When the sun came out for a day or two last week, there was (unlike today's grey cold and damp) every encouragement to go for a stroll down the river to the Island Gardens and its café. 

It used to be a utilitarian brick shed, so utilitarian as to be easily mistaken, from a distance, for a disused air raid shelter or public lavatory, although it was apparently built in 1980. Eventually the construcrion turned out to be failing, and someone in the Town Hall decided it needed a complete rebuild. Quite some time and the best part of a million pounds later (from the money property developers elsewhere in tbe borough have to pay up for local improvements), we have a very smart Rotunda, with wrap-around windows - essential for giving customers the best panoramic view of the historic buildings of maritime Greenwich.

Steam trains - up a mountain and along a valley

 My trainspotting days are long gone, but they were in the age of steam, and something remains of the appeal of the steam engine which quiet, efficient electric trains just don't seem to have.  Our group had a strong contingent of serious anoraks, who knew a great deal about all that sort of thing and enthusiastically took up the option to explore as much as possible of the Harz network, with the rest of us tagging along for a couple of rides with the better views. (It wasn't just the engines that were old - the carriages were, I suspect, old third-class stock from East German railways - wooden seats and not much in the way of suspension, while the toilet facilities were the old-style trap that simply opened on to the track beneath).

The high point (literally) of the trip was to go up the Brocken mountain. Old legend has it that on Walpurgisnacht, witches would gather on the mountain for a "witches' sabbath" (sort of a springtime Halloween, but no doubt used in its time for the periodic persecution of supposed witches, as elsewhere). More recently, being such a handy high point so close to the border between East and West Germany, it became a listening post for surveillance and spying on Western transmissions, but also housed (as it still does)  a TV transmission tower. 

The train winds its way up through forests (sadly depleted since a blight struck much of it a few years ago,  as did some wildfires) to the - frankly rather bleak - plateau on top. Perhaps not surprisingly, the views from the top were almost entirely of enclosing clouds, so nobody wanted to linger.

Another day, we had more sunshine and a gentle ride through a river valley, to a quiet spa town and back. 

And it looked and felt like this:

 

More holiday snaps - Quedlinburg

As if Wernigerode weren't picturesque enough, our itinerary took us to Quedlinburg, an ancient town seemingly undisturbed (at least in its historic centre) by the ups and downs of much of Germany's history.

Half-timbered houses lining narrow winding streets (all remarkably uncluttered by modern street furniture and signage) and ornate doorways - we didn't get to see the castle, but it's easy to see why it's a tourist magnet.

 

Quedlinburg - the Market Square

More holiday snaps - Wernigerode

 After our brief stop to ride the Schwebebahn, the trains took us to our base for the week, in Wernigerod: in the heart of the Harz, so to speak.

It's picturesque and traditional-looking, with plenty of half-timbered houses and flowers (it even has a floral clock, just as one used to see in the posher British seaside holiday resorts).

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It's outside the library, at least

Wien! Wien! Nur Du allein...

And there's a castle (of course). The local aristocrats had a long history, but their castle reflects a rebuild in the ponderous taste of the late 19th century - all dark wood and stuffed hunting trophies outside, and touches of pseudo-mediaeval fairytale outside:

The castle courtyard

One thing I couldn't help noticing was that in at least one place they had retained the old East German Ampelmann for the pedestrian crossing lights. Somehow he looks rather jollier than one would expect from a Communist dictatorship, which is no doubt why he was held in such affection:

But they also maintain a nod to the area's association with legends of witches and the like:

/a>/td>

A tale of two cities: WInchester (3)

Passing through the quieter side-streets, in what is evidently the purlieu of Winchester School, where not even a post box seems to have changed much since Victorian times, one comes eventually to a path that runs through lush watermeadows: Soon another venerable church comes into view, the church of an equally venerable institution.Its grand official title is the Hospital of St Cross and Almshouse of Noble Poverty: Almshouses were a mediaeval version of a retirement community rather than a monastic order, and this one is home still to 25 lay "Brothers". They are expected to attend the church in the prescribed gown, but otherwise live independent lives; fortunately the 15th-century buildings have been adapted into self-contained flats.

Though a 19th century furore over its management was probably the inspiration for Anthony Trollope's The Warden, it's as quiet today as you might expect - given that (not surprisngly) the non-residential buildings and the gardens attract visitors and bookings for private events, with evident signs of preparation for a wedding in the church when I was there.

A tale of two cities: Winchester (2)

I once knew someone who swore blind they'd heard a tourist, outside Winchester Cathedral, say to his spouse "OK, honey, I'll do the outside and you do the inside". And a grand inside it is, as you might imagine of something so old and historically significant (there's a stunning exhibition on the Cathedral's Anglo-Saxon history and its associated manuscripts). You might think this striking stained glass is a contemporary piece, but in fact it's from the seventeenth century, made up of the fragments saved by local people after the Parliamentarian soldiers smashed up windows, tombs and memorials during the Civil War:

Nowadays there are memorials to just about every regiment that's ever served or been based in the area, but the one most people come to see is that of Jane Austen. Plain, austere but fulsome about her many qualities - except that there's no mention of her writing. For a more florid story, try looking up the wall beside it: competitive or copycats?

On doing the outside (as you must to get to the café), the path passes this statue to the extraordinary William Walker, who toiled for years among the Cathedral's foundations to shore them up against encroaching ground water.  Small wonder that in the surrounding streets there's a pub named after him, complete with diver's helmet as its sign.

A tale of two cities: Winchester (1)

Like Ely, Winchester has a cathedral and a famous school, but is rather grander, being a royal capital in Anglo-Saxon times (and Charles II had grand ideas in that direction as well, till he came up against financial reality), and a garrison town with many military connections. It once had a great castle, of course, of which only the Great Hall remains. Used for various functions over the years, mainly as a court room until quite recent times, now it's there to attract visitors with its Tudor version of King Arthur's Round Table (early PR to attach romantic legend to the court of Henry VIII), together with assorted royal and local memorabilia, and of course a dress-up area for children, complete with a chance of the gruesome thrill of re-enacting (under the distinctly not amused gaze of Queen Victoria) the outcome of some of the trials that took place here, such as that of Sir Walter Raleigh, and Judge Jeffreys's ruthless response to the Monmouth Rebellion.

A tale of two cities: Ely (3)

Outside, you might wonder why there's a cannon defending the Cathedral

It might have something to do with the fact that it's pointing straight at the house that Oliver Cromwell lived in during the 1630s and 1640s, as a rising farmer, country gentleman, Presbyterian (and no fan of bishops, cathedrals or stained glass), and MP.

Part of the ground floor doubles as the Tourist Information Office, but the rest is devoted to presenting the domestic interiors of the day.

Upstairs, there's an outline history of the causes and conduct of the Civil Wars, exploring Cromwell's record as he emerged as a leader in Parliament, army general and ultimately, as "Lord Protector", more or less military dictator and monarch in all but name. Visitors are invited to rate him Hero or Villain - it seemed it had been running around 65-35 in favour of "Hero", reinforcing (for those who remember their 1066 And All That) the view that the Roundheads were Right but Repulsive and the Cavaliers Wrong but Wromantic.

A few streets away there's a small local history museum, with plenty for school parties to get to grips with, from prehistoric finds to the draining of the Fens around about (Cromwell's first big local issue as an MP, standing up for displaced local farmers), eel-fishing (hence the town's name), the history of the assorted criminals and unfortunates who ended up in the building when it was the Bishop's Gaol, and Ely's experience in WW2 as a centre for both evacuees from London and massive numbers of airmen on bases nearby. 

Those apart, it's a pleasant, busy and reasonably well-serviced small town, though my photos don't capture much of that (I can never get over the habit of not taking pictures of the humdrum and everyday, even though that might be of most interest to others). The bland chainstore frontages of the main shopping streets somewhat conceal interesting side alleyways.

And on the way back to the station, it's worth a diversion to a well-pubbed waterside:

A tale of two cities: Ely (2)

Arriving at the Cathedral, there are some impressive doors:

and the view of the interior, and particularly its roof, is equally impressive:

So are its stone, metal and wooden fixtures and fittings:

Some of the decoration, particularly the painted ceiling, is Victorian, part of the revival of interest in mediaeval styles previously dismissed as too papistical. The really distinctive thing about the Cathedral is, however, original: well, almost. The Octagon Tower was built in 1322 to replace an earlier Norman tower that had collapsed.

Victorian, too, are the stained glass windows; but upstairs in a side gallery, heralded by the play of coloured light from the windows on the floor, is the Stained Glass Museum, all about how it developed, and is made to this day, with plenty of examples, not only mediaeval but also early twentieth-century domestic and contemporary aesthetic (with plenty of Victorian stuff in between):