The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

No heroic venture comes without its trials and setbacks. I understand that. Mine came in the shape of a morbidly obese black cat selfishly demanding his breakfast whilst I was trying to have a preparatory lie in. Obviously, I gave in immediately. There’s no reasoning with cats.

Once Stan was munching away on his cat biscuits, it was time to get ready for my reconnaissance mission to the proposed site of the lost varieties orchard, my dad’s field. At some point it’s going to need a better name. William Ingall’s Resting Place? Mrs Toogood’s Hedgerow? Both good options.

First up, a packed lunch. Haslet and beetroot sarnies and a chunky slice of pork pie. Job done. No messing.

Next up, and far more intimidating, the bus trip from Lincoln to Louth. I’m not a fan of Stagecoach, with all their multi coloured paint jobs and comfortable contactless payment coach shenanigans. I miss the old Lincolnshire Roadcar days when any journey longer than half a mile involved a rickety detour through at least seven deserted villages and payment was sullenly demanded in pre-decimal exact change only coinage. Modern life is rubbish. Admittedly, it’s much more convenient and comfortable, but it’s still rubbish.

There’s an old lady on the bus with a dog in her lap. It sits quietly and gets an occasional pat or scratch. It makes me wish Stan was slightly less feral and not so violently opposed to all other humans. It would be nice to have company. Ah who am I kidding? He’s violently opposed to me too.

Lincoln to Wragby. Flat, flat, super flat. I can’t wait for the Wolds. All this vast space and distant horizons is making me realise I’m due another eye test. “I’m afraid you can’t have the trendy big frames because you’re too blind, sir. Try these titchy ones with handy attached scaffolding to help carry the weight of your lenses instead.”

Many of the roadside trees are covered with blossoms. Lost apples could be mere feet away as we motor past at nearly fifteen miles an hour. I wish I knew what an apple tree looked like.

We reach Wragby at last, all red brick new builds and Premier E-cigs. It’s the site of a legendary chip shop that sits tantalisingly in the market square to our right. I’ve never been in but the sign says it’s traditional, which is probably a good thing. It’s good to have allies in the fight against modernity and progress.

We’re through Wragby and Louth is now only seventeen miles away. East Barkwith is a mile and a half away but the bus is stopping for no man. I tell a lie; it’s stopping for the old lady with the dog. That’s that story ruined.

Once through East Barkwith we leave the main road and hare off towards some random village in the distance. The spirit of Lincolnshire Roadcar lives on! I might have a nap. Stan can’t ruin this one.

We end up in the admittedly picturesque village of South Willingham. At first glance it appears to have two cars for every house and a horsebox on every street corner. There is no evidence of a bus stop. I wonder why we’re here. The bewildered locals appear to be thinking the same thing. There’s a donkey in one of the fields though. That was cool.

We resurface at the Heneage Arms, back on the main Lincoln to Louth road. They do fantastic fish and chips on a Friday, but are they traditional? That’s the real question. Louth is now nine and a quarter miles away. The excitement is palpable. I wish the old lady and her dog were here to see it.

Suddenly there are hills. The Wolds are all around us, removing the need for distance supporting eyesight. Take that, Mr Discount Optician.

The next village is Grimblethorpe. Don’t they have a brass band? Who cares? There’s a massive hill liberally sprinkled with “Warning, slow down!” signs. It’s like we’re in the Alps.

Out of Grimblethorpe and I can see the spire of Louth’s St James’ Church in my mind’s eye. It might be visible to my actual eye as well but I’m sat behind the driver’s compartment and can’t see anything in front of us.

Nope there it is. Just off to the left. We’re nearly there. Minutes later we reach the junction with the road to Market Rasen. My friend Ben Day lived here when I was twelve. We used to play snooker on a 6 ft table in his dad’s garage. He had to give me a forty point head start because I was as bad at snooker then as I am at apple hunting now.

Too late for more reminiscing. We’re past Westgate Fields, past the church and its faintly ridiculous 293 foot spire, and into the town centre. The Pack Horse Inn has fresh Grimsby haddock on the menu. Only in Louth is coming from Grimsby something to boast about.

The town centre is buzzing. I’ll get off at the bus station though. Station to station seems better. Also, it’s nearer to the field and that’s where I’m heading. The bus journey was only the beginning of this wild ride.