25November1995

London: 25th November 1995
My dear folks,

Schubert’s unfinished symphony fills the study with its glorious harmonies; it’s one of several CDs I brought back from Johannesburg - & lovely they are too, Mother, thank you. They will be well exercised, I can assure you. It’s Saturday evening. We are newly returned from Somerset where we spent Thursday & Friday nights in the loveliest cottage. It was discovered by Jones who booked our stay before I went to SA. We drove down Thursday a.m. I had spent the previous 3 nights working. Jones had spent the previous 2 days cleaning a dirty flat. We were both in need of a break. We knew it would be a wet weekend & had catered accordingly, taking wellies, waterproofs & the large bottle of Glenfiddich whisky which Kevin had seen fit to leave behind, bless his boots.

The drive took 3 hours, across Hampshire & Wiltshire, both displaying gorgeous autumn hues. Jones admired them for me while I kept my eye on the road. Our destination was Leveret cottage, offspring of Hare House, one of half a dozen dwellings in the tiny hamlet of Black Water. You would need a very detailed map to find it. Fortunately, the directions were spot on. We swung open the gate, parked the Rocket on the gravel & moved our several bags into the cottage. It was perfect, running from a patio through a large living room, kitchen & dining room, bedroom & bathroom - all snugly & comfy & warm. The views gave out on to the paddocks & surrounding hills. Sheep grazed to the north of us; to the west hens strutted in their pen & horses noshed in their stable; in the house to the east, 2 cats snuggled into their basket & in Black Moor farm to the south, cows mooed & poohed.

We reckoned we just had time to walk the 2 miles down the tiny back roads to the village of Buckland St Mary where we were promised a post office-cum-shop, a very English & sadly dying institution, starved of a living by the burgeoning superstores. We set out down the lanes that curved & dipped & dived round the fields, half awash from the rain that dripped off our brollies. Forty minutes further, we found the shop just beyond the village church, run by an elderly gentleman named William & his elderlier mother (85), still very lively. From them we purchased bread & soda-water & a bottle of wine he strongly recommended. Of course they wanted to know where we were staying & were familiar with the owner when we told them. It's not like the city where you don't know who lives next door or particularly want to. Everybody knows everybody else for miles around as we quickly discovered.

On the way home, we chatted to another old girl, out with her dog, Candy, a handsome young Labrador. Then we met Candy's equally handsome brother, Fred, who liked us so much he tried to follow us home but, fortunately, was dissuaded by a neighbour we chanced upon walking her own dog (whom Fred liked even more). Then Jones saved a mouse from a cat that nearly got run over in its eagerness to seize the beastie. Jones said it was a fat cat & didn't need the mouse, which managed to flee during a distracted moment. The cat clearly thought otherwise, running up & down the bank looking for its vanished prey in some distress. It was nightfall when we got back to the cottage. Dusk falls by 4.30 now & it’s dark soon after. I had meant to do some after-supper reading but - what with lack of sleep & dulled by malt whisky & vintage wine - I hardly managed to make it to bed.

Friday morning we went to Lyme Regis down on the coast. The name was far more familiar than the place, possibly inherited from Jane Austen novels. We found it, sheltering in a bay from a dirty sea & a vile wind that snatched at our clothing & whipped our brollies inside out. This apart, it was pretty & well worth visiting. The High Street contained 2 amazing fossil shops with a huge selection of items, including lots of examples of ichyc-something-or-other, a kind of crocodilian fish that left its bones to posterity on the beaches there 180 million years ago. The place is famous for its fossils. Whole skeletons of dinosaurs have been dug out of the limestone. There was a vast dinosaur thigh bone on display in one of the shops and a nest of dinosaur eggs.

Friday afternoon, we tried another walk. The skies were grey. Clad in wellies & armed with brollies we set out, first via the minor roads which were deserted, & then the main road which involved constant hopping on to the verge for safety as cars whizzed past. Not much fun. We turned off this when I spotted a sign for a bridleway that led down through the valley towards farms lining the brow of the distant hill. Needless to say, we lost the route in no time. I could still see the direction we wanted to maintain, but it meant fording a stream, fighting our way through a barbed wire fence that bloodied my fingers & then traipsing through a wood until we found our bridleway again.

The cows had marked it out for us, an unmistakeable sodden track along which we squelched in their wake. The last 50 metres lay ankle deep in cow kack, a black lake of sulpherous wee & pooh through which we waded, watched by the beasts themselves. We had to shove them aside to negotiate the final few metres, little cries of “wait for me” coming from Jones as she gurgled along nervously behind. At that point, the heavens opened, great drops thundering off our brollies. What joy to return from such an outing to a hot bath & a large malt whisky.

After breakfasting Saturday morning, we left the place as immaculate as we found it. We’d like to return one day & to feel welcome. The weather stayed mixed. We didn’t feel like rushing back. Jones wanted to see a little seaside resort called Beer, about an hour away on the Devon coast. We traced our way down through numerous towns & villages. The area is heavily populated, a holiday & retirement region par excellence. Beer arrived in due course. There we parked & took the coastal path up across the cliff & down again to the neighbouring resort of Seaton where we found a little place serving cream teas.

You may know - you ought to if you don’t - that Devon clotted cream teas are the best in all the world. You get two scones, a bowl of cream & a bowl of jam. We opted for coffee rather than tea, being served by a shy young maiden who was assisting her father. Their tearoom was one of the few that remained open. The hordes that pack such resorts in the summer had vanished back to hidey-holes & most of the places had closed for the season.

Afterwards, we tramped back along the shingle beach, trying to shoo off the midges that filled the air. The shingles make the most unbelievable noise each time a wave comes in, crashing & clashing & crying out like the disturbed spirits of drowned sailors. It’s quite eerie. I wondered how many there were on the beach and how many molecules in each little stone. Lots! What I haven’t told you is how lovely the trees looked, all glinting green & rusty brown & gold. Rural England is lovely at the best of times but the Fall colours make a stunning tapestry.

And that was it. Our breaks seem to last so short (opposite of so long!) We drove back through the pouring rain, to hug & feed our cats and read our mail and take up the thread of our London lives again. If we ever win the lottery, which we didn’t tonight, we will spend many such days away, visiting distant parts and wandering along country roads.

Our thoughts have been much with Cathy and the Calgarians. Let us know you news. We hope it is all good & that there is much joy in your lives.