Monday, 13 April 2009: Stone, Bosworth Field, and Home

On the last day of our holiday, we went to investigate the one “attraction” of Stone which (people assumed) must have taken us there: the Trent and Mersey Canal. “Everything you need to know about our beautiful canal town,” as the town web site says.

In truth, we hadn’t known there was a canal there when we booked at the Crown, but we’d crossed it repeatedly, along with the Trent, almost every time we entered or left the town. The river and the canal (the Trent and Mersey canal) run through Stone roughly parallel to one another, on a SSE to NNW course, the separation between them varying between about fifteen and fifty metres, and the A520 crosses them on its way west to meet the A34 north to Trentham, Stoke, and so forth.

The A520 crossing is just round the corner from the hotel, so, since our way out of town took us along it, we thought we’d call in and view the canal. Familiar sites: the water, the towpath, narrow-boats, a busy lock … and, as so often, a waterside pub close by.

And a most interesting-looking pub, too, the Star Inn. “There's a school of thought which holds that canals only exist to fill in the gaps between pubs like this one. Improbable, I'll grant you, but the theory is supported to some extent by the fact that The Star Inn predates the adjacent Trent and Mersey by about 100 years.” So begins the review by Alan Cookman. It’s an attractive-looking building, with its mana enhanced by the notice outside: “You are entering a historic building which is in the Guinness Book of Records as being the public house with the most different levels, so tread carefully and mind your head.”

The menu looked attractive, so we thought we’d stay for an early lunch (not having had much breakfast); but 11:00 came and went while we watched boats going up and down the canal and through the lock, and the pub remained resolutely closed, so we gave up. Cookman liked the food (“rather good value at £10.99 for a 16oz rump. A weather-beaten canalfarer would surely have approved”) and the pub (“the old place justified its entry in the Guinness Book Of Records. I counted at least three occasions when a heedless pate came into painful contact with a low beam. On two of those occasions, the heedless pate was mine.”), so we’ll hope to eat there some time when we’re back that way. Watching out for our pates, of course.

Shortly after 11 a.m., then, we farewelled the Star, the canal, and the “beautiful canal town” (arguably, “beautiful” belongs to the canal rather than the town), and headed roughly south. Eschewing motorways, we took A-routes down to Tamworth and along the A5 to Atherstone, an “historic hatting town located in West Warwickshire”. It’s a delightful small town with a very “villagey” centre, where Don stayed for a few nights while running training for a local business. The private hotel he stayed at, the Chapel House Hotel and Restaurant, is a four- or five-star place (depending on which authority you consult), full of friendly atmosphere, where Don enjoyed some of the best hotel cooking he’s ever had, so a stay in West Warwickshire seems likely at some point …

The A5 follows Watling Street, the most important of the ancient Roman roads, running from Dover in Kent to London (the A2), then (the A5) to Wrexham in North Wales, where it turns abruptly south and heads for Cardiff. A road, then, with historic connections—and somewhere along there, we encountered signs for another historic connection: “This way to Bosworth Field”. So we thought we’d go.

The route took us along Drayton Lane to pretty Fenny Drayton (“marshy sledge-farmstead”: much less romantic in translation), ENE across the A444, and up “Fenn Lanes”, a long lane (perhaps four miles?), straight as a Roman road (which it once was), until it suddenly turns more northerly and becomes Wharf Lane—presumably to avoid introducing any turnings into a long lane …

The “wharf” of Wharf Lane is on the Ashby (de la Zouche) Canal, at Sutton Cheney, “a tourist destination in its own right” (Wikipedia)—but we’ll come back to that. The route signs took us along Ambion Lane (heading west now), until we finally “found” the car parks for the Bosworth Battlefield Heritage Centre and Country Park.

A mediaeval warrior (about four feet tall, and flourishing a plastic sword for the protection of his mum) accompanied us from the car park to the Heritage Centre compound. Inside, we took a quick look at the maps, and made our way past the main HC building to Bosworth Field itself.

Bosworth Field lies on Ambion Hill, about 2½ miles south of Market Bosworth. For the historically il- or semi-literate (we’re in the latter category), it’s where the final battle of the Wars of the Roses was fought in 1485. Henry Tudor’s troops, fighting under the Red Rose of the House of Lancaster defeated the much larger army of Richard III under the banner of the White Rose of the House of York, apparently by stealing Richard’s horse; and a new English royal dynasty was born, Tudor becoming Henry VII, and cunningly combining the two floral emblems to create the Tudor Rose.

There’s not really a lot to see on Ambion Hill itself (the photo was taken looking back towards the Heritage Centre), but we had to see the well, near which spot, “on August 22nd 1485, at the age of 32, King Richard III fell fighting gallantly in defence of his realm & his crown against the usurper Henry Tudor. The cairn was erected by Dr. Samuel Parr in 1813 to mark the well from which the King is said to have drunk during the battle. It is maintained by the Fellowship of the White Boar,” now the Richard III society.

We returned to the Heritage Centre, and decided against touring around the extensive interior because of the time (another place we have to go back to). Instead, we passed under the archway of the Tithe Barn and crossed to the events arena, where people of a variety of heights and ages were walking more or less purposefully around, dressed in late-mediaeval garb: housewives, peasant labourers, armoured soldiers, stall-keepers, and children.

The events arena is laid out as a village (“Ambion Parva”), parts of which are still under con­struction. We went to view the surgeon’s room (left-hand ground floor of the half-timbered house), and saw the church and priest, but it was the “event” that caught our attention: a young dandy and his straight-man assistant describing and illustrating the use of a variety of weapons that Richard’s and Henry’s men would have been all too familiar with, including a number of rather nasty agricultural implements!

But time was passing, and we were feeling hungry; so for the very last event of our holiday, we went back to Sutton Cheney, parked, and walked round to the wharf and shop/café we’d spied when we crossed Bridge 34 over the canal, on our way to Bosworth Field. The weather was kind—hardly sundrenched, but reasonably warm and sunny; so we sat outside and enjoyed our dinner alongside the canal, contemplating the possibility some time of a trip along it (we’ll have to go back …).

From there, we headed home: back to the A5, and down to join the M1 at Junction 18, by the Daventry Rail Freight Terminal. The rest of our journey was uneventful, although, for us, no journey is without interest; and we arrived home about 2½ hours later, tired but happy and satisfied with our long-seeming Easter Holiday ….

The Crown and Anchor, Stone

Sunday, 12 April 2009: Easter Day; Trentham, Wedgewood and Flash

Trentham, north of Stone and south of Stoke, is a town of two halves. East of the A34 is the new town; west of it is the cluster of cottages that makes up the village, less than one tenth the new town’s size.

And at the south end of the village is the Trentham Gardens estate, with the church of St Mary and All Saints between the two. Founded in the 7th Century (though the earliest parts of the present building are some pillars of the Norman church), St Mary’s was originally part of the monastery on the site; its curacy was for a long time in the patronage of the Duke of Sutherland.

“Discovering” the church behind a large white marquee at the north end of the Estate on Saturday, Don had observed that it offered “’a fresh expression’ of church for individuals and families,” and that its main Easter service was at 9:30: not too early, but early enough to give us a decent chunk of the day afterwards. Parking in the village, he noted a handsome block of flats (“apartments”, probably) charmingly labelled “The Old Laundry House, 1834”.

The service was run by a silver-haired patrician-looking vicar rejoicing in the sonorous name, Nigel di Castiglione. He wore no robes, though, but a dark suit which, with his silver hair, and glasses, gave him the appearance of Don’s boyhood Welsh Baptist minister; and his personal style, and the style of the service generally, were more reminiscent of those un-ritualistic Baptist services, than of the Book of Common Prayer.

While Don was at worship, Margaret tried to get some breakfast coffee, but had to resort to instant in the room as the hotel hadn’t open up yet, and The Lounge in the square was still closed. Easter Day … not just our holiday!

About 11 o’clock, we drove north towards Trentham again, but turned off to Barlaston, home of the Wedgwood Museum. The museum is a delight: well laid-out, interesting, informative, and full of beautiful works of art and of craft. An hour and a half later, we’d still only got round about a third of the exhibits; but we were hungry.

Leaving the museum, we crossed the courtyard, passing the wall medallion and statue of Josiah Wedgwood himself, and found the Ivy House Restaurant. The Visitor Centre is in an adjoining space in the same building, so after (late) lunch, we went through it and so into the Wedgwood Shop.

Margaret already wanted some Wedgwood jewellery, and Don spotted some cuff-links in the display cabinet—though the designs were of ship’s anchors or a8th-century windjammers, rather than the classical-style scenes we both associate with Wedgwood pottery. Eventually they found a pair with a “Neptune” design, and Margaret meanwhile found a necklace and matching ear-rings which pleased her.

We got back to the museum about four-fifteen, with three quarters of an hour to see the remaining two thirds. It was a whirlwind dash!—and, as so often, we agreed that we must go back one day to see the stuff we missed. In the end, we were last to leave the museum, partly because we were intercepted at the exit by the very nice young manager who was keen for us not to miss out on our Virtual Portrait Medallions. He led us through to a nearby cubicle where we had our photos taken, silhouette-style, and converted to, well, “virtual medallions”—our choice of background colour and frame. We were able to download them later from the museum’s web site.

We chatted to the manager and staff for a few minutes, then left, taking with us a couple of entry forms for the (then) forthcoming Arts Prize. Our enthusiasm for the museum at that point was strong, but sad to say, we forgot to send in the forms; so we were delighted to hear on the news, a few weeks later, that the Wedgwood Museum had won the £100,000 prize, the UK’s largest, and was officially Britain’s Best Museum.

By 5:15, we were back in the car and heading for the Peak District, it being a pleasant, sunny afternoon. We took the A520 (the Leek Road), passing through Weston Cheney, Cheddleton, and Leek, having stopped briefly to admire the view at Wetley Rocks. Round about Leek, Margaret spotted that we were on the road to Flash, reputedly (according to our Dorling-Kindersley UK guide) the highest village in England, and possibly in the kingdom.

At Leek, therefore, we turned off onto the A53. Flash lay beyond a magnificent Pennine gritstone outcrop, The Roaches, west of the road. Near the crest of the road, we stopped by Stake Gutter Farm (part of a British Army training establishment), and photographed the scarp ridge from there. Sadly, that meant pointing the camera westward, with The Roaches in the shadow, their outline mirroring that of the wintery trees along the roadside. Eastward, the slanting sunlight revealed a dry, bleak, and lonely moorland landscape beyond the farm.

A little further north, along a lane that turned off sharply to the left, lay Flash, its old reputation for coining (hence “flash money”) long outlived. The village is tiny, most of the populace living in the farms scattered about the neighbouring Pennine slopes and valleys. A few cottages cluster together on the hillside, past the village church and school, and overlooking the pub, the New Inn—highest pub in the United Kingdom.

We parked across from the pub and went in. It was cosily lit and well-patronised. Margaret asked for a coffee, and Don asked about local beers. The request for coffee caused a bit of a stir; the landlady wasn’t sure she had any milk (though fortunately, as it turned out, she did). The beer turned out to be Downpour from the Storm Brewing Company, established in 1998 in Macclesfield (like Flash, a Peaks town, but in Derbyshire rather than Staffordshire). Downpour is “A light golden bitter with a smooth fruity hop aroma achieved with subtle blending of Challenger and American Cluster hops”. It certainly went down well.

Outside again, the lane led westward out of the village and romantically into the sunset. We drove out that way rather than the way we’d come, following a loop of country lanes through Quarnford and back, eventually, to the A53, which took us back south to Leek, the A520, Cheddleton, and, towards eight p.m., Stone and the hotel car park. We went for dinner close by, at the Crown of India restaurant (Indian, of course), and got back to the hotel about nine forty-five.

(Later, we learned that Flash’s claim to be the highest village in Great Britain, recognised for some time by the Guinness Book of Records, was confirmed in 2007 by the Ordnance Survey, which measured the altitude of the highest houses in Flash and its only rival, Wanlockhead in Scotland. At 1519 feet, Flash was the higher of the two.)

To see all our photos for this day, visit here.

Saturday, 11 April 2009: Trentham Gardens

It was Saturday; we were on holiday; we indulged ourselves with an even longer lie-in, knowing we’d miss hotel breakfast, but did we care? Not after yesterday!

We got up about 11:00, and went to the café (The Lounge) across the other side of the square that forms one side of the hotel. There we relaxed (some more) with a sunshiny open-air breakfast, before taking a stroll round Stone’s High St shops, and buying sugar-free sweets for Don (but no-one had diabetic Easter eggs).

About midday, we drove north through the village of Tittensor (! It means, “Ridge of a man called Titten”) to the village of Trentham (the proximity of the River Trent gives a clue to the name …)—or at least, to the Trentham Estate.

The Trentham we already knew is a village three quarters of the way from Wellington to Upper Hutt, where Don lived for the first six months of his life in New Zealand (in Manor Park, across the river from Trentham itself). It took him quite a long time to learn to say “Trenth-um” in New Zealand; now it took quite a lot of effort for both of us to learn to say, “Trent-um”.

The Trentham Estate is a commercial venture built in the grounds of Trentham Hall, a former home of the Dukes and (latterly) Earls of Sutherland (family seat: Dunrobin Castle, 50 miles north of Inverness. "Dun Robbin"; can you believe it?); in 1746, the then Duke was granted a subsidiary title (one of many!) as Viscount of Trentham. The hall was built in 1690 (before Trentham came into the possession of the Sutherlands); but the 4th Duke of Sutherland had it mostly demolished in 1911, ostensibly because of pollution in the River Trent, which runs through the northern part of the estate, close to what’s left of the Hall. In the mid-nineteenth century (according to White’s History, Gazetteer, and Directory of Staffordshire, 1851), “Trentham Hall [was] the principal residence of the Most Noble George Granville Leveson Gower, Duke of Sutherland, Marquis of Stafford, Earl Gower, Viscount Trentham, and Hereditary Sheriff of Sutherland. It is an elegant mansion, situated near the village in a park of 500 acres. It has been entirely rebuilt during the last 14 years, and now has an elegant stone front and a lofty square tower. The late hall was erected about 120 years ago, after the model of Buckingham House, in St James's Park, but it was considerably altered and improved by the first Marquis of Stafford, from designs by Holland, who gave a new and imposing feature to the whole. The present mansion is on a larger and more magnificent plan and the gardens rank amongst the finest in England.”

Of course, we found all that out later; what we knew, from the brochure we’d picked up at the hotel, was that there was a serpentine park by Capability Jones (18th Century), an Italianate Gardens (19th Century), and a Monkey Forest, with real monkeys (obviously, very 21st Century). Oh, and a big London Eye-type wheel, very apparent from the road to Stoke.

We got there about midday or so, parked the car, and strolled past various “Retail Village” shops to the entrance. Reviewing options, we bought tickets on the steamboat that plies down the lake to the entrance to the monkey forest, then passed through into the gardens and down to the lakeside—where a gaggle of “geese” made of water plants sat on the water.

A short walk down by the lake—passing some suspiciously artificial-looking “fairy rings” on the lawn—took us past the ride-on railway station to the wharf, where a boat was waiting ready to leave: the Miss Elizabeth. The leisurely water-borne trip southward passed a couple of tree-covered islands, where herons and cormorants sat in the branches, and terrapins sunned themselves on half-submerged fallen logs. There were various other boats on the lake, too—rowers, paddle-boats, and the like. We gave them, and people walking the shore, the odd wave as we passed them.

We disembarked at the south end of the lake, and had lunch at one of the tables outside. It was a fine day, somewhat cloudy, but very pleasant, sitting in the sun and looking around at the lake, the tree-clad shores, and the people enjoying their Easter weekend.

The entrance to the Monkey Forest was just behind the café, but the ground looked rather rough and hilly, so we decided not to walk through it this time. Instead, while we waited for the Miss Elizabeth to return, Margaret sat in the sun and read while Don wandered round the lake shore, admiring the spillway and the duckling family dabbling in the Trent at the foot of it.

Back aboard the Miss E., we returned to the north end of the lake, and made our way round to the formal terrace at the head. About the first thing we went to see was the statue prominent on the terrace. It turned out to be a copy of Cellini’s 1550 Perseus and Medea, commissioned by the 2nd Duke of Sutherland, “on the recon­struction of Trentham Hall” in 1840. It is probably the single most striking feature of the estate (given the sad state of what’s left of the Hall), and now forms the estate emblem—featured, in fact, on the fridge magnet we bought on our way out.

Above the terrace (north), in front of where the Hall stood, are the Trentham Gardens (pictorial map here), with the Italian Garden the jewel in the centre. This is an amazing reconstruction project to restore, and update, the garden designed by Charles Barry in 1840. Sadly, the gardens as a whole were not at their best in early April; but despite the still-wintry trees in the background, the photos give an impression, with a glimpse of what’s left of the Hall at the head, and one of the original loggias at the north-west corner. (We must return in Summer, to see the gardens in their full glory.)

Strolling up the west side of the gardens, towards the Loggia, we were amused by the inscription to a sculpture in the shape of a 50p coin with a man crouched inside it. It read: “The bankers’ clearing house was transferred to Trentham Gardens for the duration of the 1939/1945 war … [This commemorative statue] … presented on 24th February 1976 … symbolises the all-embracing concern of the clearing banks for the financial well-being of their customers.” We read the words in the light of the ongoing recession, blamed on greedy and incompetent bankers …

Reaching the top of the gardens, we mounted the wooden viewing platform that raised us to the height of the upper rooms of Trentham-Hall-as-was. The current owners of the Estate (St Modwen Properties, presumably named for St Modwen-na, who supposedly lived on an island in the Trent in the seventh century) have received planning permission to recreate the Hall “in its original form” as a five-star hotel; until then, the platform gives all visitors the opportunity to view the gardens as they were designed to be seen. In the distance, beyond the lake, we could see the 1836 statue of the First Duke, standing on its pillar atop Monument Hill, looking out on what is now the Monkey Forest.

While Margaret enjoyed the view, Don went for a bit of an independent walk round the grassed area, partly covered by a large white marquee, where the Hall once stood. Behind the marquee still stands the Porte-Cochère (“A covered area at the entrance to a building into which vehicles can be driven”), all that remains of the grand entrance-hall to Trentham Hall. And there was also Trentham Parish Church, “The Church in the Gardens”—but that’s tomorrow’s story.

A walk past the remains of the Hall took us through an avenue in which the trees had been trained to meet above us. Between the wintery branches, a pair of buzzards circled overhead. (We confirmed their identity later, at an RSPB stand by the lake.) We turned down through the pergolaed Trellis Walk, past the marble statue of Hygeia and the (again, wintery) rose garden, and so out through the Gardens entrance-way, and into the Retail Village.

It wasn’t as ghastly as we’d feared. Most of the shops were proper shops (shoes, clothes, household goods, etc.), rather than just “tourist tat”, and not the usual high street brands. Margaret bought an Ameribag "Healthy Back Bag", and we had “gourmet” pies for afternoon tea, then rode the Trentham Eye observation wheel (called the “Potters Wheel”). Unfortunately, the sun was behind cloud for most of the ride (and the plexiglass gondola distorted the view), so our photos were not so good as we’d hoped; but we did see, and photograph, deer in the Gardens.

We got back to the Crown about 17:30, and Margaret went up to our room to read while Don took the laptop down to the manager’s office to use the WiFi again. Margaret came back down about ten to seven, and Don went through to the bar to order dinner; but there was a big game (soccer) on the wide-screen TV, and he had to wait his turn behind a long queue of drinkers. When he finally got to the front, he was told that dinner had stopped at 8:30 because of Easter. Fair enough; but there were no notices to say so, and we would have ordered earlier, had we been able to work in the lounge (“WiFi throughout the hotel,” the web site said) ... The barmaid listened courteously to his complaint, and fetched the manager, who most obligingly organised a meal and drinks—at no charge to us!

You can see the full set of photos (many more!) here.

Good Friday, 10 April 2009: Our Wedding Anniversary

Tired lie-abeds, we got up late, and were down in the breakfast room just in time before they stopped serving at 10:00. We had toast and coffee; but the coffee was horrible (presumably well-stewed).

Our target for the day was the Moorcroft factory and whatever went with it (which turned out to be the Moorcroft Heritage Visitor Centre). We drove up to Stoke, passing the interesting-looking Trentham Gardens estate en route (more followed from that!); hunted around, and finally found Moorcroft in the Stoke suburb of Burslem.

We first looked round the Moorcroft museum—a single (large) room, but full of the most beautiful pottery. Moorcroft work is character­ised by the use of brilliant iridescent colours within upraised slip outlines, a method pioneered by William Moorcroft (1872-1945) while working for James McIntyre and Co. Don was particularly taken by the design on a large vase, entitled “After the Storm” (1997, height 22 inches or 56 cm), the last piece designed by William’s son Walter (died 2002) as a centenary celebration piece, and his only landscape design. Turned out to be only £3500—if you can find one to buy!

Leaving the museum room, we spent ages in the sales showroom, trying to decide on a piece to buy ourselves for our anniversary present. We looked at plates, bowls, vases, lamps, and plaques; but while Don favoured landscapes and pictorial scenes, Margaret preferred flowers and fruit. Such disagreement between us is rare.

Eventually, we had a bright idea. The Moorcroft pottery comes in “families” of items sharing the same design, such as the “Swaledale” vases, jug, lamp, and plaque; and several of the design sets include miniature plates, about 12 cm across, which are known under a variety of names such as “sweet dishes” or “pin dishes”; but which the Moorcroft factory call “coasters”. They’re not exactly cheap, but much less expensive than any of the larger items, such as a vase; so we could afford several for what a single vase would have cost us, and could pick a mix of designs. And they would handsomely augment our existing (sparse) plate collection, split between here and Wellington.

So we finally decided on 7 different designs, the one shown being “Entwined”. Naturally we had to have a book (well-illustrated) on Moorcroft history; and Don joined the Moorcroft Collectors’ Club, thereby getting an immediate worthwhile discount on our purchase!

The Moorcroft factory was definitely An Experience, and we’ll probably add to our coasters collection (including some exclusive edition pieces that can only be got in New Zealand). But we decided we’d had enough excitement for the present, with more to come that evening, so went back to the hotel.

We arrived about 2:30, and while Margaret settled in for a snooze, Don settled down to do some work on the laptop. Briefly. That was when we discovered that the “WiFi in every room” didn’t extend to our room. Don went down to find out what was going on, and it was then that we learned that the main part of hotel doesn’t have WiFi; only the newer (and larger, accommodation-wise) annex called “The Lodge”! Don made his complaint known (the WiFi was an important reason for our having booked), and the manager allowed him to use his office with Ethernet connection—and brought him a complementary wine to ease the pain!

Margaret came down and found Don around 5:30, and we went into the lounge to sit and read (and drink, and eat chippies and peanuts) until it was time to walk down the High St for dinner.

9 p.m. We had a delicious dinner (with champagne, naturally) at Pasta di Piazza, which has a delightful outside area at the back (though we dined inside as it was raining lightly & not very warm). It was after 23:15 that we made our way up to our bed.

You can see the full set of photos here.