Saturday 2nd September
Another brilliant, I was going to say summer day ahead, but it’s now fall/Autumn in England. The sun is shining brightly on the emerald green parklands of Cannizzaro House this morning. Weather report over, a late leisurely breakfast is planned, our last day in Wimbledon means the inevitable packing must happen today, much to Amanda’s chagrin, buts let’s make it as pleasant as possible.
Breakfast is usually disorganised here, not much communication going on between the staff. Either two or three servers are all over you or none at all. It’s Saturday morning and there is a wedding breakfast going on to add to the chaos.
This morning we decide to go the cooked English breakfast, eggs Benedict, in a flash the plates are on the table before us, tea and coffee though ordered first, lagging seriously behind. The meal presented is a little below expectations in fact I could do better myself, the half English muffin, has lost something in translation, the hollandaise sauce a little thin, the egg a little hard, the bacon not quite as crispy as it should be. We have stayed to long, the eccentricities of the English are seeping into our bones. Our backs are to the thin middle aged lady, sitting two tables away behind us, who no doubt today is weighing another cereal or has her micrometer out measuring the toast. We dig in, deciding that a serve of thin toast might be a better option. Our coffee and tea finally arrive after a second request and we can relax and enjoy the garden view as people begin to gather, to walk their dogs or kick a round ball and enjoy the morning sunshine.
Eventually reality hits and we must start the packing process, the details of which I can spare you, lest to say lots of humming and haring, puffing and panting, ins and outs and weigh ins.
Once this is accomplished and the once full wardrobes stand bare and desolate, we can move onto our final event. We have discovered that Wimbledon has its very own museum, situated in the village hall, on Ridgeway, we walk across the common and through the village to find it. Open only from 2.30pm today Saturday it is staffed by two local lady volunteers, that are both very obviously old style English, think Agatha Christies Miss Marple, they are inquisitive, and I bet they could solve a mystery or two. I tell them of my history and my visit to Wimbledon to revisit the past. Then we take a tour of the tiny museum that informs about the origins of Wimbledon and its development it to the community it is today. An interesting note is that the Earl of Spencer was the original land owner, princess Diana’s family. Their are lots of interesting facts about the local flora and fauna, local animals included the badger, polecat (similar to a ferret or weasel) the red squirrel more and more under pressure from its introduced cousin the American grey squirrel. After spending a little time looking at exhibits we are back with the two volunteer curators, they are unable to find the street I lived in Sycamore, it’s not referenced in any books, but I tell,them it’s off Chester, maybe they are not so Miss Marple like as I thought. They agree that the common was a great place to grow up, quite a playground, but they can’t recollect the pond freezing over in recent times, the winters are so much warmer now the exclaim. They provide me with a great hand drawn map, that then poses a problem of how to pack it. We say our goodbyes and wander off down the high street in search of a newsagent. It’s a very pleasant Saturday afternoon, warm, the colourful street is loaded with people out and about, cafe’s and pubs spilling out onto the pavement or outdoor courtyards. The streets are so narrow and consequently the pathways, so you constantly feel in the way if you stop to browse or admire something. We find our newsagent and buy the last packing tube they have for the map, then head back across the common for the last time.
We take a break back at the hotel for the remaining time we have left before an early dinner at 6.30pm. An early start tomorrow our airport pickup for our flight to Amsterdam is at 8.00am. We dress for dinner, our last here at Cannizzaro House and descend from our centuries old oak panelled room to the new and very modern bistro below for dinner. A glass of champagne to start to celebrate our last night in Wimbledon. The fillet steak catches our eyes tonight, with spinach for her and baby carrots for me. The meat is served with a slice of onion loaf, not something we have seen before, with a kind of soft cake like texture but dominated by onions. A little copper saucepan sits on the side of the plate holding béarnaise sauce, and a small galvanised bucket holds a serve of French fries. All very interesting. We ask the waiter a Czech with a, it seems to us a French accent, to recommend the wine a Rose for madam and Bordeaux for sir. We watch the sun sink behind the surrounding ring of trees anticipating a colourful sunset, disappointingly it is not to be tonight, the sun sinks and we enter along twilight that again reminded me of my childhood summers when the days seemed so long and endless. We complete the evenings repast with a mixture of British and French cheeses as darkness surrounds us.
Our early night beckons and there is still a little packing to do before we call it a night.