The Dog That Didn’t Turn Up

When we plan things, we imagine how they will turn out.

I didn’t have much of a plan for this adventure beyond: set off from Land’s End, head east, then head north, and see what happens. But I did imagine how my story might pan out.

In the film version of my adventure, I’d be played by Helen McCrory (Aunt Poll in Peaky Blinders); I’d be climbing mountains so that the camera could fly round me on mountaintops as I sink to my knees and yell ‘Why?! Why am I doing this?!’

And on another mountain (probably in Scotland) I’d be like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music, arms open, twirling , singing, because I was deliriously happy for some reason or other.

Helen McCrory as me would reach John O’Groats looking fit and fabulous, with my shoes almost falling apart, there would be a crowd of people waiting to greet me, cheering as I walk round the cliff and see them there, tears streaming down my face, people playing tunes, dancing singing, some incredible revelation happens, my life turns round, demons faced and conquered, sun shining, ruddy-faced fishermen waving at me…

…people leaving the cinema feeling that they have been on the journey with me, and determining to read the book. (Not that I’d spent much time thinking about the film version… Chris Prat or Tom Hardy would play The Lovely John..)

In another world, where I’d have got the funding to create a musical snapshot on my crazy pilgrimge, I might have booked more B&Bs, I might have been more certain about my route, and known exactly when and where I would be.

But I would have missed out on so much excitement, thrills, worries, and entering into the unknown.

In my imagined version of the journey, I would arrange to meet musicians en route, literally. They would walk to some pre-arranged crossroads, and we would spend an hour or two enjoying sharing tunes and a picnic, then we would both hug and go our separate ways.

In my imaginary journey, there was a little dog that started walking along beside me, and even though I tried my best to get rid of it, it just kept following me, and we ended up best of friends and almost inseparable. I was probably going to call the dog Groaty, or something like that. Boots maybe. But the dog would be well-behaved and devoted.

In my imaginary journey, I turn up at the John O’Groats hotel and spend the £50 note that I have kept in my hat (actual, not imaginary) on a drink, a meal or a room for the night. People cheer and pat me on the back.

In fairness, some people had said they would walk with me for a while, an hour, a day a weekend, but weather, commitments and time never quite coincided.

The dog didn’t turn up. But Naked Actionman did.

The hotel at John O’Groats has been turned into self-catering flats. So I saved my money.

I was looking forward to walking the entire length of the Pennine Way, the Great Glen Way and the West Highland Way.

Didn’t do any of them in their entirety.

I even decided to treat myself to the West Highland railway journey, and have a day climbing Ben Nevis.

Rain and fog put a stop to all that milarkey. Who wants to sit on a train for five hours and see nothing but fog? Not I. Who wants to climb uphill for five hours in thick rain clouds? Nah.

There were a lot of things I didn’t do, and it doesn’t matter in the slightest. I met the most amazing people, I have seen some incredible places, heard wonderful music, i have been constantly reassured that people are kind, friendly, good-natured, we smile, we laugh, we are interested and interesting. Everyone has a tale to tell, and everyone loves to hear a tale well told.

People aren’t obsessed with politics, they don’t talk about Brexit; there is much more to this world of ours, this tiny country of mine, than the media would ever admit to.

Life is full of magic, amazing co-incidences, places so delicious they make you want to cry.

These things can’t be imagined, they can’t be captured and recreated in a film. Helen McCrory, marvelous actress that she is, would never be able to show the gradual realisation that my knees aren’t hurting anymore.

Or how good it felt to climb my first long hill without thinking I was going to collapse. Or what it felt to be knocking on someone’s door who I’d never met before, because they had heard about my adventure and invited me to stay and hear them play music.

Or how, when I was travelling through Scotland, I didn’t feel like some Amazonian adventurer, I felt like Jimmy Crankie.

I felt like Jimmy Crankie because I was loving every minute, smiling at the rain, the mists, stealthcamping in harbours, beaches, lochs and lakesides, heading North, on my way to John O’Groats. I even went to visit Glenmorangie whiskey distillery, something I’ve always wanted to do.

Glenmorangie distillery

Naked Actionman posing like a pro

Could this be the best bar in the world?

If anyone is wondering what to buy me for Christmas – glenmorangie please x

I didn’t stop smiling when I got to John O’Groats, even though we’d driven all day in thick fog, and you couldn’t see a thing when we got there.

We did the obligatory photos, and were similarly underwhelmed by John O’Groats as we were by Land’s End.

The destination isn’t the adventure. It never was.

There is a phrase that often came into my head during the adventure: ‘The map isn’t the territory’. It was a phrase that was often trotted out during NLP training, and this summer, I totally understood it. It’s 874 miles to Land’s End, you can plot the route on a map, but the journey is so much more than a line on a map.

Somewhere behind Naked Actionman, there’s Orkney

It’s a bleak, bleak place is John O’Groats.

Pulling out all the stops for the tourists.

Here we are, Jimmy Crankie and the Lovely John at J O’G

Two Months earlier… equally bleak, but sunnier, 874 miles away….

Well Folks, it’s been a blast. But it’s not the end of the blast. No siree. I’ve got a hundred tunes and songs and stories to turn into something. Watch this space, give me a week or two to get used to being back in my homelands, then see what I start cooking.

In the meantime, I’ve got to get used to not being an adventurer, I’ve got to decide where I’m living and I’ve got to get me a job.

Eek.

Rain, rain, lovely rain…

After the excitement of the Devil’s Pulpit, we headed north to Loch Lomond.

It was way beyond teatime (that’s dinner time to you southerners), and we were hungry, so set up camp at the first place we saw, which happened to be the bottom end of Loch Lomond at a place called Duck Bay.

It seemed an appropriate place to teach the Lovely John a tune called Duck River, so that’s what we did until rain stopped play.

The rain didn’t stop for days. Days and days of rain, cloud and fog.

Loch Lomond – view from the van. Still raining. Still beautiful

I’m sure the highlands were spectacular, if only we could have seen them…

We’d made plans as part of my ‘holiday’ section of the adventure, to head to Fort William and climb Ben Nevis. We’d climbed Scarfell Pike a couple of years ago in thick mist and a howling gale, and last year we did Snowden, and the clouds descended as we got to the top.

The top of Snowden is a funny place – there’s a cafe and a train station, and I was desperate to have a wee as I neared the top, so decided I would hold out for the toilets in the cafe. The cafe, of course, was closed, so as soon as we’d had the obligatory photo at the summit, I found a little crevice to crouch in, not that I needed one because it was thick fog. Until I started peeing. Then miraculously the fog lifted, a train-load of people appeared from nowhere, and I was crouched with my knickers round my ankles peeing like a horse saying ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t stop. Watch your step, it’s flowing over the path.’

But I digress – being an expert on mountaintops where you can’t see anything, we decided to give Ben Nevis a miss, as you could barely see one end of the street from the other in Fort William, so I wasn’t expecting a view from the mountains, especially as there weren’t any to be seen. But next time I’ll conquer Ben Nevis. Here’s a helpful site that will get me there: https://bennevis.co.uk/

There were a lot of hiker types in Fort William, unsurprisingly as it’s where you set off for BN and other mountains, and two of the paths I had planned to walk on (The Great Glen Way and The West Highland Way) began and ended in the town.

Astute readers may have noticed the change in tense there from ‘I’ll be walking on’ to ‘I had planned to walk on’.

Yes, it’s true. I am no longer going to walk through Scotland to John O’Groats.

Neither am I collecting tunes and meeting musicians in Scotland.

And I’m not chickening out; I have realised that Scotland is a vast and glorious country that needs a bit of research in order to do it justice. And hell yes, I want to walk the Great Glen Way ad the West Highland Way, but I want to do it when I’m feeling fresh and ready for it and even though I’m time rich right now, I’m cash poor, so I want to do my research, save up, and do it in B&B style, not hiking tent cheap. A girl has certain standards, you know.

I know that it takes about twenty minutes to drive what would take me a day to walk, so I figured that I could enjoy the holiday, still get to John O’Groats, but in The Stealth Campervan rather than on foot, and still have the most wonderful adventure.

And still it rained…

Loch Ness – we had our own little beach and campfire, and the rain didn’t dampen our spirits

No – that wasn’t Nessie, it was the Loch Ness pleasure boat. We waved, but I think the red monster on the outside ate all the passengers

This is perhaps the tackiest place in all of Scotland…Nessieland. Even Naked Actionman was unimpressed.

The Loch Ness camping was wonderful – we had a tiny beach to ourselves, and wood to make a fire and a big umbrella so we were warm and dry, and we just sat under that big old umbrella, stoking up the fire, watching the rain clouds rolling in, drinking whiskey and playing music.

Tomorrow – I’m doing it – I’m going to tell you about reaching John O’Groats, seeing seals, stealthcamping in harbours and beaches in mists so thick that we couldn’t see the castle on the beach, and how much I love Scotland.

But for now, I’m writing this part of the blog at my mother’s, and I hear the kettle going on again…

Between the Angels and the Clouds

Rosie Gange was one of the first people to invite me to share music with her, before I’d even set off. I think in our mind’s eye, we imagined that we would walk the gorgeous Glossop hills is the sunshine, stopping only to picnic and play our fiddles aloft a hilltop as the birds sang overhead.

My Lovely Rosie – we managed a little walk together, and we managed to play music together, but not at the same time. We have promised each other we’ll do some walks next year.

What we didn’t take into consideration was timing, weather, and availability. The thing I’m realising with my adventures that i can predict where I’ll be for the next two or three days, but beyond that I’m at the mercy of many different factors that can change timings and directions. And that other people have lives and agendas that really don’t circle around mine. And that when the weather is awful, and by awful i mean raining cats and dogs, there’s usually only me who is keen to walk.

Rosie had stuff to do, I arrived at a random time, and it rained.

So, I had a lovely stay with Rosie and Jamie, but i set off on my own in the rain, heading over the hills to Holmfirth, to meet Jan Ansell and her band who were rehearsing that night. I’m sorry to say, but Nakedactionman was tucked up in my rucksack.

Heading along the valley on the Longdendale Trail. It rained.

Heading up along the Woodhead Pass. Yes that’s a cloud ahead and I’m heading into it.

That’s Derbyshire, same view, when the cloud clears for three seconds

#proudfaceme. I climbed all that way through rain and clouds.

Hahahahaha that’s a frame at the summit so you can photograph the view. Hahaha

This walk was five miles along the Longenden Trail, five miles climb into the clouds to Holme Moss, and five miles descent into the Holme Valley to Holmfirth.

It was a little bit terrifying, heading up the hill realising that I was heading for the cloud bank and I wouldn’t be able to see more than ten yards ahead of me. I remembered an old man who used to tell me that when you were up in those hills it was like being between the ‘divil an’ t’ deep blue sea’. I’m not sure where the deep blue sea came from, but it felt more like walking between the angels and the clouds.

There was something about that sense of isolation and being totally and utterly alone that was calming and exciting at the same time. Yes there were cars passing infrequently, but they didn’t see me. Nobody saw me, not even the sheep.

Note to self: get something hi viz to wear.

But I was an incredibly proud old Hector when I completed the walk. I rang Jan when I got into Holmfirth and she drove down from the hills above Holmfirth on the opposite side, and picked me up.

Jan contacted me some time ago – she’d seen my posts on facebook, looked me up and realised that we both studied at Bretton Hall and even though we were years apart and never met, she felt honour-bound to offer me food and a bed and show me the music that she plays in a band with her husband, Steve (also an ex-Brettonite).

Steve and Jan live with their two children, two dogs and malevolent cat in a house in the hills high above Holmfirth – back up into the clouds again. The views were, apparently, just as spectacular as the views I didn’t see walking over the Holme Moss Pass.

I was fed and watered royally, and the band arrived for their tuesday night rehearsal.

The band, the Good Earth Collective (http://www.goodearthcollective.co.uk/) were preparing for some upcoming gigs. Most of the songs are written by Steve, and it was most enjoyable watching and listening, and they even insisted that I joined them with my fiddle.

Steve Ansell talking about ‘Rust’:

‘Rust was written at a time when my dad died, Jan was ill, and my friend in the band Carl was ill, going through cancer treatments, and he still came to rehearsals, still turned up and played. Music takes you somewhere else to a place you can cope with anything.‘

‘Southern Rain – I’ve written this song as a sort of composite of images of love songs.’

https://youtu.be/2I22x9wUcGU

I’m on my adventure, but for most people life goes on as normal, so Steve was up early in the morning off to work, Jan did the school run, and offered to take me down into the valley, as soon as she’d made me eggy bread for breakfast. Nomnomnom.

The one thing (and there are many things) that I love about my adventure is how lovely, hospitable and interesting people are.

Jan even made a little coat for Naked Actionman.

Fashion Designer Jan Ansell with her latest creation. Us Brettonites can turn our hand to anything.

Jan decided that we should have a memory lane trip around our old Bretton places – she lived in Denby Dale as a student; I lived in Skelmanthorpe, or ‘Shat’ as it is called locally, and we had a wonderful journey pointing out places where things used to be, where people used to live, where misdemeanours once occurred and this continued all the way to Wakefield. I thought I was getting a lift to Holmfirth, but we were having way too much fun to stop.

I had arranged to meet a woman called Lesley in Wakefield who was interviewing artists for her podcast, on the theme of a sense of home and how belonging affects your art.

I’ll tell you all about it in my next blog. And also my stay with some other ex-Bretton Hall students, this time they were old mates of mine, and the magical night at the Polka Hop, and the trip to Yorkshire Sculpture Park, where Bretton Hall used to be.

And some amazing art and some totally over the top art explanations

Naked Actionman modelling his new coat in the Hepworth Gallery, Wakefield.

But for now, if you’ll forgive me, it’s actually Friday 28th, The Lovely John is meeting me for the weekend, and I’m not planning on doing any blogging, cos he’s only with me for about 30 hours, so you’ll have to wait til next Monday to find out what I got up to last Wednesday. It’s going to be a heatwave this weekend, so enjoy, walk away from the computer and get the Barbecue lit.

To Hathersage and Beyond – feeling good, and paying for the takeaway

I’m busy coordinating my weekend and getting excited about meeting people and walking and lots of things. This week in the southern Peak District has been a real tonic after the relentless rain of the week before.

Don’t get me wrong, it still rained, but it was by and large that gentle moistness that cools down a sweaty hiker, and there was the constant threat of scowley clouds rumbling by but they never stopped to wreak havoc.

I do think about other things apart from the weather, but when you’re out in it all day you tend to obsess for a while, then forget all about it. I am also loving not watching the news. I catch the odd little snippet and shake my head in disbelief at the general state of the once noble profession of politics, now turned into a poodle parade with all the gravitas of a Miss World contest for uglies and fops.

Nobody I’ve met is remotely interested in current affairs. Nobody mentions brexit, nobody mentions the conservatives, or any political party. It’s beautiful, mentally peaceful, and it’s only at times such as these that you realise just how much your mood and mental health can be affected by the media.

Yes, I still get my Black Dog walking alongside me every now and then, but after a month on the road, it visits less and less, makes less and less noise and sometimes even wags its tail and disappears quietly before i even know it’s not there any more.

I’m not sure whether it’s the therapeutic value of walking that helps elevate moods, or the fact that any nonsense that you focus on in your head is your own stuff and nonsense, nobody else’s and you own those thoughts. Nobody sold them to you And when you’re hosting your own thoughts, you can take them anywhere you want. It takes a lot of solitary miles to get your head into gear, but your body gets fitter as well.

Today I walked over the hills from Eyam to Hathersage, a lovely few miles, and it was a breeze. I loved the sights, i loved feeling fit and I loved the freedom.

It’s not the best photo but the views, the views…

The leafy lanes of fairytales and adventures…

This is the Music Mill just in hathersage. Thought it warranted a pic as nobody was in.

The message here concerned me for a while; is it a passive/aggressive threat? Is it telling us that the bulbs are dangerous? Is it telling the bulbs to be careful? Ooo the mysteries to be solved. Vera – where are you when I need you?

At Hathersage, I boarded a bus fo a £2 journey to Sheffield, over the hill so I could pop in and see my son for a day or two. I’m arranging the next week or so of meet-ups while I’m here.

£2 – from centre of sheffield and you’re in the countryside. Amazing. Buses are bloody brilliant and far too underused as a way of reaching The Great Outdoors. I know this for a fact cos I see country busses all the time (and get on the odd one occasionally) and there’s rarely anyone on them. Use them or loose them folks.

Right, my firstborn has ordered the takeaway, I’ve had a fab bath and we’re going to watch a film.

Takeaway has arrived and I’m paying for it hahahaha some things never change.

Tomorrow I discover the delights of sheffield….

Pissin’ It Down, Pugin, Peaks and Pints

After my three day battening down the hatches and riding out the rain and flooding, it was time to get back on the road. Rain was still forcast, but patchy intermittent rain rather than non-stop.

May I just say for the record that I weighed my rucksack during my three days of not wearing it, and it weighed in at over two stone. Over Two Stone. So I’ve also done a bit of rucksack reorganising. The tent and sleeping bag are out for a while, cos I’m going to try out the hostels, of which there are many where I’m heading.

Lovely John wasn’t working over the weekend, so we set off in the Stealth Campervan, all re-packed and re-organised, for somewhere North of Birmingham, purely on the fact that my three days off had started somewhere round Birmingham, and I wanted to give myself some imagined walking miles.

In an impressive demonstration of forward planning, I booked a bed in the Ilam Youth Hostel for Sunday night, so I could head there on the Sunday and be ready to walk in the Peak District that week.

Saturday – the Satnav was programmed to some ‘town centre’ of a random place south of the Peak District. It turned out to be a four house hamlet with nowhere to park up for the night, but there was an abbey in ruins nearby, so loving a good churchy type building in any state as I do, we headed there and mooched around the stones for a good 30 minutes before the lure of a good walk called us.

Arty shot of Stealth Campervan through the arches of ruined abbey

I wanted to try a walking trail out – some are marvellous, well signposted, good underfoot, and some are hard work. This one went through some very beautiful places, but we did have torrential, and I mean torrential rain, so the wooded valley walk was more of a trot through a stream. But on the plus side – it was a ‘getting back into my stride’ walk, I didn’t have my rucksack on, I was with The Lovely John, and we were stopping in the Stealth Campervan, soo didn’t have to worry about where to sleep.

John going all Vera in his rubbish Poncho

Spot the rip on the shoulder. Hahaha torrential rain as well.

The walk we did was around Oakenham, which is a beautiful little place – hilly, woody, and rivery, and just over the hill from Alton Towers. There’s a nice place to park and you can possibly park overnight, but the lure of a Town was calling us, and a nice chap we met on the walk had recommended Cheadle.

This is a thing I’ve noticed when hiking – people stop and natter. I now know all about the nice chap’s twin children (aged 21), who weren’t going to come on a walk with him for Father’s day tomorrow, but they would meet him down the pub after.

The nice chap mentioned Cheadle and told us to visit the church there – ‘Pugin’s Masterpiece’. Old Man with Dog had mentioned Pugin’s Church when he stopped for a natter with us earlier. Cheadle was only a few miles away, it had a carpark to overnight in, it had a Weatherspoons to feed in, and a very nice local to have a proper pint in. We weren’t awfully impressed with the church we found, it was nice, but it was no jewel.

The people in the pub couldn’t believe that we were strangely unmoved by the church until they realised we were looking at the wrong one.

Let me say a few words about the pub we found. It was a little bit out of town, The Swan, but we were made to feel welcome from the moment we walked in, and spent a most pleasant evening swapping stories, laughing and drinking. Tony and Jan run the pub, Tony originally hailed from Barnsley. Dave the Ref was also there – in full referee regaila.

Every pub has their ‘Dave’ and Dave the Ref was The Swan’s. I think his ultimate aim was to have a rotating deck chair set up in the middle of the football pitch, then he could referee from there. ‘It’s offside when I say it’s offside,’ he told me, ‘you don’t need to run alongside to see the ball.’

He bought us both a pint, and wouldn’t accept one back, saying he was a secret millionaire. I think it had more to do with him having to drive home.

I love a night where conversation and laughter flows – it doesn’t matter whether it’s with old friends or people I’ve only just met – and Saturday night in The Swan was one of those nights. They don’t do food – ‘Spoons in the centre of town pretty much has that one in the bag, and no-one in a small town can compete with a Weatherspoons menu for reliability (‘you know where you are with a Weatherspoons, and you never get the shits from their food’… Antony’s ghostly voice from land’s end reminds me).

But big corporate pubs can never compete on the good old fashioned ambience, welcome and charm that local pubs survive and thrive on.

Tony and Jan at the Swan. I took a picture of Dave the Ref as well, but no idea where it went.

Found it! Every pub has their Dave, and this is Dave the Ref.

Sunday – we got to see the real Pugin’s Church. St Giles Catholic Church, NOT St Giles the Abbot. Easy mistake, and we made it.

You walk through the door and you do a sharp intake of breath. That’s how spectacular it is. A catholic riot of colour and splendour and it’s no wonder the locals for miles around are proud of it.

The special cupboard where the special frocks are kept

The special cupboardy fridge where the chalices and stuff are kept

Altar with carved angels playing instruments

Neither of these pictures do justice to how incredibley this church is decorated

A man showed us round, even showing us the cupboards where they keep the elaborate outfits worn by the bishops and priests, some designed by Pugin to match the church. I could rattle on for pages about the design, the tile work, the colours, how quickly the church was actually built, but if you’re interested, google Pugin’s Church in Cheadle, then pop down there to see it next time you’re in the area. And nip and have a pint in the Swan.

On the way back to The Stealth Campervan, we passed a shop selling ‘oatcakes’. It was the oatcake shop, and people were queuing up like they do in a chip shop. Oatcakes, as sold in Cheadle, are like big flat pancakes, filled with a selection of whatever you want from the list (cheese and tomatoes for me, please) then heated up – they look a bit like a floppy thin Cornish pastie, but taste nothing like. Popular in these parts though. We had out oatcakes for breakfast then headed in the direction of Ilam (that’s I-l-a-m with an i and an l, not 11am – it’s a place, not a time).

Our plan this morning was to find somewhere to park far enough away from my final destination to require a good walk, and where The Lovely John could wheel his bike alongside me, then bike back to the Stealth Campervan, and head home, leaving me to continue on my own again.

The last two or three miles into Ilam are steeply downhill, so The Lovely John cut his losses and left me halfway down the hill, so he wouldn’t have to bike all the way back up again.

I always tell myself not to be sad or emotional – I’m really not that kind of person, but I had an unexpected gush of sadness when we said goodbye. I’m not worried about being on my own, I think I just get used to him being around and feel comfortable and protected when he’s there. And I hate goodbyes.

So I took a pic of him panting up the hill, he took one of me, and I carried on down to Ilam.

Weeping silently as The Lovely John disappeared up the hill

Yes, that’s me, striding away in the rain towards Ilam. Zoom in and you can see my tears

Oh. My. Word.

The YHA at Ilam is an astoundingly beautiful place. I’m in a bunk bed dorm with potentially seven other women, but nobody else is in my room yet. The grounds are gorgeous – it seems to be a popular place for walking and a day out – it’s a country park with rivers, trees, fields, bits of everything and a Youth Hostel in the Hall.

Ilam hall. So gorgeous you could bite it’s little nose off.

Coming into Illam. Alone. And feeling a bit sad.

Cheered up no end when I saw the view from my bedroom.

I left the rucksack in my room and had a gentle walk round the park. Not too far – I’m on the road proper tomorrow, and I’m deliberating on whether to do a nice 8 miler to the next YHA, or to go all out and do 15 to the one after that.

I’m leaving the decision in the hands of the weather gods and the YHAs.

I can’t check cos there’s no internet here. Which is why I’ve written a lot on today’s blog, cos I can’t do my usual plan tomorrow’s route this evening. An early night, i feel is on the cards.

It’s Tuesday now, and I’ve finally found t’internet.

I’ll tell you of today’s epic walk in tomorrow’s blog…

Inner Yoda

Relentless rain all night – the old boys at the bar last night were forecasting at least a week’s worth of rain and floods and half of it landed on the roof of the Stealth Campervan overnight.

I had been silently congratulating myself all weekend on the inspired decision to hop on a bus to Gloucester to dry out last Friday, knowing that I’d be meeting up with The Lovely John and The Stealth Campervan, my boots would have somewhere to dry out, and that we could head back to the Cotswolds to meet up with people. ‘Learn to trust your instincts, Amanda’, my little inner Yoda keeps intoning.

Lovely John was due to head back home later this afternoon, after dropping me off in Redditch to stay with Sally Whytehead – a dulcimer player and president of the Nonesuch Dulcimer Society.

We dropped in at Evesham on the way to Redditch, mainly because neither of us had been there before, it was raining and Sally wasn’t in until the afternoon. Evesham is lovely. It’s a little bit frayed at the edges, but I reckon if a town can make me smile for a couple of hours on a rainy tuesday morning, it’s worth getting a thumbs up. It had a huge cathedral and monastic buildings, now only hints of what was once there, and a park alongside a river where you can have boat rides. There’s lots of pubs and cafes in Evesham and a curious shopping centre with practically nothing in. I paid £3 and bought a waterproof coat from a charity shop – ‘we’ve just put a load out this morning, it’s going to be rainy for a couple of weeks,’ said the lady in the shop, ominously.

Rainy morning in Evesham with clock tower

Gwilym had given me a couple of names of people whom I really should meet, and one of them, Alex, lived near Birmingham, about 20 miles north of Sally.

Alex was free tuesday afternoon, so I revised my constantly revising plans, and decided to visit Sally, but not stay the night, and head on (while i still had the luxury of wheels) to see Alex in Mosley.

I have known Sally for more years than I care to imagine; we met through dulcimer gatherings, and have crossed paths several times over the years, always with dulcimers. Sally was one of the driving forces behind the first International Dulcimer Gathering (cimbalon world association) to be held in the UK, where the best players from all over the world descended on the tiny town of Malvern for a week in 2015 and had the best time ever.

So I was really pleased to be able to co-ordinate our diaries for a meet up and catch up.

Sally had a special bitter-sweet tune for my blog that she had written some years before:

Sally whytehead: this is a tune i wrote for Gillian Alcock’s wedding in 2007

Gillian was one of the foremost dulcimer experts in Australia – primarily a dulcimer maker but also a player and composer. It’s called ‘Gillian and Tim’s delight’. Gill had MS, Tim had cancer, so it was always going to be a short-lived delight. Tim died of terminal cancer two years after the wedding and Gillian died last November.

We were due to be at Alex’s by 4pm, so said farewells and thanks to Sally, then headed north to Mosley.

I had never met Alex before, only spoken with him and his wife Susan that morning on the phone. Gwilym told me that Alex was one of the finest singers of songs and I had to meet him.

I’m always a little nervous when I’m meeting new people, (what will they be like? Will they be difficult? Will they be terrible? Will I get an uncontrollable urge to giggle?) but from the moment he opened his front door and welcomed us in, Alex McClure was a complete delight. Here is a man who had been to the hospital that morning for tests on his lungs, so might not be able to sing or talk for long without getting tired. Alex sang, told stories and yarns, entertained us like a king; his wife Susan joined us and being a musician also, played some tunes for us.

I was invited to see Susan’s studio – she is a wonderful painter, and by the time we’d had a good natter and look at her paintings and joined the men in the front room, Alex offered to take us all out for an Indian meal – his treat. We didn’t stop talking and laughing all evening, and it was extremely difficult to leave the McClures and their fabulous hospitality (who can resist a single malt in crystal glasses?).

But The Lovely John had work in the morning, the rain had set in and my inner yoda was telling me to bunker down for a few days until the rain passes – this is an adventure, not a endurance event. I have had the most amazing few days, so I’m hungry to get back to my adventure, but for the next few days, I’ll be in Scunthorpe, writing my blog and drying out.

Alex:
A good song is one that can stand the test of time – being sung again and again and you never tire of. (I quite like the maudlin ones)

‘The Over Gate’ – the Beef Can Close was a knocked down area of Dundee. People would back in the day pawn their pans for money, and they would get the huge corn beef cans and use them as cooking pots. This song tells of a man who went to the big city with £5 in his pocket – a years wages at the time.

https://youtu.be/B3rTgn4WAbA

Susan – this is my mothers fiddle – it was in bits I wasn’t able to play it at home, so I got it fixed learnt fiddle when I left. ‘Rakes of Marlow a/my love she is but a lassie yet’ – my dad taught me these – one of the first sets of tunes I ever learnt, and I’ve loved them ever since.

https://youtu.be/kk6ItywknJA

It’s Saturday today, even though I’ve been writing about last Tuesday. I’ve been bunkered down in Scunthorpe – I haven’t even been to see my family over the river, because I know that if i see them, I might just not get back on the road. So sorry kids, friends and momma, I didn’t want to take the risk. I’m posting this then I’m back on the road. I’ve got my lodgings booked for Sunday, Stealth Campervan tonight, and a whole new chapter on my adventures about to begin…

Rain stops dancing, but it didn’t stop the playing.

Monday and the weather is still a bit on the moist side. I had been invited to meet up with Gwilym Davies and two Morris teams who were having a dance out Monday night at a pub called The House in the Tree (https://www.houseinthetree.co.uk/) at Hayden, west of Cheltenham.

Gwilym is well-known around the Cotswolds and Gloucestershire area for his work collecting local folk songs and tunes, and most people I’d met in the area had mentioned his name, so I was looking forward to meeting him, but first we had the daytime to take care of.

We went to visit Sudely Castle, which was recovering from a cancelled drowned out weekend of concerts, and the entrance fee was far too expensive for my meagre budget. So looking on the map, Bela’s Knapp (an iron-age burial mound) was nearby, and free, so we went there instead. Admittedly it was smaller than it looked on the photos, and once we’d gone round, up and over it, we were pretty much done, but it was an interesting visit. Got back to The Stealth Campervan just in time to avoid the next round of rain.

Bela’s Knapp – in one of the tiny chambers

Bela’s Knapp – trying to make it look like tutenkamoun’s tomb

I quite fancied an afternoon in Cheltenham. It was on the way to our evening meet up and I’d visited Cheltenham many years ago, but never looked round the centre. I now know why. Spending an hour or two in cheltenham caused me to ruminate on the question: ‘what makes a city centre a good/vibrant/pleasurable place to be?’ Cheltenham has all the potential building blocks, (nice regency architecture, plenty of posh shops, leafy greenness, interesting streets) but they’re teetering precariously on the verge of becoming run down.

We even visited the art gallery, and the people in reception watched us go up the open plan stairs to the top floor, which was closed, as was the next floor down, as was all the gallery apart from the shop.

We had a little picnic by Imperial Square, watching workmen dismantling a big exhibition with marquees and things. Which, I’m sad to report, was probably the highlight of my visit to Cheltenham.

By 2pm we had exhausted all possibilities for a fun time in Cheltenham, the rain was starting and we had a few hours to kill before our evening’s meet up. So we drove to the pub, parked up, and had a nana nap for the afternoon, waking up to torrential rain and the prospect of a lovely pub dinner.

House in the Tree, Hayden nr cheltenham. Our home for the night.

May I recommend The House in the Tree public house for food, and hospitality. There’s a notice on one of the walls that tells about the pub’s history and legends, and it bears repeating:

The House in the Tree, Hayden, near Cheltenham is some 500 years old and the interior is still original.

Legend tells how a beautiful girl named Maud Bowen, living nearby, was abducted by her uncle and followed by Walter the Archer who killed the uncle.

Unfortunately, while attempting to return home, Maude fell into a stream and was drowned. Court ruled that she had committed suicide, so her body was buried at the nearest crossroads with an elm stake driven through it.

Meanwhile Walter fled to Hayden, taking up residence in The House in the Tree. Maud’s mother spent much time at her grave, where in due course, the stake grew into a beautiful elm tree.

As a result, the mother was accused of witchcraft, taken to Maude’s Elm tree and burned. As the Lord of the Manor, the villain of the piece, watched, he too fell victim to Walter’s deadly marksmanship.

Maude’s Elm remained a district landmark for many years afterwards.

Crikey – they don’t write ’em like that anymore do they?

After we’d eaten, we went through to the bar to see if anyone would turn up in the pouring rain. It was obvious there would be no dancing outside, but it was rumoured that there would still be some music happening. Gwilym turned up, and within an hour, the bar was filled with members of the Gloucestershire Morris Men and the England’s Glory Ladies Morris all set for a right good night of playing music.

Before the music started, Gwilym gave me a brief introduction to himself:

GWILYM DAVIES

Hampshire boy – welsh father – hence the name – studied languages lived abroad, in early 70s ended up in Cheltenham. Got interested in folk in the days of skiffle, had a banjo – could only play one string, learnt chords, and used to play Lonnie Donegan stuff with some friends. We used to go to folksong clubs and discovered English folk. Went to school with Tony Engel of Topic Records . Discovered the Copper family. Thought ‘this is it – this is English music’.

I live now in Winchcome, north of Cheltenham – I play a bit together with my wife.

Branched out into Tudor and medieval music.

A Gypsy singer called Wiggy Smith used to play round this area. I used to pick him up from his campsite, bring him to this pub, fill him full of drink and record his songs.

Gypsies drank in this pub quite regularly once upon a time. I got friendly with a few of them and was invited to the funeral of one of them. I went to funeral and during the wake, I asked if any of the families knew his songs. Noooo. Nobody sings the old songs. Dying tradition, gypsy songs and tunes. I love them, I love to hear them, love to sing them, and I’ve collected a lot of them in the hope that they won’t die out.

I could have just left my camera rolling all night – the tunes and tales were many, led by Gwilym and also Christine of England’s Glory playing some wonderful tunes on her fiddle and Richard from Gloucestershire Morris on the box, but here’s a choice few for your delectation and delight:

Twin sisters: played by Gloucestershire Morris Men and the England’s Glory Ladies Morris

Here’s Gwilym playing ‘The Carter’, a Gloucestershire song he learnt from Bob Arnold, an actor from the Archers:

And here he is playing two polkas learnt from Lemmie Brazil (pronounced brezzle), who came from a family of gypsy musicians.

The full ensemble playing ‘Durham Rangers’ and Gloucester, (or Gloucester, two different tunes, but no-one could remember which was which) hornpipe:

Gwilym singing ‘When I took My Nance to Church’:

The Sloe – everyone plays this tune around these parts, so here’s another version:

Game Of All Fours – another song from the Brazil family – lots of songs around here from the Brazil family

The music and drinks flowed sweetly all night, and the rain outside barely paused for breath. We were sleeping in The Stealth Campervan in the pub carpark and the landlord Ady, offered to open up in the morning so we could have breakfast. The rain was torrential all night, but we were warm and dry snug as little bugs in a rug, with two more port of calls to visit on tuesday whilst I still had transport, before The Lovely John had to head back home.

Tomorrow’s blog: I meet an old friend and also meet a legendary singer recommended by Gwilym …

Wet Wet Wet

Sooooo glad I got the shepherd’s hut to sleep in last night. Spent a blissful hour this morning drinking tea, curled up in bed, listening to gentle rain on the roof which got less and less gentle, and by the time I was packed and ready to go, warranted the need for my ‘Vera Poncho’…

Goodbye lovely camping site. I slept in the green hut in the middle.

I got my Vera Poncho on. The only crime to solve is: where did all this rain come from?

…which kept the rain off for a couple of hours. But let me tell you some facts about the Cotswold Way:

It winds its way along a lot of countryside.

There are lots of uphill sections, and surprisingly few downhill parts.

There are spectacular views, but not when it’s raining.

There is nowhere to shelter from the rain.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, she turned the air blue….. hehehehe

Another tower to something or other. Don’t care. My feet are squelching with the wet.

I’ve given up with wet wet wet countryside and sticking to wet wet wet tarmac.

On a day with less murderous intent, one can see for miles and miles

After four hours non stop rain and the only break you get is when it buckets down rather than simply raining, your Vera Poncho is going to let the rain in.

There is still nowhere to shelter.

Because the route is 90% countryside, 10% road, your legs, your feet and your boots are going to get wet.

By 2.30pm, I’d walked a heroic number of miles, I was soaked right through and a village bus stop was the first covered place I’d seen all day. And there was a bus going up the hill to my destination. And it was a pound. Fekkit. The bus was warm, but it took five minutes, not long enough to dry out or warm up. I was going to be meeting up with The Lovely John in the evening, and I didn’t fancy the prospect of six hours sitting in a village with a pub that opened at 6 and no other amenities. Across the road, calling me like a siren to unwary sailors, was another bus stop. There was a bus due in 10 minutes that took an hour to get to Gloucester. I could be dry by then. I could wander round the city centre and be a tourist. I could find somewhere to change my sodden boots and socks. I could sit in a Weatherspoons and wait for The Lovely John.

Fekkit. I got the Gloucester bus. Here’s my stuff hanging out to dry on the bus. I have no shame now. I’m a bloody bag lady

Got the bus didn’t I? I’m not doing this adventure to give myself a hard time, and as it happens, Gloucester was warm and delightful.

Gloucester Cathedral

Did a bit of touristy stuff, changed my boots for my walking sandles in the cathedral toilets (and wrung the water out of my socks).

I’ve spent the last 3 hours in Weatherspoons, riding that renewable cup of tea like there’s no tomorrow, and writing up my blog.

I must give a mention to Rachael and Bob Carter, a couple who came over from Bristol to see Olly Murs in concert. They were sitting at the next table and we had a grand old natter, put the world to rights, and Bob should really get a job with the Bristol tourist board because, if it’s raining tomorrow, me and The Lovely John will have a day in Bristol, on Bob’s recommendation.

Me and Rachael and Bob Carter. If you could pick your neighbours, I’d pick these two.

The Lovely John should be rolling up in the Stealth Campervan any minute now, so if you will excuse me, we’ve got some catching up to do x