England revisited
by prudence on 20-Mar-2012
I am thoroughly enjoying my week in England.
Yes, the fields are still rather brown and dull. Yes, the weather is still pretty nippy. But spring is definitely happening. There are daffodils and bluebells and crocuses. There is more blossom by the day. There are budding trees and pussy willows. There is a perceptible sense of excitement in the bird world.
Indeed, the birds offer much food for thought. Did there really use to be so many of these big fat wood pigeons? How inept at nest-building does the blue tit in my in-laws' garden have to be before his partner decides to swap him for a better nest-builder? And why is listening to the soft honkings and ripplings of the water birds by the river near Farndon so extraordinarily soporific?
There is lots that is very beautiful. Road and rail trips across the flat Nottinghamshire countryside unfold quintessentially English vistas: solid church towers dominating miles of bumpy brown and smooth green land; white swans floating on a broad brown river; the filigree of still wintry trees etched onto a big, flatland sky...
History is everywhere. You can't escape it... We've been enjoying lovely walks round Newark, taking in the immaculately preserved town square, the dramatic castle ruins, the remains of the Civil War defences in Sconce Hills Park, and the tranquil riverside, where a lone narrowboat was making its way through the lock. This is a lovely little town -- mercifully spared the worst of the World War 2 bombing, and the worst of the 1960s mania for tearing down the old and replacing it with the ugly. The parish church, which dates back to the mediaeval period, is enormous, and very beautiful, with fine ceilings, carvings, and stained glass.
Nottingham, too, has a host of fine buildings, many in the handsome red brick that they started to use when the timber was running out. We visited Nottingham Castle, a 17th-century mansion on a much older site, whose soft sandstone was a standing invitation to diggers of all descriptions. Nottingham was a major centre: the Trent marked the divide between the north and the south; it was in Nottingham that the Civil War broke out; and sitting astride major river and road routes, it could hardly fail to become an important commercial town once the wars were all over.
We also visited the beautiful village of Laxton, not far from Newark. There's a fabulous old church, replete with curious gargoyles and carvings; the site of an old castle; and the remains of a strip system of farming that's been in action since medieval times.
National Trust properties always make for enjoyable outings. We visited The Workhouse at Southwell. A very atmospheric and poignant place, where hard luck met good intentions, with debatable results. Hard to imagine what it must have been like to end up here, in this regimented environment, with its whitewashed walls, stone floors, and worn staircases, its workhouse uniforms, and its monotonous diet (bread and milk or bread and gruel for breakfast and supper; meat and potatoes or broth for lunch). It was a highly segregated world. Inmates were "classed" (man, woman, or child? infirm and therefore deserving, or able-bodied and unemployed and therefore undeserving?), and thereafter segregated by high walls and locked doors. In panoptican fashion, only the "master" could peer from his windows into all the nooks and crannies of the yards and gardens. But I guess the meagre food, clothing, shelter, and society offered here were preferable to starving or freezing in a ditch... It's sobering to think we still haven't really learnt to deal with poverty. As a collection of newspaper clippings made clear, there are still many who regard the poor as fundamentally undeserving...
And we went to Mr Straw's House. This is a little time capsule -- the 1920s as lived and breathed. A beautiful house, preserved by extraordinary people. It wouldn't fit with my personality to stay anywhere as long as that, or accumulate as much as that, or set things in stone like that. But it suited theirs, and that has turned out to be much to our benefit.
The food has been good, too. English food doesn't have much of a reputation, but done well, it can be marvellous. How could you beat Gloucester Old Spot sausages and mash, at Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, the oldest inn in England? Or oxtail stew at the Durham Ox, overlooking the maypole on the green in Wellow? Or a Stilton and bacon toasted sandwich in a comfy cafe in Moreton-in-Marsh? Or an award-winning Cornish pasty from a shop on the beautiful high street in Winchester?
Best of all, however, has been touching base with family, and celebrating a big birthday in grand style at a hotel in Winchester. Remembering and celebrating our own little bit of history is priceless indeed...
Yes, the fields are still rather brown and dull. Yes, the weather is still pretty nippy. But spring is definitely happening. There are daffodils and bluebells and crocuses. There is more blossom by the day. There are budding trees and pussy willows. There is a perceptible sense of excitement in the bird world.
Indeed, the birds offer much food for thought. Did there really use to be so many of these big fat wood pigeons? How inept at nest-building does the blue tit in my in-laws' garden have to be before his partner decides to swap him for a better nest-builder? And why is listening to the soft honkings and ripplings of the water birds by the river near Farndon so extraordinarily soporific?
There is lots that is very beautiful. Road and rail trips across the flat Nottinghamshire countryside unfold quintessentially English vistas: solid church towers dominating miles of bumpy brown and smooth green land; white swans floating on a broad brown river; the filigree of still wintry trees etched onto a big, flatland sky...
History is everywhere. You can't escape it... We've been enjoying lovely walks round Newark, taking in the immaculately preserved town square, the dramatic castle ruins, the remains of the Civil War defences in Sconce Hills Park, and the tranquil riverside, where a lone narrowboat was making its way through the lock. This is a lovely little town -- mercifully spared the worst of the World War 2 bombing, and the worst of the 1960s mania for tearing down the old and replacing it with the ugly. The parish church, which dates back to the mediaeval period, is enormous, and very beautiful, with fine ceilings, carvings, and stained glass.
Nottingham, too, has a host of fine buildings, many in the handsome red brick that they started to use when the timber was running out. We visited Nottingham Castle, a 17th-century mansion on a much older site, whose soft sandstone was a standing invitation to diggers of all descriptions. Nottingham was a major centre: the Trent marked the divide between the north and the south; it was in Nottingham that the Civil War broke out; and sitting astride major river and road routes, it could hardly fail to become an important commercial town once the wars were all over.
We also visited the beautiful village of Laxton, not far from Newark. There's a fabulous old church, replete with curious gargoyles and carvings; the site of an old castle; and the remains of a strip system of farming that's been in action since medieval times.
National Trust properties always make for enjoyable outings. We visited The Workhouse at Southwell. A very atmospheric and poignant place, where hard luck met good intentions, with debatable results. Hard to imagine what it must have been like to end up here, in this regimented environment, with its whitewashed walls, stone floors, and worn staircases, its workhouse uniforms, and its monotonous diet (bread and milk or bread and gruel for breakfast and supper; meat and potatoes or broth for lunch). It was a highly segregated world. Inmates were "classed" (man, woman, or child? infirm and therefore deserving, or able-bodied and unemployed and therefore undeserving?), and thereafter segregated by high walls and locked doors. In panoptican fashion, only the "master" could peer from his windows into all the nooks and crannies of the yards and gardens. But I guess the meagre food, clothing, shelter, and society offered here were preferable to starving or freezing in a ditch... It's sobering to think we still haven't really learnt to deal with poverty. As a collection of newspaper clippings made clear, there are still many who regard the poor as fundamentally undeserving...
And we went to Mr Straw's House. This is a little time capsule -- the 1920s as lived and breathed. A beautiful house, preserved by extraordinary people. It wouldn't fit with my personality to stay anywhere as long as that, or accumulate as much as that, or set things in stone like that. But it suited theirs, and that has turned out to be much to our benefit.
The food has been good, too. English food doesn't have much of a reputation, but done well, it can be marvellous. How could you beat Gloucester Old Spot sausages and mash, at Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, the oldest inn in England? Or oxtail stew at the Durham Ox, overlooking the maypole on the green in Wellow? Or a Stilton and bacon toasted sandwich in a comfy cafe in Moreton-in-Marsh? Or an award-winning Cornish pasty from a shop on the beautiful high street in Winchester?
Best of all, however, has been touching base with family, and celebrating a big birthday in grand style at a hotel in Winchester. Remembering and celebrating our own little bit of history is priceless indeed...