Last Sunday I met Jim from Halifax, Nova Scotia. He says he wore sandals all through last winter, and they didn't get snow until after Christmas, which isn't the image I've always had of the place. Of course, being Canadian, Jim may just be the strong and silent type, with resilience way beyond our namby-pamby British norms. But here we are in mid-September, and two days ago there was a record temperature for the month down in tropical Gravesend, which has a penchant for such things, recording 34.8 C. And this morning it's 17C as I set out at eight in the morning, with a nasty 97% humidity. A soupy mist bathes the countryside, soil and stalk.
I walk from Wollaston across shrouded fields in the direction of Irchester. I'm starting early because I have to be back at 14.00 for an encounter with SkyMan II who is going to sort us out for broadband, telly, landlines etc.. As opposed to SkyMan I who came last Monday. And didn't.
From its very name you know that Irchester's Roman in origin. It's been through quite a bit since, perhaps for the same reasons that brought the Romans here in the first place: the ironstone. The town is untidy: light industry rubbing shoulders with the gentry and each generation adding housing for ordinary people in the style of the time. 'Thanks, babe!' says a jogging-bottomed woman to a friend as she crosses the road in front of me. Like you do.
The Romans hung out down towards the river, the other side of the A45 dual carriageway on green terraces near enough to walk to the quarries, but far enough that smoke from the smelters kept out of their eyes. The current large village with St. Katharine's generously proportioned church close to its heart is a long half-mile away. Further up the hill is the Working Men's Club, which looks as if it's seen better days: the 'no smoking' rule has hastened the decline of such places. Even twenty years ago, they were still hiring bands to entertain the punters of a Thursday evening. Not any more. Doubtless there are fewer local folk who want to identify themselves as 'working men/women'. More or less opposite the WMC in a low-rise building is the 'Reach Out' church. And the Methodists' front door looks very smart (something I've already seen elsewhere quite often on these walks). I wonder how they all get on with St. Katharine's? I note with a smile that the current vicar is herself a Catherine. Wheels within wheels.
I pause in the churchyard and read a psalm, on this occasion Psalm 27. My dad was a great fan of The Psalms ( not in a sung fashion, because my parents were Baptists, though you could occasionally catch my mum listening to Choral Evensong, and the New Baptist Hymn Book actually contained a few chants, although no one ever used them). More than once he recommended them to me when I was an angst-ridden teenager, but I didn't get it, not back then. Now reading 'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?/The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?' I imagine my dad in army uniform sitting in a Nissen Hut at Tidworth camp in 1941, and I understand. It must all have been very frightening indeed for a trainee draughtsman thinking about a vocation in the Ministry.
From the churchyard, the definition of the tall spire is still fuzzy in the mist, and the grass is damp as I head towards the boundary of the Country Park on the Nene Way. Across an extremely stony field (and if you wanted to do a field walk looking for Roman bits, I should think this is a prime place to go right now) some steps descend into the woods around the quarries.
The whole area has been poshed up a lot since I was here last, in a sort of Center Parcs (sic) fashion. The paths are all very well-kept and...safe. I pass a lot of pairs of ladies chatting and powerwalking. Annoyingly, whatever the map says, the old route of the Nene Way doesn't work any longer, blocked by steel fences, and I have to retrace my steps and in the absence of any waymarks, guess at the best path. I follow my nose to the Visitors' Centre with its café and what looks like a good playground. On Sundays there's a regular summer Railway thing going on with a couple of ancient quarry tank engines. For the exit from the park towards Little Irchester, I walk along a cutting which must once have provided a permanent way link from the quarries to Wellingborough.
I see a cross marking a chapel on the map as I emerge into Little Irchester's small conglomeration of houses, and wonder if it's an outpost of Anglicanism, but no, it's a redundant 'wee free' place of worship from the 1890s. Out the back something child-centred is going on in the 'Hilton Hall'. Turning right under the A45, I pick up the Nene Way as it begins to follow the towpath eastwards on the river from Whitworths' Lowry-esque great mill, the nineteenth century part of which now looks disused. But the swans still beautify the riverside just here, a Wellingborough feature which has adorned many postcards over 120 years.
The sun has burned away the mist now, and it's very hot down by the river as the Nene Way uncertainly leaves town, a shimmer over the stubbly fields and gravel-pit lakes. On a rise to the right is the mothballed building of HMP Wellingborough, a modern architectural echo of Whitworths', a comment, conscious or unconscious, on our ambiguous feelings about work: it both provides us the means of sustenance, and is our prison. And so mankind has felt, I think, since the book of Genesis was written. Was there ever a time when great infrastructural projects were undertaken with mutual joy by a whole community. The building of Stonehenge? Or the great cathedrals?
It's surprising what a difference it makes to walk over grass of even a moderate length, as here beside the Nene. The extra couple of centimetres you have to pick up your feet reminds you quickly of muscles that are underused. Just before I turn up to Great Doddington, by the site of its mill, I come across a ewe with a poorly foot. It limps away from me, and though I can see an orange tag, I can't see if it's numbered, and I can't see the farm to which it might belong, so I have to leave it be. It's feeding quite happily, but encounters with animals in difficulties always tug at the heartstrings. And there's something about sheep.
I climb to Doddington and enjoy the calm and prosperity of the long village. St Nicholas' church lies behind the exceedingly plumptious and desirable Manor House. The church is open because the boiler man is at work. Inside all is very well-ordered. There's a servery and a café area. A loo and a vestry are wrapped in matching blond woodwork. There are bibles in the pews and Nicky Gumbel books on the bookstand, but the service sheets are conventional. Parish news is set out for prayer, discreetly, often using Christian names only. Some choir members from the benefice are going to Peterborough for next month's Diocesan Choral Festival. Only the large projector screen which partially obscures the view of the chancel strikes a jarring note. But there's something here for everyone. As the boiler man leaves, job done, Jim the churchwarden shuts up the church with a little regret that it can't remain open. He tells me they've recently lost a lot of lead, nicked from the roof, despite the rectory being a stone's throw from the south porch. I see Jackie Buck, the rector, in her garden but leave her and Jim to chat. She deserves a lunch hour without me bothering her.
Back down to the scrappy remains of Doddington mill and across the valley. On the far side of the river the paths once again fail to match up to the OS, although perhaps for good reasons. The whole area is now a de facto country park for walkers, twitchers and anglers, all of whom are in evidence, and as in an old Forestry Commission wood, the OS can't keep up with the changing pattern of trails and firebreaks. On the far side of the lakes I have to crawl through a hedge to gain the tarmac road back to Wollaston, straw in my hair and scratches up my arms, but it could have been worse. My timing is good though: I make it home with ten minutes to spare before Skyman II arrives. Prior to his appearance we have the internet, the wrong Sky package and no phone. When he leaves, we have televisions that work, a working landline, but no internet. This isn't his fault - it's probably BT Openreach's but no...you don't want to hear all this: you've troubles of your own. So instead (doing a Victoria Coren- Mitchell on 'Only Connect' here) let's all sing along with D. Bowie (more or less):
I had to phone someone so I picked on you
Hey, that's far out so you heard him too
Switch on the TV we may pick him up on Channel Two
Look out your window I can see his light
(Altogether now)
There's a Skyman waiting in down the street
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds
There's a Skyman etc.
Stats man: 17km. Max 25C. Mist then hot sun under a cloudless sky. Two churches. Four herons (although one can never be certain: they tend to hop ahead of the walker up a river). One piece of (Roman?) roof tile in a field, left for you to find.
Lord Jesus
What about thieves then?
You knew some.
You were crucified with two of them
And promised eternal life to one.
I remember
With something approaching affection
The kids I taught
Who went on the rob in the dead of night
And the band members I worked with
Who weren't averse to a spot of poaching.
But then
I also remember
The headbutt that sent me sprawling
From that drunk guy
Casing the studio in Milton Keynes
And the wreck of our house
Once the burglars had been in
And I feel angry.
Love the sinner and hate the sin?
It doesn't add up.
So Lord, once more
Help me leave judgment to you
And for my own sake
Help me to learn to forgive
And forgive
And go on forgiving.
Amen.
.
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