four counties, different homes, and the spaces in between, to a milestone and beyond
I have walked 33 days now, and with 450 miles done, the daily average mileage from here will rise, as will altitude, rucksack weight, and scarcity of signal and electricity sockets. I have found my way from Cornwall to home - current home - and after resting for a day, with frozen peas on my knee, and washing in and out of the machine, I will take an almost consistent northerly direction to the border of Scotland. I have walked through 13 counties, and experienced more variations of weather than I could have imagined. I have had more funny, moving, strange and generous encounters I could have expected, and seen a multitude of views of flatlands, ridges, forests, woods, lakes, reservoirs, rivers, sea, fields, hedges, flowers, greens, yellows, rainbows, urban sprawl, rural agriculture, villages, lanes, highways, dust, mud, bog. I have seen red kites, buzzards, owls, skylarks, egrets, heron, all varieties of little birds, ducks, foxes, deer, hares, rabbits, sheep, cows, alpacas, goats, llamas, weasels, stoats, mice, a rat or two, and a big bronze lion.
The last few days beyond Little Gidding have felt a little like filling the spaces between. From a place where my soul feels deeply at home, I headed out on Saturday into more flatlands and the last of the heat wave, with dust rising between the shimmering heat haze of yellow fields and white blossom. My day zigzagged between bridleways and quiet lanes into Northamptonshire, where suddenly the landscape changed with added contours, valleys, and gently rising and falling wooded slopes. I stopped by Achurch church, before emerging into the wide open space of green, the river Nene merging with the fields, and the pretty and small village of Wadenhoe the other side. My path rose out of the village past the church, and I sent some pictures to my friend Rosie, who grew up in this lovely little corner of Northamptonshire. I renamed this little bit of the route 'The Rosie Way'. I was feeling tired as I emerged out of woods to Lyveden New Bield. I think this was a combination of heat and a long day previously, and not much sleep. There was a bench looking to the incomplete house. Lyveden is a striking monument to dreams not quite fulfilled, able to be seen for miles on the high flat plain. The sky was bubbling a storm above, and cooler air blew in. It only amounted to about three raindrops, but there was a feeling of change brewing. I had walked some of these paths and visited Lyveden back in February with my sister, when our cars were the only ones in the car park, and the mud was deep, and we wore at least six layers against the cold. I arrived in Brigstock and found the church with the spire, and five minutes later my sister Rachel, brother in law Jon, and niece Alice pulled up in the car to take me home with them for the night, back in Cambridgeshire. The forty minute journey was spent playing a version of rock, paper, scissors with Alice, reminiscent of the rules of Mornington Crescent. At home, Rachel, being the older and more responsible (and lovely!) sister, ran me a bath and furnished me with frozen peas and gin. It was very good.
The following afternoon I was dropped back at the church with a spire in Brigstock, and walked in the cool of the day and evening up to the campsite in Bulwick, the sky changing light and colour all the time, and in the campsite I felt pleased to be able to put on all of the layers again. The heatwave was definitely over.
Monday dawned grey and cold and breezy. I was further on than I had planned, and so I decided to head straight to Launde. This turned into a three county day, mostly along lanes, through little quiet villages. Harringworth church was open and had a large wooden board dated 1805 printed with the promises of a bequest to the poor of the parish in Harringworth 'forever'. This included use of land in Tur Langton and East Norton in Leicestershire. I wondered if these still exist. Shortly after this I passed under the impressively long Welland viaduct and into Rutland. Through Glaston, Preston and Ridlington, the views became familiar, and the map was no longer needed. The network of ridges and bridleways wove into Leicestershire and the final mile into Launde. There is so much I could say about the feelings of passing through here, but I don't know where to start. It was my home for three and a bit years, and after leaving once, was then my part-time work for another two and a half years. I was, needless to say, greeted warmly and generously. I saw Wendy and Ian and Jean (who gave me a beautiful card) and Andy and Patsy and Pam and Hazel and Savannah and Sophie and Caleb and Sarah and Richard and Karen and David and Chris and Pene and David and Sue and Elizabeth ... all beautiful people who make this place what it is now, today, looking ahead, keeping on, creating and re-shaping the mark it makes on so many peoples' lives. It has not always been so. But it is today, and I am grateful. There are many I didn't see as well, and these people I will remember and think of and be grateful for as I move on. I spent the evening writing, and then walking amongst the trees in the ancient park, and playing the piano in the semi-dark chapel.
So on Tuesday I walked home. It was a four hour walk in drizzle which then turned to persistent rain, consoled by the fact that I would be home soon and could dry out there. The first bit of lane walking I was reminded of the last time I walked it, in thigh-deep snow, the first 'Beast from the East', when I abandoned my car to get to my last day at work. I only needed to use the map for about three miles of the walk, between Tilton and Cold Newton, passing the appropriately named 'Sludge Farm', complete with a huge ploughed field to walk over. I crossed the old railway twice. The old railways form a maze of mysteriously overgrown underworld throughout Leicestershire, with black mud that never quite dries out and miles of tangled thorns and strange large items of rubbish. I was offered a lift on the back road between Billesdon and Tilton, by a Frenchman in a black hat and a pristine white mini. I politely declined and thanked him for his kindness, but it felt a little odd. The last half hour was on the familiar Covert Lane. This is my regular walk, my local lane, half an hour out to the end of the lane and half an hour back, which I try to do most days, early or late. It is always fly-tip central which makes me deeply sad and angry, and yesterday they excelled themselves with a complete burned out pick up truck at the end of the lane.
So, I found my tiny house again. There was some gin left. And the washing machine is my favourite appliance.
It feels like I have completed the first section. Not that it hasn't been very serious at times up to this point, but it now feels like it will get more serious as I head north properly. Additions to the rucksack include a midge head-net, water-purification tablets, a penny whistle, a belt, and a new notebook as I am about to fill up the first one with journal writing.
Onwards, to a part of the world where the sight of walkers with big rucksacks is not so odd.
The last few days beyond Little Gidding have felt a little like filling the spaces between. From a place where my soul feels deeply at home, I headed out on Saturday into more flatlands and the last of the heat wave, with dust rising between the shimmering heat haze of yellow fields and white blossom. My day zigzagged between bridleways and quiet lanes into Northamptonshire, where suddenly the landscape changed with added contours, valleys, and gently rising and falling wooded slopes. I stopped by Achurch church, before emerging into the wide open space of green, the river Nene merging with the fields, and the pretty and small village of Wadenhoe the other side. My path rose out of the village past the church, and I sent some pictures to my friend Rosie, who grew up in this lovely little corner of Northamptonshire. I renamed this little bit of the route 'The Rosie Way'. I was feeling tired as I emerged out of woods to Lyveden New Bield. I think this was a combination of heat and a long day previously, and not much sleep. There was a bench looking to the incomplete house. Lyveden is a striking monument to dreams not quite fulfilled, able to be seen for miles on the high flat plain. The sky was bubbling a storm above, and cooler air blew in. It only amounted to about three raindrops, but there was a feeling of change brewing. I had walked some of these paths and visited Lyveden back in February with my sister, when our cars were the only ones in the car park, and the mud was deep, and we wore at least six layers against the cold. I arrived in Brigstock and found the church with the spire, and five minutes later my sister Rachel, brother in law Jon, and niece Alice pulled up in the car to take me home with them for the night, back in Cambridgeshire. The forty minute journey was spent playing a version of rock, paper, scissors with Alice, reminiscent of the rules of Mornington Crescent. At home, Rachel, being the older and more responsible (and lovely!) sister, ran me a bath and furnished me with frozen peas and gin. It was very good.
The following afternoon I was dropped back at the church with a spire in Brigstock, and walked in the cool of the day and evening up to the campsite in Bulwick, the sky changing light and colour all the time, and in the campsite I felt pleased to be able to put on all of the layers again. The heatwave was definitely over.
Monday dawned grey and cold and breezy. I was further on than I had planned, and so I decided to head straight to Launde. This turned into a three county day, mostly along lanes, through little quiet villages. Harringworth church was open and had a large wooden board dated 1805 printed with the promises of a bequest to the poor of the parish in Harringworth 'forever'. This included use of land in Tur Langton and East Norton in Leicestershire. I wondered if these still exist. Shortly after this I passed under the impressively long Welland viaduct and into Rutland. Through Glaston, Preston and Ridlington, the views became familiar, and the map was no longer needed. The network of ridges and bridleways wove into Leicestershire and the final mile into Launde. There is so much I could say about the feelings of passing through here, but I don't know where to start. It was my home for three and a bit years, and after leaving once, was then my part-time work for another two and a half years. I was, needless to say, greeted warmly and generously. I saw Wendy and Ian and Jean (who gave me a beautiful card) and Andy and Patsy and Pam and Hazel and Savannah and Sophie and Caleb and Sarah and Richard and Karen and David and Chris and Pene and David and Sue and Elizabeth ... all beautiful people who make this place what it is now, today, looking ahead, keeping on, creating and re-shaping the mark it makes on so many peoples' lives. It has not always been so. But it is today, and I am grateful. There are many I didn't see as well, and these people I will remember and think of and be grateful for as I move on. I spent the evening writing, and then walking amongst the trees in the ancient park, and playing the piano in the semi-dark chapel.
So on Tuesday I walked home. It was a four hour walk in drizzle which then turned to persistent rain, consoled by the fact that I would be home soon and could dry out there. The first bit of lane walking I was reminded of the last time I walked it, in thigh-deep snow, the first 'Beast from the East', when I abandoned my car to get to my last day at work. I only needed to use the map for about three miles of the walk, between Tilton and Cold Newton, passing the appropriately named 'Sludge Farm', complete with a huge ploughed field to walk over. I crossed the old railway twice. The old railways form a maze of mysteriously overgrown underworld throughout Leicestershire, with black mud that never quite dries out and miles of tangled thorns and strange large items of rubbish. I was offered a lift on the back road between Billesdon and Tilton, by a Frenchman in a black hat and a pristine white mini. I politely declined and thanked him for his kindness, but it felt a little odd. The last half hour was on the familiar Covert Lane. This is my regular walk, my local lane, half an hour out to the end of the lane and half an hour back, which I try to do most days, early or late. It is always fly-tip central which makes me deeply sad and angry, and yesterday they excelled themselves with a complete burned out pick up truck at the end of the lane.
So, I found my tiny house again. There was some gin left. And the washing machine is my favourite appliance.
It feels like I have completed the first section. Not that it hasn't been very serious at times up to this point, but it now feels like it will get more serious as I head north properly. Additions to the rucksack include a midge head-net, water-purification tablets, a penny whistle, a belt, and a new notebook as I am about to fill up the first one with journal writing.
Onwards, to a part of the world where the sight of walkers with big rucksacks is not so odd.
Little Gidding Road
Thurning Church
Achurch church
in Achurch church
the Nene at Wadenhoe
Lyveden New Bield
in the Bulwick campsite
Laxton
the Welland viaduct
Welland viaduct
ancient instruments in Ridlington church
the old familiar crossroads
the Launde descent
Launde chapel
Launde chapel
Launde chapel organ, played hundreds of times
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