Bluebells at Cam Peak, Fritillaries at Cricklade

The bluebells were over in Bristol, but there were some still flowering just twenty miles up the road, on Cam Peak in Gloucestershire, so I headed up with Cwtch, who's always keen to visit new places. (Not that it was a new place for me, but with 16 years having elapsed since my last visit, it was still exciting.) 

The hill is 16 years steeper to climb than it was back then, when tackled head on from the car park. I felt like the English Woman who Went Up a Hill and then Went Up a Mountain. Or maybe it's because I was still in my forties then and now I'm well into my sixties.

bluebells and red campion

Just when I thought I might not make it, I found I'd made it.

Cwtch and I then made for Cam Long Down hill fort, which, again, I'd walked all those years ago with my friend, Jill, and my old collie, Ted, who wasn't old at all back then - I think he was just a year old.  

There was a lovely sunken lane to walk up onto the down. It was so deep the violets were almost fluorescent. 

Along the skyline, from far left: May Hill, the Malvern hills, and Bredon Hill

Downham - or Smallpox - Hill, the latter name deriving from an 18th century isolation hospital sited there

Looking south to Nibley Knoll and Tyndale Monument, which I can see when looking north from my bedroom window

May Hill and the River Severn just coming off its huge meanders around Arlingham and Awre

On the return route, Cam Peak was in view for much of the way. 

This time we walked around the back of it, through the little wood that was still quite bluebell-y.

There's something so magical about bluebells growing in the open. They are one of my very favourite sights on Dartmoor, but Cam Peak being only 20 miles from home, these make a very acceptable alternative during these days of shoulder impingement and increased petrol prices.  

bluebells and red campion; violet; ground ivy and buttercups; ground ivy and herb Robert; bluebell; bluebells and cowslips; forget-me-nots; bluebells, red campion and whitethorn

While the jaunt to Cam Peak was on the spur-of-the-moment, the trip the following day to North Meadow in Cricklade with my friend Cathy had been longer in the making - in fact, I'd been keeping an eye on 'Fritillary Watch' for a couple of years before we got around to setting a date.

whitethorn flowers and berries

Why fritillary watch? Well, incredibly, North Meadow - which consists of traditionally managed Lammas lands - contains no less than 80% of the country's snake's head fritillaries growing in the wild.

We set off in a clockwise direction, and saw - well, a pretty paltry amount of fritillaries, to be honest. Cathy apologised for not being able to come last week when they were at their height, but although there were a few that were over, there weren't a huge number of them. It was a bit of a mystery. We walked on. 

Cuckoo Flower or Lady's Smock

A very high foot bridge over the infant Thames, suggesting how high the waters might rise in times of flood

Every now and then I knelt to take photos of individual fritillaries. Every now and then I wondered if I'd be able to get back up - but managed it.

Then, about two-thirds of the way around, just as we were reconciling ourselves to a slightly disappointing trip, we spotted ... more fritillaries. In fact, a lot more fritillaries. 

Finally, this was more like what we'd imagined. A triumphant jaunt snatched from the jaws of defeat!

Hemlock Water Dropwort in the River Churn ... 

... and a holly blue butterfly

There was just time to drop a couple of my books into the nearby Little Free Library, and we headed home, well pleased with our morning out. Bluebells are glorious, but other flowers are available.

Homesick in Surrey

Surrey is relentlessly picturesque and so in-your-face about it that it made me want to issue it with an Asbo.  Though I did enjoy marauding around Gunter's Wood (second woodpecker of the week) and sitting by Hambledon village duck pond writing the first draft of a poem while waiting for my guided tour around Oakhurst Cottage.

Which was equally picturesque and furnished with improbably lavish chattels for a labourer's cottage, but we'll let that go. Because how could you not love somewhere that looks like this ...



Luckily for me, I had the guide all to myself.  I told him the origin of the phrase 'upper crust' and he told me where 'sleep tight' comes from.  

Then it was on to Godalming, passing on the way the Devil's Punchbowl (oh, the much loved paperbacks of my youth ... )

Once in Godalming I was unaccountably homesick.  Well, maybe not unaccountably - I think this shop display (one of many on a similar theme) had something to do with it, not to mention the lamp posts weighed down by Union flags.  And the plethora of antique shops which made it seem like a red brick tile-hung Cotswolds and are fine if you want to eat a Chippendale chair or bang in a nail with a Dresden Shepherdess.  Final straw for me was the brass band in the bandstand.  It was like being trapped in Trumpton.  

In the Church of St Peter and St Paul, I really liked the twelfth century wall paintings,the 13th century oak coffer, some gorgeous Arts and Crafts tiles, and the fish graffiti, though I resented the fact that the graffiti was mentioned in the guide book because I prefer to find these things for myself.  I also didn't like that the Anglo-Saxon carved stones from the 9th century were in a glass case with very reflective glass, and chairs and a pew were covering a 16th century brass memorial carved with a fine-looking (from what I could glimpse) Elizabethan gentleman.  

Add to this a slight biliousness when I learnt that the beam of the gallows used to execute two alleged murderers in 1818 was reused as a rafter in the spire and I was feeling downright grumpy.

I wandered along the bank of the picturesque River Wey, dotted with picturesquely fluffy ducklings and edged by magnificent but picturesque ornamental weeping willows. Then my eye lit on a wonderfully tussocky scrubby unkempt piece of land - three water meadows, in fact, called the Lammas Lands and still being used to pasture cattle.  This was more like it!

I climbed a stile and squelched across the marshy land.  Oh, it felt good.  I didn't even notice the brass band any more.  A little bit of wildnerness in the heart of Daily Mail land.   

As I left, a stinging nettle kissed me goodbye and I treasured my welt all the way back down the M4, heading towards the sun and home.  Seems my roots are digging down ever deeper.