Mr Toad and Mr Boar

Having risen at 6.45 am yesterday to start work, I am just about on top of things. So we took the bus to Burford, my first trip outside the village in two weeks.

A note on Burford. It is very, very old, unbelievably picturesque, eye wateringly expensive and a tourist honey pot 11 months of the year. January is quiet. I had the whole of my favourite antique shop to myself and after much searching found a couple of old sewing magazines for future 'inspiration'.

We lunched at the Royal Oak, the best pub in Burford. Situated off the main road in Witney St, it has not been turned into the typical Burford 'pile 'em in, punt 'em out' tourist treadmill with overpriced corporate beer and gastro-pub aspirations. The front bar had a large blazing log fire and we ordered a fine pint of Wadworths 'Henry'.

As we waited for our food, the bar became occupied with two of the elderly upper class gentlemen who are typical of this area of the Cotswolds. (Yes, we really are obsessed with class and the weather in England). I instantly nicknamed them 'Mr Toad' and 'Mr Boar' due mainly to physical appearance. Obvious regulars, they commenced gravel toned meanderings about 'flushing out', 'drives', 'over and under' and 'side by side'. They were of course, chatting about the country sport beloved of our Royal Family, Madonna and countless nouveau riche. Shooting. There's a lot of it about here. I present a conversational game pie.

"We shot 85 on the first drive"
"...school fees..."
"It'd be very interesting to know how many birds did get shot - we got 'em to write it down...and then compared it to the bag - the guns all said they'd shot more birds than they actually had!" (chortles)
"But as I say to my keeper...have a sweep of a fiver a gun..."
"...so in two years time - you'll be buying a yacht!"
"It was owned by the Queen Mother and that lot"
"It said in the Daily Telegraph - you do read the daily Telegraph, don't you? " (anxiously). (NB - Daily Telegraph; rather right wing Little England magazine bought by traditionalists, the insecure and well-off elderly).
"Had a chunk of his ear missing where a spaniel took a nip"
And thus they came to the end of their session; time came to tot up the lunch bill, whereupon a slight disagreement almost occurred between these fine, upstanding stalwarts of middle England...
" Was his ploughmans dearer than my soup?"

We were left to enjoy another pint accompanied only by the gentle crackling of the fire. The beams in every room are crammed with jugs - hundreds of jugs...collected by the bar manager.

Lunch was very good, if somewhat conservative with the portions, for the prices asked...I don't think we'll be eating there again. We wandered out to the main High Street for window shopping. In a rash mood I entered the upmarket butchers and ended up buying 3 pieces of oxtail for five pounds. Oxtail is supposed to one of the cheaper cuts of meat...my 'little' purchase has now become a household joke. Harry Potter fans may recognise these 'Hogwart' boars from the films...

A good peer at the small ads in any town shop will give a fascinating insight into the undertows of the real life. Here is a prime example...

'Burford Life - 2005 - issue No.6 I wish to make it clear that the second of the two poems printed on page 23 of the above publication under the heading 'Rosie's Poem' (formerly, and more accurately, 'Rosies' Choice) was certainly not submitted by me. In fact I had not seen it before it appeared in print. It is not surprising that the author - or authoress - prefers to remain anonymous. I shall not be contributing again to this publication.'

Yet even as I gently mock the quaint, chocolate box-ness of Burford, and poke fun at its time locked inhabitants, I only have to raise my eyes to the real citizens of this ancient town.
What sights have their eyes seen...a jumbled hotch potch of architectural fashions, they nestle together comfortably, unashamed of their scars, dense with history. We will soon be gone, while they - they remain. Through centuries of war, fire and famine. Warped and scorched as some are...

Burford church

Sunday afternoon was a lightning trip to Burford with the weekend guests. For the first time since moving here, three years ago, we entered the historic and elegant church. There simply wasn't enough time to see everything; it is full of detail, from the splendid tombs of the very rich, sometimes carved with graffitti by their 'lesser' brethren...the Levellers were holed up for days here, at the time of the Civil War, and the soldiers left their mark - not just by way of graffitti, but also, more dreadfully - three were executed against the wall of the church - and the shot holes can be seen to this day. We thought this might have been a rudimentary 'Nine Man's Morris' game, carved on a slab of a tomb in one of the inner chapels. Did one of the dead men enjoy a match with a friend before he was captured?

There are some quite lovely examples of memorial carving - this poor little chap, grieving for all eternity...

And these strange cherubs, almost Pagan with their foliage 'tails' - although I thought they resembled baby merfolk.

Should you find yourself in the Oxfordshire town of Burford, do take time out to enjoy this wonderful and peaceful sanctuary. And see if you can spot the small Celtic carving, nestling high above the more 'churchy' decorations.

A day of grace

It was one of those really special summer days, with a kindly warmth and a cool, perfumed wind. The kind of day when you venture out of your cramped studio to get some milk and the day says -
'hello - where've you been? Let's go and have an adventure...'
'Oh I'd love to, but I can't, really, there's artwork to be done, e-mails to write, not to mention the garden and the hoovering'
'Ah yes, but how many days do you get like ME? There'll be enough cold, grey muddy winter days, when you'll look back on this as a day of grace - and smile at my memory, when I am long gone.'
So, like Moley from 'Wind in the Willows', I kicked up my heels, and set off on my old bike Hercules...

the open road

The farmers were literally making hay while the sun shone.

golden days

Swinbrooke is one of the prettiest villages in West Oxfordshire - a fairy town decked with flowers and threaded with chuckling streams.


Cycling through Swinbrook towards Burford - this is the village church, where the Mitfords are buried.

.
...and past the dear little old chapel nearby. It is humbler than its grand sister, but there is more a sense of peace and old sanctuary.

Burford was swarming with people admiring it's charms. After the obligatory 'potter' and window shop, I found a pub which, being off the main street had a deserted patio garden and a decent range of beer...time to sit down with my book and recuperate.

A pint of 'Henry' and Walker's finest.

And so the journey home. Back past the gentle Evenlode, past the cricket match, now in it's last desperate 'come on boys!' throes.

Evenlode river near Swinbrooke

I'd done about 14 miles now, by taking the 'scenic' route. The shadows were lengthening and the swifts diving low over the hayfields. The light was taking on the 'old gold' shade which seems to bathe everything in storybook atmosphere. The landscape was almost purring, like a warm, contented cat, sleepy with sunshine. It had been a wonderful day - but I was glad to get to the top of Swinbrooke Hill and head for home.