The title given above to this particular tour is one eminently calculated to astonish those who have derived their ideas of Essex from guide-book writers. It has long been the fashion to describe Essex as a flat and monotonous county. Probably the compilers of those miscalled “guides” have known Wanstead Flats and Barking Level, and have ventured along the Thames marshes; but that anyone who has travelled Essex through could still describe it as flat is simply inconceivable. Certainly no cyclist who knows his Essex well would deny its much more than undulating general character.

This tour is frankly planned for the purpose of visiting the most prominent among the hills of Essex, and so, as some rough roads will be met at one spot, and as some walking, both up and down hill, will be necessary, the itinerary does not extend to more than thirty-four miles. Let it not, however, be supposed that, as a whole, this is a route of hill-climbing and bad roads. Starting at Brentwood, we are upon the main highway from London to Colchester, and on the crest of a steep hill which cyclists coming from London must needs climb. By training to the town we just escape it, and the succeeding five miles along this old coaching highway are chiefly on the down grade. Brentwood is well worth exploring. Its fine broad High Street still retains the decayed trunk of the old oak marking the spot where the Protestant martyr, William Hunter, was burnt in 1555. The trunk is carefully bricked up to preserve it. A monument also serves to keep the martyr’s memory green. The old galleried courtyard of that old-time coaching inn, the “White Hart,” should be seen; it is one of the very few examples now remaining of a bygone style of hostelries whose days ended when railways came in.

Brentwood, originally called “Burntwood,” probably takes its name from a portion of the once dense forest of Essex, burnt at some indefinite period, on whose site the town arose; and, sure enough, along the whole course of this tour—and, indeed, of many another one could make in Essex—relics of this vanished forest are encountered in almost every old church, built more or less largely of ancient timbers. Here at Shenfield, which we reach through a beautiful common, a mile distant from Brentwood, a portion of the nave arcade is of wood, and at Mountnessing, the next place on our itinerary, the tower is framed in massive oak. The name of Mountnessing presents difficulties to local tongues, and so it is known round about these parts as “Money’s End.” Ingatestone, succeeding to Mountnessing, is a decayed coaching town, with a name corrupted from “Ing-atte-Stone”—the Meadow by the Milestone, as some would say. By “stone,” however, it is more likely that the old Roman stone-paved way is meant.

Turning off this high road here to the right, we make for Stock, along a hilly lane. Stock, a scattered village situated on high ground, commanding beautiful views southward toward the valley of the Thames, is of little interest for itself; but here, again, we find a very remarkable church, with ancient timbered and weather-boarded tower, surmounted by a shingled spire, springing from a roofed lower stage with cavernous eaves, the whole dating back to the close of the fifteenth century, and restored, apparently, over two hundred years ago, according to the inscription, “R R. E H 1683,” still sharp and distinct, on the woodwork of the belfry. Like most of these Essex wooden churches, this of Stock is of curiously Scandinavian aspect, and own sisters to it may be found in Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. Even the elaborate tracery and the mullions of the windows in this tower are in wood, and, moreover, in excellent preservation.

From where Stock stands on its ridge, it is nearly three miles to Billericay, very steeply downhill at first, then level, and again downhill to Billericay Station. Yet, after all these descents, one observes that the little town is itself on an elevated tableland. The name of this place is, by the way, a sad rock of offence and a stumbling-block to the stranger, who generally attempts to pronounce it “Bill-erry-cay,” somewhat after the fashion of its spelling. The local shibboleth is, however, “Bill-ricky.” The interior of the church is of the most disapproved churchwarden order of architecture, and the exterior, with humpbacked roof and whimsical, squatty little red brick tower,—said to date back three hundred years, but not looking half that age,—is in a curiously debased Gothic; while there can be no doubt about the mean Late Victorian of the 1897 Jubilee clock, bracketed out from the tower.

Billericay consists chiefly of a long street of nondescript houses, some very tiny, none very large, and few particularly new. A goodly proportion of the loose stones of Essex is strewn over the roadway, some of them large enough to make the ghost of Macadam writhe with disgust at the degeneracy of the times from those he knew.

It is downhill again from the little town to Great Burstead, a mile and a half away, on the left hand. This was the mother-parish of Billericay, but has now shrunken to a cottage or two and a fine old church, very much out of repair. After this come further descents, and then, where a modern inn faces up the road, nearly four miles from the little town of Billericay, turn left, and then first to the right. A little distance ahead appears the odd sight of a church standing solitary on a hilltop. This is the church of Laindon, and we are now coming to those Essex mountains in miniature, the Laindon Hills.

Leaving the cycle beneath the wayside hedge, climb the steep hillside, over hurdles and across grass fields, and then you arrive at one of the most singular churches in the country. Laindon Church is of Early English and later periods, and has the probably unique feature of a priest’s house, or anchor-hold, built on to the tower at the west end, and opening directly into the church. The priest who dwelt here in olden times must have had rather a cosy retreat, in spite of the fact that it is exposed to every wind that blows; for the two rooms, forming a lower and an upper floor, look cheerful and comfortable. Four lattice windows give views away over many miles of beautiful scenery, and the structure itself, built of red brick, plaster, and timber, is of the greatest curiosity and interest. In this odd structure lives either the parish clerk or the sexton, and the casual visitor to the church is like to be startled by the sight of a domestic interior at its west end, and to hear such unusual sounds as the washing of plates and dishes echoing through the building from the direction of the old priest’s habitation.

Regaining the road, a hundred yards or so bring us to a way (too execrable to call a road) running right and left. Turn to the right, and then the first to the left, along a track leading to Laindon Station. Over the railway, and then continuously uphill for a mile, along the worst possible tracks; and then the summit of the Laindon Hills is reached. Passing the post-office it will be noticed that the postal authorities are at variance with most people over the orthography of the place, for it is spelled in a most aggressively prominent and permanent fashion, on an enamelled iron sign, “Langdon.” The London, Tilbury, and Southend Railway adopts the more usual form.

The rail brings many East London excursionists here for half-day outings, and, indeed, the views from the hilltop are worth coming many miles to see, and well worth walking uphill with a cycle. Given a clear day, you have not only the estuary of the Thames from Greenwich to the Nore spread out before you, with the Kent and Essex marshes extending like a pictorial map on either shore, but the eye ranges away out to sea and across the intervening country to the broad silver band of the Medway, running up from Sheerness to Rochester. Other widespread views of sea and land and river are to be found in England, but nowhere else anything to exactly compare with this; for here, enlivening the scene, and conveying some idea of the commercial activity of the Thames and the Port of London, are the great steamers, the sailing vessels, and the lumbering barges, going back and forth so numerously as to convey the idea of fleets. You may read in many books figures of the most painstaking kind, set forth in an endeavour to give an idea of the commercial status of the Thames, but they will not serve to convey anything like the impression you receive from this eyrie. The cycle, after all, is one of the greatest among educational forces.

The road-surveyors who have this particular district of Essex under their control do not appear to have been educated in the gospel of good roads, for as you turn to the right, past the “Crown Inn,” and to the left after passing the modern and ugly church of Laindon Hills, a quite unrideable descent of over half a mile suddenly presents itself. It would be possible to cycle this in comfort and safety were it not for the condition of the road, which bears in its thick and loose gravel a very close approximation to Brighton beach. Having perforce walked this, a sharp turn to the left brings one to a very welcome, good, though hilly road, ascending direct to Horndon-on-the-Hill, a place which has been visible for the last two miles, situated in much the same fashion as the more familiar Harrow-on-the-Hill. Horndon looks impressive from afar, and you approach it expectant; but when you reach it the first thought is that it is a place by no means worth seeing, being just a dusty, gritty, draggle-tailed village that has been making up its mind to be modern for the last half-century, and so has provided itself with some very unlovely shops and houses. The best thing in Horndon-on-the-Hill, a cynic might say, is the view from it of other places: of Laindon, of Vange, and Bowers Gifford, along the high ridge of wooded country to the north-east.

From here we descend gradually to the Thames-side lowlands. Making for Chadwell, and turning to the right on passing the church, a glance backwards will reveal Horndon at its best: the tree-surrounded old church, with the bright vermilion pantiles of the older houses, and the whirling sails of flanking windmills giving a singularly foreign and Dutch-like effect. Take the next turning to the left, and in half a mile to the left again, having previously withstood the specious invitation of a left-hand turn through a gate which only leads to a farm-track. Another mile, and you come to a right and left highway, opposite the “Cock Inn.” Neither of these leads to Chadwell, but there is a lane leading straight ahead, beside the inn; a very retiring lane, and quite difficult to see, if not previously warned of its existence. This leads, for a level two miles, to Chadwell Church. Turn to the right here, along the road to Grays. The other road, straight on, drops sharply to the marshes and to Tilbury Docks, and the surrounding industrial settlements. Tilbury Docks are very impressive, but when cycling you can obtain all the impressions of them that you have any use for from this Grays road, two miles away.

All the way from here to Rainham—some nine miles—is a splendid object-lesson in Thames-side shipping and industries. It is not sufficient to know the Thames only in its fashionable and holiday aspects. To know it as a whole you must also have made some sort of acquaintance with what sailor-men call “London River”—that is to say, the Thames below bridge, where all the business is done. This is not, of course, to say that these succeeding nine miles are ideal from the cyclist’s point of view. The busy and growing town of Grays with the Thurrocks on either side, scarcely to be distinguished from it by the stranger, is only picturesque to those who can find a romance in the riverside work; but the road surface is not so bad. Notice on the right, immediately after leaving Grays, the sham castellated building in a park now in course of being destroyed by the chalk quarries. This is called Belmont Castle. The chalk-pits here, and along the road to Purfleet, are nothing less than stupendous. Railways run between them and the river, where the chalk is shipped, or manufactured as cement on the spot. Purfleet, to which we now come, is a somewhat pleasing old-world riverside place, with a pretty, tree-shaded road running beside the river, where it is pleasant to halt and watch the world’s commerce float by; the passenger steamers, the “ocean tramps,” the fruiters, the wool-ships, the unmistakable oil-tank steamers, and all the very varied traffic coming from or going to distant parts.

Across the river is Erith, and immediately opposite are the hospital ships, off Crayford Ness. One of these—the Castalia—was originally a twin-ship built for the Channel traffic, with the idea of abolishing seasickness. Nearer at hand is the old wooden man-o’-war Cornwall, now a training ship, and beside the road, just here, is a disused hillside chalk quarry turned into a botanic garden.

Purfleet has a picturesqueness all its own, not utterly destroyed by the gunpowder magazines nor by the huge tanks—like gasometers—where oil is stored. So long as the busy perspective of the waterside remains, with the “toil, glitter, grime, and wealth” of the tide, the place cannot fail of interest.

Beyond, through Wennington and Rainham, the marshes spread out on the left, kept from being drowned out by the Thames by the aid of those earthen river walls said to have been originally made by the Romans. Passing through the uninteresting town of Rainham we turn off to the right at Rippleside for the old-world village of Dagenham, set upon a hilly site overlooking the miry flats. Down there, on the inland side, lies Parslowes, the old seat of the Fanshawes, islanded in midst of ploughed fields; riverward trail the smoke-wreaths against the burnished sunset, and as we blunder along the winding lanes for Dagenham Station we meet the agricultural labourer, clumsy and stupefied with long hours of physical toil, slouching off to his evening fuddle at the “Blue Pig.”