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From the looks of it, the sale ended years ago. In fact, it was probably the last event the little tumbledown church welcomed, closing its wooden door and saying goodbye to the last of the bring-and-buyers. But, it was nice to be sitting in the porch of the fourteenth century All Saints Church in Berners Roding, while the summer rain hammered down in the graveyard.

Making pinging noises on the leaves and wild ferns, and gushing off the rusty and broken drainpipes, the wet stuff had come with no warning. We’d been pleased we’d broken the back of our months-long geocaching hiatus, and we came so close to finding the treasure.

But, it was then that the heavens opened and decided that the cache was going to remain hidden. We had an inkling something might happen, what with having been such an oppressive and close weekend, and we could see the streams of showers some distance away over the flat Essex fields. Why then, though, when we were only a few metres away from a find?

Never mind. We’d had foresight to grab the cameras, and after running back along the soil public footpath, sidestepping the farmer’s peas, we settled for an hour in the church porch and took pictures of the natural world around us. Close-ups of watery and overflowing pipes, insects collecting nectar from purple thistles, and atmospheric and abandoned church furniture were our treasure yesterday.

Once the rain had decided it was staying, we came to the conclusion we didn’t need the extra exercise anyway, what with cycling 12 miles to Galleywood and back on Saturday morning for breakfast. And, with the sound of wasps buzzing around a nest in the trees above, and no-one else around, we enjoyed being on our own, chatting and snapping before running to the car and heading home.

A non-find, yes, but for once, one that we didn’t mind.

Today, the first fine weather all week gave us the perfect opportunity to get out and about in the Essex countryside. So, we motored out to Loves Green, the scene of a previous geocaching afternoon. We weren’t there to primarily search out treasure, though.

The area is well-known for deer sightings, and it was the possibility of seeing a herd of the graceful animals that had lured us into the shaded and sometimes dimly-lit woods this afternoon. We had to wait even less time than we thought before we saw something.

As we started to walk down the sometimes muddy rutted field track, the tall wild stubble to our left moved and two heads popped up above the wavering stems. Swivelling around like submarine periscopes, they surveyed the view to the left and to the right, before sighting us some distance away down the path. We just had time to reach into our bags and retrieve our cameras before there was movement again.

The cut stubble moved gently once more, and with a ssh-ssh-ssh-ssh, the deer elegantly leapt through the field, their heads and bodies bobbing up and down, like funfair carousel horses. Coming to a clearing in front of us, they revealed themselves to be a pair of parents with a young fawn. Surveying their surroundings once more, they thought better of us and disappeared again into the gently undulating landscape.

Pleased with our first sighting, we carried on down the path, carved out by walkers and bramble pickers before us, and into the often muddy woods. Eventually remembering where the well-hidden and well-stocked cache was, we liberated a travel bug and signed the geocachers’ log. Many pages of the log told tales of lucky deer herd sightings, while others conveyed less fortunate stories.

Walking through the field which yielded a far away and fading light herd sighting when we last visited in January, today there was nothing. Vowing to come back in the summer seemed so far away all those months ago, and we did think back then that we would be luckier than we were today.

Wildlife is precisely that, though; wild and unpredictable. So, the pictures here will have to do until the next time, but, I think we were happy with what we had seen, even if it was through our zoom lenses.

Ruins in the Abbey Gardens, Bury St Edmunds

We managed to eschew our decorating duties this weekend, for two days of getting out and about, in both Essex and Suffolk.

We saw seasides and ruins, and as the weather gave us a proper taste of summer, came home with very red and pink tans.

On Saturday, we took in Frinton-on-Sea, and Walton-on-the-Naze. Seemingly still living in its Victorian past, Frinton is almost locked off from the world by two manual level-crossing gates, and a white-painted perimeter fence.

And, walking along the beach hut-lined promenade, we thought we were extras in a big budget Hollywood movie. There was no view out to sea, or very many yards ahead, as thick fog had consumed everything in its path. Although warm, stormy high breakwaters were crashing against the sea wall, leaving no sand to be seen.

A Hollywood movie with a very big dry ice machine, obviously.

It was very surreal, and you would never have guessed that we were at the seaside. We continued to walk to Walton and disappeared into the pier, where among the slot machines, doughnuts and dodgems, lines of fishermen waited for their next catch. As we walked back to drive to the Naze, the fog seemed to lift as fast as it had arrived, peeling back to reveal bright blue and sunny skies.

Suddenly, the beach-goers who had seemed out of place between the misty and submerged groynes, looked right at home, and not as they had been transported onto the foggy shore from another place and time. A very nice place then - even nice enough for a (very cold) paddle and an ice-cream.

The Naze was equally scenic. With 50 acres of scrubland similar to a common, 50 acres of acid grass coastal heath land, 200 acres of salt marsh, and views across the estuary to Harwich, it really is the perfect place for a warm afternoon walk. And, the Naze Tower, built in 1721 to guide ships to Harwich, still stands guard proudly atop the cliffs today.

With fossil-rich pools and sand on the shoreline, we combed the crumbling cliff bottoms for stoned bones. Excitement heightened when we thought we’d struck lucky and found remains of small prehistoric creatures, and vowing to research them later, we stuffed them into our shorts’ pockets like excited schoolboys and decided to head for home.

Deciding to stay local(ish), Bury St Edmunds was the destination of choice yesterday. Paying a visit to the Abbey Gardens, we lounged on the grass, and marvelled at the first baby ducklings of the year, before setting off on the circular walk, which unexpectedly, would transport us from the bustling grass expanses to the quiet countryside.

Bury St Edmunds poppy field and a lesser-spotted Nik

Looking back, it couldn’t have been a very long walk, but as we stopped to take pictures of poppies in rapeseed fields, the noise of the town slipped away. As we strolled through the long grass, the meadow views opened up in front of us, revealing blue, yellow, green and red-dotted vistas all around.

Back in the gardens themselves, we learnt about the once grand church that was now in impressive ruins. Providing us with plenty of photo opportunities, the tall stone columns revealed fragments of both their thirteenth century past, and the building of which they were once part.

A walk through the medicinal herb garden taught us which plants treated what conditions, while back in the town centre, cool icy drinks rewarded our dehydrated bodies.

It was also another weekend of home-grown first harvests. Strawberries from Chelmsford provided light refreshment, while basil from Ipswich gave our brie and tomato baguettes a peppery tang.

In both cases, we thought that the crops we’d cultivated were much tastier than their shop-bought cousins.

Summer. Full steam ahead, please.

You can tell the power’s off when tea has to be made by boiling water on the hob. Yesterday’s disturbance obviously had more of an impact than we thought. There was still hot water for a shower, though, and after we’d got going, we called in at Galleywood for breakfast.

I’d wanted to explore the Essex countryside, as I’ve not seen much of it, and so teaming this with geocaching seemed the perfect way to go trekking in the wilds of the county.

We searched for two treasure hunts which looked like they would cut across the scenic rapeseed-filled fields, shallow valleys and churchyards, and headed out to Bird’s Green, chasing our first set of coordinates. The GPS device then took us walking through bright yellow fields - which contrasted perfectly against the perfect cloudless and blue sky - to a pretty and enchanting church, complete with ivy growing inside the walls.

A hunt around the churchyard yielded more clues, which in turn gave us more coordinates, and led us to the treasure stash. We decided not to take anything, simply recording our find, and reading what fun the treasure seekers had enjoyed on their way to finding the loot. Deciding to walk back to the car along the public footpaths, we found the real treasure of the day: a 1967 Ford Anglia Estate.

Forty years ago when it was new, it would have looked something like this. Launched in 1961 to accompany the Anglia 105E saloon, the Anglia Estate was also available in its sister car’s Standard or Deluxe trim. ‘Our’ car was the higher-specification version, and had previously enjoyed life in the capital; a detail which the London Zoo sticker in the rear windscreen was testament to.

The Deluxe model was certainly the Anglia to plump for back then. The extra outlay bought owners such fripperies as a full-width chrome grille up front, and a glove box lid inside, along with plusher interior trim. UK buyers were even treated to electric windscreen washers for the first time.

Replacing the Prefect, the Anglia range started at £589 in 1959, and its new 39bhp overhead valve four cylinder engine was reportedly very free-revving. A sales success, Ford sold over 1.3 million examples of its befinned and space age-styled small family car over the next eight years.

Looking for all the world like it had crash landed where the magic-making boy wizard and his pal Ron Weasley had left it from the scene in the Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets movie, I wouldn’t like to guess how long VRO 182E had sat unmolested in the Essex countryside. Very green from the moss and plants, it’s once bright sky blue paintwork sparkled through where it hadn’t been claimed by the trees.

Once we’d bagged a few pictures, we found our way back to the car, and drove to the next geocache starting point in Pleshey. Not as pretty as Bird’s Green in terms of countryside colour, the route was still enjoyable, the late afternoon sun warming us, and making us wish we’d left our coats in the car.

Walking through green fields, again using the public footpaths, and the Essex Way, the ending point’s sealed box proved more bountiful. We freed a plastic model from the Disney film ‘Cars’ which had been part of the treasure since September, so that my Camper Van model from the same series could have some company. We found this in a cache too (near Ipswich), in November.

Arriving home before the rest of the family, we set to preparing the meal for them. Agreeing to cook the previous week, tuna jalousie was on the menu tonight. An evening of game playing rounded off another enjoyable day nicely.

Back at the house, there was no kettle and no power. I hope it’s back on tomorrow.

So, the A12 has been named the worst road in Britain this week, by Cornhill Direct, in a survey of 4,000 drivers.

Apparently suffering from huge potholes and being often closed for roadworks, the 135-mile trunk road from London to Great Yarmouth pipped the M8, A30, A361, M6, M5, A338, A525, and the M74 to the title. A section from the A120 slip-road to Colchester was also singled out for a high accident rate.

I’m not sure about the worst, but it’s certainly one of the slowest. I used to traverse it frequently, first coming up from Kent, and then south-east London every weekend. I find the southern most parts fine, although there are too many noise-inducing and unpleasant concrete sections. The most offending part of the road though, is the 45-mile section north from my home town of Ipswich.
 
Travelling from the county town of Suffolk to Lowestoft, where my family is based, can, on very bad days take ninety minutes. I’ve sat behind many a tractor, lorry, and caravan going to picture postcard Southwold. The opportunities to overtake are very few and far between.

A single carriageway layout is to blame. Numerous dualling campaigns have failed. Although small parts of the road are two lanes, surely the marriage of the twenty-first century and the main trunk route from the capital to Suffolk should result in the happy union of more dualled stretches?

Very scenic though the road is, it is the main route not only for freight and local traffic, but also for tourists, who quite rightly, are given the impression that the most easterly towns in Britain are the hardest to get to.

Tentative bypasses at Wrentham and Yoxford have been bypassed in recent years. But, the road is due to get a multi-lane injection between Chelmsford and the M25, with plans to widen most stretches to six lanes. With all sorts of green issues being raised, and traffic increasing to use these new lanes, this solution is far from ideal.

Apart from making the trains even more overcrowded, and resistance from the public to give up the freedom the car still affords them, what is the correct long-term plan?

It pains me to say it - especially as I was recently one of the 1.7 million travel tax e-petition signatories - but does the Government really have something in road-pricing after all?