Stuffed Chine

I've said it before, but I have to restrain myself from writing about food and drink on this blog — a subject close to my heart. My feeling is this: most of us eat two or three times a day, so we may as well enjoy it. Luckily I don't need much persuasion. I'm not talking about greed and self-indulgence here; I'm talking about health, pleasure and love. What could be nicer than preparing a beautiful meal for someone? (Particularly if that person is appreciative, though I know it's not always the case!)

I live on the border of Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire, and am fortunate in that Lincolnshire is one of England's great food-producing regions. It's also one of England's largest counties, one of the least populated and one with the biggest acreage of farmland. (I won't get into the complex and controversial debates about factory farming, prairie-style agriculture, the degradation of the soil and the depletion of our wild flowers right now.)

Lincolnshire has many specialities, including the excellent beef and vegetables (many grown on rich and dark, reclaimed fenland soil), plum bread (my mother used to bake this every week), Lincolnshire Poacher cheese, Lincolnshire sausage made out of coarsely chopped pork with sage, Bateman's beers. There's also a delicacy called stuffed chine, which I bought at the local mini-supermarket the other day (vegetarians, please look away now):

Imagine this, perhaps, with some picked onions, beetroot, gherkins and chillies, a small wedge of Lincolnshire Poacher hard cheese, and a slice of wholemeal bread! 

To cook this, the neck chine of a pig (a cut between the shoulder blades) is marinated in brine, then scored with a knife and the cuts filled with parsley, other herbs and some secret ingredients. After a long, slow simmer, it turns into very tasty salt pork, to be eaten cold. It's absolutely delicious. One of the biggest fans of this dish was the French Symbolist poet, Paul Verlaine!

The Beginning And End Of The Viking Way

Country road as rubbish dump.

The walk did not start well. Leaving Barnetby and the roar of the M180 behind me, I took a minor road north and found that someone had dumped mounds of rubbish by the track. As a walker you come upon this sort of thing disturbingly often. At first it used to enrage me; now I just feel a kind of hopeless despair. How do human beings deserve to live on this beautiful planet if they engage in such filthy, mindless and selfish activity? So many roads — usually the main roads — in England and Spain are lined with the sweet wrappers, crisp packets and juice cartons people have thrown from their cars. A lot of this stuff never seems to get cleared up. I wrote about the 50 types of rubbish I found by a Spanish roadside here. 

For hours I crossed montonous chalk farmland. The landscape was flat and featureless — huge fields of four-inch high wheat shoots, purple sprouting broccoli, and very little else. It was so uninteresting that eating an apple from my packed lunch became a major event. I pined for a picturesque ruin or pretty village. But at least the paths were soft and firm and easy on the foot — mostly grassy bridleways along field boundaries. They were dry too, as rainwater is quickly absorbed by the porous chalk.

Birds were the saving grace — especially in the few isolated pockets of woodland which miraculously survived. It's the spring migration season and lots of birds were on the move. I saw flocks of fieldfares bound for Scandinavia, and heard chiffchaffs newly arrived from the Mediterranean and North Africa. But the bird that accompanied me for most of the walk was the skylark. These were either invisible or tiny specks high up in the blue, singing their hearts out over the cornfields. Skylarks were under threat at one time, but here they are plentiful.     

After the forecasted promise of mild weather, a chill Siberian breeze had blown in from the North Sea and, with no obstacle before it, swept across Lincolnshire's northernmost chalk plateau, cutting straight through my fleece, polypropylene shirt and merino wool vest. The temperature was more like winter. Despite a few recent balmy days, spring was still holding back. 

Dropping with relief into the more sheltered Humber valley, I followed a hedged byway to South Ferriby. The views north towards the Humber estuary (and west to the steel works of Scunthorpe!) would have been impressive had conditions been clearer, but the day remained hazy, with an intermittent sun.

The estuary was muddy and opaque, the same muddy brown as the North Sea into which it flowed. I could barely make out the far side through the haze. Taking the path along the southern bank, I passed a couple of cliffs, then deviated through Far Ings nature reserve — the true path had been closed because of flooding. The Humber Bridge swung into view out of the murk. I remember Queen Elizabeth opening the bridge in 1981. It was then the longest single-span suspension bridge in the world, but now it's been demoted to seventh-longest.

Footsore, I stumbled into the Humber Bridge viewing area car park at Barton, the official start (or end, depending on which direction you're travelling) of the Viking Way. I'd been hiking this route on and off for nearly three years. (I started in May 2011 — here's my first blog entry about it.) Although it's 147 miles long, I'd covered more than that, as I'd walked some there-and-back stages twice. It had been a piecemeal, jigsaw-like affair — sometimes I'd gone north to south, sometimes south to north. However, I'd finally reached the end — or the start. And it really was the beginning in yet another sense: over the bridge beckoned the first stretch of another long-distance trail, the Yorkshire Wolds Way.

Slowly I walked the half mile into Barton-upon-Humber's town centre. It was late Saturday afternoon and the place was practically closed except for some raucous pubs. I didn't fancy going in. Young kids screamed about on bikes and in bus shelters. Men in hoodies nursed beer cans. It was bitterly cold. If you weren't feeling suicidal before, a trip round Barton could have tipped you over the edge. For me, at that moment, it seemed a wretchedly miserable backcountry town, and I made for the railway station, eager to leave. (I say 'railway station': it comprised just one track, one platform, and five bucket seats occupied by some of Barton's yelping youth.) The train came in on time. I boarded, warmed myself by the heater, and headed for home.          

Sheltered bridleway to South Ferriby.

Remarkably straight furrows.

Sheep graze by the Humber.

The wide Humber estuary — muddy and opaque.

Another consequence of Britain's recent severe weather.

Willow tree on the diverted path through Far Ings nature reserve.

The Humber Bridge.

The beginning (or in my case the end) of the Viking Way. A little anticlimactic that it ended in a car park on a cold and dismal afternoon.

Walking to Barton railway station by a reed-fringed watercourse.

Matisse And Picasso In Lincoln

In Lincoln today a narrow blue and gold window in the weather revealed the cathedral's limestone façade in all its glory. John Ruskin declared Lincoln Cathedral out and out the most precious piece of architecture in the British Isles . . .  

Secondhand bookshop on Steep Hill . . . 

Norman house on Steep Hill, now home to Imperial Teas, one of my favourite shops . . .

After a salad in Pizza Express we headed for The Collection, Lincoln's museum and art gallery. We'd come to see the Modern Masters touring exhibition —  Picasso, Dali, Matisse and Warhol prints from London's V & A . . .

Here's a famous picture of Picasso taken by the French photographer, Robert Doisneau. Picasso looks so alert and playful. Those bread fingers! 

This iconic etching, The Frugal Repast, was one of the first prints Picasso ever made — and it's acclaimed as one of his best. Picasso was always ready to explore new media, and quickly became an outstanding and original adept at many different printmaking techniques. These thin figures at such a frugal table give a world-weary sense of isolation and melancholy . . .    

In contrast,  Picasso's delightful aquatint, The Flea, showing a lady removing a flea from her derrière, makes you smile in its depiction of such a private moment . . .  

Matisse loved printmaking. He was especially fond of portraying nudes. Indeed, he rarely used models with any clothes on at all.

In Search Of Lost Time

With apologies to Marcel Proust

I only have to dunk a Jammie Dodger
In PG Tips and I’m transported back
To Lincolnshire and the old railway track

I mooched along in melancholy youth,
The line long gone; now flowers grew between
Abandoned sleepers: eyebright, eglantine,

Foxglove, selfheal, Good King Henry, poppy, 
Dock, dandelion, mayweed, bryony,
Vetch, viper’s bugloss, mallow, ox-eye daisy.

I’d read somewhere the smell of hawthorn flowers
Evoked the musky tang of randy girls,
A hint of almond and vanilla twirls;

So I breathed long and deep, imagining
A girl beside me lying on the grass
Resembling Odette in Montparnasse,

Though what I’d do with her was rather vague.
Recite Le Cyne? Tickle her with a frond?
I wasn’t yet au fait with demi-monde.

I wandered on, entered the secret wood
Which reeked of foxes, made for the hollow tree
Where I'd concealed Health and Efficiency.

I thumbed its pages. Naked bodies romped
In games of tennis, beach ball and croquet;
Pas érotique, I really have to say.

What would I do with women anyway?
Especially those healthy, sporty dykes
On pedalos or pedalling their bikes?

No, it was better to admire from far,
And not immerse myself in the corporeal,
But rusticate myself in the arboreal

Railway embankment and its milieu.
My back against a tree, my mind in haste
Returned to former loves both pure and chaste:

A cuddly toy, a hoop, a spinning top,
A sailor suit, glass marbles in a jar —  
And, best of all, a kiss from dear mama.

Caistor To Barnetby Le Wold

Sometimes you begin a walk and you're ready to rock; other times you just feel lethargic. Today I felt lethargic. My legs were stiff and unresponsive, and my feet twinged. However, the day was another fine and sunny one — though clouds were gathering — and eight miles along an easy-going path did not sound too strenuous. Also, it was the penultimate stage of the Viking Way, so a cause for celebration. But the first person I met on leaving Caistor did not seem in celebratory mood. He looked up suspiciously from hacking at his overgrown garden as I went by.

'Where are you heading?'

'Barnetby.'

'Barnetby? That's miles away!'

'I should be there in three or four hours.'

'But are you walking all the way? Don't you jog or run?'

'I'm walking. I'm a walker. That's what I do."

'Are you doing it for charity?'

'Nope. I'm doing it for myself.'

His expression was a mixture of puzzlement and disdain. Then he sighed and turned back to his garden. I pushed on, but he called after me.

'Is this a weed?' he asked, pointing with his spade at a monstrously tall and ugly plant. 'The wife will kill me if I dig up her garden flowers.'

'It's a weed,' I assured him. He turned his back on me and continued chopping away.

The path contoured round the north-west escarpment of the Wolds, stitching together the spring-line settlements of Clixby, Grasby, Owmby, Searby, Somerby and Bigby ('by' is a Viking suffix which originally meant 'farmstead'). I passed church after church — All Hallows' at Clixby had been completely abandoned — and farm after farm. From half-way up the hill the open views of the flatlands to the west were impressive, but less so as I descended to Barnetby.

The melancholy, mildewy smell of autumn was in the air: hawthorn berries were now blood red in the hedgerows, swallows crowded the telephone wires, a murder of crows stalked the stubble fields, and corn was either cut or being cut. 

I ate my packed lunch of pitta bread filled with salad and cheese on a bench in Searby, then hastened to Barnetby railway station to catch a train back to Lincoln. I had to run the last part of the way, and I thought back to the day's earlier encounter. 'Don't you run?'

Woolsthorpe Manor

Although Sir Isaac Newton did not exactly invent gravity, as he did calculus and the reflecting telescope, he did famously discover the effects of gravity, after an apple fell on his head. An apple from this very apple tree, in fact.

Mind those falling apples, kids.

It stands in the garden of Newton's birthplace, Woolsthorpe Manor, which we visited on Thursday. Although the house was interesting, we found the National Trust café of equal appeal.

Karen, Carmen and Dominic (from the blog Made out of Words) enjoying a cup of tea at Woolsthorpe Manor.

The Viking Way: Tealby To Caistor

The weather had now turned cloudier, but it was still warm, and there was only the odd swift shower of rain. I passed this abandoned hilltop farm . . . 

. . . and this duckpond . . .

. . . before diving into a wooden hut to read about the rare Lincoln Longwool flock at Risby Grange . . .

After a few ups and downs through a deer park . . .

. . . I came to the disused church of All Saints, Walesby, also known as the Ramblers' Church. I'd been there before. In the Lady Chapel there's a stained glass window showing Jesus with a group of walkers and cyclists.

I forged on, via Normanby-le-Wold, Lincolnshire's highest village, to Caistor. This was one of the prettiest parts of the whole walk, and the views from the Wolds were outstanding.

The Viking Way: Donington On Bain To Tealby

On either side the river lie / Long fields of barley and of rye, / That clothe the wold and meet the sky. The Lady of Shalott ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

From Donington I followed the river Bain northwards. It was hardly a river, more of a narrow stream choked with willowherb. Approaching Biscathorpe, I disturbed a noisy flock of greylag geese feeding in the stubble.

A magnificent horse chestnut tree at Biscathorpe.

Biscathorpe was the site of a former medieval village, but there's little trace of it today.

This part of the Viking Way cuts directly north along the Wolds' plateau. Note the chalk,  the  ever-present cornfields and the lump on the horizon — which is a Bronze Age barrow (or earthwork tomb) called Grim's Mound.

The long, straight track.

An intriguing street name. I wonder if it has a Viking origin?

Tealby ford.

I spent the night at Pear Tree Cottage B&B in Tealby. It was a perfect summer afternoon — warm and sunny — and I was served a pot of tea and homemade cake in the garden.

The Viking Way Rejoined: Belchford To Donington On Bain

The Viking Way is one of my two local, long-distance footpaths, and I seem to have been walking it forever. In fact (I've just checked back) I began hiking it on 6 May 2011. Since then I've been knocking off odd chunks on stolen afternoons, with lots of gaps in-between. Resolving to finish it this year, I made for the Lincolnshire village of Belchford early this morning and regained the route. It was comforting to see the Viking helmet markers once again. There's something strangely pleasurable and childlike in following these...  

Over the bridge.

Panorama of the Lincolnshire Wolds.

No mistaking the way.

It was a glorious day: hot, but not too hot, with the suggestion of a breeze, and a sky of chicory blue. Although it was still high summer, the landscape had taken on a slightly worn and blowsy look. The vibrant greens from earlier in the season had now become more muted, and the bunches of ash keys and reddening hawthorn berries were signs that autumn was fast approaching. It was good to see, along the farmland edges, some untilled areas left to nature.

The path bisecting  uncultivated ground and a cornfield.

Rowan.

Another waymarker, another stream.

Bordering the trail were clumps of burdock, and meadowsweet and willowherb crowded the streamsides. Bees and hoverflies pollinated madly, and butterflies were everywhere: peacocks, commas, gatekeepers, cabbage whites, the occasional blue, a tiny skipper.

Mayweed and potatoes.

Pond near Goulceby.

Church of All Saints, Goulceby: rebuilt in 1908 using fragments of the former medieval church which stood on this site. Spookily, Goulceby was the birthplace of William Marwood, the hangman who invented the 'long drop' method of execution.

There were not many birds about, though I was delighted to spot two wrens very close, and I also watched a buzzard effortlessly circle higher and higher on the thermals.

Bank of bracken and rosebay willowherb.

Woodland edge, secluded green path, sunlit field, yellow arrow, Viking helmet. Does it get any better than this?

This young Gloucestershire Old Spot brought a smile to my face.