Of course we have to see a field just outside Evesham en route to Hay-on-Wye.
Battlefields are my new enthusiasm.
That character streak, incidentally - the peculiar focused pursuit down any new randomly-selected rabbit hole of interest - I blame on Gritty Papa. Throughout a long and varied career he defused bombs, ran a chip shop, built a boat, did a stint inside, abandoned us, came home again, and variously became involved in theatre, birdwatching, engineering and bricklaying. Those were the highlights.
Anyway, I have to see Evesham. It is distinguished in that one of my historical boyfriends, as Shark flippantly calls them, was mortally wounded and dismembered here. Simon de Montfort, father of your English parliament. Shark may be right; I am a tiny bit in love with him, probably because he followed through in what he believed.
But the landscape looks idyllic now, doesn't it? Pathways trimmed by white blossoms and Queen Anne's lace (let's not call it cow parsley and prickly bush). Tiger kept fretting, of course, because Evesham battlefield is now on private land, and I'd already been thrown out a car parking slot by one of the villagers who claimed she needed the space 'to back into'. I didn't respond in a particularly generous tone, true, but Tiger has to toughen up on these matters. You can't go around the world being put off by people in uniform, people with desks, and village ladies with stern faces and shotguns.
Enough of all this. It's not getting us anywhere. A bit like the Evesham battlefield walk, when we had to turn round and retrace our steps. But at least I can say, we were there. You can read about it, here.