Caractacus Cave

When my partner and I first started hanging out, we decided to head up Caer Caradoc to find the famous cave of Caractacus, built into the rocks just below an ancient hillfort. 

The hillfort is defunct now, but I'm expecting spears drawn on me anyway because apparently saying "partner" is woke now. I don't know what that means, only that if offends people on (you guessed it) Facebook, and I've been bombarded with requests for alternative word usage every time I say it, and it's freakin' hilarious. In the past few years we have learned that the entire world is run by a bunch of nonces, but this is what boils peoples piss? I'm going to say it more. 

Someone even said "partner" is political. We're walking up a hill. Calm the fuck down.

Caractacus had real problems. 

In regards to the history, this is a rare treat for me. This blog so often allows me to cast my gaze back to the Victorian and Georgian era, but here we can actually look back further than that to eras of Knights (the armoured kind, not the Jimmy Saville kind) and Royalty (the Arthurian kind, not the Prince Andrew kind) to a time before the English came over in their boats and took all of the jobs, when Britain was a hodge-podge of smaller Celtic tribes. 

Caer Caradoc is Welsh for the Fort of Caradog, an alternative name for Caractacus. But it's not just the ancient fortifications that makes the hill amazing. The hill itself is volcanic rock thrust upwards from a fault line eons ago.

The cave, however, is said to be man-made. 

According to legend, the cave was a hiding place for Caractacus, a historic figure who led the Celtic tribes in one last stand against the invading Romans in 50AD.

Back then, Britain was completely different to how it is today. It was mainly just made up of Celtic tribes, and Caractacus was the chief of the Catavellauni tribe that lived in what is now Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Berkshire, and that general area. They were one of the larger tribes, sort of being the Celtic equivalent of a superpower. In addition to opposing the Romans while under the leadership of Caractacus, it seems that they had once led the resistance against Julius Caesar a century earlier too. 

Caractacus became chief in 35AD, and expanded the Catavellauni territory, eventually pissing off another Celtic tribe, the Atrebates. Their leader, Verica, fled to Rome and appealed to Emperor Claudius for help. Claudius was said to suffer from physical disabilities, being described as having a limp, involuntary head shaking, a stammer, and being prone to dribbling. Historians believe that he may have had cerebral palsy, although his grandmothers diagnosis was "a monstrosity of a human being." 

But by not being seen as a credible threat during various purges under Emperor Tiberius, he ended up being the last male in his family when the reign of Caligula flopped, and consequentially he became emperor. And it turned out he was pretty good at it. The physical disabilities masked a pretty sharp mind. 

Britain had a reputation among the Romans for being fierce and dangerous, having resisted Julius Caesar a century earlier. Claudius believed that the conquest of Britain would show the world that they had underestimated him, and secure his place in Roman history. And here was Chief Verica giving him the excuse he needed to go over there and kick some butt. And that's just what they did when they met the British forces in the Battle of the Medway. 

The British lost, and Caractacus fled west, to what is now Shropshire. 

Looking inside, the cave sure is dinky! I've definitely seen more impressive caves. Certainly ones that feel more deserving of such local myths and legends. But it's said that in 50AD this was either the stronghold of Caractacus, or his hidey-hole when everything went tits up. 

After fleeing his fallen kingdom, Caractacus reached out to two tribes called the Silures and the Ordovices that inhabited what are now South-east Wales, and the Powys/Shropshire area. He encouraged both of these tribes to join forces under him, and defend against the Romans in a battle that allegedly took place on this hill. 

The Silures in particular are interesting in that they had a dark complexion that makes some people believe that they were of Spanish origin, but I digress. Perhaps I'll revisit that topic in the future.

The Romans leader Publius Ostorius Scapula was said to be reluctant to have the battle here, but his soldiers had been trudging all over Wales after Caractacus and having finally caught up with him they pretty much insisted on battle. And Caractacus lost once again. It's said that after the Romans captured his brothers, wife and daughter, Caractacus slipped off and hid in this cave, seemingly waiting for the Romans to bugger off under the pretence that he had fled the hillfort entirely. Once the coast was clear, Caractacus fled north. He ended up seeking refuge among the large Brigante tribe in what is now Yorkshire. The word "Brigante" now survives in Welsh as "Braint," meaning Prestigious or Privilege. But this might not have meant high class. Given the Pennines run through their land, historians think it may have meant high elevation instead. Unfortunately for Caractacus, their ruler Queen Cartimandua, was friendly with the Romans. She arrested Caractacus and turned him over to them. It was an unpopular decision though, and led to a revolt among her own people. Whoops. 

I love the view looking out from the cave. 

There's a little groove in the back wall that looks like it may have been dug out for someone to sit on. But was it actually the buttcheeks of Caractacus that graced this stone?

The truth behind the story has been contested. Several other hills also lay claim to being the site of the battle. This hill is really only implicated because of its name, Caradoc being an alternative name for Caractacus, but this isn't even the only Caer Caradoc in Shropshire.

Furthermore the Roman historian Tacitus says that the hillfort was next to a river, and that the Romans had to cross this river in order to launch their attack. No such river exists next to Caer Caradoc. But it's worth noting that despite being a renowned historian, Tacitus was born in 56AD, a few years after the battle took place.

 

Nevertheless, old maps attribute the cave to Caractacus, and publications from 1855 say that there can be no doubt that the cave is his. But then publications from 1978 say that researchers have concluded that the cave isn't actually that old. In some ways, that makes it even more intriguing. It's man-made but its origins are shrouded in mystery.

Wartime mentions of the cave and Caractacus are pretty interesting because they blend the legend with wartime morale boosting. A publication from 1939 claims that his defiance of the Romans has been passed down the bloodline into Britain's modern resistance to dictatorship.  

Having been captured, Caractacus was reunited with his family in Rome, and they were paraded through the streets, before being presented to Emperor Claudius. Caractacus then gave a powerful speech, arguing that his stubborn resistance had only made Rome's victory over him even greater. Claudius, seemingly agreeing that Caractacus had helped him procure the reputation he desired, decided to spare him. Caractacus was allowed to live the rest of his days in Rome. His fame had preceded him and many people treated him like a celebrity, but he was just gobsmacked by the grandeur of the city, saying "You have all this but still you want our small huts?"

(Caractacus ranting to Emperor Claudius- engraving by Andrew Birrell of a painting by Henry Fuseli)

His progeny were later credited with helping bring Christianity to Britain. Saint Cyllin was said to be his son, and Saint Eigen was his daughter, possibly the first female saint. Some sources even go on to say that the Second ever Pope, Linus, was his son, but I haven't found much in support of that. Of the tribes he once commanded, the Ordovices and the Silures were eventually subjugated in 78AD, although it's said that the Silures were particularly difficult, and were the last ones to fall.

It's interesting to me that Britain fell to the Romans largely because the Atrebates had invited them in to help them with another Celtic tribe. This brought about the downfall of Celtic culture in Britain and life was never the same again. Sure, the Catavellauni were swinging their dick around and pissing people off, but the Romans proved to be a larger threat to Celtic cultural identity. It is fun to speculate what Britain would be like if the Atrebates and Catavellauni had learned to co-exist instead of opposing each other. The Catavellauni had unified most of Southern England and maintained it for several generations, so their expansion was a slow push towards some sort of British unification. Given more time, Britain may have gone the way of Germany, unifying without Roman input. But that is just speculation.

There's a little geocach box in the cave. This is cool!

It contains a log book, a pen, a pencil and a stamp. But alas, it has not been closed properly and everything inside is soaking wet. It does contain a few entries by people who have found the cave before, but the paper was too soggy for us to make our own input. 

Obviously I put it back once I was done looking at it. 

Anyway, check out the view!

Caer Caradoc also has ties to Arthurian myths. According to legend, Arthur hid the cauldron of Dyrnwch in the cave. The cauldron allegedly has the power to distinguish the brave from the cowardly because meat would only boil for brave people. A story from the 11th Century, arguably one of the oldest Arthurian stories, tells of how Arthur stole the cauldron from Dyrnwch (sometimes Diwrnach) because his friend was only allowed to marry the woman of his dreams if several impossible tasks were completed. Arthur is presented as the ultimate wingman, stepping in to perform these tasks for his mate. Dyrnwch is sometimes a giant, sometimes an Irish man, all times dead by the end. 

Many see the story of the cauldron as an early version of the Holy Grail, but I'm a little unsure how it came to allegedly be here in this cave. 

Much to my surprise, an argument has been made for Arthurian myth to have its roots in Shropshire. A book "King Arthur: The True Story" makes an intriguing thesis, arguing that Camelot was at Viroconium, now Wroxeter. 

According to the Welsh monk Nennius, Arthur was one of the last British leaders to make a stand against the Anglo-Saxon invaders. He doesn't give dates, but one of these battles, the battle of Badon, is referred to in another historic source by the monk Gildas, placing it around 500AD.

Popular myth makes Arthur out to be the king of a unified Britain, but Nennius refers to him as part of an alliance of British kings. A nice compromise would be that he simply led the largest kingdom of the time. In 500AD this was Powys, covering most of the midlands including Shropshire, the capital being Viroconium. The Romans had long buggered off, but there is evidence that there were alterations made to it around the dark ages, meaning that someone was still using it.

The chief of Powys at the time was Owain Ddantgwyn, whose last name meant "White Tooth."  Owain Ddantgwyns battle name was "The Bear" and this, in the Celtic Brythonic language, was "Arth." 

The book goes into more depth and is worth a mooch for anyone who likes Arthurian legend and wants to see if there are any historic sources to it. 

The Victorian folklorists Charlotte Burne and Georgina Jackson take things to another level in their book "Shropshire Folklore: A sheaf of gleanings," originally published in 1886. It contains an abundance of old Shropshire myths and legends, many of which are sadly not so widely known today. One of these is that Caer Caradoc imprisons a fire demon, and that when a solitary cloud sits on the summit, the fire demons hands can be seen trying to break free. Her source of this story was a local who had been told the tale by her grandfather.

Gotta love Shropshire, with our legendary mountain cryptids. Fire demons on Caer Caradoc, demon dogs on Clee Hill, and some kind of black cat on the Wrekin. It's like a Pokémon region here. 

But it sure is interesting, given that this is volcanic rock. I have no doubt that at some point, early humans must have witnessed some tectonic awesomeness, but has this really been passed down all the way to the 1880s? That's pretty far fetched. But then, it seems like the most logical source of a myth about a fire demon trying to escape the mountain, short of there being an actual fire demon.  

Ultimately, despite the fact that stories about the cave are embellished, the fact remains that it IS man made, and that raises the question, if it wasn't the home of a fire demon, the hiding place of a cauldron or the stronghold of a warrior, what was it? 

Because I can accept that these tales might be nonsense but if that's the case then why pick this cave for their made-up stories? There's a million other caves that are bigger and deeper but somehow this tiny one has captured the imaginations of the ancient locals. Which leads me to think something must have happened here. The truth is long lost, perhaps passed down and diluted along the way, but it I do find the caves mythological significance to be very disproportionate to its size. Its importance has to have come from somewhere. 

False or not, the cave being created more recently than the battle only casts doubt on the caves use as a refuge, not necessarily on the battle that allegedly took place here. This WAS a hillfort, and these rocks, cast upwards by some prehistoric volcano, likely remain the same as they were to those first century Celts and their ancestors. Those who built the fort would still recognise it today. 

And on top of that, this cave has been known as Caractacus's Cave for centuries. Just think how many people have come up here to find the famous cave and take in the view. This adventure and this view are something I share with thousands of people across just as many years. That's incredible.

My next blog will be on the travel blog. It's a film set and I am VERY happy to be talking about it. I'm happier still to have survived, because through no (maybe moderate) fault of my own, I might not have. 

In the meantime, if you want to stay updated with my blogs, then social media is the way forwards. If you follow my Facebook page, *maybe* you'll see my posts. Try Instagram too. It sometimes shows my followers my posts, but not often. I'd really like to see more people get onto the likes of Bluesky, Cara and Vero, sites that give us what Twitter and Instagram used to before it all became algorithmic bullshit designed to make us miserable. Try that, if you want. 

Thanks for reading!

Workshop Barn thing

This little workshop is only a short walk from where I live, and quite a few people have suggested that I check it out. All I really know about it is that it was part of an estate originally set apart from Shrewsbury, and then Shrewsbury expanded around it, consuming the hall and its surrounding land. The nearby houses now share the same name as the estate, meaning census records make it hard to determine who lived here. 

But it doesn't really matter to me. It's not the most exciting of locations. But at the time I had just obtained a wide angle lens from Alice of the Rabbit Blogs.

If you've been following this blog for a while you'll know that I have long lamented my lack of a wide angle lens. Most notably in bunkers or other small nooks that I can't photograph properly. This lens is a game changer, and this rather inconsequential blog is really just a test run for it. 

There's a freakin' JCB in the yard, completely encased in nature. This is pretty bonkers. I don't think I've ever found an abandoned JCB. Combine harvesters, tanks, bombers, cruise ships, and alien spacecraft, sure. Never a JCB. 

There's a cherry picker over here, similarly encased in brambles. 

Slipping inside via the garage, I came across this skip hire van, and I must say, I'm pretty damn impressed with this lens. I'm only standing in the corner of the garage and I can actually fit the entire van into shot. This is an unprecedented level of success. 

The workshop itself is pretty dull. It's just a dumping ground of forgotten objects. But check out masonry! It's a pretty old building, albeit with later alterations. 

There's a whole collection of records here. 

Most of these seem to be dated from the 1970s, but "Prison Work Songs" came out in 1997. I was a little bit surprised by how recent that was until I remembered that 1997 was actually quite some time ago. There are adults in the world now who never experienced the 1990s. God I feel old. 

There's a bit of graffiti, indicating that the local inbreds kids have found this place. Or at least, just Darren, who signed his name twice for some reason, proving that he knows how to move a foot to the left. Good for you, Darren. 

Much to my delight, there were stairs over in the corner. 

And they're still mostly intact. Looking forward to seeing if I'm still alive in a couple of hours. 

Up we go. 

I think I trust the McCanns to babysit more than I trust these floorboards. This is really one of those adventures that makes me question all of my life choices. 

In this room there's a solitary table and it is by far the most curious piece of furniture in the place. It's covered in Disney stickers. 

Most recognisable are the farm animals from 101 Dalmatians, and a closer look reveals characters from The Jungle Book. Most of the stickers are decayed beyond recognition. 

In a weird way it makes me nostalgic for those early childhood days, when I'd get stickers with my magazines, and I'd just slather them over every piece of furniture in my room. My sister and I went nuts with Tom & Jerry stickers when we were little, and I definitely got overzealous with the stickers that came with the Transformers Generation 2 comic. In fact, when we moved house when I was seven, I distinctly remember being miffed that I couldn't take the huge Decepticon logo with me, having stuck it to the wall. I wonder what the future occupants thought of that. 

There's a tiny little workshop up here, and once again I'm marvelling at this lens and its ability to get the whole room in shot. I kinda want to marry this lens. 

There's a few bits and bobs left over. It's weird to think that someone once made use of this space and was probably really fond of it.

I quite like the workshop. Being upstairs, with the steps slowly collapsing, it's at risk of being someday cut off from the world. But it has character. I can totally picture someone using this area. It's definitely the best part of the entire building.

But that's about it. 

I'd say the lens was a worthwhile acquisition. It's going to bring about a whole new era on the blog! This is awesome!

Apologies that this blog isn't that exciting. I'll be diving deep into local folklore next, and on the travel blog I'll soon be covering a very iconic film set, so there's some cool stuff coming up.

In the meantime, if you like my blogs and want to see more, give me a follow on my social media platforms. Bluesky, Vero and Cara are pretty good Twitter and Instagram substitutes that actually show you who you choose to follow. But if you want to chance it with the hub of human misery, you can follow me on Facebook. I'm on Instagram too for some reason.

Thanks for reading!

The Market Drayton Pillbox

Plonked right next to the canal in Market Drayton is this war-era pillbox, dating back to 1940. 

For those who don't know, pillboxes are defensive structures. Back in the early days of the second world war, the fear of a German invasion of the UK was very real, and in addition to coastal defences, we also had numerous fallback points along the UK's pre-existing barriers like rivers, canals, and railway embankments. If the Nazis did invade even a small chunk of our island, we could fall back to another line of defence and make sure they didn't take the whole damn thing, or at the very least, slow down the invasion.

In this case, this would have been used to stop the Nazis advancing over the canal.

Imagine preparing to make your last stand against the Nazis in Market Drayton. Every time you heard a ruckus outside, you'd have to check if it's actually the Nazis or just the crackheads fighting at the bus station. You wouldn't know if you'd be shouting "Germans" or "Mum, Dad, put down those bricks." 

Of course, in hindsight we know that the pillbox was never needed. The Nazi invasion of Britain never happened, and every pillbox in the UK was destined to be nothing more than an ornament. It's a testament to our preparation, and resilience, and the horrific scenarios we were ready to face.

According to the Shropshire Star (take this with a grain bucket of salt) this pillbox is the last of its kind, its position on top of a concrete plinth being unique to the country. That's pretty cool if it's true. 

But in that case, what's truly weird about the Market Drayton pillbox is that despite being very prominent in the town and allegedly unique, it almost never comes up when people discuss Shropshire pillboxes. Most people talk about the ones at Cressage. In fact when I post this in the local Shropshire Facebook groups, I bet someone will comment underneath telling me about the Cressage ones. I am willing to put money on this. 

Slipping inside is pretty easy. The door's just incredibly low and a bit hard on the knees. 

It's a fairly standard layout. It's hexagonal with "windows" in each wall. If the Germans had invaded, people would be able to shoot from these holes while being relatively safe from returning fire.

Of course, being rather central in an urban area, the pillbox has become the towns bin. Its historical value is tarnished by a carpet of litter and the stench of piss. I had a colleague at my last workplace who told me several of her friends had fucked in here as teenagers, and I don't understand why they couldn't do it somewhere a bit more sanitary. I think I've caught syphilis just from looking at it. 

According to news reports, in 2020 the police did come here to remove a homeless person who had moved in. I don't know about you, but I would be a bit miffed if I was getting robbed or murdered and the police couldn't come because they were too busy arresting someone for trying to take a nap. Who is he really bothering here? Heaven forbid a human being has shelter.

 

Anyway, that's it for the Market Drayton pillbox, and for Market Drayton itself for the foreseeable future. But never say never! Not many people are aware of this but this blog has a two-year backlog. I was here two years ago, and last weekends trip to the dentist won't appear on my travel blog until 2028, assuming we survive 2026. But basically all I really know is that I haven't done any urbex in Market Drayton since this pillbox. But I might go there tomorrow. Who knows?

In the meantime, if you want to stay updated with my blog, then you can come keep me company on a website full of miserable people, Facebook. I'm also on Instagram too, for some reason. My personal favourite social media platforms are Bluesky, Cara and Vero, all excellent substitutes for Twitter and Instagram. They lack the large userbase, but the algorithm isn't evil, the users aren't miserable and you actually see who you choose to follow. That's all I want from social media. 

Thanks for reading!

Folly Tower

During one of the UK's weekly ten minutes of no rain, I decided to head out to the Shropshire border to photograph this cute little folly ruin. With its tower next to a smaller nave, it kinda looks like a church. Some documents have even referred to it as "the ancient church." But it was never a church, ancient or otherwise. It's just designed to resemble one, kinda like the one in the woods that I covered a while back, but a bit less cute. 

This tower was allegedly built in the 1700s, although nobody seems to know exactly when. In the Georgian and Victorian eras, follies were all the rage but they were nothing more than extravagant garden features. In fact, I did originally wonder if this has always been in a ruined condition. Some Georgian follies were designed to look like ruins, because it gave the impression that their land had a richer history than it actually did. 

But no, apparently this was a solid structure back in the day. It's said that it was initially used as a barn, but in the Victorian era a chap called Philip Chetwode used the tower to watch horse racing on the nearby field. I imagine he wasn't alone. He probably brought his friends up there too and had a beverage. What's the point in owning a tower if you aren't going to make the most of it?

Luckily there are plenty of photos of this guy online. 

(Photo not mine, obviously)

Allegedly in the 20th Century the tower was converted into residential accommodation for the servants of the estate, although I've not been able to clarify that. It turns out that the nearby woods and the little cluster of houses that have popped up nearby in the last couple of centuries are named after the folly, which is interesting since there are probably people in that hamlet who don't even know it exists. I like to refer to census data but it's a little hard to link anyone to this folly tower when its name can be applied to every nearby house. 

Allegedly the folly was also struck by lightning, which certainly explains the gash down the tower, but seems a little bit odd given the proximity to much taller trees. Perhaps it's this act of God that saw it relegated to a forgotten ruin. Let's hope nobody was in it at the time. 

The only real clue to the origins and use of this folly are the Chetwode family. They had property in Buckinghamshire in the 13th Century, but they also had a manor near here too.

Philips Great-great-great-great Grandfather John lived from 1666 to 1733 and allegedly had the entirety of that old manor rebuilt in 1710 when he revamped the estate. So it seems that the folly was probably built by him, in accordance to this new image he was bringing to the land. John died on the estate in 1733, as did his son Philip in 1764, and Philip's son John in 1779. Each successive Chetwode was said to have added more to the estate, so it's entirely possible that it was one of these two who had the folly built too.

John Chetwode (the one who died in 1779) is the earliest member of the lineage who I've been able to get an image of. It's a painting from 1768. 

(Painting credit: George Romney)

John and his wife Dorothy allegedly had something of a very formal and loveless marriage, brought about purely for the sake of accumulating land. They were friendly with each other but seldom affectionate, and John allegedly spent most of his time in London, and had a bunch of illegitimate children with his mistress. He died in 1779 from a head injury when his carriage flipped over in London. Dorothy actually died a year after this painting was finished. 

Check out that gash right down the side of the tower. It's completely split in two. There are still a few clues about its former appearance. There are diagonal lines at the base of the tower, which seem to indicate that there was another room facing this way, making the folly an L-shape with the tower in the corner. Kinda like that weird pointy manor I found in France, but without the supervillain lair vibe. 

Even from here we can see the diagonal lines on the tower that indicate where the roof was, and there are bleak remnants of white paint telling us that once upon a time some effort went into its decor. I wish I had some old photos of this place. I bet it looked awesome back in the day. 

John and Dorothy probably spent time here back in the day, especially if the fields were used for events like horse racing. The woods nearby were also used for fox hunting, and the folly gets a few mentions in reports from that too. There was also a pheasant coop right next to it according to Victorian maps, so I imagine the Chetwode family did make use of it for their outdoor activities. 

While the numerous Chetwodes did scatter across the country, John and Dorothy's grandson, also called John, was born here in 1788 and he died here in 1873. Photos of him exist too. 

(Photo not mine, obviously)

Being childless, the estate and baron lineage fell to his brother George and his offspring. George was thankfully a bit more creative with naming his children, having a daughter named Hyacinthe and a son named Augustus. 

Don't you miss the days when rich people just gave their children unconventional names and built eccentric garden features instead of nowadays, when they go to strange islands and diddle children with presidents named after flatulence? Bring back the old days. 

George's grandson was the Philip Chetwode who came here to watch the horse racing. But it's likely that every generation spent time here, right back to its construction. 

Philip Chetwode was born in 1869 and he died in 1950. He fought in the second Boer War, at the siege of Ladysmith in 1899. He also fought in World War 1 at the first battle of Ypres, and the first battle of Gaza in 1917, as well as the Battle of Beersheba and the Battle of Jerusalem. In 1937 he said that Britain would not be fighting another war with Germany, and added that "as an old soldier" he knew what he was talking about. These words came back to sting when his son died in the second world war.

His family sold this estate in 1919, but he regularly came back to Shropshire to visit, and play football. 

Curiously the interior of this bit doesn't actually lead into the tower. Presumably there were stairs, and the room above led into the tower. It's actually a very intriguing layout. Given the arched doors, it's possible that this was a stable area, but the stables are beneath the living quarters. That definitely gives it a superhero vibe. I can imagine a Zorro-like character sliding down a fireman's pole and landing on his horse before shooting out through the doors. 

Presumably it was after 1919 that the folly was made into accommodation by the estates new owner. This means that if it was struck by lightning, it was sometime after 1919. But given that it's got loads of trees behind it, it seems very difficult to believe that it was hit my lightning at all. Maybe it was a fire or something. 

A few people have died in the vicinity of the folly. A plane crashed nearby in 1941, killing the pilot after he attempted to return to base with one knackered engine after bombing Mannheim. The pilot, Charles Greig, was an Australian man who had been discharged from the navy due to being medically unfit, and in the second world war had been unable to join the air force in his home country. He'd actually travelled to the UK just to join the RAF, because we were apparently less stringent with who we sent to war. It may sound insensitive, but it seems that if he really wanted to serve in the military, it's kinda nice that he died achieving that dream.

The second death occurred on the nearby road in 1944. 20-year-old Jean Powell was chatting to her husband, who was just off to work. She came across the road to speak to him in his truck, ran back across the road to her home, and got hit by a bus. Her death was the result of a laceration of the brain caused by a fractured skull. The funeral took place in the same church where they were married.

Very, very tragic. Especially at the age of twenty, when she and her husband had their entire future ahead of them. 

In the tower itself we have the bleak remnants of a fireplace. It's mad to think that maybe in the Victorian era Philip Chetwode had a fire going, heating the tower while he watched the horses race. 

But wait, there's more!

I almost missed this completely unobtrusive hole in the ground. The tower has a cellar! The stairs are covered entirely by debris, and there's maybe a two feet of doorway left, but two feet is more than enough! We're going in!

I'll get mauled by a thousand badgers before I ever consider therapy. 

The cellar is tiny, and it's going to be harder to scramble out than it was to slide in, but I don't care! This is awesome! I love that a ruin like this still has a cellar. And to think I almost missed it! If I had posted this online and someone told me that I missed the cellar, I'd be pretty miffed. I'd probably swear so much I'd invent some new swearwords as I hauled my ass back here in a blaze of profanity. 

But that's about it for the folly tower. It's not much, but I love this sort of thing. I'll always make time for a folly ruin. 

My next blog will be something quick and easy in Market Drayton. No, not the girls! And then I'll be invading Shrewsbury once again in a bleak attempt to give my blogs name some accuracy.

In the meantime, follow my social media platforms. I'm on Facebook, slowly losing my will to live, what with the perpetually miserable userbase, and I'm on Instagram too for some reason. But I absolutely love the smaller sites that give us what Instagram once was, Vero and Cara. And of course, I'm on Bluesky, which is what Twitter used to be. Find me there.

Thanks for reading!