High Beach - In The Footsteps Of John Clare

I wasn't going to appeal against the light again today. I dealt with a bit of admin and set out for Epping Forest mid-morning. It wasn't raining but was very dull. Shortly after I parked at High Beach the sun started to break through.

I was on a mission that I started in December last year to find the private mental asylum in which the wonderful wildlife poet John Clare spent three years.

I had a lovely walk in the forest and was delighted when my squirrel shot was photobombed by a treecreeper. I've never photographed one of these tiny, busy birds before. I was all alone, it was beautifully peaceful. When stirred by a slight breeze, the golden beech leaves fluttered gently to the ground whispering faintly. The mast crunched underfoot.

Off I set in search of Fairmead Cottage. I drove round the area for a while, roof down, in the filtered sunshine, under the gorgeous autumnal canopy. Having asked a few people, including the postman, none of whom had heard of Clare, I finally found it.

I was met on the drive by a young man, a contractor hired to clear the overgrown site. The semi-derelict house, which was bathed in sunshine, is to be demolished and three built in its place. He showed me around the garden which has a pond and some huge exotic trees including a cedar, a Douglas fir and a yellow-berried holly. He's responsible for conserving it. He explained that washing won't dry on the line here in the forest. He produced a stout iron bar and told me that all the bedrooms had one of these fitted to prevent inmates from leaving. The asylum took the form of Fairmead House, which was razed and is now a centre for introducing town children to the forest, and a number of cottages.

I often think of Clare's clever, straightforward way of describing wildlife when I am out togging. A perfect day for treading in his footsteps, knowing that he loved the forest and was quite productive whilst there.

Everyone I met today was delightful. This woman on her dappled grey offered to go down the bridle path in my pic and then trot back towards me.

A WALK IN THE FOREST

I love the Forest and its airy bounds,
Where friendly CAMPBELL takes his daily rounds;
I love the break neck hills, that headlong go,
And leave me high, and half the world below;
I love to see the Beach Hill mounting high,
The brook without a bridge, and nearly dry.
There's Bucket's Hill, a place of furze and clouds,
Which evening in a golden blaze enshrouds:
I hear the cows go home with tinkling bell,
And see the woodman in the forest dwell,
Whose dog runs eager where the rabbit's gone
He eats the grass, then kicks and hurries on;
Then scrapes for hoarded bone, and tries to play,
And barks at larger dogs and runs away.