To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  Ironically, in a society that still believes in the relevance of class, ‘high tea’ should actually be called ‘low tea’ as by definition it is a quick, inexpensive meal. Served between five and six in the evening, it is enjoyed at the ‘high’ or main table instead of at smaller lounge tables. It is a misnomer to think of it as an elegant caprice as there is nothing grand about a selection of warm sausages, portions of smoked fish, wedges of hard bread and a pot of tea. The popularity of this light evening snack skyrocketed when the Temperance movement discovered a hidden benefit to society—it kept men out of the bars and off the gin at night.

  I wasn’t aware of the enthusiasm for this meal in London, but here in the countryside it is still widely enjoyed. It’s the perfect solution for exhausted mothers with small children, for party animals who want sustenance in their stomachs before a night of binge drinking and for a quiet, stay-at-home DVD night with Bill. We’ve gone native at last.

  Part 4

  CALL OF THE WILD

  Chapter 13

  Weather or not

  Email To: Cindy and Steve

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 5 April

  Subject: Manipulating statistics

  Dear Cindy and Steve,

  Bill just finished the most interesting project. He took the Sunday Times weather page and calculated the sunrise/sunset data for the year on a spreadsheet. Now we can gauge how many hours of daylight we will be gaining each week.

  He discovered that on 21 December, the shortest day of the year, we only had seven hours of daylight. By February, it increased by three hours and this month we will pick up over seven hours. By summer solstice, we will have gained almost nine hours. Remember I said daylight, not sunlight. We’re still waiting for that to happen.

  Miss you both,

  Leslie Ann

  Farmers pray about it, golfers fear it, rugby athletes play in it, sailors endure it, cricket teams freeze in it, holiday-makers curse it, builders work in it, sheets on the line seldom dry in it, village fetes frequently lose money because of it and children walk to school in it. Only the infirm are spared the whims of Mother Nature. This is the infamous British climate and nowhere is it more visible than in the countryside.

  Michael Flanders and Donald Swan, who are now both sadly departed, were raconteurs and songwriters who enjoyed great success on the London stage back in the 1960s and 1970s. One of their most famous pieces ‘The Weather Song’ was a brilliant snapshot of perceived weather patterns. Although not entirely correct, it does bear strong enough resemblance to the truth to bring on a case of the shivers.

  January brings the snow, makes your feet and fingers glow.

  February’s ice and sleet, freeze the toes right off your feet.

  Welcome March with wintry whine, would thou wert not so unkind.

  April brings the sweet spring showers, on and on for hours and hours.

  Welcome now our kindly May, frost by night, hail by day.

  In June it rains and never stops, thirty days and spoils the crops.

  In July the sun is hot. Is it shining, no it’s not!

  In August days are dank and wet, brings more rain than any yet.

  September brings the mist and mud, cold enough to chill the blood.

  October brings thou winter gale, wind and slush and rain and hail.

  November brings the mist and fog, should not do it to a dog.

  Freezing wet December then—

  Bloody January again!

  We receive our weather news via television from a skilful, sleight-of-hand artist, who conveys every possible assortment of affliction upon us by her simple, yet graceful hand movements. Tall and slender, Welsh-born weather woman Sian Lloyd extends her long fingers over the map of the United Kingdom in a hypnotic circular pattern, not dissimilar to a Balinese dancer unfolding the intrigues of an ancient love story. The graphics usually show dagger-like arrows attacking the country from every direction, each ready to plunge deep into the belly of England at any moment delivering another injection of H2O.

  Isobars of high and low weather pressure systems are smudged over the television map like messy fingerprints. Happy white clouds with yellow rays emanating are soon replaced by ominous grey ones dripping black tears of rain. Though nothing is absolute in the information she is offering, it is a head-spinning exercise in concentration. Did I just hear her say the East Midlands would experience hail the size of golf balls or was that East Anglia? Would our skies be blue with penetrating sunshine worthy of a factor 30 sunblock or was that the report for Cornwall? With the most beguiling smile, Sian signs off wishing us a good afternoon, guiltless for the information she has delivered. Sadly, she neglects to enlighten us as to exactly where that good afternoon can be found.

  Winter is not always the cruelest time of the year, but it is the longest. In my opinion, official start dates for the seasons exist for tourist and parents with children on school holiday. These families need to be reminded when to take their little dears to an ammonia-filled swimming pool on a sun-washed island in order to rejuvenate their sallow English complexions. Moreover, the travel industry needs a guide to indicate when to increase already extortionate hotel rates. Airlines inevitably hike up their fares and chic English country hotels put on a two-night minimum rate for weekends. This is irrespective of a costly flood in their dining room, construction work on site or their kitchen closed as a result of a salmonella scare. They simply won’t budge on their prices.

  If the truth were told, this colourless time of year can stretch from November to May. Contrary to the opinion of those who have never lived here, it seldom rains in buckets, although it is correct that it can threaten to downpour for days and days on end, making you feel like the bucket is dangling just over your head. Once the rain begins to fall, it usually comes in soft droplets not worthy of an umbrella.

  Few of our friends from the other side of the pond realize the United Kingdom is located as far north as it is. Bill will, on occasion, toss out the question to our guests, ‘Which city in the lower 48 US states is on the same latitude as London?’ The answer most likely to surface is either New York or Boston. Actually it is neither; in fact no American city qualifies. One would have to look to Winnipeg or Saskatoon in Canada for our northern equivalent. Bewildered by geography, it’s no wonder American visitors often believe the guidebooks and tourist brochures that proclaim cumulous clouds set in an azure blue sky will miraculously appear the moment a Platinum American Express card is handed over to the receptionist in a swank Cotswold country-house hotel.

  Changes in the English climate are becoming so subtle that the term ‘season’ could almost disappear from the dictionary. We have nothing quite like the drama that unfolds almost daily in the United States mandating a twenty-four-hour television network to update information to a nation of addicted weather fanatics. Even the vocabulary in America is different. Words like ‘juice’ to predict rain and ‘frosting’ to foretell snow make the report more entertaining, more understandable, unlike the academic lexicon spoken by British forecasters. It is strangely comforting for me to know that an eastbound weather system approaching the United Kingdom has been used by my fellow Americans. Hand-me-down winds and previously used droplets are connections that give me secret pleasure.

  It was once said that Beverly Hills was the most expensive place in the world to die. If the rains don’t flood your home, the forest fires don’t take your shingle roof, the earthquakes don’t rock your foundations, the drought doesn’t make you die of thirst and the mud slides don’t carry you away, then the grim reaper is welcome to have you. Such volatility seldom wreaks havoc on this island although several years ago a tempest, an understated French word meaning thundering hurricane, blew in from the continent with such force that it ravaged parts of Kent, Sussex and inner London. So unique was the experience that the prolonged media coverage of this phenomenon pushed Iraq off the front pages of the tabloids.

  Chilling arctic winds frequently sweep
down from the steppes of Russia, bringing the occasional dusting of snow. Anything heavier can cause major gridlock on a scale I can only remember from my days in Charlotte, North Carolina. There, cars normally driven by the certifiably sane seemed to be taken over by sci-fi pod-people. Slipping, sliding and crashing became a leisure sport as Department of Motor Vehicle snow ploughs tried in vain to stay two paces ahead of the ambulances. Recently, a mere 4 centimetres of snow caused such chaos on the motorways of Cambridgeshire that hundreds of drivers were forced to remain in their vehicles for up to eight hours while temperatures plunged below freezing. In a gracious gesture, the Bishop of Lincoln offered prayers to the Almighty for the safety of those working in the snow removal services and for deliverance from any road rage they might encounter while dealing with stressed-out travellers. The English are masters of the understatement.

  Spring is the most elusive season: sometimes you see it and sometimes you don’t. It can uncoil like a tightly wound helix or flop like a poorly written play. It kicks your heart around like a football, toying with your psyche. It gives you hope for something better, while selfishly offering that pleasure to southern Italy, Crete and Morocco. The joy of seeing tender young crocuses and mauve hyacinths is sometimes the only antidote to cloudy skies while temperatures hover around the 10-degree Celsius mark. On good days long blades of new grass, shiny as polished glass, wave in the breeze, while primroses and violets perfume the air. Butter-yellow daffodils, the most notable messengers of spring, adorn embankments and light up roadway roundabouts with decorative patterns of giant horseshoes, the symbol of Rutland. Birds, full of energy, twitter on like hundreds of constantly ringing mobile phones. The sun is so low in the evening sky it can outmanoeuvre the car visor, blinding the driver at every twist and turn of the road.

  Summer in England, we are told, should make an appearance during the months of June, July and August. I think the season is best compared to a ‘jackalope’, a cross between a jackrabbit and an antelope, popularized in folklore of the American West. Everyone claims to have seen one at least once, but no one can describe exactly what it looks like. Sometimes I think the media promotes the entire season for the sole purpose of broadcasting cricket and drawing our attention to summer’s new designer look in sexy, sling-back shoes. Selling little, diaphanous, low-cut dresses to the under thirties in the anticipation that their nipples will be encouraged to stand proud in a gale is the fashion industry’s way of playing a sadistic joke. Still, optimists cling to the belief that they will one day enjoy at least a few moments of unbroken sunshine.

  This is not a greedy country. The smallest gifts are always appreciated. After all it would be just too cruel to be denied two seasons out of the four. A few years back, I remember a newspaper headline proclaiming, ‘At last! The sun is out for the whole weekend.’ Sadly this was written in August. And of course everybody recounts stories of the summer of 1976 when temperatures approached those only reached in the depths of hell and barbecuing on the hood of a car was possible. Should a blistering summer’s day be on the weather horizon, radio stations will promote truancy in the most unabashed manner, the theory being ‘come and get me boys, while you can’. Unlike in America, heat waves do not last long.

  Autumn is the season that gives us the most bang for our buck. The smell of summer faintly lingers in the air. Days begin to shorten without causing trauma to the system. Terracotta leaves look misty in the dove-grey haze as though a filter has been placed over the landscape. Sparks of sunlight slice through the trees to create geometric designs on the roads. Deep ruby, copper beech trees complement majestic golden chestnuts. There’s a tangy snappiness in the air, an indescribable organic sensation. Houses, churches, pubs and walls are at their prettiest beneath the vibrant crimson of a cascading Virginia creeper.

  Weather is so much more noticeable in the openness of the countryside and, despite the grumblings from the English, recent patterns seem to be slightly more compatible with humanity than in previous centuries. The Green Party is constantly going on about global warming, suggesting that if we don’t learn to drive automobiles powered by broccoli and clear our skies of aircraft that our little patch of the world will eventually rival the wonderful conditions enjoyed in the south of France. With over 100,000 Brits living there already, and more each year hoping to relocate, I would think this weather condition could not come a minute too soon.

  Chapter 14

  A well-kept secret

  Email To: Leslie Ann

  From: Ansley and Blair

  Date: 10 April

  Subject: We are laughing at you

  Dear ‘g’,

  Yesterday Mom brought over a newspaper article written by Bill Bryson. He was talking about how crowded England is and how you would be lucky to find a private place to pee in the countryside. I guess he doesn’t know where you live. Mom saw photos of your home and said if you don’t like to see the colour green out of every window in the house you’re in big trouble.

  You need to come home! We have more colours in our rainbow than green.

  Love,

  Your godchildren

  Each season brought new life and new sounds to our world. Daytrippers could be forgiven for returning to London or Liverpool believing in the myth of the quietness of the countryside. Nothing could be further from the truth. Something was always interrupting the tranquillity of the moment. Two forces primarily governed our little patch: the farmer and the flyer. Once the first tractor was out of the gate at 6 am, rush hour began. Delivery vans, farm equipment vehicles and the daily milk truck made their appearance. Ramblers, accompanied by pooches so polite they carried their own leashes, ambled towards the woods behind the Hall. At least one British Telecom engineer would turn up, as would the gasman, window cleaner and laundry pick-up service followed by Keith, our postman, in his royal red van. As he delivered to 425 households in the surrounding villages and has done so for years, we assumed he knew more about us than we knew about ourselves. I wondered if the rest of his constituents had one foot in the here and now and one in London as we still did?

  The thud of the daily mail as it dropped through the door slot was a reminder of how much our life had changed. In the post, along with the mandatory bills, arrived the Royal Opera House Covent Garden calendar of performances and the quarterly Victoria and Albert Museum Magazine highlighting coming events, once pillars of our cultural life. Sadly, they no longer sat in a place of honour whispering to us to make that booking. Gallery previews, art reviews and museum publications were now more likely to be sequestered next to a stack of unread Country Life and Period Home magazines.

  My favourite sound, the one which always reminded me that I had made a major U-turn in my life, came from the 360 Friesian cows grazing in the pastures surrounding the Hall. During the long winter months they were housed in nearby barns until the farmer deemed it warm and dry enough for them to come out to play. This usually occurred in late March when the ground was firm and the grass was sufficiently long and tender for nibbling. The youngest cows ventured out first, frisky as puppies. Kicking their hind feet in the air, they raced from corner to corner in the field, colliding with fencing and water troughs at which point they would turn around and stampede in the other direction to do it all over again. Trees turned into back scratching posts; noses poked through wire barriers just for the touch of a human hand. Everything in sight was on the menu, including wind-blown plastic bags. Even the farmer had to chuckle at the sights and sounds of the cows’ gaseous energy.

  Once a daily pattern was established the dairy cows settled down to a more sedate way of life and remained outside until November, or the rains, whichever came first. Following the lead of the alpha cow, the herd routinely moved from right to left in the pasture, mowing the grass with undisturbed concentration. Highly social animals, cows are capable of forming bonds, holding grudges and unashamedly performing like gay nymphomaniacs.

  Another always welcome and comforting sound was the clip-clop of ho
rses’ hooves as riders directed their mounts past the Hall towards Morkey Woods. This land immediately behind the Hall, now maintained by the Forestry Commission, has a rather unique history. During the Second World War the Royal Air Force used the area as a storage depot for bombs and shells. A network of bitumen roads was laid out under a canopy of conifer trees in order to transport ammunition to surrounding airfields without detection. Today, however, it is a perfect place for a trot or a first-hand David Attenborough experience with a herd of roe deer. Another activity that inevitably took place once a month was the aerial acrobatics of the pilots taking their Harriers for a spin. Living near several RAF bases we could be both startled and amazed as the skies became a canvas for figures-of-eight and other acts of bravado.

  Still, the hands-down winner in the noise category had to be our rooks. These birds could never win a beauty or talent contest since their high-pitched cawing sound could only be appreciated by another rook. It was as abrasive a racket as the incessant crying of a cranky baby. In fact, I don’t think rooks could even win a Miss Congeniality contest, as they would rather pull the eyes out of each other than live communally in a tree.

  As neighbours were at a premium, compared to life as we had known it, we learned to enjoy our high-rise limb dwellers and watched with amusement as they paired off to build basket-shaped nests of moss and twigs, creating a natural cradle for their young. In the depth of winter when the trees were bare, the search began for the perfect branch on which to raise a family. The most sought after were always near the top. We liked to think they choose these penthouse locations for the panoramic views rather than for security. By the end of March most of the construction work was complete, which left evening hours free for the more leisurely pursuit of making rooky. In no time at all the little ones were wobbling and stumbling all over the lawn as they miscalculated height and distance from their towering homes. Every feline in the neighbourhood seemed to know to sleep under a tree just in case a mouthful fell into his gaping jaw. By early summer the nests were so well camouflaged they were hardly noticeable. With parenting chores behind them life calmed down, leaving us slightly longing for our noisy neighbours and sad that all the activity was over for another year.