Further north along the Welsh border lies St Deiniol's, the private library of the magnificently eccentric nineteenth-century polymath Sir William Gladstone and today, arguably, Britain's finest residential library.  St Deiniol's offers a rarefied but congenial retreat for the true booklover, within easy reach of the mountains, castles and coastline of North Wales. 

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Welsh-born author and traveller Jan Morris writes, “The maze-like highlands of Wales have dictated the destiny of the country, but in their secretive and in-bred way they have dictated the character of its people too.”

The Welsh do share that English passion for privacy… finding a sea-front inn on the Llyn Peninsula becomes quite a challenge.

The rugged majesty of its mountains, centuries-old fortresses (now hollow shells but still proud border sentinels); the lilting language, defiantly spoken and displayed from corner stores to supermarket aisles, all proclaim the individuality of this ancient Celtic principality still resisting domination by the English.

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Foodies and fashionistas delight at the Old Spitalfields Market; but those in the know pass up the over-hyped 'Banglatown' in Brick Lane for more authentic kebabs and curries in the back streets of Whitechapel.  And where else could a synagogue rub shoulders with one of the city's largest mosques?

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Whilst the British may disparage ‘Oxbridge’ as the home of an ivory tower elite, England’s two venerable university cities are quite different places.

Oxford is a busy industrial city which happens to incorporate an historic university: this is where the Morris motor company started out.   Oxford is the gateway to the Cotswolds and England’s verdant West Country, but beyond Cambridge, 90 kilometres north of London, lie only the marshy Fens of East Anglia,  an austere and sparsely populated landscape. 

Cambridge exists only as a seat of learning.  Without its colleges the town would have remained at best a sleepy provincial burg like the cathedral ‘city’ of Ely, further north.  

Punting on the Cam; the Gothic tracery of King's College Chapel… these are images of an ethereal England far removed from the twenty-first century.  Indeed, cattle graze 500 metres from the market square.  As one pundit remarked, “the city of Cambridge… lies like a cat in a basket, its back curled against the comfortable curve of the river… occasionally stretching indolently on the lawn”.  

For centuries the Thames was the main artery of Europe’s greatest city.   Its murky waters mirror the history of London, indeed of the rise and fall of Britain’s maritime power and, more subtly, London’s return to prominence in the information age.  Today the Docklands falls right off the edge of city maps clutched by the tourists who swarm under Tower Bridge. 

Amidst the crowded tenements of the seamy Wapping district, in the narrow, cobbled alleyways behind the river’s banks, publicans and prostitutes thrived, as did dozens of pubs.  Theft and murder were commonplace.  Some of the most venerable riverfront pubs remain, the best-known being the Prospect of Whitby on Wapping Wall.   Established in 1520, the former Devil’s Tavern has hosted Samuel Pepys and Charles Dickens at its well-worn pewter-topped bar. 

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With sawdust strewn across the floor and a well-worn timber chopping block in constant use, R. Hussey, Licensed Butcher and Game Dealer, in Wapping, just east of the Tower of London, is one of England’s truly old-fashioned 'High Street' butchers. The store is so small that customers line up outside in the cold for their Scotch eggs, lamb chops, Cumberland or Lincolnshire sausages. 

How do Hussey and his ilk survive in the face of competition from supermarket chains?

"Everyone knows where we are," he says with authority.

Turns out we end up driving ourselves there, and yes, the person we asked in East Grinstead did know – but we certainly doubted her directions for a while.

Gravetye Manor's address simply says 'near East Grinstead'. It actually should read NOT near East Grinstead, as you must drive several beautifully leafy miles (we're in England, you have possibly guessed) to reach it. And when you do, you discover it is actually NEARER to West Hoathly or Turners Hill. The only advantage is that East Grinstead is larger and appears on the maps.

Which is all a rather involved way of saying that Gravetye Manor (it isn't even pronounced as you would expect – it's Grave Tie) is deliciously off the map, a flowery hidden estate. But of course, when a place has been around for 500 years or so you do expect people to have learnt your location.

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This article continues to describe the sumptuous accommodation and dining available at Gravetye Mano, and its location – close to the wood described by children’s author AA Milne in his classic book Tales of Pooh.

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(finishes…)

If we'd had time we could have wandered some more, locating Roo's Sandy Pit and the site of Where the North Pole Was, as well as The Enchanted Place. But we had dinner planned in Gravetye's restaurant and chef Mark Raffan's food to hurry back for.

After all, Pooh bear was only fiction, but we knew for a fact there was a

special treat in store for us.

©Sally Hammond 2006

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Another stop. Wind the window down one more time. Ask the same silly question again: do you know where….?

“Ooorgh,” says the man we’ve stopped while out walking his dog. “Ooorgh,” shifting his cap and scratching his head.

By now, we’re starting to realise this strange gargling sound isn’t connected to a medical condition, but simply the accepted beginning to most sentences hereabouts.

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This article continues, written in an upbeat conversational style and includes information on Cornwall, the beaches, local food and cuisine, things to do and see.

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(finishes…)

Cornwall is not a shire or a county. It’s a duchy, belonging to the Duke of Cornwall with a language – Cornish – that is now archaic. It’s Britain’s summer playground, the hedged inadequate roads jammed each year with beachgoers, eager to play on the west coast’s shining sands that seem to stretch forever.

It’s summer evenings in the pub nursing a pint of Scrumpy; it’s green meadows, polka-dotted with cows and horses, mazed with more hedges; it’s thatched whitewashed cottages, with maybe a bed and breakfast in one of them. It’s Rodda clotted cream at the far end of the country.

It’s getting lost and finding a friendly local.

Ooorgh!

(900 words + Factfile) ©Sally Hammond 2006

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