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.
