The lanes around the village are seductive.
They call, luring me into the landscape.
Just like Edward Thomas’ long white roads, these old, hedgerow-lined ways are an irresistible temptation.
On a regular walk around the village, one view in particular captures and distils this place in my mind’s eye. It makes me stop and gaze, as if it were a painting.
It’s where the lane swoops down from Wing, descending diagonally across a valley and stream, then up the other side and into Morcott.
Today, in watercolour winter light, the sun rolling low along the horizon, my eye follows the line of the lane into the scene before me.
First, it gathers pace, funnelling down towards the narrow, brick bridge and over the water. Then, rising, it swings left, switches back to the right, finally curving left, before straightening out and disappearing from view.
The hedgerows, framing the lane, are boxed, brutally, yet accentuate the soft, swaying movement of the line in the landscape. On either side, more curated country: arable fields, sheep pasture and a copse, crowning the north facing slope in skeletal seasonal glory.
This could be a John Nash painting, an Eric Ravilious, or a Simon Palmer.
The lanes connect to a sinuous network around the village: footpaths, bridleways, tracks. And it’s to these I’m drawn, shutting the door behind me, stepping out into another world.
Ronald Blythe writes in Next to Nature, “Footpaths lead to private experiences, main roads to public happenings.
“Wherever we stroll, the way belongs to us. At this moment, it is our way. It converses with us at every step.”
On this circuitous walk, there is a stretch of bridleway, connecting South Luffenham to Pilton. It becomes a green lane, fields on one side, woodland on the other. More than a track for ramblers and riders, it is a nature corridor.
These dense hedgerows are home to dunnocks and blackbirds. Today, a red kite disturbed from its observation point in the branches above takes flights and monitors my progress, wheeling overhead.
Redwings are back in the fields, now that January has turned mild. Last month, during a week-long deep freeze, they ventured into the garden to peck at frozen apples. Flocks of fieldfare and a handful of lapwings are around and about.
The half-carcass of a hare, first seen last winter, lays in the same mysterious spot in top of the hedge, bones protruding. Did a red kite drop it there, or was it slung by human hand?
Along the rural greenway, the tracks of farm vehicles have churned the earth, while the prints of horses and humans navigate to the centre and sides.
Over the ridge, south of Pilton, between empty sheep paddocks, the low winter sun is blinding. I look to the hedgerows for guidance. Then, the descent, into the valley, low light casting shadows across an ancient field of ridge and furrow.
Finally, that view. The one that calls me outside the when my work is done. An irresistible temptation. The curvaceous beauty of a country lane.
About G.B. Firkins
Hello, I’m Gary. I started my working life as newspaper journalist on the south coast of England, before becoming a magazine writer (Country Walking) and presenter of a walking programme for BBC Southern Counties Radio (South Downs Diary, Southern Counties Walks). In 2018, my artist wife and I, and our four children, moved to an old house in a village in Rutland. Despite being the smallest county in England, there is a great richness to life in the hedgerows and fields, and among the people in the county’s two market towns and scattering of stone villages. As the months and seasons unfold, I hope to convey something of life in Rutland, through the places I visit and the people I meet. In addition to my notes and ramblings, there’ll be occasional illustrations by @tinafirskinsart and, later, podcast interviews and videos. You are very welcome to join me along the way…