[Photo of us at lunch. Me after I had my makeup done and then spent too much money on makeup, with Keiki looking worried that I’m going to drop him in my risotto.]
We started off with a tour of the high street, poking into various shops for long-overdue purchases of important items like new tights to replace all my raggedy old ones, and stamps for sending postcards.
[Fish Street, with graffiti and bicycles. No fish, though.]
[They like a good cupola in Worcester.]
After a coffee and a feed, we went to Worcester Cathedral. Keiki was, I think, glad to doff his cap for the occasion.
[Keiki with his baseball cap at a jaunty angle.]
I’d been to the cathedral previously, but never when it was so quiet. As I strolled around and Keiki fell asleep to the soothing tones of the High Communion sermon, we saw a harried-looking man set down a tea light and scrawl a short message in the book on the stand next to the candle-holders. We waited a short interval and then padded over to have a look.
“Another day without you but a day closer to you, Mum and Dad. I love you.” And then we had to work very hard not to burst into tears.
We descended the stairs into the cool silence of the crypt.
We looked at the rotting boots of the Worcester Pilgrim, and admired the medieval stone tiles that had been unearthed in the corner opposite his grave.
We came back up and went to the courtyard and the Chapter House.
[The old cathedral bells.]
[Chapter House ceiling.]
[Courtyard garden and graveyard.]
The windows surrounding the courtyard have stained glass memorial plaques embedded in them.
[This one reads: “In memory of David Charles Lennard Sheppard M.C. Major Royal Artillery
Died of wounds in Italy
December 25, 1944”]
[And this one: “In memory of Lawrence Barnard Carlton R.A.M.C.
He gave his life for his comrades Aug 10 1915”]
Feeling melancholy, we went for lunch at the Ginger Pig on Copenhagen Street, which we recommend highly for delicious food, generous portions and friendly staff.
[Keiki and me, lunchtime.]
Our last stop before hopping on the train home was the Worcester City Art Gallery and Museum, a small but wide-ranging compendium of disparate displays that I didn’t get to investigate properly but which intrigued me enough to want to go back.
[Can’t claim to be a museum about Worcestershire if it doesn’t include the sauce.]
[Stuffed bat has its back to the visitors.]
[Probably because it figures weasel is a sufficient deterrent from prodding.]
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