Gypsy moments

I do like to travel, even though I did rather too much business related buzzing around in my middle years and do not now relish long plane flights. I suppose I feel the greatest freedom when wild camping in my motor caravan, especially when the travelling is unconstrained and the next destination decided at the current one.

Our latest trip was a little constrained. I wanted to visit Ilkley, Yorkshire on one particular day for a scratch performance of The Armed Man and we had to visit Margaret’s relatives at the tip of Scotland for a few days. The rest was a blank sheet - great.

We had time to explore a little of Yorkshire Dales and the Northumberland National Park on the way up, but I think my high point was a boat trip to the Farne Islands to view the mass of birds jockeying for space on the rocks and observe the fat seals lazing contentedly on their own rugged island.

In Scotland we spent a night in Kinross, parking the van within sight of Loch Leven. Sounds idyllic, but there is a reason for that long stretch of water – it rained must of the time we were there. In the bleak weather Kinross seemed a bit of a dump and none of the pubs seem to sell my favourite tipple – real ale. Yet things can turn. In one of the town’s pubs we were told that a brewery had a bar with ‘that handpumped stuff’ further down the road. We found it and it was great. There they told us that there was a good place to eat further down the road, and it was, and also that there was great little pub a mile or so further on and there was. The Village Inn was perfect: friendly people, animated chat, excellent ale, traditional décor and more. We found nothing like it further north.

On our return we had a tyre blow-out on a narrow busy road near Fort William. Nonetheless  we had a good night in the Rod and Reel public house further south where the two ladies behind the bar served us with a Scotish scowl and politeness verging on the acidic, but the beer was excellent and so was the raucous company of two couples from Australia who were also making their way towards the Cotswolds.

Interestingly, our own town of Stow on the Wold has a counterpart in the north of England. It is called Appleby and the thing the two places have in common is the great gypsy horse fairs. So, almost magically, Appleby appeared on the blank sheet as a our last overnight stop. It was also our wedding anniversary.

Whereas Stow begrudges the influx of gypsies with their horses, caravans, trucks, gypsy queens and followers, I had heard that Appleby welcomes them. I knew that most shops and pubs in Stow close their doors whilst the fairs are in progress, yet a one-time resident of Appleby had told me that villagers set up roadside food stalls and throw open the doors of its many pubs. Why, I had even been told that horses were taken into the pubs there!

Stow and Appleby are very different places: one on a hill, the other with a river running through it. One is constructed of warm yellow Cotswold stone, the other of brick and render. And, while Appleby is overlooked by a castle, Stow looks down on one and all. And yet they are inextricably linked by the travelling people.

The horse fair had just finished when we arrived, signs were still up indicating the many parking areas allocated to the gypsies and much of the rubbish that they always leave remained to be collected. It was no surprise to find 'No Overnight Parking’ signs at all of the spots that we might have overnighted, but a friendly local told me that motor caravans often used the swimming pool car park so we ignored the sign and made camp.

Appleby is a nice village with plenty of pubs and, though the first we tried was closed, we did find a quiet hotel next door willing to serve us dinner (just us) and then we crossed the road to the Hare and Hounds for a complete and utter contrast. As I opened the door music almost blasted us back into the street, but the tall blonde landlady beckoned us in and we were soon settled next to the jukebox with a pint and a spritzer and a view of the raised part of the pub where a large group of left over gypsies sang, danced and laughed uproariousl fueled by a constant supply of drinks bought by one of their number – the treasurer presumably.

What a night, if I can think of two numbers which spilled loudly out of that constantly fed jukebox which characterized the music then these must be Tom Jones’ Delilah followed closely by Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. The dancing was flamboyant, suggestive, irresistible: some of it was led by the landlady joined by the short muscular man in the blue Tshirt (which he removed at one point to dance topless, the landlady did not object yet did not follow). We were drawn willingly into the party, dancing and holding hands with the gypsies whilst ‘Hands’ belted out of the machine.

Yes, what a night. We are now truly twinned with Appleby in Westmorland and have become proper gypsies.

Queer Beer in the Mendips

Because we had decided not to visit our house in Spain this spring we decided to take a few trips out in the motor caravan to enjoy our own lovely country. The first was in May Day week and we decided on a trip to the Mendip hills - an area that I have often passed through, but never explored.

The first objective was the interestingly named village of Chew Magna (they like their Chews in the Mendips), but the place was clearly motor caravan averse so we squeezed through it and drove to the only other objective of the trip: the nearby Chew Valley Lake. This was perfect. The map showed a picnic site beside the lake and it was great: spacious and not too busy, it overlooked the extensive lake and the only charge was £2 per day for parking. It also had a restaurant, a take-away and toilets – a motor homer’s dream.

Having found a good spot for the motor caravan I set out on a walk alone and entered the lakeside area ignoring the ‘fishermen only’ sign. I followed the collapsing grassed embankment and soon came to two fishermen. Would they object to my presence? Not a jot. They were local good old boys with an accent that I warm to because I grew up surrounded by it (like coming home) and we talked and laughed for some time. They were very different characters. The first I met wasn’t fishing, his rod lay on the bank so we were soon talking about the lake and such. We could see most of it from this location though an island opposite hid some of the shore. Together they told me about its origins, where to go for birding, and where to get a permit. The first claimed there was a drowned church in the lake; the second that there was a farm and that he had met the farmer who wasn’t at all resentful of the flooding which took place in 1953 to form the lake/reservoir to keep Bristol throats quenched and baths full. I asked them about the local pub but on that they were evasive, saying only that it did not keep normal hours.

That evening Margaret and I walked into the village and soon found the local pub with its fading sign. That fading was a sign in itself – the place was pretty rough inside and out. As soon as I entered the public bar a scruffy old chap hunched over a table demanded, “Where you from an’ what you doing ‘ere?” Perhaps surprisingly I found this amusing and non-threatening.

I was delighted to see three hand pumps on the bar and that one of them dispensed Butcombe’s Rarebreed , a great favourite beer of mine which I ordered without a pretest. It was decidedly odd. There were tastes present that I had never detected in Butcombe’s beer or any other. It was not off, just queer. By this time Margaret was peering around with disgust at the peeling paintwork and the advanced neglect of the place. Meanwhile the old chap (actually younger than us) gave me a long diatribe about his country upbringing enlivened with many spirited bouts of swearing. Nonetheless I found his experiences interesting especially the part about having his own cow at the age of seven and making butter from her twice-daily milkings. There were also tales of shotgun incidents where he sometimes shot multiple birds with just one cartridge.

After a while we retreated to the lounge bar where I ordered a different beer, yet it too had this queer mixed-up taste. While I supped I watched Margaret observing the barmaid at work, her eyes growing wider as she watched. She suddenly turned to me and said, “I know why your beer tastes odd”.

“Should I continue to drink it?” I asked, concerned.

She said yes, but doubtfully. Afterwards she told me that the barmaid tipped the spillage tray from the other pumps into the pint she was pouring! We were all drinking beer cocktails!

Next day we moved to a small car park near a bird hide that looked across the lake. The view from the hide was splendid, but the variety of waterbirds was not that exciting. We saw tufted duck, coots, mallards, swans, Canada geese and great crested grebe. Of these the latter were the most interesting as a pair perfored their oddly charming mating dance. And we did hear a cuckoo. It’s a long time since I had heard that lonely, lovely cry. Coincidentally, I also found some cuckoo flowers (identified by Margaret) on a meadow near the lake.

That night we walked to a very different sort of pub which did serve Butcombe’s beer in perfect condition and there met another local who told us of his life as a leather worker and ardent motorcyclist (probably got the order wrong there). This place was more of an eatery than a pub, but both beer and food were excellent.

Our final night was spent at Lacock, a picturesque village in Wiltshire much used for filming. Despite its dedication to tourism it was a pleasurable place to stroll around and the dominant building, the Abbey, was absolutely beautiful. However, the pubs were not so much fun so I, uncharacteristically, used my phone to search for another one nearby. I drove there with the intention of sleeping in its car park, but great plans can go astray: there was a notice on its front gate saying that ‘Closed for Filming’. Unbelievable. Fortunately I had passed another as we drove there and hastened back to it. Called the Bell, it did not look much of a place from the roadside, but inside a warm welcome awaited. As I eyed the line of beer pumps and the notice celebrating its choice as the local CAMRA pub of the year, I asked the landlord if we could sleep in his car park. “Of course you can,” he replied affably, “and thanks for asking”. Nice end to a nice trip. Freedom.

Spring in England

My hands hurt. In the past I have complained about this because I was working with stone in Spain, but this year we are staying in England for spring and my hands hurt because I have been working with stone in England.

For me spring begins on the 21^st March. That’s potato planting day for those of us who plant potatoes. Years ago, when we had our little farm, I’d couple up the potato planter to the old Grey Ferguson tractor, empty a load of seed potatoes into the hopper, sit a child on each side to put the seed potatoes one-by-one into the chutes and tow the jolly lot along a newly ploughed bed. Nowadays I do it by hand, alone. In those old days I always planted loads of that old favourite Desiree: this year I put in just three short rows of Casablanca, an early variety which is new to me. I also planted carrot seed together with onions, leeks, parsnips and broad beans. The process of germination which I have now set in train for the umpteenth year still fascinates me, as does the complex workings of photosynthesis which will power the seedlings (hopefully) into productivity. For now my job there is done. I left it to the brilliant sunshine and the moisture in the soil to awaken the dry, seemingly inert, seeds.

I then moved on to the real challenge of my week: rebuilding a section of collapsed dry stone wall at the road end of our field in Stow on the Wold. Most people love to see Cotswold stone walls deliniatiating the landscape, but for me they evince mixed feeling.  From a distance I too think that they are lovely, but close up I view them more critically: do they have the right taper, what sort of stone was used in their making, was ungiving and untraditional mortar used to set the headers, were faults introduced between the layers? It’s not that I am an expert, far from it, but I know enough to be aware of the things that I do incorrectly.

Almost done

Don’t be inclined to romanticise the role of that lone and lonely stone laying man working away at the roadside (yet to see a woman doing it so far, but why not). It may seem like a work of art, but it is actually mind bendingly boring and frustrating work. The idea is never to cut a stone to shape. In Spain during the years I spent building my little caseta I spent some time searching for the right stone to fit the next space followed by quite a lot of cutting to shape. In the Cotswolds I do much more searching and rarely any shaping. Remember, these stones are not like bricks that fit neatly together, they are of random shapes and sizes and all surfaces have to link into the wall itself: yes, a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle where none of the pieces quite fit. The best part of dry stone walling for me is to finish the job, then to walk far enough away from it so that I can view the overall effect without being distracted by the flaws.

As I paid for a pint at the Stocks on the night of the day that my task was completed, Pete the barman looked quizzically at my finger tips bound with fraying microporous tape.

“Been dry stone walling,” I answered the unasked question.

“You should ha’ worn gloves,” he said unsympathetically.

I smiled, whilst in my head I shouted, “I did, otherwise your bar would now be covered in streaks of blood, as would that twenty pound note I just gave you”.

So, back to Oxford where this blog was typed in pain whilst viewing daffodils nodding in the sun-warmed breeze through the spreading branches of a vast cherry tree with its first green leaves unfurling to expose red flower buds that will soon burst into a gloriously pink announcement of spring in the city. So very welcome.