I'd left the map of St. Edmundsbury in the computer case,
which was in the trunk; figured I knew more or less what
was what from having studied it (although the map said
"not to scale," ominous words). Left on the ring road,
follow signs for the train station, turn right, enter the
north gate, and take a right on Looms Lane. So we turned
left on the ring road, found a sign for the station about
where the map indicated that we should expect it to be,
turned right ... and discovered we had no idea where we
were. Hailed a chap on the street who informed us that we
were quite a great distance from our hotel. This turned
out to be both true and not so true. Anyhow, he gave us
instructions that had us go back to the end of town,
turn left, go to the Greene King brewery, and follow the
road around the Abbey and to the hotel. So we did this,
pausing once to belatedly get the map from the trunk; it
confirmed what the fellow had said, only it turns out
that the street we were on to begin with actually becomes
Looms Lane, which the hotel is on, but it's pedestrian-
only for a crucial two of the four blocks we were off. It
also turns out that the sign I'd seen was for the bus
station, and the train station was a quarter mile on.
It is not an enormous town.
After a missed approach (we couldn't believe that this
tiny driveway led to a parking lot for 44 cars), we
found ourselves at our destination.
The Regency Hotel has 4 diamonds from the tourist bureau
or the AA or both. The downside is that this is England,
where they sleep under haystacks; and also, the hotel's
main building is (as are most public buildings in the
town, it appears) a Category 2 historical site, so no
major changes can be made - no a/c, and so on. But it is
a charming place, sort of rabbit warrenish, with odd
passageways leading who knows where; our room was a
half-dozen steps up from corridor level, but there was
another room down the way whose access was via a full
flight of stairs (not good for the party crowd). And
there is, thankfully, plumbing, from the latter half
of the 20th century no less.
Room 16, directly over the bar, was sort of damp and
frowzy but comfortable enough. We had time for a shower
and a change before the 3:00 party, and it was perfect
for that. (And when we returned we were blotto enough
not to care.). So, suitably spruced up, we strolled
downtown to the Angel Hotel, opposite the Abbey garden.
The reception site is an interesting one, made famous when
Dickens wrote about it in Pickwick Papers (both he and
Oscar Wilde stayed there in their days, when they were
on tour and lecturing at the Atheneum next door). The
cocktails part was in the drawing room, which (being a
Category 2 historical site, and thus unairconditionable)
was stuffy and hot as Hades, but we could take comfort in
that Dickens had probably had drinks in these same rooms.
The bubbly flowed freely, as well it might - it was a
modest South East Australian, called Green Something, I
didn't recognize the name nor have any reason to remember
it; it was reasonably dry, smallish bubbles, fairly yeasty,
decent Chardonnayish aroma.
C. and I didn't know anyone at the party but the bride
and groom. Most of the guests were members of or at least
close to one of the two families, so we felt just a tad
isolated. Not the most isolated, as it turns out. Peter's
family is from Suffolk, and so his relatives and friends
were on home turf; Ani's family is from Albania, though,
and some of them (her parents) don't speak any of English.
Like not a word. So when the five other Albanians (all of
them of a younger generation) were off doing whatever the
younger generation does, they were reduced to sitting and
smiling and nodding and not saying anything. I tried,
when we were starting to get people to abandon the
unlimited free cheap sparkler and into the function room
for dinner (around 4:00!) - but they speak neither French
nor German nor Italian nor Chinese (stuck that one in as
a wild card, as my Chinese is terrible; but you may
recall that for some decades Albania was Red China's most
faithful ally).
The function room is in a separate, unlisted building, and
so it could have air conditioning, which was a blessing on
a hottish, muggy day. There were five tables each seating
eight or so; a pleasant size for a function, as you can sort
of get to know everyone if you want, but you don't have to
if you don't want to. Our table was headed by Norman,
Peter's father, who lives in Florida or someplace, and his
wife Jane; also with us were Peter's sister, Helen, and
her fiance, Neil. And a most amusing pair, Lida, who was
one of Ani's teachers in Albania and now works in the
education ministry at the EU in Torino, and her friend
Rosemary, who is a Scot working in publishing in London.
It was a surprisingly good mix. I'm not a shining social
light, but I can mix it up pretty well if someone else
starts up the party. But we had a couple of firecrackers -
Helen is as lively as her brother is reserved, and with
Lida, anything goes. C. can bubble with the best of
them, under the right circumstances, and these seemed to
be right circumstances. Neil gets pulled along by Helen,
and Rosemary gets pulled along by Lida, and I'm pulled
along by the whole experience, and Norman and Jane are
good sports about it all. We ended up being the rowdiest
table in the room, well before the end of the meal.
The food was quite a bit better than banquet food can
normally be expected to be, but then the Angel has a
rosette or two from the AA, and people actually go to
the hotel just to eat. We started with an imaginative
fruit cup - melon and exotic fruits in Champagne sorbet,
said the menu on the table. This consisted of watermelon,
honeydew, cantaloupe, star fruit, all nicely ripe, with a
slightly too sweet sorbet that tasted largely of kiwi and
vanilla and not very much of Champagne.
Then the choice was slow-cooked lamb shank or grilled
fillet of salmon. The lamb shank was bony but enormous,
of good flavor; it came with creamed potatoes and the
seasonal veg - carrots, tiny green beans, and zucchini.
The sauce was a wine-enriched demiglace-based gravy.
The salmon looked like a generous serving but perhaps
overdone for my taste. Jane was the only one at the table
who had it, and she was too far for me to steal a bite.
Our wines were a French shipper Merlot and Chardonnay;
also not interesting enough for me to note the details. I
did manage to sluice down at least a bottle of the red,
so it couldn't have been that bad. Anyhow, the generous
pours of the stuff might have contributed just a little
to the rowdiness of our table.
The toasts and speeches were accompanied by a real
Champagne from Guy de Chassey, which tasted pretty good to
these overserved tastebuds. It was overpowered, though, by
the strawberry-vanilla creme brulee (quite nicely done,
but I thought the strawberries superfluous), and both Lida
and I hit on the same solution - drink the Merlot with
dessert, and the heck with what the books say.
About 6 we were shooed out of the room so they could set
up the disco. So we went out front and chatted with some
new people - including Neil's father and uncle (I'm not
sure which is which), Ken and Jeff. Ken is a psychologist;
Jeff is a taxman. Nonetheless, they get along well, as we
did with them and their wives Rachel (another psychologist)
and Christine. A lot of hilarity out there in front of the
Atheneum, leading to some askance looks (and some smiles)
from the passersby. I guess psychologists are good at that.
The music started, and we returned to the room. C. and I
sat out a couple of tunes and then, the spirit moving us in
mysterious ways, we ended up dancing the evening away. (I
also danced a couple dances with Rosemary, and maybe one
with someone else, I forget.) This was rather silly, as
C. has bad knees and ankles, but knows how to dance; and
I have mostly healed knees and ankles, but don't really
know how to dance, plus I have heart problems. Plus there
were a lot of Abba songs, which I'm not overfond of.
At some odd time, we were invited to Trish's (Peter's
mother's) house for the next afternoon, which scotched our
plan to see Cambridge and then go on to someplace near the
airport, like Windsor or St. Albans's for an easy trip on
traveling day. So I went back to the Regency, where James
the night clerk very kindly rented me the last available
room for the next night. Then I returned to the party for
more drinking and dancing.
At some other odd time another meal was served, a buffet
of finger food that included bangers, meat samosa (bland),
halfmoon pastries that tasted strongly of lemon grass,
vegetable spring rolls, vegetable triangle pastries, and
chocolate- dipped strawberries.
We left 10ish, a few dances after the buffet; it was later
reported to us that shortly later, the Albanians (i.e. Lida)
started coming into their own, showing off their own dances
and singing. The party broke up at 11, probably not because
of this fact.
= =
After yet another English breakfast, we moved to our
second room: a twin on the cute little courtyard, just
opposite a hairdresser's shop (?!). It was much airier
and orders of magnitude more modern than the other one
(not being in a listed building, et cetera).
Saturday was market day, so we went shopping - C. wanted
to take it all in (I really cannot stand this), but all I
needed was a tin of Oxford marmalade for my father, who
has been pining for the stuff for years. So after a quick
turn around the area we separated, and she went off to do
whatever girls do on shopping, and I went to the Waitrose
at the edge of town (2 blocks further) for the marmalade.
Things at the market: gigantic purple figs, L1 for 5 or
L1.50 for 10 - got ten, but only 5 were ripe, so we left
the rest for the maid; a seafood stand that sold fairly
local stuff (Bury is about 15 miles from Ipswich and
maybe another 15 from the coast proper), including pint
baskets of assorted fruits of the sea, such as cockles
and winkles and surimi in the shape of lobster tails; the
Nutshell, which is the smallest pub in Britain (to go with
the smallest house, which we saw, up in Conwy, Wales).
I went to the Abbey ruins and its rather nice (although,
as some of my friends pointed out, rather American in the
vivid color schemes) gardens, then to the Greene King
brewery museum, which, usually L2, was free owing to
Heritage Days, whatever that may be. Not very instructive,
and I was out of there fairly quick: there was nothing on
draft, but bottled stuff out of a fridge, which you could
buy at prices similar to those at a pub, or there were free
thimble-size samples. As I'd got off easy, I let them off
easy and didn't ask for any.
Rendezvoused with C. back at the hotel, and before we
went off to Trish's, I took her to the gardens, where she
amused herself by taking pictures of squirrels and birds.
And then the rains came.
We had a car with a prime parking space.
We had said we'd walk, and C. didn't want to drive on
the slick road anyway.
We waited for a break in the rain, then bolted. Well,
it's a 15-minute walk, and naturally, as soon as we
set out, the heavens opened, so we got soaked. I guess
going back to the car might have been an option, but we
pressed on, being wet to the bone anyway. The walk took
25 minutes, by which time we looked like something out
of a trawler's net. We were greeted with much astonishment
- you WALKED? you should have rung up and someone would
have picked you up. Have a Pimm's. Have something to eat.
Quiche, ham, sausages, potato salad, crisps, curry chicken
(a l'Anglaise) with rice, cheeses, pate, a veritable
groaning board. Jeff noticed that my plate had no ham on
it and that I didn't have a Pimm's in hand (but a stubby of
Stella Artois). He looked disappointed - after all, hadn't
he just spent hours in the kitchen making Pimm's cups and
slicing the ham? So for my second round I had to have a
slice of ham (Jeff beamed) and a Pimm's - which was very
good and mild enough so one could have six (as I did) and
not feel overserved. Jeff makes Pimm's in an idiosyncratic
but pleasant way, with lots of chopped fresh fruit,
including better nectarines than I've had in many a moon.
We met the neighbors, Pete's grandfather (92 years old
and sharp as a tack), and some other friends who hadn't
been able to come to the reception, and got to know
better some of the people we had first met the day before.
Pudding came out later - cheesecake from Sainsbury's was
the usual thing, but Christine had made a Pavlova and a
death-by-chocolate thing, both of which were excellent.
I was sitting in the back garden with Neil and Jeff, when
Ken came out with his mouth full of chocolate, trumpeting
that the stuff was "orgasmic," whereupon I rushed inside
to the table before it was all gone.
Lots of laughter and chat and alcohol in small doses.
There were several wines: I contributed a bottle of Wolf
Blass Shiraz Cabernet, which for reasons of overdeveloped
hospitality Horndon George and Anne had given us; it was
the most distinguished of the lot.
There were plans for the younger set to go pubbing at 6,
and we were going to join them, being young in mental age
at least, but it was 5:30 by the time anyone made a move
away from the party. Pete gave us a quick (2 min) lift
back to the hotel so we could semi-freshen up.
We met at the Angel at 6, a growing knot that clearly made
the young manager guy a little nervous; he would certainly
have called in the local constabulary if we hadn't been
the party that had dropped over five thousand dollars the
night before. By half past, we were on our way to the Dog
and Partridge, Greene King's flagship pub, just a couple
blocks from the brewery.
Present:
Pandi,* the leader, and a blonde Albanian woman* whose
name I never caught;
Ani* and Peter
Ani (another one - Albania is a small country, and there
must be a limited repertory of names)* and her cousin
Lilia* and Ani's husband Brian (both Anis work in the
same bank, and both couples live in the same building
in Rosslyn; Lilia lives in London)
Lida* and Rosemary
Helen and Neil
* Albanians - I remarked that Suffolk (or any other English
shire, for that matter) had probably never been invaded by
so many Albanians before
And representing the older generation, Rachel and Ken,
Christine and Jeff, C. and myself.
A couple rounds of Abbot Ale and IPA; then people started
getting hungry. I suggested we get a few orders of fish &
chips and sausage & mash here before the kitchen closed,
but Helen decided we should all go off to eat. So we left -
and promptly split into two groups, the Albanians and their
companions to try to find a restaurant, and the rest of us,
to try our luck at the next pub. On the way, we passed a
noodle bar, which Helen said was very good. So C. and
I went in and placed a modest take-out order, whereupon
they said, okay, that'll be half an hour, but we said, our
people will have long since left the pub for another by
then, can't you speed it up? On receiving a negative, we
asked them to kindly tear up the order slip. Next time
we're in Bury St. Edmunds, we'll make it up to them.
On to the King's Arms, where we discovered that not only
was the kitchen not open, there was no kitchen.
Consternation. Oh, well, liquid supper was just fine
with me, if not with C. More Greene King pints.
Helen decided she was fading and called a cab home. We
said our goodbyes, and then a couple minutes later, a
phone call. Helen - she'd just passed a Chinese takeaway
that looked open. We got the particulars, and I, having
already finished my first and maybe second pint, was
deputed to go investigate.
It's called Top Garden, and the pleasant, attractive
cashier looked pretty English to me; I challenged her
on this, and she pointed out that the cooks were a
Chinese husband and wife, and the late-night cashier was
their daughter, so it was in fact a fairly Chinese sort
of establishment. The menu is full of these silly would-be
poetic names, dragon's this and peasant rising from the
sea that. What I ended up ordering was finger food that
could be eaten without utensils in a bar. Talked to her
for a few minutes, until her relief came - the night
cashier, who was a cute, round-faced Chinese dumpling of
maybe 21 years. The family had emigrated from Hong Kong
around the time of the turnover, and they'd been in Bury
ever since, 9 years. Why Bury, I didn't ask. Presently
the food came out in a couple huge bags, which I hauled
to the pub. Lots of people in the doorway, so I handed
the food in the window and then climbed in, my next
round of Abbot Ale given to me as a reward. And within
a minute got thrown out by the landlord. No outside food
allowed. So I climbed back out the window, was handed
back out the food, and we all trooped back to the Regency,
where as the kitchen was closed they had no problem with
our dining on Chinese take-out in the garden.
So it was down to the magnificent seven, Rachel and Ken,
Neil, Christine and Jeff, and us two. (Now I think that
Rachel and Christine were with us throughout, but I sort
of forget.) Anyhow, we had a grand old time scarfing down
chicken satay (ok), ribs of two varieties (ok), shrimp
toasts (greasy), humongous rather mediocre egg rolls,
seaweed (real seaweed, fried; not the shredded garden
greens that you tend to get in city restaurants), and
shrimp chips. Now that I think of it, there was an order
of dumplings that was missing. But that was another day
and another continent, so maybe next time we're in Bury
St. Edmunds, they'll make it up to us.
We caught a glimpse of the Albanians slinking in around
midnight. It turns out that they hadn't actually found
anything worthwhile to eat, so they turned in hungry.
Pete and Ani had ended up at McDonald's. So with our
Chinese food we'd been the winners, by default.
Another round - I had a Martell, which looked mighty
puny in the standard drink pour of I guess 3 cL, but
it turned out to be just enough.
And so to a slightly sodden slumber.