A little break

A triple whammy of another heavy cold, vile weather and large workload have confined me to barracks for a while, so I am taking a little break. As soon as I've got the strength to get out and about again, I'll be back.

Post-storm cycle Nov 15th

For two days, the view from the studio has been a little stormy. Rain lashed the windows and tiles trembled on the roof. This morning all was calm and clean, like a child who has screamed itself out and decided to be 'good again'.

I got up straight away, without even stopping for tea and took Hercules out for a quick spin, before most other people were stirring; even in the countryside the weekends are not the best time for a solitude-loving person to be out in. The river at the bottom of the hill has filled nicely; for months the water level has been sinking, and it is good to see it swelling fatly.

The sky was an aching blue, the brightest thing now that autumn's colours are fading to winter drabs.

There is a tiny village I go through often and this house, though not the quaintest, usually has cars parked outside it, so I snapped it for the record. It has a nice, neat doll's house feel, even if it is a little characterless.

I stopped on the hill to upright a wooden bench which had been buffeted over in the gales. Further on, there is a large wilding apple tree which still hangs on to it's fruit, golden baubles cheering up the hedgerow.

I stopped at the old mill, now converted to a house. The river was churning ferociously, thick with mud and silt. The power and roaring made me keep my distance; the bridge is quite low and one would not stand a chance of survival on falling in.

Sometimes I miss the sea.

Foggy Monday walk 9 Nov

A new walk in the next county, on a dull, foggy day. We set off up this path and, turning round, the view of the avenue was very pleasing. Everywhere was hushed and there was little life around. A buzzard crying in the clouds, crows fussing about as crows do.

Our Ordnance survey map and the footpath sign indicated that we should walk on the other side of this wall, which we dutifully did. A notice rather pompously announced that the landowners 'welcome careful walkers'...

...although as we battled to stay to the mapped footpath (and with no indications of an alternative route) I cursed that 'walkers welcome considerate landowners'. We had to slide and tiptoe along this narrow ridge, through slashed bramble bushes and down landslips.

At last we got back to walkable terrain and had our usual discussion about pylons. Andy hates them. I have a fondness for them; they remind me of alien invaders marching along the landscape - and they do look rather magnificent disappearing into the mist.

Despite a paucity of footpath signs, we made the halfway point, a glowing tunnel along the side of a beech copse.

Looking over the drystone wall to a fat cottage nestling in the fields.

Faroff in the adjoining field, the farmer is cutting the hedges back.

Not all Cotswolds farms look as if they have sprung from an old picture book. This one was very industrial and properous; there was a well-run atmosphere and the farm dogs (of whom we are usually wary) sat obediently on their own on a quad bike, although they kept a beady eye on us.

Even though we are descending rapidly into winter, there are signs that spring is not too far off. The sheep are being tupped - this bunch seem to have been 'done', by the stains on their rumps. One day next year we will return and enjoy the sight of lambs tumbling about these same fields.

In the opposite field, we spotted two rams, each wearing a harness, which holds the raddle - a marking powder which transfers itself from the holder on the rams chest, onto the rump of the tupped ewe. It only takes a few seconds, as we witnessed while we stood there, drinking our hot chocolate. But then, they have a lot of ewes to get through.

In the next field, the ladies got quite militant - although at first they trotted off, they then stopped and formed a long, defensive line, watching us as we passed. It crossed my mind for a second that we might be the first people in the Cotswolds to be trampled by sheep. You can almost hear them bleating a unifed 'chaarrrrge!'

But of course, they didn't. And I was soon distracted by this gorgeous shepherd hut, rather like the ones I covet on this site, Cotswold Shepherd huts. There was a similar one displayed at a local garden centre and they are beautifully restored, inside and out, with sweet little woodburners and snug bunk beds. Oh, to have one of these in your back garden!

The afternoon was drawing to a close and we were nearly at the village which marked the end of our walk. The light was dying and the clouds were lowering.

At some point as we got to the outskirts, we got split up; Andy had strode ahead and, dawdling behind, I followed a footpath sign instead of taking the lane and got side tracked.

But there were compensations, such as being able to have a discreet nosy at lovely houses -

- and magnificent topiary. I could smell other people's woodburners wafting up on the cold air and had a yearning to be in our own little cottage with a warm fire bustling away. Where was Andy?

He was bringing the motorbike up the road, ready to whisk me off. It is lovely to go out, and even nicer to return home.

Dodging the rain Nov 3

After a couple of weeks of recovering properly from seasonal *lurgy*, I am almost back to everyday outings. I cannot abide being stuck inside for too long and even if the weather is iffy, I would rather risk a drenching than fust away. We are having a week of wind and rain, which is what you want really, in November. Today I was working with one eye on the studio window, watching for a good, clear break after a morning of downpours. When it seemed safe, I scrambled onto Hercules and we headed for the top hill. I soon spotted more wet gloom, rolling in rather beautifully on the back of strong sunshine. Would I escape in time?

No. After a mile of mad pedalling, the first drops began to splatter, hastened in by strong winds.

Nothing for it but to carry on.

Thank goodness for rural bus shelters. We were able to stop and shelter from the worst of it, and dry off.

After ten minutes the skies westward cleared and a clean brightness sharpened the autumn colours.

From the top, I could see the storm cascading eastwards towards Oxford.

Down the big hill, accompanied by gurgling rivulets of rain water streaming to the bottom.

The sun emerged.

By the time I reached the deserted farm, it was a perfect day.

In fact, if it hadn't been for what my West Country mother would have called 'gurt big puddles'...

...you would scarcely have known it had been raining at all.

Rain sets in Oct 20

Autumn's gold is turning grey. And when the Cotswolds are overcast, they are very gloomy indeed. But, rain or shine, exercise (albeit brief) must be taken. So we popped over to the woods for a quick leg stretcher.

Despite the dark skies, the central beech grove glows; it is as if we are standing in a copper lit temple, held up by the very trees themselves. Further on into the birch woodland, things become tangled and dank; skeletal twigs scratchily rustling in the damp breeze. The air smells earthy and moist - a clean, woodsy aroma as nature gently rots.

We have had such little rainfall that the fungi season has been set right back. Usually our woods can display around 250 varieties of fungi. Today we could not count them on one hand. We found one large bewigged fellow, somewhat munched on.

An ear fungus, pristine and glistening.

And, barely noticeable, tiny pinheads scattered over a rotting trunk.

There is someone having his lunch in there. He is only one centimetre long, but he is a devouring giant to these little snowballs.

From a spyhole on the edge of the woods, we see that more rain is coming in from the west. Time to go home. Time for hot chocolate and to search the cake tin for leftovers.

Today we lit the woodburner for the first time since Spring.

Cotswold encounters Oct 12

What a glorious little period of weather we are enjoying! Despite having a new job I needed to get to grips with, Hercules and I could not resist taking ourselves out for a spin. After a clear, cold night, the air had a snap in it, but the sun was hot on the back of my neck. I cycled to a village across the way, to pick up my indulgence for the month; the latest edition of Selvedge magazine. I cannot pretend that the countryside is a Jane Austen idyll; rural people have cars - they need them - and the streets were designed long before automobiles were even dreamt of.

I noticed on my way out that it was after eleven, and I should be at home, toiling in the studio. But as I had my Selvedge and a bottle of mango juice, I stopped at a favourite stile to enjoy the sun. I leaned over the gate and a friendly red setter lolloped over, soon followed by his mistress and two other setters. We got into conversation, as you do when there are only two of you in a half mile vicinity and three dogs happily snuffling in the long grass.

She was the farmer who's fields these are. She was there to put a chain on the gate, and a stern notice to whichever horse rider had been illegally using a footpath. If you think this is heavy handed, consider the poor walker, trying to tread a small footpath which has been churned up and rutted by horse's hooves, without wrenching their ankle. Footpaths are footpaths, and there are more than enough bridleways for riders and walkers to enjoy. We chatted about her dogs, which were rescued and re-homed. The sad tales of how they came to be with her made my blood run cold. She walked on, followed by three bouncing coppery hounds and I flipped through Selvedge, happy to see one of Ann Wood's gorgeous owls featured. Can you see it, just to the left of the right hand page?

As I resumed my journey, I heard a friendly 'goodbye!' from behind the hedgerow, and replied in kind, feeling as though I had added to my collection of nice people. I was musing on what to have got lunch, when I cycled past a box. It was sat in the path, in the sun, minding its own business. In my very British way, I almost left it where it was. But then curiosity got the better of me.

It was addressed to someone in a nearby village. I pass many post vans on my morning travels, so I picked it up and clamped it under my arm, thinking I would pass it on to one of our nice posties. It was a rather wobbly journey home, cycling single handed.

I didn't find a postman. Back at the cottage I checked the map and, realising that the village was only 3 miles away, decided to pop out again and deliver it myself. Hercules squeaked and my knees groaned, but we set off again, on different route. This is a long, punishing climb and I only managed two-thirds of it.

It was such a gorgeous day that I didn't mind in the slightest being out again. When I reached the hamlet, I pootled up and down, searching for the property.

In the end I found some men working on a barn conversion.

They directed me to the correct address, only seconds away. By now I was starting to feel a little foolish - should I not have simply left the box at our Post Office? I entered the gates and stood in a courtyard, not knowing where to go next. A car drove up and I was able to explain my mission to a young man, who seemed surprised, but took the box to a side door. A lady came out, delighted to have her parcel, but rather baffled as to why it had been abandoned in a local lane. I left feeling less silly and happy to have done a good turn.

I was right next to a house which has long fascinated me; it looms coldly in shadow, tall and foreboding, unlike any other building in the vicinity. I took the chance, on leaving, to take a shot of the mysterious topiary opening, which beckons darkly like Bluebeard's dungeon.

Now it really was time to get home and to work. I'd had the best of the day. The sunshine was hazing and clouds were banking up.

The way back is much easier than the outward journey and all the views are on the riding side. I stopped to pick out familiar landmarks and place myself.

Ah, there it is - our own little village, half asleep in a nest of trees.

Down the long, long hill we sailed, Hercules and I. A flock of seagulls patterned the sky, following a tractor ploughing the fields and a pinky brown kestrel hunched hungrily on a telephone wire.

We were home.

Yanworth walk Oct 8

Since finding our battered and torn Ordnance Survey map of the Cotswolds (a few weeks ago, behind Andy's oak bureau along with a warren of dust bunnies) we have been finding many new walks. Two days ago found us headed out in the late afternoon towards Northleach, which boasts a superb old church. But we have been there several times and were headed for open country. The tiny estate village of Yanworth is situated near the well known Chedworth Roman Villa; it is peaceful and mercifully unspoilt. There seemed to be barely a soul around.

Turning off, past skittish sheep - eventually our walk would take us to the avenue of trees seen in the distance, marching up the hill.

Now the nights are cold and even by day, the countryside is perfumed with hint of smoke as stout woodburners warm stone houses and cottages.

An undemanding footpath wound lazily ahead.

Just hidden behind the trees, towards the right hand corner, Stowell Park House sits, plump and grand. It owns the estate and the houses and farms on it; it is thanks to large, private estates like these that so much of the Cotswolds retains its character, both architecturally and in the landscape.

Now we were rather slowly trudging up the long tree lined hill, which we had viewed from our starting point.

An enticing little driveway leading the eye down to stone cots.

Near the crest of the hill we had a broad view across to Yanworth, glowing comfortably in hazy sunshine.

Round about and round about; the footpaths of Britain sometimes seem like a tangle of yarn. If you follow the right strand you can make a full - if wonky - circle.

And it is always worth pausing on a steep climb to see where you have been.

A final treat; a cluster of houses, barns and a tiny Norman church, silent and old, as if preserved in aspic. The church, dating back to around 1200, was sadly shut, so it will be explored another time: this is a very good walk, and one which we can extend - we will be back.

Rain arrives 6 Oct

Looking backwards from where I've been

We woke today to find autumn rain being blown against the window. It is the first real rain we have had for weeks, and dark skies were sweeping in with intent, as if to make up for past neglect. I tried to nip out between showers and for a while I thought I had escaped the worst as I watched a particularly brooding cloud bustle its wet way across to Oxford.

But inevitably I got caught by another,and endured a wet journey round the lanes, rain streaming down my specs and into my eyes. By the time I reached the flat road on the last lap, it had fizzled out again.

The big ruts in the track by the woods are filling up again and I had to get off and push; neither Hercules nor I are equipped to deal with stony paths and we prefer to walk this part.

The stubble fields are muddy gold, like a drenched Labrador. I sent a text Andy to let him know I was nearly home and there was a cup of tea waiting for me when I returned windswept and wet; but nothing a hot bath and a bowl of porridge couldn't sort out.

High point - it is lovely to finally settle into real autumnal weather.

Low point - rain in my eyes and trickling down my neck.

Chastleton 29 Sep

ALL THE LINKS INCLUDED WILL TAKE YOU TO MORE COMPREHENSIVE AND DETAILED SITES COVERING THE HISTORY OF THE SITES MENTIONED HERE.

Although we have lived here now for seven years, there are still many pockets of the area we have not discovered. We may have seen their names on the map, or passed the road signs, but ignored them; this is the (largely) protected Cotswolds and they will be here tomorrow, next year and, God willing, the years after. Last Wednesday we trod a new walk, only 15 minutes away on the motorbike. Like many tiny villages here, Chastleton is awkward to get to and long may it be so. Undisturbed by behemoth tourist coaches, it snuggles warmly into the landscape - a large house, a 12th century church and a scattering of farms and dwellings. The house and estate are now cared for by the National Trust; such is the delicate fabric of this rare Jacobean treasure, visitor numbers are limited and pre-booking is advised. We were simply here to do our usual tramp around the fields, though as always, we popped in the little church which lay in the shadow of 'the Big House'.

Our churches nowadays appear plain affairs - even austere. But once, in Mediaeval times, the walls were brightly painted with frescoes, from which a largely illiterate populace could easily understand the teachings of the Bible. Over the course of time, they have been covered over, desecrated and *improved*, but it is still possible to find fragments uncovered - and more are coming to light each year. Here is a comprehensive record of such places and if your interest lies in such things, it is a rich treasury. I catch my breath when we stumble unexpectedly on these faded beauties.

Some more snippets -

And more -

Chastleton House itself has some high ranking claims to fame; not only was it once the home of the inventor of that most English of games, croquet, but a mere couple of centuries earlier, the estate was owned by one of the originators of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, to which we owe our 'Bonfire Night' of November the fifth. Today it sat quietly in its grounds, replete with history.

We continued round the bend and began our walk.

It was a pleasant enough route; a winding, stony, path flanking ploughed fields and lined with hedgerows. But it was flat and nothing spectacular. As we neared the outskirts of the next village we found bounty - overhanging damson trees, the fruit on the verge of turning. As always I had a couple of bags with me and we quickly picked 3 kilos. (There would have been more but Andy literally dragged me away from the tree, my greedy paw still clutching a handful of dripping plums).

House spotting - which one would you choose?

It was Andy who sighted our first Little Owl, peering rather confusedly from his perch. Holding my breath I managed to snap him just before he disappeared.

His home is not as picturesque as the others, but equally as precious. Our owls need tumbledowns such as these.

We were nearly at the end of our walk and it was time to stop. When we had started out, the skies were overcast and I was wishing I'd worn a jumper. Now the sun was high and beating down, and I was feeling uncomfortably overdressed. The last lap of our journey took us along part of the Macmillan Way.

Wait for me Andy - I've got the picnic!

We found the perfect spot.

Our picnics are humble; our purse does not allow foody feasts. Tinned ham rolls, the last tomatos from our garden, eggs from a village not four miles away from where we sat, and a little fruit cake. There is always a thermos of watery hot chocolate, which is how we like it after a long trek. The setting however, was priceless.

Stuffed with carbs and sleepy from the sun, we lazily ambled the last half mile back to the bike.

This circular walk ended back at the estate, passing by a splendid 'Cotswold Lion' ram, our very own once-endangered rare breed, whose venerable ancestors were key to bringing wealth to the Cotswolds.

The track brought us face up with Chastleton House again, standing out magnificently against the darkening sky.

To see why the Cotswolds landscape appears so harmonious, look at the path you are treading and then look for the nearest stone building. Usually its bricks have been quarried from a nearby location which changes in hue from area to area. Here in Chastleton it has a warm, orange tint -

- and a close up of an old window. The famous 'honey coloured' Cotswold stone.

In our own village the older buildings are a pale grey with a hint of cream, and our footpaths show a whiter, more chalky soil: there is a small disused quarry less than a mile away from which it was originally built. So villages were hewn from the very earth on which they would stand, each having it's own characteristics and over time, aquiring a weather worn gentleness and coverings of bright lichens. On a sunny autumn day, the Cotswolds glow.

Escape to the woods Sep 27

I had forgotten how deadlines suck time away like a black hole. It is too easy to get mired down in work and let the day disappear. As it was a working weekend, my outings have been fairly short and on Sunday it was a mere jaunt to the woods, before everyone was up and about. We appear to be having a bit of a drought; the winter wheat is poking its head up, but the earth is dust and stones.

The heart of these woodlands is where I find total peace; they are the remnants of ancient woodlands which used to stretch over the county until they were gradually cleared to harvest timber and make room for roads and agricultural land.

With the gradual onset of autumn, they are tangled and wild; there is witchiness in the air as I quietly tread the little footpaths. The morning is getting older, and from the outskirts of the trees I spy a village basking in the sun.

Knowing I have a workload to get through, I keep my walk short and find the grassy lane which leads me home.

Ahead I can just spot the exit from this magical place, which will take me back to the fields.

Somewhere in the bushes, his rusty wheels perfectly camouflaged against the autumnal hedges, lies Hercules and in the distance I hear the timeless chiming of church bells.

We rattle back to the village, pleased to have avoided meeting too many people and even more pleased to find the honesty table laid out. I buy a large cauliflower which is destined for something cheesy and hot, and drop my payment in the box.

Quick pootle Sep 25

The weather here is behaving like a remorseful friend who knows they have let you down badly and wants to make amends. After another poor summer and losing our tomatos to blight for the third year running, we are enjoying some blissfully warm sunshine. Despite having enough work to keep me busy all day, I am still making time first thing in the morning to take Hercules out for our regular spin. One of the prettiest spots is the old orchard on the corner of a road.

If this were ours, there would be no apples on the tree, they would have been harvested long ago. As I took these shots, the sheep on the other side of the road came bleating up to the gate, surprisingly bold and curious.

High point - watching three buzzards lazily surf the thermals, circling high over the woods.

Low point - rude SUV drivers. Please slow down and indicate if you are turning off; I break easily.

Hailes Abbey walk Sep 15

We have been having a holiday from home and indulging in some serious exploring and walking. Tuesday found us across the border to an area near Cheltenham called Hailes Abbey. Though the abbey itself lies in ruins, what remains is preserved by English Heritage, and has a rich history. Our interests lay rather more prosaically in the five mile round walk we had planned. The weather was grey and grim, a blustery wind ripping the warmth from our cheeks, but there were still swallows bravely swooping low over the ploughed fields. We plodded along field footpaths, past a sleepy village, past two dead sheep and through a cluster of cottages which led us to the bottom of our goal.

The hill. It is a big hill. It is also part of the Cotswold Way, a popular walking route which takes in many historic sites. Once we had left the path, seen below to the left, it was steep clambering up the grassy slope, stopping every so often to turn round and admire the views.

Even on a dull day, the Malvern Hills - the pale strips in the distance - can be clearly seen.

Nearer the top and along the route, a gorgeous old pile of a farmhouse, settled into the rolling fields with sheep grazing nearby.

Someone has cleverly sunk a little swimming pool into the side of the hill, and one can only imagine what it must be like to float about on a hot day, with the abundant views.

It was a trek and a half. At last I looked up to see Andy comfortably perched on the bench at the top and I blessed the person who had placed it there; it was dedicated to 'Pinky Dickins, who lived here for 26 happy years with her family and her horses'.

We gulped down watery hot chocolate from a thermos and cold sausage rolls, nosying at the doll's house sized country pile below, with it's black Labrador guarding the drive.

We enjoyed more views. I sighed for a wide angle lens.

Now we were back on the flat, walking along the top of our hill. Down a mercifully easy track...

...past a jumble of farm buildings, this hut traditionally held up by stone 'mushrooms' more properly known as staddle stones, keeping water and rats out.

The lane leads to a wide series of fields, across which the wind whips fiercely; here are earthworks and a surprise - a newly planted avenue of trees. They march all the way from a lake at Stanway House, just visible, a tiny grey block mid-distance...

...and they continued their parade up to the very field we were stood in, disappearing over the horizon. I was torn between admiration for such an ambitious project, and regretful that the bleak, bare beauty of Beckbury Camp had been interrupted and would one day be divided.

Past the earthworks, jutting up from the ground like the backbone of a long dead prehistoric creature...

...and on to the copse of steely grey beech trees, locally known as 'Cromwell's Clump'. from where Thomas Cromwell (not to be confused with Oliver Cromwell) is rumoured to have watched the dismantling - or destruction - of Hailes Abbey. In a nutshell, Cromwell had compiled a report for Henry the Eighth, observing that the monastries, of which there were many in England at the time, were doing very well for themselves; maybe some of them could be closed, their lands and wealth seized and liberated to the benefit of the crown. Hence the Dissolution of the Monastries. Or state theft, as it might be regarded today.

Gusting winds have torn one of these old giants to the ground and whipped the trunks into contorted, outsized candy canes.

Overlooking Hailes Abbey and Malvern - wait for me, Andy!

The fields led to a little wooded track running along the side of a fruit farm, which would eventually lead us back to our starting point in Hailes.

Growing along the hedgerow we found, to our foraging joy, many plum trees laden with fruit. A few brisk shakes brought down showers of ripe plums, now simmering away to make pots of sweet, fruity chutney in time for Christmas.

Cycle & walk Sep 12

Friday saw me winkled out of the Cotswolds and whisked to London, on a business trip. It was a very successful trip and the journey there and back could not have been more efficient; within 2 hours of leaving my meeting and travelling via tube/train/minibus, I was standing back in the village, breathing in lungfuls of clean air. As soon as I woke the next morning, I knew I had to get out and cycle the dirt from my lungs. Even at 8 in the morning, the village green was still deserted.

Now autumn is upon us and although we are blessed with a little indian summer, the nights are chillier. We have heavy dews and low lying mists which burn off as the sun rises.

I cycled my usual 9 mile round trip to pick up the Saturday Times, and on the way back discovered a yard sale. I tried to resist, but Hercules turned his wheels and we investigated, coming away with £3.70 worth of treasures (which are catalogued here on 'Middle of Nowhere'). Later, after lunch, it was almost a summer's day and we headed across the county boundary to a nearby estate, owned by the National Trust. We had a quick look at the old Ewepen barn, and the surrounding outhouses.

Cotswold stone loves the hot sun; it seems to soak it up and glow, with the famous warm 'honey' coloured effect. The little low stone sheds seemed dark, cool and empty...

...but there was Someone at home...

This is a broad, generous estate, and the footpaths glide lazily alongside drystone walls and tilled fields.

Turning into a section of cool woodland, we found a hole-in-the-ground wasp's nest, its inhabitants busy whirring in and out on errands.

They were feeding on the juicy berries on this old yew tree; we were more interested in the pretty but sturdy bench which ran round the trunk. It was silent, except for the industrious hum of insects and the drowsy cooing of a dove. I briefly fell asleep sitting up.

It was a wrench to leave, but onwards we went. Autumn butterflies were out, having a last hurrah; Speckled Woods, Red Admirals and a gaudy Peacock.

Coming out of the woods, into the sweetly pretty village, we decided to extend our walk and make the most of the day. Here is the little Post Office, with its red letterbox in the wall and trim wisteria -

- and here some of the less grand cottages, still lived in, thankfully, by 'normal' Cotswolders; the blight of second home owners and holiday cottages will not reach here, protected as it is by the National Trust. To the best of my knowledge, the estate owns most of the housing and it is rented, not owned, ensuring that locals do not get priced out of the housing market by richer city folk desiring a weekend rural bolthole.

Past the village and over the bridge, where brown trout hide under the stone bridge, in shallow waters.

Trudging in the heat up a steep hill and turning into another footpath; curious young cattle grazing in the shade of spreading trees.

They were insatiably curious, and, harmless though they may be, I was very glad of the stout stone wall between us.

In the vast blueness, a buzzard cried its pweeling call.

By now we were wishing we'd brought more water and chosen a shorter route; beautiful though our walk was, my earlier cycle ride was creeping up on me and I was on my last legs.

The final part of our ramble was on the road, Andy speeding on ahead, as is his wont, disappearing into the distance. I hobbled along behind with my camera.

Sometimes things appear just when you need them. Hot, thirsty and out of energy, I found a yellow plum in the lane. Looking up, there was a wild plum tree, tantalisingly high up, with heavy, ripe fruit dangling far out of reach. The plum was dusty and had been chewed by a wasp. Nonetheless, it was manna. I picked off the waspy bit and enjoyed the rest of it, bursting with sun warmed, sugary juices and sucking the stone.

Further up the road, I chucked the stone into the hedgerow, hoping that maybe one day, in thirty years time, another plum tree would provide a tired walker with summer fruit. High points - falling asleep for a few minutes and the plum. Low points - being parched and too hot. But, mustn't grumble.

Cross-country scramble Sep 9

After a rest day I was up for a big morning's workout, so at 9am, I took Hercules, my faithful rust bucket, across to a long field footpath, which climbs slowly and punishingly upwards. It was a cool, autumnal morning, with the clouds gradually burning off to reveal a clean blue sky. Hercules is an old racer, with two working gears and one brake, and he does not like this kind of rubble filled travelling; that is for mountain bikes, he grumbles, and he was born before they came on the scene.

Nonetheless, we plodded up the track, having to walk most of it, listening to the tiny clockwork tickings of crickets in the long, dry grass. At the top, the footpath turns and we were rewarded with the most spectacular view, looking westwards. The camera cannot do justice to the panoramic vastness of the landscape, stretched out around. The clean wind blew gently through my hair and for once I forgot about work, and even blogs. If one had to leave this Earth, right now, this would be a good way to go.

After this indulgent moment of melancholia, we bumped and bobbled along the stony path, through stubble fields, along the D'arcy D'alton Way.

This part leads into the side of a grandiose estate; there is an Alice in Wonderland moment, when there suddenly appears...

...the decrepit remains of an long-unused gateway, which must have been magnificent in its time. Once, this would have been a broad entrance for carriages.

Passing through these architectural sentinels, one almost misses the little hidden sanctuary behind. It is as overgrown as the Secret Garden, with a stone bench for the footsore walker.

The bench is inscribed with a touching memorial, which never fails to bring a lump to my throat.

'To the happy memory of Henry Haughton Reynolds, Lord Moreton, who farmed this land for more than 30 years and loved this view. 1857 -1920 '

And this is the view he loved.

Descending into the estate proper, and very much enjoying being a ragamuffin amid riches, I was startled by the somewhat sinister and surreptitious opening of a pair of gates...they paused, wide, as if beckoning me in; then, just as silently, they closed. I wondered if there was CCTV hidden somewhere, but logically, they must be sensor activated.

Slightly unnerved, I headed to the end of the footpath, off the estate and onto the firm road again, passing through peaceful villages and making a long loop to return home.

By now the sun was hot, but it was a gentle heat; more slow cooker than barbeque.

I was amazed to find that I had been out for three hours, returning at midday. To mark my thorough enjoyment of our part of the Cotswolds that morning, I treated myself to a small lunch of oatcakes and locally made Crudges Haddon Gold Cheese.

High point - magnificant views and stunning estate grounds.

Low point - to be honest, absolutely none!

Sunday cycle Sep 6

Up at 7.30, to catch the empty Sunday morning lanes. Most people are still abed, apart from a few farming types in landrovers. They either speed past me, not bothering to slow, or cruise past,  peering suspiciously at me. It is a flat, overcast day, with rain forecast. Not much is happening; a crowd of young, just-released pheasant lolly-lagging stupidly all over the road, as likely to get run over as shot when the season gets going.

Bolshy bullocks, looking aggrieved and curious. I am expanding my ride today, to explore pastures new. It is only a few miles from home, but to a non-driver, it seems another country. My goldfish bowl is getting larger, the fitter I get.

Dopey rabbits breakfasting in the road, just realising that they are not alone. As I cycle up and down the hilly way home, 'proper' cyclists are emerging for the day. They barely acknowledge me on my rustbucket, whizzing past in lycra and sunglasses.

I managed about ten miles today and discovered one of the best views of our patch. It looks tiny here, but if you click here...you get a little piece of my morning. (Don't worry, it only goes to my Flickr page, and the full size panorma!)

High points - a buzzard flying over almost over my head as I disturbed his perch. Some of the most amazing views and discovering another astonishingly pretty and undisturbed village.


Low point - Aching legs. This cycle was much hillier than I am used to, and I confess I had to get off and walk up one or two steep inclines.