Day 3 - Bridges to Clun
I will give my dad's journal entry first in the white boxes, then my experiences after. My dad’s day on 3rd July 1972 began thus:
And now my day on 25th May 2022:
This morning's weather was what the Scots would describe as dreich. The skies were grey and the fields and hedgerows clouded with a drizzly mist. I had a decent breakfast at Bridges, said my farewells to the warden Amanda and set off towards Bishop's Castle. Just outside Bridges I swapped the narrow lane where I had to keep stopping to let cars go past for a farm track which ran parallel along the slope of a hill with the river running below. It was quite beautiful in the mist. At the end near a farmhouse was a newly planted tree as a touching memorial to two cousins who died on the first war.
In a field at the end I heard strange things - from behind a thicket of trees, the sound of heavy machinery, possibly a chainsaw, and a man's voice shouting the word "LUD" over and over again. For several minutes all I could hear was this guy bellowing "LUD, LUD, LUD". If anyone more familiar with the countryside can explain this please let me know!
Crossing the East Onny at the peculiarly named farm of England Shelve, I took a hilltop lane to Norbury. On the left was a view over the Long Mynd, on the right sheep could be seen perched high up the steep slopes of Norbury Hill. Interestingly Norbury Hill was recently purchased by a collective of local people to preserve it as a wildlife corridor between the Long Mynd and Stiperstones hill ranges. They managed to raise £200,000 in just 2 days to help buy the land and fend off any greedy developers.
Norbury village is indeed a far cry from its namesake that I occasionally had to go to when I worked for a charity in South London. It was my least favourite place to be posted to. Incidentally I just looked up Norbury, Croydon and the very first search result that came up was a news article about a 71 year old man being beaten up on his way to the shops there. Norbury, Shropshire is a very different affair. A peaceful, pretty little village, I looked inside the church (shown below) and spoke to a man coming out of a house down the road who turned out to be the church warden Nigel. He pointed me on the road to Linley, and said that when I passed the village of More, shortly after, I should look out for his son's house, the timber-framed old rectory there.
Along the road to Linley there was some nice views from gaps in the hedge, and then a road sign I had to take a picture of as it pointed the way to two miserable sounding places in one direction.
Outside Linley Hall there were people gathered for a lecture by a group called Pastures for Life who campaign to feed livestock only on grass rather than pellet feed. Their philosophy appeared to work in business terms too as across the road were a herd of the most enormous cattle I've ever seen - giants amongst cows.
From Linley I followed the path my dad took, but almost missed it as it was still just as hard to find. It led over a farm to More, where I easily spotted Nigel's son's house. Then another path took me across the remains of ancient motte and baileys to Lydham, and instead of rejoining the road here I went for a very scenic footpath around fields in Upper Heblands Farm. Here I encountered an enormous, gnarly old tree that struck me so powerfully with its ancient wisdom that I had to stop and spend a few minutes in awe of it. The last stretch before Bishop’s Castle was across a campsite in the grounds of an eccentrically decorated manor house with sculptures everywhere.
My dad on Bishop's Castle:
Thankfully it appears to have improved since then, and although very sleepy was quite a nice town to walk around. Went into the bookshop to buy some postcards and was immediately recognised by the shopkeeper - it turned out he was the cyclist who I'd held a gate open for at the Stiperstones. I was impressed he's actually remembered me! He recommended a place to eat which had more than one item on the menu and much friendlier service - The Chai Shop where the owner, a lovely lady called Tahira, made me a delicious plate of various Indian veggie dishes, and we had a cracking conversation. She recommended some ancient sacred sites in Wales that are worth visiting that I made a note off and will add into my itinerary. I won’t say more on Bishop’s Castle except that I found it a lovely town, but everyone I spoke to about it since has been much less generous about it. Maybe I'm missing something, as I only spent a couple of hours there! It looks lovely though, except for the admittedly rubbish castle.
And on towards Clun! Andrew writes:
Not having the luxury of a lift in a Ford Anglia I was forced to walk but this was not a problem as the path was very enjoyable, taking me across rolling hills and farm scenery. My route went under Blackeridge Hill, across the valley at Acton then through the Red Wood and down into Clun. At one point I stopped for a break by a swamp and was glad of a banana that Tahira had kindly given me to keep me going.
Clun Mill YHA is the second of the three youth hostels my dad stayed in that I am too. The interior still has all the mill wheels and machinery visible. It is run by volunteers and I was greeted by a couple, John and Corrin, who have acted as wardens there many times before. I sat with them in the living room by the same old coke stove, though sadly it was no longer operational, having been replaced with radiators.
That evening I walked into the village. I really liked Clun, it's a lovely little place. There are two ancient pubs, The Sun and The White Horse, though only the latter was open at the time. Knowing this, I had booked myself in for dinner at 8, and was soon sitting in the cosy and inviting old hostelry enjoying a hearty feast of casserole followed by a cheeseboard, all washed down by superb ale brewed in their own microbrewery. My idea of a perfect evening!
When I'd had my fill, finished up and had a bit of chat with a local guy who sponsored me for the walk, I was getting ready to leave when the owner Jack came over and asked if I wanted to join the pub quiz. I said I liked a quiz but wouldn't want to do it alone. So he paired me up with a Liverpudlian guy whose pals had just gone home and was keen to do the quiz as well. So before I knew it there were local scrumpy ciders flowing and we were getting stuck into the quiz and having a good laugh along the way. And lo in behold, we finished in second place (only 2 points behind the first group of 4 people) and winning us the coveted prize of a bottle each of the local beer.
After the quiz I started til close chatting away to my newfound companion, plus the owner and other barstaff. The conversation came onto ghosts (again!) and one of the bartenders claimed to have seen the ghost of a woman there in the pub one night, and I also learned that the hostel I was staying in was reputedly haunted and ghost hunting groups occasionally rent it out spend the night in. I walked home, in jolly spirits due partly to the fantastic night I'd spent at the White Horse and partly due to the strength and quantity of the scrumpy they served there. I may very well have been visited by apparitions in the night but if so I was far too soundly asleep to have noticed.