Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Little Ffynches

When we were very young, not only did we read A. A. Milne’s book of poetry but we would go back to England to visit my grandmother and mum’s sister June. June owned a flint stone, thatched cottage called Little Ffynches in Rustington on the South Coast of England. The cottage as though it belonged on a chocolate box lid. In fact when I first lived in London, my room mate received a post card from someone and I was surprised to see that it was in fact Little Ffynches. Little Ffynches was on The Street and sat in a cluster of similar thatched cottages with a more modern (19th century?) big house called Ffynches to the right. Everyone knew each other, and now when I think back I realize that they were all single women; divorced, widowed, and of a certain age. Mahala in Front of Little Ffynches Little Ffynches had a very large kitchen, walls lined with glass fronted cabinets filled with assorted dinner services, glasses. I want to say it had an aga, but actually think it was a big old gas stove. A stable door at the front, on warm days the top open to let the air in. The cottage itself really did sit right on The Street, but in the early 60’s there was very little traffic. The back door leading out to the walled garden. The kitchen sink ran out into the gutter drain at the back of the house; I remember being fascinated about the tea leaves coming down and washing along the gutter. A low 6 inch wall ran along the drain and various old flower pots sat on it. Flowerpot men, Bill and Ben the flower pot men with Little Weed, we sang as we played with them. The walled garden was a traditional English cottage garden; Roses, Hollyhocks, Delphiniums, sweet peas, espaliered fruit trees. An old fashioned floral swing seat that creaked as we swang gently back and forth. Tucked into a back corner the garden shed. Fascinating garden shed. Filled with cushions for garden chairs, the garden chairs, old paint cans, flower pots, cans filed with nails and screws. Jam jars with liquid, high up out of reach of curious childish hands and eyes. Cobwebs in window frames, high up in the eaves. Daddy long legs scurrying out of our way. We were not allowed in without a grown up being present. We went back and stayed many times, although it was never the same once my granma passed. Christmas in 1964 was a favorite. Danish Christmas Eve, with an almond dessert in which trinkets were hidden. Christmas Day, lots of entertaining. Dad and Johan in velvet smoking jackets; June and mum in glamorous frocks. Visits to the pantomine in Brighton. In the mid sixties we moved back to England and for a month or so lived and went to school here. But by then the chicken coop was gone, the lady with the geese had moved. It was no longer a small enclave of a english seaside town ala E F Bentons Mapp and Lucia novels. When I read the Lucia books years later, I gave all the characters the faces of our Rustington friends. There was always a large low bowl of Lemon Barley water steeping on the kitchen counter. 3/4 cup of pearl barley Use a potato peeler to remove zest and then juice 2 lemons 1/2 cup of sugar - or honey 6 cups of water Place the barley in a sieve and rinse under cold water until water runs clear. Place barley in a saucepan with lemon peel and 6 cups of water. Bring to the boil over medium heat. Once boiling, simmer for 10 minutes then strain mixture into a heatproof bowl. Discard the barley.Add sugar to bowl and stir to dissolve. Stir in lemon juice and then let mixture cool to room temperature. Just now the lilac is in bloom, 
All before my little room;
 And in my flower-beds, I think, 
Smile the carnation and the pink; 
And down the borders, well I know, 
The poppy and the pansy blow...
 Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through, 
Beside the river make for you 
A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep
Deeply above; and green and deep 
The stream mysterious glides beneath,
 Green as a dream and deep as death.
-- Oh, damn! I know it! and I know
How the May fields all golden show,
And when the day is young and sweet, 
Gild gloriously the bare feet
That run to bathe... Rupert Brooke “The Old Vicarage Grantchaster”

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