Epping Town
I had two objectives for the day: to walk parts of Epping Forest and to visit the Abbey Church at Waltham Abbey. But life is not easy as we want it to be. Before even taking a single step in the forest, many miles of journey had to be undertaken. I had to pass through London, change to the Underground before finally reaching Epping two hours after leaving Luton. The Central line of the Underground terminates at Epping. Although Epping is quite a long way from Central London, it must be considered as a suburb of London. Epping Forest is one of the green spaces managed by the Corporation of London. A sign board at the start of one of the forest paths makes this clear.
I stopped at Epping for breakfast which was typically English. I had nothing more than slices of toasted bread, baked beans and scrambled egg. Epping is not a sleepy town in a remote inland location where if there is any real business it exists only for tourists. Epping provides for the needs of a considerable population. It may be that those who live in Epping work in London but all the necessary common services can be obtained in Epping itself. To start with, Epping has as many as five hair saloons and as many as four charity shops. Then I proceeded to make a list of different services on the main street: cafes, modern and traditional in the English sense; restaurants, Italian, Indian, Chinese, Thai among others; Indian take-away; chocolatiers; a fish-and-chips shop; kebab, pizza, burger and fried chicken shops; bakeries; a butchery; pubs; hotels; dry cleaners; travel agents; estate agents; a Royal Mail office; bookmakers; a sports injury clinic; pharmacies; opticians; a dental surgery; a podiatrist and chiropodist; funeral directors and monumental masons; newsagents; showrooms for furniture, interiors, ceramics and tiles; bookshops; a party shop for fancy dress and disco hire; photographers; a bicycle shop; an Anglican church; a Methodist church; a Quaker meeting house; independent financial advisors; florists; mobile phone shops; banks and cash machines; shops selling crafts, gifts, knitting yarn and greeting cards; a shop selling carpets and rugs; a shop for nail care; another for shoe repairs. Further up the road, I found a car showroom and a petrol kiosk.
So here in Epping I found a snapshot of an English town and the needs of our times. Epping stands apart from the forest. Epping is not as closely associated with its forest as Hampstead is with its heath. Had Constable painted more of this forest than of Hampstead Heath, my view would have been different. Here lies one of the pitfalls of travel in general. Much of what we expect to find or see is shaped by the expressions of artists and writers. This expectation is not a problem in itself. The greater problem is that we seek happiness and joy in finding exactly what others have expressed. This is the “been-there-done-that” travel syndrome. If we don’t find it, we are disappointed. In the process we fail to notice other things, perhaps better things that could enhance our personal experience of each visit. If we remain with certain preconceived expectations we remain disappointed.
Epping Forest
I had no illusions about what I would find in the forest. I did not expect a dense growth of leafy abundance. This is the usual picture we find in all guidebooks, brochures and websites. So early in the year, I found exactly what I had expected: bare branches trying to come out of the chill of winter, ground covered with dried leaves and fruit kernels, dead tree trunks passing through the final rites of slow decay, still ponds hiding quietly amongst woodland shades, moss-covered slopes and well-trodden paths. This beautiful spectacle was nothing new to me. This was the form in which I had admired Hampstead Heath.
I passed an Iron Age land feature called the Ambresbury Banks. This is a circular ditch and earthbank from about 500 BC. Surrounded by woodland and with no open views to the world outside, this is a special place. A few minutes of walking on these banks we may begin to feel an ancient aura, of primitive tribes and bloody battles.
Epping Forest is definitely not enchanting. It does not have the special appeal of Sherwood Forest. It does not have the isolation of Guisborough Forest. It does not have the towering beauty of pines neatly laid out as in Redesdale Forest. Yet it is a forest that provides great accessibility for all to enjoy. Londoners make good use of it. They ought to because they pay for its maintenance.
Waltham Abbey
Of all haughty advertisements and expressions of self-praise, Waltham Abbey takes the cake. There is a board near the Abbey Church describing this place as “an attractive market town”. Let us consider what is so attractive about this town. To walk to this town from Epping Forest, I had to cross two busy and noisy motorways. Then I had to pass through high-rise residential blocks decaying with age. Unsightly by appearance and badly maintained, they reflected perhaps the nature of the social classes that lived in them. None of the buildings in town were attractive. The museum had a meagre collection that had little interest. Except for the Abbey Church the town had nothing of importance.
Once an Augustinian Abbey, its beginnings can be traced to a remarkable legend and a man’s dream in Somerset. Before the Dissolution the main building and its extensions had occupied a much greater area. The nave alone is said to have been three times as long. What stands today continues to exhibit its earlier magnificence. The lightness of the stone by colour has a pleasing effect. When combined with the strength and bulk of circular Norman pillars and semi-circular arches of the nave arcading, the effect is enhanced. One pillar contains a zigzag pattern etched around it. Another contains etching of parallel lines that spiral upwards along its circumference. These details add greater interest although I prefer the dimly lit plain Norman interior of Malvern’s Priory.
The painted ceiling is just that, a flat covering without any vaulting. Signs of the zodiac are depicted colourfully along with common seasonal activities. The churchwardens justify this seemingly inappropriate collection of images by making association that are not in anyway obvious. For instance, the sign Gemini with its twins speaks of Christ’s duality, both human and divine. The sign Aquarius signifies baptism. Even if such associations and derived meanings make sense, the origins of the zodiac in classical mythology cannot be easily overlooked.
Another interesting aspect in this church are the circular chain marks on one of the Norman pillars. Important books had been made accessible to the reading public. They had to be chained to the pillars. If the soiling of books are a testimony their considerable use and usefulness, these marks in stone are a permanent testimony even without the books.
In this abbey church there is a space reserved for children. This place is colourfully furnished and decorated. Paper, pencils and crayons are available. Picture books with parables or something similar in a modern context form a small library. Notice boards contain drawings, thoughts and artwork by kids. Christianity, religion and good moral behaviour are introduced to children by such means that appeal to them. This church is not alone in doing things this way. I have seen it in Sherborne Abbey last week. I have seen it in the parish church at Charminster. This practice can be found in most parish churches of the country. I do not recall finding such a space in cathedrals but I may have just failed to notice.
On January 3rd 2003, this church was subjected to an axe attack in which monuments were destroyed. The reredos suffered great damage. Some windows were broken. Much of this damage has been painstakingly restored. A special service was held on January 3rd 2004. This is modern history on an ancient church.
Outside, where once the abbey’s longer nave had extended into the present open lawns, there lies a tombstone with these words:
THIS STONE MARKS THE POSITION
OF THE HIGH ALTAR
BEHIND WHICH KING HAROLD
IS SAID TO HAVE BEEN BURIED
1066
King Harold, as history tells us, is the king who fell in battle against the famous William the Conqueror. It was his defeat that brought the “Norman yoke” to Britain. Behind is a small stone that bears the following:
HAROLD
ENGLAND
OBIIT 1066
All this is just fanciful thought. The key phrase in the above inscriptions is this – “is said to have been”. There is no certainty. If he is really buried here they should have been at least one record to prove it. When something as great as the Domesday Book was produced in about the same period, it is unlikely that an important detail as this is left untold. Perhaps the intention was to keep this a secret from the conquerors. If this is really his burial place, his bones should have been excavated. The truth is harder to unravel with the passage of time. Meanwhile the legend acquires greater renown.
The Pull of London
At Waltham Abbey we are within breathing distance of London. The pulsating life of London is felt not just in its suburbs but even beyond. Although Waltham Abbey is not a part of Greater London, the continuous traffic that moves in and out of London passes by this town. Every London suburb has perhaps something unique but they are bound to borrow and share, at least in part, the spirit of London. Even if they do not willingly borrow, they do not have a choice: London’s free spirit is lent and enforced. Waltham Abbey may not be a lively and exciting place, but it is highly likely that its residents feel alive and excited by being close to London and visiting it often. In fact, Waltham Abbey is dreary and dull. A little away from the town centre, I found the gross effects of industrialisation.
So close to London anyone would feel its pull. The suburbs, like iron filings, crowd around London’s magnetic centre. The suburbs, like electrons, complete the atom with its central nucleus. The suburbs of “H”, dependent yet separate, link with the perfect ring of a benzene molecule. The tracks and their trains, like gleaming filaments, join the spider’s complex web. The roads and their traffic, like arteries of blood, come alive with each beat of the heart. And with the passing of every minute and hour, this organism grows as a benign malignant virus.
I took a train from Enfield Lock to Manor Park where to my surprise I found the end of Epping Forest, announced once more by a board from the Corporation of London. After dinner, which was a proper South Indian meal, I took the District Line at East Ham with a vague idea of alighting at West Ham. West Ham came and went. I sat in the Tube without purpose and without destination. Later, I thought I will get off at Embankment and change to the Northern Line for Tottenham Court Road. This too did not happen. I sat mesmerised by the soothing motion of the train amidst the regularity of stations, platforms, announcements, beeps and closing of doors. This act of moving many feet beneath ground level was not something I had thought about before. This was like getting under the skin of London itself which nonetheless retained its calm unperturbed soul and maintained its frenzy bodily existence. Nothing could shake London. It had seen and supported every civilisation that had come to be born, grown and lived in it. It had even let every civilisation define and redefine it in many ways. It had accepted them all without question because it knew deep inside, even below these interconnecting lines of the Underground, that it belonged to Nature alone and its identity was immutable.
I sat station after station watching people get in and get out, listening to the few conversations that were made or observing the little behaviours of men and women from different lands. Here in London’s Underground are the journeys of many, performed in many complex ways but meeting very briefly. I do not know where another is going but for a few moments we share this space and breathe this air. If we were to look into each other’s eyes, time may stand still but for only one moment. The next moment catches up and we move on in our journeys. When finally the train pulls up at the last station, it waits for a new journey to begin.
