Little walks

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

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

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

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

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

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.