Evesham on a Saturday morning seemed a bit down cast or down at heel compared to some of the towns we have passed through. It seemed pretty much that way on the Friday night too. We were also slightly intrigued by the restrictions where we were moored: fishing was only allowed if you were (a) handicapped or (b) under 16, and (c) had a permit from the council.
Might have had something to do with a conversation we’d had with a fisherman back on the Grand Union. On seeing him extract a largish fish from the canal, disentangle it and put it back, we gathered he’d found it increasingly difficult to catch anything, as angling is seemingly popular amongst the Eastern European/Polish immigrant community, and they apparently “fish for the pot” and don’t put anything back. Not sure I’d want to eat a fish that had been filtering grubby canal water all its life, but each to their own.
We’d certainly seen lots of Polish anglers everywhere we’d been, and have observed that they also feed the swans and ducks with industrial quantities of bread. Saw a chap at Evesham feeding a pair of swans with a whole white sliced loaf in one go. Perhaps this is the reason for the darkly muttered stories of them taking swans and Canada geese for the pot too. Who knows – bet the Daily Mail knows the truth!
Evesham Abbey is no more: the stones in the middle picture mark out its position, and if you click on the photo you can just about see Song & Dance down in the distance. The Abbey site is still interesting though, with the bell tower sitting neatly between two ancient parish churches – both still in use. One of them had some remarkably fine fan vault decorations.
The centre of Evesham has some half-timbered establishments like the NatWest bank, but one way or another we didn’t feel a great urge to linger after we’d done the shopping.
Heading on down to Pershore, one passes along the edge of the quaintly named village Wyre Piddle. On the opposite bank is an overgrown bit of land apparently called Tiddle Widdle Island, according to the Ordnance Survey. Paging Harry Secombe…