Your faithful correspondents report today from the lobby of our hotel in Kettering, which we are pleased to announce has, so far, proven a good and righteous place. However, do not be concerned, dear readers: we have many a tale of woe to regale you with that met us on our way to this sanctuary, this place of rest and recuperation.
Our journey from Morcott began in the most surprising of manners: with a shut garage and a very nice chap at a little chef. The garage, where we had hoped to purchase a morsel of breakfast to see us through the morning's perambluations, had sustained a break-in the previous night resulting in its closure. We must admit, our hearts rather sank at the thought of nine miles with only the measly peanuts and flapjacks we had thought to pack for emergency scenarios such as these. But never fear, dear readers, never fear! Just when we thought or breakfast quest was thwarted, a Little Chef appeared to us rather like a divine revalation, with its promises not only of sustenance but of the very best kind of sustenance: vegetarian sausages, hash browns, and mushrooms in, of all the wonderous things, the marvellous concoctions, a bap! How we praised the friendly waiter whilst sipping on the tea of his generosity during the time it took our food to cook. We are also surprised and pleased to announce that the Little Chef hash browns, in contrast to our expectations, were the best quality and best cooked of our journey to date.
But darker times were to come.
Yes, dear readers, your dire warnings that we scorned when you gave them proved true. Your pleas with us that fell on deaf ears should have been heeded, and your looks of alarm at our stubborn adherence to our plans despite your well-intentioned advice were most warranted. The Northamptonshire town of Corby does indeed turn out to be all you feared and worse. A more disappointing, shoddy and at some points downright scary town has not been sighted on our walks before and, we beg it be granted, shall not be sighted again. We arrived on the outskirts, surrounded by industrial factories (the majority of which seemed to be involved in the production of Weetabix). It only went downhill from there (in a metaphorical sense. We can't quite remember, but it seems more than likely that the dastardly town itself sprung some literal uphill walking on us. It would be just like Corby to do that). Our search for the town centre revealed only one run-down street with a few shops, that seemed to have been converted to a shopping centre from an old council estate. Our search for a pub in which to recuperate resulted only in a cafe attached to a fish and chip shop, where the waiting staff seemed unaware of most of the dishes advertised on their own menu. To be fair, they did manage to supply us with a nice apple pie, but we had to pay extra - extra, would you credit it? - for the ice cream.
Our relief on leaving this godforsaken place was palpable.
On, then, your travellers continued. Through the burning sun, through, well, the more burning sun (really, the weather could have helped us out more here. Does it not realise that there should have been some driving rain in there, and some biting frost, to add to the sense of drama?). Shandy O'Clock occured in a nice little pub in the village of Gretton (or something like that), where Ewan was mocked by locals whilst Gill hid. Then on again, through to Kettering, where your weary travellers at last arrived in the pleasant, clean hotel. Today, friends, we rest. We will be updating you on a few important issues throughout the course of the day, as we are aware you have not been notified for a long time on the progress of the tasks you have set us. But for now, goodbye.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
The distance from Grantham to Morcott
Oh, it was long. It was long, long, long, long, long. So very, very, very, very long indeed. According to our best efforts of map-measurisation, it was about 27.5 miles. And that's really very long. Very, very, very, very long. No, really, a very long way indeed. No, no, no, no, no, it really was a very long way.
Unfortucoincidentally, it appears that the GPS tracker stopped working on the day in question, so we can't ask you to see for yourselves how long it was. We're working on getting that fixed. Buit you'll just have to take our word for it that it really was very, very, very long indeed. We don't want to describe anything else about the day, as we're concerned that that might distract you from the sheer and unmitigated longocity of the event. So, that's all we're going to say.
...Except this one other thing: the small village of North Luffenham. It is a wonderful, wonderful village simply because it contains the Fox And Hounds pub. And the Fox And Hounds is a wonderful place because it contains a man whose name we never asked but who is the husband of the landlady there. We dropped in there at about 9:15pm, at which point we still had another 2.5 miles to walk. (Did we mention that yesterday was a long one?)
The man - let's call him Mr. Fantastic - came over and asked if we'd like to pitch our tents in the pub garden to save us walking any further. We explained that no, we weren't camping, but were only 2.5 miles from our stop in Morcott.
"And you're going to walk that?"
"Yes."
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"That's a terrible road. You can't walk down that road tonight."
"No - it's fine. We've walked a long way already. Only two and a half miles left."
"Not down that road, in the dark?"
"Yes, we know it's not ideal, but it's the only route."
"Give me 15 minutes. I'll sort you out."
At that point he sped off purposefully towards the other people he'd been sitting with. We realised what he was going to do, and called him back to explain that it was very kind of him, but really, we couldn't accept a lift from anybody as we had to walk the whole way.
"No you don't."
"Yes, I'm afraid we do. But it's a very kind offer - thank you."
"Why do you have to?"
And now, friends, we'd like you to imagine how stupid we felt giving the following reason. It was the only reason there was, but at that moment it really didn't seem good enough:
"Because we'll be really disappointed in ourselves if we don't."
An expression passed across his face; the expression of a man who knows firstly that he is right, secondly that the person he's talking to is barmy, but thirdly that this is a situation in which logical and careful reasoning just is not going to win the day. Like a man confronted with a door-to-door evangelist.
He accepted defeat - well, not really, but backed down with the comment: "You're on a mission. I can respect that" - but warned us to be very careful, adding that he was worried about us and would hate us to get hurt. We thanked him again and he left, only to return a couple of minutes later with...
(and you'll like this)
...a pair of high-visibility workmen's jackets! Explaining again what a dangerous road we were about to walk along, and how all he wanted was for us not to be hurt, he bestowed these wondergarments upon us, gave us exact directions to where we were going, and finished with something along the lines of "Stay safe, kids." Upon our leaving, he came out, shook our hands, and repeated the directions.
And so it has come to be that, from the team who brought you the Pillock Hat on last year's expedition, we are now the proud bearers of the Builder Jackets! And we shall be sporting them proudly for every remaining step of the journey.*
*The last sentence is not true.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Disconcertianism
Today was strange. We'd go so far as to say that today was, in fact, disconcerting.
A series of events seemed to be set in motion from the outset of the day that led us to brook little doubt at the idea that some form of destiny, albeit couched in confusion, wonderment, and bafflmentification, was indeed at work.
The first signal we had may seem normal enough to the uninitiated. We got to where we were going, with little or no difficulty, usually slightly before we expected to get there. Yes, every stage of the journey passed in glorious conditions and with a little less time and effort than expected. The sun shone, and the roads were well-maintained and relatively car-free. Thus, 22 miles passed with surprisingly little incident and surprisingly little to complain about.
True, there were occasions when the door-to-door salesman of Doubt started to tap its well-groomed hand on the door; but on each occasion, Lady Fortune was resolutely not at home to uninvited callers. The most notable of these ocasions occuring at that point of the day when you really need a pub to sell you some good shandy. However, in a way that was all too reminiscent of last year's journey and the Great Closed Counties of the North, pub after pub passed us by with firmly locked door or doors. Just as we were starting to despair and concoct clearly unviable revenge schemes upon the whole of the East Midland region, however, we happened upon a man. A wonderous man. A man of great yet subtle talent and marvel. A man who, if you don't mind us saying so, was to all intents and purposes as a god to us at that moment. This man invited us in to his house and made us a cup of tea each. He offered toast. He let us stroke his dog, and told us of his plans to emigrate to Malaysia. Oh yes, such a fine man has rarely before been spotted. This, if nothing else, cemented our sense of wonderment with the day.
Anyway, fully tea'd and rested, we carried on to the next village where indeed there was a pub that provided shandy. Onwards through many an amazing house we passed, taking the high road rather than the low road as we hope you will see from the pictures.
And then we arrived in Grantham. We have to admit, our hotel is more disappointing and over-priced than disconcerting, but this was more than made up for by a pub playing, of all things, MacArthur Park and a fellow punter who walked by and made positive gestures at us on hearing this. There was also good pizza.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
West Retford to North Muskham - a day of darkness and light
In retrospect, one would be forgiven for thinking that today should
have been given up as a bad job, put aside in that place where you put
all those things that you start and then lose interest in (you know -
things like build-it-yourself scale models of famous bridges, or Jane
Austen novels, or careers in the helping professions) and then quietly
forgotten. Not that it was a bad day by any means. Certainly not; on
the contrary, it was a day filled with lovely things like sunshine and
windmills and ice creams and friendly publicans and music and hats and
tortellini. However, amongst all this shininess were definitely a
number of hints that maybe someody in a position of power over our
lives - George W. Bush, perhaps - didn't want this day to succeed from
the outset.
have been given up as a bad job, put aside in that place where you put
all those things that you start and then lose interest in (you know -
things like build-it-yourself scale models of famous bridges, or Jane
Austen novels, or careers in the helping professions) and then quietly
forgotten. Not that it was a bad day by any means. Certainly not; on
the contrary, it was a day filled with lovely things like sunshine and
windmills and ice creams and friendly publicans and music and hats and
tortellini. However, amongst all this shininess were definitely a
number of hints that maybe someody in a position of power over our
lives - George W. Bush, perhaps - didn't want this day to succeed from
the outset.
The earlier portents of which we speak slowed us down considerably
before we'd even got out of Retford. Firstly, a mile or so into the
journey it was discovered that we'd left a phone behind - more
significantly, the phone by which we are recording all the photographs
of this merry jaunt. So, back to the hotel to find that, on the way to
which we saw the most marvellous mullet yet encountered but were
prevented from submitting it as evidence in Jim's challenge by the
fact that the camera phone was still in Room 19, Best Western West
Retford (see earlier posts for a description of that). Returning to
the hotel to collect it, we were greeted by the postman delivering a
large parcel full of our clothes, shoes, maps etc that was supposed to
be arriving not only several days later but also in Kettering. Further
delays and general self-criticism while we lugged the offending item
to the post office to spend a further £10.67 on sending the damned
thing to where we thought we'd sent it in the first place.
Despite these onerous setbacks, we finally got going along our sunlit
road. The first few miles passed without remark, but a further sign
of the difficulties to come arrived when we found ourselves trying to
cross the A1 at a roundabout with building work covering most of the
verges. A short forray with death later, though, we continued as if
oblivious to the threat hanging ever closer over our heads, like that
sword people bang on about that hangs closely over people's heads,
presumably in a metaphorical manner.
Further signs of what was to come included (in chronological order):
- A woman serving us orange juice and lemonade, tutting when we told
her where we were heading and saying that there really wasn't a route
suitable for pedestrians.
- Gill's Mars icecream falling apart, resulting in a messy, if tasty,
downing of the object rather than a slow relishing of it.
- A man mocking us for not being able to find the pub.
- The maps we were using both clearly indicating that the path we
hoped to use only ran for half of the distance we hoped to use it for.
That final one, we see now, was probably our strongest hint.
As you will have seen from previous photos, this chronic blunder, this
fantastical faux-pas, this cock-up of the highest degree, resulted in
us fighting our way through a field of corn that was taller than we
were and full of spiders, insects and other farmyard animals. We
hoped for an exit and a neatly manicured Travelodge lawn on the far
side of this mayhem: we hoped in vain. There was what can only be
described as a drainage system that we had to clamber around and a
bank made of concrete we had to crawl up, making our way again on to
that fateful road the A1, where our difficulties were if anything
exacerbateed by a lorry driver deciding to scare us by blasting his
extremely loud horn at our foliage- and insect-covered selves.
However, the Travelodge itself proves comfortable enough and within
easy walking distance of a pub which, whilst devoid of stella,
provides a very nice meal. All said, we can go on our way with our
heads held high in the knowledge that whilst we trespassed, got
uncomfortably covered in the stuff of farms, and possibly severely
damaged several sections of the highway code, we at least avoided a 5
mile detour that was our only other option. Now, rested and fed, we
can look forward with no little trepadation upon tomorrow's voyage in
to the disconcerting world of Grantham.
Today's main musical highlights:
Funky Town by Lipps Inc
Spirit in the Sky - both the Normal Greenbaum and Doctor and the Medics versions
Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf
Poison by Alice Cooper
--
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mr. Ewan Main
ewan@dunelm.org
That is all.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Retford
Leaving a service station on the junction of two motorways without uising motorised transport is a unique experience, and one we'd recommend you all try at least once. After arriving at our Travelodge on a path between two slag heaps, we left it on a nice coutry track past some poor houses that must have been nice before someone decided to turn their view into a motorway.
A few lists for you:
Animals sighted during the day (alive ones only):
2 Frogs
Several Ducks
Several Ducklings
A Friendly Dog who wanted to join in the fun
A strange looking wasp-like being who was long, spindly, and insistent on staying on Gill's arm
Assorted horses, cows, and similar livestock
Numerous rabbits hopping gaily (you know, happily) to and fro along our path
A thousand beautiful butterflies fluttering daintily among us
Roads travelled on over the past two days:
Beast Fair
Sour Lane
Dirty Lane
Trundle Lane
Conversations with strangers in pubs;
One, but a good one. (The White Horse, Barnby Moor - highly recommended for the quality of its locals.)
Also, a special mention has to go out to the most subservient coincierge we've met in a good while. The conversation on our arrival went something like this:
"How much do we owe you?"
"Oh, nothing, sir, nothing at all"
"Can we come and get another set of towels?"
"Oh madam, I'm so sorry we didn't meet your needs. Let me bring you some immediately"
"Have you got a shiny parcel for us, full of wonderous supplies to see us through the next few days?"
"If that it what you require, then that, of course, is what I shall provide'
"Boy? Can you get us some breakfast?"
"Why, it goes without saying. There will, naturally, be no extra charge"
Man needs to grow a backbone or he won't survive in today's dog-eat-dog business environment. (In fact he was a very polite young man and we had a marvellous room and stay. We'd thoroughly recommend the Best Western West Retford, even if its address does include the line 'East Retford").
Onward, now, to our next night's accommodation venue - the A1 southbound.
Monday, September 3, 2007
The Doncaster region
Hello from the M1/M18 junction!
The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the car park is half full (yes, half full, not half empty), the WHSmith is choc-full of enticing goods and the Ritazza is brewing up overpriced but tempting coffee-based products. Yes, it's a beautiful day and all is well at the Doncaster North motorway services, just north of Hatfield and our chosen stopping point last night.
Yesterday was a day that mainly featured wind, power stations and motorways. The latter two had of course been expected - you'll be reassured to know that experienced navigators such as ourselves are more than capable of discerning a power station and a motorway on an Ordnance Survey map. The wind, though, was more of a revelation. So strong and so continuous was it that we were forced to do without music for the whole day. Think of it - not even ONE single, briefest rendition of Total Eclipse Of The Heart to cheer us on through the long, monotonous country lanes of the Goole region. Harrowing indeed.
The harrowingicity of this state of affairs was further exacerbated at about 3pm. While following a clearly-marked footpath, identified as a public right of way on the map and on the ground, we came upon an inconvenient obstacle blocking our path: the M62. Built straight across the path. When you see a motorway crossing a track on a map, you assume (or is it just us?) that there'd be some way of crossing - but no. Just slap a motorway on there and to hell with pedestrians - after all, it's progress. You'd be surprised at how difficult it actually is to try to reach one place from another on foot. We suspect this is a theme we'll be returning to over future days.
But nonetheless, the harrowingicity was substantially ameloirated by a marvellous round of Sport Beans which spurred us jovially on through a suburb of Doncaster, through to a brief shandy stop, and past several slag heaps to the place we call home for tonight.
The services do deserve a brief mention for their twix machine and notably their take-away list, enabling us to get not only pizza but also stella delivered to our door. We can only hope that tomorrow offers more varied scenery and less wind.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
