The English Country Weekend

When I think of my life in the French country I think of the senses as best describing what it is that makes it so compelling; when I imagine a parallel life in the English country my thoughts run to charming houses, green fields, herbaceous borders and the utmost concentration on the home comforts. For I believe that the English are the masters of comfort. Not necessarily from a technological point of view because I think we all know the reputation of wiring and plumbing in the old country but from the point of view of feeling welcome, of being made to feel cosy and of having every comfort available at your disposal.

As much as my heart belongs to France and I can’t ever imagine that changing, England in the springtime is showing her best. What’s not to love? The hedgerows are green, green and the fields are vivid yellow with flowering rapeseed plants. The skies were baby blue all the way and in England that is never a given nor is it something to be taken for granted. We arrived as the sun was setting, the twilight softening the landscape and the birds were singing their evening farewells. A pair of unmarked gates lead us down a long winding driveway bordered on each side by tall swathes of Queen Anne’s Lace to reach our destination, the prettiest of Georgian houses.

These type of houses have a familiar feel to me, not because I have visited or stayed in many, but because they remind me of my childhood drawings – those ‘two storey-ed, even windows and central front door’ naive style pictures that I drew over and over. This house was just as it should be, as all those houses had been in my child’s imagination. The inside was just as enchanting as the outside… and that is when I started thinking about comfort. It is difficult to explain the notion of comfort when trying to tie the concept down to a certain lifestyle but I do believe the two go hand in hand. It was the little things that made me understand the importance of comfort to English country life. This home has all the ingredients and in particular the eat-in kitchen where we spent a large proportion of our weekend. The table was always laid with the prettiest tablecloths, china, glassware and vases of wildflowers from the garden. The armoire on one side of the kitchen was filled with rose patterned Weymss Ware. As a self confessed devotee to French ‘greige’ this shock of colour and pattern is unfamiliar but I came away thinking perhaps I am too plain. I soon remembered that this is the difference between the English and the French decorative style and why each has its place. The cold and often wet climate in England means that interior decor can provide the cheer needed to survive the long drab season. Colour and texture makes things cosy and cosy means comfort.

Comfort didn’t stop and start with the kitchen. It was the drawing room and a tray of drinks to satisfy any palette and it was the small table placed just so aside the squishy armchair to hold that drink. It was the padded ottoman to put the feet up or to throw the newspapers on and it was the crackling log fire that warmed our hands as we stood over the hearth. It was knowing that the house was full of personal treasures – this home has been lovingly created over time with thoughts of family and friends uppermost in their minds. It showed. And nor did comfort stop downstairs. It was the guest bedroom and the way the curtains were drawn and the bed turned down before we said goodnight. It was the latest books by our bedside in case we had forgotten our own. It was the small vases of flowers and the scented geraniums throughout our room and bathroom. It was the pretty soaps and bath gels, the linen hand towels and the large bath sheets. It was the feeling that it was my home for as long as I chose to stay.

I would have been happy to sit still all weekend and never move from this idyllic setting but that would not have in the spirit of a true English country weekend. There were plant and food markets to visit, an antique shop to discover, lunches to be lingered over and a long stroll along the beach. England and beaches are not something I normally associate together but this one – think back and recall the final scenes from the award winning film, ‘Shakespeare in Love’ – is as beautiful as any. Miles of rugged coastline, a fine sandy beach, the song of the seagulls, razor clam shells to collect and all the while walking under a cloud free sky.

I forgot to mention the cream tea…an English country weekend would not be an English country weekend without a cream tea…big fat scones, strawberry jam and thick clotted cream, all washed down with a good strong brew.

The English country weekend, I loved it, xv.