September 20, 2008
Sutton St. Edmund -Woodhall Spa, Lincolnshire
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This morning it really did take me two hours from start to finish to escape from Orchard View. I took some pictures and said my goodbyes and I was on the road. Not, however in the direction I would have liked. The road-builders have had to take account of the numerous drainage waterways, which criss-cross the Fens, so although heading north, I, first, had to travel south; then west then north then west again, then north again, rectilinear, like a rook in chess.
On the this trip, I was carrying an MP3 player for the first time, so for the first miles into Spalding, I was accompanied by Creedence Clearwater Revival. An appropriate choice of music, I thought, for the bayous of South Lincolnshire, in spite of the lack of alligators or guitar pickers.
In Spalding, I stopped at a busy supermarket to buy lunch and so had to go through the laborious process of locking-up my bike and removing the obviously valuable items into a trolley to push round the store with me, a disadvantage of travelling alone. I ate my purchases on a bench by the river, away from the town centre.
I phoned my son in Sheffield. 'Where are you?' he asked.'Sunny Spalding.' It was and warm, Indian Summer. 'Where's that?' 'Lincolnshire. The Fens.' 'I'm jealous,' he said. My son is an occasional cyclo-tourist, still this came as a surprise to me. 'Jealous of me being in Spalding? Jesus, are you alright? What are you up to anyway?' 'Going to the pub to watch the football.' That's more like it I thought.
I I set off north, out of town and lazily followed the main A16 road towards Boston. There was a shoulder. Traffic was not too heavy and I felt unthreatened. At Kirton, I found another café and stopped for tea. Then I followed a quiet B road further northwards. I was aiming for the Humber Bridge, but I had imagined a different route and so had no information about local campsites. I had little idea where I would stay that night. Not far beyond Conningsby,I came upon the Woodhall Spa RAF museum and spent a few minutes looking around. Then, a mile or so short of Woodhall Spa, I spotted a campsite sign, off to the left. It was a bit of a detour but I thought it was time to stop. Willow Holt turned out to be bigger and more expensive [£12] than I would have liked. It was well landscaped and there was a lake. I decided to stay. I was the only cyclist and mine was the only single occupancy tent.
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The larger camp-sites in England often play host to week-end events. For example, my nephew imports old VW camper vans from California to restore and sell on. He attends VW camper rallies, which are always held, obviously enough, at campsites. This weekend the camping pitches of Willow Holt were partially occupied by competitors in the British Model Power Boat championships and members of the UK Ford Mondeo owners club. In case you were in any doubt, there are some funny people out there.
I pitched my tent, by some trees as far away from the lake as I could. Model powerboat practice was still on. The grass was lush, the evening warm and still. In spite of the occasional whine of tiny engines, I felt quite contented.
For dinner I rode into the nearby village of Tattershall. I ate fish and chips, on a bench overlooking the village green. I couldn't eat all the chips. After, I tried to wash the grease away with a few pints of Guinness. Back in the tent, I was woken an hour or so after I'd dropped off to sleep, by a couple engaged in a loud and furious row, or rather by a loud and furious woman engaged in a loud and furious monologue, in a strong East Midlands accent. The male party's contribution was limited to the occasional quiet emollient. Cut short, here's more or less what I could hear:
'When you went to Spain last munth, who did yer fooking go with? Yer fooking woife.' Inaudible reply. 'And where did yer go for yer tea last Sat'day? Yer fooking woife's' Inaudible reply 'Can't you fooking see, what she's fooking doin? I'll tell yer what she's fooking doing. She's taking the piss aht o'yer. What are going to fucking do abaht it?''Quoiet, people'll hear yer.'He got that right. 'I don't give a fook who 'ears ma. You know what, it looks to me like you don't give a fook abaht ma.'Inaudible reply.'Well if you don't fooking do something abaht it, I'll walk aht of that fooking door and it'll be the last yer see of ma.
My bedtime story.
Today's ride: 89 km (55 miles)
Total: 286 km (178 miles)
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