g
Browsing Category

Cotswolds

Cotswolds

The Houseguest and the Happy Ending

Posted on May 3, 2010

This bank holiday weekend we hosted husband’s brother who, on the heels of the breakup of his long term romance, was in need of some country R&R. Several hours into his visit he lost his mobile phone while out on a ramble with husband. We scoured the presumed area where it was dropped before giving up and heading for the pub. Even securing the phone number of the lady working behind the wine bar failed to dispel the gloom of the lost mobile phone that enveloped him that evening.

The next morning while our house guest was taking a shower I noticed he had left his bath towel in the bedroom. I shouted through the bathroom door that I had left it over the stair railing for him, only for him to shout back that he had brought his own towel. Unsure whether to be insulted by this, I went back downstairs to make coffee. A few minutes later I heard the whir of a blowdryer and realized our houseguest had also brought his own small appliances with him. Distracted by trying to remember if I had ever met another man who blow dried his hair, I forgot about being insulted by the towel incident. I recalled that our house guest had arrived yesterday with only a compact black satchel, which at the time struck me as fastidious. No wonder this very prepared man was so disturbed by losing his mobile phone. I suspect the fact that he was capable of losing his phone was as disturbing to him as the loss of the phone itself.

After breakfast we set out to retrace the steps of the previous day’s ramble in a last ditch attempt to locate the phone. It was a beautiful day and the route was through the Chedworth wood, now lined with bluebells so hardly a hassle. At the top of the woods husband rang the lost phone one last time and, to his surprise, someone answered. A local man had picked it up the day before while out walking his dog. He had also put it on his own charger at home in case the owner called it and made several calls to people in the recently dialed list in an attempt to find the owner. We had assured our houseguest that if someone local found the phone this was likely to be the outcome. Needless to say it was a rather different result than our London-based houseguest expected. In ten minutes we were at the house of the man who had found the phone, thanking him for his kindness and for providing our houseguest with a much needed happy ending.

Cotswolds Cycling

Cycling the Hollywold Hills

Posted on April 18, 2010

Before I moved to England I lived in Los Angeles for ten years. Despite my residence in the capital city of celebrity, I rarely encountered one. In fact, I can think of only three times when I did, and one of those happened before I even lived there. I was thirteen and visiting my grandmother, which always involved a lunch outing to Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Avenue. On this occasion our elderly and insistent waitress pointed out Whoopi Goldberg at the deli counter and ushered me over to ask for her autograph, which Ms. Goldberg obligingly provided. Later, when I actually lived in L.A., I worked at Capitol Records for a few years. One day Bonnie Raitt was wandering around our floor with her hair in rollers before a video shoot. I didn’t see her though; I was out to lunch at the time of her reported appearance. My penchant for going out to lunch was rewarded when I later saw Quentin Tarantino in a booth at Birds, a chicken restaurant near the Capitol Tower.

Five years ago I moved to London from Los Angeles and then, three years later, to the Cotswolds. I went rural for the same reason I imagine many people in their thirties and forties leave London: that intangible oft described as quality of life. The last thing I expected to find amongst the honey-colored stone and rolling hills was a profusion of celebrity, but in the past two years I’ve had more star sightings than during my decade in Hollywood. I chalk this up to two factors. One is the pervasive car culture in L.A. Given the proportion of time most people spend in their cars there, it’s amazing you ever meet anyone in the flesh. The other is that neither my budget nor social stature in California supported frequenting the haunts where celebrities like to spend their time when they are not in their cars, Quentin Tarantino’s taste for budget chicken restaurants aside.

In the Cotswolds there is a distinct absence of establishments with velvet ropes and twenty dollar cocktails. No bouncer in a headset is going to ask you if you are “on the list,” although I do know somebody who managed to get banned from our local wine bar due to non-payment of his tab and the general indiscretion of being, in the words of the proprietor, an ass. The point is that the celebrities here have to mingle with the regular folk because pubs and inns and the odd wine bar are the only places to go if you want to have a drink out.

The other notable change in my lifestyle in the Cotswolds versus Los Angeles is that my preferred method of transportation is, weather allowing, my bicycle. There are endless country roads where you are more likely to come across a tractor than a car, and travelling them by bike puts you in touch with the landscape — the patterns of the hills and valleys, the flora and fauna — in an up close, visceral way inaccessible by car. It also happens that most of my Cotswold celebrity encounters have happened on cycling outings. And so in the spirit of the Hollywood star map I offer up the Hollywold map, two intermediate, all-day (thirty to forty mile) cycling routes with celebrity spotting potential. Even if you don’t bump into someone famous, you’re sure to encounter the real stars of this place: chocolate box cottages and stately manor homes, all in quintessential Cotswold stone; a cast list of snowdrops, daffodils, rapeseed, May blossom, elderflower, and blackberries in roughly seasonal order of appearance; and of course the sheep, cows, odd pheasant, race horse farms, and, if you’re lucky, a Gloucester Old Spot pig or two.

Route 1
Northleach – Daylesford loop
http://www.getamap.ordnancesurveyleisure.co.uk/?key=u6JE9qec8dNZil119UKoHQ2

Both rides start in Northleach, a market town near the center of the Cotswolds whose local inn has fed and watered several music superstars. Recently spotted: a member of the Rolling Stones.

1. Head out of Northleach on Farmington Road, just northeast of the market square. The ride starts with two climbs in rapid succession before you freewheel through Farmington and into Sherborne.

2. Past the Sherborne Social Club, take a left following the sign for the National Trust Water Meadows parking lot. It’s up another hill before you hit a stretch of semi- desolate plateau with sweeping views of the valleys to either side. On the left you can look down over some of the most famous Cotswold villages, Bourton-on-the-Water, and farther west, the Slaughters.

3. Take the first road on your right (if you get to Clapton, you’ve gone too far). Head down the steep hill, taking care along this weather damaged stretch of road. Follow the road into Great Rissington, then up past the Lamb Inn. At the next junction go left, past the airfield into Upper Rissington.

4. Church Westcote, reportedly Kate Winslet’s neck of the woods, is just to the east, but avoid the busy A road and, at the top of Upper Rissington, jog left then right towards Icomb. Follow the signs to Bledington then Kingham where you can make a pit stop at the Kingham Plough. You may not bump into Blur bassist Alex James here, but you can do the next best thing and eat his goat’s cheese. Better yet, take the left fork out of Kingham and in a short while you’ll be at the Daylesford Organic retail complex.

5. Daylesford has outposts around London, including Notting Hill, Pimlico and Harvey Nichols, but this is the mother ship, boasting a spa, yoga studio, garden and kitchen boutiques, butcher and food store/cafe. It’s no wonder celebs feel at home here; even the vegetable displays look set designed. During my last few lunches in the cafe I spotted a member of resurgent British boy (now middle aged man) band, Take That, on an outing with his kids and a British actor best known, according to Wikipedia, for playing “assertive bureaucrats or villains.” Should you wish for more bucolic company, pick up some goodies from the deli and enjoy a picnic on the estate.

6. Leave Daylesford and retrace your route through Kingham. Instead of heading right to Bledington, head left for Foscot, where you will fork left for Milton under Wychwood. Fork left again off the High Street then take your second right, crossing the A424 and heading into Taynton, then Great Barrington and right into Windrush. Follow the road into Sherborne where you’ll recognize your turn off from the morning by the National Trust Water Meadows sign post. Continue straight, taking the second left where this time you’ll see National Trust signs for Ewe Pen parking. It’s uphill to the A40 where you should take care crossing.

7. Once over the A40 you’ll cycle past another National Trust property, Lodge Park, which was used for deer coursing, gambling, and drinking in the 17th century. In other words it was a rural version of Vegas which the celebrities of the day may have enjoyed. Take your first right towards Eastington, which leads you back into Northleach.

Route 2
Northleach – Eastleach – Barnsley loop (a.k.a. The Supermodel Circuit)
http://www.getamap.ordnancesurveyleisure.co.uk/?key=qAlarUYnQbjDwAItzxj8Ig2

1. As with the first route, leave Northleach via the Farmington Road and continue through Farmington into Sherborne. Instead of turning left at the sign for the Water Meadows parking lot, continue on into Windrush then little Barrington, all the way into Burford, about ten miles in total. There are many options for refreshment on and around the handsome Burford high street, but you may wish to wait for the more secluded pub in Eastington, seven miles away.

2. After you’ve had your fill of Burford, head out the same way you came in, on Sheep Street, and take your first left on to Tanner’s Lane. Head up the hill to the A40, where you jog right along a pavement before crossing with care at the next left.

3. Follow the road through Westwell all the way to Eastleach where, just to the left as you enter the village, the Victoria Inn is perched on a hill. The star offering on the menu is pork from the nearby Eastleach Downs farm, but the first time I went to this pub I had a star sighting of another type: Kate Moss made an appearance, wearing wellies and a mud splotched cardigan. As she drove off in her vintage Roller, she tooted the horn and gave a wave to the bemused patrons sitting at the picnic tables on the front lawn.

4. Leave Eastleach the way you came in, then head left briefly before turning right for Hatherop and then on to Coln St. Aldwyns. From here you could go right into Bibury, site of Bibury Court, a fine Jacobean mansion converted into a hotel, as well as the oft photographed series of cottages known as Arlington Row. Alternatively go left out of Coln St. Aldwyns towards Quenington, taking the first right onto the Welsh Way before you hit the center of Quenington. This takes you all the way into Barnsley along a less busy road than the B4425, which you’ll have to brave if you choose to get to Barnsley via Bibury.

5. Barnsley’s most famous resident is yet another supermodel/actress, Liz Hurley. I’ve never seen her there, but I have enjoyed the fine gardens at Barnsley House, which are open to the public for a small admission charge. Barnsley House also owns the Village Pub across the street, a good place to stop for refreshment before the last leg of the journey back to Northleach.

6. Leaving Barnsley House or the Village Pub, take the second right off the B4425 and follow it all the way back, through Coln Rogers, Coln St Dennis, and into Northleach.

The Details
The Wheatsheaf Inn
West End
Northleach
Gloucestershire GL5 3EZ
01451 860244
http://www.cotswoldswheatsheaf.com/

Kingham Plough
The Green
Kingham
Chipping Norton
Oxfordshire OX7 6YD01608 658 327
http://www.thekinghamplough.co.uk/

Daylesford Organic
Daylesford
Gloucestershire GL56 OYG
01608 731 700
http://www.daylesfordorganic.com/scat/daylesfordfarmshop

Lodge Park
Aldsworth
Nr Cheltenham
Gloucestershire GL54 3PP
01451 844130 (Lodge Park)
01451 844257 (Estate office)
http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-lodgeparksherborneestate

The Victoria Inn
Eastleach
Nr Cirencester
Gloucestershire GL7 3NQ
01367 850277
http://www.arkells.com/pubs_more2.php?id=663

Bibury Court
Bibury
Gloucestershire GL7 5NT
01285 740324
http://www.biburycourt.co.uk/

Barnsley House/The Village Pub
Barnsley
Cirencester GL7 5EET
01285 740 000
http://www.barnsleyhouse.com/
http://www.thevillagepub.co.uk/

Cotswolds

Blue 57

Posted on April 8, 2010

Lord and Lady Glebe, the lambs whose birth we witnessed a couple weekends ago, are now known as the gender appropriate Glebe sisters or the prosaic Blue 57. The latter sounds like I’m trying to sink your Battleship, but it’s just a reference to the spray painted number that now graces theirs and their mother’s sides so the shepherds can make sure they stay together in the pasture. Henry has managed to swing a trade with his boss so the Blue 57 trio join his flock and husband stays that much closer to realizing his dream of lamb chop liberation for the Glebe sisters.

We learned all this last night when we bumped into Henry at the local inn. There, over cider and red wine, a cunning plan was hatched to realize our dream of a pet sheep syndicate of which the Glebe sisters will be the inaugural members. We’ve identified a regular at the wine bar who has a few unused acres just out of town. It’s a perfect plan if we can convince the land owner, who I just happen to know is partial to the Ox House white…

Cotswolds

Lambing Part Deux

Posted on March 31, 2010

Last weekend Henry made good on his invitation to visit his farm during lambing. About six hundred of the farm’s seven hundred sheep had already given birth, and he must have figured husband and I could inflict minimal damage. So on Sunday afternoon husband, one half of R&R, and I made our way up to the farm near Stow-on-the-Wold. Heeding Henry’s advice, R. and I were dressed in sensible jeans and sweatshirts. Husband, on the other hand, had found it unnecessary to change out of the tweed blazer and cravat he had worn to church; wellies were his sole sartorial concession.

Not long after we arrived, R. spotted a ewe that was about to give birth. I won’t describe here how we could tell she was about to give birth. Let’s just say it involves some telltale signs visible from the rear and that unlike Alice, the shepherdess on duty with Henry, I couldn’t sit around slurping an instant pot noodle while I watched said signs expand, contract and leak. Waiting for this ewe to give birth was like waiting for a watched pot to boil, so we strolled around the individual pens that had been setup for ewes and their new babies on the other side of the barn. One pen looked like a dismantled kids playhouse with daisies painted on the side and a heat lamp hanging overhead. Inside, five lambs were regularly reassembling themselves from huddle to snoozing heap. These five were too small to make it on their own when they were born, so they were now being hand reared as pets. This included feeding them what looked like orange Gatorade through a syringe while the no nonsense Alice held them upright by their front legs. The cutest was a girl called Jeff with a black face and black legs. She was already so domesticated she cuddled like a kitten.

Back in the lambing pens the expectant ewes were looking fed up. There was a lot of panting and pawing going on. I’ve never been in the same room with a woman in labor, but I’ve seen some on TV screaming and cursing out their impregnator and it was hard not to anthropomorphize these ewes when the looks of disgust in their eyes was so similar. Soon R. had spotted another ewe who had started to give birth — ewe number one was still holding out — and within five minutes a tiny, gooey lamb had plopped out on the straw. Mom was immediately upright, licking and preening, and the other ewes gave her space. Within five more minutes the lamb was taking her first steps, just in time for mom to go down again and pop out the twin, another girl, which took even less time than the first.

At this point husband had already named both the babies, Lord and Lady Glebe (don’t ask me why most the female lambs in this story ended up with male names), and was asking to buy them at well over market prices. He even offered to go into Stow-on-the-Wold to get cash out of the ATM. He didn’t want to take them home to our pebble courtyard, just to buy them a life as replacement stock rather than heading to the abattoir in as soon as twelve weeks. I was trying to be more sensible and embrace the “know where your food comes from” ethic so suggested we should buy them to eat. We could, I wanted to think, have a bit of a feast and know that our food was reared and killed ethically. But the truth is I don’t think any of us, except Alice of course, could have eaten Lord and Lady Glebe after we spent a few more minutes watching them come to life like one of those sponge toys that metamorphoses from a cubic centimeter to an animal when you sprinkle it with water.

In the next few days Lord and Lady G. will get a number spray painted on their side, the same as their mother to make sure they all end up together when they are put out to pasture. Henry promised to make note of their numbers and keep an eye on them. He says there is a good chance they’ll end up as replacement breeding stock anyway — their mother gave birth to twins which means they have hearty breeding genes. I’d like to believe that’s true, but husband is taking no chances. He sent Henry another text today to see if he could still make the deal.

Cotswolds Cycling

Supermodel Sunday

Posted on March 27, 2010

I have finally gotten serious about training for our upcoming London to Paris charity bicycle ride. I think it was seeing that thermometer on my fundraising web page exceed 100% that made me realize in 3 months I really am going to have ride 95 miles then get up and do most of it again the next day. And the next day. And the one after that.

So on a recent Saturday morning, helped out by an appearance from the sun, husband and I roused ourselves for a 25 mile expedition down through the Coln Valley. The next day we got up and did most of the distance again, but this time heading north into Farmington and Sherborne and nearly Burford before we looped back. It was on this second day where we were rewarded with the kind of serendipity that cycling affords and that gives me hope for what small pleasures might accompany an awful lot of saddle soreness come May.

First, we saw a sign for the rural cinema which was showing a film we both want to see on an upcoming Saturday night at the Windrush Village Hall. The sign asked viewers to bring a cushion and a log for the fire, the kind of thing that two years into our rural adventure I still find endearing. Then we stumbled on a full English breakfast service in progress (and every second Sunday of the month) at the local social club. Despite having already eaten breakfast, we stopped in so husband could replenish himself with just a wee plate of hash browns, fried bread, beans, mushrooms, and fried eggs. I had a cup of tea and, feeling pious from my 25 miles the previous day, a slice of fried bread.

The next weekend serendipity turned surreal when, in the midst of a pub lunch break from our training ride (we take the eating as seriously as the cycling), Kate Moss and her entourage decamped to the picnic table behind ours. Their hips were accessorized with either cardies sporting a stylized assortment of mud splotches or boho babies and, on their feet, the inevitable Hunter wellies (never mind it was a perfect, sunny day). They were a self-conscious crew who seemed to find reasons to say “Kate” aloud often. It wasn’t necessary as most of the pub had already clocked the celebrity arrival and, for those who hadn’t, Kate honked her horn and waved out the rolled down window of her vintage Roller when she left 30 minutes later.

On today’s training ride there were no celebrity sightings. But there were daffodil sightings and what seemed to me more uphill than down. With the onset of spring the palette of those hills has brightened into plusher greens and browns flecked through with the orange of our Cotswold stone, ploughed up and strewn about like rubble in the fields. Despite the climbs, I think I still have enough energy left to stay awake during tonite’s outing to the rural cinema at the Windrush Village Hall.

Cotswolds

End of an Era

Posted on March 25, 2010

Wednesday night was R.’s last regular gig behind the wine bar. He’s been in love for about a year now, and he’s finally packing his bags and heading for Shropshire to move in with his lady love. It’s been fun to watch a sixty-nine year old grin like a schoolboy each time he talks about his girlfriend, who is an old flame reignited. Still, I am sad to see him go.

R. has been around since the start of our Cotswoldian epic, and fifteen or twenty years before that at the wine bar. I think of him as our Cotswolds welcome wagon, introducing us to many of our now friends for the first time in his assumed role as host of the town cocktail party, which is how the wine bar feels on its best evenings. He can be a prickly character if he doesn’t like you, but, luckily for husband and me, he has fond memories of working in America and seemed glad to have an American around with whom he could reminisce and talk politics (even if those politics were a million miles away from mine). He’s also ruddy faced, a bit deaf, stubborn, opinionated and very generous. I can’t count the number of times he’s treated us to a glass of wine despite our protests. Oh, and he loves the devilled kidneys at the Wheatsheaf.

I’ve blogged about him before, like how he refused to learn to operate the fancy cappuccino machine when it was first installed at the wine bar, insisting that “the girls” do that. More than a year later he has now mastered the steaming, spurting chrome beast and is rather proud of his barista skills. I’ll miss his coffees and his banter and most of all him, although he is promising to make guest appearances behind the bar now and then.

Cotswolds

Lambing

Posted on March 13, 2010

I still haven’t made it to lambing at Henry’s farm, although it’s an offer I’ll be pursuing tonite when we see him to celebrate his birthday. As it happens, I didn’t need to know a real life shepherd to have a front row seat for lambing. BBC Two has been running a Lambing Live series from a farm in Wales for the past few weeks in prime time. It was so popular last Tuesday it killed its competition, University Challenge and Master Chef. I like to think the whole idea of prime time animal husbandry is one of the many examples of British quirkiness, but maybe not. I remember reading last year in the New Yorker that raising chickens is reaching new heights in popularity in the US, so maybe it’s only a matter of time before stateside viewers are watching hens lay their eggs after American Idol.

After our horrible winter, lambing is being joined by some other early indicators that spring is nigh. Evenings are noticeably lengthening. The snow drops have been out for weeks, and today on a bike ride I noticed patches of green shoots promising daffodils everywhere. The sun even made an appearance, although wearing bike shorts was a bit optimistic on my part.

Cotswolds

This Little Piggy Went to Market

Posted on February 21, 2010

I’ve known what the name of this post was going to be ever since I got the word I was going to market, specifically the Worcester sale of 200 store cattle, 1 stud bull, and 800 store sheep, plus calves and weanlings. (No pigs, I know, but I still couldn’t resist.) Husband was invited to tag along with former gamekeeper and current shepherd, Henry, some weeks ago. I was very jealous, having developed quite a thing for country auctions – admittedly of the marmalade and homemade wine variety — in the past few years. Granted I had no real use for livestock given our back garden is courtyard sized and covered in pebbles, but still I wanted to go.

So a few days before the market I persuaded husband to ask Henry if I could come along. Henry responded by text: “Yeh corse she can come as long as she keeps out of the way and says nothing! Tell her not to nod, wink or twitch while they are selling!” It didn’t take long to figure out why my invitation came with such a warning. In the first auction of the day the bidding for a pen of sheep seemed to be done solely by either a widening of the eyes or a pocket encased finger wag. But this most recent event in my continuing education in rural ways started long before the bidding began.

First we had to decide what to wear. Husband and I were both very excited about the prospect of our authentic rural outing and on the morning of we discussed our outfits like no outfit I had discussed since readying myself for a Friday night at Skatetown USA circa 1983. Husband settled on his checked shirt, a red tie, and grey sweater vest with jeans and wellies. I donned my suede elbowed turtleneck sweater, jeans, Chelsea boots, and a flat cap. I decided bringing a purse just wasn’t the thing to do at a livestock auction so I carried my things in the pocket of my very appropriate, moth-eaten Burberry wax coat. Luckily said pocket was designed to hold a game bird so it had no problem with my mobile phone and wallet, which is the closest thing to a pheasant it’s ever likely to see.

At 8:30am we arrived, as instructed, at a farm just outside Stow-on-the-Wold. It’s only nine or ten miles north of our Cotswold town, but it’s higher up and as such, has its own micro climate that still included the snow that had melted off in the valley villages weeks ago. Henry texted that he was still busy loading up the lambs he was taking to market, so we had a poke around while we waited. There were some kennels and a roaming herd of chickens, including a handsome hen of marbled black and white who seemed distressed by my attempts to take a picture of her with my phone. The Gloucester Old Spot, annoyed by how difficult it was for her hooves to gain a foothold on the frozen mud of her plot, was very amenable to the distraction of some wannabe country folks eager to pat her snout. She was so cute I thought about swearing off pork. That lasted as long as it took to drive to the market and discover there was a café and enough time for a bacon buttie and cup of tea before the auction began.

Before breakfast we had watched as the lambs from Henry’s farm and others were unloaded into sheltered pens. Once the unloading was done, an elaborate sorting process began to get sheep of similar shapes and sizes grouped together for sale. It looked like chaos, with pens opening and closing at seemingly random intervals and a man in a blue jumpsuit making a noise somewhere between a whistle and a hiss while waving his arms like he was directing a 747 onto the taxiway. I tried to stay out of the way while Henry got into the pens and helped herd errant sheep. I figured husband and I had already embarrassed him enough by having our picture taken dipping our boots in the buckets of antiseptic by every door.

When the auction bell rang at 10:30am we headed outside and joined the sea of flat caps. The auctioneer, a youngish better looking version of Prince Harry dressed in a checked shirt, tie, and white lab coat, stepped up on the concrete wall that ran the length of the pens and started the bidding. When the first lot went for £42, I was shocked at how cheap sheep were and felt an irrational itch to bid. Then Henry explained that was the price per sheep, not the entire pen. As we walked from pen to pen following the auctioneer, Henry also explained the difference between a Texel and a Suffolk Cross and why his farm opts for an unhandsome French breed called Charolais: small heads and big bodies means easy lambing and good meat. He also answered a thousand and one other questions we had that were no doubt the farming equivalent of a six year old asking his father why the sky is blue. In addition to husband asking Henry if his outfit was alright (“Your flat cap is too new” was the reply), these questions included what store lambs and store cattle means, which is that these animals were being sold off to continue to be raised on other farms rather than destined straight for the abattoir. In the end this would be their fate, but somehow knowing this wasn’t imminent made the proceedings jollier.

After the sheep were sold, we all headed into a sort of miniature amphitheater for the cattle auction. There were plywood step bleachers, but most people stood on the cold dirt floor facing a half moon shaped pen and the auctioneer, a different, older man this time, in a booth behind. The star of the show was the stud bull, a Pingauzer named Elgany John Jack. From the program notes I know his mother’s name was Our Wilma and his father, Edenbrook Cassius. Sadly, our stud bull never knew his father as Our Wilma was serviced by Edenbrook Cassius via the medium of Imported Austrian Semen. Perhaps it was rage over his absentee father that made it sound like King Kong rattling the bars of his cage when Elgany John Jack stepped onto the weighing pen scales. But when this ginger colored beast entered the viewing arena I couldn’t help thinking he had a touch of Liberace about him. It was the combination of his mop of curls poised on his head like a too small toupee, the golden ring through his nose, and the way his hooves made him walk like he was wearing a pair of Manolos. In the end he went for substantially more than a pair of Manolos.

We ended the morning with an instant coffee in the café. There, seated with a few other shepherds, talked turned to lambing which starts in March at Henry’s farm. I learned that snow is not of much concern during lambing but rain is, that you rarely need to assist a ewe in giving birth (despite what I had seen on all those episodes of All Creatures Great and Small), and that the whole thing lasts the better part of two weeks. That’s good because it means I’ll be back from my vacation in Florida in time to take part in this next installment of my rural education.

Cotswolds

The Elusive Devilled Egg

Posted on February 13, 2010

Last night I watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. It’s the one where Larry holds the elevator for a woman who then proceeds to unconsciously body block the corridor and beat him into the doctor’s office where they both have appointments. The woman signs in first and, as a result, gets seen first by the doctor even though Larry’s appointment time was earlier than hers. Outraged, Larry then tries to enroll the entire office staff and waiting room in the gross injustice of it all. And today at lunch at the farm shop I had my very own Larry-esque experience.

I’ve written about the farm shop before—it was a revelation when we found it because it specializes in vegetarian lunches. That’s an unusual gastronomic gambit in this pie and sausage and chips and mash part of the world, but one that has found an audience in that rare Cotswold breed of eco-friendly yuppies slinging free-range cotton wearing toddlers from their hips and at least two people who miss California.

One of the highlights of the farm shop veggie lunch is that it comes with an array of salads. But lately we’ve noticed that if we don’t get there early enough in the lunch service the salads start to dwindle. So instead of lentils vinaigrette, roasted beets and bulgar with your courgette lasagna, you might be pawned off with some greens tarted up with a dash of shredded carrot. Today when we arrived I was heartened to see that generous portions of all salads remained on display in the orange Le Creuset dishes that line the counter where you order and pay. And I was delighted to see the day’s salad selections included devilled eggs, one of my favorites. (Yes, I really am sad enough to get excited over a devilled egg. I promise you when it is an egg from a chicken on the farm where you are eating it is worth getting excited about.)

Husband insisted on starting with a small bowl of spinach and potato soup. I hesitated, not because spinach and potato soup sounded bad, but because I suspected that would mean the salads would start running out while we dawdled over an appetizer. I examined the display of salads again. I may have even counted the devilled eggs. And then I reached way down in the depths of my dignity and self-restraint and ordered us two bowls of spinach soup to be followed by the curried chick pea stew with herbed polenta for husband and a beetroot and goat cheese tart for me.

Next we had to find ourselves a table, a task made all the more challenging by a large shopping cart planted in the middle of the dining area. The cafe is connected to a shop that sells produce from the farm plus the standard upscale, we-fancy-ourselves-green assortment of Fair Trade, Ecover cleaning products (or “dish soap without suds” as husband calls it), and imported Indian print tablecloths. (Lest you think I am mocking such eco-consumers, which I am, I’ll ‘fess up now to having purchased from all of these product categories at one time or another.) Of course there are no new shopping bags on offer, so the contents of this shopping cart were lying loose in the cart or stuffed in second hand plastic bags or old cardboard boxes. The overall effect was to make its owners — who were in the midst of enjoying plates of stuffed peppers — look homeless, an image further perpetuated by the woman’s holey woolen socks encased in cork sandals. It took a double take to realize the holes were on purpose, an inexplicable variation on fingerless gloves.

We had just managed to wedge ourselves into a table behind the trust fund hobo trolley when the spinach soup arrived. It was tepid so we sent it back to get warmed up. I tried to distract myself with The Secret Agent column in the FT, but I just felt self-conscious holding my pink paper what with all the Soil Association and mother earth anarchist genre publications littered about. And inside I was starting to fret about what I imagined to be the rapidly dwindling supply of devilled eggs. The spinach soup came back hot, almost vindictively so. More time passed while we waited for the soup to cool down, but when it did it was good enough to occupy me until our entrees arrived with, sure enough, no devilled eggs.

“Are you out of devilled eggs?” I asked the waitress even though the answer was as self-evident as the dismay on my face.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” she replied flatly and walked away.

At that moment I felt a sense of violation that I knew Larry David would understand. There was, after all, an undeniable injustice about the fact that I had ordered and paid for my entree well before any of those people who actually got to eat my devilled eggs had done the same. Surely my payment should have put a hold on a devilled egg? But no, the sacred and implicit devilled egg reservation contract had been broken between the farm shop and me. I avoided an outburst this time — after all there were all those free-range cotton wearing toddlers about that I didn’t want to upset — but next time I think I will be taking my devilled egg with me when I order.