A brief return to the Cotswolds, Part One

Far From.....

Lodge Park and Sherborne Estate

Three and a bit hours drive from North Norfolk and we are in a different country.  No more the quiet flatnesses of the tidal coastline, no more the black soils of the fenlands. Here the countryside rolls, tipping over edges into spring-loaded valleys, and landscapes without much evidence of settlement unfold from the uplands.  The Sherborne Estate could tell a lot of stories, from enormous wealth from the shearing of 3,000 sheep in the fifteenth century to penury in the eighteenth century as a result of misplaced bets on deer coursing.....

I am not a Cotswold virgin - I have ventured here often. I recall hearing of the death of Marilyn Monroe (August 4th, 1962) while at scout camp near Burford, in this very valley, in this very field...... Oh how we, pre-pubescent patrol members (well - some of us), wept at the loss, our bell tents creaking in lament.... Please see: https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2012/06/on-breast-of-river-of-time.html 

for much more on this (and related stories....).....

Our campsite, over sixty years ago....

Anyway, on this trip down the dead end of memory, we stop over at Minster Lovell, where St Kenelm (an eighth century Mercian Prince, murdered in the Clent Hills....) accepts us into his 12th century church (rebuilt by William, the 7th Baron Lovell, in 1450).  

And here he is (or may be) in alabaster, after he departed his armour in 1455.....

It is a remarkable spot, not least because English Heritage (unlike the National Trust) allows unlimited access and so we find families picnicking by and swimming in the Windrush, portable BBQs and stoves carefully attended (?) amidst the ruined masonry and tracery.....

There are even life-like effigies strategically placed in niches and openings in the stonework, reminding us of the scale (and actuality) of life in them there days.....

Anyways, we burn on, to Swinbrook, made much of in the associated piece linked above.  Here, at the Swan, courtesy of Debo, I have stayed in days of yore, and fond are the memories, though nothing is ever as good as the now....  

Despite the history.....

The Fettiplaces are still here.....

Their generations unspoiled by time:

As are the troubled Mitford/Mosleys......

All  quiet, on the Western front.....

And so, heat and dust notwithstanding, we make our way to Lypiatt Park, Lynn Chadwick's resting place.  But that is another story, to follow in a separate piece.....

And so, a return to Slad, famous for its links with Laurie Lee (I beg you to refer to https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2014/05/laurie-lee-26-june-1914-13-may-1997.html for much more about him and his story....) where we sample local fare and nod respectfully to his memory....

Yes, the Woolpack (coincidentally owned by Daniel Chadwick, son of Lynn, of whom more anon....) was Laurie's home from home, and sits favourably in my memories of previous (and current) visits. If only..... If only more pubs were like this. I really do believe the world would be a better place......

And then we take a walk, a little walk....

And only say.....

Yeah, well. It's all a dream. 

And so we come to the Romans, and what did they do for us? (All right, but apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh-water system, and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us? Ed.)

It may surprise you, but the finest Roman mosaics in the British Isles are in the Cotswolds, at Chedworth Roman Villa, once one of the grandest country houses in Roman Britain, dating from the second century AD and inhabited for at least two hundred years. It was possibly the country retreat of a certain Roman Abramovich - or at least someone who owned at least one football club.....

These are no ordinary floor tiles.  These tesserae were not from B&Q.  Someone, or more likely, a number of skilled artists, laid this floor, and more, with the patience and expertise of a Darren Lucas (oops, forgive me, a local artisan, famed for his tiling.....Ed.)

Decipher this:

Yes.  Art, or whatever you choose to call it, is not new to the Cotswolds, nor to Britain, nor to the world.  The Romans were not the first, the only, nor the last to explore the relationship between artefact and pleasure, or creation and satisfaction, or sensitivity and well-being.  

Their plumbing may have let them down, but they paved (sic) the way to sculpture and representation, and, as we shall see in part two of this sortie back into the Cotswolds, art and landscape have a most important place in the ongoing story of this world.....

Sitting Couple on Bench, Lynn Chadwick, 1990, Lypiatt Park

*******

Do, please, look out for part two of this account, where we visit Lypiatt Park, the erstwhile home of sculptor Lynn Chadwick......

*******

For those who travel with me

xxxx

Water Water

Every Grain of Sand

There is irony in the fact that I live within walking distance of the sea, where the tides wash up and down twice every day, and water is plentiful, but my garden, and my allotment, are parched.  

It is beautiful here, in north-west Norfolk, at any time of year, with miles of sandy beaches, naturally occurring dunes and an abundance of wildlife.

And even in the heat of summer, during the peak holiday period, there is space, even, sometimes, no one else to be seen.....

Or if there is someone, they may just be a dot on the horizon....

Water, water, every where, 

And all the boards did shrink; 

Water, water, every where, 

Nor any drop to drink.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A de-salination plant would be an eye-sore.  But, perhaps, it could help with these hot dry summers.  It could help with irrigation of the fields that are now burned and dead.....

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear

Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer

The sun beams down upon the steps of time to light the way

To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay

Every Grain of Sand

Bob Dylan

It is great to swim here.  The water is clean and fresh, the zing of salt a zesty seasoning to life.....

And these days even the clouds are warm, and dry.  Water vapour that tantalisingly will not condense and precipitate.....

I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame

And every time I pass that way I'll always hear my name

Then onward in my journey I come to understand

That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand

Every Grain of Sand

Bob Dylan

The shores are littered with the remains of life. Here a variety of shells, deposited at the high-water mark, await the grinding process that will turn them into sand.....

And here a harmless Moon Jelly lies stranded on the shingle, to slowly evaporate to nothing before the next tide flows back.....

Sometimes the weather looks to change, the clouds angrily torn by the sun.....

But it doesn't deter the lovers on the beach, and nothing comes of the falsity of hope.....

The Sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came he! 

And he shone bright, and on the right 

Went down into the sea.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

And then, as the day draws to a close, the colours intensify, and the heat abates.....

Sometimes the sun just gleams across The Wash....

On other evenings there is bruising and blood stain....

And sometimes the water is pewter and the sky a furnace.....

I feel insignificant before all this grandeur.....

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea

Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me

I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man

Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand

Every Grain of Sand

Bob Dylan

These pictures were not all taken this month (though they were taken this year), but all of them are from the Norfolk coast between Snettisham and Cley.....

A few days in Belgium....

There ain't no cure.....

Got what you're looking for, waving bye to the poor

Got what you're gazing at, understanding and respect

So, anyway, no questions please.....  Here I am in Belgium......

Really shouldn't need to explain.  Every picture tells a story.......

As I may of said [sic] I know little about art........

And I don't like a massacre of the innocents.....

And not so sure about Jacques-Louis David (nor Caspar etc etc David).....

But, per fortuna, my life is filled with images.....

Some of which are real......

Some of which are fleeting:

Some of which seem to be following me about, from cathedral to cathedral.....

Some, I think, recur.......

Some are architectural:

Others just have some kind of graphic appeal:

While others initiate their impact aurally:

Ik doe niks en ik laat niks

Ik staar wat voor me uit

Ik neem nog maar een biertje

Oh, yes.... the images:

Well some are three dimensional:

Some are flat:

Some are static:

And some jog about like an animated Where's Wally? picture:

Which is the medieval equivalent of:

In a bar in Antwerp:

Where a bunch of Dutch youths are partying with their friend who just moved here.  So good that young people can move about freely.  So good that young people can have a fun time together......

Makes me thirsty:

And hungry:

So I go to my favourite restaurant:

Where I feel welcome:

I said, "Welcome".......

[Thank you Charlotte - Ed]

So I relax:

As only a Gormley can:

Then I just might return up the stairs:

To my homely hotel corridor:

And then into my shadowed room:

Which isn't really unlike another Gormley:

Which, from the outside, could very well seem like this:

[Only it doesn't.  Ed]

Peoples, peoples, peoples

You know what it means to be left alone

Peoples, peoples, people, (now hear me!)

You know what it means to be left alone

Yeah

Lord it happened to day

Lord not even a call on my telephone

Understandin'

Lord a little love, babe

In the world is all I need

A little love and understanding baby

Blues in C#

Jimi Hendrix

And so, in St Bavo's, Ghent, with my little soft toy, I take refuge.....

To drink of the cherry blood of the Mystic Lamb:

That is, if you can get near it:

And aren't intimidated by the watchful eyes around you (not looking at you, of course, but watching, watching):

And in the meantime, the world turns, as the fans in the ceiling:

Which are kind of lacking in lustre, like these fans:

Ah, well.  You (no one) can win them all.....

********

And so, with mixed feelings, 

I drink a last drink:

Look again at the pictures:

Ready my car:

Try to swish away those stinging bees of love:

Try to forget my sad-eyed lady of the lowlands:

Thank Magritte for his offer of tea:

Bid farewell to those with whom I have shared:

Picture by Michael Hill

And then settle back to stare into the distance:

Vaguely thinking why isn't this square?

Sometimes I wonder what I’m gonna do

Cause there ain’t no cure for the summertime blues

Summertime Blues

Eddie Cochran