The Start of the North?

The Altar Stones

I think that the Charnwood Hills have a tell-tales sign that 'The North' is about to begin.  Forget 'The Watford Gap', Leicestershire's southern most service station, held to be the 'start of the north' by Southeners.  The Charnwood Hills are gentle, but their ancient jagged bones protrude, adding a concrete presence. These are some of England's oldest rocks. There is nothing however that can hide the countryside from the roar of the M1.  Even in 1965, the roadway was skillfully hidden in the folds of the land, but it binds the hills, like tight ropes constricting a wild beast.

Markfield sits high on the old road to Coalville, which quietly saunters down the side of Altar Stones only to be compressed under the expanse of motorway junction.  This is not as severe as the squashing of Garendon Hall beneath junction 23.  The area is surrounded by many historic and active quarries, like the volcanoes from which they originate.  All about we see mighty caldera, some harmless and forgotten, filled with deep cold blue lakes.  Others are terrifyingly alive, smoking with dust, exploding and causing general devastation.  Our route skirts Cliffe Hill Quarry, completely hidden behind a fringe of thick woodland, like an elaborate frame to the empty socket of a painting.  I am accompanied by a robin, or perhaps a relay of robins, because one is always with me, like a minder as I cross forbidden land.  I past  a solitary terraced house.  The one that resisted; that refused to 'fall in'.  Up against the cliff edge. A picture from Google is below.

The 'end of terrace'.

London was paved with Leicestershire

I look over to see Billa Barra. The name reminds me of Australia, I expect to see eucalyptus on the hill, but can only find rabbit warrens,

Billa Barra nature reserve (for rabbits)

 Along the side of Billa Barra the path follows the route of  an old train line.  The quarry tracks protrude from the mud as I travel through a tunnel of holly bushes and birch.

And then, the necessity to cross the horror of the dual carriageway, with discarded litter, and dispassionate speeding drivers.  A violent scene of carnage is across the hedge.  Vast swaths of land around the foot of Bardon Hill, given over to continuing the great decent into the body of the earth.  The silhouetted scene is of ancient broken trees and nude exposed rocky outcrops.  I wonder at the fate of these historic relics.  Have they friends to protect them in council chambers, or will they be gobbled up with the same disregard?  I see a vast and ghastly vision of the destruction of the whole world, Sodom, Krakatoa, the Western Front,

Through the bleakness there is a quiet path that climbs up to the highest point in Leicestershire.  Some of the way signs have had a sticker added saying 'Leicestershire's Three Peaks'.  This is an illusion to the national 'Three Peaks', or even the Yorkshire 'Three Peaks'.  I think it's safer to stick with 'The Three Bs'.  I am keen to avoid a North-South dispute on what constitutes a 'hill'. Two track-suited lads, sharp haircuts, friendly faces, look over at the top and point out their homes, and can see their school too.  The dog looks intently at me.  A temporary footpath diverts walkers down and away.  Temporary for another 25 years when these  holes will start to be filled.

On to 'Charley', with it's cheerful name;  you can breath easy as the beauty returns.  Still the presence of the motorway is near.  But I hear the birds.  They seem to be coping with this noise.  They have to live with the clamour of the modern life just as we do.  I focus on their song, the rumbling seems less.  We cope with the stresses of life with acceptance.  I ponder that so long as millions of barrels of crude oil are not discovered in the American and Russian Arctic, our roads will one day sing to the quiet song of electric whirring.

My route comes to Lubcloud Farm, in the wonderfully named 'Oaks in Charnwood'.  A place that defines the term hamlet.  I know about Lubcloud because I see it's products, cream, yogurt and cheese, in our local delicatessen.   It now has a tea-shop, but I'm walking with purpose and am not at my leisure.   The path rises up along a cobbled track through fields of horse, all kept to order by two neat electrically charged wires.  I hear the snap of the electricity.  A few of the fields have solar panels propped up by their gates.  I wonder whether bad weather allows Lubcloud horse to make their escape.  Over the top of the hill, forbidden rocky promentaries lie tantalisingly away from the track.  Down below I am drawn to the mesmeric presence of the motorway again.  I see a mirage of colliding cars, mysteriously driving straight through each other, like ghosts traveling at seventy miles an hour.  A path on the left hand-side of the road provides safety as again I burrow under the motorway, this time without the glamour of lighting, and escape up, through a forgotten smelly farm.  A coop of chickens surprised by my appearance, stand clucking on a bare earthen mound, like Chanticleer, all knowing.

I stride purposefully away, up the hill.  A large brown bird-of-pray wearily swoops down out of a tree and way, as if "do I have to?"   I wonder whether eagles live in Leicestershire?  There are certainly now many forgotten cliffs for them to cling to.  The path disappears though a gap in the woods, into a new world.  Now the route is lost in a maze of possibilities; each way looking quite improbable.  Just as I wonder whether at last I am lost in a wood, I come across a definite path, one that seems to say "you've lost your way, and I've come to rescue you."  It takes me to the edge of the Nampanton Road.  Across the road is the most beautiful part of Leicestershire.  I am in love with it.  A sign erected by Home Farm announces that I am invited to use a Permissive Path.  I notice that the sign is funded by the EU.  I am now completely on my own.  Blue bell woods, wide tree-lined fields and views over to Beacon Hill.  I stop for lunch on a tumbled down drystone wall.  The new EU gate stands powerless next to this collapsed opening.  I wonder whether I should rebuild the wall then and there, in gratitude to Home Farm and their apparent kindness of the whole of Europe.  The route travels up to Beacon Hill, a place many consider the highest point in Leicestershire.  It is certainly puts on a good show and I am sure the council wishes it could be.

The interesting rocks at the top of Beacon Hill

My journey now takes on a detour.  For first time I visit Windmill Hill, on the edge of Woodhouse Eves.  The windmill viewing platform is open.  The view if terrific, or rather I guess it was when there were no tress on the hill.  Now it is a terrific view of some rather fine trees.

Woodhouse Eves Windmill- no trees, much wind.

Just as I think that it would be good to see my old friend Andy, who I know lives in Woodhouse Eves, I bump into Andy, and he invites me to take tea and cake with his wife and daughter.  What could be nicer?

I'm on the home straight now.  The route travels up though a very fine golf course.  One golfer guides be across the fairway.  Another tell me the safest place might be to stay in the middle of it while he is playing.  I guess the footpath is a magnet to stray balls.  I'm now on the edge of Bradgate Park.  The park wardens are chatting in a large group together by their landrover.  I'm not hanging around.  In the park I notice the silhouettes of couples walking up to Old John.  The wind has picked up, and they cling on to each other.  Deer appear in the bracken.  They trust their camouflage; no need to move for me.  A path diverges off to the right into Newtown Linford through a large 'door high' gate.  I saw a Gold Crest last time I was here.  I pass Grey's Crescent, and then out of the village and up through horse fields to Johns Lee woods.  The finale of this walk is the panorama of the Charnwood Hills, looking up to Stoneywell.  It reminds me that this walk is worth it.  I pass the beautifully named Clover Cloud woods, with large Private Keep Out signs. I think of them as protecting the blue bells.

As the path climbs again up to the final roaring dual carriageway, I note that the first path up though the brambles, not the second nearer to the footpath sign, is the one that avoids the road for the longest stretch.  It climbs through a newly planted grove (20 years old?) and then under the road though a garishly decorated subway straight from New York, and back into the village of Markfield.  The Queen's Head nods and says 'here if you want me.'

Bradgate Park- the Third Peak