Avast Behind

Part 1

Since I've always, ever since I can recall, been in love with history,
being able to travel the waterways here has been an experience that I
cherish. Being one of those eccentrics who not only enjoy history but
also believe in certain things like the innocence of Richard III, the
chance to travel to see the site of the battle of Bosworth was too
tempting to pass up.

When you're out on the cut, you move to a different pace completely.
Gone are the double-digit speed limits, the pressures of high speed
living and the race to go nowhere. Instead, there is the chance to
hear birds singing, to watch the weather change around you and to
enjoy life at the same gentle pace as people have for most of our
history but the last hundred years. And so it was that I came to
Bosworth at the same pace as many of the participants some 500+ years
ago. Walking pace, seeing the trees as they would, travelling the
same countryside through remote and fairly untouched areas.

We reached Marston Junction and the beginning of the Ashby canal in
the afternoon, the weather wasn't the best but after some of the
downpours we've been through recently, it was more than acceptable.
Just ahead of us, making the turn onto the Ashby in a series of
sideways motions was a hireboat from Ashby Narrowboats. We were
extremely impressed with their technique, which employed three young
men, a barge pole and a startling display of boat-to-shore pole
vaulting. Perhaps this will be a new Olympic sport next time the UK
hosts the summer Olympics. Once they were safely through the bridge
and a decent distance down the canal, we followed in our turn.

The Ashby is as close as we've yet come to boating on a river or other
natural waterway. The towpath in many places is non-existent or not
reachable due to the amount of dredging work that needs doing. Our
goal for the night was to stop at the Lime Kilns and have a decent
meal and a few pints, but the moorings were full. We pressed on,
although it was getting darker than we liked for travelling an
unfamiliar stretch of water and eventually, after a number of attempts
to reach the bank and moor without canting the 'All Right Now' more
than necessary on the silted bottom, we tied up for the night
somewhere past Hinckley. Not the most encouraging place to stop, but
quiet enough to pass the night without any sort of disturbance. After
a hurried meal of fishlips and chihuahua-burgers, we settled in for
some sleep, hoping to not hear anything going 'thump' outside the
boat.

The next morning, with the sun up, the weather moderate and no rain in
sight, we set our sights on finding a mooring for the day somewhere
near one of the two access points to the Bosworth Battlefield site. I
let Mike do all the driving, as I wanted to be up in the front, to
spend the time watching the countryside change as we slowly approached
Sutton Cheyney. The canalside sign enticing us to stop at the 'Dog
and Hedgehog' didn't have any effect, I was insistent that we move on
and assure ourselves of a mooring. They seem to be thin on the ground
along the Ashby for visitors, and having seen the state of the towpath
we weren't sure we'd find anything suitable or available. The scenery
was worth the trip, the sun managed to find its way through the clouds
for the most part. It was almost too picturesque, exactly what I had
hoped for. Cws grazed at the canalside, church towers stood against
the skyline, birds sang, fish jumped, plastic bags made their merry
way around our propeller. In short, the typical day in the country.
We reached Sutton Cheyney Wharf just before a monumental rainstorm,
fortunately there was only one boat moored at the visitor moorings,
allowing us plenty of room and (luxury of luxuries) enough mooring
rings that we were able to get the ARN tied up and get back inside to
have a cuppa while the rain rained down. As it does.

Well then, there I was, history junkie, Ricardian, all set to explore
the Battlefield. Once it stopped raining. If it ever would.

At that point, however, even rain, and more rain, could not dismay
someone who had waited far more than a few years to have the chance to
see an historic site that had been no more than a few words on paper.

Bosworth...
Richard and White Surrey...
Henry Tudor (ptui)...

It was August 21 when we reached Sutton Cheyney. The next day would
be the anniversary of the battle. Would I feel anything as I walked
that field?

I wanted to find out.

Part 2

Well, then.

It's always fascinating to me how much history you can find in one
small place, most of it living side-by-side without ever really
touching. I wondered, during the trip up the Ashby how many of the
working boats ever passed the side of the battle with knowledge of
what had happened there. Were they aware of Richard and his desperate
fight, or were their minds purely on the main job, that of finding
more Measham pottery.

For me, the normal interests in the history of the canal were
certainly overcome by my interest in seeing the battlefield. So, once
the weather had settled and the rain had stopped, Mike and I prepared
ourselves for a walk through Ambion Wood to the Battlefield Centre.
The woods are shady and full of whispers. This is the second major
Yorkist battlefield I've seen, the first was Towton in Yorkshire, a
high hill with nothing to break the view of the battlefield known as
Bloody Meadow. Bosworth is different, the approach is a path through
a woods that fills the swamp of Richard's time. Once through those
woods, the Battlefield Centre sits a little below the crest of the
hill. And there, on the top, just coming into view is the standard of
the White Boar. It snaps and rustles in the wind, marking the place
where Richard and his army stood to look down on the approaching Tudor
army. Once you reach the hillside you can see all the countryside
below, with two more standards to mark where Henry Tudor waited and
where the Stanleys cringed.

It's not necessary to have history dressed up and so carefully
presented with knights in tin armour and hundreds of 'Od's Blood!'s'
echoing around for the tourists. If you want that, Warwick Castle is
for you, or perhaps even Euro-Disney. If you want history to be
something felt clear through the soles of your feet, then it's places
like Bosworth you need. Mike felt is as strongly as I did, nothing in
the world could have been more evocative or stirring than standing
there on a high hill in the wind, hearing the banners thundering as
they flew. It was the day before the anniversary of the battle. Back
in the parking lot of the Centre, groups of people arriving to put on
a display of pageantry for the next day were unloading medieval
pavilions from VW camper-vans. I'd done that sort of thing, it wasn't
what I wanted to see or feel. Fifty men with pikes and bows making do
for the hundreds that fought there wasn't what I came to Bosworth for.

We walked the entire trail around, well-maintained and unobtrusive
markers described various phases of the battle. We were permitted the
luxury of imagining for ourselves what it was like. Once we'd both
had our fill, Mike and I walked back to our boat. The contrast
between the two places, the battlefield and the canal was less than I
would have imagined at one time. Both of them are strands in the web
of history that draws many of us along the canals.

Go to Bosworth if you like. Take the canal to get there, and ride
history as you go.