Chapter 12
Pleasurable pursuits

Email To: Twila
From: Leslie Ann
Date: 28 March
Subject: Culture-less

Dear Twila,

Sometimes I feel I am living in a time warp compared to you and your interesting life. I loved your description of the ballet. I’m sure it was lovely. Do dancers still wear tutus? The only ballet we’ve seen here is deer jumping in front of our headlights at night. I have to say their leaps are damn impressive.

We are making friends in our village and are even on the summer fete committee. Fundraising here is on a more ladylike scale, as only two zeros are required to bring a smile to the organizer’s face. It is a far cry from the million-dollar targets we were accustomed to raising in Palm Springs.

I’ve got to run. My willow weaving classes are about to start. Now doesn’t that make you pea green with envy?

Love,
Leslie Ann

No thriving community would be complete without cultural events and entertainment opportunities, and our area was no exception. Ignorant of what was available prior to our move to Rutland, we considered the idea that we might have to console ourselves on cold winter nights with our recollections of riveting Maggie Smith moments in West End theatres. We retained numerous boxes of old playbills to linger over just in case we became desperate. Thankfully, however, cultural happenings were as much a part of the landscape here as they were in London. They were just on a different scale.

We had to thank the internet for rescuing us from our fears of cultural deprivation by alerting us to the options available in our area. We discovered the Stamford Assembly Rooms, Arts Centre and Theatre, all part of an imposing Palladian-style eighteenth-century building reminiscent of Jane Austen, ball gowns, cinched waists and heaving white bosoms. Built in 1727 to host formal dances and Hunt Balls, the rooms would have been lit by gas chandeliers while gilt mirrors bounced slivers of silvery light from one corner of the room to the other, illuminating the grand space. Titled Lords and Ladies would have arrived by coach to the delight of townsfolk gathered on the street to enjoy the sight of the glitterati, a Regency period red carpet moment.

Assembly rooms were considered an acceptable venue for young women with dewy complexions to display their good breeding, to engage in enlightened discussions and to take tea in a setting outside the home. Previously, the only external outlets in which the fairer sex could fraternize would have been in church or at local fetes. This makes the period a watershed for the socialization of women. Men, on the other hand, frequently enjoyed the company of other males in drinking establishments and card parlours as well as in the pursuit of more physical activities such as hunting and shooting. Life, however, was destined to change as women slowly entered polite society. To the dismay of many a man, public gathering rooms eventually were declared out of bounds to swearing, sword fighting and ‘pissing’, all previously enjoyed pastimes.

Today, the building functions as a cosy multiplex for stage and screen. The local theatre productions don’t exactly rival those on Broadway, but the movies are top notch and the prices are right at £4 a ticket compared with a staggering £12 in London. There is also an enthusiastic following for the diverse line-up of entertainment, which includes poetry readings, book festivals, jazz evenings and art exhibitions.

Fast becoming the equivalent of trained truffle sniffers, we learned to manoeuvre our way through local newspapers and supermarket poster boards to uncover any tidbit of interest that could inform, entertain or exercise us over weekends. Spotting a photo opportunity mentioned in the ‘What’s On’ section of the Rutland & Stamford Mercury, we scurried off for a short thirty-minute drive north into the famed Sherwood Forest.

Need I state the obvious that our all-weather boots were helpful on the day we decided to view the annual outing of winter snowdrops and aconites in the luscious grounds of Hodsock Priory. The 2-hectare garden with an 800-metre woodland walk, mud puddles included, was the highlight of the private 324-hectare estate. Nestled beneath skeletal trees with their naked limbs exposed to the chilling winds were drifts of tiny green asparagus-like spears. Each one was topped with a floral crown that erupted into the sunlight to create one vast carpet of white. With the timing of a high-wire trapeze artist, these teardrop-sized petals poke through the hard, black soil each year at exactly the same time, flaunting the courage necessary to stand up to the perils of winter. I think this is one reason these flowers are so loved in England. Not only do they promise that something better is in the offing, they represent the bulldog spirit of Britain, always fighting onward in the face of adversity.

But who in this green and pleasant land can fight on without a piping hot cup of tea and the accompanying temptations of creamy fudge, brick-hard scones and the paraphernalia of tea towels and souvenir silver spoons? No self-respecting stately home or National Trust property, regardless of the pedigree, would dare open its doors to the public without first arranging a venue for this most venerable English ritual.

With eyes closed, I can describe a typical setting with such consistency that it would be missed if it were ever to change. The most common tearoom location is usually a barn, conveniently situated near the exit to the property or in a basement reached by a flight of stairs that descends into a dungeon-like, windowless room, heady with the smell of bleach because of its close proximity to the toilets. The odour always competes with the aroma of warm sausage rolls and hot tea, placing tough demands on palate and stomach. The atmosphere in the room is either slightly stale like a hospital waiting area or steamy like a well-used sauna. Wherever the location, it is inevitably too small for weekend traffic and too large for weekdays.

Crocodile fashion, Bill and I joined the queue for tea. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we pushed our chipped, laminated trays along the serving line as we waited to make our selection from the never-quite-full buffet. Cheese and pickle, ham and tomato and egg and watercress sandwiches were all individually labelled and wrapped in cling film supposedly for easy identification. As there was only a sneeze of filling between the slices of bread this was more than appreciated. The glass dessert cabinet contained the usual suspects: chocolate cake, shortbread and sweet biscuits with strawberry jam. Eventually, we reached the tea and coffee station where white crockery cups and saucers were stacked high, slightly warm and still damp from their recent washing in the kitchen sink. Uttering to the attendant, ‘Tea for two please’ brought forth a set of baby spoons and a stainless steel, guaranteed-to-drip pot filled with boiling hot water poured over one solitary tea bag, string dangling over the side. Sugar, recycled paper napkins and utensils were just beyond the cashier, a woman who gave the impression it was her first time handling money. Smiling knowingly back at the hungry masses waiting to join the queue, we spied the only free table, wiped spilled sugar from the plastic chair seat with one hand and cleared the cutlery and cups left by the former occupants with the other. Tea, the most quintessential English beverage, does not always have to be posh to be prized.

Anna, the seventh Duchess of Bedford, first popularized the drink in the 1840s when she discovered that taking tea with bread and butter in her chambers in the afternoon helped to ward off ‘that sinking feeling’ before embarking on an evening of frivolity. Soon she was inviting her lady friends to join her for a more elaborate affair with finger sandwiches and small cakes. An institution had been born.

Ironically, in a society that still believes in the relevance of class, ‘high tea’ should actually be called ‘low tea’ as by definition it is a quick, inexpensive meal. Served between five and six in the evening, it is enjoyed at the ‘high’ or main table instead of at smaller lounge tables. It is a misnomer to think of it as an elegant caprice as there is nothing grand about a selection of warm sausages, portions of smoked fish, wedges of hard bread and a pot of tea. The popularity of this light evening snack skyrocketed when the Temperance movement discovered a hidden benefit to society—it kept men out of the bars and off the gin at night.

I wasn’t aware of the enthusiasm for this meal in London, but here in the countryside it is still widely enjoyed. It’s the perfect solution for exhausted mothers with small children, for party animals who want sustenance in their stomachs before a night of binge drinking and for a quiet, stay-at-home DVD night with Bill. We’ve gone native at last.