Much Marcle and Dymock

On Friday evening, Jude and I drove across to Much Marcle (where there is a splendid yew tree in the churchyard, so big you can sit inside it) and she showed me the wood where the tiny wild daffodils still bloomed. In the time of the Dymock Poets there were acres and acres more of them. Apparently they used to be picked and bunches sent up to the big cities on the milk train . . . that is to say, the very early train which also picked up the churns of milk from stations to be taken into the cities.



From the lane we drove along between Much Marcle and Dymock, you could see the Malvern Hills in the distance. Of course, Malvern will be forever linked with Elgar and his wonderful music. There is a link to the name of Elgar in one part of my husband's family tree, and I do wonder if it is truly a link to the same Elgar family that Edward Elgar descended from, as three of our family members have a REALLY strong musical bent. Makes you wonder . . .


Here is Dymock Church. We were worried it might be locked, since it was early evening - and so many churches are locked during the day too these days, with youngsters breaking in and causing damage. But it was very much open, and we were able to enjoy the display inside, and watched two short videos about the Dymock poets too.






It was good to see the area where Lascelles Abercrombie, Wilfrid Gibson, Robert Frost, Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke and John Drinkwater were so happy.

. . . Dymock and daffodils and days of song
Before the war had scattered us apart . . .
And still in Dymock fields the daffodils
Dance to the singing of the birds;
And once again my heart,
Awakened by your words,
Dances with them a moment - as it danced
In days of old
Entranced
In singing dreams of dancing gold,
In days of old before the world went wrong.

Wilfrid Gibson (1878 - 1962)