Autumn Cottage Diarist

Golden Days before the Winter Dark

We have recently been blessed with some of those glorious, golden autumn days that often occur around this time of the year - days when everything seems to stand still, when not a leaf moves or a bird flies by; days that have the remnants of sultry summer days, but also a component of change - subtle ripening that builds to the rosy abundance of harvest time .

We took some time on Monday to get out and about to enjoy the countryside while the weather is still good. As an inveterate church crawler, I often put an itinerary together as a ‘steeple chase’,  creating a navigation pathway amongst villages,  between church and church, spires and towers.

I've mentioned before that I consider the British parish church to be one of the greatest repositories of People’s art hidden away in full view; even for those without religious beliefs, I have found at least one item of artistic merit (in my eyes at least) in every church that I have ever encountered, that is worth seeking out or at least being pleasantly surprised by on a fleeting visit. The experience is even more pleasurable if you can read the symbology behind so many of the artefacts and adornments inside and out of the building itself, and I would always recommend gaining a little knowledge of what may be found there before paying a visit.

Our first stop was not, however a tiny village, but the larger town of Bampton at the hub of our ‘visit wheel’ which has, over the last decade, become known internationally as one of the locations in which ‘Downton Abbey’ has been filmed. It's a town barely larger than a village, so it was not surprising to see both enthusiastic evidence of the filming and the tourist influx which has been created, in the form of ‘The Downton Mile’ – a  hand drawn map, which you can download here (and also watch a very interesting short video narrated by Hugh Bonneville on the history of the Old Grammar School).  But there was also a notice in one residence complaining of the fact that 30,000 visitors had ‘besieged’ the town (with  a population of round only 2,600 in 2019), which I can quite imagine must have given a sense of being invaded rather than visited. Downton Abbey did not bring joy to everyone!

St Mary's Church

'Mrs Crawley's'

The Old Grammar School, now Library ('Downton Cottage Hospital')

The charm of the town does not just hinge on the fact that it became ‘Downton’ however – much of the characterful, prosperous architecture hails from the 17^th & 18^th century - being a market town built on the thriving wool trade since at least the 13^th century. It also has a claim to fame as having a particularly enthusiastic Morris Dance tradition – a pursuit that is commemorated in this market square mosaic – and in the name of a local pub!

After a light lunch, we meandered slowly back - but what we hadn't bargained on when we ventured out on our meander was that, although churches in our own County are now by and large open for private prayer, in other counties it is not necessarily the same. In the area we visited (known as ‘The Land of the 12 Churches’), those that I had placed on our itinerary were all still locked. Some of them had notices declaring that the key was with a key holder if we wanted access, but these would have been time consuming to track down, so we contented ourselves with wandering around four small, very peaceful Cotswold villages, just enjoying their ancient vernacular architecture.

Alvescot

There is nothing quite so delightful as wandering around a little English village in September sunlight, with hardly another person around; most of our encounters were with workmen, carefully repairing old stone walls - and even that was a joy to behold, to see ancient structures being loved and cared for, their future ensured for another century. We ended up  in the villages of Alvescot, Black Bourton, Kencot and Broadwell,  and though the churches were closed - no matter, as there were still the churchyards to explore! It was just a delight to wander around the  little village lanes and alleyways, gathering photographs - the only souvenirs I usually collect these days.

Kencot

 And at our last stop, the lovely autumnal sight of four Crab apple trees inside the church wall, bending low with fruit. It was only when we took a walk around that churchyard that we noticed that the trees were depositing much of their fruit on the ground inside the wall, abundantly spread and many already rotting.

Broadwell

We thus felt no guilt whatsoever in gathering up the ripe, unblemished fruit in a carrier bag to bring home with us. That bag is now sitting in the kitchen, awaiting attention this afternoon to be turned into a batch of Crabapple jam to join the jars of Blackberry and Apple jam and the Fig and Date chutney which are now sitting on  my pantry shelves. (Update – all now bubbling in the slow cooker 😊 )

I often ponder on what I see offered to visitors to my country as examples of ‘typical Britain”, and I think it must sometimes be a disappointment to be presented with a tawdry,  ‘Disneyfied’ picture of ‘Ye Olde England’. The chances are that if you are visiting as part of a coach load on a whistle stop tour of the popular  ‘sites’, you won't really see old England (or Wales or Scotland). But the footprint and the fabric of our history IS very much still there - down a little one track lane, accessible probably only in quite a small car - or on foot. It won't have souvenir stalls or fast food, but if you can find it (and I can tell you where to look), in one’s and two’s (four at the most), you will be rewarded with restrained beauty, peace and tranquillity, living history and a courteous but possibly rather reserved British  welcome.

But if you can't get here, I plan many more ventures down those little country lanes,  and it will be my pleasure to take you along with me.

Loosening up on Lockdown!

A few hours away from home, now that Government regulations are slowly loosened

 

 

The Start of a Great Adventure!

Dear readers - I have returned from just a brief week in Romania, but a huge leap in my interest and appreciation of a country and its inhabitants - an interest which has only just been kindled, but will call me back again and again to dig deeper and discover more. How do I even begin to convey the flavour of the adventure? How can I express the joy of circle-dancing the night away at the gloriously happy wedding of my son and Romanian daughter in law - the central reason for my visit?

But also… how can I capture the colours and mystery of the ancient, frescoed Orthodox churches which I eagerly sought out? The glitter of the icons… the sea of faith with which I was surrounded in those places? How can I share the warmth of the people, their generosity, their welcome, their grasp of the English language (even just a few words in some more remote areas…but even that is a few words more than I shamefacedly admit is my grasp of their language!)

The medieval town of Brasov

How can I tell of the magnificence and mystery of the mountains and the forests of Transylvania - where fairytale leapt alive for me at night as I listened to the low, gutteral growls of European brown bears, rumbling from the deep, dark forest just a hundred or so yards away from the balcony on which I stood? How can I possibly tell you what it felt like to crawl up the narrow, claustrophobic, 45 degree stairway, to the tower in Bran Castle, ('Dracula's Castle' - once part of the kingdom of Vlad the Impaler) - to be rewarded with spectacular views across the valley?

The truth is - I cannot. They are places and events that have to be experienced in the flesh - my words and images are pale imitations of the reality. But for now - they are all that I have…so let me share with you, in the next few posts, just a glimpse into my beautiful, mysterious, sometimes heartbreaking, but every day astonishing visit - just the first of what I hope will be many more.

To begin at the very beginning...In all honesty, it was a struggle to even get there. I have had a severe flying phobia for many years now, after some very unpleasant previous experiences. I had contemplated travelling - as I did to Venice - by train, but it would have taken me at least three days - and I knew that I just did not have the stamina to do that - knowing that, when I arrived, there would be several days of city and country adventures even before the wedding.

So, putting, just for once, environmental considerations aside (I am not unaware) - I gritted my teeth and told Alec 'book the tickets NOW - before I change my mind!!!'

I won't go into detail of how much sleep I lost and how many times my stomach turned over in the two weeks beforehand - suffice it to say that I DID get on the plane, smiled in bliss when the pilot announced that - due to a following wind, the flight would be a whole HOUR shorter than expected - sat back, plugged in my iPlayer and (apart from consuming a delicious meal and lots of pampering by the BA attendants) allowed Melvyn Bragg and his guests to talk me through three 'In Our Time' Podcasts. Time literally and metaphorically flew - and we touched down in Bucharest to be greeted by a temperature of 31C. Just as well I had packed cotton shirts as well as woolly polo jumpers (I needed both by the end of the week )

Phew - that's better!!

Our taxi transfer got us to the heart of Bucharest, dropping us just a few hundred yards from our hotel in Lipscani - the 'Old Town' district of the city - one of the few areas of the city where President Ceaucescu did not let loose his bulldozers in the 1970's & 80's. The location of our little boutique hotel (the 'Rembrandt') was pedestrianised with cobbles - so even those few hundred yards were hard work at the end of a long day.

Our little 'boutique' hotel Rembrandt,  in the buzzing heart of the Old Town

But I was rewarded with my first glimpse of what was to fill my passion for the next week - one of the glorious Orthodox Churches with which Bucharest is still peppered. 'Ooh, my feet are aching' was actually an excuse to stop and take first photographs. Here are just a few images - a few 'first impressions' - there will be many more to follow!

The 'Monastery around the corner' - within a short walk of our hotel. Still inhabited by a small number of nuns.

The iconostasis (Icon gallery) inside the monastery church often beautifully carved

The monastery cloister with collected grave markers

Unusual, carved family headstone - part of a collection gathered here.

 

Pots of Inspiration

The First of June - already - though outside the clouds are grey and the wind is rising. O, our British weather!! We are warned of winds of 60 miles an hour this evening - but also given the promise of rising temperatures and the arrival of 'proper' summer by the end of the week. Something to look forward to in sybaritic terms - I look forward to basking in the warmth on the 'Mediterranean terrace' at the back of the house (my fanciful description of 'the hot bit' where I keep my more tender plants) - but also a reminder to get as many plants in the ground as I can before the soil becomes hardened and unworkable and wilting is more of a problem than waterlogging!

Five weeks lost to being medically poked and prodded (outcome positive, with some provisos) at a time when the most work needed to be done in the garden was frustrating, but priorities change when health issues call; I am just happy to now be in the position of being able to get digging, planting, propagating and harvesting with full enthusiasm once again.

For a break from all the gardening work, however, we made a journey last week to a place I have been longing to visit for twenty years. Whichford pottery is not at all far away (about an hour), situated in a very pretty little village on the edge of the Cotswolds and has been making high quality terracotta garden pots for nearly 40 years. I bought the book -written by owner Jim Keeling - on the subject of terracotta container gardening twenty years ago and since then I have only developed further my passion for growing things in pots; the more varied the pots, the better.

A feast of possibilities - gallery in the background

Whichford's website will tell you all about the process and their history - what I can tell you is just what an immensely friendly place it is to visit. I was positively encouraged to wander through the potting sheds and past the kiln, to see the various stages in the creation of some of the most beautiful pots I have seen, all very subtly different as is to be expected from hand thrown pottery, but all of the very highest quality. Not cheap, but you very much get what you pay for here; in these pots I feel I am getting something which will in time become loved family heirlooms.

There is an attached art gallery, displaying other potters' work (though I got so excited at buying our own particular pots that I did not even make it around the gallery!), whilst outside there are several different areas of garden, each with planted-up pots inspiring you to have a go at making your own little pieces of Paradise. That is the joy of 'pot gardening' - even the smallest spaces can be enhanced and made into little havens of pleasure, which can be easily changed around as the seasons pass.

Enjoy the photographs, which will give you just a flavour of our day - centred on the pottery, but also enhanced by our ramble around the lanes of a particularly beautiful part of the English countryside, at one of the loveliest times of the year.

Inside the Pottery - one of the workrooms, used for storing moulds

Loading the kiln by throwing pots down to the loader from above; much confidence, co-operation and knowledge needed here!

One of five different 'Shakespeare' pots,  all bearing quotes from The Master

On the left, 'Acorn' pots - one of which  came home as a gift to Autumn Cottage

Even the smallest garden could find room for a corner like this?

In the village - Whichford church

So many textures - old tombs and gravestones, a dry-stone wall and burgeoning flora

Much scratching and scraping could be heard as I entered the church...

This was the reason - restoration of 14th century painted glass

...the skilled craftsman placing the precious glass back in place

A wisteria in full, glorious flourish on a barn conversion gable end, opposite the church

A reminder of my childhood - overflowing hedgerows of Queen Anne's Lace, Campion - and a newer addition -escaped rapeseed

Back at Autumn Cottage - two more pots which came home with me.

Now about that return visit...

To Be A Pilgrim

I have been intrigued by the concept of Pilgrimage for many years; though it is normally thought of as a journey made by those with religious belief to a site of religious power, the concept can, I think, also be applied to anyone making a journey - physically, emotionally or intellectually, between one place (physical or metaphorical) and another, and being changed in some way by the process of that journey as much as by what is sought - or discovered - at the end.

There are thousands of pages out there exploring pilgrimage in great detail and with considerably more intellectual and practical knowledge than I have myself. I have never been on pilgrimage (which does not mean that I never will), but was reminded of my interest once again by watching a fine, 3-part series ('The Sacred Wonders of Britain') presented by Neil Oliver which has been on UK television recently and which may, in time, appear on YouTube or PBS. He visits sites which have been considered sacred in the UK, covering, in the course of the series, some 5000 years. The final episode visits some of the medieval sites here, which hold particular interest for me. So I thought I would share with you here three encounters with (in these particular cases, Christian) Pilgrimage that I have had, which have touched and changed my own life in some way.

 

The first is in the form of what is, to me, an immensely moving sculpture. It is of pilgrims en route to Santiago de Compostella, the great shrine to Saint James in Northern Spain, upon one of the pilgrim routes to which the little town of Pons in the Charente-Maritime department of France stands. The sculpture actually sits on a traffic island on the outskirts of the town and I first saw it when staying with a dear friend at her cottage a few miles away. We were visiting in temperatures of 38C - but the (almost life-sized) figures in the sculpture are wearing clothing of heaviest construction, wrapped as if to protect the wearers from bitter cold and lashing rain.

They seem almost alive and they bring to life, for me, one of what seems to me to be an important feature of physical pilgrimage - that of encounter with adversity, whether it be of the weather, or of the physical limitations of one's own body. This installation, embodying such immensely realistic depictions of real people on a real journey, brings me each time I see it into immediate contact with the vulnerable humanity of travellers from many centuries. It touches my heart in a very profound way and I love it very much indeed

 

My second encounter came with a visit made in 2013 to the Cathedral Church of St David in Pembrokeshire, West Wales;

Again, the physicality of the site is striking; the cathedral sits at the end of a wild and rocky route and anyone wishing to visit over past centuries would have had an arduous journey - even now, with the luxury of travelling by car, it was not always easy. But I did also experience the sight of the newly restored shrine of the Saint, complete with five beautiful modern icons.

Saint Non - the supposed mother of Saint David

Pilgrims were, at the time of my visit,  attending a service at the shrine and it was impossible not to be moved by the obvious intensity of their experience; though not believing in the same way as the Christian participants, that encounter with deep reverence had a great impact upon me. It also reinforced my feeling that - easy as it is, nowadays, to look  upon pictures and watch films about these places - it is not the same as standing in actual, physical proximity with other humans as they - we - experience something apart from every-day experience, in community - the essence of Victor Turner's Communitas.

But for all the failings of book, image and film - they are still a very worthwhile resource - and so to my third encounter with Pilgrimage; a short (20 minute) and I think little known film - 'Pilgrimage'  made in 2001 by maestro film maker Werner Herzog, who always seems to get further under the skin and closer to the heart (though it may be a dark heart) of an issue or phenomenon than almost any other director I can think of. The music is by another maestro, John Tavener. Together, the images and sound are transcendent - I hope you enjoy it; it certainly gave me pause for thought in my otherwise ordinary daily life.

Touching Every Village Across the Land...

Mottisfont Church, near Romsey, Hampshire

Making the best of the glorious autumn weather that we are having at the moment, we ventured again, yesterday, to the Sir Harold Hillier Arboretum – but also managed to squeeze in visits to two churches. On our way there, to Stoke Charity, the little church in the middle of a field...and on the way home, to Mottisfont Church, in the village which is more familiar to me from having often visited Mottisfont Abbey, a National Trust property and home of one of the National Rose collections.

My interest in the church, however,  stems both from the fact that it IS a church, and for years I have been fascinated (obsessed?) with visiting them...but also that I have had, for ten or fifteen years now, an old photograph of a class of schoolchildren knocking around in my office, clearly labelled on the back  ‘A.B. Crump – September – Mottisfont School’. I have intended for a while to discover a little more – and yesterday I was able to do so.

It is the way of things that not all is made immediately easy ...there is, frustratingly, no year date on the back of the photo  – but there are names. The style of dress (often a good guide to date) is also quite difficult, in that the children in question would have been from rural/agricultural families – Mottisfont  was, and still is, a small rural community and fashions would not have changed there very rapidly in the 19^th century. I tentatively date this photograph at any time between about 1890 and 1910 (but if anyone can though a more enlightened guess I would be delighted to hear it!).

I entered the church to see several old photographs already there – but what caught my eye more – with the significance of yesterday’s date – between Armistice Day and today, Remembrance Sunday, were the War Memorials – both the ‘official’ brass plate, listing the  names of The Fallen from the village, but also a hand written script, listing all those who had fought (not just the dead) during the 1914-1918 conflict.

I photographed both – but only when I came home and looked up the names on the back of the photograph did I feel a genuine shiver down my spine and sense of intense sadness. Suddenly, names on a brass plate suddenly had what may have been their own images. A list of names became real people.

There are only a few names on the back of the photograph...A.B. Crump...(The Teacher?) Percy, Fred and Frank Dale...Poor Tilly (Lilly?), Tommy Rogers. But if you look on the brass memorial, a Frank Dale is listed there. Is it the same child who looks out from the photograph? Depending on the date, it could be...or perhaps the child of the child in the picture? What relation was Tommy Rogers to another name on the plate, Frank Rogers...and (looking at the handwritten list),  do you see the names of Percy, Frederick Dale, and a Maurice Rogers? How are they all connected? Because connected I think they must have been.

I am emphatically trying to make no assumptions. The  Old School is now the Village Hall, so I will soon contact the Booking officer there to request access, and hopefully, a fruitful conversation with her.  Until then, especially on this Remembrance Day, I am vividly left with the memory of another village, so very much like Mottisfont, where rural families once lived in peace until touched by War.

That village was Lark Rise, which, ‘stood on a gentle rise, in the flat, wheat growing north-east corner of Oxfordshire’ and was where Laura Timms (the author, Flora Timms/Thompson) lived in the last decades of the 19th century, with her family, including her baby brother, Edmund.  ‘Lark Rise to Candleford’ begins with the description above....this is how it ends...

‘and all the time boys were being born or growing up in the parish, expecting to follow the plough all their lives, or at most to do a little mild soldiering or go to work in a town. Gallipoli? Kut? Vimy Ridge? Ypres? What did they know of such places? But they were to know them, and when the time came, they did not flinch. Eleven out of that tiny community never came back. A brass plate on the wall of the church, immediately over the old end house seat is engraved with their names. A double column, five names long, then, last and alone, the name of Edmund’.

For all those lists of names on all the War Memorials in villages, towns and cities all over the land, who were someone’s husbands, sons, wives, daughters... names which were each attached to a real human being; for all the war dead, and those who loved them, on this day, this Remembrance post is especially for you.

Your names liveth for evermore.

Just a Taster....

Rood screen, Carhampton

I've been editing a whole load of photographs from the main church-crawl that I did when on holiday in Somerset a few weeks ago - but life and its distractions have slowed me down. So here's just a taste of some of the interesting works of art that I saw when I was out and about in some of our greatest hidden art galleries here in the UK - our parish churches. Please be patient with me, and I'll have more to show you over the weekend.

More Tombs, Antiques - and a Skateboarding Dog!

 Salvage yard, Dunster
The third day of  five in Somerset, a day upon which I met The Truly Amazing Skateboarding Dog!    I kid you not, gentle readers - There I was, quietly wandering around a salvage yard, imagining what the dear old fireplaces must have looked like in their heydays, still installed in Edwardian houses, polished up with love and care, instead of here, gently rusting away until someone came to rescue them.
Heard a barking and a rushing, and feared the worst. A German Shepherd hurtling towards me - was I in a forbidden part of the yard? Did he think I was an intruder? Then I saw why he was approaching so fast...the blessed beast was skateboarding!!!
It was obviously his toy, and the fuss and noise were merely meant to tell me to get out of the way as he stepped on one corner, did an excellent three point turn, and sped off in another direction. The things you see in a salvage yard!!!

This was a day in the medieval market town of Dunster, and yes, you have guessed it, it was raining. The most moist day of all the week, and myself considerably under the weather, so not so many photos to choose from...but here are a few images of how I spent my time.

Back to the salvage yard. O Happy Day when I have the chance to wander around a place like this. I am sure there are good homes waiting for all these items, but it is such fun to just see them in their 'raw' state and hope that they are soon taken away, cleaned up and installed somewhere to enhance a house or garden. Old stone sinks, a wrought iron fire-basket, several eel-traps, a dove-cote, coal hods, an ancient washing machine -(the barrel shaped item) and a trio of windows that would grace any renovation once they had been cleaned up and painted. All the items somewhat overpriced, I thought...but if you are looking for just exactly one of those items, who is to say what the 'right' price really is, apart from what you are prepared to pay for it?

Took refuge in Dunster church during the worst of the downpours - where I discovered this very grand Luttrell tomb -look at trouble taken to show the detailing of the woman's petticoats... 

and a 'Memento Mori' triptych, bearing all the reminders of time and mortality - the sand-timers, the skull and crossed-bones, and the cherubic little ascending souls, carved somewhat naievely into the black slate slab.

 

Lunch in the cosy old kitchens of the 15th century Lutrell Arms, just visible on the right, behind the old Yarn Market here in the centre of Dunster,

and then back to Porlock, to visit the church of St Dubricius with its distinctive truncated tower. Inside, the early 15th Century tomb of Lord Harington - who fought with Henry the Fifth in France, and his Lady, her hair coiffured in an elegant embroidered head-dress, her head upon a pillow supported by two angels.

 

It was only a short walk back from the church to the apartment, passing another 15th century building, the Ship Inn, at the bottom of the notorious 1 in 4 Porlock Hill, before I was able to get warm and dry again.

I feel I have hurried you through this blog-post in rather the same way that I hurried through the day in Dunster...but once again, wasn't it worth braving the weather for all the interesting things I managed to see?