Severn Beach and the trees of Snuff Mills and Vassalls Park

Changes of scene are good, even if they are only very very local changes of scene, what with the petrol shortages and all, and it's been good to have an occasional break from funeral organising lately. 

So one day when we were up the field walking the dog and noticed the new Severn bridge's turn to look preternaturally close, we decided to go to meet it in a short break between squalls of rain.  

As always, perspective is interesting. From the field we watch the sunset trundle along the ridge of hills from Mynydd Machen, near where Son the Younger used to live, to just beyond the new bridge and back, before it starts to set beyond the M5, then Avonmouth, and finally disappears from view until the spring equinox.  It seems a fair distance, but from near the bridge itself, both it and Twmbarlwm seem close at hand. (It's actually about 20 miles.) 

Mind you, this is where we watched the sun set on the eve of the first lockdown last year, pretending we were on Ithaca, so maybe we're not best placed to talk about real things like perspective. 

Anyway, I took some nice photos of the new bridge, of course, and coveted the huge bits of driftwood you see along the shore of the Severn that are far too heavy to be moved by anything other than a handy crane or the third highest tidal range in the world. 

Since this was a whim-based extension to our original walk, we didn't trudge miles ... just far enough to glimpse New Passage up ahead, and way beyond it, Old Passage at Aust, and the beautiful older suspension bridge. 

By the time we got back to the new bridge, the forecasted rain put in an appearance so we headed back to the car ... 

... passing this installation of sea birds made out of used milk containers by 11-year old twins to highlight the issue of plastic pollution. There's something about bleak Severn Beach with its huge river and huger sky that seems to encourage flights of imagination, and this one is beautiful and provocative. 

Our other ad hoc tripette this week was to Snuff Mills on the River Frome in Bristol. The last time we were there was almost a year ago, during the hiatus between our old dog Ted's death and the arrival of Cwtch, so it was all new territory to our little collie, who, as the river was running high and fast, remained on her lead.

The first thing we saw was a kingfisher, zipping away from us across the river. I took a picture of it, and it is actually just visible, but it's my worst kingfisher picture yet, and not unlike one of those photos you get in tabloids of deadly Australian snakes in people's back gardens that are impossible to make out even when they're pointed out to you.

Since neither Cwtch nor the Northerner had been to Vassalls Park above the Frome gorge, we only went a little way up the river before turning up the steep lane that leads there. It's lined with some marvellous old trees, beeches and ashes mostly.
 

Sadly, this magnificent oak up atop seems to be dying.

A beech with a bunch of flowers on either side. I always find it touching how we turn to trees as natural memorials in a time a loss. 

This is an elm, and something of a rarity these days, of course. I took a close-up of its leaves, as I'm not that familiar with them. 

This too is a memorial tree, though I found the inscription on the plaque a little pointed for whom I assume was a Welshman ... though, of course, there could be all sorts of private reasons why it's appropriate.

A magnificent pine

This broken tree reminded me of the wreck of the Nornen on Berrow Beach. A tree wreck, perhaps. 

Looking down to the River Frome

Having descended to the river by a more tortuous path, we turned towards the car park, eventually retracing our steps from earlier. The light was extraordinary, the river like milky tea, and though the tortoiseshell butterfly we saw evaded my camera, I did capture a ladybird and some snails.

By now, my phone was pinging and I had to get back to decisions concerning important stuff like catering and crematorium music, but it was good to know there are places at hand that can turn a stressful time into something with beauty in it. 

No more kissing ...

... in the time of Covid

 

It's beginning to look a lot like Brexit ...

I nearly missed the junction for Brighton today, and the reason I did was because I thought I hadn't been on the M25 for anywhere near long enough. In fact, I even wondered if I'd entered a dissociative state or magically fallen asleep for a time without crashing the car, because one moment we were fresh off the M3 and the next the sat nav was urging me to get into the second lane from the left and keep right at the fork. Then I realised I'd actually been driving at 60 and 70mph, that I'd hardly noticed those horrible rumble strips, and in fact there weren't that many cars on the route that's normally akin to the eighth circle of hell. A bright side to the it's-not-a-petrol-shortage shortage, after all ... as long as you have some. 

We were off to the south coast to celebrate my daughter's birthday - a meal and a fossick on the beach for interesting pebbles and sea glass. Except that almost as soon as we were on the M23, it began to tip with rain. 'Never mind,' I announced to my sons, 'we'll still go to the beach, if only for five minutes. Can't drive all this way and not see the sea.' 

We had a cup of tea at my daughter's partner's flat and drove to the Marina. It was still raining. In fact, it was bucketing. We chose our preferred eaterie out of the 2o-odd lining the quay and skittered towards it through the wet, only to be greeted by the news that there was a shortage of food. 

Bypassing Wetherspoons - obviously - we tried another restaurant. And another. And another. By now we were drenched and very hungry. Somebody mentioned Bethlehem and no room at the inn. At the fifth attempt we struck lucky and munched our way through pizza and olives, but we were damp and cold and the shine had been taken off the occasion a little. 

Returning to the car park we saw wind-whipped waves breaking over the Marina wall, and decided against a walk on the beach after all. 

Back at the ranch, I dropped the offspring off at the entrance to the flats, went to find somewhere to park, and squelched my way back, dreaming of a nice cup of tea, only to find them huddled in the entrance. Turned out my daughter's key was with her partner who'd headed to the station to pick up her friend (also Jenny) who was coming down to celebrate the aforementioned birthday. 

Eventually there was just time for tea before we had to head for home, a truly horrible journey characterised by continual rain of sufficient heaviness to require the fastest windscreen wiper setting all the way from the coast to Swindon. And whilst I know I can't blame that on Brexit, there's no chance of moving somewhere warmer and sunnier now our freedom of movement has been removed. 

On the plus side there was petrol at our local Sainsburys. It could always be worse. But not much.