The Leicestershire Round

11th February 2006

Rearsby - Hoby - Frisby - Gaddesby - Asby Folville - Thorpe Satchville (9.5 miles)

The Horse and Groom

Another day, another walk. It is a bit colder this time and the lure of the warmth of the local inn was tempting me, but I needed to press onwards. Apparently Rearsby used to bake a famous 'Rearsby loaf' (I like the name!) but it's no longer baked here, but at Ratby on the west of Leicester. Funny that.

Hello All At No. 22

Following the book, I pass Rearsby church and then go to an Avenue, turning left at number 22. I wonder if the people at no. 22 ever wonder themselves as to why so many people stare at and then walk past their house. The pressures of fame...

It Must Be Cold

One of the earliest flowers to be seen in the year is the snowdrop. Just past the church there were a great mass of them, almost looking like a covering of snow. Who ever named these flowers did a good job.

A great amount of British wildlife may be dormant at the moment the the moles are certainly hyperactive at this time of year. I was careful where I trod in case the ground caved away beneath me.

Not Happy

Crossing the railway bridge, I looked to the right to see 'Bleak Moor'. I really don't know who names things in this country, but they do seem to get it spot on quite regularly.

The day was cold, not only from the temperature but also from the wind that ripped away any heat I was trying to cling on to. Walking by a mill (which the map said was disused, but looked very inhabited to me), I crunched through the ice that was formed on the ground.

A nice shot of a young willow tree, growing chracteristically besides an expanse of open water.

As I was approaching Hoby, the sheep saw their chance and, being confident in numbers, charged towards me. 'Could sheep turn towards the dark side?" I asked myself. Well, no, they can't. The most threatening thing they did was to bleat very loudly at me and, when they saw that I didn't have any food for them, they wandered off.

Hoby is another example of 'a really nice village around Leicestershire', complete with its 15th century church built out of soft ironstone.

This path along the side of Hoby, complete with these ruins of buildings, a bramble growing in the top of the gate-post, and eventual walk under some charismatic horse chestnut trees, adorned underneath with snowdrops, was completely in the wrong direction. I should have turned down the hill before here.

The humble stile. The ramblers aerobics. Who needs to go to the gym when you have vast numbers of these to climb over. Some are nice and low for normal people. Some seem so high that I wonder if they were designed for people wearing stilts. Or am I just getting tired by that point?

Just before leaving Frisby-on-the-Wreake, I came across this thatched cottage, constructed Pirelli style. I shall presume that the thatch need replacing and this is temporary to keep out the bad weather, and not the owners statement of modern culture. Have they considered applying for the Turner prize?

The stretch bewteen Frisby and Gaddesby is across a huge open expanse of fields and openness ('fairly strenuous' as the guide book call it). Along the way I met this hunter, keeping an eye out for any oil seed rape that was thinking of defecting from his field. Or was all that it seemed...?

On closer inspection it turned out to be a well crafted scarecrow (not a turnip in sight!). His lethal weapon of a pole was pointed menacingly at the field but could not hurt a fly (unless it fell off and landed on one). So what was making that gunshot sound?

Turning around, I saw the gas operated gun. Gas pressure slowly builds up, and when it's high enough, it sets of the machine and goes BANG! The thing is, you never know when it will happen... As I left and walked by on the other side of the hedge, a hare suddenly flew out from right under my feet. Immediately the gun went BANG! right by me. I paused, picked up my heart and carried on.

This sign lead me over a surviving example of a ridge-and-furrow field. Each bumpy strip was caused by their owners in the Medieval times ploughing from the outside edges to the centre with their horses and ploughs. The plough turned the soil only one way, so over time the soil built up in to the centre.

Along the path I met this tree.

It stood out like a light to me.

Passed away, yet still alive.

The passing storms it doth survive.

Yet time will make it fade away.

I wonder if that tree still stands today?

This isn't another photo of another stile to demonstrate there were many stiles to climb. It was cloddy, muddy work crossing the fields, and when my boots were as heavy as moon-boots, they needed to have a few kilo's of mud scraped from them. You can see from this stile that others had the same idea. Over time, the stile could slowly disappear under piles of mud, so we would have to run over hills to get from one field to the other.

I brushed Gaddesby on the walk, glancing off one of its sides before heading on to Ashby Folville. The lasting memory I had of Gaddesby was of these two combines set out to pasture.

Close to my destination, I passed under this bridge. It all went ok.

Feeling cold and a bit tired (I've put that in to elicit sympathy) I arrived at Thorpe Satchville to wait a good while for a bus. As the buses are only once an hour, to just miss one means a long wait for the next. It is difficult, however, to time walking so that it finishes nicely just before a bus comes.

Why stop at Thorpe Satchville? Let's think big. Shall I go to the South Pole? Or perhaps Jerusalem as that's much closer. Or perhaps I'll go home for a warm shower instead.