Where are the men who came before us/ Who led hounds and hawks to the hunt, / Who commanded fields and woods? / Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs / Who braided gold through their hair / And had such fair complexions?
Extract from an anonymous poem c. 1275, trans. Michael R Burch)
There are more than one and a quarter million objects on display in the Victoria & Albert Museum. Since 2009 the medieval and Renaissance treasures are displayed in five galleries in that vast C19th cultural complex. On our recent London visit we confined ourselves to just one gallery, and were not disappointed with what was discovered. Here’s a bit about a handful of treasures on display connected with the west and north of England.
The wealth and power of a medieval English king pales in comparison to the richest and most splendid of European courts upheld by the magnificent Dukes of Burgundy, centred on what is now roughly southern Holland and northern Belgium. These towns and cities were the nexus of the continent’s major trading centres in luxury goods and services. This huge Flemish tapestry dated 1425-30, completely covers the gallery end wall. Formerly lodged at Hardwick Hall Derbyshire it was accepted by HMG in lieu of death duties on the estate of the 10th Duke of Devonshire.
Conspicuous wealth is on show here, the tapestry’s narrative function as great as that of its role decorating and insulating a castle or household interior. Only Kings and aristocrats were allowed to hunt game, like the bears and boars depicted here, and participants attire is strictly status related, eschewing practical hunting clobber. The ladies fur for example is miniver, an expensive pelt from the bellies of hundreds of Baltic squirrels culled in winter.
Three unique half-life size oak figures stand out against a background of the great tapestry. A knight, his squire and man-at-arms; three orders of society in a great feudal household. Dating from the early 1500’s, they’re believed to have supported heraldic devices, and were placed high in the great hall of Kirkoswald or Naworth castle in Cumberland, properties held by the powerful Dacre dynasty. The armed man’s helmet or sallet was an essential piece of soldering kit but it also limited the wearer’s vision and impaired his breathing. In 1461, during the battle of Towton, a helmetless Lord Dacre was killed by an arrow while taking a desperately needed drink of water. A monument marks the fatal spot of that terrible battle in the Wars of the Roses. (We visited in 2025 https://stephentomlin.co.uk/2025/05/01/towton-field/)
The tragic epic romance of Tristan and Isolde in Cornwall had huge appeal to the wealthy elites right across Europe and lots of art work reference it. This superb broadcloth bed covering, made in Florence for a rich merchant family between 1360-1400, really goes to town on the tale.
It’s a wonderful display of compressed narrative detail chronicling the epic story, with extra pieces attached at various times, fashioned from linen and cotton. Kim, who comes from a long line of quilters, was particularly impressed with the skill involved in its execution.
Surviving examples of luxury medieval Islamic glassware are exceptionally rare so this pristine one from Syria or Egypt dated to c.1350 has special significance. A talisman of the Musgrave family at their seat of Hartley castle and later at Edenhall in Cumbria ‘The Luck of Eden Hall’ has been protected in part by the 15th century leather case and – if local legend is to be believed – by fleeing fairies, who left it in human hands with the warning ‘If this cup should break or fall / Farewell the luck of Eden Hall.’ Curiously, in northern farming circles it remains customary to gift ‘luck money’ to the buyer of one’s stock at market as a token of goodwill.
Finally…this small C14th alabaster fragment of a lost altarpiece from a Midlands church is a fine example of a deposition. The top figure’s steadying arm on the cross and Joseph of Aramathea’s handling of the slumped body of Christ help fix a moment of tender compassion. The odd missing head or hands of the other figures bear witness to the vagaries of time, or the action of iconoclasts. Along with the faded original bright colouring, this narrative scene exudes a sense of loss and sacrifice.
The Old Window (detail) Oil painting by Anna Ancher
Maybe it’s from watching too much Danish television and cinema, but the northern region of Jutland lodges in my imagination as a cold windswept archipelago breeding outlaws, from Viking raiders to Scandi noir murderers. How refreshing then to set the record straight with a welcome immersion in the luminous world created by one of that country’s most celebrated artists, Anna Ancher.
Last week, on a rain soaked Tuesday morning, we slipped into the serene interior of the UK’s oldest public art collection, the Dulwich Picture Gallery in south London. We’ve previously caught some fine shows here but this one was different in that the artist was hitherto unknown to us.
Children on the beach at Skagen
Women artists of Anna’s day – she lived from 1859 to1935 – faced huge barriers in pursuing their careers. Her family, the Brondum’s, ran the only hotel in the remote town of Skagen (pronounced Skay-en) where she was born and spent most of her life. It became a lively centre of artistic activity from the 1870’s and still trades today in what has become an upmarket seasonal resort town of uniform bright walls and red tile roofs.
Emerging artists were drawn then to what was a near inaccessible spot at the very northern tip of Jutland, where the Skagerrak and the Kattegat seas meet. An exposed lone finger of land defined by sand dunes and continual beaches under vast open skies. One of those dynamic young incomers, Michael Ancher, became Anna’s husband and collaborator.
Anna, central, and her circle at the Brondum’s Hotel / Art Museums of Skagen, historic photo collection.
At that time most of the indigenous inhabitants led a hard existence as farmers and fisherfolk and many, like Anna’s mother Ane, were devout protestants. Surprisingly perhaps, Ane supported her daughter by paying for private art lessons in Copenhagen. (Women were banned from the official schools) Later both Anna and Michael studied in France where the liberating influence of impressionism was key to further development.
Anna was not just confined to the traditional female realms of home and family for subject matter and she demonstrated her compositional skills in large scale works like this one from 1903. The Skagen mission church congregation her mother belonged to, seated in the dunes ,listening to a sermon given by their local preacher.
Particularly liked this little picture of mothers bringing children to be vaccinated against smallpox. The practice had been compulsory in Denmark since 1810 but then, as now, it was a cause of controversy. With Michael modelling as the doctor, alongside local women and children, clearly shows which side of the argument the Anchers favoured.
Another eye catching small study in oils shows the Ancher’s daughter Helga, with Anna’s cousin Ane Torup, dressed in green, at home on the bench in a summer garden (c.1892).
Farmland had been painstakingly reclaimed from sandy heath and this vibrant close study of harvesters in the corn from 1905 both focuses and intensifies the colouration of the scene, where the sturdy workers set out to reap the rewards of their year’s labour.
One of the major oil paintings on display is a wonderful portrait from 1886 of a maid in the kitchen which demonstrates Ancher’s particular genius. A fascinating composition imbued with intimacy and stillness. Entrancing in its luminosity, with echoes for me of Vermeer.
John Constable: View of Dedham Vale 1809 Oil paint, paper on canvas
When you live in the country but you’d like to know how others see the country then you need to head for the city. That’s what we did last week to indulge in a double dose of artistic genius served up for our consumption at Tate Britain.
Arrived at Millbank by boat on one of the catamaran Uber river taxies that ply their trade on the Thames. Pricey, but worth it for the vistas afforded. Powerful engines allow for nimble sideways docking and a surprising turn of speed on the fast flowing floodwaters. Graceful bridges backed by sky blocking glass walled monoliths at Vauxhall with remnants of more graceful human scale buildings elsewhere on the river banks.
JMW Turner and John Constable. The two mighty creative engines that powered and defined the art of landscape painting in early C19th England. The Tate exhibition bills the two men as ‘Rivals and Originals’ and an intriguing combo they proved to be when viewed here in tandem.
JMW Turner Self portrait 1799
Weaving in and out of the mass of fellow visitors we were skilfully drawn into their overlapping visions of a land and people in flux, complimenting and contradictory by turns.
Both men were out touring in summer and working up drawings and sketches to a finished state back in their respective London studios throughout the winter, for display at the Royal Academy show, where they’d eventually secure top billing as leading members; feted, criticized and praised in equal measure by critics, patrons and public alike.
Turner: Steam Ship off Staffa
We were introduced to two very different personalities from contrasting social backgrounds. Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775-1851) was the son of a Devon born barber and wigmaker who had set up shop in Covent Garden. The proud father displayed his precocious 15 year old son’s drawings in the shop window to attract custom.
John Constable by R C Reinagle (1799)
By contrast Constable’s father was a prosperous miller and coal merchant in rural Suffolk who disapproved of his son’s artistic ambitions. John Constable (1776-1837) comes across as an introspective, conservative and conscientious countryman while Turner was quite at home in the capital; an eccentric showman and gallery owner, secure in his own genius.
Constable: detail from oil painting of Hampstead Heath 1835
Against both their families initial opposition Constable married Maria Bicknell, a neighbour and childhood sweetheart, and subsequently supported a large family of seven children. For a while they lived out of London, in Hampstead village and Brighton, for the sake of Maria’s fragile health. Success came much later to him than it did Turner. Scaling up to work on larger canvasses his ‘Six footers’ helped secure artistic and economic success on being accepted as a member of the R.A. in 1829. Turner never married, though it’s believed he fathered two illegitimate daughters who he looked after. He also had Sandycombe lodge built in Twickenham for his widowed father. A fascinating miniature Italianate villa, still standing, recently restored and well worth a visit.
Constable: Dedham lock and Mill (1818)
The exhibition displays a combined 170 works by the two artists. Constable’s masterpieces with the greatest appeal show us the working people of his native Suffolk going about their business in a quintessentially English pastoral setting. It seems idyllic on the surface but was often the opposite due to the huge changes wrought by the agricultural revolution then in full swing. A situation chronicled by contemporaries like William Cobbett in his ‘Rural Rides’ series of newspaper reports across the southern English counties.
I like this Constable picture of a muck heap, painted as a childhood friend’s wedding gift. Not the most obvious subject for a conjugal gift…Or is it? Composted fertility, spread on the land to increase yields, has a more obvious meaning. Like his most famous painting ‘The Haywain’ collie and patches of red feature as signatures to this otherwise everyday rural scene.
In Turner’s thrilling immersion we’re pitched into the dynamics of mechanised invention engaged with great elemental forces . ‘Snow storm – Steamboat off a Harbour’s Mouth’ (1842) is an outstanding example of the artist’s innovative style. Turner claimed he was lashed to a mast so he could safely observe the scene. I mused to think how much more disorientating this kind of artistic vision would have been when first viewed by the public.
By way of contrast Constable reveres the age old crafts – boat building in a dry dock off the River Stour. Barges like this floated his father’s stores of grain to Flatford mill and beyond. They were the foundations of the family’s fortunes and are lovingly captured in this oil painting of 1815. Constable must have revisited his childhood self in such scenes. A warm memory, in his own words, of a ‘careless boyhood…which made me a painter.’
Constable’s studies of Salisbury Cathedral in different weathers are famous works, reminding us of his deep Anglican faith and concern for the church in the face of social and religious reform. I loved the attention to detail in this painting, commissioned by the bishop, seen at the far left of the picture with his wife. Constable’s celebrated portrayal of clouds and loose handling of paint would prove a major influence on contemporary French artists, helping to lay the foundations of impressionism. That would not have impressed his patron though, who we are told, disliked the conflicted cumulous and wanted a more serene sky.
My eye was more drawn down earthwards, to the creatures in the foreground. Like the work of the C17th Dutch master Aelbert Cuyp, Constable clearly had a soft spot for cows, and they seem to represent the kind of rural contentment and prosperity he so valued. The beast on the left, having just drunk from the river, drools water while on the right a house martin hovers to catch flies over the stream.
Turner travelled extensively all over Britain and ,during breaks in the Napoleonic wars, across western Europe too. He worked rapid sketches in different mediums. I liked this small notebook sunset from a tour of 1796-7 executed in gouache, pencil & watercolour.
Constable too was no slouch on this outdoor tour mission. Six weeks spent touring the Lake District in 1806 sharpened his drawing skills as this fine pencil sketch of Borrowdale shows…I wondered if he ever met the Wordsworth’s on his perambulations then? What a conversation the Cumbrian poet and his sister may have had with artist from East Anglia.
Turner’s association with Northumberland is reflected in a handful of paintings on show. ‘Keelmen Heaving in Coals by Moonlight’ is one. It’s not specified which Tyne river port of Shields – North or South – is referred to. The image is typically dramatic yet also has a melancholic tone. The keelmen transferred vast amounts of regionally mined coal from their barges (keels) to sail boats bound for London and other rapidly expanding industrial towns and cities. But It’s 1835 and the rapid spread of railways is already making transport by these means redundant.
At the other end of the county Turner was drawn both as a young artist of 22 and as an old master to the ruins of Norham Castle on the English bank of the River Tweed, the boundary with Scotland. He clearly loved the place and his views at sunrise were recalibrated from the infused romance of 1823 (above) to light drenched abstraction in 1845 (below). The latter interpretation opened the door to modernism and, by acknowledgement, the major contemporary art prize awarded in his name.
On leaving we emerged into a street lined with mature plane trees, their bare branch stumps rounded like boxing gloves, punching the grey London sky. After hours infused in great art you can’t help but wonder at these natural forms tailored to urban life, like an outside extension to the gallery…Wonder what JMW and John would have made of them?
Experienced the usual emotional mixture of pleasure and relief that this year’s ‘Shore Lines’ tour for The Border Readers had ended earlier this month. A pub’s not a bad place to come to the end of the road in and The Pheasant at Cumwhitton in the Eden valley is an exceptionally warm and welcoming hostelry.
Screenshot
The function room upstairs set out with tables and chairs proves the most intimate of surroundings for this final gig for myself and fellow readers Grace and Wynne. A bonus in having writer Linda Cracknell and her partner Robin with us. Linda’s short story, ‘Crossing the Bar’ was originally commissioned and broadcast by BBC Radio 4 in 2018, and was inspired by Tennyson’s classic poem ‘. I picked them up earlier from Armathwaite station on the fabled Settle – Carlisle line a few miles away. A beautifully preserved Victorian village station, wreathed now in a swirling mist, my friends the only passengers getting off here, who were more than pleased to see me emerge from the gloom. Very atmospheric indeed.
The Pheasant set up
Other highlights of the tour included a sell-out debut at The Gregson Centre in my former home town of Lancaster. A lively celebration, with family in the audience and readings shared with old pals and demi-paradise associates, Roberta and Helen. I use to captain the Gregson bar’s ‘B’ team, part of the city ‘s pub quiz league, so it’s a place dear to my heart.
Roberta Reads at The Gregson
I always assume our annual themed literary event to be a cost neutral production but this year, to make sure I was not kidding myself, I crunched the numbers and, lo and behold, that was indeed the case. Those calculations make no account of hours spent as producer – this is after all a retirement passion project – but in every other way it continues to pay for itself as a non for profit community based cultural venture.
Caught ‘Miniature Worlds’ the latest exhibition at the Laing Art Gallery, Newcastle a few weeks ago. It explores the intricate beauty of small-scale landscapes across three centuries of British art. (Intro at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgQf9zt3x7o&t=59s) There is work by Thomas Bewick (1753 – 1828) a particular favourite, thanks to my association with Cherryburn, the farm which was his childhood home in the Tyne valley, and which I’ve written about here in the past. Bewick’s exquisitely executed borderless wood cut vignettes and ‘tale pieces’ that accompanied his text about birds and animals he depicted were hugely influential in both artistic and natural history terms.
Other favourites took me back to an early love of literature gained through the great childhood classics, like Jon Tenniel’s unforgettable illustrations for Lewis Carol’s ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’.
And who can resist Beatrix Potter’s charming animal character studies in watercolour for those love-to-handle little books published by Frederick Warne in the early C20th.
The countryside around lies dormant now but the play of weather over it never ceases to impress. The changing climate has brought with greater unpredictability, with milder winter days and heavier rains. Bare branches reveal last year’s tiny nests of moss, feathers and grass.
Gardening tasks undertaken when weather permits include clearing banks of dead foliage, starting to prune, nourishing compost heaps, fishing surplus leaves from the ponds. With the help of a neighbouring friend, who brought his leaf blower to push the necessary oxygen, we had fun setting a bonfire in the field with cautious use of petrol to ignite the damp mass.
Neighbouring farms’ cattle and sheep are rotated around sodden pastures. My eye caught by the substantial red metal creep feeder which allow the shorthorn herd’s calves dedicated access through metal bars to get their fill of hay. A foretaste of Spring and the lambs to come. Flocks of ewes graze, rumps raddle marked by tups in harness. A Suffolk lords it in one neighbour’s field, A Texel in another and an old favourite from past years, Southridge’s Border Leicester in the field opposite us. BLT I call him. He’s always fearless and inquisitive when we meet so suspect he’s been used to handling from an early age. Curiously, there’s no harness on him, but has obviously been hard at work.
BLT
Bumping in to friends out and about we are related some hairy tales, disarmingly told with great humour. One person, out walking on remote hills to the north of the county succumbs to a heart episode caused by arrythmia which floors him. Ringing 999 he’s told to text a number. Rescue services precisely locate through GPS and a stand by air ambulance helicopter is swiftly dispatched to hoist and whisk him away to hospital in Berwick.
Walking to visit the neighbours t’other side of the fell
Our egg supply is down. The neighbour who supplies them says a badger dug a tunnel into the coupe overnight and wiped out over half the hens and ate what eggs it could find too.
A walk over the fell leads us to an artistic friends household selling home-made artefacts for Christmas, all on display in a cosy made-to-order shepherd’s hut next their cottage. We pop into the kitchen to pay and are invited to stay for another hour or so for a long overdue laughter loaded catch up over coffee and home made mince pies.
There’s a nearby lane, along which the long distance trail runs, narrow and undulating with dry stone walls, trees and shrubs either side. It boasts a good crop of haw berries popping red against a thick crusted layer of lichen. Benefits of not cutting back means a vital food source for birds while the presence of the lichen proving pure air quality in these uplands.
Kim in a flurry of home baking and making for Christmas so really looking forward to sampling what’s on offer. Here’s our Christmas best wishes to you and yours. Look forward to having your company on this occasional country diary page through 2026!
What is this life if, full of care /We have no time to stand and stare? / No time to stand beneath the boughs / And stare as long as sheep or cows From ‘Leisure’ by W H Davies
The four acres of rough grazing in before our house – the crags – has had no stock on it since the spring when the Texel tups were taken off so vegetation has grown dense and high. A word with our farming neighbour at Southridge and we wake up last week to a small herd of cows in situ.
They’re beef shorthorn and white shorthorn cows with respective calves. These native bovine cousins are well suited to this environment being hardy foragers on poor grassland, easy calvers and good milk providers with a docile temperament for safer handling. They’re not only happy imbibers of our edible garden waste but their hearing is acute enough to catch the field gate opening, suddenly appearing over the crags as leafy foodstuffs arrive in my wheelbarrow.
The Durham Ox (1802) by John Boultbee: A national touring attraction weighing 171 stones
Delighted to discover that Shorthorns had their origin over 200 years ago here in the north-east of England through selective interbreeding of Teeswater and Durham cattle. The breeders herd book, dating from 1822, is the world’s oldest and the Shorthorn proved itself as adaptable to milk production as to meat when most farms were smaller mixed use holdings. On a larger scale, from Argentina to Australia and north America the breed rapidly established itself through C19th pioneering settlement and today some 40 breeds of cattle worldwide have their genes.
It’s the Shorthorn bred for beef that’s best known now, as agricultural history post 1945 has greatly increased specialisation and boosted yields, undermining the mixed farming model. The strains of Shorthorn originally bred for dairy have been vastly outnumbered nationwide by the larger black and white mega milk producers that are Friesian/Holsteins.
We’ll drink to that!
The Higher Stewardship Scheme incentivises hill farmers to return to stocking native breeds. White Shorthorn in particular benefit as it is officially registered ‘At Risk’ by the Rare Breeds Survival Trust. Their endurance is in part due to the cows being put to (black) Galloway bulls, producing the Blue Grey beef cattle often seen across the borderlands. Originally known in the 19th Century as the ‘Cumberland White’ the breed has its heartlands very near us on the Northumberland/Cumberland border where the official society of breeders was founded at The Greenhead Hotel just off Hadrian’s Wall in 1962. Fitting then to have two of those distinctive white cows on our patch with their suckler calves sired in this case by a beef shorthorn bull.
In other news…A bumper year for apples so can hardly keep up at home juicing, pureeing or chip drying our orchard’s output. Recent moth trap reveals a fine example of seasonal camouflage with an Angle Shade demonstrating its October fallen leaf act. Volunteering in the garden at Cherryburn, I leave with some runner beans and a courgette from the take away table.
Enjoy a day trip to National Galleries of Scotland in Edinburgh for the wonderful Andy Goldsworthy retrospective. (showing to Nov 2nd). Here’s a detail from a recent ‘Sheep Painting’ of his created in mud and muck on dried canvas by action of flock in field round a mineral block, removed.
‘The colours, aromas, flavours, textures and the melody of laughter’
(Cabeco Trigal wine bottle label).
The Air B&B we stayed in had some very attractive features, being a modernised traditional dwelling with all mod cons, lovely outdoor open pool and extensive private grounds.
The lawn between house and pool had remained green despite the punishing heat, being the toughest of varieties refreshed by evening sprinkling and morning dews. Many long tailed blue butterflies were about while squadrons of house martins dived, dipped and sipped from the pool water, most thrillingly while I was in it, swimming alone. Jays were seen in the surrounding woodlands. Our lovely accommodation apart, the other aspects of the place had particular rural interest that made this establishment stand out from the crowd.
Cabeco Trigal is also a quinta (winery) and a smallholding with traditional breeds of sheep and pigs, alongside horses and llamas. The last features as the estate logo. Animal grazing being sparse it is subsidised with hay and grain. Sheep sheltering from the sun in the shadow of trees or the traditional horreo (granary). Pigs wallowing in mud pools, free roaming male peacocks punctuating the air with their screeches.
Tiago, the owner and our genial warm hearted host, is an architect by profession who lives with his family nearby. He specialises in repurposing industrial buildings and the tasteful conversion of this his family farm complex, including extra bedrooms in the adjacent barn cum workshop, succeeds splendidly in effectively blending old and new materials.
As temperatures climbed we appreciated even more the cool retreat three floors of indoor space provided, as well as the welcome shade of its wide wooden balcony overlooking the wider estate, with views across the hillside.
What especially endeared it to me was that house and barn were originally constructed of the light grey granite which defines the local topography. Growing up on the edge of Dartmoor this was a comforting reminder of that happy connection of time and place.
Our host is proud of his family’s long history in the Vouga valley. To honour the patrimony he embarked earlier this century on a multi-faceted passion project to reinvent what remained of a once grand estate, here at the cabeco (high place). Modernising the old farmhouse and repurposing the remaining land by switching away from arable (Trigal means wheat field) to develop and extend the existing wine production on artisan lines was central to that vision. Holiday rental income is the third aspect underpinning the enterprise.
Intense cultivation here, fully utilising the land’s south facing terracing, involves controlled animal grazing in the aftermath of harvesting and again in the spring to control weed growth. Tiago told us that the land here is not ideal terroir for wine production, being rich enough for grain but not for vines which thrive best on impoverished soils. And that’s the reason they cannot go organic. Minimal, though essential, chemical treatment is necessary to ensure successful growth of the new varieties of grapes they’ve planted.
We joined Tiago early in our stay in the workshop underneath the barn, standing amongst the stainless steel vats where the ‘22 and ‘23 harvests of merlot, pinot noir etc stand alongside the French oak barrels the vintages will eventually be transferred to for maturation. He consults throughout with Louis, his business partner and wine maker, who oversees the whole process.
That day Tiago was testing the grape juice to calculate how far off harvesting they were. His sampling tool logged a 10.5 degrees alcohol strength, not the 12 or 13 various varieties need to be at harvesting. (At the time of publishing that would be now.) Friends and neighbours join in to pick, sort and trample the grapes, earning their just reward in produce!
The metal press is used for processing the chardonnay, sauvignon blanc and other native Portuguese white grape varieties. Interestingly, the actual pressing utilises minimal weight to ensure longer extraction and subsequent subtly of flavour. It’s in the final balancing process that the skill of the experienced winemaker comes to the fore.
We understood there to be some 6,000 litres currently in production, which makes for approximately 8,000 bottles. These are individually sealed with wax by hand after labelling at the bottling plant.
Unsurprisingly you don’t find Cabeco Trigal wines on the shelves of local supermarkets where we noticed the average price of the country’s home product is around €8. Portugal’s main wine producing regions lie to the south and they produce there industrially at scale. No, these bottles cost around €20 if retailed locally and Michelin starred restaurants are the main customers.
We loved the distinctive quirky line drawings employed for each label. A bottle’s appearance should be an entree for the eyes and these do that. Here’s a translation of one of the key sentences on each label, which neatly sums up what they have set out to achieve.
‘On a hillside where the ancient wheatfields turn to lush vineyards that colour the bucolic mountain landscape, these are our wines in an environment of perfect co-existence with our people and farm animals’.
The much anticipated wine tasting with Tiago on our penultimate night was a convivial affair. The final evening we followed through on his recommendation and enjoyed delicious traditional specialities on the riverside terrace of a local restaurant. it was a pleasure to end that last evening with the remaining bought samples back home. Toasts was raised to the spirit of Portugal in general and one enterprising wine producer in particular.
‘Bussaco Forest cannot be described, the best is to get lost in it.’ Jose Saramago
Having been told about the Bussaco National Forest by my cousin who had visited recently we were keen to discover it for ourselves during this holiday. An hour and a half’s drive from base by good main roads and testing twisters through mountainous foothills led us to this unique walled in world, one of the botanical wonders of the Iberian peninsula.
We entered from the spa town of Luso via the Serpa gate, one of 11 gateways that punctuate the 5 K (3.1 mile) boundary wall. Only mildly alarmed when the keeper in her lodge warned us that walking any distance into the forest from the centre was entirely at our own risk due to the heightened possibility of wildfire outbreaks.
It would have been no great hardship to have spent our time in and around the park’s historic centre, which consists of a former royal palace cum luxury hotel (below), monastery, now a museum (above), formal gardens, café and visitor centre.
Although Bussaco was originally an early 7th Century Benedictine foundation the one we see today was established by the more austere Barefoot Carmelite order when they took stewardship of the buildings and park in the early C17th.
The brothers zealously set about gradually replicating the Holy Land’s Mount Carmel at Bussaco as a kind of desert, blending nature with God’s spiritual estate.
Many of their structures have exteriors distinguished by tessellated designs fashioned from quartz and adhesive tar while the interior of their monastery have coverings of native grown cork freely utilised to insulate walls ceilings and doors against winter cold.
The brothers ordered existence was rudely disrupted in September 1810 when the Duke of Wellington, commanding a combined mass of 50,000 Anglo Portuguese troops, based his command post in the monastery, using the monks cells for offices.
The British general’s army defeated Marshall Massena’s French forces here at Bussaco, halting their advance on Lisbon, a turning point in the country’s campaign of liberation from Napoleonic invasion.
The adjacent royal palace was built between 1888-1905 on part of the demolished monastery. Since 1910 and the fall of the monarchy it has been a luxury hotel, one of the finest in the land. Its initial architect, the Italian Luigi Mantini, also designed sets for grand opera, and it shows. What a brilliantly grand statement of opulence it makes to the world.
The obliging hotel receptionist let us take a look around the sumptuous ground floor. Large scale blue and white azulejos (tiles) decorate walls and stairs, some displaying the battle of Bussaco and others scenes from Portugal’s ‘Age of Discovery’ in the late 15th and early 16th centuries. At that time Portugal established its maritime trading outposts, stretching from Brazil to southern Africa, Goa in India to Macau off the coast of China.
The formal gardens provide a graceful unifying setting for the two contrasting buildings, although box blight and a certain faded glory added to a suitable sense of gentle decay.
The arboretum remains the true natural glory of the place. Some 400 native trees and shrubs grow alongside 300 specimens brought back home as the result of colonisation and exploration. Mexican Cypress, American redwoods, Chilean pines, many oaks, laurel, holly and ferns to hundreds of Camellia species are set around walks, steps, ponds, fountains, statues and other formal features – we saw just a fraction.
Leaving the formal gardens for an upper woodland walk, we found ourselves on the Via Crucis- a lane of dappled shade linking enclosed stations of the cross – eventually leading to a purpose built hermit’s house with enclosed yard, now an empty shell, one of three around the domain.
The stations house life size red clay tableaux, vividly recreating scenes from the passion of Christ. Hermit retreats and devotional stations were originally set up by the Carmelite monks shortly after they took over the estate in 1628. A number seemed to have suffered damage, adding an unintentional modern feel of abstract dislocation to the dramatic scenes of heightened emotion.
Later learned this damage was caused by a particularly violent storm that struck the area in January 2013, severely affecting both buildings and trees and recovery has been hampered by lack of funds and resources. The state took over Bussaco when Portugal’s monasteries were dissolved in 1834, and today managerial responsibility lies with a charitable foundation, which has had to fundraise widely to painstakingly restore the place.
Our stroll took us to another entrance way – not accessible to traffic – the Coimbra gate which yielded surprise vistas beyond the canopy, across the wide plain, to the Atlantic coast.
Lingered by the great doors, now ajar, and the currently unoccupied lodge house (sometime holiday accommodation) with its pink washed walls. Wondered at the wall sign, a papal bull of 1623 forbidding, on pain of excommunication, the felling of trees within the walls or the entry of women!
Historical misogyny apart, I warmed to this early attempt at nature conservation. An atmospheric spot inviting reflection and ease, one where time seemed to have stood still. Stepping out on to the terrace in the full glare of the sun, the bone dry brown grass crunched loudly underfoot, providing a reminder of the gatekeeper’s words on arrival.
Popular with the Portuguese themselves for its cultural and botanical importance, though less well known to foreign visitors, the Mata Nacional do Bussaco lives up to its reputation, inviting a return to sample further corners, in another season.
Recently returned from a week’s holiday in the valley of the River Vouga, mid-way between its outlet at Aveiro on the coast and the city of Viseu near its source in the Serra Lapa.
Like the other major rivers of Portugal The Vouga runs its 148 KM course from east in the mountains to the Atlantic in the west. It was once a major transport route for countryside produce; from wines, granite, metals and timber to fruit and other agricultural produce. (In the 17th Century most of their oranges were exported to England) By 1913, a train line had replaced the inland river boats, which in turn gave way to EU funded new roads that twist and turn above the Vouga’s sinuous green waterways. We enjoyed three separate outings sampling distinctive phases of the river’s flow and topography.
Took a fun day out to swell the ranks of other tourists milling around ‘The Venice of Portugal’, as the city centre of old Aveiro is dubbed. A major port in late medieval times it later became famous for commercial salt abstraction, fishing and seaweed harvesting.
Ria Aviero ecosystem image credit: CESAM
The extensive lagoon and dune ecosystem of the Ria de Aviero, as this estuarial stage of the Vouga is known, now enjoys international status as a major bird sanctuary, home to some 20,000 overwintering wildfowl, the most photogenic of which being pink flamingos.
Trips around the centre’s canal system are a must and the colourfully decorated flat bottomed barges – Molicheiros – that once carried seaweed, salt and general goods now carry human cargo on 45 – 60’ guided excursions.
Unsurprisingly, the last fishing lofts lining the canals have finally closed and are being developed into luxury waterside apartments.
Back on land we visited an Art Nouveau house, now a museum with fine decorative detail, one of many tasteful villas that reflect an early C20th era of increased wealth and pride amongst its leading merchants.
The other end of the Vouga could not be more different. Foreign tourists like us were in short supply here in the mountains, probably because of the limited visitor attractions to lure people up from the popular coastal strip and dangerously high summer temperatures. The Upper Beira region suffered badly last September from wildfires, causing evacuations and widespread disruption, and we sensed a nervousness even now, lest they return.
We stopped off at the Ribeirado dam and looked along the 14km long reservoir it created. It was built earlier this century to supply hydroelectric power, ease flooding and increase scarce water reserves. The road runs along the broad arc of the high dam wall, the power station and its infrastructure far below, where the river re-emerges. With the sheer valley walls either side the whole presents as a peerless study in concrete.
The brightest objects encountered in this uniformly grey spot were the red, blue and yellow recycling bins in the car park. Ominously, the control tower in the reservoir emitted flashing light and warning noises every few minutes. If this location were to feature in a future James Bond film or dystopian TV drama it would not surprise us. A perfect setting of its kind.
Another day we walked the middle reaches of the river. Was keen to access an upper trackway I’d clocked above the road while driving to our holiday accommodation nearby.
As suspected this was once a single track railway. Built just before WW1 it closed in 1980 and its repurposed state, the former Vale Das Voltas line offers superb viewpoints of the valley.
Our parking place by the road revealed a picnic table made from a single slab of local granite set under the awning of a mature horse chestnut tree. Masses of richly purpled convolvulus – bindweed – curled around the wood rails.
The track is understandably popular with cyclists, yet we only encountered four other pedestrians on our amble to and from the route’s spectacular highlight, the Santiago rail bridge at Pessegueiro do Vouga. It’s one of the highest stone masonry bridges in Portugal, with eleven arches and 165m high deck, gracefully spanning river and wooded slopes.
Our walk revealed a stark reminder of last year’s big burn. Blackened trunks and boughs in abundance. A contentious issue in these parts is the preponderance of silvery leaved eucalyptus trees, commercially planted to supply nearby works with biomass and extracted oils. That process is also understood to cause environmental air pollution.
This alien tree, of Australian origin, successfully sustains itself on steep slopes with minimum moisture and burns easily. Eucalyptus rapidly colonises cleared land post fire and is hard, if not impossible, to eradicate.
Our walk ended ‘off line’. Carefully crossing the white walled switchback of a highway, we descended to the quiet stillness of river bank and cooling shade of willow and alder that thrive here on its stony floodplain.
This middle stretch of the Vouga is officially designated a ‘Site of Community Interest’. That means minor blockages like weirs that present obstacles for migrating species of trout, eel, shad, barbel, lamprey or mullet are being gradually removed and in some places fish passes are being installed. Otters, birds of prey and many other species of birds and insects are also able to thrive here where human habitation is scarcer.
Delighted in encountering dragonflies and butterflies I waded barefoot in and allowed the hundreds of trout fry mingling in the sunlit shallows to continue feeding and flitting around my feet. A cooling calm end to our lovely lone amble under the afternoon sun.
We’re recently back from a celebratory weekend away, organised in secret as a gift to share with the significant other. Found a place near enough to drive to easily but far enough away to make for a proper countryside adventure. Some highlights then, as follows.
We arrived in Berwickshire, in the wide valley of the River Tweed and its tributary the Whiteadder, for our stay in the village pub at Allanton. All around the area huge combines, tractors and trailers were cutting, winnowing, baling and carrying off barley and specialist wheat. They continued late into the night, headlights glowing, growling over wide rolling fields with the lanes alive to traffic up to midnight. A fascinating contrast for us who live in the grassy uplands of west Northumberland where log lorries and tipper trucks loaded with gravel for forest roads are the big beasts of rural transport.
We sat out in the pub’s pleasant back garden with a refreshing pint before supper gazing over a scene of blond stubble and waving grain, shadows stretching to far woodlands, the land glowing warm under a setting sun. The Allanton Inn really is at the heart of its rural community. A family run business, part of an ecosystem of small independent local producers and suppliers, proud of their good food offer – from honey and ice cream to meat and eggs – as we were to partake of it. The perfect relaxed hostelry from which to explore this side of the border.
This is a land of big estates and large farms, the metal and concrete barns mostly modern and huge enough to properly house mountains of grain and straw. The population is much sparser now than it would have been in the pre-machine agrarian age. It’s extraordinary to note that within the radius of a couple of miles some of the great figures of the Scots enlightenment were born and grew up. These include the moral philosopher David Hume, geologist James Hutton and botanist and populariser of the tea plant, Robert Fortune.
Most touchingly of all is the story of the least known of these worthies and the revolutionary device he freely gifted to agriculture, one that would help fashion the arable landscape around us today. In the 1770’s local engineer James Small used a smithy on the former Blackadder estate at Allanton, using mathematics to experiment on different mouldboards, curvatures and patterns to produce his improvement on the ‘Rotherham’ cast iron swing plough. Previously many men were needed to work teams of oxen to pull a flat wooden plough while Small’s only required a pair of shire horses and a single ploughman to operate. Small even demonstrated his invention to ‘Farmer’ George III and his ‘Scots Plough’ was rapidly copied and developed by others as he not wish to profit from his invention by taking out a patent and sadly died in 1793 of overwork and poverty. Modern day embroiders have honoured his memory as James and the plough feature as one of the wonderful metre square panels in the Great Tapestry of Scotland, on permanent display in Galashiels.
Situated on the eastern edges of the Lammermuir hills, below the lofty summit of Cockburn Law and overlooking a steep valley sits Edin’s Hall Broch. It was the high point of a circular five mile walk we took over fields, through woods, along tracks and heathland paths.
We made two separate crossings of the infant River Whiteadder by ford and footbridge. Summer picturesque as the scene was, one could imagine the place when the waters were in spate. The road sign at Abbey St Bathans reminds drivers of the risks.
Brochs – ancient fortified tower houses – are usually found in the highlands and far north of Scotland so the one here is something of a geographical oddity. Our slow climb to reach it enhanced by seeing male wall brown and small copper butterflies basking in the sun and fluttering ahead as we climbed through swathes of tall bracken.
Dated to the 1st century AD what really lends Edin’s Hall broch a sense of wonder is that so much stone remains to define its walls, wide enough to incorporate chambers and stairs. The centre point gives a 360 degree experience of what was once a whole community’s secure home and stores, standing at least two levels high and probably roofed with timber. Hard by the broch are remains of later hut circles, ditches and ramparts. Awed as we were we couldn’t help wondering though where its inhabitants would have sourced their water supply, with not a spring in sight.
Picking up a metalled lane diving down into the wooded valley bottom we came upon this weathered sign at a hairpin bend. The only thing near a toot we heard on the descent was from the occasional whirr of spokes or tinkling bells as racing cyclists shot by with friendly waves. Like them we appreciated a rest break at the friendly informal tearooms in the old stables of the original village woodyard by the river. We can testify that the home baked fruit scones are superb.
Every few years sees us on a return visit to Berwick. A preamble along the massive Elizabethan ramparts leads literally ‘off the wall’ into the multi-storied Granary gallery, a former Georgian warehouse on the quay overlooking the three great bridges, monuments of different centuries, that carry road and rail links across the great border river.
The retrospective exhibition we’d come to see at the Granary was of the respected artist, teacher and plantsman Cedric Morris (1889-1982). We found it something of a mixed bag. His flower painting, especially of Irises, remain glorious testimony to his knowledge and ecological awareness. The best known self-portrait and studies of Parisian café life in the 1920’s insightful and sensual.
The art that really moved us though was on the seafront across the border at Eyemouth. In October of 1881 a terrible storm wreaked havoc on the Berwickshire coast, and 189 local fishermen were drowned, leaving behind 78 widows and 182 children. The town’s fortunes went into long term decline in the wake of this, Scotland worst recorded fishing disaster.
‘Widows and Bairns’ represents real people, arranged in groups above the name of their boats. Sculpted by Jill Watson and cast by Powderhall Bronze it opened in 2016. We watched visiting families stop and talk about the story. The best kind of public art, rooted in people’s history, powered in this instance by tragic drama to command our attention and stimulate conversation.
In the 21st century, the community here has been embracing eco based industries and sustainable tourism and this attractive harbourside town – like Berwick across the border – seems on the cusp of change for the better. The broader Eyemouth story is well told in the delightful volunteer run museum housed in a former church.
We also enjoyed taking a leisurely stroll along the narrow harbour around the mouth of the river Eye with its working fishing boats, quayside processing plants and local produce stalls. (kipper rolls anyone?) These merge with an array of smart locally based retail businesses (excellent Italian ice creams), the sandy town beach and restored stone jetty with its bright red handrails and fine prospect.
A little further up the rocky coast lies St Abb’s Head, named for a Northumbrian princess who founded a monastery here, now long lost, following her safe delivery from shipwreck. Fittingly a lighthouse, dating from the 1860’s and built by the Stevenson family (who else?), still casts its powerful light from the head. Unusually, it is tucked into the cliff below the lighthouse keepers cottages (now holiday accommodation) as the higher ground above and beyond has always been prone to mist and rain, obscuring vision at sea. Hence the red painted fog horn, seen below.
If we’d been here in late Spring we’d have witnessed the vast flocks of gannets, razorbills, gannets, kittiwakes and other seabirds that crowd the nursery rockfaces and for which the bird reserve is nationally renowned. Their guano, whitening the masses of red blue sandstone rocks, is striking but the birds and their fledglings were no longer in evidence this bright breezy morning in August. Instead masses of house martins dominated the clear blue skies above small bobbing boats filled with visitors tasking in the awesome sea level view of this spectacular headland.
Our return leg, mostly along the single track lighthouse access road, revealed a stunning surprise vista of more cliffs running northwards. Once out of the severe wind tunnel blast between those cliffs and St Abb’s head, the path drew us away into the calm serenity of a narrow fresh water loch in a ravine fringed with reed and sheltered by woods. The National Trust for Scotland run the excellent visitor centre in an old farm complex where we parked to start and finish our wonderfully rewarding four mile trek.
Mention the word ‘moths’ to people and I suspect the majority are likely to think about those nasty critters whose larvae consume clothes or chew carpets. I confess to being a bit indifferent to moths in general until I saw a humming bird hawk moth in my town garden years back. That remarkable encounter made me sit up and take note yet it wasn’t until I moved back to the country that I eventually got actively involved this spring in entering the world of the amateur lepidopterists.
There are some 50 species of butterflies and 2,600 species of moth in the UK. Roughly 900 of those are macro moths and the rest a bewildering range of micro moths, many virtually indistinguishable one from t’other to the non-expert eye.
Light Emerald Moth
Where to start when trapping and identifying specimens? Online research around the options makes for a good start. Thinking through what best suits your situation when matched with what’s affordable and you’re ready to proceed. There are three main types of moth trap, named after the experts who devised them. The Heath trap consists of a collapsible rectangular metal box with a funnel and fluorescent UV bulb. The larger Skinner trap has a slot entrance below the light. The Robinson is a large round, non-collapsible trap, most likely to catch and retain the largest number of moths. It’s also the most expensive to buy. I opted for the Heath model.
I nearly got a version powered by an extension run from the house mains. On reflection thought that a daft idea as the more places to set the trap of an evening around the garden (or beyond) would be a much better proposition. So I also bought a battery and charger. It’s proved a great investment, not only giving me pleasure as well as visiting friends and family, young and old alike.
My first and most numerous species caught, back in April, was ‘Hebrew Character’; so called from the dark marks on its forewings that look like letters in Hebrew script. They’ve now been replaced as most numerous by a scrum of large yellow underwings, clustering in a gang around the egg boxes I’ve furnished the floor of the steel box with.
Although Latin nomenclature is essential in classification worldwide it is surely the common names, reflecting archetypical characteristics, that catch the imagination and lodge in one’s mind. Here are a few favourites:
Burnished brass. Small, widely distributed, lover of damp places, feeds on low lying plants like red valerian, honeysuckle and buddleia…all of which we have in the garden. The wonderful metallic sheen on the forewings is a entrancing sight.
Wainscot. Named for resemblance of wings to the ribbed wood raised panels of interior walls, introduced in Tudor times. The caterpillars of this common moth feed on grasses and our meadow and surrounding pastureland provides ample acreage.
The Herald. Scalloped broad forewings and splashes of orange colouring give this medium size moth a distinct dynamic appearance hinting at speed with a purpose. It overwinters in barns and outbuildings and we have both. The caterpillars feed on willow trees and again no shortage of them hereabouts. Small resident birds like tits and robins we see working wands of willow in the spring are probably feeding on the larvae of the many species of moths and other insects that live there.
Riband wave. I love the poetry of the name reflecting the subtle patterning of its wings displayed when at rest, drawing on the imagery of a sandy seashore.
The Antler. The pale markings on the forewings resemble deer antlers. This medium size moth is at home here in upland moorland country, its caterpillars feeding on acid grasslands. The antler also flies in the daytime, feeding on thistles and ragworts.
Poplar Hawkmoth. Sure to wow any observer when first sighted. Varieties of hawkmoth, like their avian namesakes, spread their wings and the large size and studied stillness never fails to impress. Most of my specimens (or the same ones recaptured) feature when the trap is left near the mature poplar tree in the east end copse.
As spring turned to summer the moth count increased in variety and number. Warm, still, humid nights with good cloud cover tended to produce the greatest number of captives. I discovered that when the trap was set in amongst shrubbery and trees it upped the number and variety even more. Some species flew off immediately on opening the container in the morning but the vast majority remained static, happy to linger, having to be emptied out at the same collecting spot once recorded.
One morning one of the parent swallows nesting in the eaves above the porch where I’d parked the open trap, flew down and snapped up an unfortunate escapee as it fluttered skywards. Daytime insect feeding birds apart, bats are the main nocturnal predators, and these we see regularly so the numbers of insects must be high enough to sustain populations, which is good. Nationally, the situation is not so good. There’s been a worrying decrease in UK macro moth numbers in recent decades, much of that due to human activity, and that has had a knock on effect in the wider ecosystem.
So far I’ve identified around 50 species in this Northumberland garden. Use of the phone camera has proved invaluable as it utilises AI to help identify a subject by family or common name; a real boon to beginners like me. Bernard Skinner (he of the trap) produced ‘Moths of the British Isles’ handbook, a definitive colour identification guide, back in 1984. My updated ex-library copy is still invaluable too, with 1,600 of the UK’s moth specimens recorded, with very useful notes. There are lots of good guidebooks out there so well worth investing in one. Triangulate by visiting excellent online sites too, like Butterfly Conservation charity https://butterfly-conservation.org/ or joining a Facebook moth trapping group.
Buff tip and bark chips
A fascinating element of moth survival technique is camouflage. Some species I’ve come across when trapping are past masters at the art. The Buff tip for example. At rest its wings are held almost vertically against the body with two buff area in front of the thorax (body) at the tip of the forewings. Looks like a twig or chipping. Colouration varies but its favoured tree is birch, into whose bark it merges. On the wing from May to July, it’s one to marvel at.
A problem gardeners like us who have an orchard is probably more alarming than deadly. The apple ermine moth lays its caterpillars on apple trees. The ghostly tent like web that surrounds the larvae give protection from bird predation but the caterpillars devour the leaves and can denude the tree and restrict budding. I’ve had to carefully peel off and destroy the tent caterpillars found in our trees each spring.
Apple ermine moth and web
When I came across the handsome white ermine moths in the trap I mistook it for its cousin causing the problem so was relieved to discover the difference when looking it up. Appearances are more obvious when you see them together.
White ermine moth
The white ermine’s caterpillars live in webbed tents feeding on nettle, dock and other common vegetation. Apparently this medium size moth has few predators because it is highly poisonous. (But not to humans if touched). Like some other moth species they have another defence mechanism against predators; dropping, seemingly lifeless from their perch, into undergrowth beneath.
I’ll look forward to what the autumn brings to the moth mix. As one observer remarked, ‘trapping is like a lucky dip for adults’. For me it’s yet another strand to an understanding of the wonders that surround us in the world wide web of nature and the farmed environment.
STEPHEN TOMLIN 