It’s my birthday tomorrow, meaning today’s post marks the end of a ninth complete year of this blog. Am I feeling morbid? Not particularly, I just thought this grave (in Bunhill Fields, London) was kinda cute actually. The hair is getting greyer but I am still an old Goth at heart.
The slightly overblown title of this post is not mine. As explained on a notice board beneath this tree, ‘Spontaneous City has been designed for the Tree of Heaven in Duncan Terrace Gardens [in London]… The design of the bird boxes is inspired by the architecture of the Georgian houses and 1960s flats that surround Duncan Terrace.’ So there you have it. I didn’t see any birds using this bijou residency, but maybe they can’t afford the rent on an Islington property.
I have been thinking about this, and have decided to declare this the one and only positive outcome of lockdown –‘this’ being the emergence of a UK pavement café culture. We don’t necessarily have the weather for it, but hey, pubs and restaurants can invest in some umbrellas, as they do elsewhere. On sunny afternoons like this one, it doesn’t matter, and we can give it a shot.
I see little prospect of my leaving the UK for the rest of 2020, to be honest. But luckily, this is a diverse and beautiful island, and there are plenty of bits of it that I have not seen yet. Up until today, that included the Hope Valley, which heads into the Pennines west of Sheffield, and can be reached on a train from there or Manchester. I rectified this omission today, and had a grief-free and pleasant day out there, and a dry one, despite the showers which seemed to be affecting everywhere else in the north today. I hope the couple pictured here enjoyed it too.
A reason we went away this week in particular was that our bathroom was being redecorated so it was advisable to be out of the house. This job was ably undertaken by Catherine, pictured here in the process of grouting our newly tiled floor, and her assistant Simon. All is now back in use and looking much better, so thanks (and money) are due to them both.
Every British spa town worth its salt in the 18th century — Bath being the archetype — included a great sweeping crescent like this. Buxton, a little town stuck a thousand feet up in the hills of north Derbyshire, therefore has this magnificent monument to Georgian good taste plonked in the middle of it. Buxton Mineral Water is mined literally from underneath it.
This Crescent has been empty for a long time, then years of wrangling about who would foot the bill for its restoration ended with it being converted into a hotel, due to be opened in May until you-know-what. But as its rebuilding is not yet over, that means there are no cars or other accessories defacing its facade — once the camera is lifted over the fencing in the way, anyway (visible to bottom left).
Once a derelict patch of post-industrial ruin, the area of Blists Hill in Telford has become a ‘Victorian town’ — a home for retired residential, commercial and industrial buildings, rebuilt or replicated in the valley of the Ironbridge Gorge. It’s a tourist attraction, sure, but a pretty interesting one. This chap shows off some machinery in the old ironworks that is clearly his pride and joy.
This would be a nicer photo without the bushes in front, but I took it from a car, stopped in the middle of a road, in order to capture the sight of this hill wreathed in mist. This is the Wrekin, a well-known protuberance in Shropshire, and one that Clare and I had just hauled ourselves up in weather much like this — on occasion there was mist and cloud, in other parts, clear skies. Another County Top done, anyway.
Clitheroe Castle is at least 910 years old but despite having been in a state of general ruin since the English Civil War, that is the 1640s, it is just about still standing on a spot with a really good view (as castles should have). On our first day of a week off work for the both of us, Clare enjoys said view — ignoring the rain coming in behind.
Ragwort, or Jacobaea vulgaris, is one of those plants that demonstrate environmental priorities. Its bitter leaves are full of alkaloids and poisonous to horses and cattle, so farmers are supposed to keep it under control and there are acts of Parliament that declare it, by law, a ‘noxious weed’. But apparently horses don’t eat it anyway, as it tastes vile. Meanwhile, it is highly beneficial to pollinating insects: indeed, for some, its their only source of food. So let that ragwort grow, I say. This large clump of it currently flourishes in a field above Hurst Road.
Being 42 