When the modern tourist leaves Thetford, he does so without a thrill on the threshold, and the only thing to give him pause is the rather bewildering choice of roads on the barren-looking rise where the town ends. Every way leads to open heath, even now, but every turning does not, as of yore, bring you butt against a highwayman. I, for one, do not regret the disappearance of that feature of the old days, and am content to forego all such thrillful encounters.

Two miles out of Thetford one came in those old days to the toll-house. The old relic stood until 1902, and was something of a curiosity to the instructed in local lore, for it stood on the boundary of the parishes of Croxton and Kilverstone, on those of the Hundreds of Grimshoe and Shropham and the South-West and Mid Parliamentary Divisions of Norfolk. In virtue of that last distinction the occupier had a vote in both divisions, and was a man greatly cherished and cultivated by parties when election-time drew nigh.

In another two miles, nearing the fourth mile from Thetford, there stands, prominent by reason of its height and isolation on Roudham Heath, the tall black poplar known as “Bridgeham High Tree.” The village of Bridgeham lies far away to the right, and nothing comes in view to distract the attention from this landmark. For a landmark it is, planted, according to the received local traditions, by the packmen who fared this lonely road in days before railways, and often lost their way on these heaths in the trackless snows of winter, when every road in these wind-swept uplands disappeared and lay buried in that white winding-sheet. The High Tree is of noble proportions, and placed at the crest of an incline slightly raised above the general level of the heath. A number of scattered thorn-trees grow near.

A little distance beyond it, a scarcely noticeable track crossing the road and leading on the left hand athwart Wretham Heath to a level crossing, stands for that disused prehistoric road, the Peddar’s Way. A woman who unlocks the gates for the passing stranger dimly remembers to have heard it spoken of as the “Pedlar’s Way.”

From here the rough and stumbly track leads for half a mile to the crest of the ridge, where a deep hole, known as the “Thieves’ Pit,” is the subject of a legend telling how, at some period unspecified, Illington Hall was plundered by a mounted gang who hid their booty here. Looking backwards from this commanding view-point, this is seen to be the most solitary of all the many heaths surrounding Thetford, and that despite the railway running through, with Roudham Junction in its midst. The usual picture of a junction is of a busy station, with bustling porters and crowds of passengers, but that of Roudham is a very different place. You will not find it in the railway guides, because, in fact, tickets are not issued to or from it, and it is a little difficult to understand the existence of a station, as well as the actual junction of lines, in the heathland, off the road and away from sight of houses. But there it stands, and its signal-posts and station buildings are the only alien features of this hoary heath, where the relics of prehistoric man are found, where the curlews whistle down the wind, and that coastwise branch of the plover family, the ring-plovers, breed.

For Wretham Heath is one of the seven heaths in the neighbourhood, and in the only district of England, where the ring-plovers visit inland. They come here in spring, and are doubtless in sympathy with the place. In common with them, the black-headed gull loves the heath, and students of natural history tell us its sands, plants, beetles, and butterflies—and, in fact, the whole of its flora and fauna—are those of the coast. Away beyond that lonely junction is Ringmere, the identical “Hringmar” of the Heimskringla-saga, where the Battle of Ringmere, the last of those many bloodthirsty fights between Saxon and Dane, was fought, in 1010. Ringmere is a singular, nay mystic, pool, sometimes measuring seven acres, at others reduced to a puddle, and again in full flood and stocked with fish. It is now again absolutely dry. Other curious meres of this immediate district, with similarly strange vicissitudes, are those of Langmere, Fowlmere, and the “Devil’s Punchbowl,” a smaller but deeper lake, whose white evening coronal of mist the fearful folklore of the rural folk has styled the “Devil’s Nightcap.”

There were yet others before Wretham West Mere, and Great Mere were drained, in 1851 and 1856.

The Padder’s, or Peddar’s Way, here plunges through a long avenue of pines, on its way to Watton. It is a solitary, and at times even an eerie place, for great livid fungi grow in its shade and curious tall toadstool things, shaped like half-furled Japanese umbrellas, dot the grass; while fairy rings are there for the beguilement of mortal man rash enough to stand within any one of their magic circles what time the clock strikes the hour of midnight. Then—well, then I don’t know what might happen, and really am not courageous enough to make the essay. Whether the little folk merely fool you with fairy gold that, when the illusory moonshine kingdom of Queen Mab is replaced by matter-of-fact sunshine, turns to the sere and sorry leaves of autumn past; whether they addle your brains, or give you a tricksy wisdom that is not of this world, I do not know; but if the fairy rings were only potent enough to recall the past, bid yesterday return, make unsaid the lamentable word, undo the irrevocable deed—why then, who would not brave the mystic hour, and chance what might hap? Ah! then, what a place of resort this would be, and what crowds of clients the fairies would have! But if all these things were possible, they would still be beyond our reach, for I am quite sure the company-promoters would get an option on the fairies and float them as a company, under the style of “Oblivion, Ltd.” Puck would, of course, join the board after allotment. No one under the financial status of a multi-millionaire would be able to purchase the fairy boons vended under these auspices, for such people have much they would only too dearly like revoked, and would outbid all others.