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. 

Welcome to Venice, Lincolnshire

Turning on my TV this morning I was greeted with the usual early morning diet of news and features but, try as I might, I couldn’t find a single network that was reporting on the major news story of the previous day: The Great Bourne Flood.

It’s almost as if this remote backwater of South Lincolnshire had been rendered invisible to the news gatherers in that there London. They were more interested in dramatic pictures of The Shard being struck by lightning than some soggy yokels up to their knees in water, for shame.

Yesterday started warm and sunny, I was working from home but keeping a keen eye on the weather. Having recently laid fresh grass seed in the garden to deal with some threadbare patches and noticing how little green shoots of recovery were pushing their way up from the ground, I ensured that they were being kept fresh and watered. What better though than actual rain water to turn my sparse lawn into a lustrous green tableau of wonder?

As the afternoon progressed the dark clouds rolled in and I opened a window near where I was working so that I could hear the life-giving pitter-patter of gentle raindrops. I perhaps should have taken heed that all may not be well when the forthcoming shower was heralded by a blinding flash of lightning and an almighty clap of thunder so loud that I feared that the very fabric of reality had split asunder, releasing all manner of hellish demons and mischievous sprites upon the world.

The rain quickly arrived, falling hard and fast. Then it turned up a notch and came down even harder and even faster. The rain god looked down upon this small town and was dissatisfied. He stared hard at all the options available to him to up the ante with this deluge and decided to smash his fist down on all of the buttons at once just to see what would happen.

What happened was an impossibly deafening increase in precipitation with a healthy and prolonged burst of hailstones, just for good measure. This kept going for about an hour without much letting up.

I wasn’t concerned; it was just a heavy shower, nothing to worry about. I looked out of the rear window behind where I was working. The garden was getting a little moist and the paved alleyway where the bins are kept was starting to gain large puddles but nothing out of the ordinary.

I continued to work and had just come off the phone to a particularly unhelpful individual at a well-known healthcare provider when I heard a dripping sound from nearby. I closed the window but it didn’t help. There was still a sound of invading water coming from somewhere nearby.

I quickly ascertained that it was originating from my right hand side just behind a shelving unit full of DVDs. With a bit of puffing, panting and swearing I moved the unit to one side to see a damp patch on the carpet. I followed the trail of the dripping water up to a cupboard attached to the wall. I opened the cupboard and, sure enough, from somewhere within this cupboard the offending rainwater was emanating. The only problem was that this particular cupboard was housing the fuse box and electricity meter.

I am, as I have observed previously, not a practical man in any sense. I looked at the bewildering array of switches and dials in desperation. My eyes were drawn to the biggest of the switches, helpfully coloured red. I couldn’t see what the label underneath read as time had faded it, but I figured that it would either turn everything off or be the ‘self-destruct’ switch. With considerable trepidation I reached in to the cupboard and, whilst making my peace with the world, I flicked it downwards.

Thankfully this seemed to do the trick as I found myself still alive and in a strange half-light in a silent house, apart of course from the incessant drumming of the rain. Electrocution avoided I deployed all manner of buckets, cloths and tea towels into the affected area.

Catastrophe averted I looked out of the window, only to see that whilst I’d been distracted the puddles outside were now a raging stream. Not only had the gutters given up, the drains had become redundant. I found some wellies and splashed outside to see if I could assist the drains by clearing them a little. This only had a very mild effect as more rain was falling from the heavens than being swept away by the drainage system, even with my assistance.

I looked at my grass and realised that I could only see half of it, the rest was underneath a newly formed swamp, replete with a frog hopping merrily amongst it. I retreated indoors, threw more towels at the dripping fuse box cupboard and stared miserably out of the window, wishing I’d been one of those people who’d won a speedboat on ‘Bullseye’ back in the 80s. ‘Now they’re laughing’, I thought.

After what seemed to be an interminable age the rain decreased a little and, whilst on the phone to a colleague, I looked out of the rear bedroom window to see that the road behind our house had turned into an actual river. In amongst this river was a fire engine with some sturdy firemen up to their knees in murky brown water trying to establish how they were going to fight the elements.

Funnily enough I nearly had need of firemen at lunchtime when I came close to setting fire to the kitchen whilst grilling some sausages. I reasoned that having suffered fire and flood I only had plague and pestilence to go therefore I may as well venture outside for a closer look.

The one thing that draws human beings together is a bit of a drama on your doorstep. In about half an hour I met and chatted to neighbours that I only knew as nodding acquaintances or had never seen before yesterday afternoon. Everyone had a tale to tell; where else there were floods, which roads were blocked, how they remember when this happened 20 years ago.

I, along with one of my neighbours, went wading into the water to see how deep it was, just like those reporters on the news. I then did what everyone does these days, took a photo and posted it on to Facebook.

Today is another day, which it would be really. The water has been pumped away. Upon calmer investigation I discovered that thankfully the incoming water had missed penetrating the fuse box by millimetres although still too close for comfort, and my garden is now less swampy and full of pond life. My newly sown grass is probably doomed but at least I didn’t live down the road behind ours as that floodwater came perilously close to turning up as an unwelcome house guest for some.

Yet still no contact from any reporters from the BBC, ITN, Sky News, CNN, Fox News, France 24, Al-Jazeera, or any of the other news organisations I can remember that sit within the 500s on my Sky box. All they want to talk about is UKIP or Russia which is most disappointing.

There’s a story right here folks, just waiting to be told, which will now fall into Bourne folklore.

“Those floods of 2014, I remember them well. The water was so high they had to send a Cross Channel ferry to rescue us, oh yes”.

Wherever I Lay My Hat........

I don’t know whether it’s nature or nurture but somewhere deep within me there’s a Romany spirit. Not in a Big Fat Gypsy Wedding kind of way, I’m not likely to buy a caravan or aggressively manhandle women in a car park; it’s more wanderlust.

One thing I’ve learnt about myself over the past few months is how easily I settle into a routine, and that makes the flighty part of my brain quite cross, and so I always have that urge to up sticks and see another part of the world.

I suppose I could have gone backpacking when I was a younger chap but it didn’t appeal. At the tender age of 17 I’d discovered beer and girls and the thought of holing up in a bivouac in a desert didn’t seem as appealing as the new world I was exploring in my own back yard. It’s also not about just visiting somewhere, but moving lock, stock and barrel somewhere for a year or two, and to really live somewhere, warts and all.

I can only guess this may have something to do with the fact that I lived in three places before the age of 12. To a young and expanding mind this sets out the stall for how you live your life, constantly on the move. That need for a change of surroundings becomes the routine.

I never really moved that far, but there was always a change of school involved, and so that created challenges in maintaining friendships and having a sense of place, but I don’t think it harmed me. If anything it made me less clingy to one location because my childhood memories were scattered around.

So, for no good reason I’ve compiled a quick assessment of Hayward Homes past and present. All the places I lived and the ups and downs. Or the downs and ups, we’ll see how it pans out.

Calbourne, Isle of Wight

Technically I didn’t live in Calbourne, I lived at a place called, according to the map, Five Houses, but Calbourne was the nearest village. There weren’t actually five houses there. There were two and one of those as I’ve mentioned before was haunted. Also, the place was overrun with spiders, woodlice and other creepy crawlies, it was a good bike ride to get to my friends’ houses and there was an Alsatian who used to come and shout at me. 

On the plus side however there were fields, and countryside, and so many places for a young lad to play. Farmers’ fields were just massive play areas and I have very fond memories of the place. Had I reached my teenage years there it would have probably driven me insane as there was nothing much to do, unless I was going to become a farmer, but that didn’t happen, which is a relief as I can’t milk a cow and the smell of manure turns my stomach, so all to the good.

Nursling, Hampshire

Technically I didn’t live in Nursling either, but again it was the nearest village. I lived on Foxes Lane. It’s not there anymore; it’s now a B&Q car park. When I did live there though it was like Calbourne but with added fun. A motorway had split Nursling in half and we were on the abandoned side. Next to our house was a steep embankment. This could only mean one thing; a length of blue string tied to a tree meant that I had a makeshift abseil rope.

Behind our house there was a patch of what we called ‘the wasteland’ where I used to play with friends. It was a fairly uneven patch of land but the tour de force was what appeared to be a large crater. Many hours were spent speculating what may have caused it, a crashed spaceship being our favourite option, and we’d go searching for the aliens that were obviously now hidden out in the nearby Industrial Estate.

There was plenty of countryside on our doorstep, and a railway track, amazing for someone who came from the Isle of Wight. I accept that there’s a railway line on the Island but not like this one. These were exciting trains that went to exotic destinations, like ‘that there London’. There were some horses in a field opposite the house who I used to feed cow parsley to (not sure if I was supposed to), and there was an abandoned road we discovered where we could cycle up and down with abandon. Also, when I got older and braver (about 10) and my parents were out, I could cycle to Redbridge station and catch a train to Southampton on my own. My parents never knew, and that’s what made it all the more exciting.

Totton, Hampshire

Totton felt amazing when I arrived there as a tender 11 year old. It was only a normal town with houses, and streets and shops but I’d never lived in one before. When I finally left, in my twenties, I realised I’d been there too long as I’d grown to hate it. Everything about it just seemed to annoy me, the miserable, ageing shopping precinct, the large Asda dominating the town centre with the same faces behind the tills that were there when I was a kid, and the lack of a decent public house, one that wasn’t filled with aggressive track-suited chavs, all meant that I still to this day slightly resent visiting it.

It did, however, have its plus points. All my friends were a stone’s throw away, it’s close to Southampton and public transport links were, in my day, good. Having a big Asda was actually quite handy, and I was always slightly impressed by Eling Quay. There’s Totton looking a bit run down and sad, but walk a couple of streets and there’s Eling with it’s boats and church, and tide mill, and pubs. It was an incongruous sight, but a very welcome one.

Leicester, Leicestershire

I loved Leicester. On the surface it’s a fairly standard East Midlands city but it became my home when I chose to go to university there in the 90s, to the point that my visits home during the holidays became less and less frequent.

I can’t pinpoint what I loved exactly, maybe it was the convenience of a city, the freedom to be away from my folks, the many wonderful pubs, the many friends I made, a lot of whom were residents of that fine city rather than my fellow students. The only reason I left was because I ended up living on my own in a grim studio flat after my degree course, flitting between temp jobs, and I realised I needed to save some money, but it was a wrench and I remained a very frequent visitor for the next couple of years.

After years of pining for Leicester I recently realised that the flame has dimmed and it’s been consigned to the back of my mind as being ‘that place I used to live’. Leicester has changed, the pubs I drank in have closed and, in some cases, bulldozed to make way for the future, and with it my memories and fondness have faded, just a little.

Sheffield, South Yorkshire

Sheffield was the city I cheated on Leicester with. I made new friends, drank in new pubs, and rode on the tram system, even once going as far as Halfway just to see what was there. Not much, as it turned out.

I’m fond of Sheffield and for some reason it felt like a thrill to live there but I’m a sucker for dramatic views, and my bedroom window in the attic of an old stone house on a hill meant I could see all across the city below and all the way up the hill on the other side. It was magnificent.

The atmosphere of the city was always great and of course Meadowhall is on your doorstep for all your retail opportunities. Myself and the present Mrs Hayward were tempted to move here after I finished my course, but she got offered a job near her home in Peterborough and so fate played a hand in my next move.

Stamford, Lincolnshire

When the (at the time) future Mrs Hayward and I first moved in together it was in a little house by Stamford railway station. In the brief 18 months or so we lived there we got married so I have a lot of fond memories of that time. I also have a memory of streaking naked around the little court of houses we lived in, so ecstatic was I that Rowetta had been voted out of The X Factor. I may have had a little bit of alcohol before venturing on this scheme and the amount of heart attacks I caused to our elderly neighbours is unrecorded.

I still love Stamford, it’s a beautiful looking town and I would move back there in a heartbeat. The only down side is the cost of houses. For the same price as our barely two bedroomed house by the station, you could buy a good sized family house in, somewhere, er, well, like…..

Bourne, Lincolnshire

Ah yes, the hometown of the present Mrs Hayward. Say what you like about it, and I often do, it’s a nice little town with a couple of decent pubs and a motor racing heritage that was celebrated the other weekend with a cavalcade of old cars being driven by the likes of Damon Hill and Sir Jackie Stewart.

There’s also nothing nicer than driving back home after a day in ‘that there London’ to the tranquillity of the countryside. I don’t have to lie in bed at night listening to lorries rumbling past or police sirens or goods trains loaded up with gravel, the most you hear in the dead of night is the occasional Owl hooting in the distance. OK, so one night a Fox was outside screeching and it scared the be’jesus out of me but that’s about it.

The slight downside is the travel. If you want to go anywhere you have to drive for half an hour before you come to a decent road, and if you want to catch a train you have to travel back in time to the 1950s as the line has now long since gone. If you want to catch a bus you can, but only on every second Tuesday, and then only if the moon is on the wane. Bourne. You’ll never leave.

So that’s it. That’s where I am. In deepest darkest rural Lincolnshire. Those itchy feet though, they’re getting itchier, and no amount of athlete’s foot spray is going to cure that. The Romany in me wants to hitch up his caravan and move on. Time to stick a pin in a map and see where I end up? Perhaps, but I suspect that if I suggest leaving Bourne to the present Mrs Hayward she might just stick a pin in me. Ouch!!

Firestarter

When I heard that the Olympic Torch Relay was making a brief sojourn through the streets of Bourne I have to say I was surprised. This part of the country is largely ignored by the rest of the world. No-one comes to Lincolnshire for anything much in particular because, well, there’s not an awful lot here. When friends come to visit we usually take them to Stamford, which looks quite pretty and has some fine pubs, and Lincoln, which has a rare hill and a Cathedral, and two (yes, count ‘em, two) branches of Primark.

At a push there’s Skegness but a lot of my friends are from the South Coast so taking them to Skegness is like taking them to Bournemouth in 1979. It has a nostalgic look and feel but it also has the atmosphere of a place where something is likely to kick off, probably a riot between the local mods and rockers. Mind you, I did once buy a very fetching hat from Skeg, so it’s not all bad.

So, I have to say I was impressed that Bourne, one of the many quiet backwaters of this sprawling county was, for one fleeting hour or so, going to be caught up in the circus that is the London Olympics.

The present Mrs Hayward wasn’t impressed. As a long standing resident of this fine town she doesn’t see the point of going to watch some locals run through the streets carrying a flaming torch. According to her, this is something you can see in Bourne on most days, usually when word gets about that there’s a stranger in town.

Mind you, she doesn’t really see the point of the Olympics full stop so this was never going to grab her attention.

Having the Olympic Torch traversing the land has however provoked discussion amongst friends and I’ve learnt many things. Prior to the Grecian pyrotechnics arriving on these fair shores I never realised that it wasn’t a continuous relay on foot. I had imagined brave runners hot-footing it around the highways and byways day and night come rain or shine.

This doesn’t happen of course, the flame gets transferred from place to place by some sort of vehicle, a flame-mobile perhaps, until it gets to the next destination where some random celebrities and a few worthy (and some unworthy) locals jog through the town whilst holding it aloft.

One of the worthy locals running with it today is a personal trainer at my local gym. I didn’t know he was doing it until I saw him jog round the corner, wearing a gleaming white tracksuit and waving at the crowds like he was channelling the spirit of the late Jimmy Savile.

The other thing I had been unaware of was that there were so many Olympic torches. There are thousands of the things. I’d assumed there was just the one, and maybe a couple of spares in case some cack-handed fool drops it, that was passed on from person to person. I still think that should be the case. Yes, it’s nice for the people to own their torch but what would you do with it? It’s too big for the mantelpiece and far too elaborate to be lighting your barbecue with. There’s no need to have one, just a badge and a t-shirt would do as a memory of the day, surely?

The final thing I’ve learnt is that the whole torch relay thing originated at the Berlin Olympics in 1936, which was organised by the Nazi party. So, this relentless procession is something probably dreamt up by Adolf Hitler. I did wonder why ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ was running through my mind earlier. So with that and the Volkswagen Beetle, it proves that not all of Hitler’s ideas were bad. This however doesn’t really make up for the ones that were.

So, just before 9am I wandered not two minutes from my door and watched the whole circus make its way down the road, with loads of whooping and cheering from the permanently jolly organisers, determined to bring a bit of Olympics razzmatazz to a little Lincolnshire market town.

I’m glad I didn’t go into the centre of Bourne to see it, that’s where the crowds would have been and I’ll see the photos of that little extravaganza in the local paper. I savoured the curious juxtaposition of the whole thing bursting through normal streets near my house in an explosion of colour and noise, past the Auction House, the Bus Depot, and the recently demolished petrol station.

Next time I go for a run I can now say that I am running down the same road where the Olympic flame once burned brightly. Maybe next time I go for a run, probably tomorrow, I’ll take some matches and a rolled up newspaper and try to re-live the whole thing.

As a sort of coda to all this, at the end of the procession came a couple of BRM Formula One cars from the 60s and 70s, which were made in Bourne. That was the part that really made me smile, these motorised beasts unleashed on the streets of their home town, proudly revving their engines in celebration. Now that’s a proper sport. Perhaps it’s time for the Bourne Grand Prix.

I must get on to Bernie…….

It's a Royal Knockout

I have to say I’m no Royalist. In fact I once used to have the opinion when I was young and foolhardy that the Royal Family may as well face the Guillotine and have their severed heads placed on spikes so that the tourists could queue up and have their photographs taken with them. I reasoned that it wouldn’t put your average visitor off as they probably savour a touch of the macabre in their lives, hence the popularity of such attractions as the London Dungeon and Madame Tussauds and the continual popularity of ITV murder based crime shows like A Touch of Midsomer Lewis and Thyme.

Being a bit older and wiser I have mellowed in my opinion especially since I realised that, in reality, the Royal Family have no impact upon my life for the most part, despite the letters I get in Her Majesty’s name from the tax mafia. However today I am, in some respects, glad that my plans to remove the heads of the royal household didn’t come to fruition as they have finally done something of note, and without the Queen’s husband offending anyone.

It has been announced that to celebrate the marriage of Prince Somebody to somebody else the pubs are able to stay open until 1am on the day of the wedding without any need for permission. Hooray!! God bless you ma’am, etc.

Let’s face it, nothing shouts ‘Royal Wedding’ like a BOGOF deal on blue WKD and some drunken women screeching ‘I Will Survive’ into the wee small hours on karaoke. Maybe I’m just thinking of one particular pub in Bourne, but you know the pubs I mean. Because at the end of the day it’ll be these rat infested hell-holes that will take advantage of the government’s generosity and not the nice pubs in town like Smiths (Smiths of Bourne, look it up, it’s very good).

I can hold out hope but you know the type of pub that’ll stay open, it’ll be the ones with no hand pumps, just keg lager fonts. The ones that have Sky Sports on continuously and which during the World Cup would have been head to toe in England flags (if of course the cross of St George had the JJB Sports logo in the middle of it – seriously, buy a proper flag!!!)

You know the type of pub I’m talking about, there’s always some really old drunk guy in there who everyone says used to be an ex-boxer but his family disowned him and he now gets into fights so that he can be assured of a bed at night in the local nick. It’ll be those pubs where everyone stares at you when you go in and the décor hasn’t changed since about 1992.

It’ll be those pubs with several fruit machines, but no quiz machine, and a minimum of three pool tables where you know it’ll be ‘winner stays on’ at all times, because that’s what the big guy with the tattooed head and the chunky jewellery says, and who are you to argue when you suspect he’s probably carrying a knife and a number of anger management issues, especially since his wife left him/went missing.

It'll be those pubs that are always ‘under new management’ and every Saturday night there’s a police car parked outside it after someone looked at someone else the wrong way, and always promotes its drinks offers on those neon pieces of card cut out in a star shape.

It sounds like I’m knocking these establishments, and I kind of am, but this is because they’re not to my taste. I prefer to have a nice quiet drink (preferably a real ale or two) in civilised company without the underlying threat that if I accidentally brush past someone at the bar then I will find myself in A&E with the blunt end of a pool cue down my throat and the impression of some geezer's oversized ‘Dad’ ring emblazoned across my face.

I may sound like an ungrateful subject but it’s never the nice pubs that stay open late on these occasions. I like a pub with a convivial atmosphere, where you can buy wine from a proper bottle rather than from a little pump at the bar, and they serve other spirits rather than just vodka (check the optics, if you can see at least four industrial sized bottles of fake Smirnoff then back away slowly, but be careful not to spill anyone’s pint).

I also like to go to the loo without traipsing through the puddles of other customer’s urine, where they don’t sell whiskey flavoured condoms or inflatable sheep out of a machine, and without someone staring at me when I’m trying to pee.

Oh, and be careful if you happen across a guy called ‘Cheeky Monkey’, but that really is another story.