St Ethelbert's

We're still trying to get a sense of this modern England to which we've returned after over twenty years in the north. As with the volume of traffic, we're struggling with the industrial scale of Suffolk's farming: this is the wheat field onto which our house backs, the picture taken in the low sunlight of midsummer's evening. It has no weeds; almost every plant is the same size; there are no insects to threaten its productivity.

It's along the edge of this field that we escape the town, as we did today....

....on a four hour walk to the northwest of our house, much of it trudging along footpaths across similar monotonous fields of sugar beet, onions (above) and potatoes between which are squeezed the remains of the far older world of Suffolk's historic landscapes. Our objective today was the village of Falkenham and, in particular....

....it's church which, being dedicated to St Ethelbert, a Saxon king who was murdered by the Mercian King Offa in 794, must have been established well before William the Conqueror arrived on these shores.

It's a beautiful church lovingly maintained over the centuries and surrounded today by a community of some 250 souls of whom 16 had made it to nine o'clock matins, which had finished a few minutes before we arrived. Talking to members of the congregation who had stayed behind for coffee reminded us that the ancient heart of England still beats in its villages where a few people are struggling to maintain the country's traditions. For example, one of their concerns was that this tiny church still boasts a peel of six fine bells but, with only six ringers, they were rarely able to do them justice.

We set off for home eastwards across Falkenham Marshes, walking around more monotonous fields  until we came to the River Deben, which we followed until we were almost home, at which point we diverted to the local pub. The roads around it were empty, presumably because everyone was watching a small field in Russia. The pub, too, was empty, but as we sat in the sunshine in its garden we were reminded that some English traditions are alive and well: Suffolk and Norfolk still brew the world's finest bitters, amongst which Adnam's contributions are difficult to beat.