Arlingham and Frampton-on-Severn

Moulting border collies and floor stripping is not a happy combination; therefore, while our hall and stairs were being done, I found myself homeless and stateless.  So I asked my parents if they'd like to go out for a ride in the car. 

'Oh no,' said my mother, 'I ache all over. And I need far more warning than that.'

'You wait,' said my friend as I downed a couple of cups of tea at her house over the road. 'By the time you go back, they'll have a list as long as your arm.'

And from that list, we decided upon Arlingham in Gloucestershire, where my Great Uncle Cecil and his family were evacuated during the war. My mother remembered travelling to visit her cousins on the back of his motorcycle. 

Now there are some places that are special by virtue of their geography, and Arlingham is one of these, standing as it does almost at the tip of the tongue of land formed by a great swoop in the still tidal River Severn. 

Although the land is part of the Severn flood plain and therefore very flat, you can tell by the light that you are almost encircled by water. 

The one bench there was occupied so I settled the parents on some logs and went to have a closer look at the river.

Opposite is the village of Newnham in the Forest of Dean, with its church built high above the river in 1366 and one of the surprisingly large ships able to navigate this far upriver.  

 This was the site of a ferry crossing for at least 700 years.

It looks like you could easily wade across at low tide, and indeed, there's a rocky causeway that served for centuries as a fording place, but erosion in the 19th century caused the river to change channel. 

We then drove back down the peninsula, stopping off at St Mary the Virgin in the neighbouring village of Frampton-on-Severn. 

I settled my parents in a pew with a guidebook and set about seeing how many of the nine things you mustn't miss I could spot without reading the list. 

The lead font dating from the 12th century, so reminiscent of the one from Lancaut in Gloucester Cathedral - that has to be on it, right? 

Right!

The fact that Richard Madeley was priest here in 1375? (He really doesn't look that old, does he?)  

Wrong!

OK. One solitary mediaeval floor tile in the north aisle, then? 

Correct! 

The Victorian funeral bier! Everyone loves a funeral bier! 

Nope. 

'Surely it can't be these,' sniffs Ted. 'There's not even a whiff of bones.'

Yes, the effigies of (possibly) members of the Clifford family, dating from (probably) the very early 14th century.

(The Knight had a box of matches tucked under his leg - presumably for when he gets tired of lying there and sneaks out for a woodbine.) 

The fine Jacobean pulpit dating from 1622? 

No, not special. 

The painted organ pipes? 

Positively mundane. 

The fantastic south door with its sanctuary ring?

Yes - well, the ring, anyway. The door is common or garden, and only 800 years old. 

Glass. There's some old glass at the very tops of the windows. Looks mediaeval. 

Yes, but your pictures are a bit rubbish here, Harvey. Sort your camera situation out. 

OK, struggling a bit now. 

How about this stone dated 1558 to Henry Clifford and his wife, Mabel?

Try the porch. 

Look, weapon sharpening grooves on the bench from the 14th century.

Hmmm. 

And high up on the tower, under the gargoyles - the mason, John Longstreth's mark, from 1734. 

Can't see it, mate. 

And the 15th century musicians and dancers under the gargoyles?

Have to take your word for it. 

You've forgotten the piscina, back in the church?

Nah, sorry, bored now. 

Fossicking at Kilve

So, the parents wanted to go out for the day because my niece was down from Aberdeen a-visiting and where should we go? 

'You choose, Deb.' 

Hmmm. Somewhere requiring minimal walking, plus eating/toilet opportunities, BUT with at least a modicum of interest for the attendants. I know ... Kilve on the Somerset coast, an old favourite of mine.  Perfect.

And it was perfect. Beautiful weather, an easy run down the M5 to Bridgwater and then up the A39 through sunlit pastures to the coast, diverting on the way to drive past Coleridge's Cottage in Nether Stowey, before swinging neatly across the road in Kilve and onto the forecourt of the Hood Inn with plenty of time to avoid the tractor bowling down the hill. 

Only to look up and see it all boarded up. 

I'd been looking forward to making the most of a precious half pint of Rich's Cider, even though, as I'd muttered to my niece, my mother would be sure to say 'you can't have any more, you're driving'. But clearly it wasn't to be. Disconsolately - and without phone signal to inform our journey - we meandered west until we reached West Quantoxhead, where there was a purpose-built inn on the side of the road with a bouncy castle and play area, and the dreaded word (for a vegetarian), Carvery. 

'Perfect!' said my mother. 

Well, if not perfect exactly, it turned out to be better than OK. Plus, they sold farmhouse cider. I took a sip. If, by any chance, it wasn't Rich's, it was pretty close.  

'You can't have any more, you're driving,' said my mother. 

Then back to Kilve and down the lane to the sea. On the way we stopped at the little white Church of St Mary the Virgin.  

The oldest thing in the church - predating it by a couple of hundred years - is the 12th century font, which is still beautiful despite someone's attempt to turn it into a punch bowl. 

There's one surviving arch of the ancient rood screen propped up in the vestry ...

... while the carved back of this pew in the choir dates from the 17th century. 

And the mediaeval glass, I like that too. 

Plus, the door has a sanctuary ring - always useful to know in these dark days. 

On then to the end of the car park by the oil retort, which was built in the 1920s when it was discovered that there was oil-bearing shale in them there cliffs. If I ever get there and there's no plume of ivy smoking from the chimney, I'll be distraught.

Jane and I settled the (grand)parents on the bench and went for a fossick, to see if we could find some fossils to bring back to show my father. 

Most of the more noticeable ones were too big to heft. 

Nope, going to need a small crane to shift this one.

We found a few smaller fossils to take back to my father but by the time we got back, he'd disappeared, the warm, south-westerly breeze having proved too much for the combined efforts of his vest, shirt, jumper and zipped up anorak to keep him from feeling cold.  

Rather concerned - since I had the car keys - we made our way back to the car park to find him ensconced on a seat in the neighbouring cricket field, looking victorious. 

Between the church and the sea, there's a chantry, which was founded in 1329 and which, it is believed, fell into ruin long before the Dissolution of the Monasteries.

These days, you can get cream teas and ice cream in the adjoining farmhouse ... 

... commune with sparrows ... 

... and watch the doves in the old dovecotes round the back ... 

... but in the old days, as well as being used as a barn, it was associated with smugglers, who would bring their contraband up Kilve Pill from the coast and hide it there.  This continued until 1848 when barrels of brandy were allegedly set alight, in order to destroy evidence when the revenue men appeared. 

The chantry is now a Grade II listed building and Scheduled Ancient Monument, and deemed to be at the highest risk of collapse.