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A SIDE ADVENTURE – TUMULTUOUS ROMANTIC HISTORY OF MONTMORENCY – THE MANY SISTERS OF HARRIS – MALIGNING OF LAND NAVIGATION ABILITIES OF GEORGE – AN ENCOUNTER WITH RURAL TYKES – MALIGNING OF NEIGHBOUR OF J – A WAY FOUND – VINDICATION OF NEIGHBOUR OF J
Some little way beyond Marlow we decided to have a wander off the trickling calm of the river for a brief jaunt, before we went back to boat and onwards towards Hambleton Lock and further on to Henley.
A neighbour of mine had, before our departure on our holiday, given me a tip as to some pleasant places to sightsee near the village of Hurley, where the remains of a Benedictine priory could be seen and – judged more important to George, Harris and myself – where the ancient priory hostelry was now the Old Belle inn and where a man could get “as good a pint as I’ve ever supped”, or at least according to Mr Earnest Bothwell of no.40 Bernard Street, who had the mien of a man with much supping experience and so was safe to consider an authority on the matter.
I had been glad to have been offered the recommendation, as relations with this particular neighbour had been somewhat frosty ever since last March when Montmorency – as full of the rhapsodic leaping joys of spring as a small ruffian could be – had pressed his suit rather ardently with no.40’s own dog, a dainty Dandie Dinmont terrier named for some inexplicable reason Euphonia. Their romance had been both passionate and loud, which attracted not only several neighbourhood dogs to form a serenading chorus outside but also many of the local boys, cab drivers and a couple of passing workmen, who made comments on the performance that upset the local landladies greatly. Aside that is from Mrs Inchbrook of no.32, who loudly cackled and made performance comparisons that upset the workmen.
A bucket of water, strategically applied, had been necessary to separate the pair of canine canoodlers, which appeared to irritate the neighbour Mr Bothwell as the tryst had been taking place in his front parlour. A couple of months later he presented me, using quite unneighbourly language and volume of sound, with a basket full of the results of the romance. My landlady objected to the new tenants and Montmorency himself appeared to find his progeny exceedingly off-putting, which attitude I could not in good conscience find fault with, as it evidenced that fox and Dinmont terrier ancestry did not an attractive mix make. I was only able to rid myself of them in the end through the handy circumstances of Harris having several sisters, all of whom had been assiduously adding offshoots to the Harris family tree, and none of whom could say no to the née Harris next generation when they demanded ownership of one of the pups I just happened to have brought with me round to Sunday tea. Harris complained to me afterwards that he got it in the neck from both the female members of the family and the bevy of brothers-in-law they had provided him with, but I righteously pointed out that neither he nor George had assisted me with distribution of the miniature Montmorencys and in those sorts of predicaments it was every man for himself.
In any case, we felt like a stretch of the legs and a pleasant ale or two to sup after a meander, accompanied by a morsel of lunch and then a stroll back would do us good and so we tied up the boat and set off on what my neighbour had assured me should be a very brief walk.
George took the lead confidently down a close-hedged lane, saying that he instinctively knew his way in the country. Harris and I followed and traded jovial speculations as to why that might be, with some uncouth comparisons of brain capabilities between George and various farm animals. The speculation gradually became less jovial as the minutes ticked by and we came no closer to sight of anything that could be called civilisation, and indeed began to be outright meanspirited as we continued to trudge along lanes and tracks and ways that could only be called rabbit trails without getting anywhere closer to the old hallowed ground of a priory or more importantly, a public house. George’s navigation abilities were thoroughly and loudly denigrated and his fat-headedness very clearly pointed out.
We were feeling as though we would never find our way and Montmorency in particular was looking disgruntled as we had declined to let him chase the interesting scurrying beings in the hedgerows for fear of him getting lost. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you fellows” he grumbled “Waiting till a chap gets a really intriguing scent and goes after it only to haul him back in the manner of a sack of potatoes. It’s undignified.” Just as Harris was beginning to sound as growly as Montmorency, as he was bemoaning the lack of lunch and ale most heartily of all of us, we turned a corner around a tall hedgerow and spied a small cluster of children standing by a gate, apparently deep in communication with two slightly dusty looking cows. There was an older girl, a smaller boy, very truculent looking, and an ambulant infant of indefinite age or sex, but very definite grubbiness. We stopped and looked at each other, and the thought was clear in all our minds that here was hopefully our bucolic salvation.
George said he should be the one to approach them, as he spoke their language, having been a child himself. Harris asked if he was quite sure he wasn’t still, as anyone who knew George’s taste in literature would have their doubts. Having had his feelings hurt by our maligning of his character and navigation abilities for the past hour, George began to take issue with that statement rather loudly, but I intervened and told Harris he should apologise, as it wasn’t George’s fault he had simple tastes. A man couldn’t help the intellectual level he settled at. George told us both that we could go hang, which I feel was an overly emotional response.
In the end it was George who spoke to the tykes, adopting the hearty tone that men who have no children often do, and asked them if they could direct us to the Old Belle. The question got a silent stare from both the children and the cows that had, I heard Harris mutter, the same level of intelligence behind it. George repeated himself, then myself and Harris both had a go with no more luck, although something about Harris did provoke the infant into a fit of hysterical giggles. In the end I did a very rough and basic pantomime of eating, drinking, and an attempt at a bell pealing sound. This seemed to spark a semblance of understanding in the oldest child and she pointed off towards a track we had somehow missed a little way down the field and garbled something in a surprisingly deep voice and completely incomprehensible accent.
We followed that direction for lack of any better options, and wended our weary way down more tracks, hoping desperately for some glimpse of rural life beyond the three child forms of it we had found so far. We also looked with increasing trepidation at the sky, which was both gloomy and glowering as the afternoon wore on and promised to increase our discomfort with a storm. The name of my neighbour was on our tongues with blasphemous epitaphs accompanying it, and I swore fervently that I would tell him at great length what I thought of his tips when we got home. His name would be mud, much like what our boots were churning up as the sky delivered on its promise and sent sheets of water down to soak us and trickle down our necks.
Then finally we burst out of a final hedgerow to find ourselves back once more at the river, barely 5 yards away from where we had tied up the boat. The rain dried up almost in the same instant. In a sullen and sodden mood, we deposited ourselves back in the boat, pushed off and started off on our journey once more, cursing a day wasted and a neighbour proven a deceiver.
The river made a sharp bend a short half mile or so ahead and as we cruised around the curve the last of the afternoon sun cast a soft misty light over a scene that stopped the bickering we had been indulging in dead. There on the bank of the river, like something out of the dreams of the just and righteous, lit by golden hour light and framed by hedges filled with honeysuckle, was a dark framed, whitewashed building. It looked cozy and inviting and groups were gathered on benches outside drinking flagons of what, we assumed, was the finest ales they had ever supped. A wooden sign hanging over the door proclaimed it to be the Old Belle.
We glided silently by, with even Montmorency keeping quiet. Another dozen or so yards further down we passed the remains of a very old building that certainly looked priory-like.
I decided not to mention how his tip had turned out to Mr Bothwell.