People often talk of having “a place in the country” a splendidly non-specific expression that means anything from a castle set in 10,000 acres that has been in the family since the reign of Elizabeth I to a rented potting shed. My place in the country in the 1990s was the latter.
To digress for a moment, I saw a cartoon the other day of two squirrels reading the menu in a restaurant. One asks the waiter “May contain nuts? Can’t you be more specific.” The potting shed was the far side of Salisbury near the point where the borders of Hampshire, Wiltshire and Dorset converge. Saturday Evensong in Salisbury Cathedral and long tramps across the plain were the order of the day. The accommodation was spartan and guests sometimes preferred to bring their tents. One friend brought a magnificent Bell Tent dating from the Boer War.
The outlook was across a lawn to a meadow bisected by a chalk winterbourne where sometimes egrets gathered. You don’t need to be told what a waterbourne is. Further away was a piggery. It was in a slight dip so there was no light pollution and wonderful views of the stars. It was an attractive forty-five minute walk to an excellent pub in Rockingham.
After five years I was tired of driving more than two hours each way and the opportunity to rent a larger place nearer London arose. My landlady found another tenant, a friend as was I. She sent him round to take a look at the place. He stayed for more than one drink and proved a source of entertainment for me and my friends. Sir Michael Gambon was a genial raconteur who sang for his supper, or rather G&Ts. Subsequently I met him again at a PG Wodehouse Society dinner.
Meanwhile I moved to an idyllic place in Berkshire; an Orangery in a four acre walled garden an hour’s drive from London.
