The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

As with every field trip, this one began with me hyperventilating at a bus stop near Lincoln prison, trying to decipher poorly illuminated bus numbers. I don’t want to dwell on the embarrassment involved so let’s just pretend I got it right first time and wasn’t on the receiving end of a series of irate stares.

The plan for the day is to chart the course of the footpath that leads from the Gaslamp Lounge in Louth to Ticklepenny Lock. On the way to the starting point, I wander through the peaceful streets of my old home town and dredge up fake memories of how popular I was as a youngster. The route takes me past a house that once belonged to an old schoolmate of mine called Felicity, or Flick for the syllabically frugal. We did Politics and Government together and possibly Economics as well. I had a crush on her but she was out of my league. I think she sat next to me on the bus once though. Or maybe it was in front of me. To be honest, it was only a passing phase. Mostly I fancied Caroline, who once walked to the shops with me. Ah, young love.

Anyway, down the bottom of Thames Street I find the Gaslamp Lounge and Louth Building Supplies. We’re off. The path I’m following runs alongside the Louth Navigation Canal which, at least for the first bit, also contains the River Lud. They split up later, near the field. The waterway here is marked by masses of bramble bushes that have long since been ransacked by locals.

I wander on, dreaming of apple and blackberry pies (I often do) and breathe in the peace and quiet. The trees frame the way ahead, their deep green leaves contrasting with the chalky white of the meandering path. It’s not straight and Roman, but it’s not particularly winding either. It undulates along just enough to keep the walk interesting. There are a couple of new houses being built on the right. They’re very modern but quite nice nonetheless. I sort of wish one of them was mine. Bit out of my price bracket though.

I pass a rusty iron seat on the right that reminds me of my friend Eamonn’s blog about the Benches of Louth. He turned it into a book once he was done and I often like to sit and read a few entries. I won’t try to replicate his work. He’s a proper writer. Reading it makes me long for home. Reading this just makes me wonder what I’m doing with my life.

The river/canal here is about twenty foot across but I’m not sure how deep it is. Sheltered by overhanging trees and patches of nettles, the water has that deep bottle green colour that could be hiding unknowable depths. So probably about a foot. Maybe a foot and a half.

There’s a shallow waterfall partially dammed by broken branches. I pause and wonder why cascading water sounds so appealing out in the wild. I don’t get the same effect when I’m running my bathroom tap.

Two kids appear up ahead roaring towards me on unnecessarily gaudy bikes. Which side of the path should I dive towards? I pick the wrong one twice. It takes a special skill.

Once the kids have disappeared past me, I carry on. On my right, deep in a fenced off scrub of land is a small hut. In front of it stands a desk and a plastic chair. The chair has been lent forward on its front two legs like they do in cafes when they close. The whole ensemble is pretty much overgrown with vines. It’s weird. It looks a bit like a Stephen King novel waiting to be written.

The path turns to tarmac. I’m a quarter of a mile from the field. I know that for certain because there’s a sign. The Navigation Canal and the River Lud diverge here beneath a couple of foot bridges. Until a few months ago there were banks and things that meant both got a decent share of the water but the far bank has collapsed and erosion has wreaked havoc on the previous course of the river. Now the Lud is little more than a meandering trickle. It’s clean though. My dad stood in it and picked out all the rubbish. There’s a swing rope over it. I wish I was young again and wouldn’t dislocate my hip trying to have a go.

At the end of this last stretch of towpath is a well-built stile that appears to have been built specifically with fat knackers in mind. It doesn’t even grumble as I drag myself across it. The path  continues onwards but this is me done. I’ll climb over, have a quick shufty at the field and then head back.

The current orchard site is on the right, behind the river and hidden from the view of the road. You wouldn’t spot it without an informed guide, mainly because there aren’t currently any trees in it and they’re normally some of the key indicators that there’s an orchard nearby.

There’s a sign on the gate here asking you to keep to the public footpath but, between you and me, if you’re reading this, all seven of you can wander wherever you want. It’s the least you deserve. Just watch out for cowpats.

Satisfied that the field is still there, I turn tail and head for home. Just before I get back to the pub, there’s a side path that leads towards my mum’s house. Originally, I was intending to briefly consider and then decide against making a detour to visit her but the shameful truth is that she’s off gallivanting. I bumped into her when I arrived at the bus station, sneaking off to Lincoln (where I, her only son, live) to meet a friend (without telling me she was going). Honestly, the rejection. It’s a mystery how I’m so well adjusted. Obviously, I’m doing basically the same thing but that’s not the point.

Anyway, the Gaslamp Lounge calls. They have beer. And crisps.