We were entertaining visitors to the Forest recently. My brother-in-law and his wife called into see us and they hadn’t been around for some time, so we took them on a magical mystery tour around the forest.

We have a long connection with the Forest, over half a century, but it is always interesting to see it through our visitors’ eyes, reviving old memories and perhaps providing some new ones.

We had lunch at the Hopewell Colliery, an old coal mine which is now a cafe and an opportunity to visit an authentic Forest coalmine. The underground visit to the mine is not available on Sunday, which was not really a disappointment, but we lunched there, and were delighted with the splendid Sunday lunch provided. The café is filled with fascinating information about forest mines and miners. And the experience was as interesting for us as it was for our visitors.

We drove off to Bream, past the shambolic site where my Forest rugby club played many years ago, and on to St Briavels, past the Close Turf Club where I once became world champion. I beat Mork resident and television personality John Morgan, who had just beaten world champion Hurricane Higgins.

And on to St Briavels. It was a misty day, the River Wye not visible from the St Briavels misty tump, but the castle was mysterious and forbidding in the mists, without the usual broad colourful views of the river, Hudnalls woods on the English side and the rolling countryside of Gwent on the Welsh side.

The castle was bleak, characterful, dominant, not the cheerful building familiar to residents and visitors. We didn’t enter, just reviewed the 13th century building from the outside.

We drove round the village, past my first home in the forest, a cottage now completely refreshed since my residence there over ha lf a century ago, past the sadly decommissioned pub ’The Crown’, happy memories of post cricket match celebrations or comiserations, music, and, as mentioned before in this column early morning lock ins when snow falls up to top of hedge levels forced travellers to work back to the village, not to mention a carefree disregard of closing times.

It was a misty day, with the River Wye far below not visible from the St Briavels misty tump, but the castle was mysterious and forbidding, without the usual broad colourful views of the river, and Hudnalls woods on the English side and the rolling country of Gwent on the Welsh side.

And the charming centre of St Briavels unspoiled.

My brother is a passionate supporter of Port Vale football club.

We called into Worrell Hill sports club at the end of our journey, and we were surprised to see that the television at the club was showing the last 30 minutes of an FA Cup match, Port Vale v Sunderland. Port Vale is the Port Vale were leading 1-0 against a premiership Cult Sunderland, and we had to endure an unbearable half hour watching Port Vale repelling their mighty opponents, which they did. Our hospitality knows no bounds.