Not-so-Smart meters

I have switched energy suppliers.  After several years with E.On, I've left them and joined First Utility.

Last year, when I compared energy prices, E.On was predicted to be only about £20 per year more expensive than the cheapest supplier.  Hardly worth bothering, I reckoned.  This year, though, in spite of falling energy prices, E.On have chosen to raise their tariffs, which seemed a little odd. I suppose though, that if you are losing customers to cheaper-priced competitors, it makes business sense to raise your prices and maintain profits at the expense of your remaining customer base, rather than cut your prices for everyone.

Interestingly, when E.On learned of my imminent departure, they emailed to emphasise how much I was saving through their Dual Fuel Allowance, Direct Debit payments and Fixed Term Contract.  Not a word about the actual cost of gas or electricity in terms of kW/hour.

All the Cost Comparison sites I tried came up with similar results.  Here's MoneySupermarket.com's offering —

The top 5 are not rated highly for customer service – some because they've only just arrived in the market place – so, for about £23 extra, I chose First Utility.  I'm still feeling bruised from a dust-up with EDF's super-inefficient customer services and don't relish a repeat. None-the-less, a potential saving of £242 in the coming year isn't at all bad. Au Revoir, E.On.

On thing the nice people from E.On did do, a couple of year ago, was to install a Smart Meter, or rather two Smart meters (gas and electricity) and a readout device.  Here's the gas end of the business...

... and here's the thingamajig for reading it.

Yes, that is the Book of Common Prayer next to it.  The collect for The Conversion of St Paul seems more than a little appropriate —

Grant, we beseech Thee, that we, having his wonderful conversion in remembrance...  

Well this wonderful conversion from E.On to First Utility will entail an engineer coming to remove E.On's gas and electricity smart meters and substitute First Utility's own equally smart ones.  

Am I the only person who finds this a bit daft? If I get a taste for swapping energy suppliers (as I already have for home and car insurers) will someone come here every year or so to install new 'smart' meters and take away the old ones?  Or perhaps, one day, some smart person will invent a truly smart meter that reprograms itself, each time I swap suppliers?  For a race of beings that can land a rover on Mars and invent Dairy Spread, that doesn't seem too big a problem, does it? Though, now I think about it, whoever invented Dairy Spread has a lot to answer for.

I'm dreaming of a warm, grey, wet, white, still or stormy Christmas

Here in the Forest of Dean, the nearest we've got in recent 
years to a White Christmas was a substantial snow fall on 
January 18th, 2013.  This is Lydney on that snowy morning.

The British seem obsessed with the weather.  It all comes, I'm sure, from living in a temperate climate, in which summers may be baking hot, or cool and wet, and the winter snows may be deep and crisp and even, or the winter muds deep and warm and boggy.

Along with this obsession comes, unsurprisingly, one for weather forecasts.  In my teenage years I took quite an interest in the subject myself and might well have perused a career in meteorology. I had a Stephenson Screen in the back garden and recorded temperatures and rainfall for several years.

The Meteorological Office tell us that the quality of their forecasts has been improving, and I believe them.  However, the way in which others interpret those forecasts — especially the tabloid press — risks giving the whole weather forecasting business a bad name.

Back on October 21st the Daily Mirror proclaimed

Britain set for white Christmas?  

36 days of snow forecast after 'coldest Atlantic for 80 years'  

"36 days of snow," mark you.  That's an impressive amount for these isles, even if you reside in the north of Scotland.

AOL News latched on to the story too:

Britain could be set for a White Christmas as temperatures are set to plummet to -16C, say forecasters.
Bookmakers have slashed the odds on a snowy Christmas Day, with Ladbrokes placing London at 7/1. Some weather forecasters believe Britain could be in for the coldest winter since the Big Freeze in December 2010, when temperatures dropped to -21C.
The Metro reports that some weather experts have predicted 36 days of snow and ice.
The reason? Scientists say the melting of the Greenland ice sheet is to blame as it's slowing the Gulf Stream, pushing cold temperatures towards Britain.

Ah, so it's all down to Global Warming. What isn't, these days? Yet all this seemed so unlikely that I filed the story away and waited to see what would happen.  Well, you've guessed it.  Here's what the Daily Mirror had to say on December 16th, in a story about Saharan dust engulfing the nation (my underlining):

It comes as Britain basks in a freakish mid-winter hot spell as forecasters say we could be heading for the mildest Christmas on record.  Thermometers are set to rocket to 17C widely with even Scotland and the north seeing highs of 13C this week.

Poor forecasters!  I rest my case.

Profit Margains

This photo is little me, fearlessly putting the finishing touches to my roof tiles after a friend and I had replaced some rotten roof felt. You won't be surprised to know that I never trained as a roofer, but there's little on the practical side that I 'm unwilling to have a go at, given some expert guidance and the right tools. Well, so long as the job isn't too big or too strenuous, that is.

That guttering is a bit of a problem, though. It's called Finlock and was popular about 50 years ago.  No nasty metal gutters to rust, and no flimsy plastic ones to crack and become unsightly.  This stuff was designed to last as long as the house... but it doesn't.

The technically minded among you may notice that it spans the cavity between the inside and outside walls. Unfortunately, after a few decades it cracks and leaks rainwater down the cavity, and the next thing you know is that damp patches appear on the inside walls.  I have damp patches on my lounge wall.  O dear!

Replacing that lot is far beyond my modest abilities, so I contacted a local builder who has been most helpful in the past, but he was fully committed for the next few months. Coincidentally, a national company (that had better remain nameless) wrote and asked if they could provide a quotation for the work. I accepted.

Their salesman was delightful.  He stroked the cats, drank my coffee, complimented me on my knitted cardigan (actually somebody else's knitting, but I dishonestly accepted the praise) and told me that the work would cost £4600.  I gulped.  "Well, if you put up one of our advertising boards, write a nice letter of recommendation and become our Facebook friend, we'll cut the price to £3800." I still looked glum and said that I'd first contact my builder friend.

A few days later, a letter arrived.  The price had magically dropped to £2500.  I sat tight. Then yesterday, they phoned to say that, if I promised not to tell anyone about the amazing deal I was getting, they would do the work 'at cost' for £2300 - half the original price!  "That's still pretty high," my builder friend told me, and I believe him.

I really don't deny anyone an honest living, so if they can persuade folk to accept their offers, I wish them well. Caveat Emptor! But next time someone knocks on your door, offering to replace your windows, fix the roof that you thought was okay, or renew your leaky gutters, shop around and don't ever accept the first price they quote. I reckon that labour, transport and materials for my job would have cost that company, at most, £1600.  So, had I accepted the final offer, they would have made about £700 on a day's work.  Not bad, I suppose, for a large company with high overheads.  But the first price quoted?  £2000 profit for a day's work is certainly the way to grow rich.  Nice work, if you can get it, I say.

Helston 2, maybe 3

Yes, yes, I know that Mabe is pronounced like babe, and the road sign almost certainly doesn't exist anyway, but this is a bit of West Cornwall humour.

Many love Cornwall in the summer. Some like it most in the Spring and Autumn, when roads and beaches are quieter. I like it then, too, but it's during December that I'm apt to feel most homesick.  True, at this time of the year, if it isn't blowing a hoolie, then the place is probably shrouded in fine mizzle (a combination of mist and drizzle) but it's what goes on indoors — and occasionally around Christmas Trees in town squares — that is special.

Mabe always calls to my mind the incomparable Mabe Ladies' Choir and that, in turn, leads on to thoughts of the many other Cornish choirs and singing groups who make Cornish Christmases quite unlike any other in the Kingdom.  Perhaps the best known composer of Cornish carols is Thomas Merritt (1863-1908) who turned the rather dull Advent carol Hark, the Glad Sound into something that's truly glad and uplifting. Here it is (once they get started :) ), being sung in Truro Cathedral...

Another Cornish favourite is While Shepherds Watched, not to that rather plain 4-line dirge one usually hears, but to the tune Lyngham. There's nothing Cornish about the words or the tune, but it is hugely popular in churches and chapels throughout the county, perhaps because it has similar harmonies and 'repeats' to Hark, the Glad Sound. I just love this rendition by the Caroryon Trewoon singers, one Christmas morning in Troon... and well done, that sole lady!  It wouldn't have been the same without her.

Sadly, now that I live outside Cornwall, it's quite hard to spot the events at which one may hear Cornish carol singing, and still harder the ones where one may join in the singing, as they're not well advertised.  If I can find one, though, I'm sorely tempted to spend a night or two down there and go along.

Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger

Poor Cindeford! Last year their Christmas lights drew the sarcasm of The Daily Mail, with the headline

Are these the worst Christmas lights in Britain? 

 Town forced to wrap fairy lights around lamp-posts after health and safety objected to traditional festive display

It really can't be easy, trying to add some festive spirit to your town centre when you're a cash-scrapped, small town and the only Big Name shop you have to draw in the crowds is the Co-op. But the good folk of Cinderford weren't about to to give up, and so persuaded Gloucester to sell them last year's city lights. For the great Switch On, last night, they laid on a kiddies' fun fair, market stalls and the Forest of Dean's premier Ukulele Group to get things off to a stunning start.

The time appointed for the festivities drew closer, and as it did, the skies grew dark, the wind howled and down came the rain.  Almost devoid of custom, brave market traders did their best to keep smiling.  These two are great, are they not? If you know them, perhaps you could tell them that Angie's trying her best to make them famous!

Thankfully, the Ukes uv Azzard were on hand to lift those dampened spirits, drive away the gloom and herald the imminent arrival of Rudolf and Santa.  Here we are, as recorded on the camera of my ukulele-playing friend Janice...

Believe me, we had to sing and strum vigorously to keep our fingers warm
and a shop across the road did a brisk trade in fingerless gloves!

That's me on the left, pretending to be a reindeer. 

The ladies' section. B (next to me) is playing her kazoo, so we must be
singing They call me Mr Christmas. Should it not have been Mrs Christmas?

Just as we ended our shivering performance, someone turned on the lights. Spirits rose, the streets seemed just a little more populated and a few brave children climbed into giant tea cups, waiting expectantly to be spun into action. Even the rain clouds, sensing that they had met their match, moved on to dump their load elsewhere. I could have stayed to watch, but Gerry's offer of hot chocolate proved far too tempting.

Facebook and Overseas Aid

I'm not a great fan of Facebook. To my mind, there are so many re-posts — depressingly often of Daily Mail-quality opinions — that I wonder whether some folk have an original thought in their heads. However, Facebook is also home to two of my ukulele groups and it's there that they post news and upload songbooks, so I'm there too.  And naturally, as well as reading the uke news, I take a look at some of the stuff posted by the friends I've made.

Some of it is quite funny, some is informative and thought provoking...

...  but there is also quite a lot that saddens me. However, since I personally know all 17 of my FB friends, I've taken to gently challenging views that are not mine; views such as this one...

In an odd way, I'm not ungrateful to receive things like this as it not only makes me stop and think about the issues, but do some research as well.  In this instance, I strongly believe that all developed nations have a moral responsibility to help those less well off than ourselves.  The difference between our standard of living and (say) that in rural Tanzania, is colossal and I applaud the work of organizations such as Tear Fund and Medecins Sans Frontieres.

As a country, we have little of which to be ashamed in our aid to poorer countries.  Only five other countries in the world – Sweden, Norway, Luxembourg, Denmark and the United Arab Emirates – met or exceeded 0.7% of Gross Domestic Product (GDP) in 2013.  The United States, the largest contributor in monetary terms, gave a paltry 0.17% of it's colossal GDP.

The UK's Department for International Development's priorities for 2015 included helping nine million children into primary school, immunising more than 55 million children against preventable diseases, saving the lives of at least 250,000 newborn babies and encouraging global action on climate change. Not bad, eh?

Unsurprisingly, not everyone agrees with me, as the responses to my contribution confirmed.  "Too many foreign leaders are corrupt.  As we give them aid, they spend their money on arms"... etc. But I'm undeterred, and (at the time of writing) I still have my 17 friends.

Finally, the "billions we donate to other countries" is actually a very small proportion of government expenditure.  Courtesy of the Inland Revenue website, I've been looking at how the government spent the £1473.20 of tax that they took from me last year. It makes interesting reading...

So 1.3p in the pound was spend on Overseas Aid.  And look — just 0.6p went into the EU budget. With all the talk of EU bureaucracy and wasted money, who would have believed that?

Who do you tell?

A couple of months ago I decided to give up blogging about Angie.  Hitherto, there had been a story to tell, but the story was all but complete. Surely it was time to put the past behind me, spend less time peering upon a computer screen and concentrate on one or two other creative pursuits of mine.

It was, I now admit, the wrong decision. My life cannot easily be divided into distinct chapters. Friends from years ago are still friends; places that I loved are still loved. I am who I am because the experiences of the past 60 or more years have shaped me, and they continue to shape me today. There is still a story that I wish to tell, and it matters not if only few will read it.

I've been married for more than four decades.  At the age of 21 I swapped a mother for a spouse and promised that I would stay that way until death did us part... and it hasn't parted us yet. Sometimes, though, I do permit myself to wonder what life might be like if I lived alone.  I reckon I'd cope quite well with the practical tasks but it's the companionship I'd miss the most.  You see a beautiful sunset, watch a calf being born or hear a good story.  Who are you going to tell?

It's that deep-rooted desire to tell somebody that has kept me blogging.  So here's one must tell story that should have been blogged about weeks ago...

The 2015 Rugby World Cup is past and gone, and I guess that the English would rather not be reminded of it! As a Cornish lass, though, I found it easy enough to transfer my allegiance to Wales and keep cheering for a little longer. Several of the games (though none involving England or Wales) were held in Gloucester, and to aid the festivities the City Fathers invited Friends Ukenited to join in the festivities and entertain the crowds. So here we are, in the centre of Gloucester. I'm on the far right, with my little blue ukulele.

Can you believe it? One year ago I couldn't play a single chord on a ukulele; now here I am, standing alongside seasoned players and singing at the top of my voice:

Scrumpty's our rugby hero, he's pretty good, so they say,

Scrumpty's our rugby hero, he plays it every day,

Ooo ah ooo ah ay,

Ooo ah ooo ah ay.

'Tis quality stuff, my dear. And I've just got to tell someone!

Angie the Emmet

The Cornish (some of them, that is... well actually, quite a lot of them) have a none-too-endearing name for visitors; they call them emmets.  'Emmet' is a Cornish dialect word that means 'ant'. If you've even seen Newquay's Tolcarne Beach on a warm summer day, densely populated by visitors who are turning lobster-red in the sunshine, you'll understand the term perfectly.

In a little over a fortnight's time I will be a visitor in Cornwall — yes, an emmet.  To add to the ignominy, I shall be staying in a hotel in Newquay.  "What's wrong with that?" I hear all two of my regular readers exclaim.  Well, I grew up in a hotel on the outskirts of Newquay and for many years S- managed one. Now I'm going to pay someone else to stay in one. Oh the shame of it! 

Except that I'm actually looking forward to it. In my humble opinion, Newquay has descended from being a top-class holiday resort to a bit of a dump since my childhood, but towns rarely stay the same for long, and it a trait of the elderly to hanker after the past.  The beaches, I know, will be as spectacular as ever and it will be fun to seek out headlands and caves where I once played, and where my children played after me.

Sadly, I have very few photos of Newquay. This one, rescued from a fading colour slide, dates from my teenage years. Until digital photography came along, cameras were for holidays, so there are far more photos in my collection of North Wales, Scotland, Ireland, Austria and Crete, than of my home town. That's something that I'm definitely going to correct on this holiday.

Ukeing for a very good cause

Wow! What a lovely day.  My favourite pub, here in the Forest of Dean, opened their grounds for a special fundraising event to help a young lady who is suffering from a very painful disease. The aim was to raise money for an electric power chair so she can get some sort of independence back into her life.

Our ukulele group were invited to be one of the star attractions and here we are, strumming our ukes, singing our hearts out and having a fabulous time.I'm 4th from the left, giving my denim trousers their first public outing and singing

Hello Mary Lou, goodbye heart,

sweet Mary Lou I'm so in love with you...

I hope Mary Lou was suitably impressed!

One small problem I had was that the three ladies to my right had lovely, strong soprano voices so finding the alto harmonies in my own range wasn't easy.  Next time I'll try to sidle up to the other two who always seem to harmonise beautifully.  Believe me, on occasions like these uke playing is the easy bit, though I think I'm improving.

In the steps of Robin Hood

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen;
Robin Hood, Robin Hood, with his band of men;

feared by the bad, loved by the good,

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, Robin Hood.

I make no apologies for being a Robin Hood fan. Ever since Richard Greene shot his arrow across my old black & white TV screen, I've been hooked.  I've even stood in the hollow of the Major Oak in Sherwood Forest, where Robin and his merry men once sheltered... and you can't do that any more as it's been fenced off to protect its ancient timbers from people like me.

Robin Hood (Richard Greene) with his merry band of
outlaws, in the oft-repeated 1950's TV series

I have my mum to thank for most of this. She grew up in Nottingham and her family lived near that fair city throughout my childhood. So it will doubtless come of little surprise that the 1991 film "Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves" has a place in my collection of DVDs. Many film critics – particularly those from west of The Pond – have been merciless in downing the film, but I love it.  The important thing, I guess, is not to take it too seriously, particularly the swashbuckling antics of Robin, Will Scarlet and Little John. 

The legend of Robin Hood is, of course, firmly set in Nottinghamshire, but that didn't stop film makers using a long list of locations for Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves, none of which were anywhere near Nottingham! Hence we see Robin Hood coming ashore beneath the white cliffs of the Severn Sisters in East Sussex and declaring to his friend Azeem that they would be in Nottinghamshire by nightfall.  Poor horse!

One instantly recognisable location was Hadrian's Wall at Highshield Crags, in Northumberland, which I included in a very pleasant 9 mile ramble during my recent holiday. 

Here's a scene from the film, with Robin Hood (Kevin Costner) leaping for joy to be back in his homeland, while Azeem (Morgan Freeman) leaves him to it, in search of a quite spot.  The grey, foreboding skies are part of the story, by the way, leading Azeem to protest "Is there no sun in this curséd country?"

Here's the same spot, in sunshine that would surely have pleased Azeem.  The tree is known locally as... yes, you've guessed it — Robin Hood's Tree.

To my mind, Highshield Crags is the best bit of the 84 mile Hadrian's Wall Path, with the nearby Winshield Crags coming a close second.  Here are a couple of views of Crag Lough, the first looking east from the crags, and the second looking west from the other end, as I made my way to Housteads Roman Fort. 

 

It's funny how ones memory can play tricks.  I felt sure that, when I last walked the Wall in 2004, I got into Housteads without paying, and that they were only charging for the car park.  No such luck this time, as the old Roman gateway was firmly fenced off.  I could have trekked round to the entrance at the foot of the hill, but thought better of it.  The nearby fort of Vindolanda beckoned (and will probably appear in a future post) so I retraced my steps to Craig Lough and set off, across the countryside. For now, I'll leave you with this distant view of Vindolanda from the hillside.

First Single

Do you remember the first record you ever bought?  I was reminded of mine last night, at the weekly gathering of my ukulele group. It was August or September 1957, I was 8 years old and was taken to Bill Harding's music shop in Newquay. Here's what I came away with. Actually, this is someone else's, spotted on eBay, but mine was just the same. I even remember the green label, proclaiming it to be Diana, by Paul Anka.
If you're anything like as old as me, you'll quickly spot that this is a '78' record (that is, one that had to be revolved at 78 rpm).  By this time, the classic 7 inch '45' was more popular, and continued to be so until relatively recently. I vaguely remember Bill trying to sell me one, but that would have meant playing it on dad's radiogram and disturbing the peace of the lounge.  A '78', however, could be played in the seclusion of my bedroom, on my very own wind-up gramophone that I'd recently been given, along with a load of old records. 

Ah... memories. That old gramophone was a black Columbia model, with a wind-up handle on the front that folded into a slot, and a snazzy little lever on one side to adjust the record speed, though I never found out why one would need to do this. Perhaps the clockwork governor mechanism was prone to be a bit wonky. On the other side was a flip-open container for gramophone needles.  It didn't take long on Google Image to find the very one. 

More memories.  I've been trying to recall the bundle of old records that came with the gramophone, but only three come to mind.  There was Alexander's Ragtime Band, Flanagan & Allen singing Umbrella Man and a strange recitation called 'Twas Christmas Day in the Cookhouse, with Please let me sleep on your doorstep tonight on the flip side. They all dated from the 1930's, so were already vintage when given to me. I must have played the latter quite a lot, as I remember most of the words, but won't bore you with them here.  

Diana turned out to be the only '78' I ever bought.  Within a year or so, Cliff Richard was transforming the pop scene, dad gave up the struggle to keep his radiogram to himself and that old gramophone was consigned to the dustbin, along with the broken remains of its records.

Now enthusiastically walking Memory Lane, I tried to find a photo of the music shop in Fore Street, Newquay. Remarkably, Google came up with the very place, though taken many years before Bill Harding moved in. Here it is, on the right, as Clifford's Drapers & Milliners.

Then I found this on Graham Hicks' website.  Wow!  Thank you, Graham.  I remember you, and Coconut Grove, though I'm sure you won't remember me. I've changed a bit since those days, and in more ways than one.

So to last night's ukulele session.  It was strange indeed to be singing Diana again — a nice little tune, though not hard to see how Cliff, Gerry and the Pacemakers, The Beatles and The Stones would soon sweep it into the history of my affections. The opening lines, however, did raise a smile...

I'm so young and you're so old,

this, my darling, I've been told.

Guys, I really don't recommend telling your girlfriend that she's "so old". It would surely hasten the end of a beautiful friendship!

Rwyf wedi ymuno Cadw

I have joined Cadw.  Cadw (pronounced cardoo) is the Welsh equivalent of English Heritage and Historic Scotland.

Chepstow Castle is but a few miles along the road from my home and a wonderful place to take grandchildren, with its towers, battlements, dungeons and more to explore, and its fine views over the River Wye.  For a senior citizen, such as my good self, it costs a mere £3.40 to get in, but on Saturday I grabbed an even better offer — joint membership with S- for £34.00. That's £10 off the normal price, and compares nicely with £63 for English Heritage. 

There is a catch, though not a serious one.  For the first year, our membership only gives us half-price entry to English Heritage and Historic Scotland sites but, after that, admission is free.  And it'll still be about £20 cheaper than EH to renew.  All in all, pretty good value for money, I reckon. Chepstow Castle (or perhaps I should start calling it Castell Cas-gwent) really is a gem on our doorstep, so it will be nice to drop in whenever I wish, and take friends there too for a modest cost.

Finally, three photos from my last visit, with Aunt Sarah. She got in for free with her English Heritage card; next time I will too.

After the wedding, a week in the North East

Outside my little cottage in Riding Mill

Newcastle is a long way to go for a wedding – even one as special as Sarah and Alan's, so we rented a cottage in the Tyne Valley, between Newcastle and Hexham, and made a week of it.

I've really fallen in love with the North East of England. Way back in 2004 S- and I walked Hadrian's Wall and since then frequent escapades with Aunt Sarah have introduced me to more and more North Eastern splendours.

So to start with, what does a girl do, after church on a sunny Sunday afternoon? Find a steam railway, of course!

I'm developing a taste for small railways.  Big preserved lines like the North York Moors and the Severn Valley are fine, but you spend a lot of time sitting in a railway carriage, watching the scenery pass by — just as you do on a modern-day train.  But the little ones are special.  Start... stop... run around... shunt a bit... start again...  And the staff have time to stand and chat, as if the timetable were of only academic interest.

The 3 mile-long Tanfield Railway is a real  gem and claims to be the world's oldest railway, dating back to 1725.  In those days, of course, it was horse-drawn; today it's home to a wonderful collection of little engines, and of 4-wheeled coaches with wooden seats that most grown-up railways gave up on a century ago. 

O, and to cap it all, we had a lady engine driver. Beat that!

Near East Tanfield

That first coach, with its open balcony, gave me a lovely view of the engine.

Andrews House Station

Causey Arch

Causey Arch is well worth a look, even when the railway isn't running.  It was built in 1727 and for 30 years was the largest single span in Britain.  It's said that the stonemason had no idea how to set about the task, so copied what he knew of Roman bridge building. His first attempt fell down; the second was much more successful.

Finally, back to Andrews House, where our lady engine driver is seen filling the engine tank with water while her friends load a fresh supply of coal. 

Wow, What a Wedding

"I'm off to a very special wedding," I excitedly declared last week to anyone who would listen. "My aunt is getting married, and the happy couple are both in their 70s." The response was the same every time — "Good for them!"

It's always so heart-warming when a couple find love in later life, and I can assure you that this couple are very much in love. I know it can work out really well too, as my step-mum remarried (after dad's death) when she was 72. Nine years later, they're still going strong. I wish the same – and more – for Sarah and Alan.

This would be my first experience of a Quaker wedding.  It was very different to the Anglican ones I'm used to, but I was most impressed by its simplicity and sincerity. Quaker weddings take place in the context of a Meeting for Worship. The room fell silent for a few minutes before, unprompted, Alan and Sarah stood and made their marriage vows to each other. Then, for the next hour or so, anyone at the meeting could offer words of encouragement or congratulation, as the spirit moved them.  After about 20 minutes, I felt moved to stand up myself, and say something like:

"Friends, it has been my privilege to be close to Sarah over the last few years of her journey through life; from Sarah wondering... to Sarah seeking... to Sarah in love. Today that journey takes on a new dimension.  My hope and prayer is that their love for each other will grow and grow, and that the Divine Assistance upon which they have called in their vows will be theirs for the whole of their lives together."

One nice touch is that, at the end of the Meeting, everyone signs the wedding certificate as witnesses.  This, we were told, has its origins in the days when Quakers often found themselves imprisoned for their beliefs, but hopefully a few souls would remain at large to affirm the validity of the marriage!

More conventionally, that evening 23 of us gathered at a salubrious hotel for the Reception. I shared a table with S-, two good friends of Sarah's who have become my friends too over the last few years, and three members of Sarah's family.  There were no long speeches, no cards and telegrams to read; just good food, good company and a couple who depart for their honeymoon with all our love. 

A Day in Cirencester (2): The Whereat Trail

I would hate you to think that the only reason I went to Cirencester was to explore old railway stations!  Even a railway maniac like me has other interests — not least, Lunch.

I set off in the direction of the town centre with thoughts of tracking down a sandwich, but changed my mind when I happened upon the West Cornwall Pasty Company.  The temptation was irresistible, and in I went.

"Do you offer discount to Cornish maids?" I asked. The young guy behind the counter gave me a confused look and said that he didn't. I grinned, hoping he'd see that I was joking, but I suspect he had endured a few too many mad Cornish ex-pats in the past. 

I tried again. "One steak pasty, please." The confused look returned as he explained, "We only have Cheese & Onion and Traditional ones left." 
"'Traditional' is steak," chimed a lady assistant and me in unison.

Extensive Internet research (at least 10 minutes of it) before my visit had established that the Abbey Grounds, behind St John's Church – the Cathedral of the Cotswolds – would be a good place to eat lunch. On my way, I paused to 'admire' (the quotation marks are deliberate) the medieval church, with its recently renovated and ornate 15th century, 3-storey porch. It's at times like these that I just known I'm a cultural pariah. Guide books rave about the porch's architectural splendour but all I see is a great carbuncle that's totally out of proportion to the church, and that obscures its rather nice south windows.  "Off with her head!" I hear someone remark.

It was blisteringly hot in the Abbey Grounds, so I sought the shade of a large tree and tucked into my pasty. I once heard that you can always tell a true Cornish pasty eater, as only they can catch all the crumbs in the paper bag, as they eat. Lesser mortals invariably get a lap-full of pastry flakes. More seriously, did you know that the Cornish Pasty has been granted Protected Status by the European Union? Consequently, pasties can only be designated 'Cornish' if they're made in Cornwall.  This has done wonders in protecting the product against the majority of pale imitations, though sadly not the rubbish churned out by Ginsters, whose factory qualifies by being just a few miles on the 'right' side of the Cornish border. But I'm being unfair... If you're partial to baby food, wrapped in pastry, I can heartily recommend them.


I'm delighted to report that my pasty was excellent. Allowing its succulent flavours to titillate my taste buds, I reached into my bag and retrieved the other fruit of my research — a copy of The Whereat Trail. I quote from the back page...

The trail has been set up in commemoration to* Norman Whereat, who was the first person to be awarded the 'Freeman of Cirencester' in 2011. Norman was a Town Councillor for 12 years... He spent many hours serving the Cirencester community and received an MBE for his efforts. During his lifetime Norman was a Churchman, Auxilliary Fireman, Football Referee, a respected peer in the water industry and served with the Navy in WWII. His time with the Navy led him to support the Royal National Lifeboat Institution and he received the RNLI Gold Bar in 2010.

(* sic. The grammar is theirs, not mine.)

Most folk, myself included, bumble their way through life, achieving little of value for the community around us. Mr Whereat was manifestly not one of us, and its good that his name lives on in the town he served so faithfully. 

I was lucky to find an Internet link to this leaflet. When I followed the same link this morning, in preparation for this post, it had become a copy of a boring press release about the trail. Perhaps the council's website is cared for by the same folk who administer their parking ticket machines (see my previous post).

A slave to convention, I elected to start the trail at Point 1.

This 40ft-high yew hedge is said to be the tallest of its kind in the country, helping to preserve the privacy of the Bathurst Estate.  The Bathurst family are also prominent in the life and history of my home town (Lydney), so they clearly got about a bit.

This 19th century obelisk is a bit of a mystery. "Historians suggest it formed part of a circuit of follies," declares the writer of my trail leaflet. I think they should seriously consider reinstating it and include a parking ticket machine or two in the circuit!

And so to the remains of Cirencester's Roman Amphitheatre. The trail leaflet informs me that this was built in the 2nd Century and was one of the largest amphitheatres in Britain, holding 8000 spectators.  On my arrival there were 7996 less than that... and before long there was only little me.

The sun still shone brightly as I walked back into the town centre.  Once more, my thoughts turned to food. After a disappointing visit in 2013, I had vowed to give The Bear Inn a miss, but quickly relented when I saw its tables, invitingly set out in the sunshine.  I ordered half a pint of cool larger and a bowl of elderflower ice cream. A lovely way to end a lovely day.

P.S. I recommend Ginster's sandwiches. Very tasty!