Hereford Cathedral

Do you want to see what I saw?

A squat Norman tower

Arches and Pinnacles

An ancient door

Assorted mouldings

A peaceful cloister

A dazzling river panorama.

Do you want to see what the gull saw?
Let us pan slightly left...

The outcome of a flawed planning system.

It truly pains me to post this picture
because I hate ugly things
but I felt so sad that the planning system
in Hereford could have allowed this project
to spoil the historic heart of the city.
It was opened in 2000
but is already empty and dilapidated.
I hope that they get it right with the next major development.

Eavesdropping

The Fosse, Castle Green, Hereford

1.
The gasp of delight from MrsM
when she sees this view out of her hotel bedroom.

2.
A champagne cork explodes out of the bottle
hits a lamp shade,
and then ricochets into the ice bucket
with a splash.

3.
Reverberations from the Cathedral organ.

4.
A man at the next table says
"I put my aftershave on
and then I tried to put my contact lenses in
but it really made my eyes sting."
MrM murmurs
"Should have put your brain in first, mate."

5.
Church bells in the early morning.

6.
A mother singing Frere Jacques to her daughter
as they cycle through empty Sunday streets.

7.
Dusty silence in a village church.

8.
The young waitress persuading us to try
homemade lime cheesecake.
"It is delicious" she promised.
It was.

9.
Laughter from the elderly museum guide
as we try to guess what the mysterious object is.

10.
Listening to the decisive penalty kicks
through the hiss and fade of
a car radio with appalling reception.

11.
A squeaky yawn from tiny Maisie,
a very precious new daughter
for our friends, Graham & Ursula.

12.
The sigh of despair from MrsM
when she realises that her camera battery is flat.

Planning ahead

Mr and Mrs Ralph Izard by John Singleton Copley (1775)

MrM and MrsM have a free weekend ahead of them.
For the first time for years and years and years
they have no responsibilities at all.

MrsM
We could just go...somewhere...

MrM
Where?

MrsM
Herefordshire.

MrM
Why?

MrsM
I don't know...it just popped into my head...

MrM
What is there to do in Herefordshire?

MrsM
I have no idea.

MrM
There must be something to do.

MrsM
We can drink Westons cider.

MrM
Pass the phone.
I will book a hotel.

To World's End... and back

Our friends, Graham and Ursula,
live in a small Oxfordshire village.

After we have enjoyed
Graham's world-famous 'Pot au Feu'
Ursula and I step out to take the air
and leave MrM to analyse the rugby with Graham
aided by generous quantities of 'Old Hooky' Ale.
Ursula is new to blog tourism
and is surprised but delighted that
a window with a reflection in
is sufficient excuse for a photograph.

We wander down Middle Street
and wish that we could see over
the high wall to the garden beyond.

A bright orange vintage tractor!
Everyone should have one in their back garden.

And then I get distracted
because Ursula makes me laugh a lot
and so there is no record
of the donkey,
or the child at the level crossing
or the beautiful china bowl in a cottage window
but this carving did catch my eye.

We stop in the Church but not for long
because a rather deaf elderly lady
with a hysterical dog
is waiting to lock up.

The village has a history dating back to Saxon times
and apparently it was once famous for apricots.
Ursula did not know that.

The pleasure is always in the small details.

Thank you, Graham and Ursula, for your hospitality.
I only wish that I had taken a picture of the Pot au Feu.

A brief interlude

Last night I slept in an oak panelled room
with a velvet upholstered four poster bed.

The fireplace was carved limestone,
the ceiling moulded plaster,

and the bathroom luxurious.

This morning I sat at the pewter mirror

and looked beyond to the drive lined with shaped yew

and wondered at my good fortune.

On Gold Hill

It was late afternoon by the time we arrived in Shaftesbury,
an ancient Dorset town at the top of a steep hill,
overlooking the Blackmore Vale.

The soft light was warm on thatch and cob wall
and reflected in the small glass panes.

These cottages look romantic now
but would have been homes to families
living on subsistence wages
including the famous button-makers of Dorset
who made buttons from the horns of Dorset sheep.
This trade came to a shuddering halt
after the introduction of a button-making machine in 1851.
The skilled button-makers faced starvation
and 350 families from Shaftesbury emigrated to Australia
(which might explain the obsessive button-love
displayed by some of my Australian friends).

We stood at the top of Gold Hill
and wondered whether to walk down.
It is very steep and the cobbles are uneven -
perhaps it would be better to see the view from the top.

But if you walk down you can see the houses
and between them, glimpses of the valley beyond.
It was worth the walk because,at the bottom of the hill,
I found a sheltered wall covered with pale violet Aubretia


which proves that you never know what you will find
around the next bend in the road.

*****

Thank you so much for your kind birthday wishes
which I really appreciated.
Your generous friendship means a great deal to me.

Whitstable Harbour

MissM and I decide that we must have some sea air
and so we head for the coast.

It is a grey day and the famous beach huts
are barred and bolted shut
but the inner harbour is bustling with visitors.

The quayside is littered with ropes and anchors,
nets, chains and blue plastic buckets.

The salty air makes us hungry
but not enough to eat cockles, whelks or jellied eels.

We are tempted by an ice cream parlour
which promises us that their ice cream
will make us 'weep tears of joy'.

After trialling the honeycomb flavour
MissM assures me that her eyes definitely welled up briefly
to prevent me from demanding our money back.

It is all very relaxing
and I only feel slightly enraged
by the spelling mistake

and couldn't care less
about the apostrophes.

Anatomy of a Weekend

MrM and MrsM are staying in the same hotel
as their good friends, The Double Barrelled Couple.

Mr and Mrs DBC leap out of bed early in the morning
and leave the hotel before breakfast.
There is so much to do.
They must climb the Eiffel Tower.
They must climb the towers of Notre Dame.
They must climb Montmartre.
They have no time for slackers!

MrM and MrsM are a shocking contrast
to this impressive work ethic.
They explore the hidden squares of the Marais

and wonder if they can take cheese back on the train.

They enjoy the street markets...
even though they seem quite tame
after the fish market at Catania.

There are shops that just sell honey.
MrM has a private tasting session
and agonises over which variety to buy.
MrsM just sits and watches.

They buy a gift for MissM just around the corner
from their favourite brasserie.

It starts snowing as they pass Notre Dame
so they go inside and listen to a choir practice.

and then they watch the skaters
as they pass the Hôtel de Ville.

MrM decides to stop and watch England play Italy
in a warm pub just off the Rue St. Honore.
MrsM falls asleep,
but nobody notices...
she hopes.

In the evening they eat in Le Soufflé,
a charming restaurant that specialises in...well...soufflés

and then stroll around the romantic Place de Vendôme.
It is all very pleasant and relaxing.

Of course, MrM and MrsM don’t do everything...
it would be a shame not have an excuse to go back.
No?

The Louvre at Night

Monsieur le Curateur has kindly offered
a private tour of the Louvre at night.

The lights in the galleries are low
which creates a dreamlike feeling
as we follow his stooped figure.

Monsieur le Curateur is immensely courteous.
He murmurs 'Bon soir' to the gallery staff
and laughs apologetically at their surprise
because he does not often take tours.

In contrast, Monsieur le Curateur's wife is animated
and enthusiastically points out the greatest of the masterpieces
so that we do not miss them as we walk past.

Here in the heart of the Louvre
is the Mona Lisa.

Monsieur le Curateur knows her only too well;
he has taken her to Japan.
Such terrifying responsibility.

I don't want to give the impression that we are alone...
on Friday nights there is free entry for the under 26s
and so we are surrounded by groups of students.

As we walk past the tall windows
there are glimpses of the Seine
and, in the distance, the two towers of Notre Dame.

Gradually the galleries empty of visitors,
leaving us alone with the marble statuary
and the Great Masters of Renaissance Art.

We end the evening with a meal in the restaurant.
Monsieur le Curateur shakes his head when we thank him
and says that it was just a small sample,
there is so much to see,
we must come again.

We leave at midnight
and the great reception hall is completely empty.

It is the end of an unforgettable night.