End of the CD age

The last of our CDs, stacked up and ready for donating to a charity shop.

When S- and I married in 1970 we resolved to do away with our collections of 45s and LPs. Sound quality had been good, but one accidental scratch was apt to render the whole record useless. Between us, our collections had accumulated a lot of scratches.

The favoured alternative at the time was tape cassette. In retrospect, they were pretty awful and tape players needed Dolby sound enhancement to get rid of the annoying background hiss. Worse still, those players (particularly the ones in our cars) were apt to chew tapes and reduce them to a tangled mess. There were two solutions to that; buy a new cassette or borrow a friend's and make a copy. Naughty, naughty!... but none of us seemed to worry unduly about copyright in those days. Indeed, most of my pop music collection had either been acquired from friends or recorded off the radio – Alan Freeman's Pick of the Pops on Sunday afternoons was an early favourite.

Little wonder, though, that when CDs became available in the late 1980s we began to make the switch.  Those early CDs weren't cheap but they had one huge advantage over their predecessors; they were durable.

Now its CDs that are on the way out. My own collection of digital music has gradually been growing, mostly purchased from iTunes or ripped off Youtube.  Last year, though, this girl caught up with the times and subscribed to a music streaming service. It was a toss up between Spotify and Google Play Music, and Google won the day.  Now owning any album or music track is rapidly becoming a thing of the past. Our music collection has ballooned and we are actually listening to a lot more music than hitherto.

Different genres suit different occasions. When I'm cleaning the house on Thursdays you'll find my portable Bluetooth speaker blasting out rock or my ever-growing play list of pop music.  In the evening though (with the inevitable mug of Horlicks) classical music is favourite. I'm enjoying discovering composers such as Rodrigo, Pachelbel and Saint-Saens, whose CDs I would have been reluctant to buy.

For the last couple of years we've mostly managed with a cheepish Bluetooth adaptor, plugged into the back of our old CD player – a somewhat cumbersome arrangement, but it worked. However, when the adaptor gave up the ghost a few weeks ago we decided to ditch the CD player once and for all and buy this little beastie – a Bluetooth amp that connects directly to the lounge speakers.

The transition is complete.  Tomorrow the last of the CDs go to a charity shop.  Anyone want an old Denon CD player?

The Suckstone and Near Harkening Rock

Last Thursday afternoon I had planned to seek out another of the ancient magical and mysterious sites mentioned in Ray Wright's book Secret Forest. (For my first mention of this book, click here.) It certainly promised to be a 'mysterious' one, but the miserably wet weather we are presently enduring intervened. So, having (hopefully) whetted your appetite, I'll leave that one for now and describe a walk to another stone that's in Ray Wright's book – one that my friend Lucy and I sought out last October.

The Suck Stone, near Staunton is enormous; reputed to be the largest single block of stone in Britain. Said by some to weigh more than 10,000 tonnes, it's probably no more than a quarter of that.. but it's still very big.

Impressive though the Suck Stone undoubtedly is, I'm always suspicious of claims that some geological feature is the biggest, the heaviest, the most impressive, etc. For instance, how about this one, that I came across in the Lake District?

This is the Bowder Stone. It's some 30ft high, 50ft wide, 90ft in circumference and weights about 2000 tonnes. In comparison, the Suck Stone is 26ft high, 60ft wide, 26ft deep and weighs no more than 2500 tonnes. Perhaps the Suck Stone may just be the winner but since no-one has ever put either of them on the bathroom scales, who can be sure?

Just above the Suck Stone is Near Harkening Rock. It's from around here that the Suck Stone must once have fallen.

The cliff face has stood firm for a few million years but Lucy wisely ensured that it stayed put for a little longer. This photo clearly shows the composition of the rock, known as puddingstone. It comprises pebbles of quartz that settled to form a sandy 'pudding' some 400 million years ago... and now they're here, high on a valley side above the Wye. That sort of timescale just blows my mind.  And to think that some people still believe the world was created in 4004BC!

I wish I had Lucy's eye for a good photo, like this one that she took above Near Harkening Rock. In case you're wondering, the strange name is said to have come about because game keepers could sit beneath the cliff face and listen out for deer and fish poachers. There's also a Far Harkening Rock, half a mile away.

From Near Harkening Rock, Lucy and I made our way back to Staunton, where we met a guy who claimed to know the geology of the area. He told us that the rocks we had been admiring were erratics, carried by glaciers from Scotland.  I'm no geologist but rather doubted the truth of that one, and I've found no supporting evidence in any of my books.

My understanding is that the Ice Age glaciation ended north and west of The Dean and that our deep valleys were carved out by melt water. I'd love to know the answer though. I almost enrolled for geology evening classes five years ago but chose the ukulele instead.

A big thank you to Lucy, not only for her company but also for her photos. We both took lots but Lucy's – on her lovely Samsung smartphone – came out better than most of mine.

Rain stopped play

This morning I woke to find that the wind had scattered the
garden furniture. Even Henry the Heron looks fed up

It rained and rained 

and rained and rained,

the average was well maintained,

and when our fields had turned to bogs

it started raining cats and dogs.

Contrary to the image portrayed in holiday brochures, it used to rain quite often in Cornwall during June; indeed the whole month was occasionally rain-soaked and storm-tossed.  But I was working full-time and it seemed not to matter too much. If I did need to trudge around some clay pit or refinery, there were wellie boots, waterproofs and hard hats to don, whilst control rooms could always be relied upon afterwards as places for a steaming cuppa.

Retirement has brought a greater awareness of the weather as it's apt to stop me doing what I want. "You should get a dog," friends tell me. The daily 'walkies' will do you good!" I'm unimpressed and unmoved.  I may be an enthusiast for rambling but draw the line at deliberately going out for a soaking, just to keep the pooch fit and healthy. My dog-owning friends will understandably now be protesting loudly, but I'm unrepentant. I like cats.

A week of wet weather has knocked my fitness target into the long (and wet) grass. Forget 10,000 steps a day; I didn't even average 2000. It would have been even worse, had the sun not shone on Saturday.

After a drought of half an hour

there came the most refreshing shower,

and then the queerest thing of all –

a gentle rain began to fall.

One day of sunshine will, I know, banish my gloom and my fitness levels will recover. I'm not so sure, though, about the garden.

Our clay soil certainly retains the water; parts of it are like a mud bath. We've planted two varieties of courgette in the row nearest the camera. Some (which will be yellow) are doing well, but just look at the others. 

The whole beans have made a good start, though I'm concerned about the last few. They're extra-fine bean plants that I bought from Suttons and I suspect that they need warm weather to mature.  Hedging my bets – because I really love extra-fine beans – I've also planted some in the greenhouse.

In the background, the peas are thankfully loving this weather.

The three pots nearest the camera contain sweet potato plants. We have never tried growing sweet potatoes before and when I placed my order I expected them to come as tubers, like ordinary potatoes. Instead, what arrived were these slips. Like the fine beans, they're supposed to be kept warm – 14° minimum. At this rate, all they'll probably produce is leaves. 

Finally, here's a sorrowful view of my plum tree, which I planted 5 years ago. Two years ago it produced two plums; last year none, and was under sentence of death if it didn't fruit this year. We lovingly pruned and fed it, and – lo and behold – it's loaded with fruit.  However, one by one, they're shrivelling up and dying. Is it down to the weather? Did it not like the plant food? Is it the wrong sort of plum tree?  I wish I knew.

Disorientated around Holme Lacy

Have you ever been out walking or driving and felt sure that you're going (say) north, despite all the evidence pointing to the fact that you're going in the opposite direction? It happened to me recently as we explored the Wye Valley around Holme Lacy in Herefordshire.

The Romans called the Wye Vaga, and not without reason. The name means wandering, an apt name for a river that twists and turns in huge meanders on its way from the Cambrian Mountains to the estuary of the River Severn. The part of the Wye near where I live flows more-or-less south, but around Symonds Yat it turns north, south, north again and then west, all within a few miles. It can be disorienting at times, except that I know I'm on the English side, so when I stand on the bank the river should flow from right to left... which it does.  Easy!

So to Holme Lacy. The bridge where the B4399 meets the B4224 is the clue, for crossing it put us on the Welsh side of the river, despite the fact that we were still in Herefordshire. Did I comprehend this simple fact?  No, I did not.

We parked next to the old railway bridge in Holme Lacy. Leading the way, I confidently took the little path by the railway cutting that runs southeast, but in my mind ran northwest. "We're going the wrong way," declared S- but I wasn't convinced. A hundred yards further on... "We really are going the wrong way. Look at your map!"  O dear; the GPS marker on my Memory Map app told the terrible truth. Sheepishly, I trudged back to the bridge and allowed S- to lead the way down the right path.

The Wye Valley is green and broad in these parts, and the cattle are quite adventurous. We stopped to watch them, the one on the right looking for all the world as if she was doing a spot of fishing. One thing concerned me, though – the river was flowing from left to right. Why was it doing that?!

Deducing that what my fuddled brain really needed was food, we crossed Holme Lacy Bridge and headed for the 'PH' in Mordiford, hoping that it would be serving food on this bank holiday Monday.

Ooo err. Just as my orienteering skills were returning, we seemed to have left the planet!  Joking aside, though, I'm happy to record that The Moon is a very friendly, earth-bound establishment that serves truly excellent food. I had the Steakwich (6oz steak with sauteed onions, rocked and straw fries) which filled me up for £8.95. The Vegwich (£7.95) looked mouth-watering too.

This little place invited closer inspection. Inside, I read about the thankfully long-deceased Mordiford Wyvern. It's said that a young girl called Maud was walking in the woods when she found a baby wyvern (dragon), bright green and no bigger than a cucumber. She took it home as a pet and fed it on milk. It grew fast and began to eat chickens and then sheep, before graduating to cows. Finally, it turned into a man-eater but remained friendly towards Maud. But all that was a long time ago and the woodlands around here are now perfectly safe, though if I see a cucumber in the woods I'm giving it a wide berth.

Returning to Holme Lacy Bridge, we followed the Wye downstream for another mile or so to St Cuthbert's Church. Guide books wax lyrical about its effigies to the Scudamore family, but I was more intrigued by it's present-day use.  No longer a place for worship, care of the building has passed to the Churches Conservation Trust and they have made it available for Champing – the simple concept of camping in ancient churches, according to a notice in the south porch.  What a splendid idea!

 There were no champers when we visited, but they clearly planned to return before bedtime.

In the churchyard I came across these splendid wrought iron gates, which give access to nothing more grand than a field. However, back in the 17th century I imagine that the Scudamores came in this way on Sundays, rather than joining the rabble at the main entrance.

A mystery of St Cuthbert's is why it's here at all, far removed from the town it purports to have served. One theory is that the lumps and bumps in this field, adjacent to the church, mark the site of a long-abandoned medieval village.  However, in the absence of a proper archaeological survey, no-one seems to know for certain.  Come back, Time Team!

Leaving St Cuthbert's, we made our way through the grounds of Holme Lacy House, formerly one of the seats of the Scudamore family. It's now a very smart-looking hotel.

Finally, back in Holme Lacy, S- started the car and turned it in the direction of home. "You're going the wrong way!" I protested.  You, dear reader, will already have deduced that, of course, we were not. O dear.

Total distance walked: 7 miles, including the false start in the wrong direction and the trek to The Moon and back (off the top of the map).