A Bimble from Berwick

Liberation is a train ride with no return.  A 'Buzzards Valley' breakfast saw me off as I rode the nice way to Tamworth past a vineyard that no one ever expected.  Bike booked and stowed in its own private cubicle on Cross Country trains I sat smugly in my carriage heading North listening to the wiles and woes of Henley Brexiteers, Cathy and Clem, who may even have to move up country.  One of the great pleasures of train travel is listening to other conversations. It provides an insight into society and allows some for some human warmth and lifts the spirits a little with a new found belief in the amiable niceness of British folk.

The paper had an article espousing the need to get out of the house at least once a day and interact even if just for a wee while.  It was a thought that occurred to me when I saw the Tesco and Iceland vans zipping around the too narrow lanes of Devon.  The village store and a proper  high street with independent businesses become ever more necessary as isolation breeds fear and anxiety.  Tucked away in a combe with only clickbait to divert you until the delivery man arrives defies the image of rural bliss.

We pushed on from York to Berwick and Gary met Sasha, who used to be a stewardess but was now in sales. I marvelled at Sasha's gushing enthusiasm and wondered if it was a Geordie thing.  There is nothing as infectious as a huge smile, a ready laugh and a keen listener. Although he must have known that no one under 40 was supposed to be called Gary, Gary was smitten.

Chugging through Newcastle brought to mind the end of the Great Gatsby, 'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past'. This pilgrimage was going to bring back early memories and formative experiences with grandparents in Blyth.  North Tyneside was familiar but distant in memories I wanted to re-awaken.  I wanted to squeeze the pease pudding of life. 

A whirling vortex of a cooling wind blew dust and rubbish about an uninspiring Berwick as rain greeted my arrival at the border. Probably very unfair on the historic, ghostly town but I was eager to leave the brooding buildings and cycle across the famous sandstone 'Old Bridge' with its 15 arches across the River Tweed built in the time of King James. No doubt with the proximity of Scotland in mind.

The steel greys of the evening light on the estuary were a boon to my landlocked eyes.  It was no surprise when I came across a paean to LS Lowry in Spittal where he must have been inspired by the atmospheric vista and memories of those distant childhood holidays. Once again revealing how these indelible images that rest with us play a powerful role in our imagination.

Funland

A Bimble down the Thames form Lechlade to Kelmscott

Carbo-loaded with the great British breakfast,t I set out early to escape the trauma of room number 3. Luckily I can sleep on a washing line.  With new energy Lechlade took on a new light. The River Leach and the River Coln join the Thames here and the ancient Ha’penny  Bridge with its toll house is emblematic of its strategic importance as a crossing point on the Upper Thames. This is the furthest point that boats can travel up the Thames and the ‘wool’ church dominates the skyline. The spire can be seen from afar across the Thames plain and would lead farmers to the town to trade their wares with barges heading downriver. Cotswold cheese was popular down-river and I carried a hunk of Double Gloucester in empathy. 

Two locks bring order to the river below Lechlade ,St John's and Buscot, and formidable lock-keepers ensured this continued in navy style on their watch. There was a cut to their jib that suggest serious business. This was not for the volunteer. A party of teenagers danced to Grease show-tunes on the roof of their day boat but looked cowed as they came under the keeper’s stare. The statue of Old Father Thames had been moved here where a beady eye could be kept on him. Each lock was manicured and kempt mirroring the shipshape world of its captain.

Just beyond Buscot Lock a couple of bridges afforded views that would have Monet salivating in a painterly way.  Dripping at the easel? Perhaps not.  Rain was in the air but the light shone through heavy clouds and lit up the spring foliage. Yellows and Greens became luminously vivid as the light played on the water.  It was to be a last gasp before a deluge that hasn’t stopped for 10 days.  Perhaps nature knew this and threw forth all its glory in one last hour.  The river was cloudier past the locks and the perfume headier. The heady smell of elderflower re-invigorated my home brew plans.

 I had seen men with hessian sacks raiding the hedgerows by the source and now it was my turn.  I only needed about twenty heads so I chose carefully and respected the rule of the hedgerow. I asked the ‘hag who lives in the tree’ and limited my harvest. Considering the river is such a dominant feature there is a lot of wilderness surrounding this stretch and fields stretch across the plain. Perhaps it is the risk of flooding that protects its isolation but nature seemed to be thriving. 

Kelmscott epitomised this idyllic rural isolation.  The path runs beside a meandering river and fields of wheat and early summer crops, mostly grown fast for cattle feed. William Morris understood the peace emanating from this village and made his home here, hoping to be inspired by its tranquil nature.  Kelmscott Manor is his legacy and lay in elegant timeworn splendour at the end of the village.  Opening hours were indicative of the lazy, hazy pace of life in an English garden of Eden and I was charmed. There was evidence of a schism in the village and a warning that this idyll was about to be challenged by the forces of progress.  The dilemma was about the Heritage Lottery grant required to conserve the manor.  The grant was dependent on opening throughout the week, widening roads for access and doubling visitor numbers. Defenders of the status quo worried that the arrival of coachloads of tourists would ruin the charm of the village forever.  For once I would agree with the NIMBYS.  If you are a real fan you will make the effort to visit and this defiance against turning the UK into a theme park is admirable. We often don’t appreciate the jewels the country until we have lost them.  If it became another tick box on the Oxford/Cotswold coach tour I imagine it would lose its ambience and become another commercialised selfie stop.   

The manor is open on Wednesday and Saturday for the ardent so as the heavens opened I retired to the equally characterful pub, The Plough,  for a cheese platter vowing to return to reconvene with the path after an informed bimble through the arts and craft movements finest monument.

A Bimble round a Boutique Cotswold Hotel

Exhausted I was looking forward to rest in my boutique Cotswold hotel, which will remain a nameless coaching inn in Lechlade. Uniquely British ‘hospitality’ is alive and kicking in the Cotswolds. It’s like they never got the Fawlty Towers memo and are stuck in a 70’s time-warp.  There is no need to change as there is limited availability and a captive market. Running an Inn in the Cotswolds is a licence to print money. I did the maths and reckon an entrepreneurial owner could turn a million pounds profit each year.  If you are lucky enough to own such a place then you are rich and those who visit are even richer. They cater for the affluent and know how to extort cash.

I knew all was not well upon arrival. It is all in the body language and the demand for payment up front put me on guard. The defensive tone suggested previous complaints were still ringing in ears. 

‘Erm… can I see the room first?’

‘You have booked through booking.com so you have to pay, You won’t find anywhere else tonight in the Cotswolds.’

Well I was hoping to stay here!

It soon hit me when I opened the door, which had a yellowing gloss sheen and needed a budge to open.  Stale cigarette smoke and a fuggy heat!  I tried to open a window but there was a plastic window as a form of double glazing which didn’t permit a draft.  The old window was so filthy  I could hardly see through to the pretty high street which lay beyond somewhere.  The impenetrable plastic ‘glazing’ meant it had not been cleaned for years.   I’d walked 20 miles so I lay down and the bed was comfy enough.  Was it worth the hassle of complaining?  It would just cause bad feeling and I was here to relax. I’m not good at conflict usually opting for the path of least resistance.

I took a shower and felt human again, almost in good spirits although that smell just hung about.  As I looked about I noticed small things.  The dresser was vintage 80’s dark wood.  The cushions were stained so went on the floor, but they always do as no one ever washes cushions.  The carpet was a deep jungle green and induced vertigo so I looked toward the curtain and this was my catalyst. A drop of something red?  I had to at least question things.

‘Yes, good afternoon again. I’m a bit shocked at the accommodation. In fact I’m frankly disgusted. I’m paying over £100 for a dingy room, lukewarm water, grey scratchy towels and a window that doesn’t open. It also stinks of fags.'

‘You did ask for a bath’

‘I’m not sure how that is relevant…I don’t mean to be rude but if I had an option I’d leave now.’  

‘I’m sorry I’ll call the manager.. he’s at home’ 

‘I hear you are unhappy.. I disagree with your description of the room’

‘Well.. I can show you if you like..’

‘I don’t need to be shown round my own hotel, I know the room inside out’

‘Well can I move rooms if there are better ones?’

‘We are fully booked…I’ll have a look...I hear you had a shower?

‘Yes I’ve been on a long walk and took a shower. Is that a problem?’

‘Then it is impossible, housekeeping have gone home…We could move you tomorrow?’

‘I won’t be here tomorrow’

‘Well you are booked for two nights, the deal is two nights.’ 

‘I’m definitely not staying tomorrow so we can sort that out first then see if there is another room’

‘Well we can’t refund you it through booking.com’

‘But I just paid you half an hour ago.  Look I don’t want any bad feeling I just want a decent room to relax inn. I’ve paid quite a bit for it.’

‘We are competitively priced for the Costwold, perhaps you were looking for a more boutique experience?’

‘Yes, perhaps...’

‘You mentioned the room was not clean?’

‘It smells of cigarettes, I cannot open the window so it’s hard to be in the room.’

Yes its double glazed. We have a no smoking policy.’

Well it reeks of fags and its not really double glazing is it. Whatever it is,  it can’t be opened hence the windows are so dirty you can hardly see out…There are also a few stains…’

Stains?

‘On the cushions but also red stain on the curtains. Blood maybe?’

‘Oh yes that’s wine. They cost £400’

‘You know about the stains then? Could you not get them cleaned? In case someone thinks there’s been a Midsomer Murder’

‘You are being facetious now…SILENCE…’

‘Look this is good value for the area you are in. Have a look on the internet you won’t find anything local for under £200. Our food is renowned as the best in the area.’

‘I’m sure it is but a captive market doesn’t excuse the standard of accommodation does it?’

‘Well I don’t agree with you…I will cancel your booking tomorrow... can we also agree NOT to provide a negative review!’

‘OK, that sounds reasonable.’

’But it would be cheaper on a Sunday so you won’t get half the money back.’

‘I think I need to go for a walk…let’s deal with the bill in the morning’ 

‘Will you be eating with us tonight?’

??!!

A Bimble down the Thames from Cricklade to Lechlade

After Cricklade the Thames path often diverts from the river due to property rights.  I decided the best way to see this part would be afloat. Cotswold Canoe Company dropped a canoe in Church Eaton for me and I paddled blissfully down to Lechlade.  The river is still a baby and it was difficult to guide a canoe through the upper reaches, full of reeds and overhanging branches. This made for quite an unexpected work-out. Without the path the isolation was often total. Hordes of Damselflies flitted about and reed warblers trilled at my passing.  The flow of the river pushed me on so that steering was my main concern.    It was hard to imagine a more idyllic pastime, floating through a natural oasis, undisturbed by man’s presence.  What a way to travel ! 

A mile felt like several as the river wend its own twisty way but I did not mind as time had stood still. A couple of intrepid kayakers passed as I neared Lechlade as I reconvened with humanity. Wonderful reflections of a willow and a quirky stone round house which looked as if it rested in the river hid the entrance to the canal system that once linked the Thames with the Severn and allowed waterborne transport to bisect the country.  Doomed to failure this ambitious project lasted until 1927 when the lock-keepers shut up shop. The River Coln also enters the Thames at this point and the final push into a town now lined with tourists was more vigorous. I looked like the full riverman as day-trippers pedaloed their pink flamingos. They could only wonder at the things I had seen in the far reaches of the river. 

A canal boat emblazoned with ‘Rooster No 1’ was tied up on the banks of a meadow as the rooster-man sat in the evening sun watching the cows go home.   He could walk into Lechlade for beer and a curry or watch the sand martins swoop in the dusk.  Lazing in his director’s chair he had not a care in the world. Top of the food chain this rooster he was in tune with the tone of the river.  Below lay locks and activity whilst here time slowed and you needed to slow down too to appreciate it fully.  I envied the river-man with his beer in hand.  What more do you need than a boat and an ever-changing view?

A Bimble down the Thames Ashton Keynes to Cricklade

Ashton Keynes is a picturesque village in the ‘on the water’ Cotswolds style, as rivulets pass through the town.  Homes have their own little bridge to cross making for an idyllic, pastoral scene.

 I once made a bad decision to cycle through Swindon ,two roads diverged after Cricklade, and this is what I missed! The Thames plain makes it perfect for cycling and away from the river you are quickly into quiet, green lanes that are flat and isolated. Momentarily I am intrigued by signs for an ‘Ironman’ contest. I’ll leave that one there!

Looking for roundhead vandalism and headless crosses I lose the path for a while and end up at the picturesque village church which demands a pause.  Another St Mary ! There are over 50 holy places bearing this devotion along the Thames, including one in Barnes, where both my sister and aunt got married.  I ponder about my own votive saint in the guise of Isis, an earth mother, symbol of fertility and re-birth, nurturing the plain of middle England. I ordain the white swan her earthly form, gracing the river throughout my journey, constant companion. If she is a bit hissy at times this is her role as protector and nurturer.  A swan is a magical bird and the Thames in early summer allows for an inspirational insight into their lives. 

Mated for life, pairs dote on their young and glide effortlessly but purposefully, always aware of spatial boundaries. A stern look or a ruffle of plumage bears a message to a wary trespasser and keeps the young in check.  From a canoe the behaviours are ever more noticeable as you share their space, careful not to crowd these elegant mysteries. I had an epiphany on this stretch and stopped in my tracks as a young family fed in the infant Thames.  I would call this a moment when time stops still and the wonder of the natural world fills one with awe.  Special moments that inspire a lust for life.

I spend a while futilely looking for Beavers which have been re-introduced to the area and delicate Snake’s Head Fritillaries in North Meadow before entering Cricklade.  The River Churn begins 12 miles north of Cricklade and its confluence with the Thames created a strategically and historically important town at a key crossing and transit point. the Churn lends its names to villages it passes like Cerney and Cirencester. It begins at Severn Springs which is 330 feet higher up on the Cotswold escarpment and was viable enough for the Romans to use such defensive advantages to crown a mighty town upon the waters, Corinium. Logically this must be the real source of the Thames as it is the highest tributary of the river and all must go downhill eventually. The Romans also named this key artery Tamesis or ‘dark water’ and saw the river as the key to dominating the lands beyond. 

The names of tributaries of the River evoke their history and purpose and lure the adventurer to explore further. A week later most of these were in flood after monumental June downpours: Ray, Coln, Key, Churn, Leach, Windrush, Evenlode, Churwell, Pang, Kennet, Berry, Loddon, Wye, Bourne, Wey, Ash, Mole, Rythe,  Hogsmill, Crane, Brent, Stamford, Beverley, Wandle, Westbourne, Tyburn, Effra, Fleet, Walbrook, Ravensbourne, Lea, Roding, Beam, Ingre, Darent, Mardyke…

I thought I would try to link them together as I sat by the Churn’s mouth as it fed into the Thames; 

A mighty Ash marks the source…

the Wey, the Key to the manor Bourne. 

Mole burrows and Rythes, 

Fleet of foot, a Wey down river to the Thames.

Even Lode, brother of Loddon, 

feels the Windrush and water Churn, 

Stamford battles Tyburn’s noose, 

Beverly Daren’t Wandle beyond

Ravensbourne and Brent, 

as they Crane their Beam toward the flood

Kennnet survive ‘til Mardyke? 

A Bimble down the Thames from Ewen to Cotswold Country Park

The path to Ewen took me along an idyllic stretch of infant Thames, just discernible as a stream, dividing fields. Pylons sang in the wind like sentinels of another dimension; a rusting windmill that once irrigated crops made a striking sculpture in fields of poppies and wildflowers. 

Flag Iris blossomed in the clean waters and I startled a fox into a ploughed field. He turned and stared me out as a I stood stock still.   An epiphany; a moment of peace that charges a walk with deeper meaning and fills a rambler with wonder. In turn the fox fled and scared up a few rabbits.  Familiar birdsong filled the hedgerows as I wondered whether cows could really see my bright red cagoule and pondered whether farmers really had to use ‘barbed’ wire. The skull cinema cranked into operation.

Cotswold Country Park is an extensive myriad of lakes and pools created by mining for aggregates.  At first the change from stream to reservoir is a challenge to the senses. By crossing the road from Somerfield Keynes you enter a different topography entirely.  Initially overwhelmed I went into shock mode as a raw wind battered me across the exposed lake of Somerford Lagoon.  An eerie estate had risen around the banks of the gravel pit but there was a sense of emptiness and absence which spooked me.  Were these holiday homes that no-one visited or an abandoned real estate venture where the homes were investments in some form of land banking scam waiting for permission to start a real housing boom in this prime location? Low Mill Estate seemed like an artificial timeshare nightmare. A nightmare vision of future living in gated communities spawned by the generosity of mining conglomerates in some pact to give something back after pillaging the mineral deposits.  Gentrifying their wasteland is better than leaving vast holes in the landscape but these looked like empty homes in a cod rustic Cotswolds style. Rusty balconies suggested a façade, homes hardly used.  I coin this housing style ‘eerie-dyllic’.  The map suggested it was merely a farm but as I explored further someone had sneaked a housing estate in while nobody noticed. The luxury, clapboard, ‘Cape Cod’ style super-homes that have become the nouveau style in the park appeared quite empty as the wind whipped across the lakes, taking a Beaufort battering.  

My mood picks up as the paths through the water park becomes sheltered and less windswept. Lakes are revealed like Freeth Mere.  There is no-one here in this sanctuary for wild-life and the morning rain has freshened spring growth to fill the air with green scents. The earthy smell of sand and gravel brings childhood memories of sailing clubs. There was water everywhere and it had to go somewhere.  I was thinking that if this all goes into the Thames it will be a very different proposition by Cricklade. It will get big, fast. 

A swan watches me as I find a calm spot on a fishing perch. Elegantly supercilious afloat he is less gainly taking to the air. The swan runs on water for fifteen paces and miraculously defies physics to eventually take flight. The beating, flapping and slapping of water accentuates the awkward display. Upon landing he gives an insouciant waggle of the tail as if to say, ‘ no-one saw, I think I got away with that.’ 

As I get into my stride I think of Beowulf and his Whale Road name for the sea and I collect compound nouns to illustrate place as my mind drifts.

Dog Rose,  Blue Tit.

Damson Fly, Duck Weed,

Corn Bunting,Otter Spraint.

Water Lily, Reed Warbler…