Outstanding natural beauty?

From Lincoln, we moved to the Lincolnshire Wolds. Our map tells us it is an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. I would think that Area of Pleasant Farmland would be a more accurate description – it wasn’t quite as outstanding as we were hoping for. And not that natural – Lincoln has some big farms (by English standards, they are allotments by Aussie standards).

We got to our campsite fairly late after leaving Lincoln and got chatting to the owner when we arrived. He was a nice chap, had been farming for years and was interesting to talk to, but he did go on a bit (I know, that is something coming from me). It was getting dark and cold and we were hungry. So was Uller and she isn’t as patient as us. She started whining and, when that didn’t have any effect, started nudging the guy on the leg with her nose. I swear she was telling him to shut up because she wanted dinner. He got the message and let us go, after recommending a walk ‘around the block’ which he said should take us a couple of hours.

The weather on Saturday was cold and drizzly, so we mooched around the van waiting for it to improve. It didn’t, so we accepted defeat and decided to do the walk anyway. We needed a good leg stretch after our last attempt was aborted – cows chased us in an aggressive manner and two dogs attacked Uller. Puts you off your walk, that does. So we decided that a bit of drizzle wasn’t going to stop us. Note to selves – don’t start any walk recommended by a local without getting a detailed description. Or take a map. Or at least don’t head off on a crappy day when the landmarks are shrouded in cloud/fog/mist or whatever it is. The walk started well enough, along a green lane down the hill. It was only when we got to the first footpath junction that we realised we didn’t really know where we were going – only ‘round the block’. We decided to take the next footpath, which took us to the edge of a tiny village. The weather was a bit wetter by this time. We headed out of the village along the road which kept going and going. We entered the next village – this one I remembered from the map when I was expertly navigating our way to the campsite. Hang on. This village is a bit further away than I think we should be. The weather was a bit wetter by this time. We stopped and checked directions on the maps on the phone (I love technology in times like this) and confirmed that, yes, the village was much further away than we should be. We checked our route home with a local and headed off along the road again. The weather was a bit wetter by this time. Our two hour walk turned out to be closer to three hours, in rain and most of it on tarmac between brown fields that had been ploughed for winter. Not the most inspiring walk we’ve ever done and we were both in a grump by the time we got home, me mainly because it appears my 3 month old walking boots are no longer waterproof and I had wet, blistered feet. Harrumph. All was not lost though – we dried off, ate curry, drank beer and watched A Fistful of Dollars and all was well with the world again.

The weather was not great yesterday either, so we decided on a bit of a driving tour – across the Wolds to the coast at Mablethorpe, down past Skegness and onto one of those ‘interesting’ places that D is always finding on the map, Gibraltar Point.

I’ve decided not to say too much about the bit of the Lincolnshire coast that we drove down. I’m just going to leave with a photo that we found on aeropigs.com (copyright Andy Clarke) and say that it wasn’t an area we will be returning to. Ever.

We arrived at Gibraltar Point in a bit of a daze. It is a nature reserve on a sticky-out bit of coast (some people might call that a peninsula) and I thought it might turn out to be another Spurn Head. I was wrong – it was beautiful. It even had a visitor’s centre with a cafe where we could recover from our ordeal with coffee and cake – amazingly, we didn’t arrive in time for lunch. We had a lovely walk out to the beach, blowing out the cobwebs.

So, we liked parts of Lincoln and Gibraltar Point was beautiful. The Wolds were pleasant and the coast was…. well, I wasn’t going to say anything about that. I’m still having nightmares. I don’t think we will be staying in Lincolnshire for much longer.



One good thing did come out of Lincolnshire in recent years – Bertie Boo. Uller may know him – very (very) distant relative. But we nipped in from the southern border, handed over the cash, then left again quite quickly.

G’day Hugh – Just out of curiosity, I have found two options for Bertie Boo. One (not my first choice) is a pair of children’s entertainers from Balham. The other is a bulldog whose real name is Bulldogwilson. The other good thing that came out of Lincolnshire was the poacher who gave the world the wonderful line “’tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year”.

Hello, yes, it’s me again. That photo of massed caravans looks a bit like D-day and is equally scary. We once met some English back-packers who must have been from Lincolnshire. Faced with an enormous, empty paddock to choose from, they put their tent so close to ours that their guy ropes overlapped ours. I like your remedy for cold, wet feet and will put it into practice asap.

Are those white maggots really caravans? What about the Lincoln Imp?
Just catching up on all the travels.am distracted by whales .
Hope you had raincoats !! I have a new bright green one, I probably would blend in well in UK .

G’day ‘Aussie Dad’ (I could be described as one of those too, thinking about it – I was born in Melbourne). Probably g’morrow by now where you are.
I had never thought of googling Bertie Boo. He is a Dandie Dinmont terrier so I just googled that. If you get the same first page as I did, Bertie looks like the third one, not the highly coiffed strange one on the right!

Hello again Hugh, Now here’s an amazing coincidence for readers who don’t know about this bread. If what I read is true, Bertie is descended from a family of hunting terriers developed by a man in the far north of England, called Allen who used them for hunting otters. (I guess that’s what you did in those days). He wouldn’t sell his dogs but after his death the pack passed to a bloke who lived in Scotland who developed them further; hence they are known as a Scottish breed. Those Allens got about a bit didn’t they?

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