Geneva

It hadn't been a particularly good week - two days in bed trying to get over a nasty cold - thankfully Harry managed to escape the germs. But somehow I got some energy to leave early on Friday morning to go to Geneva probably due to the excitement of seeing special friends in a country we hadn't been before. Why Switzerland when Jim and Margot had been on a canal boat ride in France? Well, when we first heard that they were coming over we thought of joining them on the boat ride, but we'd discovered we'd already booked the trip to Geneva (back in February) and Harry had no leave left. So, we looked at the map and discovered actually Geneva isn't that far away from Lyon and the rest of the story was just booking tickets. We left early Friday morning, and had a good flight, peering out the window to see the snow capped mountains and the River Rhone meander through the valleys far below us. We breezed through the airport with our limited French even found the stand where we could get free rail tickets into the city (sign in English helped). We took a while to find our way out of the station, and helped by a very pleasant local we negotiated some road works to walk the few metres to our hotel. The hotel receptionist was equally friendly letting us know where to find a nice lunch (never seen such an up market food court), giving us free public transport tickets during our stay on boat, tram, doubly bendy bus and train - a nice little perk for those staying in hotels. So, leaving our bags we went to the lake shore and walked up and down and through some of the botanical gardens before arriving back at our hotel minutes before Jim, Margot and Margot's Dad arrived on their train trip from Lyon. The lakeside reminded me a bit of Wellington harbour and a little bit of Sydney. The botanical gardens are on a little peninsula - open to the breeze with lots of trees and patches of garden. Bird life swam around - mainly swans, ducks, gulls and little moor hens so not quite the variety we saw in Australia. Like Wellington - with the mountains in the distance (some snow capped) and clouds hanging around the high peaks and the stiff offshore breeze you can get in autumn. The path around the lake similar to Wellington where we would expect to see bikers, runners, skateboarders, rollerbladers, walkers, swimmers, dragon boaters, canoeists as well as children playing ball and having fun. But it seemed quiet in Geneva on a reasonably chilly Friday afternoon. "Wait till the weekend" we thought "it will be different" but it wasn't. Now I don't want to give the impression there was no-one because in this city with a population of 186,000 there were a few people out and about. There were the hardy youngsters swimming in a designated area and a few others sunbathing in a spot designed to shelter them from the wind. There just weren't the numbers I would have expected in a busy European city. From our perspective it was quite peaceful (so too for the woman practising yoga in the breeze and the man practising what looked like Tai Chi). I had heard that a number of people live in France and travel to Switzerland to work because it is too expensive to live and wondered if it was true. So onto Google when our weekend was over and guess what I found...because the EU has provided people with more freedom to cross borders there has been an increase in the number of people commuting to work in Switzerland. But they don't just come from France but also Germany and are usually highly qualified and are teachers, managers or doctors who can now get jobs because the priority in Switzerland is not necessarily that a Swiss national has first option. The travellers are called 'cross-border commuters' and they have to go home at least once a week but some go home daily mainly to France, Italy and Germany.
In the evening we walked down to the harbour and had a fondue evening on a boat cruise where we spent most of our time eating and catching up with the holiday so far. "Adventurous" says Margot as Jim displays his mouth minus two teeth which were knocked off by a handle when opening a bridge on the canal. Ouch. Thankfully Jim could still eat as we tucked into the cheese fondue accompanied by lots of pieces of bread. Fondues were created in the 18th century the inspiration of wine and cheese makers - and promoted in the 1950's when their business was a bit slow. A person can eat 500 grams of melted cheese for one meal and it is a great way to use up those hard bits of bread that even birds shake their head at - not so good on a regular basis for those watching their weight. Tourists took the idea back to their own countries - I can remember the craze in New Zealand - but we had chocolate with marshmallows and fruit. Our fondue set was brown and orange so it sort of gives the decade away doesn't it?

The fountain in the harbour does deserve a mention. It isn't particularly attractive as fountains go but it sends a jet of water high into the air - in fact 90 metres which is pretty high. The first fountain, known as the Jet d'Eau was built in 1886 and was part of the power network - that was a bit smaller - about a third of the size of the current fountain. They say that is one of the highest in the world and this one is built in the home of a partially submerged pumping station. Every second it pumps 500 litres of water into the air and admittedly as we walked alongside we were hoping that a wind change would not occur - with water leaving the nozzle at 200 km/h and at any one point in time 7,000 litres in the air we would have got quite drenched.

When it comes to man made things we sort of split up Geneva into the old town and the new town. So, I'll start with the new which is probably the bit that interested me the most. We had a visit to the United Nations and a history lesson about Woodrow Wilson the 28th president of the US (hotel in his name and a memorial are in prominent places along the lakeside) and the League of Nations which had its first meeting in Geneva in 1920. Its aim as 'to remove the obstacles to peace' but unfortunately it was powerless to stop the Second World War. Lots of people including Franklin Roosevelt liked the idea of a international organization promoting peace and so the United Nations was born in 1945 when representatives from fifty countries met in San Francisco to ratify the Charter. In 1966 the European Office was set up in Geneva. The building has a large number of conference rooms and is the employer of a few thousand people. I liked the large wooden chair at the entrance (in memory of land mine victims). We went through security that felt tighter than at any airport (except I was allowed to keep my water bottle) before touring the marbled corridors and conference rooms.

Across the road from the UN high on the hill stands the museum for the Red Cross. It was a sobering visit and again made me appreciate the life I have been given. The museum focused on the role that the Red Cross has played in many natural and man made disasters in the world. On arrival we took a circular walk around the 'hall of remembrance' where every year had events listed that involved the Red Cross (the only mention in New Zealand was the eruption of Mount Tarawera and the buried village). So, we found out about the history of the Red Cross established by Henry Dunant. He went on a business trip to Italy to meet French emperor Napoléon III to discuss his business in Algeria. He didn't plan his trip particularly well (or you could argue it was perfect timing) as he arrived in the little town of Solferino just as the Battle of Solferino began. In one day he witnessed about 40,000 soldiers dying or left wounded on the field. It goes without saying most people would be highly upset by that sight and Henry Dunant was no exception as he saw the lack of medical care for the wounded. So, giving up any thought of business he tried to help those he could (I remember seeing a tv news article of tourists lying in the sun by the pool after the Indonesian tsunami and wondering how people could be so insensitive when there was so much one could do to help if you were there). Henry's managerial skills came to the fore and he organised relief assistance by motivating the local population to help the wounded no matter what the colour of their uniform. Back in Geneva, in the peaceful surroundings of the lake he wrote a book "A Memory of Solferino" which he published three years later - it was about his experiences and suggested a national voluntary relief organisation and international treaties to ensure the neutrality of those helping the wounded as well as the wounded themselves. The Red Cross was the answer to his suggestions which has the following aims

• The foundation of national relief societies for wounded soldiers;
• Neutrality and protection for wounded soldiers;
• The utilization of volunteer forces for relief assistance on the battlefield;
• The organization of additional conferences to enact these concepts in legally binding international treaties; and
• The introduction of a common distinctive protection symbol for medical personnel in the field, namely a white armlet bearing a red cross.

Its a bit sad really because in 1867, Henry Dunant was declared bankrupt - his business in Algeria (the reason why he first went to Italy) had failed. He was charged with fraudulent bankruptcy and a warrant for his arrest was issued. He left Geneva under a cloud and never returned even when he was given the first Nobel Peace Prize jointly with Frédéric Passy. Even though the prize was important I think the official recognition for his work and the personal price he paid was important to him. At the museum there was also a photo exhibition of muslim woman - it showed how there is still so much work that needs to be done to make our world a good place to live for everyone.

And now onto the old part of the city where narrow cobbled lanes wind their way up the hill and through little village squares, past fountains, churches and shops. We wandered past:

• the Place du Bourg-de-Four - a little square surrounded by 16th and 17th century buildings and overlooked by the cathedral. It was a coolish day so not many sat outside to enjoy the atmosphere over a coffee or a beer but it still had atmosphere as I looked at the windows with sunflowers, little fountain and boxed gardens.
• the Grand-Théâtre (opera), the Conservatory of Music and the Rath Museum.
• St. Peter Cathedral where many a Swiss came to listen to John Calvin during the mid-16th century. It is an usual looking cathedral with its facade (Neoclassical) that looks more like an entrance to a museum and its gothic looking spire spying over the square. In the basement there are excavations of two 4th-century Christian sanctuaries, mosaic floors from the late Roman Empire, portions of three early churches, and an 11th-century crypt beneath the present cathedral. But we were far more interested in going up than down. We climbed the 150 steps to the first tower, then down some, and up more to the second tower. A fascinating 30 minutes was spent listening to the bells, reading the history (photos of the towers being built with workers waving to the camera standing up high with no safety equipment), looking at the view and the woodwork inside the towers. It must have been a unique site back before the mid 1500's before Calvin stripped it of its altars, statues, paintings and furniture. Only the stained glass windows of that period now remain.

What happened on 12 December 1602? There are memorials in many parts of the town - but unfortunately we couldn't understand the inscriptions and felt none the wiser till we got back to Bristol. Thanks to Google, I found out that on that day the Geneva townsfolks defeated a surprise attack from troops sent by Charles Emmanuel I, the then Duke of Savoy. There is an annual celebration to remember this achievement and many of the memorials were erected on the 300th anniversary of that day. The surprise attack sprung from that old emotion jealousy and covetness (I have heard the argument that if we took away borders and equality there would be no wars and I think there is some basis to that). The Duke coveted the wealth of Geneva which was not a member of the Swiss Confederation - he wanted to make Geneva his capital north of the Alps and crush Protestantism. On that night - which is the longest night of the year in the Northern hemisphere, the troops assembled outside the walls of Geneva. The original plan was to send in a group of commandos to open the gate door and let the other troops in. However, the Geneva citizens stopped this attack and rung the church bells to warn everyone. They obviously fought with a courage of those that are threatened and won. There are stories of heroes and heroines such as the mother who poured a cauldron of hot soup over the head of a Savoyard attacker (why was the soup hot at 2.00 in the morning I wondered). After the defeat the Duke of Savoy agreed to peace (rather humbly I imagine) and this was formalised in the Treaty of St. Julien of July 12, 1603.
So, we said goodbye to Margot, Jim and John after riding on the boats across the harbour on Sunday morning and having a Swissmeal at a Swiss hamburger place (right next door to a McDonalds) before making our way to Bristol. By now they will nearly be winging their way back to New Zealand and we are back in work in Bristol.

Some other little titbits for the week:

• we've seen another NZ programme on tv. This time about Paul Jeffreys aka as the Fat Man and author of "Diary of a Fat Man" and "Fat Man Cooks" - he lost 64kg in a year by living in his holiday home up north through dieting and exercise. Interesting documentary and I wondered how inspiring would he be to those suffering from obesity. Intermingled through out the programme were advertisements showing the Southern Alps and suggesting now is the time to book your flight down under.
  
• I had a packet of chippies (crisps) the other day and on the back of the pack was written "No matter how much the spuds chosen for this bag loved the sharp, vinegary aroma of fish and chips, they knew they'd rather be destined for a bag of Walkers than yesterday's newspaper. So we though we'd give them the best of both worlds by picking for our legendary classic, tangy salt and vinegar flavour". Good marketing if you can be bothered reading the back of the pack - or do only a few sad people do that.
  

And a couple of questions that sprang to mind this week

1. Could someone invent a tissue that doesn't disintegrate when it is washed? Or is that what is called a handkerchief?
2. How do you resist the temptation to eat all the cream with the apple crumble? Simply buy the smallest punnet you can find and then pack it on the top of the groceries and let it fall out in the middle of the carpark. By the time you've picked it up you only have half the cream left.
   

Constable Country

This is a story about husbands and wives - it didn't really start out that way but by the end of the week my feminist streak was beginning to take over - we 'met' four husbands over the week but saw little of the people who supported them and enabled them to achieve their ambitions. So, I began to think about what men would have achieved without all that supportive care - and thankful that things are beginning to change and that now some woman, and hopefully in the future many more women will have the opportunity to achieve their aspirations. One of the men we learnt about was Geoffrey de Havilland and he said 'I had an overwhelming desire to fly'. I guess that is what many people have when they take their natural gifts from playing to creating - an overwhelming desire to do something...So here are the men Geoffrey de Havilland, Charles Darwin who attempted to solve a mystery, John Constable who painted and George Bernard Shaw who wrote. So here goes...
The movie Creation is the story of Charles Darwin and the personal struggles he had in writing and publishing the theory of Evolution (there is an irony in the name of the film which I haven't quite got a handle on yet). We were keen to see the film as we are going to the house where he wrote and developed a lot of his theories in a couple of weeks. The film painted him as a man who was tortured by the impact that his theory could have on the world and himself personally (I read somewhere that the film has not been widely seen in America as distributors are not keen to take on responsibility for the impact on a population that defines itself as only 39% who believe in the theory of evolution). Emma his wife agonised over the fact that her wonderful husband may spend 'eternity in a different place' and in the end this famous scientist asked his wife to read his masterpiece and either throw it away or send it to the publisher. Intermingled in this was the story of the loss of one of their daughters Annie - how they blamed themselves for her death which they really had no control over - and the impact on their marriage and family life. It is one of those wonderful true stories with a happy ending, the book is published, the world has something new to discuss and dissect, a reconciled marriage and a happy family life.
And now onto John Constable - yes we visited Constable Country - over to the north east of London. Slightly off a busy motorway, is Flatford Mill and the little towns of Dedham Vale and East Bergholt where John Constable lived, walked, played, went to school and painted. In some articles he is described as a 'Romantic Painter' and I can see now that the description fits. As we walked around Flatford, I could picture an 8 year old boy skipping along the countryside to school, skimming stones in the creek, smiling and talking to neighbours who just might give him a sweet, jumping over stiles, and wondering at the clouds that cross the sky and the colours that bless each season. It was a good day to come - autumn the harvest is nearly over - gold, brown and green falling leaves (into our mugs of tea is an occupational hazard for a picnicker). Many of Constables paintings were from this area "I should paint my own places best" and we had the privilege of seeing the dry dock and Willy Lotts house as well as Constable's studio in East Berghout and the town Dedham Vale where he went to school. We took lots of photos from similar spots where John would have sat with his easel and paint brushes -besides the trees growing a bit and their being tourists wandering around the streets rather than farmers working the fields the scenes are pretty much the same - I've taken the liberty of copying some photos of his paintings off the web for comparison. So, what about his family. John and Maria were childhood sweethearts (they both probably skipped along the paths through the fields that we walked and later found a secret place to have a kiss and a hug). Apparently, this young love was not approved by Maria's grandfather, who was pretty well off and threatened disinheritance seeing the money thrown away on a penniless marriage. Maria must have been strong (or perhaps not motivated by money) as she pointed out that without this money John would never be able to fulfill his ambition to paint. Not all prospective in-laws would like to hear that but apparently they gave in and Maria and John were married in 1816. She died from tuberculosis shortly after the birth of their seventh child and Constable wrote to his brother Golding, "hourly do I feel the loss of my departed Angel—God only knows how my children will be brought up…the face of the World is totally changed to me". After that, he always dressed in black, became a little bit melancholy and cared for his seven children alone. But it isn't only partners that inspire the great. Willy Lott lived at Gibeons Farm near Flatford Mill. He was a tenant farmer and spent all but four nights under the roof of the little house that features in the "The Hay Wain." I can just imagine a young John running up the path beside the pond, waving to the older Willy and yelling goodbye at the end of a school day - or am I letting my imagination run away with me.

George Bernard Shaw wrote stories many years after Constable painted his pictures - and although he lived most of his life in the country further west it still had the look of Constable Country. Very soon, after leaving the motorway we were driving along 'quiet lanes', very narrow lanes with patches of grass in the middle, high hedge rows, and passing horses, cyclists and walkers rather than the noisy motor car. I must admit the only work I can remember of Shaw's is Pygmalion and when I looked on the web to see what else he wrote none of them rang any bells. Charlotte Payne-Townshend married Shaw and they settled in the house in Ayot St. Lawrence, now called Shaw's Corner which is where we had driven to. Before his death Shaw left the house to the National Trust and it is one of the few houses we have seen where all the furnishings and household items stayed exactly where the occupant left them. It was an incredible feeling walking through the door below a half shaped stain glass window where I had a flashback to a house a friend in Karori used to live. Built about the same era it had a lovely airy feel about it, a large kitchen with a large window looking out to the garden, bay windows, and all painted in shades of white - which made it so light. Shaw's glasses still sat on the desk with his pens and note books, the piano still had music on the stand, on the bathroom basin sat his toothbrush (complete with bone handle), and I imagined but did not see his pyjamas placed neatly under his pillow. (Incidentally, I had to look up the history of the toothbrush as it never occurred to me there was anything between the stick or tooth pick and the plastic handled tooth brush I use every day. How wrong I was. The toothbrush goes back as early as the 1400s - the Chinese used to tie hog hair to a bamboo stick for their oral hygiene). Back to Shaw's writing - he did most of it in a little 'revolving' sun house that was initially Charlotte's summer hut - but I think she gladly gave it to him to rid him from the house. Anyway, on to Charlotte who was from a wealthy family and a fellow Fabian and also preferred the chauffeurs driving to George's. She dedicated her life to the struggle for women's rights and married Shaw after nursing him through some sort of illness (there is an irony there that I won't go into). They did heaps of travelling and she didn't want children and so didn't have any. All the same, it must have been quite a companionship as when Shaw died his ashes were mixed with those of Charlottes' and scattered in the garden at Shaw's Corner. I did find some quotes which are thought provoking: A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing. If all economists were laid end to end, they would not reach a conclusion (having studied economics I quite like that one). Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will. And now to the de Havillands - Charles the man who gave me the theme for this excursion through English creativity. Charles had an interest in automotive engineering and wanted to initially build cars and motorcycles rather than fix them. In 1909 he married Louise and she somehow gave him the impetus (it wasn't money this time as she had been a governess to Charles sisters) to start designing, building and flying aircraft to which he and at least two of sons devoted their lives. He was given £1000 from his grandfather (an early inheritance) and two years later built his first aircraft which he crashed on its maiden voyage. From then on he managed to design and build a number of aircraft and a significant number of de Havilland designed aircraft were used during the both World Wars. Best known was the Mosquito which Harry enjoyed seeing at the little museum off the M25. Louise had died earlier, distraught at losing two of her three sons to aircraft accidents (test pilots in de Havilland aircraft). While Harry wandered slowly around the museum, I did a reasonably fast walk and then spent some time in the countryside taking photos of woodpiles (it really was quite fun!!) and Salisbury House (where the designs for the deHavilland were created). During the war this area was protected by making it look like a working farm - when the plane was built it was dismantled and taken to a nearby airfield so no Germans would consider bombing a little country farm. Hence the Mossy was built in secrecy. So, to end this story... how did we get to these historic places. On Friday we drove to Clacton-on-Sea - where we stayed at a recently renovated Travelodge. We estimated about 3.5 hours to get there and did the first 100 miles in just over an hour and a half. It took 3.5 hours to do the next 100 miles as we crawled along the M25 (known as the biggest car park in the world). We picnicked somewhere during that crawl, sausage sandwiches and cake on the M25 is a new one even for us (and there goes my theory that if we are prepared we won't get caught in traffic jams). Clacton is a seaside resort and reminded us of New Zealand with the detached houses along the coastline but that is where the similarities finished. There was a pier and there was lots of beach huts and there were wooden walls along the beach which we think is intended to stop erosion. Further along the coast is Frinton-on-Sea which we were told was an art deco town. It didn't get a pub until 2000 and there are rumours it still hasn't got an ice-cream vendor but we could imagine in summer the social scene along the promenade between the beach huts and the sea - there would have to be a Mr Whippy somewhere. It was all closed up for winter with no eager beach owners enjoying the beach but we could see the fun of coming each year and meeting the next door beach hut owners - having a drink and a barbeque as the children played in the sand or swam at the beach. Frinton had a nice tree lined shopping centre where we found some lunch from a bakery and two very long sought after plastic mugs for our picnic set (it is so hard to find plastic mugs here). Further up the line is Harwich - a port town with large cargo and passenger ships coming and going from Holland. It had a charm about it that other big ports don't tend to have so we wandered along the sea wall and enjoyed the boats and birds.

Snowshill and Stow

Why can't we go out during the week nights and still have enough energy for the weekend? I guess that's what a lot of 50 year old's ask and we never get an answer. With that thought...
Wednesday night we went to see Julie and Julia. A film about a blogger (so the slight eccentricity of the movie appealed to us and it reminded me of Mike sitting me on the couch the day we left NZ saying 'Mum you have to write a blog so I can read about what you are doing'). Its a story about two cooks (and two very understanding husbands who enjoy eating). It starts with Julie Powell a frustrated customer service agent deciding to write a blog on "attempting to cook 524 recipes from Julia Child's book 'Mastering the Art of French Cooking' in one year" (egged on by her husband - that's more than one yummy meal a day so who wouldn't encourage that!!). Julie was busy working all week, cooking in the evenings, eating lots. She must have found time to exercise in between those exhausted tantrums (though lying on the floor kicking heels can use up a few calories) as she didn't seem to put many kilos on at least in the movie. The second character was around some 45 years earlier, played admirably by a very tall Meryl Streep (who wore big heels - her shoes would have been the envy of some of the people I know and there was some trick photography as well to help her to grow 8" to the height of Julia Child). Julia Child began cooking in France - she too was a bored housewife travelling around the world with her American 'embassy' husband. She cottons on to the fact that she can cook and so set about cooking and trying out loads of recipes for her book. 50 or so years later young Julie comes along, a bit bored and frustrated, and tries out all those old recipes - I've looked on her blog and yes it is real, quite funny in bits, down to earth and just sometimes a bit sad. Julia Child died in 2004 having never met the much younger cook and blogger. I must remember her kitchen is in the Smithsonian museum if ever I want to see a 1950's kitchen (with lino tiles, formica bench top, coloured pots hanging from hooks etc).
Second night out - Harry had booked 13 months before (that just shows how keen he was) -"We Will Rock You" at the Hippodrome. The musical has been around for about 9 years now and is described as a "tongue-in-cheek dystopian future where originality and individualism are shunned, and a lone 'Dreamer' appears who can fulfill a prophecy that will enable the return of rock 'n roll". I quite enjoyed it and Harry really really enjoyed it - just as well since he is the Queen fan in our household.
Saturday was a slow start as you can imagine and we took off over the Severn Bridge to Cardiff to do some Christmas shopping. It isn't a bad city for shopping - well better than Bristol I think - probably worth the £5 bridge toll but certainly not the £8 car parking fee. The weather was a bit wet and quite cold but we achieved quite a bit in the couple of hours we were there although didn't do any touristy things which was left for the other day in the weekend.
Sunday, the sun shone through the curtain and I asked 'What shall we do?' Harry suggested a bike ride which ordinarily I would have been up to but the energy hadn't got out of the bed with the body so we took off for a more relaxing drive up to Stow on the Wold and Snowshill. The National Trust and English Heritage own a lot of old mansions, palaces, castles etc around the country and we've been so spoilt in being able to go to so many that we feel we've had enough of them for a while. So, we tend to try and find the ones with a 'quirky' nature - and stumbled on Snowshill Manor, situated in a lovely little Cotswold Village called Snowshill. Its the masterpiece of Charles Paget Wade who at the tender age of 7 decided to start collecting things and he never stopped. There was some money in the family (from sugar estates in the West Indies) and he did have some skills eg architect, artist-craftsman and poet but not sure if he actually bought in any money from these natural gifts. He spent his time roaming around England rummaging through car boots, estates, garden sheds, archaeological sites, rubbish sites etc and collected, wait for it, 22,000 different items - not real antiques (some visitors could be so unkind to call some of it junk - but it wasn't really). There were 'bone shaker bicycles', samurai models and swords, ornaments, model boats, musical instruments, bone carvings made by french prisoners, toys, spinning wheels, you name it I suspect you would find one hidden in a corner. One blog writer (Jeff's Random and Readable Revelations) suggested that Charlie the collector "must have been a total nut case" and the writer J. B. Priestly described Wade as 'My eccentric, but charming friend of the fantastic manor house.' ...mmm perhaps somewhere in between is my thought - a touch of eccentricity certainly. Anyway, to house his growing collection he bought the manor house in 1919 and the little cottage next door to live in. He didn't like electricity and so the house was lit by lots of candles but the National Trust has introduced electric candles in keeping with the spirit of the previous owner and I guess with today's Health and Safety Regulations. His little house was furnished with bizarre furnishings and ornaments as well and he lived there alone until 1946 when along came Mrs Wade - picture this - a woman from not around Gloucestershire knocked on the manor door asking for help "I've lost my way" (some woman drop handkerchiefs or leave their purse) but not Mrs Wade. She asked for directions and got some - into the little cottage she went. After a few years of marriage Charles gifted the house to the National Trust and went to live in the West Indies with his wife (I wonder if he had wished he had done it earlier). You know, I can't find a thing about Mrs Wade on the web not even her name, but she must have been very persuasive to move him from a habit of a lifetime and have had the patience of a saint and little interest in housekeeping interests to live with such an eclectic mix of things.
Besides the Wades the manor was lived in by Katherine Parr (a gift from her royal husband when he dissolved yet another abbey), and is also the residence of an angry monk - I didn't see him because there were lots of people in the small dark rooms and ghosts like their privacy (not sure if he throws things about but he could make quite a mess if he tried). He apparently hasn't gotten over they fact that his house is desecrated by lots of visitors - even though we were respectful - and he is annoyed about the heathen collections housed within it eg a small collection of Islamic artifacts housed in the room next to the kitchen. Anyway, I loved the creaking floors and narrow staircases, the tiny doors, wooden and borer ridden beams, little windows looking out to a lovely garden - the collection for me was almost secondary to the building they were in (hope that makes the ghost happy - I think his name might be Geoffrey).

Then onto Stow on the Wold and on the way we past a few puffing cyclists climbing the hills just like we did a few weekends ago. Its a small village in the middle of the Cotswolds, has a population of about 2000 people and lots of shops that seem to cater more for the tourist and gift-shopper (yes some Christmas presents were bought there) rather than the locals in need of essentials. It's set on the top of a little hill (previously an old Iron Age fort), with the church and square (and 15th century stocks) looking down on all other parts of the village and countryside. This Sunday there were two fairs - they've been held in Stow since 1107 when Henry I decreed it o.k. to have fairs - and there are also annual gypsy (oops traveller) and horse fairs. We wandered through both fairs held in church or old meeting halls (where one advertised a talk on 'Gardening in New Zealand') and the other a range of knitted booties, bead necklaces and green runner bean chutney for sale. A restaurant reviewer and columnist AA Gill in his book The Angry Island called Stow "catastrophically ghastly" and "the worst place in the world". I think that is quite unfair as there are far worse places to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon than in Stow.