After our three-week exile, we have returned to Gloucestershire. But not yet to Cheltenham.
It is a pleasure to be staying tonight in a house made of stone of a lighter colour than ever we saw in the North. Driving down from Wakefield this morning, we stopped at Ecclesfield, a dark church both inside and out, but its scale and grandeur a reminder of the days when the parish was more than twice as large as Sheffield. We paused also for a wander around the gardens at Renishaw, dominated by a magnificent display of hydrangeas. (My photograph was taken from the lawns in front of the house, the view seeming to indicate a remote setting, but the trees hiding power lines and other indications that we were on the edge of a big city.)
Getting back into the car, the M1 traffic contrasted rudely with two such oases of calm.