Ashton Court before the storm

There's a storm a-coming, they said, so we got up early and went to Ashton Court to walk the dog. First stop, visiting some old familiars now coming into leaf ... 

... but before that, whoop whoop, green-winged orchids everywhere!

I spent a bit of time with the Domesday Oak, which is looking rather more cheerful than the last time I had a proper look at it some five years ago, when it was newly fallen apart despite the best efforts of the council's specialist tree officers. It's literally not half the tree it was, though. 

And then it was into Summerhouse Plantation, which is one of our favourite places to walk, especially on days that are threatening to be stormy, and very lovely it is right now too, what with the bluebells and wild garlic and all. 

Down near the bottom of the wood, we paused to pay our respects to the Fattest Oak ... 

... before skirting the back of the mansion which looked quite busy and heading back up through the woods, a much easier prospect than when the slopes are deep in winter mud. 

Even so, we were glad to sit for a bit on a fallen log to catch our breath, while Cwtch happily ran up and down the path about eight times to our one. 

There was a bit of tree art going on the wood. I hadn't spotted the addition to this beech from last year before today, though I don't think Jeremy Corbyn would really appreciate his name being carved into the bark. Still it could have been worse, it could have been Boris Johnson.

Some lovers had embarked (ouch) on a collaborative piece with another beech, utilising some natural heart shapes in the declaration of their love ... 

... but I have to say, I like the trees' own art best. Heart balloons, Banksy? Our city's beeches got there first. 

Back out in the open, the red deer were up near the deer park fence for once, so I left Cwtch at a distance with the Northerner and went to see them. 

Hello down there!

One last visit to one last massive oak in very bronze leaf and we were home hours before the rain and wind set in, here in Bristol at least, with a pleasingly tired pup. 

Jeremy Corbyn in Filton and Bradley Stoke

With Bowie and Leonard dead, it's a relief there's still someone worth going to see.  And unlike Dylan*, Jeremy does run through the riffs you want to hear. 

Today there was a moving reminder that all of the firemen who went into Grenfell Tower with breathing apparatus and police riot shields over their heads to protect themselves from falling debris in order

to save lives were trade unionists.  Looking after and caring for other people. (Not getting a pay rise either.) 

*The Times, They Are A-Changin'. Play that one, Bob.

Narroways, Boiling Wells and Cut Throat Lane

Apart from a doomed attempt to escape in the 1980s, I've lived in Bristol all my life, but there are many parts I don't know that well. A native's complacency, perhaps. 






One of the areas I should know a lot better is the borderland of St Werburghs, St Andrews and Montpelier, not least because I was born there, in a Salvation Army Hospital for Unmarried Mothers on Ashley Hill - though my mother (she would hasten to add) was, in fact, with husband. 

So with an afternoon to spare last Sunday, nearby Narroways Hill, a pocket of wild in this sizeable city, felt like a good place to start exploring. 

This is one of the footbridges at Narroways Hill junction. It was here that 21-year-old Ada James was fatally attacked by her fiancé, Ted Palmer, on 27th January 1913.

Ada managed to stagger all the way back to Mina Road in St Werburghs, despite the throat wound she'd sustained.  She later died in the Infirmary. 

The route she took that night is known locally as Cut Throat Lane. 

Even off the hill, down in St Werbs, it's bosky. 

A continuation of the footpath took us up to Ashley Hill, and another view of St Werburghs Church tower, now a climbing centre. (The church, that is - not the tower.)

More footpath took us along to this much-loved footbridge, again over the railway, on the edge of Montpelier and St Andrews.

Back on Ashley Hill, we took in the views over the allotments to Purdown and the secondary school where I work. 

Immediately before us, Boiling Wells Valley. (Not because they did anything interesting with vats down there, which is what I always thought - no, it's on account of the effervescent natural springs, apparently.)

In the middle distance, behind the trees, the Vale of IKEA. (No industrial or retail associations here either. It's probably to do with dog poo before it became the norm to clear it up.)

Yet another footpath (there are loads of them around here) took us through some of the allotments, about which I have mixed feelings. 

I mean clearly they are A Good Thing. Patches of green in the city, part of its pleuritic lung. And, rather sweetly, they remind me of strip lynchets ... 

... you know, when the soon-to- be-landed gentry pushed to the front of the queue, stole the ground beneath our feet, and let us have tiny parcels of it back. 

Since we're on a political note, down in Boiling Wells Valley there were reminders of the General Election just passed ...

... and its really quite hopeful outcome. 

I didn't have a magic marker on me so had to content myself with adulterating the photo of this board later, rather than the board itself. 

I was beginning to feel a bit disgruntled about the lack of fauna to photograph when I caught sight of one of our rarer species, a feral velociraptor in its natural habitat. 

That was enough to send us scurrying up the lane ... 

... past the geese ...

... and back to our starting point.