Corbels and cats

[ladyofastolat]

Yesterday we headed off into Wales, stopping en route at Kilpeck Church in England. Kilpeck is famous for its Norman carvings. The church was built in 1140, and barely anything has been altered or added since then. It has an oval, raised churchyard, which apparently is characteristic of pre-Saxon customs. Since Kilpeck was part of the post-Roman kingdom of Ergyng in the 5th to 7th centuries, before getting eaten by Mercia, the site could date back as far as that, although the only pre-Norman thing in the church is a flower pot.

The main attraction is the carvings, especially on the door, the chancel arch, and 85 corbels ("NOT gargoyles!" as the guidebook sternly shouts) around the outside.

This saint, on the chancel arch, might be St Peter, but might be not be, since his key is pointing in the wrong direction, and there's no accompanying St Paul.



The next few are taken from the door, although the sun didn't co-operate enough to allow me to take a legible picture of the entire thing. In the lower part of the second picture, there's a shifty looking manticore. In the third picture, underneath the lion and the basilisk, is a mysterious chap wearing trousers (very unusual, apparently) and wearing a Phrygian cap. He's standing on the head of an almost identical friend. Nobody knows who they're supposed to be.







Then we have loads of corbels (NOT gargoyles), starting with a jolly looking sheila-na-gig, working through an early draft of Gromit and some very cheery chappies, until we get to the section of church which was carved by the local primary school children as an art project. Or so we concluded, since the quality got noticeable worse as we rounded the church, with the worst ones lurking on the dark northern side, where few would see them. The guidebook says they were carved by local masons, perhaps under the guidance of a visiting master mason from France. Presumably some masons paid more attention in the master class than others.













Adjacent to the church there's a Norman motte surmounted with the ruins of the old castle. We climbed the motte, but the ruins had been taken over by some very peaceful looking sheep, so we decided not to disturb them to read the small plaque on the wall. As we returned to the churchyard, we found that in our brief absence, a black cat - presumably one of the corbels come to life - had teleported onto our path and curled up, and was conveying the strong impression of having been there for HOURS. It enticed me into stroking its remarkably soft and shiny long, thick fur, then bit my finger. It then followed us around the church, where it kept walking in ritual circles around my legs - almost touching, but not quite - before waiting until we were looking upwards at its stone-form cousins, then curling up in our path, barely inches away from our unseeing feet.

We escaped its traps eventually, and made it to Wales, where at Grosmont, we met its Welsh cousin: the off-white beast of Grosmost. It, however, was far less successful its in magic than its black English cousin. It was one of those long-haired cats that looks as if it's run fast unto a wall, and is very grumpy about it. It shyly pressed its snub nose up to my finger, then ran away.

Grosmost Castle is one of the Three Castles, all built in early Norman times, and under the same ownership for most of their history. Grosmost is the smallest, but was at least tweaked in later centuries, as you can see from the tall chimney that dominates in the middle.



I forgot to photograph Skenfrith, but it shouted CASTLE! in its rawest form: a solid outer wall, with towers and no windows, and a solid round windowless keep in the middle. It was far too manly a castle to allow anything as namby-pamby as a solar or elegant living quarters. Even the kitchen was "late medieval or uncertain," although I'm not sure if I would like to have my food made in an uncertain kitchen.

Then to White Castle, which is the largest and best preserved of the Three Castles. It also had a resident cat, who allowed many strokes before revealing its magical power: the ability to teleport instantly onto any picnic table occupied by anyone eating lunch, and, if pushed off, to teleport instantly back again, and to repeat this whole sequence endlessly.



We'd planned to climb Skirrid first, en route to Sugar Loaf, but the car park was full, so we went straight to Sugar Loaf, of which there is little to say, except that it's a very pleasant climb. At one point, we dithered so much about two alternative routes that we resolved it with a coin toss. I record this here merely because I remarked that if HIDEOUS DOOM struck either path at any point in the rest of our lives EVER, we need to be able to go to the press and talk about our lucky escape.







The weather was beautifully summer-like all the way, except for about five minutes as we started to descend, when winter came with a bitter chill, and it was COLD. But the Dark Lord passed over us rapidly, and summer returned. Except on Skirrid, which lowered darkly in the distance, and reminded us that we had made the right choice.



We descended by a longer, more roundabout route, in order to stop at a tea shop in the grounds of a beautifully situated vineyard. The only trouble with that was that the vineyard was far lower in the valley than the car park, and we shared a pint of cider with our tea. Cider, as I have discovered before, has a magic effect on the knees when consumed on a walk, and when you then present those knees with loads and loads of close-together contours, the knees shout "NO!" We were overtaken and far outclassed by an elderly gentleman who paired his serious hiking gear with a jacket and tie. But we conquered those contours in the end, and headed back to Hereford and dinner.