THE LAST FOREST
by Robert Mather
Blackberrying in Takeley Forest was our favourite family outing. On a fine day the four of us would go there on the bus and after picking berries for a while we children would go off and play. There were interesting bits of machinery left over from the war and even mysterious railway lines that led off into the undergrowth. It was like living an Enid Blyton adventure!
At the end of the day we would wend our way home, covered in scratches, purple from head to toe, excited at the prospect of blackberry and apple pie. Once we came home by train. The Dunmow Flyer was aptly named. It was a hair-raising ride as we hurtled along, swaying dangerously from side to side. 'Never again', said father solemnly as we alighted at Hockerill Halt.
In later years we would walk to the Forest, with Kim our cocker spaniel, across the golf course, around the bluebell wood, over Haymead Spring and through Bedlar's Green. And whenever relatives came to stay, a trip out in the old Ford was a must, to row on the lake and have tea at the Shell House.
The Hockerill Scout Troop used the Forest as a training ground – for bushcraft and camping and bird watching and flower collecting. We knew every inch of the Forest and its surroundings and regarded them as our back garden.
Then it was the school Natural History Society expedition. We must have made an awesome sight as we fanned out through the Forest, our Biology Master in the lead. We left no log unturned in our quest to discover that elusive natural history.
They were halcyon days. So after forty year's absence, it was with eager anticipation that I set out, on a crisp and crackling Spring morning, to retrace those steps. After being shooed off the golf course rather brusquely (it was my golf course after all), I negotiated the Motorway underpass, and discovered a path following the route of the old railway. Trees meet overhead to form a tunnel leading straight as a die for about a mile to the Forest entrance.
As I walked towards the lake I glimpsed deer ghosting off into the trees. All those memories came flooding back. Clayey footprints in the heavy ground; and constantly changing vistas as each ride and coppice came into view and receded. Finally I reached the lake. The Shell House was still there!
I sat with a cup of tea on that lovely Spring morning, marveling that a place of such tranquillity and beauty could still exist, in the midst of all that frenzied activity. I learned from the guide book that most of the Forest is as it was in Medieval times; that it is unique in Britain and quite possibly in the World, as the last forest where the ancient system of woods management - in all its forms - is still carried on. The last forest.
