I've upset some friends by siding with Stroud

“Stroud is scruffy,” say some. “It is downright ugly,” say others. They are of course far from correct and need my advice on such matters.

No longer am I fighting the battle alone. The Sunday Times of June 18 suggested Stroud for a weekend break. The article was perceptive and properly described Stroud. You could hear its beating heart and surely the soul of the town was apparent.

Everything that makes Stroud and its environs so vital and lively a town was included. Visit The Woolpack, dine at Woodruffs, and wander through the upper part of the High Street and the area around the Subscription Rooms. The writer knew his stuff.

The previous Wednesday Mrs Light and I had done exactly that. The shops at the top of the High Street were a delight. Individual and inviting. Of special delight was the shop that allowed Mrs Light to replenish her wardrobe without driving me into insolvency. Needless to say we were totally self-indulgent and visited Walkers bakery.

Of course, our other towns have merits. It is Tetbury for antiques. TV programmes on the subject search out the “Banana” store for all the right reasons.

Nailsworth has a fine collection of eateries, while Wotton-under-Edge has a fine auction house.

Cirencester has the most elegant buildings, but is it not slightly reserved?

Chipping Sodbury is blessed by the fabulous Baker Brothers and Dursley is always interesting.

In fact, I wonder why I ever head into the vale of Cheltenham or Gloucester. Cricket and occasional rugby matches have me heading down the escarpment.

Tomorrow I am taking penny out to lunch. She has here choices, the Butchers Arms at Sheepscombe, the Woolpack at Slad or the Falcon at Poulton near Cirencester. She is a lady spoiled for choice.

The day my life changed forever

Seventy years ago I received a severe shock. The affects are still with me.

My father told me he was leaving the employment of Woodchester-based Henry Workman and becoming the man in charge of woods on the Bradwell Grove Estate. This is now the site of the Cotswold Wildlife Park, near Burford.

As a precocious eight-year-old I had my life mapped out. All was now in ruins! Not only were we moving, I would have to undergo the shame of living in a cricketing mirror county, Oxfordshire.

I was doing well at Sheepscombe School and anticipated winning a place at Marling School.

Adult life would be spent in Stroud because so many buses left Woolworths that I could get everywhere I wished.

Cheltenham and Gloucester for cricket, as well as Bristol for the zoo.

If buses were full there was always the ‘Dudbridge Donkey’ a much-loved rail link with the outside world.

Marriage would be to Eldwith Young. I had yet to discuss this with her but was sure this would happen as a matter of course.

The hills, valleys and all my friends would be lost to me. We were to live in an isolated farmhouse called Kencot Hill.

The prospect was far from pleasing. Filkins would be the nearest village.

Following cricket localy and nationally was a passion. How could I do this in a minor county? The Cheltenham cricket festival would be impossible to attend and Bristol seemed a continent away.

What would become of me?

Some fears proved groundless. Filkins was an attractive village, flat, but built of Cotswold stone.

The house was wonderful and Burford Grammar School was an effective substitute for Marling and my street credibility was massive.

In his first match or Filkins dad scored 30 not out of a Filkins score of 49. He had just taken 7 wickets for 9 runs.

I endured this exile for three years until one evening I heard the magic words: “Would you like to go to the school Wally Hammon went to? We are moving back to Gloucestershire”.

Sheepscombe with its spirited inhabitants and full village life should have been the place of my retirement, but both house prices and hills were too high.

Cirencester is a marvellous alternative and I can always turn left at Birdlip and right at the Salt Box. The delights of the valley then await.