In the footsteps of poets, the pawprints of dogs

It was a fine, sunny morning and a trip outside Bristol was well overdue, so we decided to try Poets Walk at Clevedon again, following our abortive visit there at New Year. After all, it wasn't a bank holiday, and it's still January, for heaven's sake, so there wouldn't be loads of people there. Except there were and once again Salthouse Fields Car Park was full, though this time we did find a parking space near the old Church of St Andrew's. 

As I mentioned before, I'm not convinced all these people meandering around Poets Walk can be actual poets. Maybe there should be a rule that when you phone to pay your car parking fee, you also have to upload your latest poem. It could then be subjected to Turnitin to make sure you haven't just submitted 'In Memoriam' by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and if it then passes muster, you get to park there. Seems fair to me. 

That said, I think most of the visitors were up on the front rather than on the cliff walk as it wasn't too crowded at all. We walked up onto Church Hill and took in the views. The tide was a long way out and the offshore sand bar visible. 

Looking back to St Andrew's

Stinking iris in Salthouse Woods

We cut through the woods and up the coast path, past the Lookout. 

The celebrated views of the town were clearly visible through the bare branches of stunted cliff-top trees.

Cwtch had a run off the lead on Wain's Hill. She hadn't been there before and was really happy. It was harder for us because the last time we were there was just a week before our previous dog, Ted, died. He was so tough and resilient, we didn't even realise he was ill. I felt a real pang in my heart as we walked over the ancient hill fort. 

Back at the Church we paid our respects to the Sheela-na-gig (bottom right) and a very noisy crow on the tower (top left). I expressed dissatisfaction that cockcrow is a thing and crowcrow isn't, even though crowing is clearly associated with crows, what with them having secured the onomatopoeic name for themselves at least as long ago as the mid-13th century. The Northerner quite reasonably pointed out that cockcrow is primarily a time rather than a noise, and if our ancestors had ordered their day by crowcrow, they'd have got in a pickle. 

In the churchyard, Emma Amelia was quite clearly a beauty of Pre-Raphaelite distinction in her prime ... 

... and Hyacinth is in evidence too, despite it being on a windswept cliff. 

 

Looking back over the churchyard

 

Poets Walking

The summer holidays are almost over, and apart from two road trips to Nottingham to see my mother (and nothing else) (though she is quite enough), I haven't been anywhere at all. This is partially down to coronavirus and partly because there's been a lot to do close to home. So as yesterday dawned fair, the Northerner and I set aside a few hours for a trip to Clevedon, and a wander along Poets Walk, the historical background to which is here.

When something is actually called 'Poets ... ', I'd like to think that's who it's intended for. Back when poetry groups happened in real life, not just via email, I'd always feel a bit aggrieved when I got home from our poetry groups suitably early on a Friday (Poets Day) to find the parking space outside my house had been taken by someone who'd also Pissed Off Early because Tomorrow's Saturday but who probably hadn't written so much as a verse since they were in primary school. 

Obviously I don't really think Poets Walk should be reserved for poets, but it was busier yesterday than I'd seen it before, with all those other stay at homers.

By no means crowded but cliff paths aren't great for social distancing. 

We found a little more space for ourselves and Ted by walking along the edge of the iron-age hill fort on Wain's Hill, with its wonderful views down to Sand Point, Brean Down, Steep Holm and Flat Holm ... 

... before dropping back down to the path above Clevedon Pill, where my great-uncle Joe used to keep his flotilla of boats for hiring out to tourists a century ago. 

Then a quick visit to the World War II pillbox pimpling the face of the far older fortification. 

It's a good place for a look-out, across the estuary to Cardiff ... 

... and back up it.

Poor female blackbird

We wandered around the edge of the Glebe to visit the churchyard.

St Andrew's Church was closed ... 

... but we paid our respects to its resident sheela-na-gig, green man and chough corbels.

... before repairing to a bench to watch a rabbit foraging among the graves ... 

... and a massive car transporter make its way up the channel to Avonmouth.

We rejoined Poets Walk for a short distance ...

... before deviating to skirt Church Hill.

A last view of St Andrew's nestled between the two hills ...

... and an olfactory interrogation on Ted's part of the last two remaining 'Tennyson posts' that constitute the 'Darkened Heart' sculpture erected in 1994 with lines from In Memoriam.  

Then down the hill through the woods to the car park ...

... and home in time for a socially distanced cream tea with the IsamBards, courtesy of David and Alex. 


When shall we three meet again ... ? 

Days-Errant

Been doing a lot of errandry* lately, but at least it's involved some getting out and about to interesting places. I get a bit depressed cooped up in Bristol, especially this time of year when some bugger's pulled the plug and all the light's draining away.

*Now I'm wondering if errandry should be errantry, which has the benefit of being an actual word, but that might just be wandering about without the service element. Hmmm.

Anyhow. My mother was in Bristol for ten days or so recently, following a sojourn in Cornwall, and briefly fancied going to Clevedon, so we took her there before she could change her mind. There's a pub right on the front where you can have something to eat and look out over the estuary and there's light and interest even when the weather forecast is poor, which it was. 

And by the time we emerged, it was into unexpected afternoon sunshine, and a plane, which you probably can't make out in the photo, was doing loop-the-loops and things. 

We made our way to the pier.

I took time to admire my favourite thing about Clevedon which is its less than genteel trees ... 

... though there was no walking the steep cliff path of Poets Walk, of course.

After a flying visit to the pier's gift shop, we manoeuvred our way through the narrow lane that leads from the front to Copse Road, emerging alongside the Royal Oak Pub, which was run by my Great-Great-Uncle Joe Rich during the first half of last century. There are lots of family stories associated with this time.

My mother happily told several passers-by and a couple of workmen about the times she used to pull pints there, aged 14. 

The lane hasn't changed much at all, apparently.

A couple of days later we ventured deeper into Somerset to visit my mother's only surviving elder brother, Noel, in Shepton Beauchamp. They did a great job of bringing their childhood misdemeanours to life, details of which I shan't repeat here.  

The next day, my birthday, the Northerner and I were in Wells for the gathering of shortlisted competition poets at the Festival of Literature ... 

... and then suddenly that was enough Somerset, and my sons and I were off to Sussex for a belated birthday jaunt - my daughter's birthday, not mine. And it rained again.

But then it cleared up enough for a little wander around Brighton Marina ...

View to Ovingdean Gap

... followed by cake.