Perigord and pinxtos: 'Tis the wintery season of discontent

Evidently England has had an entire Spring of solid rain, and it is supposed not to be stopping any time soon. Except when we want to walk, do a town tour, or visit a National Trust site. So far, in several days, we have not been inconvenienced once. The rain has done its thing and we have done ours – and never the twain do meet. And yet it is around us all day.

The gods really have been smiling on us this year. Perhaps because we’ve been traipsing the pilgrimage routes and they see this as a Good Thing. Cross fingers the luck continues.

We have been roaming little smugglers’ fishing villagers, like Looe and Polperro, falling in love with Cornwall again, eating our fill of hot crusty cornish pasties, thick dollops of clotted cream, local potted crab, and finding tales of ghosts of yesteryear that haunt cob cottages with untidy, ready-to-repair, thatches.

I’m sure I lived here in another life: it is all so completely and utterly familiar.

Tonight we are slightly inland, after spending most of the day in a fabulous National Trust Stately home: Lanhydrock: very Upstairs-Downstairs: where we were even privy to the Victorian servants’ quarters.

We’re now on a fabulous farm, at the top of Bodmoor, with sun on one side of the camper and raindrops glinting on the other. We have tidy verges, mowed green grass for miles, fat postcard cows munching in nearby fields, clothes in a hot washer, home-made bacon and corn chowder in the illicit pressure cooker, and fresh hot crusty baguettes to accompany.

And views for miles.

I will, again, sleep smiling.

Today we visited Coverack, one of the prettiest tiny harbour villages in all of Cornwall, with wheeling white gulls, bright blue sea, red boats, and small stone harbour walls curling inwards, almost as if hugging itself protectively from the winds of the east and the south. The South West Coastal Footpath winds its enticing way up and out of both sides of the Coverack valley, and a few of the lazier tourists lean against the warm stone harbour walls, absorbing its heat, like summer lizards.

We are now on a dairy farm on the Lizard Peninsula. The field smells of newly mowed grass, freshly milked cows and immaculately clean facilities. The farmer and his wife have a son who has just moved to Perth. They are very dear, but terrified their boy may never return, and have been telling us about the upturn in dairy farming and the downturn in diesel and dollars. As ever, with one hand they receive, but with the other they give.

Cornwall is now a'gale. Wind gusts and wet chill around every corner, sweeping chips of icy air right up into the high moors. It is midsummer, yet we are zipped into polar fleece: the coldest we’ve been our entire trip.

We’ve managed a brisk but wonderful walk out to remote Lizard Point along the coastal path (Lizard is the most southerly point in England), then whipped down to St Michael’s Mount (we visited the French coast version: beautiful Mont Saint Michel just weeks ago as we trundled south in France). The tides and tempest would not allow us to cross the causeway so we brewed a hot pot of tea in the camper while we watched mad young Englishmen brave the wild weather as they slid deftly across chopped up waves using embattled kites and surf skis. Skilled. Brave. Energetic. Crazy.

We whipped around St Ives with many a damp blink as the gusts were becoming vile, then headed back inland to Bodmoor, which is the only thing to do in truly filthy weather: embrace the beast. Bodmoor is all mood, moor and maelstrom, and tonight we’ll likely hear Baskerville hounds baying from atop rocky tors into the wild windswept spaces as we roll over snugly in our safe comfy beds, curling closer to the warmth.

Totally by chance, we found another folk festival in Bodmin on a Sunday. Councillors, parishioners and townsfolk, led by the cheery Town Crier, were all out in medieval garb with brilliant banners and band, processing from the Town Hall to Saint Petroc’s church honouring their medieval tradesfolk ancestors who had banded together to rebuild their church after it had been destroyed.

Then we went to Warleggan.

The roads from Bodmin to Warleggan get narrower and narrower the further you go. We started from Bodmin with our motorhome in its usual regalia, but were forced to tuck in the first side view mirror after only a few kilometres; the second after just a few more, then, driving blind, we could hear the thorny blackberry branches of the hedgerows scratch our baby’s body paintwork as driving was reduced to the narrowest lanes we’ve likely ever driven, until finally, we reached the end of the road.

After Warleggan there is no more road.

Only footpaths really cross Bodmin Moor from here.

We came to Warleggan because we’d heard stories of the vicars. Warleggan is on record as being the loneliest village in all of England and nothing we saw would refute that. It is on record, too, that many of the rectors or vicars holding tenure at St Bartholomew have become quite batty the longer they’ve stayed in the village.

One 14th century rector had a son who was a heretic and a known witch (or is a male, by definition, a wizard?). Anyway, an 18th century curate is said to haunt the road around Warleggan still, his carriage wheels said to rattle on lonely eerie nights. Frederick Densham, the priest at St Barts from 1931, until his body was found crumpled in a heap in the rectory in 1953, alienated all his parishioners early until not a single one chose to turn out for service. Frederick didn’t need them. He set about putting cardboard cutouts of human forms into his church pews during service, bearing the name cards of the previous rectors of St Barts.

He reported regularly to his bishop that the parishioners, it was true, while not inclined to attend Sunday service, eventually came to him in the end, in their black carriages (on their deaths). Not a well boy, our Frederick. It would be interesting to know when they cleaned out St Bart’s rectory, after all those lonely and alone years, exactly what they found. And what that said about the man.

In patches of fine weather today we have been driving Dartmoor. We love the moors in moody weather and come as often as we can, though long for fine weather to stabilise so we might walk bits of them.

Today we visited Tavistock which would make a really great walking base for a long stay on Dartmoor. It was once home to some ruined stone walls that formed part of an ancient abbey as well as some remnants of old mill buildings. These bits were pieced together differently in an 18th century redesign by a bountiful Duke of Bedford, who completely rejuvenated the old town, giving it great solidity as an renovated historic centre, and adding an excellent pannier market which now characterises the town (Tavistock is considered one of the great market towns of England) as does its reputation for fine food. We ate thick hot chunky home-made potato and leek soup with freshly made granary bread in the market square today, and rate this simple fare as one of the most delicious meals on this entire trip.

Lydford village (nearby Lydford Gorge is a great walking venue which was all sludge underfoot today) has such great history we couldn’t miss a visit. In Saxon days there was a fortified castle here, called a burh, which, along with other burhs, were built to protect southern England from the Vikings.

Lydford must have been a pretty important place back then as it was one of four sites in England where silver was minted for coin-making. So many of these Lydford Saxon coins have been found in the northlands (and are now available for viewing in the Stockholm Museum) it is believed they were given to Viking invaders in order to entice them to return home, a kind of get-out-of-our-hair bribe.

There were actually two castles in Lydford in ages past: the second (which is the one viewable these days) became a stannary court and a jail during the Middle Ages. The tin miners were judge, jury and hangmen in those days and regularly designed their own harsh justice. Lydford law became feared far and wide for its ‘hang-today, talk-tomorrow’ approach.

At Sourton there is a delightful ancient pub on the main road called The Highwayman, which has been embellished with fantasy and fairytale themes on each of its tiny medieval external walls until it looks more like a child’s lavish play house or theatre set, than any pub.

And a Highwayman came riding, riding… and launched himself boldly high atop the front pub wall in dark longcoat outline with his pistol outthrust. While on an opposing inn wall, writ large, is the motto of the house: We Stand and Deliver. Cute. Kids, being driven by enroute to Cornish beaches, must beg to stop and explore the inn, while their parents couldn’t help but be charmed by this enforced stop.

It is so refreshing to see these little spots of individuality enroute, even if they are a trifle weird and don’t much cohere in a strict storybook sense, as much of the rest of the world appears to be colouring itself quickly a whiter shade of nondescript in its suicidal bent to become more and more homogenised.

We continue, this trip, to explore tiny villages which are pretty, or which have a great history, or, preferably, both. Samford Courtney is a quiet little village with a history of blood and guts. The townsfolk, virtually to a man, rose up against the King Edward during the Prayer Book Rebellion, but were very easily quelled by the King’s army in a field just behind the village church. The church, that was then the centre of the fight over whether there would be a Latin mass or not, is still interesting: it has a wonderful little half-hinged wooden entrance door that is quite unique and really catches the eye. Ancient, wood craft, tiny.

The rain decided not to stop in Devon so we hit the high road and headed for the sun. We ended up following the route of one of the walks we would dearly love to do before too much more time passes: the Cotswold’s Way. Glorious scenery. Walking it would give the time to truly absorb and enjoy it.

We landed in Tewkesbury, camped in a beautiful field right in its centre just behind the Abbey, and in patches of fine spells in the early evening walked this delightful half-timbered town. In long sunny spells the next morning we visited the Abbey. We spent most of the morning there.

What a fine, fine place: one of my absolute favourite stops this trip.

By Abbey standards Tewkesbury was ever a tiny Abbey. At capacity it probably had but 80 monkish men who conducted Latin classes for the local boys, tended the sick and cared for the poor, so that when Henry VIII decided that the occupants of the two hundred Abbeys throughout the land were earning money he would have preferred in his coffers, he sent his bully boys in to destroy them all, and not only was valuable property irretrievably massacred, but when the monks were driven out schooling was stopped, hospital care was no longer available, and social services of the day, once run completely by the monks, no longer operated.

You’d think decision-makers would have a thought or two about the fallout of their actions before they take action, ah! but not Henry. Sure and he had beheadings to order, a wedding to arrange, and feasts to plan before the days grew too tedious, no doubt.

The Abbey itself is, quite literally, a gem. An expensive gem, I might add. It costs (it says at the door) £3.00 per minute to maintain. Unlike Leon and Burgos, this church does not require an entrance fee, although there are drop boxes for offers everywhere. And, when it is like this, when it is not rude, not commercial, not fully in-your-face-ugly, a fee request is not at all offensive.

Even the flower ladies were out in droves filling the church with perfumed stems for a Medieval Festival coming up this weekend. Another festival, believe it or not! And each shop in town is hung prettily with different medieval family banners along with a full explanation of the history of each.

I talked with the flower ladies, checked where the flowers came from, mindful of the shockingly expensive imported blooms in churches throughout Spain and Portugal, and was delighted to hear that most of the Abbey flowers literally come from the Abbey’s own gardens, another value-added field just around another quiet corner back from the Abbey, run by the husband of one of the flower arranging lady organisers.

Such a pretty abbey. Parts of the main vaulted ceiling with many delightful bosses have been painted in medieval orange-red and sharp shiny gold, and almost bring you to tears. This must be how it may have looked back then. I wish more churches would be brave enough to add the colour of yesteryear.

Several of the side chapels and canopies at Tewkesbury are among not only the fairest in all of England, but the finest in existence: the Warwick Chantry, the Dispenser Tomb. Delicate intricate stone tracery reaching from the tombs to the ceilings: so beautiful.

And some of the stone statue fragments hacked down during the Dissolution and buried beneath the altars and lost there for centuries, have now been recovered and are on display throughout the church. Such fine craftsmanship. Such a tragedy that only broken bits remain. Even the remnants, after so much damage and so many buried centuries, remain achingly beautiful. How lovely must they once have been in their entirety?

There is a ring of thirteen bells: rung twice on Sundays. I miss the sound of church bells here in England. On the Continent they ring bells at any old tick of the clock, and probably thrice on Sundays. Bells are one of those integral background pleasures that I listen for from early morning till late at night in many a European country, particularly the Mediterranean ones. Thirteen bells in a peal, though, is somewhat of a rarity: I’d love to still be around here on Sunday to hear them.

Today we have visited a clutch of tiny pretty villages all clothed in glowing gold Cotswold stone in this tiny patch of sunlight we’ve stumbled across today. On of our favourite villages, as ever, is Broadway. If there have to be tourist towns in the world to satisfy the masses then, at least, Broadway does it tastefully. The bookshops are filled with local history books, local walk books and tales of local colour. As it should be. I could have bought a ton of this local stuff.

Strawberries are now in season and the ice-cream lady, from a candy pink and white striped vending cart on the street is selling home-made strawberry pink and white icecream. As it should be. And if she is dressed in candy pink and white stripes, too, then that is garnish, not garish. Nothing about Broadway is tacky.

We’re sad about some things in England though. We are seeing a deterioration in buildings and works in counties that are not noted for it: Devon and Cornwall, for example. Hedges, which once were meticulously clipped, are now, very often, not even partially maintained, and street directions, mileages, and signage are often jumbled in with the weeds. Many front yards, footpaths and verges are overgrown or full of long-standing junk, and present a new air of shodiness. Paintwork, on an increasing number of houses and tired pubs enroute, appears long overdue, as do repairs to many of the structures themselves.

Even expensive counties like Gloucestershire have tired and tattered sections, but more worryingly, the mood of many of the locals we talk to is generally glum, not positive. It’s not all related to this nasty weather, either. This may turn out to be another season of discontent for the Brits. Certainly, they have long-standing unresolved nagging national issues to do with their involvement in the European Community and immigration issues that stem from that, which appear to need much attention at all levels of government and decision-making. A good summer wouldn’t hurt their mood either. They’ve been missing that for a few years, too, as even the weather gods have been unresponsive.

The weather continues weepy. Pete, now, has no patience with it at all. Beck and I remain fairly unaffected. But today we tried to outrun the devil and head north towards the sun. The drive has been pretty. We’ve allowed the sat nav free rein and passed through many a charming village. Lower Slaughter was almost as perfect as Broadway and even lovelier than Stow-on-the-Wold, and we were happily brought to a standstill tonight with the loveliness of stone buildings and beauty of Stamford.

From the Cotswolds we headed north to Cheshire to drop our camper off with our friends. We were waylaid there for a long while as Miss Bec landed in hospital in Staffordshire after a reaction to her tablets. That, together with the heavy Olympic air traffic, colluded in having us arrive home weeks later than we originally anticipated. Thanks to Qantas it was a lot less painless than it might have been.