I was talking to a friend yesterday about banquets and was reminded about The Great Cawood Feast; how would you fancy being at this shin-dig?

The Great Cawood Feast

There on the banks of the Ouse is the small village of Cawood. Not always was this the sleepy place it is today. Two events render Cawood renown in history: one for sheltering, in his adversity, that ambitious churchman Wolsey and two; the place where George Neville held his great banquet.

The first mention of the place is about 935 after Athelstan's victory over the invaders at the battle of Brunanburgh. From the twelfth to the sixteenth century the castle was the home or shelter of the noblest in church and camp. Henry III and his Queen rested here, here dwelt Marguerite of France, second wife of Edward I.

Edward II made Cawood his home on several occasions. In 1319, Queen Isabella, being guest to the Archbishop at Cawood attracted two Scottish knights, Douglas and Randolph with a chosen body of troops to attempt a kidnap of the Queen. This was thwarted by the capture of one of the Scots troops who told of the plan and the Queen was spirited away.

There is still some parts of the old castle standing today and a great residence it was in days of old. This was the seat of the Archbishop of York and many great times has it seen.

None greater than when Archbishop George Neville, brother to Warwick the Kingmaker, was installed as Archbishop in 1464 and set about making his presence known by inviting all the local nobles to a gigantic feast.

Take a look at what made up the menu.......

Wheat - 300 quarters
Pikes & Breams - 608
Porpoises & Seals - 12

Oxen - 104
Muttons - 1000
Porks - 304,
Wild Bulls - 6
Veals - 304
Kids - 204

Swans - 400
Capons - 1000
Biterns - 204
Pheasants - 200
Woodcocks - 400
Egrittes - 1000
Quales - 100 doz.
Fowls - 200 doz.
Cranes - 204
Pigeons - 4000
Geese - 2000
Coneys - 4000
Heronshaws - 400
Partridges - 500
Curlews - 100
Plovers - 400
Peacocks - 104
Mallards & Teals - 4000
Chickens - 2000
Pygges - 2000

Stags, Does & Bucks - 500
Venison Pasties - 1500 heated - 4000 cold

Dishes of Jellies - 300
Baked Tarts - 4000,
Baked Custards - 3000
Hot Custards - 2000

Ale - 300 tuns
Wine - 100 tuns
Ypocrass - 1 pipe

This feast required 1000 cooks, 500 kitcheners and 500 scullions to prepare it and 1000 servants to wait on the guests.

Some time later George was stripped of his estates and imprisoned - doubtless this great banquet would be food for thought in his dark times.

I'd completely forgotten I had this image, which is a shame really or I think I might have entered it in La Spice's purple blogart competition...

These are the Montague Almshouses; the older of the two sets of almshouses in Chepstow.

They were provided in the will of Sir Walter Montague who died in 1615.

These almshouses originally housed 5 men and 5 women. The property was rebuilt after the Second World War, preserving part of the original facade.

Continuing my series of photographs from Chepstow and remembering my Almshouses post from a couple of weeks ago, I thought I’d blog the Chepstow almshouses this morning.

To the best of my knowledge the two sets of almshouses I’ll blog here today are the only almshouses in Chepstow. I want to start with this magnificent building; the Powis Almshouses.

The town council web has this building erected n 1721, but the plaque built into the outer wall disagrees.

A little hard to read, the plaque says:

This alms house was erected and endowed anno dom 1716 by the sole charity of Thomas Powis late of Enfield in the county of Middlesex vintner a native of this town for the reception and maintenance of six poor men and six poor women inhabitants of this town and parish for ever.

Whatever the truth of the construction, the Powis Almshouses are truly magnificent and the more recent of the Chepstow almshouses.

One of my favourite shops in Chepstow is this one; Glance Back Books.

I really love this place. It has a real higgledy-piggledy feel to it as you walk through the door, but don’t be fooled. As you explore it becomes apparent there really is order among the chaos.

There are old books, postcards, maps, coins, banknotes, stamps and even car badges to attract the eye and empty the wallet. An emporium of the past... just the thing for an old dinosaur like me.

The bandstand is empty: anyone fancy joining me to make a little beautiful music this grey Friday evening?

William Forster’s 1870 Education Act opened up the possibility for locally elected School Boards to operate schools in the UK.

These new board schools could charge fees but they were also eligible for government grants and could also be paid for out of local government rates.

Board schools provided an education for the five to ten age group, and in some areas pioneered new educational ideas.

If you look around you may find a board school in your local area, although like this one in Chepstow you may find the building is no longer used for education.

I seem to have spent a lot of time driving up and down the country just recently... it’s that time of year for any parent with a child studying at a non-local university.

So anyway, here’s the thing... a couple of weeks ago a certain police force had targeted speeding drivers on a stretch of the M5. Talk about overkill, this was simply crazy... there were speed checks every few miles... I counted seven units on the southbound carriageway and noted there were units on the northbound side also.

Well overkill or not, Mr Plod was obviously doing good trade that day; there were drivers being pulled for speeding at most of the units. I have little sympathy for anyone who got tagged that day, especially given the high profile of the speed traps.

On Wednesday afternoon as I was driving south on the M1 I hit a band of torrential rain and I do mean torrential. Visibility was reduced by the downpour and made worse by the kicked up spray. The amount of water on the road surface was amazing and even with traction control etc. there’s that horrible moment you get as you realise you’re driving too damn fast and the car feels ‘light’ on the road.

Like all the other sensible drivers, I slowed down and was using my headlights. Concentrations levels, always high on the motorway anyway, were peaking... three lanes of traffic all travelling at a fairly constant speed and everyone giving his neighbour plenty of room...

That’s when Asshole appears! Some cretin in a BMW 5 series (why is it always Beemers these fools drive?) driving like a maniac and weaving in and out of the traffic lanes... no idea whether the driver was male or female, since you really couldn’t see... was there a copper anywhere to be seen? No, of course not!

They always used to say, “There’s never a bobby around when you need one” and that was certainly true on Wednesday. The driver of that BMW was risking not only her/his own life, but also the lives of everyone s/he weaved around. So okay they were in a hurry, but then so was I... only I wasn’t in a hurry to die and I doubt many of the other drivers using the motorway were either.

Different motorways, different police authorities, different driving conditions... it still begs the question though, why one piece of motorway is targeted for speeding motorists on a beautifully sunny Saturday afternoon and another appears to be devoid of law enforcement on a torrentially wet Wednesday, when there’s far more chance of an incident...

Every time these unthinking drivers get away with their crazy antics encourages them to do it again and again until some poor sod gets creamed; come on guys, let’s have some sense and consideration on Britain’s roads!

Okay... rant over.

What do you know about the topic of suffrage in the UK?

I’m not talking about votes for women here, although that comes into it of course. No, what I’m talking about is the right of every man to vote freely, without pressure and in secret. I’m talking about the original people’s charter...

The "People's Charter," drafted in 1838 by William Lovett, was at the heart of a radical campaign for parliamentary reform of the inequities remaining after the Reform Act of 1832. The Chartists' six main demands were:

1. votes for all men;
2. equal electoral districts;
3. abolition of the requirement that Members of Parliament be property owners;
4. payment for M.P.s;
5. annual general elections; and
6. the secret ballot.

The Chartists obtained one and a quarter million signatures and presented the Charter to the House of Commons in 1839, where it was rejected by a vote of 235 to 46. Many of the leaders of the movement, having threatened to call a general strike, were arrested. When demonstrators marched on the prison at Newport, Monmouthshire, demanding the release of their leaders, troops opened fire, killing 24 and wounding 40 more. A second petition with 3 million signatures was rejected in 1842; the rejection of the third petition in 1848 brought an end to the movement.

The leaders of the Chartist march on Newport were John Frost, William Jones and Zephaniah Williams; they’re regarded as heroes now of course, but at the time they were thought of rather differently...

Any ideas

Being an old town with a long history, walkers touring Chepstow can still find remnants of a bygone age.

Cobbled streets, so often a feature of modern pedestrian precincts, were rather less even years ago, but nonetheless effective.

This is Hocker Hill Street, at the lower end of which is the Five Alls public house. The Five Alls is a traditional pub sign; the Soldier who fights for all, the Priest who prays for all, the King who rules for all, the Lawyer who pleads for all and the Labourer who works for all.

The Five Alls was always a favourite of mine... stepping through the door was like taking a step back in time.

Avenues and alleyways
Small streets in any town
Winding between the buildings
Taking walkers up and down...

Shaded tree-lined passages
Guided between rails
Cool on heated summer days
Their welcome never fails...

So I'm off for an early night and intend sending a few towards the ceiling...

G'night all

Any working waterfront has a selection of pubs, warehouses, storage, etc. and of course Chepstow was no different. Some of the buildings may have changed use these days, but they're still there.

At least some of the public houses are still working pubs.

These days the term waterfront tends to conjure images of marinas, luxury flats, executive cars... years ago a waterfront tended to be somewhat seedier.

Chepstow has a riverfront today where part of the town’s old harbour-side meets the River Wye, but in past times Chepstow had a real working waterfront with shipping in and out on a daily basis.

The area to the left of the river wall here was once a dry-dock where ships were repaired. The dry-dock has been in-filled and a garden and roadway run where it once was. Chepstow also had its own shipyard, but that was further down river where Fairfield-Mabey Ltd are now. Fairfield-Mabey constructed sections of the first Severn Crossing, which now carries the M48.

What remains of a slipway to the river can still be seen at the far end of the old dry-dock. Here it is below this rather battered white boat. The slipway, when cleared, can still be used for launching small craft.

I’ll be posting more images of Chepstow’s old waterfront shortly.

Six o'clock already... Where has the day gone? I still haven't managed my first post of the day... ho hum...

I'll be back in a bit

One of the images I submitted to La_Spice's Colour Purple competition was this one of the watchtower at Portcawl harbour...

But did you really believe the watchtower was purple? No, of course you didn't... I cheated!

The watchtower really looks like this...

The camera never lies... except when someone like me decides to 'manipulate' the things the camera sees.

Feel free to click the images for larger views if you're so inclined.

If you don't know how this was done and would like to know, I'll happily blog the method.

It's one of those soft wet days in Welsh Wales today; you know the sort, the ones where it doesn't look as if it's raining much, but will drench you to the skin if you venture out in it. Still at least it isn't cold.

One of the rusulting factors of rainy days like today are the numerous small, sparkling streams that grace the Welsh landscape.

I was directed towards Thomas Hardy's The Darkling Thrush when I posted Gray's Elegy yesterday; I'm so pleased I was too.

For anyone else who, like me, is ignorant of Hardy's work I thought I'd post The Darkling Thrush here.

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled vine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to me
The Century's corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-throated evensong
Of joy illimited.
An ancient thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.

Thomas Hardy

Yesterday I blogged a bit about the old road bridge at Chepstow; the River Wye marks the traditional border between Gloucestershire and Monmouthshire as marked by the detail from the centre of the bridge.

The county border also marks the border between England & Wales.

The poem that inspired my photographs of the church-yard in Chepstow and reproduced here for Lonemum and anyone else interested enough to read it.

"Elegy Written In A Country Church-yard"

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

The Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.

By Thomas Gray (1716-71)

I've blogged about Chepstow bridge previously, but thought I'd give it another go with a little more detail on this occasion.

The Normans built a bridge over the River Wye at Chepstow in the 13th century and wooden bridges spanned the river up until the beginning of the last century when the present iron bridge was built.

Chepstow magistrates, who inspected the wooden bridge in 1810, decided that it was "in decay" and asked for estimates to patch it up. John Rennie, the engineer who built Waterloo Bridge in London, submitted a report relating to the repair of the bridge, but recommended replacement rather than repair and put the cost of a new bridge at £41,890. This that was considered too expensive. No further action took place until an accident caused damage to the bridge and the loss of six lives.

The contract for the bridge was let on 14th June, 1814, at an estimated cost of £17,150: the figure eventually rose to almost £20,000, but was still half the cost of John Rennie's 1810 estimate. The bridge was made of cast iron, the total length being 372 feet (113m) with the span of the centre arch being 112 feet (34m).

The new iron bridge was built by John Rastrick of the Bridgenorth (Shropshire) firm of Hazeldine, Rastrick & Brodie. The design has been credited to Rennie, but Rastrick is understood to have produced a much more elegant version of the plans that Rennie submitted for the repair of the old bridge.

The bridge was opened on Wednesday, 24th July, 1816, with an elaborate form of ceremony: "Company to assemble in the Square at One o'clock. The Procession. A pair of Colours. Engineer and Surveyor. Workmen in Divisions according to their order, walking two and two. A Pair of Colours. Band of Music. Solicitor. Magistrates walking abreast Seniors in the Centre. Gentlemen, Farmers, Tradesmen, and others who may chuse to join the Precession walking two and two".

And here it is...

Chepstow Road Bridge

...unfortunately I wasn't available to photograph the procession in 1816.

No matter what has been built around it, in brick, stone, steel or timber, the overbearing presence in Chepstow is the castle built by William fitzOzbern in 1067.

The castle wasn't built all in one go of course, construction taking place over several centuries until the final modifications in the Tudor period.

There's no doubt in my mind though, Chepstow castle represents complete and total domination of the surrounding area.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

...whether coach-houses have garages?

Well this one certainly does!

If you arrive at Chepstow along the A48 from Gloucester, the first real view you get of the town and its castle will be from the latest river bridge.

If your visit happens to coincide with the right weather conditions, you might just find yourself treated to some wonderful cloud formations hanging over the hills behind the castle.

Clicking the image will offer a larger view.

Literally around the corner from St Mary’s in Lower Church Street, Chepstow, you’ll find another interesting place of worship; the Baptist Chapel.

Built in 1869 and decorated with similar sandstone to St Mary’s, the Baptist Chapel is built to a familiar design.

Without either the history or the presence of its close neighbour, Chepstow Baptist Chapel thrives within the community.

The Norman Priory of Chepstow was founded between 1067 and 1071 by William fitzOsbern (cousin to William the Conqueror), Earl of Hereford, and was built at the same time as the Norman Keep of Chepstow Castle.

Benedictine monks were brought from the monastery at Cormeilles in Normandy, now Chepstow’ twin town. After the suppression of the priory in 1536 the Church suffered much destruction but the grandeur of the early Norman great Church can still be seen today in the vast three storey original nave.

The early Church was built in local yellow Triassic sandstone and its crowning glory is the great west entrance doorway, built in five richly decorated arches with zig zag and lozenge patterns.

The rest of the Church is a strange mixture of later restoration attempts following the collapse of the central tower in 1701.

Click the images for larger views.

We tend to think about our distant relatives as being not particularly long-lived, but as with all things there are exceptions to every rule.

I can’t say with exact certainty what the average age was in the 1700s but I suspect 77 would have been considered pretty old. Jone’s husband Richard must have been pretty exceptional at 105 though!

This plaque is embedded in the wall of the Parish and Priory Church of St Mary in Chepstow. More about the church later.

England and Wales, has a long and varied history. The town was of major importance in Norman times; William the Conqueror’s cousin William FitzOsbern began fortifying Chepstow in 1067, just one year after the Norman invasion.

I want to begin in rather more modern times though with an image of Chepstow Drill Hall

The 4th Division of the Monmouthshire Regiment left for France and the second battle of Ypres from here in 1915; I wonder how many came back?

My last trip out with my camera took me to Chepstow; no specific reason, just to walk around some of the town and snap a few images...

So it won't take a genius to guess where the next bunch of images to appear on this blog came from will it?

It's been a bus day for me today with little time for myself or the things I enjoy doing, so just the one blog entry this morning until now.

I'm too tired to catch up with everyone else's blog this evening, so I'm offering my apologies for not visiting now and will jump around my various friends' blogs tomorrow morning... well some of them anyway depending on how much time I have available.

Hope you've all had good and meaningful days and that everyone out there in Blogland is feeling, breezy and full of good cheer.

I'll leave you tonight with a sure sign that Autumn is well and truly with us...

G'night all

You may or may not have heard of the CBBC programme, about the fictional village Balamory. Balamory of course is based on the wonderfully colourful Tobermory on the Isle of Mull.

In a BCUK exclusive I am able to reveal Balamory, or Tobermory, has migrated south and is now alive and well on the south Pembrokeshire coast...

Okay, okay, I know I said I wasn't going to post any more images of Tenby, but I have a busy day ahead and may not be around much in Blogland today so I thought I'd just leave you with this bit of nonsense.

So, me bloggity maties, I'm going to bugger off now.

Have a grand day y'all!

I think it must be time I put a stop to Tenby, for the time being at least. Afer all a couple of days worth of random Tenby images must be more than the average sane person can stand.

I'd find it impossible to vacate the Pembrokeshire seaside resort without posting at least a couple more images of the harbour though, so here they are.

I don't know about you, but I have a bit of a soft spot for little harbours; perhaps it's the old seadog in me barking to get out...

Well I think that's about me for the night... G'night all!

The far reaches of Tenby Harbour; the Sailor's Chapel to the right is still in use.

The old and new lifeboat stations, side by side at Tenby.

There are two beautiful beaches at Tenby; to the left of the headland is Tenby Harbour and Harbour Beach.

Looking back into Teby from the castle mound on the headland.

I thought I'd post a few more images of Tenby today; not with a historical bent this time though, just images of a seaside town and picturesque harbour... hope I'm not boring you with these...

There's always a use for a scrap cannon...

I just can't help myself... having started my historic tour of Tenby, in true Magnus style, I'll finish!

Tenby is an old town and we've already seen some of the Norman construction. When you're walking around the town though it's worth noting the Elizabethan structures like the narrow alleys...

The tiny streets...

The Elizabethan Merchant's house...

Tenby is a delightful little harbour town and seaside resort; it's hilltop position led to its early settlement as a Welsh stronghold, which was replaced in medieval times by a Norman Castle and walled town. As regular readers of this blog will have seen, part of the town walls survive to this day and are an attractive feature at the entrance to the old town.

There are various historic sights within the town wall, which are best explored on foot.

On the headland between Tenby's two beaches and overlooking the Napoleonic fortress are the remains of Tenby castle; a wonderful place to enjoy the sunshine on a summer afternoon.

Access to the Napoleonic fortress is restricted these days, which is a shame because visitors miss out on the views back to the town. Some of the cannon from the fortress are currently sited on the headland within the castle grounds.

...and through the arched window...

...in Tenby's town wall.

Tenby's old lifeboat station may no longer be in use, but that doesn't mean there's no longer a lifeboat to protect those in peril on the sea.

In fact the new lifeboat station at Tenby is only a hundred metres or so from the old one and although far more efficient is, in my opinion, less attractive; especially on a grey day...

Tenby's famous 13th-century town walls include the Five Arches barbican gate.

I'm not a Welsh speaker, but I'm told Tenby (in Welsh: Dinbych-y-Pysgod) translates as "little town of the fishes" or "little fortress of the fish."

Just thought I'd blog about these little guys since I used them for last week's teaser...

Honeycomb Worm (Sabellaria alveolata)

The honeycomb worm makes sandy tubes which when in large numbers produce a distinctive honey comb colonies. These honey comb colonies structures made of sand particles can be seen among rocks forming a “reef” of over a foot in depth. Each opening is a tube that contains one of these worms. The worms when covered by the tide will poke out their tentacled head.

Spiritbird posted an image of Tenby lifeboat station recently and it brought to mind my last visit on a cloudy summer's day.

For the uninitiated, Tenby is on a beautiful part of the South Wales coast and is an ancient walled town with a wonderfully historic past.

The beautiful beaches are real bonus for the tourist trade... I'm starting to sound like the Wales Tourist Board now, so it's obviously time I shut up!

This old lifeboat station is no longer in use, but it makes a good picture, don't you think? Even on a cloudy, grey, overcast day.

Don't you?

I know I've been boring you all to death with my images of rusty odds and sods recently, but I haven't finished yet!

Here are a couple of images of the same object; please take a look at them and tell me which one you prefer...

You might want to click these for larger versions...

My interest in rusty things may well be back to torment you again soon.

...a couple of images that didn't make it into Spicy's Colour Purple competition that is.

But still good enough to post here I thought.

These are my entries for La_Spice's Colour Purple competition.

Purple Orchid

Purple Haze on the Watchtower

“Give me a ring” she said, so of course I obeyed
And rushed to the jeweller, I never delayed.
Did the ring make her happy? Was her face overjoyed?
Not a chance! Her face was dismayed...

Maybe...

Or maybe not...

Question: What do you get if you allow a banana to become obese?

Answer: A Banana Split!

As Lifes_Lessons pointed out, I do seem to have a bit of a fixation with rusting objects; it’s not the rust that attracts me necessarily, although I do like the colours, but the age of the objects.

Many of you will know I’m into old things; artefacts, buildings, objects... well allsorts really.

Following on from my last post, I thought I’d continue the theme of anchors. In true Blue Peter style, here are two I photographed earlier.

Clicky for bigger piccy!

On photography, the British coast and blogging that is!

Well I'm hooked on other things too I suppose, but those three will do for now.

Not the sort of a thing you see hanging on the edge of every wall...

But very much the sort of thing you'll find hanging on the edge of an old harbour...

Here's a shot of the harbour wall, breakwater and mole at Porthcawl; note the ant-like fishermen to the right of the rusting cast iron lighthouse on the mole.

You may need to click the image to see the anglers...

Off for a spot of sea fishing; a small craft moves through the harbour entrance at Portcawl passing anglers on the harbour wall.

The harbour at Portcawl is roughly square in section, so not exactly uncommon. The entrance is protected by a mole, which also provides a safe anchorage for larger craft.

The mole once carried a tramway built by the Earl of Dunraven for the export of iron and coal. These days it is a stopping off point for the steamer Balmoral on its Bristol Channel cruises.

A small, but secure refuge for local craft...

For some reason I’m just not in a bloggy mood today. I’m not ill or anything, a bit tired perhaps, but not ill... I’m just not feeling very bloggy.

Anyway before I disappear in a small puff of smoke up my own exhaust pipe, I thought I’d leave you something to ponder.

I was thinking about Spicy’s purple contest the other day and looking around for something... well... purple I suppose. Did I see anything interestingly purple? No, did I buggery!

What I did see was a rather nice bit of rock... or several nice pieces of rock to be precise... but this bit here really took my eye.

Wonderful the way the iron is stained isn’t it? All those glorious rusty reds... but with a little tweaking those rusty reds can be persuaded to become lusty purples... like these...

So the question is, does Spicy's purple have to be real purple, or can it be artificial purple?

Yesterday I showed you an image and asked which way up it should be displayed...

1 - rotated left

2 - rotated right

3 - flipped vertically

4 - the image really was the right way up!

The shot realy was taken the way it first appeared, but rotating the image works well so it could be displayed from any aspect.

Here's my reasoning:
Look closely at the iron bar. It reminded me of the rusted remains of a sword. When I composed the shot I exposed the image to have the 'sword' standing vertically in the image, tip downwards. You can click any of the above for a larger view.

...and set me free

Just thought I'd mention...

Usksider's weekend teaser, A Little Something for the Weekend is still awaiting an inspired guess...

Here's an image of a piece of iron rail on a pebble beach. The question is, which way up should this image be displayed?

Answer:
1 - rotate left
2 - rotate right
3 - flip vertical
4 - the image is already the right way up!

A basket or lobster-pot?
As it's ruined it matters not.

This ruin is hardly out of reach,
Discarded on a South Wales beach...

I can't help but wonder who Tom H may have been...

Weathered harbour-side post top that is.

Are you a seer?

Can you accurately predict the future?

No, neither can I. Just occasionally I can see into the past though.

Seems the people displaying this sign (photographed yesterday) couldn't manage either...

Why do some anglers insist on leaving their crap laying around for everyone else to enjoy?

Wake up guys (and girls); respect the environment and take your rubbish home with you!

.... save lives, but remember to switch off any you're not using.

Porthcawl Lifeboat Station & Watch Tower

The Grand Pavilion, with its distinctive 1930’s facade and its unique features, is situated on Porthcawl’s seafront.

The esplanade at Porthcawl including the unique concrete and tarmac beach...

A tarmac beach... Whatever will they think of next?

Have you ever seen anything so bizarre?

Always did like a challenge me...

...just in case anyone was wondering, I certainly wouldn't recommend swimming from the esplanade at Porthcawl.

Sometimes being an individual means you have to stand out from the crowd; this can make others uncomfortable to say the least.

But what is an individual? Surely we’re all individuals aren’t we?

To at least some degree the answer is yes, each and every one of us is individual, but some individuals are more individual than others preferring to be as individual as possible. On the other hand some of us prefer the safety of numbers; they just want to be members of the ‘pack’...

Which category of person do you fall into? Are you an outright individual, or do you prefer to be just one of the crowd?

I’d like to offer my heartiest congratulations to a very spirited Canada side for their performance against Wales this afternoon; well done lads, you played some excellent rugby and deserved better.

More than that, I’d like to send some extra special congratulations to a very special man; 37 year old Rod Snow, a favourite for many years in the Black & Amber of Newport at Rodney Parade and a true gentleman.

Rod a young Canadian international was ‘conscripted’ to Newport by Gareth Rees, a fellow Canada star; Gareth was Newport’s Outside Half at the time.

Having played prop myself I know exactly how hard life can be in the front row. Watching Rod put his body on the line week in week out for some fifteen years filled me with admiration.

Having played his rugby in Wales for so long, Rod qualified for a change of nationality; at the time Wales was in need of good front row players and Rod would have strolled into the Welsh team. The move would have resulted in greater prestige and higher wages, but Rod declined; he is a Canadian first and last.

When Rod ‘retired’ from professional rugby two seasons ago, packed his bags and headed back to Canada, I never expected to see him again. Imagine my surprise then, when his name appeared on today’s Canadian team sheet and he ran out onto the pitch for his beloved Canada to face Wales in France this afternoon....I was simply gob-smacked!

Well done Rod; long may you continue old mate!

Oh yes, all these images are clickable for a larger version.

There’s a patch of beach at Port Eynon that I always find fascinating...

Many tales abound of elephant graveyards and places where whales go to die. I’ve read a theory that some dinosaurs took themselves off to a special spot where they could turn up their toes in peace.

But have you ever heard of a Mussel Graveyard? I never have, but this particular bit of beach just beyond the old salt-houses at Port Eynon appears to be one...

Thousands and thousands of empty mussel shells... it can’t all be down to seagulls can it?

I wanted to post something I considered a bit of reasonably harmless smutty humour. The image attached to the post contained female nudity and although that doesn’t offend me I appreciate it might upset others...

Not to worry, thought I, I’ll mark the post Adults Only and make a bit of a joke about only scrolling down if the reader was sure they wanted to see something smutty...

Job done then... sorted!

But no, oh bloody no... BCUK displays recently posted images on the main page and on blog-friends pages too, so it seems this bit of nudity was broadcast to all and sundry! This really wasn’t my intention at all...

I can’t say I’m altogether happy about this aspect of the new-look Blogland and apologise unreservedly to anyone I may have unwittingly offended.

If only walls could talk...

...just think of the stories this cottage could tell.

But purple nevertheless; I couldn't resist posting this purple child's toy washed up at the high water mark of a local beach.

The question is though; would the broken toy have been flotsam or jetsam?

What do you suppose this small stone circle was used for?

I'm only after a bite of yer nuts yer know!

An' a guy wivvout 'is nuts is lost... anyone want to 'elp me find 'em?

The almshouses at Newland raised some interesting comments; certainly from my point of view they are not the sort of buildings I’d normally visualise when I think of almshouses.

The modernisation of the Newland almshouses undoubtedly removed their originality, but has left them with an individuality all their own.

These are more like the sort of buildings I see in my mind’s eye when I think of almshouses. The two examples shown here can be found in Newport and Ross on Wye.

What do you 'see' when you think of almshouses?

Click the images for a larger view in a pop-up window.

I mentioned these in a previous blog and thought I'd share them with you.

I wish I had an image of these before their 1954 'modernisation', but in my defence I was only two at the time!

The vicarage at the Cathedral of the Forest at Newland.

Clearwell; the iron workings and the caves are more than interesting, and the village is wonderful... Ever wondered about the history of the name?

Clearwell gets its name from the purity of its water of course and here's one of the old wells that gave Clearwell its name with its Vitorian frontage.

This is considered by some as a "jewel" among an historic village and was designed by John Middleton as requested by the Dowager Countess Dunraven of Clearwell Castle and was opened in 1866.

It is a fine example of mid 19th century "French Gothic" style as there is a mass of carving, coloured stone, brass and stained glass and a magnificent stencilled roof.

The interior consists of courses of blue and red sandstone whereas the outer walls are faced with local sandstone and dressings of white bathstone.

There is also a great deal of fine sculpture.

The Moravian Chapel @ Brockweir

There are things I seem to photograph time and time and time again; regular visitors to this blog already know that of course!

One of my fixations is trees...

Like this mighty oak with its wonderful canopy.

Just returning to my out of time post from this morning momentarily...

For the uninitiated, like me, his is Himalayan Balsam... apparently....

No time for a proper post this morning, but I did think I'd just share a liitle bit of beauty with you before I disappear...

I've no idea what the plant is, being a botanical ignoramus, but it grows beside rivers and has long hollow stalks. The flowers range from white, through pink to a sort of purple...

Freshly sucked Polo mint?

Well it was growing next to a mountain stream...

... more steps

I think I'm becomming obsessive!

... here's more evidence:

I posted a couple of images of All Saint's church, Newland, earlier today. The church is known as the Cathedral of the Forest due to its size; its a large and imposing building.

The 15th century builders obviously knew a thing or two about small persons; perhaps there were Hobbits living in Newland at the time the church was built? At the base of the tower of is this door:

Now at first glance it may not look too odd to you, but look closely...

See anything odd now? No? Look again...

The doorway is only about a foot wide and less than four feet high. The steps are well worn, indicating years of use... but who uses such a small door? I couldn't get through it, that's for sure; could you?

How tall is a Hobbit anyway?

Newland is no more than a small village; a few houses, a pub, a church...

But what a church!

Known locally as the Cathedral of the Forest, All Saint's church at Newland is a magnificent structure that dates back to the 13th century.

How often do we talk about seeing light at the end of a tunnel? This 'tunnel' was formed by yew trees leading to the lych-gate at Newnham church.

Just walking through the gate takes to voyager to a bright and pleasant land...

Well Spicy did say I should always look on the bright side of life...

I took this image looking west over the Severn Estuary from the churchyard at Newnham, Gloucestershire, yesterday. It's a rather brighter prospect than my 'darker side' post, although I've deliberately kept the surrounding fields dark.

No, I’m not talking about black magic, Satanic masses, or any of the other nefarious activities you people might associate with dark deeds...

While I was taking pictures along the banks of the River Wye the other day I got to wondering how the skies, trees, water and reflections would look in stark monochrome. Of course once the thought had entered my head I simply had to do something about it!

So here’s a monochrome silhouette of the river and the skies:

And here’s a slightly more ‘arty’ colour shot of the Cathedral of the Forest at Newland:

I hope you find these interesting.

...some clouds

...and some reflections

At the heart of village life

Just a few illustrations of the state of health this poor bridge now suffers...

All images are clickable for a larger view.

As it was a nice day today I decided to continue my recent exploration of the River Wye; my dropping off point this morning was Redbrook.

Back in the seventeenth century copper was worked at Redbrook, but industrially the tiny village of Redbrook is best known as one of the world’s major tinplate manufacturing centres from the late seventeen hundreds right through to the 1960s.

My reason for visiting Redbrook today was not to hunt out either copper or tinplate works, although I was drawn by an industrial past.

This bridge once carried a railway line; the locals also used it as a footbridge. The line closed in the 1960s, but the bridge continued to be utilised as a footbridge until it became unsafe. A modern footbridge was constructed beside it.

Rather like the bridge at Brockweir, I find this utilitarian style interesting. I’m a little sad it wasn’t maintained so it could still be used.

Just a few miles up-stream from Brockweir, the Wye is no longer tidal here and in this morning’s sunshine the mirror-like surface of the water reflects the bank-side trees and bridge perfectly.

When it’s sunny outside most of us prefer to be in the shade, or so John Stalker would have us believe in his nasty-stripy-awning advert.

I don’t know about you folks, but I rather like the sunshine and would much prefer to be out in it than sitting under some artificial sun-shade. That said I’m very aware of the dangers of skin-cancer and always lather myself in factor 95!

Why are television adverts so condescending? Wouldn’t it make more sense if advertisers treated us like sensible, responsible beings? It really hacks me off the way those morons insult my intelligence! Oh I know, calm down dear, it’s only an advert...

So anyway, back to the point. I may not listen to former police chief Stalker, but these horses would obviously have appreciated the use of an awning; shame they didn’t have a Drummer to operate the switch for them, huh?

You just can't trust anyone these days can you?

I moored me boat all neat and tidy on last night's tide and when I got up this morning someone had nicked the floaty bit!

My mate MenoMama asked in my Brockweir post if I'd take a piccy from the other end of the bridge, looking out of Brockweir and as I already have the image I promised to post it...

This is the view you'd see when leaving Brockweir and crossing the River Wye.

People have accessed the River Wye around Brockweir for centuries; a casual walk along the river bank reveals many a personal weir or jetty.

While some may be utilised by local fisher-folk I doubt many are still used for their original purpose.

This stone boat-house appears to be a storage facility these days; the ramp leading down to the river is now overgrown.

I can’t help but wonder what type of craft entered and exited through these doors...

Looking into the village...

...this view greets you as you cross the bridge.

Looking up-stream from Brockweir bridge; note Brockweir Quay on the right bank of the Wye.

The once busy quayside is falling into dereliction.

A few days back I posted a couple of photographs of the bridge at Brockweir on a misty morning; during the day I'll be posting new images of Brockweir and I want to start with a couple of alternative photos of the bridge.

No mist on this occasion, although a tad overcast.

The River Wye is tidal to just beyond Brockweir and was once the main 'highway' between Chepstow and Hereford.

As much as I love the British seaside, the one thing that can spoil almost any day out is the weather. These were taken from the pier when at Penarth...

I managed to stay dry... just!

Promenade and Pier...

Where's the body?

I do like to stroll along the prom, prom, prom...

With or without a brass band; I'm easy to please.

Well? What did you expect?