In middle age, when looking after my own chickens was too complicated, I gathered together pottery and china hens and ducks. They are less trouble than the live kind and are ever-present in my bedroom and sitting room. My favourites are a Belgian faïence pair of life-sized speckled hens with heads turned back and beaks buried in their feathers, in that expression of poultry contentment hens wear after a dust bath on a spring day. One has a brood of chicks poking out from her breast, the other an egg. They are dishes – the top halves lids, heads and necks the handles.
I bought them from one of those expensive antiques shops that catered for rich tourists in Park Lane, long since replaced by a travel agency. I remember stopping and staring at them with a great longing. The price seemed wild at the time and it certainly was. A recent valuation put the dishes at less than I paid twenty years ago, but the price is not the point when grabbed by such a longing. They have given, and continue to give, great pleasure.
A pottery nest with chicks hatching and hatched from jagged broken eggshells is also well loved. I have never seen another such group and would love to know where it was made. One chick has only its head out of the egg, another has a bit of shell stuck on its behind and the third is fully hatched, wearing the surprised look of a chick that’s found itself hatched, dry and facing an uncertain world.
I have fallen for paintings of hens too. An enormous canvas of double-combed Derbyshire Redcaps by T. Benson hangs in my bedroom in our house at Bolton Abbey. William Huggins, taking time off from painting lions, is the artist responsible for another group of poultry, in which the iridescent green and black tail feathers of the cock are brilliantly painted. In Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen’s lithograph of a cock and two hens (called a trio in the trade, the eternal triangle in this case) you can see from their expressions that he is portraying a prosperous gentleman, his dowdy wife in black feathers and his flighty mistress – all on one perch.
The behaviour of poultry is like human behaviour and it is just as predictable. They fight, they resent newcomers, they hate wind and rain. Some are bold and forage far from home and some hardly bother to go out of doors. They practise a bit of racial argy-bargy and their purposeful walk when hurrying into the house to lay is like that of determined women heading for the sales. They queue to use the same nesting-box (why, when there is a row of identical boxes?), and when they haven’t got time to queue they climb on top of the first comer, to her intense annoyance. Some are neat in appearance and habit, but the Hi-Sex are sloppy and have no idea of chic. They seem to be permanently losing a feather or two, instead of having a good moult, getting it over and then looking smart again, bright of eye and comb. These feckless females drop their eggs anywhere on the floor of their house or on the ground outside. Our long-suffering guests are subjected to collecting the eggs, the high spot of my day. They pretend to enjoy it, but I notice a careful examination of the soles of London shoes when we get home.
I can’t remember laughing out loud at anything I have read in The Times for years till a piece from the Washington correspondent about American nannies appeared. I thought the point of Americans was that they don’t have nannies, that women are judges and all sorts of other things while the children bring themselves up. A notable example of the system, I thought, was Mark Thatcher’s half-American baby, whose legs, still at the pipe-cleaner stage, were shoved into navy-blue dungarees at a month old, obviously expected to go out to work pronto. Just to complicate the issue, a woman called Ms Ireland, who is leader of a women’s organisation called the National Organisation of Women, is on the prowl to discredit men who have important jobs in Clinton’s administration. These despicable fellows may have employed women to look after their children. What I’d like to ask Ms Ireland is, how did these men get their children in the first place? Could it be that yet another woman was involved? Not Ms Ireland, of course. Perish the thought that she could have been in close enough contact with a man to result in a baby, who might even demand some years of luxury in the lap of an illegal nanny. Excitement mounts daily. Now we find that Ms Ireland might have bitten off more than even she can chew. Arising out of pretty Judge Kimba Wood’s five-day training course as a Bunny Girl, Ms Ireland is to discover how many men in the administration read Playboy magazine, or, horror of horrors, went to a Playboy Club. At the tribunals, dear, sweet Ms Ireland will stump on to a rostrum and force the poor little men with important jobs to bow their heads and plead guilty to these crimes as well as getting the housework done for them while they live it up in the law courts. I trust she won’t come here. She would find things which would make her hair stand on end.
I have been in America and enjoyed myself enormously, but I find the language is getting difficult. An advertisement in the Wall Street Journal reads: ‘Need a hand when figuring out where to open a Roth IRA?’ I certainly would, and I bet you would too. Advertising an expensive raffle: ‘See Jackie O’s necklace in person at the following locations…’ President Clinton’s little local difficulty had just hit the press and produced some memorable stuff: ‘Miss Lewinsky lied and lied again and thought her credibility was being questioned.’ Ms Goldberg, Linda Tripp’s literary agent, was quoted as saying: ‘I told her to sleep on it. This is not something that ladies do, to tape each other.’ I agree with Ms Goldberg, but I know I’m old-fashioned.
The purpose of my visit was to give some talks. I boldly spoke on Hardwick Hall7 to a delightful audience in Los Angeles, who politely listened to the story of that extra ordinary house. Afterwards I met some of the audience to answer their questions. One asked if there are facilities at Hardwick Hall. Not sure what she meant, I said ‘No’, in case she arrived in the summer hoping for massage, pools and hairdresser. Many were keen students of books written by my sisters Nancy and Jessica and wished to know more about the Hons Cupboard. A sad-looking lady asked me if I had been denied education. Afraid so, I said. ‘And your father, Lord Rubenstein…’
No one told me how pretty the country is around Los Angeles. The steep valleys and immaculate gardens are very attractive but you never see anyone about. I wondered about the right to roam and if one could go for a walk through the prickly scrub on the hillsides. No one knew. Perhaps no one has tried. I was dumbfounded by the 200-acre garden at the Huntington Library. Closely planted cactuses from the desert are within shouting distance of a valley thick with camellias as shiny-leaved as those which grow in the mists of Ireland. How is that done? In Pasadena there is an English tea-room run by expatriates, called Rose Tree Cottage. So popular is it that you must book for the twice-daily teas, where you sit surrounded by Derby china, Marmite, marmalade and pictures of Windsor Castle. What impressed me most about the new Getty Museum was not so much the building, its situation or the wonders to be seen there, but the unforgettable sight of John Walsh, the director, holding open a swinging door for ages while a torrent of people of all shapes, sizes and colours poured through, ignorant of his identity. He must be the reason for the wonderful atmosphere which hits you as soon as you enter the tram to go up the mountain. It is all the more surprising for a brand-new building. Other museum directors, please note.
Beware the difference in pronunciation of English and American. It changes the meaning of words which are spelt the same, so you have to pay attention when listening to someone from the New World and translate as you go. I met a Texan woman the other day who spoke at length about one Korda. I thought she must be too young to have known Sir Alexander of that ilk, then I suddenly twigged it was President Carter she was on about. Gonna meaning going to and wanna for wanting to are easy, but watch out for riders when they are talking about writers and be prepared for a waiter to turn into a wader without warning. So writers ride and waiters wade, which isn’t surprising when a dot is a dart and a pot is a part. It happens here too. Last night I heard someone describe the predicament of buttered wives.
The two best days of entertainment of the year took place here last weekend: the fifteenth Country Fair. It was enjoyed by 50,00
0 people, watching or taking part in every conceivable country sport, skill or pastime, from clay shooting, fly casting, catapults, falconry, archery, stunt aeroplanes – too frightening to watch – terrier racing and gun dog displays. Jemima Parry-Jones brought her birds of prey. On a still day, one of her peregrines rose higher and higher till it was a speck in the sky. Jemima swung a lure of raw meat on a string round and round and the bird made a spectacular swoop, its wings folded so that it dived like an arrow at 100 miles an hour. The stars of the show were the King’s Troop, which bring a lump to the throat when they gallop into the ring pulling their heavy gun carriages and making the earth tremble. They perform an intricate dance, harnesses jangling and wheels missing each other by inches, at a furious pace, till they thunder out of the ring still at the gallop. Mr Blobby marches with any band he can latch onto, followed like the Pied Piper by a crowd of children. The rows of shops here are nearer home than Bond Street, the assistants are much more pleasant and a wardrobe against the Derbyshire winter was bought in no time. The music of the pipe bands goes through the head for days after the event. Desert Orchid8 was cheered and the ferret racing drew its own crowd of fans. The best notice was a sign saying: ‘Lurchers’ car park’. I don’t know how many lurchers can read, let alone drive, but it looked pretty full and the occupants piled out of their cars and raced against each other all day.
It may be the silly season in London but it is a serious time of year in Derbyshire. The opera festival in Buxton has been in full swing, the bed and breakfasts are bunged up with people enjoying the evenings in the beautifully restored Matcham Opera House of 1903 and the days wandering in the town buying picnics at Mr Pugson’s cheese and delicatessen shop.
I hope they are shocked by the state of Carr of York’s magnificent crescent of the 1780s, now boarded up and desolate, awaiting rescue by the local government. They can see the source of Buxton water bubbling up, surprisingly, in a room off the Tourist Information Centre.
They will be delighted by the dome of the Devonshire Royal Hospital, bigger than that of St Peter’s in Rome. This extraordinary building was the stables for the horses belonging to visitors taking the waters, and the old covered ride for exercising them in bad weather is now the place for practising wheelchairs.
The High Sheriff’s cocktail party, with its reassuring parade of mayors and their shiny cars, is over. So is Bakewell Show. This annual ritual draws a big crowd even in a temperature of 57° F, this year’s scorcher.
The summer national dress of English country women – cotton skirts, anorak and gumboots – was the rule as the wind whipped us into the tents.
Poultry and rabbits, with their devoted followers in as much variety as the exhibits, was a good place to escape the weather. I thought I knew poultry but I was stumped by the breed name of one class – Furnace, Polecat and Salmon Blue. I bet you don’t know they are types of Old English game birds.
Most of the egg classes were won by a Reverend and his son. I like to think of those two in their vicarage garden looking after pens of Marans, Welsummers and other layers of mahogany brown eggs which produced the perfectly matched winning entries.
The Floral Art exhibitors must be devils for punishment and have a strong streak of masochism to be able to bear the judges’ biting criticism. However hard they try there is something wrong with the strange edifices of whichever material is ordained by the show schedule, topped by a flower and a leaf or two.
I would give up after spending hours trying to shove a lily and a fern into yards of velvet, bits of glass or a straw teddy bear, only to find the judge’s note saying: ‘A good attempt but you should try to be flatter in front’, or ‘a pity there is a crease in your base’. Difficult for some lady competitors to obey the first directive and impossible for anyone to comply with the second.
Earlier this week I drove through the higher reaches of beautiful Wharfedale to give a talk to a Women’s Institute. I was reminded (not that I needed reminding as I live among such people, thank God) of the quality of the silent majority who live out their lives without bothering the headlines and are the backbone of our country.
The WI allows no nonsense like letting men in. It is the female reply to White’s, and the other London clubs which stand firm against admitting women members. So that’s good.
But I hear there is a move to get away from the ‘Jam and Jerusalem’ image. If so they make a great mistake and will miss the nostalgia bus which gathers speed daily. The home-made food stall at any money-raising event is cleaned out in a few minutes.
It is what people love, so why should the WI wish to get away from that at which they excel? Jam is the thing and long may it remain so. As for ‘Jerusalem’ we sing it almost without thinking about the words. The idea of WI members being brought a bow of burning gold, a spear and a chariot of fire and their swords not sleeping in their hands fills me with terror. Even Genghis Khan would retreat in the face of this lot.
Our nearest big town is Chesterfield, and a very good place it is. A few years ago the sign announcing that you had arrived there read ‘Chesterfield – Centre of Industrial England’. It has been changed to ‘Chesterfield – Historic Market Town’. Why? I suppose industry is out of fashion.
We have just come back from the Republic of Ireland, staying at Lismore Castle, a house we know well, this being the forty-seventh year we have spent part of April there.
Of course, there have been vast changes after so long, but some things are reassuringly the same and happen to time, as they did half a century ago.
The great-great-great and more grand chick of the 1947 heron arrives to fish at the same spot at the same time on the river bank under the sitting room.
A familiar draught comes through the same gap where the door has never shut properly, the cow parsley and chestnut trees come into flower on the usual date whatever the weather, the wood anemone come up blue under the oaks and there are still red squirrels in the tallest yews I know.
The slow coming of the Irish spring is as pleasant as ever, starting earlier and going on longer than that of its neighbouring island to the east. The temperate climate keeps winter and summer pretty well alike.
Touring friends coming from the west coast report huge improvements to hotels and restaurants. Kenmare, in County Kerry, till lately a bit of a desert for anything more ambitious than a ham sandwich, now has two restaurants with a Michelin star. You can stay in Bantry House with the descendants of the family who built it in the 1720s and gaze at the stunning view over Bantry Bay to Whiddy Island. It must be the only bed and breakfast where the drawing-room furniture and tapestries belonged to Marie Antoinette.
Dinner at the Butler Arms in Waterville was praised more than the star of Kenmare because of the shellfish straight out of the sea, now appreciated for what it is – the best of its kind. Ballymaloe House near Cork deserves its reputation for impeccable food and comfort, and the Shanagarry Pottery next door produces the only wares of that kind I ever want to buy.
The land of a Hundred Thousand Welcomes may not have sun or snow (not enough to slide down anyway) and the sea is too cold to play in, but the beauty of the country, stuffed with history and mystery, plus the rising standards of the hotels delights people who feel compelled, as we do, to return year after year.
The beauty and the atmosphere of the place stay with me every year long after I have left Ireland. There, the local newspapers are a continual source of pleasure. Their pictures and headlines are a running commentary on current affairs which I greatly prefer to their dull English counterparts. The Cork Examiner can be relied on for eye-catching stuff like ‘Mouse in Bottle of Stout’ and ‘Kerry Lady Dead in Drain’, neither of which needs much enlargement underneath for the reader to take in what has happened. But ‘Wives May Get Dental Benefit’ from the Irish Times conjures up lucky husbands grinning to show off their smart new snappers while their new wives dare not smile (even if they felt like it) because of the nasty sights which would be on show. The Kerryman s
ums up the work of a hospital committee with ‘Nothing Has Been Decided’ while the Dungarvan Leader’s ‘“Am I Here At All?” Asks Waterford County Councillor’ poses a basic question which we must all have asked ourselves at some time or another. Even Horse & Hound, the trade mag of the Sloane Rangers, has got the drift when its Irish correspondent heads his column ‘How to Get Farmers Back into Breeding’.
My sister Nancy loved the road signs, specially the ones on the mountain roads which have desperate twists and turns over the streams. The worst are announced in wasp black and yellow: ‘DANGEROUS HAIRPIN’. More surprising is a big notice on a quiet stretch of road which says ‘ATTENTION/ACHTUNG. DRIVE ON LEFT. CONDUIRE A GAUCHE. LINKS FAHREN.’ The spot where it is planted is many miles from any port or airport, so the Franco-German driver must have got the hang of how to do it or he would have met his fate long before he arrived on this remote moorland road far from the nearest village. There is a fine new dual carriageway which lets out most of Cork city on the road to the airport. ‘NO PEDESTRIANS’ it says, but in the middle of the road is a boy selling evening papers.
Spring and autumn are the seasons of annual general meetings. The older I get the harder I find it is to sit through them. The words which go with committees like ‘minutes’ and ‘agenda’ don’t exactly send the adrenalin racing, and impatience with a ponderous chairman sometimes makes the affair nearly unbearable. The items on the ‘agenda’ are slowly ticked off and you pray no one will take up the chairman’s suggestion of bringing up something arising out of the minutes. The obligatory thanks to the officers still come as a surprise after all these years. It is such an unsuitable collective word for a group of kindly women who spend much time and energy in raising money for whichever charity the meeting is about. My idea of an officer is anything from a second lieutenant to the Colonel of the Coldstream Guards – a far cry from the good ladies present in the church hall, who aren’t the type to bark out orders on Horse Guards Parade and would look out of place in bearskins. When it comes to finding a seconder for the vote of thanks to the auditor, desperation sets in and I long to go out in the rain. ‘Any Other Business’ can be risky and it is a great relief when it passes quietly by. Then comes the speaker, who is, I suppose, meant to instruct or entertain and very often does neither but spins out the time till the blessed cup of tea looms and freedom is in sight. If you happen to be the speaker, of course, things are different and you are in an all-powerful position. Disappointingly soon you spot people crossing and uncrossing their legs, shifting in their chairs and searching in the depths of a bag for the key of the car. All of which makes for a general feeling of unease and means that the audience is thankful you forgot the second half of what you were going to say. If it is a talk with slides, the audience is in the dark, so you can’t see signs of restlessness. Snoring is their only weapon, but they are your victims, imprisoned in rows till the last click of the projector. Their patience is an example to us all.
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