Notts County Rematch

Tuesday 14th March 2017

I wasn't intending to come to Nottinghamshire again so soon, but half the campsites are closed until after Easter, so I came back here by default really.

Against my better judgment, I was following the SatNav’s instructions; due to her being a bit vague and indecisive at a crucial moment at a massive roundabout, I ended up on the M1 sailing past my destination, but when we finally arrived the trip meter said 66 miles exactly, which is what the AA predicted.

One observation about the lovely county of Nottinghamshire. The speed indicators that flash up your speed as you approach, all give you a nice “Thank you” in green if you’re within the limit, and flash your speed up in shaming rude red if you’re going too fast. I’ve never seen that before, but I think it’s a lovely touch – rewarding careful drivers and humiliating those who career along at 31mph.

"Testing For Gas". Miner and Davy Lamp at the summit of Silverhill. I think it’s a stunning piece of meaningful art.

When passing a small pond, one of the two swans who own it glides slowly across the water, then waddles at a leisurely pace towards me. I thought he was coming to say hello, but he set about pecking my feet in a very half-hearted show of territorial testosterone. I think it might be to impress his wife, but as they're married she isn’t remotely impressed or interested.

Back on the site, my van stinks of diesel. When I shuffle underneath I see that it’s gushing fuel. I paid over £800 that very morning to have this fault repaired and it appears to be worse! I’m not happy. Then, when I try to set up my new laptop - also purchased that morning - there are problems with the installations. This is my third computer in as many weeks. I’ve had to keep returning them because of faults. Most of the staff in Argos have gone off sick and those that remain now drop behind the counter when they see me approaching with a box in my arms. I try until 11pm to get it sorted, then give up and go to bed in a bad mood.

As soon as I’d got my pitch on the campsite, I went for a walk across the road. Silverhill Wood is reclaimed land on the site of a former colliery. Crowning the top is a bronze statue, celebrating (or mourning the loss of) the county’s mining heritage. The piece is titled “Testing For Gas” and is by sculptor Antony Dufort, intended “as a tribute to the Miners of the Nottinghamshire coalfields”. A plaque on the base lists the Nottinghamshire mines that had been closed. Ironically, Dufort also made a likeness of Margaret Thatcher, the engineer of much of these closures.

Dufort says he enjoys public sculpture most, as “it can bring a sense of meaning to a place”. That’s exactly what this chap does – apart from being a detailed and realistic figure, the sculpture has a poignancy about it. It makes me think of all the miners who worked hard in terrible conditions to feed their families – and of the pit closures – and of the site itself, Silverhill, once a grimy and bustling colliery and now a green and pleasant reclaimed public area with stunning views. It is my favourite sculpture ever.

Wednesday 15th March 2017

I’ve got a leaking van in need of a Tena-Lady. I’ve got a brand new computer that doesn’t work properly. But it’s a beautiful day and the sun is shining.

I set off with a spring in my step and spring in the air, into the village of Teversal, where there is an ornamental mosaic sculpture, depicting, amongst other things, Tutankhamen’s death mask. I’m puzzled for a moment, then I recall that the manor here was the ancestral home of the Earls of Carnarvon. Right next to me is the village pub, the Carnarvon Arms; see how it falls into place.

Lord Carnarvon, the Fifth Earl, financed Howard Carter’s famous Egyptian dig and died – according to legend - of the mummy’s curse. Or an infected insect bite, whichever you prefer.

I’m walking the Teversal Trails today, which are a series of interlinked “greenways” – as we now call them; multipurpose trackways along former railway lines, which connected the various collieries that once abounded in the area.

The track is a mixture of cuttings and embankments. There are overhanging trees just starting to come into bud. There is a clear, cloudless blue sky. I’ve got my sunglasses on and way too many layers.

There is a wealth of birdsong from all around me. This green corridor absolutely teeming with birdlife. There are a lot of robins flitting between the branches. Robins are very common nowadays. As a child, we had lots of sparrows in the garden, but if you saw a robin it was a treat, because they were rarer. A robin was like a sparrow with his Sunday-best waistcoat on. It made you think of Christmas and Christmas cards and snow. Now they’re all over the place, but the sparrows have gone. (This is in our area – I can’t speak for your garden.) My dad’s theory is that a bird of prey has taken all the smaller birds. “Look!” he’ll say. “There is goes!” (It’s a woodpigeon.)

But what kind of bird of prey (It’s a woodpigeon) only takes the sparrows, which are plain and blend in, but misses the more obvious and ostentatiously colourful robins and blue tits? Over to Dad: “I think it’s a sparrow hawk.” (He’s only saying that because it contains sparrow in the name. It’s a woodpigeon.)

I spot a goldfinch, with its very distinctive colouring. I try to name the others that zip artfully between the trees, but… and I’m sorry to sound like a stuck record, but… I’m sorry to sound like a stuck record, but… I’m sorry to sound like a stuck record, but… I’ve said this before: they’re just too quick for me. I need to freeze-frame them and then get to work with my spotter’s guide. The one thing I can be sure of: not one of them is a sparrow hawk, Dad. (It's a woodpigeon!)

Strolling along in the sunshine, this is idyllic. On the left, there is rich green pasture and on the right a freshly ploughed field with ruts of fresh, dark earth. It is a beautiful landscape. Apart from the occasional McDonalds* litter, even here.

* Detritus from other fast food chains is also available. +

+ And yet it’s always bloody McDonalds.

There is a small amount of graffiti on a brick bridge that the track passes under. “ADOLF” with the Anarchist A as its principle letter – as if the name Adolf isn’t negative enough. And “SAY NO TO XXXX TAX”. The fourth word is obscured, but I think we can assume it was “POLL”. It looks old enough to be. An awful lot of people did just that. So, mine closures and poll tax… the people round here must really have loved the Thatcher government.

I enter the grounds of the National Trust’s Hardwick Hall, walking along a straight driveway between mature trees. A cyclist passes me. We exchange a hurried 22mph hello and he also comments on the gorgeous weather. Is it because our weather is so unpredictable that we need to focus so much on the subject? Or is it just avoidance, so we don’t have to reveal anything personal about ourselves?

The hall comes into view and it's quite spectacular, reputed to be one of the most impressive Elizabethan buildings in the country. Immediately, I am drawn to the scrolled carving around the “battlement” area of the towers, which make it very distinctive. It has many tall windows, which would be a status symbol.

Close by is the Old Hall, now a ruin, but it’s possible to see what an imposing building it must have been in its day. The windows also dominate this building and the shell is still impressive and popular with rooks. It was here, in the Old Hall, that Bess of Hardwick, as she came to be known, was born. Bess married four times, the first being in her teens – to a teenage husband. She later married into the Cavendish family, the Dukes of Devonshire, and set about building Chatsworth House, which became their seat. Each marriage took her further up the social ladder, added more titles to her name and considerably more land and money. She outlived all four husbands and inherited all their wealth. When she became estranged from her fourth and final husband, she fled Chatsworth and returned here, to her ancestral home. She set about restoring the Old Hall, but shortly after, in 1590, decided to arrange the building of a new hall close by. To show her power and wealth she had her initials, ES, Elisabeth (of) Shrewsbury, worked into the architecture.

Bess was a shrewd businesswoman and it is said that she became the richest woman in England after the Queen, Elizabeth I, to whom she was a favoured friend.

Both halls are architecturally striking, and so is the NT café, in a converted stable building, with authentic beams spanning the ceiling, but the whole place has a very bright, modern makeover and successfully marries old and new. The coffee is strong and excellent.

Outside in the stable yard it feels as hot as a summer’s day. As hot as a summer’s day in a country where summer is quite hot, not generally overcast or raining. I sit on a bench, feeling drowsy – the caffeine hit didn’t work – listening to the birds and the screaming children, thinking how impressed I am with Hardwick and how - off the top of my head – it knocks other National Trust properties into a hat of some sort. Probably cocked.

A huge rook is strutting around looking for food. His feathers are catching the sunlight and look slick with oil, like he’s wearing Brylcreem.*

* Other male grooming products from yesteryear are also available. Some may even be spelt correctly.

I take a slow and lazy walk around the estate, feeling blissfully happy. It’s spring and the first lambs have been born already. The lamb-juniors and their mums are lying outstretched, sunbathing. I really want to join them and have a nap.

I pass the Great Pond, with swans gliding gracefully and ducks skittering across the surface. Everything is idyllic.

I’ve had a wonderful day and am reluctant to leave, but business at Hardwick seems to be winding down.

I walk back a different way, crossing a field of lush grass which is glowing in the radiant light of the late afternoon sun. I finish the walk by climbing to the top of Silverhill, to revisit the bronze statue of the miner and look back on the proud outline of Hardwick Hall in the distance.

The sun is sinking over the gentle hills, the lighting is soft, the shadows are getting longer and the light is very gradually fading on a glorious day.

Thursday 16th March 2017

Again, against the odds, it’s yet another gorgeous sunny morning. I want to be out but I’ve booked a call with a Microsoft service centre… in Bombay… to sort the issues with my new computer. The chap I speak to is friendly and helpful and knowledgeable and Indian. He takes control of my computer remotely and gets the problem ironed out, tells me it was a pleasure doing business with me and insists that I have a nice day. Unlike the teenage staff in the most Americanised restaurants or shops, I actually think he means it.

By the time I leave my van, the sun has gone. It’s grey, very grey – promising rain – and quite windy and cold. Walking along the Teversal Trail, a man with his dog comes towards me. He’s wearing glasses - the man, not the dog - so in strictly evolutionary terms he’s vulnerable and at a disadvantage, but he’s successfully overcoming this because the eyes behind the glasses say – in no uncertain terms: “Yes, I might be wearing glasses, but I can still kill you and bury you in a shallow grave, without even needing a spade.” His dog, a grumpy bull mastiff, seems to add to this non-verbal threat.

The wind is picking up and above, the bare branches of the birch trees are clacking and rattling, like dry bones. It's all very ominous.

My destination is Pleasely Pit Country Park – you guessed it, another former colliery which has been landscaped and opened to the public. There are wide gravel pathways, grassed areas and young shrubs and saplings. There are various small ponds with water birds enjoying a leisurely soak.

A swan is getting very friendly with a Canada goose. It’s sad when you see one swan, as they mate for life. Maybe there are an odd number and this is the last one on the shelf. So maybe in that situation this is what happens; he’s had to marry below his station and settle for a Canada Goose.

Four burly blokes walk past me. They all say hello, but somehow they manage to use the word as a weapon. I’m seeing sinister people everywhere today, but then, I think that’s what people see when they see me coming towards them on a narrow footpath.

What sets Pleasely Pit apart from the various other former-colliery-now-country-parks in the area, is that it boasts a engine house complex, now a listed building, complete with two headstocks. (The distinctive wheel things. Apparently.) The site was worked for over a century and was closed in 1986. The iconic wheels against the darkening sky bring back memories of the miners’ strike, from the news and TV. I don’t know much about mining, but I do know canaries weren’t very fond of it.

At the engine house, there is a little café run by volunteers. It actually seems to be run for volunteers. It's full of locals and staff chatting. These are probably people who worked here and they have managed to keep a sense of community even though the pit has closed. The people - the volunteers and the regulars - have a passion for the place and for their heritage. There is a strong sense of community and pride in this pit and the former way of life and that makes Pleasely Pit rather special.

Post-caffeine, I climb to the highest point of the colliery site. At the very top, there is a barren plain of cinders with a few struggling shrubs and some sparse grass. The pit building itself is an attraction, and the man-made or man-repaired landscape surrounding it probably needs some time to get properly established.

I return to the Teversal Trail to head back to my van for lunch. One part of the pathway is through a deep cutting, the sides of which are quite severe, with dry grass on the sheer slopes.

I take a detour to Teversal village. There are some newly built houses, what we now have to call newbuild. They are very tasteful, built of local stone. There are also some attractive older buildings and I'm pleased to see a lovely old red phone box. On closer inspection, it doesn’t house a phone, but the village defibrillator and Teversal Village Book Swap, which I think is amazing.

The village is very attractive. There are snowdrops, daffodils, fresh blossom and ivy-covered walls. I pass the gates to the manor, where the Earls of Carnarvon lived, which is just opposite the church. St Katherine’s was built in the 12th and 13th Centuries, but restored in the 17th and 18th. The porch is barred by a metal gate, padlocked with no explanation about where to get a key. The light in the porch comes on, triggered by a senor, so I feel welcome for a moment… Then I feel suspected. The actual doorway into the church is a Norman arch, exquisitely carved and very impressive.

Walking back through Teversal it’s remarkable how old and new properties sit in harmony, side by side, looking comfortable together. I don’t recall a village ever looking so natural.

After my late lunch, I was expecting it to be raining, but it isn’t. I want to stay in my van and look out at driving rain. There are a lot of dark clouds upstairs, but the sun makes an occasional breakthrough, but it’s probably too worn out after yesterday, which was a perfect day. I just hope that wasn’t the English summer.

I feel obliged to go out again for a walk around Silverhill Woods, because that’s my nearest walk, in case the rain comes. It doesn’t. I walk for miles until the sun sets, then return to the site for a shower. I come out of the shower, all clean, shaved and resplendent, carrying my dirty clothes over my arm.

I get back in my van and a moment later there is a tap on the door. It’s a bit disconcerting, because who knocks at your door on a campsite? I open the door to an elderly lady from the neighbouring van.

"You dropped your pants in front of me."

"I didn't!"

"On the path, duck. Back there. I just saw you. Coming back from the shower. I was watching."

"Were you? I mean... Right... Thank you." I feel a bit violated.

I go to retrieve my boxer shorts which have, sure enough, been dropped mid-site. As I pass her caravan, I can see the old dear studying me through her window from the comfort of her banquette.

When I'm back in my van, I draw the curtains tightly, making sure there are no gaps.