annhig

hi, rickmav,

loving the report, especially as I was brought up near Leamington [actually pronounced as in lemmings" and had an aunt in anursing home in Bourton on the water.

As i hope one day to be an elderly mother-in-law, I'm hoping very much that the tradition of taking these ladies out for sunday lunch continues until I'm well into my dotage. in fact, my family did that last week -end, but that was for mother's day so didn't count.

sorry about the tummy trouble - pity agatha didn't write "the revenge of the mince-pie".

regards, ann

rickmav

Hi SandyBrit - Glad you liked the picture of the tree, although it isn't as good as the real thing. I think it was also about standing shoulder to shoulder with all these excited people who were really in the Christmas mood.

And the parking - there's a saying, "If something seems too good to be true, it probably is." We should have remembered that. Rick still can't really laugh about it.

And about Rick being sick - yes, he just ate one tart. It might have been the red wine, tho'. But the tart didn't taste right to me, with all the lovely ingredients you've listed - thank goodness no meat - it should have tasted quite sweet and good. But it didn't, at least not to me.

I didn't know there was a music, books and movies forum, will have to check that out.

Hello annhig - Glad you are enjoying the report. "It's actually pronounced as in lemmings" - Oh no, I still wasn't saying it right. Thanks for setting me straight.

- "As i hope one day to be an elderly mother-in-law, I'm hoping very much that the tradition of taking these ladies out for sunday lunch continues" - So, it is a tradition. Wish we had something like that in Canada.

"The Revenge of the Mince-Pie" - I think that sounds like an exellent Christmas panto. Look forward to seeing it next time I'm in England for Christmas!

SandyBrit

rickmav - Click 'Talk' top of the screen and all the different forums on Fodors are just a click away. The Fodorite Lounge is fun and the airlines forum has very good information.

Are you still house hunting?

Sandy

rickmav

Part IX – Checking Out Real Estate, Heavenly Henley and the Jolly Farmer Farm Shop

Rick has been eyeing real estate in Wilmcote and he's quite taken with a house we pass every night on our evening stroll. It's very small, but looks cozy and sweet, so the next time we're at the Library in Stratford I look up the estate agent's website to check out the price. It's £355,000! That would be more than $800,000 in Canadian dollars. It's so tiny - I guess we won't be buying any real estate in England.

There's an article in the Sunday Times that says 25% of Brits are, on paper, millionaires because of the value of their homes. That's amazing. Rick and I keep wondering what the value is of the place we're staying at. It includes a three-bedroom B&B, Margaret and Ted's home, two self-catering cottages, plus a huge garden – it must be over 1½ million pounds.

There's a great picture on the front page of the newspapers today of Prince Charles being introduced, at some gala affair, to Katie Price (aka 'Jordan'). She's England's answer to Pamela Anderson. It's amusing to see the way the heir to the throne is eyeing Miss Price's 'coconuts'. You can hardly blame him though, they are huge! The papers are also saying that Prince William's girlfriend has been invited to Sandringham for Christmas. Apparently, 'girlfriends' are rarely invited to spend Yuletide with the Windsors.

Have run low on a prescription I have for a water pill and we go to Boots in Stratford to see if they will give me a few more, but they won't. The pharmacist says I will have to go to a doctor and get a new prescription. I ask how long it will take for me to get an appointment with a doctor and she says weeks. Which doesn't really help me. She says my only option is to go to emergency. I can't see doing that for a water pill; it would be a waste of everyone's time.

I show the pharmacist the letter I brought from my doctor at home, outlining the medications I take and why, but she says it doesn't matter. Then I ask if I could get my doctor to fax a new prescription and she says no, they will only accept a prescription from a doctor in the UK. It's a pain in the butt, but I suppose the pharmacist doesn't know me from Adam. I decide to halve the pill each day, keeping my fingers crossed that there won't be any dire consequences (the water pill apparently works with my blood pressure medicine).

For anyone coming to England with medications - make sure you count them carefully before you leave. If you miscount, or even lose your pills, it seems that your only option will be to go to emergency.

I'm reading a book called 'Lost on Everest: The Search for Mallory and Irvine' by Peter Firstbrook that I picked up at the Stratford Library. It's very good, reads like a great detective story. A couple of years ago I read an excerpt from the book in 'Vanity Fair' and really enjoyed it.

There's going to be a murder at Ragley Hall (www.ragleyhall.com/2-house/2-house.asp) this Sunday and I'd love to be there. It costs £50 per person and includes dinner with the Marquis and Marchioness of Hertford. Actors will blend in with the dinner guests and after the 'murder' guests will take a 'stab' at solving the case. I've visited Ragley Hall a few years ago and although it was a bit worn, in that particular English way, it had some lovely rooms. And was obviously a family home. (When I call later, the tickets have all been sold. Bummer.)

We go for a drive in the country and just past Wellesbourne come across the end of a 'hunt'. The horses, riders, and dogs are all on their way home and it makes such a country-kind of picture. I know there's a great controversy in Britain about foxhunting. The last time we were in London, we were caught in a massive demonstration when the country folks descended on the city. It was very well behaved for a demonstration.

I, personally, can't imagine anyone wanting to chase a fox and kill it - or kill any wild animal. And yet, through my brother-in-law, I have met some of the people associated with the Heythrop Hunt, near Chipping Norton, and have spent time with the hounds and horses. The people who run it are so nice and the animals so beautiful. I wonder if it's the equivalent to Canada's seal hunt.

We read an interesting interview with Judi Dench and her brother, Peter, in the Sunday Times magazine (www.djdchronology7.com/londontimes2006.htm). I didn't know Peter was an actor, or that he appears with his sister, Judi, in "The Merry Wives of Windsor." Apparently, both brother and sister set their caps on acting when they were quite small. I also didn't know that Judi's husband died a few years ago and a year later to the day, Peter's wife died. Peter Dench lives in Stratford; Judi lives just outside London with her daughter and grandson.

That night, we watch Rod Stewart on 'Parkinson', one of my favourite late night talk shows in England (http://parkinson.itv.com/). I can't believe it, but Rod never seems to look any older. In fact, he looks better now than when he was younger. A friend of mine from high school tells a story about being in a club in Toronto in the late 1970s and this skinny, pimple-faced guy kept coming on to her and finally she had to be quite aggressive in getting rid of him. Later that night, she discovered it was Rod Stewart. I wonder if she'd look twice at him now.

The next morning is lovely, we can almost get by without a coat. We go into Stratford, both needing to get a haircut. I can't remember the name of the place we go to, it's on Rother Street, and there's a woman's salon and a barbershop right next door to each other. A basic kind of place.

When I go in there's an 'old girl', sitting all by herself at a mirror, wearing a housecoat and curlers. She just stares at me. I don't know if she's a customer, or the receptionist. Or maybe the stylist! I smile. She keeps staring. I smile again; she swivels around in her chair so her back is to me – all the while watching me in the mirror.

I'm just about to leave when the real stylist comes out of the back. I suppose I should have called out for someone, but I was a little freaked out by the staring-housecoat-and-curlers-lady. It costs me £60 for a cut and colour – which is about $120 Cdn, $40 more than I would pay in Canada. Rick, next door at the barber's, gets his hair cut for £6.

The ladies' salon is quite a gathering place for elderly women. A feisty type says to one woman who is quite frail and who is celebrating a birthday the next day, "Well, Thelma, you might as well live it up tomorrow, go down to the pub, get drunk, go dancing – what can they do to us at our age?". Thelma, her face very serious, replies, "Oh no, my son wouldn't like that. He might not give me my tea." Yikes!

Rick says that on the men's side it was all teasing and laughing. Most of the elderly men were veterans and told outrageous stories about getting haircuts in the army. I think next time I may go for the marine cut and a dab of Grecian formula at the barber's.

The next day we do more Christmas shopping. Stop in Evesham – lunch, again, at Amber's Cafe – chicken goujons (chicken fingers for us North Americans) with an interesting sweet-tangy salsa, and a salad. Rick has the Philly cheese steak with chips. It costs £10 for both meals with a Coke. Then on to Stow. Spend a lot of time in the Scotts of Stow store after having perused their catalogue. Lots of juicy items.

Obligatory stop at Tesco on the way home where I buy a poinsettia for our cottage, and one for Margaret and Ted, our landlords. Tesco has a great Christmas promotion on wine and champagne – if you buy six bottles of wine and/or champagne, even if the product is already on sale, you get an additional 25% off your total. 'My' hairdresser, Debbie, says her family drinks champagne and orange juice Christmas morning – she calls it a Buck's Fizz. At home in Canada, we drink champagne, but have it in a kind of punch with fruit. Kind of like a bubbly breakfast.

That night, on our regular evening walk, we peep in at the windows of the 'Mary Arden' pub, and watch two women decorate the place for Christmas. It makes such a lovely picture. The fire is blazing away, and with the low ceilings, there are interesting shadows everywhere. The women are putting greenery and candles on the tables and in the window frames, and decorating a beautiful tree. I stand there, in the crisp evening air, and physically try to impress every image on my senses.

Later on, when we've return to our cottage, I think about the contrasts that we've seen in England - between what one wants to believe about the country, the fantasy of England, and the reality of a developed country in the 21st. c. Along with all the thatched houses, hedgerows and Sunday lunches in country pubs, is the increased use of guns in violent crimes, an immigration/refugee crisis that is dividing the country and the intense sadness and embarrassment about the war in Iraq.

We love the tasty, comfort food and delicious ales served in pubs, and yet almost every day on television there is some reference to the problems of child obesity and under-age binge drinking. We drive through these lovely villages with picture-perfect wattle and daub homes around the village green; yet almost every one of them has a security box on the outside. We see pictures of some royal ceremony that seems so comforting and decent, and yet an ex-KGB agent, living in England, is assassinated with radiation as the murder weapon. There's an article about the outrageous end-of-year bonuses stockbrokers are getting in London, and yet there are also alarming statistics about the number of people who can't afford a home, of any kind.

As tourists, we don't need to think about these things. But staying here for more than a few weeks, we have had to. There is a tension between the ancient and the modern that we just don't see in Canada, because we're simply not that old. It doesn't change how I feel about England, in many ways it seems more home to me than Canada, but it does make living here more complicated.

The next day, we go into Stratford for the French Market, with vendors coming all the way from Normandy. They are set up on on Henley Street, but there are so many stalls that they spill down the side streets. The smells are incredible – and it's wonderful to walk up and down the streets sampling the wares, hearing French spoken, and making some secret purchases. (Rick suggests the people who wait on us with French accents are probably out-of-work Stratford actors picking up a few bucks before Christmas. He can be such a cynic sometimes.)

We pick up enough things for a picnic lunch and sit on benches by the Avon to eat. The day is so beautiful; at home, in Canada, it is -47 degrees with the wind chill. Knowing our families are having to huddle through rotten weather, it seems indecent to be eating French food by the river on a warm, sunny day in December.

We buy galettes for dessert – these are French butter cookies that are made in special irons and cooked on the stove. My mother inherited her grandmother's galette irons and one of my family's special treats at Christmas – the only time my mother makes them – is eating galettes. (Rick says this is the reason he married me. One taste of this cookie, and he couldn't live without me - or my mother's cookies.) The ones we buy at the French market aren't as good as my mother's, but still remind us of Christmas. (For a recipe see: http://www.christmas-cookies.com/rec....galettes.html)

We separate to shop, and afterwards Rick tells me that in one store the clerk told him that all English people do at Christmas is eat and drink, and since she's a vegetarian and doesn't drink, she wasn't celebrating this year. Bah, Humbug!

There's a little store on Meer Street that I've passed on my way to the Library and it always has such fun things in the window, but I've never gone in. Today, they have a bubble machine operating at an open window on the floor above the entrance and as you walk up the street, there are these beautiful, irridescent bubbles floating all around you. I have to go in.

The store is called Vinegar Hill (www.bestofcotswolds.com/vinegarhill.htm) and it is jammed pack full of wonderful treasures. And I have my first taste of mulled wine! The gracious staff offer me a cup as I walk about the store. I buy a beautifully made journal for a friend, a silver 'sweetie' bracelet for our granddaughter and a Bess Starey hand-made coaster for my mother-in-law that says, (quoting Katherine Hepburn), "If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun." It's the kind of place you could spend hours in, man or woman, and find something for everyone in your life.

The next day we decide to explore Henley-in-Arden (www.henley-in-arden.org/), a few miles north of us. On our way there, we stop at the Yew Tree Farm & Craft Centre at Wootton Wawen (isn't that a great name? Annhig how do you pronounce that?). What a great place (www.e-travelguide.info/yewtree).

There's an assortment of shops and workshops, all housed in the original farm buildings. And there's everything from an antique store, gifts for cat lovers and a second-hand bookstore, to a place selling real (!) Christmas trees. Best of all is the Jolly Farmer Farm Shop.

It's wonderfully decorated for Christmas - and the shop sells homemade cakes and pastries, preserves and their own sausages and cheeses. We buy pork sausages with sun-dried tomato and basil, some freshly made chilli and a wonderful cheese from Wales – it tastes like butter with a twang to it.

The fellow running the shop lets us taste a variety of the different cheeses, until we decide on one we like the best. We also buy their cranberry preserves for our Christmas dinner. The place instantly becomes one of our favourite places in Warwickshire.

Then on to Henley. The High Street is about a mile long, perfect for wandering. Lots of black and white timbered buildings and wonderfully stocked charity shops. The oldest building in town is the Heritage Centre, which is closed. It's a local museum. The Guild Hall is another interesting building. There's also a Market Cross, dating from the 15th c. Important proclamations have been made from in front of the cross for over 500 years. Amazing.

We decide to check out Henley Ice Cream, a 16th century tearoom and ice cream parlour (www.henleyicecream.co.uk/). Everything looks scrumptious, but we decide to try the milkshakes. I have vanilla (I know, boring) and Rick tries the Devon Toffee. Both are delicious.

It's a decadent-treat kind of day, so we buy two delicious looking gingerbread cookies from The Henley Bakery. I've never had a real gingerbread cookie before. It's quite good and I must be a bit evil because I quite enjoy snapping off his head.

We spend the rest of the afternoon checking out the shops and then, on the way home, stop at The Golden Cross at Aston Cantlow for dinner. Between 6-7 p.m., the pub serves a three-meat carvery, with all the trimmings, for £3.95. We each have ½ pint of Flowers Best Bitter and it is very good. Two thumbs up.

Can't help but eavesdrop on a conversation at a table across from us. The woman and man sitting there are speaking so loudly that everyone is listening. The woman is in her early 60s and has this hoity-toity (as my grandma would say) English accent. She is perfectly groomed and looks as if she's never smiled in her life. The fellow with her looks exactly like the tall, bowed-shoulder, red-faced, Colonel-type that appears in every Agatha Christie mystery. He even wears tweed jacket.

The woman, lets call her Penelope, is complaining because she doesn't know how she can afford to keep her three homes – a farmhouse (that's what she calls it, but it sounds more like a manor house), a flat in London and 'the place' in France. 'Reginald' has just discovered damp and dry rot in the farmhouse and it's going to cost a fortune to fix it. Penelope wishes she'd sold it to 'those Americans' last year, but they were only prepared to give her a million pounds. She's considered selling the London flat, but can't bring herself to pay £100,000 in commissions to the estate agent.

Penelope and Reginald are tailor-made for a British sit-com. And we, guiltily, enjoy their problems.

Next...Part X – A Bum Toe, Vive La Parisienne and The Only Tourists at the Northend Village Christmas Concert

annhig

hi, Rickmav,

great report - looks like you know more about the UK than most of us Brits!

the info you were given about your prescription was only half correct, though. It is correct that you needed a prescription to obtain any more of your tablets. However, had you phoned or called into a local GP's surgery, you should have been able to get an appointment within days, particularaly as, given you are not UK citizens, you would have been a private patient! [presuming you were prepared to pay, of course].

Once the GP had seen your prescription, and perhaps e-mailed your Dr. in Canada, you should have had no difficulties, IMO.

AS for the pronounciation of "Wooton Wawen" the "Woo" bit is said as in "wool", the "Wa" as in "War", but without the "r" being pronounced. Sorry I can't make it any easier! hope that helps.

regards, ann

PatrickLondon

I'm wondering about your 'Penelope' and 'Reginald' - perhaps they were the out-of-work actors putting in a bit of practice?!

rickmav

annhig - Glad you are liking the report. As you can probably tell, I am fond of England. Thanks for the info on the prescriptions. I never thought of calling a GP myself - or perhaps, even our landlords could have helped out. I think I was cowed by the attitude of the pharmacist.

And as to "Wooton Wawen", I think I'll just say to people, 'There was this wonderful place just south of Henley...' - that way I won't get into any trouble.

PatrickLondon - "I'm wondering about your 'Penelope' and 'Reginald' - perhaps they were the out-of-work actors putting in a bit of practice?!" - You're probably right. They were so 'over the top', but very entertaining.

annhig

Hi, Rickmav,

don't worry about your pronounciation of WW - no-one will have heard of it anyway, and they wil inevitably get it wrong if they have!

I know how difficult it can be to think laterally when someone like a pharmacist tells you something- I've done the same sort of thing myself, only to kick myself later.

hope it will help if there's a next time. [hope it won't be!] incidentally, our only experience of US medical care was a few years back when on our 1st trip to Florida, DS then aged 6 developed a fever that wouldn't go away; after 2 days we were quite worried so asked around for a DR who turned out only to be a few blocks away. Imagine our surprise when he turned out to be a Brit who'd been brought up within 10 miles of where we were then living in darkest Kent!!! Didn't stop him charging us though!

regards, ann

chartley

Our local GP surgery state that they will offer a same-day appointment if you phone before noon. This is the same at other local surgeries. The suggestion of a wait of several weeks is way from the truth, and in your circumstances an urgent appointment was not required, and you had no need to see a specific doctor. You would almost certainly have been seen in a day or two.

For other people in the same situation, needing a repeat prescription while on holiday in the U.K., I would suggest going to the nearest larger health centre or group GP practice, where they should be able to accommodate you more easily and quickly. You will have to pay for the consultation, and for the prescription.

MissPrism

Yes, my local GP surgery will see you the same day.
You may not see your own doctor, but in your case, that wouldn't matter.
That pharmacist sounds a bit barmy.
Does she think that people phone the surgery and say "I'm thinking of being ill in three weeks time"

rickmav

annhig - Good morning. Isn't that strange - and wonderful - about the doctor from Kent.

Thanks chartley and MissPrism for the GP advice. I feel like getting back on the plane and marching right up to that pharmacist and waving your notes in her face. She really did make me feel like I was a water-pill addict or street pusher. Great information for others, and for me next time I'm in England.

Any idea how much a consultation fee would be?

flanneruk

Consultation would probably be free in the particular case you quote: your diuretic was essential to the blood pressure pill working, and that's arguably an emergency. Emergency GP appointments are free to everyone, and GPs are highly sensitised about blood pressure here.

I've noticed some surgeries in heavily visited areas now have detailed signs up about the free medicine rules for visitors - which sort of implies these practices are getting sharper about collecting cash. But there are still lots of anecdotes about pretty laid-back attitudes to all this.

julia_t

My GP surgery has a notice that a charge of 20 GBP will be made for visitors. I would think prescription charges would be the usual NHS rate charged at the pharmacy. I'm not sure what the going rate is nowadays - 6.50, 7.00?

A&E would not charge you for seeing you, but you would have most likely to pay for the prescription to be filled.

rickmav

flanneruk and julia_t - thanks for the helpful information. I'm surprised it's so cheap. (And sorry, flanneruk, that the panto review is taking so long. Hopefully, you'll enjoy our report of the Northend Christmas concert.)

--------------------------------------
Part X – A Bum Toe, Vive La Parisienne and The Only Tourists at the Northend Village Christmas Concert
---------------------------------------

Had planned to go into London for the turning on of the Christmas tree lights in Trafalgar Square, but my toe is infected and has swollen to twice its normal size. I can't even get it into my shoe. I'm very disappointed. I was looking forward to seeing the Crown Prince and Princess of Norway switch on the lights on the Norwegian evergreen (http://www.norway.org.uk/norwayuk/ch...istmastree.htm) and hearing the Norwegian Boys' Choir sing. My great-great grandfather came from Norway and I was curious to see if any of the proceedings made my Norwegian DNA dance.

But without a shoe, there's no point in trudging about London. So, I pout on the sofa. Rick goes into Tesco to get groceries and, I suspect, to get away from me. He returns with a dozen pink roses and 'After Eights', my favourite pouting chocolate. The weather is dreadful, windy and rainy, so we conclude, after my fourth chocolate mint, that it was probably for the best that we didn't go. (Later, we hear on the news that there was a 'tornado' in London. Now, wouldn't have that been fun.)

Over the next few days, as my toe heals, I do a lot of reading. Make my way through a batch of P.G. Woodhouse's 'Jeeves and Wooster' stories, which are just the right thing when you are feeling sorry for yourself. I've watched the DVDs at home in Canada, with Stephen Fry as Jeeves and Hugh Laurie as Wooster. They are hilarious.

Also read, "In Search of Moby Dick," by Tim Severin. I've enjoyed many of Severin's books – 'The Brendan Voyage' is one of my favourites. (I was thrilled to saw the currach he sailed in at the museum at Craggaunowen in Ireland (www.shannonheritage.com/Craggaunowen_Day.htm). In 'Moby Dick', Severin weaves the story of the white whale and Herman Melville's life with how the native whalers hunt in the South Pacific today. What I like about Severin's books is that they are always a great adventure, plus you learn something.

We watch a fascinating show on TV about Prince George, the Duke of Kent (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_...,_Duke_of_Kent). He was Edward the VIII's brother and the present Queen's uncle. According to the documentary, Prince George was addicted to morphine, was bisexual (Noel Coward was one of his lovers) and was only 39 when he died. His plane crashed in Scotland, on its way to Iceland. The Prince was going to liaise with the Americans (this was during World War II). The documentary is well done and it makes you think that the goings on of the current crop of princes and princesses are pretty tame compared to the generations before.

I wrap up my toe today and we set off for Compton Verney (www.comptonverney.org.uk/?page=home) to see the exhibit, "Vive La Parisienne: Women Through the Eyes of the Impressionists". But first, we stop at Hampton Lucy for another delicious lunch at the Boar's Head. The pub is quite full (this is a Friday), although we seem to be the only 'tourists'. Everyone else seems to know each other well. A very friendly place with great food.

Rick isn't interested in the exhibits at Compton Verney, so settles back in the car to read Poirot's 'Murder on the Links'. He must really be into it because when I show up a few hours later, he thinks I've been gone for 20 minutes.

The approach to the house is stunning, as are the views of the manor house from the ornate bridge over the ornamental lake. Robert Adam designed the house in the 1760s; Capability Brown landscaped the gardens. When I get to the front door there is a huge Christmas wreath hanging on it – it is so welcoming.

Three floors of the house have been redone with wood floors, gallery lighting, etc. and it seems odd to walk up to this stately manor house, and then enter a modern art gallery. First, I check out the special exhibition, and then look over the permanent collection.

The special exhibition focuses on the way Parisian women were portrayed in Impressionist paintings (http://www.comptonverney.org.uk/?pag...arisienne.html).
It features works by Renoir, Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec, Bonnard and Pissarro. There aren't many paintings –not for someone who could look at Impressionist art for hours – but what there is, is lovely. Most of the works are on loan from other museums in England.

My favourite thing of all is a ceramic plaque of a Parisienne by Paul-Cesar Helleu. It portrays a woman dressed in brown, wearing a blue hydrangea against a background of purple hydrangea and a sort of watery blue-green field. Apparently, the hydrangea first appeared in Paris in the 1880s and was used in art as a symbol of uniqueness. I love the brazen way the woman stares at you. You get the same look from the woman in a sketch by John Singer Sargeant. It's of the Viscountess d'Abernon and she is very attractive, with this black net thing around her hair (http://jssgallery.org/Paintings/Mugs...incent_mug.htm).

I'm a bit put out to discover in the exhibit catalogue that Renoir believed women writers, lawyers and politicians were "monsters" and "five-legged calves," and that the idea of a woman artist was ridiculous. The same to you, buddy.

One of the best things about Compton Verney, and a reason to go there all by itself, is the British Folk Art collection, the largest in the UK, housed on the third floor - (http://www.comptonverney.org.uk/?pag...britishFolkArt)
The series of rooms are jammed pack full of weather vanes, whirligigs and huge, shop signs. There are pincers, a key, a lock, a shotgun cartridge and shotgun, a teapot, a rubber stamp, a mortar and pestle, and a giant shoe.

I really covet the teapot. I would hang it in my kitchen, or over the chair where I sit and read. And the pub signs are fantastic, too – a swan, a huge boar's head, a big pig – I keep thinking how wonderful it would have been to walk down a city street with all these decorations in the air.

There are also some strange and wonderful things like a policeman's truncheon from the 1800s, a child's commode chair and a three-legged dog roasting fork. Also, lots of folk paintings of some really ugly pigs and cows, as well as a dentist pulling teeth, boxers, 'Nell, the Rat Hunter' (a dog!), bear baiting and one called, 'Returning From a Bad Market, Butter Only One and Nine', portraying a really grumpy man and woman.

The rest of the museum has lusterware, Chinese bronzes and a room dedicated to paintings of Naples from 1600-1800 (which is kind of eccentric and wonderful). There's one of Mt. Vesuvius erupting and it's very good, you can almost feel the heat.

By the time, I've trudged through it all, my toe is throbbing, but I'm very happy. What a great way to spend an afternoon.

The next day, with my toe bundled up inside my shoe, we venture out to find the tiny village of Northend. We've read about the village Christmas concert on a community board, although the tourist office in Stratford knows nothing about it, in fact, doesn't even know where Northend is. (On a website, Northend is described as being, "In the Heart of the Chilterns between Christmas Common and Stonor, six miles from Henley-on-Thames." Christmas Common – how perfect!)

We eventually find the village, but have no idea where the Turville Village Hall is. Rick goes in to the Red Lion pub and they don't know anything about the concert, but point him in the direction of the hall. Rick goes in to see if we need to buy tickets ahead of time and encounters a very tall man in a tux. He is one of the 'entertainers', but also collects money at the door and is in charge of the raffle. He assures us we do not need to buy our tickets in advance, and suggests we talk a walk around the village, since we are a bit early (my curse).

We take his advice and go for a walk, but it doesn't take long before we've seen it all. Eventually, we notice people in strange costumes – Frankenstein is one (this is known as foreshadowing) - making their way to the Hall, and so we follow.

Rick is worried that we will stand out, since it is obviously a community occasion – and we do – but the English are so polite you barely notice them giving you a second look. In the end, it is an absolute hoot and ratchets up the Christmas spirit at least 20 notches. It's as if the
'Darling Buds of May' met Agatha Christie with a dash of truly bad acting and writing, tea and biscuits at the interval and a mad (insane) 'sound' guy who keeps playing the gongs of the midnight clock at inappropriate times.

There are two plays, with an assortment of other entertainment thrown in. The first play is, "The Worst Christmas Play Ever" about a group of children's efforts (all played by adults) to remember their lines, etc. for a Christmas play. The second production is the basic story of Scrooge and the three ghosts. At one point, Scrooge is visited by Frankenstein and ghouls who dance, onstage and off, to 'The Monster Mash'.

There is a Christmas Circus with clowns and old, old vaudeville routines (the world's strongest man struggles with the barbells, and then leaves the stage. The skinny prop guy comes on to clean things up and lifts the barbells with one hand – that kind of stuff). We sing Christmas carols at different times and the Master of Ceremonies (a strange, little man that looks like Mr. Granger from 'Are You Being Served') keeps forgetting his lines. When someone finally gives him the promptbook to read from, he reads the audience responses and stage cues as well.

But he does do very well when he holds a conversation with Father Christmas off stage, and the children in the audience. He determines what they want for Christmas and passes their requests, with a lot of teasing and frivolity, on to 'Santa'. It is very sweet and the children are wriggling in their chairs they are so pleased.

At one point a 'pony' cavorts through the audience – and the prop guy comes out to clean up the make-believe poop. Then he throws the contents of the bucket into the crowd – it's full of confetti. Of course, all the kids – and some adults, too – scream at the top of their lungs.

At the interval, without anyone announcing it, people in the audience start queuing up. Rick leans over and says to me, "What's happening?" I say, "I'm not sure, but I suspect it's time for tea." Sure enough, five seconds later, a window opens in one wall and tea is served. The kids get fruit skewers, and marshmallow skewers dipped in chocolate. It's so cute to see all the little kids licking their paper plates, very politely of course, afterwards.

At the end of the concert, Frosty the Snowman – or woman as it turns out – takes off her head and thanks everyone for coming. She is herself thanked and is presented with two floral bouquets –her thank you speech consists of, "Andrew Lloyd Webber – eat you're heart out!" And then we all sing, 'Winter Wonderland' and it's time to go home.

We linger for a bit so I can soak up some of the after-show mood and conversations. Parents are collecting sleepy children with chocolate smears on their cheeks, dressed as angels with bobbing, tinsel halos over their heads. Frosty the Snow-Woman, head in hand, is walking about, thanking everyone and being told how brilliant she is. The tea ladies are clattering and clanging about in the kitchen, the fellow in the tux is flustered because he forgot to call the raffle, and a teenage boy and girl, oblivious to everyone else, are quietly playing a song at the piano.

As we make our way out into the brisk, evening air, I feel as if my lungs are full of Christmas. It's one of the sweetest things we've ever been a part of. We've been in search of what the true meaning of Christmas is – and we found it in the tiny village hall in Northend, Oxfordshire.

We stop at Stratford on the way home, for another great dinner at the Garrick Inn and to wander about and take photographs. It is late night shopping, and everyone is bustling about with their packages – it all adds to our rejuvenated Christmas spirit.

A lovely, lovely day.

I've finished reading a fictional account of the Dr. Crippen case ('Crippen: A Novel of Murder' by John Boyne). Crippen was the man accused of murdering his wife, cutting her up and burying the bits in the basement (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hawley_Harvey_Crippen). Her head was never found. Boyne suggests an interesting twist to the story, but I won't say anything so as not to spoil it for those who haven't read it yet.

What I didn't know was that Crippen's lover, Ethel Le Neve, came to Canada after the trial, changed her name, worked as a secretary, got married and had children. She died in Toronto in 1967 at the age of 84. Both she and Crippen requested that when they died they would each be buried with a picture of the other, and they were.

My eavesdropping is totally out of control. Today, while rounding the corner of the B&B next to our cottage, I happen upon the owners in an argument. I should have coughed or something, but I didn't. (I consider this all legitimate material for when I write 'The Great Novel')

They are arguing about Christmas cards (anyone who's married for any length of time knows what this one's about). Ted, the typical man, has decided that since the number of cards they send has increased dramatically, he's figured out a more efficient way of doing them. Basically, it's a kind of assembly line where he and Margaret will do the note-writing, stamping, licking, writing the addresses, etc. in a particular order.

Margaret wants to do each card individually – as she has been doing them for 50 years. In the end, Margaret wins – by simply telling Ted, "That's the way I've done it, and that's the way it's being done." As she walks away, I hear Ted mumble – loud enough so Margaret can hear - "Why don't we just write 'Happy Christmas Ad Infinitum' and be done with it."

We watch 'Howard's End' tonight, one of the DVDs we bought at the charity shop. I'd seen it before, but now having stayed in England for a while, I really understand why Vanessa Redgrave's character is so attached to her thatched, childhood home in Shropshire. (With wisteria and roses 'round the doors and windows.) I've never felt that way about a home, perhaps, that's why we've lived in so many of them. I wonder if I ever will.

Next...Part XI – A Christmas Carol in Oxhill, Make the Whining Stop and the Double-Decker Christmas Lights Ride

janisj

Maybe my favorite installment yet Thanks!

I can just picture it - having attended a quite few concerts, WI lectures, christmas fetes and such in nearby village halls.

I had a similar "off the beaten path christmas experience" in South Devon. We arrived to our rental cottage on 12th night and read on a noticeboard about a "wassail" in a village about 20 miles away. Well I always thought wassail was just a drink/punch-type thing. But it is a lot more - "wassail" is also a verb meaning among other things "toasting the apple". We had soooo much fun - first there were morris dancers out front of the pub, then a mystery play out in the car park - but more like Monty Python than York or Oberammergau. The whole village had turned out and there were burgers/sausages on a BBQ and treats in the pub. Then the morris troupe, the local vicar and a girl of about 12 dressed all in white w/ flowers in her hair lead all of us (about 150-200) carrying candles down a lane and into a couple of orchards where we "wassailed" the ancient apple trees. They lifted the girl up into a tree, and while we chanted and sang and clapped, the morris men fired shotguns into the air - and then she climbed down and on we paraded to another tree. The whole thing didn't end til nearly midnight.

Silly but really fun and not the sort of thing many "tourists" would see.

Didn't mean to hijack the thread - but just another example why it is good to check the notice boards and local newspapers for village events . . . .

annhig

hi, Rickmav - what a lovely experience.

of course we would not be so rude as to stare at you [at least not when you were looking!]

My US/Kentish Dr. certainly charged a lot more than £20.

looking forward to the next installment.

regards, ann

rickmav

Ooohh janisj - I wish I'd been to your wassail extravaganza. What a great place to situate a murder mystery! And feel free to hijack - it only adds rich information to the report.

annhig - Thanks for your support - it certainly was a great day in Northend. And I'm working away on the next instalment, hoping to post something tomorrow morning.

rickmav

Part XI – A Christmas Carol in Oxhill, Make the Whining Stop and the Double-Decker Christmas Lights Ride

Tonight we go to 'A Christmas Carol', being held in the St. Lawrence Church at Oxhill (tickets £6 each). The building looks quite splendid when we drive up. The church is lit from within, casting wonderful shadows on all the topsy turvey headstones that line the path.

Looking around at the people waiting in line, I think we are, once again, the only tourists. People are exchanging greetings and settling their families, there are a lot of elderly women decked out in pearls, and everyone seems to know everyone else. I feel a bit under-dressed, but as always in England, no one notices or, if they do, they don't stare and make you feel bad about it. We just cuddle in beside everyone else.

The church is quite plain, but actually quite suited to the performance. The acoustics are good and you tend to forget any ornamentation to focus on the storyteller once he starts speaking. We do have a look around, however, while we are waiting.

Parts of St. Stephen's Church date from the 12th century, but most of it was re-done in the late 1800s (http://www.oxhill.org.uk/StLawrenceC...chitecture.htm. It's surprisingly large inside, bigger than it looks from the outside. The walls are white, which seems strange in an English church, but the stone surrounds have been left around the doorways and windows. The yellowish, Cotswold stone glimmers gold in the dim light.

We pass by an interesting font as we enter. I ask an elderly woman sitting next to us about it and she tells us that it dates from the 12th c. and that the carvings around the sides depict a naked Adam and Eve. The font was removed from the Church at one time, because of the 'nakedness' issue. Eventually, however, the original was returned – someone had been using it as a garden ornament!

The reading is performed by Robert MacCall, a professional storyteller. He is accompanied by Ian Baxter on the mandolin. Both men are dressed in Victorian outfits. The performance is beautiful, moving and life-affirming. 'A Christmas Carol' has always been a family favourite – in fact, when we were children my mother read it to us every year at Christmas, and as grown-ups, we continue the tradition.

At times, the sound of the mandolin is so haunting that I shiver, not from the cold, but from the sheer exquisiteness of the moment. When Baxter plays 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen', it's very hard not to cry.

Obviously, the whole reason that Christmas exists is because of religious reasons, but there is no question that Charles Dickens influenced the way we think of Christmas. 'A Christmas Carol, published in 1843, changed the 'cultural' expectations of how we celebrate the season (www.fidnet.com/~dap1955/dickens/christmas.html). So, it's perfectly fitting that the two – religion and culture - should meet at in St. Lawrence's Church in Oxhill with a performance of 'A Christmas Carol'.

It's cold when we go outside and although we feel like hurrying to our vehicle, there's a part of us that wants to linger, shake someone's hand, give a Christmas kiss on a rosy cheek, promise you'll call in the morning. But, of course, we are strangers.

On the drive home we are both quiet, charmed by what we have just seen, but also a little homesick. Not for a place, but for our family's giggles and hugs.

In the morning, I finish reading, "A Positively Final Appearance" by Alec Guinness (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alec_Guinness. I enjoyed his previous book ('Blessings in Disguise'), but found this one full of whinging and whining. He's very grace-less – on page one, he complains that some newspaper has put his name on a list of Britain's wealthiest actors, which means he'll be getting all these "begging letters" from charities and individuals. He hates everything about the present - anything worthwhile happened 20 years ago. Humbug. I expect something better from Obi-Wan Kenobi! (Which he regrets he ever did.)

The news is full of the Ipswich serial killer. Very sad and shocking. Zara Philips, Princess Anne's daughter has won BBC Sports Personality of the Year. She's attractive in a quirky kind of way, with a very deep voice and is unprepared when it comes time to give an acceptance speech.

I've noticed this peculiar habit the English have. I rarely hear an English person say, 'excuse me' if they want to pass by. In Canada, we say it all the time; when we were in Italy I constantly heard 'permesso' – but in England, people sort of stand by you and wait. Sensing they are there, I move, but it's sort of strange that they just stand there, silently waiting for you to move. Rick thinks they may be forming a queue!

Our landlords have finally put up their Christmas tree in the front window of their beautiful, timbered home. It's a lovely pine in a large pot – I've noticed this a lot in England – and all it has for decoration is white fairy lights. The room where the B&B guests eat is decorated with pine boughs and red candles (I peek in the windows as we walk by).

Nigella Lawson, the voluptuous British cook, (www.nigella.com/), has a series of shows on the television right now dedicated to Christmas cooking. We watch it as much for the food as for her constant flirting with the camera. Tonight she makes a batch of wonderful looking ribs as a Christmas Eve appetizer. I am definitely going to have to try them. They are marinated in sweet chilli sauce, soya sauce (which is black and thick, not like the stuff we use at home) and cranberry sauce! (To try it out yourself: www.recipezaar.com/200655.)

I dedicate myself to Christmas wrapping today. Rick goes into Stratford to pick up some last minute things, so I have the house to myself. I put the Christmas music on full blast, make a cup of tea, and merrily wrap away. As I put each gift under the tree, it looks more and more festive. By the time Rick returns, the table underneath has disappeared and he hasn't even put his things out yet. We've also each bought a Christmas stocking, and still have to fill those.

Our landlords have invited us for a drink and hors' d'oeuvres on Sunday. I'm quite excited; I have a million questions to ask them about England and Christmas and how English people can actually afford a mortgage. About why there are signs saying 'Toads Crossing', how do people really feel about Iraq, and what's the story on Boris Johnson? Rick says I'm not to do my Barbara Walters routine, grilling our hosts until they scream 'uncle'. I will try to be good.

We go into Stratford this evening for some more Christmas festivities (December 14, 2006). The Shakespeare Birthplace has free admission tonight and there is quite a crowd waiting to go in, but everyone is in such a happy mood that it doesn't matter (www.shakespeare.org.uk/content/view/366/366/. There are some amazing young dancers in front of the Birthplace entertaining the crowds in the streets – and we watch them while we wait. They are very good.

The Birthplace belonged to Shakespeare's father and mother and it is believed that little Willy grew up here. The house stayed in the family until the 19th c. The tour of the Birthplace is by candlelight and it is so full of character. I can't believe those old boards can hold so many people. From inside, you can hear the carollers singing outside and I get the shivery feeling again.

One of the guides tells us that the place has just been done up to be more authentically 16th c. and I wonder if the house would have really been so nice inside. The beds look comfy and there are fires and candles flickering and I just want to crawl in with my cap on my head and wait until I hear Santa's reindeer on the roof.

The tour finishes in the gift shop and once we arrive there is free mulled wine, shortcake cookies (angels and snowmen) and tarts for everyone. It is very classy – glass wine glasses! – and festive. The shop looks gorgeous, although it is too busy to shop.

We have dinner at the Windmill Inn. It's a bit of a walk, so we take our time and enjoy all the entertainment out on the streets. I have the lasagne; Rick has the Cumberland sausage and mash. Fifteen pounds with a ½ pint each. Just okay.

Rick runs back to the car to get the camera, of course we forgot it, so I make my way to Bridge Street where the Stratford Lions are hosting a carol sing-along. This is when I have an adventure.

Of course, these things always happen to me when I am on my own - I think Rick is beginning to wonder if I seek out these situations, or am I just making them up.

As I slowly walk towards Bridge Street, not paying much attention to anything in particular, I fall ino that rosy-glow, half-world that I get into when I am happy. Gradually, however, I sense that people are looking at me. It's subtle at first – after all, this is England – but I begin to realize that there is something going on. And it seems to concern me.

As I start coming out of my self-induced haze, I notice certain things. First, the overpowering smell of a man's aftershave. In fact, the man with the smell is right in front of me. Then, I notice that right in front of him are two men with strange hats on. I look behind me and there are more people, almost on top of me, each of them dressed in a strange costume and carrying staffs in their hands.

And then I realize that people are not just staring at me, but at the procession I have suddenly become a part of. As I am swept along, I figure out that 'my' group is headed for the dais in the middle of Bridge Street – somehow I have stumbled into the middle of the Mayor's Procession, heading toward the podium to officially open the Stratford Lions' Carol Singing.

I finally extricate myself, but not without causing some domino-like stumbling in the group behind me (the 'Events Staff' - written on their zip-up vests). By the time I find Rick, I am still too embarrassed to talk about it, but eventually spill my guts. Rick looks at the podium, then at me, just shaking his head. I wonder how shocked he would have been if he'd looked up and seen me standing there belting out a tune or two.

There are people in the crowd handing out song-sheets and a band begins to play. I get teary again. To be standing in the middle of an ancient street in England, Christmas lights above my head, my husband by my side and singing 'Away in a Manger' is just too much for me. Particularly, when I see the children, thrilled they have recognized a song they know, looking like little robins with their chests stuck out as they sing as hard as they can.

After the carols, we take a ride on a free double-decker bus that takes you on a tour of the Christmas lights. It's quite wonderful and you get an entirely different perspective on how much work has gone into making Stratford this magical place. We go right to the top and although it is a bit cool, the bus isn't moving that fast and we've come equipped with gloves and mitts. Plus, it's a good excuse to cuddle.

It's fun to watch the kids' reactions to everything – it's too bad we can't hold on to that feeling of wonder all our lives. It's as if they 'expect' wonder, they simply assume it will be just around the corner. How wonderful.

We drive home feeling very 'replete' as my mother would say. We turn on our Christmas lights, open a bottle a wine, and put on the Christmas music. We talk about what we have experienced so far and feel a little sad that in a few weeks it will all be over. But it doesn't have to be if we can find a way to bring all the joy, laughter, wonder and curiosity back into our everyday lives. That's our challenge.

rickmav

Forgot to add the teaser for the next instalment - Oh, No You Don't - The Chippy Panto, Carol Singing On the Green and Christmas at Upton House.

rickmav

flanneruk - Ta dah, 'The Chippy Panto'

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Part XII – 'Oh, No You Don't' - The Chippy Panto, Carol Singing On the Green and Christmas at Upton House.
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Finally, the day we see the 'Mother Goose' panto in Chipping Norton. We bought the tickets ages ago and have been eagerly awaiting our first experience with an English Christmas pantomime. (For more information on pantos: www.lazybeescripts.co.uk/Panto.htm.)

First, we have lunch at the Blue Boar on the High Street in Chipping Norton. It's horrid. Not only is the food uneatable, but the staff are surly – a bad combination. The only good thing is that the pub is decorated nicely for Christmas and there's a real, log fire flickering at the entrance. Two thumbs down.

We arrive at the Chipping Norton theatre (www.chippingnortontheatre.co.uk/) early and discover that it is a little jewel of a place. We have seats in the balcony and I climb up there when the theatre is still empty and it is so wonderful and cozy. I take a picture, but when I look at it afterwards, it really doesn't do it justice.

The panto is written by Simon Brett, an English writer who has done everything from murder mysteries to Brit-coms and is always very funny.(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simon_Brett). So, my expectations are high. As the story unfolds, we discover that Mother Goose (played in drag) and her daughter Jill (of Jack and Jill fame) and son Simon (as in Simple) are living a fairy-tale life. Everything is wonderful – Jill is engaged to Jack (of course), Simon to Mary (as in Quite Contrary) and the family lives in a little cottage owned by the Squire (Mary's father). Although Mother Goose hasn't paid the rent for a while, the Squire is a good fellow and doesn't complain.

You just know all this harmony can't last for long.

Enter the Devil of Discontent. He's been watching all this perfection for some time and decides to shake things up a bit. He puts a spell on the Squire, making him nasty; the Squire then evicts poor old Mother Goose and her family from their sweet, little cottage. Of course, there's a Good Fairy, who tries to help everyone out -and the story goes back and forth from disaster to salvation.

Jack, who is the obvious 'hero', becomes evil, Mother Goose jumps into the Lake of Beauty and becomes vain, and there's a Golden Goose who lays golden eggs, but is forced to flee to Gooseland where the Devil's 'Goosesteppers' are in power.

It's oodles of fun with wonderful costumes and enthusiastic audience participation. The place is filled to the rafters with kids in their best clothes, who know exactly when the candy is going to be thrown – I still don't know what the clue was – and scream with excitement when the characters run through the audience, looking for mitts and scarves, before going to Gooseland to rescue the Golden Goose.

Simple Simon ends up rescuing everyone, with the help of the Good Fairy, who will only appear when the audience sings – very loudly – parts of different nursery rhymes. There are a few moments when I expect Rick to bolt, because of all the noise and yelling, but when I steal a look at him he is enthralled.

On the other side of me is a small boy, about nine years old. He is very quiet, and unlike the majority of the children, remains in his seat, staying quite still. But during one of the Devil of Discontent's numbers – camp to the 'nth' degree – I start giggling uncontrollably and suddenly I feel this little boy beside me start giggling, too. The two of us keep setting each other off, when one stops, the other starts and then we are off again. I haven't laughed that much for a very long time.

In the interval we sing 'Happy Birthday' to one little boy and he is thrilled to have all the characters and the audience singing to him.

I would wholeheartedly recommend the panto experience for everyone, young and old. If we ever go to England for Christmas again I am definitely going to see as many productions as I can. They are not to be missed.

The next night is the carol singing on the green in our little village of Wilmcote. One of the local clubs is selling mulled wine and a mince tart for 50p and Rick and I each have a cup and a snack. They are both very tasty. It's a bit surreal, though. Here we are, standing in the middle of the Warwickshire countryside, on a crisp, winter's evening, on the village green, singing 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing', accompanied by two older men and a middle-aged woman on a trumpet, flute and saxophone.

Someone has decorated the tall fir tree and set up a nativity scene. There are children running in and about the grown-ups, people are laughing and visiting, and our landlord takes us around and introduces us to everyone. People are shocked that we have been here for five weeks, except for the postmistress who runs the village shop. She and Rick have become great pals.

I sometimes feel as if I am looking down on myself and I can't believe what I am seeing. It's like a really good movie that I don't want to end.

Later that night, I finish reading a book about Catherine de Medici by Leonie Frieda. It is well written and puts Catherine's life in context by bringing in people like Henry VIII, Mary Tudor, Mary, Queen of Scots, and Philip II. It's amazing to think of them all living at the same time.

There's a treat on the telly - a documentary on Agatha Christie's home in Devon, called Greenway (http://www.bbc.co.uk/devon/outdoors/...christie.shtml). The house was written in to many of Christie's novels.

The home is operated by the National Trust and in 2008 will be open to the public. The only question the show doesn't answer is why, if Christie loved the house so much, she wasn't buried there (she's buried in a small village outside Oxford).

Since this is our last Sunday in our cottage in Wilmcote, we decide to have Sunday lunch, once again, at the Boar's Head in Hampton Lucy. I have roast turkey with roast potatoes, gravy, dressing (in a ball!), and a 'devil on horseback'. Rick has poached salmon with potatoes and we share dishes and dishes of vegetables. I have ½ a pint of 'Reindeer Bells', a special Christmas cask ale, and Rick has a lager. The bill comes to £13. An absolute steal.

The pub is nicely decorated for Christmas and it is full – we get the only table that is not reserved. This time we eat in the dining room, which is cosily modern and non-smoking. Because it is our third time here, and Rick has a face no one seems to forget, the owner comes over and welcomes us, asking us questions about our travels. I heartily recommend this pub.

And I just love the whole tradition of 'Sunday lunch'. We've decided that once we get home we are going to continue enjoying it, either by eating out or preparing something wonderful at home. All the generations seem to come out and the children are nicely dressed and so well behaved. And they are there with their grans and grandpas, aunts and uncles, etc. Lovely.

After lunch, we head to Upton House, a National Trust (http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main.../w-uptonhouse/) property that we visited earlier, when we were staying in Adderbury. It has been decorated for Christmas and they charge a small fee to look around. The gift shop is also open for Christmas shopping.

Although, you aren't suppose to take photos inside, Rick asks the steward if I might just take one of the tree in the entrance and she says, "Go on, I'll look the other way." The tree is enormous and beautifully decorated – and real!

Many of the rooms are empty of visitors or stewards, so I sneak a few more photographs. I don't use my flash, and don't aim at the paintings. There are wonderful Christmas floral bouquets in every room and they have a pianist playing the baby grand in the drawing room.

There is a second-hand bookshop beside the gift shop and although I could buy a ton of things, I only pick a few items that I know I'll read before we go home. It's a good idea though, an easy way to help raise funds for the maintenance of the house.

There is a colourful, horse-drawn gipsy caravan that takes people back and forth from the parking lot to the house and it is gaily decorated with pine boughs, bells, and red ribbons. We're tempted to try it, but the weather is so beautiful, we end up walking.

That evening, we are invited to our landlords' home (Margaret and Ted) for drinks and nibbles. We both really enjoy ourselves. They are great hosts, very chatty, funny and have travelled everywhere. The bed and breakfast is, in fact, Ted's childhood home (www.stratford-upon-avon.co.uk/peartree.htm). They are in their 70s and have the energy of people in their 30s or 40s. The couple staying in the other self-catering property join us, Linda and Pete, and they are about our age. They are in-between houses and have been staying in Wilmcote for as long as we have.

We have wine and hors d'oeuvres and little mince tarts. We gather in their sitting room – or lounge as they call it – which is cosily decorated in blues and yellows. Margaret and Ted tell us – and it's another reason I like them so much – that every year they close the B&B for a month and take all the profits and go somewhere wonderful. This year they've gone to India to celebrate Margaret's 70th birthday. After much discussion, we discover that the only countries they haven't visited are Egypt, China, and Canada!

We talk about our travels, the war in Iraq and cars (Ted used to work for a consulting engineering company that tested car prototypes all over the world for Jaguar and Volvo). Then we tackle the French question in Canada, rugby, George Bush and cricket.

It gives me shivers when Margaret and Ted talk about World War II and the bombing of Coventry, which is just north of Wilmcote. Both of them remember, as children, seeing the sky lit up with the fires. Ted tells us that three other families lived with them after the bombings, because they'd lost their homes. The men would go to work in the morning, in factories in Birmingham, which were being bombed constantly and you never knew which fathers were going to come home at the end of the day.

Then they tell us stories about the characters in their 'local' pub, the Mason's Arms. We actually haven't been there, nor have Linda and Pete. There's 'Bob the Bank' who kept failing the tests at the bank where he worked, which meant he couldn't get promoted, so, he quit and became a financial consultant! And 'Scrumpy Jack' who wears an eye patch. And 'The Landlord' who hates people and growls at customers. Too bad we missed it.

We stay quite late and drink a lot of wine. But it is lovely – and I don't think I asked too many questions.

I make a shocking discovery the next day. I come out of the bedroom to find my husband shaking one of his Christmas presents! The look on his face when he is caught is priceless. His defence is that the shape of the present is so intriguing he had to pick it up. It's at the corner of his sight line when he watches television and it's been driving him crazy. I move the present to the back of the tree with a stern warning. And then I laugh. I just keep thinking about the look on his face when he was busted.

Part XIII – Backstage at the RSC, An Evening With Judi Dench and A Foggy Day With Shakespeare's Bones