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find our way to Kelmscot, the country estate of William Morris, where Rossetti and others of the Pre-Raphaelites used to hang out, which is why Susan wants to see it. Stopped for an indifferent lunch at a pub called, believe it or not, the Plough Inn, and then pushed on to Kelmscot Manor itself. Explored the manor, which had unusually lovely hangings, tiles, wallpaper, and design elements, far superior to other country houses of this sort that we’ve seen—not surprising, I guess, considering that Morris and his artist friends designed and/or executed just about everything in the house themselves. Interesting that a man who considered himself a devoted socialist and who apparently would scold his wife for being extravagant in the shops would have such a rich and lovely home, but then Morris was full of contradictions, like many artistic people both then and now.
Finished touring Kelmscot about 4:15, drove back to the A420 to the A415, and so to Kingston Bagpuise, and our next inn, Fallowfields. This is another stone manor house, set a little closer to the main road than I had thought it would be, but there are extensive grounds behind the main house, including a large vegetable garden and some flower gardens. On the lawn in the rear is a sequoia that has been hit by lightning and blasted into an odd shape (the host seems surprised when we don’t recognize it, as though Americans see sequoias every day, but Susan explains that its almost as far to the nearest sequoia from our home in Philadelphia as it is from Philadelphia to Oxford). The host is named Anthony. His wife, Peta, is the behind-the-scenes person, while he deals with the public—this seems to be the way it usually breaks down at these B&Bs that are run by couples: one front person, usually the man (always was the man, anyway, in every place we stayed on this trip, and usually is at B&Bs at home, too), to deal directly with the guests, and one person, usually the woman, behind the scenes to deal with logistics and organization, and usually to do the cooking. Anthony’s duties also include taking care of the huge vegetable garden, and he tells us that when he first moved up here from London, he was quite a Green, and would never willingly have harmed an animal, but that maintaining a vegetable garden is a constant war with pests who want to eat your vegetables, and now, after two years of it, he now feels no compunction about going out with a .12 gauge and shooting the wood pigeons, who eat his brussel sprouts. Across the rear lawn, the one with the sequoia, is a field where sheep, and, occasionally, horses graze. House martins flit about under the eves of the main house, doing incredible aerial acrobatics; they nest right up under the eaves right above the window to our room, and we constantly see them flashing past the window as they swoop out to gobble bugs, or swoop home again.
We take a swim before dinner in one of the strangest swimming pools I’ve ever seen, an oddly designed stone pool set a few steps down from the lawn, overhung by grape vines and lavender. The deep end extends all the way across the long end of the pool, rather than dividing it in half horizontally in traditional fashion, and I can’t help wonder if the Aga Khan, whose mansion this formerly was, might not have come up with its eccentric design himself. (Later the thought occurs to me that perhaps we were swimming in the former horse trough.) We swim for about an hour, while sheep graze and bleat in the field alongside the pool, horses move restlessly around in the distance, and butterflies dart about near the lavender bushes. Spend some time rescuing ladybugs from drowning in the pool, scooping them up and putting them down by the poolside—probably largely a wasted effort, since many of them seem determined to march right back into the water again as soon as they recover themselves.
Dinner at the inn is expensive but fairly good. All Americans in attendance for the first time
Finished touring Kelmscot about 4:15, drove back to the A420 to the A415, and so to Kingston Bagpuise, and our next inn, Fallowfields. This is another stone manor house, set a little closer to the main road than I had thought it would be, but there are extensive grounds behind the main house, including a large vegetable garden and some flower gardens. On the lawn in the rear is a sequoia that has been hit by lightning and blasted into an odd shape (the host seems surprised when we don’t recognize it, as though Americans see sequoias every day, but Susan explains that its almost as far to the nearest sequoia from our home in Philadelphia as it is from Philadelphia to Oxford). The host is named Anthony. His wife, Peta, is the behind-the-scenes person, while he deals with the public—this seems to be the way it usually breaks down at these B&Bs that are run by couples: one front person, usually the man (always was the man, anyway, in every place we stayed on this trip, and usually is at B&Bs at home, too), to deal directly with the guests, and one person, usually the woman, behind the scenes to deal with logistics and organization, and usually to do the cooking. Anthony’s duties also include taking care of the huge vegetable garden, and he tells us that when he first moved up here from London, he was quite a Green, and would never willingly have harmed an animal, but that maintaining a vegetable garden is a constant war with pests who want to eat your vegetables, and now, after two years of it, he now feels no compunction about going out with a .12 gauge and shooting the wood pigeons, who eat his brussel sprouts. Across the rear lawn, the one with the sequoia, is a field where sheep, and, occasionally, horses graze. House martins flit about under the eves of the main house, doing incredible aerial acrobatics; they nest right up under the eaves right above the window to our room, and we constantly see them flashing past the window as they swoop out to gobble bugs, or swoop home again.
We take a swim before dinner in one of the strangest swimming pools I’ve ever seen, an oddly designed stone pool set a few steps down from the lawn, overhung by grape vines and lavender. The deep end extends all the way across the long end of the pool, rather than dividing it in half horizontally in traditional fashion, and I can’t help wonder if the Aga Khan, whose mansion this formerly was, might not have come up with its eccentric design himself. (Later the thought occurs to me that perhaps we were swimming in the former horse trough.) We swim for about an hour, while sheep graze and bleat in the field alongside the pool, horses move restlessly around in the distance, and butterflies dart about near the lavender bushes. Spend some time rescuing ladybugs from drowning in the pool, scooping them up and putting them down by the poolside—probably largely a wasted effort, since many of them seem determined to march right back into the water again as soon as they recover themselves.
Dinner at the inn is expensive but fairly good. All Americans in attendance for the first time
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