It was grey and drizzling.
I got set off from the Caistor High Road. As I walked away from it, I could hear the mournful droning of great trucks hurtling inro the gloom.
I descended a valley, but it was featureless and depressing.
I had walked to turn South and home, but the constant bangs of shot forced me further north than I wanted.
Tired, I now walked south from Rothwell on the road, cars flashing past at speed. But before Thoresway, I turned off the road. There, in front of me, was a magnificently beautiful valley, steep, with sheep dotted about under the sky of light greys and whites. Suddenly, the whole walk seemed worthwhile. I passed down the path to Stainton le Vale in the twilight and saw the tiny Norman church nestling amongst the trees.
After two and a half hours, I returned gratefully to hot soup and Patrick O’Brien.