Headstrong in Lewes

It was a Lucky Thirteen Red Kite Day yesterday (plus a buzzard and a kestrel) for my trip, along with Son the Elder, east and south to Sussex to visit my daughter. The fourteenth red kite was dead in the fast lane of the M4 and clearly wasn't lucky, so I didn't count it. (Sometimes you have to be selective when it comes to good omens.)

Our destination, having collected Jenny from her abode, was Lewes, though when I saw the gorgeous turquoise colour of the sea, I thought maybe we were mad to head inland. That said, I was pleasantly surprised from our arrival onwards, because after all, who doesn't like a 15th century bookshop ... 

... and a house with the legend Writer and Revolutionary emblazoned on it?

In fact, Thomas Paine, who lived in Lewes from 1768 to 1774 and was radicalised there as a member of the Headstrong Club, was commemorated pretty much all over the place.

       

The White Hart Inn

The Tom Paine Printing Press and Gallery

The pub 'The Rights of Man' looked particularly inviting - it had my name written all over it - but it was hosting what looked like a wedding, so we didn't get to have lunch there. Which was a double shame, as my paternal grandmother's maiden name was Pain, spelt the way Thomas Paine's name was originally, which meant - surely? - that my claim to a seat and a complimentary pint of Tom Paine from Harvey's brewery was strong.  

After lunch in an Italian restaurant instead, we had a little wander down the High Street. I especially liked the way the narrow side streets - or twittens - drop downhill, giving views of the hills that surround the town. It reminded me of Ludlow a bit in this respect ... 

... and also with regard to its nooks and interesting old buildings ...

... one of which - Stewards Inn - is believed to date from at least 1330.

War memorial

I was beginning to conclude that Lewes isn't quite the picturesque, entrenched Tory town I'd rather lazily imagined it was, and having read up a bit since, it seems that in Paine's time it had a reputation for being a hotbed of radicalism and anti-monarchist sentiment. (A friend has subsequently assured me that the current Tory MP is a blip.)   

The town hall with its rainbow flag, which was previously the site of the Star Inn, in front of which the execution by burning of the town's seventeen Marian martyrs took place

We then headed for the Castle, visiting the museum first and then the Castle itself, which dates from just after the Norman Conquest and is splendid. 

Part of the Norman gatehouse to the left; the Barbican to the right

A cannon from the Crimean War

I was keen to test William Morris's famous assertion about the town, namely:

'You can see Lewes lying like a box of toys under a great amphitheatre of chalk hills ... on the whole it is set down better than any town I have seen in England' 

and so headed straight up the steps to the Keep, taking advantage of strategically placed benches on the way. (Well, it was hot.) 

The views were impressive, although of course Lewes would have been a lot more compact in 1882, when Morris visited with his daughter Jenny. 

Back down at ground level, we crossed to the Barbican, which also has great views.

Half a mile or so away is chalk face of Cliffe Hill, the implausible site of the deadliest ever avalanche to occur on these islands, when, in 1832, a build-up of snow collapsed onto the town 330 feet below, killing eight people. Hard to imagine it on such a warm summer day.

By now my offspring were hot and thirsty, so to avoid the onset of recalcitrance, we drove back to the coast. Although you don't see it quoted by the local tourist board, Morris finished his observation by saying that Lewes 'is not a very interesting town in itself'. I disagree, and found myself compiling a list of all the other places there I'd like to visit and rueing the fact that every day-trip I make to Sussex is bookended by a three-hour drive.

Back by the sea, it was still hot but breezy and gulls were having fun riding the updraughts. We bought ice cream and drinks, and sat ourselves down on the beach for an hour or so before the long drive back to Bristol.

It was too late for any kite-sightings on the way back down the M4, Ma and Pa Kite being tucked up with their soon-to-be-fledglings by then. We did see a few white kites near Gatwick and Heathrow, though - Son the Elder's joke - and a kestrel to match the one from our outward journey, hovering over one of the many instances of roadkill littering the hard shoulder. A good day for us, though, at least. 

Bishops and Bunnies in Gloucester

With a few hours to while away in Gloucester, we had a best forgotten curry (Saag Cheddar - seriously!) and a wander around an almost deserted city centre.  

  

St Oswald's Priory

Somewhere a football match was taking place.  It wasn't really any of my concern. It was good just to wind down a little from my book launch the previous night.  

  

Beyond St Mary's Gate we came across the monument to John Hooper, Bishop of Gloucester and Worcester, who was burnt at the stake for treason during the reign of Queen Mary.  At that time a huge elm had stood very close to where he was martyred and people watched the proceedings from its boughs. It took three-quarters of an hour for Hooper to die. It is said he asked repeatedly for more fire so that he might die more quickly. 








Rather more cheerfully - if bizarrely - we spotted lots of rabbits running around on the roundabout where Barnwood Road, Corinium Avenue and Eastern Avenue meet. When I got home, I googled them. It turns out they are A Thing and have their own Facebook page. Which I have liked, obviously.  

Angels and a Castle in Cloud

Son the Elder wanted to visit a friend of his who lives in Salisbury yesterday, so we were off bright and early, he armed with a bunch of pink roses (it was that sort of friend) and I with camera and walking book.  

Having visited the Cathedral just last year with the lovely Jan and Helen, I decided to use some of my free time exploring the town instead.  First stop, the Church of SS Thomas and St Edmund, which provided a 'Blimey!' moment as soon as I walked through the door. 

I wonder how many tourists come to Salisbury and miss this amazing mediaeval Doom painting on the chancel arch?  It's easily done when a parish church stands in the shadow of a Cathedral.
 

There was also what was confusingly called a Somerset Angel Roof (given that Salisbury is sited well within Wiltshire), although it was very reminiscent of those I'd seen over the border in Martock and Long Sutton.  There was also some fine mediaeval paintings of Mary in the Lady Chapel and the tomb of Jane Eyre.  Really!  (No, not that one. A real one, who lived locally.)

Then it was off around town for a bit of a wander.  I loved this Arts and Crafts shop frontage I passed.

After traversing the very charming Water Lane, my route took me along the banks of the River Avon.  (That's the Wiltshire/Hampshire Avon, not the Wiltshire/Somerset/Bristol Avon.)  There were lovely views over the water meadows, some venerable willow trees and even a trout jumping for flies in the green waters.  It was all very idyllic.
  

Then the usual Salisbury stuff, that people quite rightly travel to see - mediaeval quirk which I love, and stately Georgian blah which isn't my cup of tea but I can why people admire it.  As I have a National Trust card this year, I decided to ditch my prejudices and visit 18th century Mompesson House in the Cathedral Close.  When I arrived it looked rather less elegant than usual, as it was in the process of being painted.

The scaffolding also marred the fabled view of the Cathedral from inside the house but it didn't really matter because there was a rather nice exhibition of small watercolours by a Miss Barbara Townsend who lived in the house from 1842 to 1939 and who painted it endlessly, sometimes covered in rather more picturesque wooden scaffolding.  The collection had recently been discovered by descendants in a suitcase.  She was quite an interesting person, was Miss T.  She never married and never worked for a living, but spent her days painting pictures and pottery and travelling about a bit.


I was glad of the exhibition because there was little else in the house that interested me.  I feel like such a philistine when it comes to the 18th century but its aesthetics don't please me and unless the subject-matter includes grimy skulduggery in rat-infested back lanes, I'd sooner pass, thanks.

Off I set again, past the stately Georgian blah of Arundells, where former Prime Minister Edward Heath lived - I did smile to see a balled up pair of dirty socks tucked next to the railings - and the town museum which I didn't have time to visit before my car parking ticket ran out (three hours max, how silly).  I did, however, get my stunning view of the Cathedral, after all.  







There was a striking sculpture by Dame Elisabeth Frink in the Cathedral grounds called the Walking Madonna, which I loved because she came across as such an Everywoman figure.  

She contrasted sharply with a rather dull memorial in a nearby street to three Protestant martyrs who were burned at the stake in the city in 1556.  On the same thoroughfare, there was a blue plaque on the wall of Bishop Wordsworth's Church in memory of William Golding, who wrote 'Lord of the Flies' whilst teaching there.   Hah, I bet the governors loved that!

My time in the car park up, I drove up to Old Sarum to the north of the city.  This is the site of the old city of Salisbury, with its ruined Norman Castle and the remains of the original Cathedral on the site of an Iron Age hill fort - although as early as 3,000BC, the hill was used for ceremonial purposes and there were settled communities all around it.  And more recently, in 1794,  it was one end of the very accurate baseline used by Ordnance Survey to check the mapping of Southern England started in the 1780s. Five thousands years of history all told, then, and as you might expect, the place had a really special feel about it.  

I started my exploration by walking the inner ring of the outer ramparts. The chalk was typically Wiltshirian - no wonder this is the county of White Horses - and very  different from my ancestral lands of Devon and Cornwall to the west.  The views were beautiful, the fields being big enough to stage an ever-shifting dance of sunlight and cloud.  

Around the ramparts there was a grove of yew trees and also beeches, the shallow and sprawling roots of both making interesting patterns on the ground.

Where some trees have been felled and sheep introduced for nibbling purposes, chalk grassland flowers have re-colonised the site.

On my way around the ramparts, I stopped to inspect the ruins of the Cathedral, which lie within the bailey where there was also a Bishop's Palace as well as housing.  However, being a proverbial series of small walls, it wasn't until I saw it from the Castle ruins on the motte (in the background of this photo) that I could really appreciate them.  

And so on around the edge of the hill, this fairy tale stretch of path through thick bushes giving on to a beautiful view of Salisbury, a few miles away.   

One of my very favourite things when I'm out walking somewhere high and imposing is looking out and noticing that it's raining somewhere else but not on me, and South Wiltshire did not disappoint.

Then it started to rain so I delayed exploring the castle till it went off and and read a book I'd picked up on ley lines instead, in the process discovering why churches built on hills (St Michael's Mount, Brent Tor, Glastonbury, Burrow Mump, et al) are dedicated to St Michael.  Utterly fascinating!  

The motte is accessed via a modern bridge over a very impressive moat.  (You really do get a sense here of how well defended the fort, and later the Castle was.)

Most of the surface area was taken up with a courtyard, which contained a very deep well, the bakehouse, the lower Chapel, privies and, dominating it all, the Great Tower, which would have originally housed the Royal Family's apartments.  

Later, however, a Courtyard Palace was built with steps leading from it directly to the Tower, the most fortified part of the stronghold, for use during attacks.    

King John had a new hall built in the bailey in the first decade of the thirteenth century, but it was only used for a short time before it began to fall into disrepair, the roof finally falling in in 1330.

From the tower it was much easier to get a photo showing the traditional cruciform lay-out of the 11th Century Sarum Cathedral.  The pair of footballers to the far right are playing in what was the Cloisters.

View over to Salisbury Cathedral with a shower of rain behind it.  

Then it was time to retrieve Son the Elder, who'd had such a good day, I have hopes of a few more returns to South Wiltshire before too long.