"John Craxton: a life of gifts"

This is the title of one of the Presteigne Festival art exhibitions: we went to The Workhouse Gallery to see it after my talk this morning. (I took the photograph from upstairs where beautiful carpets and rugs are to be found, above the exhibition space.)

Craxton was brother to the oboist, Janet, Nick Daniel's teacher, and friend of the Berkeley family. Hence "Into the ravine", the name Michael has given to his new work, matching that of the Craxton painting owned by Michael's father Lennox.

There is something a bit Samuel Palmer-ish about Craxton's work, as you see it in this fine show. Maybe it's because of other influences appearing so strong that his name is less celebrated than that of his contemporaries, Graham Sutherland's for instance. But as Michael said in the course of last night's discussion, "We are all a synthesis of our own experience."

Presteigne

Pausing for lunch at The Feathers in Ledbury, we drove to Presteigne today. We are staying at Radnor House, opposite the Assembly Rooms, where I am due to speak tomorrow morning about Peter Davis' Diary.

After the Diary period, Peter Davis moved North to Diddlebury, and then 20-odd miles South to Milton Farm, near Shobdon. From there, he was married - in Pembridge Church. On our final run in to Presteigne, we stopped at both the church and the farm to inspect. Each impressed by its size, and what a view it is from the farmhouse!

This evening, there's been a concert by the Carducci String Quartet, 87.5% of whom you can see in my rather poor photograph - together with Presteigne Festival President, Michael Berkeley. Michael's Oboe Quintet ("Into the ravine") received its premiere, oboist Nick Daniel being out of my picture. "My pieces are much more spare since my illness," Michael said. (Before the concert, he had shared an interesting platform with Nick, David Matthews and Sally Beamish.)

Mr. Move-it

DiY removals can be very exhausting, as Agnes and her stalwart partner Milo are finding out this weekend. Agnes and Ida are in transit from Presteigne - where they have spent two and a half happy years - to Horfield in Bristol. Since our marriage, we haven't had to move many times, thank God, and certainly never took a fruit tree with us. The sad thing for us is that we are due to go and stay in Presteigne next weekend, and Agnes won't be there.

Small but perfectly formed

The Presteigne Festival is tiny compared to most, yet attracts musicians of the highest calibre over its six days. We came in towards the end, for a chamber concert presented by five young and highly talented women. Amongst them were the violinist Sara Trickey, who stayed with us a few years ago when she was playing at Cheltenham, and pianist/composer Alissa Firsova: she has also played at the Cheltenham Festival, and her lively piece (in memory of Shostakovich) opened the second half of last night's eclectic recital. Sitting in the South aisle of St Andrew's Church, I had an excellent view, both of the performers and of the beautiful early 16th Century Flemish tapestry depicting Christ's Entry into Jerusalem, which hangs on the North wall.

It was impressive to see rubbish being collected in Presteigne on a Bank Holiday Monday, and also to see a device of such Heath Robinson appearance, by comparison - that is - to the mobile refuse machines which grind and whirr round Cheltenham.

Tasting Wales

Today, we went to Presteigne, just over the border from Herefordshire. Indeed, from the back garden of Emily's Tearooms and Restaurant, England is about a no. 3 wood away. As often happens, you go for a light lunch, and end up with too large a plateful - particularly when you aren't yet 30 months old.

Presteigne has a lot going for it: an excellent bread/cakes shop; one selling beautiful materials and local woollen products; second hand bookshops, and another with an interesting range of new books; a vibrant music festival (Michael Berkeley lives near); a 500-year-old Flemish tapestry in the church; the award-winning Judge's Lodging museum (though museum is too weak a word for it), and some attractive houses set in wild and wonderful countryside. Oh yes, and it's a Transition Town.

Marches past

Caroline and I had a happy fortnight's holiday in the Marches. We spent four nights in a bed and breakfast by the River Wye, in West Herefordshire: Winforton Court - thoroughly to be recommended. After that, we moved into one of the National Trust's holiday cottages on the Croft Castle Estate in the North of Herefordshire, for six nights. From there, we drove, via Hereford, to stay a night with our good friends Marius and Clare Gray in Kentchurch, in the South-West corner of the county. Finally, we spent last weekend in a mews cottage right in the centre of the small town of Presteigne, just over the border into what was Radnorshire.

Means of transport (this was supposed to be a low-carbon holiday!): OK, so we did drive 466 miles; but taking our bikes on the back of the car: we had three days' cycling round the villages - no punctures and not too many hills; and we had a number of longish walks - along Hergest Ridge above Kington and in the woods at Croft.

Sunshine? The swimming trunks I took for all those refreshing dips in cool river pools came back unworn. It seemed to rain most days, but never for too long that we were in danger of losing our sense of humour. The worst moment was listening to the actor playing Richard III say "All the clouds that lour'd about our house" were "in the deep bosom of the ocean buried" whilst sitting on a plastic chair in a pool of water.

Food: we liked all the pubs we visited for lunches (and some suppers) out - and the little Hat Shop Restaurant in Presteigne. There was much emphasis placed everywhere on local produce. It's not quite the same as being in France of course, but the food was just as tasty - and probably cheaper.

Best bits: the landscapes; the villages; churches, and their embellishments; little things that catch the eye; the architecture; the gardens; the trees; the windows and doorways; the friendly natives; the history - including lots of Davis family history, inevitably (boring for poor Caroline) - and being an hour's drive from the nearest dual carriageway.

O to be in Herefordshire

We drove through Herefordshire yesterday morning, almost to the Welsh border near Presteigne. Then we returned a different way, with the evening sun over the Marcle Ridge. What a beautiful county it is! From the moment I near the end of the M50, coming down into the Wye Valley, my heart lifts.

Leaving the motorway, we took country lanes towards Weston-under-Penyard to visit Mr. and Mrs. Hughes's garden at Kingstone Cottages, which I had found in the Yellow Book. Though it didn't look very exciting from its entrance, we were rapidly captivated. Not least by the stunning vista Westwards towards Ross Church, with Garway Hill in the distance. The garden itself represents thirty years' labour of love. I took this photograph from the grotto, created by Michael Hughes. A narrow path leads down to the entrance: you think it leads nowhere. Eventually there's a tiny room, its walls lined with bottles and shells. Sitting on a stool, the window gives you a frog's eye view over a pond. An entirely secret place.

Monet's Garden at Giverny is the nearest thing I've seen to Kingstone; but we had this one all to ourselves. The National Collection of old pinks and carnations resides in a parterre - important, but really the least magical part of the garden for me.