June 16, 2022 to June 21, 2022
Ruskington to Sleaford
recovery and out
My left leg is a serious worry. How on earth will I be able to get to the airport with two hefty suitcases and trek across the vast airport in Dubai when I can hardly walk to the front door?
Professional opinion is needed, so Dave drives me to A&E in Lincoln in the morning and I wait the best part of an hour before getting to see a doctor, who seems like a sports injury specialist. She gives me a thorough examination and tells me the hamstring could take a few months to heal. She concludes that riding a bike north from Newcastle for five hours was not a good idea and tells me to rest up and wait. It's not what I want to hear, but doesn't come as a total surprise.
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A few days at Dave's doing little except for sitting about does the trick. In bed my leg doesn't ache at night and there's far less pain when walking around the house, and going up and down the stairs has become easier.
Taking it easy gives me the chance to test out the 'new' camera - the little Lumix. The memory card from my ill-fated Canon that got smashed a while ago fits and would you believe it - the camera works fine. It's really nice to be able to slide it in a pocket, rather than having to lug around a weighty DSLR.
On Sunday Ruby drives over and picks me up to take me to watch a cricket match. She's getting into the game and has started a village team, and as it's winding down we leave the boys and their dad to it and drive to The White Hart Hotel for coffee.
It's an upmarket place very close to the cathedral that I haven't been in for decades. Back in the day it was a trendy hangout, but the traditional victorian lounge with its copper-topped bar and thick carpet has now gone and been replaced with a continental style interior decorated in tones of grey, with leather sofas and low tables filling the floor space. It reeks of soulessness and is a dissapointment, but it's good to sit and chat with my daughter for he best part of an hour.
Later I meet my younger brother in The Morning Star and collect some money he owes for some football programmes, then Ruby drives to the Ferry Boat for a family dinner. It's utter chaos, as a party is in full swing, so we drve to a nearby village and dine there - me having a couple of pints of Marston's Pedigree bitter.
After five days, I get back on the bike and ride to the local post office to mail some bits that got sold on eBay. The left leg still feels tender, but it's not too bad, and it seems like Dave and I will be able to do a gentle ride somewhere local.
We've been looking at visiting an unusal windmill in a village about 30km or so away, which is a bit far there and back in my current state, so we agree on putting the bikes in the back of his car and parking somewhere roughly halfway: Ruskington.
Dave tells me the village has a decent garden centre with a cafe housed in a former barn. It also has a big parking area. We're onto a winner.
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The cafe is really nice, with the original, handsawn wooden beams spanning the ceiling and a high gable wall built of stone quarried from somewhere nearby providing more rustic charm. We seem to fit right in with all the pensioners enjoying tea, coffee and cake. Well, kind of - we're the only two not dressed in pastel shades and wearing sensible shoes.
It's a bit of a scorcher today and Dave's car is left in the shade of a tree after we unload the two bikes. I've got a hardcopy of an OS map with me and know there are quiet lanes around this rural part of the world, and I quickly checked Google Streetview yesterday to know where to turn and what road conditions might be like. It was doing this that I found access to a public footpath, or bridleway, that makes for a nice shortcut.
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Ruskngton has a single charity shop and you never know what you'll find in these remote ones. Bargains, hopefully. It turns out Dave finds a cheap pair of new shoes his size that'll be good for work. It means pedalling back to the car to offload them, but it's less than a few minutes' away.
Once we're on the right road leading south out of Ruskington, we soon find access to the public footpath. It's grassy and bumpy, but it feels good to be in the countryside and my left knee isn't complaining.
The path takes us to the A152 and soon after crossing it we reach a bridge that seems too fancy for spanning a small stream, with neatly cut stone columns topped by eight perfectly carved balls. We decide to clamber down the bank for a different perspective and there'a coat of arms on the side.
It turns out the stream is in fact the River Slea and there's a ruined priory is nearby - this bridge must have some connection. The map tells us we're at Haverholme, but it doesn't show any access to where the ruins, so we carry on cycling to Heckington and its unique windmill.
I'm on a slight learning curve with my five-quid Lumix, but it's not got many confusing functions - it's a point-and-shoot with a 10-second timer that allows us to take some self-timed shots. It's just a shame I didn't find it a month or so ago. With no instruction manual, I resort to fiddling with the settings and by accident it ends up taking three shots when the timer's turned on. One of the photos usually looks OK and on the screen they seem to be in-focus. What a bargain!
We follow deserted lanes and take a left in a one-street place called Ewerby and notice there are lots of places around here with the sufix by. It comes from when the Vikings started to settle and means something like farm. A quick look at the OS map shows Willowby, Asgarby, Unsby, Swarby, Spanby and Osbournby all not far away.
This part of Lincolnshire is all new to me, including Heckington, which looks to be sound asleep when we cruise into its centre. There's a corner shop open and Dave gets himself a cold drink and while he's inside I ask a woman who pulls up in a car where the windmill is... turn left just ahead then right after the pub. The question is: Will we make it past the pub?
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We find the windmill within a few minutes, but a metal gate is shut and the mill's cafe is clearly not open, not that we expacted it to be in the middle of the week.
As we just want to take a few snaps, I open the gate and walk across the gravel parking area. A sign says there's a brewery and I press my face against a window and see a figure inside. It waves for me to enter. It's a nice surprise to find a bar with a few draught beers on offer.
It's hot and we're thirsty. You work it out.
We're not alone. Three local men are sat enjoying a drink and the manager pulls us half pints - we're being sensible. First we sample one named Fenman Bitter (4.1%) and then try half a pint of Fen Slodger - which refers to the people who survived in the wilds of the flat, wetlands of eastern England back in the Middle Ages. Dave and I are surviving very nicely, thank you.
The reason it's called 8 Sail Brewery is the wndmill has eight sails - the only one in the world that boasts so many. I walk around the back once we've done drinking and take a snap.
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Our next destination is the town of Sleaford - clearly a place where people could once ford the River Slea.
We head there along hawthorn-lined lanes free of traffic, via the mouthful that is Burton Perwerdine (it's maybe 10 homes, max) until getting to Marsham Lane, which must have been a quiet, narrow route less than a century ago, but which now sees a bit of traffic.
The road isn't what you'd call nasty, but after so much tranquility, it's certainly a contrast. Anyway, it's only five minutes before we're at the edge of town.
It's about four o'clock when pause at the southern edge of Sleaford and take a snap of the huge Bass Maltings, which I'd waged if located in a city would have been converted into flats long ago. This is rural Lincolnshire, however, and the eight blocks all sit empty. Built by the Bass Brewery, they are the biggest ones in England, but have been unused since the company left town in 1959.
Once on the main street, we start doing the few charity shops - Dave gets himself a CD for 50 pence.
With it now being so late, we wonder when we'll make it back to the car and Dave thinks it's best to call the garden center to make sure his Volvo is OK. The woman who answrs tells him they'll be closing up at five and the main gate will get locked, so he won't be able to drive it out.
Oh dear.
The only thing we can do is find a pub and have a pint and something to eat ponder our options. We ride around and eventually find a place called Watergate Yard, which has a number of tables outside. Our bikes lean against the wall and we order pints that are gassy.
Dave says he has a cousin who lives in Sleaford. he gives her a call and also calls our friend Mark. The plan is to leave teh bikes in his cousin's hair salon and get Mark to pick us up and drive us home. It seems like a plan and we sit and drink and wait for Mark to arrive. After a good while we call him and he tells us he can't find a place called Watergate Yard in Ruskington. He's driven around teh place a few times without luck. Dave tells him he'll have better luck in Sleaford.
Dave's cousin's salon is called Hairforce. I love how these kind of businesses have such names. We wheel our bikes into the rear yard and Mark arrives at the nearby rendezvous spot a few minutes later and drives us to Dave's place.
There's Dave's car to think about, but we can work that out later.
Today's ride: 30 km (19 miles)
Total: 1,151 km (715 miles)
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2 years ago