To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  The first essential principal states:

  all Player drink at leaft a quart of ftrong ale before the Gayme. This helps the Player get in hif eie. Shoulde a Woman be permitted to play —agaynst lest they become witless and talke too much Polite custome they are recommended to drink small beer.

  This having been established:

  each Player shall have thirteen coyn or token which he shoulde throe at the target hole or pit, with the intention to place as maney in the hole as he can.

  In other words it is a game of pitching pennies, in this case old English pennies. The coins form a collection assembled from the reigns of Queen Victoria, Edward VII, King George V and VI and, of course, Queen Elizabeth II. Participants, in rotation, attempt to throw all thirteen coins into a hole only 7.5 centimetres in diameter, which has been carved out of a wooden bench. It is essential to have a glowing sense of humour while tossing, as barracking is not only allowed, it is strongly encouraged. Having a few pounds in your pocket to sustain the continuous flow of beer is also encouraged but talent, thankfully, is not, unless, of course, you want to win.

  The objective of the esteemed English public house has changed significantly since its inception back in Roman days, when legionnaires needed rest and relaxation after weeks of pillaging. Independent watering holes soon began to spring up on the Great Roman Roads until the Church saw the potential for raising much needed capital and started opening their own inns, ale houses and taverns for travellers.

  The rising consumption of heady local brews brought increased restrictions from the authorities designed, no doubt, to save the people from their own wickedness. Later, the government used taxation, regulation and reform to alter English drinking habits which, in truth, had begun to get out of hand. The onset of the First World War brought into legislation the famous licensing laws governing the hours between which an establishment could remain open. Factory crews and munitions workers were not allowed to return from lunch in a drunken state, which meant imbibing hours were slashed to the bone. Only recently has the government begun to grapple with this ‘nanny state’ draconian law as public demand for a loosening of the parliamentary belt on alcohol consumption has grown in popularity.

  Although there are nearly 60,000 pubs in the United Kingdom, sources say as many as twenty pubs a week close down and, of those left, only a handful still brew their own beer. In fact, in the past ten years almost 150 regional and national beer brands have disappeared. The good news is that a greater number of pubs are evolving with better-stocked bars and inventive kitchens. Pub food, a more than generous description, was once no more than what could quickly be unwrapped, thawed and microwaved. Too often, semi-appalling, defrosted scampi and fries in a basket were tolerated because they were familiar and comforting. Now, more pubs are finally ‘stepping up to the plate’. Still, too many have only taken baby steps towards improvement, as evidenced by a typical menu I encountered while visiting a nearby county. Handwritten on a blackboard above the bar were the specials of the day: lamb shanks, trout, duck, chicken, mackerel and beef. On closer inspection, I noticed the common denominator of the entrées was sauce. If this was France I could understand; however, with my cynical hat on I suspect gravy, the preferred English expression, was no more than a cover-up for less than top-notch quality ingredients.

  Drinks too have definitely become more innovative. Once upon a time the only alternative to lager, ale or stout would have been cider, or, if you were lucky, a bottom-of-the-barrel wine. Today a ‘flying virgin’ can be shaken and poured in seconds. Alcopops, or candy in a glass with a kick, fill shelves in the fridge alongside American bottled beers, the ‘in’ brew. Even smoking, once a team sport, is less prevalent than a few years ago and women, in most cases, have replaced the loyal and obedient dog as the best companion to take to a pub.

  I am all for improving the reputation of English cooking; after all there is a culinary mountain to climb. Certainly not all establishments have raised the bar on quality, but those gastropubs that have done so are a delight to discover. More and more traditional eateries are being transformed into metropolitan settings by adding discreet lighting and canvases of modern art. Simple blackboard menus are being replaced with a carte du jour written in script littered with enough pretentious verbs and adjectives to complete a short story: monkfish tangled with copulating tagliatelle, a coil of sweet potatoes, a rope of polenta croutons and knot of chocolate crumble. Old classic dishes such as hairy tatties (potato pancakes) and spotted dick (suet and raisin pudding) are now, more often than not, relegated to the cook’s second string of recipes as public tastes evolve.

  Wandering aimlessly on a spring bank holiday weekend, Bill and I came across a village that on first blush revealed little to the eye. Casting a glance to the right, and then to the left down lanes and drives, we noticed a shimmer of gold and a glint of red emanating from an object slightly hidden behind the branches of a mature oak tree. The rather elegant crest emblazoned on the Martins Arms Inn sign screamed of ambience and classic cuisine. We had to go in for a look. Once in, we had to stay for a meal. As smart as the dining rooms and pub areas were, the garden of a hundred shades of spring green pulled us out into the sunshine.

  There we lounged, enjoying our lunch of smoked salmon and chilled sauvignon blanc amongst the darting butterflies and tiny tots playing on the daisy-strewn lawn. Pubs with this kind of commitment to quality are seldom empty and are now, more than ever, emulated. I believe the time has finally come to remove English cooking from the jocular ‘Shortest Books in the World’ list.

  Chapter 17

  Football, fun fairs and hares

  Email To: Pat

  From: Leslie Ann and Bill

  Date: 16 May

  Subject: Silly season

  Dear Pat,

  I know you always enjoy a good laugh at our expense, so have one on us. Bill and I spent Sunday in a local village watching grown men wrestle over kegs of beer and pieces of rabbit pie. They said it was an ancient ritual, but we have our doubts. After all this is England. Friday night Elvis appeared in the pub. I didn’t know he had a passport.

  Think about a visit if you dare,

  Your country cousin

  Pubs certainly don’t have to be posh to be popular, especially when it comes to watching football. The concept of a dedicated sports bar with a plasma screen television showing all the major events is still uncommon outside cities while local pubs manage as best they can with Lilliputian-sized television sets, wall-mounted at a neck-wrenching height, over the bar. Unlike in America, most events are watched from the comfort of home in an easy chair preferably located within arm’s length of the refrigerator. Possibly the reason the English prefer to stay in is because of an unconscious belief that their favourite team won’t win anyway so why spend the money on tickets.

  When it comes to sport, the gap between the two countries is still enormous, but it is narrowing. Vince Lombardi, the most successful head coach in American football history and namesake of the Super Bowl trophy, encapsulated the American attitude years ago with his now famous quote, ‘Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.’ The laid-back English have a more reserved philosophy that loosely translates as, win or lose it is just a game. The Australians, I believe, have first-hand knowledge of England’s frequent stuttering starts and spluttering finishes in international cricket. The killer instinct is not a natural British trait but perhaps the 2012 Olympics will light a fire under a nation with a less-than-smouldering attitude towards their athletes and capital investment. It is no accident then that three premier division English football teams have recently come under American ownership with more being courted by big investors.

  For years, Bill and I have doggedly followed the triumphs and defeats of our favourite American football teams either through USA Today, Cable Network or the internet. It was our last link to ‘home’. In order to see the Carolina Panthers or Miami Dolphins play, we either had to stay up past midnight on Monday morn
ings or record the match, being mindful not to see the score in the interim. On Super Bowl Sunday we would intentionally move everything forward, sleeping late to build up stamina, dining late to build up fuel, all the while praying we could last until kick-off at 1 am.

  Now thanks to Rupert Murdoch and his satellite television network we can watch American matches at a reasonable hour, although not with John Madden’s matchless colour commentary or Hank Williams’ iconic song ‘Are You Ready for Some Football?’

  By contrast, English football commentators are never colourful, seldom contentious and are hardly audible over the fan noise, which usually consists of singing, whistling or drumming. They won’t raise a sweat over a gripping goal and their half-time observations can send you to the fridge for fifteen minutes of grazing. More often than not, one or more of the men will be Scottish, which means only Bill can decipher the exchange. For me, it is like watching a foreign film without subtitles, only backwards.

  It is remotely possible that the world famous and decidedly delicious David Beckham had something to do with my eventual conversion to English football, but the reality is, sport is sport, which makes finding a team to support vital to life itself. Here, games are called ‘matches’ and are often played as ‘friendlies’, indicating a contest for which just showing up is enough to be considered victorious by the fans. More than likely the final score will be an unexciting nil–nil; a result, I argue, that would never be acceptable to my fellow Americans who believe every contest should have a decisive winner. It has taken a while for me to accept and tolerate the dramatic histrionics and temperament of English football players, not to mention the unflattering pyjamas they wear. I now can see, however, the talent and skill required to play in the Premiership League and on the international circuit.

  Following the successes and failures of clubs takes some understanding. Not only are there numerous divisions and leagues, there are more trophies given out at the end of the season than at the Academy Awards ceremony in Los Angeles. Whereas the penultimate achievement in American football is winning the Super Bowl, here it could be a number of titles including the UEFA Cup, the Champions League Cup, the FA Cup, the Premiership, the Most Number of Foreign Players on a Team Cup or the Worst Hooligan Supporters Cup.

  The similarities in sporting events or ‘fixtures’ between the United States and the United Kingdom are limited to the playing field. In Britain there are no cheerleaders, no tailgating parties, no alcohol after the kick-off and few creature comforts in most stadiums. With little fanfare other than the national anthem, the players perform to a predominantly male audience. Half time is precisely that and nothing more. Fans often provide the only diversion from the match by performing choral pieces worthy of Carnegie Hall. A rendition of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ made popular by Gerry Marsden, a 1960s Beatles-era Liverpudlian, has become the anthem of the Liverpool Football Club. No game would be complete without several emotional choruses and a few tears; quite a contrast to the titillating gyrations of American cheerleaders simulating boy-on-girl bodysurfing.

  Raised as an only child in a sports-minded family, I was indoctrinated early in life to all forms of competition, so it is not surprising that I would enjoy one of the most exciting, fast action games on the planet, rugby union. It is eighty minutes of unstoppable fury unless, of course, you count the time out for ‘blood replacement’, an unsettling term for those players who happen to have a major leakage problem. With no pause for television commercials or Disneyland-style spectacular half-time shows, the game sweeps rapidly from one end of the field to the other like the ebb and flow of the tide. Take a protracted loo break and you could find yourself in an empty stadium, so fast is the action. America could learn a lot from the pace of this sport.

  In Rutland the end of the rugby season coincides with the annual, week-long Stamford Mid-Lent Fun Fair. As far back as the twelfth and thirteenth centuries carnivals have been visiting towns, entertaining people and stimulating commerce in their wake. There is nothing quite like seeing an airborne gondola, squeezed into a narrow cobblestone street, rising in a high arch within kissing distance of an aristocratic Georgian building or free-falling from the top of a meccano set Big Ben Tower only a heartbeat away from a fourteenth-century church.

  Today’s kids no longer tolerate or understand the simple pleasures of fairs past. The idea of seeing the world’s fattest pig or the bearded lady has no pulling power for the youth of today. Fumbling through an old-fashioned hall of mirrors or taking a whirl in one of Alice in Wonderland’s teacups is simply considered sophomoric. Flashy advertising and new technology, however, can hook tiny tots onto slow-drip, endorphin-fed rides ensuring the future flow of patronage. Toddlers, in mini parachutes and gently spinning cages, display the same body language as adults. Little tikes’ hands and feet are lifted outward and upward in defiance of gravity as proof of their juvenile sense of courage. Five- and six-year-olds exit these impish thrill machines exhibiting high-fives of delight; all young daredevils in the making. Computer-driven, high tech, white-knuckle rides make the most money. Post a sign at the ticket booth warning people that the attraction is guaranteed to rip off ears, induce vomiting and cause permanent brain damage and the line will wrap around the block. Erect a launch pad at nosebleed height where adults can propel themselves downward to within one inch of the pavement and every psycho in town will be waiting their turn.

  Although turbulence and terror have replaced teacups and bumper cars, sadly nothing has been invented to replace carnival food. The smell of grilled onions, candy floss and fried meats are indistinguishable from those of my youth when the fair came to Charlotte. Even corn on the cob, swilling in milky water, looks the same. Not put off by these little unpleasantries, Bill and I hurried off to mount a golden rooster and mottled green unicorn for one last spin on the merry-go-round, just in case the ride was destined for the dustbin of history.

  Addicted to the bizarre as we had become, we could not let the opportunity pass to witness the possibly sane participating in the certifiably insane annual Hare Pie Scramble and Beer Bottle Kicking Contest held on Easter Monday. Keen to make some sense out of watching grown-ups fight over kegs of beer and pieces of rabbit that are baked in pastry, tied up in sacks and then tossed into the crowd, we took our camera and a pocketful of change to Hallaton, a village 20 miles southwest of Stretton. Here, families, friends and total strangers gather to celebrate a pagan rite which, legend has it, began with a bull, two ladies crossing a field and a hare. We have no idea what happened to which, to what, or to whom, but it does have the makings of memorable ribald joke.

  Historically, the Church blessed the competition and acted as the official sponsor. Apparently, one rector back in the late 1700s tried banning the event until he discovered graffiti on his church wall that read, ‘No pie, no parson’. The Church eventually caved in and has continued to take its place as master of ceremonies by launching the event with a short but fitting sermon, inspiring the combatants to go forth and bloody their noses, dirty their clothes and bruise their bodies for the sake of victory. A parade of contestants and spectators from the two rival villages of Medbourne and Hallaton quickly form once the pubs open for business. Reinforced with refreshments, the crowd proceeds in a carnival atmosphere through Hallaton, up a rather steep path to the battleground of the dreaded ‘Hare Pie Bank’ on Stowe Hill.

  The actual fray begins after the pies have been distributed to the crowds in an act of friendship; then the first of three small kegs of beer are thrown in the air and fought over until one team successfully carries the prize across their goal line. It is a scrum without rules and the action is fierce enough to scatter sheep and cattle in its wake. Once into scoring territory, the skirmish begins all over again from the top. It is a best out of three contest.

  Although the legend of the two ladies and the bull makes for good reading, it is more likely that a communal brook was the impetus for the fracas in the first place as it involved water rights for th
e two villages. Nevertheless, on the day we visited the event proved to be great fun for over 3000 spectators and provided a hefty windfall for the local pubs. The truckloads of beer and wine clearly did more than satisfy thirst and stimulate physical prowess. The crowd forgot their inhibitions and revelled in the fact, as we did, that we were all there to honour the memory of a lowly hare.

  Chapter 18

  A girlie fix

  Email To: Esther Marie

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 22 May

  Subject: Shopping

  Dear Esther Marie,

  Do you know after all these years living over here I had no idea there was a booming catalogue sales industry. But why would I when I had everything within walking distance of our home in London?

  Thanks to the internet and mail order I can now keep up with fashion so you won’t have to send care packages over any longer. I can even find emperor-sized sheets to fit our California king bed and a George Foreman Grilling Machine like yours. The consumer gap is closing as I type.

  I’m off to stimulate the economy. Let’s talk next week.

  Leslie Ann

  You know you aren’t the woman you used to be when you find yourself having daily intimate conversations with a horse. They were intimate because no one else was ever around, and I was sure our chat would go no further than the next pasture. Rolo, his official name, was a seasoned and slightly shabby workhorse who enjoyed grazing on the fast growing grass at the entrance to the Hall. In fact, he did us a service by tidying up the area free of charge. His unofficial name was Nipper. We gave it to him the day he decided to lean over the fence and take a bite out of the side of our car, obviously thinking that anything that small and red must be an apple.

  We have had our ups and downs with Nipper, never quite understanding his fickle nature. Thanks however to the book Your Horse’s Mind, given to Bill by Marty, one of my most intuitive and ingenious friends from Charlotte, we were able to form a closer and more meaningful relationship with the beast without the assistance of a radio phone-in psychologist. An animal husbandry course at my old alma mater, the University of Arizona, would have come in handy, but who knew the day would come when I would need to know the subtleties of horse anxiety or, more importantly, how to survive rejection when the gift of a carrot was spurned.