A Bimble round Salisbury

See Salisbury and die, they didn't say to the Skripals...I was intrigued by Salisbury's recent high profile and felt remiss at not knowing the city.  I had also started and put down 'A Shepherd's Life' by WH Hudson on numerous occasions and felt this would be a good time to immerse myself in Wiltshire life.

Hudson wrote the book in 1909 and his conversations with a shepherd, Caleb Bawcombe, reveal a land that time forgot and many hanker for. A period of agrarian simplicity when everyone knew their neighbours and their place and order reigned in the land.  I found a copy marked 'Xmas 18' and settled down in Rosie to enter the rather pompous mind of Hudson, and soon became glad that he saw his vocation as chronicling the passing lives of the simple folk who had no letters or means of recording their mostly oral tradition. I entered a fascinating world which brought the Downs to life albeit in the 19th Century.

I bumbled around Salisbury cathedral, which is magnificent, and the various landmarks which put the city firmly on the tourist trail, but it was the land that Hudson evoked that caught my interest.  The topography seen from Old Sarum makes Salisbury's import throughout the last millennia clear and this view must have made the founding fathers wonder why they had built their original city on a hill. It didn't take Jack and Jill  many pails of water to realise the valley below was the better spot.   Hudson pictures it as an open hand; Salisbury as the palm, with five fingers representing the evocatively named five valleys of the rivers Nadder, Avon, Wylye, Ebble and the smaller Bourne. Water from high country on the downs finds a meeting place and a city grows around this confluence. The chalk beds of the streams and rivers are enchanting allowing clear, reed strewn flows where trout linger in the currents and fly fishermen cast lazily into pools that beckon on warm summer days.  Leland called the city 'the pan and receiver of most of the waters of Wiltshire' and upon this bounty Salisbury became the centre of the universe for the folk documented in Hudson's book.

There was an edge to tranquil middle England that had out it squarely in the nation's focus.  Tape cordoned off a park by the cathedral and a visible if polite police presence provided a heightened sense of a city still under siege.  The Russians aren't coming, but they had certainly been!  Quite brazenly poisoning traitors. Their legacy was evident in the teams of security around the Zizzi restaurant, the chain now unfortunately now linked to poison. I opted for the safety of Cote Brasserie  and found a space for one where I could hear the kitchen gossip and make jokes which they politely laughed at.  There was a sense of calm but an underlying menace as the poison may still be active. The perfume bottle which had 'allegedly' been used in the poisoning was found in a bin by a rather thrifty bloke who had then presented it to an elated girlfriend. Things went downhill from there. The waitress told me' it could happen to anyone'. I like to think not but I caught the sentiment.  Not quite the sense of bonhomie or reckless abandon usually founding a cathedral city. Still in a sense of enchantment at the wonders of the Cathedral close I ambled round the streets which whispered of Hudson's portrait. Fish Row and Butchers Row harked back to a time when the market town buzzed with a Wiltshire burr. ' The Corn Exchange is like a huge beehive, humming with the noise and talk, full of brown-faced farmers in their riding and driving clothes and leggings, standing in knots or thrusting their hands into sacks of oats and barley.'

Such a cultivated city could not fail but contain a Rutherford Walk!

A Bimble round Ivinghoe Beacon

The start of the Great Ridgeway, beacon to walkers rises like a sugar lump over the flat rich lands  of Bucks and Berks. If you walk east it is also the start of the Icknield Way and marks the point where the home counties stare at the desolate North beyond.  Abandon hope as beyond lies Luton and the Watford Gap!  Retreat to the soft safety of Wendover and Tring.

This is middle England in all its comfortable splendour and Ivinghoe Beacon is imbued with symbolism beyond its unassuming appearance.  It is not even the highest point on the National Trust's Ashridge Estate but it calls to many. It is not just the views that the summit affords, there is a sense that this is a spot that ancestors have also invested in. An edge land, a defining space that has been used for millennia and carries a mystical allure.

In late Autumn sunshine I found a field in England.  This was a popular camping spot for the hordes of day walkers from London looking for an easy escape with the kids.  I knew the owners were looking at Rosie as if she was Christine so I assuaged their fear by asking if there was another spot where Rosie could be accommodated way from the regular folk. And they led me to the sheep field..I was led away from the crowded masses to a view across bucolic England with only a couple of yoga enthusiasts to share my boon.

I was told that you could see Chequers but Theresa was a bit close for comfort.  At least that was what she told me her name was, Baaa. What a heavenly spot with a fire pit thrown in and a moonless sky to stargaze upon.  I think they wanted me out of the way which was fine by me.  

Big skies and splendid isolation.  I imagine it could be windswept but on a mild day this was ideal, perched on the edge of the Chiltern ridge this was the spot I had seen countless times from the Birmingham Euston train. Rising up to the beacon beyond past the Grand Union canal.  

Once ensconced in rural bliss on the Town Farm campsite I ventured down to the tavern in Ivinghie the rose ad crown

where the cricket was hotting up, or as hot as it was ever going to get.  Six wickets in three pints and the soothing tones of test match special to round the day off.

A bimble to Melbourne

Ay up me duck, ya going mashin' ?

The babel of Midlands accents and dialects is a joy to behold and long may they last. I grew up on the edge of the Black Country and within ten miles you could hear distinct accents. On the broadest scale some were near incomprehensible such as the cold, abrupt, proper Brummie or the much happier Curly Wyrley accent which sounds like a blackbird caught in netting.  Over to the East the vowels flatten out and you can speak through yer nose without any fluctuation in the upper lip.  Try speaking without moving your lips and you getting toward Derbyshire and Notts.  I have never understood why standard English is supposed to originate from Leicester but maybe its the lack of any effort that makes it admirable.  Cannock is exhausting.

Going mashin' is Notts for making tea and we found a proper caff in the unlikely surroundings of glorious Melbourne.  This village is middle England and the gentrified options for lunch hint at the type of visitor they want there.  Genteel and quaint, Melbourne's big draw is its hall and gardens.  Open in August this country pile is perfect for a sedate day out admiring the dahlias.  One day I will be happy to explore the beautiful gardens of middle England which are so popular as they deliver happiness and a great cup of tea for the silver bimbler.  I am deferring this eventuality knowing I will embrace it with Titchmarsh enthusiasm. Much like my decision to invest in an electric bike it is only a matter of time.

Which makes the 'Welcome Cafe' a bit of an oddity. However, the charm is soon apparent. It is obviously a bit of hub for the village and I would eat lunch there every day if I retired to this armchair of England.  It seems like a cafe stuck in a time-warp from the 'golden' days of yore which is now so retro it is also appealing to day visitors.  I feel a little harsh as it is a family enterprise and the photos show the pride they have in running this successful establishment, perhaps against the odds stacked around them by the multiple gentrified chrome and Prosecco options in the village.  But who wants thin crust pizza fired in a wood oven taken lightly in an Italianate garden when you can have liver and onions with a pudding for £4?  I had the Moussaka and there was a gammon and gravy option ?! There were other possibilities but I got the sense that going off specials was an unwritten no no. My daughter's wish for baked potato and beans was met with withering contempt and a 30 minute wait.  'We'll have to cook that.' My daughter is not a gammon and gravy girl and although Dad was in 70's heaven she was not impressed by the so non retro its retro feel.

The mains are cooked in batches and ready to go, you get what you are given and when it is gone it's gone.   In fact the 'Welcome Cafe' is a bit of an oxymoron and the jacket potato crisis offered me the chance to observe a phalanx of wrong footed customers wobble as they ordered.  One plucky customer got a withering stare as she cooed, 'ooh its so authentic.' As she was given short shrift she retreated and left her husband to finish the transaction, 'I'll just save a seat.' It reminded me of Armistead Maupin's 'Tales of the City' where locals visit a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco to be abused by the waiting staff or watch unsuspecting tourists be humiliated such as the woman who did not realise there was no sink in the bathroom, 'lady go wash your hands!'  

This throwback to the golden age of England where you are served under duress and the busy lunchtime rush is a real pain in the arse for the proprietor tickled me. The staff clearly thought 'I'm not getting paid for this.' We all hanker for the village shop for local people that never stocked anything useful and its good to see this attitude in hearty good health in Melbourne, it was certainly excellent value for people watching alone.  I wonder what the staff would make of the pace of ALDI tills.

A bimble round Ashby de la Zouch

What's in a name?

Enough to make you want to explore a place in the heart of the coalfields of the Midlands with a name as exotic as 'de la Zouch.'   'Stretton en Le Field' on the run into Ashby was a more prosaic introduction to get the Norman theme rolling and the mind boggling at the somewhat suspect etymology.  Delusions of grandeur fit the bill in this area but full marks are awarded for trying to polish an area that was a blasted wasteland of mines and quarries. Efforts to rebrand and invigorate places which have more appropriate names like 'No Man's Heath' are numerous. The hope and power of rediscovery is evident in the new designation of the 'National Forest'. The tourist office in Ashby describes attempts to turn the area from black to green and long time residents talk of a recent past when open cast mines turned washing grey and coal trucks swept by in a mist of grime and soot, turning buildings black with pollution.

What greets you now is brown sign overload pointing out the density of bumbling possibilities in such a small area, many of which celebrate this grimy past.  'Moira Furnace' is one such oddity and a nod to communities working together to bring the riches of an industrial heritage to light for a new generation.  Moira is a once beleaguered mining town being reinvented as a commuter base for Midlands cities. Its showpiece is a renovated memory of the industrial revolution on a restored section of the Ashby canal.  The canal stops at Moira and never reached Ashby and the furnace is a relic of attempts to smelt iron and transport it down to Bedworth and beyond. This idea was soon superseded by the bounty of the rich seams of coal which allowed the canal to thrive for a while.  Enterprising local energy has restored a section of canal and a barge is waiting to transport visitors down this pretty stretch to Donisthorpe. A Sustrans cycle path runs beside the canal and the buildings have been converted to a museum and World War 1 kitchen.  It is a fascinating but contained glimpse into our industrial heritage allowing a consumable insight into the hopes and fallibilities of entrepreneurial industrialists hoping to ride the boom trailblazed by places like Coalport. An engine house produced the steam power to blast the furnace, the bridge allowed raw materials coke, limestone and iron ore to be lifted onto the bridge loft and dumped into the stack. The result would be molten iron at the base of the stack which could be moulded and barged back down the canal. The genius of this industry must have made the aspirationally named Earl of Moira think he had struck black gold in 1804. I love these Earldoms and was heartened to recently discover that there was indeed an Earl of Dudley!

However, the boom only lasted two years as there was no need for such heavy lifting when the materials offered up by the landscape were in such demand.  Let someone else do the dirty sweaty work, all the Earl had to do was dig and the minerals delivered riches.  The canal survived the threat of the railways but not the damage to the environment caused by extensive mining. Subsidence closed it in times of austerity in 1944 a side effect felt in many areas of the Midlands.  I grew up in a village where the coal board paid half the price of your house as they were deemed to be so badly damaged. Cracks in walls and uneven roads hinted at the vast network of tunnelling underground. Only later did tales of carpet bagging insurance claims such as a landlord who claimed his pub was collapsing make the fear of housing disasters less likely. A boon to those who had struck lucky through the coal boards largesse.

Like the railways by the late 1960's it was largely abandoned. I can imagine the apocalyptic scenes of post industrial middle England as my own early memory of canal systems is filthy dregs bunged up with rubbish and detritus.   I remember the old canals by the old science museum in Birmingham, a grey sludge clogged up wth old bicycles and shopping trolleys. Which makes the restoration of 2000 look even more of a triumph over adversity. The will of the people is always something to behold and is a comforting sign that the UK has more people who want things to better than those who want to destroy and despoil. Our collective remembrance of the 70's is of an era when we were losing that battle which adds a touch of pride when seeing the realisation of such unrewarded exploits by local people passionate about bringing new life to their shared spaces. The River and Canals Trust is one of the most hard-working and driven charities in the UK full of plucky enthusiasts and skilled engineers willing to devote their spare tie to improving the landscape.


Anything goes in the passion to re-invent.   In the 70's one can imagine this are as a desolate crumbling no man's heath returning to wilderness. Now it is a 'country park' striving for new trade with a large population within 30 miles looking for a day out and a happy bimble. Inspired by its close neighbour 'Conkers' its hard to feel cynical at this optimistic attempt to catch the eye of quizzical commuters blasting down the M42 corridor.

De la Zouch has long caught my eye but this time I was determined to explore rather than sprint by.  To get a perspective there was only one place to start, atop the tower at the once opulent Ashby de la Zouch Castle. This is where I started to get the sense that the name defines the place, determined to punch above its weight and say boo to naysayers. Visitors may not expect much from this provincial ruined 'castle' which is billed as a rather overblown stately home but it has a character of its own.  It immediately transports you to a world of the Mediaeval nouveau riche eager to establish their noble credentials through grandeur of building. Walls blasted by Parliamentarians reveal four stories of rooms with huge windows and as you climb the tower you get a panorama of the counties of  Derbyshire, Leicestershire, Staffs and Notts that would have been the envy of guests more established in the nobility.  To top it off why not give it a Gallic Norman twist and French it to the max.  De la Zouch has de la soul and a fancy flavour brings a spring to the step as you bounce up the 94 steps savouring the jeu d'esprit of its custodians. There was once a fine time to be had in this castle and one can imagine the lavish parties in splendorous rooms lit by magnificent windows with views over the finest hunting grounds in merry England.  It seems that the building was built to impress with sunken gardens and hunting lodges. In the now shaded, atmospheric ruins of the kitchens there are huge recesses where spits would turn roasting the deer and game bagged by the aspiring nobles while barrels of ale were transferred to fine diners through a network of tunnels by unseen servants.  There is sense of energy and a reek of the best of country living, a feel that this castles inhabitants really enjoyed the place and wanted to impress.

Perhaps this sense of knowing you have got it good is what pervades the town today.  I cycled through Ashby some years ago and thought little of the high street of faded glory but on closer inspection this town knows it has got it going on and maybe doesn't want to tell too many people what a good time it is having or it may lose some of its magic.  It seems to state we have a good time here so pass. The Lido is a gem and there is enough charm in the town's bustle to invite the curious to explore the indoor market, juice cafes and delis.  The tourist office and museum open the unsuspecting traveller to the less obvious delights of the wider area and its rich industrial heritage that may suggest a need to dwell a while. There is plenty to bimble about here as Hovis signs on bakeries hint at an oldyworldyness not quite realised yet as is a working town with enough to make it more than a stop for supplies.  The future of such towns is tourism and I hope it gets on the foodie bandwagon, surely the Castle grounds would be ideal for a festival of local produce. A sealed knot event this weekend will hopefully prove a draw and beckons me for another visit now my zeal to explore further has been lit.

Lord Hastings Tower with 98 steps to the roof of the Midlands

A Bimble round Coalport

A bimbler plans ahead, particularly when small fry are in tow.  My daughter requires comfort and diversion.  Interesting accommodation is amply provided by one of the UK’s least best kept secrets, the YHA. Like the train they can easily take the strain out of bumbling with little ones.  I was looking forward to this YHA as it provided a base for exploring the Ironbridge Gorge. Coalport is fascinating in terms of its industrial heritage and the converted China factory to be found there, literally, offers a window onto the home of the industrial age. The power of the River Severn and its cooling properties allowed furnaces and foundries to spring up by the river. These Satanic mills, belching fumes and flames, were fuelled with wood from the forested banks and later with coal delivered by canal and river. The ‘China Works’ was a factory positioned by the bank of the River Severn. A relic of the industrial revolution it has been converted into a youth hostel which sits next to the China Museum. The museum is another old factory replete with conical kilns.  You awake in the restored factory into a scene from the 19^th Century.

 

The coal often came from the mines above the valley and was delivered via the Shropshire canal. Its final journey involved transporting goods down to the river on a hill inclined plane which is a wonder of engineering. It looks like a giant ladder laid up against the hillside. A full truck would pull an empty truck up the incline using gravity to assist this feat.  A short stretch of canal at the bottom ends at the China factories in Coalport. Once the ceramics had been fired they would be transported by river to the Severn estuary and beyond. The Victorian museum at the top of the hill has a restored trow boat called ‘Spry’ that used to ply its trade up and down the river using sails. The museums provide an insight into the industry and endeavor in the region and one is constantly reminded of the rich history in such an arena of calm.

The China museum allowed our creative juices to flow as we observed how bone China was made and then painted intricate flowers on hand made clay models.  Ash from real bones was used in the process and must have added to the industrial odour of the times.  The eerie fairy chimneys of the kilns were brought to life in an audio installation allowing an insight into the noisy, dusty, hot environment endured by the working classes. The kilns were a common site in industrial areas such as Stoke and the ones in Coalport are preserved to explain their ingenious design.  An idyllic location by the river would have been a seamy hotbed of industrial fire and brimstone in Victorian times with coal and dust lining lungs and danger in every industrial process.  The potters shed looked the safest area and the cladder making the casts for the china to be fired in, now looks on safer ground make cutesy planters for the garden. Beware guides in Victorian dress as they are always keen to scare 8 year olds about working conditions and the middle aged about mortality rates and ages. 

This Victorian theme is expanded upon at Blists Hill Museum.

At the top of the hill behind Coalport, a Victorian town has been recreated out of a former iron smelting foundry complete with blast furnaces.  We have been returning here for a couple of years on an annual pass and throughout the year there are a number of special events such as Bonfire night and most recently a visit from the Man Engine. There is enough to keep a child occupied until the first wave of tiredness or cold kicks in; candle dipping in a darkened room smelling of tallow with a pig in its outhouse is a favourite followed by  fish and chips in beef dripping and spending shillings and pence in ‘ye olde’ sweet shop. Some stern Victorian types dole out harsh truths about life such as working as an apprentice and the Master keeps the kids in line in a school-house that reminded me of my haunted primary school where one of the old radiators fell on my leg.   I came away with souvenir iron beer bottle openers made on site which make a handy birthday present trove.  

 

The YHA always do a great value breakfast in buffet style which makes bringing your own cornflakes seem a little mean.  It means no washing up either so it is up and out, hiking along the Severn Way, or getting a piggy back, as the Jackfield Tile Factory comes into view.  Before you scoff and wonder how I subjected my daughter to a morning looking at tiles, there is something for everybody here and they have worked hard to make this seemingly hard sell as attractive to our attention deficient youth as historically inclined gents. Indeed there were some beautifully tiled ‘Gents’ that will shift your perceptions when next in the pub. Even the London Underground is tiled in Jackfield products.  These museums are all housed in their own buildings proving that living history is becoming the leisure activity we do best.  There are some interesting tiles in glass cabinets. I liked the Minton tiles and some arts and crafts ones with William Morris themed glazes. However, the building is the real star, resplendent on the banks of the Severn, utilising the natural resources of the area and the excellent transport routes which made the area the centre of the industrial revolution.  Richly blessed with minerals, the Gorge heads a navigable waterway for the rest of the 220 mile River Severn. Canals and railways improved routes to the limestone, ironstone and coal needed to fire the bellies of the furnaces which litter the Gorge; not to mention the forests of the Marches that succumbed to this voracious appetite for progress and profit.

We spent an idyllic day making our own tiles and it felt like therapy for me.  We stopped and concentrated on this one creative activity and came back after lunch to make another.  We could choose from a selection of templates or could go off piste and make our own. I had come prepared with an Octupus design whilst my daughter went freestyle with a kaleidoscope of colours.  A simple idea but what a great bonding activity; choose a tile, draw an outline with an icing bag filled with wet clay and fill in the spaces with a range of coloured glazes. We were then left wondering what our finished pieces would look like for a couple of weeks until they arrived at our door. They are now being cemented into our own Victorian hearth at home.

 

The Ironbridge itself is currently under mysterious wraps as it gets a make-over but is a wonder to behold. I would recommend fish and chips overlooking the river as you wonder whether to push it and visit the other museums or save it all for another trip. Even I think Broseley Pipe factory might be one museum too many for today! 

 

Instead I made a to do list for next time;

 

·         Benthal Hall National trust

 

·         Broseley Pipe factory

 

·         The Broseley jitties

 

·         Iron Museum

 

·         Enginuity

 

·         Bike ride from Ironbridge to Bridgnorth

A Bimble round a very British hotel

 

 

A winter bimble often requires better accommodation than a big red van and the bumbler is always open to a bargain hotel deal.  These corporate hotel bargains are usually at weekends when capacity is low and they reduce their expectations.  I am usually left wondering if anyone would actually pay the working week prices if their expense accounts didn’t stretch.  For the weekend price I don’t expect much but the hotel inspector would have a field day in many British hotels of this ilk.

 

Once we leave the EU our service industry is in peril. Why are there so few British people working in the hospitality industry when there are so many jobs performed by Eastern Europeans these days?  I can reveal the answer.  The British are completely incapable of functioning in a servile capacity. They require speed of thought, a cheery demeanour and some element of customer service allied with a basic knowledge of their environment and the job role they are employed to fulfil.

 

Evidence for the prosecution begins upon my arrival at reception:

 

Have you got a map?

 

-What of?

 

Well, the area, or maybe the grounds of the hotel?

 

-Oh we don’t get asked that much.  You can go through that door outside into a garden and it leads to some woods. 

 

Where’s that then?

 

-Just outside… and, er… there are some fields which belong to us

 

That will be the 25 acres in the brochure then

 

-Yes, but the farmers use it so there might be sheep in them.

 

I don’t mind sheep

 

-We printed one off once but it was big.

 

Big?

 

-Yes, like a big, internet map, it took ages to print as well and the guest said it was useless. He was American. We do have this map. We use it for fire alarms.

 

-Ah. A floor guide of the hotel. I could walk the corridors.

 

Yes I suppose you could.

 

I decided to put my walk on hold and try the ‘leisure club’.  The pool was 15 metres long and had about 15 loafers in it so I tried the sauna.  A friend had recently told me they never used saunas and despite my defence of the benefits of the Swedish sweatbox their words rang in my ear. 

 

‘Sweating, with strangers sloughing off their dead skin, breathing germs in a toxic broiling chamber.’

 

They also told me that the rolls on the bed that support the lumbar or head or more usually my feet are never washed. Their insight into the germ factory that is a slightly uncared for hotel was confirmed by some dubious stains so they go straight on the floor from now on.

 

I stuck the sauna out for ten minutes during which someone looked in the door and said, ‘it’s a bit pinched in there,’ to which her partner replied more prosaically ‘I don’t like the look of them.’

 

I didn’t either. The guy with the fading tattoos already scared me into letting him know the secret entry code so I was dubious also.  He rolled out the old question about the reasoning behind having a big red button in a sauna.  A stock conversation killer.  ‘Doesn’t it just make you want to push it?’ he said, moving his hand toward it.  Not unless you are completely unable to control your self destructive impulses I thought but actually quipped, ‘There is probably a big red light at reception and they are thinking what’s that big red light flashing for? Its been flashing for ages. ‘

 

To which I received no response. His partner said, ‘I wonder where it connects to.’  I was starting to wonder whether I had evaporated so headed for the Jacuzzi which was also pushed in the brochure.  It had some heavy looking planks of wood over it but a nice touch was a fading peace lily placed on top to appease guests which I suppose beats a scrawled note saying it may be repaired soon.  With, new found, inner calm I searched for the steam room which was padlocked and also curiously signed ‘Manager’s Office’.  As there was no-one supervising the facilities guests were asked to sign in and out so I turned on my heels and in a spirit of rebellion steadfastly refused to enter my time of exit. There were no towels either although there was a bin of dirty towels which I momentarily selected from. However, I thought twice and decided to drip dry all the way back to my room. I put a pound in a machine vending chocolate hoping to try the new ‘Teaser’ Malteser bar.  I had saved a pound from not being able to use a locker but found the cost was £1.10. I had no 10p and then found that the machine would time out in 60 seconds then hit me with the information that exact change was required.  Mild pressing of the refund button then frantic stabbing led to a Hamlet moment of calm as I knew my visit to the club was fated to be this way. I cheered myself up by using Schindler’s lift and trying to think of a joke that wasn’t entirely inappropriate.  Still trying.

 

Sleep and refuge was my solace although they must have commandeered all the televisions from the 1980’s as the picture was fuzzy on all but BBC2.  Alan Yentob and an earnest drama beat watching Match of the Day in the snow.

 

I beat the rush for breakfast intent on recouping my money on an eat ‘til you feel sick breakfast. Another British institution.   And gluttony is our least hidden vice.  There was no line by the fresh fruit and yoghurts but the queue to the fried frenzy stretched out the door.  Maximum velocity eating and back for more in an orgy of greed.  Once the fumes became too much and the fat congealed in a distended stomach I was unable to force feed any longer.  I checked out, deciding to make my feelings known in a calm yet forceful way. Sort of passive aggressive with a pre-prepared map joke thrown in to lighten the mood and show that I alone understood. But dark clouds hung about reception. No-one in the hotel enjoyed the luxury of hot water that morning but I had gotten off lightly. A toilet had overflowed and bath sealant had come away while someone was in the tub.  A door had not locked and, although they had been told it was not worth worrying about, a drunk reveler had stumbled in at 2pm.  When I eventually got to the counter I asked why they did not answer the phone when I called about the lack of hot water. A roll of the eyes suggested it was because the whole hotel were doing the same and they had just given up.  An offer of breakfast knocked off the bill sent me off with a spring in my cholesterolised step.

 

And I found the garden! Which was delightful. A walled garden with blossoming cherry trees leading to a bluebell wood.  With a bit of effort this 17^th century manor house set in 35 acres of woodland with large, adjacent 60’s extension would commandeer tariffs which may deter the budget traveller.  But then I probably wouldn’t be staying there on a poorly researched last minute bargain deal. Next time I will ring ahead to check the accent and hope to be re-assured with a cheery attempt to communicate in broken English. Lesson learned;  if it ain’t broke don’t go there!