Wishlists

          A couple of dear old friends came to spend last weekend with us, jolting me out of the perilously placid routines that have become a feature of my later life. Our friends are lively, adventurous people whose default setting is “go for it”, so it would not have done for us to spend time sitting around reminiscing: a programme of events was called for, nothing too rigid – dinners in the evenings and excursions during the days – just a framework of activity to provide structure for our precious time together and opportunities for spontaneous fun. I would say it worked well for all of us, the only downside being that I missed my afternoon nap slots.

          On the other hand, the excursions took us to places that had been languishing on my wishlist of ‘local destinations of interest’, stuck there by the hum-drum preoccupation with everyday events and a low-level tendency to procrastinate that results from easy proximity, as is often seen with people who live in London but feel no urgency to visit its world-famous attractions. Not that the places around here are world-famous – they have more modest pretensions – but they are on my wishlist for such unique qualities as they do possess. Take the manor house and grounds of Cotehele, for example, inhabited by the same family for five centuries, until they handed it over to the care of the National Trust in 1947. The estate lies on the opposite side of the Tamar estuary, just a few miles inland from us, but I had not yet made the journey, delightful though it is in its own right. A single-track train winds its way up the Devonshire side of the river, which it eventually crosses into Cornwall via one of those impossibly tall, stone-built viaducts erected by navvies in the Victorian era. Alighting at the village of Calstock, there is a thirty minute walk along the river and up through the trees to the estate. It being a sunny March morning, the daffodils, primroses and crocuses splashed colours all around, though it would be attractive in any season. Likewise, the gardens and orchards of Cotehele, so fresh and full of promise in the early spring sunshine that I vowed to make a habit of returning frequently, to relish the blooming and ripening.

          In fact, I returned two days later, specifically to tour the house and experience its interior. It is medieval but with Tudor extensions, resulting in a layout that, in modern parlance, does not ‘flow’ very well. Though its architectural quirks are charming, in practical terms it is cold, dark and costly to maintain. What passed for luxury in days of yore – a roof, windows, fireplaces, bedrooms and furniture – would be considered the bare essentials of comfort today.  I can see why the family opted, eventually, to live elsewhere. Nevertheless, it is grand in parts: the all-important Great Hall is impressive and the interior walls throughout the house are covered in rich tapestries (though they have been cut mercilessly to fit the spaces, which may be why the owners did not take them when they left).

          So, after our friends departed, it didn’t take long for me to revert to my solitary ways. Yesterday, I went to that bastion of solitary pursuits, the public library. Having shunned and been shunned by it for the past year or so, reacquaintance was a pleasure, especially as it has a roof terrace that, in fine weather, serves as a reading room with unique anti-drowse properties. I had pulled a copy of Jazz Jews (Mike Gerber) off the shelf and sat to peruse history of a different genre and more recent era. But reading served only to whet my appetite for action – in this case, attending a live jazz performance. And in the company of old friends, preferably.