A Tesco Tart

I'm in love with Tesco, the supermarket king! Tescos can provide your every wish. What care I if dozens of Umpa-Loompas are beavering away somewhere, if small farmers are being held to ransom by this corporate giant, or if children are slaving in rice fields and tea plantations. Actually I do care, but love is making me blind. I'm just a Tesco Tart!

Constable Country

I've decided, in an effort to speed up these ramblings, to choose one special day from each week to tell you about. But which day? This is the dilemma.

We've moved on to Suffolk now and I have to decide which of those special days was the most special. Will it be the visit to the magical, moated Oxburgh Hall? Or the day I got lost on Wicken Fen? Or perhaps the day in Bury St Edmunds, the town where Sam Weller met Mr Pickwick at the Angel Hotel in The Pickwick Papers, not to mention it's wonderful Abbey ruins set in beautiful, peaceful gardens for all to enjoy. Or what about the day cycling around Cambridge, now that was a special day. But I think perhaps it will be the day spent in Constable Country that I most want to tell you about.

John Constable, the renowned landscape artist, was born in East Bergholt in 1776, the son a wealthy corn merchant who owned the mill in Flatford, on the river between East Bergholt and Dedham.

The young John walked each day from his home in East Bergholt to school in Dedham, passing on his way all the beautiful countryside of the Dedham Vale wherein flows the River Stour in Suffolk.

These were the landscapes he grew to love and started to sketch at a young age. His father wanted him to get a real job, as fathers do, but John eventually won him over and, at the age of 23, was enrolled at the Royal Academy School, and within a few years was exhibiting his work at the Royal Academy.

He was a little ahead of his time as an artist and the stuffed-shirts at the Royal Academy couldn't abide his nature studies and pictures of old cottages and cows munching grass.

The French embraced his romantic, earthy style and he sold many pictures there but few in his native England during his lifetime. He is said to have influenced the work of his contemporaries in France, and later still the impressionist movement drew inspiration from his work.

To start my day in Constable Country I decide on a peaceful rural walk as set out, in what appears to be adequate detail, in a magazine at The Stables, my very pleasant abode for this week in Suffolk. I take the precaution of tucking the mag into my back-pack for reference purposes.

The walk commences in the car park of the Red Lion pub in East Bergholt, proceeds in the opposite direction from my destination, circles around and ends up in Flatford. Sounds easy? Well, yes it is until the 'now go down the hill' bit. This is not a fully adequate instruction when there is a choice of two hills to go down.

I hardly need mention that first I go down the wrong one. Trudge back up and down the other one. The path now disappears altogether and becomes some flattened grass on the edge of a field. I press on and come eventually to a Footpath marker. These signposts can be seen all over the country indicating the public footpaths that criss-cross this small island.

Now the problem with these signposts is that they don't actually tell you where the footpath is going. I think you are expected to have a compass and an Ordinance Survey map in your hip pocket, and not just be wandering around with a magazine containing clearly inadequate directions.

Naturally I head off in the wrong direction but luckily I find some elderly walkers out for a bit of air, and they set me straight, so I make it to Flatford without further ado.

I approach from the far side of the river through a field that has a herd of docile cows grazing or drinking at the river, oblivious to the numerous people walking to and fro on the path through their field to Dedham.

The first building that catches the eye is Bridge Cottage situated just over the little hump-backed bridge. It is painted white and has a thatched roof, making it about as picturesque as they come. This is the National Trust Visitor Centre which has a good exhibition relating to the life and times of John Constable. Here you can sign up for the guided walking tour.

Our guide has a collection of pictures in his folder and as we walk around from one spot to the next he shows us just what this or that painting depicts. Willy Lott's cottage, which is featured in 'The Hay Wain' looks just as it did then, also the mill and the dry dock, the ordinary everyday things of the time that Constable loved to paint. We are not fortunate enough to have a 'Constable sky' today which reminds us all the he too had to wait for those clouds to billow up in an azure sky.

The old Granary is a privately run B&B, but the mill; Willy Lott's cottage; and the Medieval Hall House, Valley Farm, are all owned by the National Trust and leased to the Field Studies Council who run residential and day courses in arts and environmental subjects.

For those who like messing about in boats there are row boats for hire near the bridge and on a pleasant day one can scarcely imagine a more delightful pastime.

The Brits certainly do a good job of preserving their 'sacred' sites. This place is almost close enough to London to smell the petrol fumes but still looks much as it would have looked 200 years ago to a young boy on his way to school.

Beautiful Bodnant

It's farewell to Wales after a trip on the funicular tramway up the Great Orme, a giant lump of rock to the north of Llandudno forming a headland about two miles long, where the Irish Sea stretches to the horizon, the Snowdonia Range marches away to the south, and the wildlife are free to be as wild as they like.

I can't really leave Wales without a trip to the Bodnant Garden, reputed to be up there with the best. And indeed it is. The site slopes away to the River Hiraethlyn and beyond. The areas around the house are a feast of terraces, lawns, lily ponds on an enormous scale, walls, steps, flower beds, wonderful old trees and a celebrated Laburnum Arch that draws photographers from all points of the globe in the springtime, when its pannicles of wisteria like blooms hang in a yellow festoon from the curved tunnel.

As you strike out for the river the garden looses its formality and the path meanders through shrub borders, trees and paths of mown grass until you reach an impressive Mausoleum in its own little garden.

Then down some steps to a tinkling stream with ferns and all manner of greenery around. Eventually the stream joins the river just above a man-made waterfall. A bridge crosses at this point to the opposite bank where the path heads off to the old mill through a glade of stately California Redwoods.

Another bridge and a climb uphill where the path must be a delight in the springtime, flanked as it is by Camellias and Rhododendrons.

A stroll around the Lily Terrace and the Rose Terrace then I'm off to a B&B at Kidderminster in Worcestershire before setting sail for Suffolk on the morrow.

A word of advice for any of my female readers who fancy setting up a Bed and Breakfast establishment to make a few quid on the side: don't go away for the weekend and leave your husband in charge. And please, try to site your B&B on a road that actually appears on a map!

All Things Welsh

I must tell you that Wales is a bit of a blur and two days does not do it justice at all. I ventured as far south as Brecon through countryside not dissimilar to Scotland. So perfect are the farms they could be a model laid out on a board with hedges and trees and sheep and cows and lots of green grass and a farmhouse, then tilted up at 45 degrees (all the verticals self-righting).

The signs are written in Welsh first and English second so by the time you've gone slightly cross-eyed getting through the Welsh bit with all the 'llsywnd-b-coywd' sort of stuff you've whizzed past the signpost and still have no idea what it said!

My drive through the mountains of Snowdonia heading to Caernarfon has nightmarish qualities that are often associated with 'B' roads: narrow, winding and in this case mountainous. This is, in fact, an 'A' road but a jolly poor excuse for one I'd say. The Sat Nav and I are locked in a battle to the death, it got me onto this road and now it doesn't want me to follow the signs that clearly say CAERNARFON. I might as well look out for Mt Snowdon (1085m) while I'm here, but there are so many candidates for very high mountains that it's hard to pick. I pull into a lay by and take a picture of what must surely be it, but later discover it's Moel Eilio which is way down the list at 726m.

I eventually reach Caernarfon and what a magnificent place it is, but no time to linger it's off up the coast heading to the bright lights of Llandudno where our last story ended. Just before the turn-off to Bangor the huge rocky cliffs plunge straight into the sea and the road is cut through the rock like a mouse-hole. There is something quite awe-inspiring about this sight.

And so the day ends sitting by the water on the Promenade at Llandudno, eating the best fish & chips ever, listening to the call of the gulls gliding overhead. Surely a sound that says 'seaside' like no other.

It's Only a Paper Moon...

Do you remember that movie called The Truman Show, where, unbeknownst to him, What-his-name Truman lived in this totally artificial and manufactured world?

Walking into Portmeirion Village is a lot like walking into the Truman Show.

This little village, overlooking the beautiful estuary of the River Dwyryd, was the brain-child of Welsh architect, Sir Clough Williams-Ellis. He spent 50 years, from 1925 to 1975, developing this Italianate extravaganza near Porthmadog in Wales.

He was the father of Susan Williams-Ellis, founder of the Portmeirion Pottery Company, who named the company, presumably, after dad's beloved Portmeirion Village.

The only residents of the village are paying guests at the fairy-tale castle, Castell Deudraeth, Hotel Portmeirion or the self-catering villas around the village. The rest of the buildings are given over to shops, cafes etc.

Sir Clough apparently had a thing for Portofino in Italy and, although he denied basing his Welsh fantasy village on Portofino, there is reputed to be an overall similarity between the two.

As I walk around I can't help feeling I've strolled onto a movie set, or even wandered into Willy Wonka's factory, as one has the distinct urge to lick a wall or snap off a piece of windowsill because they really could be made of candy.

The village has in fact been used on numerous occasions as a movie set (much cheaper than lumping all your stuff to Italy I guess), and, most notably I discover, as the set for the 1960s British TV series 'The Prisoner'. There is a 'Prisoner' shop here, and a 'Prisoner' convention is held annually. Now I don't know the first thing about this show but I'm guessing it's not anything like our Australian 'Prisoner'.

Many famous people have visited and stayed in Portmeirion including Oscar Wilde who, I believe, wrote Blithe Spirit while staying in the hotel!

The gardens are beautifully tended, everything perfectly clipped and manicured, and the Italianate pool is too perfect to be real, but there's water splashing about so it must be real.

Gwesty Hotel sits on the furthermost tip of this little illusion, looking onto the estuary and backed into a wood. It has it's own swimming pool for guests, set in lawns a little distance away, and just to complete the surrealness of your Portmeirion experience, there is a pretend yacht anchored just below the hotel. At least I think it's a pretend one, I fear I may be loosing my grip on reality. Am I looking out across really truly beautiful golden sands stretching away, at this low tide, to a sapphire sea? Or are those distant ripples just a painted canvas backdrop moving in the drowsy afternoon breeze?

I leave in the nick-of-time before the hole in this fantasy dimension closes over forever leaving me adrift on a cardboard sea, and hit the road for the delights of a balmy Llandudno evening, cycling along the Victorian Pier and the magnificent promenade oblivious to the 'No Cycling' signs that are pointed out to me by the Promenade Police the next morning! Ha! Too late she cried!

A Revolutionary Bridge

I decide against visiting any of the ten museums in and around Ironbridge, opting instead to cycle through the beautiful Ironbridge Gorge from Jackfield to Ironbridge following instructions lifted from the internet.

As with most instructions there are a few gaps that could well do with a bit of padding out. But never-the less, I make it to Ironbridge without getting lost more than two or three times, having a nice chat with a lady from a walking group along the way. She tells me she had the chance to become a Ten Pound Pom when she was sixteen and wishes she had. Water under the (Iron)bridge eh?

I have a very delicious pastie from a shop opposite the famous bridge and sit nearby contemplating the fact that the decorative quality of a structure was once important even when working with a 'new' material. I fear that art is lost in the structures of our present day. Or should I say scale and proportion seems lost? For weird and arty structures have appeared in recent years but will they stand the test of time? On the other hand, you couldn't get anything more weird or arty than Gaudi's famous cathedral in Barcelona, now could you?

I walk over the bridge, now only open to foot traffic, and cycle through the trees beside the river back to Jackfield.

Having rejected the idea of museum visiting, I decide, after all, to visit the Jackfield Tile Museum. This area is apparently not just famous as the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution, but has jolly good pottery clay (or is it china clay) as well. And Jackfield was once the hub of the world's tile industry.

The museum is set up in the old offices, hallways, showrooms and artist studio of Maw & Co., known throughout the world for the quality and decorative excellence of their many different tiles. Designers had their own particular style and became known for their distinctive work.

A fun part of the museum are the rooms recreating a place where tiles were used extensively, such as an old-fashioned butcher shop, a pub and the curved wall of a tube station with 'COVENT GARDEN' written in the tile work.

The factory today still churns out quality tiles for the Craven Dunnill Company and you can watch a tile painter hand painting the tiles. He looks very serene and his brush strokes confident, obviously not at all put off by people watching him work.

But I've lingered long enough in Ironbridge so it's off Builth Wells in the middle of Wales where I have booked a B&B at a farm for the night.

My hostess is quite a friendly soul, bustling and efficient. She instructs me to remove my shoes as she doesn't allow shoes in the house! What? Oh, right-ho! (Is this a Welsh thing?) She provides some rather hideous towelling scuffs for those who require them.

Now I don't know how you feel about these sort of things, but I for one feel somewhat diminished in my socks. At a social disadvantage you might say, and even more so in towelling scuffs! There's a certain primitive flair to bare feet, but that requires a particular style of clothing and a few bits of jangling gypsy jewellery, all of which are noticeably absent from my wardrobe.

Just to emphasise my point, can you imagine the Queen in her stockings? Or Henry VIII in his socks? There's a distinct loss of authority when one is in one's socks.

And so as I am sneaking towards my boudoir, the only suitable place for socks, I am accosted by an old fossil (he's has taken up the offer of towelling scuffs) who wishes to tell me of all the places he's lived and worked is this great wide world. And being in a socially diminished, besocked condition, I have no power to resist, and so spent a less than lively half hour with this crashing old bore reliving his glory days.

I eventually make good my escape and ascend to my room, incredulous that one could invite herds of people to one's home as paying guests, then make them take of their shoes at the door. Why not go for more serviceable floor coverings one wonders?

A Bit of Detective Work

After a day in the ancient city of Chester, with its marvellously preserved walls; beautiful cathedral, once a Benedictine Abbey; and lively city centre, all set beside the River Dee, it's off to Shrewsbury and Ironbridge and then to Wales for a few days.

Shrewsbury is the setting for Ellis Peters novels about the fictitious monastic detective, Brother Cadfael. This unassuming but astute monk who tended the abbey herb garden, must have had one heck of a time keeping the garden ticking along while dashing off for prayers every few hours and ferreting out the perpetrators of the latest homicide in Shrewsbury.

Cycling around Shrewsbury is a pure joy as the riverside parks and gardens are extensive and beautiful.

Shrewsbury Abbey sits now on a small island of land roughly oval in shape and surrounded by busy roads just a few steps from the River Severn. A far cry from the extensive land holdings of the abbey in medieval times.

As with most monastic houses, little survived Henry VIII's demolition ball, but a section of the church was left in tact for local worship, and four Norman arches with their massive pillars survive from the 11th century, while the Norman tower incorporating the West Window is dated at about 1380.

I am delighted to find two stained glass windows made by contemporary glass artist, Jane Gray. One is St Winefride's window installed in 1992 and the other a window dedicated to St Benedict in recognition of this being a Benedictine Abbey. Incorporated in this window, down in the bottom corner, is a picture of a Brother Cadfael book!

Jane Gray was mentioned by Sandy Mackinnon in his entertaining book, 'The Unlikely Voyage of Jack de Crow'. He was sailing a Mirror dinghy down the River Severn and was invited ashore for a spot of lunch by a gentleman sitting on the terrace of his house beside the river. His wife was away installing a stained glass window and as the gent was not very well, Sandy would have to fend for himself, which he did. Sandy was picturing the wife as some artsy craftsy sort who dabbled in a bit of stained glass. He had to revise that impression when her saw the spectacular work of this much revered and talented lady.

I mention to the guide how pleased I am to see the Jane Gray windows, and why. It turns out that this good gentleman is a close chum of the lady in question and is very interested in my story about Sandy's book. He takes notes so he can relay it to Jane. He tells me that a biography of Jane is soon be released and gives me his card so I can check for details.

Later in the day I'm busy taking photos of the spectacular sunken gardens and get into conversation with a retired couple from York. As we watch a little train of preschoolers all linked together walking around the garden, the wife says what a good idea that is, to keep track of them all. Her husband agrees wholeheartedly, 'Goodness knows, I like children', says he, 'but I couldn't eat a whole one'!