As we wended our way down the street to John and Mary’s house, we caught sight of some beautiful thatched-roof cottages and I remarked how much I loved the look of a thatch roof.

 

“Well, they can be problematic,” said Cathy. “Rob’s brother and his wife have a thatched-roof cottage and the last time we stayed there, a rat had got in the roof and died there. And it was right above the guest room. So you can imagine how it smelled!”

 

Unfortunately, I could. I must say, I never looked at thatch the same way again.

 

Soon, we were at their friends’ charming home, tucked away in a woodsy neighborhood. As I mentioned in my previous post, we had heard so much about John and Mary over the years, that it was hard to believe we hadn’t met before. Mary had been a harp student of Cathy’s many years ago; her background was that of a pianist. In fact, while we were there, we were treated to Cathy and Mary playing some duets. A small artificial Christmas tree had been set up on the piano and decorated with a few ornaments, and for some reason, only one ornament moved while they played, but it bobbed up and down so enthusiastically, it looked as if the Ghost of Christmas Present had decided to animate it.

 

After visiting for a while, we headed over to a nearby pub for lunch, where I ordered a delicious dish that was a cheese and mushroom Wellington with cranberry sauce. Evidently, Wellington with cranberry sauce is a holiday staple in England. A lot of times, too, at a pub a dish will come with an entire platter of steamed veggies, so along with my yummy pastry, I got a plate full of steamed carrots, curly cabbage, and new potatoes. I’m sure there is bad food in England, but I have to say, under the guidance of Cathy and Rob and their friends, we haven’t eaten any. If England still has a reputation for not having good food, that reputation needs serious updating.

 

Back at John and Mary’s home, their daughter and her family came by to visit for a little while before we had to leave. Their daughter Stephanie is a talented artist and she showed me the elegant handmade invitation she had made for her parents’ fortieth anniversary celebration. It’s times like these that I wish artists could be subsidized for their efforts. If she were to charge for her time on something like this card, she’d probably have to charge fifty dollars per card, minimum. But thankfully, most artists create because they have to, not to make money. Although, I still think that sucks. I don’t know why we have to pay hedge fund managers, for example, outrageous amounts of money to trash our economy and drive us out of our homes, or bureaucrats whose sole purpose seems to be to ensure that we’re unable to do anything except pay fees that support their salaries. That money would be far better spent, IMO, on artists, which could make their work more affordable for working stiffs—a win-win situation all the way around.

 

Then we were back on the road for our New Year’s Eve celebration, which, as I mentioned earlier, was taking place at The Knowle, in Kent. The Knowle was a former rectory where Charles Dickens often visited the rector when he was alive. Now it’s owned by Cathy and Rob’s friends Michael and Lynn. They run a fine restaurant and also rent out the premises for weddings. In addition, they are inveterate collectors of fine antiques. The restaurant business takes place on the ground floor, while Michael and Lynn live upstairs, which is filled with the kind of amazing antiques you can only acquire if you live someplace like England and spend hours and hours following auctions and horse-trading with dealers. Lynn is an animal lover so we met their newest puppy, an exotic breed whose name now escapes me, which, at eight months, was already the size of a Great Dane. He was a sweetheart, with soft folds of fur like a Sharpei.  

 

 

 

We met up with our party in a room that reminded me of a grotto; that would be where the dancing was to take place later. But early in the evening, the DJ was getting set up and Michael treated us all to some very nice champagne. Michael is a true oenophile and has a fantastic wine cellar, with which he is very generous. Lucky us!

 

Presently, we moved upstairs to our private dining room in Michael and Lynn’s quarters, where we felt very exclusive indeed. We sampled some delicious French wine while listening to thrilling stories about such things as getting held up at machete-point in Kenya (they were lucky they weren’t killed), at gunpoint while in the bath in a hotel in Tobago, outrunning mammoth wildfires in Australia, and pilots having to fly their planes sideways in order to land on certain runways in Latin America. One of the guests runs a limo business and owns eight Rolls Royces, one of them purple, and he was currently renovating a car that was first built in 1901. We ate a delicious meal from the restaurant, then headed downstairs before midnight where we toasted the New Year with more champagne, then stood in a circle and held hands while we all sang “Auld Lang Syne.” About fifty verses, I think. We’d all had quite a bit to drink at that point.

 

Presently, we all stumbled off to bed where we slept like dormice, and got up in the morning to have a nice breakfast with our lovely hosts before piling into Cathy and Rob’s car to take the Chunnel to France and then on to Belgium.

 

If ever we’ve had a more festive New Year’s Eve celebration, I can’t think when it was. This was certainly shaping up to be one of the most charmed vacations we’ve ever had, too. And Belgium was to prove no exception.

 

Next installment: Brugge: Party Central!