It’s been a busy old time in London town these past two months, what with setting up house, finding new jobs and seeing all the metropolitan musts, like Buckingham Palace, Borough Market and the Tate Modern. Sammy and I have lately been pining for some tree time, so on this sunny Saturday morning we jump in the car with friends – me in shotgun – and hurtle an hour west to Berkshire County, the wooded land immortalised in Kenneth Grahame’s classic tale of Mole, Ratty and Mr Toad.
Our pommy friends Simon and Matt grew up in a tranquil village called Cookham Dean, and they want us to roam the surrounding wild forests, drink lager in the old thatched-roof inns, and help celebrate the anniversary of Guy Fawkes’ failed gunpowder plot in the old English way, with fireworks, home-baked delights and steaming cups of spicy mulled wine. Frankly, it would be rude not to.
We arrive in ‘The Dean’, recently voted by the Sunday Times as one of the country’s poshest villages, and we take a look around. This must be the most spectacular time in the village, with all the falling golden leaves, and the majestic red kite birds that circle silently above. Two girls clip-clop by on their ponies bound for the old bridle paths that crisscross the area, but otherwise there’s nobody around. We decide they all must be taking tea by the fire in their cottages. And wearing tweed.
We wander over to the apple orchard owned by Simon’s family and three other families, and build a giant bonfire out of twigs, fence palings and a broken old row-boat for Sunday night. They’ve been putting on little bonfire nights with fireworks in the orchard for twenty-odd years, so it’s a real treat to be part of the preparation.
With bellies full of windfall apples we check out the bigger bonfire night for all the villagers. Rugged-up kids are releasing blazing lanterns into the night sky, and the fireworks are doing their job to wow the crowd. Then, following a lovely dinner with Simon’s parents, we could easily retire to our comfortable country beds and dream of Mole and Ratty messing about in boats, as they loved to do. Instead we stumble to the nearest watering hole and continue to down a lion’s share of liquor…
On Sunday we make for a meadowy stretch of land where the Thames gently curves and the furry cows roam free. Whoever pegged Cookham Dean as posh must have come to this part; it’s proper Hunter wellington and hound territory. However they all seem friendly enough.
Back at Simon’s place, Penny and I make a life-size model Guy Fawkes by stuffing old clothes with newspaper, rename him ‘Creepy Steve’ and sit him inside the bonfire boat. By 7pm Creepy Steve is a flaming mess, the boys are letting off Meteorite Rockets and I’m three homemade sausage rolls in. The locals hand out sparklers to ‘the visiting Aussies’, and serve up cups of mulled wine. I could stay here all night surrounded by this wholesome country cheer, but alas, it’s time to head on back to the big smoke.
Gretel Hunnerup is convinced that in a past life she was a carrier pigeon, such is her love of taking fanciful flights and posting little stories about her discoveries to her independent online pigeon hole: www.thecarrierpigeonpost.com.
The Australian sticky beak now writes about the little-known delights that make London hum…stuff that wouldn’t make the papers, like quirky establishments, not-for-tourists pursuits, and ordinary folks doing surprising things.
A trained journalist with six years travel and lifestyle writing for print and web, Gretel has taken a new post heading up internal communications for STA Travel’s Northern Europe and Africa Division, geared for maximum on-the-road reportage. Oh and she’s a sucker for documentaries, dress-up parties and dolmades.
