Roads

By Maxim Griffin.

Spring is beginning to leak through the seams of the year – the suggestion of growth – buds, daffs, birdsong – it has been very grey and so eerily mild – perpetual 10 degrees and a donkey-coloured sky – still – you thunder on – a more vigorous regime of walking has been laid out – you’ve been off the pies – you’re crossing the chalky upland in as straight a line as possible – the map has indicated a route east to west – roads, but they’ll be quiet – B roads and lanes for the most part – tarmac is easy on the feet and you can pack the miles in.

The road is slightly sunken, lined with a steady rank of beech hedges and bare trees – the sinking of the road has been caused by the footfall of several thousand years – the endless trudge – metalling the lanes has only delayed this erosion – you’re glad of it – the footpaths this time of year are uniformly slop – wet clay that trips and cakes, ground that sucks – you walk with a steady pace carrying a small pack – your arms swing.

A van approaches – for deliveries – the driver raises a hand, a good, cheerful gesture of thanks as you step aside to allow his passage – you raise your hand in return – it is a friendly exchange done without thought – good – you proceed, admiring the subtle changes in colour of the bare limbed trees – you make a mental note to go back to those Hockney paintings from 20 years ago – the big ones of Yorkshire – he gets that colour down.

Another vehicle approaches – 4×4 – black, shiny – you step aside, careful not to step on ascending daffodils – this driver offers no greeting or salute – your raised palm and smile are unanswered – in your younger days you would have cursed them and blown raspberries but you have learned that life is too brief to waste energy on such actions, most of the time.

Heading west
The day brightens – the glare of actual sunlight is welcome – it has been a while since you cast a shadow – there’s a turning in the beech trees – a pair of slightly ornamental gateposts that have seen better days – there are no fresh tracks beyond them – there was probably a big house down there though you can find no trace of it on your paper map – you plot your next move with your index finger – west – always west – the crows are nesting high in the branches.

The road opens up a little – wider verges, kept hedges, fewer trees – a million daffodils are beginning to flower as you pass a red house with white windows – there are no other buildings around and no sign of farm except the colossal brown fields behind the boundaries – you walk with purpose – spirits rising as you absorb more vitamin D – a black and white cat appears from under the hedge – she mews – you make that kissy kissy sound that people make for cats – she snakes to your ankles and you reach down to offer a stroke – animals tend to agree with you – the cat has other notions – perhaps you were too bold – a sucker punch of claws and fangs – ow – the cat runs off with that taste for human blood on its tongue – your hand hurts – a steady flow of juice dripping down – you clean up as best you can and march onwards.

You reach an arterial lane that rides the ridge – more traffic because it is a perceived shortcut – also – it has views – you see the milky distance beyond the towers of the cathedral – you see wet slate catching the sun – this is the way the Romans came – fresh conscripts from Hispania and the Dacian wars landing at ports on the Wash marching inland to Lindum – their wake is easy to follow – before them, Neolithic lads driving Neolithic oxen to Neolithic markets – they always followed the crest of ridges – drier underfoot and easy to see what’s around you y’see – a van of friendly plumbers pass and you cross the tarmac with an awkward skip.

Cromwell’s victory
You pause at the crossroads – a gulp of water – a post van pulls up to the junction, waits a beat and gives you the nod of good fortune – you raise your water bottle but they are already pulling away – you are now heading downhill, gently – there is a metaphor there somewhere – you squint at the sun as and when it appears – more daffodils – black trees with yellow flowers and birds that croak – the soil has changed consistency – sandier – a single house that overlooks what appears to be everything sports a large antenna – who is the broadcaster and who is the listener? You ask yourself this and many other questions as you walk on – you pass the place of Cromwell’s victory – there is an information board, sun bleached and inaccurate – you pause and imagine the weight of 3,000 horses bearing down across the hill.

Onwards – an appointment with a friend awaits – not far now – a couple of miles – you insert headphones and music for walking plays – the bass matches your pace – your hand still hurts – Dr John recommends you walk on gilded splinters – this seems good advice – strange days are with us and it seems proper to imagine the doctor’s curses laid upon them – downhill still – a village in the curls of the valley – you have made good time and are almost entirely on schedule – there are daffodils and snowdrops and buds on the branches – a memorial to those who fell in the first war against fascism, a church built before the Normans – a car approaches from behind – your friend and their child wave and call out – see you in a minute – turning the lane to the sign of a King’s Head – a black cat goes from one hedge to another and stops – it turns and looks at you and you look hard at it – no kissy kissy sounds, no beckoning – the cat wanders over softly and purrs – you offer your wounded hand and the cat curls into your shadow to accept your cautious greeting.

We Recommend

Van life

Seal sanctuary celebrates diamond anniversary

Where the past meets the present

Showcasing Sleaford

Holes

Education

View all