We forgot the napkins and napkin rings. I know, I know: how could we forget such a fundamental addition to our luggage for a self-catering holiday? We had remembered the Self-Catering Attaché Case with its chopping board and moulded slots for the Sabatier cook’s knives, the corkscrew and the essential herbs and spices; but we had forgotten the napkins. Dear oh dear. But, there it is: perforce, we had to spend the next five days eating at the table feeling strangely naked and ill-equipped. Fortunately, adaptability has always been one of our strong points so we soldiered on, feeling slightly risqué and daring at meal times, practising our new-found Bohemian behaviour.
March ended with warm sunshine and mild Spring weather; the implementation of British Summer Time; and freezing temperatures with snow showers. We of the older generation used to refer to this as “The British Weather”, with the occasional adjective before the word “British”; but now, as we live in times when someone must be blamed for everything unpleasant, the phenomenon is called “Climate Emergency” and it is All Our Fault for heating our houses, eating meat, travelling on holiday and generally enjoying the fruits of our labours. Oh, what it is to live in the 21st Century.
It was the first proper holiday for the Shacklepins in two years, and we rented a little cottage in Shropshire. By arrangement with the owner we were able to charge our car on arrival, so avoiding the need to top up with electricity en route. It is amazing how this little thing made our journey to and from Shropshire so pleasant and stress-free. We motored gently up on the minor ‘B’ roads and quieter ‘A’ roads, avoiding the motorway, and mostly coasting along at 40 mph – to all intents and purposes as if we were driving a little Austin A30 through England in 1955. Lest you feel this conjures up an image of a certain type of irritating driver, I should explain that whenever another car appeared behind us we either pulled in to let it pass, or sped up to the speed limit to avoid holding anyone up. Surprisingly, traffic was remarkably light for most of the journey so we were able to enjoy the drive with little disruption. Shropshire is an absolutely delightful county: it has some lovely traditional market towns that are rich in independent shops and largely unspoilt by modern development; the scenery is superb; the traffic is relatively light; the people are smiling and welcoming. Our cottage was on an estate near Ludlow, close to the Wenlock Edge, a 1,000 foot escarpment that runs north easterly for about 20 miles from Craven Arms to Much Wenlock, with The Shropshire Way running along the top. We were perfectly placed to indulge in long walks along the public footpaths adjacent to the cottage, to explore the estate where we were staying, or to visit the nearby towns. The cottage itself was a cosy single-bedroomed lodge that met the prerequisite that it did not allow dogs – a criterion remarkably hard to find in rural hotels and self-catering accommodation. It is not that I dislike dogs per se: I genuinely recognise that they can make excellent companions and become (in the eyes of their owners) part of the family. A good friend of mine once responded to my prejudice by pointing out that you are always assured of a warm welcome home if you have a dog, and I was suitably chastened by his remark. However, I have yet to find a dog owner who did not think that their pet was a sentient being (“Say hello to Uncle Horatio”, “I’m not its uncle: it’s a dog!”). Nor have I ever found a dog owner who did not think that their dog was always well-behaved and obeyed commands; did not believe that it was just being friendly when it jumped all over you with its slobbering mouth, dirty paws and filthy bottom; that it was just giving you a nip when it bit you; and that rules and signs did not apply to their particular dog. It has been my experience that hotels and cottages that allow dogs retain that wet dog smell, are sometimes covered in hairs or – worse – are contaminated with urine. I realise that I am in the minority here, but when it comes to holiday accommodation one seeks facilities that are at least as good as, and as clean as, one’s own home: it is a matter of “horses for courses”.
Oh dear. I think I have just alienated 75% of my readership, and it wasn’t that big to start with. Still, it makes a change from moaning about face masks doesn’t it?
Anyway, to return to our canine-free accommodation (bit of a rant there – sorry about that). Our cottage was spotless and blessedly warm. Mrs S is very fussy about the warmth, having been born in the Caribbean – she even complained at one point that it was too warm in the cottage, an unheard of experience in my married life. The owner had very kindly left us a “welcome pack” comprising local milk and butter, bread, marmalade and a small bottle of wine, which was well received. The french windows of our bedroom opened out onto a balcony and a delightful view of a valley populated by a few sheep and only one small farm. A single-track road wound its way up the dale near the cottage, but there was very little traffic and the whole scene exuded peace and tranquility, broken only by restful birdsong.
Of course, not all was perfect (few things are for the Shacklepins). The owner of the estate was a converted zealot to the Green religion and was just a little a bit of a fusspot, one of those people who is fond of little notes being posted everywhere: “Please separate out the recycling into the correct boxes”; “Remember: boiling a full kettle wastes energy”; “Please do not leave the television on standby”; “Please place hot pans here”; “Please do not wear shoes in the cottage”; ”Please make tea in the teapot, not the cups”; “Please strip the bed and bag the washing before leaving”. We would have done all those things on our own initiative without being reminded of them. The owner had met us on arrival and was friendly and helpful, but they pointedly stood about ten feet away from us when we emerged from the car and backed away when we went to shake hands, which made us feel a bit embarrassed and uncomfortable: one of the many sad social consequences of the epidemic. These were only mild observations, but two other minor shortcomings soon became apparent: in our haste to book an ideally-located place we had overlooked the fact that the cottage did not have a dishwasher and that the bathroom was located on the ground floor, below the main accommodation. We could live with doing the washing-up by hand, but the trek to the bathroom during the night proved to be a real headache: ironically, and perhaps inevitably, we found ourselves getting up far more frequently than usual to use the lavatory and this involved scuttling through the freezing living room then negotiating the narrow winding staircase in the dark before returning to the bed to wake the other partner. Blessedly, the bed was very comfortable, but the whole procedure did make for a disturbed sleep.
Day 1 of the holiday found us scrambling up the very steep side of an escarpment, followed by a long climb that took us on a circular walk northwards. Climbs are unusual for us, as Barsetshire has few hills, but we managed the ascent in stages and wallowed in the smugness that comes from hearts beating at 140/minute and standing on what seemed like the top of the world. Our walk took us past a distinctive Elizabethan manor house, Wilderhope Manor, now owned by the National Trust and used as a Youth Hostel. The building, with its characteristic Elizabethan chimneys and solid limestone walls appeared to be deserted, but this assessment was contradicted by steam emerging from a central heating vent. The public could tour the manor, but it was not open on the day that we passed through. Apparently, it was originally the home of the Smallman family, and one Major Thomas Smallman lived there in the 17th century during the English Civil War. A supporter of King Charles I, he was locked up in his own manor by Cromwell’s forces, but he allegedly escaped by means of a secret passage in the walls, which sounds intriguing. He was pursued, but evaded capture by driving his horse over a precipice on Wenlock Edge (inevitably known as “Major’s Leap”), killing the animal, but allowing him to escape back to the Royalist forces in Shrewsbury. His statue in Shrewsbury has since been pulled down and thrown into the River Severn by supporters of the Equines Matter movement because of cruelty to horses. (I made that last bit up). I thought the manor was distinctly forbidding and creepy, even in daylight, and I, for one, would not have cared to spend the night there: there was just something about the place. We rapidly moved on and made our way back to the cottage along the valley bottom, through sheep pasture, crossing and re-crossing a twisting stream, completing just over five miles (a mere bagatelle), but also having climbed over 460 feet. We were a little footsore and definitely out of condition, and I thought collapsing onto the sofa with a sensible cup of tea and a ginger biscuit would be the ending of a perfect day. Alas, Mrs Shacklepin was in tourist mood and insisted that we take the car and explore the market town of Much Wenlock.
What a lovely sleepy old town Much Wenlock turned out to be! We parked easily and strolled through the narrow main street past ancient Tudor buildings to the small main square. Although a market town with a significant history and granted its charter in 1468, Much Wenlock seemed barely larger than a village (population about 2,800 in 2011). This rather added to its charm and we delighted in just drifting around the streets in the sunshine. There were the ruins of an abbey, which dated from the 7th century, but we did not visit them as we thought the entrance fee a bit steep. The Guildhall was also architecturally impressive – apparently within a few days of being opened in 1546 the assizes held therein condemned two men and an 11-year-old girl to be hanged, probably for stealing. We did get that cup of tea – in a teashop called Tea on the Square, a lovely café with very efficient, friendly, service and some gorgeous carrot cake. The walls of the teashop were decorated with a fresco of the town, which had been very well executed, and the customers seemed mostly to be gentlewomen of a certain age. I felt like I was in a scene from an Agatha Christie book, and it was all rather comforting. I could live in Much Wenlock: it had a lovely “feel” to it, everyone smiled at you and everyone seemed happy.
The next day found us in Ludlow, another very distinctive, though larger, town with a good mixture of independent shops, fine architecture of the Tudor and Georgian era, a lively market and an impressive castle. Ludlow Castle was once the ancestral seat of the Duke of York of Wars of the Roses fame before he lost his head and had it stuck on a spike outside York. I have always found English nobility to be a bit of a paradox in terms of their titles and ancestral homes: the Duke of York had his castle in Ludlow, Shropshire; the Duke of Devonshire has his seat at Chatsworth in Derbyshire; and the Duke of Norfolk has his seat in Arundel in Sussex, to give just three examples. Foreigners must find it all very confusing, as do I. Even the Wars of the Roses are a bit misleading: as a child I used to think that they were wars waged simply between two adjoining counties, Lancashire and Yorkshire – one bunch with a red rose saying “eeh, bah gum” versus another bunch with a white rose saying “eeh, bah gum” (the accents sound the same to me) but, of course, that is not the case. You live and learn. The weather had turned on the day we went to Ludlow, and a bitter northerly wind with traces of sleet swept through the town. We circled the castle (still too mean to pay the entrance fee, but we had visited before), descended to the picturesque riverside, explored the streets and tut-tutted at the price of houses in the estate agents’ windows. Ludlow was another town where we felt very comfortably at home and would cheerfully have settled but, nope, couldn’t afford to live there either.
We decided to make Day 3 a “town visit day” too. This was contrary to our usual practice on holiday, whereby we usually alternate “walking days” and “visit days”. I don’t know why we broke the rhythm. We headed for Bridgnorth, which was reputed to be worth a visit, but we got off to a bad start because I broke yet another of my rules that have been establish after years of experience: Shacklepin’s First Rule for Visiting an Unfamiliar Town – park in the first carpark you come across. On this occasion, the entrance of the first carpark we came across was blocked by some old bloke who could not get the entrance barrier to rise. Although the most patient of souls, I declared that we would move on to the next carpark and, thereupon, committed us to a stop/start drive through narrow medieval streets blocked by double-parked vans and lorries, and populated by pedestrians with a Shropshire death wish. Then the sleet came down. Twist and turn, stop, start, round a one way system, miss a turning, round again, past the medieval town hall for the second time…until finally we broke out of orbit and found the next carpark, miles out of town and across the river. I’m afraid I cracked at that point. I told Mrs S that I had now seen Bridgnorth: been there, done that, don’t want the tee shirt. We did not stop, but drove on to the next scenic place on the agenda, Ironbridge. Poor Bridgnorth, I never really gave it justice and I don’t suppose I ever will now. And all because I broke that First Rule for Visiting Unfamiliar Towns.
Finding Ironbridge proved to be a bit of a problem. We set off all right and skirted the outskirts of the new town of Telford (named after Thomas Telford, the famous engineer and road builder), which we been advised was not worth visiting. I thought it might be a good idea to top up the car battery as we had, by then, travelled quite some way, so I asked Jane to find a suitable charge point nearby. We duly parked next to a KFC outlet on a retail park, plugged in, and pondered on how to kill the next 20 minutes. No, we did not go into the KFC, but I did need the lavatory, so we battled our way through a minor snow flurry to the nearby Aldi supermarket (no lavatories and, my dear, the people). So we came out of there and moved on to an adjacent Lidl supermarket. There, we pretended to look at the goods before entering the single lavatory together, explaining to an astonished member of the public who was waiting outside when we left, “It’s OK, we’re married”. After this exciting tour of modestly-priced Mercian retail outlets we walked back to the car which was smiling contentedly after its refreshing gulp of Joules. Onward to Ironbridge.
Then we found that the road to Ironbridge was closed and a diversion was in force.
We tried to follow the diversion signs. We really did. But after several circuits of the the local ring road and two dual carriageways the novelty of Telford’s environs was wearing off rapidly. Given the earlier Bridgnorth and retail park experience, I offered the opinion that, perhaps, we should reconsider our itinerary. Actually, I think I may have said, “Stuff this for a game of soldiers, let’s head back to the cottage”. And, lo, as I took the road signposted Much Wenlock that would lead us cottage-wards, there was a sign for Ironbridge further along. It was as if the town had capitulated and said, “You don’t get away from me that easily, buster.” So we followed the sign.
Ironbridge is famous for – well – guess what – its iron bridge: the first such construction in the world. Designed by one Thomas Pritchard and built by Abraham Darby in 1779, it was manufactured from prefabricated cast iron in nearby Coalbrookdale using iron, coal and coke on an industrial scale – the beginning of the Industrial Revolution. Construction would not be allowed today, of course, because it burnt that nasty coal, involved noxious smelting, and used dirty iron ore. I suppose, by modern standards, Ironbridge should not exist and Shropshire folk should still be crossing the river in coracles. Whatever, the bridge still stands today and spans Ironbridge Gorge over the River Severn. It is now closed to motorised traffic, but pedestrians and cyclists can still cross it and admire the view. It was very impressive, even by today’s standards, though I did keep wondering about how brittle that cast iron with its large grain size would be in sub zero temperatures (one of the hazards of being an engineer). The riverside of Ironbridge had a number of architecturally unusual shops around a small square, almost set into the steep sides of the gorge. However, as they all demanded face masks on entry and a maximum of three customers at any one time, we gave browsing a miss and they lost out on our custom (that pencil, rubber and fridge magnet may never be sold now). Clearly, the phrase “Living with Covid”, or the news that restrictions had been relaxed in January, had not penetrated as far as Shropshire and I could only presume that the messenger from Bristol had been waylaid on the road north by remnants of the Royalist army escaping from the Battle of Worcester. Virtually all the houses in Ironbridge hung on the side of the very steep gorge, and there was a fine church near the summit. It all looked awfully precarious to me, but I suppose the natives are very fit and not risk-averse. Having avoided the unwelcoming shops on the riverside, I suggested to Jane that we explore further, and so we set off up an extremely steep narrow road that led to the top of the gorge. I don’t know what the gradient was, but it felt like 1:3. Huff, puff, pause to rest; huff, puff, pause to rest; up we trekked, like Jack climbing up the beanstalk. As we approached the very top I noticed a certain reluctance among the party, a slowing down, a lack of stamina. I looked at Jane and was reminded of the lyrics of that song, The Runaway Train:
The rails were froze,
The wheels were cold,
And then the air brakes wouldn’t hold,
And Number Nine came rolling down the hill.
Number Nine, in the form of Jane leaning on a lamp post, looked very likely to be rolling back down the hill at any moment. She saw me looking at her.
“Why… on… earth…”, she gasped as she held on to a lamp post, “are…we…going…up…here?”
“Why, to explore the rest of the town, of course: the main drag; the market square; the centre of it all; because it’s there”, I replied in the manner of Sir Edmund Hilary conquering Everest.
She took a deep breath and gazed at me with incredulity.
“Horatio”, she said, “that was the main town. At the bottom. That’s all there is.”
She had been before, you see. In 1959.
“Oh.”
I considered our options and made an executive decision.
“Best we go back down again then.”
So we took the next narrow lane back down the hill, this time hanging on to lamp posts to avoid sliding down. I stopped humming The Runaway Train and started whistling The Grand Old Duke of York.
So that was Ironbridge. Very nice. Very impressive. A bit cold. Not much to it. If you’ve seen one bridge you’ve seen them all. We got back into the car, satisfied, with wobbly leg muscles, and drove back to the cottage for a nice cup of tea and a hobnob biscuit. Lovely.
Our final day was The Big One: the hike along the 200-mile Shropshire Way that includes Wenlock Edge. We parked the car and set off along a narrow road leading to the Edge. Up and up we went, pausing every 25 metres to recover our breath, with auxiliary hearts jogging on cold suction. There was a bitterly cold wind from the north, but the sun shone and there was virtually no traffic. Eventually we reached the crest and joined the Shropshire Way, leaving the road and taking a path north through a wood awash with wild garlic and sprinkled with violets, primroses, wood anemones and celandines. The path twisted and turned, passed through fields, then dived back into woodland again. There was an odd bit when the path took a dive down a valley side into another wood – I am wary about losing height on a walk as it inevitably means having to regain it again later. However, that was the Shropshire Way, so down we slid, eventually levelling off and continuing along the hill side. It was not, of course, our intention to walk the whole 200 miles – we decided that we would loop back at a convenient point based on time and distance travelled. The opportunity came when a footpath left the trail and cut up steeply through the woods towards the crest again. This proved to be no mean climb, for we were hanging on to tufts of grass, shrubs and trees and trying not to look down as we scrambled up to the top, occasionally on all fours. Eventually we reached the top and stumbled out of the wood onto a road which was fairly busy with traffic. The footpath was supposed to continue across the road, through the grounds of a house, then down through a field into the dale. Alas, all we saw was a very solid fence. It appeared that the householder had tired of strangers wandering through his garden and so had very quietly removed the “public footpath” sign and fenced off the path. We pondered on what to do next. There was no way we were going back into that wood and there was no way we were going to take our lives into our hands by walking along that main road. In the end, we simply marched into a field next to the house and trespassed our way to the other end, eventually joining another footpath and becoming legal again. Now, our walk was pretty much on the level and it took us across fields with cattle grazing, through a dairy farm and along a straight farm track. Underfoot, the going was somewhat – how can I put it – rather glutinous and noisome. Jane mincing her way delicately through the mud and the manure was a fine demonstration of ladylike behaviour, balance and control in challenging circumstances, but she made it through in the end (she took ballet classes at the age of eight, you know). Soon we were heading back up a track to Wenlock Edge again, regaining height and joining another path known as Jack Mytton Way for our return leg. The novelty was beginning to wane a little by this time: we had not enjoyed our romp through the cattle field and the dairy farm, which had been poorly signposted, and the need to climb again was not entirely welcome. Fortunately, another National Trail, the Jack Mytton Way, ran level along the top of the escarpment and, from there, we eventually, broke away to take a footpath back down to our original narrow road through a field of rape. Tired and weary, we limped back to the car and returned to the cottage.
“Right”, said Jane.”How far have we gone?”
I consulted the GPS and had to do a double take.
“About nine miles”, I said, somewhat incredulously.
“NINE MILES”, she said. “Is that all? Let me see that. It feels more like nineteen miles!”.
I showed her the digital map. We had been walking for 3½ hours, that was all. It felt like we had been going all day. However, we had also climbed about 690 feet and descended 725 feet over three separate hills, so that had to be worth something. Either way, we were, as the saying goes, completely knackered.
We were booked to stay another two days but, what with the weather closing in again and various other factors, we decided to go home early. We had visited everywhere we had planned to, completed all the walks that we wanted to, and were suffering from bathroom-en-suite withdrawal symptoms. We drove home as we had arrived: through sleepy highways and byways, past green fields and Spring flowers in the sunshine. Tired little teddy bears.
And so to bed.
6 April 2022
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 