Oswestry June 2011
Saturday 11th.
Apart from packing, the other thing to do before any holiday can begin, is round up the cats, get them in a basket and then to the cattery. Three of the cats are no problem, but Molly, sweet, dear Molly knows. She knows there is something going on and will hide.
Somewhere.
I guess the big clue for her is the catflap being locked, so they can’t get out. And then there are the packed bags and the such. And then there is the sweet talking. Sweet talking from Jools and myself as we round them up. Knowing this we start, or try to start with Molly, but as I said earlier, she knows.
This time it was under the hot water heater and under our bed. But, she does know the game is up and goes limp. But she is only waiting for her chance, the moment when our grip loosens as we put her into the basket, time to twist and try to get the heck out. But, we are ready for this, and after dragging her from under the bed, and getting her in the basket, after untangling the duvet from her claws, she is resigned to her fate.
The others are fine and easy peasy. We load the car with our bags and cats, lock to door and head off. Just before we get to the cattery, Mulder’s bowels give out and there is the smell! Nothing quite like fresh cat poo in a confined space.
The cattery says they will clean the basket up, and so we put them in the pen; three clean but unhappy cats, and one slightly stained.
And we’re off.
There really is not much to say about the trip round London; the M25 is not pleasant at the best of times, and at eleven on a Saturday morning its busier than normal, but traffic moves and we’re soon turning off and heading up towards Oxford and away from the heaviest of traffic.
We stop off at Oxford Services for some dirty food, Burger King, which every now and again is not so bad. And then onwards and westwards towards Kidderminster and some trains.
One of the best preserved lines is the Severn Valley Line, we had ridden it before, but as we were nearly passing, what the heck. In truth we were only passing because I planned it that way, but still…..
We parked up and went to the station, got our tickets and had half an hour to wait for the next train. The station has been done up like it would have been in ww2; all sandbags and taped windows. And under the canopy are stalls selling railway memorabilia and maps. I was not tempted, and as soon as the train pulled in we made our way to a carriage and took our seats in a nice compartment with views out onto the right side of the line.
Right on time, the train headed out of the station, through the town, past the safari park and into the countryside, but always beside the river. Although the trip was no more than 12 or 13 miles, it took an hour and a quarter or so, with regular stops at quaint stations to let trains coming the other way pass.
There was time enough at Bridgenorth to get some shots of the engine sheds before it was time to climb aboard the next train back. This time we were being pulled by a fine diesel locomotive, a western, and it made light work of the sharp inclines on the line, and the air was full of the noise of the fine engines working away.
So, back in Kidderminster at nearly five in the evening and an hour and a half drive to where our cottage is. But, we had a sat-nav, and so we had nothing to worry about. We drove back up the Seven Valley and then onto to Shrewsbury and along to Oswestry, through the town and onto a narrow twisty road to the village where our cottage was. The sat-nav got us to within a few yards, and the name of the road not being clear we did miss the Old Rectory sign, but turned round and soon enough we were driving up the heavily grassed gravel drive.
The owner was pleased to see us, and showed us to the cottage and did a quick tour; there was no need for a long tour. The cottage as a living/dining room and a kitchen on the ground floor, and a main bedroom, two small bedrooms and a bathroom somehow squeezed between the rafters. The sloping of the walls/roof meant that taking a shower were taken at an angle, the foot of our bed was right up against the sloping roof. But, it really was very fine; the wall are covered in brasses and pictures and is comfortable enough.
I drove back into Oswestry to get some supplies, and once back we were quickly sitting down to a huge plate of salad and cold samosas and scotch eggs.
Outside the sun shone some fine golden evening light, and maybe we should have made the best of it and walked into the village, but we watched some rubbish TV and then had an early-ish night.
Phew, rock and roll.
Sunday 12th.
We got up and looked out; more sunshine. Amazing as the forecast was for heavy rain all day. However, our neighbours in the next field, the sheep, we already sheltering under a tree; they knew rain was coming. And before nine the rain did begin to fall and in the end did not stop.
We needed to do something inside, so we thought we would go to the RAF museum at RAF Cosford; what could be wrong with that? We drove back the way we came to Shrewsbury and then to Telford; and then we saw the signs: Air Show RAF Cosford. But no dates were mentioned; maybe they were old signs and it has already happened or maybe its next week?
We sped down the M54 in the pouring rain, turned off at junction 3 and then we saw that the right turn was blacked as all of the west midlands were trying to get onto the base for the airshow. We turned left and hoped to find something else to do. Looking at the sky I knew there was little chance of any flying on a day like that; cloud ceiling looked only a couple of hundred feet at best, and no-one would be flying in that.
We ended up at the Ironbridge gorge, birthplace of the industrial revolution, to visit a tile museum. No really.
You see, many churches I have visited have to most wonderful Victorian tiling, and what would be better than to see where they had been made? Nothing really. And we had the museum really much to ourselves. Words cannot describe the wonders of the tiling art on display, but we had a wonderful time.
Afterwards there was a pub just down the road on the banks of the river; we had a bite to eat, and wondered what to do next. Outside the rain fell heavier.
We decided to head back home and venture out on another day. And so back along semi-flooded roads, the air thick with spay, but it was just 20 miles or so. And soon enough we were back inside and the kettle boiling away.
And as promised the rain did continue to fall the rest of the day; sometimes it fell even harder, and so we watched it through the window of the cottage. It got so cold we had to turn on all the heaters, made regular cuppas. I whilst the day away watching, or half watching, the Grand Prix, the first one I have watched in years. Only it seems to have gotten soft, half what I saw was under the safety car, and then they stopped altogether for a while. And it was only a few weeks ago someone suggested having deliberately wet races to make them more interesting. Hmmmm.
Monday morning dawned bright and dry; even the roads were just about dry and little hint of the Biblical rain from just 12 hours previously. We drove to Shrewsbury, parked the car at the station, and bought two returns to Birmingham. Half an hour later were on a crowded EMU rattling through Shropshire, Wolverhampton and into England’s second city. We rattled past miles and miles of industrial wilderness, huge city blocks of rubble marked out by a redundant canal. There was some industry, but mostly small scale, low key stuff.
In time the train entered the black hole that is where New Street station is, and we queued while the whole train detrained.
Up the escalator, along the corridor over the platforms and out into the shiny new retail world that is the new Bull Ring.
I had been in Brum just the once before, in the summer of 1978, when a full paying adult could take two children anywhere in the country for 50p each. My friend, Leslie and I got taken by my parents to the ideal home exhibition. We did stop off in the centre of Birmingham, and all I remember of the Bull Ring was this huge circular brutalist concrete structure full of shops.
In the 21st century, the Bull Ring is reborn, all modern architecture, that is inviting, not repelling. However, all the time and money spent on this wonderful retail palace was wasted on us as went nothing under its glazed roof; I just took pictures, until a security guard stopped me. As I knew would happen. The Bull Ring, like many ‘malls’ are private land and their rules apply. I already had the shots I wanted though, mwah ha ha.
Next was the newly reopend Moor Street station, all GWR glamour and matching signs. Only the modern trains at the platforms give the game away. I had a coffee and some shortbread there before girding my loins for the real reason for coming to Brum; Selfridges!
Selfridges is housed in a building that is wonderful. Looks like a jelly mould, and covered in thousands of white spots. Sounds dull but is brilliant. I photographed it from all angles, right up close as the rows of dots got smaller and smaller until the edge of the building. I got a few odd looks as if to say, what the fook is he photographing that for? Oh, oh God not another one.
Having snapped it from all angles, I moved on to the nearby church, snapped that, went inside Selfridges, did not snap there, but amazed that the shop had the feeling of a Willy Wonka factory, with dozens of assistants waiting to take your money; but no customers. There was donuts outlets, pick ’ n’ mix dispensers, coffee shops, and many other wonderful things, all looking great, but no one was buying.
I left too.
I met up with Jools and we went to a sushi place. I have never had sushi, but said I would as Jools loves it, and it wasn’t half bad. I had bowls of this and that and we shared a bottle of white wine too. All very nice I have to say, sitting there as these little bowls of food whizz by on a conveyor belt.
We set off for the jewellery quarter, but made it first to a real ale bar. I had a pint of Pure Ubu, which was great, and we people watched. Or more accurately, we people watched as the people watched us, non-locals. An old guy came up to us and chatted about photography, which was great; not that I am some expert on photography of course, but it was nice all the same to be asked advice.
We moved on, and came to a square with a huge TV screen showing the delayed Andy Murray game, drunks and city businessmen mixed on the steps watching; some drinking special brew, some drinking bottled water.
I snapped the buildings, civic and others, and then we had had enough, made our way to the station to catch the quarter past three train back to Shrewsbury and then on to the cottage. We left behind Birmingham, Wolverhampton, and were soon whizzing through the Shropshire countryside, past my old haunt of RAF Cosford, Telford and journey’s end.
Time then for dinner; prawn stir fry and noodles, and then bed. Phew, rock and roll.
Tuesday; and wall to wall sunshine! At last!!
After laying in bed until very nearly half past seven, we had breakfast and were out of the house by nine. And this time we drove into a different country; Wales.
Our destination was an aqueduct that carries a canal high over a valley; the aqueduct, which goes by the rather unwieldy name of Pontcysyllte (and that is the correct spelling! From this point I shall refer to it as the aqueduct). We drove along the side of the valley, but there were no parking spaces. We drove on, down into the valley, up the other side, back along, and there were the signs. We parked, and I got my camera gear together, and we walked out into the sunshiny day.
A few yards away was the canal, and a few hundred yards along was the aqueduct. The valley side dropped away for 126 feet and the canal just kept going. It looked so odd, a canal, so high up in the air. The river far below too. We had the aqueduct pretty much to ourselves, with the occasional passing narrowboat. I snapped them as they went past.
And soon we were on the other side of the valley, and it being a wonderful day, we kept on walking, beside the canal until we came to the railway viaduct about a mile and a half along the canal. This, we could not cross, as it is still in use, so we turned back the way we came, retracing our steps to the aqueduct, along the side of the canal, under the dappled sunlight filtered through the boughs of overhanging trees. It was rather pleasant.
Once back the other side of the valley, now thronging with other visitors, we made our way to the nearby pub for refreshment; beer and pork scratchings! And then it was time to move on again.
At the bottom of the valley is the town of Llangollan, and in it there is the terminus of a preserved railway. We knew there was a train at one, which gave us enough time for a cuppa and a pasty on the station before boarding the train and then wait for the departure.
The line follows the river, up the winding valley for some 12 miles, from the train you get fine views of the river and valley. And that is it. Doesn’t do the trip justice by a long chalk, as it is one of the most beautiful lines we have ridden.
Once at the end of the line, time for a wander round the station and to look at the shelves of books for sale, before boarding the train again for the journey back into Llangollan. After watching the steam locomotive make its way round to the front of the train, we retire to the pub opposite the station for more refreshment before moving on again.
We head for a town at the top of the valley, where I photographed a church. And inside Jools spotted a leaflet which mentioned another aqueduct.So, back to the car, out with the map, and onwards to Chirk.
After a few wrong turns, we saw it, as we drove over a hill, the canal erupted from the hill below us and went straight over another valley on an aqueduct. Not quite as high as the previous one, but this time right beside a railway viaduct. Once again I snapped it from all angles, and whilst waiting for a train chatted to people in the passing narrowboats and other tourists, like us, just enjoying the view.
Once I got the shot with a train, we headed back to the car, and had just an eight mile drive back to the cottage where we collapsed, exhausted after a full but wonderful day.
More rock and roll.
And so to Wednesday. And Chester. Why Chester? You ask. Well, I have read two books with positively rave about how wonderful the place is, the city walls, the buildings and the Rows. More about them Rows later.
Chester is all of twenty five miles or so from the cottage, and it is a short drive into Wales and back out again to reach the outskirts and the park and ride. A bus arrived in about 5 minutes, and we climbed on taking our places on the naughty back seat, and the bus revved its engine and took us into the centre of Chester.
We got out just down from the first row of huge timber-framed houses, and so we walked from the bus stop, round the corner, and on either side of a broad shop lines street were those shops housed in mostly timber-framed houses, or more accurately, buildings. In fact these building are doubly fronted by shops, as there is a passageway built in the first story on each side, and as it turns out, on most of the streets within the city walls, and these are the Rows.
We walk up the street, and see an Italian place, and I feel the need for coffee, we take a table on the street and order coffee and something called a bread tin, which contained three slices of fine bread, a croissant and is accompanied by wonderful butter and fig jam. Yes, fig jam. Anyway, it was all wonderful, and just perfect.
Once refuelled, we set off to explore the city. We make for the cathedral, all bult of red stone, but wonderful inside. Each cathedral is different, and while it is hard for an amateur like me to tell you what the difference is, there is a simple grace to Chester, the way in which the decorations contrast to the red stone, and the grandeur of the fittings. I snap away, snap away some more. I notice more of the smaller items, like wooden carvings on the end of the pews; I snap those as well. I could have stayed all day, but we moved on.
Next was to find a bead shop for Jools; we go to the tourist information office, get the address, and make our way there. It is now a coffee shop. This is the second such shop that on this trip a bead shop, although being advertised online, had closed.
We headed for the city walls for a walk. As is usual for a world heritage site, the touristy bits were heaving with people, however a few yards along the walls and we were alone. I see an interesting looking pub, and so we climb down the steep steps and make our way to the Albion. I have a pint of something that goes white like cream when its poured and settles after a while into a fine amber ale; Jools has cider. The pub is decorated with memorabilia from the two world wars, which is fine, the menu looks great, but we were not yet hungry. We leave as a coach party of pensioners arrive for a bellyful of wartime memories.
Back up the wall, along beside the river, past the castle, past the racecourse, and our feet were getting weary. We head into the centre of the city again, and arrive just as the rain arrives too. We were now hungry, and faced with a huge array of choices, we dithered. We chose a pub in one of the Rows, the Victoria, and head in, order drinks and a ploughmans for me and chicken and chorizo for Jools.
Outside the rain continued to fall.
And then we both decided what we needed was a haircut; we split up and went to see if we could get our respective barnets mangled. I went into a fairly posh place and had something like my usual cut, but with these sarcasm than the usual place in Dover. And exchanged small talk with the young lady who did the cutting. Or shearing.
We met up at four, the rain had stopped, and so we walked a little more then decided to head back to the bus stop. But we were seduced by the Italian place and so we ordered coffees, pana cotta for Jools and a glass of Vin Santos for me. Wonderful stuff.
Back then to the car via the bus and then a short blast down the main roads in and out of Wales, and up the now familiar country lanes back to the cottage and a relaxing evening.
Thursday, the BBC told us, was going to be cool and showery, and so we decided to head off to the RAF museum at RAF Cosford. Now, RAF Cosford and I go back many, many years. In all I have spent 17 months of my life there, training, training and training. One would hope after all that training I should be able to do something by now. Anyway, it’s about a 40 minute blast along the A5 past Shrewsbury, Telford and then on to Cosford, past the railway station, past the 25m range and there it is. Simples.
About 5 years ago a huge new building was opened to house the RAF’s cold war exhibits, and that really is the centrepiece of the museum. However, they have a fine collection of test aircraft, as well as the usual Spitfires, Vulcans and the such.
And its free; how cheap is that? Cheap as chips, so we had huge jugs of coffee and bacon butties when we arrived. I say jugs, the cups were big enough to house a couple of goldfish. We empied those and ate the sandwiches and went in.
Last time we were here was four years ago, when the rain fell like stair rods and there was very little to do. The BBC promised rain, and we got sunshine. The museum was as good as last time, but on this visit I had the Sigma with me, and so got some fine shots.
After a couple of hours we decided to leave as there is only a certain amount of aircraft you need in a day, are there? I mean they’re no trains in all honesty……..
We headed back up to Telford, to visit the Ironbridge Gorge, as we had never seen that in the sunshine either. We parked up near the bridge, walked up and I got the shots. That’s it really. We thought about going into a shop or two, but didn’t, but did go in the Swan for a drink and as it turned out, lunch.
The weather then decided it was time the play along and it poured, but for just a few minutes, and by the time we had finished lunch, the sun was out again as we drove to Much Wenlock.
I could look up on Wikipedia as to why the town has that name, but maybe I should just leave it. It sounds like it should be an old-worldy kind of place, all narrow lanes, lovely pubs, nick-nack shops and maybe a ruined abbey. And as it turns out, that exactly what Much Wenlock is like. It is also the home of the modern Olympic movement; no seriously. They had some kind of games in the last 19th century, two decades before the modern Olympiad began in 1896, and even called it the Olympics.
Those crazy Victorians. There’s a monument to the man whose idea it was, and an Olympic trail to follow around the village. I don’t think there’s much hope of the games returning, but Much Wenlock should get a mention or two next year.
I snap the village, the church, the abbey and then the high street before retiring to the George and Dragon for a pint of 6X before we headed back to the cottage thus driving through another heavy rain storm.
Phew!
And so to our last full day here in Shropshire, or Salopia as one of the tile manufacturers called it. Quite unusually for us, we laid in until seven most mornings, sometimes later, like this morning, I was struggling to get up at nearly eight. Outside, as I looked down from the bedroom window, I saw a pair of goldfinches in the long grass outside of the cottage. I watched as the flashes of gold and red of the birds appeared in the long grass. I went down to get my camera, and even got a few shots off, although the finches were some distance away.
After breakfast we headed out, headed out in a heavy drizzle. Maybe it would stop, we hoped. In the end it did stop, but not for a while. We drove back into Wales again, onto Llangollan in search of the Horseshoe Falls. It was marked on the map, between two roads, and clearly it should have been on the river. We headed out of the town, and the road began to climb and climb. Soon the trees gave out and we were going round the edge of a steep valley with a slate quarry high above us. This was the Horseshoe Pass, and even through the drizzle the views were stunning. Away in the distance the sun came out and the sides of other valleys lit up with rich greens.
Once past the summit we turned round, and at the bottom of the pass stopped for a tea at a greasy spoon. However, the smell of bacon cooking was too much and I heard myself say ‘and two bancon baps please.’ Wonderful huge baps filled with four rashers were presented to us by the woman who did the cooking; not quite sure if she was Welsh of Polish, she had an odd accent and her conversation was almost impossible to follow, but she seemed happy enough and the food was great.
Back on the road and we take a steep narrow road up the valley side, past a bus that had taken the road but could not get round the bends or under the railway bridge at the other end as it turned out. And still no waterfall; we gave up and set sail for some churches. Back onto the A5, along beside the steam railway and onto the town of Corwen.
A few miles further on is the Rug Chapel, or Capel y Rhug. It was £3.80 to enter, but half price for us as we were members of English Heritage, and we were in.
Now, many times in my writing I say that words fail me in describing something, but in the case of Rug they really do. It is a small stone chapel, quite plain from outside, but inside is all carved and painted wood. It is really perfect; needless to say I take a few pictures. In truth I think we would have been happy enough just to sit there to take in the atmosphere. And just sit with the carven angels.
But, there was a bonus, as a visitor to Rug, we could ask for the chapel at Llangar to be opened. And we did.
It was a short drive to the lay-by, and then cross the main road, down the steep track, past the farmhouse and stable, past the old station house, through the gate and along the path marked with small standing stones, like something out of Lord of the rings.
And there, in a fold in the land was the whitewashed kirk, surrounded by slate and stone graves and tombs. And meeting us was a guide who explained the history, of the failed attempts to build a chapel, and a soothsayer telling that a white stag must be sighted and slain, and on the spot God would suffer the church be built.
The church may date from the 11th century, maybe earlier, it is decorated with fragments of paintings which could have been scenes from Jesus’ life, and several depictions of the slain stag. But as you walk in, you are faced with a huge picture of a skeleton with twins in its belly, between its legs are crossed tools of the farmer, and held in one hand is a winged hourglass; tempas fugit.
The church was the centre of a thriving community into the 18th century, and then the community outgrew it, and a new church was built in the next village and Llangar was abandoned. It was reopened to the public after it was restored, and the 300 bodies under the pews reburied. It is stunningly simple, and history echoes from its walls.
We drove back to Corwen to get a drink, and after parking made our way to an impressive hotel and then into the bar. We sat down and were entertained by a couple of locals, who told us many more places to visit, it would have been great to visit some of them, but our time in the Welsh Marches was running out.
We headed back home, and after boiling the kettle, sat down to listen to the radio as the rain returned outside.
And the final part will appear tomorrow....
