“To be happy at home is the end of all human endeavour. The sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a person alone reading a book that interests them; and all economics, politics, laws, armies, and institutions, are only valuable in so far as they prolong and multiply such scenes.” – CS Lewis
How does that translate to travel? Does it suggest that we relish those moments equally as well wherever we may be (home is where we are, as it were), or is it that happiness at home provides both the stable foundation for outward adventure and the call to return, where those experiences then enrich our homelife – provide the laughter over a meal? Not sure.
A head cold has put a stop to morning exercises for me lest I have nought left in the tank for getting out and about. Unfortunately, said lack of exercise has not been commensurate with cessation of food consumption, potentially the opposite in these colder climes. Cue the fat tongs. In lieu of bathroom scales, standing hopefully on which each morning comprises a core part of our home daily routine, I brought some fat tongs, euphemistically referred to as ‘skin fold callipers’. They take some getting used to, but once mastered, they’re not a bad, lightweight-travel proxy (though a little less responsive – 1% body fat change is a round about 2kg weight change for me – and they’re only good to 1% accuracy, maybe a bit less).
Laugh, you may, but old mate Daniel Lambert (1770 – 1809) would have done well to heed the intent. He died in Stamford, at age 39, weighing 335kg. They had to remove a window and part of a wall to extract him from the inn in which he died and his 6’4” x 4’4” x 2’4”, wheeled coffin took 20 men, half an hour to lower down a ramp into the grave. Definitely no fat tongs employed by Daniel. He was apparently very intelligent and amiable, and is still lauded by locals as something of a hero. Wall plaques tell of his unusual weight gain despite being a keen sportsman, extremely strong, a non-drinker and ‘not in the habit of eating unusual amounts of food’. More sober studies suggest that a sedentary life, lots of meat, and beer are the likely causes. The fat-tongs indicate I’m not, at this stage, doing a Daniel Lambert, but I’ll keep on it.
After our sun-warmed walk at Burghley yesterday, Di lamented the end of the cold and the passing of the joys, for those from warmer climes, of rugging up against the elements. She needn’t have worried. We set off on yesterday’s intended walk towards Easton on the Hill into gale-force gusts, rain and perhaps a measure of sleet. The ‘meadows’ heralding the first section of the walk, could otherwise have been entitled lake, quagmire or bog. “Start off in the meadows”, the information lady gushed gaily, her sing-song tone evoking visions of skipping through daffodils whilst holding hands and reciting Shelley (assuming one’s machismo allowed for such effeminate aberrations). We sucked through the bog, rested, exhausted, at the mineral spa, marched under the highway before legging it over the double railway tracks, and trudging up the Kakoda trail of a mud-laden hill pockmarked with the deep-holed hoof marks of horses that surely met their demise in this God-forsaken slush pit of a land ….to arrive at a lovely little norman church and graveyard (probably full of dead meadow walkers).
Whilst oohing and ahhing at the stone, shingle and topiaried hedge rows of this twee little town, we bump into sisters Lois and Annie and their dog Lola, who moved to Portugal to get away from the current political situation in America (the sisters, not the dog). In fact, their dogs had died not long after moving to Portugal, and they’d signed up (got intensive security clearance) to be dog minders. Their first post was here in Easton on the Hill where they were in a gorgeous 1700s cottage with an old apple orchard, a view down over the (mud pit, horse devouring…etc etc) valley of death and, of course, Lola the dog (the owners had gone to India for two weeks). We had a coffee with them at the Birch Tree Cafe (only because the Blue Bird Pub just closed) before making the trek back home through the wind, rain, and dark. Dinner at the Kings Head pub in Stamford never tasted so good!
Travel day to today (Friday), and we decide to take in Isaac Newton’s house and Sherwood forest on the way across to ‘the Peaks’. We’d intended to do Cambridge and Ely, but couldn’t see ourselves doing them justice, passing through’. Perhaps when we come back south?
Seeing Newton’s home, some of his original etchings on his bedroom walls (paper was expensive), the apple tree from which the Gravity-inspiring apple allegedly fell (carbon dated as 400 years old) and soaking up something of this genius’s birthplace and garden of contemplation was wonderful.
We arrived at Sherwood in the fading afternoon’s drizzly, grey light. Picking the shortest forest route we somehow walked the longest one, getting to the beautiful old oaks and “Major Oak” in the damp, eerie twilight. This gave the enormous bulk of the gnarly old winter-naked oaks something of a mysterious turn, as if Friar Tuck or Robin himself might pop out from behind them. Twas quite lovely.
Our approach to Curbar in the Peaks was the classic narrow country road in the dark, peering through the rain, tired and hungry, with a lethargic GPS and frazzled nerves. Twinkles of sodium vapour light could be seen across the night-black Curbar valley as we descended, the dark, winding, steep-diving, stonewalled roads creating a seeming vast nightime abyss. Notwithstanding, we arrived unscathed, having conversed to a lovely gent via his home-gate-intercom who informed our exhausted, sodden (GPS-loathing) frames that our stay was likely two doors down, ‘yeh, ask for Dave and Gerladine…big gates’. Hot showers, “Waitrose” butter chicken curries and a bottle of wine by the gas fire, and we’re right as rain.
Di takes a walk to Baslow, reads and enjoys the delights and comforts of the Vickerage today, and I take a walk along the Froggatt, Curbar and Baslow edges. Three words; cold, mud, spectacular. Saturday and people everywhere, seemingly all poms, except the rather large Russian mother in black Lululemon tights, white fur and Nikes. Her husband is learning just how much his comfortable-in-louis-vouton-cafe-culture wife is not enjoying the windy, muddy ‘edge’, view or no. He looks defeated.
I prance from solid tundra-tuft to tuft across a muddy fen, thinking “I’ve nailed this”, only to land my last leap in a knee-deep bog – much to the joy of the cheering group waiting their turn to cross. The rest of the ‘Edge’ is pretty much Elizabeth standing on a rock, reflecting on what might have been if she’d said yes to Darcy, and Pemberley, its movie inspiration, Chatsworth, capturing the afternoon sun in the distance (yes, there was sun!)
We dine at the Bridge Inn on Garlic Chicken, Onion Soup, cider (Di) and Speckled Duck (GF) beer (me) and exaggerate our tales of adventure. Di’s walk to Baslow took her through a trail guard-railed by barbed wire on the one side and blackberry on the other, betwixt happily filled with mud and water. She, too, took a fall, though I believe with less prancing and subsequent crowd cheering. The meal was excellent and we vow to return (it’s 200m downhill from the Old Vickerage!).
Today, Sunday, we make calls home and then drive, late morning, to Baslow to avoid the aforementioned barbed wire and slush. It’s a short walk to the ‘kissing gate’ entry to Chatsworth Park where we start a 10km walk that barely touches the 1900 acres of ‘near’ parkland, part of a 4000 acre estate encompassing various woodlands and rural areas. As we found with Burghley, much land is still owned and managed by dukes and lords who draw rent from the farms and town businesses. Old money.
It’s a stunning park. We walk along the Derwent River, admiring Chatsworth’s many stone windows and walls before crossing the bridge and rising up past Beesley Hill Top Farm (where we pass a large group of horse riders all suited up), along the ridge behind Chatsworth to the Hunting Tower. The sun is out by now, and we enjoy golden views down over the parklands as we descend back to the kissing gate and Baslow.
To our word, we dine at the Bridge Inn on the Sunday (Pork Roast) with a couple of ales before toddling off, content , to bed. We note as we leave that all the locals are wearing wellies.