Being a Sunday in May with nothing much else on
the walking programme, it was time to undergo the annual ritual of the
cross-border footpath. As previous such
expeditions had seen the walk leader collapse under the onslaught of
microscopic pollen, pairs of flying secateurs, and ramblers quaffing shandy in the sights of a
tank, we wondered what rum entertainments the Fates had in store for us.
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| Ah yes, some soggy sheep. |
This year’s unusual added extra was rain,
mostly. When the enormous 100% increase
upon expected turn-out arrived, it was just a little light drizzle and nothing
much to worry about. Having anticipated just one customer and got two, your loyal walk
leader was therefore obliged to, well, lead. Harrumph.
So we headed off into the drizzle, which as
soon as we left Sewstern turned into driving rain. But we’d got started by then, and it’s what
ramblers do.
The pub at Skillington had room for the whole group
to take a noon drink in, amazingly, and we sauntered on to Woolsthorpe where a
field of chest-high rain-drenched oil-seed rape blocked the way, making us even
wetter than the rain had done.
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| Newtonian apple blossom (subject to both gravity and friction) |
Mercifully, the sun came out by Newton’s famous
apple-tree, which was in full bloom, and provided a moment of warmth in
which to dry our socks and eat cake. Then
we had the usual fun of clearing a path where a certain landowner appears not
to fully respect rights of way; we won, of course, with a bit of elbow-grease
as traditional. The clouds opened with
full vigour, hailing us with actual hail in celebration, until we reached the
border once more and returned to Leicestershire, drenched, tired and ever so slightly
smug at keeping going where lesser ramblers would have given up. We’ll all go equipped with an umbrella next
time, though.
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