Rainy Day Pursuits

         Given that it’s been thirty years since I decided to hang up my gardening tools and allocate the time saved to other pursuits, how is it that I presently find myself responsible – albeit temporarily – for a large vegetable patch? The answer is that we are dog-sitting at the house of close relatives and, though the doggy duties are light (she being old and sweet-tempered) their garden is large and, as it hasn’t rained for some weeks, their vegetable harvest is at risk of withering – an outcome that would sit heavily upon the conscience of even the most determined ex-gardener. Nor does it end there. One also feels duty-bound to eat as much as one can of the of the produce ripening by the hour, so a lot of time is spent harvesting, looking up recipes, cooking ‘from scratch’ and – as a last resort – freezing the excess.

          Yesterday, however, was a rainy day, so I left nature to its own devices and escaped to visit a couple of nearby National Trust houses, former country retreats of wealthy DFLs (down from Londoners). At these places, you can learn a lot about the history of people and places, or, to put it in less lofty terms, indulge yourself in an hour or two of being nosey.

          Firstly, I went to Greenway, a plain-looking Georgian mansion set in 36 lush acres on the steep banks of the river Dart. In 1930, Agatha Christie, then newly married to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, bought it as a holiday home. It remained in the family until it was taken on by the National Trust, which is why it still contains so much of the family’s stuff – a jumble of furniture and an accumulation of unremarkable bric-a-brac – as well as some of the celebrated author’s literary works and memorabilia. It is said that Agatha was a modest person, a claim lent substance by the fact that her Dame of the British Empire regalia was found in the back of a cupboard full of decorative pottery. It is now displayed at the front, in its original box and with the instructions for how and when it should be worn.

          Agatha lived her professional life in London but was born and raised in nearby Torquay, so she would have known that this part of Devon is coveted as a holiday retreat. Ten years prior to her buying Greenway, another couple of DFLs, Rupert and Lady Dorothy D’Oyly Carte, were sailing in their yacht off the coast nearby when they spotted a picturesque valley leading down to a secluded cove and determined to buy it and establish their own country house there. By 1926 they were ensconced in Coleton Fishacre, an Arts and Crafts style house designed for them by Oswald Milne, former assistant to Edwin Lutyens. Unlike Greenway, the house was built with stone quarried on site, positioned discreetly in the landscape and fitted out internally by the architect so as to present a cohesive style throughout. For those curious to know, Rupert’s fortune came from the businesses his father founded – the eponymous opera company and a string of luxury hotels – so he knew a thing or two about stylish interior design.

          Since they were neighbours, I like to imagine both sets of DFLs mingled socially, with Agatha taking notes, discreetly, on Coleton Fishacre and the doings of its occupants for use later in a murder mystery (A Stylish Summer Ending?). But apart from summers spent relishing their extensive acreage of gardens and woodlands, I suspect they had little in common.

          Had the weather been more accommodating and I had been with a companion so inclined; I might have spent some time admiring those acres. But I’d had enough of gardens for the time being and was grateful, in more ways than one, for a rainy day. 

Mind Your Manners?

          Our upbringing generally involves the acquisition of a code of etiquette, a sort of template devised for interacting socially – and sociably – with those around us. On the whole, it serves its purpose, though it can be taken to extremes and is often used as a weapon in class warfare (an example might be the ‘correct’ way to arrange and use cutlery when dining). But broader experience of social customs teaches us that the only ‘correct’ way to dine in public is with consideration for those around us. Conventions may differ but basic good manners will always be appreciated.

          One rule of etiquette I was taught was not to eat while walking in the street. I mean, it was acceptable to suck a pastille, discreetly, but full-on chomping was not allowed. Even the chewing of gum was frowned upon. No explicit reason was given, though the message came across clearly enough: it was considered vulgar. In later years I developed a more egalitarian attitude, which caused me to come up with a rational argument for the rule. If you want to enjoy your take-out food, it’s better done sitting comfortably and taking time to savour it, while watching the world go by. If you simply want to take fuel on board – and quickly – then go ahead, if you must. I will look away. So, when I broke the rule myself, just the other day, I felt I had no right to complain of the consequence.

          It was a sunny morning and I had walked into town to catch a bus that would take me up the Devon coast. With twenty minutes to spare, I figured I had just enough time to nip around the corner and get a bacon roll (no coffee, as the journey would be two hours, unbroken) to supplement my earlier hurried breakfast. I’d like to think I was reasoning that time was tight and, in order not to embarrass myself by self-consciously devouring my treat on a bus, I ought to get started. Finding a spot to sit and relish the feast risked missing my ride so, I took stock and, seeing that there was no one around to report me, succumbed to temptation and took a bite. It was to be my last. A seagull had spotted its opportunity and swooped down with unerring accuracy to snatch the whole roll from my hand.

          Momentarily outraged, I swore at the bird and made as if to chase it along the pavement, where it had landed, with its booty, presumably having learned that the proper way to enjoy someone else’s takeaway is to find a place to sit and relish it. But mine was a reflex reaction and the futility – not to say the ridiculousness – of it  dawned upon me soon enough and I gave up. Regaining my composure, I glanced around and was relieved to note that, still, there were no witnesses to the incident and that my embarrassment would not be going viral.

          I spent the next two hours with the faint taste of bacon lingering in my mouth (having no coffee to wash it away), torn between appreciating the lush beauty of the countryside through which we progressed and struggling to come to terms with my loss. It’s not as if I was really hungry, I argued. And wasn’t I supposed to be on a journey to veganism anyway? I considered but quickly dismissed the possibility that fate may have had a hand in punishing me for transgressing the rules of etiquette, as it seems unlikely that the universe much cares about my self-imposed behavioural values. And you can’t blame a seagull for snatching a meal, any more than you accuse it of vulgarity.