Walking to Camelot (8 page)

Throughout Northamptonshire there is a paucity of farm animals. Large, sweeping fields of varied crops predominate. A few tracts are overrun with crimson clover and common vetch, plus purple and rose lupines here and there in clumps, vying with the ubiquitous thistles. We are pleasantly surprised today to encounter many butterflies and moths, one of which is the Jersey tiger moth, as beautiful as any butterfly, with vivid orange markings. A day-flying species, it is highly resistant to chemicals.

There is a familiar leitmotif to this landscape. Everything is topsy-turvy. Roads and lanes twist and curve, elongate and contract. Hedgerows hide their own secrets as well as blocking the view. Grassy uplands, growing crops, and fallow fields twist and contour in the most idiosyncratic, capricious, and erratic manner possible. The only ordered logicality to the landscape is found in the Fens. Elsewhere, a village one mile from one's home can be literally lost in some coomb that few people ever visit — or leave, for that matter. Many rural inhabitants, like Lady Chatterley's gardener at Brooke, seldom venture beyond a limited periphery — reluctant like Ratty to ever leave the Wild Wood.

It was and is all about the shire. The shire or county is equivalent to a North American county in only rough terms, because whereas across the pond the county is merely an administrative territory, in England the shire was paramount, often coming before country. As Kipling wrote of his fellow countrymen, “One spot shall prove beloved over all.” Most of the shire boundaries were settled before the end of the reign of Edward the Elder, King Alfred's son, who ruled from 899 to 924. And so the identification of the English with the shire as a distinct home territory has endured for over a thousand years.

The Normans, after 1066, adopted the Anglo-Saxon administrative units but changed the name from “shire” to “county.” The chief officer was the sheriff — hence the evil Sheriff of Nottingham from Robin Hood's era — who reported directly to the Crown. The sheriff was not replaced in his duties until 1888, when county councils were established. The loyalty expressed by the English to their home turf has spilled over from village and countryside to the urban cores. A man plays football for Birmingham and England, not England and Birmingham. And of course, within one's shire, loyalty is first and foremost to one's village or town.

In a succession of high, muddy fields near Braybrooke, the sticky wet rape plants obscure the footpath. I holler at Karl to stick to the proper route, but I really just want him to slow down. In any case, he pays no attention.

I finally rationalize — it may be trespass, but it's the farmer's own fault, so I follow Karl's easier route around the field. I remember A.E. Housman's lines:

Laws for themselves and not for me,

And if my ways are not as theirs

Let them mind their own affairs.

Fortunately, we hear no shotgun warnings in these Northamptonshire fields. In fact we often walk all day and barely see a soul. Even the normally ubiquitous crows and rooks shun our company. Mind you, I do receive a scare: upon topping a rise in a high field I find myself staring at a grim-faced soldier near the path, clad in scarlet uniform, bearskin hat, and wellies, brandishing a real musket, fresh off the battlefield of Waterloo! I approach him cautiously, and it is only when ten feet away that I am certain that this apparition is a scarecrow — one very sophisticated scarecrow. I don't know if the rooks and crows are impressed, but the dude certainly had me fooled.

DIARY:
Saw a sign for cyclists on a post: “Over Kelmarsh betwixt woods and spinneys.” How quaint.

The
Guide
cautions: “Watch for holes in the path — badgers abound here!” Too late for Karl, as ahead of me I see him suddenly lurch and fall to his knees. But he picks himself up, cursing, and dusts himself off.

“Are you all right?”

“Damn rabbits! Twisted my ankle a little — nothing much.”

“The
Guide
warns that these are badger setts.”

Karl grimaces. I hear another muffled curse, and then off he goes, stamping his walking stick furiously, his pace unslackened.

Brampton Ash village is full of hundreds of colourful hens running free range on a covered run. Karl spots a milk delivery van in the lane and hails the driver, and before I know it he is quaffing back fresh milk from an old-fashioned glass milk bottle. I follow suit. Milk never tasted so good. We return the bottles empty to the van before climbing a long, steep hill out of the village.

We are halfway up the winding hill when I hear a clattering racket. Around the bend bearing down on us is a pony trap being driven by a slender, rosy-cheeked woman, her long raven hair flying in the wind, with an elderly, hollow-cheeked man resembling Frankenstein's monster standing on a platform behind her. Karl and I dive into a ragged hawthorn hedge to save ourselves. I wave as they go thundering by, but they seem oblivious to our presence.

“That girl could be the free-spirited Bathsheba right out of
Far from the Madding Crowd.
”

“It's certainly strange, John, that neither of them even gave us a glance. If we hadn't rolled smartly into the hedge, I swear they would have run us down without a thought.”

We soon turn right at a group of unusual red-brick barns called the Red Hovel. On the far side of the busy
A
6 we hit a spinney (a small area of scrubby bush) and navigate a flimsy plank bridge over the River Jordan. At Braybrooke we find the earthwork mounds of Braybrooke Castle, which was once a fortified manor house owned by the Latimer family. An interesting stone monument here commemorates the turn of the millennium by giving the history of the village in a nutshell — an outdoor sculpture with carved representations for each topic and event. The story is presented as follows with my gloss:

Chetelbert the Dane,
first recorded resident;
13th century church; The river Jordan,
named by the Baptists, with a chapel built in 1788;
The bridge,
originally a pack bridge;
The knight,
Thomas Latymer;
A Lollard
taking copies of the translated Bible to Thomas Wycliffe at Lutterworth;
The Lollard Bible
translated into Middle English from the Latin by Czech scribes living in the castle
—
a heretical occupation, which could get you hanged, drawn and quartered or burnt at the stake;
The castle in flames,
possibly an accident with gun powder; In the castle gateway are a set of wickets to represent the local cricket club;
A carp,
farmed in the castle fishponds as food for local inhabitants;
A roll of fabric
representing the weavers of the village who made cloth for the soldiers fighting the Napoleonic Wars;
Ammonite,
represent-ing the Jurassic Way;
Plate
made by the village potter from local clay;
The sun and flying swan
represent the two pubs of the village;
In the present day
the fields are used for rearing beef and lamb on the rich grassland surrounding the village;
Morris Dancer's bell
representing Braybrooke Morris Dancers.

What a wonderful way to summarize a village's history
.
Additional images interspersed on the face of the column depict animals of the countryside: badger, fox, hare, even a fairy.

Usually I try to line up our bed and breakfasts three or four nights in advance, but sometimes we get stuck, and this is where the
Macmillan Accommodation Guide
is of great help. Just past Braybrooke we can walk northwest on an authorized diversion to Market Harborough, where I have booked a
B&B
. We will then rejoin the main Way in the morning near Great Oxendon.

Karl is apprehensive.

“Are you sure this is legitimate? I said I would walk the entire Macmillan Way, and I damn well mean to.”

“Karl, even the
Guide
provides this as an alternative — it's a spur route; and we will end up walking several miles farther anyway.”

He grunts acceptance, and we trudge toward the market town that used to be part of William the Conqueror's Rockingham Forest, which stretched from Market Harborough all the way to Stamford. In forty-five minutes we see the steeple of St. Dionysius Church looming ahead, and on our approach discover next to it a beautiful half-timbered building called the Old Grammar School, dating from 1614. Here there is a covered market area; the upper end of High Street is a wide boulevard of unspoiled Georgian-style buildings. It is late afternoon and there are many people on the street. I notice a couple of rough, burly, tattooed men pushing baby prams with their partners.

Our
B&B
is a few blocks west of the town centre, and we find it just as a downpour strikes. The frumpy landlady greets us as if she is surprised to see us, but welcomes us in. I immediately plan my attack on her precious central heating system.

After a pleasant cup of Tetley tea with biscuits, we are all sorted out, ready to head downtown to dinner. On High Street there is every kind of shop: Oxfam, a Waterstone's bookstore, a Lloyd's Bank in Venetian Gothic motif, pharmacies, a bike repair shop, and a café called Zizzi's where people are enjoying beer and mochas outdoors even in the drizzle. Numerous white-haired couples are lounging on benches clustered around the Old Grammar School. West meets East down a side street, where stands the quintessentially English Swallow Cottage — climbing roses and all — offering “Traditional Cantonese Foods and Hot Food Take Away.” (The English love chicken chop suey served with chips.)

We decide to try out the Red Cow Hotel. Its façade is a gaudy mélange of orange bricks and cream-coloured stone. The pork pie is overcooked, and we are distracted by the loud blare of the telly broadcasting a soccer match. But it is a fun place, with darts being played and crowded tables occupied by loquacious diners. Many locals are here for dinner: families; a young buck wearing a tartan sitting on a barstool; a fiftyish, red-faced, short, stocky man with a peroxide blonde looking older than her aspirations; and a Prince Charles look-alike with a doughty, horsey brunette fawning over and pecking him. Much Guinness and lager are flowing freely. Does this scene represent the safety valve for an otherwise docile race?

“Karl, this brochure states that the town was known far and wide for its corset factory, which, commencing in 1876, supplied most of Britain's ladies with their corsets and stays for a good century. In later years they exclusively produced the ‘liberty bodice' as a modern alternative to the corset. The factory shut down in the late seventies.”

“You don't say? Did the factory close down because of outsourcing to China, or do the ladies just not wear corsets anymore?”

“I believe the latter. In any case, the factory building still dominates the centre of town but now houses a library, museum, and government offices. It should be just down the street from here.”

“Trust the government to take over the expensive real estate. It's nice to have a library and all, but those bureaucrats at city hall aren't producing
GDP
like the corset-factory workers did.”

“Are you going to finish off with your brandy tonight?”

“Hell, yes. I wonder if there's a pay phone that works so I can call home.”

Karl is uncle to Steve Yzerman, at the time of our walk one of the leading stars in the National Hockey League. Steve's Detroit team is usually in contention for the Stanley Cup. The oldest, most coveted sports trophy in the world is a gift of Lord Stanley of Preston, Canada's governor general in the late years of the nineteenth century. His Lordship became so keen about ice hockey that he decided to financially support fledgling hockey clubs. Lord Stanley purchased with his own funds a decorative punch bowl made in Sheffield, England, which Cup, he proclaimed, should be presented each year to the top hockey club in Canada. The first Stanley Cup was presented to the Montreal
HC
in 1893, and Karl's nephew has already won it three times with Detroit. Since the British papers don't cover ice hockey and this is playoff time, Karl is always phoning home to obtain both hockey and family updates.

“There's a pay phone by the bar, Karl.”

“Do you think we should call the Oakham police again about Tiffany?” Karl asks. “I read in one of the London papers this morning that there's been reports of taxi-cab rapes of young women in London and outlying counties.”

“Look, Karl, these things take time and all we did was find some evidence. Tell you what — when we get home, I'll follow up with the Oakham police and email them an enquiry as to their progress with the investigation.”

Karl grunts, unhappy with my response.

“Tell you what, you go make that phone call home and I'll fetch you your brandy, as there's a lineup at the bar.”

Karl makes his call and returns pensive.

“Everything all right at home?”

“Just fine on the home front, but Detroit is not doing so well in the playoffs.”

Karl downs his plum brandy quickly. “I'm ready to turn in, John.”

We stumble out of the Red Cow. On High Street, I now recognize from my brochure the stately brick edifice of the former Symington Corset Factory, its charming façade adorned with a fine copper steeple and Palladian windows. The products of this factory represented the mainstay, so to speak, of a British woman's appearance for over a century. The Urban Dictionary defines corset thus:

Undergarment worn throughout ages, to redefine the shape of a woman's body (mostly into an hourglass); usually by cinching the waist, and pushing up the breasts. Originally lined with whale bone for support, and laced up at the back . . . Current-day it is no longer JUST worn as an undergarment, but is commonly worn as part of an outfit usually during the nocturnal hours. Favored garment by the goth or gothic genre.