Motorhome travel: Discover the history and canals of Hertfordshire

As the early morning mists rose, we found ourselves perfectly positioned at the foot of the Chiltern Hills, a designated Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, for a peek of a little top that doesn’t require a head for heights – Ivinghoe Beacon.

Here the Vale of Aylesbury dramatically crashes into this landmark and stunning viewpoint where the Home Counties of Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire and Hertfordshire all converge and are criss-crossed by important ancient and more modern routes. But with our time at a premium, we resisted the temptation to shoot off in all directions and set our sights on delving into a do-able chunk of west Hertfordshire.

You can drive almost up to Ivinghoe Beacon’s summit and its remains of an Iron-Age hill fort. We preferred the short trek from a footpath opposite the entrance of Town Farm Campsite and a wander along Beacon Hill ridge. From here the sheep of Town Farm, contentedly munching on velvety grass downland, looked like confetti. Looking north from the beacon’s trig point, Buckinghamshire’s flat-as-a-pancake Vale of Aylesbury fades into Oxfordshire. To the east, carved into the hillside of Bedfordshire’s Dunstable Downs, is the prominent Whipsnade Zoo White Lion. Running south, a woodland quilt blanket drapes over the spine of the chalky Chilterns through Hertfordshire’s Ashridge Estate.

West of this modest ridge is a low point in the Chiltern Hills, Tring Gap. This squeezes in the Icknield Way and the Roman road, Akeman Street, alongside the Grand Union Canal and the world’s first inter-city railway that today whisks city slickers to their desks. Around these transport routes grew the small market town of Tring and an aristocratic estate of the London strand of the Rothschild banking dynasty. The Rothschilds are believed to be the world’s wealthiest ever family. Entering their ‘back garden’ – Tring Park – on the southern edge of Tring we were greeted by the warm glow of early autumnal woodland tints and rolling chalk grassland.

Ascending an escarpment, it was a pleasant stroll along the forest tunnel known as King Charles Ride, interspersed with open outlooks over the 250-acre parkland to the Ivinghoe Hills. It was the great-grandson of the founder of the Rothschild empire, the first Lord Rothschild, who purchased Tring Mansion in 1872. As a coming-of-age present for his mad-keen naturalist son, Walter, he built a private zoological museum nearby. It was here that Walter amassed one of the world’s largest natural history collections. Nowadays these exhibits are in the hands of the Natural History Museum. Thankfully, the cassowaries, kangaroos and emus, which Walter released into Tring Park are no longer running wild.

From the campsite we picked up the Grand Union Canal towpath and completed a loop, packed with interest, of the reservoirs just to the north of Tring. The canal, the UK’s longest, was constructed to link London with the Midlands’ coalfields and Birmingham. However, the four adjacent bodies of water – Wilstone, Marsworth, Tringford and Startops End (now a nature reserve) – didn’t quench the local population’s thirst, but provided an essential water supply to the canal. 

In the historic market town of Berkhamsted, on the Grand Union Canal, swans lined up in pecking order to give the towpath grass a close cut. It was here in 1066 that a Norman named William came, having triumphed over King Harold at the Battle of Hastings. He marched his army through London to Berkhamsted, where he was handed his role as king of England. William went on to introduce England to French military architecture in the form of wooden motte and bailey castles. It’s estimated the Normans built up to 1,000 such strongholds and Berkhamsted is home to the remains of one of them. Entry is free to these now peaceful and well-tended ruins. With the place to ourselves, we climbed to the top of the motte where, as kings of the castle, we imagined what the fortification was like at its zenith.

An earlier chap who came, saw and conquered Britain was Caesar; leaving us with nearly four centuries’ worth of Roman history. One of our most valuable heritage sites was Britannia’s third largest city – Verulamium – situated on the Roman road of Watling Street in St Albans. Roaming around its expansive Verulamium Park, centred on two lakes, we began our archaeological explorations beside the town’s ancient defensive high wall and the surviving foundations of the London Gate.

Nearing the lakes, a wonderful backdrop against the cathedral opened up. It was only when we meandered the short distance into the former abbey’s grounds that we appreciated, alongside its gatehouse, the vast scale of the cathedral’s setting. A guided tour of this magnificent building revealed several Roman links and the origin of the city’s present-day name. The existing cathedral, begun after the Norman Conquest, was built using bricks from the by-then ruined city of Verulamium. However, back in the city’s heyday, its occupiers fell out with one of their patricians, named Alban, when he converted to Christianity. This resulted in them lopping off his head – inadvertently creating Britain’s first Christian martyr saint.

Back in the park, a plain-featured modern building gave no indication of the historic treasures contained within – a well-preserved mosaic and an underfloor heating system that once formed part of a wealthy town house. The elevated position of this villa also afforded a fine cityscape dominated by the splendid cathedral. On the outskirts of the park is Verulamium Museum where mock rooms helped us recreate a vision of everyday life in a Roman city. We admired displays acknowledged as some of the finest mosaics and wall plasters outside the Mediterranean.

The highlight for us was the remains of the Roman theatre across the road. It’s a unique structure because it wasn’t set out as an amphitheatre, but had a more contemporary style with a raised stage and auditorium. With a capacity to seat up to 2,000 spectators, this public building’s entertainment ranged from religious ceremonies, dancing, armed combat, wrestling, a form of pantomime and plays by Greek and Roman playwrights.

In the nearby village of Ayot St Lawrence we ‘bumped’ into the twentieth century Irish playwright – George Bernard Shaw. Unless you’re just visiting his home, Shaw’s Corner, parking in the village is roadside only and the approach is along narrow lanes (although there are passing places). Shaw was a prolific writer of some 60 plays, such as Pygmalion, and was renowned for using satire to lampoon prevailing social problems. Looking inside George’s red-brick Edwardian villa, scattered with literary and personal effects, we were left with the impression that he could return at any minute. At the bottom of George’s lovely garden, we found his preferred workspace habitat – a hut-like construction, complete with a turntable that enabled him to move his ‘den’ to track the sunlight.

Tiny Ayot St Lawrence also had a few other surprises tucked up its sleeve. On the ‘main road’ stands the atmospheric ruin of the old church. In an incongruous contrast, set back off this lane is the new Greek-style church. The fourteenth century Brocket Arms is also not to be missed; its bangers and mash were just the ticket! Parking close by on Nomansland Common, we walked through the pretty village of Wheathampstead (its car park has a height barrier) and along the Lea Valley to Brocket Hall, once the home to two of Queen Victoria’s prime ministers, Lord Melbourne and Lord Palmerston.

From in front of the majestic hall we had a pleasing view over the calm lake created by damming the Lea and James Paine’s Bridge. Heading towards the bridge, my husband commented that it was a dead ringer for a bridge in the Peak District providing a lovely aspect of Chatsworth House. Likewise, this carefully positioned bridge maximised the outlook across to Brocket Hall; both bridges are the work of the architect, James Paine. I am sure, though, that Paine didn’t envisage his architecture providing a close-up vantage point of a tricky golf hole. Intrepid golfers were driving off the tee from one bank of the Lea and hoping to negotiate 100 yards or so of water to the green on the opposite bank. We’d chalked off a corner of a less-visited county, covered a fair bit of mileage on foot and along history’s timeline; so, yes, this part of England had stolen our ‘herts’.

This feature was originally published in the January 2018 issue of MMM magazine. Want to read more like it? Get monthly travel inspiration by subscribing to MMM magazine.