ON THE ROAD

I love roads. Not the M25 or the A47. Not that sort of road. But green lanes and pilgrim tracks, grassy footpaths through woods and across fields, and Roman highways, forest rides and bits of old turnpikes. In recent years I have also developed a partiality for farm tracks which lead from the corners of country lanes and shamble off across the landscape.
Hello, I think. This used to be a three-track junction; then the main lane was consolidated (gravelled, or whatever) and the third prong, the track, was left hanging in the air, as it were. Would love to explore.
Except that nowadays, and for a variety of reasons, most of my exploring is done not rucksack heavy and brown-booted, but by reading. Consequently, I seem to have accumulated a library of books about roads and the history and romance of roads - travellers, gypsies, inns, ancient journals recording ancient wanderings, and archaelogical reports. When I can no longer get out of my chair I shall read them all again, starting at the end of the shelves, and work my way through to the beginning.
Scott-Giles' book - unearthed several decades ago in a second hand bookshop - is one of my favourites despite the dullnes of its dedication: 'To the President and members of the Institution of Municipal and County Engineers.' Because, in fact, it is an anthology, beginning with verses written by Rudyard Kipling and ending with John Milton, and between the two dozens of extracts and verses and descriptions of or about roads and road literature.
Just two examples for you. One is by Celia Fiennes, from her Diary of 1697, who describes travelling from Newmarket to Ely, when she found that 'by reason of the great raines the roads were full of water,' while Ely itself was 'the dirtiest place I ever saw,' its streets a 'perfect quagmire.'
The other is an extract from Journal of a Tour, produced in 1662 and written by Thomas Browne, son of Sir Thomas Browne of Norwich. Young Tom and his companions reached Lynn, intending to travel to Boston, in Lincolnshire. Then they made their way to Walpole Cross Keys, in those days the jumping off place for crossing the Wash estuary. They immediately hired a guide who said there were basically two ways to cross, either over two short cuts, or the long way over the Wash. They chose the latter, one reason being the novelty of travelling 'at the bottome of the sea.'
In general, it seems they enjoyed their low-tide experience. The guide helped them to avoid 'quicksands,' and they made rapid progress. Then the guide and 'his fliing horse' saw them safely on to the Lincolnshire coast some three miles from Boston. They had successfully crossed this dangerous area, evidently covering the 14 miles in just under two hours.
This was the norm in those days if you wanted to go from Norfolk into Lincolnshire, for although it was possible to route via Wisbech this detour added many miles to the journey. It was to be another 170 years or so before the river Nene was embanked and a causeway constructed across the estuary, allowing four-wheel travel in reasonable comfort for the very first time.
(The Road Goes On, by CW Scott-Giles. The Epworth Press, 1948)