RUTLAND: The Rutland Belle For that quintessential Rutland experience, only a sedate voyage around Rutland Water will do. In the likely event that you don't know anybody with a boat, especially one that can sail to a landlocked reservoir, a trip on the Rutland Belle will have to suffice. The season opened this Easter weekend, and the boat sails four-ish times a day from Whitwell Harbour until the autumn. There's the pier, down by the cafe/restaurant, past the diving gear shop. Come on, hurry up, she sails at noon.
I was sold my ticket by a uniformed bloke in a sailor's hat. "One adult?" he beamed, and handed me a pink ticket. Half a minute later I was handing over the same pink ticket to another smiling operative on the jetty, this time in a thick black jumper with gold epaulettes. "Sorry, we're only doing the round trip today, the pontoon at Normanton isn't operational yet." Damn, that was my main reason for paying seven quid 30 seconds ago. But never mind. I stepped aboard, through the deserted cabin and up to the ever-so empty upper deck. Just me, then? So much for the great UK bank holiday tourist rush. Thankfully my embarrassment was spared by a late party of pensioners. The husbands were determined to join me upstairs to take photographs, but their wives forced them to stay downstairs in the warm for the duration. Very wise, as it turned out.
The ticket seller locked up his booth, climbed to the upper deck, strolled past me with another grin and shut himself in the wheelhouse. The ticket collector then leapt aboard the boat, cast off from the jetty and positioned himself behind the bar. It's a very small business, this. And then off we chugged, all not very many of us, for a tour of the eastern end of the reservoir. First to the largest bronze sculpture in the world (at least it was in 1980, but it's almost certainly been overtaken by something bronzier since), poking up from the edge of a picnic area like a deformed razor blade. On past the odd fishing boat and the occasional skiff. And then a quick jaunt alongside the dam, which looked like 1km of piled-up pebbles with a lot of cyclists on top. It's rather thicker beneath the waves, for which the villagers of Empingham downstream are duly thankful.
Next stop Normanton Church. Or alas, in this case, non-stop. This former private chapel proved a real headache for the engineers who built Rutland Water in the 1970s. The building was just too far down a grassy slope to be safe from the rising waters and would have been part submerged, rendering it unserviceable. A cunning plan was therefore proposed whereby the lower half of the church would be filled in using concrete and limestone, raising the floor to just below window level. A protective pier of stones was then constructed around the perimeter, leaving the deconsecrated church connected to the mainland via a short causeway. And now Normanton Church houses an unlikely museum which tells how 3% of Rutland came to be flooded, and how this unique building survived. Alas I never quite made it inside, but the views from the passing boat were reallyratherstriking.
At this point, as we neared the extensive marina of the Rutland Sailing School, the wind chill factor cut in. I nipped downstairs to the bar to order a half pint of warmest tea, then confused the barman by going back upstairs into the freezing winds to drink it. Madness, obviously, but I'd paid handsomely for the view and had no plans to surrender to a mere Arctic blast. The tea kept me heated for a few minutes, but for the last mile of the voyage I was shivering as if encased in a block of ice. I shall never complain about overheating on the Central line again. Whitwell Harbour's becalmed shelter therefore came as a blessed relief, and I rattled off the boat as rapidly as possible. And behind me followed Captain Trevor, back to the booth at the top of the jetty, ready to sell tickets to the next batch of not-yet-chilled sightseers. I bet they enjoyed their trip too, but I bet they sat downstairs.
RUTLAND: Rutland Water Rutland's most famous feature is a big lake. A really big horseshoe shaped lake (which is kind of appropriate in a county obsessed by horseshoes). RutlandWater is the largest reservoir in the UK, conceived in the 1960s as a solution to Eastern England's water supply problems and covering more than 3000 acres of rolling countryside. Bad luck to the residents and farmers of Nether Hambleton, whose homes and livelihoods disappeared beneath the slowly-filling waters. Sacrificed to prevent hosepipe bans in Milton Keynes, what a way to go. But the nearby village of Upper Hambleton was more fortunate and survives intact on a thin-necked ridge up the centre of the lake. It's a great leveller, water.
Rutland Water today is a mecca for outdoor and active types. If you fancy some watersports action then you'll find sailing clubs and windsurf schools galore. If you fancy a bit ofangling then rejoice that the waters are restocked with slippery trout at regular intervals. And if you fancy cycling then you're in luck, because the lake 26 mile perimeter is perfect for a one-day circuit. Indeed there are cyclists everywhere along the orbital path, sometimes at beginner level, sometimes over-confident, trundling over the cattle grids and wheeeee-ing down the hills. Mind out of the way, here come five more, on their way from one car park to the next.
But pity any poor deluded soul that attempts to make their way to the the interesting spots on the water's edge by public transport. Especially on a bank holiday. On Easter Monday all of Rutland's buses were running a Sunday service, which alas translated as "no service whatsoever". Any attempt at reaching the leisure hub at Whitwell therefore relied on a five mile windswept stroll from Oakham (and, later, a five mile windswept stroll back). It's amazing what a dedicated blogger will do just to get a photograph of a drowned church. Here's my report on the most interesting section of the walk, followed (tomorrow) by a report on the sightseeing boat trip at journey's end.
The path heads east into Barnsdale Wood, with tall slender trunks spreading down to the water's edge. Only trees above the 85m contour have survived - the roots of the remainder have long been submerged. Alas I think I mistimed my visit by a few weeks because the carpet of bluebells through the wood was still only green. Mid-April will be far more impressive. One thing I really appreciated was that Anglian Water, the reservoir's owners, have insisted that all dogs be kept on a lead. Hurrah. This makes for a far more pleasant day out for those of us who don't want to be licked to death by a bouncy Weimaraner, or nibbled by the Staffies.
And down the hill to Whitwell - Rutland Water's northern leisure hub. Here you can hire a canoe, or take out your yacht, or climb an artificial rock face, or go shopping in the cycling megastore. There were even some brave souls on Monday in three-quarter length baggywear preparing to head out windsurfing. Sooner them than me. Few Bank Holiday tourists will have realised the village's obscure claim to fame. Back in the 1970s regulars at the Noel Arms pub wrote to the Mayor of Paris, Jaques Chirac, requesting to be twinned with his fair city. Oh, they added, and if you don't reply within a few weeks we'll take that as your consent. No return communication was received, and so the official village sign now proudly boasts "Whitwell - twinned with Paris". Rutlanders eh, they're a breed apart.
RUTLAND: multum in parvo Up until yesterday, there was only one English county south of the Lake District that I'd never visited. Rutland. Perhaps not surprising, given how small it is. Rutland's tiny, about the same size as the Isle of Wight. It has by far the lowest population of any English county or unitary district - if you gathered all the residents together they'd not even half fill Wembley Stadium. It nestles inconspicuously amid rolling green countryside between Leicester and Peterborough. And there are only two towns. Ah yes, Rutland is quite unique.
Ah, and sorry, Rutland's not a real county either. It used to be, for several centuries, up until 1974 when it was suddenly and unpleasantly swallowed up by Leicestershire. Local people were mighty annoyed and campaigned for restoration, and they were almost successful. An independent Rutland was reinstated with much pomp and ceremony in 1997, but only as a unitary district and not a proper council. Elected representatives have therefore been rather cunning and renamed Rutland as "Rutland County Council", just so that the place still sounds like a proper shire county. This means that the council's full legal title is "Rutland County Council District Council", which is administrative madness. At least the county motto is rather more appropriate... multum in parvo (much in little).
I decided to undertake a long overdue day trip to Rutland yesterday. I got there rather quicker than I expected (just 100 minutes by train from King's Cross). I went on a very long ten mile walk, and my feet still ache. I took lots of photos, some of which I've assembled in this lovely gallery (which I fully expect to get my lowest number of viewers ever - even lower than Margate - but never mind). And I fitted in as much as possible during my delightful but brief stay. But then that's Rutland for you - multum in parvo.
RUTLAND: Oakham There's only one station in Rutland and that's in the county town of Oakham, so that's where I went first. I was a little unnerved to spot that I was the only passenger getting off of the train, and no doubt the waiting taxis were mighty peeved when I walked straight past them into the town centre. Oakham was shut, probably because it was Bank Holiday Monday morning. The streets were pretty much deserted, apart from pensioners posting letters in the Market Square and well-coiffured ladies in jogging pants nipping out of badly-parked cars to buy newspapers. Shame, because the town centre retains that special non-Starbucks charm, and it might have been nice to browse for East Midland knick knacks, or maybe that special garish menswear that only rural gentlefolk buy. At least all the butchers were shut, so I wasn't tempted to buy myself a giant juicy cholesterol-boosting pork pie - one of the local specialities.
And yes, even in a town with fewer than 10000 inhabitants there's still plenty to see. Oakham Castle for a start, although only the GreatHall survives. It's the oldest surviving aisled stone hall in the country (Norman, you know) and has been used as a law court for over 800 years. And it has one really unusual defining characteristic. The interior walls are absolutely coveredby giant horseshoes. It's a tradition round here that every visiting peer or member of the royal family donates a decorative horseshoe on their first visit to the town. The older ones are the largest, while the newer ones alas look distinctly like garish toilet seats. Yes, especially your blue horseshoe from the swinging 60s, your Majesty.
The town also boasts a surprisingly large museum, also free to enter. There's a history of Rutland up front and all the usual Roman finds upstairs. But the speciality here is agriculture, with a variety of traditional machinery on show from tractors to threshers, plus various scary implements with rusty spikes. There's even the old Oakham gallows complete with dangly rope and one-way staircase. Meanwhile across the road are the administrative offices of Rutland District Council, combining a large old building with a brand new (and rather swish) extension. I'm not convinced that a county with only 35000 inhabitants needs quite so many administrators, but the electorate round here wouldn't have it any other way. Oh yes, multum in parvo indeed.
I was sold my ticket by a uniformed bloke in a sailor's hat. "One adult?" he beamed, and handed me a pink ticket. Half a minute later I was handing over the same pink ticket to another smiling operative on the jetty, this time in a thick black jumper with gold epaulettes. "Sorry, we're only doing the round trip today, the pontoon at Normanton isn't operational yet." Damn, that was my main reason for paying seven quid 30 seconds ago. But never mind. I stepped aboard, through the deserted cabin and up to the ever-so empty upper deck. Just me, then? So much for the great UK bank holiday tourist rush. Thankfully my embarrassment was spared by a late party of pensioners. The husbands were determined to join me upstairs to take photographs, but their wives forced them to stay downstairs in the warm for the duration. Very wise, as it turned out.
Next stop Normanton Church. Or alas, in this case, non-stop. This former private chapel proved a real headache for the engineers who built Rutland Water in the 1970s. The building was just too far down a grassy slope to be safe from the rising waters and would have been part submerged, rendering it unserviceable. A cunning plan was therefore proposed whereby the lower half of the church would be filled in using concrete and limestone, raising the floor to just below window level. A protective pier of stones was then constructed around the perimeter, leaving the deconsecrated church connected to the mainland via a short causeway. And now Normanton Church houses an unlikely museum which tells how 3% of Rutland came to be flooded, and how this unique building survived. Alas I never quite made it inside, but the views from the passing boat were really rather striking.
Rutland's most famous feature is a big lake. A really big horseshoe shaped lake (which is kind of appropriate in a county obsessed by horseshoes). Rutland Water is the largest reservoir in the UK, conceived in the 1960s as a solution to Eastern England's water supply problems and covering more than 3000 acres of rolling countryside. Bad luck to the residents and farmers of Nether Hambleton, whose homes and livelihoods disappeared beneath the slowly-filling waters. Sacrificed to prevent hosepipe bans in Milton Keynes, what a way to go. But the nearby village of Upper Hambleton was more fortunate and survives intact on a thin-necked ridge up the centre of the lake. It's a great leveller, water.
But pity any poor deluded soul that attempts to make their way to the the interesting spots on the water's edge by public transport. Especially on a bank holiday. On Easter Monday all of Rutland's buses were running a Sunday service, which alas translated as "no service whatsoever". Any attempt at reaching the leisure hub at Whitwell therefore relied on a five mile windswept stroll from Oakham (and, later, a five mile windswept stroll back). It's amazing what a dedicated blogger will do just to get a photograph of a drowned church. Here's my report on the most interesting section of the walk, followed (tomorrow) by a report on the sightseeing boat trip at journey's end.
Up until yesterday, there was only one English county south of the Lake District that I'd never visited. Rutland. Perhaps not surprising, given how small it is. Rutland's tiny, about the same size as the Isle of Wight. It has by far the lowest population of any English county or unitary district - if you gathered all the residents together they'd not even half fill Wembley Stadium. It nestles inconspicuously amid rolling green countryside between Leicester and Peterborough. And there are only two towns. Ah yes, Rutland is quite unique.
There's only one station in Rutland and that's in the county town of Oakham, so that's where I went first. I was a little unnerved to spot that I was the only passenger getting off of the train, and no doubt the waiting taxis were mighty peeved when I walked straight past them into the town centre. Oakham was shut, probably because it was Bank Holiday Monday morning. The streets were pretty much deserted, apart from pensioners posting letters in the Market Square and well-coiffured ladies in jogging pants nipping out of badly-parked cars to buy newspapers. Shame, because the town centre retains that special non-Starbucks charm, and it might have been nice to browse for East Midland knick knacks, or maybe that special garish menswear that only rural gentlefolk buy. At least all the butchers were shut, so I wasn't tempted to buy myself a giant juicy cholesterol-boosting pork pie - one of the local specialities.
And yes, even in a town with fewer than 10000 inhabitants there's still plenty to see. Oakham Castle for a start, although only the Great Hall survives. It's the oldest surviving aisled stone hall in the country (Norman, you know) and has been used as a law court for over 800 years. And it has one really unusual defining characteristic. The interior walls are absolutely covered by giant horseshoes. It's a tradition round here that every visiting peer or member of the royal family donates a decorative horseshoe on their first visit to the town. The older ones are the largest, while the newer ones alas look distinctly like garish toilet seats. Yes, especially your blue horseshoe from the swinging 60s, your Majesty.
