Kathleen Raine: she died a couple of years ago at a ripe old. In the 60's she was briefly married to Gavin Maxwell during one of his denial phases, and a line from Kathleen's poems provided the title for his famous book 'Ring of Bright Water'.

Her pomes iz wikkid, innit? A wilful luminous Classicism ensured she'd never be a contender against the likes of spiteful Phillip Larkin, or the unspeakable Andrew Motion. She died not unlamented but largely unrecognised.

The only prob is that it can be difficult not to hear her as being read by Penelope Keith in full Margot Ledbetter mode. Some of it can get a bit, well, 'overwrought'. Thank you, Kathleen, that was lovely. Now sit down and have cup of tea, dear.

Still, its all good stuff, and got me out of more than one tight spot on quiz nights with the Erdington Chapter of The League of St George. Here's to ye, Kate. In Elysium's fields may ye dwell:-

"Who dreams these isles,
Image bright in eyes
Where waves beat upon rock, or rock-face smiles
Winter and summer, storm or fair.
In eyes of eider clear under ever-moving ripples the dart
and tremor of life;
Bent-grass and wind-dried heather is a curlew's thought,
Gull gazes into being white and shell-strewn sands "
                    --- Eilleann Chanaidh, by Kathleen Raines.

Honiley Church. An elderly Sir Christopher Wren bought the neighbouring manor of Wroxall in 1700. He became friends with the squire of Honiley and, when asked at dinner to design a new church for the parish, sketched the design on a napkin at the dinner table. C18 churches are rare in this country, most ecclesiastical work from this period involves the updating of existing church fabric, although St pauls church in Brum is about the same vintage.

The old church of Honiley may have had a shrine attached: there exists a doubtful fifteenth century charter exempting the parish from church taxes and which mentions a holy well, and separate bathing areas for men and women. Nothing seems to remain today, although a spring rises in the field behind the church.

The house in the last picture is 100 yards or so from the church, and was probably a tied farm built around the same time as the church. The triangular dormer window is unusual.

Left Mrs Wubbleyou sat disconsolate on the 07.26 to Snow Hill, and disembarked at Hatton. Walked along the canal towards Shrewley.

Crossed over the railway line and the M40 to Gt Pinley farm, then to Pinley Abbey. The OS map implies there are the remains of a Cistercian Abbey there: I couldn't find them. Also the landowners are playing fast a loose with rights of way: couldn't continue N or ENE, so backtracked to the lane, and under the railway line.

Walked up Pinley Hill, then took the path that runs parallel to the Mway between Station Rd and Hatton Lane. The path is less than a foot wide, a quagmire, and overgrown. There are thorn bushes on one side, and the barbed wire on the other with the S-bound carriageway less than twenty foot away. It's a noisy and, quite frankly, horrible 1/2 a mile, but from the amount of foot (and paw) prints, very well used.

Crossed over Hatton Lane and back alongside the Mway on a wider concrete track that leads past a telecoms mast and shed. Overshot the actuall footpath turning, and ploughed through a sheepshearing set-up, and two fields with barbed fences before rejoining terra cognita at Horsley House Farm.

At this point you have a clear run across open ground past Grove Court farm (?) on the Hatton Estate to Hampton-on-the-Hill and Hampton Magna: probably about 6 or 8 miles of  farm land and tracks with only incidental stretches of road before you hit Warwick's suburbs. Instead I walked back the way I'd come, before turning up towards Hatton, the canal and the station

          "...........through caverns measureless to man, down to a sunless sea."

Gok Wan put his pint down, and stared fixedly at something over my shoulder. At first I thought the Gokmeister had spotted a rube walking away from the 'Deal or No Deal' fruit machine, having deposited a healthy tenner for no payout: a deposit that Gok Wan regarded as his by right  for the harvesting. But as I craned round I saw Ashley Banjo muscling his way in through through the Swan's double doors, using his walking stick as a fulcrum to lever his gammy leg through the gap.

His walking stick was the first thing you noticed about Ashley. In the halycon days before the children, and the exponential increase of paternal time spent on the lash, Mr and Mrs Banjo had spent their summer weeks and weekends touring the country in their two-berth caravan. Ashley had saved commemorative stickers from each town and campsite and, after the two-berth was green and mildewed on the block paving and Mrs Banjo and the children resident in Chelmsley Wood, he stuck the stickers in a neat line chronologically from Betws-y-Coed at the ferrule to Whitby three-quarters of the way towards the curve of the handle. From Whitby to the rounded tip at the end of the handle Ashley had painted longitudinal stripes of claret and blue, for the Villa.

"I'll Secret-bloody-Streetcrew him, if he comes over here." Gok Wan said, not too loudly. We weren't suprised to see Ashley. Word was that he was barred from every joint within a reasonable walking distance of the High Street, but Ronni was in hock to some Yardies for charlie and she was holding open house at  the Swan.

I turned back to Gok Wan. With elaborate unconcern he took out a pen,and began sketching some profiles for an exciting new range of shapewear. Ashley and Gok Wan had history. It was spoken-unspoken that they could tolerate each other's presence, even socialise at certain times, but there were caveats. A tide ran between them, the ebb and flow of which you knew, but the imperatives behind it were obscure. Ashley in a crowd was different man to Ashley on his own; and Gok Wan at ten in the morning was a different man to Gok Wan at 6pm.

I looked over my shoulder again. Ashley had gone down the steps to the big area with the Sky TV, and was berating Iranian Elvis about something on the wide screen. I rolled myself a cigarette and went out to stand by the municipal flower beds in the precinct. I exhaled luxuriously among the pigeons and the takeaway cartons. It was going to be a long afternoon.