Monthly Archives: September 2025

British history, Humour, Local History, Travel

Discovering Shrewsbury…

Although I’ve lived within 50 miles of this, the county town of Shropshire, for 20 years, I’ve never really had the time to look at it properly — always rushing for a hospital appointment, changing trains or dashing back for some imperative.

Last week we took my friend, Anne, to catch a train to Yorkshire — she had a tortuous journey ahead so, despite the traffic (we do not expect it in Wales), we opted to drop her at the historic railway station (above) where we ejected her unceremoniously and to much furious and unsympathetic honking. “No cars!” said the entrance to the carpark, “Bicycles only!” Nobody actually mowed us down as I hauled her luggage from the boot and we found the platform up 28 steps (lift out of order) taken at a trot with her heavy bags — fortunately the train was 3 minutes late and we had 15 seconds to spare.

Having found somewhere to leave the car legally, Bill had to buy a ticket which fortuitously brought him to the booking office where, having waved off my friend, I was wondering what to do next and where he might be — it seems for once the stars were aligning for a good day out!

Shrewsbury Prison is a smouldering presence above the carpark, built in 1793 by Telford, designed by local architect John Hiram Haycock and William Blackburn, advised by John Howard the famous prison reformer who looks down from his plinth above the gate. You can book a tour and even stay the night in a cell, “That’s an idea!” says I with my Granny hat on.

Here’s another famous citizen, Clive of India, getting more infamous by the day as we look at empire from a different angle now — still he hasn’t been toppled from his plinth yet.

The town is full of tantalising mediaeval alleyways– note how the common gutter has been replaced by festive commercial waste bins — I miss the piglets, dogs and red kites scavenging on the waste!

The marvellous market has moved indoors but still bristles with prime produce. As we amble around town the clouds are gathering and the tempting aromas start to emanate from the various eateries. Our noses led us to La Mer Rouge for delicious tapas and to watch the torrential rain in comfort. Behind the old market hall is the town museum and art gallery, irresistible!

Mermaids and dolphins vase, made by Walter Crane Maw and co, Broseley (Shropshire) c1889.

Also the findings from Wroxeter, the 4th largest city in Roman Britain (Vironium) just beyond the modern bypass — both to be explored in Granny hat.

Shrewsbury has been an important place ever since, at the gateway to Wales, a strategic and wool trading centre. Fortunes were made.

In Stuart times one of these rich wool traders, Thomas Jones, pictured below in 1615, married Sarah Ballard, the educated daughter of the Mayor of Chester. Thomas rose in the local hierarchy as an alderman, then Bailiff and finally Mayor in 1638.

At the beginning of the Civil War (1642-1651), one man, Francis Ottley, seen below with his family in 1636, was appointed Governor of Shrewsbury by Charles I, who called on him to form a regiment of foot. These were divisive times with mixed loyalties. He carried the town along the Royalist path. Francis was appointed Sheriff of Shropshire in 1644 and, as the tide turned, was involved in negotiating the surrender to the Parliamentarians in 1646 after which his estates were sequestrated. He paid a price for his loyalty to the Crown spending the rest of his life fighting to retrieve his estates at Pitchford. However, It seems he negotiated these treacherous times, relatively successfully as his family remained prominent after the war and for centuries thereafter.

It may be significant that Sir Francis Ottley had been criticised by Prince Rupert, when in power, for being too lenient with Parliamentarians — Perhaps that was his salvation… One never knows when the boot will be on the other foot! (personal note)

For all the above, the highlight of our visit was the discovery of the Castle Museum and the history of the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry, a magnificently curated museum deserving another visit and a blog of it’s own.

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Hill Farming, lifestyle, weather

Antidote to this dystopia

As Russia attacks Poland and Israel bombs Qatar, Bill goes to clean his teeth and shouts “there’s no water!”

“****!” says the householder, “the well must be dry!” Our well has never dried up but, I think to myself as I struggle into my waterproofs, it might have dropped below the outflow pipe.

“It is pouring with rain — it’s rained heavily all night.” says the man brandishing a dry toothbrush. “Surely it must be filling up fast.

“Airlock!” I shout, over my shoulder. Bill is busy filling buckets from the rainwater butts to flush the loos.

As I stride up the hill I think how low the reservoir was when we passed it yesterday. Here’s the track to our well, we cleared it in June but things grow rapidly here. In June, despite weeks of drought, the water was within 9 inches of the top.

Now I’m not even confident that I can find it — it has gone missing before. I flail my way through the bracken and brambles and here it is… and I have remembered to bring a screw driver to open the cover.

The level is a good 7 feet, 2 meters, down, but the outflow pipe is submerged, can you see it at the bottom of the loop of pipe? The rain is now torrential, I slide back down the steep slope to fetch the kit to clear the area so that I can find the pipe we put in to wash out the dastardly air that has been sucked into the pipe to break the siphon.

Some hours later… Soaked again

A couple of hours of hacking and chopping and the stop-cock and the priming pipe are revealed and their relationship to the well which I photograph to help find them next time. In fact, this whole narrative is about recording events for our successor or, to be truthful, as an aide memoir for ourselves. The stop-cock is down a dark deep hole, longer than my arm, I decide not to mess with it, even if that means all the water goes straight back into the well.

Back to the house for dry clothes and some toast and coffee. “The next phase should be easier as nowadays we can communicate using the mobile phones.” I say. Bill points out that we don’t actually have to open and shut taps to preserve water as we try to fill the half mile of butyl pipe between the well and the house, “it will fill the lavatory cisterns then stop.”

“Oh, I suppose it will.” I say, not convinced, “Still, I’ll take the phone anyway.

Now all that is required is a bucket on a long rope, a funnel and a shepherd’s crook to push the bucket under the water while not falling head first into the orange abyss. I switch on the phone to contact the controller in the house. Rain spots the screen, I wipe it, it goes off — I do this several times before realising that the battery is flat and that my pockets are filling up with water. I tie up the phone in a rubber glove.

Faced with another wet hike back to the house I decide to give it a try anyway. Buckets of water are hauled up, like pussy in the well, and poured into the funnel balanced in the open blue pipe without allowing further ingress of air, this involves nifty thumb work. After 3 buckets full, the funnel stops emptying and the pipe appears to be primed, I screw the cap on, without crossing the thread, difficult with my fingers crossed, and make haste, carefully, to the house, it is important not to break a hip while doing these things.

“The pipes have been gurgling,” says Bill.

Holding our breath, we turn on the kitchen tap… It splutters, it flows!

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