2025: The Year in Review – part 2

Posted on January 12, 2026 by johnshortlandwriter

2026 has come in with a bit of a blast quite literally for we are experiencing a blast of cold air and snow that has swept down from the Arctic. Here, in our part of the Cotswolds, the snow and ice are more of a nuisance than anything else for there is very little snow cover and the roads have been quite treacherous. The country folk of yesteryear always said that if the snow hangs around there’s more on the way – time will tell. It’s been some years since we had deep snow blocking the lanes.

*It’s been a few years since we had snow like this*

In part 1 of the review (link here), I reflected on the first six months of the year. It had been quite a successful year for me researching my family history. I’m fortunate for I can trace them back very many centuries – at the moment I’m reading a book about them in the 1400s! I also took the opportunity to finally visit the chapel (link here) where one is buried and nothing had prepared me for the splendour of it or how strangely moving the experience was. I also met with Canadian cousins (this time, living ones!) for the first time and we all commented how strong family bonds can be. That, and a prompt from you, one of my readers, made me reflect on those other great influencers in our lives, mentors.

*The Beauchamp Chapel, named after one of my ancestors, Richard Beauchamp*

In June I had written about my first pair of mentors, Dick and Lorna French who lived on a remote farm in Exmoor National Park. Their story can be found here. The following month, I wrote about Cyril and Pamela Heber Percy who I first met in my early thirties. How different they were from Lorna and Dick but how equally valuable were the life lessons they taught me! The Heber Percy’s had both been brought up by wealthy, landed parents. Cyril, who was born in 1908, had come from a background that we now associate more with Royalty: it was a house with liveried footman and a strict regime. Pamela’s family were very different for she was brought up in Ireland where the discipline was far more relaxed. Both had a deep love for nature and a huge interest in people. They, like most mentors, had the ability to make you feel very special. It was with Cyril that I first learnt to fly fish, and it was he that gave me the ability to recognise where the fox had lain and the badger pushed through a hedgerow – more of them in this link here.

It was back to Exmoor for August (link here) to explore the three churches where according to local rhyme and legend no priest would ever go to. Was it due to them being so remote or was it due to witchcraft? Or bandits? Or lepers? Whatever the reason, they are well worth visiting today for they sit in some of the most stunning countryside that you’ll find in England, and in August the hills are cloaked in a purple haze of heather flowers. One of the three churches is world famous for it was at Oare that Lorna Doone was shot as she stood at the altar on her wedding day. As with all my blog posts, there are lots of photos to demonstrate what a beautiful area I have been lucky enough to have spent so much time in since my teens.

*Oare Church on Exmoor where Lorna Doone was shot on her wedding day*

September found me writing about the chance contact by a Cheltenham art gallery asking me for help with a series of watercolours of London street scenes they had acquired. It turned out that they had been painted by yet another ancestor of mine (they have since been sold and are now in the United States). My own artistic talent is restricted (as one kind person described it) to painting with plants – I can visualise garden design and create it but I could never offer clients an artist’s impression! In the blog I explored the various connections I have to people that are skilled artists ranging from present day to those in the past. It was a fascinating task and not one I’d ever thought much about until I received the prompt from Cheltenham. To see the London paintings as well as the others I found click on the link here.

*One of the four paintings of London that are now in the USA*

It was very much back to the Cotswolds for Halloween. We live very close to the Rollright Stones, parts of which date back six thousand years – so older than Stonehenge. It has long been a place of ritual and superstition and Rollright and its surrounding villages have an equally long association with witchcraft. In 1875, a ritual murder was committed. Poor, elderly Anne Tennent was harmless enough but accused of witchcraft with brutal consequences. In my research for the blog, I came across a hand-written eye-witness report and had email correspondence with her 4xgreat-grandaughter. What I hadn’t expected to find was that a similar murder was committed very many years later although the connection to witchcraft was not disclosed until the late 1960s, so well within my lifetime. And then there are the tales of the mysterious black, headless dog being seen… When I visited the stones in October offerings had been lain upon them. Intrigued? Click on the link here to find out more.

*The mysterious Rollright Stones, over 5000 years old and a centre for witchcraft*

It had been some time since I last wrote about gardening which is, of course, my hobby turned profession. One of the constant questions I’m asked – and often a tricky one to answer – is how to screen an unwanted view. November would be the perfect month for dealing with a problem like that so in Hide that Ugly Wall I looked at the various options. In the blogpost (link here) we looked at trellis, climbing plants, and ideas for planting in front of the wall, fence or whatever else needed screening. At the end of the post there is a list of plants of all types and sizes to help with selection.

*Screening an ugly wall – in gardening, there is a solution to every problem!*

So the year came to an end with reflection upon what had been and 2026 begins a new year of blogging. As Life in the English Cotswolds enters its seventeenth year all that is left is for me to thank you all for helping to make it such a success. When I began in 2009 it was to be a short-lived experiment in combining text with images. I never anticipated that it would be read let alone develop into this! Now, I hear from people all over the world and have even met a few of you. It has received awards and featured in national newspapers, and it led to my being involved in setting up a literary festival. It was through this that I was approached to write my book on gardening, Why Can’t My Garden Look Like That? Who would have thought it?!

*Book signing – the publishing contract came as a direct result of blogging*

With every good wish for a happy, healthy and peaceful 2026. I’m very much looking forward to seeing what adventures arise and sharing them here. If you have any thoughts on topics, ask questions or just fancy a natter I can be contacted through the Get in Touch tab at the top of the page.

2025: The Year in Review – part 1

Posted on December 28, 2025 by johnshortlandwriter

So another year has gone by and I find that one of the benefits of ageing (yes, there are some!) is being aware that time is running out. I say it is a benefit for I don’t find the thought at all depressing, instead it gives an urgency to achieve what I can whilst I can. There is so much more to do, to see and to learn in what time is left. It is possible that I may live to be a hundred for many of my family have lived well-into their nineties and beyond but even allowing for that, it still doesn’t give me too many years to waste.

One of my ancestors, Richard Beauchamp died at the age of 57, which although not a great age by modern standards probably wasn’t too bad for someone dying in 1439. He had a busy and well-documented life but perhaps his biggest achievement was carried out after his death. In his will he left various bequests, the largest portion to the Collegiate Church of St Mary in the town of Warwick for the building of a chapel. Upon its completion his body was transferred there to lie beneath his splendid gilt-bronze effigy. The effigy, along with the chapel’s medieval stained glass and other decorations are considered to be the finest in Europe. In March, I finally visited the tomb where both he and his parents lie, a remarkably emotional moment perhaps because nothing had prepared me for the chapel’s magnificence. To judge for yourself, click on the link here which will take you to numerous photographs as well as the story of my ancestral grandparent’s lives.

*Richard Beauchamp, my ancestral grandfather lying in the splendour of the chapel he commissioned for the benefit of his soul*

*detail of the tomb of Richard Beauchamp dating from the 1400s*

Spring arrives late in our part of the Cotswolds for the secret valley, although very beautiful, nestles in a ‘frost hollow’. As a result, the bluebells that flower at the foot of the ancient hedgerow than borders our lane are always a couple of weeks later than in many other places. However, when they do bloom, the intensity of their colour never fails to delight. Pretty as they are, they are nothing compared to the bluebell woods of the Cotswolds and the Chilterns, the range of chalk hills where I was raised and lived until I moved here twenty-five years ago. In May, when the bluebells had reached their peak of flowering, I wrote a blog In Praise of Bluebells. Apart from photos of the bluebell woods (including one of me as a much younger man with my two Scottish Deerhounds), I explored the bluebell in history and poetry, link here.

*the magnificence of a bluebell wood in May*

*Occasionally, a white or even a pink bluebell appears*

In June, on my Facebook page, I had a casual discussion with a follower about mentors and mentoring. She asked me if I’d ever had any mentors and my answer was ‘yes’: two couples, both of whom came from very different backgrounds to one another as well as my own. She wanted to know more and so I promised to write a blog about them, a post which would honour their contribution to my life and demonstrate the great enrichment such mentors can give. Mentors – part 1 (link here) tells of my chance meeting at the age of sixteen with Dick and Lorna French, who farmed on Exmoor, a National Park in England’s West Country. The farm is very isolated, and the post explores how I ended up living with them after turning up one day unannounced on their doorstep. Regular visitors to my blog or Facebook/Instagram pages will know what a love they imparted on me for this wild and rugged landscape, a place I still visit very frequently. The blog has numerous photos including some of me from early childhood to that gangly sixteen-year-old that Lorna and Dick first knew.

*My first mentors*: *Dick & Lorna French of Brendon Barton, Exmoor*

*Exmoor National Park: Aged 16, I suddenly found myself living and working in remote countryside*

Find out about my other pair of mentors, Cyril and Pamela Heber Percy, who came from privileged upper-class families in 2025: Part Two (yet to be written but coming shortly!). The blog will also explore what happened in the last few months of 2025

Mentors – part 2

Posted on June 29, 2025 by johnshortlandwriter

In my earlier post on mentors, I asked the question “what makes someone a mentor” and do they realise they have actually become one. Of course, the answer will vary for there are many reasons why people do it, and equally a number of reasons why someone needs it. My experience is that it is only with hindsight that I realise I had four mentors in my life and all would be amused at my describing them as such.

*Lorna Dick French, Cyril Pamela Heber Percy*

In part one I told of how I met, quite by chance, Dick and Lorna French who had a remote hill farm on Exmoor, a National Park in England’s West Country. I was aged sixteen and, despite our age differences (essential for mentoring) a close friendship developed that lasted until their deaths many years later. [Their story can be found here] Fifteen years after that first meeting, I met another couple, Cyril and Pamela Heber Percy, and although of a very different background from Lorna and Dick, they too took on the role of mentor.

*Woodlands Cottage, the Heber Percy’s home*

In 1983 I had moved house to a small village in the Chilterns. Although I consider myself a ‘Chilterns man’ I had always lived at their foot, first by the River Thames and, later, by the steep escarpment to the west. Now I was living in one of the highest villages, surrounded by wonderful bluebell woods and prone to quite different weather than seemingly, everywhere else. Like many hilltop villages it was a straggly affair, a mile long but with the houses scattered first one side of the road and then the other. Our house sat opposite the common – a wide, open piece of land although by us it had been invaded by bracken and hazel scrub where Dormice could be seen climbing amongst the branches. Wild cherries and raspberries also grew there and with a small pond that had once been the village’s only source of drinking water, it was very quiet and very lovely.

*There was a small pond amongst the cherry trees, once the village water supply*

*The village was surrounded by wonderful beechwoods awash with bluebells each spring*

Soon after our arrival, there had been a knock on the door. Standing on the doorstep was an elderly gentleman, very upright and with a clipped moustache he looked every part the retired army colonel which he was. With no introduction he barked, “what religion are you?” Before I could answer, he continued, “Of no matter, we need bell ringers. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow, 7pm.” Of course, I didn’t go! Our next meeting was one evening when out walking. Hearing a lot of shouting and cursing I could see a man of similar age to me having difficulty with ‘boxing’ (loading) his horse to transport it back home. No matter how he tried the horse refused to walk up the ramp and into the lorry. As I drew level, the Colonel holding a whisky in his hand also appeared ready to give advice. The young man looked very dismissive at his suggestions but that changed after the Colonel took hold of the reins, jumped onto the horse’s back with an agility that belied his years and cantered away before turning and riding it straight into the lorry. “Don’t stand any nonsense in future” was all he said as he tied the horse securely. Turning to me, he said, “must be time for another whisky.” Both the rider and I had learnt a valuable lesson that evening – never judge someone’s abilities by their age.

*Boxing – or in this case, unboxing – a horse*

The Colonel and I spent the rest of that evening in his home drinking whisky and discussing all manner of things, Pamela, his wife, joining us. Sitting back in a comfortable armchair, I took in my surroundings, my eyes landing on a small photograph sitting on a shelf. It was of two army officers on duty outside Buckingham Palace. Cyril noticed my interest immediately – another thing I was to discover: he was exceptionally alert and noticed everything. He explained that the photo had been taken many years earlier and featured in the national newspapers. It was of him and his brother, one in the Welsh Guards the other in the Grenadier Guards acting as Colour Bearers at the Changing of Guards ceremony, the first time that two brothers had had that honour.

*Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace 1927 [copyright British Newspaper Archive]*

Over the years that followed, Cyril would tell me of his military career, of his escorting Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands under enemy fire during her evacuation, of dinners in England at the Palace with the King. (Pamela complained of how tedious all the formalities were!). Of even greater interest was to learn of his Edwardian upbringing for he had been raised at Hodnet Hall, a large country estate in Shropshire. He lived on the top floor in the nursery and each evening Nanny would bring him down to say goodnight to his parents where he would recite a poem and dutifully kiss his mother and shake his father’s hand. Surrounded by liveried footman and other house staff, he preferred the informal company of the gardeners and gamekeepers. Through them he developed a deep love for the natural world and keen observational skills which he passed onto me. Walking together, he would point to a barely visible gap in a hedge and ask me if a hare, fox, badger or deer had made it. Of course, I got it wrong but he persevered until I was able to tell the difference.

*Hodnet Hall, Cyril Heber Percy’s childhood home*

*The Colonel taught me to recognise the different paths wild animals make (in this case, a badger)*

During this time I was still working indoors in the retail fashions business but he taught me a lot about gardening too for the gardens at Hodnet were considered one of the finest in Europe. You have to think big, he would say, immediately followed by “and you have to think small”. To prove the point he would get me to lie down staring up at the undersides of large leaved plants, and then, on my knees, examine the different shades of green that could be found in the tiny leaves of wild thyme. To get me to understand the wonders of the natural world he would say, “think like a child but always act like an adult”. Years later, in my present career, I remember this advice and concentrate on elements of surprise as well as leaf texture when designing gardens.

*When you look up at a plant you see a quite different world….*

Pamela, also would tell me stories of her life. Born into Irish aristocracy she had a very different upbringing to her husbands for there was the insecurity that the fight for Irish independence would bring. There were stories of hiding in secret passageways within the house ready to escape if a violent attack took place, Fortunately, this never happened, perhaps because her mother took her social duties very seriously and would visit the poor and the sick to make sure that they never went hungry. Pamela would accompany her mother on these visits and so from an early age saw how frugally ‘ordinary’ people lived. It also gave her the ability to empathise with people from all walks of life and to treat them as equals.

Over the years, the Heber Percy’s taught me many things, one of which was to cast a fly. Both the Colonel and Pamela were expert salmon and trout fishers. When I mentioned how much I enjoyed spinning for pike, Cyril had shaken his head and joked that it was very poor sport. Venturing out onto the lawn he pointed to a fallen leaf – “that is your trout” – and he patiently watched and corrected me as I tried to get the line to drop close-by, After I had mastered that he made life more difficult by pointing to leaves under low hanging branches and from there, to leaves floating on the surface of the swimming pool. Unaware at the time, they gave me lessons in accuracy and perseverance as well as a useful fishing skill.

It was a sad day when I heard that the Colonel had died. He was buried, with full military honours at Hodnet, his childhood home. We had always planned to visit the house and gardens together one day and now we were, although not in the way we had planned. I felt surprise, pride and honour when I was ushered to the front of the church to sit with the family. As the Last Post was being played from the top of the church tower I felt my lower lip tremble only for it to be controlled by hearing the Colonel’s voice whispering, “not very British!”. Soon after his death, Pamela moved house and although not too far away, I saw less of her, and not many years after she also died. I had lost two very dear and good friends.

*Stained glass window at St Luke, Hodnet*

And one final thought – I did learn how to ring the church bells!

Have you had a mentor or mentored someone? What does it take for someone to become a mentor? Our parents have probably the greatest influence on our lives so why does a mentor s role take on such importance? Let’s hear your story either in the comments below or, if you prefer, by using the Get in Touch tab at the top of this page. Thanks to Diane Highton for posing the question that triggered this blog!

Mentors – part 1

Posted on June 4, 2025 by johnshortlandwriter

Mentor. There are dozens of words to choose from when looking for an alternative description of someone who takes on this role: life coach, guide, adviser, confidante, counsellor, influencer to name just a few. One thing that is certain is that the four people who played such an important role in shaping my life would not recognise any of these terms, not even the word mentor. And to be honest, it is only with the benefit of hindsight that I recognise them as being mentors at all.

*Mentors: Lorna French, Dick French, Cyril Heber Percy, Pamela Heber Percy*

If I had to choose just one word, I think it would be guide for that seems to describe what they were during their lifetimes. It is only since they’ve been gone – for sadly, they have all been dead for more than twenty years – that I actually think of them even as that for their influence was subtle. They would almost certainly find the description laughable for there was never any conscious effort to take on that role. It was one that had come about by chance meetings leading to friendship, respect and love.

*Despite the angelic appearance I wasn’t an easy child!*

I was not an easy child – I know that statement is hard to believe now (laughs). A streak of rebellion has run through our family for generations and although I wasn’t outwardly rebellious, I sometimes made life difficult for those around me. From the age of fourteen I found school a waste of my time for I had wanted to study sciences and school insisted I did languages instead. I’m sure they were probably right for studying French and English had come easily to me whereas I’d struggled with even General Science. To me that was irrelevant for I had desperately wanted to learn botany and biology. Instead, I now found myself sitting in German classes seething inwardly and resenting every moment of having to learn the difference between der, das and dem or liebe and Lieber. I began playing truant and found that if I left school after the lunchtime register had been taken nobody seemed to notice and I could walk the three hours back home through the woods and fields where I could practice my botanising. I finally stormed out of school halfway through my ‘O-level’ exams before sitting the dreaded German but not before I’d sat French and English. I passed both with flying colours but my parents were furious.

More out of desperation, my parents agreed that I could take my bicycle and tent on the train to Exeter and cycle and camp across Dartmoor for two weeks. It would be my first solo holiday and, I imagine, they agreed in the hope that it would make me appreciate just how fortunate I was to have been given the chance of a good and expensive private education. I arrived in Exeter in blazing sunshine and armed with maps and far too much self-confidence started my journey westwards. In those days, with no mobile phones or credit cards to monitor my progress, my parents provided me with stamps and cash so that I could send them a postcard at the end of each day. I reached Okehampton, a small market town on the fringe of the Dartmoor National Park in a sweat and seeing from my map that I wasn’t that far from the sea instead decided to cycle northwards to Westward Ho, a beach resort on the North Devon coast.

Refreshed from an early morning swim in the sea (I’d arrived there at 2.00 in the morning) I looked again at the map and now decided to travel eastwards to a different national park, Exmoor. I’d read the novel Lorna Doone at school and had loved it and the thought of exploring the rugged and isolated places where she had met and married John Ridd, only then to be shot at the altar of Oare church, filled my imagination. Little did I know then that soon I would be meeting a real-life Lorna Ridd who with her farmer husband would welcome me into their lives.

*Oare Church – where Lorna Doone was shot at the altar on her wedding day*

Three days later, having cycled over some tough and exhausting hilly roads I ended up at Brendon Barton, a remote farm perched high on the edge of the open moorland. It was coming towards the end of my fortnight away and so I knew that I could only stay there for one or two days before the long bike ride back south to Exeter and home. Venturing into the farmyard I could hear sounds coming from inside the barn where Dick French, the farmer, was working with sheep. I asked if I could camp in one of his fields but he didn’t look up and instead replied, “be a good lad and bring those last two sheep in here.” I had never been near a sheep before and so spent the next half an hour running around the yard in circles before finally managing to herd them inside. I was out of breath, sweating and covered in sheep shit but I found a contentment in my success that I’d not experienced before. Years later, Dick and I would laugh about that first encounter. I used to say that I should have just got back on my bike and cycled away to which he would respond with, “when I saw you wouldn’t give up, I knew that you’d do!”

*I cycled over Exmoor’s remote*, hilly roads

*Preparing for a good night’s sleep, Brendon Barton 1968*

By my second day on the farm I had helped bring in the cows and Dick had taught me how to hand milk them. Hearing I could ride, he suggested that I took Star, one of their horses up onto the moor to have a look around The heather was in flower and its deep purple carpet continued to the sea. Beyond, the coastline of Wales could be seen in the hazy far-distance. I ventured into a deep combe before crossing a stream and climbing up a ridge. There I spotted a deserted farm cottage* half-hidden by beech trees. I stood entranced by the beauty of my surroundings and its all-encompassing silence. I felt I had found my true home and with no consideration for my parent’s concern, I decided never to leave. I sent them a postcard saying that I’d missed my train home. I remained purposely vague as to my whereabouts, just saying that I’d kept back enough money to buy a new railway ticket.

*The heather clad hills of Exmoor reach to the sea*

*Half-hidden amongst the trees stood a deserted farm cottage*

A week later I was having my meals in the farmhouse enjoying the banter amongst the farm lads and hearing the discussions about the tasks that needed to be done around the farm. By the time harvest came round, my tent had been ditched and I was sleeping in the house in a comfortable bed, receiving a small wage and spending evenings in the village pub with new-found friends. Dick had said that it would be his wife Lorna (Ridd had been her maiden name) who would decide whether I could stay or not. She was such a hard-working woman and one more person to care for might be one too many. Her approach had been that one more would make no difference and so she looked after me while I spent long days working at Dick’s side, listening to his tales and learning about their way of life. Asked about my parents, they seemed content enough with my explanation that I was spending extended time away having just left school (the term gap year hadn’t been invented then!).

*Brendon Barton 1968* – *I soon moved into the farmhouse and a comfortable bed*

*Harvest was still carried out the old-fashioned way*

Months passed and the harder I worked the more I knew an Exmoor outdoor life was for me. However, it came to an abrupt end when one day I walked into the kitchen to find my parents sitting there telling me it was time to return home. I was devastated and asked Dick why he hadn’t told me they were coming. “I knew you’d hide up on the moor,” he’d replied – and he was right! Although I was pleased to see my parents I pleaded with them to let me stay. Dick, in the first of his subtle acts of persuasion that I can recall, asked me to help him look at a horse in the barn. There was no horse, instead we sat and talked about our time together before he reminded me that my home was with my parents and, in time, running our family business. Don’t forget, he’d said, there’s a room here always available so why not come down for lambing next spring. To ensure that I did he added, “You’d be doing me a great favour, I could do with your help.”

*The barn in 1968 where I had my first taste of farming*

Lorna, too, had her subtle ways of persuasion. “Your parents have said that you can come here for Christmas if you’d like to. We’ll be on our own and some young company would be good. It’ll be just the three of us.” She’d also boxed up the bantam chicks that I’d been caring for so that “you can carry on farming at home.” After that first Christmas I visited them both for many years, helping on the farm whenever I could, and exchanging letters and phone calls. They were always my first port of call when I was having difficulties, feeling down or just wanting to celebrate with them. Life hill-farming is hard, the weather often unmerciful and the hours long but there are also the pleasures of being part of a small tight-knit community that will help one another whatever the reason. Leading by example, they instilled in me a love of farming and hard work, a sense of duty, generosity of spirit and kindness. I will leave it to others to decide whether they succeeded or not! From them, I also acquired an even deeper love for being outdoors regardless of the weather and especially in remote, wild landscapes. Little did I know then that these skills would be put to the test when, aged forty, I began my career change to follow my outdoor dream, or that Exmoor would still play such an important part of my life today.

*The bantam chicks that Lorna sent back home with me, 1968*

Dick and Lorna French died just before the Millenium and the farm was sold to another local farming family, some of whom I’ve now known for almost sixty years. Because of that, I still on occasion visit Brendon Barton and sit in the kitchen drinking tea to discuss farming and, of course, putting the world to rights. A bonus is that Maria, the new ‘Lorna’ has been creating an extensive garden around the farmhouse, so we have gardening in common too, as well as a lifetime of shared memories. It would be another fifteen years and then as a man, before I would meet my other mentor couple. Cyril Heber Percy and his wife Pamela’s lives were worlds apart from Dick and Lorna’s but there were some similarities too. Part 2 tells their story.

Have you had a mentor or mentored someone? What does it take for someone to become a mentor? Our parents have probably the greatest influence on our lives so why does a mentor s role take on such importance? Let’s hear your story either in the comments below or, if you prefer, by using the Get in Touch tab at the top of this page. Thanks to Diane Highton for posing the question that triggered this blog!

* The deserted cottage still stands in splendid isolation hidden away behind the trees, albeit now as a ruin. It has a fascinating history and has been the subject of much research in recent years. Take a look at the website devoted to the story of Hoar Oak Cottage