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…are the quietest places under the sun.” A E Housman A Shropshire Lad
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Except there was no sun on Tuesday when we went to Clun, only rain clouds, bloated, iron grey, hanging in shrouds across the hills and pine woods; the lanes streaming with run-off from two days’ deluge; field hedges newly farmer-sheared to thorny starkness, the herbaceous version of a convict cut.
It did not matter. We were on an outing after several days indoors.
Clun is the next large village along the A488 between Bishop’s Castle and Knighton on the Welsh border. These days it is home to around 700 souls, and with or without sun, it is always quiet there, except perhaps during the Green Man Festival in May when I gather things may become a touch excitable. Once, though, it was a nexus, standing on the ancient drovers’ route out of Wales. You can picture it now, can’t you, the herds of cattle and sheep being driven on well worn paths to faraway markets in the Midlands and London; passing through many a town, the taverns en route places where news and other goods were exchanged. This then is essentially a Saxon landscape, later knocked somewhat into shape by the invading Normans, but all rooted in five millennia of farming life going back to the Neolithic period.
The packhorse bridge in the header photo is not that old however. It dates from the 1300s, leaving us with only 8 centuries of passing traffic to contemplate. But you do have to keep your wits about you when you cross, dodging the occasional speedy van-man, making sure you’re tucked into a niche before standing and gazing at the River Clun. In fact there is a local saying that could be said to confirm the necessity for alertness: “whoever crosses Clun Bridge comes back sharper than he went”. On the other hand, it may refer to long ago times when the crossing formed the link between Saxon Clun on one side of the valley, and the newfangled Clun of Norman interlopers on the other.
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There was a purpose to our visit on such a gloomy day. I recalled there was an ironmongers there – an all but disappeared facility on Britain’s high streets. Brasso was needed – a good old fashioned metal polish, and also dubbin for keeping the rain out of our boots.
And we found them both immediately when we opened the door and stepped back in time in Mr. Britten’s magic emporium. It proved to be the hardware enthusiast’s equivalent of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, including the glimpse of snug ‘Dickensian’ office beside the counter.
There might be no sun outside, but there was everything under it inside. On top of that, Mr. Britten proved the most engaging proprietor, a true gentleman. He told us he was happy to sell us two screws if that’s all we needed. We didn’t, but we appreciated the gesture, and said we’d be back when we did.
After that we mooched about on the High Street, were greeted as we went by passing locals, and also some nice dogs, found a good bottle of wine and sticky pastries in the Spar supermarket plus more welcoming encounters. And then headed for home. By midday it was almost twilight.
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So no, it really did not matter that it was such a dank and gloomy day. Human and canine warmth sufficed; another grand trip out and only a few miles from home.
The ruined keep of the Norman castle looking especially lugubrious. We will return for a sunnier exploration.
Tish Farrell 