Cotswold Way, August 2024: Cheltenham to Winchcombe

 

This was to be my final leg in the 100 miles trek, and I had three days in which to do it. More of a home country leg this one and I started by taking the early morning 801 bus from Stow on the Wold. The driver dropped me off close to the old Reservoir Pub near Cheltenham. It is now a foreign restaurant of some sort, and, to my relief, when I crossed the road there was the fingerpost to the Cotswold Way

This was to be my final leg in the 100+ miles trek, and I had three days in which to do it. This was more of a home country leg for me and the weather was good, though very hot in the sun. However, the ascent from the reservoir was mostly through well-wooded slopes so not too bad. Unfortunately I lost the usually plentiful Cotswold Way signs somewhere so I had to ask advice from a young lady with six dogs (not her own apparently). Over the barking of those dogs as they strained on their leads towards me, she said that this was not the Cotswold Way but I could rejoin it via a road at the top. I took her advice and headed west along the road and soon arrived at the place she had suggested where the Way crossed the road.  Full sun for a while as I crossed a path at the edge of field and hence very open. That was where I met Richard going in the opposite direction, he was a camper like myself but did not have a GT. He told me that he wished he had one. I reached a road and then looked down onto Cheltenham to my left and Leckhampton Hill on the other side of the town: the site of my recent wash out. I had that view for a very long time and was soon able to see beyond Cheltenham towards Gloucester. the Severn valley and the Malvern’s.

I lost the Way again later but was fortunate in spotting the Surveyor. He was busy taking photos of butterflies but offered to take me to a path that rejoined the Way. It turned out that he was not a Building Surveyor but an opinion collector for the likes of local government. This surprised me since he was definitely a one-way act. If I did manage to interject something like “I own a field” but he just carried on with his stream of thought concerning the growing of garden produce, the shortage of butterflies, problems with runner beans and so much more. His interest in my background or views was zero, so odd in a surveyor. But I must thank him for setting me back onto the Way.

After passing through a golf course where I managed to avoid the balls, I entered a cooling treed area at the exit of which I ate my lunch beneath a tree and there discovered that I had lost a sandal.  Following that I entered a gruelling stretch through steep wooded areas that wandered to the south before finally swinging back north where I emerged onto a flat hayfield where I met a couple from Tasmania, probably about my own age. She was particularly interested in the GT and wanted her husband to see how it attached to the haversack. Their travel agent had sold them a trek from Stratford to include the Way. Why he did that, they or I did not know.

I reached Bellas Nap burial mound which was not particularly impressive apart from its vast age and location. After that some more woodland and two steeply sloping fields towards Winchcombe where the Way then edged along the town to the south with good views of the attractive church. I took a diversion to follow the River Isbourne to the lane which led to my old camping spot from my Berkeley trip.

That spot was further up a lane off the Way and the farmer had kindly left the gate open for me and the field had been recently mowed: a piece of machinery was still within it. It was a perfect camping spot, secluded and in a corner which was not farmed, yet not far from the town centre. I soon had the tent up and retraced my steps before taking the main road into the town. I passed the White Hart which looked busy and then ended up my previous drinking hole, the Plaster’s Arms. It was closed (Mondays and Tuesdays) but notices suggested it still had a life. I had a few excellent pints in the other two Winchcombe pubs and a fairly interesting conversation with a local about university life in one of them. However food was either at a premium or unavailable so I ended the evening by consuming a couple of mini pork pies beside the river as I returned to my secret camp site.

I felt happily intoxicated as I walked up the dusky lane, but a was a little surprised to find the field gate now locked. I climbed over and walked around the corner in the growing darkness and increasing drizzle to find that my tent and everything else had vanished! No sign of my camp at all. I could not believe it, yet had to do so. Clearly the farmer had removed all of my stuff and presumably dumped it somewhere. I stood frozen for a while trying to think what I should do. My only option seemed to be to walk back into Winchcombe itself.

As I walked dispiritedly past the entrance way, I saw a pile of stuff on my left which I had not noticed as I entered. This untidy pile contained my stuff: the tent, the GT, and who knew what else. It was all very wet of course and I was getting wet too. I had no idea whether the tent was usable, it seemed in a terrible state. Besides that my chances of finding an alternative wild camp in the dark and the rain were remote to say the least.

I spent an age untangling the tent and its various poles, so that I could stuff it and the rest of my belongings into the GT bag and my haversack. Apparently, everything was there, even my Kindle. I then walked sadly back to the centre of Winchcombe to endeavour to get transport back to Stow. I stopped near the main T junction of the town and took out my phone. Everything I tried: Uber, local taxis, whatever all met with failure.

Despairingly, I walked along to the White Hart. It was closed of course. but there were people inside: the staff having a last drink, I supposed. Also the window onto the street was open and a young couple sat within the pub on the sill beside it. I explained my dilemma to them, and the young lady of the pair took over my phone and after some time managed to contact a taxi company based in Cheltenham. The charge to Stow would be £65, ridiculous but I had no choice. I booked it and those two kind youngsters invited me into the pub to wait.

The taxi driver was from Bangladesh and had little English so most of the journey took place in silence. It seemed a very long way and I arrived around midnight. I had no keys and though I could see that our bedroom light was on I could not make Margaret hear my knocking and ringing, so I retrieved my secret key entered the house and went up to our room. As I opened the door Margaret looked shocked and perhaps frightened and for a short while I was struck dumb. Then I briefly explained my reason for being there and she was wonderfully understanding, even making me a rum and coke which I sorely needed, and so to bed in the comfort of my own home!

Next day it rained all day so I could not examine my hastily packed camping kit. But the following day was fine and I was surprised to find that there was no obvious damage to my stuff. I had presumed that the farmer had angrily ripped the tent from the ground and threw it outside the field. In fact he had unzipped the door presumably to remove my stuff, then removed the pegs and placed them inside and only then collapsed the tent. Given that, I resolved to return to Winchcombe sometime to continue my journey, wild camping and all.

 

The perfect tour

I’ve been guiding in Oxford for nearly 20 years now, not continuously of course – it has always been a part-time activity. In that sense it has fitted well with my lack of commitment: I could spend long periods in Spain, or working on our regreening project at Stow on the Wold, or travelling the world. It also fitted well with my other activities, including writing, walking and such. It was never a big earner, you need to be very committed to make it your only source of income, and events can easily result in no income at all: both winter and lock-down are examples. I haven’t finished guiding yet, but I reckon the end is somewhere in sight which made me think of the perfect tour. It might not be what you expect.

The ingredients are pretty much as follows: the participants, the theme, the weather and the guide. By the latter I mean, in this case, the guide’s mental attitude. None of these are truly in a guide’s control. Mostly you have no idea who the participants are going to be beyond nationality or sometimes age. Take a recent day when I had an emergency tour to deliver. The organiser, based in London. wanted the tour delivered on the following day for thirty -three people. I only take nineteen and even that is quite a crowd on the streets of Oxford. Negotiations via phone and email were not complete until the group were on the train and on their way to Oxford! The organiser agreed to split the tour and we agreed on a price for each tour. I quickly showered and rapidly pedalled down to the railway station. I like a challenge.

They were from Wako University in Texas and when we finally found each other I was greeted with enthusiastic, but undeserved, Texan whooping. The split was agreed outside the Said Business School and the afternoon lot wandered off towards the centre. My first lot, mostly young and female, had a thirst for knowledge about the workings of the Uni and, as often, tried desperately to fit this to the US system. They do not, of course, fit. But, the long trek from the station aside, it was a good, though challenging, tour which evinced many demanding questions from my enthusiastic audience. The tour for the remainder of the group was at 1.30 pm, meeting at the Weston Library. No one came. I waited for a while then a couple with two very small children turned up – that was all. What happened to the other nine I shall never know. And here’s a problem: a seven and a three-year old have little interest in the workings of the University and their parents’ main interest is the welfare and happiness of their kids. Even conjuring up Harry Potter does not help in these circumstances. Nevertheless, I did my best and dropped them off to meet the rest of their group at Christchurch where they could take their prearranged audio tour with their colleagues at the “Harry Potter” college.

Of course, there is no perfect tour. But a state of perturbation in the guide and enthusiasm in the guided nudges things that way. I suppose one of my best was with an audience of one: a Harvard professor. At the end of the tour, actually more of a spirited conversation than tour, he thrust a $50 tip into my hand. This I heartily refused saying that I had enjoyed the tour just as much as he claimed to have done, but he insisted.

Me and my golf trolley do a bit more of Cotswold Way

 

Actually it was not supposed to be a bit more, it was supposed to be the rest of it after completing the Bath to Stroud section last year.

I started out from Stow on the Wold at around 10am on 12^th June 2024 having completed some necessary mods to the golf trolley, now called the GT. Most important was a fast release connector to detach the thing from my haversack. This latter worked well, and eased the problem presented by the bloody kissing gates. Bus to Merrywalks in Stroud then managed to reconnect with the Costwold Way at Ruscombe. That was not easy. I had to stop at a pub called the Star Inn on the way to ask for directions, then finally managed to rejoin the Way which I have now renamed the Dogswold Way since there are so many of the four footers exercising their owners up there nowadays.

The first stage was a walk to Painswick providing some great views of the Severn Valley along the way. In Painswick I spent my first night under canvas in a wood opposite the town’s Rococo Gardens. Didn’t sleep too well: female foxes screaming, I think. Found a pub of course. It was the Royal Oak which a man on the street told me was the best pub in the world! It was not half bad. Good food, great local ale and an excellent lady publican plus a few friendly locals to converse with. I was short of water for next day and the landlady gave me a bottle, “No charge, because I admire what you are doing”. Wow.

Woke at six and, after the usual hour de-tenting, I rejoined  the Cotswold Way which passed right next to my corner of the wood. It led through a golf course which was lightly populated by early morning dog walkers often with 2,3 or 4 dogs, plus a few early golfers who, I thought, eyed my GT with some perplexity. I was directed by helpful walkers towards Painswick Beacon but I did not see it.  Very poorly signposted. Weather was still good with sunshine though chilly. Then a long trek mostly through steep sided beech woods (eg Pope’s Wood, Upton and Brockworth) with limited views due to the trees. Rounded the steep sided Cooper’s Hill before coming to a roadway and then along wide and often muddy farm tracks chewed up by tractors. There I had long views towards Gloucester and could see Witcombe Reservoir. Met a few people: mostly women walkers or dog walkers. One woman was from Holland and had her whole trip organised by Cotswold Walkers who transported her luggage from stopover to stopover. She eyed my GT with something between curiosity and distaste.

There is a pub at Birdlip Hill, but I arrived at about 11am and wanted to reach Cheltenham where I planned to overnight so carried on rather than having a bite of lunch there. Plodding on I began to see and hear a very busy road which turned out to be the A417 heading up the hill to the old Air Balloon Pub - recently deflated. This is the place where, as I told anyone who would listen, I had my first pint of bitter, aged 15 years (me, not the beer).

Had my lunch, a scotch egg, at the car park near the crest. Wonderful views towards Gloucester and the Malverns, but marred by the noise of the A417 then on each side of me. The area around the flattened pub was like a war zone. Heavy lifters crushing and moving rock for some new road layout, same machines that destroyed the Air Balloon, I suppose. Leaving that behind me I entered the strange diamond of road and path which sits atop Crickley Hill, home to two stone-age occupations and then an iron-age one. Though redolent with ancient history there was little to see of that, but those old ‘uns did have a great and expansive view from up there.

Getting out through the northern point of the diamond was tricky, high gradient slopes plus a narrow track and I was quite confused by it all – didn’t seem to line up with the map. I struggled on through strengthening drizzle to Leckhampton Hill, part of my upbringing in Cheltenham, and headed for the strange natural limestone tower known as the Devil’s Chimney. I did not see it, the drizzle had become a serious rain storm. I donned my waterproof trousers and struggled along hardly able to see much through the rain and also battered by strong winds. I felt like an arctic explorer, but managed to find the Way to Hartley Hill with its misty views of Cheltenham to the north. After that the Way made a dog leg south towards Seven Springs where I had to take the very busy A435 road. It was horrendous, no pavement and the grass on the verge so long that I could not drag the GT through it so kept to the very edge of the road itself with cars and lorries within inches of the wheel of the GT. Very relieved to turn off onto a proper path that led up to Ravensgate Hill and which then turned back in the correct direction making for the reservoir to the east of Cheltenham.

I had planned to camp near Cheltenham for the night but the rain came back and the whole area on the upper slopes became very slippery, not good when you are towing a GT. The downward path edged along a steep decline where I had to push the GT in case it might drag me down the slope from behind. I did slip once in fact, but managed to save myself and the GT from falling. Having lost the Cotswold Way, I was forced to enter Lineover Woods which eventually led me to the A40. However, before I reached the road, I had decided to abandon the walk. It was just too wet and the forecast was grim. I checked the bus times to Stow on my phone and found that the very last bus was due at the Reservoir Inn at 18.48, I had ten minutes or so to get there. I could just make it. This was an amazing and fortuitous coincidence. I could not believe my luck, but the bus did arrive and I clambered aboard with all my stuff.

Disappointing. I had only covered about 26 miles, consumed 3 pints of ale and visited just two pubs. But the walk was good and I will continue on to Chipping Camden sometime this year.

A surprising visit to Lincoln College. Sexual harassment and the founder of Methodism

 I have a slight interest in John Wesley and the Methodist Movement mainly stimulated by providing a couple of tours on that theme in the past. The connections with Oxford are strong, of course. Wesley and his brother attended Christ Church and, after graduating, John became a fellow at Lincoln College. He is celebrated there: his original room is preserved, he preached in the chapel and donated gifts to the college.

Simon Q  CC-SA BY 2.0

With others the Wesley brothers founded a group sometimes called the Holy Club. They were rigorous in their religiosity, meeting daily from six until nine for prayer, psalms, and reading of the Greek New Testament, then praying every hour throughout the day, taking Communion every Sunday, and fasting on Wednesdays and Fridays until 3 pm! It is from this rigour that the term Methodism is said to have evolved.

That demanding timetable would seem to leave little time for dalliance. Nevertheless, Wesley did marry. This took place in 1751 by which time he was 48 years old. He would have then been required to resign his fellowship at Lincoln (Fellows were sworn to celibacy until late in the 19^th century). That said, I was intrigued by a notice of a forthcoming lecture at Lincoln titled Wesley and Women and went along with Margaret, my wife, who has a slight interest through her non-conformist upbringing as a Baptist.

Expecting a rather dull meeting yet hoping for something that might add to my guiding knowledge, I was surprised and shocked by the presentation. It focussed on a mysterious letter to John from a young female admirer; a letter that had apparently been discovered and removed by his wife when she left him in 1758. The lecturer read extracts from the letter and displayed the text on the screen at the same time which was quite effective to my mind and preferable to the straightforward reading of papers common amongst Oxford academic presenters. Amongst warm appreciation of Wesley’s godliness, etc, there were clear insinuations in the letter of unwelcomed sexual advances! However, the situation is confused by alternate use of first or second person which left some doubt whether the perpetrator was Wesley or some unknown man.  The presenter left us to decide for ourselves the validity of the letter and the guilt or otherwise of that stalwart of Methodism.

Afterwards we drank wine with the presenter and his wife, then walked to Oxford’s newest hotel: The Store. There we took a lift to the roof top bar and surveyed a panorama of Oxford’s centre which was spectacularly new to me and, to use a modern adjective, awesome. Another glass of wine then home, discussing the culpability of Wesley and moral lassitude of important men. Sorry I should say people to be inclusive.

 

Inspiration from Morocco

 Yes, we’ve been off again. First time to Morocco, though it’s next door to our second country, Spain, and shares a couple of cities with it. Why Morocco? ‘Cause it’s supposed to be warm and sunny in the winter and it combines some familiarity (we lived next to Moroccans for some time) and has tempting mysteries.

We landed in Marrakesh and it was hot. I had booked a hotel for three days with the flight which was mysteriously called, Riad DAR 73. We caught a bus to a large square which turned out to be the main centre of the ‘red city’ and walked towards the hotel; it did not seem far and we had Google to guide us. But Google failed and three policemen in argumentative conference could not help. After many false trails we found the place down a very narrow alley strewn with rubbish and lined with collapsing houses. We could not believe it, this was supposed to be a five-star hotel with swimming pool, though I must say it had seemed quite a bargain. I ducked low to get through the door and looked around suspiciously, could this really be it. In fact, once inside it was not too bad, but certainly not five-star.­­­­

This was the beginning of our flirtation with Riads. They are large houses that have been converted into small hotels. They are located in the Medinas (the old walled part of city where no cars are allowed) down very narrow alleys. They are not at all impressive from the outside, but are often palatial inside: usually built around an atrium with the dining room on the ground floor. Our most impressive were in Fes, the original capital. There the Madaw had a large atrium decorated with multi-coloured small tiles in swirling patterns reaching right up to the top floor where our sumptuous room was similarly decorated, as was the shower room. Yes, we stayed in a small palace with an open rooftop above and sometimes had the whole place to ourselves.

We had taken the train to Fes so we could see a good deal of the country along the way. Once there I found the Medina claustrophobic and soon tired of the passive aggressive offers of help from potential guides. We travelled to the more modern capital of Rabat then drove to a large lake called Merja Gerga beside the Atlantic to study birds where I was particularly thrilled to observe spoonbills.

Morocco is not the place for those who like to take a drop, but we managed. The saving grace was often the hidden booze cellars of Carrefour supermarkets, but some restaurants catered for the needy.

Returning to Oxford at 4 a.m. on a freezing Sunday morning we walked through appalling scenes of drunkenness, debauchery and semi-nudity. And, out running the next day, I rather missed the friendly faces, the hand touched to the chest, the engaging nod, the knowing smile and the warm sun. Back to reality, the trip has given me an idea for a book, and that can’t be bad.

Only in Oxford: Free Will versus Determinism

 Did you freely decide to read this blog or was it simply inevitable? This free will argument engages my brain and has done for some time. Is everything pre-determined? Since our universe is determined by physical laws then given a fixed starting point everything must evolve according to those laws – that is determinism, we do not have free will. You did not decide to have eggs for breakfast this morning rather than cereal. You thought that you decided, but that thought was predetermined. When Jack the Ripper murdered all of those innocent people, it was not his fault, his actions were predetermined and not his responsibility!

I believe that we have free will and I can explain why. I believe that you can choose between eggs and cereal for breakfast and hence that we are responsible for our actions. Consequently, Jack the Ripper, if he had been found, should have faced the consequences.

Nevertheless, this very important issue needs exploration.That is why I decided to return to Oxford from Stow on the Wold in order to attend a lecture on it at St Margaret’s Institute which is quite near to our flat in North Oxford. The title was ‘Free will is not an illusion: biology against determinism’ and the speaker was Denis Noble. As usual I cut things fine, arriving about 3 minutes before the start. I was then faced, along with other disappointed attendees, by a large printed sign saying FULL UP. I was shocked. After all the lecture hall is large, it probably holds 70 or more, and the subject somewhat obscure. And so the title of this blog: “Only in Oxford”.

Undeterred, I returned to the flat and quickly found a video by Denis Noble on this self same subject. Watching it I quickly ascertained that this ancient, white haired, white browed academic believes that we do have free will - that our actions and thoughts are not predetermined. He bases his argument on the simple fact that the elementary stuff of which we are all made behaves randomly (Brownian movement, etc) and so nothing is predetermined.  I so agree.

Later I watched a TED talk by an enthusiastic young determinism believer. He was very convincing of course. But, at the end of his talk, he advised us that we must not use this determinism as an excuse for irresponsible action! We must, he advised us, try to do the right thing and by our actions persuade others to do so too. Silly man. If everything is predetermined there can be no persuading since that assumes the possibility of changing the future and determinism determines that the future is already determined! What do you think?

Christmas past and present, plus tunnels

 

Last year, 2022, Margaret and I spent Christmas in Adelaide with out youngest son and his family, and I swam, twice, on the day itself in the shark-infested Great Australian Bight which I suppose is part of the Indian Ocean. We celebrated the New Year with our granddaughter in her New Zealander husband’s birthplace of Mount Maunganui where I played with my first great grandson and swam in the tumultuous Bay of Plenty. Chinese New Year saw us with my eldest son’s family showered with fireworks on the high mountainside peach plantation of his father-in-law in aboriginal Taiwan. Clearly, that year set a very high water mark for this one, 2023.

This year we spent most of the two weeks around Christmas on our own in either Stow on the Wold or Oxford. I did not swim and the weather was cold and mostly dreary. Yet it was great. We attended a wonderful carol concert in the beautiful surrounding of Keble College, Oxford. Then, on another evening we were the singers ourselves, singing traditional carols for charity with my fellow guides at the Broad Street Christmas Market. This was followed by a bit of a pub tour ending up at the Rose and Crown, one of our locals. Then off to Stow where we had two excellent musical nights in the Talbot on the main square. It’s recently been taken over by the lead singer of that internationally famous group, Aliens Don’t Ring Doorbells. On Christmas Eve he did most of the singing while his troop of young ladies from Spain paraded prettily to his dulcet tones and we were applauded for our dancing, well Margaret really.

The Christmas was all nicely finished off by a visit from our two grandchildren from London, accompanied by that same great grandson, now a busy and adventurous one and half year old. Then finally, on New Year’s Eve we wandered down to our other local in Oxford, The Harcourt Arms which is well known for its music. There, a large man called Jack bashed away at his electronic organ playing any song on request, even mine: The Wild Rover. At about eleven the doors burst open and in poured our favourite group, the Spirolites and things then went wild for the last hour of 2023 and a bit of 2024.

Next year? Who knows?

https://youtu.be/xXHlBT0FEgI

Back to normality. I’ve just launched a new video. I’ve made a couple on the tunnels of Oxford and they have proven popular so I thought I would mop up with some others I know of. There’s something about these subterranean places especially in a city like Oxford, you know. This one’s called More Secret Tunnels of Oxford – have a look. https://youtu.be/xXHlBT0FEgI

Worcester College opens the doors – and the gardens

Worcester College has always been rather inaccessible during my career as a guide but, under the new Provost David Isaac, it has opened up; more than that it is actually welcoming. I have always admired this college and it is “in my patch” of Oxford. Though not so great when viewed form the outside, inside it is wonderful: a hidden jewel and so green.

Emma Goodrum, the college archivist gave us guides from the Oxford Guild an excellent and informative tour and I thought then that I must add it to my Most Beautiful Colleges of Oxford series on Youtube. And I have. Take a look here.

 

Spain again 2023

 

It’s nearly the end of September and we’ve been back in our casa (house) in La Fresneda for a week or so. The 1,000 plus miles it takes to get here in the motor caravan had its usual up and downs starting with a good last UK night in Blake’s our usual pub in Dover – with live music. We made a dash to the east above Paris using the boring but fast toll roads reaching Reims, the first place we ever stayed at in our previous motor caravan, then spending a nice night in nearby Epernay drinking Belgian beer rather than its main product: champagne.

We then passed through the middle of France joining the gloriously toll free (mostly) A20 with a couple of overnight stops at St Floret sur Cher (see the chateau) and Cazeres. The latter is a town near Toulouse where we had a few drinks with a well travelled man originally from South Africa and the landlord of the pub who was from Spain. The Bistrot de Olive didn’t serve food so the landlord sold us the makings of dinner but that’s another story.

Then over the glorious Pyrenees via Pont de Suerte and a long drive to our village where we dined on tapas at our local pub Bar la Plaza. As usual things have changed in the village somewhat. This time the place was overrun by motorcyclists and we found that many of the empty houses are now doing Airbnb. Our own house was difficult to enter (jammed doors again) but otherwise fine and is looking rather nice with the climbing rose and serpentine grape vine that we have established on its main wall.

The huerto continues to be invaded by armoured weeds, but we have a mini harvest of little apples and big bunches of grapes are hanging from the almond tree (no almonds though). Very few olives in the grove but that’s OK, we don’t know what to with them these days anyway. The caseta still has water ingress which is beginning to rot the beams but mostly OK. I blame the builder for water problems and have told him (me) that he must try to fix it (again) this time.

It is very hot and I am less inclined to work in the heat nowadays: spending more time in the house and in the motor caravan where I am trying to get the new fridge I fitted before our trip to function. Happy days.

Refrigerators and everything you need to know about Oxford University

 

Just off on another trip to our village of La Fresneda in Spain after the long and frustrating task of fitting a new refrigerator to the old motor caravan. Not an easy job, it works off the camper’s battery, plug in mains, or gas. At this moment it does not work with any of them, so that’s not good.

Meanwhile I have been working hard to finish my latest video before I go and have just launched it. Its title is: Everything you need to know about Oxford University: The brief guide. Some task, and some claim. Everything? Well of course not. Anyone who does know everything about this arcane, yet adaptable institution is probably incapable of explaining it to anyone except themselves. But I’ve had a go and with the help of some good and knowledgeable friends it’s finished and viewable on Youtube. Have a look.

The next blog will probably be from Spain, there were many of those in the past.

Walking the Cotswold Way pursued by a golfing trolley

I like to take long walks occasionally and I do not like the idea of paying for overnight accommodation, porterage and such, so I wild camp and carry everything on my back. But it’s heavy and seems to become heavier as the days progress. That’s why for some years now I have been incubating this idea of pulling my camping gear behind me rather than hefting it on my back. I tried various solutions without success. Then I made a lucky find. Someone in a rather rich area near my flat in Oxford had thrown away a used golfing trolley. I adapted it and this contraption with the luggage bag or box (a slightly modified modern grass box from an electric mower) plus flexibly attached and also modified haversack became known to me as the trolley. Now I could carry a much bigger tent and have a go at a walk I have often fancied: the Cotswold Way.

So, at the end of August in 2023, I struggled onto a very busy train from Oxford with my trolley and travelled to Bath, the southern end of the Way. It seemed to take forever extricating myself from the city but I did it and ended that first day in a camping spot beyond a rusty gate just to the north of Hinton near a massive manure heap and a wood. As I erected the tent a car parked in the rusty gate entranceway! I could not believe it. Who could it be? The owners of the field? Officers of the Stop Wild Camping Brigade? Lovers? Everything was already wet from the rain soaked grass so I had no choice but to continue making camp. By the time I’d finished it was almost dark, so I took my torch to the gate and waved it about a bit. A light came on in the car and the driver’s window was lowered. A youngish woman said, “Sorry, is this your gate?”

“Not exactly”, I replied as she quickly reversed and sped off, away from Hinton. I walked in the other direction in the near darkness to Hinton’s only pub, the Bull. It had beer, but no food so I dined on salted peanuts. No breakfast the next day either as I towed the trolley alongside the M4 then crossed it to the village of Tormarton. Its pub had closed down, so on again to Old Sodbury where in a pub called The Dog I had a much needed sausage, egg and chips.

By this time I had developed a hatred of styles, kissing gates and all of the things that blocked my way along the Cotswold Way: they are not made for walkers with trolleys. However, that night I made it to Hawkesbury Upton where lay my perfect pub: the Beaufort Arms. Perfect with one exception, the otherwise friendly landlord did not provide tasters of the real ales he purveyed. “You can buy a half or a pint,” he told me bluntly – and he had good reason for his rule. Had a good dinner of faggots and mash then returned to my camp in a corner of the local football field.

Hygiene when wild camping is always a problem, but I did manage a refreshing wash down the next day in a very cold stream. I then sweated my way up Wortley Hill, which overlooks Wotton under Edge. But there was a reward for my efforts: the first good views of the Severn Valley with that wide river shimmering in the distance beside my ancestral home: Berkeley.

A long trek then to North Nibley Monument with its even more panoramic views and onwards to Dursley where I drank in the Old Spot, lost my boots, and had great difficulty finding a wild camping site. Next and last day I made it to Stroud in my sandals and took a three bus trip to Stow on the Wold having completed about half of the Cotswold Way’s one hundred odd miles. There I parked my trolley in the garage ready for an assault on the other half of that beautiful, but challenging footpath.

(This is a much abbreviated version of my notes. If you want the whole story email me.)

Religion and Climate Change

 

I’ve not written many blogs this year and I’ve not been to many lectures. What’s happening to me?

Well, I am spending a lot of time writing my next book and I also devote many hours to making videos for my Rob’s Oxford channel. But tonight I did go to a lecture, actually more like a debate, at Oxford University’s Museum of Natural History just round the corner from where I live.

It was titled “Is livestock grazing essential to mitigating climate change?” Not a very exciting topic for many, I thought, but I do have an interest in this topic through the field we have been re-wilding for some years at Stow. Anyway I could not have been more wrong, it was exciting and the main lecture theatre was packed to the gods, literally. Probably 200 people there and the place was abuzz even before the debate started. If I had done my usual 'just in time act' I wouldn’t have got a seat!

The speakers were Allan Savory, listed as a founder and leading proponent of Holistic Management and George Monbiot, simply described as a prominent critic, but generally known as a writer specialising in environmental and political activism.

Why did I put religion in the title of this blog?  Well, I do not think I have ever witnessed such passion and division at a lecture in Oxford before this one. And the zeal of the supporters for each point of view certainly smacked of religiosity. It extended to applause and hooting, yet hooting, at times

So what was it all about? Actually I wasn’t quite sure. I certainly did not understand what the holistic man supported. Lacking only the surplice, he talked like a vicar, a passionate one. He lived in Africa but had spent the last two  years in the USA. He had been a military man and seemed to think that military thinking was the only way forward for dealing with climate change. He did not seem to address the title of the debate.

Monbiot was much clearer. He knew that grazing animals and big corporations were the problem and rewilding together with vegetarianism or even veganism the solution. He was more explicit, more passionate and strongly challenged Allan Savory to address the topic under discussion.

At it simplest I think the Monbiot camp favoured banning grazing animals and Savory favoured biodiversity but I may have oversimplified. The audience seemed to know what was what and divided almost equally into the camps, I think.

Savory had the last word by reading a statement which sounded like a sermon and ended with the repeated statement that “we have to look after each other”. Amen.

Meanwhile the sheep in the next field are attacking my rewilded hedge. Should I let then in? Not likely.

A day in life of an Oxford tour guide.

 Here you can read about three very different Oxford tours and then get a link to my latest video,  a pub one and just the place to go after these three tours.

Tour 1 Chaos

Four mature guides, including myself, were waiting for a party of eighty people on a company jolly to Oxford from a far eastern country which will remain nameless to protect the innocent. They arrived at the visitor centre of the college of Christchurch and the first requirement was - you’ve guessed it – toilets. That took a while. Then they had to be lined up in four different groups, single file, for the distribution of audio-visual guides – the staff members at the visitor centre are quite draconian about this. That too took a while. In fact half an hour had passed fruitlessly by before I could take my group into the college through the Meadow Gate. Inside they fiddled haplessly with their multiple language audio-visual guides attempting to begin the tour – many failed and I helped as best I could. I would much prefer to guide them round this top tourist spot myself, but the college no longer allows us to do so.

Their group leader was enthusiastic, but spoke little English. Nevertheless he managed to convey to me that the full tour was far too complicated so I suggested that we just visit the dining hall (he called it the Harry Potter dining hall) and the cathedral. So, we joined the slow moving queue on the famous (Harry Potter) access stairs then wormed our way slowly around the even more famous dining hall while they filled their phones with images of it all.

The next port of call was the visually striking Tom Quad, where more images were captured and the group scattered before we could herd them into the cathedral. Once inside I had just one follower – the group leader – he had lost the entire group.

Somehow we got most of them together in order to leave the college and as we left they dispersed. I explained as best that I could that it was now my role as the guide to take them to a number of interesting sites in the city. Their leader smiled tolerantly whilst continuing to send them off, unaccompanied, with instructions to meet at McDonalds at 4pm. Soon he was the only person left – so I went home. An unwanted and useless guide.

Tour 2 The donor and family

Many people give money to Oxford University and its colleges. The most recent big ones are: the Blavatnik School of Government, Reuben College and the nascent Schwartzman Centre for the Humanities. Many other philanthropic gifts have been provided and donors seem keen to oblige.

This tour had been arranged by the University and I was the guide. My role was to show the potential donor (PD) around the central buildings, explain the way the University and Colleges interwork and so on – the usual stuff. The group consisted of the PD and wife, their two teenage sons and a younger daughter, an Oxford graduate who worked for the PD and a young lady who worked for the University and who had the resources ready to pay for any entry fees.

I was a little nervous, this was not my usual group by any means, and people with huge amounts of money can often be egotistical and demanding. This PD was not; in fact he was quite pleasant, fairly knowledgeable and engaged. After him my main worry was the Oxford graduate.  How dare I, having finished school at the age of sixteen, explain the intricacies of the top University in the world when he had just recently been though the mill? In fact he was delightful, telling me in an aside that he had not yet experienced the graduation ceremony. Then there was the PD’s wife, she was not happy and her face portrayed that. I have no idea why she was not happy, but she contributed little to the proceeding and did not sour them. Then there were the two lads. They were at the age where showing interest in something said or shown by a person of my age would be devastatingly embarrassing and they mostly avoided eye contact. The daughter was rather sweet, and responded well to my asides about the locations used in the Harry Potter films. I believe the high point of the tour, the thing which really grabbed their attention was the long list of past donors which is displayed within the Clarendon Building passageway.

The tour done, the PD took me aside and said that on the basis of my tour he had decided to donate a huge sum of cash to the University and then requested a visiting card from me. I hasten to add that only the final part of that sentence in true. But he seemed happy enough and walked off with his minders to a busy day where he would see more of the university and its colleges than a humble tour guide ever would. 

Tour 3 The American Indians

This was a tour that had all the hallmarks of failure. It was in my diary as a group of Indians arriving at a certain time date and place who had prepaid for a visit to New College. Well, first the booking had two different dates, second the group were American not Indian and third the college was closed on the day of the tour! I thought the second date the most likely but went along to the meeting place on the first just in case. Just as well, there, at the Martyr’s Memorial I was approached by Bob and his eight or so companions. They were my sort of age and enthusiastic about Oxford, though they had very limited time to spend with me.

I whizzed them round to St John’s College which was open and free to enter and there gave my potted version of what a college does in the Oxford scheme of things and then what was left for the University to do. They were hungry for details. The questions kept a ‘coming and I did have all the answers for them. They particularly liked the chapel and the magnificent Canterbury Quad. After that we ventured into the city proper where we shared the wonder of the Divinity School, the Sheldonian Theatre and Old Schools Quad followed by the majesty of Radcliffe Square and its dominating Camera.

They appreciated the whole thing so much and my delivery was much enhanced by their obvious appreciation. There was talk of return trips and a general ambience of a good experience shared. I cycled home a happy man and a contented tour guide.

That was quite a day. As you know my other thing is making videos for my YouTube channel: Rob’s Oxford. Here’s the latest, fresh out of the “studio”.  It’s about the Harcourt Arms, one my and Margaret’s favourite pubs. We go along most Sunday’s for its excellent open mike night – and beer.

Back from the world trip and straight into a pub

 

Now settled back in England after the world tour and spending some of my time making my notes and recollections into a book of sorts. Don’t know whether it will be published at all but I am enjoying revisiting all of the places that we visited in this way – have just left Hawaii and arrived in Tasmania. I expect that I will finish it later in the year.

Also have resurrected and added to one of my favourite tours: Literary Oxford. I‘ve given it a quite a few times now for Bodleian Tours and the Oxford Literature Festival and it’s been great. It covers ten or so colleges detailing the work of authors and poets from them plus a visit to the Divinity School which has the first library of the University (outside of the church) above it.

Meanwhile I have been working on another video and this one has been a great pleasure since it is based in a pub and, unlike my earlier Pubs of Oxford videos which were mostly done during lockdown, this one captures the family who run the Rose and Crown telling me what they do there. And, what is more, it’s my local (or at least one of them).

It’s a great little pub, very traditional and very welcoming. Have a look. Here’s the link.

 

Taiwan Calling

 


This is the last in a series touching on our trip around the world, and Taiwan has to be the most foreign. Why? Because all of the other countries had strong colonial of some sort, and boast a common language, or so it’s claimed.

Taiwan is a busy, sometimes frenetic, place of great beauty and great danger: earthquakes, typhoons, snakes and China.  However, there is no day–to-day awareness of that danger to my mind: life goes on, and for many it is a good life.

We have rather a unique view of Taiwan since our eldest son lives there and is married to an aboriginal lady. Consequently, we spent Lunar New Year’s eve way up in the mountains where her father has built his own house with, perhaps, the most stunning and (for the vertigo sufferers such as myself) dizzying views that I have witnessed in Taiwan. There we barbecued food whilst alcohol ran freely (including the father’s own peach wine – very strong) and various members of the family, young and old dispatched hundreds of rockets over the peach trees which cling tenaciously to the mountainside: those fireworks exploding noisily in the valley far below. Meanwhile red envelopes containing money were given to the children and even some for us as honoured guests – how kind.

Though most of our time was spent with our son, his wife and their two children; we did venture further afield taking the rather famous Alishan Forest Railway up to the park of the same name. It’s a tortuous trip in a small, narrow gauge, train traversing a line that rises steeply by utilising switch backs, U-turns and spirals. Originally created by the Japanese colonists to bring down timber from Alishan, it is now a major tourist attraction and is certainly a memorable experience for all – especially the vertiginous. We stayed up there in Alishan’s wonderfully laid out park in a hotel which turned to be our most expensive, meanest and coldest of the whole trip! But the views compensated: so dramatic, especially from the railway station.

One night was certainly enough in that hotel so we moved by bus (another dizzying, but stunning, experience) to Sun Moon Lake. Here is what I wrote in my notes. “This is one of the most inspiring, tear jerkingly beautiful locations I have ever visited. The view from the hotel lobby this morning caused me to stop in my tracks and gasp. It’s probably impossible to put into words but I’ll try. The lake is suffused with sunlight and rippling softly. There seems to be many islands but some are actually low hills on the distant shore. In the background are many grey/blue mountains of random heights, the biggest looming right up towards the sky and each of them wreathed with the soft whiteness of clouds.

Though roads are constantly improving across the country and there are many overpasses to speed the flow of traffic, the scooter is still king. Margaret christened them “replacement legs” and she’s right, people do not seem to walk very much because it is so easy, and cheap, to hop onto the scooter and park on the pavement right outside the shop or eatery that you are making for, thus creating a street scene that is unsightly, dangerous and awkward to negotiate on foot. My son took me to places where change is beginning, where pavements are for pedestrians and there are more trees and some modern apartment blocks, but this will surely take decades to make a great impact.

I’ll finish by confessing to my love for the flora and fauna of Taiwan, particularly the former. Things grow so luxuriantly there, and on any surface: including each other. Not far from my son’s home the straggle of houses finishes and wild, almost impenetrable jungle abounds. It may soon devour the scooters as you can see. I call this a “natural ending”.

And so ends my trip. After three months covering four distant countries and twelve air flights we arrived back in Oxford, which was cold but still lovely and a complete contrast to the places we have visited. Now I must begin work on a book detailing our travels.

New Zealand Calling

 Is there a tangible difference between Australia and New Zealand beyond geography? Well, they do have a lot in common - but there are real differences. Upon leaving Adelaide we stayed for a few days in Auckland, NZ residing just beneath the incredibly thin and high Sky Tower. On our first morning we visited the War Memorial Museum located in the city’s wonderful park: the Auckland Domain. The museum covers a range of topics, but we were most interested in the history of the country (and certainly not that of Stonehenge which was currently being covered as a guest display from the UK), particularly the coming of the Maoris (known to themselves as the “Mouldies”. That part of the museum began with a vast area devoted to Polynesian cultures – the true ancestors of the Maoris before their incredible journeys from the Cook and Society island groups – and it is that journey plus their settlement of New Zealand that particularly interests me.

Maoris first landed their ocean-going canoes in NZ only 800 years ago or so – whereas the original people of Australia were there 50,000 years ago when their land split from the main continent. I have a personal interest in all of this since the reason for stopping off after leaving Australia was, at least in part, to link up with our granddaughter. She was there for Christmas and New Year with her New Zealander husband (who himself has Maori ancestry) and a first chance for his family to meet their baby son, our first great grandson.

Though thrilled with the wonderful blue-green experience afforded by the landing at Auckland airport (one of the best airport approaches in my estimation), we were not that taken with our second visit to Auckland itself: we later regretted that we did not hire a car to explore the reportedly beautiful coast to the north. However, our main objective was not there so after a short stay we took the bus south travelling to the west coast via the green, lumpy countryside of those parts. Unfortunately I had return to Auckland soon after leaving because of the ‘suitcase incident’ – don’t ask. So we spent the day of New Year’s Eve travelling by bus to the island of Mount Maunganui, then on the following day I spent eight hours travelling back to Auckland and half of the next returning to the Mount. Maunganui is the place that my grandson-in-law regards as home and this is where I saw the New Year in, sitting in the garage of an Airbnb with a group of his NZ friends who displayed an enviable capacity for alcohol, cursing and beer pong. It was fun and I added just a little to the atmosphere by getting them to sing and dance to Auld Lang Syne.

The mount is a strangely fin-shaped volcanic cone at the western end of the island, itself bordered by the finest of white sand and pummelled by roaring surf which delights surfers but knocked me for six over and over again. It lies in the Bay of Plenty next to Tauranga and is known by some as the party island of the country despite severe restrictions on the consumption of alcohol outside the home (and Airbnbs).

We returned to Auckland for our next flight (to Taiwan) and had a pint in the Shakespeare Hotel which has its own brewery and was the scene of violent glass throwing on our previous visit. The beer there was not bad and the fish and chips just great. But the best pint to my mind is Galbraith’s just to the south of the city. This place is unique, not only does it have its own brewery but serves the beer at cellar temperature through a fine set of handpumps. Yes, REAL real ale. That was and I’m sure will remain, the best pint of my round the world trip. Still, when in Rome and all that. Do they serve real ale in Rome? ‘Course not.

Australia Calling

I know, I know. Tasmania is part of Australia and I’ve already written about that. But it seems like another country, just as the State of South Australia that I visited seems a different country from West Australia its neighbour to the west and Victoria to the east. I think these state are more like England, Scotland and Wales in this respect rather than, perhaps, the counties of the UK.

Our son greeted us at the airport together with his two kids who were squirming with ... with what? Excitement, embarrassment, shyness? Who knows? After all they hardly know us plus they are just five and six years old. Then we took a taxi and my son took them home, no room in his car because of the child seats regulations!

This was a return for us – and a goodbye. They rent an ugly but quite spacious bungalow in North Brighton, Adelaide but had just bought one of their own in the same area – so we now know that Australia is their permanent home. Most of Adelaide’s housing consists of bungalows and on a previous trip I regarded them as little more than sheds: this time, because of their purchase perhaps, I realised they are often quite characterful and certainly varied. Meanwhile there is a trend there towards demolishing the bungalows and constructing two storey and/or multiple homes.

For me the most welcome, the most startling, and the most interesting aspect of the country is the birds: so colourful, so splendid, so musical yet also cacophonic, and so proximate. For colour my favourite is the Rainbow Lorikeet – so beautiful, so noisy. For musicality it’s the Australian Magpie, so lyrical, so black and white. But of course I love the mammals too, though there were not so many wild sightings this visit (we did visit the excellent Adelaide Zoo guided by our grandchildren).

My three week stay consisted primarily of working on my son’s new home: fencing in his dysfunctional swimming pool (a legal necessity there), repairing a collapsing garage, some rewiring and so forth. However, I was allowed a holiday of three days; so we hired a car and travelled north towards the York Peninsula through bleak flatlands mostly consisting of natural low scrub, vast wheat fields, or enormous sheep enclosures. The roads were mostly straight, lonely and well-made though we also traversed long miles of unsealed roads at ten miles per hour or less. On the latter we met a kangaroo and experienced a limited, but enthralling, degree of interaction.

Star location of the trip was Moonta, an ‘ancient’ town owing its existence to copper mining and imported Cornish labour (the pasties were good). We resided in a hotel that served no food and dined in a motel that had no beds! We also enjoyed the local museum which brilliantly told the story of this now defunct mining area from all aspects: community, technology and workforce and so on. We also visited a seaside town called Port Broughton and a wine town in the Clare valley.

Of course I much prefer beer to wine and, on this trip, evolved a technique for obtaining beer which was not ‘teeth shatteringly cold’. What I did was this: I ordered bottled from the store at room temperature and mixed them with the near zero stuff from he tap to attain the perfect cellar temperature of approximately twelve degrees centigrade – much to the astonishment and puzzlement of both drinkers and bar staff.

 Christmas was very different to my norm. First of all the sun was shining and it was hot. I went for a run as ever in the morning and found nearby Brighton beach buzzing with swimmers, sun bathers, dog walkers, kayakers, surfboarders and so forth. The water looked so blue, so inviting, so tempting that I stripped to my shorts and underpants and plunged in. Cold, but refreshing, I truly enjoyed that swim, my first on a Christmas day so it really had to be done. I then dripped, towel-less back to the Ilfracombe Avenue bungalow for present giving and a spiced beef Christmas lunch.

In the afternoon, guess what we did? Yes, the whole family went down to the beach dragging a tent, in which Margaret sheltered from the wind-blown sand, an inflatable paddle board and all the paraphernalia apparently necessary for a family beach visit. And there I was again; swimming on Christmas day plus playing ball and drinking beer, not at the same time of course, on a glorious sun-baked beach in the antipodes.

On Boxing Day there is a tradition within our family to take a long walk, so, even though the heat was omnipresent, my son and I did just that. We followed a trail up to some waterfalls located in a national park on the eastern outskirts of Adelaide and found, just like us, they were dry. However, we met an emu, which was nice.

It was not all building work and play though. I did some interesting research into a famous man who headed a ground-breaking medical team in Oxford and was born and educated in Adelaide. Watch this space for the forthcoming video.

 

Tasmania Calling

 

Hawaii to Hobart is a long stretch, we were in the air for 11 hours before changing at the airport horriblis: Melbourne. So, after further delays, it was quite late when we arrived at the Doctor Syntax Hotel and consequently there was no-one to let us in and nowhere to eat! As ever all’s well that end well and next morning I took a run down to nearby Sandy Bay – and was impressed. I liked Hobart with its individual houses that struggle up the hills surrounding the vast and convoluted bay.

It was an easy walk into the city where we learned so much more about Tasmania: from the original natives , through the convict age, the immigration phase and including some intriguing things about the flora and fauna. We also visited a pub with a handpump! Unfortunately for me it only delivered imperial stout and the rest of the beers were cold, fizzy and expensive craft ales – the norm for the last few weeks and for the rest of my world trip.

Idiosyncratically we took a bus to our next stop: Port Arthur. It dumped us about a mile away from our hotel , the Fox and Hounds.  Though isolated the place was great. Have you ever opened the door of a hotel room and expostulated a loud “Wow”? This “wow” was not for the room but the view: straight out onto the wood-lined bay with the sea lapping the shore a few metres from our full length window. Wow. Next day we walked down to the Port Arthur prison­ which was where those considered the real bad ‘uns of the day were confined, beaten and educated. It was by all accounts a horrific place, but is now tranquil and despite its horrific past, rather beautiful.

Returning to Hobart I gave in and hired a car from a backstreet dealer called Raj and we went ‘a touring. I like Tasmania. It seems that there is always a mountain range in sight plus easy travelling distance to the highly varied coast. We saw spectacular waterfalls, long stretches of zero occupation countryside, chainsaw carvings in the remnants of condemned trees, and even visited Pontypool - not the 25,000 population town of Wales  from my childhood, but a sparse community of ten farms  dotted beside a long rough road and ending in the middle of nowhere.

Our favourite place was the second city of Launceston, with its impressive civic buildings, lovely setting, beautiful parks and a memorable ravine through which one of its two rivers squeezes  into a steaming cataract. There and elsewhere we met people with English connections: direct or through ancestors. And it is there that we attended a live music concert in a pub which was great.

We found the  people of Tasmania to be very forthright and friendly, our only criticism of the place can be applied to anywhere where the USA has had an influence: the meals were just too large. We adapted by ordering one meal and two plates.

It rained heavily on our last day in Hobart and our plane to the mainland was cancelled at the last minute - an unfortunate ending to an otherwise great fortnight. Oh and don't forget the black swans, so many, so black.

Hawaii Calling

 

It’s a strange place, this little archipelago all alone out there in the middle of the Pacific, first “discovered” by Captain Cook – who later died here. American to the core it still includes the Union Jack in its state flag and boasts of the many kings and queens of the “indigenous” people. Expensive and overloaded with tourists it has an enormous airport on the main island of Oahu with planes departing and arriving every quarter of an hour or so.

We had a relatively cheap (in Hawaii nothing is really cheap) hotel shielded from the famous Waikiki Beach by rows of sky scraping alternatives which were much more expensive. Yet the beautiful blueness of the ocean was only minutes away. We had a balcony looking down on a sumptuous swimming pool belonging to the hotel next door and were surrounded by the skyscrapers. It wasn’t a bad place and the Honolulu Lounge, possibly the nearest thing to a real pub in this sea of tourist bars and restaurants, was very close by.

The beach was wonderful and the view over the ocean with its rolling surf, soft sand and treed parkland is to die for. It is spoiled only by the masses of indulgent tourists and rich invaders who rule the economy by their presence and ruin the economy of the less well-off locals who cannot afford the prices that the outsiders pay with seeming ease. Our guide on the Waikiki Trolley bemoaned her situation in which multi-generational housing is the norm and keeping chickens a must if you want eggs for breakfast.

The entire beach area is dominated by a chain of shops called ABC which arguably stands for Always Bigger Costs. When I went out to buy the makings of a cheap breakfast on the first morning I was shocked to see a loaf of bread at $10, a few slices of cake at $7.99 and, our breakfast mainstay – cereal bars only sold singly and at a price that you usually pay for a box of them!

Yet, amongst all this expensive luxury poverty is in plain sight. Behind my hotel there was a long canal which replaced a mosquito ridden swamp. It is now a very pleasant water course with a golf course on the opposite side and a park at the very end. People live in that park. They are mostly men and move their only possessions about in shopping trolleys. One man mad two linked together! They did not look at me and I did not engage with them. Drunks lie on the pavements, stepped gracefully over by bronzed young women in thongs with surf boards held above their heads.

The only thing that is cheap is the beach and the buses. A 40 minute ride from the airport to our hotel costs just a couple of dollars, though they did not run on the early Sunday morning of our departure: we had to use an Uber at more that $40!

The backcloth of extinct volcanic mountains are a delight to the eye and are often topped by impressive cloud formations, however, the incomers are creeping up the valleys towards the heights with their million dollar houses.  Fortunately, there is a coast not far from Waikiki beach which has so far resisted the real estate mongols. It is rugged, wind swept and beautiful with a blowhole that gushes pure white foaming sea water onto the black igneous rock.

Food of almost any country is available of course and can be consumed with a live band playing if you so wish. We happened to be near the most popular place in town: a Japanese restaurant with a queue extending down the street for most of the day and night. We did not queue but had a good meal in nearby Coco Coconuts, serenaded by their own band. The leader told me that he was a Radiohead fan.

Yes, a strange place. If I return, which is unlikely, I will give Honolulu a miss and explore the more natural parts of Hawaii.

America Calling

We chose Austin, Texas because an America singer called Patty from our local Oxford music pub recommended it for live music. Then the harmonic player from Lighting Willy and Poor Boys sang its praises to us – his name is Fancy and they also play at the Harcourt sometimes.

Our motel was crap, right next to a roaring freeway and no double glazing, but we did meet an interesting couple in the miniscule breakfast room there (the woman guided Margaret through the intricacies of the waffle maker). He had studied English but now worked in the renewable energy world.

However, the Super 8 motel was central and had great views of the wonderful Capitol building, seat of state governance for Texas. It was also close to a nice little park beside a stream which borders the eastern part of the city, and there I saw my first group of boat tailed grackles, a bird that is very common in Texas but fascinates me in its song, its movements and general behaviour. I reckon it’s related to our blackbird.

Found great blues music at King Bee’s on the first night and the beer wasn’t too bad either. There was eve real avaible (not) see photo. Next night we ventured into Sixth Street where there is an amazing collection of bars, most with live music. We had a good time in a piano bar where a young man vamped on the keys and sang energetically backed by just a drummer and driven to excess by tips and requests.

Wasted a lot of time trying to get data to work on my phone in Austin: essential for Uber and maps. It was a problem that dogged me for most of the trip. Thank the stars for Wi-Fi, but it’s often not there when you need it.

Moved to Corpus Christi by Greyhound bus via San Antonio (Remember the Alamo) and found it as interesting as it is intriguing on the map:  the reef-like Padre Island runs along mile after mile of the Mexican Bay coastline in front of the city. At first we had a hotel with a swimming pool on the north side of a very impressive bridge which crosses the dockland inlet. There we established a local in Blackbeards: chatter at the bar and live music in the next room. Had some good conversations in Blackbeards. 

Then moved into the Emerald Hotel in the city proper and right on the shoreline, but a bit out of town (we go for cheap places but it’s still costing a small fortune to live). Room was crummy but a view to die for. From there we spent two nights at the House of Rock but the music was not as good as Austin (or the Harcourt). Then off to Harlingen in the south which so far seems a very bad mistake.

My first night at the resurrected Lamb and Flag

 

A friend asked me along to the opening night on 6^th October 2022 and I said no – it will be too crowded. Then, irresolute as ever, I relented and went along, alone, at about 8.30pm. As expected it was heaving – but not uncomfortably so. The bar-less and unfurnished front room was pretty full and the noise level was, to my ears, near to the threshold of pain as alcohol fuelled conversations battled for acoustic supremacy. I pressed on towards the remaining bar with a nod of appreciation at the piano now gracing the east wall.

I stood for a while taking in the space where I had spent so many happy hours chatting or just drinking alone, sharing my thoughts with an ever-changing set of hand pumps and leafing through the latest Oxford Drinker, the CAMRA magazine. The space was the same, yet different. The interesting alcoves were either curtained over or missing, the ceiling was now lined with wooded planks, the bar surface was much wider, and the place was jam-packed with youngish, happy people. But there were two proud sets of hand pumps just as before and they were serving up interesting beers - as before. I settled for Rude Not To from Amwell Springs. It’s my sort of real ale at the moment: pale and a little tangy, but smooth and refreshing – I stuck to it which is unusual for me. The bar itself was a crush, but the people behind it were both pleasant and efficient and the ambience enjoyable, even though there are still renovations to be completed.

I spotted only one person that I knew, which surprised me. He was talking to one of the community group, The Inklings, that brought this place back to life. He turned out to be a newcomer to Oxford, and I shared memories of China with his wife, though the general hub-bub made conversation difficult for me. Finished the evening back in the now depleted front room talking to an interesting young man from Stroud who ran a bar at weekends and I thought, “great, this is how the Lamb and Flag should be: excellent ale, interesting company and a complete lack of that corporate feel so common to many city centre pubs”.

I doubt that the original Inklings could have tolerated the all encompassing sound level, but I am sure that Tolkien and Lewis would have appreciated the ale and congratulated the new Inklings on their rescue of this jewel of an Oxford pub. I congratulate the New Inklings on this resurrection – it would be Rude Not To.

 Take a look at my video of the pub made before the resurrection