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Report from Cheltenham Literature Festival

Posted on October 3, 2015

It’s the most wonderful time of the year: the Cheltenham Literature Festival in the Cotswolds. I spent the first night of the festival at an intimate evening with the bald spot on the back of a gentleman’s head and the much maligned Mr. Franzen.

 
Before he began to read, Franzen noted he was in the fourth week of touring to promote his new novel, Purity, and admitted he he had hit a wall just before the start of this event. Despite his fatigue, he still managed to charm. I particularly enjoyed hearing him read from a scene in the book where a couple has sex on a nuclear missile in Amarillo, Texas.

However, an opportunistic journalist hoping for another Iraqi-war-orphan-esque gaffe would have been rewarded towards the end of the Q&A when a woman in the audience asked him about his relationship with his mother. He started his answer by offering his gratitude for the middle-class privileges his parents had bestowed on him, including an education and disapproval of his writing—which he said gave him “something to prove.” Then he went on to note that on top of all that, they were also nice enough to die when he was in his thirties, liberating him to write things he could have never written when they were still alive, including The Corrections. I can just imagine the headline: “Franzen Glad His Parents are Dead.” The audience seemed to take the answer in the spirit in which he intended, though. No gasps or tutting as far as I could hear, and the line for his book signing was still out the door by the time we finished dinner and moved on to the next event of the evening.

I spent the next hour in a much more intimate setting, just 30 or so audience members, the moderator and Nell Zink, Franzen’s literary protégé who was profiled in The New Yorker earlier this year. My friend headed to the tent next door to see the wildly popular Caitlin Moran, and the uproarious laughter from that crowd occasionally seeped into our venue.

Nell Zink reading from The Wallcreeper

Zink was funny, too. Not necessarily ha-ha funny, but odd and awkward and charming and all over the map. At one point she veered off in an explanation of a character’s hairdo in The Wallcreeper to enlighten us about an eighteenth-century hair condition amongst German peasants that included dreadlocks and was referred to as Plica Polonica (a Polish braid). There appeared to be little filter between her darting to-and-fro mind and her mouth, which was a good thing as far as I’m concerned.She was, in short, exactly how I imagined someone who had written the lighting-paced and weird and wonderful The Wallcreeper to be, and I would have been disappointed if she had been any other way.

Cotswolds Cycling

Playing Dress Up with The Guvnors’ Assembly

Posted on August 29, 2015
All about the details: custom fenders and champagne-cork-topped handlebars

Lastweekend we made a special trip back to Cotswoldia to take part in a “sporting event” I’ve had my eye on since last year: The Guvnors’ Assembly’s annual Jolly in the Wolds. The Assembly is a group of cycling enthusiasts who hail from all over Britain and distinguish themselves with sartorial elegance. This elegance begins with the choice of bike—a Pashley Guv’nor for the men and a Pashley Princess for the ladies—and extends into every other imaginable detail, from cat-eye sunglasses to the waxed tips of a mustache.

My love affair with Pashley cycles began in 2011 in Berlin—somewhat ironically since Pashley Cycles’ headquarters is in Stratford-upon-Avon, which is more or less the north Cotswolds—when I purchased a periwinkle-blue Pashley Poppy. She cost more than was strictly necessary to transport myself around the city, but, at roughly the same price as a designer shoe and infinitely more practical, the purchase was easy to rationalize. I like to think of her as the Jimmy Choos I’ll never own. My Poppy has followed me as we moved from Berlin to Boston and finally back to California, turning heads everywhere she goes. Sadly, when we moved back to Berlin this time around, we left Poppy in our California garage to enjoy a brief sabbatical.

A collection of Pashley Princesses

This left us in a dilemma over what to ride when we joined the Assembly at the weekend. We were in possession of some rather garishly colored road bikes, but we worried they would tarnish the aesthetic of the collective. The Assembly may have been worried about this possibility too, because, despite the fact that we were complete strangers, a longstanding member, Mr. Corky, offered to lend me a Pashley Princess and my husband something he called the tweed steed: a completely custom affair hand-upholstered in the finest Harris Tweed.

Bikes secured, we moved on to the question of what to wear. Berlin does vintage well, and it didn’t take me long to secure a 1950s-style sundress of yellow gingham with a cheerful cherry print. Husband relied on a more traditional Cotswold clothier, Pakeman Catto & Carter, acquiring a pair of tweed plus twos in their summer sale. (Curiously, shooting apparel does double duty very well as vintage cycling apparel.)

1950s me

Despite our efforts, when we arrived at our point of embarkation—a very fine pub called The Royal Oak Tetbury—husband and I were cowed by the collective splendor of the Assembly. The ladies didn’t just have elegant vintage dresses. They had gloves and hats and flowers and bunting strung through their baskets. They wore heels! Standing there in my sundress and very sensible white plimsolls, I felt like Sandy at the slumber party in Grease, only instead of The Pink Ladies I was surrounded by a gang of early-Mad Men Betty Drapers.The Rizzo of the group (I’m only calling her that since she organized the event with her husband, thus making her the gang leader of the Betty Drapers) soon put me at ease by offering me a lucky dip from the assortment of mini-cans of G&T and Pimms residing in her wide-mouthed bicycle basket. Another of the ladies, who goes by the moniker of Sussex Bob, offered to lend me her cycling cape (yes, a cape!) should the weather turn inclement that afternoon.

The men were equally as welcoming and well turned out. There wore braces, flat caps, cravats, and a smattering of the Assembly’s very own custom-made, vintage-style wool cycling jerseys. The bikes wore accessories, too, from bespoke wood fenders to a honking loud horn that, unfortunately for the ears of all those visiting the countryside that day, was attached to husband’s borrowed bike. One of the founding members of the assembly, Gent Cyclist, chose a more subtle attention-getting device: a cylindrical chrome police whistle attached to a perfectly patinated piece of twine.

The Guvnors’ Assemby assembles outside The Royal Oak Tetbury

After posing for pictures, we were off on our jolly. And it was a jolly—speed is not the point of an Assembly outing, although at 35 miles it wasn’t exactly a dawdle either. Manhandling a Pashley Princess up a Cotswold hill in blazing sun is serious business. These substantial bikes are elegant if not agile, squeaking on the ascents like a group of convivial mice at a tea party. Luckily for me the Assembly abides by a policy of “no man or woman left behind,” and regular stops ensured everyone could catch up.

The Assembly waits patiently for me

One such stop was for lunch at the Red Lion in Cricklade, where husband and I chatted more with G., one of The Pink Ladies/Betty Drapers, and learned her commitment to looking this good extended into everyday life. “I get dressed like this to walk the dog,” she told us. “My neighbors think I’m mad.”

Lunch stop at Red Lion Inn Cricklade

Seeing our group trundling around the Costwolds wearing woolen clothes and hats and heels as the temperature swelled into the eighties, you may well have thought us mad. But mostly people who saw us smiled and honked and waved and took pictures. The Assembly seemed to make people happy and the feeling was mutual. Maybe it was the just the tight bodice on my sundress, but as I rode my Princess I found myself sitting up straighter than usual, head held high. The air was filled with streamers of hay from passing trailers piled high with the
stuff and the occasional burst of dandelion confetti. Riding with the Guvnors’ Assembly felt like being in a countryside ticker-tape parade.

The Details

The Group:
To join the Guvnors’ Assembly for a ride, check out upcoming jollies on their website here.

The Gear:
More about Pashley Cycles here.

The Guide:
Our 35 mile loop started by heading southeast out of Tetbury on the B4014, tracing a shallow bowl of a route through Minety and up into Cricklade (about 15 miles). Leaving Cricklade we headed west through the beautiful village of Ashton Keynes, skirting the Cotswold Water Park before passing through the charming village of Oaksey. We continued up to Culkerton before turning left on the main A433, which brings you out just north of Trouble House. Turn right out of Trouble House and continue for 2 miles back into Tetbury.

The Grub:
We lunched at the excellent Red Lion Inn in Cricklade, which conveniently has its own microbrewery, The Hop Kettle Brewery.
Red Lion Inn
74 High Street
Cricklade
Wiltshire SN6 6DD
+44 (0)1793 750776

Refreshment was taken at the best-named pub in the Cotswolds, Trouble House. I stuck to lager and lime, but will be returning to taste the delicious-looking cakes.
Trouble House
London Road
Tetbury
Gloucestershire GL8 8SG
+44 (0)1666 502206

Supper was back at The Royal Oak Tetbury, where both service and food was outstanding.
The Royal Oak Tetbury, aka TROT
1 Cirencester Road
Tetbury
Gloucestershire GL8 8EY
+44 (0)1666 500021

Cotswolds

Garden Party

Posted on August 8, 2015

Our visit to the Cotswolds last weekend happily coincided with Miles’ annual-ish summer garden party. It was a perfect Sunday afternoon for that kind of thing: blue skies and sun bright enough to warm but not wilt the men in attendance, most of whom would deem it unseemly to remove their linen blazers no matter how high the mercury soared.

Summer scene in Cotswoldia

Miles always makes it clear in his invitation that the party’s occurrence depends on the whims of English summer weather, issuing a go or no-go in an email sent out the day before. His excuse is that is his cottage is too small to host the party in the event of rain, but I’m not so sure. As anyone who’s ever hosted a party in their first shoe-box-sized grown-up apartment knows, it doesn’t take a lot of space. I think it’s more that a garden in English summer requires only a bit of bunting to look festive while hosting indoors would require Miles to actually clean his house.

To be clear, I’m incredibly fond of the disheveled interior of Miles’ home. The route to the bathroom—the only reason you’re allowed to enter during the course of the festivities—includes a walk past a small kitchen where the tap is broken and, as a result, constantly running. It’s been this way since at least 2011 when I was last at his house for one of these soirées. In drought-riddled California he would be locked up for this offense, but I suppose it’s less of an issue in this perpetually sodden part of the world.

Next you go up dust bunny-strewn stairs with pairs of his shoes laid out neatly every few steps, each pair pointing in the downstairs direction as if to make it easier to dress on-the-run as he exits the house. A presumably dysfunctional shotgun rests in the corner at the top of the stairs, it’s barrel half hidden behind a white curtain billowing in the breeze. In the current climate of mass shootings in America its presence would be threatening; in England it’s merely decorative, as is the salon-style hanging of photographs and prints and paintings in the interior of the loo. If I wasn’t sure he would like it so much, I would be tempted to call Miles a bohemian.

Who needs a glass?

At first it seemed that Miles’ laissez faire attitude towards housekeeping extended to the selection of hors d’oeuvres, which were strictly limited to squares of plain buttered brown bread with smoked salmon or egg salad. (At one point I did spy something mayonnaisey-looking—prawn?—resting in a fluted edible cup. It seemed out-of-keeping and I demurred on that basis.) On reflection, though, I can see that the choice of food and the timing of its appearance served a very specific purpose, which was solely to absorb the copious amounts of rosé and white wine in constant circulation. One type each of rosé and white were the only options and why not? The whole affair was a lesson in the elegance of minimalism for any hostess who’s ever struggled with being the most-est.

Of course the success of any party depends not just on free-flowing chilled wine and fine weather, but on the congregants. It was as if the characters of Americashire had reassembled unwittingly on my behalf. Amongst the usual suspects of Cotswoldia was a farmer who wore a pith hat without irony. He also wore a rose in the buttonhole of his canvas blazer, and when I complimented him on it, he expounded at length about his daily selection process from his garden and his exasperation with his gender for failing to realize that a flower is exactly what a buttonhole is for. Other topics of conversation included an obligatory WWII story—this one about attempting to blow up Hitler’s bunker, a long ago road trip to a game fair in the Loire, and whether or not the pattern of lips on my dress was indicative of the fact that I would like the gentleman inquiring to place a kiss in every spot where the lips appeared. Charming and creepy is a blurry line, but he meant no harm. There was also a puppy, whose antics provided a useful escape route from at least one conversation.

Escape route to the side garden

Calling on the old adage that it’s best to leave while you’re still having fun, Rupert, Ralph, and I eventually managed to persuade husband it was time to go. As Rupert, our designated driver, chauffeured us back home in his convertible through the nearly harvest-ready countryside, there may have been several wine-soaked exclamations of delight: “Now THIS is summer in England!”

Cotswolds

An Evening at Longborough Festival Opera: Glasto for the Middle-Aged

Posted on July 8, 2015
Opera-goers mill outside the theater, a former barn, during the interval

Last Saturday night I finally did something on my Cotswold bucket list: attend a performance at Longborough Festival Opera. (OK, it’s not actually on that list, but it should have been.) If you haven’t heard about Longborough, it’s in the vein of Glyndebourne’s country house opera and one of those Cotswold gems you wouldn’t believe until you pull into the grounds and see it for yourself.

One of the “guests” roaming the grounds

Upon arrival we were greeted by a rooster strolling amongst the other festival-goers, many of whom—unlike us—were wearing black-tie as they sipped pre-show glasses of wine. Nobody gave our casual dress a second glance, though; they were all too busy taking in the stunning views of the countryside in show-off British summer weather.

Even if the climate hadn’t cooperated, the show would have gone on. Longborough has its own permanent theater in the form of a converted barn complete with seats salvaged from a remodel of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden, a pink stucco facade, and statues of Wagner, Verdi, and Mozart. The barn sits right across from the home of the couple, Martin and Lizzie Graham, who are responsible for the whole endeavor and seem to fit the mold of the stereotypical British eccentric rather well (read more about them here).

Despite my enthusiasm for the setting at Longborough, I confess that I’m not particularly interested in opera. Yet for reasons I can only attribute to the lingering effects of my bourgeois upbringing, I keep dragging husband to performances. Most recently we saw A Rake’s Progress in Berlin, which proved to be an excellent opportunity for him to catch up on his sleep. Occasionally he would wake up long enough to wonder aloud if the admittedly bizarre performance had licensed the use of the Disney characters whose likenesses made random appearances on stage. Thankfully the Longborough production of Rigoletto had no such ethical quandaries, not counting the cheating-on-and-murdering-of-an-innocent-young-woman aspects of the plot.

Our new hamper after we’d demolished
everything in it but the Eton Mess

The point is that the draw of an opera at a country house in England is not just the opera itself—which turned out to be stunning even if husband did have a little lie down in the box in the second half—but also the atmosphere: the grounds, the breed of very serious spectators making opera buff small talk that goes way over your head as you murmur affirmative throwaways, and, weather willing, the interval picnic.

Nobody does summer picnicking better than the British, a fact I attribute to the abysmal weather for much of the rest of the year. What else could motivate people to pack up most of the contents of an indoor dining room and transport them to a field in the middle of nowhere? (Things I’ve seen produced out of a British picnic basked include an eight-armed silver candelabra and a garland of paper lanterns “for atmosphere.”)

Rather than be mocked for my lack of proper kit, as I once was when I arrived at a Cotswold picnic carrying ice in a plastic Tesco bag, I opted to order our dinner from The Old Butchers in Stow-on-the-Wold. As if the nuts, olives, charcuterie, smoked salmon, potato salad, Chinese chicken salad, and Eton Mess weren’t enough, I am now the proud owner of the hamper in which it was delivered: a polka-dot-lined affair complete with tea cups, silverware, and china plates. It’ll be just the thing to disguise a Tesco bag filled with ice—and maybe even a candlestick or two—on our next visit to Longborough.

Picnic with a view
Cotswolds

Summer in the Cotswolds

Posted on May 25, 2015

Summer in the Cotswolds means Giffords Circus, an old-fashioned village green circus that’s the brainchild of Nell and Toti (yes, Toti) Gifford. You can read all about it here and, better yet, book a ticket. Here are a few pictures from our visit last weekend to see Moon Songs, the title of this year’s sublime show, on the grounds of Sudeley Castle in Winchcombe.

Circling the wagons under the horse-chestnut tree
Dog and a bear on a horse. Just because.
Tweedy the clown gets loaded into the canyon
Books Cotswolds Walking

10 Things on My Cotswold Bucket List

Posted on March 14, 2015

Next week we are headed to Berlin again. We prefer to think of it as an extended sojourn rather than a move, as well as a bit of practice for our aspiration of being bi-continental. Only eventually we want the two destinations to be California and Cotswoldia.In the meantime, Berlin will absolutely do. My reluctance to leave California has way more to do with how much I love living here than any negative commentary on the German capital. But one has to make hay while the sun shines, and right now the hay is in Berlin. Plus, it’s pretty hard, not to mention ungrateful, to complain about getting a chance to live abroad again and be paid for it. Or so I tell myself while I gaze mesmerized at sunset over the Pacific.

And while Berlin has lots of things going for it (trendy, artsy, foodie—you’ve read the glossy travel mags), I have to admit what I’m most looking forward to is that we’ll be able to visit the Cotswolds much more frequently. It got me thinking about all the things I still want to do there, a bucket list of sorts:

1. Hike the Cotswold Way, over 100 miles of walking between Chipping Campden and Bath, (crucially) punctuated with overnight pub stays.

2. Take a stay-cation at Log House Holidays. Because log cabins in England on a beach (OK, a lake beach).

3. Eat at The Wild Rabbit, because it opened after we left and on return visits we were too busy revisiting old favorites to try it. Also, because I’m a sucker for Daylesford Organic (one of those old favorites), which, like The Wild Rabbit, is owned by Lady Bamford.

4. Read Laurie Lee’s Cider with Rosie (shhhh, don’t tell anyone I’ve never finished it) then go have a pint at his local, The Woolpack, in Slad.

5. While I’m reading, I’ll also tackle Autobiography of a Supertramp, by Welshman W.H. Davies, who spent time in America and finished his life in the Cotswold town of Nailsworth.

6. Go to the farmers market in Stroud everyone talks about. I’m hoping it will ease me down from missing the amazing Sunday Farmer’s Market in Ojai, California.

7. Hit all those annual quirky Cotswold events I meant to go to but somehow, Tetbury Woolsack Racing aside, never managed: clypping in Painswick, cheese rolling on Cooper’s Hill, rubber duck races in Bibury, river football in Bourton-on-the-Water, and the Olimpicks in Chipping Campden.

8. Continue to refuse to attend The Big Feastival because Alex James’ adoption of a Cotswold farmer persona does my head in.

9. Go on a pheasant shoot, not because I want to kill any birds but simply because I want to wear a fetching ensemble of plus-fours and a velvet waistcoat.

10. Drink wine at the big table made out of a door on the back patio at The Ox House. OK, I’ve done this approximately 1,000 times before, but it never gets old.

11. I know this post is called “10 Things…” but I keep thinking of things to add after I originally posted it, including watching surfing on the Severn Bore. It may be a little different than watching the surfers off C-Street in my California hometown, but it looks pretty awesome.

12. Update—more tips from @PollyPissyPants, none of which I’ve done before: Bisley Well ceremony, Buscot Park, Lacock Abbey & village, tea at The Old Bell and the Abbey in Malmesbury, and dinner at the Bell at Sapperton.

Sometimes I wonder what I did for those three years I actually lived full-time in the Cotswolds, but, as documented on this blog, it was lots. Just goes to prove what I already knew was true: There’s always more to discover in Cotswoldia.

Cotswolds

Gardener’s Delight

Posted on December 19, 2014

Last night we celebrated husband’s 49-for-the-second-time birthday in style and checked into Barnsley House, a country house in a nearby village that has been converted into a hotel. We’ve been longtime patrons of Barnsley House’s bar and cinema, but this was the first time we’ve spent the night. It’s a special place, especially so if you’re a gardener. It used to be the home of the famous English garden designer, Rosemary Verey, and the property still maintains her handiwork, as well as vegetable and kitchen gardens. Despite the fact that I have a black thumb, I still find it magical. Here are the pictures to prove it. Hope you enjoy as much as we did.




Christmas decorations in the lounge
Romantic freestanding double tubs in our room, pre-supplied
with a distinctly British idea of erotic literature
Spot the birthday boy
More Christmas decorations in
the hotel’s Potager Restaurant
Breakfast with local eggs and vegetables from the garden
Garden folly
Guardian of the garden
This is a potager. I don’t know what a potager is but I want one.
Something to come back for in another season
Cotswolds

Cotswold Fix

Posted on October 22, 2014

I was lucky enough to get a Cotswold fix earlier this month by cramming a weekend visit into a work trip to Europe. It was surprisingly green and mild still, hardly a hint of autumn at all. My timing coincided with the last weekend of the wonderful Cheltenham Literature Festival, and I got to see a panel of the Man Booker Prize shortlistees, including Americans (first time they’ve been allowed on the list) Joshua Ferris and Karen Joy Fowler. As far as highlights go, though, it’s hard to compete with the scenery and a proper roast dinner. This ought to just about tie me over til Christmas!

View from the hamlet of Hampnett
St. George’s, Hampnett
Another Hampnett view
The old college on our lovely lane
Proper roast dinner courtesy of Rupert & Ralph
Cotswolds

Loos of the Cotswolds: A Wee Dunnit

Posted on September 5, 2014

A few weeks ago we lent our Cotswold cottage to friends and family, which explains why our plumbing thought it would be a perfect time to go on the fritz. An emergency plumber was summoned on a Sunday, but the required parts weren’t available until Monday. Our guests were exceedingly good humored about the 24-hour toilet outage and took it upon themselves to document this guide to public loos of the Cotswolds. (Normally I would take full responsibility for a bad pun, but Wee Dunnit is so gloriously bad—by which, of course, I mean good—that I have to give credit to our guest, Julie Henderson, for it.)

WEE DUNNIT IN:

A PUB TOILET at THE HOLLOW BOTTOM, GUITING POWER, with a copy of The Racing Post

A BOOKIES’ TOILET at FRED DONES, CHELTENHAM, after placing a winning bet

A DISABLED TOILET at CHELTENHAM HOSPITAL, with The Daily Mirror and an umbrella

A BAR TOILET at JOHN GORDONS, CHELTENHAM, before a bottle of Picpoul and a Pieminister pie

A PUB TOILET at THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, BOURTON-ON-THE-WATER, never to be repeated

A SHOP TOILET at FOOD FANATICS, WINCHCOMBE, before a damson and sloe gin ice cream

THE PUBLIC TOILETS in THE MARKET PLACE, NORTHLEACH, with a smile for the BBC film crew who were there shooting J.K. Rowling’s A Casual Vacancy

A BAR TOILET at COPA, CHELTENHAM, after taking advantage of the sales in Jigsaw and Monsoon

A PUB TOILET at YATES’S, CHELTENHAM, at the top of a never-ending stairway

A PUB TOILET at THE WHEATSHEAF INN, NORTHLEACH, before a cheese soufflé and some hake

A BAR TOILET at THE OX HOUSE, NORTHLEACH, after mistakenly walking into the office

THE GARDEN at DROVERS COTTAGE, NORTHLEACH, (discreetly) with a stifled laugh

Cotswolds

Our Cotswold Town Transformed for the Filming of JK Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy

Posted on August 11, 2014

Last week the market square of our Cotswold town was transformed into the fictional town of Pagford for the filming of a television version of J.K. Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy. We weren’t there, but friends and family were staying in our cottage and took some pictures. Thanks to Julie Henderson for all the images in this post.

The plot of The Casual Vacancy centers on the death of a beloved parish councillor and the resulting election that occurs. The set included a notice board for the Pagford Parish Council (above) complete with fictional notices for a village fête, a wine tasting evening, and a scintillating-sounding illustrated talk on “A Passion for Piers.” I can only assume by the authenticity of the notices that the production staff took inspiration from our real notice board.

The local beauty salon became a sweet shop, the Black Cat café morphed into a posh deli, and the chippie turned into Evertree Antiques (no reflection on the age of the chips usually served there).

Actor Michael Gambon was spotted around the square sporting a pair of blue pajamas and velvet slippers. A more common sight around the square, the bike that’s usually parked outside the wine bar, was given a facelift and used as a prop for Michael Gambon’s character’s shop.

I look forward to seeing the full effects of the transformation when the series airs later this year on both BBC One and HBO. And while I hope the show is a big hit, I hope it’s not big enough that it turns our town into something other than the best kept secret in the Cotswolds that it is.