Here at the beginning of the year we looked out to the south over a green-grey landscape hung about with damp cloud where half a dozen little streams wander down from the southern flank of Titterstone Clee Hill to join the River Teme near Tenbury Wells.
There wasn't a glimpse of the sun as we looked down to the sentinel trees skirting Whitton Court. This pile has 14th century origins, its massive brick chimney stacks poking now from the misty garden that overhangs the secretive Colly Brook. A single ewe cried out from the soggy swede field where her flock was foddering, otherwise the dank world was silent as we went along. The creamy red clay of the farm track that took us towards Hope Court spoke volumes about the early winter rains. The little church up the lane at Hope Bagot assumed the quality of a wraith, all wrapped around by the chill vapours as we drew close. There beside the lych gate is the gargantuan churchyard yew thought to be more than 1,600 years old, with its "holly" well issuing from the root system, its waters supposed to alleviate sore eyes. Not far away, visible at the base of the west tower, we could make out the pair of sinister millstones used as cornerstones when the tower was erected at the end of the 13th century. In 1292 Valentine the miller was "dragged down" and killed by the inner wheel at Hope Mill. The Assize Roll for that year records that a deodand of seven shillings was charged - a deodand is a chattel which causes death and is forfeited to the Crown to be used "for pious purposes". So the two millstones were probably given to the church authorities and used in the base of the wet tower then being built.
A long climb follows, through steep pastures above Hope Bagot. A stone tower marks the line of the pipeline that brings Birmingham's main water supply from the Elan Valley beyond the Welsh border. Then we came out on Clee Hill Common where the dark mist wrapped around us, ever closer. The dismal rushy moor was running with water, a handful of disconsolate ewes were foraging and cast glances our way before we vanished in the cloud.
Sometimes a day such as this metamorphoses to astonishing brilliance; we've paid our penance and the sky clears to open vistas as the sun goes down in glory. There was no such reward today. Our descent from Titterstone Clee's summit was into uniform greyness.
