Gravel tracks and the mysteries of moats

I need to see a moat.
And a manor house made of oak, a garden rich with the flowers from the Book of Hours and a king, who with courtly love addresses his mistress from across a moated ditch. Such a place did once exist in what is now my local park, but all that now remains is the stagnant duckpond, swings for kids and dog poo bags hanging from the posts.
Moats have been popular in their time. Ancient Babylon had them, as did the temples and palaces of Ancient Egypt. There are plenty remaining from distant times in England too; Bodiam castle has one, as does Leeds castle in Kent. Both are ‘heritaged’, with postcards, and brochures proclaiming them and carparks and tea shops surrounding them. It was not they that I sought. Too big, too grand, too rich. No, what I needed to see was the more domestic kind - the sort that were not built for defence but to enhance status. The equivalent of the posh car on the gravelled drive.
Essex is full of both them.
On the map just off the A128, where the city dribbles into a sort of countryside, is marked a square of water and a house. At the entrance to the flint-chipped drive leading from the road, a notice declared the way ahead as ‘private’. Back on the road I soft pedalled trying to find gaps in the dense foliage whereby I might see anything which answered to the name of ‘moat’. No gaps. Nothing.
Another map-marked moat was a further 2 kilometres along a minor road. Helpfully, a public footpath passed close by. I know footpaths and bicycles are not meant to mix, but the distance from the road was measured in a few metres so I took my chance. Through gaps in hawthorne, hazel and ash I glimpsed manicured grounds, lakes, a brick or two of a house and a car. But a moat? Perhaps it was that muddy ditch just beyond this barbed wire fence against which my bike rested?
Two moats down and no moat seen, I kept my spirits up with the thought that there were still four more ahead. My cross bike, fitted with new fat tyres, was far more interested in racing along the gravelled paths than being propped against fences. So onward we rode. Essex it turns out, is a gravel rider’s dream. Through fields of corn we bumped, past plates of sweet elderflower and bee laden hog-weed. Under pylons stretching across the blue-skimmed sky we went, over dykes and ditches which had drained these lands in times gone by. So we raced careless with speed over the dried clay bumps, arms and teeth chattering with the shaking.
Moat number three was at Tilehurst, nicely circled on my map. Not to be missed. It lies on a corner as the road bends round to the right. However, my eye was caught by the gatehouse, turrets and Tudor walls of Ingatestone House on the other side of the bend. Imposing, ostentatious even and with a large garden open to the public. Just the spot for a coffee, cake and a rest from the dried clay bumps I thought till I saw the notice saying, ‘Closed due to Covid’. I quite forgot about moat number three and cycled on.
There were still three prize-perfect moats on the paths ahead. Through fields I rode, my wheels pressing against the aromatic chamomile. A buzzard shadowed me from above, a cuckoo called, from a nearby copse, rather too late I feared for breeding.
Not one moat did I see that day. Instead their impenetrable fences behind which, dense, dark leaves were packed, and once a madly barking dog, all fangs and a lust for blood. There were tens of kilometres of wonderful gravel paths, but a moat? Not one. My journey was like the cuckoo’s; in vain.

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