To the Manor Drawn

by Leslie Ann Bosher

  The English have their product icons as well. The best known are Marmite (you either love it or hate it) and Ribena, a sweet blackcurrant concentrate that miraculously replaces formula without the slightest hint of rejection from a toddler. Lucozade energizes and a bowl of Weetabix cereal claims to fuel the body for the day. These enduring food favourites reflect a diet of gastronomic functionality at its best.

  Deli counters and salad bars are the biggest disappointment, offering their lacklustre selections. Individual plastic tubs of shredded carrots, tuna with sweet corn, and herring all swim in the same mayonnaise sauce. It wouldn’t take much imagination to provide bins of mixed olives, a selection of nuts, seeds and dried fruit, barrels of trappable olive oils, loose exotic coffee and tea, freshly made sandwiches and hostess plates created while you wait. A weekend trip to France demonstrates just how exciting food can be when prepared and presented well. But then the English would never want to ape the French in any way, would they? That’s why hundreds of thousands of them travel abroad regularly to bring back delicacies unavailable over here. What irony.

  Most of the fresh food in our store has been outsourced and transported from great distances in order to get into our market. An ‘Around the World in Eighty Days’ record can easily be beaten by any housewife or househusband who is in possession of a grocery cart and is willing to travel the aisles in search of food. Chillies and snow peas are imported from Zambia, asparagus comes in from Thailand and Peru, potatoes and celery from Israel, grapes from South Africa and bananas from the Ivory Coast. America contributes grapefruit, corn on the cob and sweet potatoes. Did I leave out a country? Yes, I think I did. England.

  We’re fortunate to have three towns in close proximity that can offer an alternative to supermarket shopping. On Fridays I have the choice of Stamford, Oakham or Uppingham’s wonderful farmers’ markets. This is where you’ll find me; that is, of course, if it is not too rainy, too windy, too dark, too cold or I am too sleepy to bother. For it is here that the early bird does indeed get the best worms. These markets, set up under the watchful eye of the National Association of Farmers’ Markets, are appreciated for providing quality products in a friendly environment. The three basic tenets of the Association state that the food must be farm produced, that those manning the stalls must be either family members of the producer or employees who have an involvement with the business and that the products must be available on a regular basis. It is well known that a shopper in search of a juicy leg of lamb for dinner is also likely to buy a cappuccino at the café, or ponder over a dress in a nearby boutique. These markets not only encourage healthy eating, they are profit centres for the towns. According to local knowledge, for every £100 spent in farmers’ markets £80 remains in the community. On the other hand, the same amount of money spent in a supermarket nets the community only £20.

  Fresh produce stalls entice shoppers with displays of French banana shallots, crinkly savoy cabbages, glossy apples, earthy balls of celeriac and heaps of broad beans. Ropes of garlic, strings of chilli peppers and sacks of dusty potatoes fill the shelves. Cornish peppered mackerel, smoked haddock, Scottish herring and pearl-white skate wings are all laid on a bed of crushed ice at the fishmonger. Jewel bright, homemade ginger and redcurrant jelly and cinnamon basil jams are often for sale at the Women’s Institute stall, supplied and manned, or should I say ‘womanned’, completely by volunteers. Bottled dressings of lavender, tangy grapefruit, tarragon and mulberry add a splash of colour. Honey, fresh horseradish, speckled quails’ eggs and spaghetti marrow tempt the pallet while ripe cheese aromas fill the morning air with their unmistakable pungent scents.

  Bill is a real honey of a husband for many reasons, not the least of which is that he enjoys grocery shopping and will actively pursue it as he travels the back roads from his office to home each evening. He delights in sniffing around farm shops and like a golden retriever can’t wait to get home to empty the contents of his paper bags. Doing his best canine impression of a dog with a chewy toy, he excitedly places the day’s finds on the kitchen counter. He’s made so many friends with local farmers that some evenings I’m surprised he arrives home at all.

  The timing of our move to the countryside was spot-on with the revival of artisan producers. They are more than suppliers; they are breeders of rare livestock, growers of organic vegetables, confectioners and bakers, but above all they are part of a community of purpose and we feel healthier for knowing and supporting them.

  Chapter 23

  Rural ‘honeypots’

  Email To: TJ

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 1 July

  Subject: Questions, questions

  Dear TJ,

  To answer your questions:

  No. Uncle Bill and Aunt Leslie Ann do not live in a barn. We live near a barn.

  No. We do not have to wear overalls.

  Yes. Gucci is sold here.

  Yes. We do have electricity and a television.

  No. We are not in the witness protection program!

  Love,

  Aunt Leslie Ann and Uncle Bill

  I’ve always been impressed with the ability of the British to pick up sticks whenever they want to without batting an eyelid. Unlike their European neighbours who tend to stay put, Brits dream of buying a house overseas or, if essential to be closer to home, a country cottage in a picturesque village or by the seaside. Working the longest hours in Europe, they yearn for something idyllic at the end of their productive lives. Australia, Spain and France are the most desired destinations. All offer enormous portions of sunshine, a smorgasbord of delicious food and affordable yet palatable wines. However, for those who can’t cut the umbilical cord, there’s always the barn conversion at the end of a muddy lane or a bungalow by the sea.

  Statistical data from those who monitor the migratory patterns within the United Kingdom of the overworked and underpaid, suggest that London is losing nearly 50,000 residents annually. This call of the wild is often in the direction of Wiltshire, Devon, East Anglia and the Midlands. In fact, a recent survey found that nearly two-thirds of Britons, that’s 39 million out of a population of 60 million, wanted to live in the countryside.

  Over the years property prices in the countryside, as those in London and other major cities, have remained buoyant. This is partially attributed to the fact that a typically successful middle-class family will, at some point, spend part of their earnings on a rural retreat or, once the children are grown, simply relocate. ‘Lifestyle farmers’, or those with all cash, no hat and no cattle as Texans like to say, also help to keep prices constant as land represents more than mere revenue. It offers privacy and security, a commodity appreciated by the almost rich and sometimes famous.

  These ‘incomers’, unlike those in the old farming economy, bring technical expertise, energy, money and city tastes with them. Health spas, personal trainers, herbalists, Reiki masters, as well as a café society milieu are all part of the new look. Village stores that once only sold staples of eggs, milk, cans of baked beans and cigarettes, now have bread-making machines to grind out crispy, fresh croissants. A modest selection of wines, spirits, boxes of chocolates and flowers fill shelves that previously displayed solitary jars of tangy orange marmalade and sticky Marmite.

  Possibly the greatest change inherent to the countryside comes from property developers attempting to reconfigure the landscape. Encouraged by the government to create grand-scale housing schemes, many with 1000 or more units, they buy up brown sites full of post-industrial rubble and abandoned shopping carts. The wastelands are then sanitized and turned into sprawling urban villages complete with multiplex cinemas, shopping centres and leisure complexes. Twisting and turning like ribbons on the landscape, these modern housing estates are not universally welcome as the forces of NIMBY, ‘not in my backyard’, are always at work.

  It is possible that there are those who are just too sentimental about the countryside, wishing it to remain insular and coddled, as though pre
served in aspic. The fact is, the landscape has changed and will continue to do so long after we’re gone. It is also perpetually messy which is part of the charm. Noting a comment from a visiting friend from London who felt it necessary to put her ignorance on display she queried, ‘The roads are full of shit [horse droppings]. Can’t someone do something about that?’ The only answer to the question, of course, is that country life comes with equal portions of daffodils and silage. You can’t have one without the other.

  The trickiest aspect of moving to the countryside is identifying which type of environment is best suited to your needs. It is not just about bricks and mortar. Many a prospective buyer has spent the odd sleepless night anguishing over the crucial question: do we buy the house with the secluded garden or the one within walking distance of the pub? Looking back on our decision to move, we realize now that neither of us had a clue about our options. On paper, all villages appear to have their share of charm and welcome. What is not apparent can only be gleaned though local knowledge.

  The size of the community is important of course, and is often paramount to meeting specific requirements. A hamlet, pleasing as it sounds, is most likely comprised of only a few houses, which can provide seclusion but offer no services. A village can be of modest size or large enough to have two distinct communities, the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’. Towns can present different problems involving political and social agendas regarding redevelopment, taxation and schools which can keep residents at odds with one another.

  Geographic concerns are equally as important. It is wise to consider whether the village is so isolated that running out of petrol could leave you stranded for days. Is your home a dinner-party drive away for your guests or will they baulk at making a journey that involves travelling half an hour on unsealed roads? Are you in a flood plain or downwind of a pig farm? Is it too near a motorway or on a Harrier flight path? If you run short of a bottle of wine are you close enough to pop into the village store? Choosing an ideal spot can be a minefield, but so much is right with this kind of life that it is worth taking the chance. Who knows, you might get lucky the first time, as we did, without having to follow the US Marine Corp’s crass but accurate rule of the seven Ps, ‘proper prior planning prevents piss poor performance’.

  Amenities such as a church, village green, duck pond complete with feathered flotilla, post office, village store and pub make daily life easier and vastly more sociable in the evenings. In addition, an active primary school, enthusiastic bowls club and social hall in which to conduct village business would certainly place the area on the ‘most wanted’ list. However, what of the residents? Are they middle-class workers who commute to the cities during the week and are then too exhausted to get involved in the local community on the weekends? Are they bolt-holers seeking a quiet retreat from city life or second homeowners who only visit on holidays? Their properties can often remain dark and their involvement with neighbours minimal. In some cases the entire village could be owned by one landowner, which in certain circumstances could be unpleasant if the houses and common areas were not properly maintained. It would also be wise to consider if the property has been designated a ‘listed’ building by English Heritage or if it is in a conservation area. Such classifications can reduce your chances of replacing old, poorly fitted windows with warmth-saving modern ones or of installing a new tennis court on your back lawn as was the case in our own village.

  The Rutland & Stamford Mercury, Britain’s oldest newspaper, along with the pulsing grapevine of the village are our two most dependable sources of information. On one occasion both met head to head over a building issue. The chitchat in the pub concerned the demolition of 1.5 metres of a 100-year-old wall located near the church. Apparently, the owner wanted to create a new entrance to his home while taking the opportunity at the same time to install a tennis court. You would think this easy enough. A few discreet apologies to neighbours for any inconvenience would normally smooth the path for the earthmovers, thus giving the proprietor game, set and match.

  The fly in the ointment was that Stretton had been categorized a conservation area and thus had to operate according to strict Rutland County Council guidelines. Stretton takes great pride in her appearance and has participated in and won many beauty competitions. She has been awarded ‘Ms Tidy Village’ several times and wears her crown with pride. Dark clouds of descent, however, began to appear over the community as discussions became heated about the broken wall. One by one locals made their opinions known, pro and con, sometimes over a pint, but always in good yet firm spirit. The newspaper got wind of the affair and made it a feature. It was reported that one Rutland County Council member stated with great aplomb this was ‘the worst case of vandalism we have seen in seven years’. Another article referred to Church Lane as a ‘bomb site’. A bomb site! Is this British irony at its worst or am I just too sensitive after September 11?

  Sometimes you can get the feeling surveillance vehicles and secret service operatives are only a breath away from knocking on your door should you interfere with sacrosanct listed properties, ancient walls or hedgerows. Lopping off one too many branches of a tree is enough to grab the attention of the local paper at the very least. So serious are the Brits about preserving the continuity of the past that one recent Sunday Times front-page headline read, ‘Cut down to size: leylandii face chainsaw massacre’. Could they possibly be referring to North Korea or some other dangerous hot spot in the world? Apparently not, as I read further. ‘The curse of the leylandii monster conifer is about to be lifted. The government has finally promised action to combat the monster conifers that cast their malevolence over peaceful homes and turn honest citizens against each other,’ wrote Eden Black.

  Clearly, we can now all rest in peace as the scourge of the countryside is to be seized upon by no less than the heavy hand of parliament. How reassuring to live in a land where conifers are seen as worthy opponents rather than the villains and terrorists who plague our society today.

  Part 7

  FOOT ’N’ MOUTH

  Chapter 24

  Politically incorrect

  Email To: John David

  From: Leslie Ann

  Date: 3 July

  Subject: Tough times

  Dear John David,

  Reading our newspapers you definitely get a sense of a love–hate relationship between America and Britain. It’s not just that the United States is the sole hyper-power or that gangsta-rap is flooding the airwaves as nearly 60 per cent of Brits still consider the United States to be their most reliable ally. But there is a feeling that Americans are slightly greedy, sometimes selfish and possibly a little overweight. Last week the tabloids got a hold of a story about a major US manufacturer who makes baby’s jeans in regular, loose and husky cut. That article pushed politics off the front pages for a day.

  On the positive side, Starbucks have taken over every street corner. Their mugs of scalding coffee, burly enough to make you want to put your finger in a light socket or strip the wallpaper off your walls in order to relax, have created a nation of addicted caffeine heads. Thank goodness for the franchise society. America rules!

  Remember, you don’t have to rely on USA Today for your world news, you have me.

  Leslie Ann

  You can be as anonymous as you choose in London, so you would think it would be even more pronounced in the countryside. Nothing could be further from the truth. Like smoke signals sent skyward in wispy morse code, word spreads without a trace of origin or destination. Thankfully, to our knowledge, nothing of a malicious nature has been tom-tommed to our neighbours regarding a breech of etiquette or an oversight on our part. However, in our desire to be accepted and with genuine pleasure about being included in our new community, we surely must have, at some point, crossed that solid white line of proper decorum.

  If any incident were to come to mind, it would have to be during Feast Week, the pinnacle of summertime village activities, which commences with a Sunday ch
urch service followed on Wednesday by a combative yet cordial quiz night of general knowledge questions in the pub. On Friday, participants are tested by the rigours of a car treasure hunt. Organized by tough taskmasters, Don and Richard, teams of four set out from the pub at 6 pm for a two-hour brainteaser involving obscure clues and riddles that have cars crisscrossing 25 miles of back roads and country lanes in search of elusive plants and ancient wall scratchings. The culmination of the week’s activities is the Sunday fete.

  The object of all the frivolity is Stretton’s Saint Nicholas’ Church, a building that came to life in the reign of William the Conqueror. Dating from the Norman period, the tiny church has survived both the sixteenth-century Reformation led by King Henry VIII and the English Civil Wars. In 1693, one of Oliver Cromwell’s supporters, Edward Horseman, Lord of the Manor, left a legacy to the poor of the parish in the sum of twenty pounds. Today, the residue of that bequeath is used to purchase an engraved Bible for each village child baptized in the Church. It is this link to previous generations that inspires locals to support ongoing building works through fundraising events such as Feast Week.

  The faux pas of the year happened during the run-up to the fete festivities when we all gathered at the Jackson Stops Inn for a planning session. The back dining room, offered to the group for the evening, was choc-a-bloc with volunteers who had either lived in the village for years or who could organize a fete blindfolded. I, of course, had nothing other than enthusiasm to contribute to this arcane ritual, while Bill could remember little from his days in Sussex when such outings would have played a prominent role in his young life. Hoping we could disappear into the inglenook fireplace, while at the same time trying to look supportive and involved, it crossed our minds that the job of clearing up after the circus elephant must be the prize task offered to newcomers like us. That surely must have been the reason we had been invited to participate.