Cockett Lane

The picture shows the bridge that takes Cockett Lane over the former Midland Railway line from Mansfield to Newark, via Southwell and Rolleston Junction. I wait at the corner of Station Lane, just below the crest, listening carefully for traffic coming over the hump back bridge before I make my move.

My bike is parked on top of the rise, amongst the spring flowers that cling to the narrow grass verge. Ferns soon appear at the roadside as I drift down the lane from the crest. They can still be found today on every exit from the settlement formerly known as Fernsfield.  

The old station house, now a private dwelling, has seen no trains since 1965. Prior to that, it had not received any passengers on its platforms since 1929. The story was that even the subsequent freight operations were so spasmodic and leisurely that train driver and fireman often had time to wander down to the Lion for a pint, while their loco’ quietly simmered, awaiting their return.

There are only two properties before the top of the hill. The first is the house that isn’t. It was built without planning permission twenty or thirty years ago, and has been an unoccupied shell ever since. A former smallholding here grew roses, along with a number of other fields around the edge of the village. The large greenhouse has glass panels missing in between the broken ones. 

Alongside, on the principle that where there’s muck there’s brass, someone thought it a good idea to use the vacated fields to stockpile heaps of aggregate of different sizes and colours, even providing a large metal shed and some JCVs for the purpose. The country lane leading to an attractive village with no industry was suddenly being used by enormous tipper trucks, polluting the air with noise and fumes, spilling their loads onto the road as they careered round the bends and endangering lone cyclists as they flew past them down the slope. It couldn’t last, and, gladly, it didn’t.

Though it’s not a main road, Cockett Lane is seen as a rat run to the main road that avoids the White Post roundabout. The White Post roundabout has just a stump of a white post in the centre. There surely must have been more to it than that? Did the rest burn down? That would be two burnt stumps, though, if Burnt Stump had ever been a post, too, that is.   

The surface of Cockett Lane is ropey for cyclists. It’s been patched and repatched but the pot holes keep on coming. Every now and then, temporary traffic lights appear and it’s time for a new blob of tarmac.

Vehicles move at speed and you have to keep your wits about you, especially when approaching the bends. I depend a lot on sound when cars approach me from behind. I can generally tell if they are going to slow down and give me a wide berth. Every now and then, I witness driving that is nothing short of horrendous. At such moments, I feel I am totally invisible. Drivers sometimes approach the hump back bridge on the wrong side of the road in order to pass me. They can’t possibly see if something is coming the other way or not. Its mind boggling.

The first bend is where the shooting ground is. Partridges peck away on the path leading to the old farm buildings and the buzzard family soldiers on, undeterred by repetitive volleys of shots. The crack of gunfire is a regular companion as I change through the gears for the uphill section. Occasionally, I’m accompanied by the whistling of bullets and a crackling sound from the branches of the roadside trees - presumably shards of clay pigeon falling back to earth. It’s easy to imagine being in the trenches in Ukraine when passing this site. How dreadful that must be.

Great spotted woodpeckers are common here in winter, along with linnet, and in summer its skylark, yellowhammer, blackcap and common whitethroat. My best spot here was the yellow wagtail that stood in the middle of the road until it saw me coming, before dipping over the hedge and back into its field. A shrew scuttles out from the grass. It looks like a tiny clockwork toy, legs invisible through my sun glasses and goggles. It clocks me, turns tail, if it’s got one, and dives for cover.

Gaining height, it gets windier. The array of wind turbines visible in every direction suggests that I’m right. Overall weather conditions and wind direction for the rest of my ride are confirmed from up here.

There is a series of unofficial laybys towards the top. Fly tippers love them. The local community group put up notices appealing to the culprits’ better nature, but they are torn down and end up with the rest of the rubbish. The council is very good at taking the junk away – most recently an armchair – once given the heads up.

The amount of rubbish that’s thrown out of car windows on this stretch is amazing. I’m pretty sure that much of it comes from MacDonalds at Ollerton roundabout, just the right distance away for passengers to be finishing off their “at the wheel meal deal” before jettisoning the packaging. Well-meaning local residents repeatedly pick up litter all along this road. I have decided that the entire country can be divided into the sort of people who trash their environment and those who clear up after them.

There are bus stops on both sides near the top of the road. They are not exactly overused. I have never seen anyone waiting for a bus here, though they are served by two regular routes. There is literally not a house in sight. I heard that there used to be a Cold War nuclear bunker here. There was once a small square brick-built hut, for certain. A pipe next to it coming up from below ground could have been an air vent of some sort. I fancifully imagine the great and good of County Hall getting an early tip off about the imminent dropping of the “big one” before piling onto the Sherwood Arrow for the half hour journey to the otherwise unused bus stop at the top of Cockett Lane, before descending into the depths for a three-week diet of tinned baked beans. Eventually, they would have to lift the lid and poke their noses outside to see what was habitable outside. It would have been a very different and rather a short-lived future. Nearby, is a small brass plaque on a green painted block of concrete which tells the story of the long-abandoned wartime listening station here and the personnel who manned it.

As I approach the main road forming the “T” junction ahead, I’m conscious of a car on the far side. It’s not parked in the layby which is just to the right and often occupied by lorries, but straddling the kerb and mostly on the grass. The rest of the family are standing round Grandad in a ring. He is splayed out on the ground. No one attempts mouth to mouth or chest compression. It looks like they are resigned to losing him. Some hands are raised to faces and there is a surreal stillness about the whole scene. The only noise is the repetitive whoosh, whoosh that separates me from the scene, as the steady stream of early Saturday morning summer traffic heads obliviously towards the seaside. Grandad’s lifeless body waits for the ambulance that’s too late to save him. I am no use at all. Grandad has already made his last trip to Skegness.

Right on the corner on my side of the junction as I turn round, I spot some discarded clothes on the ground. There is a complete change of clothing here, but no bag or case. The items look clean, dry and recently tossed from a passing car, presumably. One can only wonder what drama has led to the outfit’s re-distribution.

Rather than risk the 50 mile-an-hour lorries on the A617, I enjoy the spin back downhill. Farnsfield sits prettily and snuggly in its vale at the bottom of the slope. St Michael’s church spire points purposefully, or at least hopefully, skywards. It is a lovely view of a typical swathe of rural England – a pretty patchwork of neat fields and hedge boundaries interspersed with pockets of woodland and the occasional red brick farm building.

A woman stands in the road on my side next to her car. She waves me down, and asks if I’ve seen someone walking down the road. I have never ever seen anyone walking along this road. There is no pavement on either side. The lady is quite agitated but not making much sense. I’m wondering if she is in a fit state to drive. She must be on something. I politely make my getaway and hope that she takes her time before driving off, especially if she is coming in my direction, which is the way that her car is pointing.

I passed a police car here, side on in the layby and pointing towards the field, blue lights flashing. The man flat out on his back had been hidden by the car up to that point. One policeman stood next to the vehicle, but now I could see a second officer leaning over the man on the floor, who was bare chested. Not another one, I thought. Another man stood next to his own car, also parked across the layby at an angle. As I passed, the man on the ground dropped his forearm from vertical to flat across his chest. Having turned round at the top, as I always do, I shouted across to the policeman as I free-wheeled down the hill, to see if there was anything I could do to help. “Training exercise”, he said, so I carried on. We got wind of the fatality on Cockett Lane the next day.

In exactly the same place, just a day or two later, a man is standing next to his car. Next to him are two cardboard crates with holes in, which I recognise as being for racing pigeons. I stop to chat, remembering how often I came across them in wicker baskets on station platforms in the 1960s. All that cooing, as they were shipped by train to the drop off point from which they would presumably be heading straight home by air. The gentleman concerned had brought them out from Nottingham. This was an early training venture and he was trusting them to find their way back to the city with fingers crossed. He insisted on addressing me as “Sir”, at least twice in every sentence. “They’ll do two quick circuits, Sir, to get their bearings when I open the boxes, Sir, and then they’ll be off, Sir” - and that is exactly what they did.

Both lay-bys near the top of the road are used to park up empty vehicles from time to time. I try to guess what the agenda is each time, where the car itself is the only clue. Is it just a convenient work arrangement or a lovers’ secret rendezvous? Today, there are three vehicles parked bumper to bumper on the left-hand side and the first two are police cars. The third, although a saloon, is too old to be an unmarked police car so I decide that it is probably coincidental. Standing in the rain are seven high-vis’-yellow-clad police officers, arranged in a line of three directly facing one of four. Some sort of briefing is taking place. Its what my mother would have called a confab’. As I complete my normal turn round manoeuvre at the top, I wonder where the imminent swoop is going to be and how it will go. Coming back down the hill, one of the officers briefly glances over her shoulder at me. I quickly return my eyes to the road ahead and make sure there is no noticeable change in my pace that might attract further attention. Who knows what they might already have on me, after all.         

Near the bottom, the wider verge and twin tracks at right angles off the road next to “the house that isn’t” is used as a convenient re-fuelling stop during cycle races for the distribution of water, bananas and gels. They seem to like taking in Cockett Lane, in spite of its less than perfect surface. The road is not usually closed to cars on these occasions, though notices to look out for cyclists between certain hours are plastered everywhere. On this occasion, direct access to the village at Station Lane was temporarily blocked off. A driver stopped his car at the feeding point, but bananas were the last thing on his mind. The very large gentleman, squeezed in behind the wheel, wound down the passenger window and leant across his very large wife so that he could shout more effectively at the high-vis’ vested race volunteer, who politely tried to explain the situation. Two very large children sat motionless in the back of the car. Far from accepting any new reality and adapting his behaviour accordingly, he carried on swearing angrily at the courteous young man who had spoiled his day. And with that, he stumped off in the direction of the shorty White Post. They’d obviously chucked their MacDonalds wrappers out of the window before they reached us.