Rugby - Compton Verney - an invisible castle - Banbury - Coventry - Rugby - Easehall: 11/4/23

Remarkably, it all more or less worked. I needed to return the car in Banbury by 4 pm, so I thought I would spend some time looking at the sights on the way. I had a bit of a blow after packing when I discovered I had lost my hat; not because it was a particularly lovely hat, but because I thought I had been so careful keeping track of everything. Luckily I have a spare, but I will try and find a better one in Coventry.

My first job was to find a petrol station and refill, which I did successfully after spending some time trying to locate the way into it. Unlike any other petrol station I have ever seen, there seemed to be access at one end only. And this, mind you, was after the GPS system had tried to steer me through the pedestrian mall in Rugby in search of a mythical filling station at the end of a cul-de-sac.

Once out of town, I aimed for the country roads, and found them reasonably straightforward, although there was a bit of roadwork that the GPS hadn't picked up yet. Most of the trip was spent on the Fosse Way, which Wikipedia tells me was a Roman road; that's why it was so straight. Then I got into some little windey roads past old farmhouses and sheep pastures, and eventually found my destination at Compton Verney, where there is an old manor house which has been converted into an art gallery. 

It hadn't opened yet, but one of the custodians gave me leave to wander about the grounds until I could come back and buy a ticket, which I did. A bright cold morning, although the clouds rolled in later. The grounds were laid out by Capability Brown, and the house and the bridges over the long, narrow artificial lake were designed by Robert Adam. Daffodils and jonquils are out, and the white hawthorn blossoms are appearing in the hedges -- all very bucolic, with squirrels darting hither and yon, but still as cold as buggery.

Bought the ticket and crossed the bridge to find that the gallery still wasn't open, so I walked around a little more and then finally got in. Not a huge gallery, but based around various themes -- artists visiting Naples was one of them, and European portraits was another. The gallery also houses a collection of English folk art, which is the early equivalent of those paintings in the attic of Granny's house which went to St Vinnie's when she died. Some are quite touching; others are outright hilarious, and some seem to anticipate Picasso by a couple of hundred years. The Naples gallery had some concocted scents to represent volcanic activity and donkey rides and so on, although to me they all smelt more or less like Cheap Perfume Woman -- and some chunks of lava hanging on chains that you could bash together to play notes.

There was a temporary exhibition of folk costumes, with the emphasis on Morris dancing, which is not really my thing. But some of them clearly showed a great deal of work and love.

By the time I left the gallery had become quite busy. One woman visitor had toddler twins trotting around after her, who were very cute. I did the loop walk through the meadow where an inconvenient village had stood before the local squire had it pulled down, and back through the mud to the car park.

And so I set off to find Broughton Castle -- or did I? After taking me on an enormously convoluted route, the GPS announced that I was supposed to drive up a one-lane driveway adjacent to a muddy field, and when I balked at that it took me to another location where there was no sign of any castle at all. Given that this thing is supposed to be a major tourist attraction, I think someone had their wires crossed. But looking at the reviews now, I see the last one is from nine months ago, so perhaps it has been closed for some reason.

So I gave up on that and headed for Banbury to return the car. Even there the GPS tried to send me up some very strange byways, but I found the rental place in the end. Driving through villages here is a fascinating process; quite often the left lane is full of parked cars, and you have to time your trips down the right lane between oncoming vehicles. But everyone is very polite.

Next step: get back to Rugby and on to my night's accommodation at Easenhall. The quickest option was by train, in about forty minutes, so rather than dash out and try to find a quick lunch I just waited at the station, which was about the coldest, bleakest place I have been so far. The train was on time and full, but not crowded, and I found a seat next to a young man who was pulling grey plastic cylinders from some ziplock plastic bags at his feet, about ten at a time, consulting a list on his mobile phone, and writing cryptic numbers on them with a marker pen. The cylinders were about the size of two draughts stacked up, and what on earth they were meant for I don't have the slightest idea.

The train stopped at Leamington Spa -- which I revisit next week -- and then went on to Coventry. If I had thought a little I might have stayed there and gone direct to Easehall by bus, but as it was I changed to the Rugby train and found myself back at Rugby station, a few hundred metres from the Travelodge and the laundromat and everything else there I had grown to know and love. It was definitely drizzling now, and I had an hour to wait for the bus, so I got a late lunch at a fish shop I had noticed on the way back to town. It wasn't that cheap, and it was horrible -- easily the worst meal I have bought here so far. But it's worth noting that all the fish shops here provide free vinegar and sauce as a matter of routine.

Having managed the fish and about half the chips, I was too depressed to stay there any longer, so I walked up to the main road and found a nice warm coffee shop opposite the bus stop, where I waited for the remaining half hour or so before moving across. I was still uncertain that the buses were actually going to work, so it was a relief when one drew up with the right number and the right destination. I paid my GBP2 fare and rode through the north of Rugby out into the countryside. I got off at an intersection in the middle of nowhere, with about ten minutes walking in the drizzle to get to Easehall and the Golden Lion hotel.

It was a bit concerning to get there and find the hotel all locked up with no sign of life, and particularly so when I called their phone number and couldn't get a reply, but after a few minutes a staff member (owner?) appeared and let me in. I had planned to go down for a beer later, but that would have apparently involved going out into the rain and back into the pub, and it looked so bleak and miserable that I chickened out. So I am ensconced in a nice little room with a heater, a single bed and an ensuite, and as far as I know the only occupant of the hotel, until I go down for breakfast at eight tomorrow.

But where is the hat?