July 19, 2004 - Upper Slaughter, The Cotswolds, England

     I don't think I'm cut out for Victorian English manor life, at least not this one.  While there is both good and bad at the Lords of the Manor, it is far too expensive for what they offer, and the shortcomings range from the esoteric to the mundane.  I could be snooty and point out, for example, that it's not really a manor house.  An earlier owner purchased a title and began calling the place his "manor," but locals sniff that it's really a rectory.  (That's evidently an important distinction in these parts, pilgrim.)  Or, on the mundane side, Sheila's first task upon arriving was to get them to unplug all the dime-store "potpourri", which were giving the room a drippingly heavy "authentic country bouquet."  (I still think there's a little green pine tree hanging around somewhere.)

     There are certainly some authentic touches: the room is small, un-air-conditioned with flies, and there is NO internet access.  (I guess the Victorians were completely wireless.)  At the same time, the common rooms and the grounds are lovely.  (I think you have to use unmanly terms like "lovely" to describe the Cotwolds.)  And we found a tiny bottle of (evidently) sherry in the room, with a couple of sherry glasses.  Thinking this might be a Victorian "honor bar," we asked if the sherry was complimentary or if there was a charge.  The person who had taken us to the room said, "I don't think there's a charge, but I really don't know.  Nobody ever drinks it."  (It wasn't bad--moderately dry.)

     I'm writing these notes this morning at a desk in one of the lounges, with the sun streaming in the window, forecasting a gorgeous day.  I'm in a comfortable, workable workspace (which I share with a friendly fly).  One of the staff found me here and kindly brought a cup of coffee.  The intention here is to mimic what I gather to be the spirit of the Victorian times in such houses: the "Lord" (that's me) (yeah, like I was an astronaut at Disneyland) is served whatever His whims may raise to the status of a desire in Himself.  That was evident last night, when I thought I might like a drink after dinner.  (I went to bed early instead.)  I asked how late the bar would be open and was told it was always open for me; there would be someone on duty all night long and could provide anything I needed.  While that probably sounds great, my upbringing has left me with a fundamental incapacity as regards "servants."  I'm still uncomfortable when someone else carries our luggage to the room (and when those two teen-age girls struggled our bags down the stairs in Newcastle. . .well, that's another story, too painful to tell).  Part of my discomfort, I think, is that I imagine the servants are resentful of the injustice binding our respective roles (as I would be), and I often "sense" that resentment, not matter how they actually behave.  For what I can learn (mostly from Upstairs, Downstairs and the like on public TV), suspecting the servants of such ill feelings is an authentic part of Victorian manor life, so I guess I fit in, at least.

     Years ago, I used to say I'd like to live in a really large house--20 or 30 rooms.  When Sheila objected it would be too much work to take care of it, I'd joke that her only responsibility would be to hire someone to manage the staff.  She brought my fantasy crashing into a pile of rubble when she pointed out that we'd be living our whole life in a sea of servants.  Suddenly, it all became horrifyingly clear to me: no more watching TV in my boxer shorts, always needing to get dressed properly to move from the shower to the bedroom, etc.  Paradise morphed into hell, and I haven't longed for a mansion since then.  So, as I said at the outset of these remarks, I guess I'm not cut out for Victorian English manor life.

     On the other hand, it IS pretty--too cute for words, some would say, so I'll stop the words and use pictures instead.


     The above pictures result from our stroll around Upper Slaughter and then a walk to Lower Slaughter along Warden's Path, which took us through pastures and along a river.  In the course of it all, we finally had an English Tea, with clotted cream and scones.  And despite forecasts of rain, it was a sunny day, good for walking.

     After a little time to regroup, I decided to try once more to teach the Brits which side to drive on, and we set out for Bourton-on-the-Water, five miles away!  (I didn't hit anyone.)  This is a town our guide book said has been given over completely to tourism but is still pretty and enjoyable.  You be the judge.


     If anything strikes you as odd in these pictures of Bourton-on-the-Water (other than, where's the water?), I should explain that you've been looking at parts of the 1/9 scale model of the town, which is one of the town's chief tourist attractions (3.5 quid for an oldster).  Here's the whole model, complete with oldster:



     Another tourist attraction is Birdland, not a jazz nightclub but an aviary.  We went in thinking it might be a restful stroll, and we were absolutely right this time.  The key attraction right now is the brood of two-week old rhea chicks.  That's the father, standing guard.  Male rheas hatch and rear the young.  We could imagine the mother saying, "Hey, I laid those bloody things.  I'm going to Stow-on-the-Wold for some R&R, ducky."



     Tonight was our last non-transit night in Britain, and we had a hearty meal here at the Manor/Rectory.  Despite my negative opening comments, we fully enjoyed today, including the Lords of the Manor.  Tomorrow, we'll be off to the Heathrow Marriott, having had some interesting stops along the way, perhaps.  See you there.  Ta-ta.

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