Twenty four degrees in Somerset in April is quite rare. Even midsummer is not always that warm. So we took a picnic to Barrington Court (National Trust) which is about thirty miles south of where we live.
Clare is still recovering from her November cardiac event, so walking any distance presents difficulties. This was not an impediment to having a picnic in scenic surroundings on those kindly-provided deckchairs. The much-flowered gardens - almost all walled - were beautifully scented.
At that time - twenty years ago - we were living in Andover and this was one of our local National Trust destinations, even as early as April. They had a really good Rose Garden too, and a walk by a little stream.
We were recently camping for a few days at Wolverley, just north of Kidderminster (about 20 miles west of Birmingham). The proximate reason was to move our base c. 100 miles north and see some new National Trust sites.
We left at eight as the band (above) was setting up. They were scheduled to start at nine. I said to Clare that there are thousands of perfectly competent bands like this up and down the country - even many about our age. The difference between them and the top acts is one of energy and charisma, the sheer animal spirits of Liam-style swagger.
I can think of many less attractive occupations than playing in a gigging pub band. Alas, my guitar skills were always bounded by my clumsiness. Perhaps in another life.
Sunny day, coldish wind. We were at Barrington Court today.
The brick path is striking
The leaf colours interest Clare
Your author in one of the walled gardens of flowers
The cafe/restaurant at Barrington House has a soviet-style system. You're meant to choose your (numbered) table first, then browse the cake room and finally queue at the till to order drinks and pay. A waitress then delivers tea or coffee to the table number you indicated.
The flaw in this system is not hard to find. Barrington Court is popular and there are few tables. When we rolled up there were none free and we blagged it at the till ("We'll be hanging around outside by the door.").
The cashier was unsurprised and we were found without difficulty. That hardly excuses the poor protocol but it's surprisingly hard to come up with a simple and robust reservation scheme.
The sudden intrusion of the English summer into April emboldened us to roam nomadically through the English southeast sampling from the National Trust.
I have two observations:
Off the main routes, councils have simply abandoned dealing with potholes (our next car will have to be a third-world capable 4x4).
You thought the National Trust was just for the svelte middle-class? Every other person I saw was waddling rather than walking.
We drove down to Cardiff yesterday (Sunday) to see the final stage of the Tour of Britain. The weather was predicted to be cold and gusty with heavy showers. My joy was further enhanced by Cardiff's notable traffic congestion, combined with road closures which prevented access to our hotel.
Whinging aside, we fortuitously ended up parked next to a pub a stone's throw from the Wales Millennium Centre, just where the riders were to do three loops of Lloyd George Avenue before completing stage 8.
Waiting for the cyclists at the Wales Millennium Centre - Lloyd George Avenue
A Madison-Genesis team car was handing out inflatable flappers (you can see the black tubes in the picture below on the right) and eventually the peloton arrived. Frankly we could hardly believe the riders' fortitude: it was horrible out there. We had to keep rushing back into the Millennium Centre's café for hot chocolate to stave off hypothermia!
As Clare says in the video below - "It's lovely here!"
Cyclists are made of considerably sterner stuff.
Team Sky take the curve: is that G. with his white sunglasses?
Clare enthusiastically flapped as the riders approached (video below).
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This morning we visited Dyffryn Gardens (National Trust), about six miles west of Cardiff. The weather was still poor and Clare was complaining that her gore-tex was way too burka-like.
The author at Dyffryn Gardens - between rain showers
The gardens are good, however, and the greenhouse has plants from several habitats.
Clare explains about air plants in the 'Rainforest Room' at Dyffryn.
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We arrived home just after lunch and Clare put some frozen fish in the top oven (on maximum heat! - why?) to defrost. Then she forgot about it as we walked down to Waitrose to restock.
Memory returned as we walked back about twenty minutes later. I jogged to the house clutching my two shopping bags and could hear the fire alarm even from outside. The house was thick with acrid smoke; eyes streaming, I ran from room to room throwing open doors and windows.
Finally I opened the oven, and through the billowing smoke I could see the seared fish. With oven gloves the tray was deposited in the back garden (below).
The tray contains the remains of the plastic plate - not fish
It looks like fish-skin in the metal tray. Not so, dear reader, you are looking at the remains of a plastic plate. Here is the response of the chef.
The chagrined cook
As I write she has passed the door with tools from my toolbox. She truly believes you can scrape that melted plastic off .. "good as new".
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[update: remarkably, she seems to have pulled it off ..]
Do you remember Tyntesfield (National Trust), just to the south of Bristol? Rumours of those special trees, augmenting their nutrient-poor soil with richer pickings from visitors?
This is Tyntesfield: Victorian-Gothic foreboding
We know we're already too close to the trees
Now maneuvering around Clare
They're quite slow-moving and we were alert after our picnic yesterday, so able to effect an escape.
I pity the old folk though.
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We wandered the grounds of Tyntesfield and stopped at the tea-shop, surrounded by most of Bristol's young mums with their toddlers and strollers.They were all speaking way too loud and hollerin' out to their kids.
"Is that the John Wayne joke? That at the rehearsal for “The Greatest Story Ever Told’, The Duke, playing the Roman soldier who speared Jesus on the cross, said rather flatly: “Truly he was the son of God”.
The director said: “Not like that, say it with awe!”
"Obligingly Wayne repeated his line: “Aw, truly he was the son of God.”
John Wayne with a Bristol accent would certainly be an additional joy!
Barrington Court (National Trust) is a fifty minute drive from our home in Wells, Somerset; the temperature peaked at 24 degrees today.
Barrington Court from one of the walled gardens
Clare in a walled garden
Clare and myself at the front of the house
The flowers are colourful but a little past their best
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En route home we stopped at RSPB Swell Wood to visit the Heron Sanctuary
In the Heron Hide was a small group of pensioners who had been bussed in to see the herons. They came equipped with high-power binoculars and rather sophisticated long-lens cameras.
Clare sandwiched between the real enthusiasts
The birds in question were (apparently) nesting high up in the canopy, quite a way off. I saw nothing, but Clare cadged a view through a telescope and claims to have spotted a chick.
Here's my video account of the Heron Hide experience:
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And finally, we have a mini bee-colony in the birdbox in our back garden.
I gave her the option: cherish or kill?
Clare is not quite a 'friend to bees' but she doesn't fear them in the way she is panic-stricken about wasps. So they will be suffered to live and thrive .. very close to our clothes line.
I expect to be checking my shirts and underwear very carefully the rest of the summer.
Dumbleton Hall, where we were staying, is a classic Cotswold country house in its own grounds. Very stylish with five-star levels of staff attentiveness. Not quite 'if you accidentally drop your fork a waiter appears and catches it before it hits the ground' but the staff were cheerful and engaged without overdoing it.
Evesham: a lower limit of five hours: bug or feature?
We thought we'd do the towns the first day, starting with Evesham. I had in mind that it might be classy, but it's just another undercapitalised and under-powered provincial town, far from the glitzy dynamism of Bristol, Manchester or London.
It's defined by its mobile phone shops, charity shops, bookmakers, shabby ethnic restaurants with fading, peeling paint, the drop-in pregnancy advice bureau .. and minimum-wage jobs such as the above.
We rapidly translated to neighbouring Winchcombe. It's surprising how often in the 'England profonde' we see a gritty, down-at-heel town partnered with an adjacent chichi one. So Winchcombe is golden Cotswold sandstone, mediaeval buildings, an ancient Abbey and Castle (too expensive) and way too many antique shops. No technology more recent than 'between the wars' that I could see; very Jane Austen.
The rich who make their money elsewhere come here to relax and wealth-signal.
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Day two we ventured to Lawrence Johnston's legendary Hidcote (NT), with its famous Arts and Crafts gardens. Truly a delight in the sunshine.
The author and his wife at Hidcote - the kitchen gardens
We followed up with Snowshill Manor and Gardens (NT), where the eccentric owner had filled the manor house with his eclectic collection of - dare we say - bric-à-brac?
Clare on the left: Snowshill Manor House in best Cotswold stone
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Yesterday we returned home, calling in at Newark Park (NT) where I had a stand-off with a rather showy peacock.
The National Trust is universally seen as a collection of traditional upper middle-class insulae. Nothing wrong with that. But it's Evesham which is more typical of 'the other England' - adrift in the 1950s with a sprinkled overlay of 21st century consumer tech.
Look no further for Brexit or Theresa May: it's not a happy place.
Clare likes to check out Stourhead in early December, sifting ideas for Christmas decorations. After the House inspect, lunch in the Spread Eagle (pub on the estate) and then a walk around the lake.
I did a small video where, cued by Clare's earlier talk of coots, I spectacularly misidentified a bunch of ducks. I believe we might be having roast coot for Christmas lunch.*
Here are some pictures. Note especially the waterfall and water-wheel you can't really see in the video.
Low Winter Sun
The Waterfall and Water-Wheel
Across the lake
This was actually the best shot of the two of us ..
Just burnishing that hipster look ...
After we had eaten, I had a scare that I'd lost my mobile phone. Thank God for long pin sequences and remote wipe! It had slipped out of my coat pocket and lodged between cushions. I was out of communication for, I don't know, at least ten minutes!
Today we visited Tyntesfield to explore the Sherlock trail. This National Trust property was used to film scenes for the Sherlock Christmas Special, "The Abominable Bride".
And you could dress up.
Clare considers the clues (look to your left!)
Your author cogitates - to no avail
With a brisk, cold wind from the north, we skipped clues 3-7 and failed to solve the puzzle (to be fair, by that stage we had forgotten what the mystery was). We did not collect a prize.
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Earlier we had driven to the Bristol Probate Registry near Bristol Bridge. The Probate Registry was not where the satnav had said it was, and when we eventually found it (thanks, Google Maps!) there was no parking. I abandoned the car to Clare, who set off (in central Bristol) to find somewhere to park, while I entered the building, or tried to.
Thinks: 'Why won't this door open?'
A few minutes pass while I try to figure it out.
Passer-by: "That's the exit, try the door to your left."
Having negotiated the policeman searching belongings and the security scanner, I entered the vestibule and found a deserted Probate Office window. I used the phone provided to call down an official, a pleasant and brisk young man who quickly took me through the script. Five minutes later I had affirmed my Oath, signed where necessary and left the building.
Outside on the Plaza ("No skateboarding: the full force of the law will be brought to bear.") I waited for Clare in the chill northerly wind. I was soon joined by a muscular young man in tee-shirt and cords, leather boots and tattoos who was taking a fag break. He glanced-without-glancing at me, a casual superiority already classifying me as prey. Skin prickling, I moved out of his way and inspected the board by the door. Probate was the least of the Justice functions housed in the building - most prominent were the large number of Courts.
Right.
Clare arrived in the car after a further few minutes. How pleased I was that she had failed to find a parking space. We departed forthwith for Tyntesfield.
