A week ago my feet hurt. Despite following the wisdom of a
certain old wives’ tale to wear two pairs of socks when undertaking a walk of
any considerable length to avoid my feet rubbing against the inside of my
walking boots, I was becoming increasingly aware that I was growing a blister
the size and colour of a fully ripened plum on my little toe. Being a brave
little soldier I carried on trekking over hills and cliff edges as I ventured
unabashed towards The Needles Pleasure Park on the Isle of Wight. Never has a man been so keen to see those coloured sands.
The reason for my yomp was that I was participating in the
annual Walk the Wight event, now in its 25th year, for the third
time. I didn’t feel that I had particularly trained well for this. A wander round Nottinghamshire the other
weekend was a nice little walk but it didn’t prepare me for the deceptively
challenging inclines that the Isle of Wight’s topography throws up at certain
points. However, I completed the thing without making my feet bleed. Having
said that, I was walking a little gingerly for a couple of days and my late
application of headwear meant that I resembled a man who had spent the
afternoon lightly grilling his face. I’ve now entered the peeling stage which
is particularly attractive. When I get up from the sofa I leave the outline of
my body in skin behind me, like the residue from a disintegrating ray.
Undeterred I decided yesterday that it was just too clement
to hide myself away indoors and so I retrieved my walking boots and headed out
on a modest 10 mile walk to Stamford, this time applying liberal amounts of sun
cream before I left the house and donning an appropriate hat.
It was glorious; a lovely day in mid-May is the ideal time
for a walk. The fields are awash with fragrant yellow flowers, the birds are
singing, and the paths underfoot are dry and welcoming, not slippy and squishy
like they were when I was out a couple of months ago. Spring has peaked and
summer is just around the corner. The whole world just seemed so alive.
Well, I say that, except there was one place on my route
where time appeared to have stopped completely. This place is a small hamlet on
a narrow country lane just south of Bourne. It’s called Obthorpe and I always
approach it with some amusement mixed with trepidation. I’ve walked through
Obthorpe on two occasions before and I’d noted that, despite signs of life, I’d
never actually seen anyone there. I hadn’t even heard voices of people
chatting, no keen homeowner beavering
away in their garden, no TV or radio idly burbling along in the background, no
dog barking, nothing. My recollections of walking through Obthorpe was of the
wind whistling through the telephone wires and the strange feeling that
everyone had left suddenly.
There are cars on the drives, the occasional light on in a
house, but no people. As I approached I wondered if this time it would be any
different. Would I finally get to see a living, breathing resident of Obthorpe?
I was almost excited as I passed the lonely sign just before the first house. I
reached the first home, a small bungalow and I scanned it for signs of life.
Apart from a car on the drive, there was nothing. Next door there’s a second
bungalow. Another car on the drive, a window open but, again, nothing.
I continued past the larger houses, and a farm building but yet
again nothing. It was a nice, sunny day for heavens sake but no-one was out in
their vast gardens and no farmer could be seen, despite a tractor parked next
to a barn. No farmer, no pigs, cows, horses, chickens, alpacas, nothing.
It was then that I became aware of something else that was
peculiar. It was just so quiet. Apart from the aforementioned breeze there was
no birdsong. I’d not noticed that before. There are trees but nothing chirping away
within them. It’s May. My garden is alive with birds of all different shapes
and sizes but in Obthorpe they’ve all flown the nest.
I bravely took a few photos of this ghost town before
carrying on my way, looking behind me in case someone, anyone, suddenly
appeared. After about a mile or two I reached the next village along,
Wilsthorpe. I was immediately aware of birdsong, people in their gardens, a
baby rabbit hopping about in the hedgerow and, well, just life.
I would like to think that Obthorpe isn’t as unsettling as
it appears. I’m sure there must be people that live there. You may even know
someone, but I suspect you don’t. Obthorpe is an enigma, a façade if you will,
most likely for something sinister. I noticed this time that up a short track
in the middle of Obthorpe, about half a mile away, marked with ‘Keep Out’ and
‘Private’ signs are two black barns. I’ll repeat that, black barns. Who paints
their barns black, apart from some kind of comic book super villain?
Mark my words, something odd is afoot in Obthorpe. The conspiracy theory starts here.
