Lowbrow but not witless

These young swallows were watching their parents hunt insects over the green barley fields. They seem quite grown up, sat demurely on the wire. But whenever the grownups passed by with a mouth full of food -




They started squawking and screaming, demanding to be fed - even though they are quite capable of catching their own. Seconds later they flew off, as a sweaty, panting runner thumped past without a word of apology. I dedicate this little insight into teenage behaviour to all my friends who are having problems with their own fledglings.

The book purge is done. Nothing valuable or beautiful was sent away, certainly not the nature books that people were worried about! Only piles of tatty paperbacks and unwanted reference books. I've been lugging many of these around since I was a teenager and I have either grown out of them (various fantasy, sci-fi and horror), got bored of, know I will never read because they are dull or unfathomable to me (Virgina Woolf, Edmund Crispin, William Blake, Stevie Smith) or already have at least one copy of (more than you'd think, I have so many books I do often forget what I've got). Some authors simply irritate the pants off me or I only like certain of their titles. So I kept the brilliant 'IT' by Stephen King and culled one of his less accomplished efforts. I read Uncle Tom's Cabin twice in my youth, and will never read it again, worthy though it is. There are titles here I have no idea why I picked them up...knowing that I am not the only book nerd, I have left these photos at large size. There are some of Andy's in there too (no, I have never had an interest in boxing).




I confess without a shred of shame to having a pretty pulpy taste in fiction. As a rule I don't like modern fiction unless it is crime or some kind of Da Vinci code genre. Except Jilly Cooper and Phil Rickman, my two favourite authors and both sneered at by the literary elite. Anything which vaguely taxes my brain or emotions is a no-no. I read for pure escapism, and nowadays I read very rarely, as I don't have the time. Just five minutes before I fall asleep. So, from the under-the-stair piles of not-very-worthy titles, these were kept; some fantasy and horror which still passes muster, most of my crime collection. Old Penguins, even if the titles are obscure and we will never read them. Because they are objects of beauty. (Which is another reason why I pick up some old books, simply for the cover). A few of the less smug Aga-sagas. The only Virginia Andrews ('My Sweet Audrina') I still like to read (see, I did say I had pretty low brow taste...) My childhood copies of James Herriot.

I've done all the Jane Austens, years ago and enjoyed them, but it wouldn't matter to me if I never read her again. Shakespeare eludes me, and yes, I've tried. I do like Kafka, H.E Bates, L.P Hartley, E.F. Benson and Dumas. I adore Henry Williamson and Elizabeth Goudge. Am very picky about poetry; Dylan Thomas, James Reeves, Edith Sitwell, poor John Clare, Ted Hughes - his nature poems - Gerard Manley Hopkins. But those poets I do like, I love without reserve. Thinking about the eclectic jumble of the thousands of books I have stashed away, I realise that am a literary magpie, and as indiscriminate in my tastes as one. I would probably pick the tin foil cap over the gold ring any day; after all, they are both sparkly.

It is quite remarkable how happy we are now that we have decided to stay here - and the realisation that if we had somehow managed to move, we would probably have regretted it forever. While the weather is glorious and the evenings so light, we have taken to dusky walks round the fields, marvelling anew at the tranquil beauty of our patch. Bats buzzed us, and as we returned past the church, we surprised old Mother Toad lumbering up the pavement.

The poor dear made a hasty, if undignified retreat - mind how you go, mother!

For most of my life - since I was twelve - I aimed to move back to Devon. But as Andy gently pointed out, Devon in 1978, when I lived there and my parents were alive, is not the same as Devon now. Nor will moving there bring them back. In truth, I was wondering how I could bear to leave this little Cotswold sanctuary which has become home. Now that we are staying I feel an immense sense of relief that we have found some kind of contentment and had the wit to realise what we have before we left it behind.

Can you see the sickle Moon?

Flood fields in February

Here in the Cotswolds we are spoilt for country walks. There are rambles we have tried and scorned, which are really perfectly pleasant - just not quite up to the golden standard we have come to expect from our patch of the world. Once in a while we find one which pings all the right bells. We will return, we say. And we do. This week we made a new discovery, only a quarter of an hour ride from home - and we had it mostly to ourselves. (Except for a couple of other walkers coming the other way, one of whom was wearing all the correct trekking gear for a winter hike in the Northern Fells, complete with walking sticks. He did seem to be taking the gentle, grassy footpaths a little too seriously).

The meandering Windrush was in full spate and almost bursting its banks; water was already lapping over the shallow banks and roaring through the floodgates. But it looked peaceful enough from a distance.





Negotiating soggy, marshy fields and climbing up to higer, dry land, heading to the most gorgeous farm in splendid isolation and a vivid, but strangely attractive green barn...






...ahead of us, the original farmhouse and outbuildings, the old stonework in excellent condition, though it appeared to be boarded up.





Through the farm track and past yet more silent, deserted stone treasures. In a crumbling porch, ferns sprouted opposite a dark, guano spattered nest entrance, the sad decay benefiting the resident Barn Owl.




A well cushioned tree enjoying spacious views across the estate -






- and back onto farmland, observing that the field ahead was incongruously orange for this part of the county; such rich ochres are normally to be found over on the Banbury side of Oxfordshire. The stonework of cottages also gradually metamorphasises from blonde to brunette, our country dwellings having been built from the very landscape in which they nestle. (Remember this field, it will reappear in a few seconds).





By now we were heading for the beautiful Sherbourne Estate, startling a distant herd of deer, who soon settled back to grazing when they realised we were safely on the far side of the field.




It was a fresh, spring-like day, and although wildlife was still hesitant in emerging, the birds were busying about, filling the air with happy carols. This manmade estate has been allowed to revert to its original state of flooding through managed drains and ditches. Wonderful for flora and fauna. But a little - muddy - in places. I took the opportunity, while stuck in a boggy patch, to shoot a little verbal tutorial on the history of the flood fields. This is really for my lovely blog- friend Lisa Oceandreamer, who was brave enough to put herself on the interweb, and who has requested a voice sample. (Apologies for my mongrel accent, picked up from everywhere).

And apologies for the sniffs - fresh air does that to me. Time to be heading heading home, via the other side, noticing - (are you paying attention at the back?) the orange field...

...the flood plain (right at the back, just visible on the righthand side) where we had our interesting little lecture...

...and the farm, modestly snuggled into the earth but given away by its sturdy green barn. (Nearly there, only a little further).

Time for one last draught of serentity...

We are somewhat sore with Winter unfitness. But the sap is rising and there will be out and aboutings in and around our lovely Cotswolds. I will spare you the lecture next time.