Sabbaticalette

Day 4 -- Mrs. Longford's profession

Got off in good time to Heathrow and the Hertz desk. Clapped my little hands in glee at getting slinky Audi with built-in GPS. Was soon getting acquainted with sleek silver beauty and discovering that GPS system has most National Trust properties plugged in as destinations under "historical monuments" -- though I might have expressed a wish there was better documentation on how to use system. (This is known in literature as "foreshadowing.") First stop, Winchester Cathedral.

Managed not to kill self or others on M3 south -- the better part of valor is finding driver just as timid as I am and following along in their wake. Great persistance netted me a space in Winchester car park, and I trundled over to the Cathedral grounds, where there was some sort of arts and crafts show going on. The place was awash in morris dancers and -- inexplicably --a sextet of calm, bright-eyed matrons tap-dancing to banjo music.

Cathedral itself was a bit of a disappointment at first. Lots of war memorials, celebrating a valor we wish no one ever had the opportunity to exhibit. They were also setting up for some big concert, so there were lots of tables and chairs and audio equipment lying around. I don't think they were especially happy in their juxtapositions of old and new. Prayed a little in the chapel of the Epiphany. Lovely set of icons where St. Swithun's shrine used to be.. and the mortuary chests of Canute et al were pretty groovy. Seems like everyone in Winchester had Latin on their tombstones.

Very cool little chapel where Izaak Walton, the great angler, is buried. All the stained glass tells fishy stories from the Bible -- the loaves and the fishes, ye shall be fishers of men, and Izaak himself with some sage advice. (I blush and burn with shame, but I clean forgot that Jane Austen was buried here until after I'd left. Forgive me, Jane!)

Had a dreamy cheese jacket potato, salad and Orangina as late lunch, then moseyed off to Mottisfont. GPS system had British accent (naturally), hence a little more nanny-like than Francesca, the beautifully coiffed voice on my Prius GPS at home. I didn't imagine I'd ever be on a first name basis with this particular GPS system. But she very politely guided me to Mottisfont Abbey, and the national collection of roses.

It's a very lovely place, though the weather was gloomy and most roses not blooming yet. Landscape was a lemony, lacy green, with the River Test chuckling gently through. Stopping to look into the water, I saw trout as long as my arm, enjoying the current rushing over their smooth speckled dun bodies. Walked up to the font part of Mottisfont (moot is a Saxon word for meeting place, and there you go -- the meeting place at the spring). The house itself is nice, but many paintings are set in gloomy spots and are hard to see (a lovely one of flowers by Vanessa Bell). What's the purpose of the waterwheel in the kitchen?

Rex Whistler room is the high point of the interior -- he never got a chance to finish the decor, though it looked pretty done to me. The mosaic angel was hard to find, but I perservered. Then walked up to the walled garden -- it was a between bloomings sort of time. Tulips clapped out -- columbines full of doomed voluptuousness, like Victorian adultresses -- there were schisms among different iris varieties (yellows were calling it a day, purples and blues whooping it up in full swing). Climbing roses willing to make a go of it (particularly fond of the Crepescule), but earthbound varieties more circumspect. It was still lovely to see all the vigorous foliage coming up. Geraniums displayed their usual promiscuity. Bees were fat, dumb and happy, bobbling from bloom to bloom.

Had a cup of tea in kitchen cafe before walking down river path to car park. A little bird with a chartreuse tail accompanied me, hopping onto floating rafts of river weeds and gobbling up water flies like Junior Mints.

Time to head to on the night's accommodation, Ramville Farm. Since I didn't have precise address, just location on the road, I didn't use GPS -- I oriented myself carefully on map. It's simple -- go back the way you came through Romsey, pick up the A3039 again and head for Ower. Ramville Farm will be a couple of miles out of town. I sallied forth with serene confidence... and with absolutely Mozartian purity, drove myself back to Mottisfont.

How did I manage it? I made nothing that looked like a U turn, but sure as eggs is eggs, I began seeing the same pubs on the side of the road. Back in the Mottisfont parking lot, I discovered that the GPS system -- we'll call her "Mrs. Longford" -- would allow me to set a town as a destination. Since I knew Ower was at the end of the road where Ramville was, I could use that as my destination.

Merry little chase ensued -- of course I saw Ramville Farm entrance too late to turn and must keep on to the next roundabout, which I messed up as well. (Turns out that Mrs. Longford will say "please" when she is especially desperate to get me to stop doing something stupid, as in "Please make a U turn," which I think is a nice touch.) Eventually arrived at exactly the right moment to intercept Mrs. H of Ramville, who is off to a wedding and a bit testy with me for not calling. (I tried, several times, in London but kept being told that "number is not recognized.") Am shown into lavish self-catering suite -- bed alone is larger than entire room at the Celtic in London. Bathroom is fabulous in breadth, water pressure and general shininess -- I took a bath right away, and washed hair later on. Tub is large, deep and slick as an ice floe -- much contemplation is required to get out of without cracking neck, which Mrs. H. would probably consider another example of American gaucherie.

Collection of magazines on tables pointed to much higher-end clientele than your humble scribe. Grew particularly fascinated by shiny hunting magazine"The Field," with an article on muntjac stalking: "...something about the height of a springer spaniel that sneaks about in the woodlands of East Anglia." Also known as "the Barking Deer," muntjacs, originating in China and escaping from British captvity in the 20's, are well on their way to being the dominant deer species in Britain -- they've been seen in Scotland and Ireland as well as infesting the midlands.

Advice to those of you playing along at home: "The adoption of small calibres does, however, raise its own problems, because these little deer are surprisingly tough, often refusing to recognise the fact that they are dead until they absolutely have to."

Other piece of advice from The Field I'll never need, for a variety of reasons: "Better to carry lip gloss rather than lipstick into the field, as a Chanel lipstick is worryingly similar in size and shape to a 12-bore cartridge."

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