Sandringham is how the other half live; well, the royal half. No comments – just a few images. It’s very nice here, with a nice, big garden.

You know what it’s like when you look at a map of an area you’re new to and certain names jump out at you as places you want to visit. The southern Shropshire hills has loads of them, too many to fit in on one road trip. I had to miss places like The Bog & Bridges. But I did visit some gems startng with Much Wenlock. Yep a real place.

It’s delightful village with a couple of narrow streets, spoking from an even smaller market square, that crowd in a variety of small shops selling food, clothes, tools, even an ececclesiastical outfitters.

Many of the gravestones of the parish church have been removed to create a large grassed area with mature redwoods, where village events take place. This backs on to the ruins of the priory which is open to the public -at a small price.

Church Stretton is on the Shrewsbury road. As its name suggests it has a peaceful graveyard around the church and a Commonwealth cemetery at the edge of town.

It has a small, attractive centre with buildings that date from Stuart times.

The Shropshire countryside can best be seen from one of the many ridges/hills that separate the numerous valleys that crisscross the landscape. The Long Mynd runs north to south. From the ridge the whole county is displayed in front of you for miles and miles.

Entertainment is provided by six ladies who are training their pooches in scenting & obedience – hilarious times. Not sure who was training who..

The narrow trackhish road along the ridge runs past purple sprouting heathers and fronzy brackens that line a patchwork of wheat harvested fields, nibbling sheeps and fresh meadows. Open sky and vibrant greens hit the senses. Great for walking and, Traffords, cycling.

I’ll lleave you with the charmingly, quaint Bishops Castle. No sign of either except a shop or pub or two.

The Coalbrookdale Museums tell the fascinating story of how the local methods of iron production developed over the centuries to enable the large scale manufacture of metal tools, machinery & vehicles used in every aspect of domestic and business life all over the world. It was here that attempts to produce iron in large quatities were tried & tested and the first Darby blast furnace was constructed in 1709.

The railway was built through the factory buildings at a later date. Iron production involves the firing of prepared amounts of linestone, iron ore & coke (semi-burnt coal) in a furnace at exceptionally high temperatures of 1,000+ degrees centigrade, high enough to melt the ore. The resulting melted pig iron flows from the bottom of the furnace and is cooled in sand moulds.

This is the original furnace. Imagine it twice the height. Two men, working in 12 hour shifts, would have continuously filled the furnace from the top with the three elements, thus keeping the furnace going 24 hours a day and 7 days a week because if it went out & cooled down the furnace would crack. Another man was responsible for letting the pig iron flow from the hole in the bottom into an arrangement of channels that reminded folk of a litter of piglets feeding from the udders of their mother.

To keep the temperature up a huge water wheel powered two enormous bellows which blasted a continuous stream of hot air across the bottom of the furnace.

The original buildings that made up the iron works have been converted into a cafe and museum displays but the feel of the origial blast furnaces remains.

Well, maybe not gorgeous but still, pretty impressive, standing on the hillside above the gorge where the Severn cuts through the Shropshire hills. The village of Ironbridge is just that. A cluster of houses around the first cast iron bridge in the world, built in the late 18th century. In the early evening sun it looks particularly impressive.

Blists Hill Victorian Town has been created around two originall industries that existed here in Victorian times: the brick and tile works

and the iron works

It is here that men worked 12 hour shifts in the blast furnaces, pouring slag down to create blasts of hot air 24 hours a day firing molten iron at over 1,000 degrees centigrade.

The rest of the town was built up around these two industries to provide to visitors an idea of how hard life was for the workers at that time. It may look idyllic today but in those days it was hard.

Today was all about finishing my journey along one canal and beginning my next trip along another. The Oxford Canal joins the Coventry Canal at Hawkesbury Junction. These two are the oldest canals on the entire UK waterways system.

For a while they used to run parallel to each other but relations were not good between the two canal companies. The Coventry was built first and three years later the Oxford powered up to join it. But they couldn’t physically join as the Oxford was 9 inches higher and they were worried that their competitors would steal their water.

The Oxfird on the right had to build a last lock on their section to enable the two waterways to flow in unison. Here you can see the toll house in the middle, the lock-keeper’s house on the right and the pump house for the Coventry on the left.

Swopping canals, it is a short leg of seven bridges into Coventry Basin from here, passing through the town’s established Asian communities on one side

modern canal side housing, some of which incorporates past industrial structures

and monuments to past industrial giants. The only evidence of the first car production line in the UK that remains, the Daimler factory, is the pump room here.

Coventry Basin has been tarted up a bit but you can still feel, despite bringing surrounded by modern apartment blocks, the bargees at work, moving goods around warves and warehouses, especially coal destined for Oxford & London.

Just taking a couple of days out to complete my road trip on my last section of the Oxford Canal. I came across one gem of place on the northern fringe of Rugby which has several unique features. The flight of locks at Hillmorton consists of three pairs of locks separated by long pounds. Double the traffic can pass through, if neccesary passing in opposite directions, depending on the volume of boats.

This is the busiest flight of locks on the entire UK canal network. At 1230 the volunteer managing the top locks had passed 36 boats through, down its two lower cousins and I counted 12 more waiting to enter the small flight.

Part of the problem was the passage of a working boat through the flight. This in itself is not an issue. What held things up was the fact that the main boat was towing a support barge that had no engine. This meant that as the pair approached each of the three sets of locks, which could only hold one vessel, they had to use both locks. This meant turning up at the entrance, untieing the towrope, manually moving the towed barge into one lock and once in place, manouvering the tug barge into the other lock, passing through, reversing to connect to the towed one and moving on. Phew, I’m exhausted just describing it. Once takes a while, three takes a while longer. And when the water level in the middle pound is so low that the boats get stuck, it takes even longer still.

At the bottom lock there is a Book Exchange, a busy working boatyard, a good cafe and numerous canal-based industries, including a compost toilet manufacturer.

I leave you with this lovely lady. A volunteer at the bottom set of the flight, helping the casual user to open gates, release water and having to remind some of them to shut the door when they have finished.

What a difference a day makes. The Mumbles looked glorious under blue skies. The journey to Pembrokeshire, via Rhossili, was carried out under grey, crying clouds. At least the rain stopped at Rhossili leaving a level of low mist to cover the peaks around arguably the best beach in Wales, if you have the legs to get down to it with or without your surf board. It was eerie and ghostly with swirling wisps of cloud revealing secrets to the remarkably high number of visitors, considering the weather.

The rain and drizzle continued through to Pembrokeshire. That righteous part of my clean living did me proud again with the skies clearing on arrival to to the prettiest converted barn imaginable overlooking Dinas Head and the village of Newport.

Having provided a glimpse of what’s on offer, the clouds drew in overnight. Wet weather could be heard on the skylights. In the morning, during a respite in the cloud-dumping sessions, I opened the back door. The glory of the silence that squashed against me was overwhelming, only disturbed by the bleeding of the occasional sheep in the neighbouring field.

The rain was not going to cease completely today and so it was out and at ’em, what ever the sky threw down. Newport is a lovely village with picturesque cottages, pubs, restaurants and unique, independant craft & tourist shops. Parrog beach runs along the side of the mouth of the River Nyfer. With the tide out it is like a wet snake, slithering through the muddy, sandy squelch of the estuary.

Crossing the river to the north, the road rises around to the golf club and down to the town beach on the opposite side.

Greys of clouds darken in the distance and approach relentlessly, waiting to dump their loads on the sands. Human activity continues unabated, providing endless entertainment for an appreciative audience – those attempting to remain upright on their new paddle boards, dog owners loosing control over their excited, pedigree, designer-dogs despite calls, whistles, treats and leads. Have a look at these atmospheric images:

I couldn’t resist this one. This little girl is anxiously waiting for her granddad who has been down to the sea with a bucket and spade in which to collect water especially for her and their sand castle-building efforts.

The title of the blog and the first image might give you a clue about this road trip.

A large concrete block, with consonant-heavy words, short chomped hill-grass and a couple of rather manky mountain sheep with tattered fleeces give it away. I am on my way over to the west coast of Wales and breaking the journey for a day in The Mumbles.

Once across the southern-most bridge over the Severn and past Cardiff, it is a right turn up into the hills and valleys of the Rhondda and Wales’ industrial past.Along the top of the valleys the road passes through countless mining communities with relics of their industrial past, tall chimneys, lift machinery, foundry buildings, standing empty, usually dilapidated, but still proud above the strings of workers’ terraces that line the road and lasso up and down the hillsides. Even this aquaduct shouts out its heritage, built in 1827 to carry water to an iron works three miles away.

Above the mining villages the road rises to the Brecon Beacons with parades of wind farms behind, their upper rotations hidden by haze and whispers of cloud. On the edge of a ‘long and winding road’, overlooking the valley communities, stands a rather sad, lonely single ice cream van selling coffee, icecream and home-made Welsh cakes (well we are in Wales!). It still gets customers – some more interested in the surrounding grass than the ice cream.

Following the head of the valleys eventually brings us down to Swansea and, by folowing the coastline, to The Mumbles, the guardian of the wonderful Gower coastline. Down to the Bay, looking left and right, respectivrly, along to Swansea and to the two RNLI lifeboat stations at the end of the pier.

Here’s a close up, with the lighthouse behind on the headland.

More about The Mumbles, tomorrow.

Well, if Morecombe and Blackpool were the cheese yesterday, then I saw three lots of chalk to balance them out and they all centered around constructions of metal. The first on my journey down to Liverpool was at Saint Anne’s on the Sea, namely St Annes Pier built in Victorian times. I haven’t worked these tides out. Based on past experience I thought the tide would be in during the morning. Well, as you can see when I arrived at nine or so it was well and truly out. The pier is looking a bit worse for wear and it is reassuring with the presence of a couple of vans and a couple of guys and the sound of Maxwell with his hammer coming from inside means it is getting some TLC and will be returned to its former glory. Even in this dilapidated state it has a certain charm.

A guy on a tractor was giving the beach an early morning sweep. The impression that he was preparing the dressage course was further enhanced by the rider in the distance down by the shore.

Further down the coast is Southport. This has real character as an old, Victorian resort. What used to be the seaside promenade, complete with ornate teraces, glass-covered frontages and wide, leafy boulevard-style streets is now several hundred metres from the sea, positioned above reclaimed land covered in superstores and fast food restaurants.

The Victorian pier links the two. It starts up by the old promenade and emerges onto the beach between the multiplex & 10 pin bowling alley on one side and McDonalds & Pizza Express on the other. Pedestrians can climb up wide steps onto the pier here. Once there, you realise that this is the half-way point. Although there are rails set into the wooden planks, the two little trains that chug up and down run on wheels. Shame. The tides confuse me again – high tide right up to the sea wall!

Corby is another journey down the coast. On Corby beach is the piece de reresistance (French spelling not good) – an Antony Gormley installation entitled Another Place. 100 life-sized sculpures are placed on the beach, facing out to sea. There seem to be three lines over several kilometres. As the tide moves in and out so figures are covered and exposed. From a distance it is hard to tell which is human and which is metal. The ones here are all metal. Confusing tides again, though as I expected – going out.

The day started in Grange-over-Sands, a picturesque place on one side of the estuary of the River Kent. The railway runs along the coast and through the town. I drove to the opposite bank to Arnside, another pretty place where the railway crosses the muddy expanse of the river. A pier was built here to allow boats to unload their cargoes as their progress upstream was then blocked. The scenery remained outstanding even if the weather proved disappointing.

I’ve not a lot to say about Morecombe other than the tide was in. The most prominent feature of the town is the exceptionally sturdy sea wall that doubles as a wide promenade. I don’t know if this is the chalk or the cheese but it’s certainly different. The statue of Eric Morecambe was the best thing.

Further down the coast I came across the marvelously named Knott End on Sea on the north side of another estuary, that of the River Wyre. A pretty ordinary place, the one one thing it has going for it is the ferry that links it with Fleetwood, that from a distance seems to have historic landmarks in the form of docks, barracks and a lighthouse.

When I arrived the tide was in, licking right up to the shoreline. An hour later the sea had disappeared into the far distance leaving stodgy, sticky mounds of muddy, silty sands with winding channels and standing pools. This a characteristic of this coastline. It is very shallow out to sea so when the tide goes out it vanishes very fast and when it turns it comes in equally swifty. This can prove extremely hazardous for anyone venturing out onto the sands/mud.

And then there’s Blackpool. The capital of England’s Pierland – after all its got three.

Many see Blackpool as THE place for a seaside holiday. A holiday heaven. I’m not going to express an opinion. I’m going to leave you with images of the resort from Cleveleys in the north down to the Pleasure Beach to the south and let you make your mind up. The coastline is pretty uniform this whole distance – vast sea defences extend the whole way, acting as a promenade and a cycle way, a tram line runs parrallel to this with a the coast road beside it. Then the resort proper starts, fronted by hotels, B&Bs, guest houses, bars, restaurants (every 4th one seems to be a fish & chip shop), arcades, casinos.

So is it Blackpool that is the chalk or the cheese? It’s all very different.

A sandwich of two grey, cold parts with a filling of warmer, clear blue skies in the middle helped to make moody & atmospheric images, whatever the subject matter. I spent the day driving down the Cubrian coast nibbling the edge of the Lake District – always there, always gloomy, always menacing and threatening to hide my scenes in a multi-greyed blanket; yet always there to awe & wonder at its beauty of shape and colour and texture and feel. Kept me company all day.

First stop Whitehaven, although it was more Grey/Blackhaven. The inner harbour houses the marina with sea defences that look sturdy enough. Around the edges a wide, stoned, quay fronts converted merchants houses, warehouses and terraces of workers’ cottages, many with painted windows and doors to add to their grandisement.

The outter harbour protects the inner harbour and provides all the technology like markers and lights.

Over the railway and along the beach at Nethertown, I discovered not a town but a wonderful beach community of shacks and sheds, all inhabited.

Sellafield Power Station appears from the gloom, dripping menace along the coast.

The sun begins to break through in Seascale.

The beach at Haverigg is best seen in this light with soft-sanded dunes anchored in tall grasses which hide the village.

Roa Island is reached by a causeway. By now the tide is almost out and the huge expanse of soft, treacherous sand is fully exposed. Markers indicate where spits and banks are a danger. Ruins of Piel Castle are marooned off shore with no way of reaching them except by a local ferry in summer season.

The surprise of Barrow-on-Furness is that once through the industry, the ship building sheds and the grids of workers’ housing there is a long, stony beach for family enjoyment, lined by a wide grassy space and a short backdrop of ordinary housing.

St Cuthbert’s Church at Aldingham finishes the day well as grey clouds start to move in again.

Yayyyy. On the road again. My first road trip for nearly two years. My coastal project was getting rather lost so what better way to celebrate the easing of restrictions than to get in the car and head north. I decided to drive straight to the top and then pootle down the coast dropping into every coastal settlement on the way. North of Wigan I started to get that hit of adrenaline. Lancaster came and went ad the Lakes started to form on my right. A heavy, damp sky squahed down on the rising moors, hiding their high lines and promise. But then, as I leave the motorway, patches of blue appear. Yes, real sailor’s trousers. The ruler-straight road runs across open countryside with frolicking lambs, lazy cows and untidy, working farms.

First stop is Skinburness, on the Solway Firth and the Irish Sea. I approach the village from inland. Then flip out over to appreciate its sturdy sea wall.

It merges seamlessly into Silloth, a few miles down the coast. It feels like something out of the past with freshly painted frescos on tall, rendered buildings advertising hotels and coffee lounges and pubs. Sounds grand but feels old. That impression is enhanced by the fact that the bumps and dips of the main streets are cobbled. Still it has a charm.

Allonby is a cluster of pale, sea-worn terraces. Low sand dunes, anchored by grasses, divide the beach region from the humans.

The town of Maryport is an ordinary, working fishing port. Some new development has taken place around the harbour itself which has a special character of its own. New apartments rub shoulders with operating fishing boats and the fish merchants and there is evidence of past industrial activity in the form of sheds and machinery.

The largest town up here is Workington. The River Derwent meets the Irish Sea here. There are beaches but none you can really get to. The view to the Lakes is awesome.

The final stop for the day is Harrington. Another normal place with evidence of past glories in the remains of sea-weathered timbers and rusting hooks and brackets on the old pier that defends the village from the sea and overlooks the bays and headlands that spread up and down the coast.

Cutting between the terraces of Tewkesbury’s medieval and Georgian buildings, dark alleys (30 or so remain from the original 90) lead down to the river banks of the Severn and the Avon. It was here, at the confluence of the two, that Tewesbury Abbey was consecrated in 1171. It flourished, dominating the town’s skyline, until The Reformation when King Henry VIII sold it to the town for £453.

The alleys cut down from the main street and the numerous churches. Small, medieval & Tudor cottages would have housed boatmen and their families whilst the merchants and traders inhabited the grander properties away from the rivers. Large mills had been situated on the banks over centuries, both for ease of bringing in raw materials and sending out finished products and, of course, using its flow as a source of power. Few are still in operation and while some remain unused and in a delapidated state, others have been converted into residential accommodation and apartments.

Ludlow needs a page all on its own. The moment one crosses the old town bridge over the Wye, you are travelling back in history. This is the capital of BluePlaqueLand. Every other house seems to display such a plaque, with information about local and national characters, families and events dating back over 500 years: this building burnt down and was rebuilt in the Civil War; this is the town house of Charles Wesley’s wife’s family whom he married in 1749; this dates back to the 13th century and was used as the town prison, the hospital….. and on it goes. John Bentamin describes it as ‘ probably the loveliest town in England’. I cannot disagree.

Ludlow Bridge was built over the River Teme in the 15th century. It required some modifications in the 18th centuries. The Domesday Book records a mill here and over the centuries numerous weirs have between constructed to power cloth and corn mills. After 1600 these are converted into manufacturing paper, lace, leather and brass. After 1850 the mills gradually ceased production and have been converted into residential properties.

Once over the bridge, the full magnificence of this medieval town can be seen. The south gate is straight ahead.

The Buttercross stands at the top of the hill overlooking the elegance of the streets before it. Built in 1746 it was originally a, yes, butter market. Between it and the castle is the open market place, lined with wonderfully presented Georgian proprties.

In a prime, defensive position above the river, Ludlow Castle was built in Norman times to hold back the Welsh. It was extended and became Crown property in 1461 and remained such for 350 years. It was abandoned in 1689 and quickly fell into ruin. Since 1811 the castle has been owned by the Earls of Powys who halted the decay and opened the castle to the public.

The glory of Ludlow is the lanes and streets of Georgian buildings, with a few medieval and some Tudor-style half-timbered properties mixed in (over 500 are listed), that spread down the hill from the security of the castle, the trading of the market square down to the industry of the river. Owned by prosperous wool and cloth merchants and traders, these terraces are grand and elegant, and beautifully maintained. And it’s not just one street. Every street leaving down the hill in a grid pattern is lined with attractive, gob-smacking quality.

If you have not yet sampled the delights of Ludlow, you must put it onto your ‘must visit’ list. Not only is there this amazing collection of historic buildings and architecture (we tried, but we could not find a single duff building in the whole place), there is also a market every day of the week, numerous festivals throughout the year and it has a reputation for good food and fine dining. Even the van in the square did excellent bacon and Cheddar rolls for £2.50 – what is not too like?

Hmmmm. Grey, water-sodden skies never show off a place in the best of lights and the city of Hereford on a wet, dull Saturday afternoon is no exception. So I’ll try to share its good side despite what the weather threw at it.

The cathedral hosts the old part of town, down to the old Wye bridge at the bottom of, yes, Bridge Street. Theres’s enough around here to spark the dampest interest. And it’s dry inside!

Maybe a blue sky would create a better impression!! The images would at least bring more cheer!