On the drive home to Farnham, (which didn’t take very long though did take longer than it should have because it was race day at Newbury) we took a vote. It was unanimous. This had been one of the worst holidays we’ve had since moving to the UK. It didn’t help that our lasting impression of the Vale of Severn was firmly cemented in place by the sight (and sound) of a deranged local screaming vile, offensive abuse at his dog. The dog was chasing his sheep. HIS dog. HIS sheep. The gods only know how he’d react if someone else’s dog chased his sheep. As dogs sometimes do. I assume he has a gun for those times. And the dog’s tail was wagging. It was clearly having fun and was no danger to the sheep, who were gambolling across the field. And any fool knows, sheep only gambol when they’re not frightened. He was clearly demented and should not own a dog. He’s probably the Pope’s Hill wildlife ranger.

To be completely honest, I think the main reason this holiday was blighted, was the weather…also because of the food…and because Cinderford was ugly.

As for the effigy of Robert of Normandy in Gloucester cathedral and the odd position of his legs…I have found a mention of it on a website that states the right leg may have been resting on something that has since disappeared. It also suggests it had something to do with the fact that his family always laughed at his short, pathetic legs and this was a way of showing them they were pretty good after all. I like that explanation but it seems unlikely.

Note well: This was our only day without rain. And it was a gloriously blue sky day, chilly with a light breeze. And no rain. The whole place suddenly appears so much nicer when not viewed through curtains of water.

Eventually we left the cottage and headed out to Ashleworth, to see the famous tithe barn. Built sometime around 1496 by Abbot Newland, it is incredible. Massive doors, two sets of them, open up onto an equally massive space. Two sets of doors are very rare. As is such a complete medieval barn.

Tithe barn, Ashleworth, Gloucestershire

It’s cared for and maintained by the National Trust though the farmer gets to use it. The barn was built when the entire village came under the auspices of the Abbey of St Augustine in Bristol. The rest of the place is in private ownership now. All the buildings are equally amazing. If you ignore the telegraph wires, you could have stepped back in time. Oh, and the cars.

Just behind the barn and next to Ashleworth Court, stands the parish church, dedicated to both St Andrew and St Bartholomew. Parts of this lovely little church, date back to the Saxons. The distinctive herring bone pattern on the north wall, is very Saxon. It has had lots of changes, additions and subtractions over the centuries. Possibly the most interesting thing though is in the bell tower. The church obviously has a bunch of bell ringers and hanging up around the inside of the tower are all these boards proclaiming their achievements over the years. Even more interesting, however, is the bell ringer rules. My favourite is number 4, which states “Drinking, smoking, loud and boisterous talking or jesting, and above all disputing, are most unseemly amongst Gods ministers in His house and are strictly forbidden in this belfry.” Classic. Apparently swearing is ok as long as you don’t do it loudly.

Anyway, it’s a very cute little church and we enjoyed our visit but were soon on our way to Odda’s Chapel. We noticed a lot of low lying water everywhere, apparently some serious flooding has been going on round these parts. And then, a rather odd obstruction.

Suddenly before us in the road, a long stretch of country lane, there was an equally long line of stationary 4WDs. On the opposite side of the lane stood various country folk, some with binoculars fixed firmly to their eyes. Ah, we thought, twitchers watching for some rare sighting of a double breasted suit bird or something.

Crowds stop to watch, Gloucestershire

Mirinda opened her window and asked a chap what they were watching and he replied, somewhat mystified that anyone needed to ask, the hunt. Still confused, Mirinda asked, hunting what? And then I saw them. A long line of men in red coats on horseback, chasing a bunch of beagles across the hill. “Foxes,” the chap on the side of the road said, helpfully.

Fox hunting is, of course, no longer legal in England however, they are allowed to scent hunt. This involves using a rag covered in fox scent which the master (I assume) of the hunt runs around the fields and the dogs chase and try and find. I guess it gives the gentry something pointless to do but I have to wonder about the bunch of people watching. For a start they were about a mile away and secondly, it was a Friday afternoon. Truly odd.

Odda’s Chapel is at Deerhurst, a small village just outside Tewkesbury. It was built in 1056 by Earl Odda in memory of his brother who died in Deerhurst. It is an excellent example of Anglo-Saxon construction and is empty…and cold. Big though. We were very impressed with the flood waters.

Odda's chapel, Deerhurst, Gloucestershire

And so, finally, on to Tewkesbury. I’m not sure if it’s the weather, but it’s a lovely town. Bright and Tudor and everything quintessential. I say Tudor because there are LOTS of Tudor buildings dotted along the high street, seemingly squeezed in between more modern structures. We sat in one nursing an afternoon, morning coffee. Strangely, there doesn’t appear to be many restaurants in Tewkesbury, none that are open on a Friday afternoon, anyway. LOTS of tea shops, quite a few coffee shops but restaurants? Nada.

We ended up in Burlington Berties. And I’m so glad we did. The food this trip has been rubbish. Not our usual great choice of brilliant food. More a case of the only choice is rubbish. But not at Burlington Berties. We had a lovely lunch. The shepherd’s pie was yum. Of course, it could have been because our taste buds had taken a beating over the week and by today they were ready to taste anything.

I had a bottle of ale while we ate. It was from Hook Norton Brewery which has as a motto: “Where progress is measured in pints”. I’m seriously thinking of having this tattooed to me somewhere. When I suggested this, Mirinda asked me what my next wife would think of it. At least I want it on my gravestone.

Tewkesbury regularly floods (there were particularly bad floods in 2007) as it’s situated between two rivers, the Avon and the Severn. Apart from the submerged cricket pitch, we stared open mouthed at the picnic area. The only reason we realised it WAS a picnic area was because you could just se the tops of the picnic benches peeking above the water. A local told us this was all perfectly normal for this time of year. There was a LOT of water.

Tewkesbury underwater, Gloucestershire

The big attraction in Tewkesbury is the Abbey which is now a parish church. A very big parish church, it has to be said. But before we could get inside, we were accosted by a local with his dogs who demanded to know where we were from. I said Surrey and he asked if I had an American accent. I said Australian and he decided to talk to us at great length. It turned out he was giving a speech that night and had included a letter from an Australian soldier back home to his family in Queensland. It was actually very funny but a bit odd that he talked to us and found us to be Australian.

Actually I have a couple of theories. Firstly, he wandered around all day just asking people who looked like tourists where they came from, hoping he’d find an Australian so he could try the joke out on someone, perhaps because there’d be an Australian in the audience and he didn’t want to upset them. Or, secondly, he had a whole pocket of speeches, each with a different country joke and each time he found out a person’s nationality, he’d give them a joke. Whichever, he was a nice enough chap with lovely dogs…just a bit odd.

The church is HUGE. It also does something that really annoys me. Now, I always donate money when we visit churches. I love visiting them and have no problem helping to preserve them. Generally there’s a slot in the wall and a guide to the church. But then you get the bigger ones, like the abbey at Tewkesbury, which not only suggests a donation for entry but also asks you to pay for a permit in order to take photographs! As Mirinda says, they have to try everything to keep afloat but this really pisses me off. So I didn’t take any photos. And I don’t think I’ll bother saying anything about the church, except that it was full of people setting up for the Christmas Fair taking place on Saturday, which gave it an air of a market place rather than a place of worship. Not that I care but I believe I’ve read that Jesus wasn’t that keen when the buyers and sellers took over the church in Jerusalem. Didn’t he say “…make not My Father’s house a house of merchandise.”

A pretty uneventful drive home – sadly Mirinda didn’t get to see the giant beehive, or the tiny church; we’ll never know which it was – except for a lot of traffic leaving Gloucester. We watched a DVD then bed. Early start tomorrow. We should be home in three hours.

Did I mention it didn’t rain today?

Rain, blue skies, rain, blue skies, grey skies, rain, grey skies, rain, rain, rain. And that was the morning. We spent a fruitless few hours discussing the possibility of having an extension built on our house and where I’d live while it was being done. Options range from my tent in the back yard, using a bucket for a toilet and an open fire for cooking, to renting a property in Kensington with room for the puppies. Neither of these seemed particularly good from my point of view. In my opinion we should just buy something that already has the work done. Mirinda suggested we move back to Haslemere but just off the high street. Nicktor would be pleased.

Mirinda claims she can see dismay on the face of a chicken. My wife is a remarkable woman.

Feeding the chickens of Rose Cottage

Having fed the chickens some stale brown bread, we headed off into Gloucester. The weather was glorious so we figured we’d try for the antiques centre at the historic Gloucester Docks, though, as we found out much later, they have relocated to the non-historic Gloucester Quay, which is just next door. We parked back at the Mall because, try as we might, it proved impossible to find any other parking areas, although the city boasts many. The signs just run out and you wind up heading for the Mall. Maybe it’s a plot to make more money for the Mall rather than all the council run car parks dotted mysteriously elsewhere about town. I don’t know. It just proved easier to stop looking and park the car at the Mall.

We wandered aimlessly (at least that’s what it felt like to me who didn’t have the map) for a bit and then found the Harbour Quay Antique Centre. Three floors of glorious old stuff. And there’s a lot of it! We spotted some netsukes on the ground floor, something Mirinda is quite keen on. The ones she was particularly keen on were the most expensive. This was no coincidence. We spotted a lovely poet’s wax seal, also Japanese, which we mulled over as we wandered the halls and eventually bought on the way out. By the way, it’s not made of wax, it’s porcelain with a stamp on the end for leaving an impression in wax.

Japanese poet's wax seal

On the top floor we sat and had coffee and cake, admiring the views over the buildings as well as the renovations to the warehouse that have turned it into an excellent antiques centre. I’m amazed, though, that it could be a going concern. They must pay very little rent.

Once more outside, avoiding the rain which fell as we sipped our drinks, we wandered around towards the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal but were unable to walk along the canal because the Waterways Museum had sadly deemed it unnecessary. I hate when that happens! One of the best things about beautifying old docks and canal areas in cities, is the fact that you can wander around the water’s edge. In most places this is the case but sometimes, like here, you are cut off and have to wander around the buildings trying to see the water. I should add that this was only the case around the Waterways Museum; the rest of the place goes right to the water. Looking back, I think it’s probably because the museum has access to a couple of boats sitting in the water and to make sure people don’t clamber over them without going through the museum first, they’ve put up the big fences to keep them out.

Scrunched up against one of the warehouses, looking like some disgruntled super hero (say, someone like Hancock) had just dropped it there, sits the Mariner’s Chapel. It’s very cute. It’s history is typical of it’s time. With the coming of the canal, came seamen and, as far as the missionary zealots were concerned, above all else, they needed somewhere to pray. One assumes the cathedral was too far away. Anyway, in 1831, a Mr Campbell first thought of the idea, drew up some plans and even put some dosh aside but then he died and his son didn’t share his vision so it didn’t happen.

Mariners chapel, Gloucester docks, Gloucester

It wasn’t until 1847, when a meeting was held and a vote taken regarding the building of a chapel just for the boatmen and other sailory types, that it started to be built. The chapel was designed by John Jaques and was completed in 1849. Anglican (and Catholic) churches are generally built east to west, with the altar being in the east – closest to god. However, this chapel was built really close to the warehouse which made it impossible for the doors to be in the west end so it was reversed. Now, it seems to me, they could have built it a few more yards to the east and kept it the way it’s supposed to be. I guess they figured the sailors wouldn’t really care but I reckon they’d be more aware of the compass points than the normal run of the mill church going public and might just realise! Still, that’s what they did and that’s why it’s backwards. Nothing to do with devil worship.

According to the small history of the chapel, I picked up, the “…local watermen and families were uneducated, given to swearing and drunkenness, living roughly, hardened by ostracism and neglect.” Interesting then that the city decided to build them a separate chapel so the rest of Gloucester didn’t have to mix with them. How Christian were they? Still, regardless of why, it is a lovely little place and strangely serene, surrounded as it is by huge warehouses and a car park. Though, typically, the Victorians, when decorating it inside, put a lovely series of stencilled drawings around the walls which was subsequently painted over so it’s now all nice and white. I don’t know why we do this. Churches were never dull and boring. They were places vibrant and full of colour and we keep them, museum-like, stiff and formal. Not like elsewhere in Europe. It’s a real shame. You walk into some of these parish churches and figure that god only likes things in black and white.

But enough of that. We wandered around a lot, deciding to try the other antiques centre, which is when we found out that it had moved and was, in fact, the other one. I mean there isn’t two. Just one. It makes sense.

Next stop was the folk museum. A jolly little place which threatened to be quite dull until we found the other half of the building. Interestingly, we were there the day they pumped the garden full of fake snow.

The first thing you see when you enter the Gloucester Folk Museum is a sort of 1950s kitchen. You are then confronted with lots of cheese making stuff (think double Gloucester and the lesser known single Gloucester). Outside is a shed full of wheels with nothing to indicate what you’re looking at or, more importantly, why) and a little Victorian shop selling cutlery.

Cutlery shop in the folk museum, Gloucester

Uninspired, we were ready to leave when Mirinda found the entrance to the other half of the place.

The folk museum is situated in a Tudor building of great slant. The floorboards lean each and every way, giving a delightful feeling of perpetual motion as you wander from floor to floor. The wonderful thing about the folk museum (apart from the fake snow and cutlery shop) is the fact that the building once housed a pin factory. At one end of the top floor, under the eaves, is a display of pin-making equipment. Genius. Frankly, I was amazed. Not only by how a group of women and children toiled away up there making pins but how they were easily replaced by funky machines that churned out 170 per minute! And now it’s a museum.

Mirinda didn’t believe that when I was in primary school, the first pen I used was a nibbed ink pen. I distinctly remember the NSW government issue pens. They were green and tapered down to an end we used to chew. The nib would slip into a slit at the bulbous end. We would use the inkwells in the desks. Which is why we discussed it – the desks in the Victorian school room in the folk museum resembled the ones I had.

I bought a book on the martyrdom of John Hooper and we then retired to Dick Wittington’s house for lunch. I didn’t know he was real. But apparently he came from Gloucester and left there to walk to London to find the gold lined paths and, disappointed, became mayor. What I don’t get is the cat. Did he really take a cat with him? Did it really wear boots? It must be one of the first spin offs, as well. Amazingly amazing. Anyway, his house is now a very nice pub.

Dick Wittingtons pub, Gloucester

And a big warm thank you to Roger and Jackie, the owners, who took great pains to make sure we were happy before setting off to buy things in town. Jackie was clearly a woman with a mission – she had money and was determined to spend it! Roger was just there for the ride.

We had a large pub meal and an excellent beer while watching the weather beaten sky descend and darken the already grey Gloucester streets. The swish, swish of windscreen wipers and the sploosh of tyres through puddles was far from inviting but we had to make tracks. Fortunately, the rain stopped pretty much after we left the pub.

We returned to the cottage as the sun vanished and the rain started again.

It occurred to us that although we’ve lived in England for nearly 11 years, this is the first English holiday we’ve taken when it’s rained every day. Or even more than one or two days. Truly odd. We’ve obviously been very lucky and this week is a way for the gods to even things up a bit.

Tomorrow we are going to try Tewkesbury again. Well, that’s the rumour, anyway.

Blue skies and sunshine! We very quickly readied ourselves and left the cottage, off to Slimbridge (or Slym Bridge as it was once called) to visit the Wetland Centre.

Wetlands Centre, Slimbridge, Gloustershire

Created in 1946 by Sir Peter Scott, the Severn Wildfowl Trust (which eventually became the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust) is now 800 acres of wonderful bird loving land full of marsh and swamp and bog and lake and stream and…well, it’s generally wet. Having spent a goodly few hours wandering around, I make this one of my top ten sights EVER! I really loved it. And I HATE Birdworld. Can’t stand caged animals but am least fond of birds that cannot fly because of cages. And I always feel guilty because of poor Wedge and Morticia who were pecked to death by a magpie on our balcony at Eaton Street. This place is fantastic though. It’s a Western Plains Zoo for birds.

Of course, there’s always a down side and with this place it’s easily the restaurant. According to Mirinda, the doughnuts tasted like bread dough, I vouch for the blandness of the caramel shortbread and we both think the lamb casserole, with rock cake dumplings, was one of the worst meals we’ve ever had. It took a lot of salt to make it taste of anything…and then it tasted of salt. I would have thought a casserole would be easy to make flavoursome but, apparently, not here. And, amazingly, it cost twice as much as the Wetherspoons ham and eggs yesterday while lacking any of the taste. But enough of the food, and I use that word very loosely, and back to the wonderful wetlands. Needless to say I’ve sent them an email complaining.

The guide book gives an estimate of 5-6 hours for the whole place but we managed most of it in about three and only missed a few bits. Of course, we had to dodge the showers that fell every now and then, marvelling at the way the drops just fell from the duck’s backs. Fortunately we generally managed to be in close proximity to small shelters and hides when the rains came so remained basically dry.

Australian section, Wetlands Centre, Slimbridge, Gloucestershire

The majority of the wetlands is divided into country zones. We were amazed that Australia had shrunk so much and the absence of any Kookaburras, though they probably wouldn’t have much liked the weather. Ok, ok, I know kookaburras are not wetland birds! Though there is a kingfisher hide, specifically for watching kingfishers, which is basically what a kookaburra is. Though something tells me a kookaburra would probably eat an English kingfisher – I remember the one that teased poor Brad while eyeing him up as a possible meal. There were lots of black swans, though! And grey cygnets that could easily have been white swans.

There were so many amazing looking birds that it’s difficult to pick a favourite though Mirinda was rather keen on the weird looking eiderduck and I was rather partial to the flamingos, of which there were six types! Though they did make me want to play croquet. The lovely porcelain-like red-breasted goose was also a firm favourite with us both.

Greylag goose, Wetlands Centre, Slimbridge, Gloucestershire

Interestingly, most of them looked like ducks but were actually geese of one sort or another. Sadly we missed the talking otters, which were at 11am but we did manage to see some swimming. And a lovely little bank vole, sitting in his hole, watching the world through his tiny little beady eyes. He seems to have very big lungs as he spent a very long time underwater.

We spent a delightful visit and left, between showers, stopping briefly at the wonderfully tall towered St John the Evangelist’s church in Slimbridge, which has some wonderful corbels, one of which is supposed to be Queen Elizabeth I. Well, not the actual corbel. I don’t think the Tudor queen was actually just a small stone head. I mean a representation of her.

We then drove through some showers until we arrived back at the cottage. Watching the weather, it seems tomorrow will be wet and windy. We are thinking of driving out of the county to somewhere it’s not raining. I think that’s probably anywhere but the Severn Valley!

Chelsea beat Porto at home in the Champion’s League while Man U lost at Old Trafford because they fielded a team of children. Ha! I know why Ferguson does this – it gives the inexperienced kids a game against top competition when the result doesn’t really matter and it gives the overpaid ‘stars’ a rest – but it just means they’ll wind up losing. Arsenal do this as well. Can’t be that satisfying for the fans.

Up at 9 to hear about the aftermath of the awful flooding in the Lakes District and people finally being allowed to return to their soaking houses. The BBC talked to a family who have been flooded three times in the last four years. Bet their insurance premiums are really high!

The plan today is to visit Gloucester. The weather is supposed to be nice in the afternoon but so far it’s been steely grey skies with occasional rain. I am of the opinion that Pope’s Hill has its own micro-climate which bears no relation to the Met Bureau predictions AT ALL! However, the same, it seems, is true of Gloucester.

We eventually set out and trundled into the centre of Gloucester. We found the Mall car-park, left Sidney and headed out towards the cathedral. As we approached the tower that is sat at the crossroads of East, West, North and South Gate Streets, the wind grew stronger and the rain started spitting at us like little daggers of wet. It was as if the closer we drew to the cathedral, the harder the rain fell until we were scant yards away and it fairly flung itself down. We then fooled the rain gods by going inside.

I was quite impressed with Gloucester cathedral though Mirinda thought it creepy. We split up and wandered our separate ways around.

Cloisters in Gloucester Cathedral

There’s so much to love about this cathedral. It’s around a thousand years old and old Bill the Bastard set a relative up there as the head monk. His name was Serlo. Why is it all these Normans, apart from Bill, have such odd names? Anyway, Serlo is depicted in a Victorian window made by Charles Kempe in 1892. His face looks kinder than I bet it really was.

A little further down the line, the gay Edward II was buried there and his rather elaborate monument is quite a remarkable piece of church sculpture. Though it should be said, it lacks a lot of the colour it originally had as well as the jewels in his crown. It was all organised by his son, Edward III. Interestingly, Kempe made a stained glass version of Edward III with the then Abbot Wygmore, near the tomb of Edward II. It’s a lovely window, however, Wygmore looks exactly like Serlo! Now, it may be that abbots all wind up looking the same but I think, maybe, Kempe only had a few models and monks were always the same guy.

Another famous chappie associated with the place was King Henry III. His coronation took place in the cathedral in 1216 and he is the only English monarch to be crowned outside Westminster. I suppose I should mention that the cloisters, which are particularly beautiful and a fine example of fan vaulting and the earliest surviving, having been designed in the 1360s, featured a lot in the first two Harry Potter films. Don’t ask me where as I have no interest in Harry Potter but I assume they were the halls of Hogwarts or whatever the school is called.

There is a lot of beauty at the cathedral and one rather odd thing. An effigy of Robert, Duke of Normandy. He’s lying all heroic in his knightly garb, looking like he’d happily save the day on horse with a lance. Ok, he has quite a big hooked nose and a pretty pathetic moustache but all round, he seems like a pretty heroic kinda guy. Then you see his legs and feet. Rather than being straight out, possibly resting on a small ferret-like dog, they are twisted into a very odd position. I can find no explanation for this. The guidebook mentions only his nose. I have to assume they do not know. He was the eldest son of Bill the Bastard but had a bit of argy bargy with his brother who ended up being King Henry I. Robert ended his life banged up in Cardiff Castle, dying in 1134. For some reason, Henry felt his brother deserved a decent burial so he was buried at the cathedral and this effigy made for him. Maybe the legs were so he couldn’t climb down and wrestle the crown back from Henry. I shall investigate further and report back.

Effigy of Robert of Normandy, Gloucester Cathedral

There’s a lot to talk about but I shall finish my mini-tour by saying I particularly liked the reredos screen designed by George Gilbert Scott and dedicated in 1873.

We left the cathedral and, you wouldn’t believe it, the rain had stopped. It was grey and miserable but it was dry! We wandered around the cathedral green, admiring the buildings of many ages that are distributed with abandon around the church. All very lovely. We made our way to St Lucy’s Garden, which must be put down as a tad disappointing. We once more approached the main crossroads in Gloucester and…it started raining again! As before, it was the wind, whipping up everything and then the rain. Of course, we were used to it by now so we just wandered around a bit more.

Remains of Greyfriars Abbey, Gloucester

As we wandered around Greyfriar’s (a ruin, with a library built on one end) a chap with two fearsome dogs said “Nice weather for it” or some such witty quip. I should explain that I was wearing shorts. Although partly choice, it should be stated that I was wearing shorts because the butt had ripped out of my jeans and, while I could always put a fleece around my waist, they were uncomfortable to sit in. All I could come back with was “Beats wet jeans,” which he sagely agreed with. I should add that it wasn’t particularly cold, just wet and windy!

They always say, you can’t beat a meal at Wetherspoons for value. I’m not sure who ‘they’ are but I have to agree. Where else in this country can you get two free range fried eggs, three slices of Wiltshire ham and a big handful of oven cooked chips for the miserly sum of £2.99? Glorious! And good beer as well. Mirinda had Nachos and a cider. We then went and collected Sidney for the trip back to Rose Cottage, feeling quite worn out by our four hour tourist day.

Back in the cottage, all snugly boo and away from the elements, imagine our surprise when the power suddenly went out. I scampered around until I found the torch which I had thoughtfully included in our chattels and proceeded to look for matches. You see, this cottage comes equipped with many, many candles, an open fire with stacks of lovely wood standing beside it which we were told is for burning and not just decoration, a gas stove and cooker but, surprisingly, no matches. I know, I searched everywhere. There were none. There is NOW.

So, we sat around and joked about the dark until, bang, the power suddenly returned. For joy. We settled down to watch Hancock, a surprise birthday present from Mirinda. We were enjoying it a lot, in fact, we’d watched almost an hour when, bang, the power went again.

We sat for a while and then Mirinda decided to try playing her guitar in the pitch. Not bad, actually. She surprised us both with her first song but things became a bit tricky when she had to change chords. It was like she’d only being playing a fortnight.

As the dark time lengthened I suggested going to bed until we checked our watches and realised it was actually only 7pm. We discussed the ridiculousness of not having any matches for a bit more. Mirinda asked if the oven clicker worked off electricity. It didn’t take many attempts to realised it did. Then Mirinda came up with the idea of using the lighter in the car to light the candles. I said it would be tricky keeping a piece of paper alight from the car to the cottage, given the weather conditions but she said we would take the candle to the car. There was even a candle in a glass tube, especially for outside conditions.

I was thinking over this crazy plan when a sudden thought struck me. “Why don’t we just drive down to the garage and buy some matches?” I asked. We laughed like fools, grabbed the keys and drove down Pope’s Hill, remarking that all the houses dotted around the hill appeared to have candles burning in the windows.

The garage was the only place ablaze with light, so we went in, bought some emergency chocolate rations, spare batteries and two boxes of matches. The girl at the garage said her power went off then came back almost immediately but she’d had problems finding the reset for her pumps. A helpful young lad had managed to locate it and she was upset she hadn’t been given the night off.

So we jumped back in Sidney and began the short trip back to Rose Cottage, realising, as we did, that all the power had returned to the houses dotted around Pope’s Hill and, most obviously, the Greyhound Inn that sits at the bottom.

In Rose Cottage, the television was happily playing to the furniture as the lights blazed for no reason. We settled down and tested our luck by finishing Hancock from where we’d left off. The power remained on. Though we were prepared to light the fire and light the candles with the two boxes of matches now sitting on the mantlepiece.

Tomorrow is supposed to be sunny so we may try and get to the wildlife reserve where we can see winter swans. This is not a guarantee.

The photo below is of a restaurant near Gloucester cathedral. It is called The Comfy Pew. I include it because I thought the name was cute and, maybe we should have eaten there…though it was probably about to close. Anyway, the other reason I took the photo is because I’ve yet to experience a comfy pew and figure the name is not just because it’s cute but also as an ironic tribute to the discomfort experienced when sitting for long periods of time in a church. I could be wrong.

The Comfy pew, Gloucester

More rain on the horizon. While I was watching the local weather report, which showed heavy rain all morning and a bright and sunny afternoon, blue skies surrounded the cottage. I guess that proves the theory that the best weather report is the one taken out your kitchen window.

The Forest of Dean Heritage Centre

We decided to go and visit Cinderford (mainly because there’s a supermarket there and we need loo paper) with a detour on the way to see The Dean Heritage Centre which is highly praised in all the literature. Driving through the forest was lovely, particularly as we drove along the scenic route.

The Heritage Centre is at the site of the old Camp Mill. Before the site was handed over to the Dean Museum Trust, it had been a scrap metal yard, a sawmill, a leatherboard factory, a corn mill, an iron foundry and forge and a gypsy camp. The Trust has done a lovely job with it. I was particularly keen on the working overshot water wheel. But then, I’m a bit sad.

Detail of beam engine

The main mill building has been transformed into a series of museum floors which trace the history of the area back to prehistory. Gallery 5, in particular, features a full size beam engine with lots of models dotted around it which work with the press of well timed buttons. Told you I was sad.

What pleased Mirinda more, however, was the Forester’s Cottage. Except when she realised it was probably no smaller than our house. I quite liked the sign which said the family would ‘eat, talk, read, bathe and play in the kitchen’: Apart from the piano, which was in the front room. There was no obvious toilet so we assumed it was the tiny room way down the hill, near the stream.

We wandered up the wet, muddy trails, taking in the pole lathes (something I know Dawn wants to try), the Freemine and the charcoal burner’s hut.

Freemine set up at Forest of Dean Heritage Centre

The Free Mines related to the fact that miners who had worked in the area continuously for a year and lived within the forest were given mining rights. These meant they could dig virtually anywhere they wanted in their spare time. Just what you’d feel like doing on your one day off. There’s one been made at the centre with a cute little truck on rails.

We enjoyed the centre but decided to ruin the rest of the day by visiting Cinderford. Ugly little town. Made Mirinda quite miserable. We wandered around enough to realise how truly ugly it was then went to the Co-op for essential groceries before heading back to Pope’s Hill. While in Cinderford and while leaving, the rain returned with big threatening black clouds. So much for the BBC weather!

Rather than go on about why no-one would visit Cinderford except by accident, I should discuss the bathroom at Rose Cottage. As bathrooms go, it seems fine but in the manner of these things, it’s always in the using that the truth is revealed.

The shower. When the power is removed from a power shower, this is what you get. Water straining against gravity to climb the coily pipe and squeeze through those tiny holes. In effect, it’s a slightly reasonable dribble with no pressure. Standing under it has little effect at all. Holding the shower head and reducing the height works a bit. The water temperature is very good. The biggest problem with the bathroom, however, is only apparent after you’ve had a couple of baths. I was sitting in the lounge, typing merrily away and suddenly I heard these big, thumping drips. I went into the kitchen and found a torrent dripping from the light fitting. I immediately shouted up, asking Mirinda if the water was overflowing the bath to which she said “NO!” Yes, she was that emphatic. I put a towel under the drip and crossed my fingers. Eventually the dripping stopped but not before a damp line appeared across the ceiling and water started gathering along the length. I have to assume there’s a problem with the overflow, making the water leak into the ceiling cavity. It then finds the easiest way down which is via the conduit and through the light fitting. The rest (and more patient) of the water sits on top of the plaster and waits to seep through. As heard from Dr Who last week “Water waits. Water wins.”

Anyway…we had lamb chops for dinner with Welsh chips (as ordered by Mirinda because we are so close to Welshland here) which would have been better had the cooker grill been built a bit better rather than cheaply. And we watched Voyager and went to bed. Weather pretty awful.

But don’t take my word for how bad Cinderford is. This is a quote from the official town guide: “Cinderford it would be fair to say has no real architectural beauty…“. And here’s a quote from The Forest of Dean by Humphrey Phelps: “On a winter’s day with the wind blowing and the rain slanting down its uninspiring streets, Cinderford can be bleak and cold and dismal. Straggling, workaday Cinderford with no pretensions to conventional beauty, apparently without charm…” and he likes the place!

Cinderford, Forest of Dean

Rose Cottage is in a small valley, the Forest of Dean rising to the west. Naturally I had to wait for the morning to realise this. The cottage appears to be one of a collection belonging to the main house. There are also chickens. Very friendly chickens who, apparently, like to be stroked. All morning they have gathered by the patio door waiting for us to pay them some attention.

Very friendly chickens at Rose Cottage

And it has been raining. Non-stop. According to the BBC, the rain will stop at around midday and the sun will come out. This will probably last about four hours before we return to the rain. We will have to be ready for this brief window so we can go out and find some butter.

Newnham-by-Severn is a lovely little elongated, mostly Georgian town not far from the cottage. It was a very important town many moons ago. Many ships were built there because of both its proximity to the river and to the Forest of Dean. Lots of kings visited – William II, Henry I, Henry II, Edward II, etc, etc. In fact Henry II left to war with Ireland from Newnham with his mighty ships of war. There were glass makers for a time during the reign of Charles I.

In fact there was a lot of industry surrounding the little town because of the river. Mules and packhorses would bring down great loads of stuff – cloth, coal, timber, cider, hides, etc – for shipment out into the rest of the world. Oddly though, it wasn’t until 1807 that someone thought to build a quay. Most visitors have commented on the charm of Newnham, except for the Reverend Francis Witts who thought it “…a dull little town.” I’d like to add my words of praise for it. Especially the Victorian dry cleaners.

Scary angel memorial, St Peters, Newnham-on-Severn

We parked the car about midway along the steep high street and walked up to the church. St Peter’s is perched high, overlooking the river and the town. It affords a splendid view along the Severn in both directions. Nice spot to be buried though a pity you’d have to be underground. There’s a rather haunting angel in the churchyard which is almost reminiscent of the scary angels in the Dr Who episode called ‘Blink’. Made me shiver. And NOT blink.

Originally the church was built down by the water but when it was in danger of being washed away, someone had the good idea of building on the top of the hill. This was in the 14th century and some of the old material was reused in the new church. The new site was given to the people of Newnham by Humphrey de Bohun on the proviso that the people paid four pence each year to the See of Rome so a mass would be said for his soul. This went on for ages, and, although the money had long since ceased being paid, his name was still be read out during the requiem for All Saints in the 1970s.

St Peter’s was another of those churches used for shelter during the Civil War. This time the Royalists held up in it. There was a big to-do when the Parliamentarians turned up and a fight ensued. And then came Tipper. He was a servant who claimed to be a deft hand with gunpowder. He was put to task by Sir John Wintour, his master. There was an earth shattering explosion and it, to quote a contemporary account, “…blew many out of the church and sorely singed the greater number, but killed none.” The name of Sir John Wintour pops up all the time around these parts. Tipper, however, does not.

Most of the old church has been rebuilt. It fell into disrepair in the nineteenth century and, in 1874 the townsfolk decided to restore it. Typical Victorians, they went mad and by 1875 it was reopened to great celebration. Sadly it was then completely gutted by fire in 1881. Once more they all rallied together and rebuilt it. Sounds like a Monty Python sketch.

It’s a nice bright and airy church on the inside with movable pews. I know, because acouple were moving the pews while we visited. I have to assume they are going to have a bit of a square dance there later. After moving the chairs, the female half of the couple started playing on the piano. The three high points of interest in the church are the painted barrel ceiling in the chancel, the reredos and the lovely memorial to the Barling Family. The memorial looks hauntingly Pre-Raphaelite and is a mosaic and alabaster representation of St George.

We wandered out of St Peters and started back down the high street, towards the small shop we’d spotted near the town clock. Oddly a lot of the buildings are called ‘The Old -’. They each have a little sign by the front door which proudly proclaims it the ‘Old Police Station’ or the ‘Old Bank’. These are all now houses, with enticing windows. Mirinda can never resist an enticing window. I wonder if you’re looked down on if your house isn’t an ‘Old’ anything.

This sign actually says Ship House but looks like it says Shit House

The shop was about to close so we purchased everything in it and headed for the Ship Inn for lunch. One thing about the shop; it had a haunted cash register. Everything was fine, as the woman entered each price until she reached £1.45. Each time she put the number in and pressed the total key, the machine squealed like it had been stabbed. She tried it a few times and then with a skill borne of many such strange things, entered £1 and then 45 pence, separately. It worked. She smiled at me as if to say, stupid cash register doesn’t like certain numbers.

Lunch in the Ship Inn was lovely, contrary to what the sign outside seems to imply (see photo above). Sadly we’ll not be able to see Mr Entertainment – Chris – on Wednesday as his fans have booked him out. Still, we had, what we didn’t realise, was going to be the only tasty meal of the week: A lovely roast, pints of beer, a wee dram. We then watched the sky blacken as the afternoon pressed on towards 4pm. It was time to drive back to Rose Cottage while we could still see. And see was what we did do! There was the brown house beyond the hedge! Yay!

Bloody rain. It spattered down as we dozed the rest of the day away.

While we’d been planning to take a week out for ages, we’d dithered about what to do and where to do it. There was a generally acceptable plan to spend the week crammed into Mirinda’s flat. I could go to uni and we’d see London. But somehow this plan was supplanted and, sometime last weekend, we decided to try the Cotswolds. An acceptable cottage was found and booked, the poodles booked into the kennel and some quick research carried out on Gloucestershire. I should state right here at the off that we THOUGHT we were going to the Cotswolds. The cottage we chose CLAIMED to be in the Cotswolds. It wasn’t. In fact, it still isn’t in the Cotswolds. It’s the Vale of Severn, Forest of Dean on Pope’s Hill. Still, enough of that shilly shally doodling and on with the holiday…

There had been horrendous floods in Cumbria. The worst rain for a thousand years (according to the newspapers). Fortunately the cottage we’ve hired is on a hill. Pope’s Hill to be exact, named not after the pontiff but after one Mary Pope who stayed at Flaxley Abbey and would walk up the hill every day. Her visit to the abbey was meant to be for a fortnight but she stayed for 40 years. I’m not sure if it was against her will. Apparently she had something to do with funding some renovations at the Abbey in the 18th century but my lousy PC is too slow in bringing up the information so we’ll just leave it at that!

Rose Cottage, Pope's Hill, Forest of Dean

As we drove closer and, therefore, further north, the rain managed to grow harder, the sun went down and we were eventually plunged into darkness. The directions were amazingly detailed and, pretty accurate. Only one problem: “…look for a brown house ahead of you behind a hedge.” This was very tricky without light. We drove right by the turning at this direction. No problem though, we quickly realised our mistake and retraced our tracks.

Talk about big! The cottage can sleep six and would be very comfortable. Much bigger than our house. That’s pretty normal for Hideaway cottages, I have to say. And the TV is good. A set top box gives us all the Freeview channels and the reception is pretty good. There’s also a DVD player but given our last attempt at DVD watching, I’ll wait and see on this one.

We had some lovely M&S lamb shanks and Mirinda went to bed while I watched Chelsea thrash Wolves 5-0 on Match of the Day before going to bed myself.