A Final Fling in the Norfolk Broads

My last stop. A long weekend in the Norfolk Broads then back home to Australia. What better way to do the Broads than to follow the 'Coot Club' route.

Arthur Ransome wrote thirteen books in what is known as the Swallows and Amazons series. When I was in the UK in 2010 I did the Swallows and Amazons 'Wildcat Island Cruise', see the blog of that day here. This time in the Norfolk Broads I'm following the adventures of another set of Ransome's characters, Dick and Dorothea, visitors to Norfolk, and the members of the Coot Club, all local sailors on the Broads and keen bird watchers.

The Coot Club members live in the picturesque village of Horning on the River Bure and their adventures take them up and down the Broads rivers and dykes and the various broads themselves.

At Horning there is a glamorous river-boat named the Southern Comfort which cruises down river from Horning to Ranworth Dyke, through the dyke and into Malthouse Broad taking 1 ½ hours for the round trip. This is one of the routes taken by the Coot Club sailors, except that in the 1930s when Ransome knew the Broads, one could sail into the nearby Ranworth Broad which is not possible today as it is a protected area. Our skipper on board the Southern Comfort points out the various places mentioned in the Coot Club books.

Dick and Dot are just learning to sail and so the children, being supervised by the elderly lady - herself an old sailor - who has hired a yacht, sail up to Horsey Mere for some lessons in the quieter waters to be found there. An ancient bridge at Potter Heigham proves to be impassable for many craft so they keep to the more southerly waters making Horsey an altogether more peaceful spot.

At Horsey I found a National Trust windmill and a wildlife cruise, independent of the Trust. Ross, of Ross's Wildlife Cruises, is a complete original. His old boat, the Lady Ann is home to a swallow's nest where numerous broods have been raised over the last two seasons. The BBC have recently filmed a segment on board about the swallows.

Ross's tour lasts for an hour or more and he makes it up as he goes along. He decided on a whim to take us up the neglected Wexham New Cut dyke to show us a derelict windmill. He chatted away as he manoeuvred the boat up the narrow dyke but his sharp eye was constantly on the lookout for interesting wildlife.

We were just a short way up the dyke when a kingfisher dipped across the water and disappeared into the bushes. These shy birds are not readily seen so we considered the trip well worthwhile from that point on.

What our skipper doesn't know about the wildlife of the Broads is not worth knowing. With a marsh harrier overhead and assorted dragonflies flitting around the boat we made out way to the old mill, who's skeletal sails and crumbling brickwork present an eerie picture among the whispering reeds.

We had a demonstration of quanting, the method of moving a boat along by means of a long pole, when the boat had to be turned in the narrow dyke and moved over some very shallow water.

The trip was enjoyed by all and I asked Ross if he would sign my Coot Club book. It turned out that he was a kindred spirit having auditioned for a part in the film version of Coot Club in the 1980s and been in the final three but missed getting the roll.

Of the other ports of call entered in the ship's log of the Teasel, sailed by the Coot Club, I made it to Ranworth, Acle, Potter Heigham, Beccles and Reedham where I was staying. All great places for cycling and enjoying the beauty of the Broads.

The waterways are much busier now than in Ransome's time and who knows, he might have to share some of the blame for that himself.

Star-gazing

For my eleventh birthday on the 6^th October, 1957, I got a bamboo hoop, the latest craze. That evening I stood in the back garden of 13 Upper Skene Street, twirling my hoop and waiting with Mum, Dad, Michael and Nick, the dog, for the Russian Sputnik (as we called it) to come into view.

Sputnik 1 was launched on the 4^th October, 1957 and the whole world looked skyward. Quite near to where I've been based in Cheshire for the last couple of weeks is the Jodrell Bank space observatory. It was from here that the observatory's brand-new radio telescope was able to track the rocket that sent Sputnik 1 on its memorable journey, the only telescope in the world able to fulfil that role.

At that time the telescope, with an impressive 250 feet diameter dish, was the largest trackable telescope in the world. It still holds its own, 57 years later, as the third largest.

This elegant piece of engineering is completely adjustable being able to observe the sky from all directions as it's frame moves full circle on tracks and its dish tips from the horizontal to the vertical (also useful for emptying out the winter snow apparently).

Originally the radio telescope was prosaically named 'Mark 1'. In 1987, for its 30^th birthday, it was renamed the Lovell Telescope in honour of its creator, the brilliant physicist Sir Bernard Lovell. He was knighted in 1961 in recognising of his outstanding work in radio astronomy, vital in the detection of satellites during the Cold War period.

Sir Bernard, who died in 2012 at the age of 98, was invited to the Soviet Union in 1963 and later, after a mysterious illness, believed that an attempt was made to erase his memories of the trip by secretly exposing him to radiation when he refused an offer to defect.

Today, when we no longer fear reds under the bed, Jodrell Bank and its radio telescopes peacefully get on with observing the solar system, and the wonderful Lovell Telescope has been justifiably designated a Grade 1 listed building.

The House Sit in Retrospect

My last day in Cheshire. The house sit is coming to an end, so time for a report. 

Eighteen days have run by without incident. No water pipes have burst, no electrical equipment has blown up, no animals have perished. That sounds like a successful house-sitting stint in anyone's language.

Annie, my canine companion, and I have become good friends. We've walked in the mornings and evenings around this lovely area greeted sometimes by some of the four-legged neighbours.

Annie and I have not always seen eye to eye about the polite way to greet other dogs/cats. She maintains that rushing up to them with me flying along behind is quite acceptable. I've pointed out (with the help of a rolled newspaper) that it's far nicer to nod and walk on past. She's mostly conceded that this may be all for the best.

My arrival in Cheshire coincided with the arrival of ex hurricane Bertha, sent swiftly across the Atlantic from the general direction of Nova Scotia. Bertha had a considerable amount of water that she wanted to rid herself of and has proceeded to do just that off and on for the whole time I've been here. Today is bright and sunny and I'm hoping Bertha isn't planning to wring out the last of her wet washing over Norfolk where I'll be heading tomorrow.

I've had ten days out of eighteen where I've been out and about, with a coat just in case, so I can't complain about that. Often it rained overnight and cleared up during the day. Or the morning would be wet and the afternoon dry or the other way round.

A half hour in one direction lies the vast area of Greater Manchester with the old industrial city at its heart. A half hour in the other direction lies the starkly beautiful moorlands of the Pennine Range. The whole region alive with history and stunning scenery. I couldn't have asked for a better location for house sitting in Cheshire.

Tomorrow I bid farewell to Annie the dog, Fennel the invisible cat, and the five chooks who are addicted to dandelion leaves and have required me to eat more eggs than I'd normally eat in six months. I'll set the sat nav for Reedham on the River Yare in Norfolk and hope to take today's sunshine with me.

Lives Remembered

Visiting stately homes is a national obsession with the British and a must for visitors from overseas. But do we ever spare a thought for the last occupants of these remnants of a once glorious past?

While visiting Lyme Park in Cheshire last week, I sat in on a talk given by a National Trust volunteer. He told his listeners the story of the family of Lyme Park, generation after generation of the one family until the general decline of these old estates came after WWI and eventually the surrender of what had always been the family home, after WWII. A fate which befell so many of the British upper class.

When you scratch off the top layer people are mostly the same underneath, so loosing your home is a painful for a baron as it is for anyone else. That pain would be accentuated by the thought that of all those past generations who built up this vast estate, it is you who is dropping the ball.

The person 'dropped the ball' was the 3^rd Baron Newton, Richard Legh, a descendant of the Legh family who had been at Lyme Park since 1398. It was reported that he and his wife were in a state of despair as to what should be done about this no-longer-manageable estate. Gifting it to the National Trust seemed the only option and one that would preserve the family history, which was not just the story of the Legh family but also the story of the people who worked and lived at Lyme Park. A quote from a local newspaper is on display recording the leaving of Lyme Park:

“Shortly after the war when Lord Newton gave Lyme Hall and its deer park to the National Trust, the parting with old employees who gathered in groups outside the hall, along the road through the park, and at the gate to watch them motor away, had a sorrowful note.”

The National Trust have chosen to focus on the Edwardian era at Lyme Hall, a time of great social activity. Life at Lyme was much like life at Downton Abbey: dinner parties, dances, weekend shooting parties and picnics. And like Downton Abbey, the servants were well treated and became treasured employees. A charming painting done by the 2^nd Baron Newton's thirteen-year-old daughter, Phyllis Legh, records the occasion of the Servants' Ball on New Year's Eve, circa 1906*. These annual events took place in the great entrance hall and, after wishing all the servants a Happy New Year, the family would retire and the servants would dance until dawn (then set about their day's work). Apparently they thought it a small price to pay for a great knees-up.

Amateur theatricals became part of life at Lyme Hall in the early 20^th century. A stage, complete with velvet curtains, was made in the Long Gallery, the space behind being used as a dressing room, and plays were performed by family members and probably those of the guests that could be persuaded to join in.

This passion was embraced by the junior members of the family and a wonderful silent home-movie exists of a Sherlock Holmes story (written by one of the boys). It is performed, with suitable dramatic flair and musical accompaniment, by various family members, some wearing false moustaches and puffing on empty pipes. In a small room a screen and chairs are set up where visitors can take a break and watch the film while touring the house.

Lyme Hall had the honour of becoming 'Pemberley' in the BBC's 1995 production of Jane Aiusten's novel, Pride and Prejudice. Rather fitting for a home that loved to put on a good show.

*Photo from BBC 'Your Paintings'.

Messing About in Boats

When I decided to bring a bike with me to the UK in 2010, it was the canal paths that attracted me. Cycling through the countryside is delightful but cycling along a canal path is magic. There's something about water that is endlessly fascinating.

That fascination can be the only explanation for the mania for canal-boat holidays. I can cycle faster than a canal boat when I'm just ambling along. If you suggested to most people that it might be fun to drive along a road at 4 mph, they would laugh at the idea. Yet so many people are more than happy to proceed along a canal at 4 mph. Ask them to spend two minutes at a set of traffic lights and they become ropeable. But those same people will spend any amount of time going through a lock that requires them to, perhaps, wait for someone ahead to go through, then leave the boat, fill or empty the lock depending which way they're going, enter the lock, wait for it to fill or empty, open the lock gates and motor away. I repeat, the fascination with water can be the only explanation.

Yesterday I went to Marple where there is a flight of 16 locks on the Peak Forest Canal. The locks cover a mile of the canal and patience would be required to travel from top to bottom or vice versa.

The canal was built in 1790s to transport lime from the area to Manchester and beyond. The lime was also burnt for quick lime in local kilns, a process that required coal to be brought in via the canal system.

A boat towed by one big shire horse plodding along the tow path could haul ten times the weight that the same horse could haul on land, resulting in dramatically reduced transport costs. If the horse knew his job he didn't even need a man to lead him.

The Macclesfield Canal has some curious 'roving' or 'snake' bridges. These are designed to allow a horse to be taken over the bridge without unhooking the tow line when the path crosses from one side of the canal to the other.

The building of canals was privately funded by business men who would profit from a cheaper, faster, safer method of transport, the roads being rough and often impassable, to say nothing of the danger of highwaymen. Men whose goods were breakable (and valuable) like Josiah Wedgwood's benefited greatly from the new canal system. Some put up money as an investment in the future. But the future had something else in store: the railroad.

By the mid 1800s canal usage was in decline and was never to recover its commercial trade. The 1900s brought road-transport and, after WWII, the canals quickly became redundant.

When the 1960s arrived a new generation saw the leisure potential in the old canals and volunteer groups started to restore them for holiday use. The success of these projects led to the injection of government funding for major restoration works like the construction of the wonderful Falkirk Wheel boat lift in Scotland which I wrote about here. 

It's good to know that the hard work of the thousands of men who dug the canals by hand from the mid 1700s has not gone to waste.

I cycled along the upper section of the canal towards Whaley Bridge and came across a number of lift bridges. A boat travelling on the canal must stop, activate the mechanism to lift the bridge, motor through then put the bridge back where they found it. So, between delays for travelling through locks and bridges and the requirement to keep to 3 or 4 mph, one can only assume that the aforementioned fascination with water must override a person's otherwise impatient nature.

Venturing onto the Pennine Way

Kent has its White Cliffs, Cumbria has its Lakes, Derbyshire has its Peaks. And into those Peaks I ventured on a day of all seasons. The range of mountains and hills known as the Pennines, often called the backbone of England, divides the east from the west starting in Derbyshire and running north to the Scottish border. It lies within the Peak District which encompasses sections of the counties of Derbyshire, Staffordshire, Cheshire, and South and West Yorkshire. The Peak District National Park was designated in 1951 making it the Untied Kingdom's first national park.

Hiking and rambling are a national obsession in the United Kingdom and one can understand why. If you lived in London you could, if you wished, get on an early train at Euston, be in Manchester for breakfast, hop on a train to Edale and be trekking up the Pennine Way by lunchtime. In fact, public transport is the best way to tackle the Peaks. One can relax and admire the outstanding beauty of the heather-covered moorland and the interweaving folds of lush farmland, divided up into patchwork fields with hedges or stone fences, in valleys that stretch away into the distance. Driving a car in these areas is not to be recommended.

No doubt that the motor car has improved life in general, but there comes a point when you begin to wonder if we couldn't do with fewer of the beasts. Here in the United Kingdom there are more than 60 million people, add to that the millions of tourists who arrive in the warmer months, and consider the fact that the country is only about the size of Victoria (Australia). The entire population of Australia is roughly 26 million, so imagine doubling (nearly tripling if you throw in the tourists) our population, moving them all to Victoria, increasing our roads by about ten fold (at a guess) but reducing most of them to half the width, add a degree or two of difficulty by inserting a bend every 200 metres, throw in lots of hills and you will have some idea of what driving in the UK is all about.

I have driven twice over the road engagingly named the Cat and Fiddle which takes one over the Peaks from Buxton in Derbyshire to Macclesfield in Cheshire. It is reputed to be Britain's most dangerous road. The switchback which winds its way up into the breathtakingly beautiful starkness of these windswept peaks is apparently an irresistible invitation to drivers and motorcyclists with a death-wish. The more local authorities do to improve the road's safety, the faster they can travel! As far as I can tell the only danger in travelling this road is doing it at speed. The road itself is well sealed and wide enough for a bus going one way to pass a truck going the other, but taking it slowly around the frequent bends is essential.

The road has its name from the Cat and Fiddle Inn, Britain's second highest pub. The inn, built in 1830 shortly after the construction of the turnpike road, sits by the side of the road, alone and isolated, on the very top of the ridge that separates Derbyshire from Cheshire. It's a popular spot with walkers who must be glad of a pint and a sit down by the time they reach the Cat and Fiddle. Motorists seeing it up ahead know that the climb is over and the descent about to begin.

I seem to have wandered away from where this tale started, so let's get back on that train and head through the two-mile-long Cowburn Tunnel and emerge into the beautiful Edale Valley. The pretty little village of Edale marks the start of the Pennine Way, a 267 mile trail traversing the hills of the Pennines north to the Scottish border, ending a little further on in Scotland's Kirk Yetholm. The Pennine Way is the ramblers' Everest. If you haven't done the Pennine Way then you haven't really rambled. People do it from bottom to top, and from top to bottom. They do it in stages, they write books about it, the get lost on it, and sometimes they die on it.

The famed Kinder Scout, the highest point in the Peak District, is a moorland plateau owned by the National Trust and it is right there above Edale. A 7 ½ mile circular walk skirting the plateau takes one to the stark roof of the Pennines.

I can't claim to be a walker or a rambler in any shape or form. A dodgy foot, suspect knees and sixty-seven-year-old hips mean that I'm more at home on a bike. But, how can one visit the Peaks without stepping onto the Pennine Way, even for just a few miles. The day was cool for summer but not windy, and the sun showed through the clouds every now and then.

The instructions on the internet for the walk were a little short on detail, as usual. I was instructed to walk up through the village from the train station. On leaving the tiny unmanned station one cannot actually see the village so should one turn left or right? Luckily, a National Trust cafe is close by, the Trust being the owners of many areas in the Peak district. The young cafe attendants point me in the right direction and I set off uphill and eventually through the village to the Old Nags Head Pub. 

A sharp left opposite the pub set me on a rough path under trees until a fingerboard stating 'Pennine Way' directed me across a field containing a mob of very tame sheep. That fact is testament to the number of people who pass this way on a daily basis. I had so far walked about 100 yards and said good morning to at least six people.

The route across the field is well defined with large flat stones set in the ground forming a path diagonally to another foot gate. The gates are spring-loaded to make sure stock stay where they're supposed to be. 

The path takes up again through the next field but becomes a rough gravel track thereafter. As the path climbs higher and higher the views back down to the Edale valley are wonderful, the hills fold one on another and the farmhouses dotted here and there look like models. A tiny train pulls into Edale station and other walkers are small specks on the track below. The treeless hills above are purple with heather.

From this high point the trail dips down until it arrives at Upper Booth Farm, where a farmer is working a mob of sheep in the sheep yards with the help of his sheepdog.

He takes no notice of the walkers tromping through his yard and on over the River Noe to the National Trust's Lee Farm.

The path heads up again and I have my eye on the time because I must be back on the train at about 4.30. My objective is Jacob's Ladder, a set of stone steps put in place by the Nat Trust after erosion caused that part of the Pennine Way to become hazardous. The gritstone boulders used to form the steps were helicoptered onto the site. This is no short flight of steps, the shallow risers and deep treads made up of numerous stones, wind up and further up until they reach the Kinder plateau. This was a packhorse route across the moors from medieval times until the arrival of the railways.

A stream rushes along beside the path, splashing over rocks in its hurry to find the river. A quaint stone bridge crosses the stream at the bottom of the hill and just beyond is Jacob's Ladder.

 It climbs steadily uphill and then disappears around a bend. I ascended far enough to see the hikers ahead of me gain the summit. They were just small specks on the horizon.

I retraced my steps back down to the river, through the farm, up again to the hill looking down on the Edale Valley. I sat on a stile and had a cup of tea from the thermos as black clouds rolled over the hills and the purple of the heather turned grey in the mist. Confirmation that the weather here can turn in a very short space of time. The old scouting motto 'Be Prepared' should be embraced by all ramblers.

As it turned out, I would have had time to climb Jacob's Ladder and stand on the Kinder plateau but my dodgy foot was not unhappy to miss that adventure.

The Language of the Countryside

My blog about downs and wolds brought up the subject of the naming of landscape features. I've got to wondering why they stayed here in England and never made it to Australia. Goodness knows, we imported all their place names. The Australian landscape is, admittedly, different from the English landscape but not that different in the southern states.

I've gathered up quite a collection of words that are used here in England so I've decided to get to the bottom of their exact meaning, starting with those downs and wolds.

Down: a piece of high, uncultivated land or moor.

What would the equivalent piece of country be called in Australia? Scrub, perhaps. Two specific 'downs' in Australia come to mind: Barwon Downs in Victoria and the Darling Downs in Queensland.

Wold: gently rolling hill country.

Think of Ceres near Geelong and you have a perfect example of gently rolling hill country but they are the Ceres hills not the Ceres wolds.

Weald: a wooded or uncultivated area.

This would translate as 'the bush' in Australia.

Fen: a low, marshy or frequently flooded area.

That would be swampy or boggy land to an Aussie.

Broad: a network of shallow freshwater lakes traversed by slow-moving rivers.

The 'broad' in England is not a natural feature but came about by the gradual (unplanned) flooding of medieval peat diggings in parts of Norfolk and Suffolk.

To us that would just be a lake, pure and simple.

Fell: a hill or stretch of high moorland.

Victoria's High Plains come to mind.

Tor: a hill or rocky peak.

A hill is a hill in Australia.

Crag: a steep or rugged cliff or rock face.

That would be a cliff.

Clough: a steep valley or ravine.
Ravine would be understood in Australia.

Mere: a lake or a pond

If naturally occurring in Australia it would be a lake, or a billabong if your were in the outback, if man-made then it would be a dam or an ornamental lake.

Brook: a small stream.

We would call it a creek.

Stream: a small narrow river.

Once again, creek would cover it.

Dale: a valley.

We have lots of place names that use the suffix 'dale': Lilydale for example, but a valley is a valley.

Field: an area of open land, especially one planted with crops or pasture, typically bounded by hedges or fences.

That sounds like a paddock to me.

Meadow: A piece of grassland, especially one used for hay.
Still a paddock.

Wood: an area of land smaller than a forest that is covered with growing trees.

Bushland would describe the Australian version.

Moor: a track of open uncultivated upland typically covered with heather.

A scrubby plateau perhaps.

Corn: the chief cereal crop of a district (in England).

This one has puzzled me for a long time. To me corn, or maize, is that stuff that has big leaves and grows cobs, I now understand that when I read that someone is gathering his corn that it could be wheat, barley or oats.

I'm sure there are others that I've missed but that's quite a collection to be going on with.

Wedgwood. The Man.

Having read Jenny Uglow's wonderful book 'The Lunar Men', I was keen to see the Wedgwood Museum near Stoke-on-Trent, and see first-hand the beautiful pottery conceived by the creative talents of Josiah Wedgwood and his skilled artists and craftsmen.

Josiah Wedgwood came from a long line of potters but it was he who made the Wedgwood name synonymous with exquisite tableware and beautiful ornaments. 

He was born in 1730 and, at an early age, joined the family business as apprentice to his older brother, Thomas, their father having died when young Josiah was nine years old. Josiah, being hampered by a smallpox-affected right leg, was not able to use a potters' wheel and so became interested in pottery design. When Josiah came of age his brother refused to take him into partnership (bad mistake) so Josiah, in his early twenties, began working with renowned pottery maker, Thomas Whieldon. Within a few years they would become business partners and Josiah's outstanding career was set in motion.

The mid eighteenth century was a time of great innovation and Josiah was a keen philosopher as the amateur scientists called themselves. He belonged to a group of like-minded innovators known as the 'Lunar Society', because they met on evenings of a full moon which lit their way home afterwards. Travelling at night was a risky business on atrocious roads. Together they discussed all types of new ideas and inventions. Erasmus Darwin, a medical doctor with a great interest in botany, was one of the group as was James Watt, the man who did great things with steam.

Josiah was a jolly man, revelling in his wife and large family, always willing to help his friends and the wider community, and he was also a vocal supporter of the abolition of slavery. His gamy leg caused him great difficulty so, when he was not yet forty, he decided to get rid of the thing. His friend Erasmus Darwin removed the leg and Josiah happily made do with a wooden one.

Josiah and his friends and associates were at the forefront of the Industrial Revolution, introducing production-line manufacture, inventing machines and tools to speed production and backing the making of canals to transport goods safely to market and bring raw materials to the factories. Josiah himself was elected a fellow of the Royal Society in 1783 after inventing the pyrometer to measure oven temperatures, a crucial improvement in the accuracy of successfully firing pottery. He is credited with introducing modern marketing techniques by such means as capitalising on a royal connection. After being appointed queen's potter, at the age of thirty-two, by Queen Charlotte, he named his cream-coloured dinnerware 'Queen's Ware'.

He experimented tirelessly with clays, minerals and glazes keeping detailed records of his experiments, which survive to this day. During the 1770s he worked on producing the Jasper-ware which has become what we all recognise as 'Wedgwood'. 

The mid blue Jasper-ware gave its name to the colour 'Wedgwood Blue'. It became the most popular colour but Jasper-ware comes in green, pink, beige and, of course, black, the colour of his famous copy of the Portland Vase. He spent three or four years experimenting before producing a copy of which he was happy to put the name 'Wedgwood'.

His daughter, Susannah, married Erasmus Darwin's son, and they became the parents of naturalist, Charles Darwin, making both Josiah and his friend Erasmus his grandparents.

Josiah died at the age of 65 leaving a great fortune and having created a business that still prides itself on quality 250 years after its inception.

No photography allowed at the Wedgwood Museum so photos courtesy of Google Images.

House Sitting. What's Not To Like?

The long-awaited house-sit is finally here. I've taken up residence in Higher Hurdsfield, Cheshire in a charming house with a wonderful view of the countryside out of the kitchen window. The homeowners, who already live in a little piece paradise, have gone overseas for a change of scenery. My companions for two and a half weeks are a sweet-tempered Labrador named Annie, a cat, named Fennel, who I've only seen twice so far and five chooks who are providing so may eggs that I'm thinking of getting a stall at the Farmers' Market!

The countryside is green and lush even though it's the middle of summer. There is a reason for that: rain. I've been in Cheshire for five days and it has rained for some part of each of those days. The previous four weeks were warm and sunny so I have no complaints, and today the sun is shining, even in Cheshire.

Annie and I go for a walk each morning and evening around the nearby lanes and fields, and cut some grass for the chooks along the way. It's good to be in one place for a few weeks, one doesn't feel the need to rush off each morning to fit a whole county's worth of sightseeing into a few days.

I've spent part of a day cycling on a Rail Trail, been to the wonderful mansion and 50 acre garden of Tatton Park and visited the Wedgwood Museum, which will be the subject of my next blog.

Higher Hurdsfield is only a stone's throw from the Peak District National Park, the first of Britain's National Parks to be preserved for the enjoyment of all. I drove through this spectacular landscape on my way from Lincolnshire and am looking forward to getting amongst those peaks now the weather seems to be improving.

But for now, I must go and make something containing eggs, preferably a lot of eggs. Anyone with a good recipe for a 10-egg sponge, feel free to send it!

And So To Lincoln

What would a stay in Lincolnshire be without a trip to Lincoln?

The town of Lincoln kneels at the feet of its great cathedral and medieval castle which tower over all on the top of a very steep hill. I can't say that I've walked up many streets that require a handrail to assist one from point A to point B, but this one does. 

The street is named Steep Hill, for obvious reasons, and having achieved the the summit one is anxious to find items of interest right there because there's no way you plan to go down again until home time.

Tourist information is here at the top of Steep Hill and two cheerful young lasses provide me with a map of the town and sell me a ticket for the open-topped tourist bus. The bus departs near the cathedral, does a tour of the city and deposits one back at the cathedral thus eliminating the necessity for any more hill climbing. The tour guide on the bus, a gentleman of seventy-eight years, is a mine of information giving passengers a great insight into the city of Lincoln and its known history which dates back to the Iron Age.

In AD 48 the Romans arrived and built a fortress on top of the hill that I've just climbed. By the 5^th century Lincoln's fortunes had declined along with those of the Roman Empire and the place was all but abandoned. Things looked up again in Lincoln when the Vikings arrived and it became an administrative centre after the establishment of the Dane Law in 886. And then along came William the Conqueror.

Two years after the Norman conquest William I ordered the construction of Lincoln Castle, to defend his new realm, on the site of the old Roman fortress, and there it stands to this day.

Twenty years later in 1088 work began on the first Lincoln Cathedral adjacent to the castle also within the bounds of the original Roman settlement. The Norman arches of this first cathedral still welcome worshippers and visitors one thousand years on.

Fifty years after the first cathedral was consecrated, fire swept through the timber roofing causing much damage to the structure. Building began again retaining what was salvageable and adding to its dimensions. Forty years went by before a severe earthquake caused a major collapse in 1185. Not to be put off by these disasters, a bigger and better cathedral was planned by the new Bishop, Hugh de Burgundy of Avalon, France. The cathedral architecture shifted from the Norman to the Gothic and Hugh's church had the latest thing in pointed arches, flying buttresses and ribbed vaults. 

Unfortunately Hugh, later to become St Hugh of Lincoln, died in 1200 before the great Nave and Transept were completed.

One has to admire the tenacity of these people because once more disaster struck in the 1230s when the central tower collapsed. They set to work once more on repairing the damage and extending the cathedral yet again. In the early 1300s the central tower was raised to its present height and at the end of the century the western towers were also heightened.

All was quiet, apparently, for the next 150 years then, one windy day in 1549, down came the spire of the central tower. Enough was enough, the spire was never replaced. Then, wouldn't you know it, the library burnt down in 1609 and was rebuilt to a design by Sir Christopher Wren in 1674, proving yet again that every cloud has a silver lining.

The remaining spires on the western towers were removed in 1807 (probably a wise move) leaving the cathedral with its present appearance.

Students of architecture hold Lincoln Cathedral in great esteem and visitors continue to flock here to admire this magnificent building and marvel at a great triumph of determination in the face of adversity.

From the Downs to the Wolds

What the heck are downs and wolds anyway? A wold, according to the Oxford Dictionary, is a piece of high, uncultivated land or moor. A down, according to the same source, is gently rolling hill country. The Lincolnshire Wolds would once have been 'uncultivated' but not any longer. In fact I'm struggling to detect the difference between a down and a wold. Both seem to me to be stunningly beautiful vistas across rolling farmland. However, Sussex most definitely has more trees.

Now fens are much more easily detected. They are defined as the flat low-lying areas of eastern England, mainly in Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire and Norfolk, formerly marshland but largely drained for agriculture since the 17^th century. You can spot a fen a mile off, literally. Flat as the proverbial pancake and covered with crops of corn, wheat, barley, onions, potatoes etc. depending on the season. The other distinctive feature of the fens is the deep dykes that drain the land and allow it to be used for agriculture.

Lincolnshire has wolds and fens and sandy beaches, and nowhere near as many people as West Sussex. Or maybe they are all at Skegness at the moment. I drove there to see if it was a s bad as predicted. It was. Think of a giant version of the Melbourne Show minus the animals and you have Skegness. One over-sized side-show and fish & chippery.

But even Skegness has something to recommend it. Two things in fact. One was the wonderful sight of the three wind farms off the coast, by name Lynn, Inner Dowsing and Lincs. I counted 127 turbines. They are a part of Britain's commitment to provide energy from renewable sources. It was a sight worth doing battle with the holiday crowds to see. 

The other thing that made the trip worthwhile was to see the Skegness beach donkeys. These cute little fellas and their forebears have be delighting holidaymakers for sixty years. That's quite an achievement in an ever-changing world.

Lincolnshire also has a rich aviation history and was home to 49 airfields during WWII. Two important groups of Bomber Command were stationed here and the famous Dambusters flew from RAF Scampton near Lincoln. There is great excitement amongst aeroplane enthusiasts this week because RAF Coningsby will be host to the visiting Lancaster Bomber due to arrive on 8^th August from the Canadian Warplane Heritage Museum. It is one of only two airworthy Arvo Lancasters left in the world, the other of which is here at RAF Coningsby, home of the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight. More than 100 Bomber Command Veterans will be on hand for the arrival of this very special plane. Aeronautical events: flypasts, starring at the Eastbourne Air Show and the like are planned for the coming weeks. I may just be lucky enough for see her fly overhead when she arrives tomorrow as I'm not far from Coningsby.

Lincolnshire, what an underrated destination. If you like to walk and cycle and enjoy the great outdoors then lovely Lincolnshire has a treat in store for you.