Bridgetsmusings’s Weblog

Maybe I am looking at dear Old Blighty through rose-tinted, tourist spectacles, but I’m drinking in the history, the soft, lush, green….and damp countryside/

Less than 24-hours after landing, I am back in medieval Britain at Rufford Park in Nottinghamshire. Once a Cistercian Abbey and the inspiration for Wragby Hall in D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley, it is the perfect setting for the re-enactment of medieval life during the 12th to 15th centuries. The volunteers representing the Knights Hospitallers really look the part with their plump, pallid faces peeking out under their hooded garments.

Pease Pottage is bubbling in a cauldron, the apothecary’s stand is adorned with hops, comfrey and other herbs, women are combing wool, the blacksmith is smelting silver while others demonstrate how to use a maul – a mean piece of equipment comprising a long wooden pole inset with hobnails around the base. It was used to fend off marauders or to whack the legs of an approaching enemy horse.  I take a photograph of a man easing himself into a suit of chain mail and watch while he flexes his bow in readiness for battle.

At the Harley Gallery, part of the Welbeck Estate and housed in the 5th Duke of Portland’s gasworks, I marvel at exhibits including the gloves worn by Charles I for his execution and the consecrated cup from which he drank his last communion.

Still in Nottinghamshire, we visit All Saints’ Church in the village of Babworth. Richard Clyfton, a separatist,  was Rector here from 1585 to 1605 and was instrumental in starting the Pilgrim Movement.

From Nottinghamshire my parents and I travel to the River Test in Hampshire – it is one of the best fly-fishing rivers in England.  Dad is the angler, but Mum and I are mere spectators and there for the birdlife, peace, tranquility and picnic lunches. We catch a glimpse of a kingfisher – a quick shot of turquoise and bronze – and swans with cygnets riding on their backs. Sedge warblers flit between the reeds, their song strident and metallic compared to the complex song (Dad compares it to Bach’s music) of the blackcap, which like the cuckoo, we hear but don’t see.

Buttercups stain our shoes yellow as we track Dad’s progress up and down the bank, squelching across ancient water meadows. Run by the John Lewis Partnership, the Leckford Estate has 14 beats and all are beautifully maintained with mown paths.   Herons strut their stuff, orange-tipped butterflies flit about and wild irises grow on the banks. But we are here for the Mayfly, a creature that spends most of its life as a nymph at the bottom of the river  before emerging in May for a brief 24-hours to mate, lay eggs and die. Like butterflies with long, dangling tails, once the Mayfly hatch, the trout start to rise and it’s time to do some serious fishing.

As we drive to and from our country Bed & Breakfast complete with springer spaniel and large, well-stocked garden, we pass through idyllic villages with thatched cottages, country gardens and 12th century churches with cemeteries full of crumbling, moss-covered tomb stones. The scenery reminds me of the picture on one of those old-fashioned shortbread tins, but it’s for real. To steal from Rupert Brooke, it has that stamp of Forever England.