Where's That Then? No 12

The English Counties Illustrated is an Odhams book. Once so ubiquitous, these were cheaply produced volumes and usually printed in their hundreds of thousands on huge presses at the side of a by-pass in Watford. Except this one, because I see it's printed in Norwich. The jacket blurb says "This is not a guide book but rather an armchair companion, presenting an interesting and readable picture of each of the English counties". And what companions they are. Amongst many others are S.P.B. Mais, James Wentworth Day, Jack Simmons and John Betjeman. Here he is on the county he once lived in: "Berkshire is like a tattered old shoe, kicking out eastwards from Gloucestershire". For so long ignored, and perhaps a little sniffily, I think these books are now certainly worth seeking out again. Does that help with this morning's location? Probably not, but isn't that typography a treat?

Sunday Times

Please forgive two postings on one day; but I am aware that I've been a bit dilatory in bringing you scenes from Unmitigated England recently. This melancholy dull afternoon in Leicestershire gives me the perfect opportunity to catch up. Sunday lunch has been, and I hope for everybody still is, a very worthwhile institution. Right from childhood (Father: How much did you pay per pound for these bones mother?) and through all the very memorable lunchtimes with the beautiful women and children who have shared my life since, Sunday Lunch has always been very special. Particularly for the wine-fuelled interchanges that have taken place. So, I just have to share two snippets of conversation that have just taken place over the refectory table here. (Lord Ashley at one end, two of my heirs crouched at the other.) Me to the elder of the two (12): "Will you do this for me when I'm old and you've learnt to do a roast pig as good as this?" Son: "Yes of course, if we can remember who you are". Five minutes of quiet eating and then Son the Youngest (6) puts down his knife and fork and says: "I've got a cure for the Black Death". Me: " Bit late, but what is it?" Youngest Son: "Lemons". Me: "That was to prevent scurvy on ships". Reply: "Oh yes", followed by silence and the passing round of the gravy jug.

Eyecatching Model

Sharp-eyed viewers will probably recognise these buildings from a painting in Unmitigated England. They are without doubt my favourite model farm buildings, a mid-19th century group that, along with stables and a half-submerged church, form all that remains of the Normanton estate in Rutland. St.Matthews is now marooned like a baroque lighthouse on nearby Rutland Water, but for all the cycling, walking and messing about in boats going on so near, hardly anybody appears to come down a little lane opposite one of the main, very expensive, car parks. Normanton Lodge farm comes into view from behind a couple of modern barns (that's their shadow in the foreground) on a bend in the road winding across to Empingham. For a long time there was a bright red portable water tank on tracks in the foreground, and it's there in my watercolour. But on Thursday I took advantage of an extremely cold but bright afternoon to do some preliminary work on a future project, and of course I came straight down here to find that much of the detritus in front of the buildings had been cleared away. Snap. Snap. The big house was demolished in 1925, but it doesn't take much imagination to still feel the presence of many farm workers going about their agrarian business in stone built barns, workshops and stockyards. I imagine the chimney had something to do with steam, probably to drive machinery like a sawmill. And somewhere to get warm on a frosty morning.

Carrot Artery

My neighbour on the adjoining estate has asked me to plug his new venture at the Goldmark Gallery in the market town of Uppingham. Unmitigated Travellers will have heard of this remarkable artcentric world, and now it has joined the blogosphere with a journal called, in true Goldmark fashion, Butchers' Hooks. I'll say no more, but I take this opportunity to remind Lord Carrot that he still has my Atco in his stable block. Held to Ransomes, you might say. I just hope that it has not become enriched with the Pleasing Decay patina that decorates the rest of his desmesne. Oh how I long for idle Saturday May mornings, thinking about that first cut of the year and the smell of freshly-cut grass under the cedars as...(get on with it. Ed.)

Where's That Then? No 11

The 1900s saw a plethora of partwork magazines that could be collected and then sent away to get bound into one, or many, volumes. Nothing changes then, as we saw once again in the New Year when you could build your own aircraft carrier in weekly instalments. This picture's from a collection called 'Beautiful Britain', (beautifully done as it happens, in half leather) and this fairly fanciful watercolour was by L. Burleigh Bruhl. Any clues, you ask. Well, it's one of the most visited spots in England, but only really since 1839. I've only been here once, and fled. Which isn't really giving it a chance. I expect to hear amazing stories of more profound visits.

Thorough Borough

A walk through Borough Market is always a particular pleasure, whether the stalls are crowded with produce or not. First there's Southwark Cathedral towering over it all like a lost Cotswold abbey, and then the railway crossing over the Thames and negotiating the tight curves of track over the viaduct to London Bridge station, the wheels squealing like bacon slicers. Unmitigated Readers may have heard me go on in this vein before, but I expect it will be an annual event like reading Three Men In A Boat. To be on this train and look down on the backs of houses and narrow streets is to experience the ghost of Dickens and the faint outlines of a Gustav Dore engraving. We sauntered through on Thursday, admiring hand raised pork pies and these pheasants bringing a whiff of misty shoots out in the Shires to the noise and bustle of London streets. Was ever thus, the countryside meeting London, and what better place than this with the added extra of the Market Porter pub smelling of stale beer on its wooden floors and fresh Harvey's Sussex Bitter in the taps. Sometimes the eyebrows get raised (Scottish Camembert at Neal's Yard) but overall this is a joyous place to be. Right, time to get the game chips prepared and a frypan of bubble and squeak I think.

Where's That Then? No 10

So sorry for the delay this morning. School run, blah blah. Much to say about this place, but anything said would immediately give it away. Nevertheless, I think it's one of the most hauntingly spectacular places in England. That's it really.