Route of the UK section of our trip, 2013

 

Quail and Tuile

Marlow is a very pretty village on the Thames. It is the home of the chef, Tom Kerridge. His restaurant, The Hand and Flowers, is currently the only pub in the UK with two Michelin stars. This is our last stop before we head back home, so we were keen to try Tom's food as it always looks so great on television.

We had a time getting a booking in truth. Making a reservations was far from easy. We phoned many times, from Australia or the UK, attempting to either reserve, confirm, then reconfirm, but the phone was never picked up. We emailed many times, too, and many of those emails just fell into a cyberhole and were never responded to, or returned. Luckily some made it, and eventually--after much frustrated effort on our part-- our reservation was made. Reserving a table should not be as difficult a process as that. The entire process really needs to be simplified and improved. 

When we arrived the pub was undergoing renovation: more seats going in most likely. We counted about 50 in the restaurant proper, and it could likely manage more covers than that, even though it does two sittings for both lunch and dinners most days, so it is doing well. 

The Hand and Flowers was once a pub, and like much of Marlow was built for tiny people. You have to stoop if you are as tall as us. The rooms inside have now been gutted, and the old pub has been opened out to make a beamed ceiling restaurant, with wooden floors, wooden tables and brown leather banquettes around part of the room. It is low and cosy, simple and stylish: lit by a tall single candle towering over a small cluster of fresh white flowers on each table. People call this a pub, but I cannot imagine a group of drinkers popping in here for casual drinks before heading home after work. This is not a drinking pub. They would feel distinctly uncomfortable trying to drink at the tiny bar here when all the other spaces in the place are filled to capacity with diners dedicated to enjoying what is on their plates.

The service in the restaurant was excellent. The front of the house staff did a thorough job of looking after us. They were a little more formal than Paul Ainsworth's crew, not as relaxed; though most of Paul's were men, who seem to have more fun.

Home made breads arrived--a very tasty soda and a crispy sourdough with a pat of butter; and, compliments of the chef, a cone of deep fried whitebait accompanied by the ubiquitous Marie Rose sauce. The whitebait was crunchy and delicious. But the Brits do love that ever pink and pervasive Marie Rose flavour which is served almost exclusively with seafood dishes in this country. I have long learned to pass on it. 

Starters were delicious. Mine was blow torched scallops on a bed of minuscule cubes of apple for crunch, in a beer and mead bouillon dressed with grated summer truffle that tasted like nuts. I savoured every lovely spoonful. 

The others had carrot and toasted lentil soup served with a carrot pakora that was beautifully spiced. Can't wait to get home and try to recreate that soup and the spiced carrot to go with it. Yum. 

Mains were quail and fish. The quail was the better dish here: with subtle flavour enhanced by the beautifully reduced sauce, accompanied by 'allotment vegetables' -- beetroots and wilted greens -- which were lovely with it.

I ordered the fish as I wanted to try Tom's signature 'thrice cooked chips' and that was the only fish dish on the menu that offered them. Also it was the one dish on the menu that had been rated the top dish in the UK in 2005, so it came with credentials. But as soon as it arrived at the table I regretted it: it looked like something I might have had as a takeout in newspaper on the Whitby docks. It was retro pub food and it appeared to be the only item on the menu that wasn't likely to offer a fine dining experience. So, a strange inclusion. 

Tom does this slow and extremely low temperature technique with his chips: only on the third fryup does he amp up the oil temperature. We have seen him do this on television and wondered why his chips would not be full of grease. Surprisingly, they didn't taste full of grease. And they didn't even leave grease behind. Yet, they looked as if they had been bathed in grease. Solidified, almost. Translucent with it. And it was this appearance more than anything which was really off-putting. Evenso, we all tasted the chips: and they had excellent crunch, far more so than regular chips, but loaded, simply loaded, with cholesterol-clogging arterial killers so they felt really bad for you; and we felt really guilty eating them. 

Dessert was sublime. Mmine was a tiny square of rich and elegant chocolate cake, softly moist and decadently layered with an ale cake and served with a side shot of four different yeasts to sip in order to enhance the flavour of the chocolate. The others had a gorgeous white bowl filled with blackberry fool and apple sorbet topped with the thinest, crispiest and most delicious fruit tuille on the planet. Deserts were sublime, but I doubt we'll ever be able to replicate them at home, so, woe!

Overall, a lovely eating experience for us at The Hand and Flowers, in the main. We really enjoyed most of the food, and certainly wanted to try many other items on the menu that looked so appealing. But -- and there are always buts: the prices, apart from the set menu which was excellent value, are becoming hefty. Difficult to justify in some cases. Some of the starters were actually dearer than the mains in many other establishments. Even in The Hand and Flowers. Which, in itself, is odd. Added to which the service charge is selected for you on the bill. So, in effect, you end up paying not only for the bread and the 'complimentary' whitebait, but the gratuity is decided for you. However does a restaurateur then judge whether he has pleased a guest with such an arrangement, or not. Decisions about tips really should be the province of the diner. 

A tough route this, for many of these Michelin star inspired chefs. I don't envy them at all. I sometimes wonder if they even enjoy it anymore. It cannot be an easy life, especially when one has has to keep everyone permanently happy, including Trip Advisor and Twitter. And, in truth, can that even be done these days? 

This was our last stop for this trip, our time, as ever limited. From here we drove back to the Midlands, dropped our motorhome off to our friend's place, then headed for the plane home. Another lovely trip complete.

Marlow, on the Thames

Soda and sourdough and a pat of butter

Torched scallops on apple crunch

Carrot and lentil soup with a carrot pakora

Quail with 'allotment vegetables'

Fish and 'thrice cooked chips'

Elegant rich chocolate cake layered with ale cake with a yeast sip

Blackberry fool and apple sorbet with fragile fruit tulle

Under the nave

Bosham harbour is extraordinary. When the tide is out you can walk across the bottom of the inlet from one side of one peninsula to another. There is even a narrow footpath across the soggy waterway that is well trodden, and well used by the locals. We chose, instead, to drive around the bay, on a road built onto the seabed, pitted with little waterholes left by the outgoing tide. It is wise not to park, or leave your car here, as the tide rolls in like a train when it decides to return and covers the entire road, and beyond.

In fact, the tide covers much of the lower part of village and several of the car parks. Houses and businesses close to the harbour have concrete or wood barriers permanently in place to hold back the tide. You have to step high over these in order to enter the premises. Quite novel for us. And despite this regular tidal influx Bosham's real estate prices are remarkably high: most of the cottages and houses in the village run to the million pound mark, and over. 

People want to live here. Bosham is an old, old village, and probably one of the most historically interesting in this part of the world. It is so old it is pronounced Boz-um in a kind of slurred and drunken manner. I love the way it sounds. 

Irish saints had a chapel in Bosham in the 5th century. Which is intriguing. Practically every coastal village we have come across in the past three months seems to have a new and different Irish priest or royal princeling, sail from Ireland in a wee boat in order to convert the unchristian hoards that were here at the time.  Amazing numbers of them. And they were apparently all royal. And terribly religious. Their missionary tendencies must have depleted much of the total population of Ireland in the 5th and 6th centuries, I fear. 

Bosham church, too, is old: its crypt is supposed to have been the chapel for the Irish missionaries, tho' there is some doubt that it was. Quite possibly the ground beneath the crypt was where the Irish saints had their first chapel: that is often how history goes in these coastal villages.

The Viking king, Canute, lived here, too. It is said that his eight year old daughter drowned in the nearby mill stream and was buried in the Bosham church. The vicar and the parishioners dug up a child's tomb in 1865 and it was on display for a time, but when reopened a century later, was found to contain no bones, so that remains a mystery, still, but has not prevented the parishioners from this era covering that spot with a memorial stone to the child. 

The arch on the inner entrance door of the church has an assortment of small crucifixes scarred into the stone. These, the local tales tell us, are remnants of Richard's Crusaders, making their mark with their swords as they returned from the Holy Wars. Graffiti, we would call it these days. Even vandalism. But, how times change perspective: the crusaders could do no wrong, and these marks are now treasured almost as art. 

Bosham church was where Harold Godwinson went to pray before heading across to Normandy to negotiate with King William about the throne of England. A tiny stitched panel on the Bayeux Tapestry shows Harold entering the Bosham church before heading down to the harbour to board his boat for France. It was Harold's eventual duplicity that caused William the Conqueror to cross the channel and invade England and end Anglo-Saxon rule forever. 

So, the history of England is writ large in this tiny historical village of Bosham. In the church, particularly.

Road is underwater at high tide

Concrete barriers to stop the tide each day

Ancient Bosham church

Memorial to Canute's child

Crusader's crucifix graffiti

Harold entering Bosham church on Bayeux tapestry

Curios and curiosities

Lovely Rockbourne is a pretty village we came across made of cob and thatch, brick, tile and timber with a little chalk-bottomed stream running down one side of the village street, crossed by foot bridges. The stream is a winterbourne stream, it only flows in winter, or only when it buckets down at other times of the year. Bourne. I wonder if that is where the Scottish 'burn' comes from. 

We later found a lovely wooden effigy of Anthony St Leger in Slindon. Anthony was a knight in the War of the Roses, who, before he died in 1539, asked to be buried in front of the statue of Our Lady in the Slindon church. This is an amazing piece of work. 

Then came a pumpkin stall in Slindon we stumbled across attempting to park: but, having found it, we discovered that it is famous. This year the theme of the vegetable mural is Cinderella and the Glass Slipper. We spoke to a lady who now helps out at the little market stall which operates at this time of the year in a small lane in the back of Slindon village. It has every kind of pumpin and squash you can imagine. We asked how long the stall had been operating and she informed us that she had brought her daughter here to buy a pumpkin 39 years ago, so it has been in existence longer than that. The son of the original farmer who started the stall still runs it every year. 

We are dawdling over the roads we love with whimsy and tales at every turn.  One is a minor road between Breamore and Rockbourne, which claimed to be  6'6" wide.   This one actually was. Many are not. Still our side vision mirrors scraped the hedgerows on both sides at the same time.  

A Saxon cooking pot was dug up by an archaeologist delving into the foundations beneath the ancient tower in the church in Singleton. We found it stored in a dusty niche in a dark alcove in one of the tower walls. We loved the shape of it. 

One night our stopover while we roamed these unusual villages was Lyndhurst. As pretty a place as you could hope to spend a night. Some of these farms we have been staying  on are simply gorgeous. 

And in a gorgeous little pyramidical towered church in Ashhurst, we found this rare tin plate Vamping Horn.  Ashhurst is a village that goes way back to the Saxons with its name, as 'hurst' is Saxon for clearing.  There may once have been an ash tree in the clearing here leading to its name.   

We believe there are only six Vamping horns left in all of England and this Ashurst one is conical and built at an obtuse angle, making it even more unusual. 

Vamping horns were invented in the 1700s to magnify sound. So it was more like a megaphone than a musical instrument. Before organs, vamping horns were used in churches to tune in the choir, and, if needed, to amplify sections of it, say, the bass, or the soprano section. The horns could also do the job of a Town Crier, as they could be heard for over a mile, and were often used for important announcements like reading the Parish Notices, or the Wedding Banns. I would imagine the vamping horn would be useful, too, if the Vicar was a wee bit deaf.

We are so enjoying these curios everywhere.  

A winterbourne stream in Rockbourne

A knight in wood

Cinderalla's carriage in an iconic Slindon pumpkin stall 

 

Both side rear mirrors touched the hedgerow

Saxon cooking pot in a niche

Rare vamping horn of even rarer shape

Lovely Lyndhurst 

Beyond the lych gate

Minstead is a charming New Forest village, dating back to the Doomsday book; and means Mint Place: as mint grew wild there. It is not unusual even today to see a horse and buggy trotting along between the hedgerows.

The entire village is full of quirks and interesting corners. Its village green still wears its renovated ancient stocks; and New Forest ponies, owned by the commoners, nibble where once there was a pond used for dousing the village gossip. 

The sign over the front of The Trusty Servant public house is a delightful satire on what a trusty servant should be. It is believed this was first posted at Winchester College, down the road, in the days when the students there had personal servants.

When searching for the ideal servant to fill the positions these were the qualities advertised: someone unfussy about their diet (the pig's head); able to keep things private (the padlocked pig's snout); patient (the ears of an ass); swift and efficient (the stag's feet); ready for hard work (loaded with tools in his left hand); neat (the tidy vest); faithful (open handed); ready to protect his master (bearing sword and shield). It is just delightful.

The church up a little lane is similarly quirky. Its entry is covered by an all weather lych gate, a lovely feature, which has an oak bier stand in the centre of it to carry the corpse on its way to and from services in the church. 

The font is ancient. Saxon. It was discovered by the rector one day in 1893 when he was doing a spot of gardening. It had been hidden there during the Reformation. Recognising it as important he set it in his wheelbarrow and rolled it across to the church where it sits today. One of the oldest fonts we have seen, I think. 

The pulpit has three tiers, the top two were able to be accessed by the minister from the Chancel. The upper level was reserved for the preaching of sermons; the middle for reading the scriptures. The lower level, accessed from the Nave, was used by the Parish Clerk to say the 'Amens' needed throughout the service. Again, a rare piece: we have never seen one quite like this before. 

The church is all weird shapes and additions. Upstairs, is a 'gypsy gallery'. This was installed for the poor of the parish, the children of the Charity School, to enable them a dedicated place inside the church where they might attend service. 

Then, to the side of the altar, are two eccentric additions which made us grin. Two of the big houses in the parish, Castle Malwood and Minstead Lodge, had their own private pews installed in their own private alcoves with doors accessing the exterior. They could come in and out as they wished. The Castle Malwood alcove had its own fireplace, and dinner was sometimes brought down from the house and served during the service. Now that is trusty service. 

And the extra long pegs in the church were there to accommodate the tall stovepipe hats that the gentlemen used to wear back in the day. 

While out in the churchyard is the grave of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who lived hereabouts, and now has a delightful spot to rest in peace. 

Charming Minstead

Ancient stocks in village green

The Trusty Servant

The ideal servant

All weather lych gate

Ancient Saxon font

Three tiered pulpit

'Gypsy gallery' for the poor

Private pews in private alcoves where dinner is served

Buckler's Hard

Beaulieu (Bew-ley) is one of the prettiest villages in all of England. We called in there as one of my family was once the Baptist preacher there. And a fine piece of work he was. But, more on him another time. Beaulieu has a palace at its heart and is part of the estate of yet another nobleman whose ancestor, John, the 2nd Duke of Montagu, already rich, had a big dream to make yet more money. 

The king gave John a couple of islands in the Caribbean in 1722, so John decided that he would become a plantation owner and a sugar importer. Everyone loved sugar. He would make the most of it. He had a spare piece of land, doing nothing a couple of miles downriver from Beaulieu which would make a decent free port, and he could get all that started while his boats were enroute to and from the Caribbean. 

He pumped £40,000 into 7 ships laden with crew and muskets; waved them off, then set about cleaning the woodland downstream from his palace to build houses, saltwater baths, an inn and even a chapel at the port site. The port had a hard surface on the bottom, ideal for ships coming and going. The place came to be known as Buckler's Hard. 

Disaster struck. 

When John's ships arrived to claim the islands that King George had granted him the French had already moved in and planted their flag. John's fleet of ships had nowhere to go: no sugar to grow, none to ship, so they turned and headed home, more than a little downcast. They had not even used their brand new Puckle gun onboard, a prototype for new automatic weaponry, designed, it was said, to shoot round bullets at Christians and square bullets at heathens. 

When they arrived back home Bucker's Hard was no longer really needed. Only 7 houses were built by 1731 and only two parallel rows of single houses were ever completed. Not much was happening, then, down on the waterfront. Except for smuggling.

Brandy for the parson

'Baccy for the clerk

Great brandy kegs could be sunk deep into thick coastal mud if needed, or hidden in secluded coves up and down the coast, to keep the booty from the hands of the Preventative Men, the customs officers. So shady lanterns were often used down shady lanes all along these tidal coast waters on many a fine smuggling night. 

In time, along came Lord Nelson, needing ships to fight the French. Bucker's Hard then developed into what it became famous for, being a shipbuilding port. Trees on the surrounding estates were specially selected, and sliced into the very specific cuts necessary to make large ships carrying guns. 

Huge tracts of land were emptied of mature trees. Some 40 acres of century old trees--around 2000 individual trees all up--were needed to make one good sized warship. Buckler's Hard thrived for decades until the demand for such ships declined. 

Nowadays tourists roam the village, and luxury boats dock on the marina where Nelson's warships were built. Drawn by a collection of James Bond stunt boats, as well as a brilliant museum on shipbuilding that the Montagu estate has set up. 

The pretty row of shipwright's and shipbuilder's homes climbing either side of the wharf still stand, with a wide 80 foot swathe between, sufficient width to allow the appropriately sized logs to be rolled down to the shipyards where they could be carved as planks for the ships that won the Battle of Trafalgar. Today it is all picturesque and peaceful, living on its memories.  

 

Beaulieu village

Palace on the pond

Extraordinary Puckle gun

A rare example of a chapel terrace house at
Buckler's Hard

 

Where once Nelson's warships were built

Stunt boat from Quantum of Solace

Beautiful Buckler's Hard with its wide main street 

The grey pound effect

We didn't get far today. If we drove twenty kilometres before lunch that would be all. Different things stopped us each time we attempted to move on. Simple little things like a field of Hallowe'en pumpkins, ripening beautifully for celebrations on All Saints Eve. 

The sun continues to warm our blood daily and our morning coffee stop along little Avon Beach at Mudeford, was filled with folk relaxing, everyone talking to each other about the weather. All grey haired. 

Someone mentioned to us recently that the 'Grey Pound' was transforming this part of the world. And it is. Retirees from London, or the north, seem to be heading to the West Country in droves. This part of England looks to be booming, in ways the rest of the country is not. 

It could be the promise of the sun, which always hangs warm in the air. Whole new subdivisions are being built in many of the major towns along the coast--and it is not all Prince Charles and his consortium, but developers with very similar thinking. They are clearly targeting the over 50s market. Their banners are flying, and many advertise that they are sold out already, prior even to completion. 

Our coffee shop today is filled with such Grey Pounders. There is even parking for their motorised wheelchairs and push trolleys, and some carry their own portable oxygen canisters, and many their walking sticks. All are on the move: mobility issues not hindering them. 

This particular beach has long been a popular one. The New Forest practically reaches down to the sea along parts of this coast, and back in the Georgian era, George IV, when he was not hunting deer in his royal forest, would "take the waters" right here. Folk were encouraged to drink the sea water, here, too, for medicinal purposes. Little bathing cubicles were wheeled out onto the sand and members of the public could hire them as dressing rooms from the Conductor of the Baths. Today folk often own their own fixed bathing sheds, some of which can cost as much as a small house depending on where it is sited. 

Mudeford is colourful. Further along the bay at the quay, fishermen with rods are catching bucket loads of good fat fish from their perches on the docks. Behind them one of the small fleet of local commercial fishermen still operating is unloading his catch: and being filmed by the BBC as he does so. 

The docks are piled with an assortment of fishing traps for lobster and crab, whelk and prawn. The larger ones are cuttlefish traps and have been out on the bottom of the bay for much of the season, harvested often during that time. But, the traps are left there while the young cuttlefish hatch, one of the fishermen told us. The little ones are then released to mature and be trapped again next season, when they are likely to be sold off to Europe. This time of the year the fishermen start bringing up the traps and storing them on the docks before the seas turn winter wild. But that won't be today. The weather is sublime. 

A field of gold

Grey nomad parking at Avon Beach cafe

Diamonds in the water

  

Bathing sheds

Mudeford beach huts

Pots and traps pulled from the sea at Mudeford Quay