Day Five and Draw and I were heading to the Cotswolds.  We’d been to the Cotswolds four years ago and we (I) decided that it was high time we went back.

Now, the decision to visit the Cotswolds on our sidetrip this year was NOT a clear cut "Hey, let’s go back to the Cotswolds".  It was more like "I think I’d like to visit the Peak District"… "No, let’s do the Lake District"… "But the Peak District looks so good"… "No, let’s do the Peak District *then* the Lake District"… "Forget it!  Let’s just go to the Cotswolds".

This was me arguing with myself while Draw watched TV.

If I asked for an opinion he’d say "Whatever you want. baby" knowing full well that I only needed him to say the Peak District so I’d decide on the Lake District… or the Cotswolds… or Dartmoor.  And then be upset with him because I really wanted to go somewhere else.  Smart biscuit.

The Cotswolds was an absolutely capital idea and made for an excellent vacation within the vacation.  Here’s a tip: the Cotswolds will never disappoint unless you’re wanting to see areas of England that aren’t quaint and old and utterly charming.

The reasons for our vacations within the vacation have kind of evolved into a little breather for the Mum and Dad so they can recover from the first four or five days of our visit.  I am an energetic traveler and thought Peter and Sheila are bound and determined to stick with us every step of the way, there is a point where the mister quits saying "I’m not ready to have them leave yet".

These little sidetrips are strategically placed so that, just as Peter weakly says his last "I’m not ready to have them leave yet", we leave for a few days.  By the time we get back he’s all rested up and happily chirping "I’m not ready to have them leave, yet!".

A quick sidestep here.  In a previous post I shared that Peter is a loan shark.  Peter’s disputed that, though since the post, he has decided that he quite likes the nickname "The Shark".  He also thinks that it might be wise for me to refer to him by an alias in future posts so’s to protect his identity (though I imagine that might not be so good for business if nobody knows who he is).  My mummy-in-law has suggested that we call Peter "Just William" after a children’s book character of a little boy who always had dirty knees.

So an alias it is and "Just William" it will be.  From now on when I say "Just William" you all will know that I mean Peter.  But if I say Peter don’t assume I mean "Just William" who was previously known as Peter.  It only works the one way.  I do caution "Just William", though, that all the funny things he says and does will now be attributed to "Just William" and not to himself whom most people know by the name of Peter.

Back to the journey. 

We’re on the way to the Cotswolds which is about two and a half hours from Matfield by motorway.  But my motto is: Stop and smell the flowers along the way.  And spend twice as much on gas.

We avoid the motorways so that I can drink in the countryside and all the little towns and villages as we drive.  With this in mind, Draw went to an English map website, plugged in where we were starting, where we were heading and where we planned to stop along the way.  And 22 pages later we had our directions.

Okay, this is it and I’m only going to mention it once: whose bright idea was the roundabout?!

This is the bane of all mankind, especially Americans who believe in parallel and/or perpendicular roads.  My thought is, if you want to make a turn then MAKE A TURN.  Don’t run around in circles.

‘Nuff said.

Other than "twenty-two pages".  Of twists and turns… and circles.

I am the navigator.  I keep us on track.  What’s good about being the navigator is that I can yell "stop!" to snap a photo and Draw has to listen.  And hence the need to stay off the motorways so that those quick snap stops don’t get somebody killed.

(This is Draw on one of our many "snap stops".  Note the enthusiastic look on his face.  He only has one look, really, and this is it.  He looks like this when he’s enthusiastic, happy, charmed and amused.  I’ve never seen him look annoyed but then, he may be covering it up with his "enthusiastic, happy, charmed and amused" look.)

I managed to get through the first ten or so pages of directions (about 15 actual miles in distance) and then chucked the directions to the wind and went to the map.  In that first 15 miles we got sidetracked only twice (once going up and down the same road because we weren’t going quite far enough in the good direction to find out we were okay) with several U, Y and W turns (yes, this direction, no… wait… the other… blah… it’s the other… or is it).  The Navigator was having a meltdown. 

I have to take lessons on navigating from my mum-in-law, Sheila, who is the most graceful navigator I’ve ever encountered.  She puts Vanna White to shame.  All the while we’re driving somewhere she is chatting and laughing and then with just a graceful movement of the hand, either left or right, she has directed "Just William" in which way to turn.  I’ve never once heard her say "Turn right you, numbnuts!".  Unlike her daughter-in-law.

But in my defense, the road signs in England are not particularly dependable.  They keep you guessing as to whether you’re still on your way to wherever it was you thought you were heading.  You follow a sign that says "this way" and then… nothing.

First official stop (after the tiniest bit of the motorway to keep us on schedule) was a visit with old friends of Draw’s, in Aylesbury.  A delightful couple, Dave and Mel, who have recently given birth to a delightful little girl named Louise.  What was Draw thinking?!  He did not snap one photo of the enchanting Miss Luli (the English do have a knack for whimsical nicknames).  So I guess I’ll just have to share a few photos I took of some other stuff:

(Door)

(Window)

We spent a lovely al frescoe lunch with friends on a particularly lovely day and then left Aylesbury with a renewed vigor to find our way to Chipping Campden and Badger’s Hall Tea Room and B&B, using my trusty roadmap.

There is more to this day but ’tis time for tea.  Please stay tuned for more fun and excitement as Draw and I continue our travels to, and around, the Cotswolds.

G xxx

We left "the most celebrated garden in England" with Peter and Sheila voting for a nice meandering drive to Rye.  I like Rye.  I’ve been several times but hadn’t put it on our itinerary for this year. 

Having heard me whine for the last three days that I’d promised people that I would find some "treasures" to add to my website, Sheila was convinced that I might find some things at the little antique shops that dot the narrow streets of this very quaint town.

En route we happened across a very interesting church, St Thomas the Martyr in Winchelsea.  A portion of this church is ruined from the time of Edward I, I believe, and even the town fathers don’t recollect if the church is now ruined out of decay or ruined because it was just never finished.

We walked around the graveyard and then invited ourselves inside the church.  I guess it’s like that in America and I’ve just not been aware of it… the churches in England, any one I’ve every visited, are unlocked.  And many have little tables set up with literature laying out on the history of the church (to be had for a tiny fee).  One little church we came upon while in the Cotswolds even had refreshments.  A little pot of coffee and a pot of hot water and tea bags.  Nobody in the church, just a note inviting anyone visiting to help themselves. 

St Thomas the Martyr of Winchelsea was quite intriguing and right up my alley as I’m a fan of a "pile of bricks" as my sister-in-law, Jo, calls ruins.

If you visit Draw’s website you’ll find more photos of the church. 

We made it to Rye by mid-afternoon.  The weather still sunny, but being close to the English Channel (or some body of water) it was pretty brisk. 

As I mentioned, I’d been to Rye before, and decided (blah) to leave the camera in the car to free up my arms for the parcels I planned to carry.  So the pictures I’m sharing now are ones I’d taken in previous years.  Rye is worth the stop and even having scores of photos already in my files I found several more things that I would have snapped had I had that darned camera with me.

This is Mermaid Street - more on that in a moment.

I am shameless when it comes to snapping photos of people’s front doors.  More on that when we get to the Cotswolds…

The oldest building in Rye and also an antiques shop with very low ceilings downstairs.  I almost bought something here this visit.  The closest I’ve ever gotten to buying from this shop.  So close…

As Sheila predicted I did find some good goodies and then Draw and I split off from the folks so they could rest and we could find a shop that would copy my photos to CD.  Of course, once you stop for coffee or look in vain for a shop to copy your photos to CD, it’s time for tea.

Somehow, the announcement of "tea time" has a rejuvenative effect on the English.  Where once there were long faces and boring pauses in conversation there is now a burst of energy akin to none I have ever witnessed before!

One moment Peter is barely able to lift his coffee cup to lips and the next he is scaling Mermaid Street (see above) like a 10-year old boy on a trip to DisneyWorld.  It was a miracle!

The elixir of the gods

So we headed up and up and up Mermaid Street to the church which is located close to a bevy of tea shops.   Simon the Pieman, one of them.

Simon the Pieman Tea Room in Rye is quite charming sporting a huge bow window filled with all sorts of delectable cookies and cakes and muffins or biscuits or whatever you call them.  And all the while Peter is skipping up Mermaid Street I am cautioning the crew between my huffing and puffing, not to get sucked in by that delectable display.

Simon the Pieman had lured us in for a cream tea last year and then pulled a fast one on us by serving double cream and not clotted.  Of course, nobody cares about double vs clotted but me, but I’m the tea elitist in the crowd and I’m in charge of this train wreck even if I am the self-imposed conductor.

Everyone behaved and we ended up having tea at the tea room next to Simon’s.  I am ashamed to admit that I don’t remember the name of this tea room (Fletcher’s?) but it was wonderfully quaint, with just as many delectable goodies as Simon’s and the crowning glory was the clotted cream. 

It was a lovely tea and while we sat sipping our teas and eating our cakes and clotted cream and scones we saw an old lady enter the tea room three times but never exit.  Of course, we had to discuss this phenomenon all the way home from Rye and into the evening.

So Day Four, finally at its close, ended up very nicely with me finding some lacey treasures, and sharing a lovely evening with the family talking about little old ladies, 1001 gardens and had there even been an unruined St Thomas the Martyr in Winchelsea.

Day Five soon…

This happened to be a particularly active day and in fairness to my readership I’m going to break it up into three parts.   Maybe not so active in activity as it is in presenting more opportunities for me to blab about this, that and the other.

I want to pause a bit longer on the Sissinghurst portion of our day since it is "the most celebrated garden in England".

Sissinghurst…

Lovely garden - again with the various "rooms" showcasing various planting patterns and ambiance.  I did like this garden and would probably go back again on a less sunny day.  In fact, a brooding cloudy day would be perfect, like the one we had while visiting Penshurst.

I really can’t tell you much about the history of this garden as I skirted all the informational exhibits and headed right for the flowers.

The shot below is from a particular appealing "room" but it was loved by many so I didn’t get much more than a nice shot of this very cool "bench". 

As I recall, this was the day that Draw and I had an indepth discussion on depth of field.  I am embarrassingly ignorant of the workings of my camera.  I don’t have the best camera in the world but I do have more bells and whistles on it than I know what to do with.  And a lens that allows me to take some very nice photos.  I’m a point and shoot kind of gal who has to hold her breath when depressing the shutter release because I have a tendency to move the camera along with my finger.

Anyway - trying to figure out how to blur the background or keep it in focus and Draw was trying to remember if that meant the aperture needed to be set on a smaller opening and was smaller a smaller number or a larger number.  Cameras are tricky business.

It suddenly dawned on me that if I snapped a couple of photos, one at 2.8 and the other at 11 or 12, I’d have my answer (see photos, below… though I can’t remember which one was shot at 2.8 and which one was shot at 11 or 12).

Draw and I also discussed the mowing patterns we’d seen in a few of the gardens, where parts of the lawn were left to grow wild.  Meadow gardening (we’ll visit this again later in the trip).  We liked that idea immensely and decided to give it a try when we got home as we probably already had a good start on *our* meadow.

Sadly, I did not get a good photo of the meadow areas at Sissinghurst but I did get a few other shots like this one…

And this…

…which don’t really reflect the beauty of the garden but I was able get these without waiting, obviously, for somebody to move.

And then this one, which is ridiculously Photoshopped (the other photos have been, too, but I try to be sneaky about it) and more an example of American Graffiti than it is about photography.  But, what the hay.

So it ended up that I learned something new and took a few nice photos, with and without people, and had a decent tea to boot.

Tea time!

There was sunshine again!  This is what is so wonderful about England - every day with sunshine is a glory.  Even coming from Indianapolis that has lots of sunshine, you quickly adapt to coveting those hot sunny days as if they were Texas gold.

Another day, another garden.  We decided to whittle away at that list of 1001 and tick off another: Sissinghurst - "the most celebrated garden in England".

Now, it’s a given, being "the most celebrated garden in England", that we wouldn’t be the only gaden-seekers tromping through the flora on a sunny day. 

If I may, a little about my method of photography.  I am a font of patience when it comes to getting the best shot (which is amazing because I’m not know to be a patient person).  When I’m snapping photos I will wait… and wait… and wait… until I have a peopleless shot.  I don’t mind people - I just don’t want them in my photos.  Except for the people I love but even then I’ve been known to wait and wait for Drawbridge to move out of the way so I can snap a picture.  I have a tendency to be a little less patient with the people I love because I can boot them out of the shot with a wink and a smile.  For strangers, I just wait.  Not sereptitiously, though, but obviously so’s to let them know that I am waiting… patiently… for them to move.

Sissinghurst is owned by THE NATIONAL TRUST.  Fortunately, there is no stately home on the grounds so Peter and I didn’t feel the need to "write a letter".  Note: at this point in our travels, Peter and I have amassed the need to write at least a half-dozen letters for sundry offenses.

(Could it be that they knew Peter and I were about and closed the stately home?)

The sun was warm, the garden was lovely and the "tea room" (I’ve now kind of gotten the idea that any cafeteria that sells tea is called a tea room) was nice.  After wandering the garden for a good couple hours we decided to get some "tea".

Okay, let’s talk a little English.

Tea is pretty much a meal.  It isn’t necessarily that hot liquid drink.

Pudding is dessert.  Any dessert.  You can have a piece of pie for pudding.  Or a piece of cake.  It’s no matter.  If it’s dessert of any kind then it’s pudding.

Fudge is not always chocolate.  You can have vanilla fudge or toffee fudge.  And it isn’t creamy it’s very sugary and sickly sweet.  And yes, you can have fudge for pudding.

Chips are not chips they’re French Fries.  Crisps are chips as we know chips.  And if you’re looking for a pretzel, forget it.  The English don’t do pretzels as a rule.  Though, if you’re a chip lover you’ll be in pig’s heaven.  I have never seen so many flavors of chips (crisps) as I’ve seen in England.

If you like mustard don’t do what I did and taste English mustard by dipping a spoon in the jar and shoveling it into your mouth.  English mustard will blow the top of your head off.  It’s good stuff in small doses and lethal if you put any more than a dibby dab of it on your sandwich or your sausage or your pork chop or whatever.  The English don’t confine English mustard to just sandwiches - it’s pretty much a staple at every meal.

If you absolutely want to puke, try Marmite.  The name alone is disgusting.  It sounds like a rodent.  And it tastes like… well, suck on a boullion cube and you’ll get the idea.  It’s yuck as far as I’m concerned and probably would have  scared me straight as a child if my parents had threatened me with a spoonful of Marmite instead of a bar of soap.

Scones are not those hard dry triangular things you’ll find in an upscale American cafe.  They’re rather like a nice biscuit similar to the kneaded versions you can make with Jiffy mix.  But don’t call a scone a biscuit in England or you’ll end up with a cookie.  Though, if the biscuit has chocolate chips then it’ll be cookie, so don’t ask for a biscuit with chocolate chips.

The English don’t call the English muffin an English muffin, of course.  They call it a muffin.  Their English muffin as we know it is a crumpet.  And pancakes in England are like crepes - flat and kind of rubbery.  If you want a real pancake then you’ll ask for an American pancake.

The English don’t drink their tea black, they drink it with milk.  And if you want to see something disgusting have my father-in-law make you a cup of tea.  He’s the only person I know who steeps his tea bag in milk and then waters it down with hot water. 

Well, now seems like the perfect time to take a tea break - grab a bite to eat, something to drink, go to the toilet.  By the way, "toilet" is a totally acceptable word to describe a rest room in England.  Americans are quite prudish about calling a spade a spade when it comes to taking a pee.

Please stay tuned for Day Four - part II…

First, you wake up realizing that you’ve already spent 1/7th of your vacation.  Now, the trade off would be that you’ve gotten 1/7th worth of your total vacation’s enjoyment at this point.  We decided that we were way ahead.

This day was Peter’s work day.  Did I mention that Peter is a loan shark?  But let’s set the record straight.  He’s not one of those knee-breaking, knuckle-crunchers that Americans envision.  In fact, one of his loan collectors was an 80-year old granny who used to drive to clients’ homes and collect the weekly payments.  (She later went on to take a job with the National Trust as a stately homes policeman). 

Peter is more like your friendly neighborhood moneylender who lends money to people who wouldn’t get diddly squat from a bank.  It’s a bona fide business and his clients love him and are quite happy to pay his interest rates.  In fact, one client loves him so much he always gives Peter a bag of candy along with his payment.  Which is then (candy not payment) passed on to Pauline, the village postmistress, because Pauline likes that candy and Peter does not.  Which, Peter shouldn’t even be *eating* candy, but I digress.

Anyway - Peter’s work day so Draw and I set off on our own.  We decided to visit more gardens - ones we hadn’t seen yet.

The day before, on our trip into town, we stopped at Waterstone’s in search of a book for one of Draw’s coworkers (Come on.  You mean to tell me that you can’t find the book on Amazon for half the price?) and ended up buying a couple of touring books of the Cotswolds and a big fat book of all the gardens we absolutely need to see before we kick the bucket.

The day was glorious so it was perfect for looking at a couple of those need-to-see gardens.

First stop; Wakehurst.

I would dub Wakehurst as more an arboretum than a garden.  The place was freaking huge - almost gave me a heart attack, and all the while we were wandering I was thinking that my epitaph would read "She saw 1/2 of one of the thousand and one gardens she was supposed to see".

We definitely scratched Wakehurst off our list of recommended gardens for Draw’s parents.  The Drawbridge’s like gardens that have lots of little resting places in between the sights.  It was clear to me that Wakehurst was for the hardy few who never thought to liberally pepper their meanderings with quiet moments of reflection on a comfortable bench.

(Not a lot of these at Wakehurst)

I snapped a few photos as did Draw (www.phillipdrawbridge.com), we (I) stumbled back to the gift shop/tea room, had a bite to eat and took stock of our (my) condition and whether or not we (I) were physically able to walk to the car and drive to Nyman’s - garden number two of the 1001 gardens we needed to see before we (I) croaked.

Wakehurst view that reminds me of a Monet painting…

I’m glad Draw twisted my arm as Nyman’s was absolutely wonderful.

It started with the tea room.  Not a traditional-style but more like a garden restaurant that offered al fresco dining.  The menu was right up my alley: steaming bowl of asparagus and stilton soup, a chunk of crusty bread, a lovely lavender & shortbread cookie and some bubbly gourmet soda seasoned with ginger.  Let’s not talk price of the meal - let’s just savor the moment of the sun beating down on our shoulders and the smell of asparagus and stilton wafting through the soft breeze.

Portions of the garden were still being planted but there was an air about Nyman’s that made it rather magical for me.  I loved the topiaries and the wild flowers.  I loved the different garden "rooms".  I loved the kind of shabby chic feel to the place even thought I hate the term "shabby chic".

There is a house on the grounds and part of it is open to the public.  Because it’s owned by the National Trust it’s teeming with old people who follow you around like your maiden aunt or granny making sure you don’t snap any photos or touch any of the knicknacks.

There is only one entrance into the house which is at the side.  The front door was being guarded by a snoring elderly gentleman.  We were snapping photos of the courtyard for a good 15 minutes with the guard never so much as moving.  At one point I did wonder if he was even alive.  But then we heard a snort and, relieved, went back to snapping photos.

At the side entrance, the octagenarian bouncer who greeted us at the door "suggested" that Draw remove his "rucksack" so’s not to demolish anything as, clearly, Draw was capable of running through the house like a bull in a china shop.  Draw was, rightly so, annoyed but complied since he’s English.  We dedicated a good minute to each of the three rooms that were open for display, and left.

By this time, the snoring guard was waking up.  I asked if he’d had a good nap and he nodded, got up and wandered off.

The best part of Nyman’s was the part we saw when we walked to the side entrance of the home to go inside. 

It was like something out of Xanadu.

In the early 40’s (19 not 18) a portion of the house burned.  Apparently, the family who owned the home decided not to repair it, moved out and bequeathed it to the National Trust.  Absolutely makes sense to me.

Kudos to the National Trust for being such skinflints and not having the house repaired.  The burned part of this old home is absolutely the best part.

I snapped scores of photos hoping that just a few would be in focus.  I held my breath so much while shooting, I thought I’d pass out. 

We walked around the house and gardens for a good hour or two, attempting to find the one spot of the burned out shell that was, perhaps, guarded by another snoring guard.  But to no avail.  Even at that, it was a wonderful garden with two thumbs up and a hearty recommendation to Draw’s parents whom had never visited but had thought to.

The day ended with the traditional fish and chips (correction: CHIPS and fish) from a take out in Paddock Wood, and me revelling in the knowledge that I could cross off two whole gardens from that list of 1001 and I lived to tell the tale.

Day Four soon…

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If you know anything about England you know that the hills and dales of this lovely country are green green green.  And you also know that those hills and dales don’t get that green because the sun is always shining in England.

You also know that the temperatures in May are not in the 70s and often not even in the 60s.

As fate would have it, along with that book I left on my bedroom floor, were my warm sweaters.  So Day Two consisted of a little shopping.

Sound fishy?  Hmmm…

A trip to Tunbridge Wells, the "town" of "down the town", is a necessary for me.  For one thing: they have a Starbucks.  And for another, they also have one of my favorite bookshops: Hall’s.

Hall’s is situated on a corner, down a hill, in, what appears to me, to be the older part of TW.  It is the English second-hand bookshop personified.  Lots of musty old books shoved into musty old shelves in musty cramped quarters.

I have no idea where they get their stock or if they’ve even added anything new this century, but I always manage to find something that I absolutely need.  This trip I found an old book on butterflies including wonderful colored plates.  I also found an old German book on Alpine Flowes with glorious color pictures.

Be prepared when you go to England that your American dollar is worth less than half of the British Pound.  In other words, £10 is not $10.  But hey, this is vacation and you’re allowed to spend 20 bucks on a tattered old book if you want to.

Our stately home visit for Day Two was Penshurst Place. 

Again, a private home though this one had public rooms to tour (but no picture-taking in this house even thought it isn’t National Trust).  Also, lovely grounds and a nice gift shop so you can spend twice as much as anything’s worth and come away with a smile on your face.

The day was very overcast, and the sky, though ominous looking, made for some terrific photos,  You can take photos of the grounds.  Or maybe you can’t but you don’t have the 150 yr old smiling granny following you around as you do in the house.  I snapped to my heart’s content.

Penshurst also has a tea room.  Not in the style of the beloved Cherry Trees it offered, forgive me for being such an elitist when it comes to cream teas, a kind of cheesey version of a cream tea that comes with a little vacuum-packed plastic tub of clotted cream.  Which positively strips the "quaint" from a cream tea lickety-split.

I can’t remember what I had to eat at Penshurst but I assure you it wasn’t a "cream" tea that comes with a little vacuum-packed plastic tub of clotted "cream".  I am quite adamant in wanting my cream tea to come with the clotted cream in a little glass bowl.  I don’t care if the clotted cream in that little glass bowl was actually scooped out of a vacuum-packed plastic tub.  The presentation is part of the allure and makes it a bona fide cream tea as far as I’m concerned.

Of the evening the Drawbridge’s wanted to take us to an American-style restaurant.  Something & Benny’s (can’t remember what the "Something" was).  Not sure if there are any in the States as I’d not heard of this restaurant before but I gave it two thumbs up for having wonderful service and piping hot food.  Certainly, that’s what Americans have come to expect whenever they’re dining out, eh?  And completely ignored the fact that our TGI Friday’s-style meal cost about $40 per person including the totally unnecessary tip.

A word about tipping and how favorably Americans are viewed by restaurant servers across England.  Tipping is not necessary, not expected and always enthusiastically accepted with an "Are you sure?".  Even if it’s just £1 ($2).  Can you imagine an American server asking you if you’re sure you want to leave them 2 bucks on a $38 meal?

Anyway, in England, Americans are known to be good tippers.  It’s so nice to be regarded highly by somebody for something when you’re on foreign soil.  Even if you have to pay for it.

As we ate dinner we talked of what would be on the next day’s itinerary and also had an indepth conversation on gypsies.  It just so happened that a caravan of gypsies were camping out in the parking lot of the restaurant and we felt obliged to discuss that over our meal.  Apparently, gypsies are allowed to camp out in parking lots or the like for 24- or 48-hours before they’re shooed along by the local constabulary.

But such is a nomad’s life.  And we all agreed that gypsies must be doing pretty well for themselves as they all seemed to be driving Jeep Grand Cherokees and pulling nice mobile homes.

Peter also shared a compelling story of a little dog kidnapped by a band of gypsies which was utimately returned to his rightful owners after a bit of gyspy-style bartering.  It was all quite moving and, thankfully, had a happy ending.

In the end, when all was said and done, we concluded another good day.  I had already acclimated myself to the cloudy and cold English weather, learned a lot about gypsies and had a couple of new sweaters to keep me warm and a couple of smelly old books to add to my library.  I went to bed with a smile on my face and looking forward to…

Day Three, please stay tuned…

After visiting Groombridge we meandered over to Bateman’s, the home of the late Rudyard Kipling, who incidentally was named after a lake in northern England and not the lake after him.

Must have been one heck of a lake for his parents to have named him after it.  And thank goodness it was Rudyard Lake and not, say, the Dead Sea that they were so fond of.

Truthfully, I don’t recall much about this house.  Owned by the National Trust which is unfailingly stingy about photo-taking in any of their homes, I proceeded to forget about Bateman’s as soon as I walked out the door. 

Maybe it was the jetlag, maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t snap any photos so I purposely pushed the house out of my mind out of pure American crankiness.

My father-in-law, whom we shall call Peter, plans to write the National Trust a letter of complaint for their stingy ways.  He’s not American but he’s admirably cranky so he and I got along quite grandly complaining our way from one National Trust property to the next.

I’m compelled, at this point, to tell you about Peter’s crankiness and what has propelled him to the top of my "Favorite People" list.  I was not with him on the evening of this event but, there were two other people who corroborated his story, and they are credible witnesses.  His wife, my mummy-in-law, Sheila, and my red-haired and equally cranky sister-in-law, Josephine.  (Josephine is worth an equal measure of attention but I will tell you more about her later).

Apparently, as it was told to me, Peter and the fam had gone out to eat at the Little Chef up or down the road from them.  When they arrived, the restaurant was in complete disarray.  The servers, cooks, in fact the entire staff, had some sort of a free-for-all going on as they were running around snapping towels at each other and laughing and giggling and acting totally unEnglish.

Peter, after sitting quietly at his table waiting for service, finally got fed up with all the shenanigans, marched back to the kitchen, and in a loud voice gave the Little Chef crew a severe upbraiding - somewhere along the lines of "Quit your [mucking] around and do the job you are paid to do and WAIT ON THE CUSTOMERS".

He removed himself from the kitchen and as he walked back to his table, as it was told to me, he received a standing ovation from all the other customers in the restaurant.

As I said, I was not there that evening, but I believe, with my whole heart, that this tale is true.

Unfortunately, Peter has also been banned from the Cherry Trees Tea Room on several occasions because he has oft upbraided the staff (Dawn) there, as well.  But Dawn, the proprietess, keeps forgiving him because he’s her best customer.

But then Dawn has also threatened to ban my Draw who isn’t cranky in the least.  So, it could, well and truly, be that Dawn requires a stern talking to every once in a while. 

By the way, I personally find Dawn quite wonderful and so she has found her way on my list of "Favorite People", as well.

Back to Bateman’s…

I did manage to snap a few photos…  outdoors, which I will share with you now.  I also went into the nice little giftshop to purchase my yearly National Trust baseball cap, even though the National Trust gets on my last nerve.  But this year they used a softer material in the construction so I passed.

And thus concluded Day One in England after a wonderful home-cooked meal prepared by me mum-in-law, the lovely Sheila.  The family agreed that, despite the National Trust, a good day was had by all.

Next installment: Day Two.  Stay tuned…

(And a bit of whimsy to tide you over)

After arriving at the lovely Drawbridge home, Bramblings, in the charming village of Matfield - Draw and I passed out and slept until noon.

Waking "refreshed" or maybe just determined to get this vacation thing going, we headed to Cherry Trees Tea Room for the annual "Glad to see you, let’s get our cream tea" cream tea.

Now this is an American’s Tea from Heaven.  I’m not much a fan of tea unless it’s iced (practically a sacrilege in England) but for some reason English tea tastes okay.  Iced or otherwise.  Maybe it’s because it accompanies homemade scones (NOT those hard triangular things that you find in the States) and this thick, delicious creamy stuff with the ungodly name of "clotted" cream, and jam.

***

Cherry Trees is this adorable, quintessential tea room located in the village of Matfield, across from the butcher shop and the two pubs that serve the 50-odd people that live in the village.

Cherry Trees also plays double duty as the village post office with a lovely Scots postmistress named Pauline.  Now talk about quaint: it ain’t gonna get any quainter than that.

Every trip starts with a visit to Cherry Trees so that I know that I am well and truly in England as if the accents and the driving on the wrong side of the road isn’t enough.

We had our tea and headed to the first stop on the itinerary that I’d written before we left home.

A word about itineraries: If you can’t put them on a Post-It note then you’re overplanning.  I’m the first to admit that my itineraries are quite detailed but I use phrases like "lazy walk", "a meandering drive" and "of a quiet evening" to make my itineraries seem very easy and very laid back.  And I’m also the first to admit that my itineraries are more a vehicle for daydreaming about the trip weeks and even months, before our trips.

Truthfully, when we stick to my itineraries I’m always a bit surprised.

This trip we managed to cram in most everything and a bit more, but it was transferred from the full page written in Word to a Post-It note and carried in Draw’s pocket.  And all the while we were in England I never even looked at it.  The dreamin’ was done and now it was time for the livin’.

So, first stop, Groombridge Place.  Day One and we’re still on track.

Groombridge, which has been located next to my in-laws for as long as I’ve known them, was only added this year because of Pride & Prejudice.  Hoping to catch the essence of Lizzy Bennet (aka Keira) wandering through the fields around this charming house reading her book and stepping in horse poop.

Charming house that is a private home, lovely gardens that are open to the public.  Somewhat bizarre that there were peacocks and a Bald Eagle (I almost laid hand over heart and sang America the Beautiful) and a very tame owl perched pretty as you please, posing for pictures.

I did manage to walk the same ground as Lizzy-Keira (and Mr Darcy-Matthew) and ticked Groombridge Place off our list.  Much to my surprise there was no horse poop, but lots of bird droppings.

And I was able to snap some photos that did, indeed, reflect the home as I’d seen it so many times in that movie. 

***

And then, of course, we capped off the evening with another watching of Pride & Prejudice though this time it had the English ending with no "Mrs Darcy" kiss "Mrs Darcy" kiss "Mrs Darcy" kiss…  I missed not hearing Keira say "…in-can-descent-ly happy".  But even still enjoyable having seen the house in person.  Every scene at the Bennets had me yelling out "I saw that!"  "I know where that is!"  And, guess what, those birds chirping during the opening scene of the movie?  Yep.  They’re still there chirping their little birdie hearts out.

***

There is a Part II to Day One but it’s tea time.  So, hold that thought…

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