Around Britain

King's Lynn has a fine old town centre on the eastern side of Great Ouse River. Tuesday Market Square is unspoilt and solicitors and hotels congregate there. The ferry is reached via Ferry Lane. It runs every 20 minutes to West Lynn and the charge is 50p. The first record of it is from 1285 when its ownership changed hands for what was then a colossal sum. I set out for the far shore at 11.10.

In this area south of the Wash the map shows few contours. Those all indicate 0 which suggests that most of the fens are below sea level. I pass through Clenchwarton and head for Terrington St Clement. This is a utilitarian landscape. It is flat and intensively farmed. Dykes divide it. They are straight and deep and today the water lies lifeless at the bottom. There are no natural streams. The lack of any incline in the land would inhibit flow. Before the fens were drained, I suppose water lay over much of this area.

At Walpole Cross Keys the twin towers of Sutton Bridge Power Station came into view. At Sutton Bridge I crossed a 19th century metal bridge over the Nene. On top of the elaborate super-structure there was an enclosed viewing area. Maybe it serves as a vantage point in the event of flooding.

I resisted a mild temptation to stop for soup or a snack, partly because none of the few available places (mostly pubs) seemed quite suitable. My original idea to go all the way to Spalding and then on to Boston tomorrow began to dissolve. It was cold and I was only about half way after three hours. The problem was that I had an alternative. I became aware that the 505 bus provided a half-hourly service between King's Lynn and Spalding. It was tempting to board it and I succumbed to this temptation in Long Sutton. This town boasted the oldest and largest wooden church spire in the country (and the most beautiful but that is just their opinion). George V and Queen Mary were well thought of here. A wrought iron gate leading to an avenue of trees carried a message that it had been erected by the women and girls of the town to mark the coronation in 1911. I could find no evidence of what the men and boys had done for their monarch. At the bus stop there was a long metal seat for waiting passengers. It had been painted green (probably many times over the years) but a thick covering of paint didn't quite obliterate the message “In commemoration of the King's Jubilee 1935”.

After 3 and half hours walking the 505 bore me back to King's Lynn.

I took the train from Kings Cross to Spalding, changing at Peterborough. The bus station was near the station and I checked the departure time of the 505 to King's Lynn. There was just time for me to buy lunch to eat on the bus. I walked back to the bus station alongside the football ground. I saw that Spalding played in the Unibond league. The bus deposited me in Long Sutton. I bought a bottle of water and started walking at 12.30.

I expected little of today. Some sections are necessary links with little to recommend them. To the south the map is all straight lines crossed by more straight lines. The lines are roads, drains and dykes. A large area was totally without contours. I left Long Sutton on the B1359 and reached the A17 which I crossed, entering Gedney on the far side. A large church with a tower seemed quite out of proportion to this small community. In an attempt to generate interest in the area, a circular walk had been devised and I studied details of it on a board. The walk passed three churches, one in Gedney, a Baptist chapel in Fleet Hargate and a church with a spire in Fleet a short way to the south. The board was illustrated with pictures of a peacock butterfly and a heron.

I entered Holbeach on the B1515. I didn't dawdle as there was an infrequent train service at Spalding. I thought I should go for the 1802 but I had overestimated the distance. It became clear that I had a good chance of catching the 1658. After a short stretch of the A151 I turned off onto a minor road to pass through Whaplode and then Moulton. This landscape is entirely made by man. There are no natural features whatsoever. Man was presented with a blank canvas with instructions to cover it. There are houses, roads, ditches and cultivated fields. There are no streams. Water flowed across the land but in dykes dug for the purpose with even, grassy embankments. There were no pockets of wild woodland. All the trees had been planted as windbreaks or in house gardens for shade and decoration. At Moulton there was a church with a spire and a windmill beside it. Churches are the major landmarks and are visible for miles.

At Weston I rejoined the A151. One side of the road had been closed so the heavy traffic, controlled by automatic lights, tailed right back along the road in both directions. I crossed the A16 and entered Spalding. This is Flower Festival time. A sign indicated the Festival site where the floats were directed to assemble. This had been the redeeming feature of the landscape. Every so often a riot of colour enlivened the scene. Tulips, white, yellow and red, covered a field. Industrial buildings announced that bulbs were for sale within, wholesale.

I arrived at the station but the main entrance was locked as the ticket office was shut and the staff had left. Unfortunately there did not seem to be any other way in. The train was due shortly. I ran back and forth in front of the station wondering what I had missed. A train had come in and was waiting at the platform. There wasn't another one for over an hour so I prepared to vault the fence onto the platform. What about the people alighting from the train? Were they trapped on the platform? No, they opened a gate I had thought was part of the fence and came out. I pushed past them to board the train just as the doors were about to close. The train was going to Lincoln so I was ushered off the train by the guard. The Peterborough train was not due for another quarter of an hour. The toilets had been locked by the departing staff so I was denied the opportunity of vandalising them.

I was out on the road for 4 hours and five minutes today.

Caught the 0830 train from King's Cross, changed at Peterborough and arrived Spalding about 1000. Crossed River Welland and took the minor road heading north to the east of the River. The river was mostly invisible as it was enclosed by a high embankment. Just before going under the A16, I changed into shorts and T-shirt as I wanted to run. It was sunny but the temperature was kept in check by the breeze blowing in from the Wash. I didn't feel too sprightly so I ran and walked alternately.

After a while the road turned away from the river. I climbed up on the embankment as that was the most direct route but there was no clear path along the top. I decided to stick to the road. The river was quite choppy as the tide came in.

The countryside here was mostly arable with the odd dwelling house but no villages. I hardly saw a soul. The farm buildings were modern and I suspect the farms were large. One farm had an enormous new industrial shed, without windows, stacked to the roof with wooden crates awaiting the harvesting of a crop. The most acreage was given over to potatoes but I also saw wheat, greens, spinach and onions. There was one area covered with sweet smelling roses. Farm vehicles worked in the fields. I couldn't see what they were doing as they were some way off and shrouded by the clouds of brown dust thrown up around them. The road came to an end at Wragg Marsh House. There was an odd round brick building in the grounds there with a conical roof.

At this point I was forced back to the river. I took a rough track on the landward side of the embankment. This soon became a rough road which took me up to the A16 just as it crossed the Welland at Fosdyke Bridge. There was a pub there but it didn't tempt me at all. I was well into my stride and had no wish to break the flow. I crossed the bridge and immediately took a right turn marked “Kirton Low Road. I soon stopped beside the road to eat a yoghurt fruit and nut bar that I had bought at King's Cross. Soon after I passed a beautiful 18th century house called “Fosdyke Villa”. I turned onto the cycle route which headed away from the Kirton road. A couple cycled past me, bikes laden with baggage, acknowledging me as they went by. I came to an overgrown embankment marked “Sea Bank” on the map. This was some way inland from the modern embankment so land might have been reclaimed from the sea here. The Wash was a presence but I never saw it all day. The land is so flat one never gets the elevation for a view so one hardly sees beyond the next field for much of the time. The hamlets of Bucklegate, Skeldyke and Sandholme passed by. Frampton with its steeple church and pub was more of a place. It also had a hall but I didn't see it.

Soon after Frampton I spotted a tower. I guessed at once it was the Boston Stump although I was still some way from the town. It seemed very slim and, at that distance, I couldn't pick out any detail. By the time I crossed The Haven it was the dominant landmark. I walked close to it via the market. I'll have a more thorough look when I return here.

The toilet on the station had been locked at 1520 when the staff left and closed the ticket office. This meant that I had to resort to waste land beyond the end of the platform to change out of my wet clothes. Why should all the passengers be inconvenienced just because of the threat of vandalism? I suppose it depends how bad the problem is. If the toilets are regularly trashed they would be closed altogether for lengthy periods to allow for repair work.

As I sat on the station eating a sandwich the man next to me made a remark. I guessed it was a comment on the fact that the toilets were locked as a girl had just tried unsuccessfully to enter. I didn't quite hear so I turned towards him enquiringly. He made a similar remark less coherently. His expression was so grim and unfriendly that I concluded that he was not seeking any response.

On the train from Boston to Grantham I sat next to a man with a grievance. He confided to me that on the train going the other way to Skeggy (Skegness) it had been possible to get a coffee but not on this train. His speech was slurred and there was a whiff of alcohol. At Heckington Station he asked me where Heckington was. I said it was between Boston and Grantham and my new friend seemed very satisfied with that reply. I read the FT intently but he soon remarked that he could only see the headlines not the small print. I indicated my specs on the table and said that I took them off to read the newspaper. This was greeted as a great witticism. Would Grantham come soon enough to save me as the relationship was bound to disappoint him sooner or later with unpredictable consequences? The chap's partner sat opposite quite oblivious, lost in the pages of a magazine called “Real People”. The conductor appeared and was questioned about the buffet. Was it really not possible to get a drink on this train? I felt as if I was expected to support his appeal. The conductor was totally unyielding. I sensed that it was just as well that the buffet had been left behind.

I was on the road for 5 hours 50 minutes today.

On the train up from London, I overheard a conversation between an 18 year old girl and a ticket inspector. The girl had bought a cheap rate ticket for the 1105 and, having reached Kings Cross Station early, decided to catch the 1005. She stood outside the seating area, thinking that, if she didn't take a seat, it would be a point in her favour if she had any difficulty with the inspector. Before the train pulled out of the station there was an announcement that, if any passenger did not have a valid ticket for the journey, the full standard fare would be payable. The inspector asked for the full fare (£69.50 on top of the £20 plus she had already paid) but the girl was unable to pay. The inspector told her that, if she couldn't pay, then she would be charged the full fare and, in addition, an administration charge of £10. The girl suggested that she should leave the train at Peterborough and then board the train she should have been on. The inspector told her that the concessionary ticket was only valid for the full journey, not for only part of the journey. This meant she could not board the correct train at Peterborough and use her concessionary ticket. The whole conversation was conducted calmly and politely by both parties but the girl was clearly shocked at the amount she was being asked to pay. It seemed to me that the inspector took no account of the normal inexperience and impoverishment of the young. If he did not have any discretion to treat her less harshly or just to warn her, then he should have done.

I alighted at Boston. The train was slightly delayed so I started out at 12.45. My objective was Skegness. Boston had extended itself quite a way out to the east of the town. I passed a sign indicating that the Pilgrim Fathers' Memorial was nearby. I'd forgotten that they'd sailed from here. Before Freiston I crossed the Hobhole Drain. Soon after Freiston, I passed through the substantial village of Butterwick and then reached Benington on the A52. Next to the church, I struck off to the right away from the main road and into an area where there was considerable activity on the farms.

Cabbages and potatoes were the predominant crops but I also saw wheat and cauliflower. There were scattered gangs of workers gathering in the harvest. This seemed a bit anachronistic as I expected to see machines doing this work. Huge vehicles stood in the fields waiting to be loaded with vegetables. Tractors forced me off the narrow roads as they went by, hauling trailers full of produce. There was plenty of housing spread out alongside these country lanes and there were signs of affluence. One bungalow called Falcons had statues of falcons on pillars around its boundary. Windmills had been converted to other uses. Just after Wrangle I saw a couple with their sails removed. One was capped by a glass conservatory and the other had a bulbous white dome redolent of the Middle East.

My back road passed Wrangle to the west. I was not far from the North Sea but I never saw it all day. I had to join the A52 for a while, facing the traffic without a pavement. I left it near Friskney and soon joined a path which took the most direct route towards Wainfleet All Saints. It crossed fields and sections of it seemed little used. However, it was waymarked at every cross track and road crossing. I walked through the crops with confidence that I would not be challenged. At Wainfleet I took the bridge over Steeping River to enter the town. Batemans Brewery was the first building of substance. A windmill amongst the brewery buildings had been decapitated like the others I had seen. This one was almost completely covered in ivy. There was a station which announced that this was the home of Batemans Brewery. The village hall had been opened by Princess Marie Louise of Schleswig Holstein in 1913.

I wanted to avoid walking on the A52 for as long as I could. I therefore took a slightly longer route via Croft. This was a minute village with a sizeable church. A War Memorial had dozens of names on it. Where had all these people come from? Perhaps it covered casualties over a wide area of the surrounding countryside. I didn't stay to ponder the issue or count the names as I had become slightly concerned about catching the 1918 train at Skegness. When I reached the A52 north of Windsor Farm there was a pavement which continued right into the town. I reached the station with 20 minutes to spare and had time to buy a sandwich and a drink. On the station there was one of those life size statues. The subject was a fisherman with a large paunch and a cheerful expression, pulling a suitcase on a length of rope. He had been carrying something over his shoulder but only part of this remained, insufficient for me to identify what it was. Two screws protruded from his back indicating where the rest of the object had been attached.

I was on the road for seven and a quarter hours today.

This was my first outing on Around Britain since being attacked in Corsica and having my arm broken. Over seven weeks has elapsed since the operation to insert screws and metal plates. The bone should have healed but the fingers and wrist on my right hand still have a range of movement far less than the left hand.

On the Grantham to Skegness leg of the journey, my carriage held a large number of young men. Many of them were drinking. Someone finished off a bottle of spirits as if he was in a great hurry. This gained him the laughing approval of his companion who shouted “No spillage” as his friend drank. Sitting across the gangway from these two, were four boys of about 18. They had been talking amongst themselves but their attention was now diverted by these antics. They glanced across at the others who were a few years older, smiling uncertainly.

Soon a conversation started and one of the older boys asked “Where are you boys from?” It became more of a monologue. The main speaker was a 24 year old chef. He'd been working in a five star hotel in the West Country and was now in a two rosette restaurant where he had to supervise two teams. I gathered that all of them were attending some entertainment for which the tickets were expensive. The chef talked about the ethics of pinching someone else's ticket. He said his best mate lived in Skeg. Whereas he was earning well and could afford to buy a ticket, his best mate might struggle to raise the cash. In those circumstances “You've gotter do what you've gotter do.” I took this to mean that he would steal a ticket for his mate but not for himself. He repeated this a number of times as if imparting an important lesson to the boys.

The boys had been sipping cans of beer conservatively. Occasionally a fresh can would be drawn out of a concealed pack. The chef asked for a can. This was on the basis that he would “see the boys all right” once they got to Skeg. Having received a lecture on the chef's ethical position on tickets, the boys didn't seem very impressed. They didn't say no but the chef didn't get a can. He took it with good humour. No harm in trying.

The train deposited me at Skegness just after 1 pm. The information centre had no available accommodation registered at Chapel St Leonards. “It's the time of year. All the hotels and B&Bs have closed for the winter.” The woman did admit the possibility of there being accommodation available that was not registered with them. I said that if I found nothing, I'd take the bus back to Skegness and stay in a hotel there.

Skeg had a half-hearted brashness about it. It had all the trappings of a working class resort but there just weren't enough people to justify all the cheap hotels, the amusement arcades, the fish and chip restaurants and assorted entertainments and shops. I left it as soon as I could heading north.

My plan was to spend the night in Chapel St Leonards and then reach Mablethorpe on Saturday. I didn't rule out going further today, but I'd have to walk a long way in the dark, as there didn't seem to be anything between Chapel and Sandilands. For a while I walked on the A52. Just after Seathorne, I turned off the road and followed a path to the front. I then walked along a concrete promenade just above the beach, passing Ingoldmells. Before me stretched enormous mobile home parks seemingly deserted, gas canisters standing by each one. Life stirred in Butlins. Apparently there was a reunion of holidaymakers in the 18 to 30 age group who had met on holiday. An enormous leisure centre rose high above this modest landscape. Spiralling loops of steel marked the route of death defying summer rides. I could almost hear the screams from months ago.

The weather deteriorated. Rain and wind came up behind me. The backs of my corduroys became damp and started sticking to my legs. There was no one about apart from two men who walked past without a glance in my direction. Colour drained away with the diminishing light. The sea was gunmetal, the sky similar but of a lighter hue, the beach dun, the concrete promenade dirty yellow streaked with sand thrown up by the sea, the grass on the bank beside the promenade, normally green, was black today. Perhaps no more than 5% of the colour spectrum was on display.

Upon reaching Chapel, I descended into the town for shelter. I stopped under a shop awning and surveyed the scene. It was only 3.15 pm but I couldn't consider going on in these conditions. Two buses emerged from a side street. There was a coach station here so at least I could escape if I had to. Across a grassy central area I could see the Vine Hotel. They had accommodation. The choice was between a normal room (£20), a normal en suite (£25) and a luxury en suite (£30). I went for the normal en suite. Breakfast was not included and in any case wasn't served until 12 noon. Unusually I had to pay a £50 deposit for the key, returnable after an inspection of my room before departure. I suppose this precaution was justified by experience.

After an adequate meal and half carafe of house red at La Piazza, I returned to the hotel to find live entertainment. A middle aged male singer performed Roy Orbison and Elvis numbers and much else besides with a music system for backing. There was some dancing and a good crowd, attracted partly by the free food on offer. The singer announced that a karaoke session would follow his set. I suspected that all this was happening directly under my first floor room. It was and the noise continued until about 2 am.

I had only slept for a couple of hours when I was woken by a great shout. Soon after there was another one. It was angry and mad. Probably one of my fellow guests was drunk. He seemed to have a companion who was attempting to calm him down. Then the fire alarm started. I opened my room door and could neither see nor smell smoke. I quickly dressed. Should I pack my things and take them with me. Delay could be fatal. I opened a window and saw that I could climb out onto a large flat roof. That gave me an alternative if I couldn't escape by the stairs. I opened the door again and saw a naked man in the corridor. He said he'd been taking a shower. As he was out of his room it must have been one of the normal ones. I asked him what was going on. He didn't know.

At this point I rang 999. I explained what had happened and was asked whether I wanted the fire brigade and/or the police. As there was no evidence of a fire, I chose the police. The telephonist instructed me to leave the hotel and wait outside for the police to arrive. No member of the hotel staff had appeared. I assumed that they were all sleeping elsewhere. The naked man had disappeared. Another man, fully clothed, joined me outside. He was living in the hotel at a cost of £90 a week without breakfast. He explained that his usual abode was a mobile home nearby but the park had shut for a few weeks. Apparently these parks cannot remain open the whole year. There has to be a substantial break. This condition is probably imposed by a condition on the planning consent.

The police arrived after about 15 minutes. They had come all the way from Skeg. There was a sergeant and two constables. All five of us walked round the hotel but there was no sign of any fire. However, the police saw that the glass on a fire point had been broken on the first floor. This must have set the alarm off. The naked man remained in his room. I mentioned him to the police and suggested that he was probably the companion of the miscreant. The sergeant exhibited indifference to this revelation. “I don't think we'll be making an arrest here.” It felt like a put down. I gathered that the police were busy in Skeg with an influx of drunken youth. This did not come as a great surprise to me.

Eventually the police found a list of staff telephone numbers in the kitchen. Numbers were rung and people turned up. None of them knew how to switch off the alarm. It was so loud I had to stand outside in the cold, chatting to the police and the permanent resident. The manager said he would have to call the electrician. He was quite apologetic and I took the opportunity of requesting the refund of my £50 deposit. I said that I might want to leave early when there might be no one around to give me my refund. He agreed very readily, relieved perhaps that I hadn't asked for more. Suddenly the alarm stopped. A woman member of staff had pulled the right switch.

I slept until 8 am. I was to take my breakfast in the Village Chippy which didn't open until 9. It was quite well patronized. I chose the big breakfast for £2.70 and plumped for the tomatoes rather than the beans. It turned out to be tinned tomato.

I believe one of the signs in the centre of the town had been twisted. I thought I was heading for Sutton on Sea but I was in fact walking due south back to Skeg. When I discovered this I started back but deviated onto a footpath. This petered out and I found myself at the back of some houses, no path in sight, with no way through to the road beyond the houses. A woman suddenly appeared in the garden of one of these houses and asked “Who are you?” I don't think she wanted my name so I just said I was a lost walker who had been following a public footpath. She directed me and I entered a cul de sac at the closed end, climbing a wall to get round a substantial wire fence intended to prevent access to the land I'd been walking over. I came to a busy road which took me back to the centre of Chapel that I'd left about an hour beforehand. Thoroughly demoralised by now, I misread the map again. This time I headed west, walking inland away from the sea. I passed a sign to Chapel Point on the coast but I had to ignore it as, according to my reading of the map, this sign was in completely the wrong position. Local youth clearly had nothing better to do than tamper with road signs to mislead visitors. This was not the only time that the map failed to tally with my observations of the surrounding terrain. In fact nothing was where it ought to have been. I'd gone wrong again. This time my corrections led me to the coastal road. Chapel wasn't a big enough town to give me the opportunity of becoming lost again.

Fortunately, it was a brilliant day without a cloud in the sky. If all this had happened in yesterday's weather, I might have become slightly depressed. The only place I passed was Anderby Creek. The villages of Huttoft, Mumby and Hogsthorpe were all over on the A52, a couple of miles inland. I reached Sandilands and its golf course. This was a narrow course between the road and the sea embankment with a novel feature. It looked as if two holes faced each other. As one drove from the tee on one of these holes, one faced drives coming in the opposite direction from the tee of the second hole. The two greens were next to the two tees. Actually this didn't seem to create too much of a problem. None of the players I saw were able to hit the ball for more than a few dozen yards.

As I entered Sutton on Sea I passed a bus stop. It looked as if I would just miss the 1.30 from Mablethorpe Coach Station which meant I would have to wait for an hour. I decided to stop at Trusthorpe and catch the bus outside the caravan park shop. There was time a buy a snack lunch before the bus came and bore me back to Skeg.

The return journey to London was dreadful. I just missed a train at Skeg. I had an even longer wait at Grantham. There were engineering works and the London train had to make a detour via Cambridge. I didn't get back home until 10 pm, an eight and a half hour journey.

The 1210 train took me from King's Cross to Grantham where I changed for Skegness. At Skegness Coach Station (next to the railway station) the No 9 bus was waiting to take me onwards. I overshot the bus stop at the caraven site shop, Trusthorpe, where I had finished last time out. I walked back, noticing that two houses were totally bedecked in Xmas lights.

Trusthorpe to Mablethorpe was my shortest ever stage. It was already dark and I set about finding accommodation. The Information Centre directed me to Victoria Street where there were a number of Guest Houses. I pressed on the bell of Leicester Guest House four times. I could see people inside but they ignored me. As I pressed the bell for the fourth time all the lights went out. Could it be that they didn't want the trouble involved in earning their livelihood? Suddenly the door opened. Yes, they did have a room but breakfast was at 9 o'clock. That had already been agreed with their only other guest. I negotiated an en suite room for £20 (a £5 reduction) without breakfast. There was a café where an earlier breakfast might be had. The family running the Guest House prepared to leave as obviously they lived elsewhere. They were pleasant enough but lacked motivation. As the grandmother gave me a receipt for my £20, she said they'd had a quiet year. A telephone enquiry from a potential customer was successfully rebuffed.

My evening meal at Flavour of India was very pleasant. Mablethorpe had an area given over to Amusement Arcades but it did seem to be a proper town not an entertainment centre like Skegness. I ran for thirty minutes before dinner round quiet respectable streets. In Victoria Street there was a Social and Working Man's Club as well as Mablethorpe Conservative Club.

A sluggish start as I had listened to the Ashes Test Match at various points during the night. The newsagent didn't have the Independent or the FT but he recommended Dave's for breakfast as it was 'clean'. I saw that breakfast was also being served at the Belly Buster but I couldn't consider a café with such a repellent name. Having bought the Independent at the Coop, I had an excellent breakfast at Dave's. It was just as well because I had nothing else until nearly 10.30 pm except a few dried apricots and nuts.

I set out at 9.35 which was later than I intended as it was a long way to Grimsby Town railway station. It was cloudy and remained so all day. However, it was dry and the sun did try unsuccessfully to break through. The road ran parallel to the dunes at the head of the beach before turning inland. At Bleak House Farm, I turned off the road. Instead of heading north west as intended, I took a path to the west through a Gas Terminal. This brought me to the A1031 and I had no option but to tramp along it until I reached Theddlethorpe St Helen. Then a minor road took me past Sea Bank Farm to a car park and the Saltfleetby-Theddlethorpe Nature Reserve. I learnt that the dunes here had been thrown up by a massive storm in the thirteenth century. I took the path running at the back of these dunes so the sea remained out of sight. I had a fall slipping on a muddy slope but didn't do my convalescent right arm any damage. As the wrist has only limited flexion, I cannot put weight on it in a fall without the risk of breaking it again.

At Saltfleet I turned off the main road to take an uncategorised road running parallel to it, seeking relief from traffic. I nearly stopped at a Fish and Chip Café for tea and a snack but decided against for lack of time. I came upon a man with a telescope on a tripod. ‘Anything interesting?' I asked and I'm glad I did. The man was a twitcher who had come up from Kent to get a rare sighting of a couple of Red Breasted Geese. These birds had flown from Siberia and normally wintered in Romania. There had been a sighting in Kent 14 years ago but none since if one ignores escaped specimens. Somehow the pair had hitched up with a flock of a different species (Brent geese I think) and were now wintering with them here in Lincolnshire. The twitcher showed me the geese through a superb telescope. One looked down into the viewer through an attachment at an angle of about 40 degrees to the main instrument. One focussed by turning a section half way down with the circumference of a good sized log. The birds, dark blobs far out on the marsh, were transformed by this apparatus. I saw these two clearly, one sitting, one walking, with brown breasts, black heads with white marks on each cheek and black bodies with substantial white flashes on both sides. They looked quite at home in this alien land. The flock was adjacent to an area of sandy marsh called ‘Howden's Pullover'.

I rejoined the A1031 and soon entered North Somercotes. I resisted a café serving cream teas and a convenience store although I did, at this point, eat my small stock of dried apricots and almonds. I headed north on a minor road away from the main road. At Holmes Farm I was greeted by aggressive notices in red on a white background, forbidding entry to unauthorised persons and threatening legal action against trespassers. The map showed ‘Other route with public access' so I ploughed on not without trepidation. I'm nervous of any physical confrontation with my right wrist and hand in their reduced state. I passed through an area with substantial farm buildings unchallenged and kept going until Grainthorpe and the A1031. I stuck to the main road until the turn off to North Cotes. There was a footpath along most of this stretch which included Marshchapel. At North Cotes there were several identical small white headstones in the churchyard. Normally I would have investigated but the light was beginning to go. A signpost said 9 miles to Grimsby but I hoped my cross country route would be shorter. In the fading light at Tetney Lock I read that the waterway I was crossing was the Louth Canal. Built in 1770 to connect Louth to the sea, it had not been used commercially for years and the locks were not all operational.

I was now on an unmade road. I was nervous about passing Low Farm in twilight. It was remote and the occupant might suspect me to be an intruder. When I reached it I found the building had collapsed. A concreted area suggested that adjoining buildings had been totally demolished. To my right I could see clusters of lights out at sea. Were they giant liners? The coast curves gently so it could not be buildings on the other side of a bay. Of course, it was Hull on the far side of the Humber. I realised that I was now moving up the Humber estuary.

I reached a mobile home park. It was now practically dark and the road that the track had become went obstinately westwards. I could see the conurbation of Cleethorpes and Grimsby reflecting orange onto the night sky to the north west. The A1031 came to my rescue at Humberston. Now it was just a long hike lit by street lights without navigational problems. The main road, punctuated by roundabouts, took me into Grimsby. I switched onto the A46 and arrived in time to catch the 1830 to Newark Northgate where I transferred to the King's Cross train with only a few minutes wait. The train itself was running two hours late. I had walked almost non-stop for 8 hours 15 minutes.