It doesn’t take much to get a rise out of East Anglia. A short climb of hand-cut steps brings me to the top of a mound overlooking Sandy, where a vista unfolds, almost worthy in terms of ground surveyed of a panorama from a northern fell. Locals call this place the Pinnacle, although I think of it as the five-county view.
For a moment I have the hilltop to myself, though I do have company of sorts. The words of a jittery young man during lockdown come to mind: “I come up here to clear me head.” We spoke just once. Other times I would find him sitting alone on the bench, staring out and looking in. I would slip past without glancing over, thinking it best to leave him to his thoughts.
Now the view is mine to sweep. To the right, my eyes roll out over the flat to the fen of Cambridgeshire. Not as easily as in winter, thanks to the risen sprays of broom in flower that mostly obscure the plain. A little to the left and pylon after marching pylon guides me all the way to far distant mist-shrouded turbines in Northamptonshire.
An ocean washes in from the left, the long ridge of the Hertfordshire Chilterns appearing as a green breaker on a tide. It holds its height through South Bedfordshire, then dips away at the Buckinghamshire border. In the centre of this scene, my little town with its toy church throws me back to a childhood visit to Bekonscot model village, and the real becomes miniature where once the miniature was real.
Those who come here for view therapy may yet sit on the young man’s bench, though it no longer offers comfort. Not long ago, a person or persons unknown found an outlet for their anger, ripping out wood slats and pulverising its concrete base. Rather than grumble inwardly, I face outwards, to the beauty of the hills, the woods, the fields and the doll’s house settlements. It clears my head.
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