At last the Notby writeup
Apr. 4th, 2004 04:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lprovenThere's three thousand words of this, be warned. Rambling stream-of-consciousness nonsence to the last syllable, too.
One of my new year's resolutions has been to completely give up all things gothic this year. This has led black-clad mates to look strangely at me in the pub and ask me what I'm doing out with them, then, but it's pretty simple, really - I'm only avoiding the venues (and Livejournals) where I might encounter The Ex and Company. I do miss the Slimelight and B Movie, though, and the people I used to meet there.
Whitby is a pain, too. I was just getting to like that. So when I heard that![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mr_tom was organizing a Not-Whitby weekend with a load of gothy types, I leapt at the chance. The plan was for it to involve all the sorts of things you don't do at the Gothfest: staying in a pleasant hotel, drinking fine ales and eating good food, healthful walks in the countryside and sociable evenings around a roaring fire. What's not to like? Well, apart from laying out a couple of hundred quid on it, all in...
Given a distinct preponderance of males over females, some of the chaps were going to have to share rooms, so quickly,mr_flay and I laid plans. He was intrigued to discover that I owned a motorbike and sidecar and this became his preferred mode of transport from London to Gloucestershire. Partly for the style element, partly to save two train fares plus taxis from Kemble, since Northleach, where we were headed, isn't terribly handy for trains. I had reservations about this - it was in excess of 90 miles each way, and I've made longish bike journeys in winter before, which he hadn't - but as the time grew close it became the default option. The AA was duly summoned and the outfit returned to life for the first time since I tried to give molesworth a lift to the Tube in early November. I ran a few errands, picked up sinnymaker from the Tube and later ran her back to Clapham and all seemed well, barring some odd squeaks during gearchanges.
Come Friday, I set off for Shepherd's Bush to collect Ed. Third gear was occasionally quite noisy but the bike was running well and pulling strongly. We set off down the Uxbridge Road, through Ealing and out onto the A40 out of London in the early evening chill, hitting an indicated 90 on the A40M - more like 65-70 in real money. That's top speed, and on a vehicle that slow, motorways are no fun at all, so my plan was to travel along the A40, which goes almost through Northleach.
By Beaconsfield, though, things were amiss. First, second and third gears were all getting disturbingly noisy. But what to do? We were nowhere near anywhere from which we could get to Swindon or thereabouts. I decided to press on. As we entered High Wycombe, the sound effects suddenly abated and things seemed to be behaving themselves. I decided to try to reach Oxford or Reading; there, we could take the train if the bike was still struggling.
We didn't make it. By 15 miles from Oxford, the sound effects were worse than ever, and fifth gear failed altogether, the bike pulling feebly in fourth and unable to better an indicated 40mph.
Then the snow started to fall.
I struggled grimly onwards, knowing that by now my gearbox was scrap.
Fourth gear failed, just after the dealership where a couple of years ago I bought myself a new helmet on impulse en route togeoffcampbell's annual CIX Bikers party. Alas, it was closed now. We crawled on at barely above 30mph. Finally, the services at the A40/M40 junction came in sight and I decided that this was the end of the line. By the time I staggered inside, I was so cold I couldn't shiver.
The noble Ed bought me a hot chocolate and started calling round while I sat cuddling it and trying to fend off hypothermia. Several people has already made it to the inn, but there were quite a few stragglers still on the road...mr_prickle was giving a lift to jhaelan from London and bloodnok was still heading down from Scotland. While I talked to National Rail Enquiries and tried to work out if we could make the 7:30 train or not, Ed and Tom made multiple calls, and duly, we were rescued by Daryl and James. I abandoned the bike in the freezing night and hoped she'd be OK until I returned on Sunday.
In less than two hours and in warm comfort, we were there. The fireside front room of the Wheatsheaf was filled with dubious black-clad types, sipping ale or wine and generally behaving like civilised adults. Not, one suspects, what the locals and staff expected at all.
Worryingly, the last available ys room that could be converted to a twin had gone - tomiss_soap and _whitenoise. However, they willing swapped it for a non-convertible one, allowing Mr Wills and I the luxury of separate beds. Technically, at least.
Ed and I retired to our room and divested ourselves of layers of leather and insulation, then rejoined the throng downstairs. I was delighted to discover a modest array of ales, including 6X and Cornish Rebellion, and a few pints of the latter soon chased the chill away. I was also pleased to discover that the bar offered freshhirez, although I was not able to ascertain if it was draught or bottled. This full-bodied vintage with its distinctive nose was actually produced around these parts three or four decades ago, but today is very rarely found around London. Naturally, where it's found, one also tends to encounter celebrity favourite girfan, which even in moderation can cause one to make startling discoveries.
And so the evening progressed. The vegetarian spinach pancakes were all right but unremarkable, but after those and the starters, there was no room for apple crumble and custard - a shame, as it came in vast portions - so much went uneaten that all were able to sample it and proclaim it delicious.
After this, the drinking resumed. Fatigued from my abortive ride, I retired early, for me, at about 2am; my illustrious copilot and navigator produced a bottle of wine from the recesses of his remarkably compact luggage and set off tobloodnok's room with the stated intention of killing it.
In the morning, unsurprisingly, I was one of the last to emerge, though I rose at the very crack of noon. Acquiring a couple of bottles of Fentiman's Seville Orange and Mandarin Jigger - no mere orange juice at Notby! (and naturally purchasing one for myself and one for my esteemed and slightly dehydrated roommate) - I joined the mustering hordes in the carpark, where the lovely Lyssa provided Edwin and I not only with transport but accompanying soundtrack as well. I seem to recall singalonga J Geils Band as well as the Prodigy, but I must be in error, as this is clearly not nearly goth enough. I must say that she really does have a magnificent pair of woofers, though.
Despite the combined powers of navigation of a bunch of hungover black-clad reprobates equipped only with a comprehensive set of maps and guidebooks and a GPS-equipped iPaq with mapping software, we soon found ourselves in Chedworth. We sallied forth into the wilds of the Cotswolds, pausing only to gasp feebly and admire a large wooden throne erected for no apparent reason in a small patch of woodland.
Twenty minutes of walking was more than enough to spread the group over half of Gloucestershire and ensure that we completely missed the correct route, wandering randomly through someone's garden (along a public footpath, naturally) and over several completely redundant hills before rediscovering our way along a disused railway line - regarding whichswisstone displayed a disturbing degree of expert knowledge.
Eventually, we found the object of our quest: a Roman villa. This was rediscovered and excavated in Victorian times and is now a National Trust site, complete with visitors' centre and miniature museum. Alas, the nineteenth century excavators cared little for the context of their finds, so much of the evidence of the inhabitants is effectively lost: isolated artifacts tell little when removed from their original places and positions. However, the buildings, mosaics, hypocaust floors and other remains are very impressive. Although the villa dates from after the withdrawal of the Empire and its occupiers were of British descent, they would have considered themselves Roman and their standard of living remains enviable today.
Alas, unknowingly, I was to miss a highlight of the weekend when instead of departing the gift shop with the others, I elected to return to explore the museum of objects found on the site with Dr Tony, whileladymoonray waited patiently outside. While we basked in the glow of our superior erudition, albeit feeble in my case, we missed the who-can-throw-themselves-down-a-hill-with-the-most-style competition.
Worse still, when we regained the local hostelry for a spot of lunch, we three found ourselves ostracized to a separate table. We left the hoi polloi to their discussions of politics in the Colonies while we discussed matters of greater import, such as the role of signalling techniques in the Roman military, upon which Dr Keen is a recognised authority. To my alarm and consternation, my vegetarian principles were cast into doubt and a deep sense of inferiority by Miss Bodley, whose suspicions of the French Onion Soup exceeded even mine. This never happens and I am much perturbed. I overcame these to enjoy it all the same, along with a bruschetta of soft-palate-shredding crunchiness. And chips.
Then back to Northleach, where I was, I fear, insufficiently impressed with the acceleration of Miss Soap's car, even if her incautious application of the go-juice was considerably exceeded by a certain New Zealander. I think she was the tiniest bit miffed until I told her about the trike, after which, she understood. And might be persuaded into a backie one day, I suspect. If I can raise the money for a new engine for the damned thing, anyway.
mr_flay, mouseboks and myself thereupon decided that a modest post-prandial constitutional was in order, so we wandered off to explore the riches of Northleach. It has a fine old church, with portions going back to the 12th Century - including a list of every parish priest since 1280, some splendid brasses and ivy-shrouded tombstones. It also sports two other pubs, a builder and repairer of Doll's Houses, two small shops and a Mechanical Music Museum - of which more anon. And, well, that's about it, really. There's a bakery and grocers, from which I purchased a most agreeable slice of Bakewell Tart, a convenience store, an estate agent, a few more small shops - and not a lot else. Ideal for those who cherish a quiet life, probably a town of soul-destroying boredom in which to be a teenager, and from the presence and indeed prominence of the estate agent, I daresay its pale tan houses, built from the same local stone today as they were centuries ago, fetch a packet in 2004.
After our return, I must reluctantly confess that I can tell you nothing of the afternoon or early evening’s revelry. After the ride, the drinking and all, I found myself in need of a short nap. It’s my advancing years, you know. After this, I read for a short time – I was working my way through Connie Willis’ splendid Passage (stop sniggering at the back, boy), a compelling novel about near-death experiences. One needs a little time alone reading every day, I feel.
Refreshed, I returned to the fray – and indeed the Flay – in the bar just in time for a pre-dinner pint. This evening, we’d attained the main dining room, where a good half the tables in the entire place had been place end-to-end for us. A traditional arrangement and it’s hard to see what else they could have done, but it did mean that convesation between one end of the table and the other was only possible by leaning over and shouting. However, as the level of wine in the bottles rapidly sank, this became no problem at all. I naturally did not assist in this, since wine is of course vile stuff. How tired I am of the question “what would you like to drink, Sir, red or white?" However, our charming and winsome waitress was most obliging in keeping me supplied with Rebellion, at least until I’d drunk it all, and thereafter, 6X. Ed kindly undertook to pay my portion of the inclusive wine charge, possibly due to his brave if doomed efforts to get rid of the remaining surplus at the end of the meal.
But I am getting ahead of myself. We arranged ourselves in a planned, systematic fashion, cunningly arranged by unspoken agreement to closely resemble a bunch of slightly inebriated people settling at random. I chose one end of the table, betweenhirez and sushidog and opposite _whitenoise and miss_soap, on the basis that these were all folks I had not yet had much chance to natter with. Ever, in some cases. A wise decision this proved, too, except in the matter of my incautiously rising to a ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fiddypee-style challenge over my bold claim that “there are only two things I do not believe in: defeat and too much chocolate". Now, veteran comics fans will recognize this as a paraphase of a dictum from Timulo, by D’Israeli the D’Emon D’Raughtsman, in Deadline magazine some time before the invention of gravity. It’s a favourite of mine, even if the heretical Timulo claimed it was custard that could not be had in excess. Damnn his eyes, the fool!
However, the Wheatsheaf’s enormous desserts were to be my undoing, as well as that of my belt buckle and top button. Lyssa took my bold claim to be fightin’ words and pronounced that if this were in fact the case, then once I had finished my housebrick-sized chocolate brownie, I should finish hers, as well, since she, as a mere girlie, was unable to do so. Hester thought this was a splendid wheeze (an opportune word) and kindly volunteered hers as well. I felt unable to disappoint the ladies and essayed my best effort. And it would have worked, too, if it wasn’t for that pesky Lady Moonray. However, as soon as she heard of my bold assertion, she donated the remains of her brownie, too, and this was simply not possible. I confessed defeat. I protest, however, that I did finish all those which I undertook to; the last-minute addition was a cruel blow.
As the epic feast drew to a close, some of the more elderly and infirm members of the party retired. The rest of us hard-core party people adjourned to the fireside and continued drinking with a will, until asked to leave at some point in the wee small hours by the apologetic manager, on the basis that he had to get up in about three hours to prepare breakfast. I acquired a last pint and Ed a final glass of wine, leaving the last few bottles of white sadly undrunk, and we retired to our chamber to chew the fat and attend to other matters arising. I suppose I should not be surprised at the base speculation and scurrilous rumours which arose surrounding our conduct the following day. On this matter, my lips are sealed, except to say that we, as ever, behaved as gentlemen.
Sunday dawned horribly early and we once again roused by the application of Soap. It’s a hell of a way to start the day. An enfeebled assortment of sable-robed bon viveurs crawled up Northleach High Street to Keith Harding’s Mechanical Music Museum, containing a stunning assortment of music boxes, player pianos, early gramophones, barrel organs and musical automata. Most have been restored to excellent condition and play loudly and clearly, unlike our wheezing guide, who was not nearly so incapacitated by a room stuffed with folks in black leather as he was by, I’d judge, about 45 years on 40 a day. We came in a little after the beginning of his talk to a couple in their 50s, but after they got to the point where they presumably came in, they left, and he just kept right on going until we realized that he was starting to repeat himselves. We sat there anyway until, a few minutes later, he came to the same realization and stopped. The array is magnificent and well worth a visit to Northleach in its own right, if you are so inclined, and no self-respecting geek could fail to be impressed. For myself, I found it strangely moving to hear one of my favourite pieces of early-20th-century music – Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue - emerging from a player piano as played by its own composed. It was as if his ghostly fingers were pressing the keys, right before my wide eyes.
Pausing only to fiddle with every single gadget in the gift shop and buy a book about the opera fortamaranth, I rejoined the group outside. Some people were making their adieus now, but enough of us remained to make a lunch posse viable. Of course, with no firm leadership in place, this instantly resulted in a massive and indecisive debate. Alas, the pub next door had apparently experienced total kitchen failure, so we tried the one across the road, which had, despite the claims below its long and varied high-class menu, stopped serving. We’d bought drinks already, though, so we tarried a while. We did manage to persuade them to stay open until the advertised time, provided we were prepared to wait half and hour. We tarried, we drank, we changed our minds. Again.
And so it was that we assembled in the carpark and embarked for Oxford. Several little local pubs of the locals’ acquaintance had, predictably, stopped serving, so by the time we made it to the city centre, we simply leapt upon the first place that was serving: Old Orleans. It’s odd to reflect that, some 11 years earlier, my mate John and I had done exactly this in the selfsame restaurant, returning from the Bulldog Bash bike festival. The vegetarian menu had improved somewhat in the interim, but the service had not – our friendly young waitress, an émigré from the Colonies, was friendly and helpful but a little inefficient, forgetting my side-orders and my drinks. Still, my veggie burger was perfectly pleasant and the late-lunchtime conversation most genial, barring only more quite unsubstantiated allegations concerned Mr Wills’ and my bedtime arrangements and habits. Base calumnies, all of them, I say! I attempted to raise a tone a little by essaying some small discourses upon such matters as techniques of applying a chocolate coating to domestic pets and the search and removal of some unusual rectal foreign bodies, but I fear it was largely in vain.
And thus the last gathering of Notby ended. We returned to our vehicles, bid Oxford and one another farewell, and a few minutes later and only one minor 5 mile diversion later, I said goodbye to the chaps and sat in Oxford services to await the AA and recovery to London.
Notby was, in summary, quite wonderful and I can barely wait to do it – or something much like it – again. My thanks tomr_tom for arranging and organizing it all, to mr_flay for splendid company, to mr_prickle for getting Ed and I there and back and to everyone who attended for their company.
Cheers!
Postscript: perhaps I should've put a footnote to the effect of "comments welcome". Creative criticism sought! Go ahead, rip it to shreds... :¬)
One of my new year's resolutions has been to completely give up all things gothic this year. This has led black-clad mates to look strangely at me in the pub and ask me what I'm doing out with them, then, but it's pretty simple, really - I'm only avoiding the venues (and Livejournals) where I might encounter The Ex and Company. I do miss the Slimelight and B Movie, though, and the people I used to meet there.
Whitby is a pain, too. I was just getting to like that. So when I heard that
mr_tom was organizing a Not-Whitby weekend with a load of gothy types, I leapt at the chance. The plan was for it to involve all the sorts of things you don't do at the Gothfest: staying in a pleasant hotel, drinking fine ales and eating good food, healthful walks in the countryside and sociable evenings around a roaring fire. What's not to like? Well, apart from laying out a couple of hundred quid on it, all in...Given a distinct preponderance of males over females, some of the chaps were going to have to share rooms, so quickly,
mr_flay and I laid plans. He was intrigued to discover that I owned a motorbike and sidecar and this became his preferred mode of transport from London to Gloucestershire. Partly for the style element, partly to save two train fares plus taxis from Kemble, since Northleach, where we were headed, isn't terribly handy for trains. I had reservations about this - it was in excess of 90 miles each way, and I've made longish bike journeys in winter before, which he hadn't - but as the time grew close it became the default option. The AA was duly summoned and the outfit returned to life for the first time since I tried to give molesworth a lift to the Tube in early November. I ran a few errands, picked up sinnymaker from the Tube and later ran her back to Clapham and all seemed well, barring some odd squeaks during gearchanges.Come Friday, I set off for Shepherd's Bush to collect Ed. Third gear was occasionally quite noisy but the bike was running well and pulling strongly. We set off down the Uxbridge Road, through Ealing and out onto the A40 out of London in the early evening chill, hitting an indicated 90 on the A40M - more like 65-70 in real money. That's top speed, and on a vehicle that slow, motorways are no fun at all, so my plan was to travel along the A40, which goes almost through Northleach.
By Beaconsfield, though, things were amiss. First, second and third gears were all getting disturbingly noisy. But what to do? We were nowhere near anywhere from which we could get to Swindon or thereabouts. I decided to press on. As we entered High Wycombe, the sound effects suddenly abated and things seemed to be behaving themselves. I decided to try to reach Oxford or Reading; there, we could take the train if the bike was still struggling.
We didn't make it. By 15 miles from Oxford, the sound effects were worse than ever, and fifth gear failed altogether, the bike pulling feebly in fourth and unable to better an indicated 40mph.
Then the snow started to fall.
I struggled grimly onwards, knowing that by now my gearbox was scrap.
Fourth gear failed, just after the dealership where a couple of years ago I bought myself a new helmet on impulse en route to
geoffcampbell's annual CIX Bikers party. Alas, it was closed now. We crawled on at barely above 30mph. Finally, the services at the A40/M40 junction came in sight and I decided that this was the end of the line. By the time I staggered inside, I was so cold I couldn't shiver.The noble Ed bought me a hot chocolate and started calling round while I sat cuddling it and trying to fend off hypothermia. Several people has already made it to the inn, but there were quite a few stragglers still on the road...
mr_prickle was giving a lift to jhaelan from London and bloodnok was still heading down from Scotland. While I talked to National Rail Enquiries and tried to work out if we could make the 7:30 train or not, Ed and Tom made multiple calls, and duly, we were rescued by Daryl and James. I abandoned the bike in the freezing night and hoped she'd be OK until I returned on Sunday.In less than two hours and in warm comfort, we were there. The fireside front room of the Wheatsheaf was filled with dubious black-clad types, sipping ale or wine and generally behaving like civilised adults. Not, one suspects, what the locals and staff expected at all.
Worryingly, the last available ys room that could be converted to a twin had gone - to
miss_soap and _whitenoise. However, they willing swapped it for a non-convertible one, allowing Mr Wills and I the luxury of separate beds. Technically, at least.Ed and I retired to our room and divested ourselves of layers of leather and insulation, then rejoined the throng downstairs. I was delighted to discover a modest array of ales, including 6X and Cornish Rebellion, and a few pints of the latter soon chased the chill away. I was also pleased to discover that the bar offered fresh
hirez, although I was not able to ascertain if it was draught or bottled. This full-bodied vintage with its distinctive nose was actually produced around these parts three or four decades ago, but today is very rarely found around London. Naturally, where it's found, one also tends to encounter celebrity favourite girfan, which even in moderation can cause one to make startling discoveries.And so the evening progressed. The vegetarian spinach pancakes were all right but unremarkable, but after those and the starters, there was no room for apple crumble and custard - a shame, as it came in vast portions - so much went uneaten that all were able to sample it and proclaim it delicious.
After this, the drinking resumed. Fatigued from my abortive ride, I retired early, for me, at about 2am; my illustrious copilot and navigator produced a bottle of wine from the recesses of his remarkably compact luggage and set off to
bloodnok's room with the stated intention of killing it.In the morning, unsurprisingly, I was one of the last to emerge, though I rose at the very crack of noon. Acquiring a couple of bottles of Fentiman's Seville Orange and Mandarin Jigger - no mere orange juice at Notby! (and naturally purchasing one for myself and one for my esteemed and slightly dehydrated roommate) - I joined the mustering hordes in the carpark, where the lovely Lyssa provided Edwin and I not only with transport but accompanying soundtrack as well. I seem to recall singalonga J Geils Band as well as the Prodigy, but I must be in error, as this is clearly not nearly goth enough. I must say that she really does have a magnificent pair of woofers, though.
Despite the combined powers of navigation of a bunch of hungover black-clad reprobates equipped only with a comprehensive set of maps and guidebooks and a GPS-equipped iPaq with mapping software, we soon found ourselves in Chedworth. We sallied forth into the wilds of the Cotswolds, pausing only to gasp feebly and admire a large wooden throne erected for no apparent reason in a small patch of woodland.
Twenty minutes of walking was more than enough to spread the group over half of Gloucestershire and ensure that we completely missed the correct route, wandering randomly through someone's garden (along a public footpath, naturally) and over several completely redundant hills before rediscovering our way along a disused railway line - regarding which
swisstone displayed a disturbing degree of expert knowledge.Eventually, we found the object of our quest: a Roman villa. This was rediscovered and excavated in Victorian times and is now a National Trust site, complete with visitors' centre and miniature museum. Alas, the nineteenth century excavators cared little for the context of their finds, so much of the evidence of the inhabitants is effectively lost: isolated artifacts tell little when removed from their original places and positions. However, the buildings, mosaics, hypocaust floors and other remains are very impressive. Although the villa dates from after the withdrawal of the Empire and its occupiers were of British descent, they would have considered themselves Roman and their standard of living remains enviable today.
Alas, unknowingly, I was to miss a highlight of the weekend when instead of departing the gift shop with the others, I elected to return to explore the museum of objects found on the site with Dr Tony, while
ladymoonray waited patiently outside. While we basked in the glow of our superior erudition, albeit feeble in my case, we missed the who-can-throw-themselves-down-a-hill-with-the-most-style competition.Worse still, when we regained the local hostelry for a spot of lunch, we three found ourselves ostracized to a separate table. We left the hoi polloi to their discussions of politics in the Colonies while we discussed matters of greater import, such as the role of signalling techniques in the Roman military, upon which Dr Keen is a recognised authority. To my alarm and consternation, my vegetarian principles were cast into doubt and a deep sense of inferiority by Miss Bodley, whose suspicions of the French Onion Soup exceeded even mine. This never happens and I am much perturbed. I overcame these to enjoy it all the same, along with a bruschetta of soft-palate-shredding crunchiness. And chips.
Then back to Northleach, where I was, I fear, insufficiently impressed with the acceleration of Miss Soap's car, even if her incautious application of the go-juice was considerably exceeded by a certain New Zealander. I think she was the tiniest bit miffed until I told her about the trike, after which, she understood. And might be persuaded into a backie one day, I suspect. If I can raise the money for a new engine for the damned thing, anyway.
mr_flay, mouseboks and myself thereupon decided that a modest post-prandial constitutional was in order, so we wandered off to explore the riches of Northleach. It has a fine old church, with portions going back to the 12th Century - including a list of every parish priest since 1280, some splendid brasses and ivy-shrouded tombstones. It also sports two other pubs, a builder and repairer of Doll's Houses, two small shops and a Mechanical Music Museum - of which more anon. And, well, that's about it, really. There's a bakery and grocers, from which I purchased a most agreeable slice of Bakewell Tart, a convenience store, an estate agent, a few more small shops - and not a lot else. Ideal for those who cherish a quiet life, probably a town of soul-destroying boredom in which to be a teenager, and from the presence and indeed prominence of the estate agent, I daresay its pale tan houses, built from the same local stone today as they were centuries ago, fetch a packet in 2004.After our return, I must reluctantly confess that I can tell you nothing of the afternoon or early evening’s revelry. After the ride, the drinking and all, I found myself in need of a short nap. It’s my advancing years, you know. After this, I read for a short time – I was working my way through Connie Willis’ splendid Passage (stop sniggering at the back, boy), a compelling novel about near-death experiences. One needs a little time alone reading every day, I feel.
Refreshed, I returned to the fray – and indeed the Flay – in the bar just in time for a pre-dinner pint. This evening, we’d attained the main dining room, where a good half the tables in the entire place had been place end-to-end for us. A traditional arrangement and it’s hard to see what else they could have done, but it did mean that convesation between one end of the table and the other was only possible by leaning over and shouting. However, as the level of wine in the bottles rapidly sank, this became no problem at all. I naturally did not assist in this, since wine is of course vile stuff. How tired I am of the question “what would you like to drink, Sir, red or white?" However, our charming and winsome waitress was most obliging in keeping me supplied with Rebellion, at least until I’d drunk it all, and thereafter, 6X. Ed kindly undertook to pay my portion of the inclusive wine charge, possibly due to his brave if doomed efforts to get rid of the remaining surplus at the end of the meal.
But I am getting ahead of myself. We arranged ourselves in a planned, systematic fashion, cunningly arranged by unspoken agreement to closely resemble a bunch of slightly inebriated people settling at random. I chose one end of the table, between
hirez and sushidog and opposite _whitenoise and miss_soap, on the basis that these were all folks I had not yet had much chance to natter with. Ever, in some cases. A wise decision this proved, too, except in the matter of my incautiously rising to a fiddypee-style challenge over my bold claim that “there are only two things I do not believe in: defeat and too much chocolate". Now, veteran comics fans will recognize this as a paraphase of a dictum from Timulo, by D’Israeli the D’Emon D’Raughtsman, in Deadline magazine some time before the invention of gravity. It’s a favourite of mine, even if the heretical Timulo claimed it was custard that could not be had in excess. Damnn his eyes, the fool!However, the Wheatsheaf’s enormous desserts were to be my undoing, as well as that of my belt buckle and top button. Lyssa took my bold claim to be fightin’ words and pronounced that if this were in fact the case, then once I had finished my housebrick-sized chocolate brownie, I should finish hers, as well, since she, as a mere girlie, was unable to do so. Hester thought this was a splendid wheeze (an opportune word) and kindly volunteered hers as well. I felt unable to disappoint the ladies and essayed my best effort. And it would have worked, too, if it wasn’t for that pesky Lady Moonray. However, as soon as she heard of my bold assertion, she donated the remains of her brownie, too, and this was simply not possible. I confessed defeat. I protest, however, that I did finish all those which I undertook to; the last-minute addition was a cruel blow.
As the epic feast drew to a close, some of the more elderly and infirm members of the party retired. The rest of us hard-core party people adjourned to the fireside and continued drinking with a will, until asked to leave at some point in the wee small hours by the apologetic manager, on the basis that he had to get up in about three hours to prepare breakfast. I acquired a last pint and Ed a final glass of wine, leaving the last few bottles of white sadly undrunk, and we retired to our chamber to chew the fat and attend to other matters arising. I suppose I should not be surprised at the base speculation and scurrilous rumours which arose surrounding our conduct the following day. On this matter, my lips are sealed, except to say that we, as ever, behaved as gentlemen.
Sunday dawned horribly early and we once again roused by the application of Soap. It’s a hell of a way to start the day. An enfeebled assortment of sable-robed bon viveurs crawled up Northleach High Street to Keith Harding’s Mechanical Music Museum, containing a stunning assortment of music boxes, player pianos, early gramophones, barrel organs and musical automata. Most have been restored to excellent condition and play loudly and clearly, unlike our wheezing guide, who was not nearly so incapacitated by a room stuffed with folks in black leather as he was by, I’d judge, about 45 years on 40 a day. We came in a little after the beginning of his talk to a couple in their 50s, but after they got to the point where they presumably came in, they left, and he just kept right on going until we realized that he was starting to repeat himselves. We sat there anyway until, a few minutes later, he came to the same realization and stopped. The array is magnificent and well worth a visit to Northleach in its own right, if you are so inclined, and no self-respecting geek could fail to be impressed. For myself, I found it strangely moving to hear one of my favourite pieces of early-20th-century music – Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue - emerging from a player piano as played by its own composed. It was as if his ghostly fingers were pressing the keys, right before my wide eyes.
Pausing only to fiddle with every single gadget in the gift shop and buy a book about the opera for
tamaranth, I rejoined the group outside. Some people were making their adieus now, but enough of us remained to make a lunch posse viable. Of course, with no firm leadership in place, this instantly resulted in a massive and indecisive debate. Alas, the pub next door had apparently experienced total kitchen failure, so we tried the one across the road, which had, despite the claims below its long and varied high-class menu, stopped serving. We’d bought drinks already, though, so we tarried a while. We did manage to persuade them to stay open until the advertised time, provided we were prepared to wait half and hour. We tarried, we drank, we changed our minds. Again. And so it was that we assembled in the carpark and embarked for Oxford. Several little local pubs of the locals’ acquaintance had, predictably, stopped serving, so by the time we made it to the city centre, we simply leapt upon the first place that was serving: Old Orleans. It’s odd to reflect that, some 11 years earlier, my mate John and I had done exactly this in the selfsame restaurant, returning from the Bulldog Bash bike festival. The vegetarian menu had improved somewhat in the interim, but the service had not – our friendly young waitress, an émigré from the Colonies, was friendly and helpful but a little inefficient, forgetting my side-orders and my drinks. Still, my veggie burger was perfectly pleasant and the late-lunchtime conversation most genial, barring only more quite unsubstantiated allegations concerned Mr Wills’ and my bedtime arrangements and habits. Base calumnies, all of them, I say! I attempted to raise a tone a little by essaying some small discourses upon such matters as techniques of applying a chocolate coating to domestic pets and the search and removal of some unusual rectal foreign bodies, but I fear it was largely in vain.
And thus the last gathering of Notby ended. We returned to our vehicles, bid Oxford and one another farewell, and a few minutes later and only one minor 5 mile diversion later, I said goodbye to the chaps and sat in Oxford services to await the AA and recovery to London.
Notby was, in summary, quite wonderful and I can barely wait to do it – or something much like it – again. My thanks to
mr_tom for arranging and organizing it all, to mr_flay for splendid company, to mr_prickle for getting Ed and I there and back and to everyone who attended for their company. Cheers!
Postscript: perhaps I should've put a footnote to the effect of "comments welcome". Creative criticism sought! Go ahead, rip it to shreds... :¬)
