Somewhere between Methwold and the middle of nowhere, hidden in the sprawling geometry of Thetford Forest, there’s a woodland with a name that sounds like it’s been lifted straight from a Victorian ledger: Ickerbuilding Plantation.
Ickerbuilding? Apparently named after the Iceni, a Celtic tribe, who famously rebelled against the Romans, and who lived here—or at least nearby. The name has stuck around, much like the woodland itself. It’s a quietly lovely patch of mature beech tucked into Breckland, surrounded on all sides by the long, dark walls of Forestry Commission conifers. Once a place of serious silvicultural ambition, today it’s just… photogenic. Quietly so. Not trying too hard. The kind of place that doesn’t know how good it looks.
Back in the late 1930s, the Forestry Commission took one look at the open, empty heathlands of East Anglia and thought: “Needs more trees.” And who could blame them? Britain had burned through its timber supplies during the First World War, and we were running low. So in went the Corsican pines—tall, elegant, and suspiciously fast-growing. The forestry world wasn’t sure what to make of them. There was some hand-wringing, some tut-tutting. But the Commission pressed on. After all it brought jobs, new forest villages, self sufficiency and some self reliance to a small army of men returning from the war.
Thetford became one of the test sites. A bit of a green guinea pig, really. They laid out the plots like graph paper—straight rows, precise spacing, carefully timed thinnings. The full forestry toolkit was deployed here: brashing, pre-thinning, line thinning, selective thinning. Over time, the place became a kind of outdoor laboratory. It’s even designated a Site of Special Scientific Interest , though don’t expect any elaborate or expensive signage announcing that.
And that’s part of its charm. Because what’s left, a century on, is something far more interesting than a tidy plantation. It’s a woodland with stories in the soil. The formal geometry of the original planting has softened with age. The pines—Corsican and Scots—stand in quiet formation, their bark peeling like old paint, light slanting through in neat shafts. There are patches of old coppice and windbreaks and forgotten rides, all slowly collapsing back into themselves, becoming something beautifully unkempt.
Photographically, it’s a bit of a dream. The forest floor is dense with pine needles. Lichens creep up forgotten stumps. Every so often, a shaft of afternoon sun slices through like it’s on a theatrical cue. And the silence—just enough to hear your shutter click. It’s the kind of place that makes you look twice, or three times. You’ll spend ten minutes composing a shot of one tree trunk, then realise the tree behind it is better. Then spend another ten minutes there.
And it’s not just what’s above ground that tells the story. Recent LIDAR scans—because yes, even forests now get laser-mapped—have revealed ancient ridges and furrows beneath the canopy. Traces of medieval cultivation, lost trackways, plantation boundaries from before the war. Which means even the blank bits on the map aren’t really blank.
Then there’s the light, changing constantly. In spring, moss glows green like it’s plugged in. Foxgloves pop up in odd corners, blooming in pure defiance of the soil. In autumn, the copper and gold on the ground compete with the bark for texture. Come winter, the frost sits on brashed stumps like someone’s been decorating a cake. It’s all very subtle, very photogenic, and very easy to miss if you’re walking too fast.
So yes, bring your boots. And your tripod. And maybe a thermos. If you’re a photographer looking for a break from the endless Instagram loop of lavender fields and cliff-top sunsets, this maybe the antidote. No big views. No vanlife influencers. No fuss. No bother.
It’s a place where beauty arrived by government spreadsheet (did they have them back then?)—and then quietly got on with being trees again.
