by Sean Mallen
Back at the room, I discovered to my horror a note that had been slipped under the door from the Halkin’s PR person. I had completely forgotten that I was supposed to be meeting with her. A big whoops, considering that this stay was complimentary.
After the previous night’s debacle, we kept supper simple — opting for sandwiches in the hotel’s bar, while we perused their displays of lush art books. No tears.
Our brief exposure to the chic life ended with an elegant breakfast Sunday morning in their swanky restaurant, where we were comforted by the sight of a couple struggling to satisfy their baby at the next table.
After the taxi deposited us back to the reality of our dump on Buckland, there was a crisis when we realized that Julia was missing Miley, her prime stuffie. I made a frantic call to the hotel where they were quickly able to determine that the cleaner had found the precious bear, meaning that our weekend would not be remembered primarily for the loss of our daughter’s most cherished bedtime companion.
With the skies clear and the temperatures mild, I took advantage to haul her off to Hampstead Heath in the afternoon for some fresh air and, I hoped, a bit of work on her writing homework. The fine weather meant that the fields were utterly jammed with Londoners desperate to soak up the rare glimpse of October sunshine.
Not feeling like cooking, we chose to experiment with ordering a pizza for delivery. Our Dominos order cost us £18 — and they managed to get our choices wrong.
When the posh set seek to get out of town, many head north and west to the Cotswolds. We were manifestly not posh, but thanks to VisitBritain and a travel story commission from the Toronto Star, we could afford to go for the weekend, boarding the train at Paddington en route to a rural station called Kemble. This was a variant of the trip I was supposed to take in August, but which went off the rails due to my expired driver’s licence.
Just to ensure the happy jaunt got off to a properly tense start, I attempted to assist Julia with her writing homework on the train. After thirty minutes of intensive negotiation, stubborn tears from the little girl, and head-exploding frustration from me, we managed to craft about three sentences.
A taxi met us at the station to bring us to Calcot Manor, an estate that dates back to the fourteenth century — now a swanky country retreat and spa in the heart of Gloucestershire. We were housed in a gorgeous, two-storey stone house, complete with a gigantic bathroom outside Julia’s room on the upper level. Travel writing has its benefits, as we never could have afforded this joint on our own dime.
As we explored, I discovered to my dismay that the place had a pool. I, of course, failed to pack Julia’s swimsuit. Never miss an opportunity to miss an opportunity.
The manor also had two hundred acres of meadowland attached, so we borrowed three bikes and went for a gentle twenty-minute ride along one of the pathways for a very short taste of the English countryside.
Lunch was at the Gumstool Inn pub on the estate. As I was discovering, British pubs were shattering their old reputations for crappy food. This place got a favourable mention in the Michelin guide and deserved it, judging from the twice-baked cauliflower and cheese soufflé I inhaled.
The tourism people thoughtfully provided us with a guide and driver for the weekend, useful given that I was still without a valid driver’s licence. Anne Bartlett met us after lunch. She was a trim and proper middle-aged woman with the bearing of an earnest teacher, perhaps because she used to be one before reinventing as a “blue badge” guide — one of the guild certified by tourism authorities.
With Julia occupied with the iPad in the back seat so she would not be tortured with history lessons, we set out to explore the countryside. True to her background, Anne had done meticulous research to prepare the lessons for her clients. The Cotswolds, she explained, were once a huge wool-producing area. But the Industrial Revolution put an end to that in the nineteenth century. The local economy collapsed, many residents left and nothing much happened for decades.
“It allowed it to be frozen in time,” she said, with many villages retaining their old English look and feel.
By the twentieth century, the Cotswolds attracted proponents of the Arts and Crafts movement, led by William Morris. He spent his summers at Kelmscott Manor, a Tudor farmhouse that he admired as blending in harmoniously with the countryside. He took out a joint lease with the flamboyant artist and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who blended less harmoniously into the family. While Morris was away in Iceland, Rossetti developed what is delicately described as a complicated relationship with Morris’s wife, Jane, who later became a subject of many of his paintings.
Now the same rustic charms have proven to be a magnet for the monied, titled, and famous. Prince Charles has his Highgrove Estate near Tetbury, which was our first stop. Once a centre of the wool trade, the town still proudly hosts the annual Tetbury Woolsack Races, where participants carry a sixty-pound wool sack up a hill. It is an event noted for serious consumption of beer and cider. Also, I’m guessing, for a thriving practice in chiropractic therapy to service all those drunks hauling heavy wool sacks.
England is full of these kinds of eccentric athletic competitions, celebrating both heritage and zaniness.
The woolen industry is long gone but the Royals, led by the Prince of Wales, are proving to be a boost for the local economy. His Highgrove shop in Tetbury does a steady trade in traditional English goods, the proceeds going to his charities. I invested in some Highgrove fudge.
Local tradesmen who service the heir apparent also get to display his three feathers logo, proof that their dry cleaning or plumbing business is patronized by the man who would be king.
Anne ferried us to the Westonbirt Arboretum, a home for English tree huggers for the better part of two hundred years. In the days of Empire and the Grand Tour, rich folks would bring back saplings from all corners of the earth to add to the collection. Now there are about eighteen thousand trees and shrubs, drawing flocks of English arborphiles to stroll around the groomed pathways and admire them. By the time we arrived, it was raining, so we did not have much of an opportunity to look around, settling for a visit to the gift shop.
As Anne drove us back to the manor, she related how a particular Gloucestershire rich guy became antsy at the thought of the nearby hoi polloi overlooking his grand estate. So he bought a whole village and moved everyone down the road, out of sight.
“It actually turned out well for the villagers,” she explained. “They ended up with updated houses.”
Dinner at the Calcot Manor provided one of the most memorable moments of our time in the U.K. When I eat out, I like to explore new food sensations, to try things I would never make at home. Generally to the disgust of my wife and daughter.
“Please don’t order anything weird,” said Isabella. “No pheasant, no rabbit.”
Neither of these were on the menu, but it did, however, offer grouse.
“It’s freshly shot on the owner’s estate,” the waiter advised proudly.
“I’ll try it,” I said, not noticing Isabella’s glare until too late.
The grouse announced itself even before it was placed on the table. A strong, earthy odour suffused our sitting area as the waiter approached. Medieval, you might say.
It was a large lump, somewhat resembling a greyish turd. With a similar smell. The gnarly feet were still attached, with a few feathers visible. Truly freshly shot.
Isabella’s eyes went wide. She frantically tried to hide it from Julia’s view by shifting the salt and pepper shakers and a little flowerpot to build a concealing wall. It did not work.
Julia held her nose and started to cry.
“What’s that smell?” she wailed.
“How could you order that?” scolded Isabella.
At that moment, the waiter returned.
“Would you like some of the sauce?” he asked.
“Uh … sure.”
From a silver serving boat he poured a liquid that must have been drawn from the drip
pings: a deep crimson, covering everything, the carcass sitting atop some root vegetables which soaked up the fragrances and tastes of the bird.
Not wanting to be rude, I dug in. The flesh was slightly pink, barely cooked, the flavours rich, strong, and complex. It would likely make good compost. I imagined that it was the kind of fowl that Henry VIII devoured by the dozens in more rustic times.
“You need to get rid of that thing,” warned my wife. My daughter was looking at me with an expression that was both wounded and outraged. Like I was chowing down on Granny’s budgie.
After a half-dozen bites, I admitted defeat. While the vegetables were actually quite tasty, the grouse itself was strong. I now knew intimately the meaning of the word “gamey.” When the waiter passed by to check on us, I regretfully asked him to take it away.
“It’s just not for me. Sorry.”
He looked stricken.
“Can I get you something else?”
“No. I’ll just wait for dessert.”
The rest of the meal passed in grim silence. The tale of Sean’s grouse has become part of our family lore, with Isabella relishing her imitation of the bird’s feathered feet crossed in its pathetic display on my ill-fated plate.
Anne picked us up early the following morning and we headed north for a whirlwind tour of Cotswolds villages.
There was Chipping Campden, home of the Cotswolds Olimpicks (yes, that’s the way it is spelled) — another wacky English sporting event. It has been held on nearby Dover’s Hill ever since 1612, meaning it celebrated its four-hundredth anniversary a couple of months before the arrival of those other Olympics in London.
It is a showcase for the eccentricities of English country life. There is Morris dancing, the inexplicably charming combination of bells, hankies, hops, and sticks — often performed by sweating, puffing, middle-aged men on the verge of cardiac arrest.
There are the traditional competitions, such as the tug of war, and the odd: shin kicking. In times past, shin kickers would toughen up by whacking themselves with wooden mallets. They needed to be tough, given that steel-toed boots were once allowed (they are now banned). The more delicate of the modern competitors sometimes stuff straw into their high-topped socks for a bit of padding.
No longer part of the Olimpicks is a sport that still persists elsewhere in England: dwile flonking. The rules are deliberately complex, and generally the most dim-witted citizen of the village is selected to act as referee to ensure no know knows what is going on. It seems to have been invented in the late twentieth century, but with medieval inspiration: a form of dodge ball, using a rag soaked in beer (the dwile) that you throw (flonk) at your opponents to try to tag them. Points are deducted for sobriety, and frequently no one can remember the score once it is over.
The Olimpicks traditionally end with a torchlight procession from Dover’s Hill into the town — a fine, old-fashioned spectacle for a celebration. Also useful if you happen to be hunting for Frankenstein’s monster.
Anne drove us through the picturesque villages of Lower Slaughter and Upper Slaughter (no sign of Wanton Slaughter) and lamented that it all had to be such a rush. The Cotswolds cry out for leisurely exploration.
She dropped us at our final spot: the Three Ways House Hotel in Mickleton, which is officially just outside the boundaries of the Cotswolds, but was close enough for the purposes of my story. It is the home of the Pudding Club.
Pudding touches something deep in the English psyche — a passion well-expressed by Sir Clement Freud, the writer, politician, and grandson of Sigmund: “There is something about the blandness of soggy bread, the crispiness of the golden outer crust, and the unadulterated pleasure of a lightly set custard that makes the world seem a better place to live.”
But for a time in the late twentieth century, it went out of fashion, a corpulent dinosaur in the age of nouvelle cuisine, when huge plates contained microscopic bits of food sculpture.
The fact that it is now back on menus all over England is due in no small part to the efforts of the Three Ways House and their club.
After a traditional English Sunday lunch of roast beef, we bellied up to the pudding bar for a tasting. As I dribbled warm chocolate sauce over one of my selections, club manager Craig Matthews edged up beside me and whispered in my ear, “You’re going to need a lot more than that, sir.”
He took command of the ladle and drenched the already chocolate-rich pudding with an extra dose, then fairly drowned my spotted dick with warm custard sauce. The Pudding Club will never be featured on Weight Watchers, but it was undeniably a sweet, gooey treat.
Matthews, who described himself as the “pudding master,” joined me at the table to explain the origins of the club.
“It was to celebrate the great traditional pudding.”
The year was 1985 and the previous owners of the hotel were lamenting how the puddings of their youth could now scarcely be found, pushed off menus by foreign invaders like crème caramel and tiramisu.
They did a bit of research to find some traditional recipes and invited twelve friends for an evening of tasting.
It was the spark to the revival.
Soon the Pudding Club became a regular Saturday night occasion at the hotel. Up to seventy guests start with a light main course (essential, given the heaviness to come), then dig into seven different forms of English pudding, paired with appropriate wines. At the end of the evening, there is a vote to choose the favourite.
I asked Matthews the essential ingredients to a good English pudding.
“Stodginess and lots of custard,” was his well-practised response.
He has faced interviewers from all over the country and the world. The Pudding Club is a canny marketing tactic to lure visitors seeking a taste of old-fashioned English cuisine.
Bellies full, we called a taxi to take us to the train. Our driver, Rob, told us that he used to run a hotel in the southeast. He sold it, intending to retire on the proceeds, but was overly generous to his children, and had a mishap investing in a Scottish golf resort. As a result, he now runs a one-man taxi service with occasional personalized tours of the Cotwolds.
“Oh, I’ve had many famous clients in my car,” he bragged.
“Really? Who?” I asked as we all leaned forward.
“Can’t name them,” he said. “They don’t wear badges identifying themselves.”
Chapter Eleven
Barely a week back in London and we were on the road again. With Isabella’s family only a short flight away in Italy, we had resolved to visit early and often. They reside in Treviso, an elegant city only a thirty-minute train ride from Venice.
Ryanair, the discount carrier, flies directly into the tiny Treviso airport, marketing it on their website as VENICE (Treviso). Convenient for us, as we could get cheap fares to go exactly where we needed to go. But the world of discount flying with Ryanair requires planning, patience, and a willingness to accept a certain amount of abuse.
I paid a bit extra to check a couple of bags and to get so-called Priority Boarding. These flights resemble nothing so much as flying buses, with a scramble for unreserved seats. Priority Boarding allows you to get ahead of the lineup of the unwashed who are ready to take their chances on the seat rush.
The flight was leaving at 6:25 a.m. from Stansted Airport, so we went out the night before to stay at an adjacent hotel. Lineups for check-in for Ryanair always feature frantic passengers off to the side, fumbling through their suitcases to shift belongings around in an attempt to meet the stringent guidelines for carry-on bags.
We joined in on the unhappy tradition with a last-minute scramble of underwear into Isabella’s checked bag. We were warned that women only get to carry on one piece, which includes a purse. She grumbled as her passport, wallet, and basic essentials were jammed into a small backpack.
“Do they really enforce this?” she asked. Cowed by the airline’s reputation for strictness, I did not want to risk it. Sure enough, there were several women pushing t
he envelope with both purse and carry-on bag who got away with it.
With Priority Boarding, there were only a couple of people ahead of us in line.
“Julia, it’s your job to grab us three seats as soon as we get aboard,” said Isabella.
Here was a task our six-year-old relished, readying herself to dash as soon as the door opened. In the end, a rush was not really necessary but Julia still threw herself across the first good row of three that she spotted.
For your discount fare, you get exquisitely uncomfortable vinyl seats that do not recline and have no pocket in front of you to store stuff. You can also enjoy a constant barrage of sales pitches throughout the flight for lottery tickets, e-cigarettes, and the delightful array of food choices that seem largely prepared from edible oil products.
But it is undoubtedly cheap, and with a flight of only about two hours, bearable.
As it happened, the Treviso Airport was temporarily closed for maintenance so the Venice (Treviso) flight actually landed at Venice’s Marco Polo Airport, where Isabella’s cousin Silvia was waiting for us.
Treviso is a small, prosperous city, one of the wealthiest in Italy, home to Benetton. It suffered terribly during the war, with much of the centre destroyed in an Allied bombing raid. I remember Isabella’s father telling me that when word arrived that Franklin Roosevelt had died, people cheered — a shocker to those of us who admired FDR. But if your city had been levelled by American bombers, perhaps you might have cheered, too.
Isabella’s late uncle joined the resistance that fought the Fascists and it is part of family lore that he was once arrested and tortured. Also part of the story is how Isabella’s grandmother helped a young German soldier, starving and desperate at the war’s end. She took him in for a few days, told the children to say nothing to anyone, and then advised him of the best time to flee. Forever grateful, he would return every summer to say thanks.
In the postwar years of privation, this part of Veneto lost many young men to the New World. Isabella’s father considered Australia before settling on London, Ontario — joined a couple of years later (two weeks before I was born) by the young woman he had wooed in the post office run by her family.
