>>Market is on Mondays in the center of town, and has been for of centuries. China cups, underwear, fruits and vegetables. MC bought a small set of acrylic paints, and a jar of lemon curd. English strawberries, other treats. We could have crossed to the agricultural area and bid on a flock of sheep, but didn’t.<<

::::sighing fondly:::: We bought some plum cake and a pork pie - ambrosia.

I really, really want to go back and spend more than two days in the Peak District.

Lee Ann

>>They are Austen fans and love the country <<

They will probably remember, then, that it was her aunt's travel advice (clearly a Fodorite before her time) that took Lizzie Bennet on a trip to Derbyshire where she saw Pemberly - and began to revise her opinion of Mr Darcy (she had the sense to size up his properties first, smart girl).

Lizzie had already revised her opinion of Mr. Darcy by the time she got to Pemberly, and the sight of his properties just made her more regretful, thinking she had blown her chances. She clearly hadn't read enough romance novels.

Just putting in a word for the purity of Lizzie's motives.

Second your opinion of Haddon Hall. We stayed in the Peak District for a week last trip and Haddon Hall was our favourite expedition. I was delighted to see it appear as Thornfield in the latest Jane Eyre from the BBC.
Loving your trip report.

Rosemary

Finally catching up w/ your fabulous report . . . picking up since crooked spire . . .

I've noticed a HUGE change in reactions to colonial visitors in the years since I first moved to England then and then re-visited many times. Not that awfully long ago, not a day would pass whereupon hearing my accent, more than one person would say "Yank?" or "Are you from America?" and then follow on w/ questions whether I know their friend who lives in Chicago or Seattle or wherever. As though Chicago/Seattle are villages down the road from where I live in northern Calif. And then tell me about their holidays in Florida or wherever.

That doesn't seem to happen much anymore - -

Isn't Haddon Hall WONDERFUL?!

Did you get to Hardwick Hall?

Renishaw Hall, which stood in for Pemberly in the Colin Firth BBC miniseries, is near Chesterfield.

Currently, it's having a special exhibition about Dame Edna (wtf?) You can't make this stuff up.

http://www.sitwell.co.uk/index.shtml

Thanks, Rosemary. MC and I watched the Jane Eyre DVD again last week, and kept saying things like, "There's the minstrel's gallery! The bombé window!"

Speaking of BBC, Apres_L, thanks so much for the In the Thick YouTube link. I didn't know you could watch entire shows there. Episode 3 and covering up the second home problem was ahead of its time, and they're all really funny. I'd previously had a kind of a vague idea that BBC has a mandatory period costume rule.

Hi, janisj. No, we didn't make it to Hardwick Hall, didn't spend much time in and around Chesterfield at all.

Maybe someone's got the word out the the English not to buttonhole Yank strangers.

They are Austen fans and love the country>>>

Muppets.

My favourite new thing is watching Malcolm and Jamie go ballistic.

And you won't get any arguments from me, C_W. I think Jane Austen is boring and I've already explained how being in the country makes me nervous. I wouldn't mind having a pony for a pet, though.

I keep thinking I'm going to remember and use some of those Malcolm or Jamie lines, but then I forget them. (That, and they are possibly too unladylike for everyday use.)

If I worked with anyone like that it wouldn't be so amusing, probably.

BLOOMING ENGLAND

Along with the near-perfect weather, we lucked into a great time for flowers abloom. From the rose-covered cottages on Portobello Road and the beauty of Queen Mary’s Garden, to the tiny daisy-like flowers in the lawns and buttercups everywhere in the country, England was a massive garden.

On our walk to Haddon Hall, we walked through fields of waist-high wildflowers similar to what we’d call Queen Anne’s lace, and the Hall had vases of them around. I asked an older man there what they were called, assuming it’s a flower that every local person would know, and before I could stop him he darted off to inquire for me. The verdict: “Baby’s Breath, we think.” It was fun to see it blooming in one of the last scenes of the Jane Eyre film.

We flushed a cock pheasant on that walk, too, a brilliant bird with his tawny body and his white neck ring; I’d never seen a live one so close before. Maybe he was protecting the nesting wife and children by drawing our attention.

The Wye at Bakewell has a variety of waterfowl paddling around near the bridge, and huge trout darting around. Anglers flyfish alongside people enjoying their fish and chips on the benches. The trout, I imagine, must get caught and released, unlike their unfortunate cousins from the chippies.

If I lived in all the rush of London, it would be soothing sometimes to think of sheep grazing near drystone walls.

>>If I lived in all the rush of London, it would be soothing sometimes to think of sheep grazing near drystone walls.<<

Oh it is, it is. Especially when you can watch them on TV and not actually have to make the effort to go and see them for real (time was, people would actually watch sheepdog trials on TV: perfect for a Sunday teatime snooze).

I don't know, Patrick. Too pallid an echo. You might as well watch one of those crackling fire videos in the wintertime.

I say venture out minimum once a year and soak up the total experience, nettles and smells and all. Save TV for Have I Got News For You and Mr. Bean reruns and such.

And sheepdog trials, of course.

THERE AND BACK AGAIN

Our last morning in Bakewell we decided to see if we could get to London a couple of hours earlier than planned, since there wouldn’t be time for a local expedition anyway. The bus terminal at Chesterfield was about a 10 minute walk from the train station, past the church where you can see the spire corkscrewing to the sky.

So, it turns out that the UK passenger rail system is privatized, and run by many different companies. We had 1st class tickets on Eastern Midlands, through Virgin, or possibly the other way around, and I presented them to the ticket counter man at the Chesterfield station with our earlier train request. He peered at them closely, said they should work, and advised a train soon for Nottingham and change there for King’s Cross.

We duly hopped on the train, took our seats and were under way when the conductor came, looked at our tickets, and told us we were on the wrong train. (There’s something about those words that makes the heart skip a beat or two.) We explained the situation and that we’d be changing for London, she mentioned an accident with fatalities on the London bound track, and gave us another piece of paper to use on the next train.

In Nottingham we got on the London bound train, and sat in the 1st class compartment as ticketed. The way to go. Elbow room, quiet, coffee, tea, biscuits. All seemed right with the world until the new conductor looked at our tickets and told us again we were on the wrong train. More substernal flutterings. We had bought our tickets from a different company than the one running that train, which I had never considered. I explained again about the Chesterfield agent, and mentioned the accident with fatalities by way of corroborative detail, and she relented, smiled, stamped our tickets and let us drink our tea in comfort. We’d have bought more tickets, but were glad not to. Thank you, kind conductors.

We had only the one night in town before flying out, so that was our night for 5 star hotel splurge at Grosvenor House. We took the bus from the station to Oxford St. and then trundled our suitcases down through Mayfair, hoping the hotel would have a room ready for us. We passed the US embassy, hung with flags and bristling with security, in Grosvenor Square, and figured out that the state flags are hung in order statehood, reading south to north.

The staff at Grosvenor House was as pleasant as those at our other hotels, and we were able to get into our room right away. It was a comfortable room, and we inspected it for all the things that might make it five-starry. The bath was all marble, with chrome shower fixtures involving many knobs and a waterfall-like shower head, and shaving mirrors that tell you more than you want to know about your face.

You must ask at the desk for someone to bring the complimentary tea things to your room. A spiffily uniformed man arrived in due time carrying a linen-covered tray containing a wooden box of tea bags, a kettle and French press coffee maker, and china cups and saucers.

Of our three London hotels, I liked the airy room and the breakfast at Fraser Place Queen’s Gate, the neighborhood in Fitzrovia, and luxuries like the tea tray, towels and shower best at Grosvenor House. MC liked GH’s workout room. I’d stay again in any of them, but more preferably the first two where I never felt like an imposter.

Refreshed, declining offers to call cabs, we headed down Park Lane and to Tate Britain until closing time. Later another bus took us up Whitehall and past Houses of Parliament, where what surely must have been various MP’s stood in the afternoon sunshine having their feet held to the TV fire by Fleet Street, with stately buildings as backdrop.

After The 39 Steps, we walked down Piccadilly St towards our hotel. As we passed the Royal Academy courtyard we could see bright lights and photographers, and a group of beautifully scented and dressed young women walked ahead of us out onto the sidewalk, loudly laughing and calling attention to themselves. Their voices reminded me of Patsy and Eddie in Absolutely Fabulous. The next day’s Times revealed that it had been a fashion event of some kind. Is there a fashionista accent?

Breakfast at the Wolseley was fun as a one-time event. It’s a black and white affair: black shiny columns, people in charcoal grey suits looking like someone you’d trust to build you an empire. Attractive humanity from wall to wall. The room is noisy, with all those shiny noise-bouncy surfaces. Did all those people reserve months in advance as we did? Do some come every morning to the same banquette, the way a small town retiree has his usual stool at the diner?

The things about sheeps is they are only viually appealing from a distance. When you get close to them you realise they look like dirty cotton wool.

Unless you're welsh, in which case you have a "trouser incident".

CW - a country boy. Has seen lots of sheeps. Is not welsh.

Grosvenor House sounds lovely. I probably would have spent the entire time soaking in the tub. Were the toiletries nice?

In my mind, the sheep are always off in middle distance. Sometimes you can hear a faint baa.

Apres, the soaps and things were very nice at Grosvenor House, but probably so high class I didn't recognize the brand. We were too busy running around to wallow in the luxury too much. For £21 we could have had room service continental breakfast. A person could get used to places like that.

>>Sometimes you can hear a faint baa.<<

That'll be the Welshman at work.

Oh, now you've done it. Wolves forcing their attentions upon my mind's eye sheep.