My dear family & friends
We had a busy weekend aided and abetted by some gorgeous autumn weather. On Saturday morning we loaded the dogs into the car and headed for the Clent Hills on the outskirts of Birmingham (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clent_Hills). You may recall that we had planned to do this last weekend until Edgar managed to rip a claw on the jetty near the lair of the vicious vermin swans in St Nicholas Park. His paw recovered sufficiently last week allowing us to pick up our plans this weekend. Although we were greeted by a thick, freezing fog on Saturday morning, the weather forecast promised us that it would burn off by midmorning. We took the weather man at his word and I’m glad we did.
Getting there was both easy and difficult. The route was easy: M40, M42, M5 then A491. The fog made it interesting. Big electronic signboards next to the freeway alerted drivers to the fact that they were indeed driving in dense fog. The difficult bit was finding the Clent Hills and the National Trust parking area and cafe. The word “hill” is clearly a matter of definition. In South Africa we’d call them “koppies”, but, come to think of it, even a koppie is bigger than a hill. This was complicated by the fact that there were no road signs pointing us in the right direction – which was really quite strange because the National Trust properties are usually really well signposted. But some clever guessing and the satnav eventually got us to where we wanted to be. By that time the fog had lifted and presented us with a clear bright day to go walking. (See pics in usual place: http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/llewellynijones.)
We spent about two hours walking up hill and down dale. We kept Edgar fairly close because there was plenty of evidence of horses. The first time Edgar ever saw a horse was when we went to the Animal Welfare Society in Philippi in Cape Town looking for a second dog. There was a horse in the paddock next to the road as we drove into the rescue centre and Edgar went ape-shit. The car shook as he screamed blue murder at what must have looked like a very big dog to him. The second time he saw a horse, he was off-lead and he bolted leaving me trailing far behind in hot pursuit yelling at him to sit. He has come relatively close to horses here in the UK without overreacting, so I live in hope that he has got over those fears like a child eventually stops being scared of the dark.
Our route took us to the highest point in the Clent Hills which, at 309m above sea level, still isn’t as high as our house in Pinoak Road in Cape Town. If you ask me what I miss most from our previous life in South Africa, it is simply the view: to be high up and stare out into the distance. There is something so serene about a view. I remember reading somewhere a long time ago about studies of the chemical/physiological change in your body when presented with a “long” view that created a feeling of well-being. You don’t find many high places in England. And when you do, no one will let you build a house there. Sheesh!
We had lunch back at the cafe at the car park. Their menu offered thick slice sandwiches: bacon, sausage, bacon and sausage, bacon and egg, sausage and egg, bacon and sausage and egg; tomato or mushrooms were 60p extra. We opted for bacon and tomato. Edgar and Hazel got many admiring glances, not only for their looks, but for their obedience as well. Where most of the other dog owners struggled to control their animals, Edgar and Hazel stayed down right where I told them to no matter what happened around them. All those Saturdays at dog club in Pinelands have paid off in leaps and bounds.
From Clent we drove to Kinver which is probably most well-known for a couple of houses that were gouged out of a sandstone ridge. (http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-kinveredgerockhouses; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kinver.) It was quite late in the afternoon by the time we had finished exploring and we traced a route home that got us back on to the M42 by way of Bromsgrove.
Sunday was a bit tighter because we had to be home for the start of the Singapore Grand Prix at lunchtime. Although there was a thick, heavy fog again, we left the dogs at home and headed for Worcester 30 miles away where I was particularly keen to visit the cathedral, one of the most magnificent in all England. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Worcester_Cathedral; http://www.worcestercathedral.co.uk/.) We got there at 10h30, just as a morning mass by Vaughan Williams was getting under way. Peering in through the door, the rows of seats were so empty it seemed as if the choir was singing to itself. According to a report on the BBC over the weekend, less than a million people in England now attend church regularly which is less than a third of the attendance in 1950. You probably know my feelings about any and all religion. My interest is strictly limited to the breath-taking architecture and the history. I’m with Richard Dawkins on this one.
We didn’t stay for the mass, partly because we hadn’t had breakfast yet and so chose to stroll the pedestrianised streets of the city centre. Worcester is really attractive – you’ve just got to ignore the “strurm-und-drang” architecture of the post war years. We even found a really pleasant Portuguese pastelaria/cafe where we ordered cheese and ham sandwiches for breakfast. Everything about the cafe, including the widescreen television in the corner, could have been lifted straight out of Portugal. We made it back to the cathedral at midday via the riverside walk – which was a bit of a problem because the grand prix started at one o’clock and I’d forgotten to set the recorder. Still the cavernous building resounded with music as a young boy practiced on the cathedral organ under the strict tutelage of his master. We didn’t stay long, but we agreed that we will go back soon. We like Worcester.
Other notable events last week included the arrival of our new British driver’s licences. Lucia is really relieved she didn’t have to do the licence all over again. I’m still amazed that we could simply swap our SA licences for British ones. Still more amazing was that they arrived in the post as promised without being stolen. Can you imagine trying that one in SA? Everyone would get robbed blind except the postal workers who would be driving around in Ferraris. (The postal workers themselves would use courier services.) Lucia had to include her passport with her drivers licence application, and even that was returned to her by NORMAL post. Yowzer!
Right now I’m waiting for one of our landlord’s mates to come and fix the downstairs loo. Although he spent a couple of hours struggling with the cistern on Friday afternoon, it started flooding the room when we tried to flush on Saturday.
My landlord tells me that the housing bust has cost him £1million. I didn’t have the heart to say that I think we have yet to see the bottom of this market.
Love, light & peace
Llewellyn
