To the Manor Drawn Read online

  We also learned to enjoy and cultivate another aspect of country life—our horsy friends. Not only for the exposure to equine events around the county, but to boost our knowledge in an area thus far neglected. Our willing tutors were Penny and Andrew, a couple who definitely knew their way around a paddock. They took us under their wing more than once to introduce us to the party world of ponies. I have to laugh remembering our first outing together, when they courteously reminded us that the attire of the day was none other than murky green and muddy brown, just in case we were thinking of wearing something fetching in rose-petal pink or canary yellow. Frankly, I think we could have survived our social blunder, but I doubt they could have lived it down.

  Having once attended a gathering of the Countryside Alliance, a national organization that campaigns on a wide range of rural issues, we were again welcomed to join Penny and Andrew for our first point-to-point race in Garthorpe, a little blink of a village a few miles up the road. ‘Racing in a field of its own’ was the slogan of the Cottesmore Hunt and sponsor of the meet. Bill and I had often driven past the grounds noticing timber hurdles and observation towers and wondered just what went on in the distant hills.

  Thankfully it was a bright, sunny day with a proper nip in the air to make it sporty. It seemed every four-wheel vehicle in the county was positioned hubcap to hubcap, row upon row, filling every inch of the grassy parking lot. Lines of cars resembled one long picnic table, as hampers, chests and coolers appeared. Deckchairs encircled portable dining tables like dusty cowboys around a crackling campfire. From the boot of their car Penny removed an old leather-lined wicker hamper that creaked like a wooden door when she lifted the lid to remove the food. By noon, we were tucking into triangles of smoked salmon and egg sandwiches, pâtés, cheeses, potato salad, a cauldron of piping hot chilli, puddings and sweet cherry tarts. One ingenious guest was even making the rounds pouring sizzling sausages out of his thermos. Slices of beef laid out on a platter were so tender and sweet they were referred to as ‘he’. We later learned that ‘he’ had been organically raised by our hosts for just such an occasion and had only recently met his maker. With each mouthful, our grateful group thanked our four-legged friend for his sacrifice.

  This was a wonderful family event, although I suspect most parents could be forgiven for absent-mindedly leaving their kids at home while lovingly packing up the family dog, for it was a virtual canine matchmaking social club not to be missed. Everywhere doggy noses collided with doggy bottoms while owners nonchalantly gazed elsewhere, respecting the privacy of the star-crossed lovers. Jack Russell terriers, well known for their bipolar personalities, often found themselves tethered to the front wheel of a Land Rover Discovery or a Cruiser Amazon. There, they basked in the sun with a water bowl on one side and morsels of food on the other, waiting for total strangers to wander by and rub their tummies, causing their legs to fall lazily open in the most ignoble fashion.

  Bill, understanding the nuances of gambling, studied the racing sheet with an eye to recovering our entrance costs at the very least; while I became hysterical with laughter, and I must say a little envious, at the animal love-in going on so unashamedly everywhere. Thumbing through the racing form, Bill offered me the opportunity to make a quick fortune. ‘Pick your poison, sweetheart. I’ll go place your bets.’ Knowing I had as much chance of selecting a winner as a snowball surviving in hell, I decided to rely on the only two arrows in my quiver, female intuition and silly names. This, of course, meant we had an unblemished losing record as Miss Hoity Toity, Gin ’n’ Tonic and Roley-Poley failed to produce a single winner. In fact, two of our horses finished the race solo with their riders coyly crossing the finish line on foot. Clearly, the lesson of the day was that the fun was in the spending of money, not in the making of it.

  Chapter 15

  A siren call

  Email To: Janet and Tom

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 29 April

  Subject: We need a break

  Dear Janet and Tom,

  I think someone put our name in a Best English Bed & Breakfast Guide because we seem to be fully booked on sunny weekends. I’m convinced our clever city friends first check the internet for the weather report then call to see if we have a vacancy. We get the feeling that they think the only thing Bill and I do during the week is graze with the cattle, so courteously they offer themselves up as some kind of weekend entertainment. I’m sure they think we are bored to death and that having them around will give us something exciting to do. What we want is nothing to do! And that includes changing linen, washing towels, making restaurant reservations and humping luggage.

  Rain or shine, next weekend the ‘No Vacancy’ sign goes up. We are checking out and going to London. The city should be quiet. After all, everyone will be in the country. Can we stay with you?

  Talk to you later,

  Leslie Ann and Bill

  One agreeable aspect of rural habitation was the forty-eight-hour period known as the weekend. It could be as full of benign activities or as physically exhausting as you would want. One thing for certain, people came out of their homes in search of pleasure. By contrast, parts of London such as Mayfair and Canary Wharf, beguiling as they may be, became a no-man’s-land on Saturday and Sunday. Stylish neighbourhoods emptied out as many of the city’s wandering wealthy vacated the capital for the greener pastures of their baronial estates. Other people simply stayed at home and snuggled into their nests for a well-deserved rest and detox.

  These prestigious London boroughs, bustling on weekdays, were often so quiet you could walk down the middle of the street without fear for life or limb. Trophy residences of the rich and famous remained dark while parking spaces begged for attention. For residents sans manoir, having a piece of London all to themselves for two days a week was either utopia or an ordeal as retail therapy and culinary culture represented the two most popular activities in these affluent ghettos. Even drinking was limited as many of the oldest and most atmospheric pubs had packed up their ‘sixth of a gill’ measures and closed down due to soaring rents, taxes and a lack of weekend clientele.

  The siren call to rural retreats continues to lure city traders, accountants and wannabe farmers. It entices the weekend warrior to manacle himself to a steering wheel for several hours while negotiating motorways out of town. Friday and Sunday evenings are purgatory for these drivers, yet there appears to be no antidote for this primal need to get away. They long to slip into worn-out tweed clothing in order to fetch logs for the fire or stroll down a country lane with the family pooch. Despite the knowledge that London is probably one of the most verdant cities in the world, it does not entirely satiate everyone’s appetite for green pastures. Consider as well the embarrassment of those left behind on weekends who have to show their faces on the street advertising that they, God forbid, have the shame of owning only one home. One couple with whom we enjoyed socializing simply refused to be seen in certain Chelsea restaurants for fear they would be outed for not multi-tasking in the property market.

  You could easily make the case that dreamy village names often provide the hook to entice frazzled urban workers to make a weekend visit in search of serenity and relaxation. Who would not wish to frequent the charming hamlet of Brooke or a little corner of heaven called Waltham on the Wolds? Just visualizing a lazy stream meandering next to a cosy pub is enough to make most of us say ‘to hell with speed cameras’ as we encourage the driver to ‘step on it mate, and don’t spare the horses’.

  The real charm of place names is that many have survived for a thousand years or more, giving them the right to be in any modern Ordinance Survey Motoring Atlas. These linguistic fossils are a testament to the various inhabitants who have left their mark on the English countryside. Scholars, of whom I am not one, have researched this subject on our behalf, unearthing bizarre and often comical names. Rutland has nothing so unflattering as Blubberhouse, as insulting as Crackpot, or as grizzly as Slaughter, but our village names do
hold a certain interest. Burton Lazars, a strange enough sounding name, was so called because it was a fortified location or ‘burton’, housing a leper hospital or ‘lazars’. Barnsdale or ‘Bernard’s Hill’ was named after Bernard de Brus, the owner of a deer park in 1280. To put this into context, North America would not be a glint in the eye of explorers for more than another 200 years.

  Belvoir, French for ‘beautiful view’ and unromantically pronounced by the English as ‘beaver’, and launde, meaning ‘an open space in a woodland’ are all products of the Norman–French liaison. Once you begin to understand the origins of the names of neighbouring villages the countryside takes on a further dimension, as many were originally identified by their surroundings. For example, Bronze Age burial mounds or ‘barrows’ give us the village of Barrowden. Thistleton reflects ‘the farm where thistles abound’, no mystery there. Even Stretton, of which there are possibly a dozen other villages so named in England, means ‘the farm beside the Roman road’ which is exactly what it was then and is, to a lesser extent, today.

  Once visited by two kings en route to Scotland and owned by the niece of William the Conqueror, the village of Stretton has a certain pedigree although no signs of royal lineage remain today. Historically a strong relationship based on mutual support would have existed between a village, such as Stretton, and its nearby manor house. It was within this environment that people spent most of their free time when not working together in the open fields or on the estate. The manor provided jobs and patronage; the village provided goods, labour and rent. This system of paying fees to the Bailiff of Stocken Hall was finally abolished in the early 1900s, reclassifying Stretton as a community rather than an estate village.

  Stretton is a quaint and very private village of seven streetlets or lanes, one pub, a manor house, a farm, a riding school, several small offices, eighty homes and enough horses to make up a race in the Kentucky Derby. The bus shelter, which doubles as a substitute community centre, displays notices of coming events alongside advertisements for slimming and yoga classes.

  Many Stretton homes have an historical connection to the village. Quaint name plaques that hang on walls and front gates attest to their former lives. The Old School, which was closed in 1957, The Forge and The Old Post Office all provide a glimpse into the history of the community as though a transparency had been placed over the grid. Church Lane, a narrow tree-lined road, leads up to Saint Nicholas’ Church which dates back over 900 years. Traditionally, small churches such as this would have received their patronage from the Lord of the Manor, but in today’s world minor restoration and general maintenance falls upon the parishioners. For this reason, fetes and other fundraisers are not only enjoyable, they are necessary.

  On first glance, the village looks almost deserted as English house fronts often belie secrets within. It’s only when you are invited to enter a home that it comes alive. This is so unlike many residences in America where all forms of creative lighting, garden illuminations, security devices and grandiose gates tell you exactly what the homeowner wants you to know, either ‘I can afford this and I’m proud of it’ or ‘Keep out! I’ve got it, you can’t have it.’

  Here everything is much more subtle. Gardens, usually tucked behind walls or enclosed by orchards, often contain a vintage collection of summer furniture waiting to be cleaned or a rusted bench in need of painting. An old bird bath patiently awaiting customers and a wagon wheel leaning against a barn look picturesque and perfectly placed, but the reality is they have probably been there for years, either forgotten or unwanted.

  The main street of the village is in the shape of a crescent with the pub at the epicentre. Just across the street are three remnants of a bygone era: the green village water pump circa 1830, the scarlet Royal Mail letter box with the sovereign initials of the Queen, EIIR inscribed on the side and a ruby-red telephone booth. The latter apparently was so loved by the village that the residents had a preservation order slapped on it years ago when the phone company threatened to replace it with a modern, soulless equivalent. Ancient stone walls intermittently edge many lanes, adding character and defining property boundaries. Most are still intact while others hide their tired, sagging bodies with blankets of moss or cascading ivy.

  Rutland villages are often identified by handsome signs emblazoned with the village name, crest or emblem. Stretton’s placard contains two horseshoes under which is written ‘Twinned with Bienville’, a petite village located near Paris. Apparently the relationship between the inhabitants of these obscure hamlets began with the friendship of two young boys prior to the Second World War. Over the years an entente cordiale blossomed into a friendship, then into a twinning. Given the acrimonious feelings between the English and the French, I am surprised the international handshake survived the passing of the two founders. Stretton does, however, offer a slight tip of the hat to the French by posting a sign on Manor Road declaring, ‘Beware: frog crossing.’ This is not entirely due to the twinning but more likely in respect of the amphibians that travel the route.

  Promoting neighbourly rapport between these two nations has not always been easy. The French affectionately refer to their cross-Channel cousins as Les Rosbifs (the roast beefs) while the English make no bones about returning the salvo to ‘the frogs’. A century ago, George Clemenceau, France’s First World War leader, described Britain as, ‘A French colony that went wrong.’ A mixture of quiet admiration and deep suspicion underpins the relationship of these two nations today. The best example of their ability to work side by side, though not necessarily in harmony, has been their collaboration on the Channel Tunnel. Although the French clearly have the fastest trains, the English have the last word. Waterloo Station, the current terminus of the inbound Eurostar train, was named after the historic battle in 1815 in which Napoleon suffered a massive defeat by the Duke of Wellington and was later exiled to the island of Elba. This subtle reminder of ultimate victory leaves French travellers in no doubt as to where they stand when they arrive on British soil—Beware: frog crossing.

  Part 5

  THE SPORTING LIFE

  Chapter 16

  Pitching pennies

  Email To: Suzanne and David

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 2 May

  Subject: The season has begun

  Dear Suzanne and David,

  The nation is gliding into the English Season, an elaborate diversion of sporting events, flower shows, art exhibitions and outdoor operas originally created to distract the upper classes from lamenting over a lack of spring and possibly summer. Of the twenty-plus annual events all involve champagne, most involve horses or dogs and some involve silly hats. And then there is Wimbledon. Tennis buffs everywhere, optimistic that the tournament can produce a UK champion, will be releasing their British balloons of expectations most likely to be met only by the escaping sound of defeat and rain … again.

  Nevertheless it is a great time to visit. Check your diary.

  Leslie Ann

  There is a misconception that people often frequent their ‘local’ to offload their troubles. Our personal experience did not bear this out; however, certain patterns of patronage did exist. Living just outside the village, we were not always privy to spontaneous gatherings in the pub that could materialize when one neighbour walked to the mailbox to catch the last post at 4.30 pm and bumped into a dog walker taking his constitutional. A brief tête-à-tête would ensue. Chitchat about horse mucking, the evening television schedule, dinner plans and general health took scarcely a minute. The idea of continuing the conversation later in the evening over a pint of Jackson Stops bitter was agreed on and so it went forward—a party was in the making.

  Friday nights and Sunday afternoons seemed to be the most popular times for villagers to visit the pub en mass. It was common knowledge to all who fancied a chat, otherwise known as a ‘chin wag’, or perhaps a game of nurdles, not to overcrowd the snug bar. This was in respect of the customers who had possibly travelled miles t
o enjoy the restaurant’s Michelin Guide-recognized cuisine. Courteously, villagers only seeking social stimulation arrived after the diners had enjoyed an aperitif and made their way to their tables. This then left the bar area free for more important matters such as tossing pennies and enjoying a pint or two.

  This intimate 3.5 x 3.5-metre space, warmed by a coal fire in winter and cooled by an open door in summer, is unique in the whole of England. Each year it plays host to the World Nurdle Championship. It might be fair to say, however, that most of England is unaware either of this championship or of the game itself, since to my knowledge it is only played in two other pubs in the country, or perhaps the world.

  In order to understand the seriousness and complexity of this sport you must refer to the ‘Pamphlette of the Anciente Gayme of Nurdles’. This very formal document, written by Timotheus Seal Esq, was only recently discovered or, if the truth were told, recently written by Tim, our very own and much loved chronicler of village life and everything frivolous, fanciful and fictitious. With great wit and much effort, he created a totally authentic rulebook for the game, complete with tattered wine-stained pages, torn edges and unreadable Old English script. This pamphlet remains prominently displayed behind the bar in order to impress, intimidate and instruct all novices to the game.