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Nottingham: City of Caves
April 2017
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Due to traffic and roadworks, a journey that the AA routeplanner said should take me an hour and a half, took way over double that. I arrived at Holme Pierrepont, just south-east of the city centre, which seemed calm and tranquil. The area is flat, grassy, filled with beautiful mixed trees and lots of ponds and lakes. I parked up and went for a walk. Despite it being absolutely beautiful to look at, I found it quite eerie. It made me think of Milton Keynes, but green; sort of soulless. It seemed a strangely still and silent place, unearthly, as though everyone had disappeared suddenly.
Emerging through some trees I came across the National Watersports Centre, which caters for all manner of water activity, as you’d imagine. It’s like the everglades with various interconnected ponds and lakes and lagoons and a long, straight channel ideal for speedboats and time challenges. The campsite I was staying on was part of the watersports centre. It was adequate, but didn’t have the best facilities for the money and my pitch wasn’t up to much – sandwiched between a view of the bins and a curtain-twitching nosey neighbour.
It was a nice evening so I went out for a walk and ended up on the riverside path along the Trent, which was teeming with rowing crews. Their coaches hurtling up and down the path on bikes, with megaphones slung over their shoulders, occasionally hurling abuse in the guise of encouragement.
Bird watch: coots, mallards, heron, magpies, woodpigeons, blue tits.
There were several people jogging, including an old chap in lycra leggings and a hi-viz top. He was several hundred years old and looked like he was in agony, but pushing himself on regardless, running like his life depended on it… but I think he was losing the race. If it causes you that much pain surely it can’t be good for you. He passed me; I said hello, but he couldn’t muster a reply. A short while later I heard him returning, his feet dragging pitifully along the cinders of the pathway behind me. It went on for ages and he wasn’t overtaking, so I slowed my pace to allowed him to shuffle past me. Once he was in front I had to watch his agony for the rest of the walk. I am a trained First Aider and it looked like I might get the chance to practise my craft for the first time.
As the river and the path drew closer to the city, there were scores of waterside apartments, built on previous industrial areas, as they’ve done with Salford Quays and the London Docklands. I always find these places devoid of a sense of community and lacking in greenery, but the views from the window over the Trent valley must be worth at least half the mortgage.
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Ahead an iron bridge spanned the river. I crossed over and arrived in the arse end of Nottingham at the wrong time of day. The roads were heavy with traffic as the city was attempting to close-down and send its weary workers home. I took in a few lungfuls of exhaust fumes then decided to call it a day and head back to the site.
Some facts, fact-lovers: Nottingham was named after a Saxon chieftain, Snot. Bizarre, but true. It is famous as a lace producing town and today much of the lace related buildings have been lovingly restored. It was granted city status by Queen Victoria in 1897. It has an award winning public transport system, including the largest publicly owned bus system in England.
Nottingham was nominated City of Literature, because of its strong connections with D.H. Lawrence, who was born here (at Eastwood) and romantic poet, Lord Byron, who lived here, for a whole year at the end of the 1700s.
Nottingham also has a strong sport association. As previously mentioned, it is home to the
National Watersports Centre, the National Ice Centre, the international cricket ground Trent Bridge and perhaps most impressive of all, it boasts the world’s oldest professional football club, Notts County, formed in 1862.
I don’t like sport at all, but I’m sure all these things are a great coup.
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The following day, I awoke to another lovely sunny morning, with a blue sky flecked with feather-like clouds. I was out early – before nine – walking along the beautiful riverside path, which was even more beautiful in the fresh morning sun. People were cycling into Nottingham to work. What a great way to start the working day. But what a great way to NOT start the working day. I felt blessed.
I crossed the iron bridge again and traipsed along the main roads leading into the city centre, passing a Hooters, which – just in case the passing punters weren’t aware what it is – had the two “O”s styled in such as way so as to make it cheekily obvious.
There were a lot of derelict buildings, broken windows, collapsing roofs – clear signs of urban decay. When I turned onto what I assumed was one of the main shopping streets it was all concrete and prefabricated, harsh windowless edifices - not what I was expecting at all. I found a Caffe Nero, which was lovely inside, but overlooking two main roads which were thundering with traffic. I felt quite disappointed with Nottingham, because I had expected so much more charm and character.
This was the Broadmarsh area; as the name suggests it was originally a marsh – presumably a broad one – then, when the lace industry took off, it was covered with back-to-back housing for the influx of workers, several families to a house. It became notorious as an area of terrible slums where disease and crime were rife. By the late ‘Sixties the area had deteriorated beyond redemption and the houses were demolished. The Broadmarsh shopping centre was completed in the ‘Seventies. As I entered, it seemed to encapsulate everything I hate about shopping centres. It was largely windowless, so it felt subterranean, and there was awful piped music. It had no soul and no character. It felt dated and just not nice. Upstairs there was a Wimpy… I thought they had closed down years ago. Maybe they did and this one had been forgotten, or was caught in a time loop in the ‘Seventies for eternity. Everything else here seemed to be from a bygone age.
I rode up several flights on the escalators with mute automatons all checking their phones, then stepped out gratefully into the upper part of the city centre. It was like emerging into a different city in a different era; the change was immense and a bit disconcerting. The first thing to hit me was the lack of traffic. There was no vehicular intrusion from all those main roads. It was quaint, charming, full of olde worlde character, a network of small lanes and winding streets, calm and peaceful. From this moment everything had changed – thankfully – and I instantly loved Nottingham.
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The town was originally known as Tigguacobauc, meaning “place of caves”. Because it is built on soft Sherwood sandstone, cave digging was very easy. There are currently 650 caves known to exist, mainly hand-carved cellars. In the 13th and 14th centuries the caves were predominantly used as homes.
I bought a ticket for the attraction “City of Caves” which is oddly to be found back in the Broadmarsh shopping centre. A guide took quite a large party down into a cave system beneath the shopping complex, which came to light when the site was being built. These caves date back to the 13th Century, making them some of the oldest caves in Nottingham. The caves could so easily have been destroyed, but were saved by a public outcry and the shopping centre was built over and around them. You can see the prefabricated ceiling and various supports, but the caves themselves are largely undamaged. Outlaws and criminals would meet here to discuss their dark deeds and dastardly plans. Much later the caves were used as air raid shelters. Today some still haven’t been properly explored; this process is on-going. It is hoped that one day more may be opened to the public.
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I picked up a leaflet from the Tourist Information centre and did an architectural tour, which was really nice. Most famously, of course, the city has associations with the absolutely true story/completely made-up legend (delete as appropriate) of Robin Hood and in particular the Sherriff of Nottingham, his ultimate foe, who lived in the impressive 17th Century Nottingham castle, now a museum and art gallery. Below it stands a statue of Robin Hood unveiled in 1952, oddly designed to survive for 6000 years. Still keeping with statues, Notts Forest FC was previously and famously managed by Brian Clough, whose likeness stands near the Market Square.
Nottingham has dozens of quaint old pubs, arguably the most famous being Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, which claims to be the oldest inn in England. It is rumoured to date from 1189. Knights bound for the Crusades would come here to get tanked up before they set off to Jerusalem, hence the name. It is built into the cliff, so several rooms are actually caves. It’s quirky, full of atmosphere and a sense of history.
With so many traditional old pubs on offer I Dide a But of a prub cawl… which was aBsolutely grat. E. yeah.
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Then I sobered up by having afternoon tea in a gaming centre. Never been in one before – it was purely a functional visit. Although it was worrying at first the inmates proved harmless. Apart from thousands of games, it contained a vegan café where people sat round engaged in dungeons and dragons and other odd pastimes. I had a lovely Yorkshire tea in a mug, a lemon meringue pie and summer berry Bakewell. Gorgeous.
I had layered sugar on top of alcohol and was craving a lie down, so it was a bit of a drag walking back to the campsite, but I found a route along an inner-city canal and got a very different perspective of the city, then back along the leafy River Trent. It was a long way, but interesting and kept me off the road all the way. Nottingham, my confidence in you was shaken at first, but you came through and the romance is still on.
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The following day, I decided to leave the Holme Pierrepont campsite. There was nothing wrong with it, but it was a bit pricy for the facilities available. Before leaving the city though, I wanted to try out their tram system. I drove for some miles trying to find somewhere to park without a height-barrier and eventually succeeded at the Forest Recreation Ground, which was once part of Sherwood Forest.
Several things about Nottingham have occurred to me over the past few days. For a start, it’s contained, it has a boundary, it stops at a road or a river, then the countryside takes over. On the Ordnance Survey 1:50,000 Landranger map the city fills a few folds of the map, whereas Manchester covers an entire sheet to itself and London demands several sheets. There is a threat to our former green belt areas and a real risk of urban sprawl getting out of control. As I saw yesterday, there are enough so called “brownfield” areas within Nottingham city centre which could be developed without the need for the city spreading further out. The new riverside apartments on previous industrial land are a prime example.
I proceeded to the tram platform and tried to work out how to buy a ticket from one of machines, but it wouldn’t take the new pound coins and wouldn’t take a note for a trip less that ten pounds, or something complicated like that. I spotted a nice inspector who kindly exchanged my coins, new for old, so I was able to buy my ticket. The tram seemed sleeker than Mancunian trams, more aerodynamic, but it is essentially the same service, possibly with more investment behind it.
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In the charming Victorian Peacock Inn, which only serves vegan food, I was spoilt for choice but opted for an all-day breakfast, which was very satisfying and absolutely gorgeous. Although I was trying to make use of the free wi-fi, I kept getting distracted by the conversation of my nearest neighbours, who seemed to be having some issues with their volume and pretention. It turned out they were Ben and friend, Isabelle, both students under the age of twenty, along with Ben’s dad, who goes by the name of “Dad”. Dad was 47. I only know this because he said, several times: “Hey, I’m 47 years old… I just act like a teenager.” Which is good news, because he didn’t look like one.
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I did my best to ignore them, but found myself unintentionally tuning-in as Dad was regaling Isabelle with bitter tales of his divorce from Ben’s mum. Ben just sat silently. They appeared in court where Ben’s mum burst into tears to try and win over the magistrate, but it didn’t work. Isabelle was so appalled she declared there and then that she was going to become a magistrate to even things out. I felt sorry for Ben, the quietest and least pretentious of the trio. The last thing I heard from them was:
Isabelle: “How comes I’ve eaten all my food and yous twos have left half yours, Babes?”
Dad: “Because I’m watching my weight and Ben’s a big gay.”
Then they trailed outside to smoke, probably a spliff, some weed, some ganja, man. Or possibly to write some haikus.
I left, feeling very satisfied and a little bit sleepy. Trawling very, very slowly through Nottingham for a last look around, I realised that I’ve felt nothing but positivity here, no aggression or hostility at all. I really like the city a lot.
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I wandered around the Old Market Square for a while, which felt like the hub of the city, where people met or just sat looking and being. It is one of the widest pedestrian areas in Britain apparently and puts Manchester’s Piccadilly Gardens to shame. Across the imaginative fountains was the impressive architecture of what’s amusingly called the Council House, which has a dome to rival Saint Paul’s. In looks, not size. Bordering the square is an impressive selection of architecture through the ages. The way to see inner-city architecture is to look above the gaudy plastic shop fronts to the wealth of splendour that lurks there, seldom seen by the shopping masses plugged into their mobiles and Facebook. There were Dutch gables, Queen Anne revival adornments, ornate chimneys and leaded windows, all absolutely stunning.
I called into the city’s Arboretum, because I love trees. It was a tranquil oasis of loveliness, very close to the city centre but also a world away. Lime-green new leaves were coming through and the whole of the air was scented with blossom. I could have stayed longer, much longer, but I was aware I needed to travel through Nottingham to my booked campsite on the other side and I didn’t want to be trapped in rush hour traffic.
As it happened, I was pretty much trapped in rush hour traffic, due to the machinations of the SatNat. The thing you need to know about my electronic companion is that sometimes when she says left she means right. Sometimes when she says left she means go straight ahead. Sometimes when she says left she actually means left, which is most confusing of all. Sometimes she doesn’t tell you which way to go until you’ve already got to the turning and made a guess yourself. Sometimes you follow her instructions to the letter only to be told she’s had another idea and you should do a U-turn. It’s very frustrating. Coming to a T-junction and tossing a coin would actually more effective.
Once on my nice site at Teversal on the outskirts of Nottinghamshire, I set about making my tea. I’m not exactly Gordon Ramsay, but as I warmed up a tin of veg curry I swore continually, so it felt like I was.
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The next morning was cold and grey with low, suffocating clouds. I walked up Silverhill opposite the campsite, to visit my favourite sculpture: a bronze miner called “Testing for Gas”. He might be bronze, which implies he came in third, but he gets gold from me, because he’s moving and has a sense of place; he encapsulates centuries of men down the mines enduring terrible hardship. It is a realistic sculpture, poignant and full of character.
I saw a lady in a three-wheeled off-road wheelchair, powering herself up the quite steep hill by her arm power. She must have the upper body strength of an ox. It made me feel quite in awe of her stamina and determination. So much so that I rewarded myself with a cup of tea and a rest before the drive home.