Remember the first blog post I ever wrote. Blogley in Lyon. I’ve come a long way since then. To Wingerworth in fact. A place that to my knowledge has never had a blog post written about it. Certainly not a Blogley blog post anyway.
Where is Wingerworth and why is it here? Wingerworth’s Wikipedia entry tells me that it’s three miles south of Chesterfield and 150 miles north of London. Why London has anything to do with it is probably not that baffling when you consider that the capital is ‘only’ two hours away by train for those unfortunate souls who choose to commute every day. There are lots.
Nothing has ever happened in Wingerworth – or in Chesterfield for that matter, apart from that FA Cup semi final against Middlesbrough in 1997 (lost!). But it’s peaceful enough and reminds me of Horsforth in Leeds where I grew up. Both once separate villages that were gradually enveloped by the expansion of their larger neighbours in the post war years. The 1950s, 60s and 70s housing estates slowly forming a concrete corridor between the rural farming villages and the town and city whose wealth and success were derived from mining, steel, textiles, farming and warfare – Chesterfield was once a Roman garrison. If I sound too much like a geography or history teacher, I’ll go and shoot myself immediately.
But before I do that, just let me tell you that the old lanes and paths that once connected the old farms are still here. And provide an idyllic counterpoint to the endless modern estates. Estates that are incidentally still being built. Tetra-Pak shaped houses complete with ten pence sized lawns and bedrooms as big as Ryanair toilets.
Wingerworth was mentioned in the Doomsday book of 1086 as Wingreurde meaning King’s Land, and was a community of fourteen freemen. Now it has a Spar, a Chinese take away and a hair dresser. That classic retail recipe for anybody wanting to replicate modern England in their own country. Saying that, I’m actually quite enamoured with the place and the Chinese takeaway isn’t that bad either, considering it looks about as inviting as Trowell Services near Nottingham on the M1.
(I should know, I once had to wait there for five hours trying to hitch a ride to Exeter, finally getting picked up by a guy who took me as far as East Midlands Airport. Which if you know the East Midlands (i.e. Nottingham and Derby) is a distance of about five miles. I said ‘Thanks’ when he dropped me off, but it wasn’t very sincere. I got to Exeter Cathedral Square two days later and two stone lighter: I remember walking most of it.)
So have I fallen in love with Wingreurde? Probably not. Enamoured is probably too strong a word. But it’s a nice place and the countryside south of the village is lovely and within ten minutes you can be on the wilds of Beeley Moor where I used to roam as a teenager, sneaking cans of Fosters from my father’s beer supply, wandering across the purple heather moors wondering if there was any place as beautiful as here.
Since then I’ve travelled a lot and seen many marvellous places. However, even though I’m not from Chesterfield, and have little connection with the area apart from it’s where my folks happen to live (the reason I’m here at the moment), there is something special about the moors that surround it. Whether it’s pure nostalgia from my younger years, or the natural bleakness of the place that I like, I do sometimes think that there are a lot worse places to live than Chesterfield. London for one.
*My fee from Chesterfield City Council tourist board can be paid into the following Swiss bank account. Geneva Bank, Monsieur Blogley, A/C number: 0000001. Thank you.