leads down Snow Hill Lane. This is one of my favourite paths in the area. At all times of the year, there’s something to see in this mini wilderness. In this leafless season, the highlights are the wide views it reveals across the valley towards Higham and Boxted.
At the bottom of the hill, I turned right along the permissive path running along the edge of the field, following the Stoke to Higham road. The going was much easier today than back in the late summer, when giant burdock plants blocked my way and secretly attached their spiky burrs to every part of me they could reach. .
Over the bridge next to Thorington Hall, I turned right and followed the road past Thorington Mill. The River Box is at its most beautiful here, a clear stream running between Wind-in-the-Willows banks, seemingly miles from the modern world. I crossed over the bridge and carried on to the right, up the road back towards Withermarsh Green.
Here is another steep (for Suffolk) uphill section. Water runs down this road even when it has not been raining; probably a natural spring which has found the path of least resistance down what remains of the tarmac. The result is a strip of pebbly beach running down the middle of the sunken road. This, along with the steep banks covered in dry bracken and the undulating fields on either side, gave me the impression of suddenly being transported to continue my walk in Devon or Cornwall. Halfway up the hill grows an old, tall and incongruous London plane tree, identifiable by its patchwork bark, dangling Christmas-bauble seed pods and its surrounding litter of discarded, hand-like leaves. I don’t know of any others in this area and it added to the feeling of being displaced.
At the top of the hill, I turned left, back along the St Edmund Way. I followed the path through a small wood, which is particularly beautiful in bluebell time. At this time of year, the huge oak trees are the stars, with their bare branches perfectly framing a fine distant view of Stoke-by-Nayland church on the opposite side of the valley.
Down another steep hill, then over a stile and right past a farmhouse, where a frenzy of tiny piglets was out to enjoy the sunshine with their huge, docile mothers. They came by the dozen, in every shade from black to ginger to white, via striped, spotted and patched, and were just at the age of perfect, curly-tailed cuteness. They were a highlight of my walk, which I continued up another steep track through the woods and back to the Withermarsh Green road.
Back at Withermarsh Green, I turned left, then right at the junction and back down Marten’s Lane. Left at the first footpath sign, I followed the track past several fields, through a gate and to the top of Bell’s Hill, the steepest slope in the area, and stopped to admire the 360 degree view of Polstead and Stoke-by-Nayland. I took the path towards the left and went down the hill, a short way along the road to the left, then right, along Mill Lane towards Homey Bridge. Over the footbridge, I had one more hill to climb, up the track to the road and back towards Whitestreet Green.
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