In a good place. Part 1

Story contd.

Nothing is miserable unless you think it so;

Conversely, every lot is happy if you are content with it

Boethius, Anicius Manlius Severinus

I had much to be thankful for. All the family were well and healthy William and I were getting accustomed to seeing less of the boys and appreciating our extra freedom and we both enjoyed our individual occupations – his important job in the city and my successful emporium. For leisure William could go sailing on his brother’s boat and I could go to France with my friend Sally, and we still visited Greece together.

Sally was a stalwart of the theatre club, she was quite a bit older than me and had had an exciting life She had been an actress in the professional theatre and experienced many adventures travelling round Europe with her friend Elizabeth David, when the latter was doing research for her revered cook books.

In spite of her maturity Sally believed in having fun: buying a second hand car became ‘Hunt the Mini’, rehearsals were never dull if she was around and she gave the most wonderful parties with delectable food. I remember one dinner party – for some reason we were all in full evening dress. She had cooked – I think it was a Creole recipe, where the meat had been soaked in rum and it was so delicious we all sucked the string. Afterwards she was determined that we should learn to do the Gay Gordons and it is with an ache in my heart that I realise how rare it is now that one sobs with laughter. We did that night.

After our visit to Le Puy, Sally and her husband decided to buy a house in France. I missed the exploratory trips but after they had bought an old farmhouse in the Dordogne, I was invited to accompany the two of them in their car and share expenses whilst the others went independently. It was a beautiful spot – near Riberac. The plumbing had been fixed but there were lots of jobs to do and mine was to wash all the blankets and I spent hours jumping up and down on them. Determined that no-one would ever forget this mammoth task I had taken on, I embroidered a scarlet P on each one. When Sally – ever restless – later moved further south, I was very cross when she admitted she had left the blankets at the farm house.

Life was idyllic. First one up would go for fresh bread – croissants were just for Sunday and NO butter as croissants are all butter she would declaim, in her booming voice (Sally could be quite bossy but we were happy to humour her) Then if we had worked on our allotted tasks to Madam’s satisfaction there would be champagne cocktails – with frosted sugar round the glasses and oysters and always one of her delicious salads. Siestas followed lunch (I started reading Proust) then lots more work until dinner time. We ate out on alternate evenings and took it in turns to cook on the evenings in.

Sometimes at night when the lights were dimmed it could be quite creepy. I had a small bedroom on the ground floor and using the downstairs loo, an enormous creature jumped in through the open window behind me and was there on the floor between me and the locked door. My screams brought the others down and as I didn’t dare step over it, they had to remove the door. It turned out to be a giant cicada.

Another night I saw a something scoot down the door lintel in my bedroom. I knew either a centipede or a millipede could kill you – I didn’t know which and in any case there wasn’t time to count the legs. I didn’t dare rouse them again and lay trembling and praying for most of the night.

In spite of the new plumbing there developed a very unpleasant smell and finally we had to get the plumber. It seemed that Sally had been putting bleach and disinfectant down to keep everything sweet which then killed the bacteria that made the cess pit work. That’s the science bit – more or less.

Next door was a farmer and his wife who spoke no English but were very helpful and friendly. During a thunderstorm Monsieur Chabot lost his beloved cow and he told Sally how the cow had been struck by lightening, with tears streaming down his face. We felt so sad for him and took round a basket of goodies including a bottle of whisky. In return they asked us round for supper. Unfortunately Monsiour Chabot was under the weather that day, but he had a little box bed in the kitchen so he could join in the fun. In the middle of the meal he became unwell – it was a tummy upset, and rose to go to the bathroom dressed only in short vest. Being British we all treated it as perfectly normal and carried on eating. I guess it was France Profonde.

Sally’s next move was further south to the Languedoc, an affordable Provence and I was delighted to be invited once more.

Somerset’s Secret Manor House

Aside

It’s surprising that many people in Somerset don’t know of the existence of Orchard Wyndham when you consider that another of the Wyndham family homes is the famous Petworth in Sussex. It was MTL who spotted, in the local paper that it was possible to be shown round the house on two particular dates in May. He recognised the Wyndham name from the piece I wrote about Florence Wyndham who ‘rose from the dead ‘in the crypt of St Decumen’s Church. See ‘Girl’s Day Out’ April 2^nd 2008.

The house is nestled in a vale within sight of the sea and even with an OS map it was difficult to find, but eventually we came across a drive and drove up it. I got out of the car and took a photo. Then we drove to what looked like the side of the house and prepared to wait, as we were early. I thought I’d take a few more shots when a lady appeared and said, quite pleasantly, that we had come in the wrong way, up a one- way in fact, and that we could come inside and wait if we wished. Then I learned that photos were not allowed, either inside or out, so I showed her the one I had taken and she referred to the present owner and he – very kindly - thought that would be fine.

We were a small select party – just the two of us, two lady tourists and an elderly historian. Our guide was Sylvana, a charming woman and sister of the present incumbent. There were two sisters and two brothers and sadly the other sister died from cancer some years ago. The house goes back some 700 years and ‘what appears to be a hamlet is linked as one house.’ We understood the reason for strict security when we were told the house was burgled in the eighties, Sylvana’s sister was tied up and the masked men made off with valuables including an enormous diamond which had been encased in a clock; a present from Charles the second after Francis Wyndham helped Charles to escape to France after the Battle of Worcester.

Near the entrance is a dark corridor with stairs leading to the cellar – a site of particular scientific interest as a rare breed of spiders lives there. They came over from Portugal, can sometimes be seen climbing the steps and one of the sisters was bitten by one. We moved swiftly on. In the Staircase Hall I imagined the two little girls running up and down the stairs but Sylvana said she was only allowed there with Nanny.

In each room there is so much to admire, portraits, furniture, panelling but the historian got rather excited when we saw a giant turtle shell brought back by Sir Francis Drake from his circumnavigation of the world. In the Great hall there is a long table which runs the length of the Hall. It is cut from one tree but individual leaves are removed when the house is open to visitors. Sylvana told us that after her mother died the table was put together and all the family sat round it.

There is a telescope used by the fourth Earl when he was a midshipman at Trafalgar,
a magnificent ornate mirror from Versailles – brought as booty after the defeat of Napoleon, and an Armada chest with an intricate locking mechanism and much, much more. Two hours passed in a trice and we were so lucky to be given such a personal and absorbing history lesson.

The weather precluded our looking round the garden but we saw the giant camellia in the conservatory. I was delighted that MTL had not only stayed the course but had enjoyed it as much as I had.

Robert Griffier's painting of Orchard Wyndahm c 1750

My illicit - but allowed photo.

The Great Hall - Orchard Wyndham

Giant Green Turtleshell

Appears to be a hamlet

Winners and Losers.
Aside

Karen admired my irises. You should see the lawn now - Immaculate!

This is a successful cutting

Losing patience with this peony after 5 years I moved it. You know what they say about peonys - it's true. Karen planted my new one. I'm not taking any chances this time.

This salvia is great - it provides gorgeous colour for months but apparently I should have cut it back.

The cuttings I think are a success.

And belt and braces

The Scent of Grass

Aside

“Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,

Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues…”

The Glory of the Garden

by

Rudyard Kipling

I was going to spend the afternoon working on a post which required a bit of reading and fiddling with photos. And then I caught sight of the lawn. It was a foot high. Since our abortive week-end MTL hasn’t felt like mowing although he is painting the sun room. When Karen was here on Thursday it was too wet to do it and I prefer her to do the more creative things. Any body can mow a lawn – I used to think.

I AM. SO. KNACKERED.

Yes dear reader I did it myself and I hope the neighbours didn’t hear my ejaculations. The mower is electric with long, long wires and extensions and a plug on the upright that comes out every few minutes. The trick is to avoid running over the wire and to keep the engine running clutching a lever below the handle. I think once the grass is a reasonable length I’ll manage it. I found it very difficult and am left with ridges of couch grass and mown grass everywhere That’s everywhere.

Once I’ve gone down the ridges and sheared the edges and raked up the grass on the lawn and swept it off all the paths it should be fine. That’ll be tomorrow then.

Can anyone tell me why we have lawns? Oh the good news: mowing is the new work out. OK so my back is aching – in fact I’m aching everywhere – but I know tomorrow I shall be the right side of 9 stone. Betcha!