By now I'm sure you're wondering how Nigel is doing...

Well, we'd already decided that as he didn't seem to be that infectious, and wasn't getting worse, we would head back to Newark today. Apparently vindicating that decision, the cough left him largely in peace last night, for the first time in a week and a half. We're obviously very much hoping that he's now firmly embarked on the road to recovery.

So, for my final Boston post, I just need to write about two more sections of the Water Rail Way. We're gradually chipping away at this track, having done two stretches in recent years.

On Tuesday 25 January, we walked the bit from Anton's Gowt to Langrick Bridge:


And here's Tennyson again:


This is from a really delightful poem called The Brook. Admittedly, the Witham is not that brook-like, but it's such a playful set of verses that you easily forgive the poetic licence:

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley...

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles...

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling...






Today we walked from Woodhall Spa to just beyond Stixwould:














So, our unexpected Boston interlude draws to a close. It's been a somewhat strange time. Quite stressful, given the general background of the pandemic, and the unknown nature of Nigel's ailment, and the difficulty of accessing care. But also quite rewarding. He's not been ill enough to keep us in, and we've managed to visit a large number of really interesting places.

Still, it will be nice to be back in Newark, and back with the plan.

I'll close with a bit more of The Brook:

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.