The Newmarket, Bury, Thetford and Cromer Road: Sport and history on an East Anglian turnpikeHarper, Charles G. (Charles George)
History
The Newmarket, Bury, Thetford and Cromer Road: Sport and history on an East Anglian turnpike
Harper, Charles G. (Charles George)
England -- Description and travel; England -- Social life and customs
HETHERSETT, whose name means “Heather-heath,” and is pronounced
“Hathersett” in the local speech, is heralded along the open road by a
solitary roadside inn with the sign of the “Old Oak.” No ancient oak is
within sight, but the accustomed pilgrim of the roads has not for years
been exploring the highways and byways without having long ago arrived
at the conclusion that there is a substantial reason for most things,
even the names of inns, and so from that sign deduces an historic oak
somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood. And surely enough, a short
distance beyond the inn, on the left-hand side of the road, opposite the
milestone that marks the twenty-second mile from Thetford and the
seventh from Norwich, there stands the gnarled and weatherworn trunk of
what the country folk call “Kett’s Oak,” one of the several ancient
trees that own the name, and traditionally said to have been one of the
meeting-places of Robert Kett and his followers, and one of the scenes
of his rough-and-ready sylvan court. But although oaks grow slowly, and
although the tradition is an old one, handed down, unbroken, through the
centuries, many will find it difficult to believe that a tree which must
have been a considerable one when Kett and his followers foregathered
here would not now have a greater girth than this.
The village green of Hethersett was enclosed, together with its large
common, in 1800. The parish at that time claimed, and was allowed, a
portion of the vast common of Wymondham, on the curious plea that it had
buried, at the expense of the community, the body of a dead man found
there and refused interment by the parish of Wymondham.
A local jape, which we may be sure will not willingly be let die, makes
a play upon the name of Hethersett. It dates from many years ago, when
the railway through the village to Norwich was new, and the train
service incredibly slow. “Hethersett,” cried the porters at the station
when a train stopped on one of those weariful occasions. “Here they
set,” indignantly rejoined an old woman in one of the third-class
carriages; “yes, and here they’re likely to set!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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