Our last morning saw a hive of activity as clothes and food was thrown into cases and a quick clean up of the rooms ensued. We were on the road by 10am, ready for the long drive home.

A quick stop in Arlesford to discover that Caracoli doesn’t serve brunch until 12:30 (odd since it’s a mixture of breakfast and lunch…). We popped into the second hand book store to look for Roxanne’s next bookclub book but they don’t have a lot of Victorian three volume novels, so I bought a book on ancient sites. Next stop was the butcher for some scrummy looking rabbits (total bargain, only £3.50 for two!) for our dinner tomorrow night and then off home.

By 11.30 we were home and unpacked with the washing machine happily tumbling away. What a lovely rest we had! I wholeheartedly recommend Avington park for any serious rest seekers!!!!

Avington Park

This morning I popped out to check out the gypsy’s grave under the yew tree in St John’s churchyard. I found the massive old yew without any problem but there are LOTS of gravestones under it and most are unreadable. So, as Mirinda says, I have actually seen it…I’m just not sure which one it was!

On the local news this morning, there was a piece on a police raid on a house in Fordingbridge looking to bust a massive international drug ring. Fordingbridge doesn’t exactly conform to what most people would think of as a head of anything. When we visited the New Forest and stayed at Woodpecker Cottage, we weren’t far from Fordingbridge. In the words of Victor Meldrew, “I don’t believe it!”

Once Mirinda had had her usual soak, we set off for a short walk across the red clover in the Low Grounds. The original plan had been to take a short walk back but owing to a mass of nettles blocking the path, we ended up taking the loooooong way. Not that it wasn’t pleasant…to start with. We had a delightful wander between fields, beside insect rich hedgerows, swooping birds around us. We were lost for a bit – mainly due to the cloak of invisibility around Mud Farm – but managed to discover we were on the track to Larkwhistle Farm, clearly marked on the map and a long way out of our way. Rather than backtrack, Mirinda decided we’d walk via Chapel Lane into Easton then via the woods back to Avington Park.

Duke's Drive

As a walker, there are few sights more appreciated after a few hours walking than a pub, and this is what awaited us as we entered Easton. The Cricketers had just opened and I fortunately had just enough change in my pocket for a pint of Strongarm and a diet coke. We sat and drank for a spell then stepped back out into the street. That is when the weather changed.

A few weekends ago, watching Countryfile, we saw an item about the weather forecasting that the BBC use. We were told that the five day forecast is good but the daily stuff was generally pretty spot on. This morning I watched the weather, as usual on the BBC, and was reliably informed that there would be rain in Brighton, rain in Andover but nothing on us.

So we left the road and started across fields as the rain started spitting, then falling then deluging. I wasn’t prepared for a serious walk so realised a few things pretty quickly. I had no raincoat, I wasn’t wearing my boots, I’d forgotten my hat, I had no waterproof bag and I wasn’t wearing my normal quick dry walking shorts. My glasses quickly became useless, my t-shirt was drenched, my runners started squelching and the camera was starting to get wet. It was pretty soon that I realised that my light shorts had a serious drawback – they get see-through when wet. Naturally Mirinda just gloried in the inclemency and walked slower.

As a short break we stopped off in the little Saxon church of St Swithin’s in Martyr Worthy. Unfortunately they are having more guide books printed so I can’t bore anyone with any details. It has a very unusual rounded altar, as if it’s been tacked onto the end of a strictly rectangular building. It has a square, wooden bell tower. It was quite cute. The stained glass was very nice so I snapped a shot of St John, just for your edification! But we had to leave and get a bit more drenched.

St John

In England, in our experience anyway, the rain is generally pretty light and, if you’re in it for a long time, it rarely gets you more than damp. We have never seen rain like we have in Sydney. The type that drenches you in a couple of minutes with massive drops that eventually give you a headache if you stand beneath them too long. Well, we can no longer say that. The rain today was tropical. The last stretch to Avington Park was of truly waterfallic proportions. By the time we reached the entrance hall there was no longer anything dry about us.

Interestingly there was some sort of function on at the house today and we dripped right through the middle of it. Oh, how Australian!

The hot shower and dry clothes were very welcome and I think the camera is going to pull through.

Awake and up at 7:30 – I’m getting far too used to this. This morning we decided to forgo the morning walk and head, instead for Hinton Ampner. I’m sure we’ve already been but Mirinda doesn’t remember so we set out to prove it one way or the other.

And we still don’t know as it isn’t open on Thursdays.

We then decided to go and visit the Sir Harold Hillier Gardens at Ampfield, just outside Romsey. So it was a case of retracing yesterdays long tracks with Mirinda doubting my navigation but remaining silent as we pulled into the car park.

It was obviously Let Out the Crazies Day today and they were all on the road between Winchester and Romsey. I’m not sure why so many drivers waste their time playing chicken when there’s less messy forms of suicide. I won’t mention the woman in a wheelchair who hopped out and danced around the lawn before getting back in and driving off down the hill.

Anyway, Harold Hillier was the son of a world authority on conifers who was the son of a florist (not the artificial kind either). He (Harold, that is) collected together lots and lots of specimens from around the world (most of them by post) and gradually filled up 65 acres of land he purchased in 1952 attached to Jermyn’s House. By 1977 he had not only expanded the grounds but also made the Gardens into a charitable trust. It is now 180 acres boasting 42,000 plants and 11 national plant collections. It is one amazing garden!

We started off with a cream tea as we soaked up the splendid view down the valley towards…well, towards the rest of the garden I suppose. It stretches an awful long way. After our cream tea, we set off for the Winter Garden. Here, among the acers and maples and odd little sculptures, Mirinda found much to excite her and many new plants to inject into our own garden at some later stage.

The ‘odd little sculptures’, which are not always so little, are part of a yearly exhibit called Art in the Garden. 2006 marks the seventh year. It is a showcase for new and established artists to show their work. All the pieces are for sale – very expensive – and they are dotted all over the place. Some are awful, some weird and some downright peculiar but every now and then something really exciting appears. The glass shoes were good as was the lady in the lake. Still, all in all, it adds to the enjoyment of the garden.

Glass shoes

By the way, Jermyn’s House, pronounced ‘German’s House’ by the lady who sold me the guide book, was originally some farmer called Jarman’s, house.

Jermyn's House

It was used as a smallpox hospital in the 18th century. The house went through several owners. One of them, Captain Sergison Smith had a wife with some sort of minor ailment who took a tonic containing salicin (similar to aspirin). She would go to the chemist (Mr Jones) who would mix it up for her. Then one day he had a strange moment where he substituted strychnine for the salicin. Of course, Mrs Smith died an agonising death and Mr Jones was convicted of manslaughter. Mr Jones committed suicide. Harold Hillier eventually purchased it from auction in 1953.

This is where I gloss over the hours we spent wandering around this gigantic place, admiring the plants. We ended up back at the restaurant where we had lunch then we drove back to the apartment for a much needed rest. We watched a couple of programmes on the Archos – Gilbert White and Monk – and then prepared for dinner.

For dinner we decided to walk down to the Trout Inn to try their ala carte offering. I have to say it’s highly recommended. Particularly if you get the good waiter with the spikey hair. The other one is just plain scary. Rather than standing straight and asking if all is ok once or twice, this guy bends down and thrusts his face into yours and, with a Boris Karloff rub of his hands, asks “Is everything alright for you?” Strange guy. He also tried to talk a table of ladies out of eating ala carte as they could get two for one on the standard pub food. But enough of him.

I had a deliciously tender lamb rump atop dauphinoise potato and watercress with a garlic and Spanish sausage jus while Mirinda had a lovely beef Wellington. For dessert we indulged in sticky toffee pudding and ice cream – seriously yumbo! To accompany this delight I had a couple of pints of Old Bob…an obvious choice.

We then walked home down the pitch black road, across the invisible bridges, along the eerie tree lined drive and into the dark main building. There are no lights in the country and the moon had taken a holiday.

Awoke at 7:30 this morning. Getting closer to the dreaded 6am!! Perhaps by the end of the week I’ll be able to go for a walk.

I’ve heard the weather forecast on the news a number of times this morning and each time we have been bathed in sunlight all day. Looking out the window we are swamped in dark storm clouds and it looks like it may rain at any moment. Not like the BBC weather at all.

After Mirinda’s bath and breaky, we set out for a stroll along the Itchen River. We found an abandoned building which could have once been a lodge except for the lack of access. Mirinda put forward the suggestion that perhaps it was a bath house. I ventured that it was easy to imagine a gay group of Victorian aristocrats frolicking through the woods, towels in hand, wearing their neck to knees and plunging into the now green and grungy pool. Now it would be a great place for filming Midsomer Murders. The Victorian’s would be a group of Midsomer Re-enactors – I can just see Joyce as Florence Nightingale…

Victorian bath house?

Back at Avington we collected Sidney and set off for Romsey. As we travelled along the B3090 I was accused of taking us the wrong and winding way. Fortunately I wasn’t, even though the signs indicating Romsey did vanish.

Arriving perfectly correctly in the small market town of Romsey we parked and paid and went in search of the Abbey. Along the way we found a bakery where we purchased a lunch we could eat under an oak tree.

Knowing very little about it, we assumed the Abbey would be a ruin but it is possibly the largest parish church in England!

Romsey Abbey

Alfred the Great’s son Edgar founded the first nunnery there in 907, though there seems to be some evidence for an earlier building. The existing church is a Norman building which once housed a gregarious bunch of Benedictine nuns. Mirinda read out bits of their history to me and I kept thinking what a good Carry On film it would make. Carry On Up The Abbey, perhaps.

In 1302 the nuns were told not to sit up late drinking and gossiping while in 1387 they were accused of taking rabbits, birds and other frivolous things into church and playing with them instead of doing nunny type things. Hunting hounds would also foul the cloisters!

According to Judy Walker, expert on all things Romsey Abbey, there are also occasional and specific charges of incontinence! They would also often sneak out the parish church door and pop into a nearby tavern to wile the nights away with a few tankards of Best Bitter.

The fortunes of the Abbey took a decidedly downward turn in 1349 following the Black Death. The population was decimated leaving only 18 nuns to carry on the running of the Abbey. It got to a point where the nuns were so inexperienced they couldn’t even understand the Latin sermons and the abbess was far too young and unknowledgeable.

The building itself took about 130 years to construct. It was built around an existing Saxon church, of which little remains. Henry III donated a sizeable number of oaks for the roofing of the church. In recognition his head was placed on the outside of the west front. It then fell off and now sits on a window sill.

Henry III's head

The nave roof that now graces the church was built in the 1860s when oak tie-beams were removed to make it nicely barrel shaped. Typical Victorians! The walls started to splay out with the removal of the beams so in 1971 steel tie rods were used to secure the walls once more.

I also found a Saint Sebastien! There is a 1525 reredos in the St Lawrence chapel depicting, on the bottom, Christ rising from the grave while above him a line of saints stand around looking saintly. Third from the left is the nearly nude figure of the arrow punctured St Sebastien. I tried a number of times to get a good photograph of the screen but was defeated by the light. I cheated and took a picture of the picture in the guide book instead!

St Seb

One of the reasons the Abbey still stands in such great condition (and is now used as the parish church) is because during the Dissolution, when Henry VIII was destroying so many religious houses, the townsfolk of Romsey managed to club together £100 in order to buy it for the town. Henry agreed and his bill of sale is proudly displayed in the church.

There is a sad but sweet memorial near the entrance to Alice Taylor. She died in 1843 of scarlet fever at the age of two years and five months. She holds a broken rosebud in her hand. It is said she fell ill when her father brought her a flower form the garden and was still holding it four days later when she died.

I could go on but I’ll restrain myself. Suffice to say it’s a pretty impressive place and we spent a long time wandering around.

Outside we popped into the Abbey Tavern for some liquid sustenance where I was offered a chicken leg to accompany my Best bitter. We then went in search of King John’s House. It didn’t take long as it’s virtually next door to the pub.

Now this is a very odd place. And I don’t mean the angles with which it seems to defy gravity. It is known that King John built a hunting lodge in Romsey probably around 1206, however it has been proven that this house was built 30 or 40 years after King John died. Still, when a town thinks it has something royal, it tends to cling to it and the house is still called King John’s regardless.

Inside the house is a mishmash of styles and eras. Windows growing and shrinking as fashion and tax dictate, low doors and high ceilings, cut-away floors revealing a bone floor. Yes, bone floor!

Bone floor

Here is something I’ve never heard of. No-one knows when as the bones have been very difficult to date but most scientists believe it dates from late medieval because of the size of the cattle. The floor was made by pressing the long foot bones of cattle and horses into the natural clay and smaller sheep bones to fill in the gaps. This created a type of cobbled affect. It is claimed that it was practical rather than decorative – though it does look pretty cool. Judging by cut marks on the bones, it is presumed the bones came from a tannery – Romsey was famed for its tanneries. And, after all, why not? Has to be better than stones.

Upstairs, taking care on the slippery steeply sloping floor, the walls are etched with graffiti believed to have come from the blades of members of Edward I’s visiting party of 1306. Nice lot! Let them stay in your house and they decorate the walls with their names, arms and crude cartoons of the king. At some point in its history, this graffiti was covered over with a lime wash which, rather than obliterating it, preserved it perfectly.

Surrounding the house is a lovely garden. Not big but very well laid out into a series of garden rooms. It leads you around the house into the tea room garden where we naturally stopped for tea, coffee and cake. It was lovely sitting in the sun sipping except for when I suddenly realised our parking ticket was about to expire and had to high tail it back to the car park to feed the meter some more dosh.

Garden

I do have one unflattering thing to say about Romsey – the Waitrose should be better signposted. We were searching for a supermarket (or shop) to buy orange juice and milk and were told to try up a particular street. I set off along the road for about a mile but no shop. On the way back, Mirinda noticed a small sign pointing up a hoarding lined alley. And there it was. Annoying.

Tonight was my first Locality Studies lecture, so Mirinda dropped me at Winchester station and drove back to Avington Park for a lovely evening alone, while I sweltered in an under cooled classroom back at Surrey U.

Awake at 8:30 again! What the hell is happening to me? Am I going crazeeeee? Perhaps. But not as crazy as some! A case in point: For breakfast, Mirinda has been trying the newest flavour in the Innocent range. It is pomegranete, blueberry and acai. I have no idea what an acai is but the stuff smells foul and looks evil. She says it grows on you. For her sake, I hope not.

We decided to take a walk down to Itchen Abbas to check out the church. On the way we crossed the River Itchen a number of times. What a perfectly idyllic Christmas tin of a river. Even the swans looked perfect. Mirinda would have stood looking over the low walls forever if I hadn’t prised her hands from the stones.

Swans on the Itchen

The Church of St John the Baptist, Itchen Abbas sits comfortably in the landscape, graves liberally scattered in the grounds leading up to it. The building there now was built in 1862 but it does incorporate a few features of the old Saxon church which preceded it.

St John's

A couple of interesting stories about the church:

In 1825 the rector was Robert Wright, a fair and formidable man. At that time the case of a gypsy accused of horse-stealing was brought to court. Robert tried to win the gypsy a reprieve but failed. The accused was executed. Robert took home the body and paid for it to be buried in the church yard beneath the ancient yew tree – you can still see the stone today!

Around 1837, a vault was dug under the church and two coffins were discovered. Each was cut from a single block of chalk, had a lid and a skeleton. No-one knows who they were…

From the church we wandered along a bit of the Kings Way footpath as it follows the Itchen River. We had to argue with a bunch of aggressive looking calves but managed to get by them. It was all quintessentially English…even the cows had a distinct south eastern lilt to their lowing.

We returned from whence we’d been, collected Sidney and set off once more for Winchester. Our first stop was Café Nero once more where I read an interesting story in The Times regarding a young German art student studying in China.

He had always dreamed of being a terracotta soldier so he made himself a terracotta uniform and base and visited the army of statues. After changing he leapt over the barrier and stood motionless among his heroes. It took the Chinese police about two minutes to find him, as his disguise was so good. He wasn’t charged with anything because, among other things, he gave everyone such a good laugh.

From the café, we headed over to the cathedral where we attended the lunchtime concert. These occur on various Tuesday’s throughout the year. Fortunately for Mirinda, next week sees the presentation of ‘organ fun’ with Andrew Lumsden and Sarah Baldock. This week, however, we were treated to a delightful programme from the Durrel Ensemble, a student group from the Royal College of Music, London. They are a quintet of bassoon, oboe, flute, clarinet and French horn. They played some Mozart followed by Debussy. In the north transept of the cathedral it all sounded lovely. What a splendid way to spend lunchtime.

We then strolled down to our favourite bakery for pizza slice, ham baguette and pastries which were eaten by the side of the Itchen.

It is interesting that in all the times we have journeyed to Winchester, we have never managed to see Wolvesey Castle. Well, we rectified that today.

Wolvesey Castle was the home of Henry of Blois from 1129. Although William Giffard built the West Hall by 1110 (the year, not the time), it was Henry of Blois who created most of the opulence of the new palace. The whole palace replaced an earlier bishop’s palace built by Ethelwold in the late 970s but nothing of that remains. In the early 16th century there was also a lot of additions made but it fell into decline in the 17th, soon becoming little more than rubble.

Section of Wolvesey Palace

This rubble is all that is apparent today but it shows what a magnificent building once stood there. It was also a powerful place. It was from here that the bishop’s extensive estates were administered. He (the Bishop of Winchester that is) also had palaces/castles in Farnham, Southwick and Bishop’s Waltham. I’ve seen all but the one at Bishop’s Waltham so almost a complete collection then. Sad, Gaz, very sad.

It was then off to that other prominent tourist feature of Winchester, the City Mill. This is a working mill owned and run by the National Trust. A mill has stood on the spot since at least 1086 as it is recorded as such in Bill the Bastard’s Domesday Survey of that year. It suffered a lot of ups and downs through the centuries and gradually fell into terrible disrepair until in 1744 (before Captain Cook discovered Australia) a James Cooke, master tanner, rebuilt it. All was well until 1928 when it was in danger of demolition to make way for low cost housing (or something) but a group of benefactors stepped in, bought it and donated it to the National Trust.

In 1931, the Trust leased the mill out to the Youth Hostels Association and there’s some pretty bizarre photos of people hanging from ropes in the Mill Race! Mind you, after a very long tramp through the south east, a quick dunk in the mill race could be quite nice, though pretty cold. By the way, a mill race is one of the channels that split off from the main run of the river. Half of it powers the wheel but the other half just zips through, under the mill. All rush and bubble, flying foam.

Mill race

Since 1992, the Trust has been working towards restoring the mill with the aim of producing flour, which it finally did in 2004. This marked the first time flour had been produced in the mill for 90 years.

It was great seeing the machinery beneath the mill as it turned, powered by the water. So much better than anything coal powered. Water produces no pollution…not even of any kind. Behind the mill is a narrow garden island, which once upon a time was home to some pigs who happily watched their owner guide his horse and cart across the town bridge.

It was then back to Sidney and the short drive to Avington House. We rested for a bit then drove off to Arlesford for an Indian. It actually amounted to two as I took an instant (and unreasonable) dislike for the guy in the first one when he told us we couldn’t sit in the 6 seater table in the window – I assume his restaurant is packed every Tuesday. And so we went to Shakta, which sounds more Klingon than Indian and settled into the empty restaurant. Dinner was fine, though Mirinda claimed the duck was spicy (I didn’t notice it).

Back at Avington, we watched Home and Stephen Fry’s Manic Depression on BBC2 then to bed. A massively busy day for us!

This morning I was rudely awoken by the bi-verbal screech of some sort of foreign devil of a bird. It started with a screech then ended with the deep vibrations of the fog horn that started life aboard the Titanic. Disconcerting when it’s sitting on the end of your bed staring down into your eyes and making ridiculous sounds. I tried shooing it away but it just laughed.

Rude awakening

Then I really woke up and realised the odd creature was flying over the garden making a frightful racket. I decided it was trying to tell me something and went to make coffee. Actually that works. If you screech the prefix “coff” then deeply fog horn the suffix “ee”, it sounds pretty much like the bird.

Not that it was early. I have been sleeping in so far; something very rare! The bird roused me around 8:30.

I sat around typing while Mirinda enjoyed her Jacuzzi (this time without bubbles) and tea.

My first class at uni is tonight, so our first stop was at Winchester station for a timetable. This mission accomplished, we found a parking station then, for reasons best not gone into, I went to buy a new mobile phone. So it was off to Phones 4 U where I picked up a bargain of a phone for £30! I then managed to lose Mirinda for a bit. Reunited, we sat in Café Nero for a cappuccino & a latte.

After a short debate, it was decided we’d have a Cornish pasty each for lunch in the cathedral precinct which Mirinda insists on calling The Close. Leaning up against the chain smoking Elizabeth Cover’s table top tomb, we indulged in one of Cornwall’s greatest exports each (mine was lamb & mint, Mirinda had steak & stilton). It was a lovely day and so the grass was full of people, dogs and butts.

Gaz and Elizabeth Glover's grave

After a drive back to the apartment for me to change, it was back into Winchester for me to get the train to Guildford. The plan was for Mirinda to meet the 10:33 train with me on it but when I arrived, a text awaited me saying “Get taxi. 2 scary“. And so I hopped aboard a Winchester cab, delighting the driver with a fantastic fare.

In order to understand why it was ’2 scary’ you have to realise that Avington House is in the middle of nowhere. There are no lights anywhere. The car is parked up the hill and behind the church. In order to reach the car, one has to try and reach it over the wide open spaces of the blackened lawn. There was no moon. Nuff said.

I had had some crazy assed idea to walk into Itchen Stoke to get the Sunday papers this morning. I woke up at 10! I just made a coffee and woke up properly. Mirinda woke soon after and, after her first cup of tea, decided to try out the Jacuzzi. Accidentally putting three drops of bubble bath in meant she slowly vanished under a mountain of soapy suds. I feared opening the bathroom door, preferring to leave the bubbles inside.

After successfully filling the bathroom with bubbles, Mirinda emerged to announce how good the Jacuzzi was. It was then off to Arlesford for brunch.

As we tramped across the lawn we were approached and then accosted by a woman in jodhpurs and riding boots who quite confidently asked if she could help us. When I explained that we were staying in the flat, Susan introduced herself as the owner. A good firm handshake she has as well.

We’ve been to Caracoli in Arlesford once before and I was particularly looking forward to the pancake stack, bacon and maple syrup but, alas, they change the menu regularly. So I had scrambled egg and smoked salmon on a croissant (which is not the greatest combination and needed some salt) and Mirinda had mushrooms and bacon on toasted sour dough bread which she judged delicious.

After brunch, I went across the road to Tesco Direct to buy supplies for tonight’s dinner while Mirinda went for a stroll down the high street. Another nail in the coffin of the multi-annoyerating supermarket chains. Anyone who knows me should know how much I hate them. The supermarket chains I mean, not anyone who knows me. They are increasingly replacing any variety with their own brands, taking away any chance of choice, something I hold dear. They over-package to billy-o and then give you extra points on your loyalty card if you reuse their plastic bags. This they call social conscience. I call it crap. The only reason I had to go to Tesco Direct was because they’ve forced the independent grocer to close. For those that don’t know, Tesco Direct is a smaller version of their superstore. This, I assume, goes a good way to explaining why the store I went into had nothing fresh (except some sad looking fruit) and only mince, bacon & hamburger patties in the meat section. I replaced my basket and left the store.

I caught up with Mirinda at the bottom of the high street and explained my lack of groceries and we decided to drive to Alton and go to the Sainsbury’s there. They are only slightly better! But given the lack of options, what does one do? Not eat? But enough big corporation bashing! On with the holiday spirit.

In 2000, Arlesford opened a new public footpath and called it the Millennium Way. It follows the Itchen River and then returns through the town, making a big circle. Although we’ve been to the town a few times, we’d never been along the river trail and just stumbled onto it this afternoon. What a lovely little walk, evidenced by the scores of families using it at the same time as us. Felt similar to Farnham on a Saturday morning.

Along the Itchen

The path passes a 13th century fulling mill which sits astride the river, resplendent in thatch. A sign on its wall proclaims fishing in the river is forbidden by the law of 1253. Around the corner swimming is also banned – no date on that one but the sign was quite modern. All a bit odd as the water isn’t particularly dangerous or deep – ducks would just put down their feet in order to stop midstream. It made Mirinda quite cross although when pressed she didn’t actually want to go for a swim.

The path at Eel House has been deemed unsafe (though I overheard a local assuring his companion this was just so much tosh) so we strolled back to the main street (with a brief moment for Mirinda to fuss over a very silly sausage on legs). Without our hats we realised that the sun was beating down on us and the heat was back to summer proportions. We’d just had rain all week and not a lot of sun so it came as a bit of a surprise. That’s why we didn’t have our hats. Actually Mirinda was so confident, she left her hat at home.

Eventually we returned to Sidney and drove off for Alton, a town we know exceedingly well. After a long shop for supplies and a quick trip to Woolies for a baking dish – actually it wasn’t that quick because Sunday is traditionally kids day at Alton Woolies and they have no idea what they are doing. I truly believe it is a mistake putting 10 year olds behind the tills – we headed back to the apartment at Avington.

On Sunday afternoons the house is open to visitors, complete with guided tour so we joined up for the 4pm (and final) trip. Charles II and George IV stayed here at various times and my old friend William Cobbett claimed it was one of the prettiest places in the county of Hampshire. More impressive is that Nell Gwynne stayed here when refused lodgings in Winchester by Thomas Ken who went on to become the Bishop of Bath and Wells but was known thereafter by King Charles II as “the ugly little man who wouldn’t give poor Nelly lodging”.

By the way, Nelly’s bath-house was richly decorated with Delft tiles which, when it was no longer needed, were put up all over the house. Some even found their way into the fireplace surround in our apartment. Ah, just like home!

Delft tiles

There has been a lot of rebuilding and adding to the original house with the result that some of the walls are four feet thick. Nowhere is this more obvious than as you walk through the doors from the main reception room into the staircase. The space between the doors is large enough for an ensuite. There are three statues on the roof, each weighing three tons, which were transported (somehow) from Cannons Park, London by the Duke of Chandos in the mid 18th century. The statues represent Minerva, Juno and Ceres and stand very impressive over the entrance.

The tour started in the main entrance and worked its way up the staircase (passing our apartment door), into the very impressive ballroom, through the red drawing room then, finally, back down to the library.

Our tour guide was a very knowledgeable (though short) woman who obviously has a great affection for the present owners. Speaking of whom, the woman who now owns (along with her husband) Avington Park, is on the selection panel for the British Olympic horse-y event teams!

At one time the house belonged to John Shelley, Percy’s brother – of the poetry kind. In 1953 the house and stables were sold to Lt Col Hickson whose family live there now.

Having toured, we decided to visit the perfect example of a Georgian church. St Mary the virgin is indeed lovely and sits delicately peeking out from behind a big hedge. It was built by 1771 (the year after Captain Cook discovered Australia) and replaced the flint and stone Saxon church that stood before it. James Brydges applied for the new building to the Bishop of Winchester stating that the original church was old, dark, small, ruined and decayed. Sadly James didn’t live to see it completed.

Box pews

In an odd nursery twist, when the Duchess of Buckingham died in 1836, she was buried in a glass coffin beneath the floor of the church. I assume she is still waiting for her prince.

The church has wonderful box pews with sides high enough to snooze behind…until the priest mounts his very high pulpit and reigns down fire and brimstone, that is. The church has a nice light and friendly atmosphere although from the outside it looks like a Victorian brickworks.

One of the church’s most prized possessions is one of the few ‘Vinegar’ bibles in existence. So called because, due to a printing error in 1715, in the Parable of the Vineyard, the word vineyard is misspelled as vinegar.

After the church, we strolled around the grounds for a bit then returned to the apartment so I could start the roast lamb for dinner. Soon the rooms were full of overpowering smells. The lamb was lovely, the roasted anya potatoes, interesting and dinner was very, very filling.

We watched some TV then to bed.

Just this side of Winchester and about 30 miles from home lies Avington Park. You can have a good look at it here as it shows our actual apartment (under accommodation).

It’s a magnificent property of around 100 acres. (There appears to be a bit of conjecture on this one because Mirinda couldn’t find it all.) We have rented a flat in it for a week. I’d been on a dig all week and in need of somewhere nice to rest my weary bones and Mirinda had her usual legal student headache.

As we crested the humped back bridge and drove through the massive black gates, the avenue of trees beckoned us onwards. Around the house, we pulled up to the front door to be met by a man in a morning suit who could have been the butler (or a member of the wedding party that was spilling out onto the lawn) or the owner.

Whatever he was, he was very good at welcoming us and ushering us by the drunken, brawling, wedding guests and into our little flat – I have been pulled up on this word, apparently it’s an apartment. I say little but use the term sarcastically. The place is huge! I mean the bedroom has a minstrel gallery above it! The view from the kitchen is of a lovely church. We instantly wanted to move in for good.

The wedding (which had started at 2pm) was still going strong as we left for the strangely empty Trout Inn for dinner. ‘Strangely’, because the owner claims it was packed last Saturday. I figured it was the wedding and the strange barn dance going on next door, which had stolen his patrons. Good for us…not so for him! I sank a couple of pints of the Rev James, a beer I’d first tried in Cambridge last weekend, with obvious relish and tucked into that famous Hampshire dish, sausages and mash while for some obscure reason, Mirinda had scampi.

The Trout

It wasn’t long before Mirinda’s eyes started to close as I finished up the last of my beer so I shook her awake and we headed back to the flat…apartment The wedding seemed to have grown.

Mirinda fell into the massive bed while I struggled to stay awake for the football at 11:05. Seeing as it’s always a mistake to watch the TV while trying to stay awake, I read, waiting for the time to tick round. At 11, I switched on the BBC. At 11:15 I switched it off again. I’d read the listing in last week’s TV guide. This week it started at 10:15!! In my defence, I hadn’t been to work all week and how the hell was I to know what the date was?

The wedding was due to disperse at midnight. They could have gone on all night for all I knew. I was instantly asleep.