Quotations from P G Wodehouse are copyright of, and reprinted by permission of, the Trustees of the Wodehouse Estate © 2012 The P G Wodehouse Society (UK)

The Lair of the Aunts and Porcine Heaven

by Susan Collicott

The last day of our coach trip started out with another lavish breakfast buffet at the Puckrup Hilton. One’s b.&e. were eaten with Plummies in various stages of awareness, based on their length of attendance at Saturday night revelries and whether or not the hotel made their wake-up call at the right time. I’d set my mobile phone alarm just in case and was glad of it!

With only a minor kerfluffle over luggage (including Dave the Driver climbing entirely into the luggage compartment!), we were on the coach and away at 9:15 a.m. – causing Norman to smile widely.

Rain set in as we tootled off on our adventure, but it could not keep us from having a jolly day. We were exhorted not to complain about the weather, and as your author is from the rainy Pacific Northwest, she wondered ... what’s to complain about? A little bit of rain? Tcha! Though I would not go as far as one Madeline Basset might – one could easily picture her referring to the downpour as “a veil of angel’s tears”.

While the coach drove off down the highway, Bill Franklin resumed his Hollywood Film Producer career by filming Murray discussing the morning so far. Norman handed out the day’s homework and info regarding Corsham & Cheney Court as the rain pounded on the coach roof and rattled on the windows.

Quiz scores for the previous day were announced, with 13 as the top score. Karen Shotting won the day, but overall the top 4 people were within 4 points of each other!

Next official item was Tony Ring handing out today’s quiz. Being less of a quiz-taker than, say, a champion prize-winning pig, I read mine with interest but did not participate – but I assure you I took every quiz home and researched them at my own pace! I simply do not eat enough fish to have a brain-pan that can sustain the stress of spot quizzes.

Karen was our first coach-ride entertainment provider. She read out two different poems from 1920 (or so) to illustrate how Wodehouse re-worked plots and ideas over the years. Discussion ensued regarding where else this topic (two chaps fighting over a chapette so long that she marries someone else) showed up in his works.

Yours truly then took the coach members off a strict Wodehouse line and read out some “Provincial Lady” (EM Delafield) bits – some references to Literary Societies and the travails of attending meetings of such – and then back to Wodehouse with a couple references.

Anything Goes was then put on for us to relax and listen to. Mr Franklin attempted to start up a chorus line mid-coach, but not enough takers came forward. Bob Raines, knowing all the words, serenaded us back-benchers. There was much coach-seat-dancing going on during the energetic bits.

Norman Murphy then brought to our attention the fact that we were passing through the small village of Pennsylvania! Is there no city name in the USA that is unique? I pondered the possibility of England having a “Stillaguamish” village and rest easy on that one.

All day I had been admiring what landscape I could see between the raindrops. The rolling hills dotted with sheep, the fields hedged round, church spires visible as we rise and fall over hills ... it all was so much more beautiful than I’d imagined. My first trip to England was surpassing all expectations, and what better people to enjoy it with than Plummies?

As we rounded a hill, a city unfolded before us and some of us back-benchers speculated – was that Bath? Or something resembling it? As we passed a sign pointing to Bathford, which is near Bath, we patted ourselves on the back. We turned off the main road and James Jarrett pointed out Jane Seymour’s house on the left.

We turned off the side road into a small lane, thickly wooded on both sides. Suddenly another English sight appeared – children on their ponies on lead lines! Such lovely little ponies, I would have loved to have had one growing up.

Cheney Court – that is, Deverill Hall, lair of the aunts in The Mating Season, was sighted up the hillside, and folks started to gather up raincoats and cameras. The coach pulled into a stone car park, and after we had disembarked, Dave did his magic and managed to turn the coach around without us even noticing.

Though it was a wet and windy day, there were chairs out on the terrace, just asking to be sat on and contemplated in. Below us as we stood on the stone terrace were spread the ponds, gardens and terraced lawns, down into the valley. We descended via stone steps set into the stone walls, all looking quite old and the stairs well-used and worn by many feet. There were shell inserts in the stone walls, lovely places for small children to store treasures. There was a swimming pool to the side, very much not a temptation on this day. Looking back at the house from the swimming pool, we admired the shell decoration above the house door.

As Norman said, the architect packed a little of everything into and onto the house. There were round and square chimney columns, cubes as finials on the peaks of the roof, eagles with wings spread above doorways, water spouts protruding from the roof (Bath stone) in sharp contrast to the rolling roof edges, etc.

In the grounds we spotted stone eagles guarding stairways, stone lions holding shields, stone vases and various walls and terraces with little flower gardens in them. In the back courtyard was a mounting block quite worn with use. The house was quite swallowed by ivy growing on the walls. The slippery stone walks led us around the back of the house, where we saw the infamous fire bell far above us. Having been warned of our arrival, the rope to the fire bell had been removed!

We admired the lovely view from the lawns, out over the valley. Country lanes disappeared into wooded areas, two-track roads wound between farms and fields, and sheep and cows were out grazing even on this misty, drippy day. It made one feel quite content, realising Wodehouse had this lovely spot as a place to visit.

Then the cry went up – “Back to the coach!” – and off we clattered, not wanting to disappoint Norman. Woe to ye who is late!

Passing through Pickwick, we spotted a man up on a ladder, crawling through a window of the Cross Keys, which started a discussion on the large amount of house-breaking-and-entering in Wodehouse stories.

We then arrived in Corsham, where keen-eyed coach passengers spotted a Collicott Veterinary storefront. Oh, for a moment with my camera! But alas we pushed on further and arrived at the pub, where Dave magically backed the coach up again. Norman laid out our choices: brave the elements and accompany him for a walk, or stay at the pub and wait for lunch. We were all, of course, Brave Plummies, and Norman set off with his usual gaggle of Plummies following behind.

We admired the intricate carvings and architecture of the alms houses and passed cricket fields (unpopulated) on our way into the park. Huge gates announced the park boundary, but we entered via the smaller kissing gate. Comment was made – imagine every time you arrived or left the property, these gates would have to be opened for your carriage to go through. Kissing ensued at the kissing gate – nephews! What they will get up to!

A lovely (brisk, as we were with Norman after all) stroll through the park on a muddy, rocky path led us up to the house itself. Before us were the arched gates leading to the courtyard and the house. With two smaller arches flanking the main arch, and lovely metal work in each gate itself, it was a gorgeous entryway. The grounds are now shared with the Bath School of Arts, and Elaine Ring informed us that the ladies’ loos are exquisite! As the house was closed this day, we could only admire from afar, but it was enough for now.

There were multiple christenings going on at the church just outside the gates – many lovely babies present, happy families and friends gathering in their Sunday best. After admiring a few of the babes, we wandered off to the side, over to High Street which would eventually lead us back to the pub for lunch. We spotted a gold rooster wind vane, fancy carved shutters, animal finials on a rooftop, flowers carved into stone mantels above doors and windows, and many other lovely little touches in the old buildings. We learned about the Bath Stone and how the different grades of stone were used in buildings. This could be as simple as an indication of wealth (all walls were of best quality stone) or more intricate efficiency (front wall best quality, side walls and back lower and lowest quality).

The Flemish Weavers buildings on High Street were small, 17th-century “rubble stone” houses where weavers from Flanders lived. Dutch weavers were invited to come to England and help with the weaving trade, and it is said that 10 came to Corsham and lived in these houses.

A pub sign advertising “Beers from the Wood” made me think of a pint before lunch, and my stomach wondered how much further we had to walk before the browsing and sluicing would begin?

The iron cross-poles and metal Xs on some buildings were pointed out and discussed. The walls were being pushed out by the weight of the building itself, and these poles and Xs are bound together, holding walls in and trying to solidify the house.

At this point we came across a member of the party experiencing ambulatory difficulties – Sushmita Sen Gupta had a “flat tyre”. She had walked so much over the past week that she’d finally worn out her shoes. Fortunately a small auto shop was open, and she was able to jury-rig a solution with the speed and intelligence worthy of Jeeves!

A fire insurance mark was pointed out – various establishments had a “Sun” disc set into a wall of the building. This indicated that you were a member of a specific fire insurance company, and that society would come and put out the fire. Different companies would have different marks – and without a mark of payment, a company would not fight your fire!

After admiring a gentleman’s residence which was perfectly proportioned and had graceful windows and a very inviting front path, facing the end of High Street, we reached the Hotel/Pub and were told to “Charge in!” by Norman. We charged as directed, scrambling for tables in the pub, and merrily consumed a pint or other sluicing liquids while drying off and waiting for lunch.

While discussing with Robert which beer to choose from the taps available (Robert suggested Gem), a local at the end of the bar turned his glass so I could see the logo (6X), and nodded sagely in my direction. I raised an eyebrow, he tapped the logo, and I ordered the same. The first sip was so delicious – malty, hoppy, and so incredibly creamy tasting – that I had to close my eyes and simply “experience” the moment. When I came to, the local was grinning appreciatively. I have to say that my decision, while in the UK, of asking the bartender or the folks seated at the bar what they would order, proved itself again. (The smile from the handsome, curly-haired, bright-eyed local lad helped the taste a bit, I must say!) I urged Robert Bruce to organize a Plum Pub Perambulation next.

Lunch was announced, and we surged from pub to restaurant. The Tour took over about two thirds of the restaurant, and my group ended up sitting in a table set into a bed’s headboard and footboard. So not only was Arthur Findlay the only chap at the table, he was in bed with five women for lunch!

After Tom Hooker had a disagreement with a ceiling beam as to how low it was, and how tall he was, we asked the waitress how many times she had had such a run-in. She confessed that only twice has she hit her head – good work!

The meal was a feast fit for a rich uncle – roast beef, gravy, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, carrots & cauliflower, applesauce and boiled potatoes were the items available from the buffet. It was delicious and like previously pre-arranged meals was so abundant one felt unable to do justice to one’s plate! I was thrilled to be having a “traditional” Sunday meal in a pub, with my friends, talking about Wodehouse and everything else under the sun. Dessert was a choice of apple pie, cheesecake, profiteroles or ice cream. I chose the profiteroles and was presented with three huge puffs, mounds of whipped cream and chocolate sauce, and a bit of ice cream on top. It would alone have made a laudable tea for even the Blumenfeld child.

As the room grew warmer and one’s taste buds registered content, one relaxed in the sight of the low, dark beams and the skinny windows set high in the thick walls, and the lovely summer day out the open door. Alas, as our table was the last served, we had to forgo the post-meal tea or coffee in order to load onto the coach to make it to our final stop (and ultimately, the banquet that evening) in time. I was a bit worried about sleeping all the way back to London because of the full meal, but as everyone else was similarly sleepy, I realized dozing off would not make one a spectacle.

Doug provided the start of the afternoon coach entertainment, reading a selection from ‘Pig-Hoo-o-o-oey!’ and rendering the famous call beautifully. As we passed the town of Swindon, Norman handed out our next stop information: Truffle, the Berkshire Sow! We left the main road and headed towards Lambourn. As we hit a rather rambunctious portion of the road, we discussed theories regarding walking down the moving coach’s aisle. Slow steps, which would leave you standing longer but more steadily; or a fast mad dash back to your seat to get it over with quickly?

We passed various road signs and maps were brought out to try to determine our current path. “Woodlands St Mary”, Hilldrop, Rooks Nest. We spotted a cricket match in progress, all in white, on a village cricket field. A mounded cemetery was passed, age of inhabitants was mulled over.

We turned towards Lambourn and it began to rain again. The hedgerows seemed thicker and older in the area. The deep valleys revealed draft horses and heirloom breeds of sheep and pigs, with the occasional tiny villages tucked away in a fold of a valley’s hillside – each with gardens and cricket grounds.

We arrived at Windsor House Stables, where we picked up our hostess, the “pig girl”. In the yard was a horse-chestnut tree and a dovecot – which was probably why the yard is called “Dovecot Yard”, eh? Horses poked their heads out of their stalls as the coach idled, and soon our hostess was on the coach to lead us to Truffle. We were dropped off in a lot near the horse transport garages (lovely vehicles, one could really travel in style were one an equine!), and we headed up a small hill into a wooded field, where Truffle was rumoured to hold court.

With little fanfare, the Champion Pig was brought out and presented to us commoners, and oh how we adored her! She had eyelashes that anyone would envy, with floppy ears that were turning gingery on the tips, and a speckly retroussé nose that worked fiendishly to find the treats that we offered. Her pre-show routine was outlined: a bath with shampoo and Show Shine, baby oil massaged into her hair, and mild exercise. The day before, she has a last bath and sleeps in a clean hay bed. At the show, she has a vigorous brushing of her hair, a light chalking of her white bits, and a last wipe-down. She normally eats 6 to 7 pounds of “pig nuts” per day, but also gets treats of apples and green grass. It left one wishing one had similar trainers, cooks, groomers, and such! What a life.

Truffle was easily charmed by Norman and she fell over in joy at his expert back-scratching with the point of his umbrella. She became more interested with the grass and potential for pig nuts, so our remaining apple treats went to her teenage progeny in the nearby pens. On her strolls about the yard, we noticed she was urged in different directions by use of a large painted rectangular board with a hole near the top edge for gripping, and a springy cane. The cane was gently applied to her cheeks and nose, the more “touch-sensitive” bits of her, we were told. Using it on her sides or rump would have been like a wee fly alighting on her skin – on her head, she could feel it and realise what it meant. Our hostess showed great skill in manoeuvring what could be a very reluctant quarter-ton of pig, and it was suggested that Norman should take up the same method and tools for use in herding the bunch of us around!

Alas, we were running later than expected and so had to say goodbye to Truffle and continue on our way to London. After a few last apple bits, and a bit of snorting and snuffling on her part (obviously a royal decree of the magnitude of the honour of our visit), she was escorted back to her quarters, and we trooped back to the coach. We dropped our hostess back off at the stables and gifted her with one of our Wodehouse Week tea towels.

The air vents in the coach all went on once we were under way, as the coach had quite the farmyard smell – not bad, but distinct! A suggestion was put forward that Truffle be given an honorary membership in the Society, but Hilary wondered how one would put a pig down in the membership listing.

The coach entertainment continued with Sushmita reading a Wodehouse essay on writing letters to the newspapers. We all nodded in agreement and chuckled, as everyone had seen current examples of some of Wodehouse’s theories!

Jelle Otten was next, and he provided us with a very well-received reading of Leave It to Psmith, chapter 4. Such brave souls these folks were, getting up to read for us – we the audience applauded them for their time and effort, and the enjoyment they gave us!

The coach ran into traffic now, and folks start to doze off again. Mr Franklin taped various people’s reactions to the trip, and I for one totally froze up or turned into some chatty stranger whenever a camera is pointed my way, so goodness knows what kind of drivel I spouted when it was my turn.

Finally, the coach pulled up at the Corus Hyde Park Hotel in London, and it felt quite anti-climactic – no no, we wanted to go on! More! We wanted to get back on the coach and keep going! It couldn’t end, it just couldn’t. But here we were, Dave excavating our luggage from the coach innards, and it was time to check in to the hotel. I was quite sad at this point. The end of the coach trip meant the end of the week was upon us, which meant that the end of my UK trip was coming up soon – which meant I would have to be back to work in just a couple days! No more Plummies at morning, noon and night? No more Norman to pester with every question we thought of? No more Hilary taking care of our every need? The HORROR!

We had already thanked Dave with a tea towel and a round of huzzahs, so we descended upon the Corus’s front desk. Next up was the Sunday banquet, and your author had to change before the dinner gong was rung, so it was someone else’s responsibility to take up the reporting from here!