Ellie Bennett's Blog

Book Signing at Stanfords

2012-03-03T17:26:00.000Z

A Bristol pub crawl

2012-03-01T14:31:00.011Z

An entirely subjective list of my favourite pubs in Bristol central/harbour area:

1. The Three Tuns

The Tuns used to be a bit of a dive. Actually that's not true. It was a lot of a dive. The Telegraph reports it was an 'honest boozer's pub.' Not sure about that, I remember it as the sort of pub one scuttled past on the way to Hotwells, ideally on the opposite side of the road. After a refit the Three Tuns re-opened three years ago under manager Mark Farrell, and soon became a favourite on the real ale circuit. The interior is plain - hefty pine tables and stripped wooden floor. No games machines or TV, a double plus on my marking system. A couple of managers on, the Tuns still serves superbly kept beer. One of two pubs owned by Kingswood brewery Arbor Ales, the Tuns gets it right on every count.

2. Bag of Nails

Just down the road from the Three Tuns is the Bag of Nails, which has long been a favourite of mine. Once known as the American Eagle, the pub got a refurb and change of name in the 1990's. Last year there was much consternation amongst the local real ale fraternity when the pub closed again - but it has since reopened, having been tastefully spruced up by landlord Luke. I like the record player and invitation to put on your own vinyl. I also like the ever changing choice of real ales on offer. Luke's Rules, chalked up on the central pillar have caused some discussion, especially the controversial Rule One.

3. Merchants Arms

A Bath Ales pub, it's a traditional boozer. The interior is painted cream and brown which sounds vile but actually works well. There's a separate room at the back popular if you fancy playing aboard game of which there are plenty. The pub has all the ingredients of a traditional boozer: friendly with good conversation, nice low lighting and good beer.

4. The Grain Barge

Two hundred and fifty years ago there were nine shipyards in Bristol. By 1976 there was only one, Charles Hill and Sons, who in that year, launched their last ship. The Grain Barge had been built at the Charles Hill Shipyard in 1936. The engineless 'dumb' barge used to be towed across the Severn from Bristol to Cardiff carrying barley and wheat. As Bristol docks declined as a working port, the barge sat rusting away on her moorings near the SS Great Britain until she was bought by Bristol Beer Factory in 2007 who restored and refitted her. She is now moored opposite the site of the yard where she was built. On summer evenings the Barge is a fabulous place to sit out on deck with a pint and watch the activity in the docks. Bristol Beer Factory produce some fine brews, my personal favourite is Sunrise, a lovely slightly citrus golden ale.

5.The Cornubia

The Cornubia was built as a Georgian townhouse in 1776 for a local wigmaker, Charles Cox. It became a pub in 1859 and has been so ever since. Sadly, all the surrounding buildings have disappeared, and it now sits incongruously amongst a sea of office blocks. Originally named the Rabbit Warren, 'Cornubia' is the old Latin name for Cornwall; it's likely that the pub was renamed after the SS Cornubia, a paddle steamship built in 1858 that used to run between Hayle and Bristol. In the American Civil War she was bought by the Confederate States and taken over to America to carry supplies as a blockade runner. (The ship not the pub.) The Cornubia was the brewery tap for Georges Brewery just up the road. After Georges was swallowed up by Courages it became a training pub for Courage managers, which is probably how it managed to hang on to so many of its original fittings. The pub is now run by Phil and Jackie who do a good job of having a regularly rotating choice of well kept beers. The only snag is Phil's dislike of cyclists - I'm going to work on that...

6. The Seven Stars

Lurking down a dark, cobbled alley off Redcliff Street, The Seven Stars is another pub with a long history. The first known mention of the pub is in 1694 when Sir John Hawkins bought the pub from the Saunders brewing dynasty, at the same time as setting up what was to become Georges Brewery. Almost a hundred years later, in 1787, Thomas Clarkson came to Bristol as part of his investigation of the slave trade. The landlord of the Seven Stars befriended him, and he would sit in the Seven Stars secretly gathering evidence of the trade, and of the underhand methods which the slave ship owners would use to recruit sailors for these voyages. The evidence Clarkson gathered was key to eventually changing public opinion and getting the slave trade abolished twenty years later. Nowadays things are much jollier; the Seven Stars regularly has eight different beers on offer, and it won CAMRA Bristol and District Pub of the Year in 2010 and 2011. The decor is pretty basic, there's a pool table and some rough seats. It is - in short - a proper pub.

7. Commercial Rooms

The Commercial Rooms is a JDW pub opened in 1995. It's a Neoclassical building designed by Charles Busby, an architect working mainly in Brighton and Hove, and opened in 1810 as a club for wealthy Bristol merchants. Perched on the roof are three statues - the 'three commercial graces' representing Bristol, commerce and navigation. The interior is stunning, a large room which still has the boards listing the names of the club presidents and officials. The first president was one John Loudon McAdam, inventor of tarmac. Although Scottish, he had been appointed surveyor to the Bristol Turnpike Trust in 1816. Above the bar is a circular weather vane dial which told the merchants when ships were likely to be arriving in port. (Incidentally the clock dating from 1822 on the Exchange immediately opposite the Commercial Rooms is also unusual, in that it tells both Bristol and Greenwich Mean Time.) The pub always has a good selection of well kept real ales. The only downside is the counter is very high. At least its a downside for shorties like me. Sometimes, when it's busy, I have to jump up and down to be seen.

8. The Kings Head, Victoria Street.

Another historic pub dating, according to the sign on the wall, from 1660. It sits in front of Bristol's own leaning tower, Temple Church, built on marsh land and bombed in World War 2.

The interior of the pub is an odd and fascinating mixture, dating from the mid-nineteenth century onwards. It is the only Bristol pub on Camra's National Inventory of Historic Pub Interiors and is worth a visit for that reason alone. The Tramcar Bar was installed in the early Victorian period, and indeed the whole pub, with it's narrow corridor and brown paint, reminds me of GWR train.

There is normally has a good choice of real ale on offer, including a regular appearance of TEA (Traditional English Ale) from Hogs Back Brewery in Surrey and Betty Stoggs from Skinners Brewery. The pub is on the expensive side though, at £3.40 a pint.

9. The Cottage

Owned by Butcombe Brewery the Cottage is a comparatively new pub by Bristol standards. The building dates to 1868 and was used for timber storage and later as the Harbour Masters Office. It opened as a pub in 1983 and was bought by Butcombes in 2009.

It majors in food (which it does very well) but remains a proper pub and often has Butcombe's less easily available brews on offer. When I visited recently it was offering Old Vic Porter and Adam Henson's Rare Breed. It is also in a superb location with lovely views across the harbour (or 'the Docks' as we Bristolians call it). Worth seeking out on summer days.

10. The Orchard Inn

Tucked away behind the SS Great Britain Spike Island, Bristol's artisan quarter, the Orchard is primarily a cider pub, in fact it won Camra's National Cider Pub of the Year Award in 2009. But it always has a few real ales on offer as well. It has a down-to-earth friendly feel about it and the clientele is an interesting mix of local arty types, stray tourists and cider heads. To soak up the booze there is proper pub grub - pasties and pies, and delicious filled rolls. The beer has got more expensive of late, but sadly, that seems to be the case everywhere.

11. The Shakespeare

I was going to list my top ten but it seems a shame to miss out the Shakespeare Tavern on Prince Street. I mention the street as there are quite a few pubs called the Shakespeare in Bristol. I know this as I remember sitting in one of them for quite a long time on my own wondering why none of my mates had turned up. (This was pre-mobile phone so no way of phoning and saying 'where the bloody hell are you?') I was in the wrong Shakespeare.

Anyway, this Shakespeare is one of a block of three Georgian townhouses designed by John Strachan in 1725. Fashionable with local wealthy merchants in the eighteenth century, the area fell out of favour after the construction of the New Cut which slowed up the flow of the river (into which everyone chucked their sewage) and the place began to stink. It doesn't stink now though. The Shakespeare is a Greene King pub although there is usually a guest ale on as well. For a city centre pub it has a nice, solid feel to it - lots of wood, and the beer has always been in condition when I've been here.

Well that's my top eleven pubs for Bristol central/harbour/Hotwells. No doubt there are many gems I have missed so if you know of any that should be added to the list please let me know and I will conduct an inspection visit. It's a hard job but someone's got to do it...

And because I'm feeling nice, I've drawn a map with a suggested route from and to the train station, showing where all the pubs are.

View Bristol pub crawl in a larger map

A Radstock Reprise

2012-02-28T14:59:00.002Z

I was annoyed at missing out on Stoney Littleton long barrow last time. I know it's not everyone's idea of an exciting venue but I like this sort of thing. Maybe I'm just a bit sad, as my daughter frequently points out. Anyway I decided there was nothing for it but to head back down to the badlands of Radstock and Midsomer Norton. I decided to fool Mick by heading off on the Avon circular to Chew Valley lake, planning then to execute a crafty left turn and swing across the A37, dash through Paulton and pick up the Norton Radstock Greenway. By the time he realised what was going on it would be too late. Luckily Mick takes no interest in pre-ride route planning and is happy just to follow my directions. 'I'm food and maintenance,' he says. Which means he gets to make the sandwiches and carry the pump while I get to obsess over a map and be very bossy.

So we set off merrily down the lane to Compton Dando and the Avon Cycleway. The route follows rural lanes through sleepy villages until we arrived at Pensford. It's a shame that the fast A37 races through the middle of the village. At various times Pensford has produced high quality cloth, copper, brass and coal; now it's a commuter village for Bristol and Bath. It is dominated by the glorious Pensford Viaduct. Built in1873 to carry the Bristol and North Somerset Railway across the Chew Valley, it finally closed after the '68 floods when it was declared to be unsafe although I can't help but wonder whether this was a rather convenient excuse. British Rail once tried to sell the viaduct for £1.00 but had no takers so it remains part of BRB (Residuary). It would make a brilliant cycle-path...
More country lanes to Chew Valley Lake and time for a cup of tea. As we sat enjoying our break and looking out over the lake, Mick pensively said: 'You know, I've always had a regret that I never became..'
'Became what?' I wondered. 'A brain surgeon? A father? A duck?'
'...a thief,' he continued.
'What?' I said, non-plussed. 'What do you mean, a thief?'
'I could have been rich,' he said. 'Look at all the money to be made out of ripping people off. Being honest is for fools.'
I looked at him aghast. 'Yes we're skint, I protested. But at least we can sleep at night!'
'Well, that's it,' he said dolefully. 'I don't sleep. I have insomnia. So I might as well have become a thief.'

Water level in Chew Valley Lake

Leaving the lake we cycled through Bishop Sutton then turned left and started the climb up onto Mendip. Mick started to get all excited. 'We're going to Priddy!' he exclaimed. 'Brilliant! A pint of Roger's Butcombe and a cauli cheese in the Hunters!'
'No, calm down. We are not going to Hunter's today.'
'Owwwww, why not?'
'Because I have other plans. We'll go to Roger's another day.'

I turned off before Mick spotted the Ring o Bells at Hinton Blewett where I knew I would have another rebellion on my hands. Instead we coasted down to the A37 at Temple Cloud, and cycled on through Hallatrow and Paulton to Midsomer Norton. Mick did have a point, this end of Mendip is the poorer, hardier end, and there was nothing very attractive about these places. Certainly no-where we felt like stopping. At Midsomer Norton, Mick swore as realisation dawned. 'We're going to fucking Radstock! Again!' He was incredulous at my nerve. To be honest I was now feeling a bit sheepish. I had been a bit of a cow, refusing any pub stops and disappointing him with a pointless ride up hills and down again. 'I wanted to see the Neolithic long barrow,' I mumbled.
Mick snorted. 'Well we're here now, come on then. Where is it anyway?'
'Stoney Littleton.'
'Where's that?'
'Other side of Radstock. By Wellow.'
'It had better be good.'

We headed along the Collier's Way first on railway line and then country lanes. This time I was ready for it, and spotted the signpost for the long barrow. 'Where is it?' asked Mick.
'Up there,' I said pointing to the top of the hill beyond the stile.'
'Oh. Do we really want to go up there?'
'Yes we do. We've missed a lunchtime pint for this.'
So we tied our bikes to a gate and set off up the hill and across two fields. When we reached the long barrow Mick was impressed. 'It is amazing,' he agreed, conquering his claustrophobia to come and have a poke about inside. It's possible to go a long way inside - with side chambers coming off the main passage where the bodies would have been laid out.
'Lie in one, like a corpse' I suggested.
'YOU lie in one. I'm not!'
Outside I announced my intention to circumnavigate the site. 'Yeah, you would,' said Mick. 'Anyone else would just walk round it.'

We agreed on the walk back to the bikes that it had been jolly impressive though, and worth the effort. We headed up the hill to Wellow where we were unable to resist a quick nose down Railway Lane. Sure enough, just down the road was the remains of the old level crossing gates. The signal house had been converted to a dwelling as had the station, which for ten years was the residence of the artist Peter Blake. Even I, art philistine that I am, recognise some of this guy's work:

We slogged up Hinton Hill and crossed the A46, after which we enjoyed the long coast down to Iford Manor. Nestling at the bottom of the hill, Iford is a stunning Elizabethan manor house with Grade 1 listed Italiante gardens which have been described as one of the best in the country. They were designed by Harold Peto, architect and landscape gardener who lived here from 1899 to 1933 although sadly they were not open at this time of year. The River Frome which runs on front of the manor house (the Somerset Frome, and pronounced Froom not Froam) forms the boundary so whilst the Manor is in Wiltshire, the Bridge outside is in Bath and North East Somerset. Perched on the top - looking slightly incongruous and like she might want to jump at any minute - is Britannia, also a Peto addition.

We cycled into Freshford, past the closed Inn and through Limpley Stoke, past the closed Hop Pole. Well it was Tuesday afternoon so hardly surprising. By the time we had cycled back to Bath along the Kennet and Avon towpath we had a proper thirst on.

'Ah, back to civilisation,' said Mick with satisfaction. 'The pubs will be open here.' Sure enough the Royal Oak at Twerton, one of our favourites, was open so we spent a very pleasant couple of hours here before the last push home.

Plain Innocence

Neath Ales Dewi Sant

Ceiling of the Royal Oak

Mick having fun turning in front of petty 'no turning' sign

Aside from the beer desert, a very successful ride & I had finally got to see the long barrow. After two visits to Radstock in a week though, I don't think it'll be on our route for quite some time. I fear if I suggest a third trip there Mick may resort to physical violence.

Our route is here

A Radstock Ring

2012-02-24T16:43:00.010Z

It's only a few weeks until End-to-End Ireland. Number of training rides this year so far - one. This will not do. I have been pottering about on my bike as usual but I need to get a few more longer rides under my belt if we are not going to have a repeat of Lejog (lots of tears and fears). Plus I have somehow managed to acquire another fourteen pounds (weight not money) since that trip. There is definitely a need for some serious training.

Mick turned up on his Cannondale and, easing us into the ride gently, we set off along the Bristol-Bath cycle path. (Sustrans Route 4) which sugueways nicely into the towpath alongside the River Avon. Along the bank, large numbers of people in yellow high viz jackets were doing a fine job, litter picking and repainting benches. I stopped to chat to one of them, mindful of the current hoo-hah about people on benefit being forced to carry out unpaid labour. 'You're not on one of those schemes are you?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'No, it's all voluntary. The council advertised at the universities and colleges.'
"Well you're doing a fine job.'
'Yes,' he replied, 'only thing is, there's so many of us, we're running out of litter.'
Mick kindly offered to throw his gum wrapper on the floor to help out, but his offer was politely declined, and we went on our way.

In Bath I briefly led us onto a busy road before realising both lanes were for carrying traffic in the other direction. 'Oops,' I said, heading for the pavement. 'It's more than oops,' said Mick. 'I'll lead, you'll get us killed.' He led us to the bottom of Widcombe flight, and a brief respite from the traffic before we rejoined it again on Bathwick Hill. For speed we cycled to Bathampton on the busy A36, and I was relieved when the turning for the village came up on the left. I waited at the top of the hill for Mick who was a little way behind for a change.
'Ah, were you stood there waiting for me?' he asked.
"Yes,' I said, expecting him to thank me.
'I used to have a dog that did that,' he said.

In Bathampton the cafe, on a little boat on the canal was open. 'For that comment, you can buy me a coffee,' I told him.

After coffee we cycled along to Dundas aqueduct and the start of the Somersetshire Coal Canal. This is also the start of the Colliers Way, a newish Sustrans route, number 24. (Pdf of the Sustrans leaflet here).

We weaved though Monkton Combe, on a similar route to the one I had walked with Yvonne the previous week, passing the home of William Smith at Tucking Mill, the guy who is credited with producing the first geological map of Britain.

At Midford we joined the line of the old Somerset and Dorset Railway. The path started well with a tarmaced section through a short tunnel and past the old Midford Station. This is where the Two Tunnels Greenway is planned to intersect with the Colliers Way, which will provide a brilliant circular route once finished. The New Somerset and Dorset Railway are working to reopen the old railway route, aiming to provide a much needed rail link for local communities. They have plans to rebuild the station in 50's/60's style and provide a cafe/info point etc. There are no immediate plans to lay track, although presumably it would be possible for the cycle path to run alongside, as it does in Bitton and in Okehampton. I think it's a long term project so no need to worry about it just yet.

Sadly the tarmac soon disappeared and the path got rather muddy. It looks like it's been scraped though so maybe there are plans to tarmac it soon. We passed one of Sustrans' art installations, 'Stone Column' by Jerrry Ortmans.

This piece is formed by seven stacked boulders reflecting the geological strata of the area (Chalk Cretaceous, Forest Marble, Great Oolite, Inferior Oolite, Blue Lias, White Lias, Pennant) to commemorate the pioneering work of William Smith, the 'father of geology' who once lived at nearby Tucking Mill and who worked as a surveyor constructing the canal system in the area.
(Sustrans website)

I rather liked it but Mick was not impressed. 'It's just a pile of rocks,' he said incredulously. 'Bloody hell, everything's "art" these days!' Sorry Mr Ortmans.

Rejoining a quiet road, we climbed up the hill to Wellow and forked off left down through a quiet lane. where we saw not one, but three green woodpeckers in the trees on our right. At the bottom of the hill we had a choice and took the left turn up to Faulkland. It was a steep climb but I hoped it would be worth it, as Faulkland is where the wonderful Tucker's Grave pub is. We toiled up the hill and then down the road to the pub. Which was shut.

Instead we called into the Faulkland Inn. It's a bit restauranty, in fact the landlady straightaway reached for menus when we walked in. 'We'll just have a drink,' we said, although after half an hour Mick was unable to resist ordering a bowl of delicious, chunky chips. The beer was That Gold Devil from Devilfish Brewery situated just behind the village, and was a nice golden, hoppy beer. I did find it amusing though, when a rep from the brewery called into the pub and ordered half a lager whilst he was waiting for the Landlord.
Whilst we were supping on our drinks I said to Mick I would get the map out to plan the journey home. 'You mean this is planned?' he said. 'I thought we were lost.'
He asked to have a look at the map but I refused. 'I'm planning the route,' I said.
'That's the trouble with you short people,' he replied. 'You're dictatorial.'

It was cold, misty and drizzling up here on the edge of the eastern Mendips. Mick pointed out that this made it more realistic as a training ride as Ireland was likely to be cold, misty and drizzling as well.

The home route was rather hilly, down to Radstock, up to Clandown, steep down to Radford Mill, climb up to Timsbury. Mick decided the litter strewn lay-by outside a sewage works would be a good place to stop.
'I'm not eating here!' I exclaimed. 'It's disgusting.'
'It's not that bad,' he retorted. 'You've obviously never been to Bolivia.' Bolivia, according to Mick, is one vast rubbish tip. His description didn't fill me with an urge to visit.
As it was, we stopped at Timsbury churchyard to eat our sandwiches. 'Your place isn't any better,' he grumbled. 'It's full of dead people.'
'Well I'd rather eat with dead people than with used condoms and litter.'

From here it was a scary whizz along the dual carriageway of the A39 before joining the more peaceful lanes back to Saltford and home. Recovering with a cuppa I looked again at the map.
'Bollocks!' I shouted.
'What now?' said Mick, wearily.
'I've just realised we passed within yards of Stoney Littleton Long Barrow. We missed it! We're going to have to do the ride again.'
I ducked just in time. Mick had thrown his last cheese roll at me.

Our route is here

Walking the Bath Beat

2012-02-11T22:16:00.010Z

I was lazing in bed sipping a cup of tea when I had a text from my friend Yvonne asking me if I fancied going for a walk. 'Sure, when?' I texted back. 'Now.' Crikey. Ok. Forty five minutes later I was at Combe Down, lacing up my boots and pulling on my gloves. Yvonne was right though, it was a lovely day, and too good to waste.

'I've brought an OS map,' I said, mindful of previous walking disasters when we had ventured out together. 'And I've brought two headlights this time.'
'Oh, we won't need those,' Yvonne said confidently. I know this route really well, I walk it all the time.'
The route we were taking was part of the shortest route of the Bath Beat, an annual walk/running event around the Limpley Stoke valley. I decided to err on the side of caution and put them in my rucksack anyway, and we set off.

Two minutes later we were staring down the very steep path which led down the hill to the village of Monkton Combe. Very steep and very, very icy. 'Don't fancy that,' I said. Yvonne agreed. Only Alfie seemed keen, but he obediently turned around with us and trudged up to the road.We were already 'off route' and unsure where we were. Great. A chance to use my beloved map. I reached in my bag to get it.
'Oh, don't worry, I've got us pinpointed,' said Yvonne, waving her iphone4S. Sure enough a pulsating red circle was throbbing on the map on the screen. Holding it in front like a dowsing stick we traced our way down the road until we joined up with our original route.

***Warning: using a phone to navigate may be ok in Bath. But not on top of Scafall Pike. See here***

We followed the bed of the old Somerset Coal Canal to Midford. Authorised by Act of Parliament in 1794 the canal was built to carry coal from the Somersetshire coalfields up to the Kennet and Avon and thence to Bath and beyond. By the 1820's the canal was carrying over 100,000 tons per year. By the end of the century the seams were becoming worked out and the railways had taken over the freight trade. It was closed in 1898 and sold a few years later to the Great Western Railway who promptly built a railway over much of the route. There is lots of information here and here about the SCC. (The former is now the 'unoffical' website but I think it is the better one of the two.)
Partway along we found a tyre hanging from a tree and despite the fact that we have a combined age of nearly 100, the tempation was too much. We took it in turns having a swing, and then spinning eachother around until we were so giddy we fell over in the mud. It was great fun.

Eventually we dragged ourselves away and soon reached the main road at Midford, used it to cross the brook and then turned off immediately onto Midford Lane and then plunged back across fields and woodland.

From here there was a fine view of Midford Castle, a castle folly built in 1775 for Henry Disney Roebuck. I can't find anything much about him except he was from a wealthy family and liked a bit of gambling. For decades the house was owned by writer Isabel Colegate (author of the Shooting Party) and her husband Michael Briggs. In 2007 they sold it to Nicholas Cage, who apparently was very taken with Bath and the local area. (He also bought a place in the Circus in Bath.) He sold it just two years later, apparently to help him deal with an enormous tax bill.

At Monkton Combe there is an annoying climb up the hill and then back down again to circumnavigate the playing fields and swimming pool of the
posh Monkton Combe public school. Still, it gave us a chance to look at the old lock up dating from around 1776. Having skirted the playing fields we headed back down the hill and then turned left along the road. We were now walking the course of the old Bristol and North Somerset Railway which had superceded the canal in the nineteenth century, until the railway, in its turn, became uneconomical to run and was closed. Monkton Station, sadly now long gone, became Titfield Station for the wonderful 1953 Ealing Comedy The Titfield Thunderbolt

From derelict canals and defunct railways we headed onto a functioning canal, the Kennet and Avon. Alfie was complaining that he was hungry, Yvonne said it served him right as he hadn't eaten his breakfast, but after some truly pitiful looks from him she relented and we stopped at the Angel Cafe for some tea and biscuits. (I know, I know I said I wouldn't come here again, but hey, I never claimed to be consistent. And actually I got a smile from one of the staff today.)

The boats were pretty solidly iced in and nothing was moving. But just after crossing the Dundas aquaduct we came across a narrowboat having a go at icebreaking. It was doing a fine job of ripping all the blacking off its bow, so I assume wherever the crew was trying to get to must have been really important. Or maybe they were just a couple of dickheads, I don't know. There are a lot of them at this end of the K&A. They managed to crash the boat along for about fifty yards before coming to a complete stop in the middle of the canal.

We stood gongoozling and gawping for a while, but then Yvonne suddenly panicked, as she realised that we were short of time to get to the cafe before they stopped serving food so we left the boaters to it. We power-walked the last three miles to Avoncliffe; by the time we got there I thought I was going to throw up on the counter. but we had made it with two and a half minutes to spare and ordered some food.

After we'd eaten and I'd stopped wanting to vomit we set off across the fields to Freshford, passing through Tess's Gate.

At least at this time of year there were no cows for us to run away from. The New Inn at Freshford looked delightful and I was very pleased when Yvonne made a bee line for it. Oh. Apparently she was just heading for the toilet. Never mind. It's owned by the Box Steam Brewery and I made a mental note to come back soon to sample the beer. Maybe I could work it into a bike ride.

We passed Freshford Mill, a large and controversial housing development. Progress at the site seems to be at about the pace of an arthritic tortoise, it seems the developers may have gone bust. The final loop took us over the hill near Limpley Stoke. Next to one of the farms was a collection of huts and an old petrol pump, presumably a relic from World War Two.
We only had one more challenge - the very steep descent and ascent of Monkton Combe Valley. Alfie was getting weary. He kept lying down, evidently hoping one of us would relent and carry him, but we remained hard hearted. The path was slippery and we found a couple of stout sticks to aid the descent.

On reaching the car I turned to Yvonne. 'This doesn't seem right,' I said.
'What?'
'No crawling through barbed wire. No running away from cows. No staggering around in the dark. It was, as our walks go, pretty uneventful.'
'You're right,' she said. 'Maybe we're getting better at this.'
Possibly. Or maybe it was just a fluke. We'll find out next time.

Expert Photography on the Somerset Levels

2012-02-04T18:50:00.008Z

My friend Mick is a photographer. Well he's trying to be. He decided he wanted some shots of the sun rising at Glastonbury Tor and asked if I wanted to go along.
'Ok' I said blithely before realising the bleedin' obvious - in order to get a photo of sunrise we would have to get up Very Early.

'I'll swing by yours and pick you up at five am,' he said.
'F*ck off.'
'Half-five?'
'Six.'
'Six is too late.'
(Sulkily) 'Ok, half-five then.'
By some miracle I was ready to go at half-five. The temperature was minus five outside so I was fully kitted out in three layers on the bottom half and five layers top half plus hat, gloves etc. I sat and waited by the window. At five-to-six Mick's campervan rolled around the corner.
'You're late,' I said grumpily.

We headed down the A39 through Wells to Glastonbury without bothering to look at the atlas or plug in the satnav. Mick hates looking at maps, he thinks it's cheating. At Glastonbury we got lost and headed off towards Frome, at which point I insisted we pull over so I could dig out the atlas. In the end we did a massive loop around the bottom of the Levels before finally finding them hidden away on our right. By the time we had found a view of the Tor, dawn was upon us. We were on a race against time.

Mick screeched to a halt on the side of the road, grabbed his camera and tripod and legged it over a stile. Layered up as I was, I could only waddle after him like a Tellytubby. By the time I caught up with him, he was set up and snapping away.

We had just made it. Soon the orange sun appeared on the horizon, rolling up behind the green fields. I stared at it in awe - what a beautiful sight. Suddenly I had dancing spots in front of my eyes and remembered it is not a good idea to stare directly at the sun.
'My eyes, my eyes!' I cried. 'I'm blinded! Look away!'
'Don't stare at it then,' said Mick unsympathetically.
After a few moments my eyesight returned to normal and we headed back to the van to make a hot drink. 'Fancy a bit of breakfast?' said Mick.

We headed up the road to the Peat Moors centre. The centre has closed but there is a craft centre, next to which was a chuck wagon selling 'eco bites.' Eco bites apparently means no bacon and egg rolls, just falafels and flapjacks. This wasn't what we had in mind. We decided to press on with our walk and get something to eat at the pub. We were heading for The Sheppey Inn at Lower Godney which we had passed before but never been in.

We were immediately thrown by the route apparently taking us through a peat farmer's yard. Three big dogs came bounding out, barking furiously, and we were about to run away when we saw the farmer beckoning us. 'They won't hurt 'ee,' he shouted. 'come on through.' Sure enough the dogs were only curious and rather friendly. We made our way past old tractors through the barn - another example of the great British tradition that, when it comes to footpaths, 'we shall not be moved'. You can steal our pensions, trash our public transport and dismantle our health service and we won't make a sound. But don't - just don't - fuck with our footpaths.

My route took us across Meare Heath before crossing the B3151 and striking out across the fields to Lower Godney. There were some issues however. Firstly, despite the map indicating we were on a footpath there were no markers whatsoever; the rhynes(water channels) which criss crossed the fields meant we sometimes were taking massive detours; and there were no stiles, only farm type gates which wouldn't open. We had to climb each one and as they were spaced only twenty yards apart I began to feel like I was attempting a steeplechase rather than a country walk. Eventually we found ourselves at the back of someones garden and had to walk through a pigpen to get onto the lane into Godney. By this time we were both salivating at the thought of a pint. 'Maybe we could squeeze in two,' said Mick hopefully.

Fat chance. When we got there we discovered that the pub only opens in the evenings. 'Oh, that's a shame,' said Mick. (He said it a bit more forcefully than that but that was the general gist.)
'I can hear voices,' he said desperately, pressing his ear to the door. 'Bang on the door, see if they'll serve us.'
'Don't be silly,' I said.

So we trudged disconsolately back. On the way back we detoured into Meare as the OS map indicated a blue jug in the village. The path took us past the Manor Farmhouse, fourteenth century summer residence of

Manor Farmhouse, Meare

the Abbot of Glastonbury. The pub, however , was not only closed, it had been turned into a private residence. The pint of beer receded even farther into the distance. We gave up trying to find a pub and headed back to the carpark where the camper was parked.

Pub at Meare

Swan - Ice Breaking

Back at base we ate out of tins we had stored in the van and had another cup of tea, before donning multi-
layers once more. Mick wanted to get some photographs of Starling Murmurations. Despite the Levels being only thirty miles away, neither of us had seen them before. It was now half-four and the temperature had dropped significantly. We walked along the path (which also forms part of Sustrans Route 3) to Ham Wall. There was quite a gathering of humans there, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands as defences against the cold. 'Quite a gathering,' said Mick. 'Maybe the starlings come here to look at us not the other way around?'

'Look over there,' someone said suddenly, pointing to the southern horizon. A cloud of black was rising from the hillside.
'That's smoke,' someone else said and everyone laughed.
Soon birds were heading towards us in groups from all directions, forming fantastic shapes in the sky. Mick, I noticed, had his camera still trained on the plume of smoke. 'Don't you want some pictures of the birds?' I asked.
'That's what I'm doing,' he said.
'But that's smoke,'
'No it's birds'
'It's smoke. I heard someone say so.'
To be fair, it was an easy mistake to make: it did look like a flock of starlings in the distance and every now and again a group of them would apparently emerge from the smoke, like phoenix from the ashes.
'Bollocks,' said Mick.
Suddenly the starlings dropped like stones as they settled down to roost.
When the sky was empty we started back along the path.
'Ok?' I asked.
'Think I'll stick to photographing flowers in future,' said Mick. 'At least I know what a snowdrop looks like.'

We decided to stop at the Railway Inn for a pint which turned out to be a mistake. The beer, Tawny Owl from Cotleigh, was as tired as the decor, probably as the few locals in there were all drinking cider. The ladies toilet may have been pink once but it was entirely coated in black mould. There was at least a warm fire in the grate, so we defrosted ourselves and then made our exit and walked the mile or so back to the van.

The day, we agreed, had been like the curate's egg, good in parts. Unlike the egg, however, it was not entirely spoiled. After all, Mick had some fantastic photos of smoke signals from Bridgewater. Why he wouldn't share them with me for this blog I just don't know...

Cow

Freshwater mussel - the fields are strewn with these

Bridge

Path

My Favourite Pubs - Helgi's, Kirkwall

2012-01-31T18:52:00.001Z

Window at Helgi's

How far are you willing to go for a decent pint? If the answer is a few hundred miles and a ferry or two thrown in then you might want to check out Helgi's in Kirkwall, Orkney. (Unless you're Orcadian, of course, and then it may only be a short walk/bike/bus ride.) Or - if you've got to John o'Groats and spent 15 minutes there, you'll have had enough - so why not hop on the ferry and try Orkney instead?

Kirkwall Harbour

Helgi's is right on the harbour in Kirkwall, lovely for gazing out of the window at the fishing boats on the quay, especially on summer evenings when the days are long and the nights practically non-existent.

It majors in food and I suppose you could call it a gastro-bar which I normally hate, but this one gets the balance right. I did try the food one evening - haggis lasagne which was interesting - and surprisingly good.

Helgi's has a Nordic feel to it, as does much of Orkney, not surprising really as for centuries Orkney was part of the Kingdom of Norway. In 2009 Alistair Carmichael, the MP for Orkney and Shetland, when asked to name his nearest mainline railway station on an expenses form allegedly wrote 'Oslo'.

Orkney is also packed with megalithic monuments including the awesome Ring of Brodgar.Orkneyjar is an excellent website on the Islands and their history if you're interested in finding out more.

Beer is supplied by Rob Hill's Highland Brewing Co. at Swannay Brewery. My favourite is Scapa Special, which is bloody gorgeous. It's a Pale Ale and at 4.2% is my ideal strength. It has a hoppy flavour, and was always lovely and fresh.

I believe Helgi's has made it into the CAMRA Good Beer Guide again in 2012, if you should find yourself that far north, it's well worth a visit.

Kirkwall Harbour

Ring of Brodgar

Standing Stone - Ring of Brodgar

Adam Henson and a lot of mud on Mendip

2012-01-29T21:14:00.030Z

Digging out the map to go to Mendip. Mick, as usual, has been taking the mick and deriding my insistence that we take it. 'I know Mendip like the back of my hand!' he protested. 'We don't need a map, you just take it for comfort. I bet you even use a map to get to the kitchen in your flat! What do you do, negotiate a tight squeeze under the bed, scale TV ridge and go over table mountain to get to the kettle?'

I decided to rise above it - after all, my mother always said that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit. 'I'm taking a map,' I said haughtily. 'You don't have to look at it if you don't want to.'


Burrington Cafe - and my car

We headed off to Burrington Coombe, stopping on the way to pick up some provisions for lunch. At Burrington I faffed around for a bit getting my boots just right. I had an existing blister and didn't want to exacerbate it. Finally I was ready and we set off. After walking ten yards we reached the entrance to the Burrington Inn/cafe.

'Fancy a cuppa?' said Mick.
'Ooh, yes please,' I said. I bent down to untie my boot laces.
'What are you doing?' he asked.
'Taking my boots off.'
'But you've only just put them on.'
'Yes, but I can't wear them inside.' The boots, naturally, were still covered in mud from my previous walk. So Mick strode on in wearing his clean boots. I timed it well, he was just paying for the tea when I had shed my boots and joined him.

After half-an-hour drinking tea and watching walkers and cyclists going up and down the road we heaved ourselves up. I spent another ten minutes faffing with my boots and getting them just right, then finally, we set off up Link Lane and then turned right along the path towards Dolebury Warren, so named because in medieval times it was used to breed rabbits. After all the tea we had drunk we both frequently found that we needed to run behind a bush to have a pee but at last we reached the hillfort at the end of the Warren where we decided it was time for a snack break. Usually the views are superb from here, out into the Bristol Channel, but today a low mist hung across the horizon. It was still a lovely place to tarry for a while though, amongst ancient hawthorn trees lined with delicate pale green lichen, an indication of the clean air up on Mendip.

Descending the other side, we had a choice, left into Rowberrow woods, or right to the road.
'Fancy a pint?' said Mick hopefully.
I pretended to ponder this question for a while, stroking my chin and umming and aahing, before putting him out of his misery by saying 'Oh, go on then!'

We headed up the road to the Swan at Rowberrow.

When we got there, the inside of the pub was shrouded in smoke. One of the members of staff had just lit the fire and the smoke was filling the room rather than going up the chimney. We felt our way to the bar and peered through the fug at the pumps. 'It'll clear in a minute,' said the woman at the bar waving a menu about her.
'It's low atmospheric pressure,' said Mick. 'No draw up the chimney.'

I looked at him dubiously. Was he right? Or was he talking bollocks again? I decided to say nothing and studied the pumps in front of me. There was London Pride, Butcombe, usual thing. But what was this? Adam Henson's Rare Breed brewed by Butcombe. I hadn't heard of that before.
'Isn't he that handsome farmer on Countryfile?' I asked.
The barmaid nodded. She handed over a Butcombe booklet with a large picture of Adam looking very hunky.
'Yep, that's him,' I said. 'I'll have a pint of that then.'
'He came in here, you know,' she said. 'He was very nice.'
'Bet he looked lovely in his wellies,' I sighed.
Mick snorted. 'He's not handsome,' he said. 'But I'll have a pint of his beer anyway.'

It was a lovely pint so we had a couple more and then decided we had better continue our walk or we would never get back. We headed through the woods of Rowberrow Bottom to Tynings Farm and then up onto Blackdown.

We soon passed a bunker, a relic from World War Two when the authorities had attempted to fool the enemy by making a deserted hilltop look like Bristol using a few lightbulbs and some burning straw. I'm not sure how successful this was though.

On up to the trig point on Beacon Batch. I had forgotten that in the winter the top of the hill is basically one massive peaty bog and we slipped and slithered our way along the path. It's odd, but you rarely see anyone on Beacon Batch until you get to the trig point which is always packed. People huddle round the centre stone, drinking out of flasks and eating sandwiches, having a natter. I wonder where they go, because once you leave the trig point you never see anyone else until you get to the car park.

We reached the road and I was all for walking back down to the car. But Mick insisted on crossing the road to Burrington Ham. This meant another stretch of mud and then a very steep scramble down scree to get back down to the road. I sighed. Still, ten minutes later I had a good laugh when Mick indulged in a bit of serious mud sliding on his backside.

Mud Surfing - Old Man Down

Getting down the steep, wet, muddy and very slippery slope was challenging. We achieved it by means of an involuntary run from tree to tree, coming to a sudden stop each time by heading directly for the trunk and crashing into it. It became wearing after a while and I was almost relieved when we ran out of trees and tottered to the bottom of the slope. Mick finished the walk by falling over for a second time. I looked at his filthy trousers.
'You're not getting in the car like that,' I said. 'You'll have to walk.'
For a split second I think he thought I was serious. He did manage to find a plastic bag to sit on though.

Rock of Ages, Burrington

'I think,' said Mick wearily, as I dropped him off at his house, 'that I have found a cure for my insomnia.'

Our Route is Here

A scurry around Swildons

2012-01-25T21:43:00.045Z

My friend Frank is going away to do a bit of travelling down under. Before he goes we agreed we should make an effort to get down a cave. As it happened Dave-the-Cave and co (Bristol District Caving Club) had planned a short trip around Swildons Upper Series so Frank, Sim and I decided to tag along.

It's January. It's cold. It's dark. It's raining. And Swildons happens to be at Priddy, the highest village on Mendip. So, inevitably, just before setting out I had the usual 'why the fuck am I doing this?' moment. I forced myself to throw my kit in the car, resolutely stuck out my chin and headed off. Halfway there I realised I had forgotten my wellies and had to go back for them. Ho hum.

At least at Priddy there are changing facilities for cavers. These aren't exactly salubrious - an old cow barn full of birdshit - and the light no longer functions so you have to change by the light of your caving lamp - but it beats standing on the side of the road shivering in one's undies trying to avoid being lit up by the glare of passing headlights, which is the usual procedure. A glamorous sport, caving.

The cave entrance is three (very muddy) fields away from the road, so we slipped and slid along until we found the cave entrance.

Jack Osbourne on his trip down here was none too impressed by the entrance to Swildons, although whoever was leading him was rather meanly winding him up. Kate Humble got on rather better on her trip.

Me, inelegantly sliding in to the first chamber

There was lots of lovely water gushing through after the recent rains. This was only the second time I have been in Swildons since the entrance all moved around - the slide in is slightly more tricky now. But once into the first chamber we regrouped and then set off on a jolly nice trip down the 'dry way' up to the old 40 (another feature which has become redundant since previous cave movements changed it's layout) and down to the top of the ladder pitch before slithering up the wet way, involving much lying around in cold water and climbs against the flow of the water. By the time we came out we were all drenched but exuberant and I had remembered why I drag myself down here on a cold night in January.

A caving trip is, of course, considered unethical if it is not followed immediately by a visit to the pub, in this case, Hunters Lodge Inn (see post dated 17 December 2011 here), also known to cavers as the Centre of the Universe. So once we had changed out of our sopping things it was a short trip down the road where I soon got stuck into a superb cauliflower cheese and a pint of Potholer. Frank, as always, went for the Butcombe. I almost got into serious trouble as my phone rang when I was in the pub. Luckily it was very noisy in there and Roger didn't notice. Hastily put it on silent before he nailed it to the wall though.

A smashing evening all round and hopefully another caving trip soon. It's been far too long...

My favourite pubs - The Angel Inn, Grosmont

2012-01-23T08:45:00.013Z

Cycling from Land's End to John o'Groats a couple of years ago, my companion and I had wearly dragged our bikes up the hill to the little village of Grosmont in the Welsh Marches. (We were taking the scenic route.) I will confess that there was a modicum of bad language spilling forth as we had been unable to get into the campsite at the bottom of the hill.

But at the top of the hill we miruculously found The Angel Inn. And what a find it was.

Like The Old Crown at Hesket Newmarket, The Angel is a community owned pub. When the pub was faced with closure in 2005, half-a-dozen regulars at the pub formed a consortium and bought the pub between them. It now forms part of what appears to be a thriving little village community. We were welcomed into the pub and bought pints of beer to wish us on our way. It was a most convivial evening.

The pub became The Daffodil for the 2007 film The Baker, a brilliant comedy filmed in Grosmont starring Damian Lewis as a hit man experiencing a mid-life crisis, hiding out in a small Welsh village.

There was an excellent choice of beers and I tried three delightful ones that I had not tasted before:

Cwrw Haf from Tomos Watkin in Swansea. Being English I couldn't pronounce it of course. Pointing at the pump I said: 'Erm, one of those please.' Apparently it is pronounced 'koo-roo hàrve'. Anyway, it tasted very nice and refreshing.

.410 from Golden Valley Ales in Peterchurch, Herefordshire, a golden coloured, slightly fruity beer. I just asked for four-one-oh, missing out the dot. It's called this because it's 4.1% and is also a reference to the .410 shotgun - as seen on the label.

Finally, Butty Bach (Little Friend) from the Wye Valley Brewery at Stoke Lacy in Herefordshire. I loved this beer. Golden in colour it was not too strong, either in flavour or in ABV, and went down extremely well.

The Three Castles Walk , also here, is a popular 20 mile circular route.I think I may have to make it my business to head down here pretty soon.

Jane Austen and Eliza Chute

2012-01-14T13:20:00.112Z

I'm looking at this 'Austen' picture again...

I think the woman in it looks beautiful, so assured. I really want it to be Jane Austen. I dislike the Victorian images of Austen that make her look like a vacant doll. The gloriously perceptive, witty and sarcastic author of Pride and Prejudice and all the rest would never have looked so dim.

Many Austen fans argue there is no need in any event to know what Jane looked like, and it's true that her character comes through her writing much more than any image. But it would be nice if every book that's published wasn't plastered in images like this one:

Of course wanting something to be so doesn't make it so. It also clouds the judgement. But at the same time wanting it to be her doesn't mean that it isn't. If you see what I mean. However at the moment, it does seem that the documentary evidence is still rather thin. Austen Only has some very interesting posts and comments on the subject.

With regard to Eliza Chute, it seems she is now out of the frame (as it were!) and Dr Byrne is now investigating other possible candidates as being the artist responsible. But I decided that it wouldn't hurt to have a little nosey through some of Eliza Chute's journals in any case, as I've become quite interested in her and her relationship with the Austens. And what nicer way to spend a day than reading through 200 year old diaries?

So I headed down to Winchester to the Hampshire Record Office. I only had a few hours so decided on this occasion to restrict myself to the later journals. The collection of journals is incomplete, and years 1808-1812 are missing so I decided to start with 1813. 1814 and 1818 are missing, but we have 1815, 1816, 1817 and 1819. Then there's a big gap - the other years in the collection at HRO are 1833, 1834 and 1840.

As soon as I looked at the first journal I realised I wasn't going to get an account of Eliza's innermost thoughts. It was more a log - the weather each day, who had visited, what was for dinner. What was immediately clear was that the Austens visited quite a lot. Jane Austen's brother James, of course was vicar of Sherborne St John, the parish in which The Vyne was situated, so visits would not be so surprising, but it seems that the families were quite good friends. In June 1813 for example, Mrs Austin came 'to dinner and to stay,' she stayed from the 16th until the 19th June. On 24th Eliza dined at Mrs Austin's, and the following evening she dined at Mr Cotterell's in the company of Mrs Austin and others. And so on. So I found that quite interesting, altough it doesn't necessarily mean that she knew Jane Austen that well, and I gather that it is thought that Jane did not like Eliza Chute very much, although the only evidence I have found for this is an off-the-cuff comment made by Jane in a letter.

What also interested me in the 1813 Journal was the back page, a list of items Eliza wanted in London. I've taken a copy of the page.

Titled 'Things wanted in London' it lists, among other things: book to hold drawings; camel hair pencils of various sorts; black lead pencils, sort (?) marked black; A Blinder (?) - a few brushes; oil colours 'of all sorts left'. It goes on to list currants, coffee, chocolate etc. but you get the picture. Eliza was clearly enjoying her art at this point.

The other interesting thing about this page was the handwriting. It's less careful than the journal, presumably because it's a shopping list. Eliza normally writes 'm' with a little scroll, like this:

But on the list it is more careless:

As Kelly McDonald notes, the 'm' on the back of the Byrne portrait is odd. This 'm' in the shopping list is more like the 'm' in the portrait signature although it doesn't have that funny little hook at the start - which almost looks added on:

To my untrained eye, the word 'Austin' look similar to the name on the portrait, but I'm far from being an expert.

However, I also noticed that throughout all her journals Eliza consistently uses the long 's' when writing 'miss'.

Here is an entry from 6 Jan 1815 with a long s.

'Went to the Bramstons - Mrs Austin Edward and Caroline and the two Miss Austins in the evening.'

I take Mrs Austin to be Mary Austen, wife of James. Edward and Caroline are their two children, at this point aged seventeen and ten. Am I right in assuming the two 'Miss Austins' are Cassandra and Jane?

For the rest of 1815 there are plenty of references to James and his family - who appear to have spent Christmas 1815 with the Chutes, but little on the rest of the Austens/Austins - save a mention I am unable to decipher from 31.July 1815 which mentions a visit to Mrs Austin at Chawton, presumably Jane's mother.

1816, 1817 and 1819 are more of the same, Edward being a regular visitor. There is no mention of Jane Austen's death even, which is perhaps a little surprising given how well she knew Jane's brother, however as I have said, the 'diaries' for these years are little more than visitor logs and weather reports.

There's then a massive gap in the journals and we fast forward to 1833/34. By now (James) Edward Austen has married Eliza's neice, Emma and the family are fequent visitors. Eliza has started writing a little more in them than just the weather, there are some reports of what is happening in Parliament and she also starts noting at the bottom of each page what she is reading. Most of it seems to be Christian texts or history accounts, but I assume she also enjoyed Jane Austen's work as in the eight months between June 1833 and February 1834 she read Persuasion, Mansfield Park and Emma.

'Read Miss Austin's Persuasion together'

'Finished England and the English and likewise Mansfield Park'

'Finished Emma together'

So Eliza apparently liked Jane's novels, although at what point she became aware of them, is difficult to say. But, given her closeness to Jane's brother and his family, I wouldn't be surprised if she knew about them quite early on. But by the same token, given how close I now realise she was to James and Edward Austen and their families, is it really feasible that had she been the artist, she wouldn't have told them about the portrait?

Sketch in Eliza Chute's 1813 journal

To Bradford and back. (Not that one, the on-Avon one)

2012-01-10T12:49:00.013Z

Since Christmas I have been suffering from an evil cough, but finally it abated enough for me to venture out on my bike for the first ride of 2012. The original plan was a loop through Radstock in east Mendip but there is a monster hill on the route so at the last minute I decided on a completely flat cycle and towpath 25 mile route from Keynsham to Bradford-on-Avon and back. As it was a little while since I last rode my bike any distance, I decided that would probably be enough for me.
My friend Adrian was accompanying me. He turned up with his bike looking very professional. Adrian cycles sportives for fun.
Uh oh. (Small internal panic.)
'Erm, Adrian, I'm not very fast,' I warned him.
'That's fine,' he said.

We shot off along the lanes to Saltford and got onto the Bristol Bath cycle path. This is also Sustrans Route 4 which starts in Fishguard and ends in London. In an effort to show I was not completely useless I set a good pace even though it was nearly killing me. I tried not to allow my gasps for breath to become audible, although he must have noticed that my face was now an interesting shade of puce.

Mercifully at Bath we joined the path alongside the River Avon for a short stretch which necessitated slowing down and gave me a chance to catch my breath.
'I thought you said you were slow,' Adrian said.
'Well, you know, one has to try,' I gasped, trying to sound casual.

Very soon though we were forced off onto the road as the towpath was closed. The river is also closed to boaters, I hear, because of concerns about the safety of Victoria Bridge. This bridge was the first one designed

The Bridge of Oich -
if you look closely you can see my bike...

by James Dredge. Dredge was a brewer from Bath who designed the bridge in 1836 to a revolutionary new design, which he used in other bridges all over the country. That the bridge has been allowed to deteriorate to the stage where is it about to fall down is a disgrace. Apparently the last time it was properly looked at was in the nineteen-fifties. Dredge also built the Bridge of Oich which we passed on our Lejog a couple of years ago. In contrast, that bridge has been restored and looks fabulous. I hope the Bath one receives similar treatment in the near future.

On the road we opted for a belt down the A36 through traffic road from Twerton to Widcombe where, with some relief, we got off the road and joined the towpath at the start of the Bath end of the Kennet and Avon Canal. This was not Route 4, as was evident when we had to haul our bikes up a flight of steps and cross the road to rejoin the towpath on the other side

Widcombe flight, Bath

at the entrance to Sidney Gardens. Back on the towpath it was nice and quiet, although a bit puddly. Adrian had brought his mountain bike, a good choice. I only have one bike - my Dawes Horizon - but we managed to bump along ok until we reached Dundas Aqueduct and stopped for a cup of tea.

The cafe just down the spur of the Somerset Coal Canal is nice enough, but why are the staff always so miserable? Every time I have been here it's the same, you can barely get a word or a smile out of them, it's quite noticable. I don't think I will patronise them again. Still, a nice cup of tea before the final push on to Bradford-on-Avon, a stretch along the Limpley Stoke Valley and which was pleasant and uneventful, aside from the dead badger we saw floating in the canal. Yeuch.

In contrast, the people at the Lock Inn Cafe are always friendly. I went in to order our sandwiches, and as we had forgotten bike locks Adrian stayed outside with the bikes. Oh no! On the counter was a beer pump. It was Wadworth's Boundary. I was tempted, I had not tried this one before. Such a shame not to. I ordered us a half each. It was a new barrel and needed pulling through, so I had already sat down when the proprietor brought them over.

Adrian looked at the beer in dismay. 'What's that?' he asked.
'Um, beer. Haven't tried this one before,' I said lamely.
'I didn't want to drink today,' he said.
So I had to force them both down. Which wasn't too much of a trial, admittedly.

Bradford on Avon

After we left the cafe and headed back down the towpath I told Adrian that I had detected a key difference in our cycling styles.
'What's that?' he said.
'You cycle to get fit. I cycle to get to the pub.'
Adrian agreed that this was indeed so.

It turned out Ade also had to get back home for an important phonecall so we belted back along the towpath getting pretty muddy in the process. By the time we headed back through Bath I was exhausted and my legs were aching. This was not good. I need to up my training if I'm going to cycle Ireland's End to End in April as I plan.
'Time for a cup of tea?' I asked hopefully.
'No, not really, we'd best get on,' he said.
Aaargh. We made good time though so thankfully could stop for a quick coffee at the Bird in Hand in Saltford before the last leg back to Keynsham. Twenty-five flat miles and I was done in! As soon as Adrian left I went and lay down on the bed for a jolly good nap.

Re-cycle sculpture on Kennet and Avon

Jane Austen portrait update

2012-01-05T18:47:00.003Z

So, things have been racing along this week with regard to the drawing found by Paula Byrne and shown on 'Unseen Portrait' on the BBC (see previous posts).

There are two very thoughtful and clear posts summarising the issues and the debate at Austenonly.com
The links from today's entry on the Austenonly blog to Bendor Grovenor's article and to Bonhams are well worth following.

It still seems to me that provenance is the key to the puzzle. In previous posts I speculated that if drawn by Eliza Chute as posited by Dr Byrne in the programme, that it may have come down to Sir John Foster via his paternal grandmother's family. Information has now come to light that Sir John was bequeathed the drawing by his governess/long time friend Helen Carruthers. Whether this throws the rest of the theory out of the window, I am not sure. I have no idea who Helen Carruthers is - the closest I have got is a school teacher of that name living in Clapham in 1901. Hopefully some more information about her will come to light soon.

Other questions remain: Why did Miss Carruthers bequeath the picture to him? Could she be returning to him something that came from his family originally? Or was he the recipient of all her effects and the picture simply happened to be amongst them? In which case where did Helen Carruthers get the drawing from? Presumably an examination of her will should help with this.

Following Dr Byrne's tweets it seems she is now moving away from the belief that it was drawn by Eliza Chute to considering it was the work of a 'low-end professional'. The reason for this is apparently because of markings on the back of the portrait as follows: ‘Price £3-3s 0d Frame £0 5s 0d.’

Dr Byrne obviously may have other reasons for deciding it is not the work of Eliza Chute , but in itself, I don't think the pricing in itself is conclusive. Is it not possible that the picture was sold at a later date and the price added then? Might not Wiggett Chute have sold it? Or is there a reason why this is not possible?

Earlier today I was pencilling the name of family members onto old photographs that belonged to my mother (she had not labelled them as she knew who they were) - and the thought also occurred to me that the name on the back of the portrait may also have been added at a slightly later date. If (and I know it's a big if) it was drawn by Eliza Chute for herself, she would have had no need to write the name - she knew who it was. Maybe someone later asked her who it was and the name was written on it then? Speculation again! But without knowing more I am reluctant to ditch Eliza as the artist just yet...

As I noted in a previous post - the unusual medium still points to Chute as the artist as she is known to have used it, and there are also the similarities with the painting Eliza Chute drew of her sister to consider.

Although Dr Byrne has suggested that the background of St Margaret's and Westminster Abbey might relate to the fact that Jane Austen’s brother, Frank, was made a Companion of the Order of the Bath in 1815, I personally don't find this very convincing. St Margarets appears to me to be the main focus of the view from the window not Westminster Abbey. And the obvious link between St Margaret's and Jane Austen is Eliza Chute.

What about whether it is Jane Austen at all? Jane's poor nose has been discussed at infinitum! Was it big or small, fat or thin? The only authenticated picture we have is the one sister Cassandra drew, and which everyone knows was said not to be a terribly good likeness. But looking at the shape of the nose in Cassandra's drawing I would say it is not dissimilar. The footnotes from Bonhams refer to GH Tucker: Jane Austen the Woman 1994 and quotes: Mrs Beckford, a friend of Jane's, however, described her in a letter as 'a tall thin spare person...the face by no means so broad & plump as represented...'
I think it is also relevant that this drawing - if it was done in 1915, would have been only weeks before she became ill, and so it would hardly be surprising if a rounder, youthful face had been superceded by a rather more thin and drawn one. So I don't think discrepancies in some of the descriptions we have of Jane Austen necessarily rule out the picture being authentic.

No doubt more information will come to light soon.

It's all terribly interesting...

My favourite pubs: The All Nations Inn, Madelely

2012-01-02T09:03:00.006Z

The story of brewing in the UK in the twentieth century - or at least the first three quarters of it, was the story of increasing concentration in the hands of a few large brewers. Brewpubs - where beer is brewed on the premises were once common but by the early nineteen-seventies there were just four. Thankfully, the situation is now vastly improved, there are now well over a hundred brewpubs in the UK.

Quiz question: one of the original four was the All Nations Inn, where were the other three? Answer at the bottom of the page. :-)

The All Nations Beerhouse opened in 1831 and began brewing the following year. Except for a brief hiatus from 2001-2003 it has had a brewery on the site ever since. In 2009 the brewery was rebranded as Shires and supplies the All Nations with its house bitters, Dabley Ale and Dabley Gold and Coalport Dodger Mild. There is always at least one other guest ale on offer, usually another local beer, and a cider (not that I drink that stuff).

The All Nations is a pub that has not been mucked about with. It's one long room with a real fire in the grate in winter and a small central bar and solid wooden tables and benches. It is, in short, a proper pub. I also like the fact it displays its prices on one of those price boards from the seventies. I always thought it was the law that pubs should display their prices clearly, but these days hardly any seem to do so.

It is the perfect place to spend a peaceful weekend afternoon, reading the papers and supping on one of the always excellent beers, with one of the pub's excellent cob rolls or toasties to soak it up. A trip to the loo involves stepping over the dogs which can almost always be found stretched out across the floor or in front of the fire and then a trot (or a sprint if it's raining) across the back courtyard to the outside toilet. The pub is popular with locals and visitors alike, being just a step up the hill from Ironbridge Gorge and opposite the 'Victorian Town' at Blists Hill.

Its situation, on the opposite hill also makes it the perfect place to view the very popular Blists Hill firework display in November, I had a fantastic evening here watching the fireworks and enjoying the hotdogs and burgers offered by the pub, and in the summer the courtyard is used for live music entertainment.

Shropshire, in my opinion, is the best county in the country for decent pubs, and the All Nations is up there with the best of them. It came as no surprise to me that it won the local Camra pub of the year award, even with such excellent competition in the area. As I've just bought an annual ticket for the Ironbridge Museums, I have an excuse to visit the pub a few more times over the next few months, not that any excuse is needed...

Iron bridge Ironbridge

Blists Hill

Quiz Answer:

The other brewhouses still in existence in the seventies were:
The Blue Anchor, Helston
The Three Tuns, Bishops Castle
The Old Swan, Netherton

History of the All Nations and other brewpubs

My Favourite Pubs - The Old Crown, Hesket Newmarket, Cumbria

2011-12-30T20:56:00.035Z

Here is the second in my mini-series 'My Favourite Pubs.' If you have any suggestions for other ones I can try please leave a comment or tweet and let me know. I am willing to travel in the interests of research!

The Old Crown - Hesket Newmarket

Hesket Newmarket is right on the northern edge of the Lake District,and I first visited about five years ago. This was not an accident. A friend of mine Dave, when hearing I was heading that way, informed me I should not miss The Old Crown as it was his favourite pub in the country. Dave knows his onions when it comes to beer, so this was not advice to be easily ignored. So, after a thrilling day of terror on Striding Edge, we headed up to Hesket in the camper van to see what was so good about it.

There are some pubs that when you walk in them, you know immediately you have made a mistake. The chattering of the customers dies away and they silently watch as you make your way nervously to the bar to order a pint. You can feel their eyes boring into you as you peruse the pumps and a cold sweat breaks out. You order a half, down it in one and get out of there.

The patrons in the Old Crown, on the other hand, go out of their way to be friendly. On my first visit and on all my subsequent ones, I have never failed to easily fall into conversation with the other customers and the bar staff are always friendly.

Maybe this has something to do with the fact that The Crown is a co-operative, formed in 2003 when 125 customers clubbed together to buy the pub. The brewery behind the pub had become a co-operative a few years earlier so it made sense. Prince Charles has visited the pub a couple of times and was served a complimentary drink as he apparently doesn't carry any money with him. Maybe I'll try that next time!

The beer is supplied by Hesket Newmarket Brewery, also a co-operative and situated rihgt behind the pub. They range from Scafell Blonde, a pale golden beer which uses some lager malts - to the dark, maltiness of Great Cockup Porter, and many other delicious brews including Blencathra, Skiddaw Special and the legendary Doris' 90th Birthday Ale.

My personal favourite is the Skiddaw Special, which slides down exceedingly well with one of the Old Crown curries.

Old climbing equipment and signed pictures of various climbers are around the walls, including Chris Bonington who downed the first pint of 'Doris' back in 1998.

And at the end of the evening its just a short stagger along the road to Greenhill Farm which offers camping facilities in the field behind the farmhouse. Hopefully some forward planning will have taken place and the tent erected before a session in the pub - or working out just which pole goes where may be something of a trial...

Well appointed facilities at campsite

Jane Austen's Unseen Portrait 3

2011-12-29T14:33:00.010Z

Once again I am thinking about that darned Austen portrait when I should be doing other things. (Never mind Dr Byrne's forthcoming book, I have one of my own to get out and my deadline is next week - aaargh) So just a few notes and then I'll leave the thing alone for the rest of the day at least.

I found the evidence in the BBC Programme of various art and costume experts that the drawing was consistent with Dr Byrne's contention that it was drawn in 1815 fairly compelling. Both the materials and the costume tally with this date. There is the issue of the use of plumbago - lead on vellum - which as one expert points out, had gone out of fashion 100 years earlier. More on that later.

I've previously posted speculations on how the picture may have travelled from Eliza Chute to John Foster. So what, I'm wondering, is the evidence that it was painted by Eliza Chute as Dr Byrne suggests? As the programme pointed out, Eliza Chute knew the Austens, indeed the two families knew each other pretty well. James Austen, Jane's elder brother was clergyman to the Chutes and visited them practically every week. There are some excellent posts on Kelly McDonald's blog Two Teens in the Time of Austen about Eliza Chute and the Austens. Most interesting, I learned from her site that Eliza Chute was known to have used the medium of graphite on vellum. On this page is a portrait of Maria Smith, Lady Compton as she became. According to McDonald this was drawn by Eliza Chute in graphite on vellum. So although the medium was not popular, it does seem to have been the one favoured by Eliza Chute.

What else? Well the programme suggests the painting was drawn by an amateur but one whom had taken lessons in drawing. Eliza Chute's governess or possibly tutor was a Miss Meen. If this was Margaret Meen, she was a talented artist, specialising in botanical illustrations, and could well have taught Eliza how to draw.

Both Dr Byrne in the programme and Kelly McDonald in her blog answer the arguments about the spelling of Austen's name as 'Austin', which Eliza Chute consistently does in her journals when referring to the Austen family. I would think this makes it more likely that the picture is contemporary and not drawn after her life by a 'fan', who would surely have spelt her name Austen not Austin, as was the name on the frame, which was probably added at a later date.

The Austen portrait is clearly the work of a talented amateur and I think Eliza Chute fits the bill pretty well.

The more I look at the picture, the more it looks to me like a bit of fun, a bit tongue in cheek. And wouldn't that be so characteristic of Jane Austen? Here she is all got up in finery, wearing plenty of jewellery and with Westminster Abbey in the background. She's holding her pen and papers very deliberately, and, what's this? She seems to be writing backwards? (Noted by Claire Harman here)

Jane did enjoy mirror writing to entertain her neices - here's an extract from a letter dated 8 January 1817 to Cassandra Esten-Austen:

Ym raed Yssac

I hsiw uoy a yppah wen raey. Ruoy xis snisuoc emac ereh yadretsey, dna dah hcae a eceip fo ekac.

And so on.

Maybe the picture was a piece of fun, and a chance for Eliza to practice her portraiture, but the drawing was never intended to be a formal sitting or to be seen by anyone else?

Jane Austen's work had started to become recognised, in November 1815 James Stanier Clarke, librarian to the Prince Regent wrote to Jane:

Your late Works, Madam, and in particular Mansfield Park reflect the highest honour on your genius and your Principles; in every new work your mind seems to increase it's energy and powers of discrimination. The Regent has read & admired all your publications.

A month later, Jane writes back:

I must make use of this opportunity to thank you dear Sir, for the very high praise you bestow on my other Novels - I am too vain to wish to convince you that you have praised them beyond their Merit.

Typically tongue-in-cheek!

So, she is being recognised in the highest circles as a fine novelist. Why not dress up as one for a portrait, a piece of private amusement?

As it is not a picture to be taken too seriously, Eliza adds in some details of more interest to her than to Jane - a view from the window of the church where she was married, a cat on the table. The National Trust have produced an educational film about the Vyne, Eliza's home, in it they refer to Eliza by her full name Elizabeth. They also talk a lot about the cat. I've not read Eliza Chute's journals, but maybe she had a fondness for cats?

Of course Eliza was not to know that Jane would soon become ill and die only eighteen months later. And if this was the case, would Eliza Chute have volunteered such a picture to Jane's family after her death? If it were me I would not have done so, I'd have kept very quiet about it! This would explain why brother Henry and the rest of the family knew nothing about it.

I don't think we have any evidence that Jane Austen knew Eliza Chute particularly well or that Eliza knew of her fame as a writer, but then again, there is so much that we don't know. (And of the little that we collectively know, I know even less!) Maybe it's possible. And maybe when Jane Austen was in London for those three months in 1815 she and Eliza Chute became friendly. Maybe...

These are just my thoughts, thanks for reading. If I've got anything wrong please put me right, I am far from being an expert on this subject.

There is an interesting discussion here about the portrait.

Jane Austen's Unseen Portrait 2

2011-12-28T20:45:00.007Z

My theory that John Barnard Byles brought the Austen portrait into the Foster family needs further examination, I feel. After all, Frances Mary and John Nathaniel had a fairly large family and countless grandchildren. Hubert John was the youngest child. So, if my suppositions are correct, how come the picture ended up being passed down to him and then to John Foster? I've decided to look at the Wedd and Foster family at the time in a bit more detail.

In 1842, the time I think most likely that John Barnard Byles obtained the portrait from Wiggett Chute, he had been married to Emma Foster for five years. He had known Emma's sister, Frances Mary for at least nine years, as he had been married to her husband's sister, Hannah. He and Hannah had married in 1828 but Hannah had died the following year, aged 23, presumably in childbirth. Byles had been appointed Recorder of Buckingham in 1840 and was living in St Pancras, London according to the 1841 census with Emma and their baby son Walter. So he may have given the picture to Emma or to Frances as a gift. Or maybe Frances obtained the drawing from her sister after Emma's death in 1872.

John Nathaniel Foster and Frances Mary Wedd had, to my knowledge, eight children: Frances Emily, Mary Ellen, Francis John, Edward John, Harriette Jane, Albert John, Edith Ellen and Hubert John. By the time the Fosters purchase Sandy Place in 1867, Mary, Francis and Harriette have died. John and Frances live at Sandy Place until John's death in 1891. In John's will he leaves to his wife Sandy Park Estate for her life, and Frances Mary therefore continues to live there until her death four years later in 1895. After her death the property reverted to John's eldest son Edward, but unfortunately he died three weeks after his mother, on 1st April 1895. Edward's widow Mary Poole Foster and Hubert John Foster are joint Trustees of Edward's estate, incuding Sandy Place. Hubert at this time is working for the War Office in military intelligence and has been based in London for the past five years. It is planned to sell Sandy Place and so presumably the two of them arrange for their mother's house to be cleared of personal effects before the sale. This, I believe, is how the drawing then ends up in the possessions of Hubert John Foster.

In the event, not long after this, Hubert is posted to Canada where he remains for some time. Mary Poole Foster therefore undertakes the sale of Sandy Place, which is sold in 1897. This site has some useful information about Sandy Place although the facts are incorrect, as they have John Nathaniel as dying in 1895 not 1891 and Mary Poole as his widow, whereas she was in fact his daughter-in-law.

So the picture has now passed into the possession of Hubert John Foster. Foster had barely spent six of the past twenty years in England, he had been deployed to Cyprus and and taken part in the Egyptian war and occupation of Cairo in the early 1880's. Following this he was posted to Ireland from 1886 to 1890. He doesn't strike me as the sort of person who would be much bothered by a drawing his mother had possessed of Jane Austen, and in any event he spent the majority of the rest of his life abroad, becoming the Australian chief of staff, so no doubt had more pressing things on his mind. He died in Australia in 1919 and his property passed to his wife Mary Agatha Foster, and on her death twenty years later in 1941, to their only son, John.

John Foster had been left in the care of a governess and various schools in his childhood. His friend and co-founder of the Rothschild Foster Human Rights Trust, Miriam Rothschild said that in order to deal with the trauma of this he had become a man 'only interested in the present and future.' Is it possible therefore that he never even knew of the existence of this drawing, if he had inherited it from his mother? Perhaps the family effects were long stored up somewhere and he had never even looked at them. Or if he had, there's no particular reason why he should think it significant. Like his father, John Galway Foster was a busy man. Barrister and international law expert, during the war he was chief of the legal team under Eisenhower. After the war he took part in the Nuremburg Trials and worked tirelessley for victims of persecution. In addition to this he was an MP for thirty years and held Ministerial Office. He took silk (became a QC) in 1950. In all this activity it's hardly surprising if the little drawing wasn't given much thought.

Once again, large dollops of supposition. But one of the key questions has to be 'what was the drawing of Jane Austen doing in the possession of John Foster MP?' I hope that I have at least provided a plausible solution to this puzzle. What do you think?

Jane Austen's Unseen Portrait 1

2011-12-27T21:19:00.103Z

I was fascinated by the BBC2 documentary shown on Boxing Day concerning the portrait discovered by Dr Paula Byrne. Reading the press reports prior to the showing of the programme, many comments were, maybe not surprisingly, sceptical of the claims. After all Dr Byrne has a forthcoming biography of Austen coming out - how convenient, therefore, that her husband happened upon a hitherto unknown drawing of Austen in an auction. And how come no-one knew about it anyway? Serendipitous the find may be, but having watched the programme, I for one, was convinced that the drawing was an authentic one.

There are, of course, many questions that the discovery of the drawing raised:

Why had it not come to light before now?

Why were the Austen family not aware of the portrait?

Would Jane Austen have even sat for such a portrait?

Who would have drawn it?

Why did the artist get Austen's name wrong, spelling it 'Austin'?

Why did it turn up in the effects of John Galway Foster?

I am planning to write another post on why I think Dr Byrne's supposition that the portrait was drawn by Eliza Chute is persuasive. Not that I am in any way an expert (as my teenage daughter so ably points out!), it's just my opinion, for what it's worth. But here I want to concentrate on the provenance of the picture.

The portrait was bought by Dr Byrne's husband from a private seller, Roy Davids for £2000. He bought if for £50 in 1982. the seller was Anna de Goguel. Davids wrote to de Goguel to enquire about the provenance of the drawing but she wrote back and said she had no idea about the picture's history and did not think there were any papers relating to it. Unable to authenticate the portrait it was assumed to be imaginary. In the documentary Anna de Goguel's son reveals that the portrait was the property of one John Foster, for whom his mother was executrix. The letter to Mr Davids has as a letterhead John Foster's chamber's address (he was a barrister) so the evidence that the portrait belonged to John Foster seems pretty convincing.

So what was a portrait of Jane Austen, real or imaginary, doing in the personal effects of John Foster, human rights lawyer and Conservative MP for Northwich in Cheshire? The programme says that from here the trail goes cold. Well that was it! The gauntlet had been thrown down. I was intrigued and decided to try and find out more. It seemed to me that the provenance was key to deciding whether the portrait was genuinely one of Jane Austen. I've spent a long time researching my family history on the internet and decided to use the same techniques to see if I could find out any more.

John Galway Foster lived from 1904 until 1982. I have not been able to discover as yet why Anna de Goguel was appointed executrix. John Foster was, as the programme mentions, an exceptional character. But his childhood was not a happy one, he was left in the care of a governess and at school, in France and Germany, and it seems he barely knew his parents. His father was Hubert John Foster (1855-1919) and his mother was a Canadian, Mary Agatha Tobin. John was the only child of the marriage.

Brigadier General Hubert Foster, had been born in 1855, the son of John Nathaniel Foster of Biggleswade and was educated at Harrow and the Military Academy, Woolwich. He seems to have spent his life abroad following his military career, rising to Brigadier General and serving as chief of the general Australian staff in World War 1. He had married Mary Gough nee Tobin in 1904 at the British Consulate in Venice. He died in 1919 in New South Wales.

John Nathaniel Foster, John Foster's granfather, lived from 1802 until 1891. He was a coal and wine merchant, but obviously was doing quite well at it, owning some property in Biggleswade and later buying Sandy Place in Bedfordshire. He was a director of the Great Northern Railway and in 1870 served as High Sheriff of Bedfordshire.His married Frances Mary Wedd, a woman from a longstanding Dissenting family from Royston, Hampshire. The Wedd family had an interest in literature, indeed two of John Nathaniel and Frances' children went on to become writers, Albert John Foster and Edith Foster, better known as Edith Cuthell. Royston at the time was known for its Book Club, which both the Wedd family and the Nash family were involved.

So, what is the connection? Well in 1828 John Nathaniel Foster's sister Hannah married John Barnard Byles. Hannah died soon after, and in 1836 John married Emma Nash Wedd, Frances Wedd's sister and John Nathaniel's sister-in-law. She died in 1872.

And this is where the connection to the Chute's comes in, and how, I think, the picture of Jane Austen ended up in the Foster estate, because John Byles knew William Lyde Wiggett Chute, the owner of the Vyne, the family home of Eliza Chute.

Wiggett had inherited the house in 1827 but although he assumed the surname and coat of arms, did not move into the house until the death of Eliza Chute in 1842. After her death he set about major renovations to the house, including the library. The house had not been touched for some years by then.

John Barnard Byles was a barrister, in chambers in London at the same time as Wiggett Chute. They were a similar age. Wiggett was called to the bar in 1827, Byles in 1831. They both practiced law in the same area; Wiggett was High Sheriff in Norfolk at the same time that Byles was on the Norfolk circuit. It is inconceivable that they would have not known each other, and probably knew each other pretty well.

So my conjecture is: In 1842 Wiggett Chute was renovating Vyne. He had just taken possession after the death of Eliza. He was having a clear out of Eliza's things, as one does after a death. Wiggett is not a close relative of Eliza and is unlikely therefore to attach any great sentimentality to her sketches and other personal items. His friend, Byles has commented that his wife Emma or possibly his sister-in-law, Frances, was a fan of Jane Austen (this is conjecture of course) and so he had given her the portrait he has found, drawn by Eliza Chute, of no great significance, given that in 1842 Jane Austen was not a particularly well thought of writer. Byles takes the picture and gives it to his wife or sister-in-law as a present, thinking no more about it. One of them frames it adding the dates of her birth and death. Emma dies in 1872.

By the time Austen is once more becoming famous in the 1870's the picture has become more or less forgotten about. Hubert John Foster is abroad doing his army thing, and his son John, educated abroad and with his unhappy childhood, has little interest in his family's possessions. Never married and having no children, on his death the picture is sold. By this time, of course, no-one has any idea where it came from.

It's just a theory and includes a lot of supposition and speculation. But I think it's plausible...if you have any information either in support or in opposition to this theory I would love to hear it.

Postcript - I have received some interesting new information (see comments to part three 29.12.11) which complicates matters as it seems the portrait was left to Foster by his governess.

My Favourite Pubs - Hunter's Lodge Inn, Priddy

2011-12-17T18:40:00.013Z

I was supposed to be out walking with Yvonne today but am confined to the house with a horrible lurgy. I'm sat shivering under a quilt, a blanket and a four seasons sleeping bag. I should be using my involuntary confinement to write my Christmas cards. I need to sit down and get on with it. Soon. In a minute. As a displacement activity, I thought I would begin to compile a list of some of the favourite pubs I have come across in my beer travels. I know I have only scratched the surface and that there are many fine pubs out that I don't know about, so any suggestions are most welcome.

Today's top pub:

Hunters Lodge Inn, Priddy

I love this pub. It's an effort to get to, sat on a lonely crossroads a couple of miles outside the ancient settlement of Priddy at the top of the Mendip Hills. This is Bronze Age barrow country, Roman lead mining country, folk festival and sheep fair country. It's also caving country. On the side of the pub in the carpark is a low square stone structure with a metal gate at the top. It looks like it might contain a well. In fact it is the entrance to Hunters Lodge Inn Sink, one of the many caves on Mendip. And just the other side of Priddy is Swildon's Hole, the longest cave on Mendip.

The exterior is unprepossessing, like many buildings up on Mendip it is faced with a grey pebbledash, and the pub sign hasn't been painted for many a year. Nor has the inside. This is one of those joyous discoveries, a pub which hasn't been mucked about with. It is clean and homely, in winter the fires will be burning in the grates, and the flagstone floors have been polished by countless boots crossing the threshold. No jukebox or faux Olde Englishe decor here, this is the real thing. I particularly like the ancient wallpaper, pre-historic figures hunting, which must be at least 50 years old.

The landlord and his wife, Roger and Jackie, are diamonds. Many the time my friends and I have staggered over the threshold after a mis-timed caving trip, mud splattering our faces, fifteen minutes before closing time and starving hungry.

'You' want some food?' Roger gives one of his half smiles and Jackie goes off to the kitchen to sort us out. None of the usual 'the kitchen is only open between 6 and 9' bollocks. Hearty bowls of chilli, pasta, macaroni cheese and other delights are all served with huge doorsteps of the most delicious fresh bread. As for the beer, I have been visiting this pub for years and have never, never, had even a slightly out of condition beer. It is always tip top. Dispensed by gravity from barrels lined up behind the bar, the local Cheddar Ales Potholer is always available, as is Butcombe. I don't know how Roger does it, but the Butcombe Beer here is the best I have tasted. There's generally one or two other guest ales and cider as well.

Local farmers and villagers, walkers, cavers and cyclists rub shoulders here. As long as you are not a prat (Roger doesn't suffer fools gladly) and as long as you turn off your mobile phone in the pub, you will love it.

See also my blog entry for 25 March 2011 Mission Abandoned

By the way, don't try and find a website for the pub, you will be wasting your time!

Jane Austen, Mary Anning and Mr Bennett

2011-12-11T18:50:00.016Z

I have been researching my family history, of which I knew virtually nothing before I started this little project. I knew that my dad was brought up in Knowle West and that his parents were Bristolians. My mum had originally come from Bideford in Devon, as did her mum. Her father, my grandad, was an East End boy. That was about the extent of my knowledge and for many years, the extent of my interest as well. As I get older though, I find myself taken with a strong urge to dig a little deeper into my roots.

So far my research has been confined to the armchair and the internet. Soon I am planning to venture out into the world of County Record Offices. But even sat on my backside I have discovered some interesting stuff about my family, not least the information I have found about my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather John Bennett and his wife Maria.

This is John Bennett. When I first saw this I was rather startled as he bears a striking similarity to my dad. (Honestly! I'll find a pic and scan it in) The BBC in conjunction with the Public Catalogue Foundation have a brilliant online catalogue which aims to show the entire UK publicly owned collection of oil paintings, not just your Canalettos and your Constables, but paintings by lesser known and unknown artists as well, and I found him and his wife there.

This is Mrs Maria Bennett, of her I can see no family resemblance. I must admit this is something of a relief, she's no oil painting!
I expect she had a lovely personality though...

So I'm off to Lyme Regis soon to take a look at them in the flesh, as it were.

No-one knows who painted them, they were found by another Bennett descendant gathering dust in her father's garage...her name was Pam Bennett Gupta and I discovered that she had written a book: The Bennetts of Lyme Regis 1762-1911 which was full of interesting information. I'm in the process of trying to trace her as well.

John Bennett had come to Lyme as a boy; when he got there he began a seven year apprenticeship as a cordwainer, a sort of upmarket shoemaker, before setting up in business on his own. He had married Maria in 1788 and in 1802 they took up a house in Bridge Street right in the centre of Lyme and next door to the Anning family. At the time Mary Anning, the future fossil collector, would have been aged 3. Her father Richard was a cabinet maker. He carried out a valuation which displeased the Austen family - of which more later. Richard also had an interest in collecting fossils which at one stage or another involved the whole family .

Richard and Mary (known as Molly) Anning had had six children by the time the Bennetts moved in next door, but only two of them survived, Joseph, aged 5 and Mary. Molly went on to have three more children but none of them lived long. Mary herself had been lucky to survive; two years previously she had been in the arms of a neighbour, Elizabeth Haskins, who was standing with two other women under a tree watching a show being performed by a travelling company. The tree was struck by lightening and all three women were killed. Mary somehow survived.

When the Bennetts moved into Bridge Street, John was about 40 and Maria 42. Maria had given birth to eight children, three of whom had died in infancy, the surviving children were Henry (12), Maria (11), Elizabeth (9), Eleanor (6), Ann (3) and John (1). She went on to have two more children, Thomas in 1803 and William in 1804. The younger Bennett children would have grown up with Joseph and Mary Anning next door and it is perfectly conceivable that they played and went on fossil hunting expeditions together...

Hardly any of Jane Austen's letters survive from the years 1801 to 1805 (her sister Cassandra destroyed most of them), but from the few that do, we know that Jane stayed in Lyme in 1803 and 1804 and of course Lyme features in Persuasion, published in 1818, the year after her death. By the time of her stay in Lyme she had written drafts of three novels: Elinor and Marianne, First Impressions and Susan, but none of them had, as yet, found a publisher.

Of her 1803 visit nothing is known, but we know more about her stay in 1804 thanks to the survival of a letter Jane wrote to Cassandra on September 14th of that year. Jane had come to Lyme with her family, but half the party had subsequently headed on to Weymouth. Of Weymouth, Jane wrote:
'it is altogether a shocking place, I perceive, without recommendation of any kind, & worthy only of being frequented by the inhabitants of Gloucester.'
I read this as a dig at the Royal Family; George III stayed at Weymouth no less than fourteen times in the six years between 1799 and 1805, at Gloucester Lodge, the home of his brother the Duke of Gloucester. Weymouth at the time would have been filled with exactly the sort of flamboyant pleasure seekers that she abhorred. Jane definitely was not keen on the grotesque Prince Regent who took over when George III was so mad he couldn't carry on. Having no choice but to comply with the Royal 'request' to dedicate Emma to him, she did so in typically tongue-in- cheek fashion:
To his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, this work is most respectfully dedicated, by his Royal Highness's dutiful and obedient humble servant, the author.
There's an interesting article on Austen and the Prince Regent here.

So Jane stayed in the quieter, more provincial Lyme. It's not known with certainty where she stayed, but is most likely to be Pyne House on Broad Street and there is a blue plaque outside to this effect. The house is literally a few yards up the road from where the Bennetts and the Annings lived. What a pity Jane does not mention visiting Mr Bennett to buy a lovely pair of shoes from him!

She does mention Richard Anning though.
'I have written to Buller & I have written to Mr* Pyne, on the subject of the broken lid; it was valued by Anning here we were told at five shillings, & as that appeared to us beyond the value of all the furniture in the room together, we have referred ourselves to the owner.'
It isn't clear what the 'lid' refers to, although a number of websites refer to a 'broken teapot' or 'broken jug'. I think this is unlikely, I'm guessing it's more likely to be the lid to a box or cabinet. After all, why would one ask a cabinet maker to value a teapot? Also Jane refers to 'all the furniture in the room together', implying the broken item was furniture rather than crockery. In any event, they didn't think much of poor Mr Anning's valuation.

Jane also mentions attending the Assembly Rooms at Lyme:
The Ball last night was pleasant, but not full for Thursday. My father staid very contentedly till half-past nine (we went a little after eight), and then walked home with James and a lanthorn, though I believe the lanthorn was not lit, as the moon was up; but this lanthorn may sometimes be a great convenience to him. My mother and I staid about an hour later.
Sounds like she was often there on a Thursday; in a town the size of Lyme there was probably little else to do. We have a description of the Assembly Rooms from Constance Hill's 1902 book: Jane Austen: her Homes and her Friends:
The Assembly Rooms used formerly to be thrown open to company during the season twice a week, namely on Tuesdays and Thursdays...the ball-room is little changed since Miss Austen danced in it that September evening nearly a hundred years ago. It has lost its three glass chandeliers which used to hang from the arched ceiling, but these may still be seen in a private house in the neighbourhood The orchestra consisted, we are told, of three violins and a violoncello.

There are some pictures and information about this here. Sadly the Assembly Rooms have now lost more than their chandeliers. They were flattened in 1928 and all that is on the site now is a municipal car-park.

In his portrait John Bennett is holding a piece of music. As well as his day job making shoes, John was a proficient violinist who regularly played at the Assembly Rooms. I wonder whether he was playing there that night in September 1804 when Jane was there?
Nobody asked me the two first dances; the two next I danced with Mr. Crawford, and had I chosen to stay longer might have danced with Mr. Granville, Mrs. Granville's son, whom my dear friend Miss Armstrong offered to introduce to me, or with a new odd-looking man who had been eyeing me for some time, and at last, without any introduction, asked me if I meant to dance again.

Elinor and Marianne was eventually published as Sense and Sensibility, First Impressions became Pride and Prejudice and Susan became Northanger Abbey. Although Lyme features heavily in her later novel, Persuasion, we don't know of any other visits Jane Austen made to Lyme.

Neither the Bennett's or the Anning's house survive, the Lyme Regis Museum now stand there instead, where the portraits of John and Maria Bennett hang on the main stairs. It's a pity my dad is no longer with us - he would have loved that!

It's amazing what one can discover from the comfort of one's living room. Imagine what I might find if I actually got up and went outside?

The Cotswold Fringe

2011-12-07T16:58:00.011Z

I'll say one thing for my teenage daughter - she gets me out of the house. This morning she was growling around the place like a bear cub with toothache. When she announced she would be late going to college that day - something about her teacher was off sick and anyway she had to do her make-up (a minimum of an hour for this), I abandoned any idea of getting some writing done and instead I donned my boots, left her to it, and strode off down the road. It was a bright and beautiful December day and I did want to test my new insoles after the agonies of Boscastle. Or so I reasoned anyway.

I had crossed three fields before I gave any thought to where I was heading. At that point I realised I had, in my haste to leave the house, forgotten to pack my OS map. Never mind, I decided to take a regular route up Kelston Round Hill, and one which I have completed many times before, but which I never tire of, the view is superlative. On a clear day like today I could see across the Severn to Wales and down to the ridge of the Mendips, the soft, green hills of Somerset rising and falling like a gentle quilt over the land.

Cotwold Way up to Prospect Stile

The wind however was fair whipping round the tump and so before too long I headed down the other side of the hill and joined the Cotswold way for a short stretch to four ways, just below Prospect Stile. Here the lane from North Stoke to Weston near Bath crosses the Cotswold Way. The former is clearly an ancient pathway, as there was a Roman Villa at North Stoke and this is the obvious route there from the Roman town of Aquae Sulis, it is possible that the path dates from at least Roman times. I decided to turn off the Cotswold Way and head down the lane as of the four routes, this was the only one I had never tried. Well I've done it now, but I doubt I will bother going that way again. The lane headed down the hill and came out in the upper part of Weston, necessitating a trek down to the village. I may as well have turned right off the tump, I would have ended in the same place and the route is more scenic and less muddy.

After yesterday's downpours the lane was something of a quagmire and I slithered and squelched my way down the lane, all the while collecting more and more mud on the soles of my boots. By the time I reached the bottom I felt like I was wearing leaded boots like my Deep Sea Diver Action Man used to wear when I was a kid (handed down from my older, male cousin). I could barely lift each leg up as I stomped my way into Weston. I was also very hungry and was relieved to see that the bakers was full of people in wellies and boots so didn't feel too bad about stomping in there to buy a cheese and salad roll for sustenance.

Munching on the roll I wandered on down the main street. I spotted a sign for the ongoing section of the Cotswold Way into Bath and on a whim I followed the sign. To my surprise, as I knew Bath was straight on, the path turned left at the church and started climbing a rather steep hill. The Cotswold Way is clearly determined to keep it scenic all the way. After puffing my way up a lane and a field or two the path signposted off the right. Now I was in something of a quandary. My home was about six miles west. Bath was two miles east. So, I could either follow the Cotswold Way all the way to Bath and then get on a train, I cold retrace my steps, or I could just keep climbing the hill and hopefully at the top get a fix on my whereabouts to strike out for home. I decided on the third option and kept climbing up the hill. After all the effort so far, it seemed like a waste not to at least try and get to the top. That way, I reasoned, it should hopefully be downhill all the way home.

On the way up I was treated to magnificent views of what I regard as the 'back' of Kelston Hill. For me the 'front' of the hill is the one I can see from my kitchen window although no doubt Bathonians would disagree. The path passed through Primrose Community Woodland from which I discovered that I was climbing Primrose Hill. The Woodland is run by a community trust. Judging by the signs around the place they seems to have a thing about dogshit, which is fair enough, I'm not keen either, but a long rant about it on the front page of their website doesn't exactly encourage one to visit:

The collection box is now in place, when you visit the wood just think about all the costs involved in this wood and empty your pockets and purses into the box. However, just after it was installed one selfish dog owner allowed their dog to foul the ground right by the collection box and didn't clear it up. There are just a few dog walkers who are determined to give all dog owners a bad name. Just remember that it is these same people whose lack of care resulted in dog walkers being banned from other sites around Bath. So, it is up to everyone to keep their eyes open to identify those who wish to foul it up for everybody else. If you see anybody not being responsible, please gently remind them of the bins. If anyone objects to this please send details of dog and owner to the trustees.

If I was a dog owner I would feel unwelcome and if not a dog owner, why would I want to go somewhere covered in dogshit?

Anyway, I managed to cross the woodland unscathed. As the path emerged into a hillocky field, there was a magnificent view of Lansdown (Beckford's) Tower, its gilded top gleaming in the winter sunshine. Born in 1759, William Beckford was the son of 'Alderman' Beckford who had made vast amounts of money on the back of Jamaican sugar and slavery and was one of the richest men in England.

Filthy rich, ridiculously eccentric and pilloried for being homosexual; William Beckford scandalised and fascinated Victorian society in equal measure. He made no money in his lifetime but was extraordinarily talented at spending it. He had Lansdown Tower built after he moved to Bath from the enormous gothic Fonthill Abbey, the largest private house ever built in the UK, but which unfortunately collapsed under it's own weight in 1825. Beckford had sold Fonthill in 1823 to clear his debts. He didn't stop spending though, and had the tower built to house his now somewhat depleted art collection. He died in 1844.
(A useless piece of trivia - Beckford was also the great-great-great-grandfather of Prince Rainer III of Monaco.)

Well, back on the top of Lansdown it was getting very cold so after admiring the tower I set off across the ridge across playing fields and then Lansdown Racecourse to rejoin the Cotswold Way at Prospect Stile.

Prospect Stile

Lansdown Racecourse

The lane to North Stoke

From here it was a pleasant trot down the lane to North Stoke and then Swineford. I did hesitate just before Swineford when I came to a sign on the stile which said "BEEF BULLS IN FIELD'. I know that beef bulls are not supposed to be aggressive but I could see one of them and it was a big bastard. But there was no way I wanted to go all the way round so I found a stick in the hedge, just in case, and strode across the field. The bull stood and stared at me for a while but didn't move. Nevertheless I was relieved when I vaulted over the stile at the other side of the field.

All the stress, I felt, justified a pit stop at the Swan Inn for a pint of Gem from Bath Ales Brewery. This is one of my favourite beers, it's just a shame it's always on the expensive side. I nicely asked the barman to fill it right to the top, no way I was going to settle for 90% full at over three quid a pint. From the Swan it was a short walk across the field to the railway bridge that crosses the Avon and then back across the fields to my home. A good walk although the bad news was that my new insoles had made no difference whatsoever, for the last few miles my feet were in agony and I kept letting out involuntary whimpers of pain. Only one cure for footache like that - give them a good soak in a bowl of water whilst simultaneously sipping a nice bottle of Old Speckled Hen.

Cows on Lansdown

River Avon

My Route is Here

Thomas Hardy and St Juliot's

2011-11-25T09:57:00.016Z

In 1870 the twenty-nine year old Thomas Hardy was working as an architect for George Crickmay, based in Weymouth. Hardy had been hoping to become a writer, but had been unable to find a publisher for his first novel, The Poor Man and The Lady. Hardy was working on a second novel, Desperate Remedies, but had not yet found a publisher for that one either and he had reluctantly decided he would have to work full time in the profession for which he had been trained.

Crickmay had been given the commission to restore the parish church at St Juliot in the Valency Valley and he asked Hardy to go and survey the church. When he arrived, the reverend, Rev'd Holder was unwell, and he was greeted by Holder's sister-in-law, Emma Gifford. Four years later, in September 1874 they were married. By now Hardy had published Desperate Remedies, Under the Greenwood Tree, A Pair of Blue Eyes and Far From the Madding Crowd and finally had achieved sufficient success with his novels to allow him to give up architectural work and concentrate on his writing. A Pair of Blue Eyes draws strongly on his experiences whilst in Cornwall and there are many parallels between the heroine Elfride and Emma. Hardy's marriage was not a particularly happy one and after her death he was said to be overcome with remorse which he expressed in his poetry. When in his seventies he returned to St Juliot's and commissioned a memorial tablet for her in the church.

St Juliot's church is only about two miles away from Boscastle so I decided to go and take a look. It's an easy walk along the course of the River Valency. I was retracing the route I had taken on my first day in Boscastle. This time, knowing how muddy it was, and as the walk was short I elected to wear wellies rather than the walking boots, which by now I hated the sight of. They were crippling me and I simply couldn't help thinking it was personal. The wellies were great and a happily sloshed my way along the very muddy track that leads from the carpark in Boscastle up the valley. The wellies also meant I could muck about on the stepping stones I came across and indulge in a bit of light stream bashing.

As the path climbed gradually higher the ground underfoot dried out. I passed the hamlet of New Mills and then after going a bit farther I found myself in a field with no signpost to indicate the direction of the church. There had, for the last few hundred yards, been a chap walking in front of me. He had now disappeared but as I stood there dithering he emerged from the field up to my left.
'It's up this way!' he said, and then turned and stode off. I looked after him doubtfully. For one, I was carrying my trusty OS Explorer map which showed the church as being straight on, and secondly, how did he know where I was heading? For all I know he could have meant 'it's this way' to Bude. Or Bideford. I decided to ignore him and carry on across the field straight ahead. Five minutes later the little church of St Juliots came into view.

The church is in a beautiful location and I took five minutes to sit in the churchyard before venturing inside. There was the memorial tablet Hardy had commissioned for Emma and nearby, one for Hardy himself placed there after his death in 1928 'as a record of his assocation with the church & neighbourhood.'

I was very taken with the Hardy memorial window, commissioned by the Thomas Hardy Society to mark the millenium. As I was admiring it, the chap whom I had ignored came into the church. When he saw me he looked a bit abashed.
'Terribly sorry,' he said. 'I told you the wrong way, didn't I?'
'That's ok, I ignored you,' I said. Which didn't sound quite right somehow. 'Erm, that is, I wasn't sure if you knew where I was headed,' I said, backpeddling.
'Yes well, um, I'll leave you in peace, I can always come back tomorrow, I'm only staying in the rectory,' he mumbled. And he was gone.Oh well. Leaving the church I headed back the way I had come to Boscastle.

When I got back to hostel I found that I had company for the first time since I had arrived. A couple in their seventies (people who stay in rural youth hostels are rarely youthful) had turned up for the night. It turned out that Margaret was a keen walker but her husband, Peter, wasn't. However he didn't like her going out walking on her own so insisted on coming with her. But then he wouldn't walk anyway. This made Margaret quite cross and she would complain about him every time he left the room.

As this was my last night I had planned to eat out at one of the pubs. I had been very parsimonious all week and had cooked frugally at the hostel and I had been looking forward to a large plate of whitebait followed by the catch of the day. Peter and Margaret were having none of it. They insisted, absolutely insisted, despite my protestations, that I share their meal. I had no choice but to capitulate, and sat down with them to eat. They were good company though, and it was kind of them to share their steak three ways...

After dinner they said they were turning in for the night. It was only half-past seven and a little early for my bedtime so I decided to try out the other two pubs in the village. The Cobweb Inn was once a warehouse, and was converted to a pub in 1946 although the building itself dates from the eighteenth century. Inside it was almost deserted which I suppose is not surprising in November. I didn't feel inclined to stay for more than one pint, and wandered over to the Wellington Hotel (The Welly).Of the three pubs in Boscastle, I found The Welly to be the friendliest. The barstaff were friendly and in the comfortable atmosphere it was easy to fall into conversation with other patrons in the bar. I liked it very much. I had a pint of Spriggan (I think it was) from Skinners Brewery.The Wellington, being in the Bridge area of Boscastle at the bottom of the valley and at the confluence of three rivers,Valency, Jordan and Paradise (aren't they lovely names?) suffered badly in the 2004 floods.

'How high did the water come then?' I asked the barmaid, looking around the bar for some kind of marker. She laughed. 'You won't find it here!' she said, 'follow me.' She led me up the stairs to the first floor, where on the wall above the tables was a wooden board stating the flood level in 2004. It turned out the whole of the ground level had been underwater. Not that you would know it now, not here or anywhere in Boscastle, not obviously anyway. Amazingly, the red lamps in the bar of the Welly survived. They were lamps that had orginally been hung in the church of Juliot's by one Thomas Hardy when he undertook its restoration.

Boscastle to Crackington Haven

2011-11-24T11:29:00.222Z

Last night I had climbed the hill to the Nap for a couple of pints. The pub was quite full with visitors enjoying an evening meal. Suddenly the phone of a woman at the bar beeped with the sound of an incoming text. All us emmets looked up sharply. (An emmet is a pejorative word for tourists but I am reclaiming it.) A text? How? How can you get a text in Boscastle? (You can tell an emmet in Boscastle by the way they keep staring at their phone and then holding it up in the air before stuffing it bad temperedly back in their pocket.) Apparently a certain network named after a citrus fruit is the only one that functions here, and even then it's patchy. (Isn't it interesting how hi-tech products are linked with fruit: Orange, Apple, Blackberry. Nothing branded Melon yet, I wonder why.)

Anyway I was on the wrong network so before I set off on today's walk I indulged in a bit of phone waving standing on top of Queen Victoria's Head (see here and my post dated 22/11/2011.) Don't know why I bothered, no-one had texted me anyway. Sighing, I headed off towards Crackington Haven, today's destination. The first section, as far as Fire Beacon Hill, retraced the route I had taken on Tuesday. once again I got a soaking at Pentargon waterfall before deciding that as I had already climbed Fire Beacon Hill once this week, that I was justified in taking the slightly shorter inland route this time.

Rejoining the main path, the route heads past the spectacular Buckator Cliffs. Since leaving Boscastle I had not seen a soul, and the only sounds were the crashing of the waves below and the screetch of gulls swooping on the crags and cliffs. I noticed that many of the hawthorne trees had a beautiful pale green lichen on them, presumably indicative of the clean, sea air. The path was doing it's usual switchback thing, I soon realised however that the dips and climbs I had experienced so far were simply a warm-up. The coast was gearing up for The Big One - the climb up High Cliff, at 731feet this is the highest cliff in Cornwall. More puffing, grumbling and gasping ensued as I struggled to the top. Once at the top it was magnificent, however. In front of me I could see the empty golden beaches of the Strangles and Little Strand, separated by Samphire Rock. At the top end of Little Strand was Northern Door, an arch formation on the beach. I had intended to climb down to have a look but it was such a long climb down and back that I decided, on this occasion to admire it from afar and come back when I had sorted my footwear out.

It had started raining and in a few minutes I came across the only humans I had seen for hours, a couple headed the other way. We stopped to exchamge pleasantries and they asked me what time I had left Boscastle. 'Half-nine,' I said. Their faces visibly fell. 'What time is it now?' I asked.
'One o'clock,' came the reply.
'Oh but I'm slow, really slow,' I said. 'I'm sure you'll do it much quicker than I did.' I'm not sure if I totally reassured them though.
'It's only an hour to Crackington from here,' said the woman, enviously.

Amazingly, given my pace, it was indeed not much more than an hour before I found myself tottering into the metropolis of Crackington Haven. Considering the time of year and size of the place (tiny) I was rather pleased to have a choice of places to eat. There was the Coombe Barton Inn and the Cabin Cafe. I picked the Cabin for two reasons: it was 200 yards closer and I fancied a cup of tea rather than a pint.

The Cabin turned out to be an excellent cafe. I ordered a tea and got a proper big pot rather than a crappy tea-bag in a cup as you often get, and soup of the day which was celery and cashew-nut and which was superb. They had a lovely comfy sofa and today's papers. Stretched out on the sofa, feeling snug and warm, I felt extremely contented. The buses were not so fortuitious as at Tintagel, a three hour wait, but somehow it didn't seem to matter.

After lunch I had a wander around the beach. Crackington Haven is famous for it's geological formations and folding. The best examples are farther up the coast between here and Bude, as I mention in my post dated 08/11/2011, but all along the coast from Boscastle to Crackington Haven there are plentiful examples of the contrasting grey shales and veins of quartzite sandstone, known as the Crackington Formation. The stones are attractive and there are signs asking people not to take them away, they are an important protection again erosion of the cliffs and bay. See here.

This was washed up on the beach. I don't know what it is - but it immediately made me think of John Donne's poem 'Song'
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot;

The only blot on an otherwise spotless beach was this bag of dog-poo. Why do people do it? I don't understand it. Yes, wrap it up - but the next step is to put it in the bin! These days I notice whenever I go for walks in popular areas, ubiquitous blue or black bags of dog shit - stuffed in hedges, even hanging from trees! Who on earth thinks it's a good idea to put dog shit in a bag and hang it like a sodding christmas decoration? People are odd aren't they?

The bus back to Boscastle took a circuitous route due to various roadworks and dropped me at the top of the hill, so I took the opportunity for a quick pint without having to earn it by climbing the hill before heading down to Boscastle Harbour.

Boscastle to Tintagel

2011-11-23T14:16:00.160Z

South West Coast Path signpost

Cornish dry stone wall

Having headed north yesterday, today I thought I would try a section of the coast path south of Boscastle. Leaving the hostel I crossed the new bridge which has been built since the floods. It's much less picturesque than the old one but has a wider span. The old bridge was something of a bottleneck and so as part of the new flood defences it was decided to put a wider bridge across the river. As I climbed out of Boscastle I realised that I should have gone to the loo before setting off. I had drunk several cups of tea at breakfast and I am now of the age when it is definitely one-cup-in-one-wee-out. I looked up and down, there was no one about, so I had a quick pee by the side of the path.

Willapark Coastguard Station

Farther up I soon came to the path which leads to Willapark with it's white coastguard station perched high on the promontory. The door was open so I went to take a look. Three oldish chaps were in there peering out of the windows.
'I reckon it's that one,' said one of them, looking at a sheet with pictures of various vessels on it.
'That one's white. The one out there is blue,' said one of the others. They turned to me, as I stood in the doorway.

'Come on in!' they said. 'Here, take a look at this, what do you see?'
I peered down the telescope at a tiny spec far out to sea. 'Um, it's a boat, but that's all I can tell you,' I said.
'Never mind,' they said.
I noticed a chart on the wall which said "walkers on coast path". 'Do you track walkers as well then?' I asked. 'If they're on their own, we do, yes. Just in case. You're kitted out fine but you would be amazed what some people wear to walk the path. We try and keep an eye out for them where we can.'
They then told me about an incident a couple of weeks previously when a prison officer had called on them. He had been taking a group of low risk offenders for a walk when one of his party had absconded. Had the coastguards seen him? They confirmed that they could see the offender legging it across a field. Apparently he was finally picked up in a pub in Tintagel. The coastguard told me that they were all volunteers, I was impressed. I waved them goodbye and then as I trudged back down to the main path an awful thought struck me. When I had stopped for a pee it would have been in full view of the coastguard station. I fervently hoped they had been looking the other way.

Ladies Window

The path hugged the coastline and I enjoyed watching the waves pounding the coast. Soon I reached Ladies Window, a natural arch formation in the cliff and I sat for a while on another of those memorial benches. It was about now that I realised that I had a problem with my boots, which were causing me a lot of pain on the front of my feet. They were fairly new and the ground was particularly hard here. Heading on there was a spectacular down and then up at the canyon at the end of Rocky Valley, a beautiful valley where the Trevillett River joins the sea. There is a sign warning you not to go too near the edge, freak waves have been known to sweep people from here into the sea. It looked pretty calm though, so I climbed past the sign and sat on the rocks for a while enjoying the view and resting my sore toes.

The climb up the other side once again reminded me of my lack of fitness as my puffed my way up. In full view now was the controversial hotel known as Camelot Castle. I have never stayed there, and at 200 quid a night I'm not likely to either, but Trip Advisor is worth a read if you are planning a visit. The path rounded another spur known as Barras Nose before dropping down to the (closed) visitor centre and (closed) island on which sits the remains of Tintagel castle. I know it's November but I still couldn't see why English Heritage couldn't open for a few hours. After all, with global warming, winter days can be lovely and warm. There were a few disconsolate souls milling about, obviously disappointed that they couldn't get onto the island. Apparently this is the first year that they haven't opened the castle during the week and unsurprisingly, local businesses say they are suffering.

Superlative North Cornish coast

I plodded up the steps and considered what to do. My feet were killing me now. I decided to head into Tintagel and try and find a pub or cafe open to give them a rest. I wandered up and down the main street; The King Arthur's Arms was open and looked like they had a reasonably priced menu so I stopped there for fish and chips and a fine pint of Cornwall's Pride from Tintagel Brewery and read a few more chapters of Mike Parker's new book, The Wild Rover.

After an hour or so, sated with food and ale I regretfully heaved myself out of my seat and padded in my socks over to the door. I thought about the five miles of switchback coast path I had in front of me to get back to Boscastle. I baulked at the thought of the climb down and up Rocky Valley and decided to take the road for at least the first section. Five minutes along the road I came upon a bus stop. This was rural Cornwall and it was mid-week in November. I fully expected the timetable to say the next bus was due on Saturday afternoon. That's what it would have said in my area of Bath and North East Somerset (BANES!!). Anyway, I could hardly believe my luck when I read the timetable and a bus was due in three minutes time. Awesome!

So I rode the bus back to Boscastle for two pounds, purchased some provisions in the local store and limped back to the hostel to cook my tea. I was currently the only resident, and with no radio or TV, no phone signal, and no wifi the place was very, um, peaceful. I was getting a lot of reading done.

route here

Boscastle

2011-11-22T11:21:00.010Z

I've gone down to Boscastle for a few days. The weather on the way down was foul, driving rain and howling wind, and I was pleased I'd packed quite a few books to read. "I'm not going to get much walking done this week," I thought ruefully. I had arrived at five o'clock last night and had got a soaking trudging up the hill to the pub. But amazingly this morning had dawned bright and clear. Aside from the fleeting visit in April (see post dated 08 April 2011), I had not visited Boscastle before, so decided today to explore the cliffs and the area around the village.

The youth hostel sits right on the harbour, which is why it took such a hammering in the 2004 floods. The building next to it, the Harbour Light, dating from the sixteen century had been completely demolished and the youth hostel itself had been badly damaged. But now it has been completely refurbished, and to a very high standard. Staying there for £10 a night but an absolute bargain. As for the Habour Light next door, that has been completely re-built, resemblingas much as possible the old building that had been destroyed.

The South West Coast path is right behind the hostel so I decided to start my exploration here. The path leads past a small row of cottages known as Penally Terrace. They seem to be mainly holiday cottages now but once housed people working in Boscastle's thriving fishing industry and at the rear were purpose built fish cellars. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries Boscastle had a thriving trade exporting pilchards, mainly to Italy. The arrival of the railway at Camelford in 1893 put an end to the seabourne trade however.
The coast path heads of to the right, but I detoured up to Penally Point, the cliff at the end of the harbour, also known as Queen Victoria's Head, due to it's resemblance to her profile. You can sort of see it if you squint and catch it at the right angle...The rock at the top has been worn smooth, no doubt by people like me who discover that the only place in the village that you can get a phone signal is at the top of the cliff.

The best thing about Penally Point however is the blow-hole, a hole which goes right through the bottom of the cliff. At low tide the sea makes a glorious booming noise as the water rushes through, and when the conditions are right the sea sprays right out across the harbour. It is possible to scuba dive through the blowhole when conditions are calm and there is not too much swell from the sea.
From Penally Point its a down and up to Penally Hill, where a weather vane in the shape of a fish tells sailors the wind direction, as it's not possible to judge this from the calm of Bostcastle Harbour. Considering it was November and yesterday had been awful, I was pleased that the sun was attempting to shine as I made my way along the path to Pentargon waterfall. At times the path ran un-nervingly close to the edge of the cliff and notices warned the unwary. It was not so much the 'steep' as the 'crumbling' bit that un-nerved me, especially after the downpours of the day before.

It was soon after Pentargan waterfall that I began to realise how hopelessly unfit I was. The path climbs steeply up and around the cliff and I was wheezing and gasping for breath. I dragged myself up the path, ever thankful for the nice, thoughtful people who had put benches along the way to remember loved ones. 'How much nicer than a vase or a big headstone in a forgotten cemetary,' I thought, as I slumped gratefully onto the seat. By the time I had struggled up Fire Beacon Point I had had enough of the climbs. My fitness definitely needed working on. I headed on a path inland and picked up a lane near Manor Farm. A swift change of route was required when I was chased by a farm dog - this seemed to be a feature of man of my walks in Cornwall, but eventually I crossed the B3263 and made may way down the steep lane to New Mills in the Valency Valley. New Mills is a cluster of cottages and the path went along the front of one of them before turning into a very pleasant, if somewhat muddy, path alongside the River Valency. As it meandered and tinkled along, it was hard to believe that this river had been the cause of so much destruction a few years previously. I appreciated the lack of gradient very much and fair skipped my way into the carpark at Boscastle where the path comes to an end.

I decided that I had earned a pint. I knew that there were three pubs in the village, two I had spotted though not yet tried, so where was the third? I asked directions in one of the shops and he pointed me up the hill. I then realised that Boscastle is in fact two villages - the one on the harbour and the one on the hill. They have gradually been merging as new places are built, but are still distinct. The harbour area had built around the sea trade, whilst the upper partof Boscastle had grown up around the Norman castle built by Bottreaux, and from whom Boscastle derives its name. Nothing remains of the castle now, which is simply a picnic area with nice views, easily accessible from the road up the hill.

And what a hill! The Old Road climbs steeply up, and then flattens out as it bends to the left. This is cruel as a right hand bend reveals this plateau to be merely a resting point before the hill climbs up even more steeply. There are, however, some wonderful old cottages flanking the road, with fantastic names: Tinkers, Sharrocks, Smugglers, Kiddlywink. (Kiddlywink, by the way, is an old Cornish name for a beershop.)

Finally the pub sign for the Napoleon Inn came into view and I staggered gratefully across the threshold and towards the bar. The "Nap" is a lovely sixteenth century building, with huge walls and flagstone floors. They also sell beer straight from the barrel which, of course, I wholeheartedly approved of. The pub is owned by St Austell Brewery and I had a pint of Trelawney and a pint of Tribute, both of which were excellent. Going down the hill was much easier than climbing up it, especially after a couple of pints. As I headed back to the hostel I considered that all-in-all it had been quite a successful day.

My route is here.

Dyrham Park Disaster

2011-11-04T14:45:00.072Z

Yvonne, fit and strong from walking the Camino de Santiago de Compstela, suggested we go for a 'long walk.'
'Ok,' I said, 'how long? Ten miles?'
Yvonne looked at me in disgust. 'Ten miles? she said incredulously. 'No, let's do twenty.'
I shook my head. 'No, I can't manage twenty,' I protest feebly. 'Ten. Fifteen at the most.'
'Leave it to me,' said Yvonne. She texted me the departure point, at the back of Dyrham Park and I duly arrived in my car at the appointed time of half-past nine. Dyrham Park supplied most of the exterior shots for the film The Remains of the Day, although the interiors were mostly filmed at nearby Badminton House. Dyrham is also on the route of the Cotswold Way and it was a section of this route that Yvonne proposed that we walk for the day. This sounded good to me, and we strode through the village and then turned right on a footpath in the direction of Bath.

The day started well, albeit a little drizzly. The route was varied and pleasant, alongside fields and small ponds and passing through Dyrham Wood. In the wood a little box on a post had some usefuls in it, left by other walkers, including a couple of biscuits, a card with the number of a local B&B and a notebook for leaving messages, presumably for lost companions. 'Dear xxx, we're heading for the pub at Tormarton. Hurry up, it's your round.' That type of thing. We debated whether to eat the biscuits. Alfie (Yvonne's Westie) was in favour, but I was not so sure. There would no doubt be people passing this way whose need was greater than ours, after all we had only been walking for twenty minutes. We put them regretfully back in the tin and strode purposefully on.

We had speculated whether we would be able to get a coffee at the White Hart in Cold Ashton but when we got there the pub had closed. Permanently closed. There was, however a sign for a cafe along the road so we decided a small detour was in order. The cafe was a little gem, a small building on a walking farm. The play area outside was now being used to house a group of pigs, who seemed to like it, although I was disappointed to note that none of them seemed keen on using the slide or the little climbing frame.

(If one wanted to give an example of the versatility of the English language one need look no further than the pig. Pigs have been around for a very long time, domesticated from the wild boar, and English words for pigs are plentiful. The animal itself could be a pig, a swine, a hog, a sow, a grunter, a squealer, a shoat or a piglet. A group of pigs, depending on the type, the age and whether or not they are on the move could be called swine, a drift, a drove, a herd, a sounder, a farrow, a flock or a doylt. )

The proprietor of the cafe was lovely, and she had no problem with us bringing either our muddy boots or Alfie into the warm room. I was unable to resist a huge piece of carrot cake and Yvonne, who was suffering from a pre-existing blister, managed to scrounge a couple of plasters. After our refreshments we pressed on through the village of Cold Ashton itself and then along a long, long lane before once again crossing fields.

The route started to climb up to Lansdown and we arrived at the site of the Battle of Lansdown Hill in July 1643. (That's the date of the battle, not when we got there.) The field in front of us was apparently the site of a significant skirmish between the Royalists and the Parliamentarians in the English Civil War or if you're a fan of Christopher Hill, the English Revolution. (Personally I think Professor Hill was rather pissed off that the French and the Americans, let alone the Russians, had all had their revolutions, and so determined to make this one our very own 'English Revolution', so claiming that we were the first.)

As we followed the course of the path around the hill, it was not so much the English Civil War that struck me, it was much older history. We passed the site of a Roman Villa,although nothing remains of it now, and an Iron Age fort and although I am not prone to superstition I caught something in the atmosphere which was hard to define, the ephemera of long dead people who had walked this route over the centuries.

More prosiacally, the path also marches through Lansdown Golf Club, 'a traditional private members club', and we sternly informed Alfie that this was not the place to stop for a pooh. 'As if I would,' he muttered.

Finally we reached Prospect Stile which gives, as Jane Austen would say, A Fine Aspect over all of Bath and the surrounding countryside. We sat on the bench and ate our lunch. I was by now getting a little concerned as it was gone three o'clock and at this time of year the nights were drawing in. It was time to turn around and head back. In view of the time we decided to head back straight across the race course and the golf course. I was starting to worry about the dwindling light and suggested an alternative route back. This proved to be a mistake.

It looked straightforward enough on the map, a shortcut down to Langridge and then through a few fields to rejoin the Cotswold Way. We stopped for a quick look at St Mary Magdelene Church, Langbridge, a beautiful little twelfth century building with a magnificent norman arch before heading up a steep lane. Three or four fields on we would rejoin the proper path and then head back.

What the trusty OS Map didn't show, however, were the horses and cows. Yvonne was worried about taking the dog through fields of cows and horses. And, if I'm honest I wasn't too keen either. But we made a run for it though a field full of young horses, during the course of which Alfie slipped his lead. Ahead of us was a field of full cows and another one of horses. We dithered for a while and eventually we decided to backtrack up a lane.

By the time we reached the proper route again it was dark. I dug out my headlamp and we peered at the map. Suddenly mooing up in front brought my companions to a halt. Yvonne suggested we traverse the field next door and try and pick up the route at the other end. This was not as straightforward as we hoped, we were reduced to crawling through brambles, under barbed wire and stepping in unseen cowpats in the dark. I don't think it's pushing it to say we were all getting a little bit pissed off. Eventually, god save us, we reached a lane and stayed on it until we reached the A46. We traipsed down here for a while but I knew a decision awaited us. Go through Dyrham Woods in the pitch dark or make a massive detour along a busy road, in the dark, with no footpath.

'It'll have to be the wood,' I said, wearily. We had no choice. Why are woods so creepy at night? I blame The Blair Witch Project. We managed to get through it though and trudged disconsolately on. When we were almost at the end of the path at Dyrham I slipped and fell down hard on my right buttock. 'Damn, fuck and bollocks!!' I said. Which I think under the circumstances was quite restrained.

By the time we finally reached our cars, eleven hours after our jaunty departure, we were tired, dishevelled, and stinking of cow shit. Only Alfie who had earlier been complaining he was tired seemed undaunted, jumping for joy as the car came into view.

'Errm, that was lovely, Yvonne, we must do it again sometime,' I said, unenthusiastically.
'Uh, yes, we must,' she responded, with even less enthusiasm.

I'm sure we will go for another walk. Sometime. Maybe.

Our route

A Load of Bull

2011-10-27T10:17:00.104+01:00

Beware of the Bull sign

Whilst walking back from Wollard the other day I had planned to walk through a field at the back of the village when I spotted what was evidently a bull, on his own, in the middle of the field. I climbed warily over the stile and as I did so the bull scraped his hoof on the ground in an obvious attempt to intimidate me.

I hastily climbed back over the stile. I would have to detour around the lane. It wasn't a long detour but still, it's the principle of the thing. I took a couple of photos of the offending animal, although as I had taken them from the safety of the lane, the images were not as clear as they might have been.

When I got home I decided to check the law on bulls on footpaths and went to the obvious place, the website for the Ramblers Association. Sure enough on the page entitled Basics of Footpath Law there it was, point 23: Can a farmer keep a bull in a field crossed by a public path?
The answer (more or less) turned out to be only up to the age of ten months for any breed, over ten months, sometimes but not on its own. This beast was clearly much older than that and there was not another animal in sight.

I fired off an email to my local council, complaining about the presence of a fully mature bull on a footpath. They promised to investigate. I was impressed with the speed with which they got back to me actually. Within a couple of days I had received an email from them saying they had conducted a visit and the 'bull' was in fact a very docile old cow who would pose no threat to me whatsoever. Oh dear. Sorry Mr Farmer, whoever you are.

This was my second non-bull incident in two weeks. The Saturday previously I had been walking near Siston on the outskirts of Bristol when I came across an off-putting notice saying Beware of the Bull on the footpath. On this occasion the sign had proved to be bull as the field had been completely devoid of livestock. It un-nerved me though, maybe that was the intention. Having crossed the empty field, the next one was full of llamas. Funny place, Siston.

Still, one can't be too careful. Last year a couple had been walking across a field in Nottinghamshire when they were attacked by a bull whilst on a footpath. He had been killed, his wife had managed to crawl to the road and get help. Why was there a bull on the footpath? Well the 'more or less' rule that only a bull of up to ten months can be kept on a footpath is in fact a bit more complicated than that. Over nine months,a bull of a 'named breed': Ayrshire, British Friesian, British Holstein, Dairy Shorthorn, Guernsey, Jersey and Kerry cannot be kept on a path, other bulls can be, provided are accompanied by cows or heifers. The bull in the Leicestershire case was a Brown Swiss. Two weeks later a farmer in Hampshire was killed by his own bull as he tried to move it from one herd to another.

Unsurprisingly these incidents have led to calls for all bulls to be banned from fields with PROWs (Public Rights of Way) and higlight the tension between the countryside as a place or work and the countryside as a place of leisure.

The classic bull scene for me is the one in Withnail & I:
Withnail: 'He won't gore you.'
Marwood: 'A coward you are Withnail! An expert on bulls you are not!'
Brilliant film. Although rumour has it that it wasn't a bull at all, but a cow that originally had cardboard horns attached - and that kept falling off. Which is why in the film the 'bull' has no horns at all. Seems it isn't only me that cannot tell the difference between a bull and an old cow...

Beer

2011-09-09T19:26:00.004+01:00

Just Kidding

Flecknoe to Weedon

2011-07-08T20:34:00.023+01:00

We were finally only a few miles away from the junction with the Grand Union Canal and within striking distance of our destination. There was one major canal feature to come though...Braunston Tunnel...of which more later.

We quickly reached Braunston Turn, with its beautiful Horseley Ironwork bridges and swung left. Mick said he wanted to go to Midland Chandlers to make some purchases so we moored up and walked along the canal to the road bridge before trudging back down the other side to the shop. After much browsing and admiring of various items he finally dug into his wallet and bought a small brass plaque for £2.50 - bet they were glad we went to the effort of stopping by!

We had dithered in the chandlers over a Nicolson Guide to the Grand Union, but finally decided it wasn't worth it as we weren't going far, and if the boat did sell, we may not be here again for a while. Instead we made do with OS Pathfinder Series maps which Mick had had the foresight to get out of the library before we set off. But great though they are on land, OS maps are not brilliant for canal navigation.

Ok, we weren't going to get lost, after all the opportunities for taking a wrong turn are limited. But it's difficult to make out any canal features such as locks. I peered at the map.
"I think there are about six locks before the tunnel," I said eventually.

It was very busy below the bottom lock, what with chandlers, hire boats and wot not. I liked it here, it felt like proper canal country. Which of course it is.We hung onto the side of a hire boat which was in the process of being cleaned out before the turn-round and next customer, until the lock was free. We were followed into the lock by a delightful couple from Norfolk who had been cruising the system for a good few months. We shared the flight up with them and got into a good rhythm as we went up. At the top they decided to stop for lunch and so we bade them farewell and headed on to The Tunnel.

I had meanly been teasing Mick, who had confessed to being a little anxious about Braunston Tunnel. It's over 2000 yards long and not very wide. But as we entered the small dark space it was me who had a fit of anxiety.
"The fenders!" I yelled as we motored in. "We should pull up the fenders, we might get stuck!"
"For fuck's sake!" said Mick, angrily. "Why did you wait until we were in the tunnel?"
"Because I've only just thought of it!" I yelled back. Mick obligingly edged down the sides of the boat and pulled up all the fenders.
We both still felt anxious though. What if we met a widebeam? What if we got stuck? What if the boat caught fire?

It is a long tunnel. Very long. There was a boat in front of us and we realised that we were catching it up so slowed down a little. In the middle of the tunnel it was not possible to see either portal which we found slightly un-nerving. The air smelt of our engine so I then began worrying about air quality and so forth before giving myself a good pep-talk.
"Of course it's safe," I said to myself. "No-one suffocates in here, if they had I would have read about it in Waterways World. Pull yourself together."
I felt a bit better after my solo talking-to and we plodded towards the exit. Not far from the western portal we passed the first boat coming the other way. Well, not passed exactly, as they were rubbish at steering and crashed straight into us.
"Sorry about that!" said the helmsman cheerily. The boat, a hireboat, was packed with a family obviously out on a grand outing. It seemed churlish to complain so we smiled and said, "No problem!" then turned and watched them as they weaved their way up the tunnel, shouting and making woo-hoo noises.
"Well, they're not bothered about the tunnel," observed Mick.

Nevertheless we were both relieved when we reached daylight.
"Dunno about you," said Mick, "but I could do with a pint!"

I agreed that some alcohol would be most welcome at this stage and so we resolved to look for a suitable place to stop.

Luckily it wasn't long before we arrived at Buckby Wharf. We moored up and wandered over the lock to the New Inn.
"Hmm," I said with approval. "I think this will set us right."
Two pints and a jacket potato and chilli each and we were feeling very contented. The staff were friendly and the beer was served up to the brim. We approved of the pub very much and it was with some reluctance that we dragged ourselves up to head on.

The New Inn is situated at the top of the Buckby Flight of seven locks. Whilst we were in the pub a boater who was moored below the top lock had come along to let some water down from the upper pound.
"I have to do this every now and again, or I'll be on the bottom," he explained.

We trotted down the flight and then along the short distance to Weedon and Rugby Narrowboats. At last! The journey had taken longe than we thought. But we had enjoyed it, it had been a great experience to get up into the proper canal country and enjoy some continuous cruising.

Northampton skittle game at Weedon

"Cheeses" for Northampton skittles

"Hope you don't sell her," I muttered. "Then we'll have the fun of taking her back."

Cropredy to Flecknoe

2011-07-07T20:41:00.011+01:00

"Well a new day," I said brightly as we flung open the back doors.

It was seven am and all was quiet as we set off. Boating at this time of day is lovely, with the sun low and birds singing.

Without hindrance from other boats we had a fine system going up the next two flights of locks, clearing all eight in an hour and a half. We were now on the summit pound, Oxford Canal's long pound. Like the top pound of the K&A, this was the canal's quietest, most rural stretch, although all the Oxford is rural really. Indeed, the Oxford Canal Walk is a long distance path that during the 83 miles that it covers, crosses only one road.

I was studying the map whilst Mick steered. Suddenly I jabbed my finger at the page and exclaimed "We have to go through a tunnel!" Fenny Compton Tunnel, there it was on the map. We're not that keen on tunnels. We knew we had a long one to go through at Braunston but this one was a surprise. I didn't remember reading anything about a tunnel on the Oxford Canal.

When we got there we realised our mistake. There had been a tunnel, once. But now it was simply a very narrow cutting. So narrow we scraped the side of the boat all down the wall. I was glad it was Mick's turn to steer, at least I wouldn't get the blame. "Oh no, my paintwork," he groaned.

Fenny Compton Tunnel, 1138 yards long and just 9 feet wide, proved to be something of a bottleneck when canal traffic on the Oxford began to increase. In the 1840,s the tunnel was effectively turned into two shorted tunnels, allowing boats to pass more easily, but this failed to solve the problem, and in the 1860's the tunnel was dismantled completely.

After the tunnel the canal begins to really twist and turn in earnest. This is a "contour canal" par excellence! Contour canals were favoured by the early canal engineers (and their financial backers) as, by following the contours of the land, they minimised the need for costly locks, embankments and tunnels. Raising the finance for the canal had been tight to say the least, and James Brindley, the engineer, was aware of the importance of keeping costs down wherever possible. Brindley died in 1772 and responsibility passed to his assistant, Sanuel Simcock. As it was, funds ran out partway through and the final Banbury to Oxford section had several cost cutting measures: wooden bridges rather than stone ones, single lock gates rather than double ones and using the River Cherwell rather than dig a new one.

At Wormleighton the canal performs a long four mile wind around Wormleighton Hill before meandering northwards again towards Napton Flight, the series of locks which would take us off the summit pound. At the bottom of the flight we stopped for essential sewerage duties. Opposite the sanitary station was a tempting looking pub but it was only five o'clock and we decided we should get a couple more hours under our belt before stopping for the night. As we rounded the corner we spotted the rushing hire boaters moored up for the night. For all their rushing, they still hadn't gpt any further then!

On the hill the Napton Windmill was clearly visible as we wond round the village. There was a mill on this site as far back as 1543 although this one was built in the late nineteenth century. It has been restored and is now a private house.

Not long after Napton the first junction with the Grand Union joined from the left hand side at Napton Junction. This marked an immediate change in the dimensions of the canal. Wide and deep it marked a distinct change with the narrow winding course of the Oxford up until now. Just after the junction a group of lads on a hire boat asked us where the nearest pub was.
"Five miles on and then a mile walk from the canal!" I shouted. I knew this as I had already checked it out on the map and this was where we were headed. "Follow us if you like!"

An hour later we reached Flecnoe and, leaving a large space for our companions, we squeezed in between two boats. Waving jovially the other boat went past us - and then carried on!
"It's up there!" I called out, pointing to the lane that wound up the hill to the village.
Mick laughed. It's a mile away up that track," he said. I bet they decided to carry on and find a canalside pub.
We'd had enough boating though so we moored up and trudged into the village. The pub The Old Olive Bush turned out to be a reasonable pub with a proper bar area, separarate from the food bit, rather than a restaurant by another name. We enjoyed a couple of pints before wandering back down the lane to the boat.

Aynho to Cropredy

2011-07-06T14:56:00.014+01:00

At last we had a few days to get some uninterrupted boating under our belts. We drove to Aynho and parked the car on the verge by the wharf. We didn't get there until the evening and decided to treat ourselves to a meal in the pub rather than start cooking.

The Great Western Arms served a good meal of steak pie which we enjoyed. Sadly the Hook Norton Ales was not quite up to scratch, it was a bit cloudy and tasted flat. Not off exactly, just not tip-top. Neither of us could be bothered to make a fuss about it although when we got the bill and realised they had not charged us for a round we didn't say anything. It meant the beer worked out at about £1.50 per pint rather than three quid: we reckoned that was all it was worth.

When we got to the boat we realised someone had kindly re-tied our ropes for us, putting the mooring pins down the side of the piling rather than into the ground, a much more secure arrangement. Maybe the boat had come loose. Anyway we thanked the mystery person for their consideration.
The weather was not too bad in the morning and we got off to a fairly (for us) prompt start. We had an enjoyable morning pottering up to Banbury where the canal goes right through the centre of the town. We decided to stop and have a nose around the town. We liked the centre of Banbury very much, it has some interesting buildings and a wonderful Victorian postbox dating from 1856. We had some lunch in a cheap and cheerful pub and then headed off to Morrison's to get some provisions.

As we were crossing the road to the supermarket we narrowly missed being run over by a large 4x4, if we had not jumped out of the way he would undoubtedly have hit us. We watched him turn into Morrison's car park.
"He's not going to get away with that," said Mick.
He strode over to the car just as the driver was getting out.
"You fool!" he shouted. "What do you think you are doing?"
"You shouldn't have been jay walking!" the driver, who looked like a retired colonel or something, retorted.
"There's no law of jay walking in this country!" said Mick. "And even if there were, do you think that's a good enough reason to run us over?"
The altercation continued for a few minutes, and people began stopping to see what was going on.
I had just begun to wonder whether it was going to come to blows when Mick threw his arms in the air and strode off.
The rest of the shopping trip passed off uneventfully and once we had completed our shopping we headed back to the boat. Time was getting on and we set off pretty quickly. Banbury lock is right in the middle of the shopping centre and there were a fair few gongoozlers watching us. They were also watching us go through the swing bridge which was a shame. The bridge must be slightly lower than the other swing bridges on the Oxford Canal. With our bikes on the roof, we normally cleared the bridge with a good two inches to spare. On this one, however, I realised, too late, that the bikes were not going to clear the bridge. They collided with the bridge and I watched helplessly as they slid off the boat and into the canal.
"Oh well, they needed a wash," said Mick as he fished them out with a boathook.

As we waited at the next lock another boat came up behind. It was hire boat with half-a-dozen middle aged men. Two of them strode up to the lock and began opening it up for us. We went in and one of them fully opened up the top paddles to fill the lock. The trouble with this on a narrow lock is that the water surges backwards and forwards, rushing the boat against the top gates. I glared at him but said nothing. At the next lock the same thing happened, they took over the lock and rushed about like idiots.
By the third lock we were thoroughly fed up with them.
"Could you not open the paddle fully?" said Mick. "We prefer to fill it gradually."
"Well that'll take too long," said the guy. Mick pointed out that as there were two boats in front of us, it wouldn't really make any difference.
"They should let us go in front then."
"Are you late taking your boat back or something?" asked Mick.
"No, but we like to get a move on."
"In that case," replied Mick, "you've chosen the wrong holiday."

Oh dear. Two arguments in one day! This was not good. We reckoned they had all fallen out, they certainly all seemed stressed and impatient.We arrived at Cropredy in a bad mood after all the aggravation of the day. The village was busy with boats and the water level was very low. Several of the boats looked like they would have trouble moving anywhere at all. We went through the lock and managed to squeeze into the last remaining space above it. No sign of our friends in the hire boat, for all their impatience they had got no further than us or anyone else that day.
"I can't be bothered to go to the pub," I said.
"The way today has gone we'll only have another row. Anyway I expect the hire boaters will be in there."
Mick agreed and instead we stayed in with a glass of wine and a game of cards before going to bed exhausted.

Kidlington to Aynho

2011-07-04T20:29:00.006+01:00

A spare day so we decided to edge the boat a little further along the canal towards Rugby Boats, our destination. At this rate it would take us months to get there! We parked the car at Thrupp and then cycled back down the canal to Kidlington where we collected the boat, slung the bikes on the roof and then headed back up the canal the way we had come.

The sharp bend at Thrupp took us by surprise and I completely cocked it up and had to execute an embarassing ten-point turn before the boat was pointing in the right direction. The Oxford does provide some wonderful opportunities for practising one's steering!

Mick took over the tiller. A few minutes later a boat came down the channel in the opposite direction. We moved far too far to the right, grounded on the bank and tipped alarmingly to the left. The plates on the draining board slid onto the floor and a very loud smashing noise emanated from the galley (it's a reverse layout!).

Mick swore loudly. I gave an apologetic smile to the chap on the other boat who was looking at us quizzically. "We're used to the Thames," I said, omitting to mention we had run aground there as well.

I explained to Mick that the trick is to steer right at the nose of the other boat until the last minute and then swing right. From then on we viewed passing boats as a game of "chicken", heading right for them, then veering aside and passing them with a couple of inches to spare. It worked!

At Upper Heyford we stopped and had a walk into the village in the folorn hope that the Barley Mow would be open. It wasn't. Beyond the village was the now disused Upper Heyford Airfield which has recently got planning approval for a thousand new houses to be built on the site. The last time I was here the US were leasing the site and the local pub had a plaque on the wall stating that CND members were not welcome!

Somerton Deep Lock was pretty deep. It was also pretty narrow. Mick was up on the lock and as I passed under the bridge and entered the lock I got wedged against the wall. I had negelcted to take up the fenders and despite the fact that they were only narrow ones, the extra width was enough to jam us tight. After a lot of cursing and revving I managed to reverse back and took up the fenders before trying again. Once in the lock Mick opened the top paddles and the boat immediately surged forwards and backwards, with me revving hard to stop the boat smashing into the gate. More cursing and revving. We were making a hell of a din.

"I hate this fucking lock" I yelled out to Mick over the revving of the engine. I was then was slightly embarassed to notice that there was a chap lying on the grass in the garden of the adjacent cottage, once the lock keepers cottage, trying to have a nap in the afternoon sunshine.

We crept quietly out of the top gates and chugged round the corner. This was a nice mooring spot, and we decided that we had had enough excitement for one day. We tied up John Damsell and cycled back to Thrupp where we couldn't resist a swift pint in the Boat Inn to calm our jagged nerves.

Abingdon to Kidlington

2011-06-28T14:25:00.006+01:00

Before leaving we had a good nose at the bridge built by the Wilts and Berks Canal company. The canal used to enter the Thames near here once, a link from the Kennet and Avon canal at Semington near Melksham. Sadly the canal was never very profitable and was abandoned in 1914. There is a long running restoration project to restore it, which if completed would create a popular and no doubt lucrative cruising ring. There is, however, the small snag that Swindon has been built on top of it. But there's nothing wrong with a bit of vision.

Where would we be if Isambard Brunel or Thomas Telford had said "Oh I'm not doing that, that'll take years and anyway whose going to pay for it? It can't be done!" More vision is what we need in this country if you ask me.

For once we had managed to get away early, it was not yet seven o'clock and the river was quiet. The early morning sun lit up swarms of damsel flies hovering like a mist above the water. There was no sound except the chugging of the engine. Except for Mick, of course, saying, "isn't it time you made another cup of tea?"

Coming into Oxford, we passed the boathouses of the various colleges and Christchurch Meadow after which we had a minor panic at Folly Bridge, a low balustraded bridge, where a channel went off to the left of the bridge.
"Which way, which way?" I yelled.
Mick shrugged. "No idea," he said.
As it turned out, either way was ok, we headed under the bridge and past the pub, The Head of the River.

It is possible to join the Southern Oxford Canal at its start, via Sheepwash channel, or further up the Thames at Dukes Cut. We reasoned the Thames would probably be quicker so ignored the right hand turn onto the Oxford and continued up-river. At Port Meadow the river becomes wide and shallow, we saw one boat left high and dry.

Port Meadow is an ancient area of common land to the west of Oxford. Less frequented than Christchurch Meadow it feels very rural, despite the presence of the railway and the suburbs of Oxford beyond. The meadow was given to the Freemen of Oxford by Alfred the Greta in gratitude for help he received in defending the area against the Danes. Their right to graze animals on the meadow was recorded in the Domesday Book on 1086 and has remained ever since, we saw plenty of horses and ponies grazing alongside the river.

One summer day in July 1862 Charles Dodgson, Deacon at Oxford, and his friend Rev'd Robinson Duckworth took the three daughters of the Dean of Christchurch on a rowing trip up through Port Meadow to Godstow. On the way Charles entertained the girls with a story about a girl who fell down a rabbit hole. Ten-year old Alice asked if he would write the story down for her. Three years later Alice's Adventures inWonderland was published under the pen-name Lewis Carroll. The relationship between Charles and Alice is of course the subject of of much controversy and speculation, and not one I want to delve into here. Whatever the truth, Alice in Wonderland was one of my favourite books as a child, and I still love it.

We tackled Godstow Lock and Kings Lock, after which I knew we should look for a turning into Duke's Cut. When we found it, we did not initially realise that it was the turning, after all the river is full of little creeks and inlets. We almost went past it before Mick yelled "Turn, turn, that's our turning!"
"All right!" I said, crossly. "How was I to know?"
The signing on the junction was pretty crap, you could only see it having practically gone past. Presumably it is assumed that upstream boat traffic will take the junction further down the river.

Duke's Cut was constructed in 1789 on the orders of the Duke of Marlborough, who owned much of the land through which the canal had been cut, finally being completed that year. By then linking the canal to the Thames, coal could be brought from the Warwickshire Coalfields down to London,and for the next fifteen years it became a major transport link until it was superseded by the wider and more direct Grand Junction Canal.

At the end of the cut was a lock, which after the K&A and the Thames locks, appeared almost miniature. This was Duke's Cut Lock, our first narrow lock, letting us down around a foot to the Oxford Canal. Immediately after turning left we had another little lock to negotiate. These were lovely, the paddles could be wound up in a few seconds, rather than the endless winding you have to do on the K&A. We pottered slowly up the canal for an hour or so before mooring up. We had to get back to Bristol for a couple of days, so we cycled back into Oxford and caught a train to Reading and then cycled back to where I had left my car a few days before and quickly joined the M4 back to Bristol. Boat, bike, train and car in the space of two hours......

Beale Park to Abingdon

2011-06-27T19:30:00.008+01:00

Interesting mooring

Beale Park

We had intended to set off at six but due to the beery evening we had last night, it was nearer nine when we unhitched and set off up river, towards Goring.

We chugged past huge mansions and immaculate gardens. Even the boat houses were des res. So this was where all the money was! Some of the money was out on the river, in fancy cruisers and yachts. I noticed they kept well away from our steel box in the locks. At Cleeve Lock we were about to go into the lock when a huge yacht appeared behind us. They wanted to wait but the lock keeper waved them in. I was fairly sure I caught a glint in his eye as he smiled at us. They were a family of three, a man and woman in their forties and a plump young child of about twelve. They were all dressed in matching red jumpers, blue trousers and deck shoes. He had a sailors cap on. As the lock started to fill he began barking orders to the other two.
"Hold her tight there!" he yelled to his wife.
"DONT LET HER TOUCH THE NARROWBOAT," he yelled to his daughter, stood on the side.
His daughter stood there looking miserable. "I bet she can't wait to get back to boarding school," I said to Mick.
"There you go," said the lock keeper as he opened the gates. "Now mind you don't dirty their paintwork on the way out!"
"Oh, we won't!" I laughed.
We were enjoying ourselves though, and it was nice to be able to open the engine up a bit, a change from the usual three miles an hour or so on the canal. The engine sounded like it appreciated it too. We now had a long pull upstream without any locks. We thought we would pull in at Wallingord for lunch but decided against it when we saw the yacht family pulling in as well.

We went through Days lock and looked for again.
"It's ok for him," I said, pointing to a cruiser moored on the bank. "He can moor anywhere!"
The chap obviously heard me as he popped his head out of the cabin and said "You can moor just by the next bush. It's deep enough there!"
We thanked him and moored up. It was a smashing spot, just next to Dyke Hills, a distinctive Iron Age earthworks which ran at right angles to the river. We decided we could do with stretching our legs and so walked the half-mile or so into Dorchester-on-Thames, a pretty village of thatched cottages. Unusually for us we resisted the pub and headed straight to the co-op. Stocked up, we wandered back to the boat, regretful that we did not have more time. It would have been nice to stop for the night here.

After Dorchester, the Thames goes a bit loop-the-loop, with a massive sweep around Clifton Hampden before finally heading into Abingdon from the south. We had originally planned to try and make Oxford but we had both had enough for the day and decided to stop at Abingdon and set off early instead. We passed some moorings on the right which were marked 'private'. A chap was out on deck, touching up his paintwork so we steered a course near enough to call out and asked him where the town moorings were.
"Oh you can moor here," he said, "These haven't been private moorings for over ten years. I keep telling the council to take the signs down but they don't do it."
So we conducted a hasty reverse manoeuvre and tied up behind him.
"You'll be fine here," he said. "It's pretty quiet. It was, and only a short walk from the centre.

We called in the lounge of the Punchbowl, which, with its dark oak panelling and cosy feel we quite liked. The beer was fine and the landlord friendly, so it did us well enough until closing time and so back to the boat and a good nights sleep.

Reading to Beale Park

2011-06-26T15:13:00.022+01:00

Turf sided lock

I had to go home for a couple of days, by the time I caught up with Mick he was heading into Reading. I had parked at the end of the town and cycled back along the towpath to meet him, just outside the town. He was just coming through Garston Lock, one of the two remaining turf sided locks on the canal. These have vegetation rather than brick walls, almost all the locks at this end of the navigation were once turf sided, now only Garston and Monkey Marsh remain. As the boat roof drew level with the side, I stepped on the roof and deposited my bike before demanding a cup of tea.

The canal to Reading was much nicer than I had expected, mainly river fed through meadows, we were not really aware of the proximity of Reading itself until we were right in the town. At county lock we had to wait at the traffic lights. Yes, traffic lights on the canal! The lights control boat traffic through "brewery gut".At one time Simonds Brewery buildings stood on both sides of the channel, forcing the River Kennet to flow fast and furious downstream. In order to maintain steerage boats would have to belt downstream and there were occasions when collisions occured with boats coming the other way. The brewery has long been demolished, and Reading town centre looked very different to the last time I boated along here, circa 1991. Now we were right in the centre of "The Oracle" shopping centre, and the place was full of people out enjoying lunch in the sunshine.

We passed the only surviving building of the once great Huntley and Palmers biscuit company. Estrablished in Reading, in 1900 this was the largest biscuit manufacturer in the world, and employed a local workforce of 5000. Reading was known as "Biscuit Town". The building that survived was the old social club, although now it has been turned into (what else?) flats. Still, at least it wasn't flattened along with the others, to be replaced by shops and restaurants. From beer and biscuits to shopping and services. Like most places in the Uk, Reading no longer makes anything at all really.

Blakes Lock is the official end of the Kennet and Avon navigation. From now on we were under the care of the Environment Agency rather than BW, the lock is unique in being the only EA lock not actuall on the River Thames. We needed to buy a licence but there was no-one at the lock. As we started to turn the huge wheels that open the paddles on the lock, a chap crossed the lock wearing blue overalls and a PFD around his neck. (Personal Floatation Device), bouyancy aid to you and me. Aha, I thought, this must be the lock keeper and I went to ask him about licences. He laughed.
"I'm not the lock keeper," he said. "I'm an electrician. I have to wear this because I'm crossing the lock. Health and safety." Ah yes. Of course.

Once through Blakes Lock it was not long before we saw the Thames up ahead. Gosh it looked big. As we approached, a boat shot downtream past the entrance from which we were about to emerge.
"Bloody hell! I'll go on lookout," I said, making my way to the front of the boat. "Blast on the horn! What's the signal for 'out of the way we're coming across'?"
"Three long blasts, two short ones," Mick said.
I looked at him, impressed. "Really?"
"No, I've no idea, I made that up."

Anyway, we blasted the horn a lot and then made a run for it across the river to the right hand side and turned left.

The Thames was glorious. And wide. We thoroughly enjoyed our passage up through Caversham Lock, how nice to have the lock worked for you. Things did not go quite so smoothly at Mapledurham lock however. As we approached the lock a buoy was tethered midstream.
"What does it mean?" said Mick? "Left or right?"
"Dunno, um go left," I said, just as Mick steered right of the buoy and glided onto a sandbank where we stuck fast.
"Bollocks!" he exclaimed.
We tried forward and reverse but didn't move an inch. Then Mick had a go with the pole which simply sank into the soft mud.
"Shit, shit, shit."
A couple of women were walking down the path in the far side. "Hey, do you fancy pulling me off?" shouted Mick.
God he's embarrassing.

Eventually we managed, by both standing on the bow and pushing hard on a pole to float the boat off. By then the current had pulled the front round and we found ourselves floating back downstream.
"No worries," I said. "I'll turn round here in this inlet."
I then proceeded to miss the inlet as I tried to turn and we continued downstream, now sideways on.
"Let me do it," said Mick irritably. He grabbed the tiller and we finally managed to turn around and head back upstream towards the lock, this time passing on the left hand side of the marker buoy.

If the lock keeper had noticed our antics he gave no sign of it, passing comment about the weather.
"Wife's been on the phone," he said. "Torrential rain in Reading at the moment, yet here there's nothing!"
We nodded politely, too shaken by our ordeal to think of anything to say.

Love a glass of wine on in the Thames!

"Dunno about you, but I could do with a pint after that," said Mick.
We moored up outside Beale Park and I took the opportunity for a quick dip in the Thames to cool off before we headed into Pangbourne for a pint.

Three men out of their boat

Whilst we were in the George Hotel a group of three men came in, whom Mick recognised as having seen rowing a skiff on the river an hour or so earlier.
"Hey its the three men in a boat!" he exclaimed.
"You recognise us?" they said, evidently gratified.
We nodded. "But where is Montemerency?"
"Couldn't manage a dog as well," they groaned. "It's been bloody hard work." Turned out they had only managed one nights camping before bailing out and booking into the hotel.


Provisions for today....

Still we enjoyed a few beers before Mick and I trotted back down the now very dark towpath to get some well earned zeds.

Great Bedwyn to Newbury

2011-06-22T23:51:00.003+01:00

After a soaking first thing, the weather picked up as we headed east towards Hungerford. We did have to perform a duckling rescue at one lock, where a duckling at got swept down the side sluice. Its mother was quacking frantically by the side of the lock and the duckling was paddling upstream frantically, but getting nowhere. Gallantly we jumped in and scooped up the duckling, delivering it to mum on the other side. My sympathy for the mother's anxiety abated however when, after throwing them a bit of duck food, I noticed that she was grabbling it all, leaving nothing for the poor chick.

"That one is a crap mum," I observed.

We have noticed whilst boating that some birds are distinctly more family orientated than others. Last year one duck, whom we nicknamed "supermum" managed to rear nine ducklings without losing one. When we watched her we realised that she always made sure the youngsters had food before she ate any herself. Other, less family orientated parents grab everything they can and leave the chicks to fend for themselves.

Anyway, crap mum or not, we felt we had done our bit. I stuck my soaking boots on the back to dry out and we pressed on.

At Hungerford Marsh, the lock is awkward, having a swing bridge across the top of it. The bridge has to be opened before using the lock. Mick went on to deal with the lock whilst I secured the boat. The lock was against us so Mick closed the bottom gates, opened the paddles and, whilst the lock was filling, wandered off. When I got up to the lock I realised that the bottom gate had swung fully open and the water was rushing through, creating mini whirlpools beneath the paddles. Ooops! Luckily the pound above the lock was long and full. I yelled for Mick and we reset the lock again.

"I remember this one, now," said Mick ruefully. "I had the same trouble last time, and I was on my own. I had to prop the gate shut with a pole."

The Rose of Hungerford passed us at Hungerford Wharf. This is a trip boat for the K&A Trust and was the boat that the Queen travelled down Caen Hill aboard for the official re-opening of the canal on 8th August 1990, 180 years after its first opening.

By the time we reached Newbury it was nine o'clock and we were pretty bushed. There was no room at West Mills so we wearily made our way through the swing bridge and tied up above Newbury Lock for the night.

Honey Street to Great Bedwyn

2011-06-21T23:47:00.002+01:00

The party had gone on long into the night at the Barge Inn and at the campsite next door. This morning all was quiet save for a few early birds who were packing up their gear. I watched them as they moved about gingerly, as if any sudden movement or loud noise would have made their head explode. It had obviously been a good night.

Yesterday at Devizes we had stopped for a chat with a family from New Zealand, a young couple with their uncle and aunt, who were heading up the same way as us. At Wootton Rivers we cam upon them again. Here are the last four locks that take the canal up to the summit pound, and they were waiting for the first one to fill as we approached.

"They're indulging me, " said the uncle as we sat on the back of the boats whilst the others took care of filling the lock. "I wanted to go through the tunnel. Who knows when I'll get another chance?"

It meant they were on a tight schedule as, due to low water, these locks were closed at three in the afternoon. "I'm sure we'll make it," he said optimistically.

We have been surprised by how many visitors we come across from New Zealand, Australia and North America on the canal system, it seems to be an increasingly popular holiday destination. And everyone we spoke to told us how much they loved it.

With all hands to the lock we made good time up the flight and then pressed on to Bruce Tunnel. Its only a dinky one, lengthwise, by canal standards, a mere 502 yards long, but it takes a good few minutes to navigate through, and I could see why he was keen to do it. We took photos of them exiting the tunnel behind us to email off to them, sharing email addresses as they executed a turn at the winding hole above the Crofton flight which takes the canal down to Great Bedwyn south of Savernake Forest.

The first couple of locks were uneventful. Then pandemonium broke out. We were coming through the third lock when a chap rushed up to the lock.

"We're all on the bottom down there!" he said. ""When you've come through I'll have to let another lockful of water down."

The wife of the chap at the lock asked frantically where her husband was. "We're tipping right over!" she said. We went to help her hold a rope.

"He's letting more water down to try and float you off," I explained.

The woman from the other widebeam came along the towpath.

"Its those two down there," she said grimly. ""They've been at that lock for half an hour, they don't know what they're doing. My husband has gone to have a word."

We looked down the canal to the next lock where a smallish narrowboat had just gone into the lock. A man on the bank was gesticulating and we and could hear a lot of shouting going on. After a while he came storming back.

"Bloody idiots!" he exclaimed. "They haven't a clue what they're doing. They've opened the bottom and the top paddles at the same time. This, of course, had the effect of allowing the water simply to wash though the lock. No wonder they were grounded.

"We only stopped for a cup of tea," the chap groaned. "Now we're going to be here until tomorrow."

"We'd better tell them to wait," I said, heart sinking. We can't let them go on or we'll have to waste another lockful of water. Mick gingerly edged the boat along the very low pound, scraping along the bottom the whole time. At the lock the culprits were still faffing about. They were a couple in their sixties. He was clearly ex-army, it stood out a mile. He was shouting and blustering, the way men do when they have made a cock up but can't admit it. She was looking weary, but in a way that showed she was used to this sort of thing. They had picked the hire boat up in Devizes and clearly had no idea whatsoever what they were doing.

"Do we have to share locks with bloody Colonel Blimp?" I hissed to Mick.

He nodded glumly. "Yes I think we do, we can't risk them going alone. The whole effing canal will be empty, he's a complete disaster area."

The worst thing was, although he clearly had no idea what he was doing, "the colonel" refused to listen to anybody else. As soon as one of us tried to show him anything he would say, "yes, yes I know I know," before going on to completely fuck it up. Even worse, he would insist from charging around the lock, shouting and waving his arms about like a demented hippo.

And so, together we limped down the canal to Great Bedwyn where we moored both boats up for the night. Great Bedwyn only has two pubs so it was hardly surprising that we ran into the two of them later in the evening.

"Oh hi," said Mrs Blimp, clearly delighted to see us. "Thank you so much for your help today. I don't know how we would have managed without you!"

"Oh that's ok,"I said. "It's difficult the first time you go boating isn't it."

"Oh it's not the first time," she said. "Last year we did the Warwickshire ring."

I looked at her in disbelief.

"And um, any plans for next year?"

"We thought we might try the Thames."

I made a mental note to look out for them on news at ten.

Devizes to Honey Street

2011-06-20T00:37:00.003+01:00

When we arrived at the bottom of the flight last night there had been another boat waiting to lock up. They looked a bit horrified when we said we wanted to set off at eight o'clock, we eventually agreed on eight-thirty. As it was, we weren't quite ready at eight-thirty anyway, as we realised at the last minute that we had forgotten to load up our bikes which were tied to a post on the towpath.

But we were still the first pair of boats up the flight when we set off with John and Carolyn on their narrowboat, Chalico. We made good progress halfway up the flight but then got held up by British Waterways who were doing running repairs to one of the paddles on the lock. This blew our schedule out of the water (as it were). I wondered whether John and Carolyn were secretly thinking, "Hah, that'll teach you, with your damn early start, huh?" If they were, they were far too nice to let on though.

The people on a hire boat on the other side of the stoppage were getting a little worked up, as they were behind schedule, we could hear some rather bad language so we retreated and put the kettle on. Boating is like that, there are often unexpected stoppages and hold-ups, just when you are thinking you are making good progress. If you like rushing about, or indeed actually getting somewhere, boating is probably not the best pastime. With boating its all about the journey.

Three quarters of an hour later we were on the move again and we finally found ourselves wearily arriving at Devizes wharf at half past two, having waved goodbye to our new acquaintances at the top of the flight. We popped into Devizes for some provisions.

If you ask me, Devizes is very under-rated. Its a lovely market town and, unlike many town centres, it still has plenty of independent shops, despite the presence of several supermarkets in town. it has two independent bookshops. We stopped at Walter Rose and Sons, an excellent butcher/deli and stocked up on meats and cheeses for the journey.

Back on board, by the time we had filled up the water tank and what not, it was a) gone four o'clock and b) tipping with rain. At least now we were at the start of the "long pound", a fifteen mile stretch with no locks and just a couple of swing bridges, so we put up the hood on the boat and pressed on through the rain. And rain. And rain. We put the hood out and peered out glumly as we pottered along.

Honey Street is a small settlement by the canal, focused around The Barge pub. For some years now it has been the focus for crop circle hunters and one or two crop circle creators. This "phenomenon" has nothing to do with alien forces or the supernatural. It's down to a group of "trustafarians", upper middle class drop-outs with too much time on their hands, and no way of using that Oxbridge degree. So they compete to come up with the most complex designs, some of which, it must be said, are quite beautiful.

Anyway, today was the summer solstice and so the pub was brimming with space cadets, all out of their heads. No sooner had we moored up then a woman staggered over to ask for a light. When I produced one she flung her arms around me in delight, declaring that she loved me, the world and just about everything else.

"Not sure I can cope with too much of this," muttered Mick.
So after a quick pint we retreated to the safety of the boat, opened a bottle of wine and both fell asleep before drinking a drop. It had been a long day.

Bradford on Avon to Devizes

2011-06-19T22:40:00.003+01:00

The section of the canal around Bradford on Avon is always busy and this morning was no exception. By nine o'clock when we set off there was already two boats moored by the lock. By the time we had waited for them o go up and another one to come down, it was over an hour before us and our companions in the rental boat had cleaed the lock. We gave them a wave as we headed off.

"Ask for your money back!" I called out as we motored away. I hope he did.

The section of canal through Hilperton and Trowbridge is not that salubrious and there were so many moored boats it was slow going. (It is not good form to go too fast past moored boats, the resulting wash can pull out mooring pins, cause nasty bumps and make people on board spill their cornflakes . Or worse. I know because some years ago my boat was sunk on the K&A just below Bradford lock. A narrowboat had gone past very fast pushing my wooden boat onto the bank and making a hole in the hull. Some witnesses thought it was a boat that belonged to the Royal Navy and used by their personnel for holidays, but I had no proof. Still, at least I can claim to be probably the owner of the only boat on the canal system to be sunk by the Navy!)

Once past Hilperton the landscape began to change to open fields. At Semington two locks continues the gradual climb of the canal .On the left was a bricked up side bridge marking the spot where the Wilts and Berks Canal used to join with the K&A. The canal was abandoned in 1914 by an Act of Parliament. There is an active restoration group (here and here) who have gained considerable support in their efforts to re-open the canal. Considering that quite a lot of Swindon and the M4 have been built on it, I have a great deal of admiration for their determination and commitment.

Emptying the toilet

This is what the toilet smelt of - not!

Further on at Semington are the next five locks. There is also a "sanitary station" where we stopped to perform the gruesome task of emptying the toilet.
We wished Vince was with us to volunteer. (previous post).

After a quick beer stop at the pub opposite we pressed on to Devizes and locked up the first seven to the bottom of the Caen Hill flight. We were both feeling pretty weary which was a bit of a worry as at eight o'clock the next morning we were due to start the long climb of twenty-two locks which separated us from Devizes Wharf two miles up the hill.

Saltford to Bradford on Avon

2011-06-18T19:51:00.004+01:00

Narrowboat John Damsell is going to Rugby. By car the journey would probably take between two and three hours. By boat, it is more like two to three weeks. The journey will take us along the length of the Kennet and Avon, up the Thames to Oxford then a right turn up the Oxford Canal.

Kelston Lock

The sailing club were out at Saltford, whizzing up and down in small dinghies. We waited for them to move down river then turned the boat round and headed upstream to Bath. There were two river locks to negotiate, Kelston and Weston Locks, before we turned off the river and onto the Kennet and Avon proper. The river locks are a hundred years older than the canal ones. The development of Bath in the early eighteenth century as a fashionable Spa town had involved transporting materials by packhorses and carts along untarred tracks. Ralph Allen and other big names from Bath decided to invest in making the River Avon navigable and six locks were built on the river at a total cost of £12,000. The Avon opened as a navigation in 1727. Railways were built from the Bath quarries to the river and Shropshire coal was taken down the Severn and then brought up from Bristol. This caused a bit of trouble with the Somersetshire miners who were unhappy with the threat to local jobs and industry. In 1738 the lock at Saltford was almost destroyed by Persons Unknown. The wreckers left "threatening papers" demanding a stop to sending any more coals by water.

Newbridge, River Avon near Bath

Bath Deep Lock

After passing the railway station at Bath we turned right off the River under an arched bridge and started up the Kennet and Avon, retracing the route we had taken with MANKINI MAN a couple of weeks previously, up the Widombe flight of locks. This time all was quiet and we navigated the horrifying Deep Lock uneventfully. The Kennet and Avon canal was completed in 1810, last year it celebrated its bi-centenary. We had been at Bedwyn in Wiltshire at the time, Timothy West and Prunella Scales, keen boaters on the K&A, had arrived to join the celebrations and unveil a commemorative plaque.

After the flight we went through the short tunnels of Sydney Gardens and under Cleveland House, the old headquarters of the K&A company. In the roof of the tunnel is a small hole which apparently was used for delivering and picking up packages from the barges below. The two cast iron bridges, dating from 1800, have just been restored this year, and a very good job they have done of it too.

We meandered on through the Limpley Stoke valley and over Dundas aqueduct. The Somerset Coal Canal arm, a short length of the original coal canal, enters the K&A next to the aqueduct. The SCC was lost to the railway which was built along its route. If you've seen the excellent film The Titfield Thunderbolt (Ealing Studios) you'll recognise it, Monkton Combe just along the valley is Titfield. I went to a showing of the film in Monkton Combe village hall: several of the more senior members of the audience had been extras in the film!

When we got to Bradford-on-Avon it was getting late. We hoped to moor beneath the lock but it was packed with boats. A chap was sat on the back of a hire boat just down from the lock. Cheekily we asked if we could moor alongside him for the night. "No problem," he said, "if you'll help me through the lock in the morning."

It turned out that he and his wife had hired the boat from a hire company at Trowbridge. His wife was disabled and was unable to assist with any of the locking or bridge operations. The chap had explained this to the hire company and said that he had never been boating before. The hire company had said that it wouldn't be a problem. Of course it was a problem. The K&A is not an easy canal to boat single handed even for experienced boaters. The locks are large and one swing bridge is impossible to boat through alone as when you have manually opened the bridge you find you are stood on the opposite side of the canal to the bridge! The poor couple had only gone a couple of miles and through Bradford on Avon lock before realising they couldn't manage, they were about to head back to the hire company base. I hope he complained to them, he had in effect paid a thousand pounds for two half days boating. The hire company should have suggested that he at least try boating on an easier, single width, canal first.

So we tied our boat to his and set off into the town in search of fish and chips. There is a nice chip shop with seating next to the railway station so we went there and ordered fish, chips and mushy peas, yum! When the food arrived, Mick leant over and nicked a large chip off my plate. In retaliation I leant over and picked up a huge fistful of chips off his plate and dropped them on mine. Unfortunately this act was witnessed by the waitress who had just returned with the condiments.

Totally embarrassed, I glared at Mick. "That was your fault!" I hissed.
Mick was laughing so much he couldn't eat. "Ha ha!" he said, "only you could be too uncouth for a chip shop!"

Three Greedy Gubbins

2011-06-16T19:48:00.009+01:00

Unusually, my brother, sister and I all happened to be in the country at the same time (my brother is the globe trotter not me) and all free for the day, so we decided to go for a stroll in the countryside.

We had agreed that it was important to get an early start, so my sister duly turned up at ten o'clock with Millie, who as usual was going beserk at the idea of a W.A.L.K.

Unfortunately Richard and I had overslept so we didn't leave the house until eleven and then Richard announced that he had some essential tasks to be done, involving photocopiers, scanners and suchlike.

Katie, Millie and I got quite thirsty hanging around so 12.30 saw us sat in the garden of the Lock Keeper pub enjoying a pint of Waggledance, whilst waiting for Richard. The pub is roughly half a mile from my house. Not the most auspicious of starts then. Richard finally joined us, and partoook of the refreshments offered by the hostelry before we finally set off along the section of the Monarchs Way which runs past the marina and out of Keynsham.

Before long we parted company with the route King Charles II allegedly took and continued alongside the Avon to Swineford. By now it was two o'clock and so we decided to stop for lunch at The Swan, accompanied by a pint of Gem (me) and Summer's Hare (Katie and Richard) from Bath Ales Brewery.
Summer wasn't "hare" though, as it soon started to rain. So we got out our macs in stoic fashion and put up the sun brolly for good measure. Brits love this sort of thing: pressing on despite the weather, triumph in the face of adversity etc. It makes us feel good. Anyway, we shrugged off the rain as a mere trifle and were enjoying ourselves so much than when Richard said: "Fancy another?" Katie and I both replied, "Ooh yes please!"

When Richard reappeared with more pints of beer we had finished our food and were feeling rather full. We both looked at the beer. "I'm not sure I want it now," I said.
"Nor me," said Katie. "And I have to drive home later. I don't want another pint, not sure why I said yes."
Richard looked at us in alarm. "I can't drink all of them!" he said.
"Well we can't leave them, " I replied, "that's nine quid's worth!"
"Yes I know," said Rich. "I paid for them!"
Katie and I sat there looking a bit sheepish, then I had an idea. "Ask them if they'll put it in a carry-out," I said.

Richard traipsed off to the bar carrying two full pints of beer. He returned ten minutes later with a plastic milk bottle.

"Well that," he said, "was embarrassing. I had to explain that you two changed your mind, I felt a right twit." The woman behind the bar had laughed but had kindly decanted the milk into a jug and had washed out the milk bottle and put the beer in it. I put it into my rucksack for later enjoyment.

We headed up the lane behind the pub and followed the track to the end where we were met by some unfriendly gates. We backtracked to the car park and found the right path off to the left and puffed and grumbled our way up the hill to Upton Cheyney.

Upton Cheyney is a quiet village. This is what Wikipedia has to say about it: Upton Cheyney is a village in South Gloucestershire, England near to Bitton, Bristol. That's it. South Gloucestershire Council is a bit more forthcoming; from their website I learned that Upton Cheyney means "upper farmhouse" and that remains of a Roman settlement have been found in the village.

Pipley Bottom

Cottages at Kelston Mill

We passed the Upton Inn, but given the debacle down the hill at the Swan and the fact we were now lugging two pints with us, it was universally agreed that we would give this one a miss, although it did look inviting. Another time maybe. We did, however, stop for a cup of tea at Manor Farm. Although the shop was not officially open on Thursdays, the farmer told us we were welcome to a cup of tea provided we served ourselves which didn't seem too much of a hardship.

North Stoke

Saltford Lock

From Upton we followed a path down a steep slope into Pipley Bottom, crossing a small stream before climbing out the other side (with further grumblings and mutterings), emerging in the small village of North Stoke. From here it was a straightforward walk down the steep hill where we crossed the main road and a couple of fields before emerging at Kelston Mills, next to the River Avon, but on the opposite side to Saltford. Here the furnace chimneys of the brassworks are a reminder of the industry that used to take place on the Avon. The brassmill was one of several established along the Avon by William Champion (no, not the drummer in Coldplay), this Will Champion was responsible for establishing a brass industry in Bristol and along this stretch of the River, that was one of the largest in Europe. Hard to believe now that this tranquil stretch of river was one of the early centres of the Industrial Revolution in Britain.

As we made our way along the river bank we saw Mick waving from his boat across the water.
"I'll put the kettle on!" he said.

The very tiny chair

By the time we had walked along to the Bristol Bath cycle bridge and old railway bridge which would get us across the kettle had boiled and we sat on the grass enjoying another cup of tea. I sat on the smallest seat ever, I am not of great stature but even I found that my knees were level with my chin which was a little uncomfortable. It seemed churlish to complain though, especially when Mick offered us all a lift back to Keynsham. It had started to rain again and we all quickly accepted and jumped into the van before he could change his mind.

Later on when we tucked into the pints we had brought from The Swan we agreed that despite the late start it had been a very successful outing.

Climbing Kelston Round Hill

2011-06-11T11:57:00.010+01:00

My brother Richard has turned up for a few days. He is between jobs and is taking a short break. Despite the gloomy weather forecast the sun is shining, it's a glorious day.
"Come out for a walk," I said.
Mick had also turned up for the day. They both looked at me doubtfully. Mick, I could see, was floundering around for an excuse. "We had planned to watch the Grand Prix," he said.
"I didn't know that was today was the Grand Prix," I said.
Turned out it was the Canadian Grand Prix. And not even the main race, it was the qualifying ones.

"Aw, come on," I said. "Just a short walk."
Richard looked at me suspiciously. "How short?"
"Four miles, round trip. Five at the very, very most."

They agreed to a short walk and we set off. We headed up the fields and lanes to the top of Saltford,stopping to admire a foal and its mother in one of the fields before heading down the road into the village. Today was the start of Saltford festival and we expected to see people thronging the narrow village roads, bunting, and (hopefully) burger-bars and barbecue stands. Nothing. The place was deserted. A sign advertising a display by local artists in the church hall was the only indication that something was going on.
"It's not exactly Notting Hill, is it?" said Richard.

I wanted to show the others Saltford Manor House, which is thought to be the oldest continuously inhabited house in Britain. The house dates back to 1148 (give or take a year or two), thought to be built by Earl William of Gloucester. It's currently on the market for £1.25 million, although last year the asking price was £2.5 million. We had a quick tally up and worked out we could, if we pooled our funds, make a realistic offer for the left hand chimney stack. The chimney was about all we could see from the road so we went into the churchyard and stood on the bench to get a better look, and then had a nose around the church as, despite being atheist, I do like to look around old churches.

The church is Norman and painted white and pale blue. It has a pleasant, light feel to it. I liked it very much. There is a Norman font, which, the story goes, was taken from the church during the English Civil War after the Battle of Lansdown and was later found being used as a cattle trough and returned to the church. In the porch is a memorial to Frances Flood who, whilst passing through the village in 1723, lost her legs through gangrene after contracting smallpox. She went to ask for help from the Overseer of the poor in Saltford. He refused and they put dung in the barn where she had been sleeping to prevent her returning. Not very charitable. But eventually she found a barn where she stayed until she recovered and was able to tell her story, which is now held in the British Museum. Given our experience every time we moored our boat up in Saltford (moan, moan, moan), we were not at all surprised to learn of Saltford's, shall we say, less than welcoming attitude to strangers.

The Bird in Hand looked welcoming enough though, and the garden was packed with people enjoying an afternoon pint in the garden.
"We could stop for one," said Richard, hopefully.
"Would be a shame not to," agreed Mick.

I was being firm though, it was already gone three o'clock and I thought it much too soon to stop for a beer. Especially as one pint would turn into two and we would get no farther that day.

"No, absolutely not," I said marching up the steps next to the pub which led to the cycle path. As we made our way up, the other two still grumbling, a chap was waiting to come down with his bike, obviously heading to the pub. He shot a glance at Mick and Richard muttering away.
"Don't worry about them," I said. "They're miffed because I won't let them stop for a beer."
He gave them a sympathetic look. "That," he said, "is just cruel."

Unrepentant I continued on with the other two trailing behind. Within half an hour we had crossed a few fields and were stood outside The Old Crown at Kelston. This is Richard's favourite pub.
"There is no way you are stopping me having a beer in here!" he said, sticking his chin out resolutely.
I could tell I was beaten on this one, so we went in and had a pint and then, predictably, another one.

"Where now?" they asked resignedly when we emerged from the pub.
"Up that hill," I said.

We climbed the lane that ran perpendicular to the main road. To our left we could see Kelston Round Hill, distinctive with its crown of trees. A gate on our right and a track across the field looked promising so we took that and then edged our way up a couple more ploughed fields before the final ascent through long grass to the top of the hill.

And what a view! It was superb. In front of us Saltford, Keynsham and Bristol, and beyond, the hills of the Mendips, the Quantocks and Wales. Mick reckoned he could see Exmoor but we pooh-poohed that as ridiculous. Around the other side was a fantastic view across Bath and across the valley, Beckford's Tower, designed for the eccentric William Beckford. At the back of the hill the Cotswold Way winds its way up to Lansdown and another superb viewpoint at Prospect Stile. We could see the Westbury White Horse in the distance, over 25 kilometres away.

By now I was well and truly rumbled. The topograph said six kilometres to Keynsham, as the crow flies.
"Five miles walk!" said Richard. "Five each way, more like."
"No it's not ten miles," I protested. "Six. Seven at the very most."

It was time to head back before I had a mutiny on my hands. We passed the back of Bath racecourse and then crossed the site of the iron age Littledown hill fort. The defensive ditch was clearly visible, but the rest of the site has been cultivated. Below the fort the path took us across a field full of sheep and a lot of sheep poo. I stopped for the forty thousandth time to have a pee, beer has that effect these days. Mind you the other two weren't any better, every few minutes someone would be dashing off to find a hedge to water.

The path entered the little village of North Stoke from behind the small, twelfth century church. Mick was all for having a look around the graveyard to see if he could find any ancestors buried there (they lived in Swineford) but it was gone seven now so we decided that would have to wait for another day. Instead we trotted down the old lane towards Swineford and the Avon. There are remains of Roman settlement in North Stoke and it is likely that this route down to the River Avon has been used for many hundreds of years. Talking of age, by now we were all feeling it. Mick was complaining that his back hurt, Richard was limping slightly due to a gammy knee and I was feeling the effects of a tumble off my bike a couple of days before.

We limped into the Swan at Swineford and ordered a pint from Bath Ales. The pub is a bit foodie but the beer was nice and set us up for the last limp home, along the river and through vast wheatfields to Avon Valley River Park and then home via the Co-op. Once home the other two slumped into chairs exhausted, barely able to raise a glass of wine to their lips. As punishment for making them walk so far, I was made to cook supper.

Map of our route is here

That's what I call a cow pat!

The Man in the Mankini

2011-06-04T16:40:00.061+01:00

I have heard it said that narrowboating is boring. "It's so slow!" friends complain. "What's the point in taking eight hours to get from Bristol to Bath when I can drive there in half an hour?"

This competely misses the point of course. I remember once returning from a week's boating and work colleagues asking where I had been on holiday. "Devizes," I said.
"Devizes? For a holiday?"
"Well, it took three days to get there and three days to get back."
With boating it is all about the journey, not the destination.

In any event, these days boating holidays have become popular for stag and hen parties, and these are livening up the canals no end. As we discovered.

I had joined Mick, Val and Vince for a jaunt down to the River Avon from Bath. We headed down the Widcombe Flight, the six locks which take the Kennet and Avon down to the Avon Navigation. Originally the flight comprised seven locks, but pre-restoration, when the canal was disused, a new road had been put through Widcombe and through the lower lock, so the two locks were combined to form Bath Deep Lock. With a fall of 19 feet 5 inches, it is the second deepest lock in the UK. (Pipped to the post by Tuel Lane Lock on the Rochdale Canal which has a rise of 19 feet 8 inches. That one is deemed too deep to be operated without a lock keeper, presumably those three inches make all the difference as boaters are expected to navigate Bath Deep Lock unassisted.) The locks take a colossal amount of water and boaters are asked to share locks whenever possible.

Anyway, we were coming down the lock above Bath Deep Lock when I noticed a boat waiting to descend The Big One. I was about to call out to them to wait when I realised that this might not be such a good idea. Several lads on the boat were dancing about on the roof swigging out of wine bottles and beer cans, one chap was balanced on a plastic stool on the roof holding out score cards to passing women and someone hidden from sight was blasting vigorously on an airhorn.

I wrestled with my conscience. We should ask them to wait and save water, but I really didn't want to spend half-an-hour locking down with these louts.

In the end I decided to pass the buck and asked Mick. "Um there's a boat at the next lock but its loaded up with a bunch of w**kers," I said non-judgementally. "Shall I ask them to wait or shall we let them go on?"
"Well, if we don't share locks, the pound up here is going to be empty soon," he said. ("Pound" is the name given to the bits of water which join locks together on canals - I have no idea why.) "Yes, ask them to wait."
"Ok," I sighed. "But don't say I didn't warn you!"

When we caught up with them, Mick and Val who were on the boat stared in astonishment. "I did warn you," I said. Standing on the end of the lock, right next to the main road was a bloke dressed in a Borat style mankini, dancing and strutting up and down the lock gates. Someone needed to go and open the paddle on the gate to start letting the water out. "I'm not standing next to him", I said to Vince, "I don't want a close up of his bum."
"And you think I do?" he asked. "But he went up and did it anyway, and we watched narrowboat John Damsell and the party-boat descend together into the depths.

I feared for their safety but all seemed to be going well down there. I saw Mick and the captain of the other boat exhange hats for a while, and a wine bottle was being passed to and fro.

"They're not sure where to go when they get on the river!" Mick yelled up to me. "I said they could come with us!"
"WHAT?" I yelled. "You are JOKING!"
He wasn't. We shared the next lock. By now quite a crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle.

"You're a ten," yelled the bloke on the roof to three attractive young ladies, holding up a ten card. "YOU are a ONE," he said to a cyclist. "Pedal faster or get a car!" Then: "You're a five!" - aimed at a chap scuttling past with his Sainsbury's bags.

Meanwhile "Borat" was posing for all he was worth.

"They're not with us," I said to anyone who would listen.

We were now about to go onto the river. The other boat left the lock first and gradually the sound of the airhorn faded into the distance. "We'll catch them up and I'll show them where to moor up," said Mick.
I groaned. "Must we?" I said.
"Ah, they're alright," he said.

It was then that we realised that Mankini Man had been so busy posing that his comrades had left him behind.

"No problem mate!" said Mick, "You can have a lift with us!"

And so we arrived on the sedate River Avon with Mankini Man strutting his stuff on the roof of our boat.

Downstream we caught up the others and he switched boats.
"Cheers," he said as he disembarked. "We're going out in Bath now, a few pubs then we're going nightclubbing.

Vince looked him up and down.

"You'll never get in a nightclub dressed like that mate," he said. "You're wearing trainers!"

Poacher Turned Gamekeeper

2011-06-01T16:20:00.009+01:00

My sister Katie and I, along with the delectable but excitable Millie, decided to go for a stroll down to the pub at Compton Dando. "I have a lovely route planned," I said as we climbed over a gate and hauled the dog over with us.

Katie stopped in her tracks as she spotted, at the other end of the field, a herd of cows grazing. "Did you hear," she said, "about that bloke who got stampeded by cows when he was walking his dog?"
"No," I said.
"It was the dog, it spooked the cows and they stampeded and killed him."

I hastily clambered back over the gate, swiftly followed by the other two and we set off down the road. "We'll find a field without cows," I said.

Sluice control at Chewton Keynsham

We walked down to Chewton Keynsham and over the bridge at Chewton Mill. As we rounded the corner, Millie spotted some cows next to fence and promptly went beserk, barking for all she was worth.

The route clearly needed a radical rethink so I pulled my OS map out of my rucksack.

The detail on the Explorer Range is pretty impressive. Fences, pylons, trees and boulders are marked, in fact the detail is awesome. Cows in fields, however, were not marked. What to do? We decided to stick to lanes and woodland and heading west out of Chewton Keynsham, we turned onto what looks like an old drovers lane. Apart from the remains of a dead deer, the walk was pleasant enough. We emerged onto Charlton Road and immediately turned onto Charlton Field Lane and then Slate Lane.

On the right is the forty hectare Wooscombe Wood, planted in 1993 by a local farmer, althouh it encompasses older woodland trees within it. It is one of a large number of new woodland which have been planted in the Forest of Avon area. (see more here).We trotted through the wood, fairly confident that we would see no cows in here. Sure enough, only the occasional squirrel and wood pigeon put in an appearance.

At the end of the wood we crossed some empty fields and headed down another minor road and then down Lady Wood. The bluebells have all gone over now, beautiful as they are, they sadly don't flower for long.

As we emerged from the wood a couple of locals out walking their dogs were stood chatting. They nodded hello and then one of them looked at my feet. "Sandals!" he said, incredulously. "I never wear anything except boots out 'ere. It's full of snakes, it is." I looked around the meadow. Seeing my sceptical look he nodded vigorously. "Full of them!" he said.

"Er, I'll remember that next time," I said.

We wandered into Compton Dando and fetched a pint each at the Compton Inn. "Blimey this looks different," Katie exclaimed. "Last time I was here all the tables were formica and the pub was called The Poacher!"
"Almost," said one of the other customers. "It wasn't The Poacher, it was The Gamekeeper."
Poacher or Gamekeeper, they served Butcombe which I like and Doombar which Katie likes. Mille got water which she assured us was her favourite drink so the pub had three very satisfied customers.

Lych Gate at St Mary's church, Compton Dando

Route here

Keynsham to Stanton Drew

2011-05-17T14:54:00.005+01:00

Mick has a hangover and doesn't feel like going out. "There are only two cures for a hangover," I tell him - "Time, and a jolly good walk." He opts for time and tries to go and lie down but I am having none of it. "A good walk will set you right, get up and get going."

Grumbling, he agrees, and we set off along the Chew valley.

We start by setting off on the familiar walk from Keynsham down the River Chew. By the time we get to Compon Dando he feels better and by the time we get to Pensford he is his normal self. "Told you so," I say smugly. We call in to the village shop at Pensford and buy locally made pasties which we eat on the footbridge underneath the imposing and wonderful Pensford viaduct. At 330 in length and with sixteen arches in all, it dominates the landscape.

The viaduct used to carry the Bristol and North Somerset Railway down to Radstock, Frome and the Somerset Coalfield. The railway mainly carried freight although pasenger trains ran until the fifties. It was closed altogether in 1968 after the Chew Valley flood (more here) when it was deemed to be unsafe. I can't help wondering whether it was simply an excuse to divert the freight onto the parallel A37 given this was the age of the great rail closures.It still looks pretty solid to me, but hey, what do I know? I have studied the line of the railway extensively on Google Earth, from the air the route can be easily picked out. It looks like a perfect project for a new cyclepath!

We follow the Two Rivers Way along the Chew to Stanton Drew. Approaching the village up the land by Church Farm, there is little to indicate that in fields on either side of us are prehistoric stone circles of national importance, the third largest collection of prehistoric standing stones in England. Stanton Drew doesn't make a big fuss like Stonehenge, there are no coaches or visitor centre. A little honesty box on the wall asking for a quid is the only indication that a hop over the stile into the field may be worthwhile. We wandered around the stones for a good while, the only other person we saw was the local farmer rounding up his stock.

Amazingly, until recently, the stones have attracted little attention. This is now changing, however, as recent surveys have shown the site to have been once part of a much bigger complex. It seems that Stanton Drew was a pretty important place four thousand years ago.

Coincidentally, another set of stones in the village happen to be sited right in the garden of the local pub. "I think I could force down a pint," said Mick with a grin. So we bought a pint of Butcombe each and sat in the pub garden admiring "The Cove", a set of three stones, two standing and one recumbent, in the back garden. Surveys here suggest that these stones could once have formed the entrance to a Neolithic burial chamber or long barrow.

I predict that one day Stanton Drew will be as famous as Stonehenge and Avebury and that some local farmer will be turning his field over to a carpark..

After our pint we headed across fields to another Stanton, Stanton Wick. At the back of the village the path went directly through someone's back garden; it felt slightly odd wandering across the lawn past the washing line and out through the opposite hedge. Still a footpath is a footpath...We emerged from the garden into - eureka - the carpark of another pub.

The Carpenter's Arms was quite a fancy inn with restaurant and accommodation but nicely done, and at least there was still a bar area. We had grown weary of going to country pubs which look lovely on the outside but inside the interior has been turned over to a restaurant with nowhere to sit and have a drink.

Across the fields we came across a rope swing in a field and couldn't resist having a go. Mick turned into the playground bully and pushed me so hard I nearly fell off. Still it was good fun, although I felt a bit sick as we staggered down the footpath..
We crossed Lord's Wood. The woodland is known for butterflies and we saw plenty of them around the lake in the centre of the wood. A climb out and then back to Compton Dando and a retracing of our steps home.

"You were right, " said Mick when we wearily slumped onto the sofa. "It was a good hangover cure."
"Yes, I told you a walk would set you right."
"Oh it wasn't the walk," he said. "It was the two pints of beer that set me right."

Route is here

Boating the K&A part two

2011-05-11T18:15:00.009+01:00

"After you!"

I have rejoined the good ship John Damsell for a couple of days. I phoned the crew and asked where they were and was informed that they were "somewhere beyond Trowbridge". I pondered whether to cycle the Bristol-Bath path and the towpath yet again and decided I really couldn't be bothered. I was feeling lazy, despite the fact that it was a completely flat route, Instead I decided to go to Trowbridge by train and then cycle along from there. So I headed down to Keynsham station and asked the guy in the ticket booth for a single ticket to Trowbridge.

"A single ticket to Trowbridge?" he asked. "Are you sure? That's a place you want to return from!"

I laughed. "It's ok," I said, "I'm jumping on a boat to get out."

Whilst I was on the train the crew phoned to say they had just reached Semington, so at Trowbridge I jumped on the main road to Devizes and cycled along there awhile before turning down the lane to Semington village. The tarmac was faster than the gravelly towpath, although the road was busy and noisy, it was something of a relief to turn onto the quiet road down to the canal. Once on the towpath I had only travelled a mile or so when I saw them moored up next to a swingbridge. I could see Mick with his back to me, on his phone. Suddenly my phone rang in my pocket. I answered it, it was him of course.

"Are you far away?" he asked.

"Yes, miles, the train was late," I said. "Can you wait around for me?"

"Ok," he said glumly, then grinned as I rolled up alongside the boat. "Huh, very funny."

We slung my bike on the roof and the bags inside then set off along the canal passing through Wiltshire fields along the plain. Before long we reached Foxhangers and the start of the flight of locks which take the canal off the plain and up to the Vale of Pewsey.

There was a winding hole after seven locks so we decided to go up this far and moor up before heading back down in the morning. Winding holes are places where you can turn around. Unlike a car which can turn around pretty much anywhere, it's not so easy when your boat is 60 feet long and the canal is only about ten feet wide. So every now and again there are wide bits where, with a bit of luck, a dollop of bad language and not too much wind, you can turn around and head the other way. Sometimes it all goes wrong and then someone has to deploy a long pole to try and push the boat off the bank allthe while hoping that a boat doesn't come along a) because your boat is now wedged sideways blocking the channel and b) because you look and feel like idiots who don't know what they're doing.

So we headed up the seven locks and then went to look at Caen Hill flight proper. Caen Hill is one of the wonders of the waterways. It takes the canal from the flat plain of the Bristol Avon up to the Vale of Pewsey, the corridor between the chalk downs of Salisbury Plain and Marlborough Downs. It rises over 230 feet in two miles, which means a lot of locks. twenty nine of them in fact.

Caen Hill locks are in three sections: seven locks at Foxhangers, then the main flight of sixteen, then the remainder into Devizes. The middle sixteen rise in a dramatic and beautiful formation, one above the other in perfect formation. It is a staggering feat of engineering. The flight was the last section of the canal to be completed in 1810, and the last part of the canal to be reopened in 1990 when the Queen was the first to boat through the restored locks in the Rose of Hungerford.

The canal, including Caen Hill flight was designed by the Scottish engineer and architect John Rennie, who went on to design many other structures including Waterloo, Southwark and London Bridge. On Caen Hill he placed huge side ponds to ensure sufficient water supply through the flight. Now recently installed backpumps are capable of returning 32 million litres of water a day back up the flight.

After some food we walked up the towpath to Devizes. We had a couple of pints in the Wetherspoons pub where a feature on the wall put paid to Mick's theory that Caen Hill was so named after French prisoners brought here during the Napoleonic war. In fact the hill is named after Roger de Caen, Bishop of Salisbury who built a castle in Devizes in the tenth century.
We then trailed round the corner for a couple of pints in the Lamb. Whilst there we admired the huge Elizabethan oil painting although you have to lean sidewise and then look up to see it. Apparently it was a gift to the pub. As The Lamb is an ancient building the walls are only around six feet high and uneven. The only place to put it therefore, was on the ceiling. We all leaned sideways and looked up to admire it, making appropriate appreciative noises before heading out to sit in the little courtyard for an hour before heading back to the boat.

On the way back we admired the beautiful sunset for a while before turning in.

This is the bit I missed: here
Todays route: here

It's been a hard day's boating

Brassknocker Hill

2011-05-11T01:30:00.062+01:00

I am meeting my sister at Keynsham for lunch so at ten I head off back down the canal towpath on my bike. I worked out this was the sixth time I had travelled this route in as many days, and I thought I would have a change from cycling the towpath. The road would be more direct and smoother after all. And maybe the hill and the traffic wouldn't be so bad. And so I made the fateful decision to cycle back via Brassknocker Hill and across the top of the hill rather than via the towpath to Bath. After all, I reasoned, once I'm up the hill it's a more direct route than the winding canal.

Brassknocker Hill. It's a lovely name isn't it? The hill isn't lovely though, at least not heading in the direction I was going. It's steep. Very steep. I immediately switched onto the granny wheel and began slowly pedalling up the hill. My Dawes is not the lightest of bikes and I was regretting having two pannier bags as well. I managed to get about a third of the way up the hill before pulling over, gasping, onto the verge at the side of the road, convinced I was about to have a heart attack. I leant over the handlebars, gasping and clutching at my heart. It was beating so fast.

After some minutes I felt reassured that I was not about to expire on the road and began to slowly push the bike up the hill, crossing the road on each sharp bend to try and reduce the liklihood of a car ploughing into me as it rounded the corner. Near the top I almost stumbled over a dead fawn lying by the side of the road. It had clearly not been there long, poor thing.

Once at the top of the hill, the going is pretty flat. The road goes across the top of Claverton Down and Combe Down south of Bath. Under Combe Down, but only just under (in places only a few feet), are miles of stone mines from which the famous Bath stone limestone was extracted during the 18th and 19th centuries. The stone was sought after for prestigious buildings, not only in Bath but across the country, including Windsor Castle and Buckingham Palace.

However the mines became increasingly unstable. People were getting up to discover that holes had appeared in their gardens overnight. Not good when you let the dog out for a pee and it falls down a blimmin' great hole. On one occasion a truck fell down a hole and was left there to provide a house foundation. (Presumably it was thought to be better to build the house on top of a lorry rather than on top of land which resembled Gruyère cheese.) In recent years a stabilisation project has been pumping foamed concrete into the mines. This was a massive project, over 400,000 square metres of concrete were pumped in altogether.

Foamed concrete is created by injecting air bubbles through the mass of the concrete. The density of foam concrete can vary from 200kg/cub.m to 1600kg/cub.m. The strength of the concrete is determined by the mix of cement and water and also is dependent on the type of foaming agent used, and whether it is protein or synthetic based. Foam concrete has a wide variety of applications.....Hey! Wake UP!

OK enough about foam concrete. Suffice to say that the mines are no longer falling down.

I cycled across the top of the plateau and then freewheeled the long coast down to Newton St Loe and with gritted teeth I put up with the A4 for a few miles until Saltford where I could turn back onto the lanes for the final few miles.

Made it in time for lunch. I think I may have to train a bit more before tackling Brassknocker Hill again though.