It was a beautiful day when twelve ramblers gathered outside the Wheel Inn in Branston, Leicestershire. Unfortunately the thirteenth member was still lost somewhere in the wilds in the East of Leicestershire. Not being a particularly superstitious bunch, two brave souls stayed behind to wait for her while the rest of the group forged ahead. Happily she soon arrived and the thirteen were soon reunited at the medieval church in Croxton Kerrial - home to a Norman knight (lurking in the dark, carved on a pillar) and a dragon-headed pew or two.
A short walk along the main road and then onto the confusingly named Viking Way. No vikings were spotted but we did have to watch our footing on areas of the path churned up by off-road scramblers. Some members of the group were also distracted by the ample crop of sloes lining the path, almost audibly begging to be made into gin. Sadly no time for that (although readers may rest assured that a mental note was made for later) and so it was on to the hidden turning. So well hidden, in fact, that we walked straight past it due to the sight of gliders taking off from the nearby World War Two airfield. Perhaps it was the strong sense of wonder and patriotism at the thought of so many risking their lives to defend ol' blighty, but it probably had a good deal more to do with our guide being a little too busy regaling us with anecdotes to pay attention. No harm done, though, and a quick back-track meant we were soon on our way.
A short walk along the main road and then onto the confusingly named Viking Way. No vikings were spotted but we did have to watch our footing on areas of the path churned up by off-road scramblers. Some members of the group were also distracted by the ample crop of sloes lining the path, almost audibly begging to be made into gin. Sadly no time for that (although readers may rest assured that a mental note was made for later) and so it was on to the hidden turning. So well hidden, in fact, that we walked straight past it due to the sight of gliders taking off from the nearby World War Two airfield. Perhaps it was the strong sense of wonder and patriotism at the thought of so many risking their lives to defend ol' blighty, but it probably had a good deal more to do with our guide being a little too busy regaling us with anecdotes to pay attention. No harm done, though, and a quick back-track meant we were soon on our way.
A few fields later we were greeted with snorts and squeals of delight as a host of friendly pigs came to say hello. One even forgot itself so much as to attempt to gamble around the sty like a newly born lamb! Chuckling heartily, we only had a little further way to go to the Nag's Head where its very accommodating landlord put on chips for all!
Suitably rested, watered and fed, it was across the fields and up the hill (yes - in Leicestershire!) to witness the final resting place of King John's innards (he of the Magna Carta, don't you know). Then some further clambering up moderate slopes and back to Branston for cake, hot chocolate (and beer for those who must) at The Wheel.
Suitably rested, watered and fed, it was across the fields and up the hill (yes - in Leicestershire!) to witness the final resting place of King John's innards (he of the Magna Carta, don't you know). Then some further clambering up moderate slopes and back to Branston for cake, hot chocolate (and beer for those who must) at The Wheel.
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