No punts in view

In the Parks this morning, the Cherwell had almost overflown onto the Oxford University cricket ground. And the Windrush Valley, below us as we drove home, was flooded worse than I have ever seen it. When will our politician begin to make (and take action upon) the connection between these extraordinary conditions - repeated all round the world - and the climate change we humans are effecting?

On the Via de la Plata

70 kms. walked so far - more than 400 to go to Santiago still. I´m in Zamora´s amazing public library at the end of a rest day - no progress along the Camino. But I seem to have walked as far as on previous days, getting happily lost in this old city. It has 23 Romanesque churches, including the Cathedral, and several worthwhile museums: the one I liked least was the Semana Santa Museum, full of all the tableaux which were being carried round the city last week - seeing them in a Museum is altogether less moving than seeing them move slowly through the crowds with that plangent music and the smell of incense. Salamanca isn´t as celebrated for its processions as Seville, but you can´t miss them, nor should you try to.

I´m now nicely baffled about what I have and haven´t seen, and about to retire to the Albergue for supper and I hope an early night. (I hoped that last night, but - as one does in Spain - got caught up in the football.)

As with most days since I started from Salamanca on Saturday, it´s been showery, and none too warm. The rain in Spain seems to fall mainly on the Camino, which is waterlogged - to a far greater extent than in April 2010, when we walked from Seville to Salamanca. I gather I´m lucky not having had to take my boots off yet, and wade across an overflowing stream or two. The Duero here in Zamora has spilled right over its banks, right up to the road, a brown spate rushing between the arches of the Roman bridge.

Perhaps it´s the weather, or maybe the state of the world, but there are fewer pilgrims than three years ago, but I´ve shared accomodation with some interesting people already including a Japanese jazz drummer and a song writer from Berlin - not on the same night. We all agree it´s very hard to see how Spain is ever going to recover from its economic crisis: in spite of massive public expenditure (no doubt authorised from Brussels) on infrastructure such as this library, nothing much seems to be happening anywhere, and there´s nobody around in the villages or countryside.

Walking is a great way to see a country, even if like me you struggle with the language. The birds don´t require translation, nor the flowers which are beginning to peep through. And it´s majestic scenery for the most part as I wend my way North.

"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).

Winterreise

Sarah kindly gave me an iPod Shuffle lookalike for Christmas. I took it with me on the bus today, and listened to Die Winterreise: I have the Werner Güra/Christoph Berner recording on CD, the first music I've transferred to my new gizmo. Descending (from the bus) at the Cockleford turn on a dull day, I crossed the swollen River Churn at the start of a mini-Winter's journey through the flooded woodlands en route towards Cowley.

Mindful of "O unbarmherz'ge Schenke, doch weisest du mich ab?" I had booked a table for lunch at the Green Dragon.

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.

Boscastle

Seven years ago, this village was devastated by flooding: you wouldn’t know it from seeing it now, particularly on an October afternoon with the thermometer showing record temperatures. The National Trust shop and coffee house – I ordered latte and was served cappuccino – also has an exhibition area, with a harrowing video sequence showing. The events that 16th August unfold grimly, cars and caravans swept over the main road bridge and out to sea, as if our grandchildren were playing with my old Dinky toys. It seems a miracle that no lives were lost.

Today Boscastle was en fête, exhibitions in all its public (and some private) buildings, and a vast food tent with cookery demonstrations by would-be celebrity chefs. We walked down into the village from the direction of Willapark coastguard station, the harbour entrance unfolding before us like a sequence from Pirates of the Caribbean. After lunch, sitting by the river (today, hardly more than a babbling brook), we struggled up the steep High Street to see Carole Vincent’s garden, with its curiously antiseptic concrete sculptures.

Winchcombe

Agnes had friends to lunch, to celebrate her birthday, so Caroline and I went to Winchcombe. For the past couple of years, The White Hart there has been specialising in wine and sausages. We tried it (and liked it) during the great flooding last year: all the restaurants in Cheltenham were closed, so we drove over the hill to Winchcombe, stupidly thinking they would have water, when of course they are in the same (Severn) catchment as we are. However, they had enterprisingly tapped some friends in the Thames catchment a mile or two away, trucking the water back to the pub. They therefore stayed open. Not that there was much business: everyone must have thought they would be closed.

It was a different story yesterday lunchtime: things were buzzing, the recession notwithstanding. It is good to see so much local food available. The wines are excellent too: I can recommend the Mad Fish Pinot Noir. But it's interesting how we have all come to love eating food that's grown locally, but to go with it we reach out for wine from the Antipodes.