The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

I’m not going to lie; I’m struggling with the weekly blog thing. My urn of cider is now happily bubbling away wrapped in a Vote Lebowski 2020 t-shirt in my bedroom so that’s that particular vat of content sealed away until March at the earliest. There’s been all kinds of action at the orchard site but the non-essential journey ban means I can’t get over there to report on any of it. You’re missing out on the delights of a whole bunch of new trees being planted, the Environment Agency rebuilding Keddington Lock and probably even more exciting stuff. I don’t know for sure: I haven’t been for months. Whatever’s going on will remain a mystery: I’m stuck in Lincoln for the foreseeable.

A few weeks ago, basically out of the kindness of my heart, I took a friend out for a walk along the River Witham. Not only did I make small talk, but I also showed her my favourite view of the bypass. Did I get a word of thanks? Nope. All she did was carp on about how frustrating it is when you go on an out and back walk instead of round in a loop. We’re off again this weekend so I spent hours poring over maps and wandering around the fields near home, searching for a viable five mile loop. Normally you wouldn’t have to put up with hearing about it but, like I said, I’m running out of content so my only option is to make a big song and dance out of me basically going for a walk one afternoon. Here goes.

In days of yore, it used to be possible to walk out to Greetwell church, nip across to the Witham and then head east all the way back to Lincoln. The bypass construction site put the kybosh on it last year but the bypass is up and running now so I decided to chance my arm and see if the route was once again open to the public. The first signs weren’t promising. In fact, the first signs read, “Footpath closed due to bypass construction.” I nearly turned back then but I couldn’t be doing with another session of earbashing, so I paused and checked out the scene. The sign said no entry but there were mountains of dog poo beyond the open gate and, critically, no Old Bill watching the area. I sneaked through the opening, left incriminating footprints in the mud and set off trying to decide whether to immediately admit my crimes or pretend not to speak English if the boys in blue tracked me down.

The riverbank along the side of the Witham turned out to be muddy but definitely passable. After a couple of weeks of seemingly endless rainfall, the reed beds along the bank have relocated to the river proper but the raised earth is holding the floods at bay so far. Give it another month and who knows.

I ambled on, taking time to pause and properly stare at anything that seemed even vaguely interesting, just in case I could scrounge a paragraph out of it. I spent a good few minutes trying to work out whether some floating rubbish was an otter (it wasn’t) and then stopped to watch first one and then a second heron lurch majestically through the air. I’m not sure it’s possible to lurch majestically but I can’t think of a better phrase to describe the flight of a heron. They’re like feathery craneflies, or daddy longlegs to give them their scientific name. There were actually quite a few birds in evidence, presumably taking advantage of the rising water levels. In addition to the herons, I spied a moorhen, some ducks, two swans and some other birds. They probably have names too but those are the only species I can accurately label. Maybe there’s a Grebe. I have no idea.

The footpath continued all the way out to Greetwell and beyond. When it reached the bypass, there was a conveniently laid path made of stone providing a brief respite from the claggy mud. I met a couple of people on the way but no sign of barricades or ongoing construction sites to halt my progress. I suspect the builders just forgot about the Footpath Closed sign so chances are it’ll be there for years yet and countless dozens of people will be robbed of the chance to trudge through the mud by the side of a meandering river the colour of chicken gravy. Unless of course they read this blog. Which they won’t. Obviously.

After about an hour, I left the river and turned towards Greetwell Church, a grey stone building nestled attractively within some trees. I would normally sit down in the cemetery and gloat but it doesn’t seem appropriate during a pandemic so I just head on by. The footpath back to Lincoln is clearly marked but occasionally slippery. It trudges along beside the train track to Grimsby until it reaches a crossing where only a white gate covered in smeared spray paint separates you from the trains.

Once past the railway line, all that stood between me and the fires of home was a field and then some footpaths through an industrial estate. I was basically done. My complacency was challenged as I walked through the stubble field. There was a slurping sound and a pull on my foot and I immediately thought, “Oh, this’ll be good. If I lose my shoe, I can definitely write a humorous anecdote about it.”

Sadly, I’d tied my laces too well and my foot emerged, shoe still annoyingly present. I suppose I could’ve pretended but there might have been spies watching ready to expose me on twitter.

Disappointed, I squelched my way across the rest of the field and emerged onto a mud-free concrete pavement. I always get excited at this point because I have to walk past a factory that looks like a set from Star Wars, all belching chimneys, precarious walkways and seemingly pointless conveyor belts. Just past there is the Self Store warehouse, where I catch sight of a middle aged man emerging with a binbag full of retrieved property. I wonder briefly what has changed in his life such that he felt the need to rescue these bits. I hope he’s not sleeping in his car.

I walk on and turn to have a glance as he drives past. Only it’s not him. It’s some bruiser in a souped-up transit van, all dark grey and black with tinted windows and industrial sound system. I bet his family has a hell of a time getting him on to a plane for their holidays. If you don’t get that reference, you’re too young to be sat inside reading blogs on a Saturday. He notices me staring and holds my gaze long enough for me to realise who’s the alpha male in these parts before gunning the engine and speeding off up the hill. Mr Self Store trundles past afterwards but I can’t be bothered to look any more.

Back on the Viking Way for the last few hundred yards, I get caught behind a pair of dog walkers and a mob of yipping mutts.

“Hold on, Bev,” says the hindmost one. “We’ve got a poo coming.”

I attempt to demonstrate sympathy by smiling broadly and laughing as I walk past them. Then it occurs to me that maybe they were referring to me. I’m too far past to turn and see if one of the dogs is actually having a dump so I have to press on, bristling indignantly. It puts a right dampener on the trip. But at least I’ve got a loop sorted. I hope she’s happy. She probably won’t even turn up.