Season of mists - 2

The air was still yesterday, and the day seemed a dull one here in Cheltenham. But a watery sun was trying to break through at the top of Leckhampton Hill, and - a first for me - thick cloud more or less filled the Severn Vale, the top of Bredon Hill, like a sand spit, alone visible.

Savage culture

The sign "Savage culture" hangs above a shop in that extraordinary Cantabrian town Santillana del Mar: it's an oxymoron that came to mind during Inside Llewyn Davis this evening, and in reflecting about last night's film too.

The latest Coen Brothers offering, beautifully set in the early '60s, pivots round a young, gentle-till-provoked hobo, a talented New York guitarist and song-writer. Through many difficult and some violent relationships, not least with ginger cats, we watch his life slowly disintegrating, as his lyrical ballads are ruthlessly dismissed as noncommercial. Ulysses turns out to be the name of the no. 1 cat, but Llewyn Davis' Odyssey has no such happy ending. Why did he fail when Bob Dylan succeeded? we ask. Coming away, Caroline and I agreed: there but for the grace of God goes one of ours (similarly hirsute and entangled with cats).

Inside Llewyn Davis is an extremely funny, very sad film, a description applying equally to Dans la maison, François Ozon's brilliant second-to-last feature from 2012: our Film Society showed it last night. This centres on another male character encumbered by a busted flush of a father, but this time manipulating those around him, as opposed to being manipulated. Claude, aged 16, wreaks havoc within his bourgeois community, sending his literary Maestro mad as fantasy conflicts with reality. Culture, once again a double-edged sword.

I took the photograph in Elmley Castle. Four of us reached there starting from Ashton-under-Hill, happily a dry walk this morning, with fine, long views: the rain has come back since.  It was mostly firm underfoot across Bredon Hill, but horribly muddy on the long descent. (We trudged back the long way, around the road.)

In St Mary's Church, you can't fail to see and wonder at two extraordinary tombs. On one, dating from c1700, the first Earl of Coventry lounges nonchalantly in full wig, one hand reaching out to pick up his coronet. The other - 25 years, but what seems like a whole world earlier - depicts members of the Savage family. Three lie as if asleep, the lady holding her baby daughter; while four other children kneel attentively at their feet. And between them, the head of a stag, with golden locks and one remaining but wondrous ear: its neck is pierced with an arrow. Savage culture once more.

Great Farmcote

At lunchtime, we were invited up here for a pre-Christmas party. Old friends were there, but also some "new" people: from one, I heard more about the sad story of Glenfall House's closure and impending sale.

This was the view from our hosts' house, North-West across the Severn Vale towards the Malverns, with the whale-like shape of Bredon Hill on the right.

Chase End

Six of us met at Hollybush today, more than usual. The talk about Royal Mail shares made me wonder whether I had neglected to apply out of distaste for the privatisation or merely indolence.

We had the most lovely walk, notwithstanding, clockwise around Chase End Hill, at the "bottom" of the Malverns. We funked the steep climb up to the top, which - at 600 feet - lets you see all round. Even as it was, we had surprisingly long views - to the Sugar Loaf to the South-West and across to Bredon and the Cotswolds from the woodland ride leading into the Bromsberrow Place Estate: the ride runs between many tree varieties, sweet chestnuts especially plentiful.

Gil Greenall's careful stewardship of his Estate is everywhere evident, not just from the signage: the house itself looks magnificent in its parkland - lakes at just the right distance, and White Park cattle grazing before the curiously Neo-Greek West front. From a distance, the long-established trees behind and to the South of the house make it altogether an imperial setting. (It was five years ago that I came there on a CPRE outing.)

Yesterday evening, we went to our first Film Society evening of the new season, having missed the opening night. "No" recounted the final weeks of the Pinochet era in Chile, and the gathering of popular support for a No vote in the referendum. Pablo Larrain's film jerked along rather disconcertingly: the 30-year-old camera, used to convey a suitably historic feel, secured a nice degree of tension throughout. You kept thinking there would be a sting in the tail, but of course there wasn't, just ambiguity.

Wetlands

We drove to Charlotte's for New Year drinks today, in the sunshine for once: the rain has been virtually incessant over the holiday period. I have never seen the River Avon valley so flooded (Bredon looked like a seaside village from the M5). At Upton, the level of the Severn made it unlikely you could even pass under the road bridge in a canoe: the water was across the road by the marina. Cars were naturally getting stuck on Bill and Charlotte's paddock, flat though that is.

Winter water - 2

I was struck - as I often find myself - by something in the Jesuit, Guy Consolmagno's Tablet column this week: "As the nuns used to tell us about occasions of sin, we are in a situation we should have avoided. Two centuries of dumping carbon dioxide in the atmosphere leads to trouble; as surely as sitting at the bar of a strip club, pretending nothing will happen."

And linked to that, Kumi Naido of Greenpeace International made a strong impression on the World Service's "Hard Talk" recently: towards the end of his interview (at the UN Climate Change Conference in Doha), he said, "Our religious leaders have been deafening in their silence, by not standing up strongly to speak for God's creation." Amen to that.

Finally, this photograph - not unconnected (perhaps): I paused illegally on the hard shoulder of the M5 this morning near Bredon, to take it just where the road crosses the River Avon. (I was on my way to visit Charlotte, having discovered that Upton High Street at least was not flooded.)

Over the Severn Vale

This has been a Summer's day - at last! We drove to Malvern for a walk on the Hills with our friends Margaret and David Bryer, who live high up on the East-facing slopes. The path from their house leads through old woodland, some ash and sycamore. We emerged into scrubland, and then a panoramic view over Herefordshire towards the Black Mountains. It was hazy, so we could hardly make out Hay Bluff, but the Marcle Ridge stood out clearly enough. Walking South, we skirted Pinacle Hill, pausing to look towards the British Camp and Midsummer Hill before returning for lunch on the Bryers' terrace - from where I took this photograph.

It shows the Three Counties Showground, with Bredon Hill and the Cotswolds behind. We spotted Pershore Abbey and Worcester Cathedral, and Croome church which we visited last month. A great view - but coming away we agreed that we might prefer not to live on so steep a slope: David has to take considerable care when cutting his grass not to cut his feet as well.

Bredon and Overbury

Colin and Jessica Russell generously took us out to lunch yesterday at the pub in Bredon. Very good it was too. Although it's only about 10 miles from home, and we must have driven past on the M5 a hundred times, I had never before discovered what went on in the village itself.

It seems Bredon has quite a number of houses of character, as well as the Tithe Barn and St Giles' Church - two stars in Jenkins. I photographed (see above) one of the scenes depicted in a locally-made tapestry which hangs in the nave of the church. It tells a story, along the lines of the Bayeux Tapestry. A monastery was founded in Bredon in AD 716: its Abbot Tatwin – splendid name! – became one of the earliest Archbishops of Canterbury. But in the mid-ninth century, Vikings sailed up the adjacent River Avon, burning the monastery and murdering or deporting the monks. A touchingly related tale: Burma in 2007 had its precedents.

After lunch we drove a couple of miles East. We had made an appointment to visit the garden of Overbury Court, which is in the Yellow Book. Again, we had driven past many times, but I had no idea what lay behind the high Cotswold stone wall that runs beside the road round Bredon Hill.

Until we caught sight of the enormous, partly-ornamental swimming pool in front of the house, it felt rather as if one was back in the 18th Century. Here we were, permitted to stroll in this beautifully landscaped garden, and to admire the prospects towards the Hill and Southwards to the Cotswolds. Nobody else was about – not even one of the three gardeners that it hardly surprised me to hear were needed to look after it all.

It wasn't a surprise either that it should start raining hard before we had seen it all, given what a wet month this has been. We took refuge in the pretty village church, St Faith's – an unusual dedication. It stands just alongside the garden. The narrow nave is flanked with fat, squat Norman columns, each adorned rather incongruously with what look like bedside lights. I liked the 11th Century goblet-shaped font, with strong carving. At the other end of the historical spectrum, there is Victorian stained glass with unusual subjects: Jesus stands barefoot in a garden, weeping at the death of Lazarus: a richly-clad Noah cradles his ark, which appears to be fitted with gun ports. Was he expecting Vikings?