Saunderton
‘Fruit
salad, I must get some of
that.’ Our weekend walks rarely involve anything which contributes to the
five-a-day, being punctuated by stops for morning coffee, pub lunches and cream teas. Our
circular walk around Saunderton, deep in Gerry’s beloved Chilterns, ran true to
form. Within half a mile, the Time Out Saturday Walkers with whom we had
started had streaked into the distance at two miles an hour leaving us dawdling
and, in my case, surreptitiously consulting my phone under the pretext of
checking for urgent messages, to see whether it was lunchtime yet.
Julia
joined us on the ‘wenture’ and made for entertaining and toothsome company.
Part of our lingering was attributable to her enthusiasm for photography. She
brandished an impressive Nikon with a range of lenses, making me feel guilty about refusing to carry my ‘proper’
camera these days on the
grounds it is too bulky. Her passion for pictures
was teamed with fearsome inquisitiveness. Spying a dilapidated wooden door in
the wall of the churchyard at Bradenham, she declared it must be the entrance
to a secret garden and yanked it open. The three of us gawped. Before us was
the rear elevation of an imposing eighteenth century country house with
immaculate lawns bordering a carriageway leading to wrought iron gates, through
which the village cricket green was visible. We stood for a while, disappointed
that no lackey appeared brandishing a blunderbuss, and eventually decided that
the stately pile, like so many, was seeing out the twentyfirst century as a
conference centre.
At the end of the woodland path, we were faced with a ‘Private, No Entry’ sign. I
was for ignoring it since there was no obvious alternative but Gerry pointed out that it was going in
the wrong direction. We agreed that we would obey the sign but only because we
didn't want to go that way, not out of cowed compliance. Julia took a photo of
Gerry standing a few yards into the forbidden territory with the sign in the
foreground and declared it was like enjoying wild flowers without picking them.
A neat simile on which I, suppressing envy, congratulated her.
To reach
West Wickham, our target for lunch, we had to cross the railway line but a
sturdy fence blocked the way with stern signs stating that high speed trains
now made the line too dangerous. A passing cyclist directed us to a tunnel
where we could cross safely. Much of West Wickham is in the care of the
National Trust whose management and taste is evidenced by the décor. Muted
pastel shades, whose usual habitat is the swankier parts of Notting Hill where
residents can afford to patronize Farrow and Ball, here dominate the front
doors of the cottages whose tenants would, left to their own devices,
probably favour simple black
or red. The area is known for furniture
making, the beech woods being the source of suitable material and as we passed
what appeared to be a bespoke furniture workshop, I reminded Gerry of the coat
of arms of Speen, a village we had visited the previous year when he was researching
Bax, which bore a picture of a wood turner, or bodger.
The high
street is part of the A40, hardly a place of calm, but we were entranced by an
ersatz olde worlde sweet shop with licorice allsorts, pineapple chunks and row
upon row of tooth-rotting memorabilia in glass jars. My mouth watered and that
was when Julia made a beeline for the fruit salads, small chews which, Gerry
and I recalled, were four for a penny when we were at school.
We headed
to the George and Dragon for lunch which proudly announced it welcomed muddy
boots and high heels (presumably trainers were banned). It turned out that
Julia is a vegetarian, prompting Gerry to claim the same status. I remarked
that he was the only one I knew who happily ate chicken, while Julia bemoaned
that the only non-meat item was chickpeas which she loathed. Eventually we
settled on sharing two sandwiches and a portion of chunky chips. Gerry and
Julia ordered local beers and I indulged in a large Diet Coke. Julia inquired
whether I always drank Coke, in a tone in which disbelief
was laced with disapproval.
We lingered over lunch, arguing about apostrophes and other
matters of import. Julia is a
long-standing Archer’s aficionado but complained about the focus on animal
husbandry. I joked that she needed a vegetarian version of the program, a
remark that I, but not the others, found rather apt. Outnumbered by two
railway enthusiasts, I
repeated my claim that locomotives use 80% of the energy required to move a
train. It was hotly disputed, and I've since been able to find no evidence of
its truth.
In the afternoon we entered the estate of Lord Dashwood, an
eighteenth century roue now remembered chiefly for his raucous and debauched
parties, perhaps the original raves, for which he had his workers excavate a
network of caves, ostensibly to provide them with work. The Hell-Fire Caves are
now a tourist attraction but the weather was too good to go in. On the hill’s
summit, a vast and elaborate mausoleum stands, which reminded me of the
similarly extravagant tomb commissioned by the first Emperor of China whose works
include the terra cotta army which took hundreds of workers three decades to
create and is still being excavated by astonished archeologists.
St Lawrence’s Church, behind the mausoleum, boasts a decorated ceiling more
suitable for a grand ballroom than a place of worship. A chamber orchestra was
in rehearsal when we passed. Entranced, Gerry and I stood listening to what
Gerry assured me was Greig’s Holberg Suite but which later transpired to be something
completely different. A saxophone player, slumped morosely on a back pew, joined the band to play
Glazunov’s saxophone concerto, a surprising modern-sounding piece which Gerry
later found was composed as late as 1934.
A walk along the ridge took us past a smallholding with an
imposing brick and flint farmhouse and outbuildings recently
renovated. Gerry asked a woman working in the kitchen garden what it was
like being on the Dashwood estate.
’Edward’s
all right,’ she replied
cautiously, ‘I only see him once or twice a
year.’
Red kites were soaring overhead and she said there were now
six nesting pairs on her land.
Seeing her large house, I wondered if she did bed and breakfast, an unwelcome
suggestion at which she bridled.
