Return to Oddthorpe

A few months ago I wrote about a small village in the middle of nowhere that I’ve happened to walk through on several occasions. It’s called Obthorpe, and the strange part about it is that despite the many houses, cars, and usual signs of life, it seems to have nobody living within it. Stranger than that, it seems to exist within its own bubble that birdsong and extraneous noises cannot penetrate. Seriously, it’s a weird old place.

My uninformed assumptions are that it is either a government experiment or the lair of a supervillain. Deep underground there is a base of operations where scientific bods in white coats are working earnestly at complicated machines whilst others monitor maps of the world. The village above is just a cover for the deep machinations beneath the idyllic Lincolnshire countryside.

So, just a few weeks ago I decided to walk that away again upon my usual route towards Stamford. It was a wild, wet and windy day but I was covered from head to toe in waterproofs with my cap on and hood over the top. The even terrain exposed me to the elements as the rain and gales lashed at me as I headed towards Obthorpe. I kept my head dopwn as I trudged ever onwards.

As I’d been staring intently at the ground I hadn’t initially realised that I had entered the boundaries of Obthorpe. In fact the first time I noticed was when it occurred to me that the rain had suddenly stopped and the wind had abated. I removed my hood, glad to have some respite from the inclement conditions.

As I passed through the village I chuckled to myself. As ever, there were signs that people lived in Obthorpe, such as lights on, a window half open, a car in the drive, but no people.  My own internal monologue was challenging me to look hard to see if I could see anyone behind those windows, but my natural good manners prevented me from staring.

Two-thirds of the way through the single tracked lane that runs through the village I was startled from my private reverie when, out of nowhere, I saw two people walking towards me, a man and a woman, both walking large dogs on leads.

At last, I thought, residents of Obthorpe. There had to be some in this mysterious location and there they were at last, albeit I didn’t see which house they had come from. They walked purposefully down the middle of the lane, the hounds straining at the leash. As we passed the man made eye contact, smiled and said “good morning” but the woman didn’t. She eyed me up and down suspiciously as if I’d just climbed out the back of a lorry in Dover.

I responded in a polite manner and continued walking. Delighted that I had finally bust the myth of Obthorpe I began to exit the village, but not before looking around behind me to see where the dog walkers were headed. They were nowhere to be seen. I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the flat landscape around me but there was absolutely no-one there. They had vanished as swiftly as they’d appeared.

I was briefly tempted to retrace my steps in an attempt to convince myself that I wasn’t going mad, but then I remembered my theories of this place. What if this really was a villain’s lair? What if they weren’t just casual residents walking their (large and ferocious) dogs around the village, but in fact, they were guards, just checking me out to see if I’m an innocent passer-by or someone they may have to assassinate on the spot? Maybe this was a warning – 'Stay away and stop writing about us on your ridiculous blog. Stick to whinging about your various ailments instead'.

I hurried on and just as I exited past the village sign a gust of wind almost knocked me sideways and the rain resumed its aggressive downpour as if someone had just switched a tap on. Obthorpe’s peculiar local climate strikes again.

So, my advice to you is this. Don’t get curious. Don’t visit Obthorpe. If you value your life then stay away from a village that is odder than anything you’ve ever encountered or read about before.

Tell no-one about it, it’s our secret. Because, I tell you what, I think they just might be on to us, and I for one don’t want to be strapped to a missile and shot towards the moon.

There’s nothing to see in Obthorpe. Keep out.

Oddthorpe

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 25^th 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.