Drinks with Carl, dodging the beef and The Bad Earl

Warned off by the AngryFrench Plastic Surgeon that we were risking culinary disappointment (or worse) anywhere else in Chipping Norton, we headed back to the Blue Boar for dinner, got our table in the back and finished off another generous dinner draining ales and ciders with a thirtyish local chap named Carl, who had more or less invited himself over to our table. He seemed pleased that we were immersing ourselves in historic sightseeing – he considered himself an avid student of history himself – and peppered us with questions about what we thought of England, and the various contortions and absurdities of the US presidential election campaign. 

He also observed that Sharon’s accent, classically Cleveland with its pancaked short a’s, sounded very “New England” to him; anyone genuinely familiar with both accents, as I am with school and family roots in New England, and step-family/frequent visits to Cleveland, knows that the two are truly quite dissimilar, but we appreciated that he at least detected some nuance in her American-English accent. He also said that she sounded, to him, exactly like Roz, from the TV series Frasier – another endearing observation that we found charmingly inaccurate. Not that it matters, the actress who played Roz, Peri Gilpin, is originally from Texas.

Carl followed us over to the Rose and Crown for a nightcap, which actually turned into three or four nightcaps at an outdoor table. Something told me, being in the UK, I really ought to sample some Scotch, so while the barmaid was pouring one of our rounds, I asked her for a recommendation for a shot of Scotch. “My great grandfather founded this distillery”, she informed me of some bottle she retrieved from behind the bar, “but the stuff is piss. Here, try this instead…” and she handed me a snifter of something ruddy and crisply aromatic. Gulped it down, and was immediately reminded why I’ve never been a Scotch drinker. Well…okay, I had some Scotch. 

We exchanged goodbyes with Carl, who wobbled off into the evening and we went up and crashed, suitably sozzled.

Probably owing to a full dinner, we both got up pretty early and felt surprisingly un-hung the next morning – good thing, as we had another serpentine route charted out. Westward this time, headed to Thornbury. Chatted for a spell in the car park with another American couple who were likewise checking and heading out. They were from Minnesota, on a three week trip that also included France, pointed that morning toward Blenheim Palace, the enormous ancestral home of Winston Churchill’s family (he is buried nearby, at a small parish church in Bladen). A popular tourist destination, Blenheim had popped up on our list of “possibles” for that day,  but we had decided to pass on it. For some reason, these palatial manor houses – the roofed and functioning ones – held and still hold little interest for us. 

We traded notes with the Minnesota couple on the driving and countryside, and also mentioned to the couple that we were from Colorado. The wife perked right up that they had a daughter living in Parker. Small world.

We navigated out of Chipping Norton, ambivalent about whether we’d ever see the place again, and headed west toward Thornbury. No castles or abbeys on route today, just a series of churches through the richly rural and agricultural Gloucestershire countryside.

One of the best, the first one we hit, was St Mary’s in Shipton, a Grade 1 listed building and another of the Churches Conservation Trust’s properties.  

The place dates to the early 13^th century and swatches of wall paintings against the restored plaster walls whisper of the church’s lengthy history. 

Plenty of 17^th century graves in the floor too…we were used to this by now, it was common among the many churches we visited. 

Along the way to the next GPS blip...rush hour!  

This, we suppose, is a fairly common site on England’s country roads, and while we got a good chuckle out of it, I was more than aware that our road companions were just about as big as the VW I was driving (or, not driving, as the case may be) and at least as temperamental. I focused on keeping my genetically programmed American road impatience keenly suppressed.

St James, Charfield, was also a treat – another of the CCT’s properties, the place likewise dates to the 13^th century and also a Grade 1 listed building, at the western reach of a desperately tiny farming village. 

Common to many of the CCT’s properties, the key to church was being held by a local resident, a nice lady across the street in a white house, who handed Sharon the key and later received it back, without ever saying a word…which Sharon found a little odd. 

The churchyard outside was dedicated to the 15 victims of the Charfield Railway  Disaster of 1928, including two children who were never identified or claimed. (It is said that they haunt the churchyard…). 

The church was virtually empty; spare, elegant, very quiet.  

Judging by the cobwebs on the front door, it didn’t look as if the place is visited very often, and from little we saw of the village, there wasn’t much other reason for your average tourist to be in Charfield. I didn’t feel particularly comfortable there.

We eventually managed to make it to Thornbury, a modest and unassuming town not far from one of England’s great seaport towns, Bristol. Thornbury (pop., about 12k) is considered one of the small-town gems of Britain - it was recently named the 4th Best Place To Live in England by the Sunday Times, credited for its "excellent schools, architecture, idiosyncratic character and beautiful countryside". And, free parking downtown. 

It is also known for the "Thornbury hoard," a collection of over 11,000 Roman-era coins found in 2004 by a local resident digging a fish pond in his backyard.

In a gush of chuck-all-financial-reason, we found Thornbury Castle during one of our internet planning sessions, gulped a bit at the ticket price, but decided to book the place anyway. It is one of the very few castles in England that is also a working hotel.

The place dates to 1511 and Edward Stafford, 3^rd  Duke of Buckingham, a nobleman with a lengthy and well-connected peerage. 

Though once in his favor, Buckingham eventually ran afoul of Henry VIII (it didn’t take much), who suspected him of treason and took a keen interest in investigating the charges, to the point where he personally interviewed a number of Buckingham’s accusers. His mind more or less made up (and based on what we can determine, Henry just didn’t like the guy and felt threatened by his wealth and extensive holdings), the King summoned Buckingham to London in April 1521. He was promptly arrested, tossed into the Tower of London, tried for treason by a jury of his peers, found guilty (Henry thought he was guilty; we presume jurors during his reign were unlikely to quarrel with Henry’s judgment on these matters…) and executed on May 17th, 1521.  

Parliament also wiped out his wealth a couple of years later through a Act of Attainder, denying any inheritance to his children (of which he had several, legitimate and otherwise), and Henry assumed ownership of Buckingham’s Thornbury property…which is now, Thornbury Castle. (Although it is worth nothing that the place really is more of a Tudor Manor House, as it lacks the necessary armament and fortification to strictly earn the title of “castle”. There are people who pay attention to this stuff.)

Buckingham was probably rubbed out on trumped up charges, hardly the first or last in the history of Henry VIII’s rule, but even one of Britain’s principal peerage chroniclers struggled to find anything nice to say about the guy.

Buckingham was certainly guilty of no crimes sufficient to justify his attainder, and his execution aroused popular sympathy; but his character does not merit much admiration. Weak and vacillating, he seems to have treated his dependents with harshness, and his vast enclosures were a constant subject of complaint.

  

One is not sure how he would have felt knowing that this particular enclosure (which, by the way, is said to house the largest bed in England, 10 feet across, in the extra-pricey Tower Suite) was fetching £300 for a single night’s lodging…and on an off-season Monday night, at that. Historically, the place was as much Henry’s as anyone else’s. Or, oddly, the Howard family’s, another aristocratic bloodline related to Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, both wives of Henry VIII’s;  they acquired the castle after it fell into post-Nasty Business disrepair and renovated it in the 19^th century. And the Howards know a thing or two about real estate...this is their ancestral headquarters, in Yorkshire. 

The GPS guided us carefully to the Tudor gatehouse, 

we slipped through carefully, and saw the place.

My first thought: I hope I have a clean shirt.