Walking up hills
In a commendable effort to arrange some kind of social event that didn't entirely consist of going to the bloody local AGAIN, my brother and friend M organised an afternoon walking on the Malvern hills. For anyone growing tired of the Withnail & I lifestyle, I heartily recommend walking up a bloody steep hill - there's nothing like a good slog up a geographical feature to clear the mind.
In true Withnail fashion, my brother had seen fit to include three cans of Stella in his rucksack - I can't deny that it was enjoyable, but I felt like walking at least twice further, and there's really no hiking after beer.
That aside, upon gaining the top of North Hill we were treated to a truly beautiful vista of Herefordshire/Wales with rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds and shining upon the valley below, and a bracing wind that soon had my less sensibly dressed fellows heading for the hospitable valley below. Much photography took place, in particular of an anomalous patch of daffodils beneath one little tree on an otherwise bare hillside (perhaps a memorial of some kind).
(I forgot to mention that the train journey from Worcester Foregate Street to Malvern Link was blessed with haulage in no less godly a shape than a massive, growly HST pair - I insisted M stand right by the platform as it accelerated away, the whine of its cooling turbine ripping our eardrums to shreds - "That is actually bloody loud," he commented. "2,500 horsepower," I replied, feeling simultaneously smug and trainspotterish beyond belief).
After tasting the delights of nature we descended into the valley between North Hill and the Beacon, by way of St Ann's Well (aka Narnia - seriously, Mr Tumnus'd feel right at home) to Great Malvern and the most beautiful little pub garden, adorned with a flowering magnolia tree and the kind of old world charm that makes Americans and affluent Londoners piss themselves with sentimental property-purchasing avarice.
After some hectic navigation across the Link common in the darkness we managed to be in time for the train back to my bro's place, whence we retired to enjoy beer and cheap Cava, and the original director's cut of The Wicker Man.
A bloody good day.
Sherry? Sherry? Sherry.
In true Withnail fashion, my brother had seen fit to include three cans of Stella in his rucksack - I can't deny that it was enjoyable, but I felt like walking at least twice further, and there's really no hiking after beer.
That aside, upon gaining the top of North Hill we were treated to a truly beautiful vista of Herefordshire/Wales with rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds and shining upon the valley below, and a bracing wind that soon had my less sensibly dressed fellows heading for the hospitable valley below. Much photography took place, in particular of an anomalous patch of daffodils beneath one little tree on an otherwise bare hillside (perhaps a memorial of some kind).
(I forgot to mention that the train journey from Worcester Foregate Street to Malvern Link was blessed with haulage in no less godly a shape than a massive, growly HST pair - I insisted M stand right by the platform as it accelerated away, the whine of its cooling turbine ripping our eardrums to shreds - "That is actually bloody loud," he commented. "2,500 horsepower," I replied, feeling simultaneously smug and trainspotterish beyond belief).
After tasting the delights of nature we descended into the valley between North Hill and the Beacon, by way of St Ann's Well (aka Narnia - seriously, Mr Tumnus'd feel right at home) to Great Malvern and the most beautiful little pub garden, adorned with a flowering magnolia tree and the kind of old world charm that makes Americans and affluent Londoners piss themselves with sentimental property-purchasing avarice.
After some hectic navigation across the Link common in the darkness we managed to be in time for the train back to my bro's place, whence we retired to enjoy beer and cheap Cava, and the original director's cut of The Wicker Man.
A bloody good day.
Sherry? Sherry? Sherry.