“Tomorrow, John, just have toast and coffee instead of that swill. Your stomach will thank you. Now let’s get moving.”
I can’t resist another brief look at St. Botolph’s. I discover that the church boasts 7 doors, 12 columns in the nave, 24 steps to the library, 52 windows, and 365 stairs to the top of the “Stump” — well, you get the picture. Obviously, the builders were trying to exhort the populace to repent of their sins in the face of time marching on. I consider it a good omen that St. Botolph, a Saxon monk who died in 680, is known as the English saint of travellers, and that his feast day is celebrated on June 17, the date that Karl and I hope to march onto the sands of Chesil Beach to complete our Macmillan Way journey, some 290 miles away. We also expect to add 60 miles or more by taking a few interesting diversions.
We say goodbye to Boston without further ado and trudge southwest, through some gates and out to the dike area beyond. Immediately we find ourselves immersed in a vast sea of garbage, screeching herring gulls, and giant earthmoving machines that are working to reshape the local landfill, known as Slippery Gowt. We stop at the spot on the Haven inlet where in 1607 William Brewster and his pilgrims congregated to board a sailboat to Holland and thence to America, only to be arrested by the authorities for trying to emigrate without permission. Many of these determined folk were aboard the Mayflower when it sailed in 1610.
We both climb nimbly over the first stile. Karl is in an ebullient mood. Thus far the rain has held off, though a brisk wind blows off the North Sea and fleeting clouds scud across the sky like skittish sheep.
It is a sine qua non for civilized walking in Britain that one carry a walking stick. Mine happens to be made of blackthorn, with a gnarled knob grip and sharp nodules sticking out like quills, which nodules I have found occasionally useful in fending off violent dogs and bovines. The Dutch call it a wandelstok; the German term is Spazierstock; the Scots wield a kebbie; the French deem it une canne.
The stick has a variety of uses. It supports one when one is fatigued, especially uphill. It clears those early-morning spiderwebs, brushes aside fallen branches, tests the depth of streams, wards off canines and charging cattle, and gives one a sense of balance and well-being. My son-in-law made a walking stick by hollowing out a straight maple branch, in which he placed a fishing line, compass, and jackknife; he even composed a song about it that he calls “The Survival Stick.” And there are numerous historical reports of walkers stashing the odd vial of spirits within a hollowed-out stick for when they paused for a nip on a rural footpath or, for that matter, on a London street.
Another rule for planning a long-distance trek in England is to prepare one’s feet. Ensure that you build up calluses beforehand, that your boots are well worn in, and that your pack is not too heavy. Otherwise, blisters will develop and you will be miserable. (I learned all this the hard way.) So take preventive measures. Blister spray, which allows one to literally acquire a second layer of skin each morning of the trip, is available in England.
Finally, make sure you wear waterproof clothing and carry a compass, water, a guidebook or Ordnance Survey map, and good binoculars. Not all walking manuals are as thorough as the Macmillan Way Guide (which we called simply “the Guide”), so the detailed Ordnance map is a must: it shows every little path and stream, even key farmhouses. The binoculars you will need to scope out the next field you are about to enter, because that field may contain a herd of dangerous bovines, including perhaps an ill-tempered bull. And because the path is often ploughed over by the farmer, you will have to assess which route to follow in crossing, taking care not to trespass, while trying to determine which gate or stile on the far side of the vast acreage is on the proper route. Believe me, an African trek with armed guides is much easier and safer. It’s a fair bet that more people are killed and injured by bovines in British fields each year than tourists are killed on African safaris. So be careful.
If you are North American, then you also have to know that every day holds one or more Fawlty Towers experiences. Paul Theroux has noted that the English think North Americans funny, but it is their own habits which seem wildly out of whack — such as, he notes, paying a licence fee each year to watch the telly, or saying they are sorry when you step on their toes. A few other examples: charging you twopence for a tiny white plastic spoon with which to eat the yogurt you have just purchased at the local grocery; refusing to let you eat before seven o’clock (the French are worse — it’s 7:30 or even 8:00 PM); their habit of stopping for a spot of tea every hour without exception; looking puzzled when you enter their village and ask directions to a village two miles away — then remarking that they have never been there; queuing without complaint for service; and coming up with place names like Knockdown, a village close to Bangup Lane, which is not far from Tiddleywink.
The concepts of comfort and customer service in this country are, well, just concepts — not practice. The English still have not come to terms with central heating, and most natives would rather put on a jumper than touch the sacred thermostat. They have a propensity to post the “Closed” sign wherever possible and invent weird hours of operation — castles, manor houses, museums, and shops have erratic opening times, sometimes allowing visitors only two or three designated days a week for just a few hours. Service facilities can be haphazard, even dodgy. I once took the train to Greenwich and, upon alighting, headed for the loo, only to be met with a sign stating that the station toilets were closed on account of the Railway Authority being unable to secure a sewage discharge easement from a neighbouring landowner! Then, of course, there is the matter of driving on the left. (The most hazardous part of travelling in Britain for a North American is walking across a road; one looks the wrong way as one steps off the curb.) But I digress.
That said, the English are immensely tolerant, reticent, self-effacing, slow to anger (except while driving), and all too modest about their country. After years of travel in Britain, the two most common words that come to mind are “sorry” and “closed,” often appearing in the same sentence. And the English will give their lives to protect their dogs. They are so politically correct that until recently it was difficult to obtain permission to fly the national flag — the Union Jack — for fear of offending minority groups. Not that the Brits are a flag-waving people; that is reserved for the pageantry of the Queen’s Jubilee and other national celebrations. And when it comes to World Cup soccer matches (“football” to Brits), since England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland all have separate teams, the English fly the Cross of St. George from rooftops and cars until England is inevitably ousted from competition.
THE PACK STILL FEELS heavy. Karl’s weighs in at a mere twenty-five pounds, and he just laughs at my grimaces. Our Guide cautions us, when striding past Frampton Marsh, “do keep as quiet as possible all along the sea bank, so that disturbance to wildfowl and other birds is kept to a minimum.” More than 160 species of birds nest or stop over this area. We see mainly gulls, geese, lapwings, and a few redshanks and avocets. A pair of acrobatic lapwings are putting on a show overhead like the Blue Angels, swooping, diving, and rolling at impossible angles. What a lot of effort to expend just to attract a mate! Speaking of which, we pass by a birdwatching blind from which much giggling emits, though we cannot see inside. The Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust has requested that visitors report “unsuitable behaviour” to police, after several reports were received of people having sexual encounters in the hides. Rachel Shaw of the Trust advises, “There are certain things that happen at nature reserves that really shouldn’t.”
The Fens are a wild, lonely place, and have formed the setting for many novels, such as Dorothy Sayers’s The Nine Tailors and Graham Swift’s Waterland. Though there is a haunting beauty here, it is far from Arcadia. Swift was well aware of the loneliness: “Realism; fatalism; phlegm. To live in the Fens is to receive strong doses of reality. The great flat monotony of reality; the wide empty space of reality. Melancholia and self-murder are not unknown in the
Fens. Heavy drinking, madness and sudden acts of violence are not uncommon.”
The eeriness of the landscape is brought home to us by squall after squall now slashing us from the North Sea, as those scudding clouds turn violent and black and dense. Lightning flashes through the mist. Thunder cannonades like artillery fire over the vast reaches of marshland, scaring the birds. There is nothing to do but stuff our Tilleys into the packs, shroud our heads in our Gore-Tex hoods, and soldier on. There is no shelter in the Fens, nary a shrub for protection. Then, in midafternoon, the vast gunsmoke clouds miraculously part like the Red Sea and the sun blazes through, casting a bright sheen over the surrounding wetlands.
Local residents walk over the tidal marsh and pick up samphire, a plant with salty, aromatic leaves often pickled and eaten. Huge quantities of marsh samphire used to be harvested and burned for the soda content used in the production of soap and glass. The fenland surrounding us consists of drained shallow water, where dead plants help give rise to new growth in saturated peat, allowing vegetable crops to flourish. In fact, the great drainage schemes of the eighteenth century led to tens of thousands of acres being reclaimed for farming, turning this region into the agricultural hub of central England — and Boston into a major port. In 2003, the Great Fen Project was initiated to restore portions of the Fens to their original state. Certain farms, abandoned or no longer viable, are purchased and then selectively flooded to create nature reserves.
We reach Fosdyke Bridge, a village of some five hundred people on the River Welland. Residents must be especially noise sensitive, as our Guide cautions us to “please keep as quiet as possible to limit disturbance to house owners.” Why, do they think walkers are so unruly as to shout and curse and play ghetto blasters? In any event, we don’t see a soul as we tiptoe through the village. It feels like Sleepy Hollow.
Yet Fosdyke Bridge has a claim to fame. In October of 1216, wicked King John (of Robin Hood fame) was passing through these parts with his retinue of sycophantic servants and lapdogs when he was taken ill. He had reached King’s Lynn in Norfolk, but decided to return to Spalding, which is very close to us. For an unknown reason, the king chose to send his baggage train, which included the crown jewels, by a different route, on a causeway bordering the Wash. The baggage train was lost on the way, reportedly engulfed by an incoming tide. The king had no time to ponder this misfortune, as he died a few days later.
In the thirteenth century, the tidal streams and surrounding marshlands were constantly inundated by North Sea waters. Recent satellite imagery and tide-table data have led historians to believe that the king’s baggage train likely met its demise at or near Fosdyke Bridge on the River Welland. And so Karl and I find ourselves peering into the inky waters of the river, seeking a glint of light from rubies and diamonds.
Fifteen miles later and with very sore feet, we stagger into Surfleet, and into our booked B&B, which we find to be a dilapidated old inn. Most of the B&Bs en route are farmhouses, but occasionally one has to throw the dice and book an inn. This one is pleasantly situated on the river. We are greeted at the pub entrance by a huge grey bull mastiff, which advances toward us barking furiously, causing me to raise my stick in apprehension.
“He won’t bite you, mate,” a voice utters. A beefy tattooed bloke in a black T-shirt emerges from within.
The bull mastiff retreats and we are ushered in. The pub is cluttered with dumpy sofas and soft, sagging armchairs, the usual hunting-scene reproductions on the grimy walls, a pool table, and a dark-stained burgundy carpet. One solitary patron stands at the bar staring curiously at our Tilley hats, packs, and sticks. We are escorted by Black Shirt upstairs to our room, where two beds lie in dim light. Black Shirt reveals that he is currently between jobs in the army and navy, just looking after the inn for the owner, who is vacationing in Spain. The toilet is down the hall and shared between us and four other rooms. Have they never heard of ensuites?
Speaking of toilets — wherever you travel in Britain, do not make the mistake of asking to use the washroom. My first encounter at a petrol (gas) station went like this: “Do you have a washroom, please?”
“You want a room to do some washing, sir?”
“Ah, no, I would like to use a bathroom.”
“A bathroom, sir? Do you wish to take a bath?”
This was becoming embarrassing. “Ah, no, you see, I really have to go — you know, go! How about a restroom?”
“You wish to take a rest, sir?”
I finally pointed to my groin.
“Ah, sir, perhaps you mean the loo!”
Often a Brit will use the term “toilet” as well, which does not mean precisely the object of one’s desire, but rather the room itself. Refined people say “lavatory.”
I lie on my back, exhausted but too tired to sleep. Loud music emanates from the pub below. Well, it is Friday night and the barkeeper will soon no doubt utter his famous “Time, please, gentlemen,” and all will be quiet. Then I hear someone approach the door, which is ajar because the lock fixture is missing. So are the lower two inches of the door itself, which looks like it has been gnawed by a porcupine. I anxiously sit up. There, his slobbering tongue hanging out, is the huge head of the mastiff, who has come to tuck me in. I take a melatonin tablet to finally fall asleep.
Next morning we arise refreshed. Muscles ache in a healthy way, and we are eager to conquer the next fifteen miles to reach the village of Baston. Our goal is to cover twelve to fourteen miles per day, in order to accomplish the entire walk within twenty-six days, with two nights planned for each of Stow-on-the-Wold and Sutton Montis, astride “Cadbury Camelot.” Today’s entire route parallels the River Glen.
First, though, I have to stop and explore the Surfleet church. I am drawn to it because the fourteenth-century spire leans at an alarming angle and gives the impression of imminent collapse. Inside, I find delightful stained glass windows, an ancient font, and the effigy of a knight. The tranquil village basks in morning sun that dapples the predominantly red-brick buildings. Lilliputian rowboats lie docked adjacent to tiny riverside bungalows that in turn abut a splendid golf course. I half expect Bilbo and his fellow hobbits to emerge and trundle down to the waterside, fishing poles in hand.
We observe numerous pumping stations and prosperous-looking farms. These pumping systems were first installed in the seventeenth century and were originally powered by windmills, but few of the latter remain intact. When J.B. Priestley visited the area in 1933, there were still dozens of working windmills, and he labelled the region “Dutch England.” Those that remain in these northern Fens are largely used as tea shops for tourists, offering cakes and muffins made from stone-ground flour. There are ruins of some 135 ancient windmills in Lincolnshire, and we pass one such relic at Glen Mill.
Beyond Glen Mill loom eight modern steel windmills. Sir Bernard Ingham, former press secretary to Margaret Thatcher, claims that wind farms resemble “a cluster of lavatory brushes in the sky.” There is an obvious clash here between aesthetics and the drive for cleaner energy consumption.
Near the village of Pinchbeck we cross the River Glen, pass through a hunting gate, and stop at the entrance to Spalding Tropical Forest. Here, in stark contrast to the fenland, the creators of this arboretum have amassed the largest tropical forest in the United Kingdom. Masses of dense jungle foliage, cascading waterfalls, and lush plants with enormous flowers extend over several acres. Karl especially marvels at the hundred species of colourful orchids.
The English have been obsessed since at least the eighteenth century with bringing the world’s treasures to their little northern island. Aside from the classical art works and sculptures looted from foreign lands — like Cleopatra’s Needle in London, and countless Egyptian exhibits at the British Museum — it is their obsession with flora and fauna that astounds one. Countless estates abound with trees, shrubs, and flowers from around the world. Stourhead combines such floral sampling with Greek temples and follies; Longleat adds exotic wildlife —
beware of monkeys riding on your car; and England’s finest arboretum, Westonbirt, displays its eclectic floral fare along our Macmillan pathway in Gloucestershire.
A flock of forty-two huge white swans appears around a bend in the river. They try to take off as we approach but are so fat and cumbersome that their legs graze the water and most of them barely make it aloft; several crash on takeoff, like overloaded 747s. This open country is dedicated to the birds: there are bird boxes attached to poles for miles, placed by the Hawk and Owl Trust to attract barn owls. Alas, only a few owls have been spotted, the cozy birdhouses having been seized by squatters — kestrels, doves, jackdaws, and crows.
It is not until noon of our second day that we encounter other hominids on the footpath. An elderly couple, one riding a Shetland pony and the other a large black horse with burrs in his mane, follow us for a mile or so. I hail them, but they turn off and head into the mist at a farm track. The track heads toward the tiny village of Tongue End. Imagine that as your mailing address.
Spalding lies three miles south of here and is renowned for its annual tulip parade. Surrounding fields grow huge quantities of tulips and daffodils, with close industry ties to the Netherlands. There is even a Tulip FM radio station. The River Welland bisects the town, which now boasts a population of some 28,700 people. Spalding has been continuously occupied since Roman times, when it was a centre for salt production.
Spalding is one of those places that most people in the United Kingdom have barely heard of, yet it possesses interesting attributes. In addition to its fame as the flower capital of the country, it was the first town in the UK where bar codes were used on products. One of the oldest yew hedges in the country is at Ayscoughfee Hall, birthplace of the Spalding Gentlemen’s Society. This archaic-sounding association was in fact a group of intellectuals who came together beginning in 1710 to discuss the important philosophical, scientific, and political questions of the day. The intellectual revolution of the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries produced the flowering of rationalism and humanism that paved the way for modern parliamentary democracy and the ensuing economic order. Arguments were refined over a glass or two of port in forums such as the Spalding Gentlemen’s Society, which boasted Sir Isaac Newton, Alexander Pope, Sir Joseph Banks, and Alfred Lord Tennyson as members. The society is still active today.
Walking to Camelot Page 2
