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Cotswolds

Cotswolds

Urban Legend

Posted on November 21, 2008

There’s an urban legend that keeps rearing its head in our Cotswold town. Which brings me to the first problem of this post: can a rural village have an urban legend? I shall assume for the moment it can.

The legend, like all good legends, involves eccentric aristocrats and chow mein. One night years ago a member of the local landed gentry shuffled into the wine bar. He was wearing velvet slippers, as you do when you are landed gentry. The wine bar is chock full of toff-y types who do deference very well so nobody mentioned the slippers. Indeed they made sure their lord’s glass never went empty.

After a while the aristocrat got hungry and decided he fancied a Chinese takeaway. He shuffled off across the square to order his food, and this is where it all went south. The Chinese restaurant is strictly cash only, but naturally our lord doesn’t deign to carry the paper stuff on his person. He’s never had a need for it. He has “people” who transact on his behalf. Still, the owners of the Chinese takeaway are immune to class distinctions and make no exceptions.

Anticipating this conundrum, R. the barman was dispatched across the square to pay the bill. But if the person telling you the story has had a lot of wine, there’s a different ending where R. doesn’t figure at all. In this version the proprietors of the Chinese brandish a cleaver and chase the lord out the door while the wine bar attendees gape in horror. A lesson in Chinese democracy, nevermind the current owners are Malaysian.

Cotswolds England

London Conspires

Posted on November 18, 2008

London is continuing its efforts to get me to leave. Oh yeah, I’ve made that decision already. Note to London: You can stop now.

I awoke this morning to find my rear passenger window had been smashed for the smelly spoils of husband’s gym bag. At least the thieves got what they deserved. The consensus of my neighbor and the police was that it was crackheads. I’d like to slag off our neighborhood at this point but the truth is when our house was burgled in Santa Monica the police chalked it up to people looking for drug money, heroin to be specific. At best I can argue it was a slightly higher class of drug criminal in L.A.

Shockingly the police did come out—two sets of them, including a forensic specialist. I even seem to have found a window repair service that’s scheduled to be here in the next two hours. As far as crimes go, it’s been fairly untraumatic. Still, it’s hard to imagine this kind of thing ever happening in the Cotswolds, although the area does have its own notorious crime family. The Johnsons have been wreaking havoc in Gloucestershire for the past twenty years. In August, seven of them were sent to jail which ought to put a dent in their activities. They target stately homes rather than 2003 Volvos, but just in case I won’t leave any Georgian silver candlesticks hanging around on the backseat.

Cotswolds

The Court Leet

Posted on November 17, 2008

After some cajoling, town elder G. came through with the promised ticket to the Court Leet for husband. It was held on Thursday night and, being female, I was banished to dinner at the Inn across the street with several wives/partners of the attendees. Joining me was one half of the doppelgänger couple who considered the proceedings next door rather sexist. I, on the other hand, have been married long enough to be grateful for a little time off. I suspect other wives feeling just like me have played a vital role in keeping this tradition going for the last 700-odd years.

When the menfolk arrived at the Inn just after midnight, they were weary from the speeches which by all accounts were a bit average this year in everything except duration. I was pleased to hear our neighbor, D., had been elected the new High Bailiff. I like him because he is nice and often wears a coral coloured Benetton sweatshirt with a cravat and without irony. M., the sometimes barman who is known for his lack of self-censorship, is less readily charmed by a cravat. He thinks D. the most boring man in town, which doesn’t bode well for next year’s speeches.

Earlier in the week in London, husband and I had dinner with B. and R. who were down from Boylestone as guests of the Lord Mayor of the City of London at his annual show. B. regaled me with tales of sausages flung from swords, a Roman army, and a cat still resident in the Mayor’s office, an unbroken tradition from the time of Dick Whittington. Normally I would have chalked up this account to the potent combination of B.’s creativity and my gullibility, but after a look at some of the pictures of the show online I was convinced he was telling the truth, mostly. He didn’t even mention the various livery companies who marched in the procession, including The Worshipful Company of Paviors (professionals involved with roads and pavements) who presumably rode on a float where they stood around drinking cups of tea while traffic backed up.

The thirteenth century was a busy time for charter granting in England. London got one in 1215 that allowed it to elect a mayor, with a caveat that he had to travel to Westminster each year to pledge allegiance to the Sovereign. It is this procession which begat the annual show that B. and R. attended. Twelve years later our Cotswold town got its charter for a market, thus necessitating the tradition of the Court Leet to elect a High Bailiff to oversee it. As much as I enjoy the opportunity to tout the Cotswolds and disparage London, it seems the Lord Mayor’s show came up trumps over the Court Leet this year. Tradition, I begrudgingly admit, is not the sole provenance of the countryside.

Cotswolds

Remembrance Day

Posted on November 10, 2008

Our Remembrance Day service started with the blessing of a new standard for the village Brownie troop, done with an abundance of pomp and circumstance by Godfrey the vicar. After church, the entire congregation of thirty or so filed down the lane to the war memorial on the green for the act of remembrance. Around the British isles many others gathered at village greens just like this to speak the names of the war dead and observe two minutes of silence.

A retired local serviceman read aloud the names of those who died from this village and its sister village up the road, then placed a wreath of poppies on the memorial, followed by another from the Brownies. There were no more than twenty or so war dead, but these are tiny villages and the sense of loss must have been overwhelming. Ninety years later, there were still tears. “The Last Post” (the British version of “Taps” and equally as moving) played from a portable CD player propped on a chair outside the house at the top of the green. Even the white terrier accompanying his master looked solemn and sat quietly throughout.

Afterwards we went for a walk where, despite being intermittently pelted with freezing rain, we were offered two signs of hope and renewal. First was Hawling Lodge, which we’ve watched emerge from little more than a ruin over the last year. It has been beautifully restored, including a length of drystone wall where new, honeyed pieces sit alongside sections dark and chalky with age. A hill serves as one border in the back garden, and there is a door built into it that I would dearly like to open to discover what secret grotto lies within. Later, walking back by Roel Farm, a double rainbow appeared: two perfect arches over ochre fields.

Postscript: For anyone who fears political correctness has run amok, there was evidence to the contrary in the Cotswolds yesterday. A neighboring village was holding an evening Remembrance service honouring “especially those who died in the Indian Mutiny.”

I’ll stick with the Brownies.

Cotswolds

Cappucino Comes to the Cotswolds. Almost.

Posted on November 9, 2008

The changes to the wine bar promised back in August are starting to come to fruition. A handsome new bar made from varnished wine crates has been installed up front, and last week an impressive piece of machinery materialised on its far left corner. Said machine looks capable of dispensing serious caffeinated beverages. I am very excited. The other offerings in town are, well, no Starbucks.

Saturday morning I stopped by for an inaugural cappuccino. R. the barman was manning the shop.

“I see you have a new toy,” I said, gesturing to the chrome beauty.

“Hrmphh,” he grunted, rolling his eyes in the direction of the beast. “I don’t agree with that AT ALL,” he went on as if we were discussing stem cell research or new taxes.

My heart sank a little bit. I could see where this was going.

“Do you know how to use it?” I asked cheerily.

“I am leaving that to the girls,” he responded, referring to T. and the two Es, none of whom were on duty. “Can I get you something else?” he asked earnestly, as if I might consider a glass of Gamay at 10:00AM.

I got the impression he wanted me to stay for a chat, although obviously not enough to learn how to use the coffee machine. In its new configuration the bar does remind me just a little bit of Bar Le Louis IX , where we used to go for café crème and croissants after a jog around the Île Saint- Louis. Despite the croissants we always felt like conspicuous health freaks compared to the jumpsuited municipal workers capping their breakfast with a marc. I’ll skip the drink but stay for a chat. We have a whole presidential election to dissect.

Cotswolds

Duck Plucking and Sheep Shagging

Posted on November 8, 2008

Friday night the wine-maid (do wine bars have barmaids?), E., asked husband if he shoots. The sum total of his firearms experience is a morning downing clay pigeons on a North Yorkshire estate. I can better this having once conducted target practice with a pyramid of beer cans in a swampy Florida field. After a moment’s pause to consider if any of this qualified, he answered no.

E. doesn’t shoot either. She was asking because she just bought a bird plucker and is trying to drum up business. She went on to describe how her new piece of culinary apparatus works like an Epilady for poultry.

I rather admire E. and her entrepreneurial streak. She is recently split from her partner, whom it has been indicated to me in hushed tones is someone of note in the horsey set, but seems to have wasted no time getting on with it. In addition to her wine bar duties she has launched a home cooked meal service that supplied a Thai red curry for a dinner party we hosted a few weeks ago. Now the mechanical duck plucker. She is the embodiment of the plucky (no pun intended), pull yourself up by the bootstraps, country gal archetype. I may have to take up shooting just so I can see the bird Epilady in action.

My education in how food makes it to the table didn’t stop with E. This week I also learned, courtesy of an episode of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, that the coloured markings on a sheep’s behind indicate whether or not she’s been shagged. A device harnessed to the ram’s chest supplies the dye.

Out for a walk today, a ewe looked me straight in the eye and began to stamp her front hooves like a demanding child. She had a freckled face and excellent posture. She stamped some more before turning away to reveal that her entire back half was covered in orange. Apparently the ram in this field likes sassy types.

A second look around proved the ram in this field isn’t picky. The pasture was a walk of shame on a grand scale, a virtual promenade of harlots with orange bottoms everywhere. I felt a bit sorry for those few gals that hadn’t seen any action, their still-white coats a prudish badge.

Mr. Fearnley-Whittingstall also provided an explanation for the sudden appearance of all these orange backsides: if you want a lamb for Easter, the rams need to make a visit by Guy Fawkes (the fifth of November). The technical term for the mating season is the rut, a word which has several definitions including “a recurrent period of sexual excitement in certain male ruminants” and “a fixed, usually boring routine.” Guess it depends if you ask the ram or the ewe.

Cotswolds England

Maid of Ale

Posted on November 6, 2008

I was reading a New Yorker today, a profile of Gary Snyder, Zen poet and environmentalist. This passage made me feel validated and a little bit proud about our new life in the Cotswolds:

“Using Kitkitdizze [Snyder’s hand built house] as a prototype, he encourages others to inhabit more fully the places they live—settle down, get to know the neighbors (including in his conception, the plants and animals), join the school board and the watershed council, and defend the local resources and way of life. Place, he writes, should be defined by natural indicators, like rivers and the flora and fauna they support.”

Our Cotswold town is defined, literally named, for it’s place along one of Gloucestershire’s rivers. But it’s not the first time since moving to England that I’ve lived in a place named for its natural indicators. In London we live in Maida Hill, right next to it’s more glamorous cousin, Maida Vale. At one time hill and vale must have been obvious, but covered as they are now in pavement and plaster, it’s hard to make them out. That’s the excuse I’ll use for how I thought you spelled Maida Vale when I first moved here: Maid of Ale, a neighborhood I assumed was named for a long departed, much loved busty lady slinging tankards of beer.

Cotswolds

Morning Shift on the Coal-Face

Posted on November 2, 2008

Saturday morning I paid for the bottle of red wine consumed during the previous evening’s tutelage. Husband was in the same boat and so we spent much of the day sprawled in front of the wood burning stove watching television, with only the occasional outing to the market square for supplies.

On my first of these I bought an FT along with some chocolate biscuits and Coca-Cola. The former contained advice from a newly published volume by Kingsley Amis on coping with a hangover, my favourite of which was, “Go down the mine on the early-morning shift at the coal-face.” Having no such resources at my disposal, Chinese takeout and episodes from the last season of Curb Your Enthusiasm would have to do.

Despite my hangover, I was cheered by the outcome of another stop on my morning errands. Having realized my cash card had gone missing, I dropped into the post office where I had used it the day before. From behind her perch at the cash register, dreary postmistress greeted me with, “Cold out there.”

“And it’s started to rain,” I said, figuring I might as well join in.

“Well, it is Saturday,” she said, summarizing her defeatist life view by way of the weather. How exceptionally British.

Thankfully, my cash card was there, tucked safely in a drawer behind the counter and demonstrating a more redeeming feature of rural British life.

Cotswolds

My Own Private Royal Agricultural College

Posted on November 1, 2008

My rural education in country drinking establishments continues. Last night J. showed up at the wine bar still in his gear from the day’s shoot. I made the mistake of asking him if he had been out hunting, to which he responded that no, he hadn’t been anywhere near a horse nor a fox. The immediate coterie of men around me then chided, almost in unison, “You hunt foxes, you shoot birds, and you stalk deer.”

Well, excuse me. In south Florida where I grew up it’s all just got called huntin’, unless of course you’re fishin’ (which the British have to tart up to angling) or, at a stretch, lobster trapping. It would be rather amusing to send this contingent out for a day’s hunting with my cousin Jason or, even better, Berta (short for Robert), the older brother of one of my best childhood friends. Such an outing would include copious amounts of camo, ammo, Busch beer (in cans of course), and possibly an airboat. They would probably all get on like a house on fire.

Just to further annoy J., I told him I liked his knickers, which happens to be Brit speak for panties. I was referring to his knickerbockers or plus 2s as they’re known — pants that fall just below the knee that Americans associate with old fashioned golfers but are also worn for shooting here.

Following my brush up on country sporting verbs, J. introduced me to the wife of our local celebrity, also American. She’s apparently a keen hunter (of the fox variety), but we spent most our time talking about the election. At least now I can say I’ve met her since, inexplicably, people always ask me if I know her when they realize I am American too.

The evening returned to theme when I was introduced to two modern day shepherds. D. manages the estate that borders our town, M. an estate in a neighboring village. They were forthcoming with sheep trivia, including that they raise a Welsh variety and that a ewe has about five years of lambing in her. When I asked what happens to the ewes after that, they both laughed and said “Asia.” By which they apparently meant Birmingham. By which I have no idea what they meant but presume it’s to supply a vast network of Brummie curry houses or to export it.

But both D. and M. wanted to talk about sheep dog trials more than sheep. Apparently the Americans are crazy for the sport, and D. and M. just had a group over for a week to teach them the finer points. The closest I could come to contributing to this conversation was anecdotes about my childhood pet, Greta, an old English sheep dog known for her prowess at running through sliding glass doors. It turns out sheep dog trials are run with border collies.

Cotswolds

Food Porn

Posted on October 27, 2008

Marks and Spencer’s close-up television ads of oozing chocolate pudding put the term “food porn” on the British map. Surely though the grandaddy of all food porn is in the Cotswolds at Daylesford Organic.

At Daylesford barns have been transformed into a pristine retail mecca in a hamlet not far from Stow-in-the-Wold. Visitors come from near and far to pay homage to the spiritual home of organically reared, locally produced, seasonal food porn. It makes Chez Panisse look like a shack.

The first building in the complex houses the café cum deli/bakery cum grocery store, and as you approach it there is an outdoor display of seasonal produce arrayed on stacked antique cartons or a donkey cart or some other suitably rustic stage set. Vegetables are the stars here, and I am sure they have their own stylists.

Behind the food store there is a butcher, stocked by the in-house abattoir, and a kitchenware shop, a curated selection of gardening porn, a clothing store, and a spa called the haybarn. If you were very rich you could furnish your entire Cotswold estate in a single shopping trip to Daylesford without having to scour car boot sales and reclamation yards like me.

Yesterday we went for a late lunch at Daylesford. The café is good value if you throw in the occasional star sighting (Gary Barlow from Take That last time, the actor Charles Dance this time). I had a welsh rarebit tarted up with some artisanal cheese and portobello mushrooms. Husband started with some bread and olive oil, fresh from the presses of Daylesford’s sister estate in France, before moving on to braised red cabbage and ham.

Afterwards I selected a small chunk of parmesan and a courgette from the shop to use in our evening meal. Apparently nobody’s told the checkout girl, young and stylish in the shop’s trademark tasteful brown, where she works. “This is a courgette, right?” she asked me, holding up the plump green vegetable for examination before plopping it on the scale.