Stepping off the treadmill ...

... and taking some time out last weekend.  No jobs, no just do's, no mundane tasks. 

Ice on the inside of the bedroom windows.  They needed a fresh air fix.  A dull day with a chilling grip.  Gloves, mufflers, wellies and woolly socks.  To Langport they went.

A little town not far away, sitting on the edge of the River Parrett on the Somerset Levels.

A few pretty shops, nothing pretentious, old buildings down unseen side streets.

At the top of the hill they take in the view across the Levels from the stone seat in the grounds of the now empty and unused All Saints Church.  A wonderful place to sit and reflect come winter or summer.  A landscape flat and often flooded stretches into the distance.

Priests Lane to the side of St Gilda's Convent School for Girls.  Originally an orphanage, set up by the sisters of St Gildas, who fled to langport in 1904 from Brittany, France, to escape religious persecution.

Sign pollution, a pet hate.  Far more tolerable if they were all old cast and enamelled signs like this one.

The Hanging Chapel.  13th century archway with chapel atop.  Has been used as a Town Hall, courthouse, grammar school, museum, armoury and since 1891, as a Masonic hall.

Fresh air fuelled steps take them out of the town to the adjoining Huish Episcopi.  Beautiful church door.

Wanting to peek inside.

Back along the ice edged river.  Passing the time with fishermen catching roach.

Icy puddles have to be broken.

Returning to Langport along the watery path.  A still, steely greyness descending, snowflakes appearing, decorating Mr VJ's whiskery beard.  Past Town Hall and Market Shambles.

The Flaming Star Gas Lamp

The Portcullis, derived from Lady Margaret Beaufort, mother of King Henry VII, a medieval owner of the manor, is Langport's badge.  The metal structure above, surrounded by rays of light, consists of small gas pipes with holes along their lengths.

At times of national rejoicing, royal occasions and victories in war, it was attached by a large pipe to the gas main on the front of the town hall.  When the gas was turned on, each hole formed a gas jet, which could be lit, providing a blazing star of celebration.  It was last used at the end of World War II.

Made in the mid 1800s, it ran on coal gas from the Langport Gas Works.  Unable to to be used with North Sea gas it is now sadly redundant.

Across misty flatlands to home.  To cook.  To knead dough and bake pastry. Their friends, Mr & Mrs NZ, coming for supper.  Creamy mozzarella, tomatoes, parma ham and salami topped pizza with a fudgy pecan apple tart.

The following day they set out for more.  They strode out across Corton Ridge with Mr & Mrs HTB, over muddied fields to the Queens Arms.  Pork pies, chutneys and roast potatoes!! 

 Warmed and refreshed they marched on.  Through the prettiness of Corton.

 Legs feeling the miles.

They have watched this tree for many years, in the full cloak of summer and stripped in winter.  Hit by lightning a while ago, it stood on, displaying its scars.  But this time it had toppled. Lying bare and exposed.  All fight had gone.

In the grass, an omen.  Mr picked it up.  He needs some luck. 

Long beaked bird with emerald velveteen coat.

Today came some news Mr has been waiting for.  The news was good.  Perhaps it was the horseshoe!