The title given above to this particular tour is one eminently
calculated to astonish those who have derived their ideas of Essex from
guide-book writers. It has long been the fashion to describe Essex as a
flat and monotonous county. Probably the compilers of those miscalled
“guides” have known Wanstead Flats and Barking Level, and have ventured
along the Thames marshes; but that anyone who has travelled Essex
through could still describe it as flat is simply inconceivable.
Certainly no cyclist who knows his Essex well would deny its much more
than undulating general character.
This tour is frankly planned for the purpose of visiting the most
prominent among the hills of Essex, and so, as some rough roads will
be met at one spot, and as some walking, both up and down hill, will
be necessary, the itinerary does not extend to more than thirty-four
miles. Let it not, however, be supposed that, as a whole, this is a
route of hill-climbing and bad roads. Starting at Brentwood, we are
upon the main highway from London to Colchester, and on the crest
of a steep hill which cyclists coming from London must needs climb.
By training to the town we just escape it, and the succeeding five
miles along this old coaching highway are chiefly on the down grade.
Brentwood is well worth exploring. Its fine broad High Street still
retains the decayed trunk of the old oak marking the spot where the
Protestant martyr, William Hunter, was burnt in 1555. The trunk is
carefully bricked up to preserve it. A monument also serves to keep the
martyr’s memory green. The old galleried courtyard of that old-time
coaching inn, the “White Hart,” should be seen; it is one of the very
few examples now remaining of a bygone style of hostelries whose days
ended when railways came in.
Brentwood, originally called “Burntwood,” probably takes its name from
a portion of the once dense forest of Essex, burnt at some indefinite
period, on whose site the town arose; and, sure enough, along the
whole course of this tour—and, indeed, of many another one could make
in Essex—relics of this vanished forest are encountered in almost
every old church, built more or less largely of ancient timbers.
Here at Shenfield, which we reach through a beautiful common, a mile
distant from Brentwood, a portion of the nave arcade is of wood, and
at Mountnessing, the next place on our itinerary, the tower is framed
in massive oak. The name of Mountnessing presents difficulties to
local tongues, and so it is known round about these parts as “Money’s
End.” Ingatestone, succeeding to Mountnessing, is a decayed coaching
town, with a name corrupted from “Ing-atte-Stone”—the Meadow by the
Milestone, as some would say. By “stone,” however, it is more likely
that the old Roman stone-paved way is meant.
[Illustration: Map—BRENTWOOD to Dagenham Statn.]
Turning off this high road here to the right, we make for Stock,
along a hilly lane. Stock, a scattered village situated on high
ground, commanding beautiful views southward toward the valley of the
Thames, is of little interest for itself; but here, again, we find
a very remarkable church, with ancient timbered and weather-boarded
tower, surmounted by a shingled spire, springing from a roofed lower
stage with cavernous eaves, the whole dating back to the close of the
fifteenth century, and restored, apparently, over two hundred years
ago, according to the inscription, “R R. E H 1683,” still sharp and
distinct, on the woodwork of the belfry. Like most of these Essex
wooden churches, this of Stock is of curiously Scandinavian aspect, and
own sisters to it may be found in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. Even the
elaborate tracery and the mullions of the windows in this tower are in
wood, and, moreover, in excellent preservation.
[Illustration: STOCK CHURCH.]
From where Stock stands on its ridge, it is nearly three miles to
Billericay, very steeply downhill at first, then level, and again
downhill to Billericay Station. Yet, after all these descents, one
observes that the little town is itself on an elevated tableland.
The name of this place is, by the way, a sad rock of offence and a
stumbling-block to the stranger, who generally attempts to pronounce it
“Bill-erry-cay,” somewhat after the fashion of its spelling. The local
shibboleth is, however, “Bill-ricky.” The interior of the church is
of the most disapproved churchwarden order of architecture, and the
exterior, with humpbacked roof and whimsical, squatty little red brick
tower,—said to date back three hundred years, but not looking half that
age,—is in a curiously debased Gothic; while there can be no doubt
about the mean Late Victorian of the 1897 Jubilee clock, bracketed out
from the tower.
Billericay consists chiefly of a long street of nondescript houses,
some very tiny, none very large, and few particularly new. A goodly
proportion of the loose stones of Essex is strewn over the roadway,
some of them large enough to make the ghost of Macadam writhe with
disgust at the degeneracy of the times from those he knew.
It is downhill again from the little town to Great Burstead, a mile
and a half away, on the left hand. This was the mother-parish of
Billericay, but has now shrunken to a cottage or two and a fine old
church, very much out of repair. After this come further descents, and
then, where a modern inn faces up the road, nearly four miles from the
little town of Billericay, turn left, and then first to the right.
A little distance ahead appears the odd sight of a church standing
solitary on a hilltop. This is the church of Laindon, and we are now
coming to those Essex mountains in miniature, the Laindon Hills.
Leaving the cycle beneath the wayside hedge, climb the steep hillside,
over hurdles and across grass fields, and then you arrive at one of
the most singular churches in the country. Laindon Church is of Early
English and later periods, and has the probably unique feature of
a priest’s house, or anchor-hold, built on to the tower at the west
end, and opening directly into the church. The priest who dwelt here
in olden times must have had rather a cosy retreat, in spite of the
fact that it is exposed to every wind that blows; for the two rooms,
forming a lower and an upper floor, look cheerful and comfortable. Four
lattice windows give views away over many miles of beautiful scenery,
and the structure itself, built of red brick, plaster, and timber, is
of the greatest curiosity and interest. In this odd structure lives
either the parish clerk or the sexton, and the casual visitor to the
church is like to be startled by the sight of a domestic interior at
its west end, and to hear such unusual sounds as the washing of plates
and dishes echoing through the building from the direction of the old
priest’s habitation.
[Illustration: LAINDON CHURCH.]
Regaining the road, a hundred yards or so bring us to a way (too
execrable to call a road) running right and left. Turn to the right,
and then the first to the left, along a track leading to Laindon
Station. Over the railway, and then continuously uphill for a mile,
along the worst possible tracks; and then the summit of the Laindon
Hills is reached. Passing the post-office it will be noticed that
the postal authorities are at variance with most people over the
orthography of the place, for it is spelled in a most aggressively
prominent and permanent fashion, on an enamelled iron sign, “Langdon.”
The London, Tilbury, and Southend Railway adopts the more usual form.
The rail brings many East London excursionists here for half-day
outings, and, indeed, the views from the hilltop are worth coming many
miles to see, and well worth walking uphill with a cycle. Given a clear
day, you have not only the estuary of the Thames from Greenwich to the
Nore spread out before you, with the Kent and Essex marshes extending
like a pictorial map on either shore, but the eye ranges away out to
sea and across the intervening country to the broad silver band of the
Medway, running up from Sheerness to Rochester. Other widespread views
of sea and land and river are to be found in England, but nowhere else
anything to exactly compare with this; for here, enlivening the scene,
and conveying some idea of the commercial activity of the Thames and
the Port of London, are the great steamers, the sailing vessels, and
the lumbering barges, going back and forth so numerously as to convey
the idea of fleets. You may read in many books figures of the most
painstaking kind, set forth in an endeavour to give an idea of the
commercial status of the Thames, but they will not serve to convey
anything like the impression you receive from this eyrie. The cycle,
after all, is one of the greatest among educational forces.
The road-surveyors who have this particular district of Essex under
their control do not appear to have been educated in the gospel of good
roads, for as you turn to the right, past the “Crown Inn,” and to the
left after passing the modern and ugly church of Laindon Hills, a quite
unrideable descent of over half a mile suddenly presents itself. It
would be possible to cycle this in comfort and safety were it not for
the condition of the road, which bears in its thick and loose gravel
a very close approximation to Brighton beach. Having perforce walked
this, a sharp turn to the left brings one to a very welcome, good,
though hilly road, ascending direct to Horndon-on-the-Hill, a place
which has been visible for the last two miles, situated in much the
same fashion as the more familiar Harrow-on-the-Hill. Horndon looks
impressive from afar, and you approach it expectant; but when you reach
it the first thought is that it is a place by no means worth seeing,
being just a dusty, gritty, draggle-tailed village that has been making
up its mind to be modern for the last half-century, and so has provided
itself with some very unlovely shops and houses. The best thing in
Horndon-on-the-Hill, a cynic might say, is the view from it of other
places: of Laindon, of Vange, and Bowers Gifford, along the high ridge
of wooded country to the north-east.
From here we descend gradually to the Thames-side lowlands. Making for
Chadwell, and turning to the right on passing the church, a glance
backwards will reveal Horndon at its best: the tree-surrounded old
church, with the bright vermilion pantiles of the older houses, and
the whirling sails of flanking windmills giving a singularly foreign
and Dutch-like effect. Take the next turning to the left, and in half
a mile to the left again, having previously withstood the specious
invitation of a left-hand turn through a gate which only leads to a
farm-track. Another mile, and you come to a right and left highway,
opposite the “Cock Inn.” Neither of these leads to Chadwell, but there
is a lane leading straight ahead, beside the inn; a very retiring lane,
and quite difficult to see, if not previously warned of its existence.
This leads, for a level two miles, to Chadwell Church. Turn to the
right here, along the road to Grays. The other road, straight on,
drops sharply to the marshes and to Tilbury Docks, and the surrounding
industrial settlements. Tilbury Docks are very impressive, but when
cycling you can obtain all the impressions of them that you have any
use for from this Grays road, two miles away.
All the way from here to Rainham—some nine miles—is a splendid
object-lesson in Thames-side shipping and industries. It is not
sufficient to know the Thames only in its fashionable and holiday
aspects. To know it as a whole you must also have made some sort of
acquaintance with what sailor-men call “London River”—that is to say,
the Thames below bridge, where all the business is done. This is not,
of course, to say that these succeeding nine miles are ideal from
the cyclist’s point of view. The busy and growing town of Grays with
the Thurrocks on either side, scarcely to be distinguished from it by
the stranger, is only picturesque to those who can find a romance in
the riverside work; but the road surface is not so bad. Notice on the
right, immediately after leaving Grays, the sham castellated building
in a park now in course of being destroyed by the chalk quarries. This
is called Belmont Castle. The chalk-pits here, and along the road to
Purfleet, are nothing less than stupendous. Railways run between them
and the river, where the chalk is shipped, or manufactured as cement
on the spot. Purfleet, to which we now come, is a somewhat pleasing
old-world riverside place, with a pretty, tree-shaded road running
beside the river, where it is pleasant to halt and watch the world’s
commerce float by; the passenger steamers, the “ocean tramps,” the
fruiters, the wool-ships, the unmistakable oil-tank steamers, and all
the very varied traffic coming from or going to distant parts.
Across the river is Erith, and immediately opposite are the hospital
ships, off Crayford Ness. One of these—the _Castalia_—was originally a
twin-ship built for the Channel traffic, with the idea of abolishing
seasickness. Nearer at hand is the old wooden man-o’-war _Cornwall_,
now a training ship, and beside the road, just here, is a disused
hillside chalk quarry turned into a botanic garden.
Purfleet has a picturesqueness all its own, not utterly destroyed by
the gunpowder magazines nor by the huge tanks—like gasometers—where oil
is stored. So long as the busy perspective of the waterside remains,
with the “toil, glitter, grime, and wealth” of the tide, the place
cannot fail of interest.
[Illustration: Parslowes, Dagenham.]
Beyond, through Wennington and Rainham, the marshes spread out on the
left, kept from being drowned out by the Thames by the aid of those
earthen river walls said to have been originally made by the Romans.
Passing through the uninteresting town of Rainham we turn off to the
right at Rippleside for the old-world village of Dagenham, set upon
a hilly site overlooking the miry flats. Down there, on the inland
side, lies Parslowes, the old seat of the Fanshawes, islanded in
midst of ploughed fields; riverward trail the smoke-wreaths against
the burnished sunset, and as we blunder along the winding lanes
for Dagenham Station we meet the agricultural labourer, clumsy and
stupefied with long hours of physical toil, slouching off to his
evening fuddle at the “Blue Pig.”