Midday came and went as we wended our way through the countryside, passed the crane’s lake, some barrows that could have housed trolls and wights, but didn’t. Just as well really as they make a terrible mess. In the middle of rolling countryside was a house, a soldier’s humble house, painted red and lonely on the side of the mountain. It was surrounded by landscaped gardens and enormous barn and extensions housing a theatre, museum, baked goods shop and several banqueting halls. I do believe that there was also a family house somewhere there as well. We sat down and looked at each other, then at the hair of the hostess and sat in rapt admiration of the colour and set, which combined with the heels and organisational skills was absolutely awesome. Jet black beehive flick – fabulous. It just set us up for lunch of salads and mixed fish gratin. And then.....
Another groups of mostly women came in, some bearing knitting needles. Well! Sorry, but there’s only room for one handcraft group in this hall. There was muttering, there was murmuring, there was rummaging in bags. I was just about to whip out my 0.15 crochet hook when proof came that there was a God of peace. Lo, a family group came in with the teenage daughter wearing a waistcoat of such 1970’s crochet spectacularness that we all laid down our needles in homage. Oh, it was lurid, it was clashing and masterly in its execution. We had our cake and left in silence, musing on the way that life could have gone.
So we rolled on.
I was convinced that this would now be our last stop. After all, how much more excitement could a body take? We turned up at a such cute house with a huge, huge extension. It was the home of an artist with an extremely long suffering wife. He collects. Everything. I mean, everything. He’d also just bought up an old grocery shop – everything in the shop, everything! It was fascinating how much stuff could be fitted into one extension, and as he was a TV personality too, E had arranged for him to speak to us as a special treat. Little did I know what horrors awaited. We went into a room as requested and stood waiting for him. I knew something was amiss when he positioned himself in a chair in the doorway. My gaze gradually took in the contents of the shelves around the room, my eyes grew wider and wilder. The chap himself then took my gaze. Yes, there were the sandals; and the socks; and the jumper; and the beard and........ the accordion. I was in a room with millions of accordions and someone was about to play! Now I know why he sat in the door, it was to cut off our escape route – Arghhhhhh.
As he played and anecdoted, my horrified gaze rested on the rest of the audience, but there was no rest to be had. They were smiling, and nodding to the ‘music’. He was a master of the instrument, but we all know what price there is to pay for such a thing.
I applauded with the rest of the poor lost souls, just because it was damn good manners to do so, then escaped past the watercolours and tottered into the sunshine to be revived by the sight of a chestnut horse being ridden under the wild cherry trees with marshmarigolds lining the green lane.
Off we rolled down a little valley, with the cutest houses complete with sheep and random hanging fox corpses. We stopped for coffee when the valley broadened out into the graves. There were literally millennia of them. Thousands from various stages of history, it was so the place to be buried. Unless you were modern and died either in the last few hundred years or are intending to die. Why it’s gone out of fashion after thousands of years is beyond my understanding. I blame the young people of today, no sense of history, humph.
And on we rolled! Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a woman in a little town who decided to collect embroidered wall hangings. Absolutely everyone in the entire country had at least one and of course, there were popular motifs and verses. It was absolutely the best when something original come up. Folk art at its best in my opinion. Then someone made the mistake of asking the person in charge of the exhibition questions. Once again I was left reflecting on the graciousness, manners and kindness of these sewing women. The teenager ‘in charge’ didn’t have a clue about anything, personally I doubt she would have been able to give her full name, and I would have ripped her to shreds, but everyone listened to her read (badly) the sheet she found in a drawer and thanked her for her time. I am sooooo bad and she is now no doubt a better person.
After all the excitements and as it was getting really quite late (translation for Londoners – late afternoon), we agreed that it was now time to wend our way homewards, replete with cheeses, cakes and coffee, images of cherries and primroses. And I won a breadbasket in the bus ticket lottery. Result. Roll on next year!
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