(Host) Commentator Bill Schubart and his wife has just returned from a
visit to England to sample its rich history, see his stepson who works
there, and to see if the food is any better. It was a somewhat eccentric
vacation.
(Schubart) On our
occasional visits to England, we’ve taken up renting Landmark Trust
properties, which are considerably less expensive than hotels, especially when
friends and family join in. We usually rent an eccentric building such as a
grange, hunting lodge, or folly. That comes with a kitchen, bath, bedrooms and
medieval living quarters. We just returned from a weeklong stay at Wolveton, the
14th century stone gatehouse to a Tudor estate.
The owner
introduced himself the first day, evincing his life-long passion for spirits,
his disdain for British animal rights types, hoi polloi from the former colonies, and modern conveniences.
The latter was
evident after we climbed the round oak staircase in the turret to our living
room and realized he had removed the central heating and left bijou electric
heaters around the massive stone structure that did little more than dim the
already dim lights. What little heat they did produce was immediately vacuumed
up the massive stone fireplace as we burned everything combustible.
We were thrilled
with the lack of TV, amused by the lack of radio, chagrined by the lack of
Internet and dismayed by the lack of either a telephone or consistent cell
service. The owner pronounced such amenities "modern hogwash" and launched into
a diatribe against Oliver Cromwell and liberal innovators. On politics, we quickly
learned to maintain radio silence.
During our stay,
we fell victim to many lovable and cloying British idiosyncrasies, some of
which reminded us of home in rural Vermont.
In Piddlehinton, we asked three different locals where the post office
was and got three different answers that gave us a satisfying sense of having
seen the whole town, if never the post office.
English food
remains barely edible, though there are some delightful local cheeses, such as
Stinking Bishop, being made in the rural countryside.
One evening at
the Yammering Buttocks Publick House, I had crab gubbins, peamash, and herring
roe on toast triangles, all washed down with two pints of Sheepknocker stout.
Had I judged the food by the menu descriptions, I might have just been happy
with my warm stout and gone back to our frigid gatehouse.
One of the more
daunting challenges in England remains driving 50mph down the middle of
a single-lane country road at night with your eyes glued to the GPS screen. The
single lane is walled in by impenetrable hedgerows. There are occasional
pull-offs into which the less macho driver must detour. On the two-lane roads,
of course, one must remember to drive only on the left.
Sadly, the
British no longer raise children, they raise small dogs, some of which now are
admitted to Eton and Harrow. They are not yet accepted in college,
but if one MP has his way, they will soon be covered by the National Health
Service.
Many Britons told us that their country, like our own, had lost its way,
but I can assure you they have not lost their great eccentricity.
Our visit
reminded me in many ways of home.