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| Plentiful signage (although it would have been better with some yellow paint, obviously). |
As it was technically
Advent Sunday – and therefore time for the opening of twee little chocolate
calendars, but not, repeat not, Christmas, a select posse of LRWG amblers abandoned
the prematurity of tinsel town in favour of Gotham City. Well, OK, it’s actually a village, the title
of which originally means the ‘home of goats’, but Washington Irving (when he
wasn’t camped out in one of the bedrooms of the Alhambra palace, oddly enough)
nick-named New York Gotham in honour of this corner of Nottinghamshire’s
reputation for extreme foolishness, and then someone from DC Comics got a bit
carried away and... well, you know the rest.
 |
| Nottinghamshire rambling. An enormous steaming heap of dung. |
Turning up this morning
did not count as foolishness of any sort, as the sun was shining, the ground
was nice and crunchy with ice rather than sloppy mud, and we had a figure of
eight to describe. The figure of eight
route naturally indicated that we had found a nearby nectar-based food source, indicated at
a specific angle to the sun, until A&A kindly reminded us that we weren’t
bees. So, flying being a non-option, we
had to walk. Off we buzzed.
 |
| This Lesser-Bobbled Walkleader is so focused on tracking his prey that he is unaware of our camera in the undergrowth |
A fine day for walking
it was too, with exactly the perfect weather for doing it, no getting lost, and
a cracking brace of real ale watering holes.
Pub Number One was especially welcome given that the previously intended
lunching locale turned out to have been claimed by a huge self-combusting pile of
ripe manure, looking surprisingly scenic in the low sun but rather less
pleasantly aromatic than one may have wished.
But, the usual extra topping of merry banter continued all ‘round and
another success has been scored.
Congratulations to Matthew on leading his first LRWG expedition!
 |
| Nottingham attempts to twinkle alluringly in the distance. Attempts. |
Having paused briefly to
note the location of a burnt-out motorbike, we had soon finished the day’s
section of the Viking Way, and reached the edge of the airfield, which was just
about elevenses. 
From there, we headed
off over the hills, past where the abbey once stood and up to Windmill Hill,
for the most popular historical anecdote of the day (which I’m not going to
spoil here as we may use it again!), and down in to the Vale of Belvoir proper
to swing past Branston, sauntering back into Croxton Kerrial just as dusk
arrived. Then, crucially, scones!
