Padstein

It's been a dry day, but only fitfully sunny: cool in the wind. Walking down to the Coast Path across Beniguet's large, springy-turfed lawn, we made our way this morning via an almost deserted Daymer Bay and the golf course to St Enodoc's Church.

After buying postcards and admiring John Betjeman's tombstone, we skirted Brae Hill and climbed over the dunes to the beach, where the Padstow ferry was kindly waiting for us. Nicely sprayed during the crossing, we were unloaded into a seething mass of people: to escape the crush, we fought our way uphill from the Harbour as quickly as possible before collapsing into a café. Having set off eventually to continue in the direction of Stepper Point, I realised my poles were still propped up against the café wall; so we redeployed to collect them and explore instead the nether reaches of Padstow itself. The beautifully-maintained church of St Petroc turned out to be well worth discovering.

All the Apostles are clearly distinguishable on the four faces of a handsome 15th Century font, and an early 17th Century Prideaux monument plus later memorials leave one in no doubt as to which family has been running the place for some centuries. Peter Prideaux-Brune, the present incumbent of the big house - a Catholic - must surely be happy that the church is now officially shared, with the blessed sacrament reserved in the Lady Chapel. (I have not spoken to him since 1956, when he and I sang in Messiah together under Roger Bevan.)

On the Way

Here I am, deep in the Auvergne, having had a beautiful first day, after setting out from Le Puy. 24 kms. walked. It's been a little controversial!

But not at the outset: first, there was the 7 a.m. Cathedral mass, followed by pilgrims' blessing. About 100 of us! Will we all find somewhere to sleep tonight? Happily, Roland had booked us in to "his" gîte, at Combriaux - us being me and one of our other room mates last night, Dominique, from Riberac. (It seems that many of the hundred are day pilgrims, not going on to sleep along the way.) After breakfast, I set off along the former pilgrim route, not the main drag that departs past our gîte. My way, advocated on the web, was easy to follow as far as Bains. It enabled me to visit a substantial shrine in Espaly Saint Marcel en route. From there, it's a short, steep climb up to level tracks to Bains, with wonderful backward views to Le Puy and its volcanic outcrops, dotted with monuments. (You can see Espaly's huge St Joseph statue in the lower left of my photograph.)

After a decent lunch at Bains' one and only eaterie, Le Del'ri, and a look at the delightful romanesque church of Sainte Foy, with its 15th Century polychrome stone Pieta, I set off full of confidence - too full, as it turned out. For I was following the wrong set of markings: a lovely walk, but in almost completely the wrong direction! By the time a passing cyclist had put me right, and I'd got back on track, I was soon exhausted. So, after hitting the main road in Montbonnet, I decided to hitchhike. No problem, except that I was dropped in the main square of St Privat, where the whole walking world was assembled to drink beer. Heads turned in horror as a "pilgrim" took his rucksack from the back of a car. And this on the first day!

In one sense I was glad therefore that my destination lay a little further on than St Privat. On the other hand, Combriaux (a quiet hamlet right on the GR) is steeply uphill, 885m., up from 625m. at Le Puy; and in addition Roland's and Dominique's faces on my arrival were not exactly filled with warm endorsement for the set-up at gîte d'étape l'Estaou: I was offered by our host, Serge, either a double bed to share with Roland, or a put-you-up bed in a room of my own, but almost completely full of junk, and with no window. To Roland, master of understatement, it was "original". However, Serge, whose house has been a gîte for 12 years, gradually managed to overcome the chaos surrounding him, providing warmth and quite a decent dinner; and now it's very much time for bed.

Warwick

Though I was brought up no more than 16 miles from Warwick, we hardly ever went there, so it remains terra somewhat incognita. I read that no less than eight different families appear to have held the Warwick peerage during the past millennium, so anyone can be forgiven for getting muddled about who did what in Warwick itself. Richard Neville (the Kingmaker) built the Guildhall, whilst it was the earlier Beauchamps who adopted the familiar bear and ragged staff as an addition to their coat of arms.

This lovable-looking bear, though, holds his ragged staff in a rather unusual manner - he is one of several in different poses slung under the eaves of the charming courtyard of the Lord Leycester Hospital. The Hospital, really a glorified almshouse, was founded by neither a Beauchamp nor a Neville, but by Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, favourite of Elizabeth I, and younger brother of Ambrose Earl of Warwick. Robert and Ambrose are entombed in the Beauchamp Chapel in St Mary's, Warwick, which is dominated by the golden 15th Century image of the Kingmaker's father-in-law, Richard Beauchamp - hands apart, so he can keep his eyes on the ceiling bosses portraying God the Father and Mary Queen of Heaven.

Those members of my book group who met in the Chapel this morning were lucky in finding a guide who was both unassumingly knowledgeable and generous with it. After we had marvelled at, in particular the carving and glass, she moved on with us to the Chancel, where we beheld the stunning alabaster images of Richard's grandparents: they were, it seems, my 20th great-grandparents for what it's worth - hardly a very exclusive claim, however, in this era of internet genealogy. (Added to which, we have - assuming no intermarriages - more than 8 million other ancestors of that generation.)

Oxford catering

A different ceiling photograph today: I took this last night in Oxford's Divinity School, the venue for a dinner to celebrate John and Maria Paz's wedding earlier in the year, in Chile. (The elaborate lierne vaulting dates from the 1480s, we were told by the groom's father.)

While this setting perfectly matched the sumptuous dinner we were given (Chilean wines to accompany it), the lunch I had earlier was a discordant affair: Jesus College Hall dates from three centuries later (than the Divinity School), but with its portraits of Elizabeth I and Charles I, not to mention Lawrence of Arabia and Harold Wilson, inspires a similar degree of awe. All right, term had ended, and I was being treated, but "hot lunch" consisting of a sausage, fried egg, a few chips and some spears of broccoli - in a soup bowl - still didn't quite fit.

St John's, Elkstone

We took advantage of a sunny evening and Mini staying the night to drive up to Elkstone before supper: she hadn't visited the village before, with its fine church surrounded by tall trees: the main attractions are the 12th Century nave and chancel, but my eye was drawn to the figures carved high up on the 15th Century tower. One (on the North-West corner) is playing the citole, while this odd fellow on the N-E blows his shawm. (Pevsner supplied the details.)

The sheep and the goats

This morning, I visited Worcester. Although it's hardly ever been much more than half an hour away from where we've lived, it's terra virtually incognita. As I had to go anyway (see below), I thought I'd look up Jenkins's verdict on houses of possible interest. As a result I found myself going round The Commandery.

This has to be one of the best museums I've seen. There are six layers of history specifically peeled back via the free audioguide, but even if you haven't the patience to listen, its displays can't fail to impress.

I particularly liked the room painted (probably about 1500) with murals, including this one. An archangel (Michael?) is holding scales in which lie the souls of the recently departed. (The Commandery was once a hospital: were the dying left - to die - in this room?) It's a tug of war, whether each soul goes to the devil (below left), or whether Mary prevails, with the aid of those heavy rosary beads.

Sobre to reflect on this after I'd left The Commandery and was kneeling in Worcester Crematorium! An old friend of my mother had died, aged 93. I often asked my mother why they were such good friends, as on the face of it they didn't seem to have much in common. "She was very good to me when your grandmother died," my mother said. In 1947.

Toledo: Spouting friar

Caroline pointed out to me the cloister of the 15th Century Monasterio de San Juan de los Reyes in Toledo's Jewish quarter's extraordinary array of water spouts. Alongside this praying friar are a pair of protruding legs (booted); a boy with bow and arrow; a frog mounted on a fish; a cat, ears pricked and ready to pounce on its prey; a monkey; a young man carrying water; what looks like a dragon; an eagle with captive owl; a man playing the pipes - and others difficult to describe, but equally intricate. All, a tribute to the ingenuity and sense of fun of those intensely skilled craftsmen of 600 years ago.