Great Malvern; Less than great weather.
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Wednesday 29th March 2017
Great Malvern is in Worcestershire, a former spa town, guarded by the Malvern Hills, which are visible for miles around. I came last year and it rained a lot. I decided to return and try and walk the whole range.
It was raining very heavily in the morning, which wasn’t forecast. My plan for walking the Malvern Hills was looking shaky. The whole point was to do as much of the walk as I could and actually have my efforts rewarded with breath-taking views, but this wasn’t looking very likely.
I walked from the campsite into Great Malvern, which was a couple of miles, mainly along fairly busy roads, so it wasn’t the best walk. I decided today to make this My Very Lovely Wednesday Day and do anything and everything that made me happy. The only rule of My Very Lovely Wednesday Day is… there are no rules, which is why my first stop was for coffee and cake. Lemon sponge to be exact. It was whilst in this café that I spotted a leaflet. The cover featured lovely pictures of teapots and plates of cakes, which is probably why it caught my eye, but bizarrely it was for “Malvern Death Group”. I was cheerfully invited to a regular meeting to sit around and drink tea, eat cake and talk about death in a friendly, non-judgmental and non-religious manner. I can think of better things to talk about over tea and cakes… like anything really. But in the spirit of the Malvern Death Group, I’m not judging.
With my caffeine and sugar-high combination, I walked around Great Malvern town centre. Rather quickly. The town is based around the Priory, which was built in the depths of a wild forest in 1085 by an order of Benedictine monks. It dominates the centre of the town, looking regal and magnificent. This site was chosen for its abundance of natural springs.
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Today there is a water fountain fit for drinking in the centre of town, which forms part of a Celtic-goddess type figure statue, which is interesting, but not to my taste. The statue that is, the water was fine. A few yards away, Edward Elgar has his own fountain dedicated to him. He was born in Worcestershire and lived in Great Malvern for a time; as his fame grew he wanted to move from London to somewhere that he felt was more fitting for a composer of his stature, which actually wasn’t that much if his bronze life-size statue is anything to go by. What exactly he found appealing in the rather plain house he chose is an enigma, as it has very little pomp or circumstance about it. He is buried in a church yard in Little Malvern, a short distance away.
The Bronze Elgar looks without interest – or maybe mild disdain – at his fountain, which is a highly representative piece of art, in that the pillars mean this, the arch refers to that, the angle of the flow represents the other.
Several narrow back roads lead steeply uphill from the high street into the hills. A short and steep walk brings you to Saint Ann’s Well, which is one of many natural springs that bring forth the healing Malvern mineral water from deep in the earth. The well has been in use for centuries, first mentioned in texts in the 13th. It is now situated in a small protective vestibule, which is generally open to the public. There is currently a sign stating that the water at this well has failed recent bacteriological tests, unlike the water in the town centre, so I didn’t fill up my water bottle.
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In the 1850’s water from this well was bottled, when Malvern was prospering as a spa town and the waters were sought after for their supposed healing properties. Wealthy Victorians would make the journey up here by donkey, then take refreshments in the surrounding buildings. Above the café is the Octogon bar; outside stairs lead up to it and in gold letters on the door – strangely, or rather worryingly – are the numbers 666.
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From here I followed a flat trackway signed as Wyche Road, through woodland with occasional views over the spa town far below. Something about this track really puts me in mind of perambulating Victorians, the women in long dresses, the men in top hats and tails, allowing themselves a short stroll before the return journey to Malvern.
As the weather seemed dry and stable at the moment, I decided I ought to try and reach the summit of Worcestershire Beacon, so I took a detour steeply uphill. Before long it had grown cold and windy. The trees had ended and the summit was bare and shrouded in mist. I ploughed on through a sudden squall of rain, but after five minutes in very limited visibility I decided to abort. The moment my boots touched the tarmac of the town the rain stopped and the sun came out.
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I enjoy wandering round the back streets of an old town, just looking at the architecture. Malvern is certainly what you could call a handsome town. It is largely Victorian; the houses are solidly built and there are high chimneys and lots of ornate gables. It was now proper spring and the gardens were alive with blossom.
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I took a wrong turning and ended up at Malvern police station, which is surprisingly large for a small town, more like a regional HQ. I passed by, feeling conspicuous and tried to walk in a casual and guilt-free manner.
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In a café, I had a jacket potato with hummus. It wasn’t a very relaxing experience, because they were having the fire alarms tested, so there was a piercing, shrill electronic screeching going off intermittently. The staff didn’t warn the patrons that this was only a test, so by rights we should all have exited the building and made our way in an orderly fashion to the rendezvous point. No one was willing to be parted from their food, even if this was a real fire, so everyone stayed put and carried on eating.
Eventually the trilling stopped and I was able to eavesdrop on the conversations around me. A group of older ladies were chatting away, but suddenly went quiet, drew closer together and began speaking in hushed tones, but as older people with reduced hearing, their hushed tones were like a public address system on full volume. They kept glancing across at me to see if I was listening. It seemed to be about the differences between men and women. Ladies, how racy! It eventually became apparent that they were actually discussing the difference in ages between men and women for some sort of concessionary pass. I was quite disappointed. And why lower your voices for something so mundane?
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In the afternoon, I decided I had to check out The Priory. Rather than checking into it. Stepping into the spacious calm, I was greeted by a very friendly and knowledgeable older gent, who made me feel very welcome, like I was a special visitor, which I wasn’t… He told me a little about the history of this impressive building.
It was built by Benedictine monks in 1085. (I knew that bit.) During the Black Death in the 1300’s there were only ten monks left to run the place, as all the others had died. The Priory was abandoned during Henry VIII’s Dissolution of the Monasteries and began to fall into ruin. In 1541 it was bought by the local people to save it from destruction, for the princely sum of £20.
He told me to take a look at the misericords, or mercy seats, which the monks were able to sit on, or when the seats were in an upright-position they could perch on them but look like they were standing. Clever. These were painstakingly carved with mythical faces and animals, each one intricate and unique. They looked rather pagan to me, with Green Man-style faces and strange wing-ed beasts with human heads, however, they are fascinating.
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On my way out, the nice chap told me about his family holidays, camping in France. “The good thing about French camps is they have showers and everything.” So do 98.7 per cent of the British ones, but I didn’t say anything. It dawned on me later that he might have been politely telling me I hummed and needed a shower. Which I did. I had got very sweaty on my steep uphill ramble.
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He told me about his favourite stained glass window, which depicted Queen Victoria in different stages of her life. (Not an original feature of the Priory, obviously.) He had such obvious passion for it that it became my favourite window too.
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Outside it was grey but not quite raining. There were seagulls reeling overhead, calling their pained and tortured cries, making it sound like a seaside town. I set off walking back to the campsite.
Malvern isn’t just an attractive spa town. During the war, it was a centre for secret research, including work on radar for aircraft detection. After the war the scientific community remained and research was carried out that led to the invention of flight simulators, cathode ray tubes and LED displays. The touchscreen was invented in Malvern in 1965.
Children’s writer, C.S. Lewis went to college here and was inspired by the Victorian gas lamps in the ornamental gardens, which he included in his bestseller, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. And lastly, in 1889, president-to-be, Franklin Roosevelt, then aged seven, came here to convalesce after an illness.
Meanwhile, back in the present… or my present at least… I took a detour to look at some cottages – and ended up somewhere I didn’t want to be, trekking through the housing estates that were tacked onto the edges of the town. There was nothing wrong with them, every town has them, I just didn’t particularly want to be sightseeing through them. In the rain.
Over the uniform rooftops, I could see the dark Malvern Hills, or at least the lower sections of them, because their tops were lost in cloud.
I was soaked through and exhausted when I finally got back, so I had a long hot, healing shower. And I wasn’t even in France.
Anyway, restored and refreshed – and smelling slightly of wild cherry shower gel (a gift) instead of sweat, I’m off to my first Malvern Death Group meeting. Don’t look surprised. Did you not hear me say they serve tea and cake?
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