Sunday 27th August
The weather gods are with us again, we awake to a brilliant English summer day.
Breakfast is in the hotels bistro a relatively new addition to this centuries old house. The ceiling to floor sliding doors open up to overlook the lush green park that are the grounds of Cannizzaro house, green lawns lead out to a ring of large emerald green deciduous trees with timber benches placed strategically beneath them. Once finished we begin the day with a walk along West Side Common road towards the wooded part of the common that leads to the Wimbledon Windmill Museum. Built in 1816, the mill was a derelict ruin on the common when I was a child, but now it is fully restored and a big item of interest in the local area. The Wimbledon common in this area is very wooded, crisscrossed with horse riding trails, bicycle and walking trails that wind their way through, the in parts dense forest. As far back as 1871 this area of open ground and wooded forest was protected by an act of parliament to stop development and allow public access. Very much like Adelaide’s own park lands. Wimbledon as a result was a popular place for the gentry and politicians as it was close enough to London but still had a very country feel.
Disappointingly our phones are still not receiving data, making finding our way a little tricky, how quickly we begin to rely on technology. Since there is a Windmill road, once we find this all we needed to do was to follow it. Today is free access day to the museum, we can look around, take in the interactive displays and watch some of the information sessions on the TVs display, we hadn’t realised that there where, and still are a large number of windmills in the U.K. Constructed using many different construction techniques. Think Windmills and if you are like me you think Holland, now the Netherlands. Water wheel mills strategically placed in rivers and streams where always built in preference to windmills as .the water flow could be controlled and was consistent, whereas the wind is vastly more unreliable, and uncontrollable. Many designs appeared over the years, tried and built, they where far easier to build then a river mill and originally considered portable, early designs sitting on a single supporting pole buried in the ground. Eventually though steam power put the mills out of business as did modern steel rotating crushers over the old stone wheel shaped grinding technology.
The day warms up considerably as we walk on, there are many people out and about on what we now discover is August bank holiday long weekend. We take some photos and move on, my last visit to this site incredibly is some sixty years ago. We walk on back towards the open part of the common, past many large mansions that line the road overlooking the forest to a section that I remember most as a child. Rushmere pond sits in the centre of the path that took us from the housing area where we lived to Wimbledon Village and the High street that is the centre of any English town. Rushmere pond, is the a place where my grandfather sailed his hand made yachts before such things as radio control. Where we paddled up to our knees in summer and in winter we stepped upon the thick frozen ice to see how far we could go slipping and sliding by foot or with handmade toboggans. The name Rushmere apparently came from the rushes that grow on the edges of the waters, that in medieval times where used to thatch the houses of primitive dwellings.
Lining the edge of this part of the common are a row of large horse chestnut trees, a distant cousin of the lychee, this tree produces a large brown inedible nut that we used to prise from its prickly green casing to turn into conkers. The conkers would be drilled through, sometimes baked in the oven to harden them and then threaded on a string. The object of the game was to swing your conker slamming it into your opponents conker while he held it still, in turn until one conker was smashed to smithereens. The boy with the most intact conker won the game.
We turn and walk into the village, now a colourful place indeed, baskets of petunias hang from lamp posts, trendy shops, cafes and restaurants line the streets full of people enjoying the summer weather. My memory is of a much drearier place that meant shopping for groceries or necessities not much in the way of fun. The old pubs are still there, the clock tower, the war memorial looking all the part of an English village. We walk on to the top of Wimbledon hill but turn back before descending maybe tomorrow.
We walk back towards the common, crossing it again and on to Camp road, at the bottom of Camp road, passed the Fox and Grapes pub is the elementary school I went to from ages five to eleven. The school built in 1758 then called “Old Central” was built by wealthy patrons to educate the poor before schooling in England was made compulsory. Made of brick in an octagonal shape it was added to over the years to form the school I went to and is still used a preparatory school today. Opposite the school is Camp Farm and at the end of the road is the Royal Wimbledon golf course. Camp road’s name is said to derive from the site of a roman fort that was called Caesars Camp though it is doubtful that Caesar ever went there.
We exit Camp road back to West Side Common road, and back to Cannizzaro house for a break. I take up my ongoing conversations with T-Mobile about mobile phones lack of data connection but with no real success.
Back out on West Side Common road we head straight to Chester road and around to Sycamore road where I lived with Mum, Dad & Sandra all those years ago before moving to Frimley, Hampshire then onto Australia. It is an eerie feeling, I lived here between 1955 and 1961 in a small third story flat, in a small block of similar units. All is just as it was all those years ago the brown brick walls that surround the flats rear common lawned courtyard that acted as our runway high above the street, (in reality just a little taller than me), the lockup sheds with painted royal blue doors that held our bikes and little red go kart all still there, amazing. The flat though used to have a balcony that is now closed in. The low front wall where Dad exploded a box of fireworks when he accidentally dropped a match into the box filled with Catherine wheels, jumping jacks and penny rockets, one Guy Faulks night, all there, the scenes playing in my memory. The many flowering plants in garden beds along the low brick walls and walls of the flats are all new though and add a welcoming touch of colour to the dreary brick buildings that was not there in my day, or are my memories in black and white too.
We leave Sycamore and Chester roads and walk back towards West Side Common road again this time turning right and walking down passed more mansion sized houses towards the Crooked Billet where the pub of the same name sits alongside the Hand in Hand another pub. These places also formed part of my childhood, this was my parents local drinking hole not that they drank a lot but get togethers with family and friends usually started here before dinner. This Crooked Billet, (a common name for pubs in England said to derive from a bent tree branch that the inn keeper would hang on the door of his inn as a land mark, letting travellers know they were on the right track and welcome) sits facing a small triangular green named “Crooked Billet” full of patrons of both pubs sitting in deck chairs and on the grass in the bright sunshine enjoying a local brew. We have booked for dinner here, inside there are very few people, the day being as it is warm and sunny probable explains that. The bar tender directs us to the rear of the pub to the bistro area that is decorated like the inside of an old second hand shop, an attic above huge beams and a fireplace displays all sorts of items you may find in an actual attic, while the tables and chairs are a mishmash of designs that you would find in an actual second hand furniture shop, just like the one we visited in San Diego what now seems an eon ago. We are directed to a tiny round table for two with two small upholstered armchairs with tan leather backs and cloth seats. Above us the latest design in “what was old but now new” Edison bare bulb lighting hangs dully illuminating our space. A sky light not far from us throws sunlight into an adjacent space so it’s not to dark, but deeper in towards the attic area the light fades with the only illumination being these aforesaid bulbs.
We order the chicken roast, with some trepidation since the menu reads half a chicken, with duck fat roasted potatoes, and vegetables, cabbage both green and purple the latter pickled a little, plus Yorkshire pudding and gravy. We pick out a French rose that will hopefully cut through the grease to go with this.
On the menu is reference to a “Sarnie” we are not sure what this is but our waitress informs us it’s the local name for a sandwich, useful local knowledge. We would have shortened it to a Sammy, just as silly.
Our meals arrive and they are huge, at least though the chicken is only a poussin, tiny and only a quarter of the size of a respectable Aussie chook. The meal is tasty, having walked all day we are hungry, but eating it all is beyond us both.
We sit for awhile enjoying a second glass of the Rose that was dry but had hints of fruit nectar sweetness, while we once again are contacted by T-Mobile, who though trying, are not successfully dealing with our phone issues.
After some tasty British cheeses we walk back to Cannizzaro House and to our room. I watch the final Crows home and away football game for the year, a lack lustre affair that has me turning it off at three quarter time. They have nothing to play for and it shows. Their opponents West Coast Eagles winning the game and boosting their percentage enough to put them in the final eight above Melbourne, let’s hope they don’t beat us in a final, that would definitely bite us on the bum.
As I go off to sleep I think Wimbledon, this was my world from ages five to eleven we covered a good portion of the area in a day, I realise now, such a very small world but with so many memories.