Earstoday, all my troubles . . .

It had been a hard morning at the gym made worse by my final session on the treadmill. Dylan’s Isis came up on shuffle, which I like. The song takes me on a journey, there are some juicy soundbites, my favourite being: ‘The snow it was outrageous,’ but it doesn’t last long enough. The tune that came up next was Scott Joplin’s The Entertainor – only four and a half minutes but it exhausted me keeping up with the bloody dancing piano.

I was ready for my Waitrose Coffee and banana.

I didn’t know there was worse yet to come.

Part of the ritual is choosing the banana, preferabley large and just touching ripeness. At the counter I’m always greeted with: ‘Your usual, sir?” which makes me feel grand, like I belong to a venerable gentleman’s club somewhere in the vicinity of St James’ Square. Admittedly there are no roaring fires or plush leather chairs, and the illusion lasts a mere second or two, longer if I close my eyes and slop coffee all over the place.

I sat near a window, giving me a view of Monnow Street and the bus station, which, to be honest, is geared more for stagecoaches. The question now was which to to first: peel the banana or open the newspaper.

At that moment, she spoke.

It was Princess Margaret or someone channelling her spirit.

I read somewhere recently that the late Princess had a distinctive diction, pronouncing ‘yes’ as ‘ears’ and ‘no’ as ‘nyah.’ Try it some time. It becomes quite addictive though everyone around you will think you a prick.

Anyway, one of those was sitting behind me, holding forth in voice like a corncrake only louder. In the space of twenty minutes I knew – along with half of Waitrose – her views on Brexit, her eldest child’s schooling—he’s dreadful at maths but he has a very poor teacher, and that she thought the recent tornadoes in the Americas were really quite dreadful. 

I couldn’t understand how she was able to breathe and talk with such speed without the hint of a break. I wondered who she was talking to, and why the hell they didn’t say something, anything—like 'shut up woman'. I risked a casual glance round as though inspecting the air. Her companion was another woman who nodded a lot and occasionally brushed crumbs from her jeans.

Princess Corncrake possessed a toddler neatly encased in a pushchair . Like me, he was approaching the end of his tether and risked a small howl.

“Really, Jasper, that is quite unacceptable!” She threw him a crayon, one of a few she had on the table, and returned to commenting on the weather: ‘perfectly beastly for the coming weekend.’

Jasper, not unreasonably howled louder, which earned another rebuke. “Jasper, that is quite enough!  You really must exercise more social control.” She spoke to him like he was a badly behaved dog, but used bigger words. ‘He can be a little anti-social at times,” she said by way of apology to her friend and the café in general.

When I got home I was asked the usual question. ‘Gym good?’

“Ears,” I said. “Waitrose, Nyah.” I started humming Earstoday and wondered what other songs might be similarly improved 

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Hide and Seek gone wrong

The ruins of Minster Lovell Hall
And as it once would have looked

courtesy of English Heritage

Sir Francis Lovell had everything, but he had no concept of ‘cutting his losses.’ Born in 1465 he became a ward of the Yorkist Edward IV and later an ardent supporter of Edward’s brother Richard III. In exchange Richard made him ‘Butler of all England,’ Privy Councillor, and Lord Chancellor of the King’s Household. Richard’s Lancastrian opponents penned a sour little couplet: ‘The cat, the rat and Lovell our dog rule all England under a Hog.’ The cat referred to William Catesby, the rat, Richard Ratcliffe, the hog, King Richard whose emblem was the White Boar. The dog referred to the dog on the Lovell heraldic crest.

The great Wheel of Fortune moved at some speed during this period, great nobles losing their estates and sometimes their heads as the wheel turned. In 1485 Richard III lost at the Battle of Bosworth and was hacked to death on the battlefield. Lovell however escaped and took sanctuary in an Abbey near Colchester. In 1486 he escaped and led a revolt against the new Lancastrian king Henry VII. The revolt was easily crushed and Lovell escaped again, seeking refuge in the Netherlands (the court of Margaret of Burgundy.)

You’d have thought Francis Lovell might have got the message by now, but the following year he took a leading part in another revolt. This was ‘led’ by Lambert Simnel, a young pastry cook who tried to impersonate one of the young princes in the Tower. His small army of mercenaries were thrashed in the battle of Stoke Field in 1487, and Lovell escaped yet again. 

Some observers saw him swimming on horseback across the River Trent and galloping away on the other side. He was never seen or heard of again . . . until 1708 when workmen discovered a secret underground vault in the Lovell ancestral home: Minster Lovell. In the vault were two skeletons, a man sitting at a desk, pen and paper to hand, and at his feet a dog. The skeletons along with the paper crumbled in the fresh air but rumours abounded. Was it in fact Sir Francis Lovell who had taken refuge there before planning another escape – or revolt? Had he been inadvertently  locked in and there died alone with his dog? Whatever the case Minster Lovell is said to be haunted by an armoured knight on a flashing white horse galloping through the ruins on dark wintry nights.

Minster Lovell had a habit of dealing out tragedy. In the C16th a newly married couple decided on a game of ‘hide and seek.’ The bride vanished and was not seen again until some years later when the family was moving. A large, very heavy trunk was being carried and on opening it the young bride was found. The longest game of ‘hide and seek’ in history. The tune and lyrics are here and here should you have the uncontrollable urge to sing along.

St Kenelm's Church can be seen in the background of the two pictures above. Here it is in all its glory

It's a C15th church named after an C8th boy-king of Mercia murdered on the orders of his sister and made a saint in recompense. His feast day is on 17th July and celebrated with 'Jerkum' (rhubarb wine) distributed free from the nearby Old Swan Inn - a practice sadly discontinued.*

Below is the tomb of Sir William Lovell who died in 1455. At least he was dead when they buried him.

And finally some lichen just because . . .

Stairs leading to pulpit

I shall celebrate St Kenelm next July with some homemade rhubarb gin. 

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An old friend, an even older Church

A very old friend of mine who served as the personal chef to the Rothschilds, the Duke of Bedford, and the Marlboroughs of Blenheim Palace has since retired in the village of Northleach, one of many small and picturesque Cotswolds’ villages. He also makes a pretty wonderful tour guide, condensing Northleach, Hampnett, Minster Lovell, the Slaughters, Burton on Water, and a rather unique village café/shop in Sherborne run by two Mancunian women – in the space of five hours.

The danger with all this is a surfeit of pictures, so I’ve cheated with Northleach. Suffice it to say it has, like many medieval wool towns a large and impressive church. I found it a bit soulless inside – the pews being replaced by small chairs and cushions but the history and brasses are well worth a look here.

About a mile farther down the road is the tiny village of Hampnett. What you see is what you get. 

St Georges Church being photobombed by a tree.

The church was originally called St Matthew's but was renamed St George's in 1771. It  dates to 1125 but has a C15th tower and South Porch.

We carefully followed instructions.

Entering the church was liking walking into an orchard. The smell was sweet, and intense.

Apples strategically placed. Beats incense.

The Chancel is Norman with some interesting additions—other than the apples. In 1871 the Reverend William Wiggin took it upon himself to decorate the interior with highly detailed mock medieval stencilled artwork. Byzantine meets Gothic you might say. His parishioners were far from impressed, collecting money to have all of it whitewashed. Fortunately, I’d say, they failed

The C12th roof is divided in four parts by vaulting ribs within which are the four Evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John

Stairs made by and for elves leading to a tiny vantage point.

 Part one of the tour ends here. The sky verged on the apocalyptic at times but in the space of five hours it changed again and again. The glories of an English late summer. The final post will be next week and then - I promise - no more churches. For a time at least.  

Churches take time to mature

St Giles was an C8th hermit who lived in the forests surrounding Nimes and according to legend lived from the milk of a red deer. In protecting the deer against hunters he took an arrow in the leg and subsequently became the patron saint of cripples. I was pondering all this as we approached the church of St Giles a mile or so from Goodrich Castle. The earliest reference to the church was in 1196 but it was extensively rebuilt in the C13th  and C14th

Thomas Swift, the grandfather of the more famous Jonathan Swift was the Royalist Vicar there 1624-58 and successfully hid the treasures of the church from marauding Roundheads; but what struck me was its windows, especially the super patriotic one below incorporating the Union Jacks and the legend of St George in a glorious burst of colour. No doubt in the near future some will soon demand its removal for one reason or another.

We wandered on, traipsing through cow pasture and cutting our way through nettle-infested paths. Herefordshire has many curiosities, including Ferris Wheels in the middle of nowhere – eat your heart out London Eye.

It also has Alpacas - in this case invisible ones or perhaps wearing camouflage. 

There are at least three Alpaca farms in Herefordshire, and you can, if you are that way inclined, go on Alpaca treks—just you and an Alpaca along with a collection of like-minded souls and the Herefordshire countryside.

Fresh from the walk we nipped across to the Forest of Dean to St Mary’s Church at Kempley. 

For those who need to know about these things, the church has the oldest roof in Britain and some of the finest wall paintings. These were ‘whitewashed’ during the Reformation when we had our own Robert E Lee moment.

The three planked door above leads to the church tower and the wood is over 800 years old.

The church itself was begun in 1095 by Hugh de Lacy on the site of an earlier Saxon church and completed in the early C12th. The roof timbers date from 1120.

The wooden porch is also C12th and hides the even earlier Norman arch with its characteristic zigzag pattern.

They say that walking through ancient woodland brings peace to the soul. The same is true sitting in silence in equally old churches. For those of a more robust disposition there is an alternative. The medieval village of Kempley has two Churches. Because of the marshy ground the village relocated a mile away where much later (1903) a second church was built – St Edwards, dedicated to the ‘Confessor.’ The poet John Betjeman praised it as a ‘mini-cathedral of the Arts and Crafts movement,’ but for me it needs another thousand years to mature.

And  finally for those who savour the macabre, in 1995 two bodies were found in nearby fields, the mortal remains of two victims of the serial killer Fred West.