Country Diary: Hereford

We had a week of somewhat mixed weather at a former farmhouse, Old Linceter, on the National Trust's Brockhampton estate near Bromyard. This is a county which, although a near neighbor, I had not previously visited, and the combination of rich vegetation and light human population impressed me. It was a delight to look out of the windows, across ancient orchards, to the Malvern Hills on the horizon. Henry, the Jack Russell, thoroughly enjoyed ferreting around in the old farm buildings near the house, and we trust that he did not disturb any of the dormice which are, apparently, a feature of the area.

The call of the cuckoo was the dominant birdsong, and I fell to thinking about this unpleasant bird, with its habit of shoveling out the eggs or newly hatched nestlings of its unfortunate host. The baby cuckoo rapidly grows to be far larger than the host parents, who continue to feed it. So the call of the cuckoo is not good news to smaller avian species, and I am pleased that, in our part of Gloucestershire, it does not seem to be such a common visitor. Why, I cannot tell.

We drove from Bromyard, which, with the surrounding countryside, is noted as a hop-growing area, and has been since the 15th century, to visit the city of Hereford. The cathedral and its environs proved to be as gracious as most such places are, and the beautiful river Wye was in full spate. At the sight of an oast house on our way back to the cottage, I was reminded of my boyhood on the edge of Kent, where hops were cultivated to meet the needs of the London brewers. Boys used to expect a late summer holiday to pick hops, and schools took a lenient view of such absences in those days. The bottle of real ale I enjoyed with my dinner that evening tasted particularly good.