Where sea and sky and Lincolnshire meet...

My original aim of spending September cycling from Filey to Felixtowe had already been dashed (see below) partly by disorganisation, partly by having to return to Nottingham for a few days, and partly and most nicely because I kept finding too many interesting places and people. And this in one of the least-exulted of counties. Perhaps I should be keeping it to myself.

I headed back to the land of big fields and bigger skies, surrounding the biggest estuary: The Wash. (The title of this post is a paraphrase of a line from 'The Whitsun Weddings' by Philip Larkin, actually about Hull and north Lincolnshire). The idea was to continue where I left off in Boston, and wend my way through the coastal Fens, visiting nature reserves, and into Norfolk as far as Snettisham. Then back further inland, where there are many fine medieval churches. This meant that so I could at least say I'd done The Wash, leaving the rest of Norfolk and Suffolk and Essex for another trip, at an unspecified date.

So I caught a train to Spalding. Reason - this was where I wanted to finish off, so it'd save time at the end of the trip. I cycled to Boston, to stay overnight in a semi-neglected campsite with cats, rabbits and birds roaming freely. An early start next morning, as I'd been urged to re-visit Freiston Shore at this week's spring tide. I was at the reserve by 7am, and I wasn't the first. Just as well - three very experienced local birdwatchers kindly let me tag along with them and told me what was what. I did spot a Black-tailed Godwit all on my own though - learning!

One reason I was interested in this place was that it has a good example of 'managed realignment' where the sea had been allowed to reclaim land which had had a brief spell as arable fields. The full story is here .

Freiston Shore managed realignment: low tide

Freiston Shore managed realignment: Spring tide. You can see in the background the old sea wall with nicks in it where the sea comes in.


Although I knew what it'd look like, it was still a bit of a shock to see how much land the sea coverd at high tide. Back at Donna Nook, I'd heard local consternation about managed retreat plans, and the feeling that they were losing land to save Hull. I was struck by the way that rising sea levels were talked about, and the role of global warming: being on the climate change front line in England.

The Fens are an area of great contrast: you can feel you are miles from anywhere, with wildlife wheeling about your head, but just down the road vast amounts of veg are being packed into trailers for lorries to dispatch round the country. As well as the odour of cabbage, it was also obvious that the cabbage-pickers had started work before I got up for my birdwatching jaunt, and as I was settling down in a very pleasant campsite at Gedney, warm and full and ready to doze off listening to Radio 4 podcasts, the sounds of farm machinery was still present to help to lull me to sleep.

Greater industry was expected of the Fens: the two lighthouses below were built as a gateway in the River Nene. However this time the wildlife has apparently won out: instead of heralding the development of a new industrial hub at Sutton Bridge, the left-hand lighthouse was the home of the wildfowler then naturalist Sir Peter Scott for many years. It's now the start of the Sir Peter Scott Trail (nice article from The Torygraph).

Sutton Bridge does have a small but busy port, and some rather sinister industrial buildings, but it is an unavoidable pinch-point on a route through the Fens. Away from the noise of the A17 it was more pleasant, and had a cafe serving a fine cuppa and cake. These things matter: one good reason for cycling is the amount of food it allows one to eat, and if one is foiled in that, one is not only disappointed, but decreasingly able to cycle too!

Rather too many straight roads later, I got to King's Lynn, and to a campsite which should have been nice, but which was right next to an A road. After being woken at 5am (earplugs already in!) I changed my plans. No Snettisham, as that would mean another night here, and this trip wasn't meant to be an endurance test, it was a holiday, well, sort of. But a more leisurely ride through the inland Fens, and more time to look at the fine old churches there. And SURELY by turning round I'd have the wind behind me!

The powerful role of the church in the Fens is shown by the village place-names. I'd already been to Terrington St Clement, and over the next couple of days I also visited Wiggenhall St. Peter, Wiggenhall St. Mary the Virgin, and Wiggenhall St. Mary Magdalen, then Walpole St. Peter and Walpole St. Andrew. There were also the churches of Long Sutton, Whaplode, Weston, and Moulton. (For photos visit my Flickr site). That's if I've loaded them up yet!

My last day before I was due to return to Nottingham was supposed to be a half-day cycling, a wander round Spalding, and an early afternoon train home. But the weather had been improving daily, and now the sun shone, and the wind had dropped, and the cycling was blissful. I looked at the map, saw the tempting-sounding Croyland Abbey, and headed south for 10 miles.

It's a stunning sight, honey-coloured stone drinking in the afternoon sun, the fragments of what must once have been a wealthy abbey, but which started as a lonely place for the hermit Guthlac to live.

Crowland, the village created around the abbey, (not a typo!) also has a unique three-cornered bridge, and one of the priciest tea-shops I've seen in a long time. Fortunately I noticed that there was a fundraising 'do' at the Methodist Church, and had a nice cuppa and a delicious slice of carrot cake for a jolly reasonable amount, and got to meet some locals too.

By then it was mid afternoon, and I was still 10 miles from Spalding. Better get a move on. But the cycle ride on a lane next to the River Wellney was lovely, and it was such a nice day, that it was 5.15 by the time I got to the Railway station and looked at the timetable for the next train. The last train had gone at 4.45. Bugger! What now? The only trains running were to Grantham, where I could get home, but it'd cost lots extra. There weren't any campsites around to stay in. I could cycle to Sleaford, where I was supposed to change trains, but it was a nasty route of about 25 miles with unavoidable A roads. The answer was to cycle - to Boston! About 20 miles, I'd already done the route, and I knew that trains ran all evening from there. Just a shame I hadn't just got a return ticket to there in the first place! I'd already done about 40 miles that day, but the sense of urgency lent energy to my legs, and I sped along, the sun setting to my left.

Two hours later I was at Boston railway station drinking tea and eating up all my leftover emergency rations, with a train due in 20 minutes. Best of all, the guard was so impressed by my story that he let me off the extra fare between Boston and Sleaford. A real professional!