The magic spinner span, and this time it chose the straight line to the Suffolk coast, heading ESE just over two hundred miles to, well, Sizewell B Nuclear Power Station! There is a lovely beach there, too, however, with a cafe and everything; so let’s just call it Sizewell and be done with it. It’s just down the coast from another fantastic spot, Dunwich, which today is just a tiny village; but was once one of England’s most important ports. So I had, if anything, not one but two very acceptable end points, and who knows, I might just visit both!
Time being ever a factor, I felt I could reasonably have a go at this coastal spin in two long cycling days, leaving a third day for general mooching about and making what would inevitably be a rather long and fiddly train journey home. East to west journeys on our rail network are rarely straightforward, and this was no exception. From the closest station to Dunwich it would be four changes and not far off six hours of elapsed time to get back home. But the forecast was good, the wind looked like it should be helpful, and the terrain was only going to get gentler the further I got from home. It was set up nicely for 100+ mile cycling days.
I departed Hathersage on a pleasant morning, which kept getting better the further I went. There was early climbing to do up and over Millstone Edge and then across the moors and steeply down again towards Chesterfield. It’s an enjoyable ride all the way into the centre of town, which is dominated by the famous crooked spire of St Mary’s church. One theory for how it came about blames the lack of installation of any braces when the medieval spire was built, while another puts it down to the faster expansion of lead tiles on the warmer south facing side. It is said that the spire will straighten when a virgin marries there! Anyway, it’s brilliant.
This happy accident of architectural negligence has provided Chesterfield with an icon perhaps better than anyone could have designed. I have known this place most of my life and I still find it an incredible sight: It is properly and quite improbably twisted and looks different from each side. Derbyshire’s own leaning tower, in a way. Many of the town’s businesses are named in some way after the spire. The local football team, for example, are known as The Spireites. Without it, you suspect Chesterfield would be just another unremarkable large, industrial town. The twisted spire, however, gives it a unique identity.
My straight line took me out of Chesterfield on smaller roads that, perhaps surprisingly, I didn’t know at all. After a few miles, just before I crossed the M1, I arrived in the small village of Sutton Scarsdale. Here, in a prominent position, stands the dramatic empty shell of Sutton Scarsdale Hall, a once grand home that belonged, from the 1820s, to the offspring of the great Derbyshire industrialist Sir Richard Arkwright. The present structure dates mostly from 1724 and it’s grand facade would have been similar to that of its neighbour at Chatsworth.
Where now there is only bare brickwork would once have been lavish Baroque interiors, adorned with full height Corinthian pilasters. The walls would have been either wood panelled or decorated with exuberant stucco plasterwork. Only small fragments survive now. The hall was put up for sale in 1919 but the market for large houses was severely depressed and it did not sell. It’s fittings and contents were broken up and the house was dismantled. Several room interiors were shipped to America and reassembled in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The remaining shell was saved from demolition in 1946 and placed into state care in 1970. You can now wander freely among the bare walls. It must have been quite a place in its day.
It was a steep haul up the escarpment to Palterton, overlooked by the largely intact and impressive Bolsolver Castle to the north. The next section of riding was through the former coal mining country of north Nottinghamshire, through (or near) places like Shirebrook, Warsop, Clipstone, Edwinstowe and Ollerton, all of which not so long ago had deep coal mines feeding the nation’s power stations. Now that has all gone and these towns and villages are engaged in the long process of finding their way forward in a new economy. I don’t think they were ever the prettiest; but they are at least in an attractive area, known as The Dukeries, that encompasses much of what remains of Sherwood Forest.
In need of sustenance, I arrived at Rufford Country Park and was relieved to find its Mill Cafe, next to the lake, open for business. The last time I was here was when we held my step father Keith’s funeral in Rufford Mill, a venue of which I am sure he would have approved. Back then the building overlooked a water splash ford that we liked to drive through. Sadly, social media has caused the local authority to close the road, because too many people were getting their cars stuck in the water, seeking that perfect Instagram or YouTube post. Now there are ugly concrete barriers either side of the stream. It’s really not the same.
After Rufford, the village of Wellow has a green that must surely contain one of the tallest and most impressive maypoles you will see anywhere. The next hour was quiet country lanes, but it was only when I had to rejoin the main road a few miles short of Newark on Trent that the traffic all ground to a halt to let a herd of around 300 cows (I asked) across the road. It took a good few minutes, even several abreast and you could certainly see where they had been afterwards!
I like Newark. It feels like a proper market town. It has a good collection of old buildings along the banks of the River Trent right in the middle of town, including its ancient ruined castle, where King John died of dysentery in 1216, aged 49. He’d only just lost his Crown Jewels in the Fens, so it wasn’t his best period. There are good warehouses and a few pubs and restaurants near the water either side of the main road bridge. Most of the town is on the east bank, and the large church has a particularly fine spire, one of the tallest in England, dominating the well proportioned Market Place. Today there was a real, proper market taking place in front of the imposing town hall. It all felt like it should. I stopped for tea and cake at a floating pub, which you can’t do just anywhere.
And then I was back on my way, leaving Nottinghamshire and entering Lincolnshire. From here onwards, for the rest of the afternoon, I enjoyed the kind of cycling that is always a simple pleasure. Quiet roads through gentle, rolling country took me from one pleasing village to another. I particularly enjoyed Claypole, Hough on the Hill, Folkingham and Billingborough, with its spring fed duck pond in front of the graceful church, but I could mention others. A couple of hours slipped by easily in the warm sun as afternoon slowly crept towards evening.
I was aiming for a lane just beyond Billingborough that ran east off the heath and down into the Fens of south Lincolnshire. There are several such parallel lanes, but – main roads apart – only one leads to a bridge over the relatively small South Forty Foot Drain. It turned out to be a tiny, narrow way through, way out in the sticks, but it worked. Suddenly, everywhere was as flat as a pancake, with the roads following drainage dykes. The whole character of the landscape had changed in just a few miles.
I must say that I don’t really like the Fens, but tonight, with huge blue skies, clear evening light and warm air, it held a certain beauty. Soon, I was bearing down on Spalding, my overnight stop, and the main town for a wide area. It’s not a bad place really. Not a holiday destination – except perhaps for its annual tulip parade – but on a quiet summer’s evening it had everything I needed. My comfortable room looked out directly over the banks of the (not so) mighty River Welland that flows right through town, Dutch style. There are a number of footbridges and even some buildings with Dutch gables. It’s quite nice. In my BnB, I met a chap who was up from Reading on a work trip. He was lamenting the hot summer weather, because his work was inside one of Europe’s biggest greenhouses, recently constructed on the edge of town. And guess what they grow inside it? Cannabis. For pharmaceutical purposes, obviously. Who knew? Well, the lady who ran the BnB, for one. Not a very well kept secret, it would seem.
