Leigh Woods and Stokeleigh Camp

It was raining. Hard. As I drove past the playing fields, I wondered whether to pull into a side road and ring Son the Younger to see if he still wanted to meet up for a walk at Leigh Woods. Then I looked at the glorious colour of the trees even in the downpour, against charcoal clouds, and decided to press on. He'd be there waiting. 

And he was, though the rain forced a change of route, away from the exposed path along the side of the Avon and over to Stokeleigh camp instead, which we could reach under cover of the trees. We're not completely mad. 

On the way to the camp we passed some fabulous trees. I love this beech, which is still leafing despite the fact it fell long enough ago to grow ivy over its exposed root ball. 

And this ancient yew is magnificent still. 

Fungi on a beech

It's been a long, slow, glorious autumn burn this year. I suspect it's a knock-on effect from the hot, dry period we had at the end of spring, that caused the seasons to concertina and autumn to come earlier than usual.

Two sentinel oaks ... 

... and a hollow one.

Stokeleigh Camp is an iron age promontory fort, one of three that stood on top of the cliffs, overlooking the Avon Gorge. This vast chasm offered Stokeleigh protection to the north, and to the east, the steep slopes of Nightingale valley. The remainder was bordered by three ramparts which increase in size the nearer you get to the middle. 

It's thought that Stokeleigh Camp was occupied from the late pre-Roman Iron Age. Archaeological investigations have suggested that the Dobunni might have ceded it to the Belgae tribes in the 1st century. There may then have been a break in occupation before reuse in the middle to late 2nd century. It's unclear whether this was for a formal garrison or just as a place of refuge in times of crisis. It might also have been occupied in the Middle Ages. 

There is evidence of dry stone walling along most of its length, but it's not known whether this is an original feature or a later addition. 

By now we were high above Nightingale valley and the Clifton Suspension Bridge was coming into view. No need for protection against marauding invaders in Victorian times - unless you were on the receiving end of British imperialism. 

On the opposite bank, another hill fort is visible, that of Clifton Down camp with the observatory built in the middle of it. (The third camp was Burwalls, the other side of Nightingale Valley, the only trace of which survives in the area's name - burgh walls.)

Far below is the River Avon.

As we left the camp, a family approached. 

*cough cough cough* said the father.

'I thought we'd be going up this path!' pouted the elder child. 'What's the point of coming if we aren't going to explore the ruined castle!' 

*cough cough cough* explained the father, who wasn't wearing a mask. 

'Ooh là là!' exclaimed the four-year-old, splashing in a puddle. 

*cough cough cough* answered the father. 

At least cattle don't catch Covid-19. 

Spalted wood

Cottaging with John Cabot and two prototype blow-up dolls

I often have the privilege of showing visitors around my  home city, Bristol, but rarely are they such good company as my first cousin once removed, Jack, and his friend, Mia, both of whom are newly arrived this side of the Pond to spend a semester working at The Globe as part of their further education.  Having spent a few days soaking up the atmosphere (and whiskey) in Dublin, they have a few days here, staying with relatives, before heading up to London.  


It's not new territory for Jack, as both his parents originate from Bristol and he has visited many times. He'd never trespassed on university land and clambered down the side of the Avon Gorge to visit Burwalls Cave, however.  Nor had he walked across the Clifton Suspension Bridge to visit the Observatory, with its Victorian Camera Obscura and the Giant's Cave beneath.  I was a bit concerned by just how quaint and parochial these activites might seem, compared with the sophisticated tourist destinations of their home country, but they took it in good humour.  And when they return home and read Bill Bryson's 'Notes from a Small Island', it will have far more resonance for them.


Next - obviously - we had to slide down the nearby rock face.  Mia and Jack asked if it had been waxed, but its slippery, shiny surface has been caused by generations of Bristolian bottoms.  

We then walked back across the bridge and drove down to the city centre, where we parked and wandered alongside the Floating Harbour for a spot of cottaging.  Jack's mother, my cousin Sandra, had insisted that we do this, as The Cottage Inn was where she and Jack's father, Martin, had their first ever date.  We had a lovely lunch over looking the water, washed down with a pleasant pint of Ashton Still cider, brewed locally. 




After meandering back along the quay, we visited the Cathedral. I was hoping to show them  my favourite room in the world, the Chapter House, but we could only peek through the glass doors as the flooring was being relaid.  There were lots of other interesting things to look at, however.






I'd never noticed these rather lewd women on an otherwise sober tomb of some long dead worthy.  They look like the 17th century equivalent of blow-up dolls.

Our final port of call was the newly restored and reopened Cabot Tower on Brandon Hill, which was built in 1897 to commemorate the 400th anniversary of John Cabot's historic voyage from what was then the separate settlement of Redcliffe to Newfoundland.   From the top there were moody views over a greatly changed city.

Summer is over and the trees are tipping into autumn, but Jack and Mia's adventure is just beginning!