a country diary of an edwardian lady
“We now see the most dismal Piece of Ground for Travelling, that ever was in England… namely from the Top of the chalky hill beyond Dunstable down into Hockley lane, and through Hockley, justly called Hockley in the Hole...”
Daniel Defoe, Tour Thro' the Whole Island of Great Britain, 1724.
Officially, it’s called Fern House, Hockliffe. But from the end of the month, strange_powers and I will call it home.
I’ve been journal shy for a few days, partly because I’ve been gadding about with trips to Brighton and London (including seeing the ace Belle and Sebastian at Somerset House) and partly in superstitious fear that talking about the house will prompt the owners to let it to someone else. But as a note from the letting agents confirmed our references are trickling back in (what did you say la_espanola?) we’ll probably pick up the keys on the 31st. That’s nine days away. Holy cow!
Fern House is a sturdy brick that overlooks the rolling hills of the Aylesbury Vale on one side, and, er, The Hockliffe Garage Door Company on the other. The vendors run their business from a converted garage behind the house so we share a driveway, but that doesn’t bother us, especially as we get the services of their flashy electric gates and gardener. Nearest station is four miles away in Leighton Buzzard. Nearest post office is 40 yards up the road, though it seems to keep short hours (2pm - 2.15pm on alternate Tuesdays unless Ethel can find someone to look after Mr Tibbles). Housewarming party details will be posted in due course.
Hockliffe village itself doesn’t offer much nightlife apart from a Beefeater, though this might come in handy until we figure out how the Raeburn stove works. What it does have is a long and rich history thanks to its location on Watling Street (the A5). The Annals of Dunstable Priory include the following record of a riot at a wrestling match at Hockliffe in 1283 at which two people were killed:
"A wrestling match on St John the Baptist's Day, at Hocclive, before the Hospital. And when it was almost over and all going away, John our smith was killed with a bill; and on the part of William Muncheusy, who had wardship of John Malberke's heir, was killed Simon Mustard. But it appearing by a jury of the same townships before the Coroner, and in full county court, that they killed each other, we came off free, and none of our family were called to account.
There was a sequel the next year when Christina, wife of Simon Mustard, sued the Prior and ten more at the County Court in Bedford for causing her husband's death. But Christina did not appear at court and was condemned to be imprisoned and her effects seized. The jury found that none of the accused were guilty and concluded that John Smith, of Flamstude, had killed Simon Mustard with an arrow in his right side. But Simon, before he died, had struck Smith on the head with a stick and felled him. John Smith had then been killed by Roger Balloke.
The jury also decided that Christina was not Simon's wife and his goods (including 22 sheep and a mare) were given by the Coroner to the town of Hocclive.”
So John Smith wasn’t killed by Colonel Simon Mustard, with a billiard cue bill, in the library outside the hospital. It was the intriguingly titled Roger Balloke. (13th century gigolo?) The moral of that story is if your common-law husband is felled by a stick on St John the Baptist's Day, don’t complain to the council unless you have a ring on your finger.
Just because we’re in love with Fern House, it doesn’t mean we’ve taken our eye off Hogwarts, the derelict ex prep school in Leighton Buzzard. Here’s a picture of half of it, as I couldn’t get far enough away to get the other sticky-out gable in frame. Both houses are very different in construction, but they both feel like they could be happy homes.
Now Brabinger, where’s my gin and tonic?
Daniel Defoe, Tour Thro' the Whole Island of Great Britain, 1724.
Officially, it’s called Fern House, Hockliffe. But from the end of the month, strange_powers and I will call it home.
I’ve been journal shy for a few days, partly because I’ve been gadding about with trips to Brighton and London (including seeing the ace Belle and Sebastian at Somerset House) and partly in superstitious fear that talking about the house will prompt the owners to let it to someone else. But as a note from the letting agents confirmed our references are trickling back in (what did you say la_espanola?) we’ll probably pick up the keys on the 31st. That’s nine days away. Holy cow!
Fern House is a sturdy brick that overlooks the rolling hills of the Aylesbury Vale on one side, and, er, The Hockliffe Garage Door Company on the other. The vendors run their business from a converted garage behind the house so we share a driveway, but that doesn’t bother us, especially as we get the services of their flashy electric gates and gardener. Nearest station is four miles away in Leighton Buzzard. Nearest post office is 40 yards up the road, though it seems to keep short hours (2pm - 2.15pm on alternate Tuesdays unless Ethel can find someone to look after Mr Tibbles). Housewarming party details will be posted in due course.
Hockliffe village itself doesn’t offer much nightlife apart from a Beefeater, though this might come in handy until we figure out how the Raeburn stove works. What it does have is a long and rich history thanks to its location on Watling Street (the A5). The Annals of Dunstable Priory include the following record of a riot at a wrestling match at Hockliffe in 1283 at which two people were killed:
"A wrestling match on St John the Baptist's Day, at Hocclive, before the Hospital. And when it was almost over and all going away, John our smith was killed with a bill; and on the part of William Muncheusy, who had wardship of John Malberke's heir, was killed Simon Mustard. But it appearing by a jury of the same townships before the Coroner, and in full county court, that they killed each other, we came off free, and none of our family were called to account.
There was a sequel the next year when Christina, wife of Simon Mustard, sued the Prior and ten more at the County Court in Bedford for causing her husband's death. But Christina did not appear at court and was condemned to be imprisoned and her effects seized. The jury found that none of the accused were guilty and concluded that John Smith, of Flamstude, had killed Simon Mustard with an arrow in his right side. But Simon, before he died, had struck Smith on the head with a stick and felled him. John Smith had then been killed by Roger Balloke.
The jury also decided that Christina was not Simon's wife and his goods (including 22 sheep and a mare) were given by the Coroner to the town of Hocclive.”
So John Smith wasn’t killed by Colonel Simon Mustard, with a billiard cue bill, in the library outside the hospital. It was the intriguingly titled Roger Balloke. (13th century gigolo?) The moral of that story is if your common-law husband is felled by a stick on St John the Baptist's Day, don’t complain to the council unless you have a ring on your finger.
Just because we’re in love with Fern House, it doesn’t mean we’ve taken our eye off Hogwarts, the derelict ex prep school in Leighton Buzzard. Here’s a picture of half of it, as I couldn’t get far enough away to get the other sticky-out gable in frame. Both houses are very different in construction, but they both feel like they could be happy homes.
Now Brabinger, where’s my gin and tonic?