Stout Footwear in Chepstow

Finding myself in Chepstow for the first time in ages, I decided to have a fly-by exploration during my lunch break. 

It's all crooketty-crannitty. 

I ate my sandwich in the churchyard, where there is a nice bit of Norman archery going on ...

... as well as an impressive line in chubby-cheeked cherubs. 

Back in the Gestalt Centre, where our excellent Creative Writing in the Therapeutic Encounter workshop was being run by Claire Williamson, I unbolted the gate at the end of the garden. 

It opened onto a patch of rough ground ...

... with magnificent views over the town (the flying black splodge isn't a Chinook but a massive buzzy thing that I somehow didn't see when I took the photo) ...

... and the Norman castle, with England beyond it. 

Getting good shots meant scrambling up muddy slopes in my sandals, which, although they are sensible, was still a bit tricky. 

A reminder that writing poetry always requires stout footwear, because you never know where it will take you.