The place which I visited in Dorset yesterday to discuss garden ornament is the same one I made this fire surround for some years ago. I liked seeing it in the flesh again.
You may remember that the pears allude to the perry manufacture which the area was historically renowned for. In case you didn't know, perry is the equivalent of cider, but made with pears rather than apples. Think Babycham - actually don't think Babycham, it is foul.
Somerset for apples, Dorset for pears. I heard the other day that we have lost 75% of our orchards in the last 25 years. That is sad. I know of a cider orchard near here which has all but disappeared, and I know of many small orchards attached to country houses where the apples just fall to the ground and rot. The blackbirds love rotten apples, so not all goes to waste.
I wish I liked the traditional British beverages more than I do, but it is a good thing I don't in another way. When I first arrived in Bath, there was a famous cider pub which was frequented by all the Polish war veterans who stayed behind in 1945. None of them spoke English and they all - one by one - died of the cloudy, rough cider that they drank all day, every day. That cider is almost as strong as white wine, and they drank it by the pint.
I have in my head the picture of a ploughman on a hot summer day, pausing for lunch and unwrapping a hunk of bread and a lump of Cheddar cheese from a coarse cloth as his horse buries itself in a nosebag, tail flicking away buzzing flies from its second best pantomime end. Actually, it would be more accurate to envisage a farm worker with a large scythe and forget the horse on this occasion. Dobbin's job comes later.
He takes the cork from a stoneware jug and has a swig or two of golden cider to wash it down before getting back to the job in hand before sunset.
In reality, the cider pub was fitted out with a carpet made sticky underfoot with spilt scrumpy, giving it the perpetual aroma of vomit even though I never saw a Pole throw up once. They left that to the amateur drinkers - newly arrived students attracted by the tax-free price of scrumpy and its legendary power to inebriate for a few pence.
You usually get a lot of jokes about a nice pair etc. when you show this. Anyway it is a nice pear and good to look at. When I stayed in Bridgwater many many years ago the cider house limited me to one half pint only of local cider. He was serious and he meant it. One half only.
ReplyDeleteSome places limit the sale of scrumpy - or any other drink over 7% ABV like Belgian ales - to half pints, but only one half a sitting. They must have been looking out for you.
DeleteMany places here refuse to stock scrumpy because of the trouble it causes. Recently, ciders in general have made a comeback.
DeleteSometimes I forget just how talented you are , the freeze reminds me that you are
DeleteThat's why I keep showing you this thing - to remind myself as well.
DeleteThe pear fireplace surround is breathtakingly beautiful. Nicely done. I've never had alcoholic cider. Clearly I've not been to the right places! Hot spiced cider in the Autumn is a traditional favorite in New England; it's good spiked or not.
ReplyDeleteI imagine New England has lots of 17th century English traditions.
DeleteThe fireplace is very attractive, the trade captured in the perry pears. There was someone years ago who used to sell cider on the London Road out of Bath. He bought the organic orchard and made the cider. Never drank it but my husband did. Then the apple trees all got diseased and I suppose he moved on.
ReplyDeleteI think I know who you are talking about. It ended up being taxed and made under licence.
DeleteDon't think I have ever tasted cider - after your article here don't think I ever will.
ReplyDeleteNever tasted cider? Oh, I forget. You are a Northerner. I only ever tasted it once.
DeleteI like cider but unfortunately it is unavailable here, although there is a sickly sweet concoction called 'cidra' which is undrinkable.
ReplyDeleteBottled cider became quite trendy a few years ago.
DeleteMy grandfather, a farm labourer (eventually farm horseman) was sent to work in the twenties of the last century with exactly the fare you describe, usually with a home grown onion as well. But his drink was a bottle of cold tea. In the Kent countryside at that time the well water was always boiled before drinking and ale was reserved for the pub, once a week on payday, using some of the coins my grandmother returned to him from his pay packet.
ReplyDeleteCongratulations on that wonderful, slightly testicular carving.
You are not the first person to mention testicles, Avus.
DeleteI think the first time I commented on it years ago I said the same.
DeleteIt's all bollocks.
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