10 January 2016 UK
Sunday morning sunlight streams in though the window of our room in this nine hundred year old estate, just an hour or so north of London. I roll over and slowly remember where I am. In the wee hours of the morning, we finally found “Manor of Groves”.
The night before, we arrived at Heathrow in the early evening for this one week stay. My husband is here to teach a class for his company and I have tagged along because, after all, it’s England, and how often do I get across the pond? Who cares if it’s January? It’s still England!
Our driving plans from the airport to the town of Sawbridgeworth were straightforward and crystal clear. But those plans went awry when a shutdown on the M11 sabotaged us and sent us flailing down the M25 in the wrong direction, wondering where we could exit to consult our map. Our phones were useless here – no GPS, no way to phone the hotel. Where on earth were we going, and how could we get turned around? It was getting later, and darker, by the minute.
We finally found an exit – they are few and far between – and stopped at a gas station. The kind man in the little convenience store encouraged us with a vague sense of direction and some help with highway numbers. Hopefully the A128 and A414 would get us to our destination. So off we went, fortified with a bit of hope. Craning our necks to watch for signs, we worked our way northwest through the countryside, one sleepy village after another falling behind us in the darkness. Impossible names. Chipping Ongar, Hoddlesdun, Matching. Matching what, I wondered. It didn’t match anything I had ever seen.
At last we saw signs for Harlow, a town of some size. Harlow was apparently just inches away from Sawbridgeworth. That was a good thing, because jet lag was setting in. Onward we forged.
And we did arrive at Sawbridgeworth, but not at our destination. Although the directions indicated that it was on the main road, several passes through town yielded no “Manor of Groves”. How strange. How frustrating. From the website, it appeared to be of substantial size. Where could one possibly hide such a large edifice? Fighting sleep, back and forth we fumbled through this slumbering village until finally spotting an obscure and unlit sign, “Manor of Groves”. We took the turn and drove for several minutes without seeing anything but darkened cottages and unlabeled lanes. Not a street light in sight. Was there still a road underneath our little rental car? We weren’t really sure.
At last we came to a second turn, and were startled to see an Indian restaurant perched on the corner. This unlikely juxtaposition of cultures should have elicited a chuckle, but we were too tired to laugh just then. Another tiny unlit sign shared space with India Palace’s sign. It pointed us down a side road, hardly more than a lane. Were we in someone’s back yard? Yet more frustration ensued as we searched up and down for our elusive lodging, finally catching a glimpse of yet a third unlit sign that clued us to our turn. Down the long and winding entrance we drove, through an imposing gate and into the yard of the manor. Lights were on, people were moving around, someone was at the desk. An ultramodern lobby clashed with an ancient exterior, but who cared at this point? Did they have our reservation?
What reservation? The powers that be had failed to make it for us. OK. They did have a room though, Room 19, up two flights of stairs in this beautiful old reminder of another era. At this point I would have curled up on the couch in the lobby.
The placard on the door bore the name “Ware”. I later learned that every room in this vast place (there are 400 of them) has a name. The room was quaint and quirky and comfortable, with a tiny closet and wooden furniture that stuck and creaked when drawers were opened. But who cared? It was clean and the linens were in place. I have learned not to expect wash cloths – the English do not believe in them. But I can’t live without them. We brought our own along with us this time.
The bed was huge, with a massive headboard and footboard made up of elaborate wooden curlicues thickly frosted with white paint. I’ve seen less detailed wedding cakes in my time. After several painful collisions with its pinpoint edges, we begin referring to it as “The Great White Shinbarker”. Who had assembled this monstrosity, and for what purpose? How many bodies had learned to circumvent its fearful daggers? But it was deliciously comfy. We opened the window and snuggled under the covers as the cool night air rushed in and drifted us off to sleep.
Now morning has broken, and Cat Steven’s lyrics run through my mind. Looking out the huge bay window of our room, I’m rewarded with a panoramic view of green meadows and farmland. For now, mild temperatures prevail. Can it really be January?
Down to breakfast we go. I am struck again by the bounty of the “full English breakfast”, complete with everything – eggs, bacon and sausage, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, crisp toast and marmalade, crunchy potatoes, fresh fruit and perfect coffee. Lunch will be unnecessary.
After breakfast we explore a bit, nosing around in the library, drawing room and conservatory, imagining lords and ladies from long ago who actually spent their lives here. These rooms are now used for local events, parties and conferences. A good sized modern health club attaches itself to our ancient abode. The surrounding land is an expansive golf course, its emerald lawns thriving in mid-January. Golfers are moving around out there under the shifting clouds as sporadic showers fall through the sunlight.
We make a couple of brief sorties into the town of Harlow, just down the road, through skinny roads congested with traffic. No one slows down much, especially in the incessant roundabouts, and I am once again grateful that my husband is nonplussed by these driving challenges on the “wrong” side of the road. He shifts our little Fiesta fearlessly with his left hand while leaving me breathless with close calls, oncoming traffic on the right and hedges nearly scraping us on the left. I close my eyes and mouth for the duration. But I have learned to trust him, and here we are in Harlow, unscathed. It’s a bustling reminder of the “real” world, strip malls full of stores similar to those in America, most of them with names I have never heard before. We head for Costa’s Coffee Shop for a pick-me-up, then retrace our route back to Sawbridgeworth. We are happy to escape from Harlow and head backwards in time to our cozy nest.
Dinner that night is exquisite. Elegantly prepared and served, it ends with apple crumble covered in custard sauce, one of the delights of English cuisine. Whoever said that the English don’t know how to cook? Afterwards, we retire to our room and curl up in bed to enjoy some British comedy on the “tellie” and sink into a deep sleep. By morning our jet lag has lost its grip.
