Ring-a-ring-a-ling. At the front door of the manor house, we strike the old ship bell, hanging glumly by the door, like a statue more than a device, not a temptation for most, I’d venture, as a more normal doorbell sits right next to it on the wall, but a huge invitation for our playful minds. Ring-a-ring-a-ling.
Dodging fast storms brewing up in the olde-Englysh heavens, wind sweeping each new development along in a flash, one second bright warm sunshine tempting off pullovers, next second torrential downpour of warm wet sees us scurrying for cover under the trees. The cricketers carry on regardless. We all know it will pass by in a matter of a blink or two.
So dodging these slight nuisance rainfalls, we end up at Lower Farm, a converted old farmhouse with twisty apple trees and the most delightful sweeping weeping willow, majestic, from the earth, skyward towering, then falling back in a dance of tears. Around the perimeter, the flower beds, the villagers stand behind their stalls, like a half-hearted car boot sale (minus cars), selling old toys or tempting us to play their games.
A traditional small English fete, with most of the villagers participating, all monies donated to the church (more on that later) and in fact, most I’d imagine, buying or donating money to each other’s stalls.
When I say half-hearted, I’m only comparing to more extravagant affairs and don’t intend to sound so mean because this was a quaint, peaceful playground for the village, so English, as only the English can be. Imagine this tiny village, probably no more than a hundred dwellings and many of its people gathered here in hopes of keeping its community spirit alive, fighting off the evil of big city life invading from the North in the shape of Milton Keynes and its parish council takeover bids.
Tag: manor house
All manor of thoughts – 10th September 1994
Up at the crack, Broni way ahead, up with the tummies at 5.30, unable to sleep and kicking me around some, so she left to watch cartoons before stirring me out of fitful dreams. She frenzied herself around me, preparing everything for our holiday, while I sat and read another chapter of Tom Sawyer. Oh, I realise now what opportunity I’ve missed in my youth for my quest for knowledge – but it has brought me to this point in time anyway, eventful and enjoyable always.
So we hit road, chasing the sun as dark clouds ominously gather at our smoking tail and the time disappears behind us too, today. Not some drag of a journey as a three-and-a-half-hour drive might normally be but us in holiday mode, just happy playing dodgems on the motorway (soon to be called freeway in my new language!).
Our destination, sleepy old Drayton Parslow, for a final visit to Isobel, Broni’s cousin or other. Her house, the manor house, old, white and glorious, set in a garden a child’s playful imagination would be lost in, hiding under draping bushes on the bank up to the door, by the big dark brown barns. I took a brief second in my mind to imagine playing and running and that second grew suddenly into a whole childhood of adventure, of buried treasures and guns and bombs. In reality, I only really remember playing football and doctors and nurses in some of the gardens I grew up in!
Inside the house, the charm of things old remains. Old high ceiling kitchen, long thick table, one corner with a master’s chair at the end. Next corner, a sliding door into a pantry of surprises of homemade preserves and bean wine, 1987. A clutter of claustrophobic cans begging to be opened in this wonderful place. Opposite, a huge free-standing cupboard packed to the very gills with bone china, several sets of varying patterns and varieties, sweet pea flowers for us today.
Large cast iron candle holder hangs gothically from the ceiling and small piles of mess of papers or vegetables punctuate the spacious glory where families must have sat in their Victorian lives, leaving ghosts in the air of memory.
Each other room beholding a cob-webbed past for my eager historical mind to play in, pictures on walls of previous occupants, painted in colour, where my mental images are TV black and white and back-before-TV old paintings of whoever, probably a great Aunt Fanny, old even then, a strict woman with sad eyes and tight pursed lips, regally dressed for her commissioned painter. And I can sit here happily and dream up lives for these people whose existence may mean nought to me, but now, even in this brief moment, our paths have crossed.
A friend of Isobel’s pops in, evening time, dark outside and I sit quietly listening, exploring thei polits converse and I’m hit, oooooh – h – h, aren’t people’s lives so big, S -O – B – I – G. Each person’s story so hugely relevant to themselves, so many tiny stories, so much background, upbringing, shaping thoughts, shaping attitude, direction. So important, that lust for life, life so important, I’m hugely happy, hugely inspired.
This house, in night time, one room lit, next room black as blackest devil’s night, no invading dim dull grim light, but total darkness, like stuck on with glue, each room a separate entity, each with identity not for invasion. Wish to stay for several weeks to travel the depths of its ghostly stature.
And my dream, in dozing rapture dreams like before sleep, like, can still hear radio in back, influencing the direction of your dreaming, so I wonders if there’s ever a day gone by when no murder has been committed! And think, that like we have a national no-smoking week, maybe we can have a national no-murder week.
Well, whaddya think?
1994ever 