To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  Today Marty and I are no longer running away from anything, we’re just running on the treadmill of life—to the grocery store, to the cleaners, to get the dog’s toenails clipped, to sort out the mortgage, to rescue parents, children, husbands and even sometimes ourselves. And so it was that Marty made the journey from North Carolina to Rutland in the hope of rescuing me. Her visit came in the form of five wonderfully sunny days in which I was determined not to flinch when her steely blue eyes looked deep into mine and asked, ‘Are you really happy? I mean REALLY?’

  The first indication from Marty that the countryside did indeed have some redeeming qualities was due to the effects of Mother Nature. The cool country air that drifted into her oak-beamed bedroom induced a near comatose state of sleep every night, which lasted well into the next morning. Although unable to provide a clutter-free guest room or locate a full set of matching towels, as unpacking was still a daily chore, we could and did create a welcoming and comforting room with a bed so deep in feather mattresses that it was worthy of my favourite fairytale, ‘The Princess and the Pea’.

  When showing off one’s new neighbourhood it is human nature to want every aspect of the landscape to be in a Chelsea Flower Show state of readiness. I therefore took full credit for orchestrating, for her arrival date, the impeccable timing of every blooming flower as well as all the perfectly formed, deep brown, gooey horse pavlovas adorning the drive to the Hall, which added just that extra bit of authenticity.

  Each day we scheduled one major outing around little walks and long talks. We strolled down Clipsham Yew Avenue, a topiary parade of manicured trees designed in the 1880s as the carriage entrance to Clipsham Hall. One hundred or more of these 6-metre Goliaths stand to attention like giant chess pieces. Many are trimmed to commemorate historical events such as the reign of Queen Elizabeth II, the moon landing of Neil Armstrong and the flight of Concorde. This is the horticultural equivalent of a walk down Main Street in Disneyland.

  On our visit to Belvoir Castle, a gothic vision, we fantasized about a life we would never know. The present Castle, standing on the site of four previous buildings, was constructed in the early nineteenth century on family land that can be traced back to William the Conqueror, and is the imposing ancestral home of the eleventh Duke and Duchess of Rutland. The Castle’s magnificent views over the Vale of Belvoir are some of the most breathtaking in all England. Breathtaking of a different sort were the old kitchens, cellars, coal and wood storage chambers opened to us on our ‘behind the scenes’ tour conducted by the acting butler. These unheralded bare bones quarters of the Castle gave us a glimpse into a time when the nobles required a vast catering operation to satisfy their demands for entertainment. One account of an extravagant eighteen-week period of hunting and feasting in 1839 revealed 16,000 meals were served while 28,000 pints of ale presumably washed down the 23,000 pounds of meat. Just the thought of all those sweaty chefs working in a boiling hot kitchen with pastry cooks, spit boys and scullions, not to mention mountains of dishes to wash, made me feel grateful for my more modest dwelling.

  The longer Marty and I were together the sillier we became and the less we required for our own amusement. The simplest pleasures filled our needs. Poor Nipper, our token glue factory reject horse, put us in fits of laughter each time we tried to offer him an apple. Knowing full well that he would just as soon take a bite out of us as the fruit, we resorted to cowardly attempts of tossing wedges to him over the fence. Somehow, his upward head movement put him on a direct collision course with the downward toss of the apple every time, shamefully encouraging us to yell, ‘bullseye’.

  On our last afternoon together we sat quietly on the settee in the drawing room accepting that we would never be Out of Africa type women. With potent gin and tonics in hand, we reflected on our time together. Staring mindlessly at the cows sauntering by in the distance, we simultaneously shook our heads and spontaneously uttered in startling unison, ‘I don’t know, I just don’t know.’ Clearly, Marty’s mind was trying to work out how we ever arrived at this place at this time in our lives, while I was wondering why it had taken us so long to get here.

  Part 8

  OLD DOG, NEW TRICKS

  Chapter 27

  Two thousand years of blood and guts

  Email To: Simon

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 30 August

  Subject: A state of war

  Dear Simon,

  Who needs George Bush anyway? We can start our own war over here without him. In fact, Bill and I have been in a battlefield all day. You would think we would see enough blood and guts on the television without going to look for more in the countryside. The good news is that no one was killed and we had a great time with the soldiers. Even an old pacifist like you would have enjoyed it.

  Lots of love,

  Leslie Ann

  If good weather prevails over the preceding months then the harvest should begin in late July and continue into August. Arable crops that turn from vibrant green in spring to golden brown in autumn patiently await combine harvesters to release them from their heavy loads. Fleets of machinery are a common sight as they work the fields creating patchworks of beige and green. Grain-filled trucks navigate narrow lanes en route to feedlots, bakeries and breweries. It is not unusual at this time of year for qualified heavy machinery drivers to come into Rutland on a contract basis, so great is the workload. One resourceful lad is reputed to make enough money each season to support his envied lifestyle surfing for six months on Bondi Beach.

  It is also one of the busiest times of the year for farmers as the fruits of their labour are all tied up in tiny seeds and pods. The first crop to feel the blade of the harvester is barley, which is used for malting and animal feed. Liquid sunshine or rapeseed, used in most of the world’s cooking oils, is next to be gathered followed by wheat and oats. By the end of the month, good weather allowing, bailing of straw will begin. These flaxen bundles silhouetted against the horizon are works of art whether viewed in the early morning mist, in a golden sunset or under a full harvest moon. Photo opportunities are so numerous that it is almost criminal not to keep a camera in the car at all times.

  Stately homes and gardens also provide great photo opportunities. The English countryside is simply littered with them which is helpful when one wants to wile away a Saturday afternoon. Kirby Hall, located on the southern border of Rutland, was just such a venue. Constructed for the sole purpose of receiving and entertaining royalty the mansion was always a bridesmaid but never a bride, as the home hosted many important names but sadly no monarch. Most of what remains of the sixteenth-century building today is a roofless shell with only the formal staterooms and gardens open to the public. So, with camera in hand, we set off to take a look.

  As we approached the Hall we found ourselves in the middle of something unexpected, sinister and disconcerting. Ahead of us in the fields lay hundreds of bloody, mangled bodies. It was war out there and it begged the question, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing unless of course you have time on your hands and a curious mind. After all, who can resist the smell of gunpowder, fields of casualties and the clash of helmet against helmet, sword against sword? What a wonderfully exhilarating way to spend a Saturday. Is this a politically correct family pastime? Apparently the Brits think so.

  For the last seven years, English Heritage has been staging historical battle re-enactments all over England, chronicling over 2000 years of blood and guts. We couldn’t resist being a part of it, so once again we broke out our faithful Wellington boots from the boot of the car and entered a minefield of mud at Kirby Hall to thank those responsible, figuratively of course, for their heroism in the heat of battle. Before we could stomach the ‘Cut and Thrust School of Defence’ or the ‘Dying to Meet You’ lecture we thought it best to fortify ourselves with some traditional rations. Standing cheek by jowl at a food stall with a brawny off-duty Roman gladiator eating a fresh cream and strawberry crepe was eerie enough. Watching a bloodstai
ned soldier from the Battle of Stalingrad down a hot dog dripping with chilli had a stomach-churning effect.

  Hour upon hour fresh troops were brought forth to recreate battles with the Byzantines, the Yorks and the Lancastrians, the Legions of Rome, the French in the Peninsular War, the Confederates and the Yanks, the Eastern Front of the Second World War with Russian and German armies and the Battle of Normandy. The grand finale concluded with a serenade of cannons and massed artillery. Earplugs were not included. Everyone was having so much fun it was hard to determine where one war ended and the next began. Witnessing history does have its serious side and make no mistake this was authentic down to the brass buttons on the Hussar’s uniforms. The group of 3000 travelling performers, mostly enthusiasts, hailed from all over Europe, America and Australia, although why they would want to come to England for our summer is beyond me.

  Taking a much-needed break from the mayhem and trench fighting, we meandered down the tented midway to see the commercial side of war. Poking our noses into canopy covered shops we discovered a more lucrative side of battle. Vendors were selling used clothing, military metals, weapons, knives, swords and well-used drinking vessels. In fact, it was here that I bought my replica Charles II half-pint, pewter mug, which immediately found a home in the Jackson Stops. It now hangs over the bar next to the ‘big boy’ pint mugs. Never again shall a common bar glass assault my lips.

  The entire day was moving and thought provoking. Watching a First World War trench fighter shivering in the muck, ducking enemy fire, was a lamentable sight. It was a reminder of what can happen when the world goes mad. Thankfully, when the gates closed for the night and the customers departed all hell broke loose! Numerous kegs of beer brought friend and foe together for a pint. Even the Germans and the French were on speaking terms with the English. The brew seemed to do for war what politicians have never been able to achieve—bring happiness and sound sleep to the weary.

  Exhilarated and thirsty after our day’s outing we set our sights on the prospect of tucking into a chilled bottle of oaked chardonnay. The late afternoon sun blessedly had come out in the nick of time to warm us up and dry us out. The Olive Branch at Clipsham, another local pub/restaurant situated a curvaceous kilometre on the other side of Stretton, was our destination. Tucked into the elbow of the main street, hardly more than a lane, is this unpretentious yet thoroughly sophisticated restaurant. It is equally charming for a candlelight supper, a Christmas dinner or for a pint of ‘olive oil’, the local brew, and a gossip in the rosemary-scented garden. This versatile and now quite renowned restaurant has a unique history.

  The fact that it exists at all today is due to community ingenuity and entrepreneurial thinking. The quaint barn in which the restaurant is situated, with sixteenth-century ceiling supports and beams, had been converted into a pub years ago. At some point in the late 1990s, the owners wished to sell out. When the property was placed on the market locals feared it could be re-zoned for residential use, denying the village their only pub. A foresighted group of folk felt strongly about the merits of maintaining the gathering place for socializing and community events. They decided this far outweighed the need for another home. Seed money was put together to modernize the building, and a partnership was set up with three enterprising young men, well trained in the culinary profession. Within two years of opening, the restaurant was awarded a coveted Michelin star. Sean, who has been in the catering trade since the age of fourteen and is one of the restaurant’s partners, said of receiving the star, ‘It was a dream come true, something that all chefs aspire to.’ Rutlanders from all over the county shared his joy, especially as only one other pub in England had ever received such an honour. Needless to say, their stock went up overnight, as did the length of time required to make a weekend booking.

  As usual, Bill and I were in no hurry for dinner so we settled into one of the church pews near the inglenook fireplace, ordered two glasses of wine and took in the old-world charm from our perfectly placed vantage point. The deep yellow walls, suggestive of an opened mustard jar, change colour with the light. They can appear creamy and golden or brownish-ochre like the dried remains on the sides of a bottle. Dotted around are local artists’ paintings and various culinary citations. In the corner a clock is set permanently at 11.30 pm, a little after traditional English pub closing time. On the bar sits an old tin tub, frosty and dripping with condensation, filled with bottles of chilled white wine and French champagnes. A nearby blackboard displays a respectable selection of New World reds, dessert wines and ports.

  Eventually, Dave, a jovial maître d’, called us to our scrubbed white, candlelit table in one of the smallish dining rooms just off the bar. A distinguished appetizer plate of tempura-battered tiger prawns with sweet chilli dip was placed before me while Bill opted for leg of honey roast confit of duck with red cabbage and truffle mash. We knew our main courses would be worth waiting for as we kept an eye on the dishes emerging from the steamy kitchen. In other words, we ordered by sight: ‘We’ll have what they’re having.’

  A rich dish of roast loin of local venison with potatoes and braised endive was served to me while Bill tucked into chicken pot-au-feu garnished with fresh local vegetables and chateau potatoes. All the tables were full throughout the restaurant and the bar was beginning to build up a healthy clientele of locals dropping by for a ‘natter’ at the end of the evening. We lingered at our table over the last drops of our wine, soaking up the warm, misty atmosphere for which English country pubs are so famous. Quite an ending to a day, when you consider it all began with the Legions of Rome marching into Britain in 43 AD.

  Chapter 28

  On the hoof

  Email To: Kathleen and Robert

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 17 September

  Subject: Road kill

  Dear Kathleen and Robert,

  I know autumn is on the way not so much by the change in air temperature but by the increased activity on the roads. Pheasants regularly come out of the undergrowth to claim every available inch of tarmac as their own. Yesterday, while driving the back roads to town, I had to come to a complete stop in order to let a convention of partridges cross the road. Bill wasn’t so lucky. Poor thing came home last night with his brief case in one hand and a dead pheasant in the other. He had the unpleasant task of wringing its neck after an oncoming car winged it and left the bird for dead. However, we took advantage of a tragic situation and offered the pheasant to Mimi and Tony who had invited us to dinner. They were thrilled with their hostess gift. As the New Mexican ‘Road Kill Café’ motto says, ‘Dinner so fresh, it still looks surprised.’

  We are awaiting your visit,

  Leslie Ann and Bill

  The best Sundays are the ones that unfold on their own, revealing unexplored territory. As with most days, they begin with the hunter–gatherer ritual, in our case, a pot of tea. Still drowsy from a fresh-air-induced sleep, we prepared ourselves for the Sunday Times reading marathon. This protocol is observed without regard to seasons, events or weekend guests. With all available space on our duvet covered in newspaper, we propped ourselves up in bed in anticipation of our two-hour mental exercise.

  I’m a page turner and paper rustler, starting from the back moving to the front. Once I spot an article that interests me, I chew on it then bury it like a dog with a bone, only coming back to it when I’m hungry. Next, I tear out any references to items such as websites or phone numbers that need to be placed in my address book or ‘favourite’ computer site. While I’m doing this Bill begins his cerebral junket at the front page, reading each word with the intensity and precision of a brain surgeon. Every Sunday we smugly laugh at each other from opposite sides of our California king-sized bed, wondering how we manage to keep marital peace under such stressful conditions.

  Several mugs of hot tea plus the effort required to turn pages finally took their toll on us. We could no longer think over the loud rumblings coming from our tummies. On this particular autumn mor
ning our cupboard was totally bare, so we went in search of the English equivalent to the American breakfast diner. With few exceptions they are little better than smoky cafés on motorway pullovers. In England, the first meal of the day is still very much the domain of hotels and Bed & Breakfast establishments while in the States it is often the preserve of less impressive enterprises.

  My rule of thumb for selecting an American eatery has always been the seedier the diner the better the short order cook. A meal of scrambled eggs with sausage patties or links, crispy bacon, hash brown potatoes, grilled tomatoes, grits and biscuits has been known to get me up at the crack of dawn so willing was I to take on calories. The English breakfast, although similar in content, looks decidedly different on the plate. For starters, a waitress with asbestos hands brings it to the table piping hot. One look and you know it can deliver a weekly allowance of cholesterol and fat in a single sitting. The belly-busting combination of fried eggs, fried sausages, fried bacon, fried tomatoes, fried mushrooms, fried bread and baked beans is not recommended for anyone who wants to avoid a heart condition.

  Throwing caution, not to mention our health, to the wind Bill and I remembered a small hole in the wall in Oakham that served breakfast until 11.30 am. Panicking as it was now 11.25 am, Bill called ahead to ask Vik to put the sausages and bacon on the grill. By the time they were cooked we could be there. Knowing how to please his customers, he obliged, saying, ‘No problem at all sir, get here as soon as you can.’

  En route, we found ourselves laughing once again about an incident that so typified England of the 1980s. Seeking breakfast, Bill and I had walked into a small country hotel at the stroke of 10.01 am. An overfed proprietress, squeezed into a summer frock that had seen one too many seasons, appeared at reception.