Adventures in Middle England ……… from Leicestershire into the Cotswolds … No. 4 ..... fields … the empty road …. and no one to talk to

 I had forgotten just how quiet and empty bits of Britain can be

It’s an obvious observation but when you live in a city which is at the heart of an urban region it is possible to traverse a heap of other neighbouring cities and towns along with their suburbs without encountering a field, a farm or flocks of sheep and the odd herd of cattle.

True if you take to the motorways, you do get glimpses of fields, which may host a tractor, a rusty piece of farm equipment and some livestock, but the speed of travel means they are gone in a glance.

Not so if you choose to travel by country lanes, advised of course by Sidney Sat Nav and accompanied by Vera the Voice whose pronunciation of places can at times be eccentric.

The lanes and small roads my twist and become incredibly narrow while the occasional lumbering tractor creates a backlog of snaking traffic but it’s worth it.

Worth it because setting aside the tractor, there can be so many surprises from the wealth of wildflowers that grow beside the road, to the tunnels of trees which envelope you and the variety of cottages which just hove into view.

And to these can be added the sleepy villages, some more picturesque than others, which may still boast a pub but will almost certainly have a church with or without medieval bits and which if you are very lucky may be open to casual visitors.

Nearly 60 years ago on an ill-advised holiday when six of us booked a four berth caravan in Dorset  I remember the day we had gone our separate ways for the afternoon and I came across a small church in the middle of nowhere.

The door was unlocked, and I was the only occupant.  

The sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows illuminating specks of dust and casting shadows across the pulpit, font and stone tomb of a long dead squire and his wife.

But it was the mix of silence save for the ticking clock in the tower and the coolness of the interior which struck me after the fierce heat of the summer sun and the incessant buzz of insects which had accompanied me to the church door.

It was an experience only bettered when aged nine I was allowed to wander off from my grandparent’s house in a village outside Derby and explore the empty lanes, where nothing stirred in the heat of the day apart from the flitting butterflies and that hum from the telegraph wires.

For a boy from southeast London, it was magical if a little unnerving given that I never came across a soul, and only had those finger posts at crossroads as a point of reference.

Still, I never got lost, and the worst that happened was a bit of sun burn and a scolding for being late for tea.

Location; across Leicestershire into the Cotswold

Pictures; journeys in a rural background, 2024, from the collection of Andrew Simpson