The dovecote at Hellens, Herefordshire

Today's trip was to Hellens, the Tudor manor house I visited about six weeks ago for the garden festival. GG, AK, G and I had gone together on the day (13th June, I blipped it) and had decided to return to view the house as part of a prebooked tour. Sadly neither G nor AK could make it today for very good, sad reasons. I'd persuaded GG to drum up some neighbours to take their place.

I almost didn't make it to GG's house, the departure place, because the bus I took to Minchinhampton Common diverted and went nowhere near the stop at which I had planned to get off. Added to which, it got stuck in the tiny town of Minchinhampton, waiting for the dustcart to pass, slowly, slowly. When I got off the bus at last, I had to march along the edge of the common, avoiding cows, cowpats and rain, muttering to myself about people who thought it would be convenient to pick me up from their tiny Hamlet in the middle of nowhere! (car drivers just don't get how irregular the bus service is, and how we can't all afford taxis). They did have to pick me up in the end, because we were late, and GG had already enlisted the help of her cleaner to dress her (GG has a broken wrist, and can't get dressed by herself).

Anyway, once I'd got over that embarrassing incident, which made me look like a fool (when I'm actually not and had checked the bus timetable the night before) we proceeded along main roads with everyone else remarking how horrible Gloucester is and how it reminds them of the serial killer Fred West (can we please get OVER that conversation? Gloucester has so much more to offer).

When we arrived at Much Marcle, Herefordshire (yes, Fred West grew up there, and yes, there's an awful lot of inbreeding) we located Hellens and the tea room, and got in a drink and a stroll before our tour began. The skies were leaden. Just as our tour began in the courtyard, the heavens opened, and we were ushered in at speed. The house itself is fascinating and filled with paintings by artists such as Reynolds, Goya and Tintoretto, to drop but a few names. Names weren't the only things that were being dropped: my jaw was hanging open, too! Hellens is still used as a family home, at least part of the time. There, are of course, weddings held there too, and a music festival, and a garden festival, and an apple-pressing event in autumn. The people who look after it all live on the estate full-time, in parts of the main building too. And then there are the ghosts. What's an isolated manor without a ghost or two?

After the tour, we had soup outside ( the rain had cleared) and I grabbed a few blue-sky shots of the house and gardens. We inspected the cider press, and the three carriages in the Coach House, and then the drivers wanted to leave. They didn't care to wander around the extensive gardens, nor walk to the woodlands. I managed to run over to the dovecote to grab a hasty snap, in which I've truncated the weathercock, unfortunately.

We drove back via country roads, and the drivers did offer to drop me off at home (thank you!) but I preferred to shop in town first. Walked home, lay down on the bed, and promptly fell asleep. We'd only been at Hellens for about three hours, no time, but the earlier efforts of marching around on Minch Common had clearly worn me out.

All in all, a grand day out, though I did miss the company of our original gang of four. We'd had such fun on the festival day. I'll see if AK and G want to try and visit again to tour the house, before the season ends.