To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  Much of Stamford’s glory lies in her academic past. The town was the scholastic site of a splinter group of students from Oxford’s Brasenose College in 1334. Academic distinction was enjoyed for a brief period until King Edward I succumbed to a petition to close the university, forcing the students to return to Oxford. The final blow came when they were required to take an oath never to return for studies or teaching. Thankfully, academics did not stay away from Stamford for long as another school was established in 1532. Today, that school enjoys a distinguished reputation educating over 2000 talented students a year.

  Commercially, Stamford benefited greatly from her location on the River Welland. It provided easy access to Dutch traders who took advantage of the many navigable waterways. Also, her well-placed position on the Great North Road connecting London to Scotland made the town a popular stopover for all who journeyed the route. Roman legions, Saxons, Danes, the tired, weary and hungry all found refuge here.

  The wealth derived from trade and tourism aided Stamford enormously. The many stiletto church spires rising above the rooflines are a testament to the importance of her religious connections, not to mention prosperity, over the years. In 1967, Stamford was made a national conservation area, safeguarding her lovely medieval and Georgian characteristics for future generations. Today, the sleepy River Welland still weaves its way through town, brushing up against overhanging willow trees as it flows under stone bridges festooned with hanging baskets of geraniums in summer. It is a charming setting by any standard.

  I enjoy the subject of history. It was my university major; however, there are times when a professional needs to lead the way when our American friends come to town. Jill Collinge, Stretton neighbour and member of the national association of Blue Badge Guides for tourism, has been a lifesaver. She can make the most mundane seem interesting as she shares tidbits of social and architectural history during her informative Stamford theme walks. Her anecdotal style works best for me as I have a tendency to remember the silly over the salient. A case in point was when Jill, stopping in a quiet churchyard, gathered the group around her to explain the fashion trends of the eighteenth century. The vogue at that time was for ladies to apply toxic white paint to their faces in order to give their complexions a porcelain-like appearance. With gaping mouths, we learned that upper-class women often had to shave off their eyebrows because of the disfigurement caused by the paint. They then replaced their brows with mouse fur clippings, frequently moving them higher up on their foreheads giving the effect of an instant facelift. According to Jill, this was the derivation of the phrase ‘high brow’.

  Another story shared with us concerned the equally fastidious male sex. Apparently, only the upper classes could afford the indulgences of sugary desserts customarily served in polite society. As dental hygiene was in its infancy, rotted teeth were the most common result of overindulgence. Two options were available to them. They could wear false teeth taken from cadavers or extracted from paupers or they could simply extend their upper lip down over the offending tooth. This is where we get the English phrase ‘stiff upper lip’. With these kinds of anecdotes, it was no wonder Bill and I enjoyed Jill’s company and encouraged our friends to join her cultural walks.

  A real treasure associated with Stamford and a ‘must see’ for our American guests was the George Hotel, perhaps England’s greatest coaching inn. A living institution, it is still young at nearly 1000 years old. Over the years, the imposing stone archway above the side entrance has directed its share of pilgrims and knights to many a safe, restful sleep. It was during the eighteenth century that real fame came to the hotel when stagecoaches passed through from London to York and beyond on the Great North Road at the rate of forty a day. The fastest journey time for the trip was reputed to be four days, compared to just over two hours by train today. The elegant oak-panelled London Room for the Southbound traveller, and the traditional York Bar for the Northbound were once waiting areas for passengers to assemble while their coach drivers were changing horses. Today they are best enjoyed for private functions and as a popular meeting place.

  Last rebuilt in 1597 by Lord Burghley, the hotel has hosted three kings, many a nobleman with his lady and various members of the Royal Family who frequently visit during the prestigious Burghley Horse Trials held in September. It has probably seen more trouble and strife, more love-ins and more Mr and Mrs Smith check-ins than all the Hilton hotels put together. The Monastery Garden, once a hallowed burial ground, is equally accommodating for a rowdy wedding reception or a moment of quiet reflection. The hotel is still thankfully not part of a chain and remains privately owned, which means it can be as quirky, sumptuous, atmospheric and pricey as it wants to be. It doesn’t corner the market. It is the market.

  Speaking of markets, Friday is market day in Stamford. Everyone goes to town for something. Car parks fill early as shoppers turn into pack animals. Empty string bags explode with produce, beef or lamb and fresh-cut flowers. It is a social time.

  Ladies gather for a chat over tea, farmers discuss current market prices and dogs, always on a leash, sniff their way to heaven. The various stalls offer a Woolworths-style assortment of merchandise, from towels to toys and bedding to books, all bringing in the customers. Hawkers dispense their fruit and vegetables in a friendly manner, usually thanking their patrons in the local dialect with a ‘tickety-boo’ or ‘cheers ducky’.

  One morning Bill and I took the opportunity to discuss the prospect of selling my parents’ lifetime collection of LPs with Brian, a knowledgeable chap and stall trader. He got into the second-hand record business purely because of his love of album covers. Within a matter of days, he was sitting in our home riffling through over 200 albums, apparently delighted to have such an American selection available at his fingertips. The speed with which he made his assessment was staggering, all the while educating us to the nuances of dealing in vinyl.

  Most of our records were actually less valuable than the sleeves they were in. As Brian explained, ‘America was on the cutting edge of social and cultural change back in the 1960s. Album covers that depicted the avant garde were all the rage. We had nothing like it in England at the time.’ Irving Field’s innocuous Classics Go Latin album cover tantalized the buyer with a picture of a busty redhead wearing tight satin pedal pushers and sling-back stiletto heels. A skimpy towel strategically placed over her breasts and bottom masked an otherwise naked torso glistening with appetizing sweat. This type of packaging was a money-spinner for us and, sad as it was to see so many old memories go out the door, it was time to move on. Besides, we could always visit those that had not been re-sold at his stall on market day.

  Stamford is a maze of tiny lanes and narrow passageways, which makes it perfect for nosing about. One day as we were aimlessly wandering, Bill became overwhelmed by nostalgia. He flashed back to the capricious days of his youth in Sussex, when summer days were endlessly hot and his little fingers were constantly sticky from gooey ice-cream and candy. All these memories came flooding back to him in a brief moment as he stood in front of every little boy’s dream, the mother of all confectioners, the Sweets ’n’ Treats candy store. Located in an old Tudor building with a moss-covered shingle roof, the tiny space held more than 200 plastic tub containers and bins displaying all the colours of the rainbow in sugar. There were platoons of playful goodies, sugarcoated creatures, whistles, balls and worms ready to parade across the palate offering exquisite highs and crashing lows. Coconut mushrooms, ruby red strawberries, all sizes of reptiles to slither down the throat, liquorice, atomic sour balls and luscious cherry lips all designed to tease and taunt.

  Unlike Bill, most of my candy memories can be summed up in two words—Hershey chocolate. Whether Kisses, Bars or M&Ms they were consumed with equal gratification. I simply cannot recall, however, an American equivalent to a British establishment whose entire purpose it was to peddle sweets to the needy and addicted. Bill was back in kiddy heaven.

  The array of children w
ho wandered into the store was as fascinating as the merchandise. Some were so young they had to hold on to their mother with one hand while the other hand tightly clutched a fist full of coins. Teenage boys, of course, arrived in packs. Soon they would be smoking and drinking beer, but as yet had not weaned themselves off the frivolities of childhood. Each customer was served in the identical manner. First, an old-fashioned scale was activated as pieces of candy were put into the trough for weighing. Next, coins were fanned out on the counter for sorting, each one moving from the debit to the credit side. Finally, a small brown paper bag appeared. The sweets were deposited inside, the transaction was complete. The time for a glucose injection had arrived.

  We always tried to punctuate our schedule of chores with lunch in a local but not necessarily memorable restaurant. Jim’s Yard was accurate on the first count and exceeded our expectations on the second. Originally part of the Bell, a seventeenth-century coaching inn, the building has enjoyed many reincarnations, most notably as a motorcycle workshop and as the town’s undertakers before emerging as an amiable bistro.

  Tucked inside a courtyard off a cobblestone pedestrian walkway, the conservatory dining room overlooks a garden patio enclosed by a sweeping trellis intertwined with twisted green strings of honeysuckle and clematis. It was a perfect spot for enjoying a glass of sherry while Sharon, owner and wife of Michelin Guide-recognized chef–patron James, manoeuvred us through the seasonal menu, intimately describing the subtleties of each dish. Bill ordered the braised shallots and savoy cabbage which escorted a slow-roasted shoulder of lamb, tender enough to collapse into threads of flavour at the first sight of his fork. I selected Scottish natural smoked haddock crowned with a poached egg, all resting on a bed of parmesan cheese risotto. We shared a dessert out of respect for our expanding waistlines. Resurrecting a popular 1970s pudding recipe, James prepared a small rum-soaked sponge which on first blush seemed dwarfed by the size of the plate until he reappeared from the kitchen with two espresso cups of hot cherries jubilee and shot glasses of warm rum syrup poised to anoint each mouthful of cake. Lunch was precise and polished, professional and welcoming. It not only slayed our PacMan hunger, it ratcheted up our admiration for rural living.

  Chapter 12

  Pleasurable pursuits

  Email To: Twila

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 28 March

  Subject: Culture-less

  Dear Twila,

  Sometimes I feel I am living in a time warp compared to you and your interesting life. I loved your description of the ballet. I’m sure it was lovely. Do dancers still wear tutus? The only ballet we’ve seen here is deer jumping in front of our headlights at night. I have to say their leaps are damn impressive.

  We are making friends in our village and are even on the summer fete committee. Fundraising here is on a more ladylike scale, as only two zeros are required to bring a smile to the organizer’s face. It is a far cry from the million-dollar targets we were accustomed to raising in Palm Springs.

  I’ve got to run. My willow weaving classes are about to start. Now doesn’t that make you pea green with envy?

  Love,

  Leslie Ann

  No thriving community would be complete without cultural events and entertainment opportunities, and our area was no exception. Ignorant of what was available prior to our move to Rutland, we considered the idea that we might have to console ourselves on cold winter nights with our recollections of riveting Maggie Smith moments in West End theatres. We retained numerous boxes of old playbills to linger over just in case we became desperate. Thankfully, however, cultural happenings were as much a part of the landscape here as they were in London. They were just on a different scale.

  We had to thank the internet for rescuing us from our fears of cultural deprivation by alerting us to the options available in our area. We discovered the Stamford Assembly Rooms, Arts Centre and Theatre, all part of an imposing Palladian-style eighteenth-century building reminiscent of Jane Austen, ball gowns, cinched waists and heaving white bosoms. Built in 1727 to host formal dances and Hunt Balls, the rooms would have been lit by gas chandeliers while gilt mirrors bounced slivers of silvery light from one corner of the room to the other, illuminating the grand space. Titled Lords and Ladies would have arrived by coach to the delight of townsfolk gathered on the street to enjoy the sight of the glitterati, a Regency period red carpet moment.

  Assembly rooms were considered an acceptable venue for young women with dewy complexions to display their good breeding, to engage in enlightened discussions and to take tea in a setting outside the home. Previously, the only external outlets in which the fairer sex could fraternize would have been in church or at local fetes. This makes the period a watershed for the socialization of women. Men, on the other hand, frequently enjoyed the company of other males in drinking establishments and card parlours as well as in the pursuit of more physical activities such as hunting and shooting. Life, however, was destined to change as women slowly entered polite society. To the dismay of many a man, public gathering rooms eventually were declared out of bounds to swearing, sword fighting and ‘pissing’, all previously enjoyed pastimes.

  Today, the building functions as a cosy multiplex for stage and screen. The local theatre productions don’t exactly rival those on Broadway, but the movies are top notch and the prices are right at £4 a ticket compared with a staggering £12 in London. There is also an enthusiastic following for the diverse line-up of entertainment, which includes poetry readings, book festivals, jazz evenings and art exhibitions.

  Fast becoming the equivalent of trained truffle sniffers, we learned to manoeuvre our way through local newspapers and supermarket poster boards to uncover any tidbit of interest that could inform, entertain or exercise us over weekends. Spotting a photo opportunity mentioned in the ‘What’s On’ section of the Rutland & Stamford Mercury, we scurried off for a short thirty-minute drive north into the famed Sherwood Forest.

  Need I state the obvious that our all-weather boots were helpful on the day we decided to view the annual outing of winter snowdrops and aconites in the luscious grounds of Hodsock Priory. The 2-hectare garden with an 800-metre woodland walk, mud puddles included, was the highlight of the private 324-hectare estate. Nestled beneath skeletal trees with their naked limbs exposed to the chilling winds were drifts of tiny green asparagus-like spears. Each one was topped with a floral crown that erupted into the sunlight to create one vast carpet of white. With the timing of a high-wire trapeze artist, these teardrop-sized petals poke through the hard, black soil each year at exactly the same time, flaunting the courage necessary to stand up to the perils of winter. I think this is one reason these flowers are so loved in England. Not only do they promise that something better is in the offing, they represent the bulldog spirit of Britain, always fighting onward in the face of adversity.

  But who in this green and pleasant land can fight on without a piping hot cup of tea and the accompanying temptations of creamy fudge, brick-hard scones and the paraphernalia of tea towels and souvenir silver spoons? No self-respecting stately home or National Trust property, regardless of the pedigree, would dare open its doors to the public without first arranging a venue for this most venerable English ritual.

  With eyes closed, I can describe a typical setting with such consistency that it would be missed if it were ever to change. The most common tearoom location is usually a barn, conveniently situated near the exit to the property or in a basement reached by a flight of stairs that descends into a dungeon-like, windowless room, heady with the smell of bleach because of its close proximity to the toilets. The odour always competes with the aroma of warm sausage rolls and hot tea, placing tough demands on palate and stomach. The atmosphere in the room is either slightly stale like a hospital waiting area or steamy like a well-used sauna. Wherever the location, it is inevitably too small for weekend traffic and too large for weekdays.

  Crocodile fashion, Bill and I joined the queue for tea. Sta
nding shoulder to shoulder, we pushed our chipped, laminated trays along the serving line as we waited to make our selection from the never-quite-full buffet. Cheese and pickle, ham and tomato and egg and watercress sandwiches were all individually labelled and wrapped in cling film supposedly for easy identification. As there was only a sneeze of filling between the slices of bread this was more than appreciated. The glass dessert cabinet contained the usual suspects: chocolate cake, shortbread and sweet biscuits with strawberry jam. Eventually, we reached the tea and coffee station where white crockery cups and saucers were stacked high, slightly warm and still damp from their recent washing in the kitchen sink. Uttering to the attendant, ‘Tea for two please’ brought forth a set of baby spoons and a stainless steel, guaranteed-to-drip pot filled with boiling hot water poured over one solitary tea bag, string dangling over the side. Sugar, recycled paper napkins and utensils were just beyond the cashier, a woman who gave the impression it was her first time handling money. Smiling knowingly back at the hungry masses waiting to join the queue, we spied the only free table, wiped spilled sugar from the plastic chair seat with one hand and cleared the cutlery and cups left by the former occupants with the other. Tea, the most quintessential English beverage, does not always have to be posh to be prized.

  Anna, the seventh Duchess of Bedford, first popularized the drink in the 1840s when she discovered that taking tea with bread and butter in her chambers in the afternoon helped to ward off ‘that sinking feeling’ before embarking on an evening of frivolity. Soon she was inviting her lady friends to join her for a more elaborate affair with finger sandwiches and small cakes. An institution had been born.