Grange Farm, North Hykeham, Lincolnshire

We had intended to head off on the road much earlier this morning, but our host kept us talking for longer than planned, he apologised but had we not been keen to start our tour, we could have stopped all day; topics ranged from philosophy to the physical, far beyond the task in hand. We had asked that he witness some documents we needed to sign; he ended up scanning them ready for later emailing, what a star!

The main object of the day, apart from having to deal with this one small but important business matter, was to explore the Lincolnshire Wolds, a narrow band of chalky land whose rolling hills and gentle valleys run southeast from Caistor to just outside Skegness, both places still left unvisited. I had traced out our route taking into account the green edged roads on the map denoting “scenic routes”, but we found these less picturesque than expected. Perhaps we have been spoilt in the past with such routes. Certainly the countryside was green and lovely, but no more so than many of the rural routes we travel in  New Zealand’s North Island, hence our disappointment.

Our route today took us up and around the western ring road to the north of Lincoln, then up the A46 to Market Rasen, a pleasant little spot, which apparently has a famous racecourse, and on toward Grimsby on steeper roads than the rest, but turning south again on the A16. At a high point on this road, now on the eastern edge of the Wolds, we could see out to sea, and even spotted a couple of container ships in the distance.

We paused at Louth, a pleasant enough market town, more for the history than its physical beauty. The shops were busy and managed to provide us with a couple of delicious Belgian Buns which we consumed while sitting in the very small littered market square in the sun watching the folk go by.

The church of St James held an important place in local history, because it was here at Louth the Pilgrimage of Grace in 1536 began, this the rebellion of thousands of northern peasants against Henry VIII’s religious reforms, under the leadership of the local vicar, who was subsequently hung, drawn and quartered for his efforts. 

The church itself boasts the tallest spire of any Anglican parish church in England at 295 feet (or 90 metres). The present building is the third church to occupy the site, replacing those built in the 11^th and 13^th centuries. The chancel and nave were constructed between 1430 and 1440 but work on the spire began only in 1501, finally completed fourteen years later. The interior is particularly delightful with its handsome Georgian timber roof decorated with painted angels. There is also an excellent interpretation of the history on a series of boards.

Despite the paucity of official tourist attractions, we found ourselves back at the car park only just inside the hour’s parking we had paid for, but it is not really a must-see place when time is scarce.

We travelled on further south toward Skegness, turning east toward Coningsby, turning into Old Bolingbroke to see the remains of the hexagonal 13^th century castle of the same name. Bolingbroke Castle is famous as the birthplace of King Henry IV in 1367 and as the location of a two month siege in November 1643, when it was finally captured by Parliamentary forces.

The moated castle was built by a powerful Norman baron, Ranulph de Blundeville, earl of Lincoln and Chester, between 1220 and 1230. It passed to the house of Lancaster in 1311 and John of Gaunt was the last of his dynasty to live here. When John of Gaunt’s son, King Henry IV, succeeded to the throne in 1399, it became a royal castle, however was never used as a royal residence.

By the time of the Civil War in the mid-17^th century, the castle was in decay but it was briefly held by Royalist troops until the Parliamentary victory in 1643 at the battle of Winceby, three miles to the north. Parliamentary forces took control of Bolingbroke but as they left, the castle was, like so many others, deliberately ruined. Stone was later robbed from the buildings.

In 1949 the site, nothing more than a grassy mound, was placed by the Duchy of Lancaster in the guardianship of the former Ministry of Works, and its management subsequently passed to English Heritage. Today there are a few interpretative panels about and someone pops around occasionally with a lawnmower and weed-whacker. Parking is limited but it still makes for a interesting albeit brief stop off.

Back on the A155 we continued on past Coningsby, home to three of the Royal Air Force’s most important squadrons. It also houses part of the heritage fleet that flies at airshows or memorials of the Battle of Britain; a Lancaster, five Spitfires, two Hurricanes and a Dakota. But neither of us were excited enough to call into the visitor centre; we had another destination in mind.

Tattershall Castle, a National Trust property in the village of Tattershall on the western edge of Coningsby,  was the primary residence of Lord Cromwell, Lord Treasurer of England  to King Henry VI for ten years and later the subject of an international rescue by Lord Curzon, and it is these two that the history of the buildings is about.

The first castle at Tattershall was built in 1213 by Robert de Tateshale in stone (hence the castle’s name). When Lord Cromwell inherited the castle in 1434 he decided this decaying stone castle wasn’t grand enough for his new job as Lord Treasurer, so he used a seldom used building material, brick, to refurbish his home. He kept the existing structures and seamlessly wove them into his new castle complex that was twice as large as the original castle. The renovated property included a Keep, Great Sables, a 130 foot Great Tower, the Tiltyard, medieval Fishponds in the meadow and an outer moat linking in with the local river and water mill.

Cromwell died in 1456, and with no children it was passed to his niece, but was later confiscated by the Crown when her husband fell out of favour. In 1560 it came into the ownership of Sir Henry Sidney, who sold it on to Lord Clinton, later Earl of Lincoln, and so it remained with the Earls until 1693, when it passed to the Fortesques who allowed it to fall into neglect.

Over two hundred years later, in 1910 it was put up for sale and a developer bought the property, onselling the four huge medieval fireplaces, ripping them out and packing them up ready for shipping. Lord Curzon of Kedleston, he who had undertaken the restoration of the Taj Mahal during his time in India, stepped in at the last minute to buy the castle back and to recover the fireplaces. He offered it to the recently established National Trust, but they weren’t interested, so he set to and restored the castle as a visitor attraction in 1914 himself, then left it to the National Trust when he died in 1925. 

Actually Curzon was quite a facsinating character and worth a whole book to himself; there is probably one out there in a second hand bookshop somewhere waiting for me.

We spent a couple of hours armed with our audio guides enjoying the castle, then returning to the car spent time pouring over our map and the list of destinations I had compiled. The afternoon was getting away as it tends to do, so Chris was  keen to head back toward Lincoln, however I still wanted to see Woodhill Spa if nothing else. 

Just a few miles north we arrived in this charmingly yuppy village, reminding us of upmarket Greytown in the Wairarapa, although even smarter. Back in the day it was exactly as the name suggests, a spa for the rich and idle who took delight in sipping the waters, rich in bromine and iodine. Beautiful avenues of trees hug the quiet streets and behind these are elegant homes surely still more expensive than those in the towns and villages we had passed earlier in the day.

It was at a mansion just out of here, Petwood, now a first-rate hotel, that the officers of the 617 Squadron, better known as The Dambusters, plotted their famous bombing raid of 16 May 1943. The raid was planned to deprive German industry of water and electricity by breaching several Ruhrland dams.

From Woodhill Spa we headed more or less west, zigzagging across the fens then up and over into the wide Trent Valley to North Hykeham, only to get tangled up in a terrible traffic jam once we hit the urban streets, all due to a partial roadworks closure attended by no road workers what so ever.

As we pulled into our little camping field, a score of rabbits scurried away and pigeons flew clumsily up out of the fruit trees. The horses in the narrow strips of agisted land looked up hopefully, expecting their teenage owners to come attend to them. This morning we had remarked to Bruce, our host, about the Shire horse named Napoleon, who persisted in knocking his hoof on the ground. It’s itchy, and he’s old and grumpy, and I am sure there are kinder ways to deal with him. He wasn’t there this afternoon; maybe he has gone to a better place?

Today we covered just over one hundred and ten miles, further than we have to travel to our next camp in a couple of days. And best of all we were back in time to see the last of Nadal’s first game at Wimbledon and later the highlights of the Tour de France. Yes, it’s that time of the year again.