Visiting Lady Jane

When the World Travel Market in London came to a close I didn’t fly back to St. Vincent with my colleagues from the Department of Tourism. I had extended my stay so that I could visit my friends Jane and Robert Benson in England’s Lake District. Excited, I packed my suitcases and caught the train to Penrith, a journey I had been told would take three and a half hours.  I was curious to see what Robert and Jane would be like on their own turf; on Bequia, they enjoyed what the Caribbean had to offer, which in their case meant drinking rum punch, smoking weed, burning in the hot tropical sun and playing in the sea. I had a feeling that Robert and Jane “at home” would be a whole different kettle of fish!

I already knew that because Jane’s father was an Earl (James Lowther, the 7^th Earl of Lonsdale) she belonged to England’s aristocracy. On Bequia this was treated as a bit of a joke; Lady Jane had married her father’s games-keeper, and Robert was teased good-naturedly about his lower station in life. He always laughed and said, “maybe so, but don’t forget that my ancestors raped and pillaged her ancestors!”  This response was always good for a chuckle, but I wondered at times how Robert REALLY felt.

My arrival at Penrith Station was a hectic whirl; Jane, excited by my visit, tried to point out and explain every detail of the village as we passed through in her car, and it was pretty bewildering. The village was everything one might expect in the English countryside, it was charming, and I hoped we would explore it in a more leisurely fashion at some point during my stay. Jane drove her car at about the same speed she spoke, which was very fast!

Jane and Robert’s house was a large affair but not particularly fancy, although I figured many of the pictures and furnishings were heirlooms. The long table in the dining room had already been set with ornate plates and glasses, and as Jane escorted me to a bed-room she rattled out the names of those she had invited for dinner. She proudly mentioned more than once that she and Robert had saved the last of the season’s grouse just for me so that I could experience a taste of England’s countryside.

“Thank GAWD grouse season is over” she said, “ I am so bloody tired of Robert taking pot shots at the damned things from the bedroom window!”

Assuming Jane was kidding I laughed, but she was serious – her husband was an avid bird hunter and never missed an opportunity to shoot ‘em dead.

Company arrived, and over pre-dinner cocktails I began to relax. Jane and Robert’s friends were friendly and welcoming, although in some cases their accents were hard for me to follow. I was sure I was hearing things when, upon learning we would be dining on grouse that evening, Jane was asked how long the birds had been hung. HUNG? Jane’s answer made me HOPE I was hearing things ;

“Oh you know darlings, until the head separates from the body, it really is the only way”.

My fellow dinner guests nodded their heads in approval, hanging game until it rotted WAS obviously the norm, and with a sinking feeling I realized that I was about to discover the true meaning of the word “gamey”!

Sure enough, the meal placed in front of me didn’t smell like the Cornish hen it resembled, it smelled BAD!  Those around me oohed and aahed appreciatively over the grouse, then waited for the guest of honour to take her first bite. Jane and Robert in particular watched me – the grouse had been saved especially, a rare treat indeed for their good friend from Bequia!

I had been raised to eat everything a hostess had prepared whether I liked it or not, and to never EVER say that I didn’t like the food, that would be bad manners. However, the grouse was vile, there is no other way to describe the taste of that rotten bird, and my face must have registered my horror. Jane admitted that the grouse was a little on the ripe side, but judging by the dinner plates being emptied around me, “ripe” was the way the English liked it.  I was unable to eat the bird, I couldn’t even swallow the first bite, and although Jane and Robert forgave me, I could tell they were disappointed.

Upon learning the following morning that I had been invited to a private pheasant shoot (evidently a HUGE honour), my first thought was whether or not I would be expected to EAT one, although if they had to properly ripen the pheasants first I would be safely back on Bequia before they were rotten enough to be cooked!