South

By Maxim Griffin.

One of those miraculous days – after weeks of murk and grey – full sunshine – actual shadows – everything looks fantastic – a last blast of glorious colour before the plunge into the monochrome months before spring – the trudge continues – southward – 15 miles, give or take and someone to meet at the end of it – meeting a man about a curlew at Gibraltar Point – most of the day at a reasonable pace – the usual pack filled with the usual lunch and the regular water – old boots still holding up – a stick can be found on the way to complete the neo-rambler aesthetic – onwards.

A bridleway between wide fields of winter wheat – the clear day makes the green seem greener – the roll of the Wolds falling away left to the flat and the marsh – the way ahead is gentle enough – a little soft underfoot – wet chalk splattering – small birds declare from the hedgerows – the main road a mile or so right is a silver river and all the cars are little fish – it’s mild too – too mild really – 15 degrees and we’ve not seen the first frost yet – still – mustn’t grumble.

A pair of villages passed through without incident – little gritstone churches named after dark age saints, neat hedges – an old phone box turned into a lending library – airport thrillers and romances mostly – nice to see these things though – a large Edwardian vicarage is for sale – someone is mowing their grass but are out of sight – a black dog waits at a gate of black metal – a war memorial – raised lead lettering – a small wreath with fallen leaves – the next building is an ex-Wesleyan chapel now converted – a pair of flags tied with twine to a lamppost.

The way leads from lane to woodland – mixed deciduous – the older map suggests there was a prehistoric burial mound here but there are no obvious lumps or bumps – two cars are parked at the end of the track, but the occupants are elsewhere – cross a lane – the path goes up, then down, then up again – a man walks with the authority of a man walking and commands a brace of English Springers who are, as their breed dictates, delighted – a “morning” is greeted with a “morning” and the dogs are given their fuss as is customary.

Local landmarks
The next field over is secured with mid-20th century concrete posts and wire fencing – tubes and vents stick up from a mound – this was to be the headquarters of Lincolnshire County Council in the event of nuclear war – we’ve not crossed that threshold yet – have you seen Threads? Five buzzards circle on warm currents above – keening peals of squark between them – next field – over a stile – look – the view – select the landmark of your choice – Belmont, Stenigot, Boston Stump, windfarms on shore and off, Skeg, the rollercoaster, ships – the Wash, shining white in the sun and beyond that the red cliffs of Norfolk.

Downhill – an unfamiliar village of approximately 12 houses – there is, however, a pub – the pub has been painted field grey and is not yet open – chalkboard promotes Sunday lunch, guest ales and continental lagers at a reasonable price – another time, perhaps – a big glug of water and half a sandwich (ham and mustard ) will have to do – the road is busy – a back route in the direction of the coast – a white van decorated with stickers of silhouetted Tommies, head bowed, remembering – a vehicle of mobile remembrance then – a Remember van – walking on and considering the strange relationship of this county and the act of remembrance – the past inside the present at every corner – there was a bomber base every few miles, each one drenched in the complexities of human history – there’s a longer work to be made on this subject – the weight the war still carries at every step – walk on – a green field with a horse at one end – bright sunshine, warmth even – perfect conditions – a commonwealth crew came down two fields over – the map says that copse of trees covers a bronze age round barrow – that house on the corner was a pub, then a Cantonese restaurant, then a home – you ate half a duck there once, remember?

Walking on, now navigating shorter fields and gaining on the coast, the spider senses pick up a familiar sound – as if by magic, a Spitfire roars over – a Mk IX, late war – the familiarity is born from the memory of an Airfix kit – he’s headed over Skeg, Merlin engine full pelt and disappears in the glare of the sun of a November afternoon.

Out of season
An hour of unremarkable but not unpleasant walking leads to the busier landscape of the coastal approaches – caravan parks, fishing lakes, signs offering Christmas carveries, next right, 200 yards – it’s off-season but there’s plenty of people about – some have stopped to take self-portraits at the Skeg Vegas sign – it’s a brilliant piece of pop art – a copy of the famous sign at the Nevada gambling resort – the owners of the Skegness Raceway commissioned it – the Raceway has the look of a post-apocalyptic hillfort and hosts regular caravan demolition derbies and monster truck extravaganzas – a night at the stock cars has enormous appeal.

An open top bus rattles past – it is full of cold looking people – the sun is still shining – lower now – nights are drawing in – there is a large black warehouse full of trampolining children that stands in a field away from other businesses and properties – at Anchor Lane a Remember van passes and the song it is playing is ‘Last Christmas’ – the road leads directly to the sea, Ingoldmells – everywhere is static caravans – a temporary city taking root – fatigue is creeping in – a glug of water, a sandwich, press on – a heron on the roof of an unlit café – turn on to Roman Bank – Fantasy Island, Main Drain, keep heading south – lean into it – keep going – got to met a man about a curlew at Gibraltar Point – the sun is setting on the right – keep going – keep heading south.

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