Disturbing the peace

Not many places in Gloucestershire can be as tranquil as the upper reaches of the valley of the Holy Brook. Five of us were walking that way this morning, starting from Miserden - just the smallest sprinkling of ran could be felt for a minute or two, but otherwise yet anther fine, warm Autumn day. There were no mushrooms, but nuts and blackberries were gleaned, and above Honeycombe Farm a touch of Spain and Italy too: for Our Leader produced Cava, olives and sun-dried tomatoes, no less, from his backpack, with which we all celebrated his reaching that milestone that is three-quarters of a century.

Returning via Sudgrove, I had a word with Lawrence and admired his pumpkins. I had spotted his Concorde weather vane earlier in the year when we walked that way, and wondered what connection Concorde might have with such an outpost of civilisation (pace Ian McEwan). "There used to be a cat up there," Alex told me, "but I've always been a plane spotter: Concorde was based at Fairford during its testing, and when it came over and they were playing cricket, the game ground to a halt. I found the image in a weather vane pattern book, so I ordered one to replace pussy." From purr to roar.

The Cotswold Triangle

Meeting certain very old friends at Easter and Christmas almost forms part of our religious ritual. Yesterday's visit to Winchcombe fulfilled that obligation: we reminisced about a particular three-day family cycle ride - to Evenlode (Day 1), on to Fairford, and back home up the Coln valley. Looking at the photographs afterwards - one appears above - I see it was precisely 20 years ago: Day 3 was election day, and the Cotswolds a sea of daffodils.

Funereal, not

The multi-talented Martin Clare was celebrated today in St Mary's, Fairford, a church in which he had worked in various guises, and whose roof (amongst others) he had climbed. Martin was not, however, a believer, so this beautiful pre-Reformation church was put to use (as it would have been in centuries long ago) for an essential community purpose: his friends and family packed it, for the most joyful and moving funeral I have been to for many years.

The music ranged from Bach to the Beatles, with flamenco, Anna McGarrigle and a haunting Dead Man Blues to conclude. These are only a few of the pieces that crammed a nearly two-hour service, together with six or seven tributes, Psalm 98 and Edward Lear. All the members of Martin's family contributed with an astonishing composure, which contrasted markedly with that of many in the congregation.

How little we knew of Martin in our book group! I learned that he dubbed it "the scary book group". (How salutory for us survivors to hear that!) What an example of self-effacedness he gave!

Martin Clare RIP

It was some seven years ago now that our friend Steve convened a boys' book group. News has just reached me of the death of
its youngest original member, Martin Clare of Fairford.

Besides being excellent company, Martin seemed to be a jack of all trades: a fine musician and, I gather, amateur dramatist; brilliant with children and young people; a cricketer (winner of the Fairford President's Award in 2005 I note); handyman and house restorer; as an ex-publican himself, an expert on local pubs, and so far as the book group went, a bringer-to-our-attention of wonderfully oddball books such as "The Eyre Affair".

A quick google is frustrating, as he's easily overtaken by the singer Clare Martin, but it reminded me of a typically delightful contribution he made to the Guardian's Notes & Queries. To the question, "Are there any examples of books being improved in translation?", he replied, "I don't know about improvements, but I once saw a French edition of Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes book His Last Bow translated as Son Dernier Coup d'Archet. Stupidly, I didn't buy it; I'd love to have known whether the translation of the stories was of a similar quality."

His funeral in Fairford next Monday promises to be a great occasion: so many people will miss him dreadfully, but especially his beloved Nicky, Nick and Gummo of course.

Dark nights

I am in the process of taking twenty photographs for the Summerfield Charitable Trust - of projects they have supported over the twenty years since they began grant-giving in 1989. Today's trip was to Macaroni Woods, near Fairford, to visit the Noah's Ark Children's Venture. A magical setting has been conjured up there based on an ex-RAF camp: Richard and Liz Wilkinson are the heroes who run it.

According to one of the carers I met today, it was the first experience of darkness at night that really thrilled the children she was with: they had never been out of London to stay in the country before. Getting them to bed this week was a major problem!