catch­ing up with Wilt­shire (with a lit­tle Rye along the way)

Life: speed­ed up. I can­not believe it’s been a month since our unfor­get­table trip to Wilt­shire, most espe­cial­ly the mag­i­cal town of Sal­is­bury, and that I am just now sit­ting down to look at these evoca­tive pho­tographs, and to describe a bit of our fun.

Just before we left, of course, was the hor­rid bur­glary and the loss of my lap­top and my cam­era. Bril­liant John was able to retrieve our pho­tos from some Big Broth­er umbrel­la online, so every­thing is safe. But I have been aston­ished at how naked I feel with­out a cam­era! I have got­ten so used to sim­ply whip­ping it out to record a dish, or some­thing Avery’s doing, or a beau­ti­ful sight in the coun­try­side, that to have an emp­ty hand and just eyes to remem­ber has been an unpleas­ant surprise.

Thank good­ness John’s moth­er had a cam­era in her pos­ses­sion when we were out of the house being bur­gled, and she is the Com­pleat Recorder of Every­thing That Hap­pens, so we have mar­vel­lous pho­tos of Wiltshire.

Since then, of course, we’ve had The Adven­ture of the Vol­canic Ash, and all the mess that went with it. Final­ly, though, every­one is back in place at home, at school, and I’ve been on an adven­ture: to Rye, in East Sus­sex, on a reunion with my food­ie and food-writ­ing friends from the Arvon Foun­da­tion. Three sol­id days of FOOD. I dragged with me all the ingre­di­ents for my grilled teriya­ki salmon, three-cab­bage slaw with fen­nel, cel­ery and car­rots, pesto, many, many pack­ets of sausages and bacon from my beloved Gig­gly Pig in the Ham­mer­smith farmer’s mar­ket… you can imag­ine the weight of my suitcases!

All week­end we did noth­ing but shop for food, cook, talk about meth­ods, ingre­di­ents and mem­o­rable dish­es, then EAT. And sit around talk­ing about cook­ing and eat­ing! Pure heav­en. Every­one con­tributed, with very lit­tle dis­cus­sion or arrange­ment, spe­cial dish­es, and the table groaned night after night. Rosie’s slow-roast­ed pork bel­ly with rose­mary, lemon and superb crack­ling, Pauline’s cau­li­flower roast­ed with chilli olive oil, a sauce of pork juices, Cal­va­dos, red wine and but­ter… Beets roast­ed and tossed with chopped pars­ley and lime juice, and final­ly Sun­day lunch of two gor­geous legs of lamb, slow-roast­ed with Adam’s ambrosial mari­nade of every savoury ingre­di­ent imag­in­able: haris­sa, anchovy fil­lets, lime juice, gar­lic, rose­mary, olive oil…

And the desserts! I start­ed out as I usu­al­ly do, say­ing warn­ing­ly, “Don’t have your feel­ings hurt. I don’t real­ly like sweet things.” But maybe it’s just that I don’t like rub­bish sweet things! Because I liked every­thing: Sam’s Vic­to­ria sponge with rasp­ber­ry jam fill­ing, Rosie’s choco­late and Amaret­to slice, and her incom­pa­ra­ble Bram­ley apple crum­ble with home­made tof­fee sauce and cus­tard! The choco­late slice, ah… quite won­der­ful: a kick of alco­hol, a crunch of crushed bis­cuits, fluffy per­fect creamy chocolate.

Through it all, we dis­cussed food. What would be our Desert Island Ingre­di­ent (but­ter, for me). Does bread count? Last dish on earth? Foie gras creme brulee for me, smoked salmon for some­one else, a per­fect­ly cooked steak…

Con­vivi­al­i­ty, humor, gen­eros­i­ty beyond belief. That is my group of friends, the Gath­er­ing of Nuts in May. Susan’s humor, Caro’s sparkling wit, Louise’s boom­ing laugh, Katie’s smil­ing appre­ci­a­tion of us all… every­one so tal­ent­ed, warm and sup­port­ive. One of my favorite lines? I was com­plain­ing that too many Eng­lish pud­dings con­tained gela­tine, and said pompous­ly, “Amer­i­cans don’t like any­thing wob­bly!” And near­ly every­one cho­rused, “Except themselves!”

Rosie’s Celes­tial Choco­late and Amaret­to Slice
(serves about 8)

10 crushed Amaret­ti biscuits
125 grams high-cocoa-con­tent choco­late (Valhrona is excellent)
1 tbsp unsalt­ed butter
1 tbsp strong espres­so coffee
1 tbsp Amaret­to liqueuer
4 eggs, separated
1 tbsp cast­er sugar
300 ml dou­ble cream

Line a loaf tin with grease­proof paper, then place half the crushed bis­cuits on the bottom.

Melt the choco­late in a dou­ble boil­er, then stir in the but­ter, cof­fee and Amaret­to. Set aside.

Whisk the egg yolks with the cast­er sug­ar until fluffy, and set aside. Whip cream, then mix it with choco­late mixture.

Beat egg whites till stiff and gen­tly fold into choco­late mix­ture. Pour into loaf pan and refrig­er­ate overnight, very impor­tant. When ready to serve, unmold from pan and scat­ter remain­ing crushed bis­cuits on top. If you want to be posh, Rosie sug­gests a shot glass of Amaret­to on the side. HEAVENLY.

*********************

One lunch out: should you find your­self in Cam­ber Sands, a stretch of sandy beach a few miles out­side Rye, slip into “The Place at the Beach” and pre­pare for a treat. A sim­ply gor­geous starter of creamy smoked had­dock gratin with spinach, then mas­sive fish and chips with a tru­ly mem­o­rable tartare sauce. Don’t get Caro start­ed on the risot­to, how­ev­er: uncooked, taste­less and quite ined­i­ble. Back to our lit­tle rent­ed house on a sheep-filled hill­side to cook anoth­er per­fect meal for ourselves…

Now I am home. For a brief moment, it seems. My head is spin­ning a bit from what’s on my desk and mind right now: just home from Rye, I’m now head­ing off to Indi­anapo­lis on Mon­day to vis­it my dear moth­er, father and broth­er for five days. Before that, I’m sign­ing the per­mis­sion slip for Avery’s trip to Bath on the 15th, lis­ten­ing to John talk­ing about going to Dublin the next week­end to look at his beloved Geor­gian archi­tec­ture, look­ing into tick­ets for our return home in July, sign­ing per­mis­sion slips for Avery’s trip to St Peters­burg before Christmas!

Yes­ter­day after­noon, I just want­ed to sit down and breathe for a moment. So I did.

I took a nap! Just col­lapsed on the sofa in peace, lis­ten­ing to Avery prac­tice her singing les­son down­stairs in the kitchen, and Tacy lay across my legs while I watched the trees along the road wave their springy yel­lowy-green leaves, where bare branch­es had accom­pa­nied my late-after­noon naps in the approach­ing dark of late win­ter. Peace.

Peace was what char­ac­ter­ized Sal­is­bury, no doubt! We arrived at the Wardrobe, a Land­mark Trust build­ing in the heart of the Cathe­dral Close, and prac­ti­cal­ly in the shad­ow of the spire. As with all Land­mark Trust hous­es, total sim­plic­i­ty and per­fec­tion. “Old Chelsea” chi­na, per­fect clean­li­ness, a lit­tle bar of soap with LAND­MARK carved into it, harsh white sheets and piles of woollen blan­kets on all the beds, and VIEWS. Of the red roofs of Sal­is­bury, the Avon riv­er stretch­ing out under the win­dow, the man­i­cured gar­dens of Ted Heath’s house next door!

Oh, the gor­geous cob­ble­stoned court­yard of our ancient lit­tle house (a mil­i­tary muse­um sits under­neath, part of the agree­ment with the Land­mark Trust to have the lit­tle apart­ment for hol­i­day lets)… and then the Green, stretch­ing in a serene square bound­ed on three sides by Geor­gian hous­es and exquis­ite gar­dens, and then the Cathe­dral itself sits in medieval splen­dor, its spire reach­ing far into the sky. How far? I’ll tell you… it’s a long, long walk.

But we did it! We booked a tour of the Tow­er with one of the Cathe­dral guides, and I may tell you that as soon as our eyes met, I felt a deep and appre­cia­tive kin­ship. His name was Alas­tair, and he took to our lit­tle Amer­i­can par­ty straight­away. Amer­i­cans, I can tell you from long expe­ri­ence of both being one and observ­ing them in and out of cap­tiv­i­ty, put to shame any oth­er nation­al­i­ty when it comes to get­ting the most out of a tour guide. We ask ques­tions! And right away it was clear that this was no ordi­nary guide, armed with a few facts and Health and Safe­ty warn­ings about preg­nant women not being allowed to climb the Tower.

“Why did the work­ers both­er putting so much of them­selves into this Church?” I asked, try­ing to imag­ine them work­ing end­less hours with no elec­tric­i­ty or prop­er equip­ment, sand­ing mar­ble pil­lars, carv­ing lime­stone, killing them­selves. “Ah, yes, that is a cru­cial ques­tion,” Alas­tair jumped in at once, his eyes sparkling as he warmed to his theme. “Their lives were nasty, brutish and short, spent in dark­ness and filth in lone­ly lit­tle cab­ins. Their chil­dren died, they them­selves had a life expectan­cy of between 25 and 35 years… how impor­tant it must have been to think that there was anoth­er life to come, a much bet­ter one, and this place was the step­ping stone to that bet­ter life…”

We climbed the hun­dreds of steps up a wind­ing stair bare­ly wide enough to accom­mo­date us one at a time, the worn stone steps bare­ly deep enough for our feet, Avery and me with our com­bi­na­tion of ago­ra­pho­bia and claus­tro­pho­bia. I swear I could feel the tow­er sway­ing in the breeze! We stopped for breath in the clock cham­ber, and in the bell cham­ber, while Alas­tair point­ed out medieval iron­work, ancient rooflines, and the water pipes climb­ing all the way from the ground. So many tow­ers sim­ply burned down.

DING DONG, DING DONG!

Avery and I had heart attacks. We had not been expect­ing the chime! Alas­tair smiled indul­gent­ly at us and led the way, at the top of the inner tow­er, to the stand­ing area out­side, look­ing FAR below us to the green below, and we could see our Wardrobe! Sim­ply stun­ning, and stun­ning­ly fright­en­ing. But we did it. “I am stand­ing here imag­in­ing the tow­er just top­pling over,” Avery moaned, and I com­plete­ly agreed. It felt very insub­stan­tial, and VERY high up.

Back down, so much less fright­en­ing than going up. And worth the trip! We chat­ted more with Alas­tair, ask­ing ques­tion after ques­tion, and he knew far more than we could even think to ask. Final­ly at the bot­tom, he asked if we had seen the Magna Car­ta yet, and upon hear­ing no, strolled over to the desk to ask if he could lead us through the exhi­bi­tion. How intrigu­ing to think that the Char­ter that the Pil­grim fathers were so keen to pro­tect was their own copy of the great Magna Car­ta, ensur­ing a swift and speedy tri­al to all free men.

The doc­u­ment itself was strange­ly dimin­ished: tiny and impos­si­ble to read, even if one read Latin. So small, to have accom­plished so much.

The feel­ing of reli­gion, of the place of the church in life, both medieval and present, was all around us. A ghost­ly organ­ist prac­ticed in the moon­lit evenings, alone in the giant Cathe­dral. “Would­n’t it be fun­ny,” Avery chuck­led, “if he broke into the theme from ‘The Phan­tom of the Opera’?” Late at night, after a roast chick­en and cous­cous, I said, “Lis­ten! Bells…” and sure enough we could hear ring­ing. We wan­dered into the sleep­ing vil­lage and fol­lowed the sound, and there, mag­i­cal­ly, was a church, on bell-ring­ing prac­tice night. Avery cow­ered in the grave­yard, sure she saw an open grave just wait­ing to wel­come her, and bats flew over­head as I stood in bliss, lis­ten­ing to the chimes, imag­in­ing Lord Peter Wim­sey in that great­est of all crime nov­els, “The Nine Tai­lors,” ring­ing away on a snowy Christ­mas Eve… heaven!

“Go in and ask to meet them!” John and his moth­er urged. “Just intro­duce your­self and see if they will show you around,” but I was too shy.

Our days were so splen­did­ly qui­et and peace­ful: we devot­ed our­selves to one of the many puz­zles we accom­plished over the week: you sim­ply MUST order a puz­zle from the Went­worth Com­pa­ny: all wood­en pieces, and a few whim­si­cal among them shaped like the sub­ject of the puz­zle! So a puz­zle about a gar­den includ­ed pieces shaped like tiny spades, flower blos­soms, gar­den hoses. How peace­ful the after­noons were, John’s mom hov­er­ing with one of her inevitable cups of cof­fee, Avery with a slice of apple cake, me with a glass of sparkling water, fight­ing over “that’s my piece!” John napped or worked on the com­put­er, John’s mom tried to get through “Wolf Hall” by Hilary Man­tel, Avery curled up with Sher­lock Holmes, I put­tered in the kitchen. Sim­ple peace.

The night of the tow­er tour, we decid­ed to spring for din­ner out, and end­ed up, after mature con­sul­ta­tions with the house Log­book and pre­vi­ous vis­i­tors’ reports, at Anokaa, a fusion Indi­an restau­rant right in the heart of Sal­is­bury (which is a com­plete­ly charm­ing town in an of itself, although our loy­al­ty was to the Cathe­dral Close). Starve your­self for the day and be pre­pared to be over­whelmed by Anokaa, its inven­tive menu, the charm­ing and gen­er­ous wait­ers… crispy lam­b’s liv­er with a chick­pea pan­cake! Lentils smoth­ered in gar­lic, spinach and okra, chick­en in unusu­al sauces, the crunchi­est papad­um, the soft­est naan. Avery went tra­di­tion­al and ordered a creamy chick­en kor­ma, and the scent of del­i­cate coconut milk waft­ed over us all.

And guess who was there as well? Alas­tair! With his fam­i­ly. I quick­ly suc­cumbed to one of my usu­al impuls­es, and invit­ed him to din­ner the next night, and to my joy he accept­ed, just on his own because his wife would be away that evening. Glo­ri­ous! More time to ask him questions.

He turned up pre­cise­ly on time, with a gift for us: a glo­ri­ous pic­ture book of the Cathe­dral, its his­to­ry, its floods and famines, great tomb­stones and inscrip­tions. How love­ly. We sat down to din­ner, talk­ing nine­teen to the dozen, and John’s moth­er said gen­tly, “Why not ask Alas­tair if he knows any­one at that church in town, some­one you could ask ques­tions about the bells?”

A momen­t’s silence. Then he said, “Stay right here,” and went to fetch his phone. He demon­strat­ed its ring­tone: hand­bells! “I am a ringer at that church,” he said, “and let me make one phone call…” And then he was on the phone to the head of the ringers, explain­ing that he had a friend he’d like to bring by in the morn­ing. To hear their ring­ing before services!

And guess what his favorite book in the world is? “The Nine Tai­lors.” “It was read aloud to us as school­boys,” he rem­i­nisced, “and those were won­der­ful evenings, work­ing out the change-ring­ing in the plot, imag­in­ing our­selves as Lord Peter…” He spent the rest of the din­ner work­ing out changes for me on a scrap of paper, explain­ing every­thing so that I under­stood, final­ly, after years of read­ing that nov­el in puzzlement.

Unbe­liev­able.

So the next morn­ing found me in the bell cham­ber, sit­ting qui­et as a mouse on a bench along the wall, lis­ten­ing to the ancient calls I’ve read about so often… “Tre­ble’s going, tre­ble’s gone…” and read­ing tablets on the walls about great peals they’ve rung, and the instruc­tions for the changes in Kent Tre­ble Bob. Just like in the book, I kept think­ing, and their pulls down, the rhyth­mi­cal flight of the ropes, the men’s (and one wom­an’s!) faces as they looked to each oth­er to know when to pull their ropes. The half hour flew by as I watched and lis­tened. Then they all smiled indul­gent­ly at me, tied up their ropes and went on their ways, jok­ing about how he who rings the tre­ble bell does so only because it’s all the poor man’s capa­ble of, bring­ing up the rear, mak­ing fun of each oth­er’s accents, lots of inside Eng­lish jokes that I would have to live there a hun­dred years to under­stand. But, oh, I was in heav­en trying!

Alas­tair unlocked the door to the bel­fry, and one of the men rang the tre­ble bell alone, so I could hear it, and feel the sway­ing of the wood­en struc­ture hold­ing it up, and that’s just with ONE BELL ring­ing! Imag­ine dur­ing an entire peal, how pow­er­ful the sound is.

Well, that was the mag­ic of Alas­tair Lack, whose guid­ance through the Cathe­dral you must ask for should you get there. Thank you, Alas­tair, for mak­ing one of my dreams come true.

And Stour­head House! This bridge forms part of its gor­geous land­scape, used in the 2005 “Pride and Prej­u­dice,” so we made our pil­grim­age to it, hav­ing a love­ly pic­nic in the grounds, and then mak­ing our way along what we came to think of as the Stour­head Death March, an unbe­liev­ably LONG walk round hill and dale till we final­ly came to the house, pant­i­ng and puff­ing. And it was a yawn, except for the Music Room, where as you see, “Pianists are wel­come to play.” It was a moment of a child’s life­time, at least for the ador­ing adults sur­round­ing her. She sat right up at the Stein­way (our piano will nev­er sound the same, now) and played one of the themes from the score of “Pride and Prej­u­dice,” the ele­gant, sim­ple sounds ring­ing against the carved ceil­ings and ancient paint­ings. When she fin­ished, the notes drift­ed away and all the tourists and tour guides in the room applaud­ed. How I missed John’s dad at that moment. He would have beamed with pride at his grand­daugh­ter, in a moment of supreme dig­ni­ty and elegance.

More on Wilt­shire next… think New For­est. Think… PONIES.