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A WALK AROUND EASTWICK

by John Clarke

The site of the old Eastwick Hall reminds us of the de Tany family, and it is romantic to envisage Sir Richard de Tany and Lady Margaret riding down to Eastwick Church on Sunday mornings, Sir Richard on his glossy charger, Margaret, richly apparelled, demurely riding side saddle on her little palfrey by his side.

We must now carry on up the lane for another quarter of a mile, where we reach a junction of three roads. The road to the right leads to Gilston. In the corner of the field here is the pond, surrounded by a metal fence. This is the only remnant now surviving of the old Garmans Farm which was demolished in the middle of the 19th century. It is good that this pond survives, because we have lost so many in recent years. The loss of any pond is tragic as they provide wonderful sanctuaries for wildlife.

Ahead is Cock Robin Lane, recently finely restored, leading to the airfield. It remains a superb haven for wildlife and flowers. Visit it in late spring when birdsong is at its peak, and the wild flowers are magnificent, especially the great clumps of red campions. In Victorian times this lane led to the long abandoned Eastwick Hamlet, a tiny rural community of farm workers. Nothing of this now remains:

the hamlet lies under the intersection of the main runway and taxi ways of the Hunsdon aerodrome,

North of the airfield we reach the woods now fragmentary but once part of the large Eastwick Wood. Taking a right-angled turn we skirt the woodland and on its fringe we encounter what must be Eastwick’s best-kept secret, a quite magnificent moated site. At the time of Eastwick Hamlet, this was the gamekeeper’s lonely cottage. All signs of his home disappeared in mid-Victorian times, and today we are left with an earth mound completely surrounded by a water—filled moat made all the more impressive by its having been redug in recent times. This must surely once have been a medieval farmstead, but it has kept its secrets well. I can find no record of its name nor of the families who lived there. They have all disappeared into the mists of history, and this is by far our most mysterious place. From this point we retrace our steps to the junction with Eastwick Hall Lane.

To the left the road climbs the hill towards Hunsdon. On the right is a red—brick Hodgson house, and then we come to the old Laundry. This intriguing house was purpose-built and served in its intended role for many years. It was a cavernous place full of steaming cauldrons, giant mangles, hampers and bundles of linen, with water everywhere. When I was young I was taken there and I found it a scary place:

you feared falling into the boiling water. The house was a Hodgson creation of 1885, and after the laundry was closed it saw a period of life as a guest house. It has subsequently been attractively converted into a private house.

Walking on up the hill we arrive at Eastwick Hall Farm. This consists of a farm house and an impressive array of outbuildings and barns. Now a major producer of grain, the farm once had a superb herd of dairy cows. Also present in the procreative role was the most disagreeable bull I have ever encountered: he rejoiced in the name of Old Tom. He was so unpleasant that he had to be penned up most of the time, only freed periodically to join his devoted harem.

I have two particular childhood memories of the farm. Once I was allowed to paint the ancient Fordson tractor a shocking orange. I did actually get some paint on to the tractor, but much more on myself. I also remember the windpump --a tall metal structure like an electricity pylon with windmill sails on the top. It was originally used for pumping water. It never ceased to fascinate children, although we were never allowed to climb it. I think it finally blew down in a gale.

From here Eastwick proper ends, so we must retrace our steps to the centre of the village.

Crossing to the war memorial we face, across the lane, the Almshouses built around 1890. I have always liked these houses because of the boldness of design, the rich red tiles, ‘Tudor’ chimneys, and the fact that they were built with a desire to impress, They were to play a big part in meeting our social needs.

You will look in vain for any sign of the ancient market and annual St Botolph’s Fair held hereabouts. I am afraid this all came to a sticky end. The libations of the Rose and Crown encouraged the village lads and lasses to engage in practices of a most enjoyable nature, much to the fury of the Rector, who railed at them from his pulpit, condemning their immoral behaviour. There was no improvement in their behaviour, so the Rector was instrumental in having the market and fair festivities abolished in 1886. These were sadly missed by all, no doubt.....

Heading towards Harlow there is a nice red—brick Hodgson house on the left. This was once the residence of the village policeman: not a police station as such. Armed with the latest state-of-the-art squad car —— a bicycle —— our stalwart guardian of the law was required to maintain law and order in both villages. Major crime was thankfully rare: most crime was of the order of domestic violence, riding your bicycle without lights, failing to purchase your dog licence (all of 7/6 (37p) per year if I recall correctly), and poaching. It always ruefully amused me that stealing a nice plump pheasant appeared to the official mind a more heinous crime than beating the wife! Rarely did anything else feature in the crime book to break the monotony. In later years the High Wych policeman became responsible for our protection.

Opposite Roseley Cottages is the old school. The two-storey house on the side was the schoolteacher’s house, the single-storey building the communal classroom. This was once a most attractive building with all the Hodgson characteristics: diamond—paned windows, tall chimneys, ornate porch, etc. You can still see the arms of William Hodgson (WH) and a date above the front door. When converted for industrial use, as the Pyrgo Works, the house became the office and the classroom the workshop. When in the ownership of Smith and Shipton, the works had a very busy period and employed a fair number of people. There was subcontract work for the Ford Company of Dagenham (tractor spares), and an enormous amount of blacksmithing work for navvies’ tools used in the construction work being carried out on the building of Harlow New Town. The bars of the cells at Harlow Police Station were made here, so if you get banged up there you know who to blame!

Later the firm was sold to Dixons of Hunsdon. A later occupier, I recall, repaired and sold lawnmowers. The building is now sinking into dereliction, spoiling what was once one of Eastwick’s most attractive buildings.

And I know of only one person living locally who attended Eastwick School.

We have to cheat a bit with Eastwick Lodge Farm for as I mentioned earlier in this series the farm was for most of its existence listed as in the parish of Sawbridgeworth. Its first mention is in l402 which shows that there has been a farm here for a very long time. In later years under James Carter (senior) it had a fine dairy herd and, more recently a ‘pick your own’ fruit scheme.

I am reminded of two dramatic occurrences at the farm. Many years ago I found to my horror the whole horizon behind the farm was ablaze. It was an awesome sight as gigantic scarlet flames leapt into the night sky as far as the eye could see. It really looked as though the end of the world had come. It was in reality only some nocturnal stubble— burning, but it certainly startled me for a while.

The other event took place in the same area, when over the top of the farm hill one day appeared large spindly metal contraptions that so reminded me of the Martians in War of the Worlds. Sadly, Eastwick had not been invaded by little green men from Outer Space: more prosaically, the ‘spaceships’ were irrigation devices for the farm.

Today, as at most local farms, grain predominates and mechanisation has practically totally eliminated the need of farm labourers.

At Eastwick Lodge Farm there are retail units and a large and expanding complex, including a very fine farm shop, on whose products my dear old Border collie Bruce prospered for so many years. If you can, please do support our local industries.

It was in the barns here that the children of the villages celebrated the Queen’s coronation in June 1952. So much work was put into the day that it is sad to record that only the party meal was enjoyed: the programme of sports and games in the adjacent field was totally washed out in a terrible rainstorm, bringing an exciting day to a premature end.

Opposite the Lodge farm were once to be found a number of boarded cottages, the last of which survived until recent memory. This area was known as Hill Gates, possibly an allusion to the nearby Gilston Park manor house gates. The houses would have provided accommodation for workers at the farm. Here also stood the Black Swan pub and the dreaded workhouse.

In early days many of the farm outbuildings were also located south of the road, but the land was prone to flooding, and when the new farmhouse was built the opportunity was taken to place them on firmer ground, where they remain to this day.

When the programme of extension and redevelopment is complete the Victorian farmhouse will become the centre of a large and bustling commercial enterprise.

And finally, further along on the left is South Lodge, at the end of a long chestnut tree avenue leading up towards Gilston Park. Here, in the days of the manor, was a quite magnificent metal gateway. In time it disappeared and no one seems to have any idea what happened to it: possibly sold to a local scrap yard, I fear. Now that would be one for our cycling police constable to solve.

In the wood above South Lodge live the Little People, the elves. Elves are prickly little characters, quick to take offence. Tradition requires that if you are ever passing the wood, you must raise your hat or pass the time of day with them, because if you do not a mischief will befall you. You can’t say you haven’t been warned!

At this point we must cheat and leave the village to make a short visit to the Dusty Miller at Burnt Mill Corner. This house has an interesting and complicated history Originally the Bakers Arms, it was burnt down in a major fire around 1870. It was purchased by McMullens the brewers in 1873 and rebuilt in brick; the name was changed to the Railway Inn. In 1959 the name was changed again, this time to the Dusty Miller. The name was common but the sign caused great confusion to the locals for it displayed a fishing fly known only to our angling friends.

Having left the Dusty Miller, we make a sharp turn right to walk down the steep hill known as Burnt Mill Lane. Some of the old houses here have long disappeared, and the first house we now arrive at is Gilston House, an imposing group of house, stables and outbuildings built in the 19th century. Its size alone suggests a creation by a wealthy Victorian landowner, as the house remains far larger than it’s contemporary’s.

At the bottom of the hill stand two further buildings that require our attention. On the left is a most attractive red-brick lodge house, previously a lodge house to Terlings Park. I assume it was built at the same time as the old Terlings manor house in the 1860s. Following the closure of the manor, the lodge became a private house; and is now a crèche for Merck, Sharp & Dohme. The house has great charm and repays study.

Opposite, the house standing by the brook has been extensively modernised, but when we were young we stood in awe of the place because it hung precariously over the water. We feared that one day it would all fall in!

And finally we have the ghost. On eerie moonlit nights, a spectral horse and carriage are reputed to race down the hill, but they never come up the hill again. Now if it was the other way round, we could reckon the coach’s occupants had called into the pub for a quick one!

Anyone interested in the history of Burnt Mill is encouraged to read The Life and Death of Burnt Mill Village by Hazel Lake, published in 1999. A copy of this book is available from Harlow Central Library. The book contains two pictures of the Dusty Miller.

From this point we must retrace our steps to Eastwick. On re-entering the village you will see on your left Cat’ Lane, which leads via a quaint ford to Parndon Mill. This lane is interesting in that it will show you what all the rural lanes of England looked like in years gone by: the days when, if you couldn’t hitch a lift in a horse-drawn cart, you WALKED. Life in Eastwick in the past was always very slow.

I have left Eastwick Manor and church to the last. The Manor, originally the Rectory, was built in 1826 on the fine hilltop site. It replaced an earlier rectory that had been in existence since the 17th century, possibly earlier. We know nothing about what this earlier rectory looked like, but we know it had a very fine library. The Rector at that time employed a number of servants, a cook, and maids for the house, and gardeners for the grounds. Another Rector offered private -education for boys (fee-payers) -- our only private school! The new rectory was imposing in style and reflected the Rector’s superior position in society.

Now in lay hands, Eastwick Manor used to provide the venue for our annual fete (alternating with Gilston Rectory). On our last occasion, in 1982, all the traditional attractions were set up on the lawn, attractions which had for so long successfully served the church funds.

As with all church fetes, this particular one, our last, held in 1982, required a great deal of preliminary work, all voluntary. At the appointed hour, the gardens at Eastwick Manor opened to a large attendance, with all the stalls set up, and teas being served from a shady spot outside the kitchen. At around 3o’clock, Yolande and I were in full swing with the ‘treasure hunt’ (a large map of Britain in which people were invited to stick pins to guess the place where the treasure was buried), and “Guess the weight of the cake” (we were flummoxed when one youngster gave a suggestion in kilogrammes). All our compatriots were likewise at the peak of their achievements -- and then the heavens opened up. Even by British standards the rain was heavy. Our customers disappeared like magic, a few to take refuge in the barn, but most retreating rapidly down the drive to the village centre. By 4 pm the rain had ceased, but customers were there none. We all packed up our stalls.

Although we broke even, the fete was never repeated, and another 1ittle piece of village history had come to an end. At least it did not end on the same note as the market had done!

We will finish our walk at the church of St Botolph, the centre of religious life for a thousand years.

The church is basically that of 1872—75, plain and simple in design, but with enough of the fittings salvaged from the old church to make it of great interest. Predominant, and everyone’s favorite, is the marble figure of the knight. This commemorates our old friend Sir Richard de Tany, and is now well over 700 years old. It is a quite magnificent work of the finest quality. No local stonemason carved this: it is practically certain that it was carved by a master craftsman in London, the style chosen and paid for by Sir Richard himself. It would have cost him dearly; too, as such craftsmanship did not come cheap.

The figure is over six feet long and represents a knight in a suit of mail (interlocking metal rings). Note the sword and the vicious spurs that were worn. The shield is also notable: it is large and was originally painted with the arms of the de Tany family -- six black eagles (similar to the one used by Barclays Bank today), displayed on a golden background. When completed, the figure must have looked splendid and even today the condition is remarkable. Contrary to popular belief, the crossed legs do not denote a knight who went on the Crusades: they merely give the figure a much more lively aspect. The base chest is Victorian:

Originally the knight lay on the floor. There is no inscription. Sir Richard is not buried within; he and his wife Margaret were buried in the east end of the old church. In olden days, villagers used to say that the knight was a giant who would come to their assistance in time of need. I remember him fondly at a church flower festival when the village children decorated his head with a circlet of wild flowers. I think he would have liked that.

In the tower area of St Botolph’s Church, both on the wall above the effigy of Sir Richard de Tany, and on the opposite side, are a collection of 18th— and 19th—century wall tablets, commemorating members of the Plumer family. To restore peace to the fractious villagers, the Plumers chose diplomatically to be buried at Eastwick, thus showing that they regarded Eastwick to be on an equal footing with Gilston and not to be regarded in any inferior way. Later Gilston squires, the Hodgsons and the Bowlbys, continued this tradition. The tablets are too high up to be read easily: they are of good quality, but one does show that even skilled craftsmen can make mistakes. The date has been carved wrongly and an attempt (rather obvious) has been made to recut the correct date.

The wooden cross commemorates a member of the Bowlby family who was killed in the First World War; it originally marked his grave in a military cemetery in Flanders.

On the west wall under the window is a brass commemorating Robert Lee, who had lived in Eastwick Hall and died in 156k. In his will he left money to the poor of Eastwick. His wife Joan greatly outlived him, and only her brass figure now survives. The figure of her husband has long been lost. The Lee family came from Cheshire, and Robert was certa~Ln1y not of farming stock, for he was on the staff of a number of Tudor kings and queens, and thus presumably spent most of his time in the London area. He died a wealthy man.

Joan is depicted as wearing the typical costume of the late 16th century. What is particularly interesting about this brass, although you cannot see it, is that it has been re—used. On the other side is the figure of one Eleanor Pate who died in 1521. This is a classic case of early recycling. What happened was that the brass to Eleanor would have been laid in a monastic church, possibly in Leicestershire, where the Pate family originated from. When the monastic churches were destroyed, the brass was torn up and sold for salvage. An engraver bought it, turned it over and engraved a new figure on it. He probably got a good bargain out of this exchange.

Towards the east end of the church are to be found the marble pillars. These are lovely items and date from the same time as the figure of the knight. They look so new, but in fact were hewn from the ground on the Isle of Purbeck nearly 800 years ago. The pillars would have been taken to Eastwick first by sea (to London?) and then by river transport. If the high quality of these columns is anything to go by, then the old church must have been a building of some considerable merit. It makes its loss even more tragic.

The church has three bells of varying ages: one is very old. All bear inscriptions. The fittings are unsafe, so sadly the bells are not rung these days. Outside is the large churchyard. At the rear of the church is the big tomb of the Hodgson brothers (they who built the new villages), and the Bowlby family vault. There are also monuments to past rectors. Nearby is the tomb chest of William Frampton, who died in 1789, and who we have previously mentioned as the builder of the house now called Culverts, The tomb originally had ornate Georgian iron railings. Frampton himself is not buried in the chest, but rather in a vault buried deep in the churchyard (so no peeking!). At the east end of the churchyard is the tombstone to the Revd Cyril Lewis, the first Rector of the two villages, who served us for over 35 years.

On closing, my nicest memory of Eastwick Church is of the recent flower festival, when the church was ablaze with colour. I have never seen it looking prettier and, to accompany it, there was the beautiful recorded birdsong and the rural crafts demonstration: a great credit to all the volunteers, and a wonderful day for the many visitors. One day possibly we will meet here again.

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I have said on many occasions how much pleasure it has given me to write these village histories. Also, I know from your comments that you have enjoyed them too, which is very warming.

My thanks to you all, and to Yolande who, as with the Gilston notes, painstakingly typed the entire manuscript, correcting my awful grammar and spelling mistakes along the way —— the price, I fear, of spending those long hours looking out of the school window and not attending to my lessons. My thanks are due also to Christine, who thought up the idea of the histories in the first place, and gave me space in the village magazine.

Your friend JOHN