Stamford to Peterborough: E2 Day 87

A long day, much of it following the River Nene.

Rain blighted the first part of my day as I left the historic but wet town of Stamford and headed out through the Burghley Estate, famous for its horse trials, patronised by royalty. Starting from a golf course, unnaturally straight paths cut across fields, ignoring their layout, creating a corridor through a field of rape in yellow flower. Sheep, both black and white, looked at me suspiciously as their new born lambs hurried towards them on shaky legs. High, long, stone walls stretched into the distance.

Leaving the Estate I crossed organically farmed land to reach Sacrewell, a place where children could meet farm animals, but I was more interested in the café and a place out of the inclement weather. After a muffin and a scalding hot cup of coffee I continued to the River Nene which I followed either on its bank or a little distance away for the remainder of the day. One significant deviation was along a length of the Nene Valley Railway, a heritage line with an attached museum. After that I stayed close to the winding river or one of its many channels and backwaters as it crossed fields, its banks lined with trees just bursting into green leaf. Over the past few days the trees had started to cloth their stark bare branches, black against the sky, with a fuzz of young green leaves, so subtly that I barely noticed until today. The willows by the water were looking especially graceful in their new coat.

River Nene before Peterborough. 

Today's sightings included a few red kites carving curves in the air as they glided across the sky; a hare that raced up the track, saw me and promptly turned around and raced back; swans, gliding brilliant white over the brown waters of the river; a flurry of flapping wings as startled pigeons scattered from the trees above my head; and a pheasant sprung by my arrival. 

There was an irregular distribution of Hereward Way waymarks today, and also those of the Nene Way, both trails following the same route for a while. Yesterday my path coincided with the Macmillan Way and the Jurassic Way. At times it seems that too many "Ways", or long distance paths are being created. Effort might be better focused on promoting and maintaining existing routes, or else joining them together to make longer National or International trails such as the E2.

The river had some interest, there were boats moored, both barges and motor cruisers. Locks on the river seemed to be associated with large sluice gates used to control the flow. A pretty section of riverside path went below a wooded slope with drifts of bluebells just coming into flower (although they needed some sunshine to really show off). I could smell the wild garlic whose flowers were still in bud. A long boardwalk carried me over the lower lying areas where iris will flower later in the year. Nearer Peterborough the path ran through parkland and split into a parallel channels. A deviation was required as the central span of a pedestrian bridge was missing, I followed a cycle path re-joining the Hereward Way a little later. A later diversion was needed in central Peterborough where a length of chewed up tarmac was barricaded off.

Bluebell wood.

Needing to reach my campsite I quickly left Peterborough along the river, which had now been forced into a straight line through the countryside, canalised between embankments. The river, embankment, path and adjacent drain seemed to converge at a point at infinity or at least far, far away, like an exercise in drawing perspective. My path was along the top of the northern embankment, often flanked by a line of willow trees, their greening branches swaying in the wind. An attractive sight not fully appreciated as my feet were sore after walking over 20 miles, so I was pleased to reach tonight's campsite, graced as it now was with intermittent sunshine. At the reception the owner asked if I had seen a Russian submarine sailing up the Nene. I took it as a joke, and while said in jest it was prompted by an article claiming Russia was spying on British infrastructure with the aim of destroying it in a future conflict.

I camped in a position to capture the western light of the setting sun, which, when the clouds allowed, lit up the thin nylon of my tent as I relaxed inside.

Willows by the river near Peterborough.

Lines joining in the distance.