Batsford Arboretum - A Potted History

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Last weekend I took a trip to Batsford Arboretum to see what autumn colours were on display in this Cotswold cornucopia of flora. As it happens, not a great deal, autumn is running pretty late this year, but there were very strong winds predicted for the next couple of days, so I wanted to catch what there was before it all blew away.

It’s the first time I’d been to the arboretum at Batsford, despite it being no more than a 40 minute drive away, I’d always opted to go to slightly further afield to Westonbirt, its bigger, grander cousin. But despite Batsford’s modest 56 acres, it’s still one of the largest private tree collections in the country, and boasts quite an array of species, including the national collection of Japanese Flowering Cherry.

The place has quite an interesting history, as the site not only contains the arboretum but also includes Batsford House, a huge pile of Cotswold stone that is still in private ownership, namely to the 3rd Baron Dulverton, so unfortunately is out of bounds for visitors.

Batsford House

Lake District Day 2 - Holes in the ground

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Up for sunrise once more, and I elected to go back to the same spot I had occupied the morning before, to see if the colours were more to my liking. So yet again, as I strode through the gloom, I thought how a torch would have been handy, and yet again, once I had reached Friars Crag, I made my way down the perilous embankment to the shoreline. But here’s the crucial difference, I made it down without banging, cutting, grazing or gouging a single part of my delicate person.

Job well done I mused, but then an alarming thought appeared unbidden, if I didn’t injure myself now then it was bound to happen later on in the day. So with that unpleasant logic beginning to smoulder in my brain pit, I thought it best to get it over with, at which point I promptly picked up a wellington boot someone had discarded on the shore and began bashing myself over the head with it.

So it was I found myself stood on the gentle, silent shoreline, as the dark of the night gave way to the soft, cool tones of dawns first light, repeatedly hitting myself over the head with a soaking wet item of rubber footwear.

Life is a strange old fruit sometimes.

Of course I didn’t do any such thing, it wouldn’t have worked anyway. Believe me, if I thought there was even a glimmer of hope along that particular avenue. I would have brought my own wellington boot along with me for the occasion.

I was soon setting up the tripod in anticipation of the morning light, and thankfully it didn’t disappoint. It was soon putting on a grand display of pinks and yellows over the distant fells. Alas it didn’t last long, and although I waited around for another half hour or so, it just became rather grey and ashen as the early morning progressed.

This was the last of the sun I would see all day unfortunately

Lake District Day 1 - Part 2

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After getting what I could of the sunbeams piercing the distant clouds, above the looming fells of Buttermere, I moved to the skeletal tree that sits on upon the mere’s northern shore and did what I do best. Actually that’s a lie, my twerking prowess is only unleashed within the hours of darkness and at very select locations, instead I did what I do passably middling, and that was good enough for me.

No visit to Butters is complete without a shot of this old man

Lake District Day 1 - Part 1

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I had arrived early afternoon the previous day, but thanks to the boisterous weather there was no chance of getting out with the camera. The visibility was next to nothing and the rain was relentless, so I didn’t fancy standing next to a lake and getting soaked. So I went into Keswick town and got soaked instead.

I met up with Sarah from Image Seen, who was running a photography workshop over the weekend, and with whom I had agreed to ferry some of the participants around for one of the days, while dispensing general advice on photography and Photoshop, whether they asked for it or not. And we repaired ourselves to Java & Chocolate where the coffee is always never less than decent.

After guzzling down our respective cuppas we headed out into the rain and made our way to Booths, that most resplendent of supermarkets, and one I have waxed lyrical about before, to pick up a bounty of grub for the workshop the next day. And as usual I was suitably impressed enough with their operation that they remained at the top of my favourite supermarkets list. While I realise that having a favourite supermarkets list is, let’s not beat around the bush here, tragic, I am in no doubt that the owners of Booths would be pleased as punch to know they lead it, and rightly so.

I spent the remainder of the day sprawled out on a sofa, suffering the gruesome and harrowing repercussions of an ongoing cold as it developed within my face, whilst hoping the next day would bring a more pleasing climate.

The deadly menace in our countryside

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I stumbled across this herd at the weekend, they had obviously just finished gorging on a fresh carcass, probably an unlucky sheep, or an unfit dog walker. But I could tell by the way they stared at me, their craving for flesh was far from sated.

I quickly made my excuses and got out of that field in double time. So take this as a word of warning, if you're in the Cotswold area just keep your eyes open, and always let someone else know where you are going.

These cows will kill and eat you.