After tidying my house from top to bottom, and shopping for munchies and drinks, I was ready for the arrival of my Dad, Clare, Philippa, Tristan, Alan, Sally, Joshua, Rachel, and Barney (the dog). They got stuck in a jam on the M6, so didn’t arrive until after eight on Friday evening. Alan got some chips for the kids while I made everyone tea. Once everyone was settled, us blokes (and Philippa) went to the pub, drank lots of beer, and got a take away curry on the way home.

The next day, everyone was up by nine, something which I’m still shocked by. We had tea and toast, and Dad took Barney out over the fields looking for rabbit holes. At around ten, everyone left for Scotland, leaving me to get ready for work. I worked until nine to get the latest release of our software delivered.

Sunday started as a glorious day, with blue skies and bright sunshine. I decided to go for another of my ‘Pub Walks in Shropshire’. I rifled through the book, and decided on Ironbridge Gorge, starting at the Tontine Hotel.

Half an hour later I was out on the A5, with the roof down, heading towards Ironbridge. What I hadn’t noticed until then was how ridiculously cold it was. The sun was shining, but the wind was icy cold, and I had to put on my silly red hat.

After arriving at Ironbridge, negotiating the roadworks and the hordes (well, maybe not hordes, but a lot for February) of visitors, and parking the car, I headed for the Tontine Hotel. The hotel stands directly in front of the Iron Bridge. It looks victorian, and has a foyer tiled by Maw & Co of nearby Jackfield and cast-iron fireplaces. I had a surprisingly good pint of Bank’s bitter, read a chapter of The Lost Continent, then headed back out.

I walked across the Iron Bridge, which crosses the gorge high above the river, giving impressive views. At the other end of the bridge I headed right, down a broad track to a disused railway bridge. Going under the bridge, and up onto it, bought me out onto what used to be the railway track, built in 1863, which ran from Coalport to Stafford.

Walking along the track, I got my first glimpse of Buildwas Power Station, which is quite impressive really, as the cooling towers are quite huge. Apparently the station won an architectural award in 1973 for its concordance with the environment. As I approached it, the sky became dominated by the huge rosy coloured brick cooling towers, and I could hear the condensed water rushing down them. The track ended at a fence, just yards from the first tower, 375 feet high, an imposing sight. The bottom of the towers is open, supported by large diagonal pillars, so you can see the gallons of water flowing down inside. I decided I liked these towers, they are incredibly impressive, and have a strange kind of beauty. They are also quite well hidden, so you don’t have to look at them if you don’t want to.

Striking off into the woods, I came to some steps. My guide told me I had to climb these steps, so I strode up them. I strode up them much too quickly. About twenty steps later I was gasping for air, and admiring the towers behind me again while my heart slowed down. I continued upwards, clutching the conveniently placed guide rails and panting heavily. I stopped again, and again, and several times more, each time resting for longer, until finally I arrived at the top. I stood bent, with my hands on my knees, struggling for breath, and vowing to get just a little bit fitter.

I checked my book, and discovered much to my dismay that there were more steps to climb, but it was only a few this time, and I was soon strolling happily through the woods on flat ground. Soon the path turned into a farm track, and I passed some old looking, and remarkably well preserved barns and outhouses.

Eventually I arrived at Benthall church. Apparently the Benthalls were influential figures in these parts, with a hall, a church, and the local village named after them. I wandered around the church yard, looking at the tombs and gravestones. Some of them were made from cast iron, the obsession with iron in Ironbridge affected all parts of life, and death.

As I was wandering, a very old lady with an attractive beard and moustache came out of the church, with a greyhound which was almost as hairy as she was. She greeted me and asked if I’d been there before. I made the mistake of saying no. She desperately wanted me to see inside the church, so eventually I obliged and went in. I would like to thank that old lady now, because it was a very pleasant experience. The church was small and well kept, and incredibly peaceful. My new friend started telling me about the history of the church, apparently using farts as punctuation, and told me lots of interesting things about the Benthalls that I’ve since forgotten. I really should take a notebook on these walks.

From the churchyard, I could see Benthall Hall, built in the 16th century, which played an important part in the Civil War. Cromwell’s men took it in the same month that Shrewsbury fell. In the 19th century, George Maw, of ceramic tile fame, lived there, and planted almost every variety of crocus in the gardens. I couldn’t see any now though.

I left the church, and continued along the track, which eventually led back into Ironbridge, and my waiting car.