ACROSS THE POND, NEAR BATH!

ACROSS THE POND, NEAR BATH!

I wanted a window of sunshine
And everyone to be on time;
The train to be clean and efficient
[I’d reckoned without the Alphaline!]
The taxis to bring us and fetch us,
Like we’d arranged on the ‘phone;
The guides to be good,
Explain what they should;
The welcome to be warm;
The restaurant food to be tasty;
Our tour round the house
To be leisured, not hasty;
The shops to be full
Of quite cheap souvenirs;
The day to be mainly smiles, no tears;
The battle, to excite and please,
Delight us with its expertise;
Just these simple hopes were mine . . .
Most were fulfilled [save the Alphaline],
And we even had a bit of sunshine!

Most of us came in our distant youth.
The house was old, museum new.
So we had some idea what to expect.
Familiar pleasures, surprises too.

Whole, entire rooms transported,
Lacking only some life within.
Our guides, their details, all reported.
We imagined them with their people in.

Shawled and bonneted, spinning, sewing,
In hides and fur hats, chopping, sawing.
Bears to shoot, babies to bear,
Powder kept dry, by the fire.
Rugs to weave, truckle beds.
Wigs to wear on shaven heads.

In such a hard life, their spirit showed.
Fine things of wood, polished, glowed.
Cloaks and quilts, fashioned with skill.
Billions of stitches! Designs that thrill
Those of us who recognise
The artistry before our eyes.

Ethnic artefacts, also revealed
In clay pot or beaded work, the soul concealed.
The primitive art of artisan or slave,
To simple objects, humanity gave.
The Amish carriage, the mighty wagon
Pulled by snorting horses or oxen.

And . . .
Oh, those dresses, of the Dollar Princesses!
The cost of each could no doubt feed
A homestead family’s every need.
Edwardian overkill, extravagant elegance.
Adorning youthful American beauties,
One of them the mother of Churchill.
Enticing English aristocracy
With their sartorial over-indulgence.
Flashing their dollar bills
To buy their acceptance.

Such flaunting of much wealth
During the dire Depression.
Small wonder “The Grapes of Wrath” was written.

For lovers of cartography,
A map collection, vast, sublime.
Quite comprehensive and unique.
We only saw a small part of it.
Maybe soon, they’ll publish all
Or show it to the world, on line.

Now on the terrace lawn
The afternoon re-enactment.
Loud bangs and dressing up,
Educational entertainment!

Against the lovely valley backdrop,
Two hawks circling in the sky,
Commenced the battle, as predicted,
On the dot, at half-past three.

‘Twixt our redcoats, and colonials,
Numbering only ten plus ten.
Against the French, Marines, Canadians,
There were hordes and hordes of them!
[Well, forty]
In the [quite hot] afternoon sun.

Each had Indians to aid their fight,
Red masked and feathered, gave us a fright.
Behind the bushes, in the shade,
Our Colonel’s daughter, hid with her maid.

Muskets cracked, a firework smell.
The battlefield, a veritable hell!
Redcoat tactics, alas inferior,
Had to yield to forces superior.
And the “gallant” French our lady gave
To a brutal Indian brave,
Who clubbed to death her little maid!

Battle over, lost and won.
We booed and cheered them,
Each in their turn,
And clapped them all,
In the [quite hot] afternoon sun.

In the hills near to Bath,
There’s Aladdin’s cave,
Disguised as a Georgian mansion fine.
Fabulous treasures therein displayed.
See it soon! Make the time!
28th JULY 2007

WINCHESTER WALK

Slipping seaward,
Limpid water.
Long weeds streaming
Over chalky shallows.
Dabchicks dive,
While daredevil swifts,
Aerial acrobats,
Crazily winging
In wide arcs swinging,
Dip to the river and lift.
But we see no swallows
As we follow the shady path
Beside the sliding water.

At last and until
We reach the gate
To wend our way up
St Catherine’s Hill.

All over the blackthorn
Along the rutted track,
Sloes are showing
Fat and dull, blue-black.

Soon a footbridge
Over the motorway
Scene of battles bitter
To save a landscape.

[Protestors lived
Up in the trees
Even Middle England
Was ill at ease.]
Because of the rape
Of Twyford Down.

They tore through the chalk
Now traffic tears through.
[It assaults our ears too.]
Tearing, jarring, snarling sound,
In these sunny fields around.

So many objections to no avail.
Commonsense did not prevail.
Brave protesters at last went home,
But the instigators of that crime
Had their names, for all time,
Carried on a single, standing stone.

We pause to read,
Then stand amazed
That someone with power
Sowed the seed.
Thousands on thousands
Of English wild flower,
Blossoming now,
A mille fleur tapestry,
Colourful as millefiori!

In stark contrast
The golf course grass
Is uniformly green,
Close shaven.

We cross and halt
To drink beneath
A spreading beech,
Our shady haven!
Sharing our bottles
Each with each.

Our guide encourages
Up the next climb.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,
You’ll be fine!”
But it’s HOT
And this time, for us,
It’s stony, long
And hard as it looks!

Yet butterflies thrill us
With their beauty,
As we view again
The ancient city,
Where once ruled
Our cruel Norman King.

Retracing steps, a shaded track
At first, on our way back.
Then mushrooms, beckoning!
“Dinner plates” in the grass
Tempt us to pick as we pass.
Reluctant now to climb
And gather them,
So tell ourselves,
“Could be maggots in them.”

And an apple tree holds early bounty,
So we go scrumping fruit a-plenty.

Ducks are a-dabbling in the river,
A moorhen’s chick cheeps to its mother,
Who brings another twig for her nest,
Riding the ripples on weedy water.

Aargh! What’s this?
A mad, wet sheepdog pushes past,
Jumps into the stream, so fast!
Bites the splashes,
Paddles and crashes,
In and out and BARKS!
‘Till finally she THOROUGHLY shakes
Over her owner as he waits
Where our cars are parked.

Thus grateful for our good walk done,
We thank our guide and make our way home.
1st AUGUST 2007