Snowdonia: The Enchanted Forest – Death & Destruction

Posted on February 24, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

On our third day in Snowdonia we awoke again to brilliant sunshine. Despite the hard frost that had turned every surface a sparkling white it did not seem especially cold for there was no wind. A walk to the ‘enchanted’ forest beckoned, a great favourite of ours for it is a magical place with its mossy hummocks, hidden waterfalls and lichen encrusted conifers. It is a place of total silence apart from the sound of water and ravens croaking overhead.

There is an old track that leads to the forest made by the miners that quarried for slate a long, long time ago before the trees were grown, for this is naturally a barren landscape of rock and bog and heather and bilberry. The trees were planted – non-native conifers – in rows so that the forests appear from a distance as odd shaped rectangles stuck onto a landscape, rarely looking part of the natural scheme of things. They support little in the way of wildlife either, perhaps a little shelter for some passing deer but nothing in the way of food apart for the flocks of crossbills that occasionally winter here feeding on the cones. Yet, despite all these negatives, the enchanted forest is well, enchanting.

Not anymore. We reached the forest gate but, apart from a few trees clustering around the entrance as if trying to escape into the more open spaces beyond, there were just a few damaged and sad looking individuals, all their companions having been clear felled. It was a shocking sight, looking as if a tornado had ripped through them, leaving just rows of broken stumps and, occasionally, an upturned root ball. Sadder still, the tussocks and moss covered mounds that created the ‘Brothers Grimm’ feel had all been destroyed with them. Instead of walking through a cool tunnel of overhanging branches we ventured along a broken landscape; there was not one section recognisable or familiar.

Now it is quite possible that the original landscape will be restored as part of the overall long term plan, for Snowdonia is a National Park. Or, perhaps, the forest will be replanted or allowed to regenerate from self-sown seedlings. Having got over the initial shock of seeing the landscape looking at its worse, I hope it will be the former. The trees really are out of place here and, for the first time (if you can see beyond the devastation) there are wide, uninterrupted views of bleak, harsh mountainside – Snowdonia as it should be.

Whatever the outcome, it will be interesting to watch how nature repairs itself. One thing is quite certain: the landscape will never look the same in my lifetime. Perhaps it may look better?

To see more of the enchanted forest in all its former glory, click on the link here.
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Where’s The Snow in Snowdonia? (Only in it’s name)

Posted on February 13, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

We have been back to Wales for a week’s holiday staying in a remote converted chapel belonging to a friend. It is good to be back for the isolation is complete – no cars, no houses, no roads, no broadband and no television. Well, there is television but being rather impatient with non-living things (and also quite a number of people that just might fall into that category) I cannot be bothered to work out just which of the several remote controls switch it on. But best of all – and rather surprisingly considering all the dire warnings we have been given by the weathermen – no snow.

Last winter when we were here, a blizzard struck the day we arrived. Gradually, as the supply of logs and oil for heating dwindled and the water supply froze resulting in our collecting it from the stream outside, our resolve and sense of fun also started to diminish. Put it down to advancing years: in my twenties or thirties I would have considered it to be ‘quite a laugh’. Not so these days – I could cope with the water and lack of central heating but I am not so good when the wood burner isn’t blazing away. However, we saw Snowdonia last year as few visitors do; a snow covered landscape with more falling so thickly that it was difficult to see, when out walking, where either my partner – or more importantly She-dog – was even though they were just yards ahead of me.

This year it was different, we left home with the (as it turned out, innacurate) knowledge that we were driving into blizzards and we hoped that we would reach our destination before being marooned, despite having to travel over two high passes and up a track steep enough to make a mountain goat think twice before tackling it. This time we came prepared with a vast amount of food and with three times the amount of warm clothing that any two people could wear over an entire winter. As we reached the town of Shrewsbury the forecast rain began to fall; it would only be a matter of time as we entered Wales and gradually climbed in height that it would change to snow. The rain grew steadily heavier and the road ever steeper until we reached the first summit and, surprise, there was not a hint of whiteness anywhere. The second pass, higher still, was similar although the surrounding peaks did have a dusting of snow. We reached our destination with the rain still falling and the temperature ever rising – it was now fifteen degrees warmer than when we had left home in the Cotswolds, further south and many hundreds of feet lower.

The next morning we woke to sunshine, having no guilt about not getting out of bed in darkness at some ridiculously early hour as every other day of our lives. Looking out of the bedroom window, the surrounding mountains still wore their apology of snow – it was a scene from the end of March or even April. The calls from concerned Cotswold friends telephoning (we still have one piece of technology that works here) to confirm our safe arrival quickly turned to irritation when they discovered we were fine and they were blanketed in five inches of overnight snowfall. It was hardly our fault that they had to work twice as hard at looking after our chickens and horses in our absence and, it seems, my suggestion that carrying buckets of unfrozen drinking water out into the fields was a good daily exercise did not help.

Last year She-dog had a thoroughly enjoyable holiday here as well. Like most dogs, she revels in human company and snow and her days were spent in a mix of snowy walks and long uninterrupted periods of sleep in front of the fire. This time we are here on our own. It has been commented on that She-dog has not featured much in recent posts – all that is about to change for she has gone away on an adventure of her own: if all goes well, in about ten weeks time she will be having puppies once again and, this time, we might just keep one for ourselves.

Writing Words of Silence

Posted on January 29, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

I have exchanged a couple of comments recently with ExmoorJane after one of her posts got me thinking. I spend a lot of my time thinking, it goes with the day job. Now these thoughts are not usually high powered for I don’t spend my working hours in a dynamic office environment; I spend them – often on my own – in the real, green environment. And that’s the problem: there are so many things to distract me. A few days ago it was the fault of the jackdaws – they suddenly had realised that spring is around the corner and were in full display flight, tumbling and diving and generally making an awful lot of noise. So I spent far too long wondering why I hadn’t noticed their courtship before.

Yesterday it was the fault of the snowdrops and the winter flowering aconites. They are to blame because they are in full flower a few weeks earlier due to the unseasonably mild winter we have had so far. Some years ago I organised a visit to some gardens renowned for their display of snowdrops and we had to search hard to find one in flower – that was the 10th February. Nature, like some people, can be fickle. The photo below shows a different garden’s snowdrops: it is the garden of what I call the ‘reincarnation’ house. They are at their best now.

The aconites were more fully to blame. Seeing the hundred or so yellow blooms staring up at me from the foot of our garden hedge made me decide to take a walk as, not far from our little cottage, further down the secret valley lies a very special woodland. At this time of year it is a yellow carpet of flowering aconites, an extremely rare sight for they are not native to this country. No-one knows by whom or when they were planted for there is no sign of there ever being a house nearby; they are of no value as a commercial crop unlike snowdrops that were sent to London in bunches for selling once the age of steam made it possible to transport them quickly.

But all this pondering can most squarely be laid at Jane’s doorstep. In her post on writing she mentioned that she sometimes writes just for the sheer pleasure of seeing words and thoughts on paper. Then, satisfied, she destroys the work for there is no need or desire to share it. I thought only people that were mad – or, at least, people that were a bit dotty – did that.* And, insecure person that I suppose this shows me to be, I thought I was the only one that ever fitted this description and did such a bizarre thing. This is why I started writing a blog: I came to the conclusion it would be quite nice to keep my work somewhere secret so that I could look at it from time to time. I decided Blogger would be quite a good place to store it, along with a few favourite photos. I knew, of course, that the world in theory could see it but why would anyone want to stop and read something that I had written? It never occurred to me that some of you might do so and some even come back regularly for more. So on my way back from the aconites I was visualising Jane and myself scribbling away and ceremoniously (for it always seemed to be part of the ritual) tearing up the sheets of paper with our precious words on them.

I had walked along our little winding river to reach the wood but struck off over the hill for the return home. This route always fascinates me because, from the top, the valley is totally invisible tucked away deep within the folds of the landscape. One moment the ground almost appears flat and then, suddenly you are looking down into the secret valley. The slopes are steep and grazed only by sheep, wild deer and rabbits and are, later in the year, awash with wild flowers of all kinds, including rare wild thyme, the subject of one of my earliest posts. I sat myself down to admire the view, for I never tire of it despite seeing it every day, and pondered on what gives a person the desire to write, to play around with words, arranging them and rearranging them for hours on end.

And then this thought came: what do you do when words just aren’t adequate to describe the sights or the emotions? How do you describe the indescribable? Take a photograph – after all, a photo is supposed to say a thousand words. But what if a thousand words still aren’t enough? What if ten thousand words still aren’t enough? Besides, an image only allows the viewer to create their own words, it can never convey those that the writer might be thinking. How do you describe the intangible? So I sat on the bank, looking across the secret valley, muffled up against the chill east wind and came to this simple conclusion – the only way out of this conundrum of how to express these silent words is to write a post about it.

* Well, I thought she did but I can’t see it now. Perhaps I am dotty, after all :-{

PS Don’t forget you can find me on Facebook now and get regular updates from the secret valley

New Year in London

Posted on January 21, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

Perhaps it is because London will be hosting the Olympic Games later this year that the capital seemed rather quiet and devoid of people and traffic when I visited it at the beginning of the month. Although it lacked its usual ‘buzz’ it did mean more comfortable walking and it was definitely easier to catch a taxi. I imagine when the Games are in full swing you will not be able to move for people and public transport of any type will be crowded.

We tend to follow the same plan when we visit; not because we want to play safe, it is just that we cannot bear to miss a morning coffee and an almond croissant at the Bluebird cafe. A slow walk up the King’s Road with it’s exclusive shops and boutiques brings you to Sloane Square – just in time for lunch. This time we found, to our dismay, that our usual dining spot had closed down so we tried the Botanist, almost opposite, instead. It proved to be a good choice for the food was excellent, as was the service. My biggest criticism of it is its name which, of course, with me being a ‘planty’ person had rather appealed. The decor consisted mostly of pictures of insects so we now refer to it as The Entymologist instead.

A taxi ride took us to the National Portrait Gallery. One of our New Year resolutions is to take in a bit more culture as we are becoming rather reluctant to move out of the secret valley, generally preferring the peace and quiet of the rural life. A trip to ‘the smoke’ from time to time is just what’s needed to stop us from becoming complete country bumpkins. We hadn’t allowed enough time to look at the pictures in any depth – we really need to visit when we are not being dictated by the thought of food. A mental note has been made to visit again quite soon, that time bypassing the restaurants ….. Mmm, we’ll see.

When we came out of the gallery daylight was fading fast and London appeared to have renewed energy. Somehow a city at night with all it’s lights seems a more exciting place. I seemed far more aware of statues, theatres and red buses – I’d forgotten just how much I like cities! I’ve never lived anywhere other than in the country and I’m not too sure how I would fare if I suddenly found myself in one permanently. Not too well, I would think.

Another taxi ride took us to my favourite London store; favourite perhaps because it is another food place. Forget Harrods, which I’m afraid I dislike intensely, give me Fortnum & Mason’s anytime. The Christmas windows and decor were still in place but even without those, F & M exudes quality from every pore – or do I mean from every chocolate?

Who could possibly bite into these white chocolate bears, though?

The first thing I do when I enter the store isn’t to think of my stomach, surprisingly, as I am surrounded by goodies to eat. I always go to the central circular staircase and lean over to look down which is dramatic, then descend down the old wooden staircase which is equally full of character.

A wander around the coffee and tea halls with their wonderful aromas is another must.

The store has a reputation for making some of the best hampers in England. I was lucky enough once to be given one for a Christmas present and it was such an exciting treat unpacking it and seeing what all the tins and shiny wrappers contained. I was rather taken with their picnic hampers but there would be no point in us having one: although we picnic rather a lot because of our outdoor life, they always end up big social events. What starts off as a casual chat with a couple of friends snowballs and it is not unusual to find twenty or thirty arriving to enjoy the feasting. Fortunately they usually bring food and drink with them too. If we had a Fortnum’s picnic hamper it would have to be a quiet, small affair – just the sight of the baskets conjures up images of check tablecloths laid on the grass, eating in the shade of the willows down by our little winding river.

And what would a visit to Fortnum’s be without having one of their splendid traditional afternoon teas? By the time I had forced down two scones with strawberry jam and Cornish clotted cream and cake, all washed down with a pot or two of Orange Pekoe tea it was time to think about returning home.

If we were lucky and didn’t get held up in traffic jams we would be back in the secret valley just in time for supper. I think a belated New Year’s resolution ought to be excercise more and eat less …..

PS Don’t forget you can find me on Facebook now and get regular updates from the secret valley

First Build Your Bank ….

Posted on January 8, 2012 by johnshortlandwriter

Some time ago I was asked if I could plant a hedge. Straightforward enough, I thought and as it was to be a native hedge, I was especially keen to do it. Using only native species is always a pleasure for not only are you maintaining a tradition that is centuries old, it is also excellent cover for twentyfirst century birds and animals.

It was only when I went to visit the site that it was mentioned that it would be rather nice if the hedge could be planted on top of a bank, reminiscent of those that are found in the West Country counties of Devon and Cornwall.

West Country banks use large amounts of stone in their construction and were built to protect livestock from the gales and snowstorms that sweep in from the Atlantic. Over time they become encrusted in lichens and mosses with ferns, primroses and other wild flowers sprouting from every crevice. They are usually topped with a beech hedge or, sometimes, gorse (or furze, as they call it on Exmoor).

The bank that I had to build was to be similar but faced with turf which would not be as strong. As it was to divide two halves of a garden and (hopefully) not have to keep out determined sheep or cattle, this didn’t matter. The thing that did matter was that I had to build it in a way that would prevent it from falling down …..

I’ve always found that if you want to create an impression bring in a digger. There is a morbid fascination in watching a digger at work for the destruction can be immediate and swift. It certainly would have been if I had been in charge of the controls but, as is so often the case, when you need an expert it is better to bring one in. I know where I am when it comes to shovels and forks and trowels but it is best not to let me loose with all those knobs and levers.

The ground cleared we were then able to lay out and start building the bank. We imported the rubble and clod for the base which after being well rammed and compacted could then have a top layer of better quality topsoil spread over the surface. All was held in place by large mesh chicken wire netting.

Next came the turf and this was laid direct onto the netting and held in place with hazel twig ‘pegs’. These would gradually rot but not before the turf had grown its roots through the wire. The netting, too would quite quickly rot (we didn’t use galvanised for we didn’t want it to last for years) and, by then and fingers crossed, the bank would be quite stable and self supporting.

It was with some trepidation when, a few weeks later we cut the top of the turf and the wire out so that we were able to prepare the bank for planting the hedgerow; especially so as we had had some torrential downpours giving me anxious moments about landslips and mudslides. All, fortunately was well.

Having plants delivered, I find, is always an exciting moment. It reminds me of when, as a child, I waited for Christmas morning and couldn’t wait any longer to open my presents. Despite knowing what is coming out of the van, each plant or variety is met with little gasps of delight. The thrill of knowing that, with luck, they will thrive and continue to grow for many years and may even be there long after I’ve been buried and forgotten is great.

The hedgerow was not the easiest thing to plant but the end result was pleasing. The final combination was Hawthorn, Field Maple, Wayfaring Tree, Hazel, Dog Rose, Spindle and Hornbeam with an occasional Honeysuckle to fill the evening air with perfume. The birds took to it straight away and, in my imagination at least, mice and voles shelter amongst the trunks hiding from mirauding stoats and weasels. Best of all is the knowledge that, a few years on, the bank is still standing!

Christmas 2011

Posted on December 24, 2011 by johnshortlandwriter

Many thanks to all of you that have read and followed my blog during 2011. Despite the dire weather predictions, the secret valley is having the mildest Christmas for years. Instead of extreme cold and deep snow as forecast some weeks ago, the sun has been shining and the temperature has risen to +13C. I’ve had to rely on a snowy photograph from last winter!

Wishing you all a very happy and peaceful Christmas

Flowers at Christmas

Posted on December 19, 2011 by johnshortlandwriter

I know that it isn’t technically Christmas yet for we still have a week to go. Despite the last few days being cold and frosty – and very beautiful with bright sunshine and blue skies, I have been surprised at just how many flowers are still blooming away when it is almost the end of the year.

A combination of unseasonably mild weather for most of the time and, of equal importance, very little rain to knock the blooms about has resulted in all sorts of odd floral combinations. Of course, I realised as soon as I started to write this post that I hadn’t bothered to carry my camera around with me so most of the flower photos have been taken at some other time.

Cowslips and primroses: It’s not especially to see the occasional primrose in flower in the garden but I don’t ever remember seeing cowslips flowering in December in the wild before. It will be a good few months before we see carpets of them like these but seeing the odd two or three reminds me that spring is not so very far away. In the newspapers there have been reports of daffodils in flower too.

Forsythia: Another spring bloomer and again just the odd flower rather than branches being smothered in flower. Perhaps not so surprising, as flower arrangers would know – the tight buds that cluster along the bare stems will burst into flower early when brought into the warmth of a house in a similar way to the ‘sticky buds’ of the horse chestnut bursting into leaf indoors. Here, forsythia has been trained as a tightly clipped shrub to screen an ugly garage wall, the warmth and protection of which also makes the flowers open a week or two before normal.

Ferns: Some of the shabbier looking ferns had been cut dowm to ground level as part of the autumn tidy. I hadn’t expected them to burst back into growth …..

Violets: There have been a lot of violets out, both in the garden and in the hedgebanks of the secret valley. Is it just coincidence that these out-of-season blooms have all been mauve with not a white flowered one in sight?

Daisy: There have even been odd wild daisies flowering in the lawn (we have mowed twice this month too). The Erigeron daisy that you see growing in profusion amongst the ruins of ancient Rome has been flowering in our garden as if it was still midsummer; it is smothered in blooms.

Geraniums: The hardy herbaceous sort. Like the ferns, they had been given the chop some time ago but are coming back into leaf and flower. Some of the hardy salvias are doing the same thing.

Mallows: I have seen hollyhocks still in flower on my travels around the Cotswolds. They are majestic when they are grown well but my favourite of all is the musk-mallow, Malva moschata, which is a wild flower that is often brought into gardensl. I grow both the pink and the white versions and they self sow happily in the borders without ever becoming a nuisance. It wouldn’t matter, you couldn’t have too many!

Roses: There are nearly always roses out on Christmas Day and we always exclaim how extraordinary a sight it is. They are poor, wet, bedraggled specimens carefully left in place by even the hardest pruners as a reminder of warm summer days. For the most part that is the case this year too. What we don’t expect to find are bushes smothered in beautiful blooms still wafting scent but this is the case in one rose garden I attend. I am uncertain as to the variety but there are three of these amongst forty other bushes – all shrub roses. They really are a joy to see.

I can’t believe that this state of affairs will last much longer. Surely the frost and rain, or even snow, will get them soon. I plan to wait until New Year’s Day and go walking armed with camera, pen and paper and list all that I see. I have intended to do this every year for as long as I can remember but if I manage it this time, I will report back. And, as this will almost certainly be the first of 2012’s resolutions to be broken, perhaps you would do the same and send me the list.

Now on Facebook

Posted on December 17, 2011 by johnshortlandwriter

Life in the English Cotswolds is moving into the twentyfirst century! It can now be found on Facebook.

Click the ‘Networked Blogs’ link in the column – it’s found on the right side of the page.

What A Difference A Year Makes

Posted on December 8, 2011 by johnshortlandwriter

The British are always going on about the weather and I’m no exception. My very first words upon waking are “What is the weather doing?” and my final words before sleeping are “What will the weather be doing?”. I make no apologies for this: it’s part of our make-up as a nation. It’s because, I was once told, that whereas other countries have seasons, Britain just has weather. It’s not quite that simple, we do have seasons – Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter – just like any other temperate country, it’s just that in the UK they get a bit muddled up.

I write this, snug in front of the woodburner – not that much heat is getting past She-dog who thinks this has been lit solely for her pleasure and comfort – listening to a gale rattling the window panes and whistling around the eaves. The rain is lashing down and there is absolutely no need for me to ask what the weather is doing this evening. However, I have been told that I have said “Listen to the weather” several times. I could have said how remarkable it is that only yesterday I had my lunch sitting in the garden. Yes, really.

I should admit that I am a hardy sole as I work outdoors all year and so am less affected by cold than most and I also should admit that I was wearing a coat and gloves and sitting in a sheltered, sunny spot. Regardless of those finer details, yesterday I commented how last year to the day we were up to our necks in snow in the worst wintry weather the Secret Valley had had for years. And, even more remarkably, the snow came when you would expect it – in midwinter but (and there’s always a ‘but’ where British weather is concerned) in the Cotswolds we rarely get snow before January ….. But it was still rather remarkable to be sitting there, surely and remark worthy?

What is even more remarkable is that all of this week I have been planting out herbaceous plants and laying turf; late even by our odd climate standards. We have had frosts: there were three quite hard ones in October, then none until the last week of November and then a couple more last week and none since. In between, we had two weeks of warmish air and thick fog which was enough to make even me depressed.

The spirits, even on those damp, grey days, were uplifted by the huge array of flowers that have reappeared. There are always a few late roses hanging on determinedly until Christmas Day, looking bedraggled and ragged but not this time. Some of them have given up but others have almost as many blooms as midsummer. There are pots of herbaceous Salvia nemerosa ‘Mainacht’ that have regrown after their end-of-season haircut and are in full bloom once again. Primroses and cowslips are showing colour. Today I counted over twenty different summer flowering plants still going strong. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, I really mean showing the odd flower or two. All the plants have become muddled so we have Winter Jasmine as you would expect but not alongside spring flowering Forsythia. And we have evergreen, flowering shrubs such as Viburnum and Sarcococca as we should have at this time of year – but not alongside the newly unfurling purple leaves of Cotinus cogyggria. Where, or more to the point, when will it all end? Possibly quite soon.

It isn’t just the garden that is confused. On the farm the cattle are still out grazing the fields. They should be inside by now but with plenty of grass still available in the fields they can be out for a little longer.

While I am here writing about a bit of wind and rain, the north of England and Scotland, in particular, are bearing the brunt of 100mph gales and heavy snow. Perhaps we are quite fortunate, after all. The rain here is only supposed to last a few hours and tomorrow is forecast unbroken sunshine once more. Which reminds me, I really must start talking about the lack of rain we have had in recent months. The little winding river is running lower than it ever has and can be easily walked across in places in just walking boots where the water flows over gravel . It should look, at this time of year, like the photograph I use on the header to this blog. Instead it looks like midsummer again with the water, where it flows deeper, still choked with watercress. Oh well! I suppose I should be grateful that I am still able to go out and pick it in December – I can make a store of some delicious hot soup to drink when the weather realises it is winter.

All the photographs, except for She-dog in the snow, were taken over the past week or two. When the frost has been hard the Secret Valley has looked at its best.

A Royal Invitation

Posted on November 21, 2011 by johnshortlandwriter

Like most people, I wait with eager anticipation for the postman to deliver the mail each day and, each day, I find that, if it isn’t bills he’s put through the letter box, it’s circulars that go straight into the recycling bin. So when a card sized envelope arrived with a nicer quality about it than most – and especially as it wasn’t my birthday – I was intrigued. Why do we always feel envelopes and squint at postmarks to try and work out what is inside when all we have to do is open them and take a look?

My first reaction upon finding I’d received an invitation from the Duke of Edinburgh to attend Windsor Castle was to think that a friend was playing a practical joke. But the more I read it the more real it looked:

His Royal Highness The Duke of Edinburgh, K.G., K.T

requests the pleasure of your company

at a Reception to be held in the State Apartments, Windsor Castle

How extraordinary! Why me? Why should I be drinking and eating one evening soon with Royalty? The answer was, of course, it wasn’t me at all, it was my partner who has spent a lifetime working with and competing horses.

Horses have always been close to the Royal Family and both the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh are knowledgable and skilled horsemen. Carriage driving at top competition level had, until recently, been a regular part of the Duke’s regime and we had often been to watch him race at Windsor Great Park. We too, have also participated in driving although my competition level is still at the most basic. My partner is much more skilled and fearless and I always marvel when a neurotic and potentially lethal animal becomes calm and pliable under his control. The photo below is of us just out for a quiet afternoons drive – although the pony did have his moment a little later when we careered out of control amongst the trees. Thomas could become quite exciteable at times!

I realised with dismay that the date on the invitation was the day that we would be on Exmoor for a couple of weeks holiday, 150 miles away. Working on the theory that we’d never likely receive another invitation we postponed the trip by a day. And so, that early evening we drove up to the closed gates of Windsor Castle, showed our credentials and passed through to be further security checked. Once this had taken place we were driven by an offical to the Quadrangle and the State Entrance. Thie entrance, as it’s name implies, is used on State occcasions and the Quadrangle is used for military parades, including the regular Changing of the Guard. From here is a panoramic view of the castle buildings, the oldest of which date from the 11th century (making Windsor the world’s oldest inhabited castle), and the Long Walk: a tree lined vista that cuts across the Great Park for a distance of over two and a half miles.

We entered the building by the Grand Staircase, with it’s fine displays of armour and firearms. Here we were able to see the musket ball that killed Lord Nelson which had been presented to Queen Victoria. Queen Charlotte’s sedan chairs were also here, remarkably small, I thought.

The reception was held in St George’s Hall, which was at the centre of the fire in the 1990’s and completely destroyed. As a consequence, the restoration work has made the green oak, hammer beam roof the largest to be constructed in that century. The craftsmanship and colours are extraordinary: set into the roof are the shields of every Knight of the Garter with some shields being blank. These, I discovered, were not reserved for future knights but were of those that had fallen from Royal favour.

Nothing prepares you for the sheer magnificence and size of this room as you enter – it measures 185 x 30 feet. Here we met other guests – there were only about two hundred – and, finally, the Duke who arrived with little pomp or ceremony. The Duke made a short speech before joining us informally to champagne and canapes. I was impressed not just by his energy (he is now over 90) but also by his wit. He really is very funny, indeed. I wondered how many other people of his age could carry out all these duties day in, day out and still make you feel as if you were of interest to them. Both he and the Queen – who works equally hard – may live in splendour with aides and courtiers but I wouldn’t exchange places with them: I will be more than content just to still be able to hear, see, think and garden!

Access was also granted to The Grand Reception Room and The Waterloo Chamber, where the immense and seamless, two ton carpet took fifty soldiers to lift to a place of safety during the fire. What I found surprising was that we were given free access to wander around these rooms at will, although I’m certain that if we had attempted to go elsewhere we would have found our way blocked! Sadly, because we were attending a royal event, we were not allowed to take photgraphs, so I am unable to show you the splendours of these rooms. You will find them, however, if you look in a search engine.

The evening came to a close after two and a half hours and, as we stepped back out into the autumn air in the Quadrangle, I was struck by the realisation why it is traditional to say, upon the death of a monarch, “The King is dead, long live the King”: for all the affection that the current Queen has in the hearts of many of her subjects, the Office is greater than the individual. The institution of monarchy has worked well for this country, long may it remain so.