Parts of Winchcombe harken back to the 700s.(Actually, parts go back to 4000 BC, but they're not readily visible.) People are either proud of having such an old town or annoyed about having to work around the old stuff when modernizing. My guess is they're proud. Our hosts told about how one man meticulously deconstructed his home, at great expense, in order to modernize. (The punchline is that the next owner ripped it all out and and modernized without regard as to how it fit the original structure.)
At the same time, there's a lot of building going on. New developments are pushing at the agricultural boundaries of Winchcombe.
We ate a hearty breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner. And there was no hike to compensate.
Our hosts took us to a village fête this afternoon. It was held in a place we had walked past yesterday. It was silly but it felt a little sad to go backwards in our trek. (And in just a few minutes by car!) The fête was what I had pictured from all the Agatha Christie stories I've read. She killed off at least a couple of people at her fêtes. There were just lots more people at this real fête. And no dead bodies.
I never glimpsed the lord of the manor, but there was one somewhere. The grounds were huge. He apparently is very wealthy. The groundskeeping fees alone probably exceed the GNP of Bulgaria. The attraction was the gravity-run fountain, supposedly shooting the water up 200 feet in the air. Someone somewhere saved up a couple hours of water from the stream, then blasted the water out in spectacular fashion. May I have more please, sir. The little kiddies squealed and slid down the grassy slopes, probably right next to the signs that said, "Don't slide down these grassy slopes."
Our hosts came home bearing fresh tomatoes and brilliant dahlias. Our laundry benefitted from the sunshine today, so at the end of the day, everyone won.
The strangest looking poppy I've ever seen. From our hosts' garden.
Village fête on the manor grounds.
Even though the fête is in Stanway, I think this choir is from Winchcombe. They sang all sorts of songs, including what sounded like South African, Maori, and Hawaiian ones.
Tea time on the lawn.
The 200-foot expulsion of water.
Morris dancers.
After waiting until the Indian wedding was over at the Winchcombe church, we went inside. It was as much museum as active church. This was an alms box with three (!) locks.
The church had many gargoyles and grotesques. One of them (but not this one) served as the inspiration for Lewis Carroll's Mad Hatter.
For what it's worth, since you can't really see it, the grotesque in the middle section, third from the left, is the Mad Hatter.
These used to be alms houses. They've been gentrified and pricified.
Please don't run over any ancient Saxons.
Winchcombe church's bell tower.
Since my photos are loaded last to first (I don't know why), this is a picture that should have headed up the lot. This is Tom last night pondering the incongruity of a Thai restaurant in a typical English pub.
