'The north' is closer than you think...

I have walked three days from home, for the first time in a purposefully northerly direction and in only three days it feels as though I am in the Hills of the North. At my final Evensong at St Peter's we sang 'Hills of the north rejoice', because   the landscape is alive - it does breathe and sing and welcome and warn and change with light and weather and human footprint. I referred to 'The North' in an earlier chapter as it began to appear on road signs in Cambridgeshire, and it seemed a long way off, a nebulous concept, unsure of where it began and where its boundaries were. Now I feel like it's beginning to appear. And today I saw a road sign with 'The South' and 'The North' on it. So maybe this is the in between land ... 

Leaving home on Thursday, KT tape on my knee, and a rucksack heavier than it's been so far due to the amount of maps and camping gas, I walked through fields of green under a heavy grey sky. The north eastern edge of Leicester is mostly new housing springing up. If I had stood still long enough I could have watched it grow. I joined the Grand Union canal again at Syston, last walked on through Leighton Buzzard, and it rained briefly - the only rain shower all day though in spite of the cloud. There were signs of recent flooding - tree debris and collected old plastic. I always wonder whether people think about how it will look and what it will do when they drop litter. It reappears uglier and more toxic than they ever thought. The waterways are a complex mix of river, canal, side water, and ponds, some man made to reestablish fish spawning and care for the delicate watery ecosystem, as the A6 thunders away to the left. I reached Barrow upon Soar earlier than I had expected and dropped into The Three Crowns for a pint. Soon everyone in the bar was working out mileage and map carrying, and wondering what I was doing walking through Barrow on the way to Scotland. I had a lovely conversation with Justin, who was friends with everyone it seemed. It turns out he had worked on the building of my little house (well, not just mine!). A wonderful friendly place and not so far from home. Unsettlingly they didn't seem to know about the campsite I was heading for. A mile or so out of the village I found the farm, with a sign saying 'Caravan Club Members only'. I went to ask at the house and was greeted warmly but apologetically. I couldn't camp in the caravan field but I was taken, small dog called Coco in tow, through a field of frisky bullocks, to a lovely spot down by the river, where I could camp. Five minutes later she came back saying that she couldn't leave me down there and had an old vintage caravan I could sleep in behind the house. It was lovely and small and full of dead flies and pink cushions. After cleaning it out a bit, I spent the evening outside, occasionally chatting to the heavily pregnant cows in the next door field. Coco the dog became my shadow. They had a huge fluffy rag doll cat that they named Travis, as they had passed a Travis Perkins on the way home from collecting him. I was told there may be a calf in the field in the morning. There wasn't, but they were not long off. The evening half moon was bright as I took some whisky, and a X of white plane fumes formed against the deep bright blue, urging me on to Scotland. 

Friday dawned drizzly and developed into consistent rain. It was the first time I had put on complete waterproofs for a while. Travis was on farmwatch duty so hadn't time to say good morning, but Coco was there as soon as I opened the caravan door. She really wanted to come with me, but couldn't quite understand how far it was. I left, northwards again, through little villages north of Loughborough, the skyline misty. Churches were locked and quiet and with nowhere else to shelter I kept going. The bridleway took me through the centre of two oilseed rape fields, the yellow at times above my head. I trapped my index finger in a gate catch and thankfully there was no one around to hear the language. Past the agricultural campus of Nottingham university in Sutton Bonington, and out to Kegworth a sign welcomed me to Leicestershire. I thought I was already there, and realised I'd spent the last couple of hours in Nottinghamshire. The huge chimneys at the Ratcliffe power station were pumping out so much steam they were disappearing themselves and merging with the sky. I met a man on the road to Sawley marina, heading the other way to catch a train home to Syston. He'd spent a night on his newly acquired boat and couldn't stop talking about it. He was very encouraging of me, having cycled LEJOG a few years ago, but said I was off route! I was definitely on my route. 

Through the sudden tangle of Sawley, marina, lorry park, industrial estate, main roads, I descended onto the river and under the M1, last crossed in Bedfordshire. The wide water was a silky grey, herons and ducks and swans ambling about under the roar of traffic. The way turned onto the Mersey and Trent canal and the start of the Derwent Valley Heritage Way. A line of women was approaching, some smartly dressed under umbrellas, and some in walking gear with dogs in tow. They were walking the DVHW in aid of what they described as 'the biggest charity no one has heard of'. The ACWW - Associated Country Women of the World, representing 9 million women. They told me that today millions of women would be starting a local walk at 10am their local time all over the world as part of a worldwide movement of women. And I was one of them today. And I had entered Derbyshire, county number 15, to camp in the village of Elvaston, and the rain stopped. 

So, today was 21 miles, all in the Derwent Valley, weaving my way with the river northwards. I began through the outskirts of Derby, through the city, past the cathedral. Every park had girls and boys at football practice, runners overtaking me, and cyclists everywhere. A hard pressed group of people in numbered tabards were being screamed at as part of some kind of fitness training. I felt sorry for them. North out of the city rowers pumped up and down the water. I ascended the east side of the valley out of Makeney, the path giving views of the steep sided valley, villages nestled at various heights, old chimneys telling fragments of the story of the dale. After Belper I joined the Cromford canal, a shallow unfinished waterway, with a collapsed tunnel to the south meaning it couldn't connect to the network, and to the north unfinished as the railways arrived too soon. Here the river, road, railway and canal ran side by side. I met my dad coming the other way - he had very kindly offered to drive the rucksack today and have a day out in Derbyshire - and we emerged at Whatstandwell where the ways swap places and cross one another. 

I am two and a half days from the Pennine Way, and then it's straight up all the way to Scotland. The maps are becoming more brown with contours, and the climate fresher. Here the lambs are still small and the daffodils still out. And I'm beginning to not feel so out of place.