|The former "Black Swan" pub in Whaley|
We have had some lovely days here in Merry Olde England since the end of April. Time to do a little backtracking methinks - before I forget. After all, one of the functions of this blog is simply to record days in my life - like old-fashioned diary entries. Back to the day of the bluebells - last Thursday...
I drove over to the other side of the M1 motorway and onwards to a small village called Whaley. There I parked and laced up my boots before wandering off through the woods of Scarcliffe Park. Through the woods and I arrived at Upper Langwith with its squat little church. Then up the hill to Langwith Junction - birthplace of Ken Wagstaff - Hull City's greatest ever player.
|The Old Hall, Langwith|
The wooded Boon Hills contain several limestone caves that were occupied by our prehistoric ancestors but I was marching onwards to Nether Langwith and then to Whaley Thorns where an Asian family have taken over the old post office. There I bought a cheese and pickle sandwich and a can of Diet Coke which I consumed while sitting on the only bench on the village green. Whaley Thorns is not a quaint pastoral settlement with thatched cottages; it is a forgotten village that was once sustained by coal mining - but the mines have all gone now. Only the memories remain like tumbleweed in a ghost town.
Beyond Whaley Thorns to my lovely bluebell wood and then on to Holbeck Woodhouse and Holbeck where I discovered the graves of The Dukes of Portland, their wives and children - all lying beneath the sod and quiet now. Ever onwards to Bonbusk and back over the railway line to Frithwood Farm. Then on to Whaley Common.
|Convex driveway mirror in Holbeck|
|Whaley Common on May 5th|
It was local elections day and two men were sitting in a white container that acted as a polling dtation. They had a generator and a portable lavatory (American: rest room) but nobody was coming to vote in Whaley Common. I guess that's democracy.
Not far to go now - another mile to Whaley. Sadly, "The Black Swan" - once the village pub - called "time" forever last year. I could have done with a good long drink after four and a half hours of plodding. Once more, so many lovely sights to be enjoyed in the sunshine and once more it was good to get out - lungs working and heart pumping time to the rhythm of my footsteps. Alive-alive-o!
|The grave of the 6th Duke of Portland|