Ruskington to Sleaford. 6 miles.

Follow the Slea.

I have time to look at the church this morning before finishing my last leg of the Spires and Steeples Trail. Once again, I’m blessed with the sun and blue sky. The sun brings to life the warmth of the Lincolnshire limestone from which this church, like all the others, is built. 

The village has a bustling main street with an enclosed stream running down the middle.  Yesterday, I thought the village had a cooking odour, it is not as noticeable today. I read that the largest employer here is Pilgrims Foods who produce Scotch eggs and cocktail sausages.

For a change, here is a church built with bricks – the 1883 Zion Wesleyan Church.

I’m soon out of the houses, crossing the railway and into open fields. Thankfully, these haven’t been ploughed, I hope to avoid yesterday’s mud.

A couple of lanes and I start walking alongside a stream, presumably the one from the village; it’s named The Beck on the map. I’ve always associated the name Beck with more Northern areas, but I suppose the Scandinavians populated here at some stage. This is proper Fenland, which has been drained since the C17th.

On the first road I come to, I meet a cyclist, and we pass the time of day as they say. I find it strange that he is riding an electric, full-suspension mountain bike in such flat terrain; of course, I don’t mention it. There is another large chicken factory on the horizon at Anwick.

Farther down the lane is an ornate stone bridge over the River Slea where The Beck joins it. The Slea runs to join the Witham, which I followed for a short way out of Lincoln; it was made navigable in 1794 up to Sleaford. Locks were built at the various working mills to maintain a sufficient water flow. Of course, the coming of the railway in 1857 reduced its traffic, and it closed in 1881.

There is parking by the bridge for ‘Stepping Out’ walkers. I have noticed their signage in several places this week.  Stepping Out is a 130 miles network of short walks across North Kesteven, 

From the bridge, there is a view of the abandoned St. Mary’s Priory, Haverholme. Established by the Gibertine Order in the C12th and in several hands after the dissolution. The ruins are from an 1830s rebuild.

My route follows the Navigation to Sleaford, so I don’t have to worry about finding my way. It gives pleasant walking passing several abandoned locks. I suspect there will be a band of committed volunteers, like elsewhere, wanting to reopen the canal, an almost impossible task.

I duck under a busy road and then the railway.

The last lock is at Cogglesford Watermill. It is still working and is open to the public for viewing. I quickly look around and chat with one of the volunteers about a similar working mill in Lancashire, the Heron Corn mill near Milnthorpe. It turns out his grandmother comes from there, but he doesn’t know about that mill.

I found this which gives some interesting history about the mill and the Sleaford Navigation.

The last half-mile is designated a nature reserve and gives pleasant walking right into the heart of Sleaford—many restored buildings are linked to the previous Navigation traffic.

My route terminates at the parish church, St Denys. The traffic is a nightmare in the town, and even worse, the market square adjacent to the church is being dug up and relayed.

St Denys is a magnificent church reflecting the past importance and prosperity of Sleaford. I manage to find its entrance behind the construction work, and once inside, all is peace and tranquillity.

The steeple contains the oldest part of the church,1180 and has a very early example of a broach spire. St Denys’ is renowned for its window tracery and its stained glass. The Gothic nave dates from around 1360 with the chancel added about 1430.

The tomb of Sir Edward Carre (died 1618)

As I said, the traffic in the town is horrendous, and I don’t feel the need to explore further. Most shops are decked out for Christmas shopping, and I have no desire to partake. There are restaurants of all nationalities; an authentic-looking Polish one tempts me, but it is closed, as is the museum. I pass the town hall, a strange little shop, the Handley Memorial (local politician and landowner, C18-19th), an art deco cinema and converted warehouses. Maybe I should have spent more time in this historic town. 

The bus back to Metheringham departs from the Rail station.  ***

***

An enjoyable few days. The terrain has been flat and primarily featureless, but the villages and their churches are a delight. The footpaths are well-trodden, primarily by dog walkers taking their daily exercise. Let’s gloss over the mud.

If I had a suggestion, it would, I think, have been better to walk from Sleaford to Lincoln, thus culminating with a final uphill to the incomparable Cathedral. A two-day walk with a stop in Metheringham halfway.

For the record, six spires and eight steeples.

I’ve been so lucky with the weather in this week’s changing forecast. Hopefully, I can reach home tomorrow in the eye of the next named storm, Darragh. We are certainly having a mixed climate so far this winter.

Metheringham to Ruskington. 8.5 miles.

Rural rambling through Lincolnshire lard.

I had been told about the mud in the fields on this section, but I never imagined it would be so bad, but it is December after a wet autumn. Why should I be surprised? This Lincolnshire mud is the thickest, stickiest, and heaviest I have encountered. I liken it to lard rather than soil. Read on.

It is good to start today’s walk from the pub in Metheringham, The Lincolnshire Poacher, where I’m staying.

I have time to look at the two crosses in the centre of the village. One medieval, C14th, which at one time was in the roadway but has been moved to the pavement to preserve its parts. A postcard from 1909 shows the main part of this old cross with a lamp installed on top.

The remains today.

The newer one on the traffic island has had a chequered history. When the medieval cross was removed in 1911, a new cross was built in the road celebrating the coronation of George V. Unsurprisingly, this was also damaged by an American army lorry in WW2. In 1949, another cross was erected, but its design was never liked, and eventually, in 2011, the unpopular 1940s design was replaced with a facsimile of the 1911 cross; this, too, suffered accidental demolition when hit by a vehicle in December 2020. The cross was repaired, and a new head was fitted to replace the shattered one. I wonder how long this one will survive on this busy junction?

The local fire brigade erected a beacon to celebrate Queen Elizabeth’s platinum Jubilee in 2022.

And in a corner is one of those Lion Headed water hydrants dating from installing a mains supply in the 30s. The neat 1900s Methodist church next to the bus stop is now a private dwelling. Time to get going.

I take a lane to St. Wilfred’s church, another grand Lincolnshire stone building.  The church, which has a fine interior, is, unfortunately, locked at this early hour, 8.30 am. Much of Metheringham’s village was destroyed by fire in 1599, and little more than the Norman tower of St. Wilfred’s church survived.

A couple are feeding the grey squirrels in the graveyard.

My early start is to make the most of the daylight hours. And this morning, the sun is shining bright, although the temperature is only 3 degrees.

Soon, I’m out in the countryside and enjoying the expansive views. It’s all decidedly flat, though. The sun is low in the sky, making it difficult to see to the south, the direction I’m going. Since my recent cataract operations, the world has been much brighter.

The next village, Blankney, after only a mile, is reached across the cricket pitch. It is an attractive stone-built village owned by the Blankney Estate. There has been a village here for over a thousand years. The original C18th hall burnt down in 1945.

St.Oswald’s church is just off the main road, surrounded by green fields. Again, it is constructed of pale Lincolnshire limestone glowing in the low sun. Although it has origins in the C12th it has been rebuilt many times. The door is firmly locked.

The trail wanders through part of the estate; as I said, the hall has gone, but I pass the remains of stables and a massive walled garden. One can only imagine the size of the workforce when in its heyday.

Pleasant field tracks head towards Scopwick where there is a small war graves cemetery. Most of the dead were aircraftmen from the nearby WW11 Digby airfield.

I walk through a small estate of bungalows, wondering if they are a community project, perhaps with an overseeing warden. I think when the time comes, I could live somewhere like this, keeping most of my independence. Ever hopeful of living to 90.

An enclosed path, on one side neat little cottages and on the other the Church of the Holy Cross. Again an ancient church with Georgian and Victorian alterations. This one is open, so I get to look around. 

 I have time to explore Scopwick, built around a green with a little limestone stream. Could be in the Cotswolds.

Soon, I get my first experience of that glutinous mud in large fields ploughed only recently. Not many have been this way, not the usual dog-walking terrain. The ground is soft and saturated. After a few steps, my boots accumulated a few pounds of mud, and my poles weighed down with clinging dollops of the stuff. It won’t shake off, and with every step I take, it worsens; lifting my legs is an effort, and my pace drops to nothing. The field seems to become larger and larger, with salvation farther away.

At last, dry land appears, and I clean off all the mud with difficulty. I cross a lane and come face to face with locked gates at a sewage farm. Retracing, I spot the little path leading into the woods. Some better fields, i.e. grassy, and I’m into Rowston where the church, St Clements, has an exceptionally slender tower which I could see from those muddy fields.

Over the road is the C14th village cross.

A bit of respite from fields, a quiet road, and I’m into Digby at the Red Lion Inn and the medieval stone buttercross. Nearby is a strange circular village’ lock-up’ which is Grade II listed,

Dedicated to St Thomas the Martyr (Thomas Becket), a church has occupied this site since Saxon times.   Built in the Gothic style, it has a tall crocketed spire.

I go inside and find a lady polishing the pews in advance of Christmas celebrations, quite a task. We chat about the village and my walk. It turns out she knows Longridge as friends she visits live nearby; small world as usual. I end up eating my lunch in the porch, a pleasant interlude. When I come out, the day has changed; gone is the blue sky and sun. A chilly mist has descended, completely changing the landscape.

A stone clapper bridge crosses a stream which is followed out of the village…

… straight into vast ploughed fields stretching forever. 

There is no path, and I try to follow tractor tracks. The mud is deep and clinging as before, and I feel isolated in the mist. Looking back, I can just make out Digby’s church spire. After almost a mile of slow progress, I am relieved to reach a stile into a pasture.

I’m not in the mood for any additional exercise. On the green in Dorrington stands the large ‘Dorrington Demons’ carving.

The legend says – that when it was attempted to build a church on this site, each day’s work was mysteriously undone during the night. This kept happening and one large stone was moved to the church’s present site up the hill from the village. Obviously, demons at work. (I don’t visit it but notice it later when passing on the bus)

The woolly creature watched me out of their paddock straight into another nightmare.

The pictures tell it all. The third and by far the worst ploughed field today, potatoes last year. Completely waterlogged, isolated telegraph poles are the only feature in over half a mile. My feet are sucked inder at every step, and my poles disappear to an alarming depth. My only thought is, don’t fall over; I wonder what I am doing here. Even getting to the stile at the end was a menacing quagmire.

I lick my wounds before daring to show myself in Ruskington. Across the way is All Saints Church. Like all these villages, there has been a church since Saxon times. All Saints was built with a spire, but it collapsed in the C17th. The tower was rebuilt and the stones from the spire used to construct the south porch. There is a gargoyle on the east wall of the porch from that time.  There are interesting stained glass windows. One reflecting the designs of William Morris.

 Another full day, made longer by those three muddy episodes, but very enjoyable nonetheless – at least afterwards in the shower.

Washingborough to Metheringham. 10 miles.

Tranquil villages.

I find myself back at the lower part of Washingborough near the Ferry Inn, which relates to an earlier boat crossing of the River Witham before the bridge I used yesterday was built.

From here, it is uphill to the prominent St John the Evangelist Church; I spotted its steeple at the end of yesterday’s stage. It is probably the oldest structure in the village, with the tower’s base dating from Norman times. It was restored in 1860 by Sir George Gilbert Scott, the Victorian Gothic Revival architect (St. Pancras and Albert Memorial, etc.). The warmth of the Lincolnshire limestone strikes me. Unfortunately, I cannot access the interior, which has some fine stained glass, including the ‘Zeppelin’ windows, commemorating 23rd September 1916 when a Zeppelin bombed the village in mistake for Lincoln.  An elderly lady is weeding a grave, the sister of her mother who died of Diphtheria aged five at the beginning of the last century, a sad link with the past.

Onwards up the hill, yes, there are hills in Lincolnshire, is a welcome carved wooden seat depicting aspects of the village’s story.

The rough ground behind it is marked on the map as Pits Woods, and as I walk through it, one gets the impression that digging occurred in the past, possibly for iron or silver ore in the limestone.

A section through housing estates is well-signed with the  S&S logo, so I’m soon alongside the railway. A new underpass has been built since my guide was written.

I then follow Branston Beck for a couple of miles. It has recently been cleaned, and hopefully, brown trout and water voles will return. There is plenty of bird life in the reeds.

The beck-side route marches straight to the village of Branston, or rather, the village is marching out into the fields. Some farmer has made a pretty penny here, and they complain about the inheritance tax, payable at 20% when the rest of us pay 40%. There’s a lot to see in Branston. First I arrive at the old sheep wash on the beck with its recent art installations.

There is a lot of artwork on a village trail relating to its history and environment.

I make a detour to view the village waterwheel constructed in 1879 to pump water to the houses of the local gentry before the main’s water arrived in the 1930s. Honestly, there was little to see, the wheel being enclosed and on private land.  The diagram explains it better than I can.

Heading up to the church, I pass a small green with three elaborately carved wooden chairs. Again, this is part of the art trail.

Nearby, a plaque on the house commemorates the Enclosure Act, which had a profound effect on the subsistence farming population. I haven’t even reached the church.

  All Saints Church has a commanding position.  There is Saxon masonry in the tower, the tower’s west door is Norman and the  Perpendicular style spire from the late C15th. Much of the church was “restored” in 1876 by Sir George Gilbert Scott, a name we keep meeting. Today, the church is locked, so I cannot see the C14th Nave or the elaborately carved benches. Note the modern replacement window from 1962 after a fire in the chancel.

Whilst wandering around the churchyard the peace is broken by the sound of jets above. They are gone before I see them but I’m ready the next time around. I can’t believe it, but these are the Red Arrows on an exercise. They keep circling, five in front v-shaped, with one following behind. I even get to see some red vapour trails. How do you capture that with a phone camera?

Meanwhile, time stands still in the mosaic at my feet. 

Time to move on. Once out of the houses, I am into fields of what I think is sugar beet.
Not too muddy, and soon, I’m onto tracks across the fens. Out of the blue, a cafe appeared. Part of the Hanworth Lesure Complex. It is lunchtime so I call in for a coffee and carrot cake. Perfect.

There are pitches for camping and lakes for fishing.
Across the fields is the small village of Potterhanworth, until recently a centre for sugar beet breeding.

I look in the bus stop, which is bedecked with murals and has a window looking out to the church. 

The Church of St. Andrews has a C14 tower, but the rest is Victorian. The parish council are having a meeting inside, so I move on, I am sure I would have been welcome. Across the road from the church is another impressive building, a huge water tower built in 1903 as part of a water supply system from a borehole in a nearby field. I need to stride out; time is passing.

Nocton, has plenty of interest; these villages have made an effort to highlight their heritage.

‘Dandelion Sundial’ by Cliff Baxendale is surrounded by relief panels depicting various aspects of Nocton’s history.

The present Church of All Saints, designed by, you guessed it, George Gilbert Scott replaced an older one in the grounds of Nocton Hall; both were demolished. A local man tells me the interesting history of the hall and churches. You can find it here.

On the way out of the village, I am surprised by the delightful ‘Cow’ created by Nocton schoolchildren from old scrap farm tools which had been ploughed up in the surrounding fields. Easy going on the bridleway across what were formerly massive potato fields for Smiths Crisps with their own railway. Dunston is a small, sleepy hamlet. St Peter’s church was largely rebuilt in 1874, but its mediaeval tower remains, and there is an Early English south doorway. At least I get to look inside this one, which is good because there is a hagioscope or squint, so the congregation in the north aisle could see the altar. A new one for me.

It’s dusk when I arrive in Metheringham, a long day but full of interest.

***

Lincoln to Washingborough. 4.5 miles.

Leaving Lincoln.

I emerge from a few hours enthralled in Lincoln Cathedral and start my Spires and Steeples Trail from the grand west door. In some ways, it would have been more of a climax to finish here, but let’s not belittle Sleaford until we arrive there.

I will probably write about the cathedral soon, but where will I start? There is so much history, beauty, and awe.

It’s easier to just set off on the trail. I want to tick off a few miles to make tomorrow more manageable. Out of the cathedral grounds, Lincoln Cathedral lost its spires centuries ago and down that ‘steep hill ‘ everyone talks about. It is steep, and those coming up take frequent stops to look in the tourist shop windows.

At the bottom, I dodge a few streets and pass by my first spire. The stately St. Swithins is now looking uncared for. The original church suffered a bad fire in 1644, the fate of many early wooden churches. It was rebuilt but replaced with this Neo-Gothic building in 1869, designed by James Fowler, a distinguished Victorian church architect. The mathematician George Boole was christened in the earlier church in 1815. More of him later. The congregation still meets in a nearby building whilst the repairs to the church’s roof are being funded.

The River Witham is navigable from Lincoln to The Wash at Boston, made possible by canalisation in the C18th. I cross over and start walking out of the city, passing a lock basin.

Along the banks are the remains of industries past, but it doesn’t take long to reach more rural scenery.

I come across my first S & S waymark, but I may have missed some in the city. 

Looking back, the Cathedral dominates the skyline, as it does from miles around.

The track is popular with cyclists and joggers. A cycleway, The Water Rail, goes as far as Boston on the old railway. I’ve just realised I’m on an old rail track. The railway that finished off most of the river traffic. It took a package boat six hours to get to Boston; the train took one and a quarter hours.

Easy going and I reach the old railway station, cosed 1940, where I cross the ditch into a small park. There are a few animal statues to look out for, and then I’m on the main road through Washingborough, right next to a bus stop with the first steeple for tomorrow visible up the hill.

A good start to the trip, and I finished before it became dark.

As I explained in my introduction  https://bowlandclimber.com/2024/12/06/spires-and-steeples/  I am booked into a pub in Metheringham for a few days and aim to use bus transport to the ends of each stage.

***

***

PS. This walk was completed on December 3rd – I’m not crazy enough to be out in Storm Darragh.

A long-distance path of 25 miles in Lincolnshire, the trail begins at Lincoln Cathedral and ends at St Denys Church, Sleaford. In between it visits a number of towns and villages of the region, each with churches that have eye-catching spires or steeples.
Another short Long Distance Way I’ve come up with, maybe I should start calling them Short Distance Ways. I’ve never been to Lincoln, so this is an opportunity to visit and combine with a few days of walking. At one time, more than a few years ago now, I might have attempted this route in a day. But what’s the rush?
Steeple or spire? Are they the same? A steeple is any church tower, whether with a spire or without. A spire, on the other hand, is an ornament to a steeple – defined in the Oxford English Dictionary as ‘A tapering conical or pyramidal structure on the top of a building, typically a church tower.’
Our excellent OS maps help out by their symbols defining the type of church.

Oh, and by the way, the Spires and Steeples Trail is marked on the OS maps as a recreational route.

The tallest of Britain’s steeples, that of Salisbury Cathedral, which I visited in October, rises 404 feet; the spire is 180 feet high. Lincoln’s original spire, timber covered with lead, on its central tower, was even taller; at 524 feet, it was for two centuries the world’s tallest building; alas, it collapsed in 1549 and now, without a spire, is only 272ft high. Here in Preston, we have St. Walburge, at 309ft, the tallest non-cathedral church in the country.

Salisbury Cathedral.

St.Walburge’s Wikipedia.

A steeplechase was originally a cross-country horse race using church towers as landmarks. And, of course, Bolton’s Fred Dibnah was perhaps the most famous steeplejack.

As well as the churches, there is a series of art installations in the villages on the trail, which should add some interest to a flat landscape. The area south of Lincoln seems to be named North Kesteven, a local government district established in 1974.
I’m reckoning on the train to Lincoln, changing at Manchester and Sheffield, then a bus or train to a village named Metheringham. I will be lucky to arrive within five hours.
There is a bus service between most of the villages on the linear trail so I will be able to split the sections to suit my dallying and to fit around the weather. It is dark before 4 pm at this time of year.

In Metheringham I have booked into an inn for five nights, the Lincolnshire Poacher. This is named after The Lincolnshire Poacher, a traditional English folk song associated with the county of Lincolnshire and deals with the joys of poaching. It is considered to be the unofficial county anthem of Lincolnshire. I shall be whistling it on my way.