The Wormingford Trail
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This series of reflections was written following a visit to the writer Ronald Blythe only days before his 100th birthday by the New Nature Writing class (LT904) in November 2023.
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Ronald Blythe aged 99 years 362 days old is the oldest person I have ever met.
The famous author lives in a secluded cottage in the heart of the North Essex countryside, bordering on the rolling hills of Suffolk. Our group followed the trail from his home, the beautifully called but unknown meaning, Bottengoms, to his parish church at Wormingford.
He used to travel this path regularly to act as a lay preacher at the church on a Sunday until his age took its toll.
It was a dismal afternoon but at least it had stopped raining and our leader James, promised us it would not rain that afternoon. He must have a direct line to the rain gods because it stayed dry. The clocks had gone back four days before so we all knew that it would get dark earlier but we made the most of it.
The paths were muddy and we made our way slip sliding along the public footpath up and over stiles and through kissing gates, all the time being parallel to the Stour valley. We took the obligatory selfie at one of them. The mixture of autumn colours of the yellow, gold and green fields, woods and meadows of Suffolk were on the horizon along with the odd farmhouse and church spire.
My mind kept wandering to the Tudor time when Queen Elizabeth 1st is recorded as hunting deer in the valley staying at the long since disappeared hunting lodge.
The stop at the church was made more memorable by us being escorted by Barry the bell ringer. His proud stories of the history of the church and his nationwide journeys to ring the bells in many old historic churches rolled off his tongue in the lilt of his broad North Essex accent.
Our trip back was getting darker and darker. We were greeted on the way by a magnificent ram, his horns curling from his head like mirrored whirling fireworks. He was guarding his harem, looking over his fence as if he was expecting us to pay a toll to get through.
It was a great bonding session for our group and we all took the chance to have conversations with each other. Mine ranged from cricket and football with Ibrahim, bird patterned back packs with Anupa to comparing studies with Charlotte.
Kamakshi our expert photographer has sent us the photographs from the day, strangely the lighting seems a lot brighter than it actually was.
Peter Chisnall
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There are these leaves I saw, right at the end of our walk, and amongst its weathered
brown features were these thick textured veins, on a human I would have called them
varicose, but on the leaves they looked like the dusty paths back home, the swollen
rivers and winding leaping brooks, all damaged by the very feet that held them precious.
I remember having to take a picture of it. It wasn’t a choice, it was a reckoning. The
broad tapered edges of the leaves were damaged as well, disintegrating, breaking
away, leaving only memories behind. I registered, in slight jealousy, that enough time
had passed for them that they could return to a part of the world I could only half way
occupy. It’s almost rude, how, when you grow up in nature, you are eventually taught the
cruel lesson that you must one day be ‘civil’, that staying out and sleeping on trees is for
little girls who don’t have to be “more”. As if the idea of more couldn’t be the earth that
raised them. That swimming with snakes is for someone who is not an adult. There are
trees in my memories that have given me more than my father ever could. There is rain
that has washed away more tears than any flimsy promise the world has given me.
I had to kneel down in the wet grass to get the right angle, to properly frame the
strongest equalizer, the circle of life. The green healthy leaves on top, and their brown
dying brethren at the bottom. One day the green leaves would too fall, turn brown, but
for anyone who paid attention in their biology classes there would no doubt, they too
would eventually grow again, their death would provide their life. And how could I not
capture that in my little box, such a clear indication of a cycle that has existed for years
before me and will exist years after me. I remember getting up from that picture with
sticky wet clothes and painful stones digging into my feet. I struggle to care. Of a
preconceived idea of civility, of an idea of being proper, that does not include the world I
grew up in.
The wooden floors in huge empty mansions are only a walk on death, you use broken
nature to build your homes, not caring that if you continue down this path, one day it will
be all gone. And it will take us with them. But don’t think of nature as your benevolent
friend. It’s like those varicose veins, twisty, lumpy, bulging, uncomfortable. It does not
know how not to hurt you, does not know how to be civil and proper, because it does not
care. But that is okay because when I go on a walk and drift past the gently floating
autumn leaves, the maps the feathery veins make, remind me of home.
Tanya Chadha
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a tawny owl
alone in the sky
far away into the blue
…on the other side
we walked the words
into the woods
towards an antique gem
inside flourished —
wisdom,
a pussy cat…
I felt home
Kamakshi Lekshmanan
Wormingford
Thistle and bramble, bush and tree
Out in the marshland scenery
Thistle and bramble, bush and tree
Watch out for the slippery leaves
Thistle, bramble, bush and tree
Through the kissing gate you’ll see
Thistle, bramble, bush and tree
Off to Wormingford church you’ll be
Thistle and bramble, bush and tree
A pleasantly amiable adventure this’ll be
Thistle and bramble, bush and tree
Eat your cake and drink some tea
Thistle, bramble, bush and tree
Say hi to Ronnie just for me
Hannah Bosch
Wild Writers 