Cotswold Peeps

The stones at Rollright

2011-11-13T02:35:00.001-08:00

(Please click image for larger wide-angle view)

The Rollright Stones are situated on a high point overlooking our part of the Cotswolds, near Chipping Norton. A bleak spot at most times of the year; I have never been here without feeling a chilly blast which strips away any remnant of sun warmth.

This area includes a few ancient artifacts and the main one is the Neolithic circle known as 'The King's Men' dating from around 2500 BC. As far as stone circles go, it is rather small, but very pleasing to look at.

Legend has it that you can never count the stones and get the same figure - if you do manage it three times in a row, you get a wish. We tried it, and failed - it is almost impossible to do, as there are piles of stone which could be one, two or several counts, depending on who is counting! But as you can see from the well worn track, many people try. The agreed figure is seventy seven.

The stones are limestone, which is the bedrock of this part of the Cotswolds and have been weathered into grisly contortions.

It is possible to hire the stones for ceremonies, weddings, even as a film set. There had been some kind of *happening* recently, for we found - in the centre of the circle - the remains of a small fire, with a bouquet of foliage, some strewn pennies and, tucked into the crevice of a nearby stone, a flower.

A short walk takes us across to the 'Whispering Knights' - actually a 5,000 year old dolmen or burial chamber. Also facing the elemental blast from across Oxfordshire, the winds whip around the stones, making it a melancholy spot for a resting place.

In grand, royal solitude, on the other side of the road, stands the King Stone: the King whose men stand in a circle across the way and whose knights whisper conspiracies against him. Here it is warmer, as a copse of trees acts as a wind break. More prosaically, little is known about this stone, except that it may be Bronze Age. Although only a minute's walk from the circle, the road splits the counties and this megalith stands in Warwickshire.

To read more fact - and legend - about the stones, please visit -

The Rollright Trust

Wiki entry for the Rollright Stones

360 degree view of the King's Men stone circle (for a 'real' experience)

Completely Cotswold - the Rollright Stones

Youtube video of the Summer Solstice at the Rollright Stones

The Cotswold Order of Druids

Sweeping & rolling

2011-09-27T14:00:00.000-07:00

Those precious late summer/early autumn days when there is faint tang in the air, yet it is still hot during the day.

Now that the cricket season is over, our days off can be spent rediscovering old and much loved tramping grounds.

These are all snaps of the stunning scenery around the Salperton Estate. There are decent footpaths running around it and they lead one through majestic, bosomy fields and valleys.

Above, our halfway stop, the picnic view.

Our walk is a good four and a half miles and as it nears the end, so too the afternoon begins losing heat and the air starts to feel moist and chilly.

We finish our ramble in the estate proper, the frigidly grand Salperton House pretends that we commoners are not there. It keeps a proper and dignified distance.

Thwarted at Cornwell

2011-08-20T07:51:00.001-07:00

Autumn is every so gradually smearing a moist, dewy finger over the tail end of summer. But still we are getting glorious sunny days, made even more beautiful for the knowledge that they will soon be gone and winter will be making yet another unwelcome visit. Marjorie and I were long over due for a spin, so yesterday we headed over to investigate the little village of Cornwell (as in Cornwell, Oxfordshire, not Cornwall at the Westerly tail end of Britain). So good to be rolling gently along the lanes again.

It's nearly eight miles away and there was a horribly long hill to climb up. We walked, up it, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine, until we found a down bit. However, our visit was to be all too brief.

There is just one tiny road running into Cornwell, along the side and eventually leading to Moreton-in-the-Marsh. All a nosy wayfarer can see are tantalising glimpses of lovely gardens and gorgeous old houses.

Cornwell, I soon discovered, was pretty much off limits; the only lane I could see which led into the heart of it proclaimed belligerently that there was 'no public right of way - private!' So I passed along, taking what snaps I could and hoping that this at least was allowed and they would not set the dogs on me.

Cornwell village is privately owned, part of the Cornwell Manor Estate, and as the AA walking guide puts it, 'smugly holds on to its secrets'. Co-incidentally, it was worked on by the architect Clough Williams-Ellis, more famous for his pet project of the bizarrely wonderful village of Portmerion in North Wales, which I recently visited. I would have loved to have seen some of his additions, but alas, it was not to be.

So I wandered back through the only route accessible to me, taking a few furtive and unsatisfactory photographs.

Even this rickety old chicken hutch had to be shot with a zoom and me standing on tiptoe to get as little of the barbed-wired fence in as possible.

Feeling somewhat cheated, Marjorie and I pootled homewards, stopping for a rest at the generously proportioned village green at Kingham. Public to all and sundry, thankfully.

In the end, an orchard with nice looking cows in it turned out to be the snapshot of the day. Later I discovered that there is a church on the far edge of Cornwell which I could have looked at, but I think next time I'll find somewhere more welcoming to visit.

*Later edit - there is a little more on Cornwell with some pictures on this blogpost here.

The Doom at Oddington

2011-07-17T08:06:00.000-07:00

Tucked away on the edge of a small Cotswold village is a quite extraordinary church, though it you would not guess this from the outside. St Nicholas at Oddington. I cycled out on Marjorie recently to see for myself. The church is located outside the village, as it is no longer the central place of worship, the original village being abandoned in the early 18th century and located further up the hill, possibly due to the usual cause of the Black Death.

Looking like a typically picturesque Cotswold church, it has an interesting graveyard and some unusual Restoration era tombstones, which are shown on my other blog here.

The South door inner archway is Norman and has an interesting serpents head detail at each end - maybe a reminder of why you are attending worship?

The stone benches inside have deep grooves which are said to be where arrowheads were sharpened. (Churches this old were also commonly the main defensive building and weapons stored in the porch roof).

So far, so quaint and historical. But when you enter the church proper, your breath is taken away by this -

What is thought to be our country's largest surviving Doom wall painting, dating to about 1340. I was literally rooted to the spot: imagine the effect it must have had on the original devout and largely illiterate Medieval congregation. Like all Dooms, this one shows in graphic and often lurid detail, the consequences of sin and the rewards of righteousness. The Godly are summoned to Heaven on Judgement Day by welcoming angels;

Christ sits over all in Glory.

For the Damned, sinister demons execute all manner of grisly tortures, to be endured for all eternity. Once you get used to looking at the (now) sombre tertiary tones it's quite easy to work out what torments are going on.

This part of the Doom is of a later date (1520) and there has been some speculation as to what this figure represents. The church pamphlet suggests that it is a reference to a contemporary play by the writer John Skelton, 'Magnificence' and it's various characters.

Seen with Jacobean pulpit nearby -

Looking down towards the 'newer' Early English Chancel -

Elsewhere there are traces of more decorations on the Early English archways here - the vivid turquoise blue coming from copper salt pigment.

But the Doom is not the oldest paintings to be found here - they are inside what was the original Saxon nave (where I am standing to take this photo) and chancel, and is now the South Chapel. It's easy to see how small and intimate it once was. (Note the old gurney, just to the right, a cheery little reminder of one's own mortality).

Inside the chancel which is also the bell tower and if you look beyond you can see on the far wall, to the right, some pale patterning. The first altar stone is still there as well.

A closer look shows trellis work and faces - as with all my photos, they are quite large, so do click on for detail.

There are always many layers to a church, and sometimes more recent relics can be just as touching as the antiquities - I love this little bell ringer's prayer, maybe about 30-40 years old, and probably barely moved since the day it was placed there.

And another *recent* treasure, this screen separating the old South Chapel from the main nave, looks quite plain and unremarkable, until you learn that it was made by Peter Van der Waals, an Arts and Crafts craftsman who worked in the Cotswolds at the beginning of the 20th century. As the church was being restored at this time, 1912, it must have been part of the restoration process, but I am speculating here.

After a very long time of pottering and wonderment, Marjorie and I cycled back towards Oddington. What had been a clear blue summer sky was now clouding over and we had eight miles to cover.

Needless to say we didn't make it. Two miles from home, the rain caught up with us. I arrived home drenched, but happy.

For more reading on the marvellous church and it's paintings, please visit here.

A sacred gem

2011-04-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

We are quite spoilt for delightful little churches in the UK - almost every village and small town has an old and interesting place of worship, many of which have been around for the best part of a thousand years or more. But sometimes we find unexpected gems, often in the smallest and most tucked away of places. Such is St Andrew's in the Cotswold village of Sevenhampton. Although it has Norman origins, the tower is of a later build, 'Early English' - or, more simply, the Medieval period. It also has a octagonal stairway running up it, which is visible from outside. You would have to be tiny - or from another century - to get up it without some discomfort.

The tower was a later addition, courtesy of a wool merchant John Camber who stipulated in his will that whatever parish he died in, there he would be buried and the church benefit. So the tower was built in his honour in 1497, but necessitated inner supports; to see flying buttresses on a church this small would be unusual - to see them inside is, in my limited opinion, nothing short of astonishing. Looking down the nave, you can just see the diagonals propping up the tower.

The South side buttress -

The North side buttress

View of both buttresses from the North side. Disused Charles 11 font (17th Century) visible -

The tower itself is small but impressive, with simple fan vaulting. This is also the bell tower, housing three bells, the earliest dating from sometime in the 15th century, the most recent on from the 18th. A mere stripling.

For me, even more fascinating than the buttresses, was the concealed mensa stone, the old original altar - many of these mensa's were removed (and hidden) during the 16th century Reformation. Some have since been replaced, but this one became part of a 'squint' - it is very low, as the floor was raised at some later date. The mensa at St Andrews forms the top of the squint -

By holding my camera inside, I was able to take a couple of (blurry) shots of two of the five consecration crosses inscribed on what would have been the altar top.

What I love about our churches is their unpretentiousness. Despite their antiquity and historic pedigree, they are still places of worship and although loved, cared for and continually restored, they are often appear somewhat 'lived in'; things are stashed away, biros and sweets left in a favourite pew, always a box of old toys tucked away to keep little ones quiet during service. Sometimes they form quite beautiful, if unintentional, still lives.

Sometimes it is as if the spirits of past worshippers look down from the very walls...

...and the gradual process of centuries of aging renders a humble, rustic Medieval stoup into something quite divine.

Now we leave St Andrews and continue our walk, looking back for a final glimpse.

Cycling to the butchers

2011-04-06T08:44:00.000-07:00

Has it really been two months? Apologies to everyone and thank you for waiting! But spring is here and today Marjorie and I took ourselves off for a shopping trip. First we stopped to get some eggs from a nearby honesty box. Then we began our trek to the butchers, out of the village and across the way, through winding lanes - can you see the tail of this one snaking away to the background?

This stretch is a long old grind uphill, never mind that there are pretty cottages to admire (which I could not afford the mortgage of if I sold every single on of my internal organs and then some).

There is about a mile of slog until we reach the war memorial and I dismount. A bit of gentle pushing is called for.

After a long, cold, winter, the Cotswolds are finally waking up.

Which way shall we go?

Down here? Lovely little tempting track which sadly leads nowhere in particular.

We must turn right and, oh dear, another long slope up. We walk to the summit - after all, it is a gorgeous day to be out and about.

Finally we cross a busy road and begin a mile long leisurely spin downhill all the way -

- to the pretty village where we will do our shopping.

Slatters Butchers, the best kept secret in West Oxfordshire; free range and local meat at affordable prices. For this I have cycled seven miles. Inside in the cool, I fan myself rapidly as I order a small free range chicken, home made pork sausages and some neck of lamb (thrifty), while chatting to the lovely butcher about running marathons (him) and half dying from exhaustion (me).

There is a little deli-cum-village-shop attached to it. It's a bit pricey and I have problems deciding if I do *need* anything, but it's vital to support local shops, so Marjorie's panniers end up filled with a bag of meat, the two cartons of eggs, two bottles of Hook Norton beer, Strawberry & Elderflower cordial, lemon crunch biscuits made in the village and a wodge of mature cheddar. Plus my big flask of water. My debit card is lighter though...

Laden down like a desert donkey, Marjorie and I wobble our way home.

What came down has to go up again - though mostly walking, up to the top road where the trees line the horizon.

Mercifully it's a lot easier coming back, a lot of free-wheeling downhill -

- back past the cottages.

Taking a different route back home, along a *real* road - with a warning sign. Sadly it didn't slow the cars whizzing by, though Marjorie eased up a little. Just in case.

Winding through the tiny neighbouring village.

And the last stretch home. Another hill. Did we walk or did we tackle it manfully? What do you think?

Spelsbury church

2011-02-13T07:00:00.000-08:00

At last spring is upon us and we have had the first really pleasant walk of the year, the sun warm and the breeze mild. The weather was the best thing about tthe day, for we chose to venture to an area of our county which we rarely explore by foot. This flattish, cultivated part of Oxfordshire is frankly a little dull compared to the wilder, rambling curves of Gloucestershire, our usual tramping ground.

Even a pedestrian landscape could not blot the sheer happiness that blue skies and a kindly sun can inspire. To add interest, we headed across the fields to Spelsbury village to examine the church.

Sitting outside the village to share the customary thermos of hot chocolate, we could look across to our start point of Chadlington village and the distant tower of St Mary's church where we were parked. It seemed like a very long way off, though only 2-3 miles.

Spelsbury All Saint's church, hiding behind the many old yew trees which cluster in the grounds.

The church itself was pretty enough, not as old as some we've explored. The tower apparently is Norman in origin, though not obvious at first glance.

The plain doorway too is original Norman and looks as if it might have had side pillars once.

Inside some rather lovely stained glass panels forming an entrance hall - probably Victorian, I am guessing.

The church is undergoing some restoration and there was a stone mason at work, the quick, sharp tap-tap of his hammer and chisel echoing up the nave as it must have done through the centuries; little has changed in this old craft and it is probabl that a mason of the 13th century could, if transported to this moment in time, recognise his trade and tools and settle to work in the same fashion.

The interior is a little austere and plain. It's a church which has had much 'fiddling about with' in its life. Here you can just see the stained glass of the porchway beyond the pillars.

A little mosaic cross beneath the original font.

Glad to return to the sun, we explored the churchyard. John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester and a notorious 'Regency rake' is buried in a vault beneath the church. A celebrated wit and poet, he gained a reputation for many things including poetry which was frankly pornographic at times. I have found an excellent thesis about him here, but do be warned that some of his work, even though written a few hundred years ago, may still be offensive!

We began to turn the circle of our walk. A sweet little farm cat came mewling up to me, begging for attention and proceeded to follow me up the lane despite my ignoring her. However when I heard a van approaching at speed, I put my hand up to halt it and had to scoop the silly thing up as it was oblivious to the danger. Thankfully the driver must have been a cat lover and there were no nasty accidents that day. I popped her down and hastened away, despite her pathetic cries.

Unusual - and sad - to see a boarded up cottage in the Cotswolds, which is a prime property spot.

Past the grand and chilly Dean Manor.

The afternoon sun was still pleasant but just beginning to catch an edge. Lambs are not out in the fields yet but there are plenty of fat sheep.

A final little adventure which I didn't photograph; a nasty encounter with three heavily pregnant cows who were stood right across the footpath. We were joined at the gate by a man and his dog, the dog being the object of the cow's displeasure - much bellowing and bridling as Andy tried to get past them. I hung back, not being a big fan of cattle at the best of times. The walker stood well away and encouraged me to go on, assuring me that they weren't interested in us, just his dog. I am still not sure how I plucked up the courage to go through them, especially when the lead cow started trotting belligerently up towards me. Death by cow is rare, but it does happen. Thankfully they left us alone once we were past and we hastened to the next field, crossing a pleasingly pastoral brook.

Soon after, we saw the walker and dog emerge from another route he had taken to avoid the cows. We began chatting as he caught up - not being a dog owner I have never seen cattle react like that. He then told me that he didn't want to tell me before, but his wife was once trampled by cows who repeatedly charged her, when walking their dog. (I am SO glad I didn't know that before!) Mercifully and with the aid of a superb surgeon, she survived, despite sustaining chest and collarbone injuries which normally cause death. Out of interest, I managed to find an old newspaper report about the incident. I think the next walk will be a nice sheep-filled one.

Fleeting Winter sunshine

2011-01-02T16:56:00.000-08:00

It has been a grey, dismal January and cold with it. Not walking or cycling weather really. But when the sun has made a rare appearance, we too have emerged blinking, like pale grubs. Shall we wander down this mossy path and climb up to the fields beyond?

Dazzling blue skies and a trio of buzzards mewling as they surf the thermals. We head towards the estate farm and admire, yet again, the old stone barn which to my mind would make a marvellous studio.

Although the landscape is still bleak, the sun draws out rich hues and the clear, cold air sharpens outlines.

If you look closely, some foliage is 'warming up' as new bark and buds push through and amid the aqua greys and sombre tertiaries, bright mustards and warm pinks glow. Nestling in the roots of the bare hedgerows, tiny snowdrops shudder and tremble in the wind.

It is as if the seasons are poised on a cusp; there is, despite the chill, a feeling of anticipation and hope.

Back on the bike

2011-01-01T08:59:00.001-08:00

Today, January the first, seemed a fitting start to the New Year to get my cycling legs back. I haven't been out for a ride since breaking my arm back at the start of October and felt a bit nervous about my first outing. It was a cold, dank afternoon, with a hint of mizzle, but the snow is almost gone at last. Despite the gloomy weather, Marjorie and I were exuberant to be out again, rediscovering the freedom of the road.

There was barely a soul around. I stopped to say hello to the little Shetland pony who seemed warm but bored.

Stopping again to look at the thaw water swelling the stream.

This is our version of 'Downton Abbey', cunningly hidden by judiciously planted trees; this is as much as a commoner will see from the road, when winter has stripped the branches. Time to head back to the village and home, feeling properly hungry for the first time in weeks. Fresh air and exercise - can't be beat.

A Snowy Cotswold Christmas

2010-12-26T06:41:00.000-08:00

Seasonal greetings from the Cotswolds to all! Great Britain is undergoing it's coldest winter since records began in the 1890's and here in our patch we have had even worse snow than last January. On Christmas Day we set off for a morning walk around the fields, before everyone else emerged after lunch.

A little brook, half frozen at the edges, but still sluggishly trickling towards a larger tributary of the Evenlode river, a couple of miles away.

The most familiar of paths are transformed -

- and the broad fields are pristine, save for the meandering tracks of wild creatures. The horizon is softened by an icy haze.

The dullest of dead vegetation metamorphosis's into ice sculptures -

- and the stark, sleeping trees appear sepia-black against the sky.

The horse chestnut avenue leading towards the farm -

- and my favourite line of trees looking delicately skeletal; in summer it is a plump lushness of greenery, as seen here.

A welcome stretch of cleared road and the rare sight of tarmac.

To the right of the tree line, the big house seen from the side.

As we come off the road and turn back into farmland, the snow becomes deeper and completely unsullied, undulating over the ploughed trenches like a white desert.

Looking back to see the deep path we have trodden; it was only a few months ago that I was walking here on cracked, baked earth, brushing through chest high wheat, the sun hot on my back, feeling slightly spooked by the whispering of the dried corn heads.

Wait for me Andy - I'm still taking photos!

Time to head home - the village is but a few minutes away, through the hole in the hedge - there is the church and spire beyond, just seen through the freezing mist.

Winding tracks in the snow, where the allotments have been a larder for the rabbits and hares - and goodness knows they need it. Next week the temperatures rise and we will have rain. Despite the stunning beauty of the snow, I think animals, birds and humans will breath a collective sigh of relief as life gets back to normal.

Winter drabness at Eastleach Turville

2010-12-14T11:41:00.000-08:00

With the weather milder - but still dank and wintery - long walks are resumed. The kind of 'duty' walks taken with a stiff upper lip and the intention to get it all over with as soon as possible in order that one might return to a warm sofa, feeling virtuous of soul. Even the pretty village of Eastleach Turville seemed subdued as we started out.

The river Leach runs through the centre of the village, clean and crystal clear. Behind the trees peeps the tower of one the two churches which sit almost side by side - therein hangs a tale for another day, it is too cold to stand around telling stories.

Sharp eyed Andy spotted a brown trout somehow, amid all the drab browns and greens of the flowing river.

Leaving the village and heading out to the field footpath.

Passing an unpicked orchard, the apples a cheerful brightness against the gloom.

This is one of the bleakest times of the year - not even the faint promise of spring to lift the heart.

The sheep are quiet and sluggish, streaming slowly away from us as we walk through the valley.

At last we reach our stopping point - this rather dull looking muddy track is Akeman Street, part of the old Roman Road which stretches across this part of the Cotswolds. Here we hunker down on the stone wall and gratefully drink watery hot chocolate.

From Akeman Street looking across to the Hatherop Estate as the afternoon draws to a close. We must hurry, if we are not to be finishing our walk in darkness.

But the too-short day catches up with us and soon the trees are dark shadow dancers as we trudge along muddy grass. A lone black bull sillhoutted against the night sky, bellows a challenge in the chill dusk.

With much relief and tired legs, we return to the village, now festively lit with decorated cottages. Such a reviving sight after a rather melancholy walk and the realisation, not for the first time, that if Christmas didn't exist in mid-winter, it would have to be invented.

By co-incidence, we did part of this walk exactly (to the day) a year ago, but the weather was somewhat less gloomy, as can be seen by comparing some of the photos.

Blue green and white

2010-12-06T08:14:00.000-08:00

Readers who subscribe to my other blog will know that in early October I broke my upper arm. It's been a long two months and I've been somewhat reclusive since then, venturing out for little local walks when I have had the energy - and not at all in the recent sub-zero temperatures we have not-been-enjoying in the normally temperate UK. But things do, eventually return to normal and yesterday saw a thawing, to our relief, although we have been comparatively lucky, sheltered beneath high ground.

My walk yesterday was the first for weeks and it was simply the same route I've been treading for eight years. It is hard to see it with a fresh eye, especially when one is feeling dull and tired. Winter is, by definition, a fairly lifeless season but the winter greens are managing to push through. Over to my left, as I negotiate icy mud, our village nestles almost camouflaged in the landscape like a brown sleeping mouse in a bundle of dead leaves.

The sheep seem to be weathering the cold, as are the many flocks of crows and jackdaws which punctuate my walk with constant cackles and caws.

But just as it seems as if nothing can break through my ennui, I notice the vivid tans and browns of the landscape, glowing in the warm sun which is melting the last of the snow.

And the way a cloud formation can look exactly like a giant bird of prey in hunched, hunting position, tail down and wings spread.

Combe church wall paintings

2010-10-11T10:47:00.000-07:00

I think it was in July that we were in the pretty West Oxfordshire village of Combe for a game of cricket. The grounds are set just to the village edge, overlooking the small but imposing church of St Laurence - originally built in the Norman era and rebuilt in the late 1300s. Inside, to my delight, my eyes first fell on this magnificent 'Doom' wall painting showing the Last Judgement.

Discovered in 1894 by the Rev. S.Pearce, it is thought that they were painted around 1440 by the monks of nearby Eynsham Abbey. In the centre, wounds showing, is Christ triumphant.

To his right, Apostles and the Saved, rising from their graves.

More ghoulishly (and perhaps more entertaining) - are the unsaved, suffering terrible agonies and being devoured by a Hellish demon monster. How rich the natural colours are, even after all the centuries.

Just beneath, a Crucifixion scene.

Over the South door, the commandments write large, flanked by Moses - only a faint tracery on the left - and Aaron with his mitre, to the right.

Dating from the seventeenth century, it covers an earlier mural of St Christopher - the most visible remains of which are a mermaid and fish.

The Annunciation - a partner to the Crucifixion on the other wall side - is badly decomposed, but the Angel Gabriel can be seen announcing 'Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum' (Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee). And the hand of God reaching down from the Heavens. These two paintings, teamed with the Doom painting looming over them, would have shown the community the simple core of Christian thinking - Christ the son of God, born of Mary the Virgin, crucified that mankind might be saved to rise again on the final day of Judgement. Or not, as the case may be.

Higher up, angels glow jewel-like, preserved fragments of Medieval stained glass, dating to around 1450.

I returned thoughtfully to the cricket, pondering the paths of time; once the monks of Eynsham Abbey built and decorated the church at Combe. Today, our team - Eynsham - were playing the locals at cricket, in the shadow of St Laurence's, nestling in the surrounding trees, to the left.

October woods

2010-10-04T08:27:00.000-07:00

Monday was glorious - after days of rain we were treated to a balmy remnant of summer and despite suffering yet another cold I felt drawn to the woods as if seeking sanctuary there.

All manner of insects had emerged to enjoy this treat - from little red ladybirds zooming furiously about, like small red flying machines, to a large bumble bee queen clumsily bustling hither and thither; she was over an inch in length and making her presence felt. I was headed to the central beech grove where I knew I would find many toadstools - sadly several had been kicked over (a personal bete noire of mine).

These rather ugly specimens are, I think, 'Charcoal Burners' which vary in colour - I didn't think to rub them at the time, which would have been the give away as the skin is greasy to the touch.

These are new to me - Velvet Shanks - I didn't discover until later that they are edible, though the rather slimy coating is a little off putting.

This was a great natural composition, the trio of Panther Caps - with a little flash of violet behind the far left hand one -

Which was a pair of pretty tiny Amethyst Deceivers next door to an even smaller unidentified toadstool.

As is this one; I trawled my fungi guides but could not find it. The cap was a magnificent 6 inches wide.

Now that autumn is falling upon us, the woods take on a witchy, tangled atmosphere. I startled a Muntjac deer somewhere in this density, which began barking a loud alarm call. It would only have be the size of a small dog - knee high - but it sounds like a creature three times it's size.

Another Panther Cap - pleasing to look at, but very poisonous. They are commonly confused with Blushers, which are technically edible, but the two are so similar I would not risk it. The Panther Cap is much darker and it's stipe (stem) remains white when broken...

...while the Blusher is a pretty apricot-buff colour with a stipe that tinges pink when damaged, hence the name.

Towards the end of my walk I found this pretty theatrical scene, a setting for a fairytale, the spotlight of sun just waiting for some one's grand entrance and the fungus nestling in the tree roots like an elaborate stage piece.

Only two hours of rambling around, alone in the woods and when I emerged the sun was still hot.

Waiting for me quietly in the hedge, was Marjorie, my new travelling companion. If you read my other blog, then you might know that poor old Hercules, my trusty bone shaker who has featured in so many of my blog posts here, came to an ignoble end and is in retirement. But I can certainly go faster and further with young Marjorie - and yes, she is firmly locked to the fence.

ADDITIONAL NOTE - I am merely a hobby fungus spotter, my identifications are not to be taken as expert opinion and I am always happy to be put right. Do use a good fungus guide relevant to your part of the world if you want to be certain of anything.

Cotswold clouds

2010-08-25T11:38:00.000-07:00

The other evening, Andy returned from work and immediately whisked me off on the motorbike (I just had time to grab my camera and helmet). Apparently the views up on the Shipton Downs, a five minute drive away at the top of a long, wide hill, were spectacular. And so they were. Here we had a 180 degree panoramic view of the Cotswolds and the amazing cloud spectacle on display.

This next picture is not very remarkable, but if you look right through to the back, you can see a faraway sunlight hill with deep shadowed runnels. This is the Uffington White Horse in the next county, Wiltshire, which I mentioned in my previous post.

I pushed my zoom as far it it would go, to see if I could pick up the white horse itself. I just about managed it, though the picture quality is poor. It is that little pale wormy thing scriggling down the hillside, just above the two fence posts in the foreground. It is actually about 23 miles away, so to be able to see it with the naked eye (or at least, a camera) is credit to our ancient ancestors who created it.

Back to breathtaking views - and clouds.

This is the crossroads we stand at, when we want to survey our kingdom. The bench is a recent addition, to the memory of a local man.

All around us we could see isolated cloudbursts, this one looked particularly heavy, a white stream plunging down into the land.

On the way home, we found another side of it. Here we were standing in bright, hot evening sunshine and somewhere over there, no doubt other people were wondering if it was monsoon season.

One final gorgeous scene, harvest stacks and, somewhere flying low to the horizon, three crows.

White horse at Pewsey Downs 25/7/10

2010-08-13T05:10:00.000-07:00

As usual I have kept all pictures to a decent size, so do click for more detail.

It has been such a long time since we were able to get out for a walk; I have been tied to my painting board with another deadline and am only just getting back into the swing of things now that I am free. But our last walk, at the end of July, was a wonderful day spent on the Pewsey Downs, in nearby Wiltshire, one of my favourite counties; although it is technically *Cotswolds*, it has a very different feel.

Here the landscape spreads before you with a swan-like grace. The chalk downs and broad, open skies are windswept and airy - a clean atmosphere that leaves the walker refreshed and gasping for more.

We are climbing up to the Pewsey white horse, cut into the chalk hillside, starting a long circular walk that will take several hours, approaching the horse from the left. Unlike the ancient Uffington white horse, it is a modern monument, dating back to 1937, though it replaced an earlier one which dated from the late 1700s. It stands cheek by jowl with a proper earth antiquity, the Iron Age barrow 'Adams Grave' which we bypassed, as it was crawling with Other People. (Don't worry, we will pop in on the way back when it is less occupied). We headed for the horse, and searched for a quiet picnic spot.

I know of few better places to eat al fresco than high up on the Downs overlooking the Pewsey Vale - the earth seems to go on forever.

Far below us we were amused to see the throngs milling about a famous *magical* Wiltshire crop circle - beyond nestles the village where our next stopping point, the Barge Inn beckons - that is the largish building with two chimneys, at about one o'clock in the distance. There is a better picture of the crop circle here.

Full of baguette, pork pies, boiled egg and cake, we set off past the horse, just seen cut off here, sloping to the left.

Now we are going down the hill, towards the bright green patch in the middle of fields where the farmer is combining in his rapeseed crop.

The dry, shallow earth is covered with tiny, jewel-like wild flowers and herbs, where butterflies and insects enjoy a sadly rare rich habitat.

Here we are right down in the Vale, looking back to the white horse just up there on the hill, where we had our picnic. And there goes the combine harvester.

Down here the colours seem flattened, although the clouds still sail gloriously across the big sky.

White horse now just to the right edge.

Soon we are in the pretty village of Pewsey, walking on towards the canal.

Seen here from the bridge, the trail takes us down to the footpath which runs alongside the canal.

We don't lose sight of the white horse - there it is, just through the hedgerow.

And again, faintly behind this barge, on the hilltop beyond.

Nearly time for a pint, and I fall in love with this big Dutch barge - surely enough room in there for us, four cats, several thousand books and various gubbins? Andy thinks not.

The Barge is one of my favourite pubs; it has an relaxed, easy atmosphere, much loved by bikers, bargees, travellers and anyone who appreciates tolerance and informality. The beer is excellent too.

I could have sat there all afternoon, but there are a few miles to cover yet and we carry on along the towpath. Andy speeds ahead to the red brick bridge which we ascend to, to begin closing the circle.

A bit of road walking here and still the horse remains the pivot of our walk.

We find a poor dead dragonfly and it is secreted away in a picnic box - dragonflies preserve very well and dried out, make sweetly macabre ornaments.

Off the road and past more cottages, to the start of our return.

Almost time to begin the big climb up to the long barrow up there.

Not only the chalk horse here, (just visible on the horizon) but three real ones too.

The route to the summit of Adam's Grave long barrow is long, slow and a bit of a slog, especially after the miles behind us.

But the views are quite glorious. The sun has vanished and so have the tourists. A chilly wind sweeps the wild grasses as evening descends and still we hear the soft drone of combine harvesters bringing in the crops.

Andy has got ahead of me again and is a tiny speck atop the hummock.

Eventually, I get there too.

The sun comes out for a last burst, as we head back towards the motorbike, weary in leg, refreshed in spirit.

Belas Knap & Winchcombe

2010-07-11T01:50:00.000-07:00

At the end of June we escaped across the border to visit nearby Belas Knap, a prehistoric monument situated in the heart of the Cotswolds. Along the way we stopped on a top road to look across to our eventual destination - the wooded area covering the horizon. But first I wanted to pop into Winchcombe, a bustling little town which has stood here for over a thousand years.

If I were holidaying in the Cotswolds, I might get somewhat tired of reading recommendations to visit the usual tourist hotspots. Where else, I might ask, can I see unspoilt buildings and absorb heritage, without the droves of coaches and sweaty crowds, without tacky souvenir shops and half a dozen tearooms? The answer would be - visit Winchcombe, a real, living, breathing town with bundles of history and individual shops, galleries and pubs which not only cater for the always welcome visitors, but for the locals as well.

My reason for popping in was to say hello to a couple of Twitter friends who have businesses within whistling distance of each other - just to put names to faces. On the main High Street is a wonderful old fashioned toyshop called Sprogs, crammed with the most gorgeous array of new and modern playthings. I defy anyone to enter it and not emerge with some treasure, be it for themselves or a gift for a lucky child. I treated myself to a tin kaleidoscope. Sadly it was the owner's day off, so no Twitter meet up, but I did have the pleasure of talking to their assistant, who looked after me splendidly.

Next on my list was the Winds of Change Gallery, just along the road, where I introduced myself again and was given the warmest of welcomes and a little tour. Although it is a modest size, it is beautifully laid out with a wide ranging and ever changing display of fine arts and crafts.

My visit had to be fairly quick though, despite the kind offer of coffee in the courtyard, which I will be taking up next time. We were headed to nearby Belas Knap, about a mile out of town. Parking the bike, we had spectacular views across to Winchcombe and beyond. If you look down you can just see Sudely Castle, nestling in the landscape with historic grace as it has done for centuries.

The walk up to Belas Knap is fairly short - about a mile or more - but it is all uphill. The views are worth it though. Here we can see across to our first stopping point on the top road coming in - a little wisp of smoke just to the right being our landmark, which we saw from the other side as we looked over a couple of hours previously.

It was a hot, muggy day and the sheep were taking refuge under the hawthorns, soaking in the coolness from the drystone walls.

By the time we got almost to the top, we had even better views.

I'm not an ancient historian, so I won't attempt to give a potted history of this beautiful site. It's basic shape can be seen below. A number of skeletons were excavated from it in the mid-nineteenth century and since then the side chambers have been faithfully reconstructed and left open to the public.

Coming off the footpath and entering the site, with a large, false chamber heading the earthwork.

The first north-eastern chamber, which is open. At this time of year the barrow is covered with sweet Wild Thyme, Lady's Bedstraw and Scabious. If you are lucky enough to be there alone, all that can be heard is the wind skating across the hilltop and skylarks carolling as they bounce over the surrounding fields. No wonder the ancients chose it as a sacred site.

The other end, the Southern entrance.

And coming round, the Western entrance, also open and pleasant to sit inside for five minutes, listening to the density of earth and stone around you; the silence is thick.

Feeling quieter and somehow refreshed from a half hour spent pottering around this wonderful monument, we descended back down the track to the bike, with the Cotswolds and beyond spread out in glory beneath us.

Summer stroll

2010-06-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

Our first little walk away from the village for weeks, just a two hour potter round a nearby footpath. The Cotswolds are glorious in summer, lush with greenery and basking contentedly under the sun like a plump cat. Our walk takes us through an extensive jumping area for a big stables, through a wide, manicured grassy track lined with hedges of dog roses.

I prefer the dirt track which comes later.

The hard sunbaked chalky earth is peppered with sculptured funnel webs and at the bottom of each darksome hole lurks certain death for unwary insects.

Further on are mixed grasses, clover and buttercups, contended hums and buzzings from our feet as the bees happily bustle about doing their vital work.

A strong, cool wind blows the worst of the heat from us, but it is still good to lie under an oak tree and watch the world from a different angle. Sun sparkles and tiny flies appear to glitter in the light as they dart about.

Reluctantly dragged to my feet and hustled upwards, where we stop to admire the view looking Westwards -

- and turning into a wheat field to head back.

Little walks

2010-05-21T00:51:00.000-07:00

Sadly my last blog post was also the last time we managed to get out for a good long ramble. Since then, work has taken over again and I've been back in my studio. One thing I do try to do every day though - if only to stop myself going completely potty - is to get out for an hour or so every day. I need to feel space around me, to escape everything and everyone.

There are several footpaths round our village and although some might find doing the same walk day in day out rather repetitive, there are always new things to see, if you keep your eyes open. At one corner of a field there are usually hares to be spotted - if one is stealthy.

Or a birds nest tumbled from a tree, to be examined. Moss, pheasant feathers, horse hairs and grass...the softest, warmest bed for vulnerable little chicks.

Look, a tiny blue feather -

Fancy suggests that it may be a peacock feather, as there is a peacock in a village across the way - though I did wonder if it was a swallow breast feather.

I usually to do my walk in the morning, but sometimes I prefer to spend the day working and treat myself to an evening stroll. The light is different and if the weather is fine, a warm, golden balm coats the countryside...

...and the Moon rises to say a quick hello to the Sun before he sinks below the horizon. There she is, just above the trees, almost hidden in all that blue sky.

The horse chestnut avenue is looking spectacularly pretty, but already the 'candles' are dying back, revealing embryonic conkers - a reminder that this exquisite spring, my favourite season, is all too fleeting.

There are many small miracles to stop this daily walk becoming dull - but mostly it is enough to be out in the fresh air with the open sky above me.

Treasures

2010-05-10T08:49:00.000-07:00

With the worst of my deadlines over, we celebrated with a good, long ramble around one of our favourite valleys. This walk takes longer than most as there are always so many things to look at and wonder over. It begins with an unspoilt meadow full of unusual grasses and at this time of the year, cowslips. Cowslips used to be a common spring flower, but, like most of our native wild flowers, suffered a massive decline in the 20th century. due to 'agricultural improvements'. They seem to be recovering a little, and this field was happily covered in them.

Our start point looks down into the valley bottom which we will end up in; remember that large copse to the left and the yellow rapeseed field; they reappear towards the end.

It was to be a proper treasure hunt.

Early orchids. Not particularly rare, but uncommon enough to be wondered at.

The weather was overcast and a cool wind blow through the apple blossom as I looked backwards down the path - what happiness, to be out in the open after weeks of being cooped up.

Lambs are still being born - there were some very tiny ones scampering about and we watched in amazement as 15 or so buzzards circled overhead. I had always thought the stories of buzzards taking new lambs was an old farmer's tale, but with so many obviously watching the flock, we did wonder.

A Cotswold drystone wall carefully repaired -

- beautifully integrated with the older stones. Waste not, want not. No cement or mortar used here.

And another mend, further on, the wall dipping delicously with the contour of the land.

We stopped for a little picnic - hand made pork pies from our local Wychwood Deli, handmade here in Gloucestershire by the Cotswold Pudding Company. They were just the right size and unlike any mass produced pie I've ever had.

Full of pie we strolled on, but stopped in our tracks when we saw, some way away, a ewe who had apparently just lambed. My zoom lens picked up the afterbirth still dangling from the birth canal and the lambs themselves were wobbling about, with no farmer's mark on them.

We realised that many other ewes were lambless (but large) and the lambs tottering about were, like the earlier ones, very small and new. So (ignorant as we largely are over these matters) we had to assume that they were quite capable of sorting themselves out, as indeed, this mother was. It also cleared up the 'mystery' of the massed buzzards. Probably on the lookout for afterbirth and any sickly or dead lambs - I still don't believe they would go for healthy ones.

We stood quietly watching, some distance away and I took this little film of what must have been the first hour or so of their lives. In the background, apart from the wind, you can hear a skylark and a bumble buzzing past.

Further on, in an opposite meadow, the fathers taking a well earned rest after all that reproduction.

Now we began to descend to the valley bottom.

Where, in the scrubby woodlands, we found our first badger skull and a few other boney delights which went into my bag.

I'm not overkeen on this part of the walk; despite the bluebells and the cowslips, it has a slightly murky, unwholesome atmosphere as if something bad happened here a long time ago.

But at last we emerged on the wide track of the valley bottom - last seen in my earlier photos and the copse of trees which looked so bunchy and comfortable from our viewpoint.

And the once-distant-now-near rapeseed field.

Time to head home and a scramble up the slope to the left.

Finding on our way some small flowers which I've never seen before - another indication of how rich this patch is in variety and how generally sparse our flora has become. This tiny blue chap is Chalk Milkwort -

- and this funny, scruffy thing is Glaucous Sedge - not really a flower, botanically speaking, but a grass.

Best of all and in sad, solitary splendour - two wild Pasque Flowers, incredibly pretty, rather rare and growing only on a few selected chalklands in Britain.

A day of treasures - some to store in the memory chest and others...

Happy St George's Day

2010-04-23T02:07:00.000-07:00

A brief interlude to wish everyone who wishes to be wished, a happy St George's Day. Everytime I walk or cycle past a village church nestling in (still) unspoilt countryside I feel a small burst of happiness that I have the good fortune to live in England, with it's muddled but determined history, it's miscellanous jumble of race, religion and creed and our often understated ability to 'KBO'.*

Despite it's many faults, I would not live anywhere else on earth.

* 'Keep Buggering On' as coined by that greatest of Britains, Winston Churchill.

Hampnett 21/3/10

2010-04-10T05:54:00.000-07:00

With so many deadlines to finish in the studio, it's been a few weeks since I have been out and about. It's a horrid situation, but unavoidable. The last tramp we had was to a little village called Hampnett. It nestles quietly in a little dip, as it has done for hundreds of years. There is the church which we intended to visit.

Seen from the edge, little seems to have changed, save for cars and television aerials.

The central green has a clean spring which trickles happily along, turning into a flowing stream. It's source is just in the middle of the picture here, if you follow the greener grass of the stream edge.

We sat on the slope and had our little picnic.

Then followed the winding path up to the church.

This simple looking church contains a rather unusual secret.

Of which more, later.

Cotswold Lambs

2010-03-20T07:27:00.000-07:00

Last week we went up to the Cotswold Hills on a chilly spring day. As we parked the bike, a farmer drove into a field on a quad bike, towing a high sided trailer. Four lambs and two ewes tumbled out. We got chatting to the farmer, who was very proud of this year's results; it's been an excellent year for sheep and we were pleased to hear it. These little ones were only two days old, but after just a few minutes in the brisk Easterly wind, (which you can hear whipping round us) they were exploring their new world with a joyful curiosity. Down in the valley, gangs of lambs charged about and bounced around.

A little Saxon church

2010-03-10T10:40:00.000-08:00

This is one part of the tale of two churches, lying within a mile or so of each other. The first church (as seen in my previous post 'A Cotwolds bonbon') is the one situated above, in the village of Coln St Dennis and is Norman in origin, though almost certainly built on the site of a previous Saxon church. We visited both on a chilly Spring day last week. Each is a tiny, simple jewel, and each contains a similar story with different endings. To visit this first one, you need to go over to my other blog. But here, we are continuing our walk, on to Coln St Rogers.

Instead of following this inviting lane, we turned off left, and took a sideways route along the riverbank, the church just visible to our right.

The pussy willow was out - who can resist stroking the silky soft furry buds?

The South porch is a later addition, as is the bell tower.

Inside, an earlier, Norman entrance with recessed Typanum (the top of the arch).

We are still in the early learning stage of 'reading a church' and our slim knowledge is often confused and groping - which is a shame because this marvellous little building is as rich in history as any grand cathedral. The central chancel arch seen here is apparently part of the first Saxon building, making at least 1,000 years old. St Andrews is a rare example of an very early church which has retained much of its original ground plan.

On top of the solid stone jambs, pellet ornament and you can see behind Saxon 'long and short work' - the supporting masonry surrounding the tall window. The pulpit to the right of the chancel arch is from the later Gothic 'Perpenicular period'; the late 1300's to the 1500's.

There are more wonderful old features than I could possibly list here, but we intend to return and I will continue my lecture another day. One final poppet - the remains of a Gothic period glass figure of St Margaret, about the same age as the stone pulpit (1300's - 1500's).

On the way out I picked up a jar of homemade marmalade -

Sat on top of the Norman tub-shaped font in a tupperware box -

and only 80p. It's an honesty system and you pop your money in a little 'letterbox' safe in the wall.

A country church may appear deserted, but there will be some neighbour keeping a watchful eye on the odd visitor. Here I found Andy with a volunteer gardener, discussing the Great War (World War One) and the devastating impact it had on the population of British villages. And here is the parting of the way in my tale of two villages.

For while in neighbouring Coln St Dennis, many young lives were lost, miraculously all the servicemen from Coln Rogers - and one woman who was in the Voluntary Aid Detachment - returned. I found myself wondering what repercussions this had on relationships between the villages, which, being in an isolated spot and so close to each other, must have had tight bonds. Were there undercurrents of resentment or a general feeling of thankfulness that at least some had been spared?

As usual I am indebted for my clumsy knowledge to the Internet and the useful little pamphlet provided by a local amateur historian.

A Cotswold bonbon

2010-02-28T03:47:00.001-08:00

Sometimes we take the bike down an unexplored winding road and end up in the most glorious spots. We didn't walk here, but we had to stop to admire the view. If you right click on the image, you can too.

New Ashmolean extension

2010-02-25T02:42:00.000-08:00

A change of environment from the open spaces of the Cotswold countryside, to Oxford, whose great University is built of Cotswold stone, a magnificent golden ornament which glows warmly in the sun. Near the centre of Oxford lies the Ashmolean Museum, where Inspector Morse fans will remember 'The Jewel That Was Ours' is set. Opposite it, and also appearing in that and other Morse dramas, is the stately Randolph Hotel, for the more well off visitors to our city.

So here we were, in the rain, to inspect the new extension, tucked away behind the grand frontage. Would it be a blight or a blessing? It was a blessing. The new galleries are simply breathtaking and a delight. Here is our first view of the open plan design, which allows everyone to see everyone from different galleries - look beyond this little bronze of Rodin's thinker, to the tapestry beyond. Keep it in mind - it will appear later.

There is a dizzying side staircase, overlooked by this upper walkway, which I could not quite capture properly -

Not all of the rooms are ready, but it did not detract from our enjoyment..

There was such a lovely, busy atmosphere, helpful, friendly staff on hand and so many people enjoying the old and new works on display.

Possibly the most spectacular area is this central 'hub' - if a tall, open column of space reaching from the top floor to the ground floor can be called a hub.

It is almost like a hall of mirrors- you look behind you to find you are looking at the section you were in not five minutes previously. Keep an eye on this Korean moon jar - looking through to some ceramic platters...

...cross the hall and there is the moon jar from the other side, with a glimpse of lower floor gallery just beneath it.

Now here is a corner of tapestry - that is the same tapestry we saw beyond Rodin's statuette -

Remember?

And now we are looking up, across to the modern ceramics, and faintly visible through the cabinet, the upper gallery which we started off in.

If you are in Oxford I cannot recommend highly enough a visit to this wonderful new feature. We emerged over three hours later, our heads whirling, but thoroughly satiated.

Thinking of Spring 14th Feb

2010-02-21T02:45:00.000-08:00

At present life consists of two things for me - working and walking, in that order. At the moment, working is full time, with little space for anything more than an 'if-I-don't-get-out-I-will-explode' march round the village fields. Last Sunday though, we woke to the first blue skies and sun we'd seen for days, so without stopping for breakfast, we hastened over to one of our favourite walks, to look for signs of Spring.

There are new shoots appearing - not yet on the trees, but certainly in crop fields. We walked across to a lovely farm, the footpath following along the almost purple hogged hedgerow.

First it basked in almost warm sunshine, then dark clouds rolled over and it merged into the landscape like a camouflaged animal.

So I stalked it, getting closer...

...and closer...

Walking round the estate we could sense a stirring - birds jousting with songs, sticky horse chestnut buds swelling, catkins and snowdrops trembling in the chilly breeze. And two large, bronzed hares galloping across a field towards cover.

While the sun was out, it made one hope that maybe the year is on the turn at last.

In a few weeks time, these rich winter neutrals will have transformed to gauzy greens and saffrons.

I am sure of it.

Weather - changeable

2010-02-10T09:57:00.001-08:00

Too bitterly cold to take the motorbike out, so today we confined ourselves to a brisk, bracing walk outside of the village. The bright sun did nothing to warm us.

Especially as there were ominous clouds moving in from the East, blown along on a thin, cutting wind.

In the distance we could see something - sleet, rain or snow - being dumped from these gloomy giants.

Soon they were swallowing the blue sky and we hurried back as fast as we could across claggy fields. Then it arrived.

More snow. Tiny powdery dots hurtling towards us in a frenzy. Dramatic, but nothing to worry about.

Just a little reminder that winter is not quite done with us yet.

The working Cotswolds

2010-02-03T12:53:00.000-08:00

With lots of work on my desk and the weather being so dreary, walks outside of the village are sparse. The last one was (spoilt as we are) rather unsatisfactory. It was a new one and we should have done it the other way around, because as Andy observed, most walks have natural directions and had we started where we finished, we'd have had a pub at the end and lovely views to look at, instead of which we had our backs to the landscape most of the time. However, here we were last week in pretty Temple Guiting, before we realised the error of our way (as it were). Even the Cotswolds struggle to look interesting when the clouds are sat on them, but there were points of interest; for instance, someone had been hedge laying, pollarding the nearby trees for material.

There are many different styles of hedge laying, but I could not quite pinpoint this pattern. My knowledge of this old country craft is limited, but for further information there is the National Hedge Laying Society. It seems to just about survive, thanks to renewed interest in the countryside, an acknowledgement that we need hedgerows (and so does wildlife) and invaluable volunteer work.

Where the branches are laid back and not broken, new growth will appear, turning this into a living barrier and if you look at many of our field hedgerows you can clearly discern the pattern of decades old patterns in thickened trunks.

After a rather hairy journey along a road, with car drivers oblivious and uncaring of pedestrians, we were back in fields, plodding up a hilly footpath. I turned round to see the view (which would have been even better had we been coming the other way...) and there is Jackdaws Castle laid out in all its glory. We are near Cheltenham and this is racing country. Owned by renowned trainer Jonjo O'Neill, these gallops are spectacular - on the home page of the Castle site can be seen a video of jockeys training here. There on the right, the racing tracks, and there on the left, the jumps, (best seen if you click on the picture, which is much larger).

Further along the way, a more mundane Cotswolds activity - not as glamorous but even more vital. Quarrying the soft yellow stone for housing and renovation. It can never be a pretty sight, but it is necessary to keep our region alive and in the traditional manner. This quarry has supplied stone in renovations ranging from the Houses of Parliament to Blenheim Palace.

Hard to get a good look, as sensibly the footpath is well away from the quarry edge and hedged thickly with hawthorns.

And of course, always present no matter where you walk - the favourite of the Cotswolds, sheep. Everywhere.

A little Norman church

2010-01-24T03:05:00.000-08:00

Westwell is a sublime village at a halfway point on one of our walks. A few days ago we were taking somewhat reluctant exercise, the day being bitterly raw and generally drab. It seemed a good time to explore the little church of St Mary's, which - if your eye follows the winding track upwards behind the middle willow - is tucked away to the side of the green. Up the path, past the Narnia lamp post...

...past leaning, lichened gravestones...

To the porch, a later addition to the older building, which is recorded in the Doomsday Book, of 1066 - although it is certain that there was a church on this plot long before that date.

Inside the porch, a niche, with recent graffiti - useful for future historians, the abbreviation of *Daz* pinpointing the numpty who carved it to the late 20th/early 21st century. Maybe it will improve with age. These niches were often fonts or stoups which would have held holy water. This one is actually a 12th century Piscina which was moved from inside the church, to accommodate a large tomb. As a Piscina is a kind of rudimentary sink, with a drainage hole, they must have had to put a bowl in the niche to hold the holy water.

The inner door, with its double Chevron arch, (showing its Norman/French origin) was originally the outside door, before the addition of this porch. In the centre (or tympanum) is carved a faint dial -you can just see the little hole, where a wooden peg would have been placed. The porch is south facing, and the dial - or 'mass clock' - would have indicated to the villagers exactly when services were. There is a better example (and explanation) here, concerning what is thought to be the largest mass dial in the country at Badsey in the nearby county of Worcestershire. In my researches, this site dedicated to Cotswold sundials, tells me that this one is Saxon.

Inside, is a small, plain interior - but utterly charming.

- with a simple font situated at the back, behind the pews.

Incredibly, the roof timbers are the original Norman structures, which makes them nearly 1,000 years old.

There is little stained glass here - these fragments are what remain of a memorial window installed - naturally - by sheep farmers in the 16th century. Sheep were once the mainstay of the Cotswolds, and it is still a major farming activity even now. Many of our churches, large and small, have benefited from the wool trade, at its height round about when these window scraps were originally created - what a magnificent, richly coloured sight it must have been in its entirety.

Look - someone has forgotten his hat and gloves! They will be safe here, and still be waiting when the gentlemen returns. Assuming he can remember where he left them; it's a chilly day and he will need them.

Another Mediaeval feature, a stone head, described in the church pamphlet as a 'sad queen'...but I think she is more enigmatic than sad -is that a smile twitching her lips?

Despite the damp cold, spring is making tentative efforts to be seen. The graveyard is scattered with the happy sight of snowdrops and we know that the year is turning again.

Leaving the church grounds and looking out across the pond -

We make our way around to the next lap of our walk, on to another village and another story, one day. On a lane we stop to locate home. There it is, on the farthest horizon; a blue hummock where a large beech grove stands about a mile from our own little patch.

There - it's not that far really, as the crow flies.

I am, as usual, indebted for my facts to the little plastic folder of information, examples of which are usually found in our country churches, carefully compiled by those who love them.

A quick spin Jan 18th

2010-01-20T10:31:00.000-08:00

It's been over a month since I went more than two miles from the village, thanks to my workload, Christmas and the snow. I dutifully chained myself to my work desk again on Monday, stifling - not very successfully - a heavy sigh as Andy took the motorbike over to our new walk, Akerman Street at Eastleach, to take photos. I hate being left behind. But later he returned and told me to grab my coat and helmet; the sun was out and it was a beautiful day. Work or no work, I grabbed my gear and was taken on a whistle stop tour of our patch looking at its most glorious in its winter colours. First we went to the top of the biggest hill, where we can survey our kingdom, looking towards the west. The views are vast and wide, and we were on top of the world, spotting the dear familiar landmarks of far off lanes and villages.

On to Swinbrook, most pretty of West Oxfordshire villages, where the Windrush has surged over its banks into the flood fields, providing small lakes for wild fowl.

A bright St George's Cross, the flag of England, flaps cheerily from the little church where I have taken many photos - but that is another story for another day.

Taking the bike down narrow, twisting lanes, we stopped every so often simply to absorb the views, cold, steely flood water reflecting the soft, apricot light.

Another flood plain and an old farmhouse being renovated -

After so many weeks of the same scenery, it was breathtaking to be out and about.

One solitary, stately swan enjoying a temporary paddling pool.

Time to make tracks for home and head on up the winding lane.

As the dying sun began to steal what little warmth there had been, there was a last stop off to capture a solitary beech clump, which stands near Shipton Barrow, just seen in the back ground. Sadly on private ground, so no exploring - just a final souvenir snap of a wonderful tour of our part of the Cotswolds.

Last of the snow Jan 7

2010-01-14T11:05:00.001-08:00

I have not left the cottage for seven days, and it's been even longer since we saw a bus. Thankfully I have a glut of work to keep me occupied, and we did catch the very best, sunny day to go walking, exactly a week ago. With the difficulties the snow has caused we are thankful that a thaw has set in and I hope to get out and about again. But that day, the snow was at it's best - so here are some memories from the Cotswolds, during what the media like to call 'The Big Freeze'.

Our familiar footpath leading away from the village -

Going up towards the estate farm, and my favourite line of trees.

Hardy sheep scraping back the snow to graze on frozen grass.

A pollarded willow alongside a snow hidden stream -

Walking up to the fields where a pair of ravens are nesting - they too were out and about, raggety-spilling through the cold blue sky with their wonky flight and cronking calls.

Walking in the snow, we found, was quite tiring. Wait for me Andy - you've got the hot chocolate!

I said, wait for me!

Many of the footpaths were untrodden by anyone else except birds and animals. But the gamekeepers and farmers still keep an eye on things - they have landrovers.

This white expanse covers what is usually a crop field, and I have fond memories of walking through waist high rapeseed flowers, whose heavy scent to me is the very essence of Oxfordshire in high summer.

In deep winter however, it looks as if the badger has been the only walker on this path.

Apart from some large Andy-shaped boot prints, left from his walk the day before and already filled in with overnight snow.

After a four mile tramp through the snowy countryside, it was good to hit the road and have some easier walking, back to the village. I am looking forward to seeing some colour in the landscape again.

Snow in the Cotswolds Jan 5

2010-01-05T08:39:00.000-08:00

The snow has come late to our patch of the Cotswolds, but when it did arrive, it fell so quickly I had to dash out to capture it. As I left the village, it was just beginning to lay properly. There was an unusual amount of bustling for a Tuesday afternoon as people stripped our Co-op store of emergency supplies. Our little Victorian church was looking sweetly Thomas Hardy-ish.

Up at the allotments it was hard to see further than a quarter of a mile ahead - white out on the horizons.

I was the only person out walking, in a snow globe world of my own.

As I left the village, I became wrapped in white muffled quiet, the landscape transforming into a Flemish painting.

Looking back at the allotments and seeing the village disappearing.

I headed for the tunnel and beyond -

Now I felt like an arctic explorer, warm under my layers, as the snow fell faster in thick clumps.

How beautiful even the bare seed heads appear - the summer froth of cow parsley flowers replaced with ice crystals.

I was not too far from habitation - soon I was heading for a farm, my footprints the only ones, save for the spidery trails left by birds.

Pheasants were flocking to the farm, intent on shelter and filching stray grain from the storage bins. As I approached, they whirred clumsily up into the flurries, cackling rustily, like clockwork toys.

I was back on the lane and turning for home -

- just in time to catch a blurred shot of Mr Hare, not as graceful as he normally is, lumbering across a distant field.

Back towards the top farm I clumped, my mouth open and tongue out to catch the falling flakes.

Snow seems to suit Cotswold houses, the thick stone walls appearing impenetrable from any cold.

Time to go home.

Past the gorgeous house-which-should-be-mine...

Past the farmer doing some housework on the hedgerows...

Reaching my favourite footpath which takes me back to the village as dusk falls.

The stream trickles slowly, the only noise save for the distant laughter of children from the central green.

Dog walkers began to emerge, and I was almost back to civilisation.

In the time I had been out and about, we had been transformed. What will tomorrow bring?

Buzzard

2010-01-02T07:53:00.001-08:00

This morning I took two friends out for a walk down the tracks, into the woods and over the fields. It's always enjoyable showing off your pet patches. We were so busy talking that for once I barely took any pictures. On the way home, we passed a superb buzzard who was so fixated on whatever it was looking at, that we managed to crawl the car to within a few metres of it.

Barely able to breath with excitement, I got just two good, high quality images before it realised we were there and lazily soared away into the cold, blue sky.

Local snippets

2009-12-28T08:14:00.001-08:00

While Andy is working over most of Christmas, my walks are confined to how far my legs will take me. But I never tire of my routes - if one has any interest at all in nature, a simple ramble down a footpath will provide endless diversion. Are the catkins out yet? Is there any new growth? What birds are dotting through the hedge and what was squeaking from that clump of grasses?

It's another icy morning - the winter wheat is frosted as I look across to the Stow road.

Coming up to the farm, where smoke busily bustles from the chimney.

I cross over to the big field where last week it looked like this. Today there were no deer stranded in the middle, but they were taking cover in a nearby copse - the most I got to see of them today were bobbing white tails disappearing to cover.

Although the sun is pleasant, frost is still settled in sheltered areas. A little stream trickles sluggishly by my side.

In need of a really good wander, I carry on across towards the back of the woods, following the hedgerow in a long, lazy u-shape.

Unable to resist a nice line of trees -

Looking across towards a neighbouring village which overlooks us from higher up the hill.

There is a thin cloud of smoke hanging over the rooftops, as people keep their woodburners and fires going through the cold snap.

We are due for more.

Four miles of snow

2009-12-22T09:24:00.001-08:00

On my own in this freezing weather, as poor Andy is having to sleep over at work - impossible to get the motorbike out of the ungritted village, or even to the end of our lane without dropping it. What I needed was an afternoon's walking. Starting up at the allotments again, but turning the other way. This is a new route to me; the last time I tried this was a few years back and it wasn't even signed. Needless to say I got a little lost and inadvertently trespassed, so I haven't bothered with it since.

Familiar terrain becomes a fresh landscape when you can see a different aspect to it. Normally I would be walking along the road, between those houses.

At least the snow made it obvious where I was supposed to go - the paths are littered with spoor, some of them dog, but also dainty bird prints and bunny hops - the four feet kept so close together as Brer Rabbit landed, that it resembles a large paw print.

Such a clean, clear day and the stillness that intense cold brings.

I headed up towards the woods, to begin the turning of the circle.

The sun began to set, breaking through a copse of looming conifers.

Now I had to venture down what is normally a mired track. I was hoping the mud would have frozen solid - it had, though I had to pick my way carefully. There were some ominous cracks and squelches as I hopped from clod to snow capped clod.

Further on, the hedge trimmers were out - farming takes no holiday.

I turned just in time to catch sight of -

- dithering deer. With a trimmer roaring away either side of them and myself at the top of the field, they hopped about, trying to decide which way to flee, before skipping away to the only unoccupied area.

As the sun disappeared, my way home was followed by a pale sickle moon, and I was surprised to find I had been out for three hours, although my walk was only just over four miles. A splendid way of whiling away a solitary winter's afternoon.

Short cold stroll Dec 18

2009-12-18T11:02:00.001-08:00

While the South and East of the UK has been suffering (or enjoying, depending on your point of view) heavy snowfall, the Cotswolds has had a mere sprinkling, though it is bitingly cold. This morning the sun was up and, feeling thankful for my heavy army coat, I had an hour's potter round the village fields - starting at the allotments, where the winter veg are preserved in natural, earthy storage.

Going along the bottom of the field - although we have little snow, the earth is frozen and muddy quagmires can be walked over - the puddles creaking in protest.

Winter has stripped the hedgerows, and peepholes reveal normally unseen areas. Trip-trap, trip-trap, across the little troll bridge, the freezing wind sandpapering my cheeks.

More beautiful than any designer wallpaper, a line of trees stark against the cold blue.

Making a u-turn and looking across to my start point, the allotments just visible at the side of the village.

The straight path home, my lungs full of clean, icy air, glad to have been out in the open, if only for an hour.

Winter walk Dec 13

2009-12-15T02:15:00.000-08:00

A brisk but sunny December day and only a few hours of daylight left. We were off to explore a new walk in a favourite area nearby. It starts here, with a helpful footpath pointer, past sweeping fields and sparse headed trees -

- to scrubby estate woodland and down to a rough crossroads, breaking into a stretch of our usual walk. This is not just any old muddy track though: this is the still used remnant of a straight Roman road, Akeman Street. It goes on ahead through here...

...and up to fields, where it stretches along for about half a mile.

To the left of us, down in the valley, we saw that our old walk - which takes us through softly rolling grassland - was flooded. In summer, we meander alongside the river, which has now breached its banks and spilled over into the pasture.

Reaching the end of this pathway, and looking into the heart of the vale. Under the little stone bridge, the water is flowing strong and deep - four feet, Andy thought, though it is so clean and clear it is difficult to judge.

In a few minutes, this gently rippling silver ribbon will reach the water logged valley we had been viewing earlier.

On the level, looking across from the bridge.

A spectacular beech clump overlooked us as we continued along a lazily winding stone road, our cold nostrils catching the scent of fresh flood water.

Here we said goodbye to Akeman Street; it is not part of this modern path, but cuts through in ruthless, military fashion, across fields, on its way to the Roman town of Cirencester, once the second most important town of the Empire, after London. Here the old road is just visible as a disappearing indentation going up the grassy slope and into the the trees.

A little gateway intersecting the wall indicates that this time trodden route is still used today.

We crossed over to a pastoral hummock of grazing sheep, to begin rounding off our journey.

At this point we found that 'someone' had blocked the footpath - twice - which we intend to report to the relevant authorities. Crossing through silage munching cattle, we had to duck over (Andy) and under (me) barbed wire, where there should clearly have not only been footpath signs, but at the very least, unencumbered access from field to field.

Dark clouds beat across the skies, but only a few drops scattered over us. The showers raced over to descend on Burford, a few miles over the way.

The sinking sun threw long shadows and the fading golden light illuminated the brights of winter bare woods and lichen. We were following a snaking trail, progressing towards a distant beech grove, seen on the horizon.

It had appeared to be a warm purpley brown from half a mile away, but as we drew nearer and the sun caught the tips of the last scraps of foliage, it glowed a warm copppery orange.

Now we were on the last leg of our walk, past farmlands and free range pigs, who were happily rootling around in chilly mud. In the blue distance, the neighbouring county of Wiltshire and another ancient route, the Ridgeway were just visible and somewhere (although unseen) the Uffington White Horse. It is good to be able to place yourself within a landscape - one day we may be over there, looking across to over here.

The best walks are full circles, and after nearly three hours of tramping we were very glad to see the back of our trusty bike waiting patiently for us. And the remembrance of coffee cake waiting at home.

Chedworth Dec 5

2009-12-08T11:18:00.000-08:00

Finally we are almost well again, and able to venture out for a little amble round one of the quaintest villages we know. Chedworth is a tumbling fairytale village - albeit with a profusion of tangled telegraph wires and poles which lurch drunkenly over the winding lanes.

Meandering through clusters of delightful cottages -

- and passing a stout old church - here it is, looking back, nestling solidly above its flock.

The walk itself is nothing extraordinary - but then, we are spoilt and have many other pretties in our menagerie of rambles. There is a long climb up and out of the village -

and at the winter scenery is desolate.

Even the woods are a bit scrubby and dull, though we did find a tiny troll village. No-one at home today.

Our route led us on for about 2 miles, past Chedworth Roman villa and to the outskirts of Yanworth, one of our favourite scenic walks. If one was up to it - which we weren't, being out of condition - one could extend the route to encompass it, adding an extra 3 miles to a four mile circuit. But I was huffing and puffing after an hour, and glad to get to the last lap - where Andy and his mother waited.

Across winter greens towards a bleakly overcast sky.

And back to comfy Chedworth, via a side route. Fires are already smoking.

Down into the valley and back up through tiny streets, dolls house cottages and neat country gardens.

The church seen distantly from another road.

And past a gushing natural spring

Back to our start point, just as the rain started and home to tea and cake. Our neglected walking legs felt rather wobbly, but it was so good to be out, even in the melancholy winter.

A little break

2009-11-24T01:51:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-15T09:43:00.000-08:00

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.