Welcome to Maid Spin, the personal website of iklone. I write about about otaku culture as well as history, philosophy and mythology.
My interests range from anime & programming to mediaevalism & navigation. Hopefully something on this site will interest you.
I'm a devotee of the late '90s / early '00s era of anime, as well as a steadfast lover of maids. My favourite anime is Mahoromatic. I also love the works of Tomino and old Gainax.
To contact me see my contact page.
One of my hobbies is long-distance walking. Sometimes I travel a long way to walk, like when I went to Norway last year, but most of the time I stay somewhat local to wherever I currently live. Back when I had no money but boundless time these walks would sometimes stretch into week-long adventures, which I record in my "walking book" under generic but memorable names. "Pilgrimage to the West Country", "Hiking Beyond Hope (Derbs)", "The South-Sea Circuit". One of these was optimistically named "Race to the Sea", in which I attempted to walk from my flat in Nottingham to the closest point of sea at the Wash, Lincolnshire. As these trips so often are, it was packed with strange and interesting encounters one can only have on such endeavours. The second day of the trip (which unbeknownst to me was to be the last) was Thursday 19th of September 2019, and was a strange sort of day indeed. Here is a recount of that day for posterity using both my own memories, and the short notes I took during the trip.
The night before I had a truly terrible sleep. On the Wednesday, after having walked 20mi from my flat, I had found the place I had marked out on my map as my intended camp-spot to be unsuitable. When rough-camping I try to find dense thickets of trees into which I can safely set up camp away from the eyes of farmers or local busy-bodies. This thicket, tucked in the far northeast corner of Leicestershire, was indeed away from the farmhouse on who's land it grew, but was unfortunately much thinner than I would have liked and sat along the edge of a pasture on which a large herd of cows were grazing. At the time I didn't realise the foreshadowing that these bovines entailed, but I did realise that so many cows meant the farmer would almost certainly be by early next morning to feed, milk or otherwise tend to them. And so, despite the failing light and my failing limbs, I decided to walk on to survey thickets further along my route. Although it was actually only around 2mi before I found a suitable spot, at that time it felt like a marathon as I became increasingly worried I wouldn't be able to find somewhere. I checked maybe five different places, and by the time I found one I was happy with, the night was well and truly upon me. I ate my pre-prepared dinner and set up my bed for the night. This is where the second problem came into light: I had failed to truly grasp the change in climate that September might bring, and so I had brought only my summer sleeping-bag and a bivvy sack (basically a tarpaulin bin-bag to slip the sleeping bag in to). And it was cold, way colder than I expected. It took me a long time to fall asleep, and when I finally did my sleep was interrupted (at least) three times. First was to the distinct sound of snapping twigs nearby, rhythmic and slow like the footsteps of a man. This isn't the noise you want to hear when vulnerable tucked up in bed. But as soon as I shifted to try and see what it was the sound stopped. Lying on the ground I peered into the darkness around me trying to make out anything, but could see nothing. I was afraid to shine my torch in case it was indeed a person: I didn't want to scare them or to alert them to my location as I didn't have permission to be there. I heard nothing but silence and my own breath for five or ten minutes, so lay back down and closed my eyes. As soon as I did so I heard another twig crack, loudly this time, and then silence. I still have no idea what it could have been: probably a deer, although it really did sound much more like a person. The second awakening was to the horrid yapping of a pair of foxes: if you've never heard a fox yap its a terrible noise, like a dog-banshee. While unsettling I knew the sound well, so just tried to ignore it. But the yaps got closer until I was sure they had to be within my thicket. This time I indeed utilised my torch, shining it in the direction of the fox to try and shoo it away. I saw the fluorescent reflection of her eyes just yards away, and despite my best shooing efforts, she wouldn't budge. Eventually I chucked a stick in her direction and she turned away into the darkness, her horrible yowls persisting for hours more within earshot. The third and final time I awoke was with a shivering jolt of chill. I had fallen asleep with my head exposed and the early morning dew had dropped the air temperature considerably. I was shivering all over and despite feeling incredibly tired, I was unable to fall asleep again. It was like a part of my brain deeper than that which I usually use was warning me it would be dangerous to fall back asleep in this temperature. And so I just lay there, freezing, until the sun rose a hour or two later. As I rose in the morning with a headache and crept out of my thicket, I was greeted with a wondrous scene. I had unbeknowingly slept in the vale directly beneath the impressive shadow of the Castle of Belvoir, its white walls gleaming in the morning light. Just before me a long drive wound up the valley side to the main gatehouse, behind which the crenelated ramparts and romantic turrets of that neogothic pile were silhouetted by the eastern Sun. I ate my breakfast sat on the edge of my woodland, watching the castle. A few cars trundled up the drive and through the gatehouse, assumedly to start their days work there. One stopped at the bottom of the hill and dropped someone off who began walking up towards the castle. An actual maid! She was wearing some form of dark dress and white apron. I was quite a way off so I couldn't get a great look, but I am sure she was dressed in traditional maid attire (I've seen it enough times). The dreamlike light continued as I packed up and set out for the day. Dewdrops glistening on the grass and the twistle of treetop songbirds drowned out my thoughts. Combined with my bad night's sleep and consequently groggy head, the whole scene felt unreal, a feeling which was not abated as I followed the perimeter of the castle fence up and onto the ridge of the hill where I ran into the Marquess of Granby walking his dog. Now I didn't know he was the Marquess at the time, a fact I only worked out after the fact through some investigative googling when I got home, but his tweed jacket, posh wellies and clipped "good morning" gave me suspicions... This altogether fairytale-esque first hour of my day was capped off as I reached the prow of the hill and saw past the castle to the rolling hills of Lincolnshire beyond.
My route took me down to the large town of Grantham, hometown of both Sir Isaac Newton and Margaret Thatcher, two heroes for readers of this blog I'm sure. Located on the Great North Road, Grantham is an old place of importance and one of the three moot towns of Lincolnshire (the others being Lincoln and my intended next destination, Boston, although I would end up not entering that town for another few years). From here East the land grows flatter and flatter, eventually reaching sea-level (and below) in the landscape known as "the Fens". I left Grantham and set forth through the fields, woods and little hamlets of Kesteven until the mid afternoon. I soon reached the end of the hills, and the expanse of the Fens now lay before me. At some point in the not-so-distant-past, this land would not have been land at all but brackish marsh and a seasonal waterscape. Lincolnshire, like other counties, sometimes affixes the moniker of "God's own", in reference to the pious history of the county. The wealth of the county in the late mediaeval era lead to many enormous churches being constructed in the area such as Lincoln's Cathedral or Boston's Stump. Coupled with the perfectly flat terrain, these spires are visible over truly awesome distances. The small town of Heckington was my immediate goal, situated on what would have been a "coast" of sorts: the last dry ground before the North Sea proper. But before I reached the aptly named "Heckington", disaster struck. As I was crossing a plain, I was caught unawares and surrounded by a group of inquisitive and rowdy bullocks. I had noticed there presence before, but failed to take the precaution of keeping to the field's edge and had wandered out into the middle, letting them flank my position. My shooing (again) was wholly ineffective, and merely attracted yet more bullocks to join in. Huffing and puffing they became bolder and pushed their ranks closer to me. I'm certainly not scared of cows like some are, and I'd like to think that under better conditions I would be able to remove myself from this predicament with more grace, but at the time my weary mind panicked and wanted out. My usual shouts weren't working, so I resorted to throwing stones towards the cows to ward them off. If I lunged forward they would reatreat, but not enough to allow my escape from their ring. I knew if I made a break for it it might excite them to a stampede, something which would be many times more dangerous than my current situation. My eventual solution was to make my way to a large gorse bush (cow-encirclement in tow), which created a barrier on one side of me. I hid within the spiky plant for several minutes hoping they would bore, which most of them eventually did and wandered off. I picked my moment and after a painfully long stand-off, made my escape over the uneven ground. The bullocks did follow, but my positioning had made my escape inevitable. But alas, my fatigue made me clumsy and just as I reached the border fence I landed badly on my ankle, twisting it.
The twist wasn't bad, but the thought of a further 50mi or so on it became instantly a terrible idea, although it took me another hour or so to truly work this out. I limped into the now onomatepaic Heckington, feeling dejected. Interestingly the cow-plain I had just faced peril within is now earmarked for destruction and drowning under the new "Lincolnshire Reservoir", so I guess it won't be a place I'll ever be able to visit again. I stopped for a snack in Heckington, pondering my next move. Often you'll reach moments like this on hikes; points at which you have to decide between retreat or advancing. Usually if you're having these thoughts, the former is the correct option, which is true in this case. But nevertheless I came to the alternate conclusion and headed eastwards again into the true fenlands. Now I hadn't had any experience with the fen countryside before, and it is very much a different roaming experience than the England I was used to. There are no footpaths forged over millennia, no ancient laws protecting rights of way, no conveniently dry hedgerows along which to skirt. Instead uniform set of dykes and ditches lay out impassable barriers, and footpaths (when they exist) follow unhelpful and monotonous routes along highways. I wandered out into this landscape following farmers' tracks, causeways of piled earth making ridges between low fields and marshy wastelands. My usual countryside instincts were inapplicable here, and I found myself funnelled in directions I didn't want to go. After a mile or so I reached the end of a causeway I had been following, and I mean the end. It stopped abruptly at a small abandoned(?) farmhouse and went no further, I'm not sure if anyone lived at that house at the end of the line, it was well kept but without any immediate signs of life. Beyond it a boggy fallowland sat uninvitingly, blocking me from continuing. The fenlands are quiet and lonely, and the disadvantageous geography makes remote places feel oh-so secluded. As the afternoon became late, and the cold winds from last night picked up once more, I knew my plan was now to return to Heckington and take the trainride back home to Nottingham. From this spot I could see out a long way over the fens, the blurry smudge of the Boston Stump way off in the distance. I sat by the lonely house for a while, and remembered the last Saxon, Hereward the Wake. I imagined his last-ditch retreat into the Fens to escape the Normans; him getting lost in the marshy wilderness, knowing he was defeated but still fighting on. Plying his coracle across the silent water from mud island to mud island. Maybe he had passed through this part on his way? Swinging from the gate behind me the lonely house gave me her name also, fittingly being "Last House".
