Ramblings

On Wednesday we went back to Oswestry, because it was market day. It was a wet and gusty day, and the outdoor market had very sensibly decided not to happen, but inside the market hall there were many sparkly things to entertain us, like this little café-bar.



Upstairs in the gallery was a guitar shop, where boybear eyed up a guitar with rainbow strings, while the rest of us watched the proprietor unpacking a box of 78s, reading the name of each while we - and another (even older, I suspect) witness - identified as many of them as we could. GirlBear won this game by singing Zambezi. We returned to the Beech Tree for lunch (the falafel were even better than the Turkish eggs I had eaten last time), and paid our respects at St Oswald's Well: I do like a tiny place of historic interest tucked in to the side of a housing estate. Then we returned to visit K. again. We had all, I think, been hesitant about whether she would welcome four visitirs at a time, but she seemed to be feeling better than she had on Sunday, and I think it was all right.

On Thursday we returned to Trevor, to take the canal boat across the Pontcysyllte aqueduct, and the sun came out and the guide was excellent, so that was fun and not at all terrifying (even when she informed us that the joints in the ironwork were sealed with Welsh flannel soaked in sugar-water and pigs blood, and that the structure was therefore held together with treacle). We headed in to Llangollen in search of lunch, and would have liked to patronise the tearooms at Plas Newydd, but they were only serving cake, so we went into the town and found a pleasant little café next door to the delightful Courtyard Books.

We have now relocated to Portmeirion: a drive through beautiful scenery, though sometimes swathed in cloud. boybear has been here before, and surprises me by how clearly he remembers it: it has been a constant of this holiday that we remember different fragments of childhood holidays in Wales, but on this occasion he is on his own, it is my first visit to Portmeirion. Which seemed like a good way to celebrate my birthay.

We drove right across England, from the north east to the western borders, to find ourselves back in sheep-rearing, coal-mining country.

And more. Our plan for yesterday was a lazy Sunday morning, a visit to K, who is in the orthopaedic hospital near Oswestry in the afternoon. Having no better idea, we filled the gap between the two with a gentle stroll round Oswestry. "Oswestry, a historic Shropshire market town almost surrounded by Wales," promises the 'visit Oswestry' website. This doesn't mention either of the things that most intrigued me.

First, as we drove into town, we passed the church of Saint Oswald. I think of Oswald as a Northumbrian saint (and king), and that's not wrong, but it turns out that he was not, as I assumed, killed at the battle of Heavenfield (near the Wall). He won that battle, defeating King Penda there, and was killed in the rematch here (they have a miraculous well to prove it). The town is named Oswestry fo Oswald ("Oswald's tree", apparently).

It is also the birthplace of Wilfred Owen, though it's only now in the comfort of my own computer that I realise that he never lived there as an adult, which my explain why we encountered so few traces on the streets (though there is a walking tour which manges to find some connections.

And, as promised, it is a market town with an independent bookshop and some interesting old buildings. We lunched at the Beech Tree café, and would happily do o again. I'm hoping to return on Wednesday, which is market day, and explore more of Oswestry's street art.



On our way home, forewarned, I made durham_rambler pull in for a better look at a building that had caught my eye on the outward journey: red-brick, Arts & Crafts inflected, pointed tower... It turned out to be the Quinta Sunday Scool, and while I don't have a photo I'd want to post here (high walls, intrusive hedges, sun in the wrong place), there does seem to be a whole lot of history behind the estate, including a private (mineral) railway line and a stone circle (early Victorian). So well worth the stop.

Happy Easter! Though these are in fact the eggs I ate a week ago, at Isla.

Easter Sunday or not, this is the first Sunday in the month, which is the date of the Farmers' Market. Storm Dave blew through in the night, but the morning was bright, and we were prepared for the market to be busy. But what we weren't prepared for was a convoy of a thousand motor bikes bearing Easter eggs: we arrived at the New Inn just before they did, and were held up by the police while they went through (we tried taking a different route, and met them again further along their route). It took about 20 minutes, and we were not amused. There was much muttering about being intimidated by public displays of religion, and about the evil influence of the sugar industry. We got there eventually, though, and not everything had sold out...

Easter Sunday or not, April 5th is/was my father's birthday, and we marked the occasion as we do whenever we can by visiting Finchale Priory where he spent holidays as a boy.