Diagonal Walking by Nick Corble

Author:Nick Corble
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
Published: 2019-03-21T16:00:00+00:00

11

Herts is Where The Home is

Bedfordshire held a final surprise. Near the end of the airport perimeter fence, and still within range of a sudden jet engine blast, stood Someries Castle. This dates back to the fifteenth century and claims to be Bedfordshire’s oldest surviving brick building, although ‘surviving’ may be stretching a point. What stood before me, near the entrance to a working farm, was clearly a ruin, albeit one in pretty reasonable nick. It stood two stories high, and although it lacked a floor, it was still possible to see the remains of a spiral staircase, the octagonal turrets and some arched windows. The latter included an angled ‘squint’, which once allowed ladies of the house to view Mass.

The building’s brick construction was unusual as the material was only just being used at the time when it was built, and it must have been an article of faith to have used it exclusively, as well as expensive. They’d even incorporated a diamond pattern using different coloured bricks. It was impressive, both for its structure, and for being unexpected, and in this sense was an uplifting way of leaving the county after some mixed experiences.

I was now into Hertfordshire: home turf. Hertfordshire was where I’d been born and spent the first twenty years of my life. It also explained my Watford fixation. The diagonal didn’t cut through my home town of St Albans, but it did come close. As chance would have it, in another one of the strange coincidences that had closed the decision to undertake the walk, it passed within a few yards of the house we’d rented for two years after leaving St. Albans back in the 1980s, in a place called Blackmore End. This lay slightly north of the city, and yes, St Albans is a city, with its own cathedral and everything. Sorry about that Northampton and Milton Keynes. Just around the corner lived yet another cousin, and it was here that I’d arranged to spend the night and rendezvous with my clean clothes, as well as Annette of course.

The planes arriving into and leaving Eric Morecambe, sorry, London Luton Airport, continued to make their presence felt, and later that afternoon my cousin bemoaned plans to increase the number of flights. They didn’t seem too bad to me, but then again, I’d seen and heard them at source, so it was all relative. The footpath signs in Hertfordshire were exemplary, indicating not only the right direction but also destination, distance and even a designated number for the footpath. They were also clear, uncluttered by vegetation and all present and correct. Staffordshire’s footpath people needed to come to Hertfordshire on a Learning Day.

Having crossed the border, I wandered into a small village called Peter’s Green, where I ordered what was fast becoming my standard drinks order – a pint of bitter shandy and a pint of tap water, with a splash of ice if that’s okay with you, barman.

‘Any particular bitter, sir?’

I surveyed the pumps. They were all McMullens, the local brew.

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