Sweet Juliet is still, this last day of 2014, in flower in our garden; and - below - the leaves of the Acanthus near it shine with promise for next Summer. We've sprouts yet to eat, and broccoli, Cumberland cale and rocket. There's even a picking to be made from the lettuce plants, protected only by being at the foot of the wall near the far North corner.
"I foresee the Paris Climate Conference as 2015's key event," I emailed yesterday to the Guardian, "and would like to lend a hand in making it a success. With your front page today containing only three stories, all bad news related to air travel, who will join me in a New Year resolve to give up flying?" Alas, I looked this morning, and it hasn't made it into the paper.
It's a day for resolutions, of which this year I have made several. One relates to this blog, now in its seventh year: have you noticed the posts becoming shorter? Maybe it's the proverbial itch, but I'm putting it to sleep. Perhaps forever. Thank you, if there's anyone out there, for reading it! And to those who may have Commented from time to time.
PS (2nd January 2015): I looked again in the Guardian Letters page yesterday. Still no sign of my letter. Ah well! But then today, a blistering leading article on the importance of the Paris Climate Conference, and in the bottom left corner of the next page - just when I wasn't looking for it - my letter (only slightly edited).
All Saints Stone is one of the most Southerly of Gloucestershire's churches and the 188th I have photographed - which I did this sunny afternoon after dropping Agnes back in Bristol. Its tall tower and spire can be seen for miles around this flat part of the old county, not far from the Severn.
Where should I take a visitor from Portugal to walk in the Cotswolds? This was the question I answered with "Stanway" yesterday. Parking alongside the railings beside the old chestnut avenue, you pass through what was once a typical village in these parts, all stone built, no motor homes on the driveway. There's the thatched cricket pavilion on staddle stones (designed for J.M. Barrie), the mansion with its five-sided bay window and garden wall pierced by paired oval windows, the magnificent gatehouse, built just before the Civil War, a 14th Century seven-bay tithe barn, the church with fragments of mediaeval sculpture in its churchyard wall, papermill, kissing gate, bronze war memorial with Gill lettering - and then the new avenue, stretching Southwards through the hamlet of Wood Stanway and up and over the escarpment.
One of Birmingham's favourite sons, John Baskerville (1706 – 1775) is commemorated in the city's Centenary Square by David Patten's Portland stone sculpture of the Baskerville typeface, Industry and Genius (1990). It makes a great climbing frame.
Eight of us were on our way from New Street Station to see The BFG at the Rep, via The National Sea Life Centre, taking in lunch at Ed's Easy Diner en route.
I ought to have been aware of our local University's Faith Space: it must have opened a while ago, but I only noticed it this morning, as I was cutting through Park Campus.
It presumably replaces what was the campus chapel, which always seemed - to a passer by - a singularly uninviting place, albeit part of the original Christian teacher training college complex.
Things have changed in Cheltenham over the decades, and the new pocket-sized prayer spot is rightly inter-faith. Unfortunately, it was closed today - I guess because it's the vacation, and there's nobody about to keep an eye on it. (In principle, it needs to be ever open, but that could be tricky, I appreciate.) It's certainly in a prominent enough position, and let's hope well-used.
Though we only learnt about it after our return from five weeks away, at Easter, Cheltenham's Banksy hit the local headlines. Now, near to Christmas, the covered-up art work seems to have become just a blot on the landscape. I biked past this sunny morning when delivering Christmas cards.
After a good deal of rain, we four walkers took off from the Churn valley this sunless morning in the direction of higher ground. East from North Cerney, you soon reach a plateau, with views towards Blunsden and beyond. Our field path - not too muddy - crossed the White Way before coming to the Calmsden lane. We followed it down into that hamlet, past The Tallet. Pausing to admire the 14th Century wayside cross, we pushed on up along the side of Rendcomb airfield: it's much developed since I was last in these parts. The Monarch's Way was muddy, through Conigree Wood, but overall it was generally agreed to be a good walk on a dry, mild, windless day.
Not so much scenic variety in Nebraska though, judging from the film of that name which we saw last night. It was a road movie, a little slow-moving in parts, but wryly humorous and poignant.
It was cold this morning, and Jeremy and I had to halt a chilly while on our walk up the sunless valley to Tresham while pheasants were being slaughtered. Beaters moved North-Westwards through Knight's Grove putting scores of birds up to fly high over the Guns, each with his (sic) loader. Thus Downton Abbey lives on in Beaufort country, save they now arrive in their Range Rovers, and use magnet-tipped walking sticks to collect the empty cartridge cases.
We warmed up once we were up on the ridge road back towards Alderley, Newark Park peeking through the trees to the North, across Ozleworth Bottom. From Tresham, we watched two mechanised sheep dogs rounding up the flock in order to sweep it down below Furlong's Brake.
We can recommend the pub at Hillesley, now owned by a community cooperative. On a grassy patch adjacent, I saw something yellow: a daffodil is in flower.
I am writing this while listening to the Meistersinger relay from the Met. on Radio 3. The nearest church to my hotel in Nürnberg - when I was there in April - was St Martha’s, used as the rehearsal room by the real Meistersinger. It was officially closed, but I sneaked in through the sacristy to peak at the stained glass, much of it as early as the late 14th Century. (Here's John the Baptist, 15th Century.)
St Martha’s had escaped lightly in World War II, but just over two months after my visit, fire engulfed the entire church: providentially its windows had been removed pending renovation work.
Glass of another sort was on the bill of the concert I went to on Thursday night at the Pittville Pump Room. As the centrepiece of their programme, the estimable Carduccis played Philip Glass' Quartet no. 3. Others in the fullish house loved it, they told me, but I was left cold. I could have coped with it as the backgound to a film - for which it was originally intended - but coming after the well known Mozart D minor, its major key Andante played magically, it seemed to go nowhere, and to take twice (rather than half) the time of Mozart in doing so.
After the interval, the Carduccis tackled one of the masterpieces of the repertoire, Beethoven Op 132, its 20-minute slow movement wringing the heart. Once over, you are led to think its all going to be plain sailing, only for a wrestling match to develop - as far from music of the 18th Century as you can imagine. A thrilling performance!
There is only one church dedicated to St Faith in Gloucestershire, a remote and delightfully modest one: as I hadn't photographed it, and as it was my turn to plan today's expedition, I suggested the six of us should set out to walk to Farmcote from the car park of the nearest pub, the Plough at Ford. Did it prove a step too far? Despite another glorious day (no sign of the forecast "weather bomb"), I detected some murmuring in the ranks.
The first photo op came as we were booting up. Jackdaws Castle abuts the car park, and there was Jonjo O'Neill's string proceeding down towards us in stately fashion, before turning and galloping back up the hill, four by four, an exhilarating sight (only possible to stage if you have several million pounds in the bank).
Cutsdean, straggling along the upper reaches of the Windrush, possesses - nestling within a farmyard - a church of St James. Though it was locked, we could still admire the black scallop centred in the church gate. It looks recent - no coincidence, surely, that a James owns the village? [PS As it happens, it IS a coincidence!] The same lordly hand has left its impression upon the landscape that extends North from beside Beckbury Camp down to and beyond Stanway House. The prodigious avenue, all of two miles long, will have cost but a fraction of that string of racehorses, but will I trust endure long after horsiculture is forgotten.
Grandfathers' footsteps was the name of the game as we followed Campden Lane West from Stumps Cross.
Pax Christi UK’s General Secretary saying this evening that she was one of only three paid staff prompted surprise. “It punches above its weight,” I remarked – only to arouse a titter: we had just been discussing nonviolent protest as a way of drawing attention to planet Earth as (in Ban Ki-moon’s phrase) “a silent casualty of war”.
It reminded me how heavily our language depends upon military vocabulary. As our speaker, Pat Gaffney said, “It’s the whole of me that has to be a peacemaker.” Just as a film lover is a different animal from a film maker, so the Sermon on the Mount talks not of “Blessed are the peace lovers” – but "peacemakers". So, celebrating Remembrance Day without a commitment to peacemaking “is pure sentimentality”. In the same way, the Eucharistic “Do this in remembrance of me” is a call to action as well as devotion.
“Do I need to be a pacifist to join Pax Christi?” Pat was asked. No, Pax Christi has supporters all along the spectrum. Anyway, she preferred to use the term “nonviolent”. To develop a nonviolent attitude in all things was an aspiration: despite her 23 years with Pax Christi, it's one she had yet to attain fully. It's often easier, she says, to protest outside Downing Street than to talk to one's sister-in-law. Recently, she's had to work out a non-violent reaction to the theft of the flower pots she kept outside the front door of her home.
At the end of a year of escalating conflict in, among other places, the Ukraine, Syria and Iraq and Nigeria, it was opportune that our guest was a prominent representative of the international Catholic peace movement. Active in 50 countries, Pax Christi next year celebrates 70 years of peacemaking.
Pat (seen here with our Parish Priest), after working for CAFOD, came to Pax Christi 23 years ago, and has won renown as a campaigner, an educator and an advocate. She has travelled to Sarajevo, East Timor and (frequently) to Israel Palestine, a pilgrim visiting communities. She has been nominated along with fellow women peace workers for the Nobel Prize, and imprisoned four times for nonviolent direct action – about which Martin Luther King wrote that it “seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks to so dramatize the issue that it may no longer be ignored.” This, Pat believes, is her Christian duty.
With the aid of illustrations, the links between war, conflict and the degradation of our planet were explored. Do we really measure the true costs of war? Pat asked: the enforced migration, the disablement, the psychological costs, “the toxic remnants of war” (the title of an independent project, fairly recently set up). 18,000 square miles of land were laid waste in Vietnam. In Kuwait, retreating Iraqis torched 800 oil wells. Over the past 50 years 800,000 olive trees, a spiritual resource for the people, have been destroyed in Israel Palestine.
Outside the Atomic Weapons Establishment at Aldermaston Pat photographed children holding a home-made placard: “If we destroy our planet, we have nowhere to go,” it said. We need, Pat urged, to rethink what security is all about. UK military spending – at £38bn. a year – is the sixth largest in the world. But if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. What of climate change, resource depletion, marginalisation of the majority poor? We spend £1.3b. p.a. on military research and development, compared with £45m. on looking into renewable energy.
At the heart of her message was Pat’s conviction that one person putting their faith into action can make a difference: the priest who came to say Mass on the sacred rocks, threatened by the construction of a naval base on Jeju Island off South Korea; Bishara Nasser’s devotion to protecting Daher’s Vineyard near Bethlehem, resulting in The Tent of Nations project to prepare young people to contribute positively to their culture and future; the Kenyan Nobel Laureate Wangari Maathai, whose simple act of planting trees grew into a nationwide movement.
This presentation to Christian Ecology Link was as powerful as any we have hosted in Cheltenham.
In contrast to Monday, today was brilliantly sunny, a perfect day for Winter walking. Four of us set off from the lay-by on the A46, past the 18th Century former drying tower (now a house) up Frogmarsh Lane and through South Woodchester, a village with a past: so many fine 17th/18th Century stone properties! Then up alongside Dingle Wood, and back left on the drive towards Bownhill Farm, with a 180 degree panorama from Horsley to Randwick. We descended, skirting Woodchester Park, to Inchbrook through a large, rather incongruous vineyard, before the final climb up to pass above C.F. Hansom's Our Lady of the Annunciation and the former Poor Clares' convent.
Three of us set out this dank morning from Naunton: we walked up the Windrush and across to Guiting Power, then to Barton and East towards Huntsman's Quarry, cutting downhill back to the Black Horse in time for not a very good lunch. Fact acquired: the Guiting Amenity Trust owns 73 properties. Photo: Longford House, next to the pub - built around 1800.
Cecil Lewis' book about his flying experiences in World War I and shortly afterwards was chosen by our Book Club's newest member and chewed over today. We liked it.
Part of the book's charm is its frequent digression into something more akin to poetry than real-life Biggles. "Many times have I been carried away," Lewis writes, "by the unexpected beauties of the foreign scene. But, finally, a man comes home. For nowhere else, I think, does the beech grow just so, noble and straight, crowning the rounded hill."
After the lunchtime discussion, we adjourned to look over the former Cirencester Brewery complex, of which LoCo Glass occupies part. Colin Hawkins made us welcome. Interesting to compare their contemporary British studio work with painted glass of five centuries earlier, such as this St Lawrence fragment in the South Sanctuary window of the great Parish Church, which we wandered round before lunch.
Another part of the Brewery is home to Dorothy Reglar's Colours of Asia. The cloth that Dorothy uses to create her designs is produced on handlooms in Laos - she visits each year: again, her beautiful clothes were a contrast to the richly-decorated blue velvet cope on display in the church - made in 1478.
Yet again, a mild day, and dry. Before catching my bus, I was raking leaves.
My former College's annual London seminar, in the relaxed and august setting of Carlton House Terrace, features a panel of Old Members who have a common area of expertise. The subject this year was "Beyond Fantasy or Fear, The Future of Britain outside the European Union", billed as a debate.
It was nothing of the sort, as all five speakers - some admittedly more strongly than others - endorsed our membership of the EU. Hooray! But the question is, how do we articulate "our" position in such a way as to persuade people?
Particularly impressive on the platform was Professor Anand Menon, pointing out that European Council President, Herman Van Rompuy talks about a British departure in terms of "amputation". Britain's is one of the most influential voices within the EU, says Anand: leaving, our impact on the world stage would be vastly reduced.
I enjoyed the evening, but I feel the format needs looking at. First, five speakers is one too many. And the speakers didn't appear to have been encouraged to agree the areas each would cover. In the audience were a number who made valuable contributions to help it in the direction of a true debate, but I suspect others too had expertise such that it would have been valuable, time permitting, to hear their views articulated.
Secondly, at previous seminars Old Members on the platform have been willing to share confidential insights. Apart from Mark Blythe, I thought, frankly, that this year’s bunch, though highly competent, came across as a dull lot!
Finally, as Master (and chair for the evening) we are fortunate to have a man described by a former national newspaper editor as one of our most brilliant political analysts, yet of his own views we heard nothing. A pity!
Grayson Perry's recent TV mini-series "Who are you?" made essential viewing for both of us, so we were happy to be able to catch the art works he made during the filming, on show at the National Portrait Gallery. The Memory Jar attracted much the biggest crowd, unsurprising given today's general concern about Alzheimer's. Christopher, the victim portrayed so poignantly by Perry, both on the small screen and through this pot, had been my contemporary at school, which brought it all home.
Earlier we had spent a couple of unforgettable hours in the company of late Rembrandt next door at the National Gallery.
Luckily, we happened to be coming to London anyway today, so could be part of the celebratory lunch party after our friend Sarah received her MBE at Buckingham Palace - well-earned by many years at the inter-faith coalface in South London and elsewhere.
Pope Francis' Strasbourg speech yesterday rang simultaneously a warning to and an endorsement of the EU - the latter being something Sarah's Islamic friend and I passionately agreed upon. Unfortunately she had moved round the table by the time I found myself in a radically different conversation on the same subject with my other neighbour, a UKIP sympathiser.
Having been brought up short by this, I was again by something in the Times, a paper I normally never see. Columnist Janice Turner - in her Notebook - writes about a friend with a home that makes Janice want to change her entire house. How does she achieve this? Why, by abandoning "dim eco-friendly bulbs". "Sod the planet," the friend says, and Janice follows suit. Haven't they heard of LED?
In the West window of Sapperton Church stands a fine arrangement of poppies, which would be lost against stained glass. Yesterday I was there showing Dido round the local Arts and Crafts connections - they were new to her. Beforehand, we had a brisk walk up the valley from Duntisbourne Abbotts - a little too brisk (and far) for Murphy's short legs: to get him back to Long Ford he had to be put on the trip-me-up.
I missed Day 1 of this year's jam-packed Medicine Unboxed weekend, and only lasted the morning session today. "A tendency to be arty-farty?" Yes, but what a mind-stretching joy it is!
Tim Dee and William Fiennes were discussing their work under the heading "horizon" - it being foreshortened by Dee, kneeling down to examine blades of grass in his Four Fields; but the opposite for Fiennes, following Snow Geese from Texas to the Arctic (and eating them) - birds that know no border controls, carry no baggage. The horizon always remains, however many miles a day one treks (pointing up, for me, the comparative rewards of pilgrimage: to travel hopefully, yes, but also eventually to arrive).
Philip Gross then read from Deep Field, poems inspired by his dying father's loss of language. One of those next up, sociologist Yasmin Gunaratnam, had long studied in a similar area: she introduced actors to perform two powerfully dramatic scenas that touched upon the crossing from life to death of those in the immigrant community.
Before the lunch break, the winner of the Medicine Unboxed Creative Prize was announced. Out of 80 or so entries, seven had been picked out, including Agnes' idea for a musical to deal with - once again - the development and disintegration of language. Brief descriptions of the entries on the shortlist were read out, Agnes' being last. What did that signify? Well, nothing as we soon learnt. The award went to Tiffany Atkinson, already a published poet. So, disappointment within the family - though we aren't allowed to show it; and brilliant to have got so far.
We don't have one - a medicine box, that is. We have various stashes and a glass-fronted cabinet, with rather an awkward key and too few, too shallow shelves. The "medicines" tumble out, difficult to locate when you need them (I find). Big Pharma would come in and throw most of them away for being out of date.
Anyway, it's on my mind this past 24 hours, recovering from a sudden bug: possibly flu, though I had my injection. Feeling the end of the world was near, I have to remember I was out walking earlier in the week.
Odd though that on Tuesday's walk, none of those taking part so much as mentioned my message to our Leader (cc'd to all) of six days previously: "I look forward to being with you in the Malverns," I wrote, "but alas can't commit myself to the attractive-sounding walk you suggest in Croatia next Summer: all our energies are going to be bent in another direction then.
You ask for our thoughts: as you know, I am an advocate of low-carbon travel, and would earnestly hope that some of you who do decide to go all that way (Total Flights Footprint = 0.43 metric tons of CO2e) would look into the no-fly option.
The cons are extra monetary outlay, extra time required and a degree of planning. Amongst many other pros (beside carbon-saving) I would cite no airport/aircraft hassle, a journey through a rich variety of scenery and the opportunity to meet people you would never normally come across. The Man in Seat 61 website gives you all the leads you need, but just to make it that much simpler, here are the main options..." I attached an A4 sheet. But silence.
This photograph of Paddington Station was taken a couple of years ago: I might have been passing through today, had I felt committed to book for the annual members meeting of Christian Ecology Link. That I didn't is partly because it now alas has to be known as "Green Christian"... (This is where Leo would start making scratched record gestures.)
Four of us met at Nettleton Bottom this morning for a shortish walk in the Brimpsfield area. It wasn't as muddy as we feared, though there was plenty of climbing over stiles. Brimpsfield itself is a more extensive village than I had realised, but with few buildings of much real interest apart from the church: we explored that at some length, and John kindly advanced me the wherewithal to buy one of the excellent guidebooks.
This evening, we have been watching old film, brought (on DVD) by Caroline's cousin, who is staying: it included joyous scenes of a 10-year-old Caroline as a bridesmaid in Lincolnshire, and later with her donkey in Devon.
Seven of those of us who walked together in Transylvania last year met up in the Malvern Hills this morning, for a stroll Southwards towards Eastnor. The view from the Herefordshire Beacon wasn't as extensive as it might have been, with the mist slow to clear, but it was a pretty perfect day for a walk nevertheless.
Quink is the felicitous nickname of a relation of mine, given her because she was the fifth (and last) of her family, and born to a clergyman father - my grandfather's second cousin - on Quinquagesima Sunday. We called upon her in Canterbury today, as we progressed homewards.
It was dark enough at lunchtime for us to relight last night's candles: we didn't expect November would bring deckchair weather, but the prolonged rain showers have become a bit repetitive. Even on a sunny day, this South-facing dining-room would need some illumination, with its "En Avant" wallpaper in a red/pink colourway, made to match the original, a piece of which was found beneath a door architrave.
Seven of us gathered round the table for quail stew, our last meal together, as some of us had to leave before nightfall.
It's been a glorious stay, dog-free and with the scent of wood smoke pervading the house. In breaks in the weather, I stepped out onto the tower roof, and, walking in the town, we looked back and saw the sun setting over the harbour.
This afternoon, Catriona Blacker came with the benefit of her extensive Pugin expertise. There remains the puzzle of which Old Testament scene is portrayed in this Flemish roundel in the Library window: Jacob’s flight from Laban in Genesis 31?
For each of the past few years, we have had a short stay in a Landmark Trust property. This year, it's The Grange, on the West Cliff at Ramsgate. Augustus Pugin designed the house and all its fittings for the use of himself and his large family.
What would he have thought about Old Chelsea china, ubiquitous in 200+ Landmarks to date (but now, we read, out of production)? I photographed the above in one of The Grange's tower rooms. Currently a bathroom, I guess it would have been part of the servants' quarters: a great view out to sea, but extremely cold in Winter.
On our way down to Kent, we called at Crowborough to visit a former colleague of Caroline when she worked at the Courtauld Institute. We have been married nearly 40 years, and Caroline "retired" before our wedding, so it's been a while.
Now 95, Elizabeth lives with her only slightly younger sister. They were brought up in Constantinople (sic) and remember learning long division on the Bosphorus.
Old friends have lost their younger child, aged only 31. I drove over the county border into Warwickshire in order to attend a sad Mass of thanksgiving, ending with the draped coffin being carried from the little church by members of the family.
The Gospel - unusual for a funeral - was from the Sermon on the Mount, the new standard higher than the old. It was a passage Hugh was said to have written out, found in his room. And a saying of his was printed on the back of the beautiful service sheet: "If you look well, you may find beauty everywhere." RIP.
A fortnight after our brief break in Bath, I was there again yesterday. It was wet, not a day for photography, but in a lull on my way back to the station I spotted this sign: is it soliciting customers or warning them of the presence of a latter-day Demon Barber?
The purpose of my visit was another lunchtime meeting and talk. Turkey was on the agenda, but not on the menu. David Logan, formerly our ambassador in Istanbul, speaks with beguiling lack of emphasis, but no wasted words. He mapped out for us the complex, not to say intractable, set of relationships between Turks and four sorts of Kurds: we also glimpsed behind the scenes within Turkey itself, a country clearly not to be ignored.
19 of us attended, one of the ancillary pleasures being meeting people of differing backgrounds: I sat next to another former ambassador (to Chile), who also worked for many years in Geneva on arms control. He argues strongly now against all armed intervention in either Iraq or Syria.
With Caroline away in France this week, I was given supper by friends on Tuesday: for Trishe's birthday, Christopher was getting her Gerry Hughes' new book, Cry of Wonder, so I thought I'd have a look at it in Bath's elegant Waterstones. I couldn't find it, and on the train home I saw in the paper that its author had just died. RIP.
He was a gentle, shy man. 29 years ago this month we had him to stay for a Winchcombe Action for Peace meeting - in the Methodist church, as the Catholic priest said No to it being in St Nicholas'. On our way down the hill into Winchcombe, Gerry realised he'd left his Jerusalem Bible in our spare room - he needed it for his talk. "No problem," I said. "We have to pay a courtesy visit to the Catholic priest, and we can ask to borrow one from him." But, "The Jerusalem Bible!" exclaimed Canon Morrissey. "I don't have that."
Arriving at the door of the Methodist church, we were greeted warmly by the Minister. I told him about Gerry's Jerusalem Bible oversight. "Just a moment," he said, "I'll get Fr. Hughes my copy."
The Royal Court's new play about the climate crisis, 2071 has just begun a short run (till 15th). It "is better than good: it is necessary", concludes Michael Billington in his 5-star review. The same might be said of Gerry Hughes' God of Surprises.
Four of us met at the Edgemoor Inn this morning, and walked along the Cotswold Way to Haresfield Beacon. It was misty for the most part, limiting our views South and West from the trig point, but the light was good. Though the rain of late has brought many of the leaves tumbling, rich colours remain, particularly - today - in the patchwork quilted floor of Stockend Wood, tepees amid the beeches below.
Miklós Spányi played the Syde harpsichord for us last evening. It was a rare privilege to hear one of the world's foremost scholars and performers of CPE Bach. That composer's works made up the first half of the programme, and his father's the second: then, to clean our palate after extracts from Johann Sebastian's densely-textured Art of Fugue and Italian Concerto, two further movements of a CPE Bach sonata were given as encores.
The harpsichord's maker, Huw Saunders was present, alongside many of those living locally who have come to look forward to Syde concerts. As well as providing top notch musicianship, Andrew and Penny also give us all such a friendly welcome, and so the audience develops as a community. Some who come I'm sure rarely get out, and particularly to hear music, but feel safe in the warm and informal surroundings of the restored 14th Century Tithe Barn, almost as if at a private performance.
"Is a bishop's Visitation like an Ofsted inspection?" someone asked our parish priest ahead of time. In fact, though my photograph may seem to indicate otherwise, this weekend at St Gregory's with the Bishop of Clifton has been more celebration than inquisition - a short parish meeting, chaired by a layman (with lay women asking most of the questions) followed by a joyful Mass for All Saints. Pity, though, that the wonderful variety of ethnicity present at the latter was absent at the former. And I worry about the episcopal health.
Merlin, a 14-year-old from Göttingen, has been with us this week, part of a group on a half-term twinning deal. We were to have had a second boy, but he cried off at the last moment through illness - which meant that Merlin had to work that much harder on his English.
He wasn't missing anything, he said, being away from home on Halloween. All the action takes place on St Martin's Day, when children process from house to house with colourful paper lanterns made in school, sing a song - the last line of each verse is "Rabimmel, rabammel, rabum" - and get sweets in return. No trickery required. (I have since discovered that the lantern procession symbolises the light that holiness brings to the darkness, just as St Martin brought hope to the poor through his good deeds.)
Merlin's father is Martin (too).
The book Sarah kindly gave me last Christmas tells us that Göttingen "has nurtured 40 Nobel Prize winners". Compared to how many from Cheltenham I was wondering.
We are planning to walk from Edge next Wednesday, if there is reasonable visibility so as to enable us to enjoy the view from the top of the escarpment. Today would have been almost perfect, though a little misty. Four of us caught the bus to Painswick, and walked a shortish distance along the Cotswold Way - there and back.
In the field just below Painswick, we passed a signpost, newly-erected, commemorating the late Tony Drake. He was Gloucestershire's arch-Rambler, so it's a fittingly elaborate memorial to someone who lived to fight for rights of way.
As it's my common complaint, when out walking, that you never see many farm workers these days, I was glad, passing Randall's Farm, to spot one in a field with just one cow in it. Wearing the traditional long coat, little seen nowadays, he gave her a pat, no doubt to say he was waiting for her calf to appear. Our path ran alongside the fence of another field containing a whole herd. "Oh, look at that handsome bull! I shouldn't much fancy being in that field." "Unless you were a cow of course."
Leaves are at their best, many still on the trees, but enough underfoot to scuff with satisfaction. It was shirt-sleeve balmy, with little wind - the culmination of some extraordinary October weather.
After so much sunshine recently, it was a disappointment to have to walk in wet conditions this morning. Six of us set off at a brisk - for us - pace from the Sherborne Arms, describing a circle with a circumference of about the same number of miles. On a fine day, the views might be worth it, but in the drizzle, and with mud underfoot (why don't all farmers restore the footpaths across their land?), it was not one of our happier outings.
Less than a week ago, a friend had been telling us about a couple we both knew who had recently moved to Cirencester, a town of some 20,000 inhabitants. And it transpires that two of our regular walkers live in that same estate and have already met them.
Because of the weather, my camera stayed covered up during the walk: I took the photograph of Aldsworth church, visible for a mile or more when driving from Northleach, back in July.
The burgeoning Halloween industry bypasses me, but it's hard to be a killjoy when you see what pleasure it gives children to gorge the flesh out of a pumpkin and more or less instantly create a spooky face.
We lunched today at the Old Crown - sitting at the self-same table as I did before the Owlpen concert in July. The friends we met there are - I guess - used to rather more upmarket pub food than Uley provides, but I reckon it's adequate, and the atmosphere is a good deal more pubby than in most other places in the Cotswolds these days.
Afterwards, on another mild, dry afternoon, three of us walked down and across to Owlpen, calling into the church before skirting round the Manor, the most idyllic setting in Gloucestershire that I know of. We watched a newly-hatched calf stagger to its feet and make shaky progress towards the food supply.