An Ancestral Attachment

I've been travelling this back road in the Cotswold Hills between Cirencester and Winchcombe for over thirty years and it never fails to inspire me.

The first part of my journey is on an old Roman road called the White Way. It was part of a network that radiated from the town of Corinium, then the second largest city in Britain, now, named Cirencester, a small market town of about 19,000 inhabitants. I follow this route until it dives down through Chedworth Woods and then swoops up and over a ridge to the tiny village of Compton Abdale. Climbing again I reach the lonely uplands where the road is superimposed onto tracks that that were ancient even in the Roman period. Up here, on the salt ways and the drove roads, people whose genes I carry have been active for thousands of years.

I could not be ensnared by a religious devotion but I am held in thrall by these hills. I suppose it's because of the ancestral connections. I've traced my family back for 500 years or more in the villages and hamlets sheltering in the remote valleys, places like Chedworth, Compton Abdale, Hailes, and Rendcombe. I've visited their churches to try and get a feeling of what they felt, the ambience that they experienced as they went through their rites-of-passage. I've stood in front of baptismal fonts and altars that date back a thousand years or more, that were old even before my family stood before them, chanting their arcane rituals. I have walked over their memorial stones, that pave the naves and chancels of these churches.

Walking, cycling or even driving the lanes, tracks and pathways of the Cotswolds, I am connected to the present and anchored to the past. Not everyone can have that certainty. I am fortunate. I need no more.

For Rust Lovers

Rusty and one short of a three.

Beer & Chocolate

Peter and I went to his local, The Swan, for a jar and a chinwag yesterday evening (for those taking notes, I drank Wylam Phantom, a beautifully hopped ale from the north-east of England, on the strong side at 5.0% ABV). I couldn't help but notice that there was a range of chocolate bars behind the bar, such staples as Crunchies, Kit Kats and Cadbury's Fruit & Nut.

So why wasn't I impressed by the provision of two of the greatest inventions on this earth side-by-side? Because they don't go together. If there are taste sensations that won't mix, it's chocolate and beer. I discovered this over forty years ago. Whichever one you taste first completely destroys the taste of the second. Not just for a few moments but seemingly for hours. How can nature be so cruel?

Peter's village is an oddity in that it has no street lighting. Consequently trips to and from the pub come with a sense of adventure - trees leap out in front of you, strange people walk into you, mysterious creatures slink out from the bushes and brush amorously against your legs. And that's just before you get to the end of Peter's drive.

Misty Murkiness

Back in the nineteenth century there were a group of artists by the name of Fraser living in Bedfordshire. Their speciality was melancholy, misty landscapes of the rivers and drainage channels of the Fens, a watery flat wilderness of reeds and willows. I used to own a small watercolour by one of the family and, while it was beautifully executed, it was not a cheery image to greet the morning with. I suppose I could have hung it in a cupboard to scare the mice away but instead I sold it (may even have been at a profit which would have been a novelty).

These images, taken this morning on yet another dull, sub-zero, apology for day, remind me of their work. I would have liked to link to some examples on the Internet but I couldn't find any - despite being well-respected artists, no-one has yet produced anything on the Web for them - a niche waiting to be filled.

Captain Cook (and friend)

Lee mentioned James Cook in a comment to one of my postings today and it's just the excuse I needed to reproduce this picture of his statue in Whitby. Thanks, Lee, that's saved me having to fabricate some piece of nonsense to tie it into.

Patina

Today's image for some reason reminds me of the Great Red Spot on Jupiter, a swirling storm in the planet's atmosphere that's been raging for at least 340 years. So why am I'm sitting here getting fed up because it's been a bit cold and dull for the last month?

It's difficult to maintain an air of bonhomie in adverse weather; I've been in the south of France when the Mistral’s been blowing and I can see why it can drive people insane after a few days. Still whingeing about the weather is part of what makes us tick. It's the perfect accompaniment to the word 'too' - too wet, too dry, too hot, too cold, too sticky.

Then, once in a while, the perfect day comes along and what happens? We become beset by doubts and portents - how long's this going to last? I bet it'll be raining by the weekend. To take advantage of our good fortune we go away for a few days. Then it's: I hope my neighbour has remembered to water my hanging baskets; I should have cut that tree down; I wonder if my paddling pool is insured? Did I leave enough lettuce for the tortoise, and so on? There is nothing better than having something to worry about when on holiday. And that's before we start fretting about whether we've turned off the cooker/central heating/water/rodent repeller.

This plank of oak could well be as old as that storm judging by its patina of age. Countless hands have caressed its surface and, by the look of it, a few worms have been inside for a small feast before flying off to pastures new.

More Old Iron

I've just watched a television advert extolling the virtues of 'bifidus digestium'. Isn't it refreshing to know that in this supposed age of learning and scientific discovery, the pedlars of snake oil are still alive and well? The next advert offered the discerning purchaser the opportunity to embalm their skin with 'Pro-Tensium', an elixir which apparently gives the fortunate user skin taut enough to beat out a drum-roll. What joy! Pseudo science rules! Ask any of the addle-brained supporters of anti-evolutionary theories.

In the rational world, enriched with reality and common sense, a good dose of iron is supposed to work wonders. Today's images illustrate two sources of this element but in a rather unpalatable form. No doubt a pharmacist could supply it ready to swallow. Or you could drink a pint or two of Guinness.