Days 142-144: King’s Lynn to Skegness

Three days in Lincolnshire — a new county and a new experience as I end up in prison.

Mammoths roam once more in King’s Lynn, part of the GoGoDiscover Trail for the charity Break. Seagulls, chips and newspapers come together for a Feeding Frenzy by Roberta Wood.

A tiny ferry carries me across the River Great Ouse to the windswept Peter Scott Walk, named after the conservationist son of the famous arctic explorer, who lived in the nearby lighthouse and designed the iconic World Wildlife Fund panda logo.

Endless grass beneath an unbounded sky. Fighter jets bank and turn over The Wash. Kestrels hunt for prey. The cold wind blows.

Thursday

A 27-mile walk beckons and the days shorten, so I head down long country lanes in the dark, enjoying the changing colours as dawn breaks over the endless ploughed fields.

I hear them first. Geese. A lot of geese. There’s no movement in the heavy clouds and then the leader appears, followed by an endless line and then several skeins. I’m not sure why they’re heading east.

The red flags are flying over Holbeach Air Weapons Range. It’s not entirely clear, but it looks as though I can walk along the embankment right on the edge of the range. It’s a long detour if I’m forced to turn round and the day is already challenging. A car approaches on the road to a control tower. I let it pass before stepping out from under the trees. There’s a tractor working in the nearby field so I can’t imagine concrete bombs are about to fall. I clear the zone without any problem.

I cross the River Welland over Fosdyke Bridge and head toward my second Travelodge, just outside Boston. I remember reading the Fosdyke Saga comic strip by Bill Tidy in the Daily Mirror as a kid. Tripe anyone?

Friday

Another long day and I need to make it to Skegness in time to catch the last train home, so I explore Boston in the predawn. I’m following the Buoys Trail, showcasing six re-purposed vintage navigational buoys to celebrate the town’s heritage and maritime connections. Easier said than done in the dark — fun though.

I find the other three buoy sculptures, but the breaking light washes out the colours for the one in the park and the final two are on either side of a busy road during rush hour.

Despite the industrial start, the walk along The Haven in the morning light is beautiful.

HM Prison North Sea Camp is a Category D open prison, previously home to Jeffrey Archer. It’s also the only prison with a public footpath running through the middle. How can I resist? Probably full of white-collar criminals. I turn inland, startling a couple of deer.

Unfortunately, I approach the perimeter some way off the official path and end up staring across a narrow water-filled ditch at a welcoming committee of heavy-set guys. I’m in the wrong place and they don’t look like Jeffrey Archer types.

“This is a prison mate. There’ll be a lot of people watching you.”

Once I’ve explained my destination, they call an officer across and helpfully direct me across the ditch. I get a friendly escort through the compound. The inmates are mainly lifers, serving the last years of their sentence. So much for my theory. The escort is to make sure I’m not bringing in a phone or drugs. Photos are not allowed, for obvious reasons, although the officer allows me to take one at the gate, provided he’s out of the picture.

Free once more, a man is limping along the embankment ahead of me, trailing a dog lead. There is no dog. Just fond memories of their time together? This triggers thoughts of Bella. I brush away a tear. Must be the cold wind.

I bump into Margaret and David, two cheerful fellow coastal walkers, who are completing their hike round England. I must remember to take more photos of people I meet.

The sea wall is popular with cows. I walk through a few groups lying across the path who barely register my presence. Unfortunately, this bunch get up, turn round and walk in front of me, gathering stragglers as they go. After a while, I skirt down the embankment and flank them, before I end up driving a herd along the Skegness promenade.

There are three tiers of sea walls. I follow the outer wall, closest to the sea, on the edge of the RAF Wainfleet Military Air Weapons Range, with beached merchant ships for target practice. The wall is breached in places.

Margaret warned me that the grass was high. It’s not actually marked as a footpath on my OS map. It’s rough and tiring at the end of a long day, having to raise each foot higher than normal. I should know by now not to force through brambles at ankle height. Both ends are burrowed into the earth and refuse to yield. Over I topple, face-first into the long grass. Only my pride is damaged.

A tiny memorial cross is buried out here, almost hidden in the grass. Who was Ian? What happened to him in this desolate place?

Approaching Gibraltar Point Nature Reserve, the moment of truth has arrived. Steeping River blocks my path. There’s a pumping station with a bridge but other coastal walkers noted that the gate is locked and ringed with barbed wire. I can’t afford a long detour if I’m to catch the last train home. I’m pinning my hopes on the fact that Charles Compton, who I met at Stranraer, climbed it a couple of years ago, although he is half my age. To my relief, there’s no barbed wire, although I have to step out on the handrail to climb over.

The sun is setting as I pass through the eerily empty fun rides at Skegness to the train station.

Walk distance: 72 miles.

Total distance: 2,317 miles.