Plogsland

I've lived in many different places, but I was born in Lincolnshire, raised in Lincolnshire and for the past ten years have lived in Lincolnshire (or, to be exact, on the border between Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire). This county (one of England's largest, one of its flattest and one of its most depopulated) doesn't exactly draw me — well, not in the same way as Dante to Beatrice, or Tristan to Isolde, or Abélard to Héloïse. More like a tube of iron filings is attracted to a magnetic field, maybe — prosaically, unromantically, habitually. Today I marched another short stretch of Lincolnshire's most well-known trail, the Viking Way, and revisited once more the barren fenlands and ploughed-earth flatlands of my youth.

In Woodhall Spa I dawdled in tea rooms and bakeries, waiting for the torrential downpour to end. The uniform sky stretched monochrome-grey from horizon to horizon. I put on my Goretex gear and set off reluctantly down the path. Immediately I knew yet again why I loved walking, even in the rain. All my niggling little cares and worries had slipped away and my head felt light. I was really enjoying the simple, autumn-tinged walkway out of Woodhall Spa — across the golf course, through the woods and past this magnificent oak tree...          

The path led through woodland and over a golf course...

... to this gate with its reassuringly familiar Viking helmet marker.

I gained the old trackbed of the Horncastle and Kirkstead Railway at Sandy Lane. This disused railway line is now a cycleway, bridleway and walkers' route, known as the Spa Trail. The fallen leaves were pleasing to walk on... 

Here's a signboard highlighting the sculptures to be found along the way... 

I passed this striking artwork made of galvanised steel. It had now stopped raining and for the rest of the afternoon the sun came out in fits and starts.

Looking down at my feet (how often we miss what's happening down there!) I was struck by this random pattern of colourful leaves... 

The tree-lined pathway continued its delightful progress...

... unveiling wooden sculptures of fractal forms...

I eventually came to the small market town of Horncastle. A place, I admit, I would not like to frequent often.  You know those films where a stranger enters a pub in the back of beyond and the locals suddenly go all quiet and sinister? Well, I had a pretty similar experience entering Horncastle's Market Square dressed in a bright blue Berghaus rainshell and waterproof trousers, with a rucksack on my back and a camera round my neck. I mean, those incredulous faces didn't just latch onto mine and stay latched — their jaws dropped too, and they remained dropped...

St Mary's Church, Horncastle.

Far away I'd seen a hint, a suggestion, a faint whisper of hills beyond Horncastle as I'd approached the town.  Low — yes. Treeless  — certainly.  An illusion — probably. Yet my heart and soul yearned for some higher distance and airier spaces. 'Touch wood' I'd reach them soon. I seemed to remember that John Hillaby in his book Journey through Britain had described this part of the country as 'plogsland' — a word that had always conjured up for me a picture of plodding and slogging and bogginess. Undeterred, however, I plogged on... 

Shop in Horncastle.

Walking Is Intimate

I've just finished rereading John Hillaby's Journey Through Britain (1968), a book I've written about before on this blog. This was one of the very first books which turned me on to what has become one of the greatest pleasures in my life: propelling one foot in front of the other through landscape. It's a classic account - entertaining, witty, and very well written - of a 1200 mile solo walk from Land's End to John o' Groats, from the extreme south to the extreme north of Britain. Reading this book in my teenage years fired my imagination, and I dreamed of following in his footsteps. Forty years on I still haven't managed to retrace his route. But I have done a fair amount of walking elsewhere. Near the end of the book Hillaby attempts to analyse why walking across his country had been such a special, rewarding and unique way to get the feel it:

What had it all amounted to? Why hadn't I spent more time seeing fewer places more leisurely, using a car here and there? I finished the journey as I had started two months earlier, that is by asking myself a lot of questions. The difference was I could now answer some of those I had thought most about. Part of the journey could certainly have been done more easily by car, but it would have been an entirely different journey. Roads are all more or less alike. Walking is intimate; it releases something unknown in any other form of travel and, arduous as it can be, the spring of the ground underfoot varies as much as the moods of the sky. By walking the whole way I got a sense of gradual transition from one place to another, a feeling of unity. The mosaic of my own country and its people had become a sensible pattern.

Endless Renewal And Other Things

It's November 1st. Last night was the Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-een), marking the end of one year and the beginning of the next, a time for settling affairs in preparation for the period of darkness and renewal ahead according to The Book Of Wicca by Lucy Summers. On a supernatural level, it is the time when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest and spirits, elementals, and divine beings are able to walk upon the earth unsummoned.

Outside the weather's wild and wet. But mild. I remember when Novembers used to be bone-chillingly cold with freezing fog. We'd huddle round the bonfire on November 5th in balaclavas and warm coats, looking forward to a feast of roast chestnuts and butter-drenched baked potatoes after the firework display.

Yes, its blustery but mild today, and the wind is whistling round our ornamental cherry tree, shaking leaves of deep burgundy onto the driveway (see pic). After a hard week's work it's nice to stay indoors, relax and curl up with a good book or two. In fact two books arrived from Amazon last week (I'm an Amazon addict. After resisting for months, I've caved in yet again.)

I think I have a treat in store with Rumi's Selected Poems (I've enjoyed so many poems by Rumi on various blogs that I just had to read more) and John Hillaby's Journey Through Britain - somewhat of a landmark book for me. It was one of the first books to inspire my walking adventures. I had a hardback copy once before - which I've either lost, sold or given away.

(Like most other things, books come and go. The whole of my professional life I've been involved with books - buying them, selling them, collecting them, lending them, donating them, just falling short of stealing them, Joe Orton-style. My collection of books is constantly changing. Changing as the seasons themselves. Changing like Samhain following Lughnasadh. Changing as the colours of a flowering cherry tree.)

Back to John Hillaby's Journey Through Britain. I want to reread it. I have half a notion to retrace his journey, then try and write a book about it. We all need these dreams and aspirations. Personally speaking, I find I have more and more dreams and aspirations the older I get. The less time I have, the more I seem to want and need to do. I no longer have the luxury of youth's carefree idleness and enviable procrastination.

I love life! And I want to live and experience and read about and thrill to more and more things with each passing year.

Not So Wild Camping

Although I love travelling on foot, long distance walking, short distance walking, linear walks, circular walks, discovering new places (the countryside and wilderness for sure, but sometimes towns and cities too), camping and experiencing the great outdoors whatever the weather, although I love all of these things I'm not really a backpacker-wildcamper. Or not yet, that is. Lately I've been following with great interest many of the lightweight backpacking and wildcamping blogs and websites such as Backpacking In Britain. For years I've been reading other people's personal accounts such as John Hillaby's Journey Through Britain or more practical guides such as Chris Townsend's Backpacker's Handbook. And dreaming.

The self-sufficiency of backpacking-wildcamping is, I suppose, the hiker's ultimate freedom. You're not tied down to the strictures of a B & B, a hostel or an official campsite. You can make camp for the night in a beautiful and remote location of your own choosing (within reason). You can come and go as you please. You have the immense satisfaction of knowing that everything you need you're carrying with you. However a successful trip like this (compared with car camping) does require some experience and a certain amount of forward planning, a degree of imagination and a smidgen of practicality, an ability to improvise and some careful research into the right lightweight equipment to buy.

You could say wildcamping is more purist - the ultimate in wilderness connection. If car camping is the regular army, then wildcamping is the SAS. With wildcamping you can be truly eco-friendly by leaving the car behind and reducing your carbon footprint. I look forward to doing it myself before very much longer - when I can afford the initial outlay on the right gear. But car camping does have some plus points. Weight is not an issue so you can bring what food you want - and books, a radio, lots of spare clothing etc. And on campsites it is nice to have hot water, showers, toilets, a place to wash socks and cooking pots etc. But you have to be very careful about which campsites to choose and when to go there. I've learnt from experience to avoid weekends, and school and public holiday times.

I like small, obscure, simple sites. Often these are attached to farms. Their facilities are often basic but that's fine by me. Of course they're cheaper (I don't like paying more than £5) and, generally speaking, quieter than the bigger, more commercial sites. Though there are always exceptions. I've been family camping in Brittany on a big, popular site where you couldn't hear a pin drop after 11 pm. Yet on the other hand I've been on small farm sites in Shropshire and the Lake District where noise (I won't go into detail!) from a few isolated tents lasted most of the night... On another occasion I went to the Literary Festival at Hay-on-Wye and camped on a small pub campsite. I was kept awake the whole night long by mind-numbing high-volume trance music pounding out from a rave taking place miles away. So it can all be a bit of a gamble.

The photos show my tent in peaceful (except for the peacocks - see yesterday's post!) Cwm Bychan - views of it, in it and from it.