Seeing (some of) the trees of Blenheim

Son the Elder had another event he needed me to drive him to in Oxfordshire, and after some deliberation, I decided to bite the bullet and shell out a large sum of money to visit Blenheim Palace while he was there, even though every fibre of me was advising against paying a lot of money to expose myself - voluntarily - to a display of extreme wealth and privilege.

Not that I had any interest in seeing the Palace itself: Rococco architecture brings me out in hives. Instead, I wanted to meet the 900-year-old oaks, which have survived in substantial numbers by growing in a deer park first created by Henry I in the 12th century, on land that has never come under the plough or been developed. Such is the advantage of the aforementioned wealth. But all the same, nearly thirty quid! It would have to be a Christmas present to myself.

Then, when I went on the website to book a ticket ten minutes before my departure, the clickable box wouldn't click and it said it was taking bookings for 2025. I set off to pick up my son dismayed at the prospect of whiling away nine hours in a foreign county with my plan for the day in ruins, and cursing people whose lives run so smoothly, they can plan that many months in advance.

But while parked up in Botley, leafing through a couple of books of Cotswold walks I'd grabbed as I left, I saw there was one that went right through the park, using several footpaths. Which meant I could get in without a ticket after all, and hopefully still get to see the oaks. So off I set for Woodstock.

ghost sign 

Once there, a couple of locals kindly pointed me in the direction of the 'green or maybe beige' gate, which I'd find just past the crossing at the foot of the hill. They also mentioned it was free to get into the park at the moment anyway, on account of a Christmas fair that was being held there, which probably explains the non-availability of tickets on the website. My peasant blood was up now, though, and instead of going in through the main entrance, I made for the 'secret' gate and, since I wouldn't have to stick to the footpaths after all, decided to walk around the lake in the direction of High Park, where the ancient oaks grow. 

Many of the trees had lost their leaves, but the beeches were blazing ... 

... apart from this one. (Look at its trunk, though!) 

By the Grand Bridge, a vaguely familiar Cedar of Lebanon, which turned out to have had a cameo role in 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix' and now has to be protected from its fans by a wicker fence and Keep Out sign. (It's a fantastic tree, though.) 

And on through more and more smouldering beeches ... 

... the roots of which reminded me a little of the famous beeches at Avebury.

Sycamore

Meanwhile, over the trees and lake, I could hear the hooting of invisible red kites. I even thought at one point that I might have found one of their feathers, but the discovery of more shortly afterwards, amid a pile of what were clearly pheasant feathers, soon put me in my place. The latter are much despised by feather collectors on account of their ubiquity, but I think they're beautiful. Look at that iridescence! 

In fact, there's a lot of death at Blenheim. Here, a mallard.

There was also a fair bit of fungi about. Lots of large ... well, I'm not sure what they are - Giant Funnels, perhaps? And a Shaggy Inkcap, White Saddle fungus (I think) and Bracket fungus growing on beech.

Hard to read, but the sign says 'Please close the gate'

As the road climbed towards High Park, the beeches gave way to oaks - venerable, magnificent trees that were wonderful to see, even though the sound of red kites had now been replaced by a backdrop of constant gunfire. 

This one has exposed heartwood and looks much like our local hollowing oak did until vandals stripped it out (apart from this tree being older and thicker-trunked). 

But all these wondrous oaks were behind a low fence. I could see them - and even glimpse beyond them to others in the distance - but getting close wasn't going to happen. And as for the really really old oaks you see in books and articles about remarkable trees - well, they weren't even splinters in the distance. And whilst I'm sure they need protection from the potential visitor depredation, it was disappointing to realise they were decidedly private property. 

Ozymandias

Spot the pheasant!

oak bench carved out of a fallen oak

But there were still beautiful, gnarly trees to see ... 

... and then - even better - the sun came out, and trees and sky and light took on another thousand dimensions of depth and colour.

And then it was back to the lake and the beeches. I was hobbling by now, with a blood blister on my foot, and I could feel my muscles and joints seizing up.

I'd also started to feel slightly bilious with the opulence of it all, and especially the thought that the obscenely rich even get the best trees. Yes, that was definitely enough Blenheim, probably for the rest of my life, thanks ... 

... or at least until the next day, when I found myself ordering an OS map of the area on eBay. (Purely for reference, you know - just to see where those footpaths go, and if any of those most ancient of oaks might have been visible from one ... )

A birthday trip on the Severn Valley Railway

Son the Elder's birthday wish was a day out on the Severn Valley Railway, so off we went.

Our starting point was the heritage station in Kidderminster in the West Midlands, which has a Victorian pillar box ...

... and a reasonably authentic-looking tobacconist, except that it was selling second hand books about steam trains. 

Once aboard, the ticket collector came and clipped our tickets. It was all very exciting.

We'd decided our outward journey should be straight through to Bridgnorth at the end of the line. En route we stopped at Bewdley, Arley, Highley and Hampton Loade. 

Bewdley

Trimpley Reservoir

We passed oceans of bluebells and universes of wild garlic.

A glimpse of the River Severn

Diesel locomotive 'Sir John Betjeman' in commemorative London Transport livery

Hampton Loade

Bridgnorth

We had an hour and a half to spend at Bridgnorth, so after lunch in the refurbished Refreshment Room, we climbed Cannon Steps to Bridgnorth Town Park, which is sited on top of a sandstone cliff in the grounds of the ruined castle.

A glimpse of Bridgnorth High Town

It turns out Brignorth Castle was strategic in rebellions against Kings Henry I, Henry II and Edward II before being destroyed by Parliamentarians during the Civil Wars. My kinda town.

A wallflower growing on the walls of the ruined castle

Looking down on the Severn Valley Railway

The train we took back down the line as far as the village of Highley, where there's an engine shed housing a number of heritage locomotives, was one of the familiar green and yellow Diesel engines of my childhood, and it struck me that almost all the people with legitimate feelings of nostalgia for steam trains are now old enough to be dead. 

Not that Diesels were any less mucky, mind. 

While Son the Elder visited the museum, I enjoyed the view of the River Severn and videoed a steam engine on its way to Bridgnorth. I even began to wonder if I was in danger of turning into a train spotter, except it was flowers and wildlife I'd been happily identifying as we chuffed our leisurely way through the valley. I even saw two rhinos in fields alongside the track just outside of Bewdley, attractions at the West Midlands Safari Park, which I remember visiting nearly 30 years ago when my kids were small. Sadly, my phone battery conked before we reached them on our return route, so no photos of tranquilly grazing rhinoceroses in the Worcestershire countryside were taken after all. Maybe we'll have to come back for that.