LEJOG Day 41: Crewe to Congleton

Weather: Partly sunny with cool westerly

Distance covered today: 21.7km (13.4mi)

Last night's B&B: Waverley Hotel (£44.50)

Cumulative distance: 792.3km (492.3mi)/ % Complete: 45.0%

GPS satellite track of today's route: Day 41 (click!)

Ominously, the hills are beginning to reappear. I can’t see them yet but the Pennines are not far away now. At least I am not carrying any injuries at the moment and apart from the odd niggle, I am as ready as I’m going to be. I might as well enjoy the last few days in civilisation, because soon I will leave it for the bleak, harsh atmosphere of the Pennines. I am meeting an increasing number of people who know them, though mostly from just dipping in and out. I haven’t yet met anyone who has walked the full 460km (284mi) of them, though I have read a number of personal accounts. To put it in perspective, the full distance is equivalent to the entire South West England element of my journey, all the way to Bristol; over difficult, boggy terrain, and with huge climbs and descents. I read at least one account of a LEJOGer who grew to hate the moors and couldn’t wait for it to be over. It will be interesting to see how I react. Will I be consumed only by the physical challenge? Will I be bored or fascinated by the landscape? Certainly, my photography will be challenged as I doubt anyone will want to see countless, almost identical pictures of a bleak path disappearing into the mist!

I suspect I will also be challenged in the evenings, because I no longer have my Kindle, and there will be only very sporadic connection to the internet. As I arranged my B&Bs, I was amused at the reaction of some of my prospective hosts. Just asking whether a connection would be available in some cases produced a flat “no”, but more often an incredulous questioning of even the idea that such a thing might be desirable. I suppose that if one chooses to live in such a bleak place, the internet is low down on one’s priority list. And of course, in other places there just isn’t access to an ADSL fixed line, so broadband isn’t an option. All of which will no doubt result in me closing down a little towards myself. I will have to find the inner resources of thought and reflection that will allow me to use that quiet time productively. It will be the closest thing to a retreat that I will have experienced since I left St Aidan’s forty five years ago.

In fact, I seem to remember enjoying those retreats. The Jesuits were rightly quite strict about them. As far as I can remember, the retreats used to last a whole weekend from the end of sport on Friday afternoon (or boxing on Friday evening. Boxing was the only sport which was compulsory when one first arrived, though one was able to give it up when it became clear that permanent brain damage was a clear and present danger!) The retreat ended with mass on Monday morning, followed by a rather raucous breakfast and the first lessons of the week, which I seem to recall, were ungovernable affairs!  Strict silence had to be observed during the entire weekend, and physical beatings with a piece of whalebone called a “ferula” were administered to persistent offenders, which I seem to remember included most of the class.

To try to guide our thinking, the Jesuits would read various texts to us, intended to stimulate our imagination, followed by significant periods of meditation. Most of my class-mates used these periods to slip behind the swimming pool for a smoke and a chat, but of course I didn’t smoke (until Richard rectified that omission some years later with my active collusion at university in an attempt to make the beer and its effect last longer!)  I used to use the freedom of these meditation periods to roam around the school’s extensive playing fields, dreaming about the future. I felt vaguely guilty that I seemed incapable of reflecting on the subject matter the Jesuits had introduced, but this seemed to me to be too narrowly theological and too removed from my unhappy, everyday experience. I do have to admit though that much of the fundamental morality that I had absorbed from my parents was reinforced in my thinking in those retreats and though my beliefs later changed radically, the underling morality is, more or less, with me still.

I found that I used those reflection periods for what I would later learn were essentially thought experiments, many of which just ran into the sand, or worse, into a logical dead end, but still the process of thinking was very stimulating. I recall once fielding in the outfield in a cricket match when I drifted off on such an experiment. Someone hit the ball towards me and there will have been cries of “Catch it!” I heard nothing and saw nothing, until there was an almighty explosion as the ball hit me right on the top of my head!  It took a long time for the bruise to subside and even longer for me to live it down!!

One of my regrets is that I didn’t write any personal thoughts down in those days. I really don’t know why. I think it might now have been interesting to see what I was thinking. I know I used to become quite excited about it all, something which doesn’t happen anymore. Is that just age?  Or is it that I haven’t dedicated the time and energy to those thought experiments since I left school. Maybe, a forced retreat on the Pennine Way is just what I need…..

A lovely old Cheshire milestone with the evocative names of the area. One would have had to be moving really slowly to have read these in passing

There was no explanation of this invocation of Father Time as an administrator of Victorian values. The inscription reads, "Time rewards Industry and punishes Sloth". The inscription above read "What shall we render unto the Lord" (no question mark), and right at the top of this rather austere reformist church under the date of 1882, was an admonition to "Use well thy time" around a sundial. There was no further elucidation or any reference to the denomination of the church, yet the centre-piece is obviously well cared for and preserved in its clear glass case. Am I using well my time?

Imagine the generations who have lived here!

I crossed the M5's big brother, the M6 btween junctions 16 and 17. It snarled and slithered its way across the landscape, howling and growling at me from behind as the westerly wind carried its unwelcome cacophany far beyond its confines.

Perhaps a motorway can even drive a church demented. Right in the shadow of the M6, I found this CoE church. It is painted bright pink and is clad in corrugated iron! This isn't Africa! There was no explanation!

At last a quiet interlude on another risky path. This time, I struck lucky. The path was well-formed and there were excellent bridges, elevated walkways and stiles. Result!

A Morgan in superb condition, clearly left on display on the pavement by the proud owner. For Veronica...

A bad picture of the atmospheric church in Astbury, just a few kilometers short of my objective in Congleton