October 2026. Thaxted. Essex.
I’d booked my almost traditional Sunday night in Whittlesford’s Parkway after seeing Dad (not so good) on Sunday; £63.10 (including outrageous £10 to park) at the B & B Hotel chain that’s like a more cheerful Premier Inn.
But then I saw I could park the campervan, for free, in Thaxted‘s main carpark as long as I didn’t “overstay my welcome”. More of that later. And I can cancel my B & B Hotel until 7pm that night, so if St Margaret’s Car Park is a hotbed of juvenile excess or dogging I’ve still got options.
The route across from Buntingford is spectacularly autumnal, a route of suicidal pheasants, conkers, lost breweries (Rayments of Furneux Pelham) and celebrity chefs.
The transition from Hertfordshire into Essex close to Jamie Oliver’s family pub in Clavering is oddly noticeable; Herts really does feel the older county. Simon, the celebrity pub ticker who grew up locally, may know what I mean.
Thatxted’s long-stay parking seems safe enough, so that’s £63.10 saved to spend in what is, I now think, one of the great small UK towns.
Only 3,187 souls, so smaller than Rye or Lavenham, but packed with gorgeousness.
We need Lana to go there to do it justice, as a combination of my photography and a dreich end to the afternoon combined to dull its colour.
But the medieval Guildhall,
parish church,
and the details on every door are all sensational.
There’s not much traffic; you’re not using Thaxted as a rat run anywhere, even with Stansted Airport close by.
But it still feels a vibrant, living town, with folk streaming out of St John the Baptist at the start of the annual cultural festival.
And folk flowing into the pubs, and it’s the pubs you’ll want to know about, you heathens.
