Homeward bound

After our three-week exile, we have returned to Gloucestershire. But not yet to Cheltenham. It is a pleasure to be staying tonight in a house made of stone of a lighter colour than ever we saw in the North. Driving down from Wakefield this morning, we stopped at Ecclesfield, a dark church both inside and out, but its scale and grandeur a reminder of the days when the parish was more than twice as large as Sheffield. We paused also for a wander around the gardens at Renishaw, dominated by a magnificent display of hydrangeas. (My photograph was taken from the lawns in front of the house, the view seeming to indicate a remote setting, but the trees hiding power lines and other indications that we were on the edge of a big city.)

Getting back into the car, the M1 traffic contrasted rudely with two such oases of calm.

Moore still

Continuing our quest for Yorkshire treasure, we have just returned from Wakefield and the Hepworth Gallery. Brilliant! As a building it knocks the new Cheltenham extension into a cocked hat. And what other British artist of the 20th Century has such a shrine in their home country, around which so much other excellence is assembled?

Earlier we visited Salts Mill, which must have one of the most extensive arts-related bookshops in the country, not to mention all those Hockneys. And the magnificent Yorkshire Sculpture Park, with its eclectic mix, the majestic Moores (today is his 116th birthday) standing out from the crowd. A heady experience.