After what seemed like weeks of dismal, grey, cold, wet weather, it was wonderful to see a brilliant winter sun. As I walked up the hill from Boxford towards Groton church, the beauty of the morning was perfected by a fountain of silver and gold against a brilliant blue sky. A small silver birch tree was still brazenly displaying its full head of bright autumn leaves, while its companion, a tree similar in every way and just a few metres further on, inexplicably was already deep into winter and bald as a coot.
I walked to the left of the Fox and Hounds and through into Groton churchyard. The familiar occupants seemed to be enjoying the sunshine warming their headstones. I like to think they were, particularly little Zachariah Tricker, whose parents sadly lost him in the 1860s and now lie there with him. I’m always moved by this little memorial, which reminds us: “Thou knowest not what a day may bring forth”. I think it’s best read as a message of hope for all the good things a day can bring forth. It has done its job too: here I am, some 160 years later, still thinking about these long-gone people every time I walk past.
I turned left at the churchyard gate, then right at the footpath sign, down the side of the field, then left along the path to The Spong. There, I crossed the road and continued along the bottom of the sloping field, towards the Groton-Lindsey road. A sudden cooling of the air and I turned to find a dramatic sky following me, the sun glowing determinedly from behind a band of mottled cloud.
Just before the road, I turned right, then right again at the footpath sign. There is a gate here, showing that the land beyond it is private. The remains of vigorous summer growth, now stripped down and bare-stemmed, lined the path on both sides. A wild clematis vine worthy of a Tarzan movie was dangling decoratively from a branch, creating a sculpture to complement the design of the wooden gate. It’s the kind of thing nature does to show that it’s in charge: no gardener could have made a climbing plant achieve that effect.
Up the steps, through the arboretum and over the stile towards Pytches Mount. I’m always surprised by how small it seems. It looks more like a mound for a garden folly than a setting for a serious castle. Perhaps time has buried most of its earthworks, so that just the top remains, like a land-locked ice-berg. I stopped to admire it and think about more long-gone people, who once relied on this lump of Suffolk soil to keep them safe from their enemies.
I followed the path round to the left, then right and then left again, along the edge of the field. The views open out suddenly here on both sides and today revealed a bright, blue, endless sky. I turned right at the bottom of the hill and followed the path to the road, then crossed and continued straight, to a footbridge on the left. Here, the path either bends round to the right, through a small copse, or goes straight on to the left. I followed this one and emerged on the road near French’s Care Haven. There, I turned left, up the hill, then right at the Kersey road and on to Groton Wood.
It was the perfect morning for a circuit of the wood, with sunlight filtering down through the remaining leaves. Groton Wood is a good of example of a sensitively managed woodland: it’s kept accessible to people, but not tidied up in any way, so it feels like a proper forest, doing its own thing. It’s a great place to bring children for a walk, as it gives them the chance to do the navigating, looking out among the trees for the carved arrows on posts, which tell you which way to go if you ever want to find your way out again.
Today, I had the whole wood to myself. I stopped and listened. There was the odd bird call (I recognised wood pigeon and wren, but the others were lost in my ignorance of all things avian) but otherwise the silence was complete: no wind noise, no road noise, no distant tractor or garden power-tool. I could hear individual dry leaves finally losing their autumn grip and falling down from the canopy. Earlier in the year, I enjoy a game of spot-the-mushroom here, but it was too late in the season for that. I had to settle for a couple of muddy and unidentifiable specimens, hanging on grumpily in various stages of advanced decay, reminding me that despite the sunshine, it really is winter.
Back at the entrance to the wood, I turned left and followed the road to a footpath sign on the right, next to Groton Wood Cottage. I followed this path to the right, straight on through several fields and back on to the road at Poplars Farm, where I turned left.
Here, I had to make a choice: either taking the next footpath on the right and following it down the hill to the footbridge I crossed earlier, then back to the road and left past The Spong, or staying on the road back to Horner’s Green and back into Boxford via Butcher’s Lane. Today, I chose the road back towards Boxford, the sun following me all the way, throwing a deep, golden glow on the landscape and picking out the spire of Boxford church, peeping out of the valley.
Winter sunshine has its particular magic, which makes even the most familiar walk special. Let’s get outside and enjoy every moment of it that we can.
Comments