Solvitur ambulando…

Walking is magic. Can’t recommend it highly enough. I read that Plato and Aristotle did much of their brilliant thinking together while ambulating. The movement, the meditation, the health of the blood pumping, and the rhythm of footsteps… this is a primal way to connect with one’s deeper self.
– Paula Cole

As part of my ongoing therapy, not only am I increasingly inhooped by a rising bricolage of motivational tomes and workbooks; but I find myself engulfed in periodic upsurges of rippling diaries, forms, and tables: a flux of unsullied A4 wavelets, tiding over me as temporary succour; busying me; until, eventually – when they are progressively overlaid with my records, registers, and particoloured responses – they crystallize into frangible stepping-stones, leading me steadily ashore. Rush ahead too expeditiously, though, and these will crumble, along with my tentative betterment. Forbearance is key – especially when allied with deep trust, hard listening, and terrifying honesty: the underpinnings of hope, if not yet achievement.

Wary of the furrows that we’ve churned…

Who can tell me where I am…?

Having worked in agriculture, I struggle to understand those landowners and/or farmers who plant a crop, and then force people to tread all over it, willy-nilly: damaging the young seedlings; flattening the ground; and, ultimately, reducing the yield. Try walking up to Tysoe Windmill, at the moment, and play a jolly game of ‘spot the path’ on your ascent. (Fun for the whole family!)

This is not a path; this is not a stile…

If you’re like me – badly disabled – you may be tempted to take the route of least resistance: looking for a gap in the next hedge, and heading for it as straight as the crow flies (although not today: the northerly wind was buffeting them like a mainsail rounding the Orkneys…); crossing your fingers that a gate or stile lurks there. However, if you’re really like me, and have innate, well-developed sensitivities about these things, you will try and follow the tractor’s elephantine depressions in the soil, tiptoeing gingerly between the green sprouts, and trying to minimize the spoil.

Probably pining for the fjords…

That such a strategy led me to encounter the stiffened, stripped corpse of a young badger seems strangely apposite. If it had been trapped, I suppose it would have been removed. However, rendered paranoid by the deterrence of erased trails – and a pair of rusty spikes seemingly designed to carry trespassers’ severed clotpoles… – I wondered if this too was a warding-off, even a poisoning? The rigid death-pose looked highly unnatural; and I can only pray that the resultant scavengers were more fortunate, if so.

Enter Guiderius with Cloten’s head…

Legally, paths have to be reinstated within a fortnight of ploughing and planting – but, of course, some (I feel I must be allowed to call them) capitalist bastards prefer you not to access their land at all: and will therefore string barbed or electrified wires across defined rights-of-way. Anarchist that I am, I am more than happy to smash these illegal (and anti-social, of course) blockages with my handy walking stick: until I can pass without fear of major bodily harm (and the subsequent Bard-invoked lawsuit).

Theory, one; reality, nil…

Such routes have either been hard-fought-for; or have existed as byways for many centuries. Why should the greed of a few spiteful individuals ruin – as they did today – my enjoyment of fresh air and public access: especially when I know these are effective treatments for both my chronic pain, as well as my PTSD-originated depression? (I therefore returned home more miserable than when I had set off… – my many rude mutterings causing the local, wind‑hovering buzzards to mew in dismay; the chattering chaffinches to blush; and the truculent rooks to welcome me with open wings….)

Round like a circle in a spiral…

Packwood House – what a real path actually looks like…

What a contrast, though, from yesterday! Not only the weather: but every footpath I traversed between Baddesley Clinton and Packwood House was clearly marked, and well-maintained. You feel welcomed (and even appreciated); and you therefore relax (despite, in my case – after a long, enforced bout of rest – setting too high a target; and not doing myself any physical favours – hence the re-stretching of limbs, today…).

Bluebells – you wouldn’t have known, otherwise would you…?

This was strong, sweet medicine, which required no sugar to swallow: especially as the wildlife also seemed happy in the surprising warmth. (My fleece stayed on for only a few hundred yards; and even a thin, technical T-shirt felt too much! Today, a thick, hooded fleece and a long-sleeved thermal vest were no protection from the harsh wind… – although it did help push me up the hill…!)

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows…

Whither the weather…?

What was certain was that I was wearing too many layers. What seemed uncertain was the season. It looked like winter (unless you looked carefully); but felt like autumn (or even the springing of returning warmth). So, even with no respite from the gales – passing unheeded and unhampered through shoulder-height hedges as transparent as leaded glass; and as substantial as gauze – it was obvious that there was no need for that thick, second fleece.

The many gulls strafing the thirteen locks climbing the Northern Stratford Canal seemed to be taking pleasure in the many opportunities the gusts provided: producing masterful acrobatic routines. And yet a lone heron glided sedately above the resultant turmoil. Nearby, though, a field-edge kestrel flapped its wings dragonfly-fast as it wind‑hovered; before finally retreating to distant shelter.

Further on my short walk, a lone mallard took advantage of the strong tail wind, and the deserted Grand Union Canal, to sail masterfully up its centre: king for a few minutes, at least. I was heading in the opposite direction, of course: along the muddy path. And soon the temperate breeze – ensuring stiff resistance to all straight-line progress – contained cooling hints of the rain to come.

So I headed back: on my way, disturbing a large mixed flock of redwings, fieldfares, and thrushes: fifty or more, rising in waves – along with my confederate guilt. Here, the centuries-old hedgerows sprawled, having lain undisturbed for years: providing me with sanctuary, and the birds with plentiful food.

On the shortest day of the year – a time for stillness and reflection: as the sun turns, and the light returns – somehow, this brief wander through a small parcel of Warwickshire felt more like regression than procession.

All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey…

…I’ve been for a walk on a winter’s day: well, autumn’s – but that breeze, “after summer evermore succeeds”, truly felt like “Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold” puckering at my face and fingertips. Certainly: “Life’s autumn past, I stand on winter’s verge”. And with meteorologists marking the season’s change on the first of December; last weekend’s bitter frosts; and only just over eight hours between dawn and dusk; it really does feel like “dead-cold winter must inhabit here still”.

When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks;

When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;

When the sun sets, who doth not look for night?

Untimely storms makes men expect a dearth.

All may be well; but if God sort it so,

’Tis more than we deserve or I expect.

– Shakespeare: Richard III

Our young oak discarded almost all of its leaves abruptly and unceremoniously in the recent gales: scattering them far and wide – and only a small handful of hardy, corroded bracts still flicker tenaciously but tenuously in its stark silhouette. However, wandering around the area between Baddesley Clinton and Packwood House, on Wednesday, I noticed that most of the oak trees there – albeit more full-grown; and huddled together, in damp, deep, fecund ground (some of which still clings to my poor boots) – yet hoard their marcescent foliate treasures: with glowing, backlit hints of jade amongst the gold and bronze; vivid under the gelid sun, against the sapphire sky. (Who needs a rainbow…?)

These more-developed specimens stand in the precise line of a hedgerow (above) that had not long been flailed, military‑style, within an inch of its life – if not just beyond. Cropped so short that I could easily see over it; and transparent as chicken wire – despite a large uncultivated strip between crop and boundary – this act of agricultural barbarity has left no shelter for any overwintering flocks; and therefore no chance of sustenance from within its boughs. The deep marshy tyre-tracks also showed how very recently this savaging had taken place – the footpath churned into a series of treacherous ankle-snapping, puddled diagonal ridges.

If this compulsive cut had been set against a major thoroughfare, I would have had a little sympathy, perhaps. But this was well-removed from civilization, between two extensive arable fields; and seemed to represent an over-attentive brutal addiction to unnecessary neatness for which I can conjure up no justification. As Nicola Chester – one of my favourite observers of the natural world – recently opined: “It’s the hedges way off the roadside that get me; tractor tracks slewing all over the verges and for why?” And she described my recent encounter with a decapitated waymarker as “Ridiculous, extreme unnecessary hedge cutting!”

I would hope, as the warmth returns – bringing with it our summer flocks – that these torn branches – already “too short and thin”; and just as they begin to recover, with their emanating buds – are not subjected to the same repeat indignity: leaving no space for nests, huddles of sparrows, retreating small mammals or endangered moths and butterflies. (Although, with a rule change effectively banning such trimming after the first of March, each year – unless in exceptional circumstances – I am starting to feel a tad more confident….) Such an action, then, would reduce the availability of food for any emerging chicks: and it is no wonder, therefore, that the RSPB is concerned about the future of agricultural wildlife – especially when you learn that “over 40 years the long term decline in farmland birds is 50 per cent”.

I do understand why hedges are trimmed. [Although, in my day – nearly forty years ago – this was a more intensive, manual undertaking: and the small mixed farm I worked on was run by a family who cherished the brambles and the resultant, eager wildlife. (If you truly want to see how much has changed in a few generations, the Ladybird book, above – What to look for in autumn – from 1960, reads like ancient history.)] What I don’t grasp is the seemingly modern trend of too-frequent, over-enthusiastic, reiterative cutting: especially where – as here – such wide field margins exist: which surely negate most of the reasons for this intrusive (and expensive) form of land management in the first place.

If farmers want to reinforce their credentials as custodians of our natural environment (not that there are many – if any – places truly wild, or “natural”, anymore, on this small island); and keep the respect of those who also use and enjoy the land, then perhaps they – although accepting that many already do… – need to apply a little more thought (along with the Government, of course), and balance the social issues with the economic. Just imagine the outcry if our mature oak trees were all trimmed so severely every year.

A canal (or two) runs through it…

The construction of the Abbeys is a marvel to behold, for in a day when fresh water was a concern, the Cistercians had plenty. They always sought out locations that were secluded and on a running river or stream. The monks would dam sections to create enough flow to carry water to every portion of the Abbey. Water would flow through kitchens, to basins for washing and they even had indoor plumbing where waste would drop into the river and be carried away from the Abbey.

– TemplarHistory.com: The Cistercians

I remember the venerable (and much-missed) Mick Aston once, during an episode of Time Team, describing the Cistercians as “God’s plumbers”: due to the way they so perfectly tamed their surroundings…

…clearing woodland and scrub, draining marshes and building canals, mills and fishponds. Even though such activities by Cistercians may have been over-emphasized by researchers in the past, and such landscape changes were in any case widespread by the twelfth century, [knowledge of engineering skills in building and water control, together with the means to use it] was nevertheless a major aspect of early Cistercian monasteries to modify dramatically the landscape in which they were built.

– Michael Aston: Monasteries (Know the Landscape)

His soubriquet came to mind whilst pootling along the short section of the Heart of England Way between Baddesley Clinton and the junction, at Kingswood, of the Stratford-upon-Avon Canal with the Grand Union Canal (the latter, one of the pinnacles of mankind’s “hydrological innovation”; and – one could say, with ironic tongue in sardonic cheek – the HS2 of its day… – although I will always prefer the Leeds and Liverpool for its infinite variety, and the cherished memories formed walking along many, many miles of its towpaths during my youth).

There may be no obvious Cistercian-required “running river or stream” in this Warwickshire locale – but I believe that the monks would be impressed, looking down from their quiet version of heaven upon these now-generally-peaceful “motorways of the 1700s”, to see their “knowledge of engineering skills” (evolved from those of the Romans, of course) put to such elegant use (and so very well‑maintained).

Back at Baddesley, survey work carried out for the National Trust in late 1994 confirms just how much “water control” has been instituted during its long and engrossing existence:

A wooden sluice was exposed near the south-east corner of the moat. This is probably the finest example of its kind recorded systematically in the United Kingdom. Survival of such features in wood is extremely rare, and the author knows of no other intact example archaeologically recorded….

     The sluice structure appears to be a very well-preserved example of a sluice type commonly in use today, and known as a ‘monk’. The name implies monastic invention, but the association between monasteries and hydrological innovation is not now so readily supported by more recent research than was once considered. The slotted area in front of the back wall was probably intended to take removable wooden boards, which were inserted to hold the water in the moat, and removed when the moat needed draining. These wooden boards would be fitted loosely initially, but on swelling from contact with water would have made a waterproof fit. The ‘monk’ sluice is extremely efficient when used on water features that require regular draining and maintenance. They are the most popular sluice type in use today amongst fish-farmers, and are of an ancient design that probably dates back, in its simplistic form, to at least Roman times…. It is not possible to give a date on present evidence, but there is no reason why such structures should not be medieval in origin. The present example, however, has probably been replaced on a number of occasions, and is probably the latest example of a long succession of similarly designed sluices used to control water in this particular moat.

– Christopher K Currie: A watching brief on service trenches at Baddesley Clinton, Warwickshire

Poring over the Ordnance Survey map for the area, as is my wont, it is readily apparent that the Baddesley Clinton estate is as much defined by the amount of light-blue ink – despite that lack of a major indigenous waterway (although the water table appears to be quite close to the surface, in places…) – on the page, as by its remarkable, beautiful, historical and welcoming architecture. In fact, a comparison with neighbouring Wroxall Abbey – “In medieval times… a small Benedictine Convent” – although this is probably due to the manor-house’s more recent and continual habitation – demonstrates just how “dramatically” the local landscape has been sculpted. (The Poor Clare Community – their convent still visible on the road to Baddesley – was a much more modern establishment.)

For instance, there is an apparent leat – or, at least, a diverted and enlarged brook – heading down a hollow towards the manor from the direction of Hay Wood; and a well, not far off, in Church Field – although this may have been part of “a small village, possibly never very large”: as there are evident remains of ridge-and-furrow, despite several centuries of grazing and hoof-trampling. And then there is, of course, the famous “Moate” (originally one of a pair): connected to the Great Pool (with its twin islands), Long Ditch, and brace of “stew ponds”.

There are also other notable (but relatively diminutive) bodies of water between the aptly-named Mill Meadow and New Wood; as well as a more obvious pair (probably also fishponds) feeding towards this, at the junction of Lime, Barn and Little Church Fields. As Aston writes: “often fishponds were linked to systems of water supply, drainage and mill complexes in elaborate water control and management operations”; and it is nigh impossible, therefore, to believe that the coincidence of the supplying streams and ditches with the unbending field boundaries that join these bodies of water together is natural – a suspicion confirmed by the National Trust’s earlier appraisal (also quoted above):

One of the most interesting items in the medieval deeds, relate[s] to the recording of a mill associated with a fishery in the 1440s. Roberts records three demesne ponds in Baddesley Clinton between 1443 and 1448. These are called Lydgate Pool, Black Pool, and Milne Pool. It is probable that the Milne Pool is the fishpond recorded associated with a mill. The 1699 map records two fields adjacent to the Great Pond west of the moated site, as Mill Meadow and Mill Field, thus seeming to establish this pond as the site of the medieval mill. The mill is recorded in a number of later documents extending from 1531 through to 1668, after which date it is not recorded again….

     There are at least a dozen ponds of reasonable size shown on the 1699 map. Any one of these could have existed in the medieval period, either as a purpose built pond similar to the Mill Pond, or as quarries that later filled with water, and were subsequently used as fishponds.

– Christopher K Currie

There are many fascinating and picturesque (as well as beautiful and sublime) walks in the area around Baddesley Clinton, Hay Wood and Rowington Green – as well as nearby Packwood House. But simply ambling around the grounds can be its own reward – especially as the sun can be observed, through the day, streaming around the three extant wings of the manor, glinting in the moat and pools, during the generous opening hours – time easily occupied in admiring the wonderful gardens (the Walled Garden’s dahlia border – despite my dislike of the individual blooms – is stunning at this time of year; and it was sad to see some of their ‘dead heads’ discarded on the array of Vegetable Garden compost heaps); resting on the many surprisingly secluded seats (where the lesser-spotted Bard may be found: gazing at some drama’s text; or into the distance, chortling quietly at the squabbling ducks); meandering along the winding, easily-traversed, paths – and, of course, savouring the superb, freshly-cooked food and -brewed coffee (Bard-fuel) in the airy Barn Restaurant.

You could even – should the fancy take you – wander across some of Warwickshire’s most pleasant green fields and byways (including alongside both canals) to Packwood itself; and there are many local hostelries in the area at which to quench any resultant thirst (including the wonderfully-named, slightly quaint, The Case is Altered – also, coincidentally the title of a play (partly?) by Ben Jonson…).

You don’t even need to take the car: as Lapworth Station is a mere thirty-minute walk away (from both National Trust properties); and only nineteen minutes travel from Stratford-upon-Avon on the rare-as-hen’s-teeth direct London Midland service (although the more frequent London Midland/Chiltern Railways journey is around fifty minutes – with around half of that time spent sitting on the platform at Dorridge Station, waiting for the all-of-three-minutes second leg…). And even the railway line is as scenic as one could ever hope for….

By now the sun of afternoon

Showed ridge and furrow shadows

And shallow unfamiliar lakes

Stood shivering in the meadows.

Is Woodford church or Hinton church

The one I ought to see?

Or were they both too much restored

In 1883?

I do not know. Towards the west

A trail of glory runs

And we leave the old Great Central line

For Banbury and buns.

– John Betjeman: Great Central Railway, Sheffield Victoria to Banbury

A tale of two societies…

It sometimes takes a long(ish – only ever “ish”, with my health…) walk to settle my thoughts (and maybe yours, too?): and it was only after pootling around Packwood House’s meandering meadows and tree-lined byways that my feelings crystallized – seeded during time away relearning Dorset and Wiltshire’s delightful wonderments – and I realized how much I missed the place where I once lived; but how little I missed (and how much it stressed me) being connected permanently to the Internet (that is, of course, until I returned to Tysoe and a seemingly infinite queue of unread emails…).

As my friend Duke Senior recently opined – and reported (by email!) – though, whilst I was away on my travels in the land of the hill-fort, barrow and henge:

Dorset. A delightful part of the country, where there are still some old style ways of living, and virtues, to be found among the Hardy-esque rural bliss. Like it or not, we here in the Midlands, albeit as rural oasis in the midst of urban and suburban existence, are not like that. The question is, critically, how to retain the oasis-like qualities, when the historical agricultural foundations are somewhat fragile; and there appears little inclination or potential to foster alternative cottage industries, such as prevalent in Dorset, Somerset, Cornwall, for example. But there are heartening signs of all sorts of activities in the village, including overwhelming support for the Post Office, that suggest there are grounds for hope that something can be fashioned, to avoid this becoming just a commuter village, with retirement homes.

And thus it was good to find myself, as the PO was just opening – a couple of days after I had returned to this “better place” – at the end of a sizeable snake of villagers, wending its way towards the counter, eager to make use of its manifold offerings. As always, familiar faces filled the shop; and both conversation and service were friendly and welcoming. So, as June’s edition of Oxhill News reinforces: “Use it or lose it” (and contact Nadhim whilst you’re at it…)! Oh, and please walk there, if you can….

I only make this request, because, whilst incomprehensible rumours circulate of a third draft of the itself‑confusing (in both process and content) Neighbourhood Plan – which I had believed was on hold, whilst the Parish Council wrestled with it, and perhaps wrested back some form of control (it’s amazing what can happen when you leave the village for a short while…) – as well as a proposed/supposed “Simple English” or “Plain English” version – which makes me wonder what language the ‘official’ rounceval is in…) – there continue to be mutterings of “the risk of urbanization” in quelling the seemingly permanent rush of traffic on our tiny roads; as well as the massive increase of ofttimes dangerous/illegal parking outside the concentration of our public facilities (churches, school, village hall, shop, pub, hairdresser, etc. – including, of course, our threatened Post Office) – and not just at peak times any more.

But I do wonder if, maybe, some form of such controls/constraints are exactly what we need? Do we, as a community, really prioritize appearance and the picturesque above safety and common sense? (Hard to believe, I know, considering the attempted mass-Poundburying – like Bunburying, only different – diktats of the NP.)

For example: why not install a pelican crossing – or, indeed, pelican, crossing – outside Tysoe Children’s Group – where, possibly, the sight of a large, non-native bird with a beak full of fish – accompanied by other exotic fauna, elsewhere – would finally tame our speeding idiots/motorists…? Or even an Ettington-style priority system on entering Middle Tysoe from the Banbury Road, just before you hit (hopefully not literally) Church Farm Court; and/or on the Oxhill Road, before Windmill Way and Sandpits Road?

And I only ask this, because – on my many meanderings, walking stick as essential prop – I all too-frequently espy familiar, local cars parked in the centre of the village, no more than fifteen minutes amble from their points of origin; or ignoring the now freshly-painted road markings. (In Warwickshire dialect, the word ‘slow’, now writ large in several places on our byways in gleaming, titanium white, obviously means the opposite of what my grammar school English teacher beat into me: in the same way that ‘sick’ – I am informed by my backwards-wearing-baseball-capped intimates of a certain youthful disposition – means something is rather what-I-at-a-similar-age-would-simply-have-referred-to-as ‘spiffing’. And we are obviously using some longer parochial measure than the mile for our speed limit signs – a maximum, remember; not a target to be accelerated past as soon as the laws of physics permit….)

Perhaps (just for a change (ahem)) I am being cynical; but I do wonder (and not for the first time, of course) how many of these repeatedly-recognizable vehicles have crawled – or, in many cases, zoomed (watching the guys carefully laying down the new lines in Main Street made me realize how courageous you have to be as a Tysoe pedestrian: even in high-viz habiliments…) – half-a-mile or less, without the objective of travelling any further than the return journey home. And it is noticeable, coming back from the slightly behind-the-times-feeling south-west – although I’m not saying that motorists in Wessex villages are any better behaved (well, maybe slightly; and certainly more polite…) – how driving (and living) does feel considerably calmer away from motorways and major cities. No-one appears to be in the permanent rush that so characterizes the A3400, A422, A429 and the Fosse Way; and driving just at or below the legal limit is no longer punishable by Velcro-like tailgating or insane, risk-taking overtaking on blind bends and summits. Time (and traffic) seems to pass just a tad more slowly and sensibly….

I am sure that, if we really felt the need to install them, there are methods of managing vehicles and their speed which would not make the core of Tysoe resemble the centres of Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwick, Banbury, or Coventry. But I am equally certain that real improvements come from changes to behaviour, rather than systems.

As the World War II poster (and the motoring organizations, when there’s a light dusting of infrequent snow) asks: “Is your journey really necessary?” And, if it is, can you do it on foot (as I politely requested earlier); or by bicycle or bus – or even on the hoof…? And, finally, can you also do it calmly, and within the law? If not, perhaps you also need a vacation away from traffic both digital and mechanical…. I can highly recommend it….

Dull would he be of soul…

One of the most wonderful aspects of living in ‘The Three Tysoes’ is the amount of history – even if you excised my own sweet Will from the landscape – we are immersed in and surrounded by: and this is epitomized, I believe, by the National Trust, whose local range of properties provides me with ongoing inspiration; whose large swathes of gardens and parkland help keep me mobile; and whose diverse eateries keep me suitably sustained.

Over the last couple of weeks or so, my health has been good enough (and the weather kind enough) for me to do a mini-tour of some of my favourites – including our neighbour, Upton House and Gardens (top photograph), with its remarkable, evolving vistas; my habitual wonder-as-I-wander spot, Charlecote Park (at the bottom); the beauteous Baddesley Clinton (above – perfect for just sitting, reading, and thinking); Hidcote (the greatest garden I know – with such wonderful rooms and blooms, below – which is why I return so frequently); and Packwood House (next photograph): where it is easy to escape from the throng gathering for the Sermon on the Mount, and immerse yourself in the typical, Warwickshire landscape of rolling meadows, overflowing, at this time of year, with cow parsley, buttercups, and almost-hidden delights of tiny pale blues and purples ensconced deep within the myriad grasses.

It would be easy to take such places for granted, to treat them as the sole purview of the tourists who form the seemingly endless snaking backbone of our economy – but, as I have said several times over the last month, we are “so very fortunate” to have such settings to saunter through at our own leisure; at our own convenience; and so near at hand (and foot).

There are not many moments quite as thrilling as that when you realize you are the only soul in a garden such as Hidcote on a rainy day, or in Charlecote’s deer park in the snow: imagining that, however fleetingly, this is yours, and only yours; that this is your domain; your backyard (and not just in it…). Living in close proximity, we have that luxury: that we can indulge ourselves when others may find such places too remote or unseasonable; seeing each place anew again and again – and not just for their innate, crafted beauty; or their extensive historical context; but for the rich, relevant relaxation and deserved, diversionary depth they can bring to our restive lives.