Lincolnshire Peasant

Exploring places from a peasant perspective.

Category: Everyday

Atop White Ridge

Apologies for not posting the third and final installment sooner, I was recovering from a sheep bite that went septic. Actually thats a lie, but also rather more exciting than the truth, which involves exams. Do read parts 1 and 2 of my tale also.

We woke before dawn, and assessed the damage done by the sheep. The tent porch was collapsed and a packet of sugar cubes stolen, but other than that all was in order. Then we sat there as the sun gently climbed above a distant ridge and began to melt the light frosting of ice on the ground, until dew droplets hung like jewels in the morning sun.

Our path was taking us ever further north, seemingly away from any civilization at all. There were no human settlements to be seen, and even the paths we had been following disappeared, so that we had to follow the game trails which weaved between the bracken.

We were circumnavigating a bog when we found our path blocked by several somewhat shaggy cows, with formidable horns and rather groovy fringes. We quickly nicknamed them “Emoo’s”, and made them run away by shouting mean things about their hairstyles.

By midday we had reached the highest point of the moors, traversing the treacherous White Ridge, great slabs of stone like altars overlooking the plateau below. We scrambled from peak to peak as the wind picked up and drove dark storm clouds above us. Rain was imminent.

In the final valley before our destination we came across a river, swollen by the recent rainfall and scattered with huge boulders. The map indicated a bridge, but there was non to be found. And so we were left with no choice but to jump from rock to rock, perilously balancing on each one above the roaring torrent as our heavy bags attempted to drag us down. This photograph of the river upstream doesn’t really do it justice.

The first Joe skips across like a sure footed mountain goat. I followed more carefully, concerned for the safety of my camera, and had to crouch to steady myself in the middle, but arrived at the bank safely. Second Joe also crossed without a problem. But then third Joe fell and slid sidewards on the largest of the boulders, his feet dipping into the water as he arrested his fall with one arm. My heart stopped momentarily, but he staggered upright again and finished the crossing. The final ascent awaited us.

Perhaps it was boredom from the relentless pacing onwards, onwards, towards the horizon. Perhaps it was a mixture of sleep deprivation, lactic acid, and too many sugar cubes in the morning porridge. Whatever it was, the fact is that for those last few miles I was quite convinced I was Frodo. Please do not judge me.

The straps of my monstrous rucksack bit mercilessly into my shoulder. My vision swam, my breath came in ragged gasps. Not far to the summit now, but every pace seems to take thousands of minutes. I collapse heavily, and fumble for my water bottle, pour the last of it into my mouth, spilling precious drops onto the cruel rocks.

Another monumental effort, each metre crawls by, the wind whipping dust into my eyes as tiny hailstones begin to fall; stinging my hand and face. A hand, bloodied and torn, gripped the top of the plateau. My hand. Thighs screaming one final protest, my bag pulling downwards and trying to throw me back, I pull myself up, and there it is. It is beautiful.

An icecream van. A drizzle soaked carpark with an icecream van and a bench. It was El Dorado, it was Mecca. I very barely resisted the temptation to fling myself to the ground and kiss the asphalt of utopia. No, there was one last thing to do. From my pocket I pulled out a small metal object. Some loose change. A ring.

Yes. There was a reason I came to this place. I hurl the ring as far as I can into the flaming crater before me, and it hangs in the air for a second, before dropping into the waiting hand of the icecream van man.


One Mad Sheep

On the second day of walking in the Peak District, the strain began to show a little; our bags started to feel heavy, and the weather continuously alternated between just a little too hot and a little too cold.

Having been chased from our camp site by angry peacocks, we continued north over protected moorland. Only a few kilometres on we came across a circle of nine upright stones known as the Nine Ladies, an ancient druid circle believed to be about 4000 years old. As well as being ancient and mystical, they made an excellent place to sit and eat the mornings ration of dried fruit. Further on, we encountered numerous deer and sheep, which kept their distance for the most part, and the views from the hills were idyllic.

Around lunchtime we arrived at the village of Edensor, not far from Chatsworth house. The village was beautiful; elegant stone houses and pristinely cultivated gardens clustered around a tall church. We ate lunch on the village green, watching the tourists mill back and forth. A young white cat came over and posed for the camera. We then moved on, as the rest of the way was uphill and we wanted to set up camp before dusk.

The site we pitched the tents on was nothing more than a field on a rather windswept hillside, but it was not the weather which we should have been wary of. Generally I view sheep as gentle, docile creatures that mind their own business and eat grass. But the sheep we encountered was different. He was larger than average, and had a roguish glint in his eye. His first attack took us by surprise; as we were cooking he attacked another group to the left of us, head butting them and stealing a substantial  mouthful of pot noodle before retreating to a safe distance. The sheep then proceeded to charge around the camp site in search of further sustenance, possibly in the form of small children. We took this as our cue to retreat into the tent for the night.

Across the Map

Over the last three days I have walked from one end of the peak district to the other, right the way across an OS map. Along the way we have seen a great many things; from cows with groovy hairstyles to perilous marshes where many a hardened hiker has met their end. Accompanying me were three companions, all of which were called Joe, which caused considerable confusion. I will recount my tale in three parts.

We began our trek from the side of Carsington reservoir, where I had canoed previously. The first day passed slowly yet surely as we trudged through the green hills under a startlingly pleasant sky. Spirits were high and the pace leisurely; we had time enough to explore the jutting outcrops of rocks and tumbled down shepherds huts that dotted the landscape.

Joe, enjoying a well deserved rest atop Carsington Summit.

After my last venture into the Peak District, I was amazed when we reached our camp site for that night with no incidents more serious than a slight cut. While Joe and I set up the tents, Joe and Joe cooked the evenings meal on a rather battered Trangia Stove.

The next day we were awoken before sunrise by a series of hideous screeches that reverberated around the camp site and our skulls. Unable to sleep any longer, we rose and set out to find the source of this beastly noise. Tracking it to a nearby stable, we discovered several peacocks prancing about proudly as they went about their business of rousing us innocent campers. While they look a noble bird in photographs, their voice has a very special quality, which fills you with the desire to see the wretched things cooking over a camp fire.

Cousins from Hell

A terrible thing is currently happening.

In my life, I have faced a great many perils. Pirates in pedaloes in the Dominican Republic, an irate Scotsmen in Glasgow. But non are comparable with what I am currently facing, getting ever worse and with no hope of escape.

For it is Easter, and so we are visiting The Cousins. Baby twins and a stubborn toddler is not exactly my idea of good company; little children are just so uncivilized. But there is no chance of keeping them at bay, for the elders insist that we ‘socialise’ with them. It usually takes about fifteen minutes before shell shock from the constant wails and shrieks sets in. Drinks are knocked over and a bead kit scattered across the floor. One of them crawls up and begins to chew on my leg, while the eldest mounts an attack upon some crisps, sticking them down its throat like a rabid creature. I think my hair is turning grey. At my side- my mother; looking pale and equally dazed. Our house is usually quiet and orderly, this place bears more resemblance to a lion pit at feeding time.

Even more sickening are the rose tinted glasses of their parents; perhaps it would be more bearable if they saw their beloved monsters for the mucus filled parasites that they are. I don’t hate little children or anything, most of them are fine. But The Cousins are different.

A Local Ramble

The warm weather had continued, and I couldn’t face another moment of Biology revision, so this morning I decided to trek to a nearby valley, a kilometre or two from my house. I had barely begun when I encountered a small herd of extremely curious cows, which had blockaded the footbridge. They did not flee when I advanced, but rather wandered a little closer, with an unusually intelligent, rather unnerving glint in their eyes.

I did not want to be eaten by what could potentially be a new breed of super intellectual bovine, and so I decided to find a new way around. There were a few barbed wire fences, and I almost lost my shoe in a marsh, but eventually I stumbled back onto a track and got my bearings; around the corner was a lake which I recognized. The mutt immediately saw an opportunity for mischief and swandived into it, scattering a family of mallard. He certainly has an impressive, albeit agitating, knack for shattering idyllic vistas.

There were no further obstacles, and I eventually found my way back home to bring word to the town about the cow menace to the south. Non of them took heed of my warning, though. Foolish peasants.

Traitor to Wanderlust

Today, while reading a travel article online, I saw this comment:

“I have never been abroad for a holiday and I never will. There’s no need when this country has so much to offer. I certainly wouldn’t want my children and grandchildren exposed to disgusting foreign food and at least in this country people speak English.”

This is surely tantamount to blasphemy against the principal of wanderlust. While it is true that England is a beautiful and varied place, it is only a tiny part of this world, and I cannot imagine being confined here. It also strikes me as odd that anybody can have such a definite opinion on foreign food, and yet never have been abroad.

It is people like this we must pity, who are blinded by ignorance or xenophobia, so that they view the world beyond their homeland as a threat to avoid, rather than a paradise to explore. Lets spend a moment mourning for their children and grandchildren, who will probably be forced to visit Scunthorpe rather than Paris.

Image courtesy of

Spring Stroll

This morning the dreary weather of the past few days had cleared up and the sun was starting to peak through the clouds, so I decided to take my camera out into the meadows not far from my house. There was nobody else around despite the good weather, so I was free to meander along taking shots of this and that without odd looks from the locals. I tried to get some shots of the songbirds, which were particularly lively, but I was saddled with the family mutt for the day. He insisted on charging around and generally disturbing the peace, so I was unable to capture anything worthy of merit on the wildlife front. One small wren led me on a merry chase through a hedge and under a fence, and I had it in my lens when the aforementioned mutt decided to crash through the undergrowth and cause it to take flight.

The town itself was relatively deserted too, with nobody but a few aimlessly wandering elderly to enjoy the spring sunshine. One or two of them even paused to murmur greetings and pat mutt on its unkempt head. He is asleep now, with a smug expression on his snout.


Dear Internet,

Before I continue with this blog, I should perhaps warn you that it is a strongly held personal belief of mine that stereotyping is a necessary and even acceptable part of the english language, which can be used to bring the most colourful characters to life. These days, it is very easy to be shot down in flames and to be labelled a racist if you refuse to conform to political correctness. And I rejoice at this increased emphasis on racial cohesion, and eagerly await the day in which race is nothing more than an attribute. However, I still feel that political correctness is the wrong way to go about this. It makes life plain and tedious, and every step must be considered as if on a tight-rope, to avoid offending this or that minority. Political correctness builds barriers between cultures; people are afraid to cause offence and so avoid each other: their relationship is polite but cold and insubstantial.

Think of your friends. True friends are happy to tease and mock each other, because they know that such things are meant in fun and that no harm is intended. This is the sort of racism which I engage in, a gentle teasing which should bring us closer together rather than sow hatred. And it does! I am friends with an indian, an egyptian muslim, and a chinese person, and I have no qualms about using stereotypes to their faces, nor do they have objections.

This treatment is fair; no stereotypable group is left unturned, including those which I belong to. I am no hypocrite, so here is a list of words and phrases that you can apply to me if you wish:

Hormonal teenage vagabond. Nerd. Country bumpkin. Lazy male pig. Geek. Loner. Four-eyes. Pig nose. Pretentious fool. Thunder thighs. British tea drinking scum. Mudblood. Whatever.

You get the idea, I hope, and so will not take offence if, for instance, I call a Jew “dark and evil”, or an Irishmen a “jolly dancing leprachaun”. If you do take offence then you have my apologies, and you need not ever return to this page again.

Have a pleasant evening.

Good morning, internet.

Dear Internet,

A peasant girl who lives in the next valley along introduced me to blogging last night. This is my first time, so have mercy, perhaps I should have sacrificed a dozen unfleeced sheep at the altar of the computer desk? I suppose  we should spend a little time learning who I am, and what you are.

I live in Lincolnshire, an empty corner of Englands green and pleasant land, in a modest town perched upon the wolds. I grew up here, among the farms and winding country lanes. Sixteen summers I have seen on these chalk hills. However, the idyllic scenery has its downfalls. The people here are generally old, or boring, or both. The only jobs in the area seem to be picking turnips in fields or stacking shelves in the local shop. And so, regardless of how intelligent and ambitious I am, it seems I am doomed to remain here as a Lincolnshire peasant until I can complete my quaint grammar school education and go to university. But at least I can inflict this on you too now!

Have a pleasant day, I’ll be posting something proper this evening.