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To make up for my dilatory ways, I give you two landscapes. The top one is of a range of low hills to the west of the road between Ashley (no relation) and Medbourne in Leicestershire, just after crossing over the River Welland by the old single storey limestone station that stands by a row of tall poplars. The sunlight on Sunday evening was perfect, lighting up the clouds above the fields and woods as the sun started to sink down over the western horizon. There was an immense sense of calm, the still scene only interrupted by the odd crow flying home to roost. By contrast, the following morning was very bright and breezy with a classic blue sky and cumulus clouds just starting to tower over the Northamptonshire countryside. This is a lane that runs westwards from the hamlet of Wigsthorpe to the A605 Northampton to Peterborough road just to the south east of Oundle.
Many apologies for the non-appearance of Where's That Then?. Much is going-on in Unmitigated England just at present, and I awoke with horror this morning realising that I had neglected to furnish you with a puzzle pic. I think a revision of my working practices is in order, and hope that on the 'regular features' front there will be a more constant and regular supply coming through soon.
Off it goes. The world's oldest brand hoiked out and flogged to the Americans. It seems that Tate & Lyle aren't interested in sugar refining anymore. Which is a bit like Cadbury's saying they're not interested in chocolate. Oh no, hang on a minute....
So, we've apparently got until Wednesday to use up all those £20 notes with Elgar on them we've been hoarding under the futon. I thought they'd got rid of 'im years ago, and thought it an utter disgrace then as now. But here's a tale they won't remember. When the Elgar note first came out, it coincided with the house you can see in front of Worcester Cathedral being put up for sale. The estate agent quickly capitilised on the fact and made a big thing about it in the press. That's it really.
This will all seem incredibly self-indulgent (so, what's new) but it's hot and I thought you'd all like to see where I went yesterday. Eagle-eyed UE followers will probably recognise this fishing boat, because it's just about the only one left on the beach at Aldeburgh in Suffolk. I've been coming here since 1968 when I got both Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears to write their names on a postcard of Aldeburgh, and at the same time managed to get Mr.Britten to bang his head so violently on the boot of his white Alvis drophead that a load of crotchets and quavers fell to the ground outside the White Lion Hotel. The great thing about this little coastal town is that it hasn't really changed all that much in the intervening forty two years. Quite apart from the excellent fish 'n' chips down at the Slaughden end, cool pints of Adnams in the Cross Keys and music snobs swatting flies with the Telegraph, you can still buy fish straight out of a tarred hut on the shingle. This boat, Silver Harvest, caught a hundred lobsters at the weekend, and I took one of them home with me, together with some delicious green samphire. And I want to go back for more NOW.
Back with the itinerant Mr.Gullers, and a rainy day. But where? And who's that on the plinth supervising the car parking?
Whenever I say to anyone that my favourite film of all time (possibly) is Tom Jones, certain amongst them always start singing 'It's not unusual to be loved by anyone'. But of course those not given to this will remember perhaps that it's the film of the first great English comic novel, by Henry Fielding. I simply couldn't believe my eyes when I first saw it in the Picture House in Leicester. Directed by Tony Richardson in 1963, it was blessed with a script by John Osborne and photography by Walter Lassaly, every frame of which was (and still is) a great joy. It also went on to sweep the board at the Oscars. Most importantly it unlocked the door for me that opened up to reveal the immense possibilities that the English countryside had to offer, and, well, the rest is history I suppose. So this was the house used for the home of Squire Western, played by the irrepressible (and drunk) Hugh Griffiths. One memorable scene, filmed on hand-held cameras, followed the raucousness of a hunt meeting here, positioned as it is facing the end of a cul-de-sac that runs down from a magnificent church. Don't worry about the name of the house, only the village.
To make up for my dilatory ways, I give you two landscapes. The top one is of a range of low hills to the west of the road between Ashley (no relation) and Medbourne in Leicestershire, just after crossing over the River Welland by the old single storey limestone station that stands by a row of tall poplars. The sunlight on Sunday evening was perfect, lighting up the clouds above the fields and woods as the sun started to sink down over the western horizon. There was an immense sense of calm, the still scene only interrupted by the odd crow flying home to roost. By contrast, the following morning was very bright and breezy with a classic blue sky and cumulus clouds just starting to tower over the Northamptonshire countryside. This is a lane that runs westwards from the hamlet of Wigsthorpe to the A605 Northampton to Peterborough road just to the south east of Oundle. 
