Simon's Blog - Life in a country castle
February 2010
A friend has called to warn us of some guests she is sending our way. It seems an odd thing to do and she is reticent to give me any details but I detect a hint of mischief in her tone.
My suspicions are confirmed later that evening when Saffron and Basil arrive at the castle.
They are typical London types. Saffron has that sort of north London respectability with a slight edge which suggests she was brought up in Hampstead but would rather tell you it was Camden or at the very least Belsize Park. Basil, on the other hand is one hundred percent Notting Hill (or North Kensington if you prefer).
They clearly work in media as neither of them can be parted from their iPhones and as soon as they have crossed the threshold are stressing about the best WiFi hotspot and whether they can get a 3G signal on their phones. When I tell them that we have WiFi coverage throughout the castle they survey me with utter incredulity.
‘It’s true’, I say reassuringly. But they don’t believe me and Saffron is already walking through the castle sweeping her device from left to right at arms length in front of her for the best signal. ‘I don’t think it makes any difference how far..’, I begin but think better of it. ‘Basil, let me show you around and then we’ll go upstairs to your room.’
‘Ooh Basil, Daahling,' trills Saffron, that’s the best offer you’ve had for weeks.’ It’s hard to say, given Basil’s Notting Hill skin tone, but I’m pretty sure he’s blushing. I, on the other hand, am just confused. So when we eventually reach the bedroom I am wondering whether we have made a terrible gaffe with the booking and that perhaps Basil and Saffron are not, shall we say, compatible bedfellows.
No need to worry however, since Saffron, who clearly has no secrets from anyone and doesn’t respect anyone else’s either, proceeds to tell me that Basil has just broken up with his partner Horatio, whom she apparently never much cared for to the extent that she even tried to sabotage a trip Basil had planned to Tobago to introduce Horatio to his grandparents by telling H that she was pregnant and that B was the father. She has now apparently taken it upon herself to ‘reorientate him’.
This is far, far too much information for me. 'OK, so this is your room key, please keep it with you and ensure your bedroom door is locked at all times’, and I’m out of there.
By breakfast the next day we have named Saffron and Basil the Herbivores. They are clearly late sprouting herbivores at that and eventually surface at noon. We ask them if they would like a late breakfast and Saffron shoots us another one of her looks of incomprehension. It seems she has no idea what breakfast is or what it looks like and even if she did she’d have no time for it as she is already giving her right arm another workout waving her iPhone high above her head searching for that elusive fourth pip of reception whilst simultaneously texting.
Basil, who I’m sure is now glowing rather than blushing, says they would like to walk to the nearest lake. It is now my turn for the incredulity. Firstly, I tell them that the nearest lake is half an hour away by car and secondly I point to the weather. But Saffron looks positively hurt.
‘Daahling, I’ve bought all this outdoor gear specially’, she wails. Saffron is wearing a pair of pink camouflage silk cargo pants, a pair of knee high black leather boots and a bat wing cardigan over a flimsy shirt. Catching my reaction she continues, ‘I’ve brought a coat and a hat.’
I don’t venture to ask what camo-colour they are and opt instead to show them where we are on a map although this may be of limited usefulness since Saffron can only read one sort of map and since we are beyond the northernmost end of the Metropolitan line she hasn't a clue what she's looking at. It is truly a wonder that they have even got here at all.
While Basil and Saffron are out I ring our friend to thank her for the recommendation. She roars with laughter and asks if they have had dinner yet. I tell her that they haven’t but that they are booked in later and the peals of laughter die away as she has obviously fallen to the floor in a quivering wreck.
And so it is with some trepidation that we await the herbivores’ return.
I happen to be in the hall when Saffron tumbles through the front door. I enquire after their day and she agitatedly begins to tell me that they have been to the highest pub in England, The Tan Hill Inn which is about nine miles away.
But she’s not happy. She has got sheep poo on her combats which she is concerned isn’t going to come out. I suggest that in my experience all poo of whatever origin comes out after a good boil wash.
‘Boil!’ she shrieks (ominously, she's dropped the daahling bit). ‘One, these are DKNY, two they are organic silk and three washing anything above thirty degrees is going to destroy the planet.’
I then learn that this is not the worst of the afternoon’s events as she continues her tirade. ‘And when we got to the pub we couldn’t get anything, nothing at all.’
‘That’s odd’, I say, ‘they usually serve food all day and I’ve never been up there and not been able to get a pint.’
By this time Saffron is hysterical. ‘I’m not talking about the food or the drink, I mean we couldn’t get any signal and there’s was no WiFi,’ and she’s jabbing at her phone to make a point. When Basil walks in, in an altogether better frame of mind, I suggest he takes Saffron upstairs and draws her a long hot relaxing bath with, perhaps a bottle of champagne. I decide that things can only get better from here.
How wrong I am.
Unfortunately Basil doesn’t drink and by the time they reappear for dinner, Saffron has drained a whole bottle of champagne to herself, plus the decanter of sherry in the bedroom, and all this on top of two pints of Dirty Ewe Ale she had at lunch, presumably to try to get over the dirty ewe whose poo is now on her trousers.
By the time the three of them (that’s Basil, Saffron and the iphone) join the table for dinner she is incoherent and quite unable to coordinate eating and texting simultaneously). Basil asks if it may be possible for Saffron to retire to her room with a starter. That’s no problem and I suggest that we can take the rest of her meal up to her. ‘No need, she may just manage the starter and then she’ll be out cold.’
Unencumbered, Basil is a delight and thoroughly enjoys his evening. It's hard to see why he is with such an unappetising creature but he explains that she 'has issues and is just generally misunderstood'.
We don’t see Saffron again and after breakfast as Basil is paying his bill he tells me that he fully intends to give things another go with Horatio. I wish him luck with that and, perhaps more significantly, the journey back to London with Saffron.
