Bridge over the River Gray

For once, no photography yesterday on our Wednesday walk! Only two of us, walking from home, and back via the bus: we were deep in conversation, so the camera stayed in its bag. But the bag returned home full also of field mushrooms, which was a bonus.

Our friend Marius Gray's grave will never have a tombstone, so a new bridge is being built, destined to serve as his memorial. It replaces the rickety structure at present in place over the River Monnow near to his Herefordshire home, which he loved. His widow, Clare, and I drove to Cirencester this morning, to see it in course of construction - a massive operation! Blue is the chosen colour.

Meanwhile World Cup fever is gripping the household. So posts to this blog will be short and sweet for a bit.

A visual arts day

Caroline, as a member of the Friends of our art gallery and museum, was able to book us onto their bus trip into Herefordshire yesterday. We wiggled our way to Kilpeck, so we could wonder again at the 12th Century sculpture on its gem of a church, before spending a happy hour or two in Roy Strong's nearby garden. You might say, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

But for all it's being over the top, the garden created over the past four decades at The Lasket is a staggering achievement, a carefully-constructed three-dimensional work of art. The wilderness of an orchard where cats are buried isn't typical - there is something surreal about it.

This particular cat was, Sir Roy told us, named, not for the poet, but for William Larkin, the Jacobean painter: from the time I was a guide at Charlecote Park, I remember his portrait on copper of one of the Lucys, hanging in the Great Hall, a rarity.

Leintwardine

The village of Leintwardine, on the River Teme in far North Herefordshire, is where I stayed, in great comfort, last night. Its extremely active History Society asked me to talk about The Diary of a Shropshire Farmer.

Not only did the denizens of Leintwardine turn out in force, but I was given a splendid dinner (and breakfast) for my pains. And my hostess turned out to be a cousin by marriage, her grandmother featuring in one of the Diary's family trees I prepared as an Appendix.

The parish church's chancel hosts a collection of misericords: on the South side, they are ancient but much damaged. On the North, there are a couple of lively present day scenes, recently installed to commemorate the village pub's late landlady, Flossie, and the butcher (still happily with us). Andrew Pearson carved them.

England v. Wales

We drove to West Herefordshire today, and lunched well, the three of us doing full justice to a bottle of Chateau Chasse-Spleen 1986. The kitchen window gave a similar view to this, my photograph being taken from the garden. Grosmont, Monmouthshire, graces the hill opposite, across the border, which runs down the middle of the fast-flowing River Monnow.

"Cotmore"

Some friends were gathered at the Landmark Trust's Shelwick Court, just outside Hereford, this week, and I was kindly invited to join them there yesterday. My route was roundabout, to put it mildly: up on the train to Worcester (across the very swollen Avon); SW to Hereford (across an equally swollen Severn, and arriving near to a no less swollen Wye); SW again to Newport; E to Bristol Parkway and then home. There had been a landslide near Gloucester, it seems. Anyway, I had good value, I suppose, for my £12.05 fare.

After lunch, we walked from the fine old house down towards the River Lugg, but got nowhere near: more flooding there of course. In the morning, we were in the Cathedral. Its loos have a separate entrance, across a garden: emerging from them, the wind blew my cap off. Up it sailed, onto the loo block's high flat roof. Ah well, I thought, it's not irreplaceable. But I left my address with one of the stewards in case it ever came down.

We went on with our visit, which was timed to coincide with a lunchtime Service. We were out of luck, as there was a funeral taking place in the Lady Chapel. Disappointed, we approached the elderly retired priest from Much Wenlock who had welcomed us when we first came in. "Could you," I asked, "kindly lead us in a short prayer? Our group consists of Pax Christi workers and supporters..." He took us to the tiny Stanbury's Chantry, where we sat for a few minutes. But prayer for peace was there none. It seemed he had never heard of Pax Christi, which gave me rather a jolt.

Just as we'd left the Cathedral, the same steward I'd seen earlier came running after me - cap in hand. My request, "St Thomas of Hereford, pray for us" had borne fruit.

Just as we reached the car park, I noticed The Hereford Cattle Society office, with a statue of a bull over the door. I was about to photograph it when one of the staff emerged. Do you by any chance have "Cotmore" inside? I asked. Yes, come and see him, was the kind response. And so I was able to photograph the painting I'd long heard about, featuring my great-great-great-grandfather Thomas Jeffries' prize-winning bull in all its glory. Cotmore was where he had lived, near Lyonshall, and there bred this beast, weighing in - aged 9 - at 35 cwt (over one and a half tonnes).

Backwoods?

We drove to North Hertfordshire yesterday, to spend a night with old friends. There were ten of us at table, none with unbroken Herefordshire roots, but all (the others) well pleased with moving there from busier parts. Judging from the conversation, we were not by any standards amongst backwoodsmen, however handy our host is with the chain saw.

Golden day

Today, we drove over Severn and Wye, through Ross, to the Southern end of the Golden Valley, for a Golden Wedding anniversary feast. The countryside, especially across into Wales, looked majestic, a perfect match for the lunch and indeed the day generally. The only sadness was the absence of two of the children - now (with their own families) based in Australia and Canada respectively, such is the way of the world.

As with the best of such occasions, it was an eclectic mix that our hosts had brought together, half friends (some who had attended the wedding), half their marvellous extended family. (It was a job to drag the youngest from the trampoline for a photograph.)

I first knew them when they had barely been married ten years, and so have watched the children grow into their own parenthood: indeed, some of the grandchildren are old enough to be parents themselves.

Rubbish photos

The Times has been interviewing Agnes, Caroline and me for an article about ways in which families argue over what it is to live the green life. It's been rather interesting, and today they sent a photographer along to try and secure an appropriate illustration for the forthcoming feature. We happened to be going over to Herefordshire to visit Agnes anyway, so it all fell into place.

And what more photogenic than Agnes on top of a rubbish bin?

Kington

Today, we drove over to near Kington, in Herefordshire. Agnes and Ida have moved there, to a little cottage under the woods - an idyllic setting. It's not as isolated as it looks, being on the edge of a small hamlet, and only five minutes' drive from Kington itself. (I think Agnes will be driving mostly, rather than going by her new bike - which we took over, complete with child seat: it's very hilly.)

The rented cottage has a good library (for children as well as adults): I was interested in "Memories of Kington", a booklet published by the Kington History Society. We have a portrait in our hall of my 4th Great Uncle, John Meredith of Kington, who died in 1848. I was interested to read today that in 1836 he gave the ground on which the National Schools in Kington were built. And was amazed that his brother (or possibly his nephew) employed as many as 120 men.

I was never very sure how to pronounce the name Meredith, but the booklet records that a Miss Meredith of Kington "puts an accent on the Mer-."

Lucy = Ash

My beautiful Goddaughter, Lucy was married yesterday to her friend of long standing, Ash Mayne. It was a joyful ceremony, conducted with great solemnity by the Tweedies' local Rector, Claire Lording, charismatic in the best sense. (Never has there been a more persuasive illustration of the argument in favour of women priests!)

All Lucy's Godparents were on parade, and delighted by how she and Ash had not only chosen a church wedding, but taken such care over the selection of music and poetry, and even the make-up of the service booklet. Their reward was the best community singing I've heard at a marriage for ages - and the best possible weather! Herefordshire was looking at its very best - and in particular the Tweedie garden, albeit Charles having had to sacrifice some of this season's best fishing days!

As always, a million pictures were taken, but somehow the day wasn't marred by the urgency to take advantage of photo opportunities - thanks to a smiling and dedicated lady behind the viewfinder. (The above is an effort of mine.)

My day out with the CPRE

Rather at the last minute, I joined a coach party today, organized by North Cotswold CPRE.

First stop was Bromsberrow Place, just under the Southern slopes of the Malverns, in the far North-West corner of Gloucestershire. Our huge coach all but came to grief under the low-hanging branches of the oak trees lining the drive: not quite another satnav saga, but similar. (We shouldn't have been going in that way.)

Over the past 17 years, the Bromsberrow Place garden, something of a sleeping beauty when in the late Miss Albright's ownership, has been brought fearlessly back to life by the Greenall family, who have made major investments - particularly in trees.

We marvelled especially at the walled garden. Facing South with wide views towards the Cotswolds, it contains rows of groaning apple and pear trees, a vine house, colourful borders and masses of succulent vegetables. It was good to hear that local schools bought the produce, and that their children came along regularly to help harvest it. All the various aspects of this estate seem to run brilliantly under its imaginative and hands-on owners. (This was no surprise to me, having in the past worked alongside Gilbert Greenall - he and I both being trustees of the Summerfield Charitable Trust.)

In the afternoon, our bus took us to the six-acre garden of Elton Hall, owned by Mr. and Mrs. James Hepworth. This is an extraordinarily pretty 18th Century house, brick-fronted with ogee windows, not far to the South-West of Ludlow. (We had driven past it when we were staying on the Croft estate last month.) At Elton also the scene has been transformed in the last 17 years, since the arrival of Anthony Brooks - a most modest man, yet clearly an inspired gardener.

Walking round, it was hard not to be distracted by the Hepworth family elephant (in many guises), horse, puffin etc. collection - all dead; and the five inhabitants of Fort Tortoise, very much alive. The garden is full of follies - one (dating from 1997) to commemorate a distinguished former owner, Thomas Andrew Knight, an early President of the RHS: a Latin inscription on the floor below his portrait gives thanks to the EU for the grant which helped build it - and to those who don't smoke within the gazebo.

I don't know anything about planting, but in this garden the late Summer colours - and the way they were massed - seemed to me particularly magnificent. The ladies with notebooks amongst us were enthusing about Echinaceas and Rudbeckias. Even table tombs in the adjoining churchyard seem to have been carefully bowered with wild flowers. Excess of pure colour is painful: variety and combination of colours is most pleasurable - so taught Thomas Knight's more famous elder brother, the connoisseur Payne Knight.

Overall I found it was the Elton experience that marginally won my heart - in spite of the Bromsberrow bravura. But almost best of all in the day was to be driven painlessly through Gloucestershire, Worcestershire and Herefordshire, countryside as varied and majestic as any one could hope to experience in the course of a two-hour journey.

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.

Gloucs. and Herefs.

On Sunday morning, as a relief from babysitting, I was detailed to walk Rosie (our Springer spaniel – with not a lot of spring). So, I drove to the start of one of my favourite short walks, above and parallel with Coldwell Bottom towards Pinkham – as photographed – and up through Barber Wood. When we first came to live in Cheltenham, in October 1994, the Woodland Trust had just started to plant trees there: now it is beginning to look like a serious wood. It lies in the midst of some of the best limestone grassland, and I was able to admire the orchids (including a bee orchid – my first for a long while).

It will be interesting to compare and contrast the Cotswold countryside with that of Herefordshire, where we shall be spending the next two weeks – at a variety of locations: we had thought of going to France, but decided to stay nearer to home – for a variety of reasons! First, just to cover the remote possibility of someone wanting to buy our house, and to move in quickly, it will be good to be able to get home easily. Secondly, we need to walk the talk about reducing our carbon footprint; and thirdly, I have still to see the colour of my pension provider's money. More in a fortnight.

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.