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!

A Day in Cirencester (1): Railways and parking tickets

Cirencester keeps drawing me back to itself.  A couple of weeks ago, I met Lucy Melford there on her caravan site. We explored the old Thames & Severn Canal and had a lovely meal at a country inn, but didn't go into town.  The last time I was 'in town' was back in November 2013. I blogged about it, writing:

It's hard to imagine that, in Roman times, this town was the second largest in England.  Since then its fortunes have wavered and in the railway age it missed out being on the main line by 4½ miles, which can't have helped.  But its railway history is nothing if not colourful, and I'll write some more after my next visit. 

It was clearly high time that I went there again, and I chose last Saturday. Unbeknown to me, this was the day of the Cotswold Show and the roads around Cirencester were busy, to put it mildly. But Matilda, my ever-faithful smartphone and satnav, was on hand to get me out of the jam and guide me through the back streets. Before long I was pulling into the Old Station Car Park (no surprises there!)... but my problems weren't over yet.

A seemingly helpful District Council website informed me that Cirencester's Pay & Display ticket machines accept credit and debit cards, so I didn't worry about bringing change.  When I arrived, two people were glumly pushing buttons, but their cards kept being rejected as the card machines couldn't get a connexion. "No problem," says I, "let's try the Pay By Phone option."  Following the instructions, I texted my car registration number to 705305.  The number doesn't work!  I toyed with leaving a "Tried and Failed" note inside my windscreen, but decided to chance my credit card first.  Failed.  Tried again. Success! I wonder whether anyone at the Council knows or cares?

Before leaving, I glanced up at a tall building on one side of the car park. Something in the dusty depths of my memory told me that this was the old station building, so I took a photo.  I was right! 

Town Station was once the terminus of a short branch line from Kemble, but saw its last passenger in 1964. A wall plaque informs those who find it (I was not one of them, but read about it later) that the building may have been designed by the great I.K.Brunel himself.  I wonder what he'd make of it now?  Rather more, I suspect, than the directors of the Midland & South Western Junction Railway would make of their old station at Watermoor.  I set off for a closer look.

The M&SWJR (nicknamed the Tiddly Dyke, for reasons that elude me) has long held my fascination. Like the Somerset & Dorset to the west, and the Didcot, Newbury & Southampton to the east, this railway formed a north-south link, across the main London-bound traffic flows.  And like so many railways built in the era of Railway Mania, the M&SWJR lurched its way from one financial crisis to another, before being swallowed into the mighty Great Western in 1923, but not before it had acquired a colourful collection of locomotives, including one that rejoiced in the (unofficial) name Galloping Alice.

And here is all that remains of Watermoor Station. Sic transit gloria Tiddly Dyke!

These large concrete block are tank traps, put there during World War II, and there they have remained.

And there there are too, beside the far platform in this 1960s photo.  By this time, the 'up' line had been lifted, after a lorry partly demolished the bridge at the north end of the station. That's the former gas works in the distance.  Behind the signal box, the old company had its locomotive and wagon works.

Echoes of the past remain today in "Bridge Road" and "Midland Road", but everything associated with the bridge and the Midland & South Western Junction Railway has vanished.

Ironically, rather more of Roman Cirencester remains than the Victorian Tiddly Dyke, and that's where I'll go with my next post.

How to paint a skirt

I'm rather proud of the wooden fence that I've erected around the back garden.  It's not as pretty as the laylandii hedge it replaced, but it's a lot easier to maintain and it keeps the neighbours happy.

Not that we've had any problems with our neighbours, but our predecessors did. One said that the laylandii was undermining the foundations of his house, and another that it was robbing him of light, so, piece by piece, the hedge was removed.  I'm not at all surprised that an article on the BBC website declares "Leylandii is the most planted and the most hated hedge in Britain."

When we bought the house in 2012, about 70 feet of the old hedge remained, mainly bordering the front garden and road, and encroaching some 2 feet over the pavement.  Not any more.

The latest act in this saga has been to paint the darned thing. I suppose I could have just left the wood to turn a rustic shade of grey, but I actually think that 'Medium Oak' looks rather nice.  So I donned an old skirt and top, and set to work.  The photo above is proof that most of the paint did end up on the fence, but the one on the right shows that some of it didn't. Perhaps what I should now do is plunge the whole skirt into a tub of fence paint and thus gain a Medium Oak garment of undoubted distinction to add to my collection.

Finally, in order to soften the fence's stark appearance, we have been busily planting shrubs against it.  Climbing hydrangea looks the most promising so far.