MOLES, DONKEYS & TRAFFIC SPYING: THE GREAT ESCAPE CONTINUES FROM BEHIND ENEMY CONES

Image by Martin Foskett / Knelstrom Media

By Martin Foskett
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Another day, another layer of madness slathered thick across our besieged little corner of Essex like expired margarine on burnt toast. The sun rose today with all the enthusiasm of a council worker on a Friday afternoon, casting a low golden glow across a village one step away from electing a ferret as mayor and replacing all traffic signs with interpretive dance.
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We remain trapped. The roads are closed, the diversions are still cruel, and the outside world is as distant as a sober thought in Wetherspoons on quiz night. But spirits are high. Morale is… let's call it "eccentric."

The Tunnel Update:

Operation Escape Through Essex is now well underway. Our noble subterranean effort continues at a decent pace despite the inevitable issues—collapsing supports, misplaced shovels, and one unfortunate incident involving an overzealous ferret named Colin, who mistook Tunnel Dick for a new home.
Tom is still heading for Stansted, his path steadfast and unwavering. He is currently somewhere under the Rec. Our intrepid moles dug into a forgotten Victorian septic chamber. They had to delay work for two hours. One worker described the smell as "like Satan's sock drawer."

Dick is making solid ground toward Takeley, thanks to a team of retired gardeners with nothing to lose and a deep resentment of bollards. Progress is steady, although one tunnel branch appears to have popped up underneath the ladies' toilets at the Golf Course. We've left a note and sealed it with a cork.
Harry, our wildest hope, continues inching toward Henham. Spirits were high in the Harry tunnel—until this morning.

Because now—brace yourself—Mill Road in Henham is shut. Waterworks, they claim. But I've seen more running water in a vending machine. There was no warning and no diversion via Cumbria, just a trench. A man in a high-vis jacket, identified as Neil, told us, "It'll be about three weeks" before the ground returns to its living state. Tunnel Harry broke through at dawn only to find itself opening into a pit full of soggy pipework, despair, and a traffic light showing red in every direction.

Steve described it best: "Like climbing Everest and finding a Greggs car park at the summit." Tunnel Harry is now being rerouted north. We're not sure where it's going, but hopes are high it'll emerge in a functioning village—or Broxted. At this point, either will do.

The Surveillance Unit:

Thanks to a timely and slightly chaotic raid of the Elsenham Amateur Dramatic Society's costume cupboard, we've deployed a new observation unit. It consists of a cow and a donkey, neither of whom is a real animal, though Gary insists he "feels more bovine than man" now.

Emma was elected to be the head of the donkey, and her distinctive honking laugh provided eerie authenticity. You'd swear she was born with hooves. Stacey operates her rear—naturally—who's been the source of Emma's giggling fits down the pub for the better part of a decade. They're stationed covertly in a field on Hall Road, peering out of felt-covered eyeholes and reporting on traffic patterns via WhatsApp emojis and vaguely poetic voice notes.

The cow? Trevor and Gary. Heroes of their strange legend now. Placed in a field towards Henham to monitor Council vehicle movements, Farmer Nick forgot—and this is still under investigation—to remove the live bull already occupying the said field. A moment of explosive bovine passion and panic ensued, culminating in Trevor and Gary achieving what Guinness officials now refer to as the Land Speed Record for Two Men in a Cow Costume Being Chased by an Actual Bull. The cow costume did not survive. Trevor lost a shoe, and Gary hasn't blinked in 36 hours.

Alternative Communications Division:

We've turned to other methods, as traditional lines of contact have become unreliable—due to tunnel tremors, power signal blackouts, and Margaret accidentally sitting on a radio.

Sara has taken the initiative. Her garden is now a pigeon air traffic control hub. Yes, she's training pigeons to carry posts. They've already delivered two pub menus, a note from Frank's wife saying "Come home," and a sock (unrequested). She's started assigning them ranks and insists her lead pigeon, Corporal Flappy, can do Morse code with his feet.

But she's not stopping there. Her two dogs, once known only for barking at crisp packets, are now being trained as ground couriers. Equipped with little satchels, high-vis collars, and a slightly confused sense of direction, they will soon sprint through woods and fields to deliver vital intel—and perhaps the odd sausage roll—to and from the outside world. If successful, it'll be the village's first working canine courier service since the Great Pie Famine of '86.

Traffic Intelligence from the Rail Front:

The slim controller at Elsenham Station—a man with a clipboard, a vendetta against schedule deviations, and suspiciously good binoculars—has been crucial. He has reported an increase in the movement of traffic light vans in the area. These nomadic tribes of electrical chaos wander the roads like misfiring Daleks, placing temporary lights where none are needed and turning functional junctions into slow-burning therapy sessions.

One cryptic update, received via chalkboard scrawl in the station loo, pointed to the emergence of a three-way traffic light system near the Crown. Scouts confirmed: the Hall Road junction now hosts a trinity of glowing doom, sitting smugly across from the pub like an art installation funded by madness and Red Bull.

Now, the Crown itself has become our forward observation post—but the quality of intelligence tends to deteriorate in direct proportion to the number of pints consumed. Reports start strong in the morning—precise, sharp, full of dates and traffic timings. By 2 PM, we get updates like "light goes green sometimes, but not when you want. Beer cold, tho." By dusk, messages come through scrawled on beer mats and carried by pigeons (possibly Sara's).

We've taken it under advisement that "alcohol impairs objectivity." We shall ignore that advice entirely.

In Summary:

Our tunnels are progressing.
Our cow and donkey agents are in place.
Our spies are drunk but enthusiastic.
Our pigeons are airborne.
Our dogs are prepped.
And the people? The people are ready.
Every road closure has only strengthened our resolve. Every new traffic light is another badge of absurd honour pinned to our chest. We are not just adapting—we are evolving—into something leaner, meaner, and possibly covered in papier-mâché farm animals.
And so the siege continues.
But we shall endure.
Because we are villagers.
We are diggers.
We are donkey-costumed, wine-hoarding lunatics.
And this is our home.
Even if the only way out is 40 feet underground in a tunnel dug by Steve with a spade from Homebase, while Corporal Flappy brings back the coordinates.

END.

​#elsenham #grovehill #siegeofelsenham #henham #stansted