Chapter 27
Two thousand years of blood and guts

Email To: Simon
From: Leslie Ann
Date: 30 August
Subject: A state of war

Dear Simon,

Who needs George Bush anyway? We can start our own war over here without him. In fact, Bill and I have been in a battlefield all day. You would think we would see enough blood and guts on the television without going to look for more in the countryside. The good news is that no one was killed and we had a great time with the soldiers. Even an old pacifist like you would have enjoyed it.

Lots of love,
Leslie Ann

If good weather prevails over the preceding months then the harvest should begin in late July and continue into August. Arable crops that turn from vibrant green in spring to golden brown in autumn patiently await combine harvesters to release them from their heavy loads. Fleets of machinery are a common sight as they work the fields creating patchworks of beige and green. Grain-filled trucks navigate narrow lanes en route to feedlots, bakeries and breweries. It is not unusual at this time of year for qualified heavy machinery drivers to come into Rutland on a contract basis, so great is the workload. One resourceful lad is reputed to make enough money each season to support his envied lifestyle surfing for six months on Bondi Beach.

It is also one of the busiest times of the year for farmers as the fruits of their labour are all tied up in tiny seeds and pods. The first crop to feel the blade of the harvester is barley, which is used for malting and animal feed. Liquid sunshine or rapeseed, used in most of the world’s cooking oils, is next to be gathered followed by wheat and oats. By the end of the month, good weather allowing, bailing of straw will begin. These flaxen bundles silhouetted against the horizon are works of art whether viewed in the early morning mist, in a golden sunset or under a full harvest moon. Photo opportunities are so numerous that it is almost criminal not to keep a camera in the car at all times.

Stately homes and gardens also provide great photo opportunities. The English countryside is simply littered with them which is helpful when one wants to wile away a Saturday afternoon. Kirby Hall, located on the southern border of Rutland, was just such a venue. Constructed for the sole purpose of receiving and entertaining royalty the mansion was always a bridesmaid but never a bride, as the home hosted many important names but sadly no monarch. Most of what remains of the sixteenth-century building today is a roofless shell with only the formal staterooms and gardens open to the public. So, with camera in hand, we set off to take a look.

As we approached the Hall we found ourselves in the middle of something unexpected, sinister and disconcerting. Ahead of us in the fields lay hundreds of bloody, mangled bodies. It was war out there and it begged the question, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing unless of course you have time on your hands and a curious mind. After all, who can resist the smell of gunpowder, fields of casualties and the clash of helmet against helmet, sword against sword? What a wonderfully exhilarating way to spend a Saturday. Is this a politically correct family pastime? Apparently the Brits think so.

For the last seven years, English Heritage has been staging historical battle re-enactments all over England, chronicling over 2000 years of blood and guts. We couldn’t resist being a part of it, so once again we broke out our faithful Wellington boots from the boot of the car and entered a minefield of mud at Kirby Hall to thank those responsible, figuratively of course, for their heroism in the heat of battle. Before we could stomach the ‘Cut and Thrust School of Defence’ or the ‘Dying to Meet You’ lecture we thought it best to fortify ourselves with some traditional rations. Standing cheek by jowl at a food stall with a brawny off-duty Roman gladiator eating a fresh cream and strawberry crepe was eerie enough. Watching a bloodstained soldier from the Battle of Stalingrad down a hot dog dripping with chilli had a stomach-churning effect.

Hour upon hour fresh troops were brought forth to recreate battles with the Byzantines, the Yorks and the Lancastrians, the Legions of Rome, the French in the Peninsular War, the Confederates and the Yanks, the Eastern Front of the Second World War with Russian and German armies and the Battle of Normandy. The grand finale concluded with a serenade of cannons and massed artillery. Earplugs were not included. Everyone was having so much fun it was hard to determine where one war ended and the next began. Witnessing history does have its serious side and make no mistake this was authentic down to the brass buttons on the Hussar’s uniforms. The group of 3000 travelling performers, mostly enthusiasts, hailed from all over Europe, America and Australia, although why they would want to come to England for our summer is beyond me.

Taking a much-needed break from the mayhem and trench fighting, we meandered down the tented midway to see the commercial side of war. Poking our noses into canopy covered shops we discovered a more lucrative side of battle. Vendors were selling used clothing, military metals, weapons, knives, swords and well-used drinking vessels. In fact, it was here that I bought my replica Charles II half-pint, pewter mug, which immediately found a home in the Jackson Stops. It now hangs over the bar next to the ‘big boy’ pint mugs. Never again shall a common bar glass assault my lips.

The entire day was moving and thought provoking. Watching a First World War trench fighter shivering in the muck, ducking enemy fire, was a lamentable sight. It was a reminder of what can happen when the world goes mad. Thankfully, when the gates closed for the night and the customers departed all hell broke loose! Numerous kegs of beer brought friend and foe together for a pint. Even the Germans and the French were on speaking terms with the English. The brew seemed to do for war what politicians have never been able to achieve—bring happiness and sound sleep to the weary.

Exhilarated and thirsty after our day’s outing we set our sights on the prospect of tucking into a chilled bottle of oaked chardonnay. The late afternoon sun blessedly had come out in the nick of time to warm us up and dry us out. The Olive Branch at Clipsham, another local pub/restaurant situated a curvaceous kilometre on the other side of Stretton, was our destination. Tucked into the elbow of the main street, hardly more than a lane, is this unpretentious yet thoroughly sophisticated restaurant. It is equally charming for a candlelight supper, a Christmas dinner or for a pint of ‘olive oil’, the local brew, and a gossip in the rosemary-scented garden. This versatile and now quite renowned restaurant has a unique history.

The fact that it exists at all today is due to community ingenuity and entrepreneurial thinking. The quaint barn in which the restaurant is situated, with sixteenth-century ceiling supports and beams, had been converted into a pub years ago. At some point in the late 1990s, the owners wished to sell out. When the property was placed on the market locals feared it could be re-zoned for residential use, denying the village their only pub. A foresighted group of folk felt strongly about the merits of maintaining the gathering place for socializing and community events. They decided this far outweighed the need for another home. Seed money was put together to modernize the building, and a partnership was set up with three enterprising young men, well trained in the culinary profession. Within two years of opening, the restaurant was awarded a coveted Michelin star. Sean, who has been in the catering trade since the age of fourteen and is one of the restaurant’s partners, said of receiving the star, ‘It was a dream come true, something that all chefs aspire to.’ Rutlanders from all over the county shared his joy, especially as only one other pub in England had ever received such an honour. Needless to say, their stock went up overnight, as did the length of time required to make a weekend booking.

As usual, Bill and I were in no hurry for dinner so we settled into one of the church pews near the inglenook fireplace, ordered two glasses of wine and took in the old-world charm from our perfectly placed vantage point. The deep yellow walls, suggestive of an opened mustard jar, change colour with the light. They can appear creamy and golden or brownish-ochre like the dried remains on the sides of a bottle. Dotted around are local artists’ paintings and various culinary citations. In the corner a clock is set permanently at 11.30 pm, a little after traditional English pub closing time. On the bar sits an old tin tub, frosty and dripping with condensation, filled with bottles of chilled white wine and French champagnes. A nearby blackboard displays a respectable selection of New World reds, dessert wines and ports.

Eventually, Dave, a jovial maître d’, called us to our scrubbed white, candlelit table in one of the smallish dining rooms just off the bar. A distinguished appetizer plate of tempura-battered tiger prawns with sweet chilli dip was placed before me while Bill opted for leg of honey roast confit of duck with red cabbage and truffle mash. We knew our main courses would be worth waiting for as we kept an eye on the dishes emerging from the steamy kitchen. In other words, we ordered by sight: ‘We’ll have what they’re having.’

A rich dish of roast loin of local venison with potatoes and braised endive was served to me while Bill tucked into chicken pot-au-feu garnished with fresh local vegetables and chateau potatoes. All the tables were full throughout the restaurant and the bar was beginning to build up a healthy clientele of locals dropping by for a ‘natter’ at the end of the evening. We lingered at our table over the last drops of our wine, soaking up the warm, misty atmosphere for which English country pubs are so famous. Quite an ending to a day, when you consider it all began with the Legions of Rome marching into Britain in 43 AD.