“It was a sweet view-sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort, seen under a sun bright, without being oppressive.”
― Jane Austen
This post needed to go up today because London has been in a rainy, gray fog for several days now–in defiance of both the appropriate season and the 30th celebration of my birth. Weather aside it’s been great as I’ve taken a short workweek and a break from almost all media to enjoy the aging process. However I could not continue to let photos of the first (and at the rate we’re going only) proper summer weekend of the year.
My friend who kindly invited us for New Year’s this year, even more kindly invited us back for a camping weekend. His family home is a working estate, complete with livestock and acres, that operates a farm shop, camping grounds, and restaurant in addition to being a family home. Both he and his partner are in the events and entertaining business (admittedly on a grand and international scale) and as you may imagine, they are exquisite hosts. They also have a seemingly endless supply of fun, funny, and interesting friends and spend a great deal of their scant free time organizing ways to spend time together. New Year’s Eve was a grown up and dog affair, this party was a mass of families with children–with dogs. This is Britain after all.
The house is gorgeous and the family have spent a long time and a lot of investment in keeping it both up and properly in the family. Not all homes like this still survive with property intact and it’s a real testament to how much they love it that it’s still in their care.
What’s a stately home without some sort of grand hall, I ask you?
We might have slept in tents, but we dined in absolute style. This was seriously the most civilized meal arrangement you’ve ever witnessed: long table set up in the “summer garden” with a pretty much constant flow of food and beverages, all with interwar records playing in the background. Badminton was played, pups were frolicked with, and long hours were spent sitting in the sun discussing the Queen and other highly important topics. It’s was terribly British in the most lovely possible way.
One of our hosts with one of the canines. His hairstyle made for required photography.
The gentlemen enlisted the help of one of their private chefs for the cooking (don’t worry, he tucked in along with the rest of us) and the results were about as amazing as that suggests.
Seriously, it was glorious.
Did I mention there were dogs everywhere?
A rousing and very chaotic game of rounders was played later in which were were injuries and several delays of play when pups absconded with the necessary equipment.
Obligatory bonfires were also had.
The next morning, another unbelievably civilized breakfast was taken with locally sourced bread, a special coffee machine was set up (again, in the garden) for those needing caffeine, and heaping amounts of a jam made from a rare breed of French strawberries that only last about a day once picked and so have to be eaten or made into something immediately. Of course it was. I raved about it so much the chef (who I actually have worked with on several events now and really love) gave me a pot that I lovingly cradled in my arms for the whole train ride home.
After breakfast, farm chores.
The family keep pigs, hundreds of chickens, ducks, geese, and guinea fowl. All the significant players are, of course named. The larger pig is Gertie, the lone guinea fowl is Cutherbert and he’s apparently a major bully in the farmyard.
It was, as I’m sure you can tell, an absolutely smashing weekend!
Small Dog Syndrome 