In which we go to Glastonbury
Talking of summer storms: we popped down to Glastonbury the other month, for a poke around the bookshops, and for a walk up to the top of Glastonbury Tor. As we did so, the heavens opened, and we, and all the other tourists making the climb, got soaked.
We watched the storm motoring its way off across the Somerset Levels, away to soak the distant hills.
In which we visit east Bristol, and Clevedon
A month or so ago, we took a trip to Clevedon, Somerset. I wrote about it at the time, although, I realise now, didn’t actually say which town we’d been to. Here, though, are some of the photographs.
And, as that’s not very many, here’s some of Bristol just after Christmas, too:
In which we describe Portishead
Another lazy weekend this weekend. Wanting to get out of the house, though, we took a trip to Portishead.
It’s a strange town. A strangely-shaped town. Like Clevedon, it’s a seaside town that doesn’t look towards the sea. The harbour is lined tightly with recently-built classically-themed terraces, designed to look like Totterdown or Clifton, but packed in much more densely. Further south is a muddy bay, a headland looking across to Newport; and the remains of an old fortress, little more than lines of concrete in the clifftop grass. There is also, signs said, some Iron Age defensive works; but they are well-hidden by trees and my rusty eye couldn’t make them out.
Clevedon had a pier and an interesting bookshop; Portishead didn’t seem to have any similar attractions. We tried (and failed) to find the lighthouse marked on our map,* before going home, blown back by the wind off the sea.
* taking the map with us might have been a start
In which we go to Bath
Back in December, for K’s birthday, we took a day out to Bath.
In which we have history in words, and archaeology in pictures
Over on the bookshelves – not the bookshelf I talked about the othe day – is an interesting little local book, by an artist called Cleo Broda. It’s called Symes Avenue: Building On The Past, and it’s about the rebuilding of the centre of Hartcliffe, and the ways in which public art was involved in the rebuilding; particularly, community art which celebrates the area’s history.*
Hartcliffe doesn’t have a particularly long history: it was built from scratch in the 1950s and – typically for a 1950s council estate – was shiny and sparkling for the first few years, but decayed. By the time the term “social exclusion” came along, Hartcliffe was a prime example; so the 2000s plan to knock down the old, mostly boarded up shopping street and replace it with a new supermarket and community centre was definitely a Good Thing. The book concentrates on efforts to preserve memories of the estate, record oral histories of its origins, and generally recapture the optimism felt when it was first founded.
Quotes from the oral histories collected during the project fill the cover of the book. Reading through them, I noticed one in particular:
The stone circles at Stanton Drew are three miles from here as the crow flies
I’d heard of Stanton Drew, at some point in my education. And I knew that Hartcliffe was right out at the edge of the countryside. So – look, I’m finally getting to the point – one day, we went out there. To take photos of the stones.
Partly, it’s the road network that does it. There are no good roads north from there; only the road east-west from Pensford to Chew Magna. If you want to try to head up into Hartcliffe or Bishopsworth, you have to try your luck on the narrow and twisty country lanes. There’s no sign that the sprawling council blocks are only just over the hill.
* if you want a copy, I believe they can be picked up for free from Hartcliffe Library for as long as the print run lasts.
In which we visit Weston-super-Mare
The summer holiday photos might well all be up online now; but there’s still a bit of a backlog.
In October it was surprisingly hot and sunny; so we had a day out at Weston-super-Mare. Most of the beach was cordoned off for some motorsport event; so we ended up taking pictures of warning signs and derelict buildings
In which we are not as wet as we might have been
Last weekend, feeling like we needed a holiday, we went away and pitched the tent. And it rained. The tent, fortunately, didn’t leak, but we ended up with great puddles round the door, a wading trip whenever we wanted to go in or out. Our last morning, we looked out to see ducks sitting and paddling in the water.
Still, it could have been worse. For no particular reason, we’d decided to visit Somerset. If we’d gone a week or even half a week, we’d still be there now, camping by a river. And we’d be rather deeper in the water.
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