Land. Essex: 4

6th October, 2020

Morning light streams through the blinds and I awake with a mission — today I am travelling to the Forest. I smile, anticipating the beauty I will encounter and the day ahead. It may rain. It may not. It matters not. I have a gabardine mac, a rain hat and some waterproof footwear. Packing my rucksack with food and drinks takes a while — I take my time. No need to rush. Today I have all day to myself. I walk to the station and listen to music en route, the train almost empty as it takes me past the River Lea and through Walthamstow Marshes — I can see the moored boats on the river and the reservoirs in the distance. This expanse of green always takes me by surprise — it is so close to the city and it stretches as far as the eye can see when I am walking. But this train speeds along and in next to no time the green has gone and the view is of the backs of peoples houses, their gardens, their balconies, their windows. High rise, low rise, more and more flats appear each time I take this journey, or so it seems. My imagination wanders about the inhabitants — the glassed walled extensions and plush looking new builds becoming more frequent as the suburbs are left behind and we enter Essex. Today I am going to visit the Epping Forest Visitor Centre and look for a map. Maybe having a map will stop me from getting lost. We shall see.

I have always loved maps. The way they give a birds eye view of the land below, the way they mark paths and routes, roads and buildings, gradients and waterways. I am dyslexic and for lots of neurodivergent people, map reading is problematic — but not for me. I love the way that they hold the details of journeys, real and imagined, and I have poured over maps of Essex lately, exploring the areas that my paternal ancestors inhabited. When I was at primary school, in the 60’s, everyone in the class took it in turns to walk home with a yard wheel, to see how far we all lived from the school. I was thrilled to discover that I lived the furthest away and we made a huge hand drawn map to plot everyone’s journey. This project stays in my mind to this day and is probably the reason that I can read and understand maps. I find my way around the city using a map in my head, facing North when I want to return home. I realise that I want to create the same sort of map for this section of the Forest. A visual, experiential map, that uses my memories and experiences of being here and lives silently in my head, waiting for the time when I need to use it.

The Visitors Centre sits between the Premier Inn and Queen Elizabeth’s Hunting Lodge, a timber framed wattle and daub two storey building built by Henry the Eighth in 1543, and later renovated by Queen Elizabeth 1st. My common law in laws brought us here one Sunday. They lived in Loughton and Grandma Em was well versed in local history — she loved taking us for Forest walks, looking for mushrooms, exploring the heritage of the area. My children enjoyed seeing how the Tudor’s lived and as I peek through the windows I can see that the display inside has barely changed. That was thirty years ago. Frozen in time, the Lodge sits at the top of Chingford Plain on a small hill. It must have been impressive when there were no other buildings here. It is still impressive. The Visitors Centre is in the old stable building and the shop looks shiny and new, the lights bright and the trinkets on sale enticing. There are wooden bowls made with Forest trees. Children’s toys and Forest honey. Maps and books about the Forest, nature and local history. The book of Forest walks is disappointing so I buy The Official Map, produced by the City of London, and walk up to Connaught Water. The lake is stunningly beautiful — as always — and I sit and eat, looking at the map to see the extent of the Forest and plot a route for todays walk. The clouded sky begins to let loose its contents and as the rain falls I turn to see a rainbow forming above me stretching over the trees on the far side of the lake. That way I think. That is the way I will go today. I put the map away and start to walk, grateful that the drizzle is caught by the tree canopy above. I cannot stop smiling. It feels so joyous to be out here again. In this place I feel safe.

I find a green pathway that is a disused road and follow it for a while. The ground beneath me is waterlogged in places and I duck in and out of the trees to avoid the mud and the rain. I see a tree circle and I walk around its interior. I see green swathes of moss covering fallen trees and ferns beginning to turn brown. I see clumps of mushrooms emerging and huge roots surrounding silver birches that stretch up into the white sky. I see an upturned root system at the bottom of a fallen tree — it is immense. I seem to recognise a clearing and pause to take photos and a video. I continue in what I imagine is a circular direction, aware that I should not walk too far North. I do not look at the map again. Having it in my bag is enough. I will follow no route. I will use my intuition and just wander. I am feeling good. I feel remarkably calm. It is a deep sense of calm. I cannot remember feeling this way before. Or maybe I have — I just can’t remember. I am still smiling as I pause to sit on a fallen tree trunk and drink some water. Looking about I realise I am in a part of the Forest I have not been in before. I am confident that if I just continue walking in this direction I will find self back at Chingford Plain. But I take out my phone to check — just in case. I am shocked to see that I have walked almost all the way through this part of the Forest to the edges of Loughton. I was about to walk even further in the wrong direction. Laughing out loud I retrace my steps a little and find a path that I know will take me back to Chingford Plain. I had better stay on this path for a while I think and I reluctantly walk alongside the Forest, dipping in and out where I can, without losing sight of the path. On this path there are dog walkers, cyclists, runners, in fact the paths are busy. The Forest interior is empty of anyone. Just the trees, some squirrels, a few birds and on occasion, me. Yet I am calm, despite this misadventure. I feel as if the Forest is magically disorientating me. Forcing me to pause, stop, observe, feel.

Once I reach Chingford Plain, I walk back into Bury Wood. I know my way around this place. I allow self to just be. I walk slowly — I don’t want to reach the end of the Forest yet. I walk quietly. I pause and look up at the tree tops. The lapwing seems to be following me. The colours of the leaves are varied now — orange and brown and yellow. Some leaves have fallen. Some. Many more still to fall. I feel as if the Forest is in my pores. I breathe it in. My body inhales the smell and the taste of it. I do not want to leave. But it is time to go home. I am damp and I have walked a long, long way today. I leave the Forest and walk back to the station, trying to take the feeling of calm with me. On the train, I let self drift and watch the world go by. Just watch. Observing without response. People get on and off the train and before I know it I can see the Marshes whizzing by and we reach Clapton. I continue walking in the same calm way, despite being surrounded by noise and people. I hold on tight to the Forest even as I have left it behind. For now. For I will return. It will still be there, as it has been for hundreds of years, holding and inviting us to be a part of its magic. I can’t wait.