The Church of England is officially recognized as the state church. The “C of E” maintains 45 percent of England’s Grade I listed buildings — chiefly churches and cathedrals, which total some 16,000 structures. Although church attendance has waned, the church buildings are used for a potpourri of community, cultural, and interfaith purposes. A survey in 2003 revealed that 86 percent of the country’s population had visited a church building or place of worship during the previous twelve months. So whether it’s a concert, a lecture on African pythons, or finding some quiet time, these wonderful historic buildings are still much used and obviously cherished. Churches that have been completely abandoned are cared for by the Redundant Churches Fund.
The Guide advises that we are now overlapping with the Jurassic Way, an 88-mile footpath that runs from Stamford to Banbury. The Way commemorates the rock formations that run in a southwest–northeast direction from the English Channel in Dorset to the Humber in Yorkshire. The limestone belt actually began for us at Kates Bridge. The closer to the heart of the Cotswolds we travel, the more the quality of the stone improves, until it attains the rich golden hue so characteristic of storybook villages like Bourton-on-the-Water and Lower Slaughter.
During the Jurassic period of geological time, the portion of central England we are walking was covered with a shallow, warm sea. This followed a lengthy era when Britain was a sandy desert much like Arizona or Mongolia today. In a cataclysm of events, this desert was transformed from a dry wasteland to a watery environment teeming with life. Ammonites, brachiopods, plesiosaurs, ichthyosaurs, oysters, birds, and other species that crawled out of the ocean all died in vast numbers over the millennia, and left their bones behind. These became embedded in soft clays and limestones, some of which became fossils.
This Jurassic rock strata was discovered and named by William Smith, a countryman who spent his life exploring subterranean England. Smith produced the first geological map of the country in 1815. That map was a harbinger of the change that was to come to the accepted order of things. It was clear from the rock strata that the Earth was more than a few thousand years old. Charles Darwin published his theories on evolution later in the century. The literal Biblical view of creation was no longer credible.
We cross the lovely Collyweston Bridge over the River Welland to enter the county of Rutland. Rutland is the smallest county in England, though from 1974 to 1997 it was part of Leicestershire. When Parliament merged Rutland into Leicestershire in 1974 following a committee’s review, Rutlanders conducted a Gandhi-like protest of civil disobedience, continuing to make out their property tax cheques to “Rutland County.” The government ultimately bowed to this smouldering rebellion and restored Rutland to full county status in 1997.
Rutland has the highest average family birth rate of any English county: 2.81 children, compared with only 1.67 in Tyne and Wear. It also has a fine reputation for physical fitness. I don’t know if this makes a case or not for the more physically fit being more sexually active. Rutland has also been placed at the top of the heap by statisticians as being the most contented county in England. So: happiness, fertility, and fitness — Rutland comes out on top. It is noteworthy that the county is composed of only two major towns, many small villages, and numerous farms. So: minimal pollution and a healthy rural lifestyle. Could Rutland be the model for the healthiest form of community in the twenty-first century?
Our route takes us through several wet barley fields and then over a footbridge to cross the River Chater. We are entering the village of Ketton. Cement works here employ some 220 people and supply the United Kingdom with one-tenth of its Portland cement. The local limestone quarries also produce Ketton stone, which was used to build several Cambridge colleges. We see giant dump trucks and excavators working quarries in the distance, like big Dinky toys.
We are now just a short distance from Fotheringhay, where Mary, Queen of Scots, was imprisoned and tried before being beheaded on February 8, 1587. The famous Talbot Hotel in nearby Oundle has a macabre link with Fotheringhay Castle, as the main staircase of the hotel is the very one Mary descended at the castle on the way to her death; her ghost is still seen retracing those final steps. (The staircase was installed in the Talbot when it was rebuilt in 1626, at the time of the castle’s demolition.) Mary’s executioner lodged in this inn the night before he performed his grisly duty.
The wind picks up as we march along, and great sweeping views across Rutland Water open up through the trees. Waves are being churned into whitecaps, the sky changing from an oyster-shell hue to angry, inky blotches of nimbus rolling in from the North Sea.
“Dirty weather coming, John,” says Karl. “We better hoof it to our lodgings.”
The Rutland Water reservoir is a vast nature reserve that is the breeding site for numerous species. It is also a fisherman’s mecca. The surrounding landscape is one of gentle, undulating wolds and alternating flat, grassy fields. Once heavily populated, the hundreds of lost and deserted villages in the vicinity attest to the ravages of the Black Death in the fourteenth century.
Rutland Water was a low-lying region of marsh and lake prior to 1976, when it was flooded and transformed into a reser-voir 4.19 square miles in area, making it England’s second-largest lake after Windermere, in the Lake District. Some twenty thousand wild birds reside here year-round, and countless others stop over while on migration. The prized bird to spot is the osprey, which was introduced in 1996; breeding couples now return annually to raise their young. This magnificent bird boasts a five-foot wingspan at maturity.
Wetlands to the west of Rutland Water are now a nature reserve which is home to the Anglian Water Birdwatching Centre. The British Birdwatching Fair is held here annually, the largest of its kind in Europe. I am told that two of the highlights of the recent summer exhibition were the killer cat and stuffed canary carpet displays (not at all politically correct). The fair is the birdwatchers’ equivalent to the Glastonbury music festival.
Heavy gusts of wind and rain are now upon us. Karl disappears from sight ahead of me and I don’t catch up to him for a good half hour, when I find him standing motionless at the outskirts of our destination village in front of an official-looking sign which reads: “Whitwell — twinned with Paris.”
Our B&B host is Julie, a bubbly, athletic woman in her forties who keeps a trim cottage with her husband and two collies. My first question to her pertains to the opening hours of the Noel Arms village pub. My second question relates to the funny sign.
“Is this some joke, or is it a different Paris?”
It transpires that Julie is uniquely qualified to answer both questions, because she and her husband at one time managed the Noel Arms. She gives me a newspaper — the Daily Mail from August 18, 1992 — that exploded the Whitwell story onto the national stage.
“Some cars skidded into the hedge,” we read, “but mostly they pulled back slowly, and had their pictures taken at the sign. You see these places everywhere, and often nobody’s heard of the city’s twin before. All it ever means is that officials get a trip once in a while to drink wine for several days and visit the local sewage farm.”
The Whitwell village elders, led by Sam Healey, proprietor of the Noel Arms, voted to twin Whitwell with Paris. They then erected the signage, and patiently waited for the mayor of Paris, Monsieur Jacques Chirac, to visit, as is the custom with the twinning of cities. Finally, the Whitwell elders received a reply from Chirac’s office advising they had never heard of Whitwell. The letter was a little on the frosty side; in fact, the villagers found the tone a tad offensive. (After all, noted Healey, even though it boasts but nineteen houses, Whitwell is clearly the place to be.) So the village elders wrote back and advised M. Chirac that if they did not hear back from his office by a fixed date, they would assume that M. Chirac had agreed to the twinning. That date passed without response, and so the official twinning ceremonies were scheduled in the village.
The day of the ceremony was so replete with liquid refresh
-ments that about all Healey could remember is that everyone ended up as “drunk as lords.” He woke up in his coal shed the morning after. He did recall that they staged the first can-can dances ever seen in Whitwell. Healey wrote to M. Chirac and told him he’d missed a great party and the committee would deputize someone to officially open the new toilets at the Noel Arms for him, since it appeared that M. Chirac would be unavoidably absent.
The news report concluded with Healey saying, “It isn’t a bloody joke. It’s serious. We put up the signs, one at each end, and Victoria Dickinson came and painted all these nice French flags on the wall. The road signs cost forty quid each, and we’ve had a lot of them pinched. We’re thinking of making a sign saying ‘Paris — twinned with Whitwell,’ and sticking it up at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Why not?”
Even Rutland County Council got into the spirit of it all, by replacing the hokey wooden signs with formal, legal metal ones. Whitwell had arrived.
Julie verifies all this. She is also very kind and turns on the heat for us this evening.
Morning dawns with a bland tapioca sky that hints of a dry day on the path. We are soon wending our way along a cycle track through a copse skirting the lake.
DIARY: Our entry into the trim town of Oakham coincides with the first rays of sun striking the buff-toned façade of the Brook Whipper-in Hotel in the market square, where I enjoy a fine panini tuna sandwich. The serving of tuna sandwiches for lunch on Saturdays is a tradition in many market towns. A barrel-chested green grocer at the market next door sonorously proclaims, “90p. for 3 cauliflower!” I love the picture-postcard octagonal Butter Cross with its pyramidal roof, beneath which lay stocks that were used to punish miscreants.
Oakham historically wielded a degree of autonomy normally associated with a city-state. Its authority emanated from Oakham Castle, whose only surviving structure is the Great Hall, built in 1190. We leave our dirty walking boots at the door and tiptoe inside to explore.
The Great Hall is the earliest structure of its kind associated with an English castle to survive intact. Sunlight streams through the high window at one end, highlighting the rounded Doric arches that support the ornate ceiling, which consists of elaborate cross-sectioned beams strung out in the Elizabethan style.
But the real feature of the Great Hall is the 230 horseshoes clustered all over the walls. Most are plain, but a few are encrusted with jewels, and glitter subtly in the soft light. The explanation for this unusual display is a centuries-old tradition requiring any peer of the realm visiting Oakham to forfeit a horseshoe to the lord of the manor at the castle. Even Prince Charles recently had to hand over his horseshoe. The tradition is linked to one of the earliest owners, the Ferrers family.
We move on to inspect the famous Oakham School, founded in 1584 by Robert Johnson, an archdeacon who believed — unusually for his day — that every child should have an opportunity for education, and who set aside much of his church’s income to establish a school plus two grammar facilities in Oakham and Uppingham. His injunction was clear: “The schoolmaster shall teach all those grammar scholars that are brought up in Oakham, freely without pay, if their parents be poor and not able to pay, and keep them constantly to school.” He persuaded Elizabeth I to endow the school permanently by royal charter. The Oakham School became the first private secondary school in Britain to allow coeducational instruction for all grades. Then it strutted its stuff further in 1995 by becoming the first public (that is, private) school in Britain to go online. A chapel and a memorial library respectively honour the sixty-nine schoolboys killed in World War I and the eighty-two killed in World War II.
Like any ancient market town, Oakham has had its share of notables and eccentrics. One Jeffrey Hudson of Oakham was so small that he was once served up to Charles I in a fruit pie. While entertaining the king and queen for dinner, Hudson’s master, Lord Buckingham, advised their majesties that he had a special surprise in store. Two servants carried a massive pie into the room, placed it on the table, and out popped Jeffrey Hudson clad in a full suit of armour. The queen was so delighted by this that she claimed Hudson for her own court, granting him the title of Queen’s Dwarf. Royal courtiers referred to Hudson as Lord Minimus. When the queen was forced to flee to exile in France in 1643, Hudson accompanied her as a trusted aide. Later, he led a colourful life abroad that saw him twice captured by pirates and sold into slavery, only to escape back to England. At the time of his death at age sixty-three, Hudson measured three feet six inches in height.
The day is getting on as we finish our inspection of the town’s artifacts, but Karl insists on checking up on the Oakham constabulary to ensure that they have picked up Tiffany’s clothes from our green lane near Stamford. So we traipse all the way to the police station, only to find that at 5:15 PM the station is already closed and one must call a special number in case of emergency. Karl and I just stand there dumfounded.
“Bloody hell! Have you ever heard of a police station in a major town that simply closes at 5 PM, John? What — do they expect all crime to stop for the evening or something?”
“I don’t know, Karl. Maybe they don’t have enough business to keep the staff engaged, but my hunch is that they are bogged down with both crime and paperwork and don’t want to be interrupted by some bloke coming in at night to report a stray dog and such.”
In fact, the “Closed” sign epitomizes the English aversion to the masses having access to shopping, sustenance, or authority outside of severely prescribed hours.
After booking in at a local hotel, Karl and I sample the fare at its upscale restaurant. How about braised lamb shank with a minted pea purée? I was about to say there are no mushy peas offered anymore, but trust the English to sneak in their pea concoction under the guise of gourmet. I settle for grilled figs, pistachio nuts with local honey, and goat’s cheese for starters, then move on to wood pigeon breast, foie gras, black pudding, and roasted potatoes, with New York cheesecake for dessert.
Karl fulfills his wish and enjoys wood pigeon as well. The bird has a taste similar to a Cornish game hen, and a texture like liver. Our server advises us that she enjoys roasted wood pigeon on toast. The ingredients, she says, are as follows: two oven-ready wood pigeons; robust herbs such as thyme, sage, and rosemary; four garlic cloves (“bashed not peeled”); olive oil; butter; two thick slices of sourdough bread; and 150 millilitres of red wine. Sounds like heaven on a stick.
Of the pigeon family, only wood pigeons can be legally killed for food. Recently a woman in a London park was arrested for feeding domestic pigeons with seeds, then grabbing them, wringing their necks, and stuffing their bodies into her voluminous handbag. One wonders if she bothers to pick up roadkill.
Don’t laugh. Roadkill cuisine has become big in Britain. Waste not, want not. Fergus Drennan has hosted a BBC production, The Roadkill Chef, instructing viewers on the cooking of casseroles from squashed badgers, pheasant, and rabbits, among other animals. Another BBC broadcaster, Miranda Krestovnikoff, recently hosted a dinner party where guests were treated to the following dishes: fried rat served with garlic and soy sauce, the rat having been picked off the B3347 in Hampshire; fox sautéed in garlic, found dead on a road near Wimborne, Dorset; and badger chasseur, served with tomato sauce after being removed from the A354 near Salisbury. Roadkill is touted as being high in vitamins and proteins, with lean meat and little saturated fat, plus the wild dead are free of hormonal drugs and additives. But if you are the driver who runs down that luscious-looking badger, it is illegal for you to eat it. Any other motorist, however, is legally allowed to give it a go. Once dead, the only animals it is illegal to eat in Britain are humans and swans. Only the Queen can consume swan — it is an act of treason for anyone else to kill or eat the stately bird.
Relaxing over his plum brandy, Karl is the picture of contentment.
“Next thing, Karl, you’ll be eating Welsh rabbit.”
“I will have you know, John boy, that Welsh Rabbit is now known as ‘rarebit,
’ and that it is neither Welsh nor rabbit. It is a concoction of melted cheese with butter, milk, and Worcestershire sauce spread over buttered toast.”
“Ugh!” But the word is barely out of my mouth before I realize that the concoction just described by Karl is what was served to me by my grandmother when I was eight years old — and which I positively loved.
3
Hare Pies and Bottle Kicking
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath had made;
But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
—OLIVER GOLDSMITH—
The Deserted Village
DIARY: Oakham is a memorable, tidy little town where one could comfortably settle as a safe harbour. Rutland in fact could have served as inspiration for Tolkien’s Shire in The Lord of the Rings. The county resembles a Wild Wood in its insularity, seemingly detached from the broader world . . . Ascending a long hill on Oakham’s fringe, we pass by a primary school and hear the laughing, frolicking sounds of children at play immediately below us — and yes, there is the ubiquitous soccer ball being kicked about with wild abandon. Oh, to be young again!
From here, our route traverses large swathes of croplands and copses, with small stone villages scattered hither and thither. We will soon leave Rutland, slice through a corner of Leicestershire, and then explore the lonely undulating grasslands of Northamptonshire before reaching the fringe of the Cotswolds.
Karl and I remark upon the constant intersection of other footpaths joining ours, some with clearly marked names, others anonymous. It is like veins of a body radiating in every direction. Many of these veins have existed from neolithic times. Rome added the arteries to the veins when it built the long, straight connecting roads, such as the Fosse Way. Writing in the early 1950s, Geoffrey Grigson opines: “Roads, lanes, paths. We use them without reflecting how they are some of man’s oldest inscriptions upon the landscape, how they are evidence of the wedding between men and their environment.”
Walking to Camelot Page 5