Snow on the distant Clee Hills
Just as the first autumnal storm, Storm Angus, was fading away, seven of us met at the village of Aston Munslow in Corvedale, sandwiched between Wedlock Edge to the west and the snow covered Clee Hills to the east. This was an easy 11.5 miles, mostly of gently sloping farmland in this little known corner of Shropshire. I had walked the route a few days previously, before a major storm, but despite the sudden volume of rain the night before, the ground, in the main, had managed to absorb it. The River Corve, which was nothing more than a trickle the other day, was now a muddy, brown, fast flowing river.
Broncroft Castle
As walks go, it is very pleasant without being particularly remarkable. It is well signed but I doubt it is a well trodden route. It takes in three castles, well, one castle really and the sites of two others, which are now nothing more than earthworks, long covered with vegetation, and were it not for information boards could easily be missed.
I was pleased to see that none of my walking companions had brought dogs, as I was expecting us to meet several fields of cattle, which, if they behaved as they did when I checked the route out, might be a problem.
As I approached one field on the edge of the hamlet of Peaton, I couldn’t help noticing that there were a couple of bulls, lots of steers and an English Longhorn. I have always been slightly nervous of cattle, they being bigger than me, so I entered the field with some slight trepidation. There was no distinct path across this rather large field but I knew I had to aim for a lone fir tree and a clump of trees beyond which mark the site of Corfham Castle. I was progressing reasonably well when one of the bulls looked up and gave a loud “MOOOOOO”. This caused the steers to look up in my direction. The bull’s call, when translated meant, “Go on, lads, have some fun.” Collectively they started to run towards me, slowly at first but with gathering speed. I was not happy. I looked around for an escape route. There were some derelict buildings to one side of the field. I headed towards them with the sound of hooves getting ever closer. I went round the back of one of the buildings and there stood a lone steer. I was even less happy now. It stared at me, motionless, as if I had caught it doing something it shouldn’t. He couldn’t see the dozen or so friends yet as they were hidden by the building. He let me pass and I managed to get to a point where I could climb over a fence into the lane, and safety, just as the steers were getting close.
Having warned my fellow walkers that we might have to make a detour, or be prepared to leave the field quickly, we found the field almost empty. The lone steer I had seen the other day was still skulking by the building, but the rest of the field appeared empty. Either that or they were in hiding. The latter was the case, for as we came to the brow of the hill, there they were among the mounds that make up the remains of Corfham Castle. They watched us closely, stood up and then backed away. Today they were cowards, intimidated by the presence of seven, while the other day they felt they had the upper hand and I was the coward.
One other field where I had been intimidated into retreating had to be passed, and again, they just walked away. Clearly, on my own I am a cow magnate but in company they lose interest in me.
By 3.00pm, after five hours we completed the circuit, giving us time for a cup of tea in the Swan Inn, a typically ancient country pub. Shame I was driving.
