by Angela Allman
“Hi. We have a reservation for afternoon tea for two, please. At 4:45.”
In my American ignorance, I thought afternoon tea simply referred to the hot drink of water and loose leaves, served with milk and sugar, when in fact, it does not. ‘Tea’ in Britain can also be used to refer to a meal, no matter how big or small.
Afternoon tea is a time-honored tradition in Britain, and this is my first proper tea experience. It is believed that the 7th Duchess of Bedford, Anna, started the fashionable trend in the 19th century. At the time, two meals a day were customary, morning and night. The Duchess began ordering tea and snacks to her room to ward off hunger and lift the afternoon ‘sinking feeling’. She then began inviting her friends around, and the trend soon spread like wildfire throughout the country.
Today, it’s not a regular practice but an occasional excuse to wear your most fashionable attire, where even the working class can behave like an aristocrat if only for a few hours, speaking in terms of oneself. For example, ‘One should never slurp, but sip one’s tea.’
I am wearing simple white linen trousers, a black tube top, and flip-flops. Stonie is in jeans and flip-flops also. Somewhere caught between our footwear and tattoos, we don’t necessarily blend in at the Danesfield House, an award-winning, posh hotel and spa in the English countryside.
We are a bit early and have a chance to amble round the gardens. Pebble pathways weave like a labyrinth through trimmed hedges in varying shades of green. A fountain sits in the center with a cherub standing on top and the soft sound of trickling water. We watch a bride and groom looking out over the cliff, down to the River Thames. His arm wraps around her slender waist over the buttons elegantly running down the back of her lace dress. Their guests photograph them as they laugh and kiss in the late afternoon sun.
Our table is ready and we make our way back to the Orangery, an atrium-turned café, passing the white iron patio seating, bucket stands of champagne, and the sophisticates soaking in the Sunday rays. We enter the glass building and are ushered to our table. I sit down near the window, and Stonie sits across from me. The table is set with crisp white linens and a full set of cutlery, gently reflecting in the glass tabletop, and a menu laying on a black slate place mat. I open the menu. The top reads, ‘At half past three, everything stops for tea.’ We order two of the classics, Danesfield Afternoon Tea. Stonie chooses the Darjeeling tea, while I opt for the Ceylon.
We sit back in our sleek armchairs and people watch through the windows. Our separate teapots arrive along with sugar cubes and milk in a sterling silver pitcher. I lift my teapot and pour it into my cup. The tealeaves come pouring out with it. I look over the table at Stonie, sheepishly, and see that he has made the same mistake.
“Amateurs,” he says with a smile. We chuckle, dump our teacups back into the pot and try again with the mini strainer. I add milk and a raw sugar cube and stir.
“Now, you have to drink it like this,” Stonie demonstrates, sipping his tea with thumb and three middle fingers gripping the delicate handle, pinky finger extended straight into the air. I laugh and mimic him.
Then a three-tiered platter is brought out. The top tier holds a heaping pile of scones, (similar to biscuits in the U.S.). The middle tier has two ramekins, one with strawberry jam and one with Cornish clotted cream. And the bottom tier has small rectangle sandwiches. Next to the tower is a platter of bite-sized desserts with a selection of tarts, brownies and cakes.
We start on the sandwiches. They’re thinly spread with different fillings, like hummus, roast beef, and egg mayo. Frankly, I am not impressed. They’re made with commercially packaged bread, crusts are cut off and only about 1/3 of the slice is used. I wonder what they do with the rest of the sandwich. If I’m going to pay £21 for sandwiches, I would like fresh bakery-worthy bread, not the Wonder bread my mom used for bologna sandwiches in my school sack lunch. However, this is traditional afternoon tea, and that’s the way the sandwiches are made. Besides, I’m hungry.
We finish off the sandwiches and move onto the scones. I top up my tea. I’ve never had Cornish clotted cream. I ask Stonie, “Can you put the clotted cream and the jam together?” thinking I’d be breaking some unwritten teatime law.
“You can do whatever you like,” he replies.
I cut a raisin scone in half and spread the jam first, then the cream. It’s so thick, I use my finger to scrape it off the spoon and lick my finger clean. Not the best manners, I’m aware, but we’ve already broken so many other rules of etiquette.
The scones are absolutely delicious. Fresh and warm. There’s a slight saltiness to the dough, a nice complement with the sweet cream and the jam. We have two scones each, and Stonie goes for a third. We don’t talk. We simply revel in the gluttony. I’m filled up, but we’re indulging ourselves. I start on a strawberry tart. Then a fudge brownie. Then a lemon cake. Stonie joins in on the desserts. I cut the lemon cake in half to share. He devours the piece in one mouthful. Fruit cake. Almond cake. Another tart. And then…
“I can’t eat one more thing,” I sigh, sitting back in my chair. Good thing I’ve worn loose-fitting pants, I think.
“Alright, I’ll have the last scone,” Stonie says, helping himself and finishing off the clotted cream. He’s about to stick his finger in the ramekin to wipe it clean, a naughty gleam in his eye. He thinks twice and says, “If we were home, I’d lick it clean.” He sets it down and eats the last scone with content satisfaction.
Stonie asks for the bill, £21 each ($34). We leave completely satiated.
“Next time, let’s go for the champagne tea,” I say with a smile.
Highlights of London Walking Tour Including Afternoon Tea
If You Go:
More on the Danesfield House
♦ History: The property of the Danesfield House has a history of settlement and encampment of over 4,000 years, including nomadic tribes and Danish adventures, hence the name. The present house was completed in 1901, and was requisitioned by the Royal Air Force (RAF) during WWII, who set up an Intelligence unit. Photos can be seen within the hotel today of military business dealings, including Winston Churchill’s youngest daughter, Mary Soames. The house became a hotel in 1991 and has won multiple awards.
Cotswolds & Afternoon Tea at the home of an Earl from London
About the author:
Angela Allman is originally from northern California with a Master’s Degree in Education and has lived around the world. She’s an avid scuba diver and adores food, music, and napping. She now spends her time in English pubs, toasting pints to the blank page. You can view her travel blog here http://www.travelingange.com/
All photographs by Angela Allman.
As my knight in shining armour parked the pearl white Honda Goldwing in front of Chawton Cottage, he said, “Take your time. I’m going for a tea.” He pointed at Cassandra’s Tea Shop across the road.
There I stood in Jane’s house, a gift from her brother which she shared with her mother and her sister Cassandra; the place she wrote most of her work. I entered the parlour and gingerly touched the little round table she wrote on. Prickles ran up and down my arms. I had seen some of her original writing at the British Museum a few years earlier, but this seemed more real. I imagined Jane slipping her writing under a book whenever someone entered. Although she often shared her writing with her family, she only did so when she was ready.
I climbed the stairs to Jane’s bedroom. The first thing I noticed was the patchwork quilt, made with her sister and mother, hanging on one wall. Each floral, diamond patch stitched meticulously into place surrounding a large basket of cheerful flowers in the centre, reminded me of the hours of labour that would have gone into this undertaking. The bed she slept on, covered in crisp white linen, sits peacefully in a corner. On another wall hangs a topaz cross, a gift from one of her beloved brothers and most probably the inspiration for the topaz cross given to Fanny Price by her brother in the novel, Mansfield Park. A window overlooks the garden. Jane spent many happy hours in this room. When she grew ill, she entertained her visitors here.
Other rooms upstairs house Regency period costumes, carefully preserved and displayed. I enjoyed viewing the muslin, floor length dresses with Empire waists and soft loose skirts in pale pinks, periwinkle blues and lilacs, such as Jane would have worn. At least she did not have to deal with the constraints of a tightly laced corset. Memorabilia of her two Royal Navy brothers, Frank and Charles, can be found in adjoining rooms.
Back in the cottage I chatted with the host and perused the comprehensive selection of Jane Austen books. Of course I could not resist purchasing a few (not that I needed to read anything else about J.A.) I also chose a few souvenirs and postcards before I bid Jane, the house and her memories goodbye. I walked across the street to Cassandra’s Tea Shop to meet my husband, who had downed three cups of tea, ate two pieces of lemon loaf and washed the bike while waiting for me. He asked how my visit was.
Even though Wales is famous for medieval castles, one such “mock” castle off the A55 motorway (a 30 minute drive from the Welsh border) is notable. It serves as an outpost for London’s National Portrait Galley: Bodelwyddan Castle. Bodelwyddan stands on land where property ownership purportedly goes back before the time of the Norman Conquest, and has recorded history dating from 1461, when the Humphreys family got this land as compensation for being booted off the Isle of Angelsey by Edward IV. From 1830-1850, the prominent Sir John Williams led the creating of an old time castle, including adding limestone walls, which actually were heated to protect the fruit orchards during cold weather.
If you want to know just how hard life was for the common man back then, just visit a medieval fortress like Caernarfon Castle on a cold and rainy morning like I did. As I walked through its long passageways and explored the interior rooms whose walls are still intact some 700 years after being built, the chill and drafts went through my layered clothing to my bones. Much of the castle walls, both interior and exterior, remain intact from the time they were constructed between 1283-1330. After Edward I conquered Wales, he imagined a grand castle based on the dream of Roman emperor Magnus Maximus (whose body was found in the area). Maximus envisioned such a place located within a city amidst mountains and opposite an island (matching Caernarfon’s description), so James of Saint George was put in charge of building in this “dream city.”
Caernarfon was once a motte and bailey castle (castle on a mound surrounded by a courtyard). This mound still resides within the courtyard as a dais made of Welsh slate, and was the scene of two Princes of Wales getting their official titles, that being Edward VIII in 1911 and then Prince Charles in 1969. The northeast tower has an extensive exhibit of those two investitures, including Charles’ BBC telecast. Charles immediately walked through the Queen’s Gate to greet his subjects, something which I got to do, as a special balcony still remains for photo opps.
While the Vale of Clwyd is at the bottom of some incredible footpaths with steep angles going up hundreds of feet in the Clwydian Hills that’ll challenge any hiker, the town of Ruthin (an hour’s drive from Manchester) has a castle with the same namesake that’s located just above the base of the valley. It sits on grounds once allegedly housing a fort where King Arthur kept a little “love nest” for one of his mistresses dating before the Norman conquest, but it’s confirmed date for a standing edifice dates back to 1277, when Edward I secured it for his kingdom against the rebellious Welsh.
Anticipation slowly rose as I traversed each room, stopping to read every detail about this holy book and its convoluted history. Entering the dimly lit Treasury Room at the end of the hall, I discovered four books displayed inside a glass case. The Book of Kells, divided into two tomes, was accompanied by the Book of Durrow and the Book of Armagh. Clearly the jewel in the crown was the four Gospels assembled into the Book of Kells.
A chilly wind and a gray overcast sky greeted Diane and me as we set foot on Iona, the birthplace of Christianity in Scotland. St Columba (Colmcille) and twelve companions founded the first monastery here in 563 CE. Almost nothing remains of that original settlement because it had been replaced by St. Mary’s Cathedral, a Benedictine abbey church dating to 1200 CE. You might be surprised to find that this is a working abbey today, operated by an ecumenical community known as the Iona Commonwealth.
A short distance in front of St. Columba’s Shrine, you find St. John’s Cross. This is a copy of an 8th century high cross displayed in the nearby Monks’ Infirmary now serving as a museum. The original cross was painstakingly reconstructed from fragments found on site. Another item of note in the museum is St. Columba’s Pillow, a stone with a ringed cross carved into it. This treasure is stored inside a small metal cage. There is no proof that the saint’s head ever rested on this pillow however.
It was déjà vu all over again; a chilly wind and a gray overcast sky greeted Diane and me at St. Columba’s Church in Kells. This church, set on the site of the original Monastery of Kells, dates to 1778. The churchyard also contains a number of high crosses and a 26-meter round tower all dating back to the early monastic period and the arrival of the Book of Kells.
Learning their lesson, the monks constructed St. Colmcille’s House across the street from the present day churchyard as a more secure location for their precious manuscript and the relics of St. Columba. This dimly lit, empty stone building served as a monk’s dwelling and a scriptorium. The monk’s sleeping quarters in the loft above is still accessible by ladder.
London it isn’t – nor Edinburgh. There’s nothing twee, contrived, touristy or pretty-pretty about Glasgow. Glasgow is down-to-earth, has real character. It’s smart, gritty, witty, vibrant and alive. It’s the genuine article.
The Necropolis lies on a hill overlooking the city. All of Glasgow stretched out before us: the Tennent’s brewery close by, isolated tenement blocks, smaller brick-built houses, concrete offices and wind turbines on the moors, far on the horizon. Alan pointed out the place where his tenement home had once stood, long gone now. It had survived an incendiary bomb during the war (His mother, an ARP warden, had hosed down the fire in the attic herself) only for the building to be later demolished.
The gravestones are filled with story and history. I could have spent hours there uncovering lives like John Ronald Ker’s: accidentally drowned while shooting wildfowl from a small boat off Contyre of Ronaghan at the early age of 21 – of a generous and amiable disposition and endearing qualities which made him so agreeable a companion, so good and true a friend. (July 1868)
A stained glass tells the story of St Mungo and the miracles associated with him (symbols that form the Glasgow coat of arms):
“I know,” said Alan. “It’s a mistake. Charlie took great delight in showing people his name on the memorial, claiming he was one of the living dead. He thought it a great joke.” “But how did he end up on the list?”
We visited the Clydeside, currently being regenerated with its smart new Riverside Museum, a theatre – the Armadillo, and the science museum tower. Over in the West End we discovered a vibrant hub of fine eateries, trendy boutiques and night clubs set among the cleaned-up sandstone Victorian buildings; handsome historic university buildings and museums set in leafy parks and hilly bluffs.