The Red Rover stagecoach between Southampton and London, England,

The Joy of Essex with Martin Newell

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In this, Our Year of Charles Dickens Celebrations, I was doing some research, when a notion occurred to me. Chas, a Victorian writer, had a rather modern sort of touring workload.

In addition to foreign travel, he travelled widely in England, much of which he did by coach. In 1835 a trip from London to Ipswich would have taken him the whole of a long day. In the golden age of coach travel, speeds, without stage stops, might have averaged eight to 10 miles per hour.

This prompted me to compare it to travel today. A recent train journey from Wivenhoe, Essex to Ipswich, Suffolk brought matters sharply into focus. So inured am I to the vagaries of modern rail travel, that nowadays I’ll never take a train which I’m told will get me to my destination on time. Instead I take the one before it.

My train from Wivenhoe to Colchester, for example, on the first part of my journey was (only) just under two minutes late. At Colchester, though, where I had to change, there was a delay firstly, of five minutes and secondly of eight minutes. So, on a Saturday, for a what was billed as a 44-minute trip, in two parts, including one change, I was now a total of 15 minutes late. It therefore took me 59 minutes to travel about 20 miles, at just under £10 for a return. Faster than Dickens, perhaps, but nothing to break out the cigars for.

And the excuses? Make them up yourself. It’s what I do. Goths on the line at Shenfield? Late-running Civil War re-enactment on the platform at Chelmsford? Broken-down marriage just outside of Kelvedon? Who knows? The crux of the matter is that travelling almost anywhere in this country is becoming increasingly odd, inconvenient and pricey by the day.

Flying doesn’t even warrant thinking about. The patron saint of delayed flights is, of course, St. Ansted. Have you ever wondered why I never miss a weekly column in this esteemed organ? It’s because I no longer go away any more. Especially not to awkward destinations – which is nearly everywhere.

I once used to be a travelling musician. I just got fed up with airport purgatory at either end of each and every journey which I undertook. In the last year, or so I have been offered engagements in Rome, Los Angeles and San Francisco and have turned the lot down. I just refuse to go. The very thought of airports makes me genuinely unhappy, bad tempered, neurotic and ill – so I don’t go anywhere.

On the plus side, I’ve been told that if I can bear to carry on living for a while longer, a bus pass may come my way. I’m quite interested in this. We in Essex – according to Peter, our local bus expert – have fared rather better than you in Suffolk, who’ve suffered more cuts.

Peter recently presented me with a method which he’d devised of travelling to Saffron Walden from Colchester by bus. Saffron Walden, Essex – a mere 40 miles west of Colchester – is an incredible kerfuffle to get to. Wivenhoe to Audley End , which isn’t actually Saffron Walden but is nearby, takes about three and half hours by train and costs £35 single fare.

We’re advised to travel via London, going into and then back out of the metropolis. The bus route which Peter managed to sort out – although it’s convoluted and depends upon buying an £8.00 Essex Rover, at least stays in Essex. There are a couple of ways of doing the Saffron Walden bus trip, one of them quite scenic (we think) but it takes about three hours each way.

The bus trip is cheaper and quicker (just) than the train but needs more planning. Four of us intend to attempt the journey when we next have a free weekend and the weather gets better. Never mind all of this Overland-to-Marakesh nonsense. Why not try Colchester to Saffron Walden by bus? Far more character-forming, I’d say.

Now, I don’t use a car much. This is mainly because I don’t have one and have never driven. Hilary, my tamer, owns one but she doesn’t use it much either. If people discover that you don’t drive, they look at you suspiciously and begin digging around for the reasons.

Rather than telling them that you never really fancied being in charge of a bulky, expensive half-ton of depreciating scrap metal why not just lie and say that during your last divorce you succumbed briefly to drink and accidentally killed a pair of mating otters? Add that it was all ages ago and it took you a long time to rebuild your life but that it might have been even worse if you’d actually been in a car at the time.

Stare regretfully into the middle distance, and whisper tremulously, “People have been so kind” before limping enigmatically away. I guarantee that they’ll never pester you again.

Charles Dickens also walked. He walked in London. He should have tried walking today from Ipswich station to Buttermarket. Or Colchester Town Station to leafy Lexden Road. Or Chelmsford Station to the BBC in New London Road.

What all three trips have in common is that they once used to be simple A to B walks in a keep-going-you-can’t-miss-it straight line. This was until the 1960s/70s when our planners decided that King Car’s needs were more important than our own. For far worse than any government, right or left, is that shiny tyrant, King Car.

To be continued...