In the field beyond the church I can see an agglomeration of horsey clutter. I assume there's a point-to-point in progress. And shortly after the beginning of my walk a smart young woman nurses her bay past me up out of a muddy little ravine near the fishponds, smiling beatifically. A lot of the route today is along bridle paths. As a result the walking is slightly awkward because of the shared space. But that's OK, providing everyone's considerate. I still like Sassoon's 'Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man' a lot, even though it was an 'O' level set text. It encouraged a teenage predisposition to be warm towards equestrian society, even though my one young experience of actually sitting on a horse was alarming. My mount that day was large, grumpy and recalcitrant. Shortly afterwards I endured a frightening episode on a remote Yorkshire path with a hungry animal curious about the contents of my rucksack. And I was several times annoyed by the high-handedness of hunting people in their seventies pomp around the Northamptonshire lanes. They seemed to me to be toff-ish, privileged vandals whose anti-social behaviour was actively condoned by the great and good, in contrast to the urban kids I was teaching whose equally obnoxious activities were roundly condemned by press and population. But that was then. It's different now, I think. And I was much moved the other evening while watching Madam Secretary when Tea Leoni had to say goodbye to her much loved steed, now racked with cancer.
More worryingly, a mile or so along the path, near the farms at Astwell Park, another young woman, more informally dressed, has difficulty controlling her pony as they pass me. I stand very still and utter soothing words, but even so she has a job staying aboard. It's one of those moments that gives pause for thought, and consideration of whether a first-aid course might be a good idea. A few years back I actually came across the aftermath of an equestrian fall in a field to the north of the county, where a rider and her companions were waiting anxiously for the chopper ambulance to arrive. There was nothing to be done that day, but my mobile phone apart, I'd have little to contribute now if confronting an accident.
Meteorologically it's rather a cheerless morning, and it feels like a long haul over the neglected fieldpaths to Syresham. Once upon a time this was very much a forest village. The church of St. James the Great is a little isolated from the main part of the settlement, and unusually distant from the pub, the King's Head. I imagine that with time and the establishment of the turnpike from Northampton to Brackley the village straggled out towards the road away from Church End. The inside of St. James is very welcoming, and I sit and rest my feet prayerfully for a while, before retiring to the King's Head for a ginger beer and a natter with Henry, whose chatting-up of the barmaid I probably interrupted. Henry works on local farms. We talk about the local byways and the churn from incomer, recreational 4x4s, and how he's been involved in making good some of the routes. I do not overstay my welcome, hating to be an impediment to courtship.
The shape of Syresham is intriguing - a bit more than a simple two street scheme, and also comprises a short, broad High Street - paradoxically wider than the adjoining Broad Street. I misread the map and wander down to the stream passing a house which has a justifiably outraged notice at the end of its drive complaining about the dumping of multiple plastic bags of canine excrement on their property. If this is a random act, it's of course an astonishingly horrible thing to do. Well, even if there's some unknown vendetta going on, it's still horrible! But on my way back up the street, I notice that horses have passed this way recently, leaving their mark on the road. Is dog poo in principle or practice worse than horse poo? Or does the tolerance of the latter render the former somehow more acceptable in the blinkered eyes of some dog-owners?
My onward route skirts the football field, and takes me west towards Pimlico, where I have to traverse a 'bio-secure' battery farm without spotting the facility I'm assured has been provided to wash my boots clean. Shortly afterwards I find myself in a large farm garden with an extensive (and expensive!) model train network running hither and thither through the grounds. I guess the RMT or ASLEF must have got to the workforce. No trains running today. Or maybe it's a case of 'leaves on the line'. Or a winter timetable. Pity!
Radstone was once a two-fold village. There was Nether Radstone and Upper Radstone. Since a couple of hundred years Nether Radstone is no more: just a memory under the fields, courtesy of an aristocratic clearance. There's something left of Upper Radstone on the far side of a noble bridge which carries me over the defunct Great Central Railway. Once upon a time the Great Central did what it said on the tin, providing a third alternative to the routes from the North to London. It was carefully engineered to allow fast running, but even so, as an idea it never really caught on and became a principal casualty of Beeching, leaving Marylebone Station as a Monopoly venue and a trainspotting and travelling afterthought (unless you live in the Chilterns!)
I'm caught unawares by St. Lawrence's church. The approach is along a shady path of leaf mould, and it's clear 'summat's oop' by the state of the two lamp stands which should light the way for night-time visitors. They're yellowed and uncared for. Although the church is open, a sad notice on the door tells me that entrance would be injurious to my health because of bat droppings and urine. I push the door ajar. Inside the pews are covered in plastic and although the church furniture looks OK, it's clear long term work is being undertaken (the web later informs me this is a problem going back some years). I don't understand. I've now visited so many churches I'd like to have been able to access but couldn't. Here's one I can easily get inside, but whose doors should probably be firmly locked shut.
Admiring the splendid purple brickwork which lines its route, I cross under the Great Central (why has no one reclaimed them?) and press on to the hamlet of Falcutt and then to the outskirts of Helmdon. St. Mary Magdalene's, Helmdon is also set apart, up on the rise, hedging its bets as to whether it serves the big house at Falcutt or the people of the village. Although none of the supposed medieval decorations survive, the sanctuary with its stained glass and flowers is an enlivening, colourful focus for worship. Don't we need our churches to be a stimulus to all the senses, sonic, visual and olfactory, to the greatest degree possible? Surely anything else is a covert denial of God's creative power? Miserabilists please note, it cannot be Lent all the year round. Helmdon was Northamptonshire's best village in 2016, but I'm running out of daylight and puff, so can't go to check the centre of town for evidence.
I decide to take the easier option back to Wappenham, and choose what claims to be a gated road towards Astwell, although in fact there's not a gate to be seen along its length. I'm glad I do this because the track hugs the slightly higher ground to the south and gives me lovely prolonged views out over the upper Tove valley. Eventually it brings me down to Astwell, the house and hamlet from which the benefice comprising the local churches takes its name. There are two things about Astwell, The first is the remains of the castle: the tower is very obvious, standing above the house and farm complex, looking younger than its real age. The second is the tragic and mysterious story of the WW2 plane crash which killed ten USAF personnel at 8.19 a.m. on November 30th 1943. It could have been even worse. As the B-17 bomber came down in flames, with pretty much a full complement of bombs apart from the one which had apparently exploded mid-air, it narrowly avoided the farm cottages. What I can't quite understand is what it was doing there. It had taken off from RAF Podington on the Bedfordshire border (now the Santa Pod raceway) to bomb targets in Germany. The weather had forced the mission to be aborted. But what were the planes doing so far to the west, thirty miles away?
A coda to the Radstone visit. I hadn't realised exactly where the proposed route of HS2 lies. I suppose I'd always thought it would fall somewhere to the west of Brackley. Not so. The line will pass within 250 metres of Radstone, and so of course has been the subject of challenge, alarm and despondency among residents. I shouldn't be surprised. There was a logic to the route chosen by the Great Central back in the nineteenth century. As it happens I'm not personally in favour of HS2. It's extremely expensive. It's meeting a 'need' which is unproven. It's a Trojan horse for development along its length, because the government will be able to change the criteria for building on adjacent green fields. Of course, it meets the government's largely unchallenged belief that we can build our way out of economic difficulty. Whereas I think that we're merely feeding obesity, and that better answers lie in eating (consuming) less. Gaining half an hour on a journey from Manchester or Leeds to London (or vice-versa: which is the desideratum?) is no more sensible than some idiot in a BMW risking his life and mine by overtaking inappropriately for the sake of a few minutes extra in a meeting or the pub. And anyway the cost of a seat on the train will probably be extortionate. This will not be travel for the people, who will still sit in queues on the M1 at Luton going doo-lally while the motorway is upgraded to ten, twelve, fourteen, lanes.
However, from a brief perusal of the objections submitted by Radstone locals, it would appear that the preservation of the Natterer's bats in St. Lawrence's church has been included as an argument. How exactly high speed trains and bat colonies interact with each other seems baffling to me, but as a microcosm of 21st century Britain, it seems somehow significant, viewed from a faith perspective. The church it seems, has its uses, but not as a place of worship, only as a refuge for an allegedly endangered species. Very Franciscan.
Stats man: 21k: 6 hours: 10 degrees C. Initially cloudy, but some occasional afternoon sun. Slight westerly breeze. 11 stiles: 19 gates: (the gates often stiff, sometimes locked, thus requiring gymnastic ability, the stiles often rather high -ouch! - for a bloke of my stature!) Two riders. No apocalypse. One aggressive farm dog, satisfyingly cowed by my loud pack-leader's rebuke.
Father God
I know I'm a Big Consumer.
I have had a large appetite.
Too much petrol and diesel.
Too many cakes and biscuits
(as Doctor Tiffany would tell me, if I let on).
Too much plastic.
Too many painkillers.
At one time, too much alcohol.
It's not as though I haven't been told.
I used to recommend Bishop John Taylor's
'Enough is Enough' to students.
I can diagnose the problem in others.
I seem to be unable to do much about myself.
Lord, save me from weakness of will.
Help me to do better.
And not just so that I
Can preach about it
Amen.
