Felix qui potuit

Reading Felix Dennis' obituary notice put me in mind of my great-great-grandparents Peter and Jane Davis. Their grave in Dorsington Churchyard, Warwickshire is just down the road from Felix's home, where he died on Sunday. Once an enfant terrible, Felix's can-do approach brought him both friends and fortune. Having 22 Godchildren says it all really. Oh, and he loved trees.

Having quoted the diary of F.E. Witts in my last post, I found myself walking past his former home this morning. Five of us started out from the Coach and Horses on the Fosseway and walked up through Lower Slaughter. Switching to the right bank of the River Eye, we saw what is now The Lords of the Manor Hotel on our left as we approached Upper Slaughter.

Tree watch

Caroline is on the warpath to protect the beech tree in the garden of the empty house on the other side of our road: a notice has come round, that the new owner wants to reduce its magnificence.

21 and out

The 21st and final Alan Hancox lecture at the Literature Festival was given yesterday morning. "A hugely successful series," John Randle said, by way of introduction: he paid particular thanks to Shelagh, Alan's widow, "a gentle encourager to us all."

The series, as John predicted, ended on a high note, Humphrey Stone giving a most affectionate portrait of his father, whose "life and work were one". We recognize the name, Reynolds Stone less readily than his artistic output: the Royal Arms on our passport, currency notes, the Dolcis logo, the Victory and other postage stamps... Humphrey Stone presented us with illustrations galore, projected onto screens that - because of the wind blowing outside the marquee - jumped around at times, making this member of the audience feel slightly seasick.

We saw also samples of his father's 350 bookplates and 100 memorial slabs. Mostly, they were drawn at a chaotic desk in the drawing room of his Old Rectory, three miles from Chesil Beach. Stone was essentially a miniaturist - "the eye, delighted by a small mouthful, is soon surfeited," he himself said. Pedantic, maybe, but nevertheless Stone was described by Iris Murdoch as "a totally unpretentious being," working with imagination, scholarship and good taste.

Besides lettering, Reynolds Stone's other great love was landscape, the inspiration for his "salad paintings", many featuring waterfalls and trees: in Sylvia Townsend Warner's words, it was "almost as though he was exiled from being a tree itself."

2000 trees?

We have just returned from our friendly multiplex cinema, where we went to see Eugene Onegin beamed from the Royal Opera House. Since seeing Ileana Cotrubas in the Peter Hall production at Covent Garden (twice) and Elisabeth Söderström in the Glyndebourne Prom - all more than 40 years ago - this has been one of my favourite operas.

Last night's relay was one of the best such we have seen, I think. A thoroughly original interpretaion - dancers in the main parts as well as the singing actors - excellent singing, and the orchestra in tiptop form! My only cavil was with the unchanging set, which doesn't do at all for the key duel scene.

Though we lived barely four miles North of Withington for many years, I had never - before this misty morning - walked from that village to Foxcote. My photograph is of Upcote Farm, the first building you encounter after leaving Withington. The farmhouse faces South and is surrounded by a large stone barn and other outbuildings. A fountain was playing in the pond - altogether rather idyllic. Not such a peaceful place, however, later this year, when the seventh annual 2000trees festival takes place there.

Why "2000trees"? I wondered; but then we soon walked on into and through Vestey territory (Foxcote), in which trees have altogether possibly been planted by the thousand in recent years.

Twelfth Night

We visited Mini and Leo today, for coffee, and took their Christmas tree back to its resting place in our garden. They bought a living tree 13 months ago, when it was even smaller than it is now: it survived the heat of their flat last Christmas, and looks as if it is still alive after this one. So long as we remember to water it, there's no reason why it should not be good for quite a few more years, until it's too big to move around.

Tree surgery

As a defender of trees, my ears are sensitive to the sound that a chain saw makes. When I heard one going this morning whilst washing up, I therefore went to investigate.

No panic: the tops of our neighbour's sycamores were being taken out. Dowdeswell Forestry Services was the name on the lorry, the firm owned by a Mr. Huggett. (What's the opposite of nominative determinism?) We used to get our Christmas trees from Dowdeswell I recall, and our three boys were at school with the three Huggetts - or were there four?

Today, I spoke to Richard, who kindly let me take some of the wood chippings to put on our garden. "Leave them a couple of months, or they'll take the nitrogen from your shrubs," he warned.

I put fresh shavings round the plum trees last year: perhaps this is why we had such a poor crop.

Stanway estate

I went to Winchcombe to meet a friend this morning, and we walked to Stanway along the Cotswold Way. We were due to go further, to Stanton, but it was warm work, and we dallied somewhat. Happily, the rain held off till the end.

It's years since I was on this stretch of the Way. The signage is far better now, but we still managed to go wrong, descending to Wood Stanway.

Before that, we paused near Beckbury to assess all the tree planting: not many individuals have the freedom these days to carry into operation such an extensive scheme. My friend wondered what it was for: in the age of the evanescent, I feel it's rather majestic, to conceive of a two-mile-long avenue. Perhaps some things should be allowed as an end in themselves. (NB The avenue of horse chestnuts beyond the water garden's canal from here were thought to have been first planted in 1720.)

Three stumps

More cricket to wake up to from tomorrow! I wonder if our quicks will be as succesful in removing stumps as Martin Pemberton was this afternoon. In our garden we have recently lost three trees, the roots however stubbornly resisting my attacks upon their stumps. This Martin, though, clawed them out in a jiffy.

In quiet times, he says he's tempted to take his intelligent elephant equivalent along to the nearest supermarket car park: like the Pied Piper, all the children would inevitably cluster round, and at so much a go, he'd be soon rich.

Toyota town

Our Toyota Corolla failed its MOT today. I suppose, at the age of eight, that should not be too shocking. In the light of its previous reliability, though, I was taken aback rather.

A couple of hundred pounds needs spending on it, to put things right, which is not the end of the world. But what never ceases to amaze me is the soullessness of modern car showrooms! After sitting in a plastic bucket chair for two hours, with coffee machine whirring and television flashing in the background (I did at least locate the volume control), I drove home through our tree-lined streets pleasantly surprised that I was still on planet Earth.

Joint Core Strategy

This comes up for public consultation shortly: the three local authorities have combined to present a plan for the future of their considerable area - and this they say means more housing, but where? Our "amenity land" in Leckhampton is particularly vulnerable, only one of several targetted pockets around Cheltenham, Gloucester and Tewkesbury.

I have photographed this magnificent oak tree before, captioning a warning about the future of its location. My best man and his wife (plus dog) being with us for the weekend, we all walked past it again today in its late Autumn majesty.

Autumn (still)

It was six weeks ago that I posted signs of Autumn colouring - at Westonbirt. With the mild weather we've had, it still seems - from the trees in our garden - to be Autumn even now in late November. Roses are blooming: snapdragon and geranium phaeum are still in flower. Meanwhile, the Christmas lights are on and the Promenade is full of tawdry German Marketeers. One of them pointed out a bat yesterday, asleep on the tree trunk just behind his hut.

The Film Society offering this evening was Patagonia, with great landscape photography veering between Argentina in the Autumn and Wales in Springtime: it brought to mind the visual shock I experienced at this time of year in 2003, flying away from our soft Autumnal colours in order to land amidst vibrant reds and blues in South Island, New Zealand.

Westonbirt

The National Arboretum may not be quite at its golden best, but it still made a pleasant diversion this afternoon, between Tetbury Festival concerts. The main drag was heavy with people, but there's plenty of scope for escaping the crowd, and getting a little lost on one or other of the lesser used tracks. There are after all 17 miles of them. The sun peeped through for some of the time, and the drizzle only started just as we drove away out of the car park.

Earlier, I had been taken out to lunch at The Close, the first visit to that hotel since we stayed on our wedding night. Not wanting to offend my hosts, I can't nevertheless say I'd go again just for the food.