I pulled the campervan in by the Red Lion pub, adjacent to the river Severn in Gloucestershire. I came by way of Gloucester, Hartpury, Corse, Corse Lawn, down the Apperley road and over the river at Mythe bridge, then turned right to the campsite. I had good views of the Malvern hills and the treeclump of May hill. It was a slightly overcast day, but brightening as I write. The caravan park is well-kept and well-appointed, in expansive fields by the lane.
A wooded slope falls to the river, which winds in a big arc in watermeadows,about fifty yards wide and tranquil. A tall hedge shields the park from the prevailing West winds, but prevents me from having a view of the river. This is the area which flooded badly a few years ago, not far from Ashleworth Quay and Deerhurst Chapel.
Three female mallard search across the newly mown lawns for grubs. It is a peaceful setting.
5.00 pm. Wed. Aug. 31 2016.
I’ve just been down to the water’s edge and walked along the near strand. The river swings in a broad curve by the Red Lion, flowing lazily down towards Gloucester. The strand is red marl, a gravelly clay about three feet wide.
I sat and watched the river dabble at the land. The Severn after Gloucester is not tidal, but as a big cabin cruiser passed, waves churned at the banks for a long time like a tide.
A large fish rose and splashed, a raven called, the quietude returned with only the plash of the rippling silver water breaking the silence.
Little backwaters of faded willow leaves drifted round and round, some of them breaking free and joining the sluggish flow downstream. Two more boats droned on their way upstream, passing to the left of tall display boards standing gaunt in the middle of the river, saying ‘Keep Left’. Their bow waves churned the water for a good quarter of an hour after they had disappeared round the bend towards Tewkesbury. High cloud moving North East hung in an azure blue sky, the sun scorching when it broke through. A pleasant idyll in a calming place.
Thurs. 1 September. 11.30 am.
Woke up to another bright day, high cirrus cloud with lower cumulus drifting slowly from the South, with very warm sunny episodes. Sat outside and soaked up the warmth, with a bevy of martins flying at head height over the camp-ground lawns. Eight mallard, some juveniles, plodded over the grass searching for food.
I’ve noticed that the Gloucestershire accent disappears as soon as you travel up-country. Here, five miles from Gloucester, the lingo becomes flattened with the West Midlands twang. Many of the folk on the site have obviously come down from Birmingham, but the locals have the Worcester ‘Archer’s’ accent, slightly coloured with a West country burr. It is fascinating how this happens.
12.30 pm.
I walked up the hill beside the river, going South. The well-cleared path took me along tall blackthorn hedges, burgeoning with sloes, blackberry-full brambles and throws of Old Man’s Beard. As I climbed the hill, the vista to my East opened up, the Vale of Evesham broad and fertile, ringed with the Cotswold edge round Broadway and Bredon hill towards the North. The panorama basked in shimmering heat as I topped the hill and looked down on the caravan site and the river bend.
The return journey was peppered with speckled wood butterflies, seemingly following my footsteps.
Comentarios