Donington-on-Bain to Woodhall Spa: E2 Day 79

A morning in the Wolds, lunch at Horncastle and an easy afternoon walk on an old railway line to Woodhall Spa.

This morning there seemed more wooded areas mixed in with the farmland than previous days, stands of pine, beech and hawthorn. Fields of young crops no longer predominated, there were valleys of pasture, with patches of poor drainage, reeds and mud.

The tombstones of an old cemetery where once a church stood attracted my attention, the inscriptions lost with age. Like other villages in the area, in Medieval times the settlement was probably larger, slight mounds in the fields indicating where houses once stood. A little beyond rabbits ran through hedges into their burrows as I approached. I pointed them out to a man with a greyhound on a lead, its muzzle grey with age. Man replied that there were badgers around as well, then pointed out a route through a meadow rather than following the roads of Goulceby. 

A section of the Viking Way. 

I followed the cloudy, whitish waters of Goulceby Beck to the next village of Scamblesby. However it was the church in the village of Belchford that diverted me from the Viking Way for a little as it was offering "TEAS". I made myself a coffee in the church from the facilities provided and ate one (or two) of the biscuits offered in return for a donation. While drinking it I contemplated the white walled church interior with its simple arch leading into the chancel where the choir stalls and other features were picked out with blue. On the wall was a list of those ministering here since the 13th century although the current church dated from the 18th century.

Temptation for hikers at Belchford Church.

As I climbed the hillside away from the village I spotted a rabbit, stationary beside the path. Alive but not moving it seemed to have a hole where one eye should have been and the other eye was closed. Although it seemed close to the end of its life and probably in pain I carried on, the peace I had gained from the church destroyed as I asked why a loving God would allow such suffering. Not being able to continue with a heavy feeling of guilt for doing nothing, I picked up a heavy piece of flint and retraced my steps, intent on quickly ending the animal's life. I worried that I would not be able to dispatch it quickly and cleanly. In the event my ability was not tested, when I returned to the relevant spot, the rabbit had gone. Sadness pervaded my walk for a while, reflected in the grey clouds overhead and not lifted by the bright yellow faces of daffodils planted in lines on the side of the track.

With time I reached Horncastle, the biggest town on the Viking Way so far. In the central square the market was just closing down as I went into a café for a sandwich, guiltily dropping bits of mud from my boots on their floor.

After Horncastle I rejoined the River Bain for a kilometre or so, where it had been tamed into the small Horncastle canal (disused). Sheep grazed its banks. Horncastle marked the end of the Wolds, the land was now much flatter.  For much of my remaining walk to Woodhall Spa I followed an abandoned railway line, making good speed on its flat, firm surface. Trees lined the path and there were sculptures; one of a Viking long boat, another of an otter, others of plants.

Old railway line with sculpture. 

After a final deviation through a golf course I arrived at the town of Woodhall Spa. In the Second World War it housed many troops and airmen. The former were involved in Operation Market Garden described in a film called "A Bridge Too Far". The airmen included those of 617 squadron who were responsible for destroying two dams in Germany with the novel "bouncing bomb". Their exploits were made famous by the film "The Dambusters" with its stirring orchestral accompaniment. As a small child we used to run around the playground singing the music with our arms outstretched pretending to be Lancaster bombers. The film is less acceptable than it once was. Firstly, destruction of the dams killed many innocent people including forced labourers. It would now be classed as a war crime.  Secondly, the name of a black labrador dog who appears in the film (although historically accurate), is no longer considered acceptable. After checking into my Lancaster themed hotel (after the bomber not the place) although tired by today's long walk I visited the memorial to 617 squadron in the town's centre. It commemorates the many brave airmen who died in its service. I imagined the mixture of excitement and fear they must felt. I wondered if they suffered as they died.