Don’t ever say you don’t get variety here. The day after pubs returned, the retiredmartin family did Coveney.
I have no idea why I picked Coveney, a village of 424 sprawling between Ely and the Wash.
Oh, yes I do. Dortmund Annie mentioned she’d been riding diggers out there.
My own Huawei, no doubt shortly to be confiscated by the Govt. in a modern McCarthyesque clampdown, can’t match that shot but I did capture some random cows on Great Dam Fen on our 90 minute walk (Mr RM : 64 minutes).
We started on the “hill” in Coveney. The world clearly, was our oyster.
“Oooh, never been to Way Head (with good reason)” I said.
Mrs RM and James strode off with my instruction to “find something blogworthy” ringing in their ears, walking straight past the apple tree,
and Grade I listed Church of Peter ad Vincula. I think they’re scared of Latin.
I caught them up on the road to Way Head, basically a farm, where a long family discussion about where we should move to was in progress. It continued the length of Old Lynn Drove. I don’t know why Old Lynn drove when pack horses were available.
James suggested we were the first visitors for decades, which my be true. There’s a limited tourist market for dirt, tracks, lone trees, and those dredging machines that collect the sludge for craft beer.
We arrived at Wardy Hill, having decided to move to
Preston Stockport Ordsall Glossop Halifax New Mills.
We won’t be moving to Wardy Hill, a hamlet seemingly comprised of large wooden boxes and potatoes, despite the rave review on Wiki.
The Isle Villages signs, last noted in Little Downham of “irritate BRAPA” fame, suggested we’d walked past an Iron Age fort near the play area in Wardy Hill, a bit like visiting Maidenhead and forgetting to go in the Cons Club.
A totally unsatisfactory walk. But don’t take my word for it. Visit yourself.
No pubs for miles, of course;
Swan’s Stores might just be a micro by then.
We needed a beer.