Category: Duke of Wellington

The Wellington Tour: Masterpiece Theatre

The Wellington Tour is still nine months away and so I do not dwell on it. Much. It would be folly for me to think on the prospect of seeing England again this far ahead of our departure. So I’ve decided that the best thing to do is to put the Tour as far from my mind as possible. You would think it would be relatively easy to accomplish this state of enforced amnesia, but it is not. Reminders seem to be round every bend. Rory Muir’s new biography of the Duke of Wellington was just published in December and so I’ve been reading reviews of it whilst awaiting the arrival of my own copy (oh, Joy!). And then there are the gossip items one can’t help reading lately regarding the engagement of the present Duke of Wellington’s granddaughter, Sofia Wellesley, to ex-guardsman and current crooner James Blunt, pictured below. Lately, one can hardly turn around without encountering the Duke of Wellington. And there was the diorama of the Duke of Wellington’s funeral procession, with rolls of handcoloured pictures of all the dignitaries and their carriages, which I found recently on eBay. It looked something like a thicker Etch-A-Sketch, the pictures moved along rollers that were controlled by the two knobs beneath the glass window. Alas, I was forced to stop bidding when the price flew above four hundred dollars, more’s the pity. It would have been a grand addition to my future Wellington Museum.

And then there’s Masterpiece Theatre, which seems to be on a mission to remind me of the Wellington Tour on a regular basis. I watch a lot of PBS, and thus have been treated to the spate of commercials and programs running up to the premiere of the new season of Downtown Abbey. PBS has been running Season Three episodes of Downton Abbey almost non-stop. Hubby has even gotten into the spirit of things, though unwittingly.

“Hey, Hon!”
“Yeah?”
“You watching your PBS?” (Hubby watches his shows in the living room – I in the bedroom).
“No. Why?”
“That woman’s on again. You know, the one who’s in every British program ever made.”

I switched over to our PBS channel, where I saw the Dowager Countess of Grantham on the screen. “Maggie Smith,” I yelled.”It’s Downton Abbey. I’m going there.”
“Riiight.”
“Downton is really Highclere Castle and we’re going there on the Wellington Tour.”
“Better you than me. My good man,” answered Hubby.

In fact, I’m watching The Secrets of Highclere Castle – again – as I write this.  Once more I hear that Highclere Castle costs roughly a million pounds a year to maintain. And that within it’s walls is the priceless Van Dyck of Charles I, visible in the photo below.

I wonder if the family will be at breakfast when we arrive . . . . . . Once more, I’m told that in 1839 Highclere House was remodeled in the Gothic style. And that Capability Brown redesigned the landscape, which features a ruin-like folly and various temples, including the Temple of Diana, below.

In fact, the more I think on it, the more I realize that what I want to see most at Highclere are the grounds.

In the photo above, we see one of the fifty-six Cedars of Lebanon planted by the first Earl. I’m glad that Victoria and I have blocked out an entire day for our visit to Highclere, so that we’ll all have the time to take it in at our leisure. You can click this think for a map of the grounds.

This will also leave us plenty of time to visit the Tea Rooms


Highclere Castle Afternoon Tea Menu
Tea and Coffee
A glass of Sparkling Elderflower/Champagne
Selection of sandwiches that may include;
Roasted Chicken and Stuffing
Smoked Salmon and Horseradish
Honey Baked Ham
Egg and Cress
Freshly Baked Scones
Clotted Cream and Homemade Jam
A selection of cakes: Victoria Sponge, Carrot Cake or a Coffee and Cream Cake
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and, naturally, the Gift Shop. But returning to the house . . . .

I do want to see Lady Mary’s bedroom . . . . . . .

where Mr. Pamuk died. 

It’s part of the tour, as is the gallery along which the ladies of the house carried the body.

I know, I know – with all that’s happened on Downton Abbey, why do I keep going back to that episode? Could it be because it was strangely comedic?

Of course, I’ll be tuning into Downton Abbey this Sunday since I can’t wait to find out what Thomas the Footman has up his sneaky sleeve this season. That should keep me from thinking about The Wellington Tour. Much.

Why not consider joining Victoria and me on our Tour?  We’d love to have you with us as we experience all the fun of Highclere Castle, as well as the exciting feast of additional sites we have planned.

The Wellington Tour – Tea, Anyone?

Once Victoria and I had hammered out the itinerary for The Wellington Tour, we handed it over to Patty Suchy of Novel Explorations and asked her to work her travel agent magic as far as pricing and logistics were concerned. Before long, it was time for Victoria and I to call Patty and learn how she’d made out with the plans.

Patty:  Hello?

Victoria: Hey, Patty, it’s Kristine and Vicky.

Patty:  Well hello! You’re together?

Victoria: Yes, we’re together and ready to hear how you made out.

Patty:  I’ve got to tell you, this hasn’t been easy. You two picked several spots that are terribly difficult to get into.

Kristine: What do you mean, difficult to get into? Are you referring to Stratfield Saye, which seems as though it’s only open one day a year?

Patty: Yes, and Frogmore House, which is also rarely open. Not to mention Highclere Castle.

Victoria:  What about Highclere Castle?

Patty: It seems that since the all the Downton Abbey hoopla reached a fever pitch, they’ve been inundated with visitor and tour requests. They’ve had to limit visiting times and then there’s having to work around the shooting schedule for the show itself. They’re having to restrict admissions and they’re already booked up for months ahead of time. It’s very difficult.

Kristine: Are you saying we can’t get in?

Patty: No. I’m telling you that I’m still working on getting all the stars to line up as far as opening days for several of the places you want to include. The rest of the tour is no problem, but these three places are tricky. I’m still waiting to hear back from the people at Highclere.

Kristine: I was thinking it might be nice to have tea while we’re there.

Patty: Tea? You can have all the tea you like. They have tea rooms on site. Tea shouldn’t be problem.

Victoria: No, we meant an afternoon tea in the house or gardens. You know, little sandwiches and cakes and things.

Patty: Well, I’ll ask when I speak to them, but a special, dedicated tea service for the tour group might be costly.

Kristine: We’ll just tack it on to the tour price. It’s something Vicky and I would like to do and I think everyone would really enjoy it. It’s one of those once in a lifetime things.

Patty: I agree, it would be fantastic. Alright then, I’ll ask when I speak to their representative. Do you have any idea on dates for the tour?

I looked at Victoria, who shrugged her shoulders in reply.

Kristine: Let’s try to shoot for sometime when it won’t be freezing cold.

Patty: I’ll keep that in mind, but remember that one of the tours you and I did together a few years ago was in June and we all froze.

Kristine: Who could forget? Why don’t you see how the opening times work out and we’ll talk again in a few days?

And so a few days went by, with Victoria and I waiting on pins and needles, before we called Patty again.

Patty:  Hello?

Kristine: Hey, it’s Kristine and Vicky.

Patty:  Well, I have to tell you, I’ve had a rough few days trying to work all of this out. It’s been a struggle.

Victoria: I can appreciate that and we do appreciate all you’ve done, Patty.

Kristine: What’s the bottom line?

Patty: Bottom line is we keep Frogmore, Stratfield Saye and Highclere Castle on the itinerary.

Kristine: You’re a star!

Patty: But there isn’t going to be a Downton Abbey tea.

Victoria: There’s isn’t?

Patty: No. It’s just too expensive.

Kristine: How expensive?

Patty: Over a thousand dollars.

Kristine: So? What’s that, like fifty dollars added to the tour price per person?

Patty: That is the per person price.

Victoria: What’s the per person price?

Patty: Nearly a thousand dollars. Per person. Not in total.

Kristine: Are you telling me they’re charging at least twenty thousand dollars for afternoon tea? Who’s serving it, Bates and Mr. Carson themselves?

Patty: Mr. Bates can’t serve tea. He’s got a gimpy leg.

Victoria: For twenty thousand dollars, I’d better be seated next to Maggie Smith.

Patty: There are always the tea rooms.

Kristine: I suppose. More importantly, what did you hear from Stratfield Saye?

Victoria: Maybe we can have tea there with the Duke of Wellington. He’d probably charge less than twenty thousand dollars.

Patty: We can get into Stratfield Saye. Not a problem. However, in order to get into all of these places on the same tour, we’d have to schedule the Tour for September.”

Victoria and I looked at one another, trying to work out the pitfalls of a September Tour. We couldn’t come up with any.

Victoria: What’s wrong with September?

Patty: Nothing’s wrong with September. It’s really an excellent time to visit England. It just means that you two wouldn’t have a choice of the other months.

Kristine: You got anything planned for next September?

Victoria: Not that I can think of at the moment. And if I did, I’d rearrange it.

Kristine: We have no problem with September.

Patty: Good. I’ve blocked the tour out for the fourth through the fourteenth.

Victoria: Sounds good.

Patty: Okay. Now that we have our dates, I’ll work on firming up all the details.

We hung up and it wasn’t till much later that I realized the last day of the Tour would coincide with the last day of the Duke of Wellington’s life – September 14, 1852.

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The Wellington Connection – Chad & Jeremy

You may recall that when Hubby and I were in London recently we did the Hop On, Hop Off bus tour, during which I learned that Jeremy Clyde, one half of the musical duo Chad and Jeremy, was related to the Duke of Wellington. This was news to me, so of course I had to do further research on the subject. It turns out that Jeremy’s mother is Lady Elizabeth Clyde (b. 1918), the daughter of Gerald Wellesley, 7th Duke of Wellington, and Dorothy Violet Ashton, and is thus a great-great-granddaughter of Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington. Jeremy Clyde, born Michael Thomas Jeremy Clyde, is an actor as well as a musician and made his first public appearance as a pageboy to his grandfather, the Duke of Wellington, at the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom in 1953.

During the 1960s, he was one half of the folk duo Chad and Jeremy, who had little success in the UK but were an object of interest to American audiences. He has enjoyed a long television acting career, and continues to appear regularly on the tube, usually playing upper-middle class or aristocratic characters. Most recently, Jeremy appeared in Season 2, Episode 1 of Downton Abbey playing, coincidentally, a military general. Another coincidence, or not, is the uncanny resemblance Jeremy has to his ancestor, the first Duke of Wellington.

To learn more about Chad and Jeremy, the backstory of their partnership and what they’re doing now, you can visit their website here.

A Couple In England – Day Five – Part Three

Finally, and all at once, taxi’s drew up at the Station and I left Hubby to choose one and get our luggage into the boot while I climbed into the back seat. Okay, I fell into the back seat.  And I have to tell you that I have no memory of the drive to the hotel. It’s all a feverish blur. But before long, we pulled up in front of Duke’s Hotel – the place I had been longing to be for months.
I peered out the back passenger window at the building and could have cried. Literally. It was perfect; just as I’d imagined it would be. And here I was, arriving as a hot, feverish mess. Sigh. Hubby climbed out of the cab and went around to the boot in order to wrestle our bags to the sidewalk, while the taxi driver came around to open my door. I was still cognizant enough to know that this was my signal to exit the taxi and I tried my best to comply, rocking myself back and forth in an effort to propel myself from the rear seat. At least I think I rocked, but in any case I made no headway at all. The driver stooped to peer into the cab at me.
“Look,” I told him, “If you want me out of this cab, you’re going to have to pull me out. I haven’t got  the strength to do it myself.”
 
Somehow, Hubby and the cabby together got me out of the taxi and into the hotel, where we were greeted by a lovely young woman named Eliza. Duke’s Hotel is nestled within the confines of a Georgian townhouse, with a lovely staircase in the entry and a reception room to the left. It is furnished like a gentleman’s townhouse and filled with comfortable furniture, period fittings and artwork. What I recall most is that Duke’s was filled with warmth and a feeling of home.
 
“Are you not feeling well?” Eliza asked kindly as I collapsed, all loose limbs, onto a sofa.
 
“I’m not. In fact, I think I may have died on the train somewhere around Didcot. Or it might have been Swindon.”
 
“You came on the train?” Eliza refrained from adding in that condition? “Perhaps some tea would help?”
 
Oh, Eliza, you angel. I nodded.
 
“What kind of tea would you like?”
 
“Hot.” I still felt as though my bone marrow had been removed and replaced with ice. I could not get warm.
 
Eliza bustled efficiently out of the sitting room in order to fetch the tea and I gazed around as Hubby put a hand to my forehead.
 
“You don’t look so good, Hon. And you have a fever.”
 
I nodded, expressionless.
 
“This is a nice place, huh?”
 
I nodded again.
 
Hubby went to peer out of a window. “Looks like there’s a nice garden back here.”
 
I continued to nod. A wooden Indian had nothing on me.
 
Eliza came back with the tea tray. “Shall I pour it for you?”
 
More nodding.
 
“Sugar?”
 
Nod.
 
“Milk?”
 
A raised hand. She gave me the cup and saucer and I sipped gratefully. Oh, joy! The tea felt wonderful going down my throat. It was hot and sweet and just the ticket.

 
 
 
 
“Thank you.”
 
“My pleasure. We’ve all been looking forward to your stay with us. We’ve been reading and enjoying your blog.”
 
“Thank you.”
 
“I’m amazed at how much you know about British history.”
 
Nod.
 
“And the content. It’s excellent.”
 
“Thank you,” I repeated, taking a long pull at my cup of tea. I was dimly aware of the fact that this was the point at which I should probably mention Victoria’s equal contribution to our blog, but I wasn’t up to the task. Sorry, Vic.
 
“And you know so much about the Duke of Wellington. He was a fascinating man, wasn’t he?”
 
Nod. Nod, mind you.  Now, as you are well aware, I would normally have welcomed nothing more than a relatively captive audience who displayed an interest in Georgian and Regency history, not to mention one who was also at least familiar with the Duke of Wellington. At any other time, I would have settled in for a nice chin wag about all manner of period topics. And all I could do in the moment was to nod.
 
“Let’s get you upstairs, hmmmm? The Wellington Suite, yes?”
 
Oh, Eliza, you angel!
 
“This is a listed building and I’m afraid there’s no lift,” Eliza told us over her shoulder as we headed towards the stairs. I climbed the first three or four tre
ads before I realized that I just might not be able to make it any further. I felt as though I might pass out. Good thing Hubby was bringing up the rear, I could use his body to break my fall should it become necessary.
 
We got to the second landing and I had to rest. My coat now felt has though it weighed three stone (forty-two pounds), at least.
 
“Give me your bag,” Eliza said, taking my traveling shoulder bag from me and thus lightening my load by what felt like twenty pounds (or roughly one and half stone). Up we trudged until, finally, before us was a door marked “Wellington.”
 
We entered a sitting room complete with a sofa, desk and television and then went through a set of French doors into the bedroom.
 

The Wellington Suite, at last! Eliza was giving us an overview of the room, where the hair dryer was, the tea making facilities, etc. etc. etc. but I heard none of it. As she spoke, I pulled off coat and scarf and threw them on a chair. I caught a glimpse of the townhouses across the street through a window but only marginally registered the fact that I was, at long last, in Bath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, and with poor, kind Eliza still speaking, I pulled off my boots, pulled down the bed clothes and climbed between the sheets with the blanket and duvet pulled up to my chin.
After a time, I realized that I no longer heard Eliza’s voice. “Is she gone?”
“Yeah. This is some room, huh? Even nicer than London. It’s huge, Hon. Look, we have a living room.”
“Are there bath robes in the bathroom?” I asked. “There are supposed to be bathrobes.”
“You feel like crap and you’re worried about the amenities?”
“Only the bathrobes. Go and see. Please.” Hubby came out of the bathroom with a terry cloth robe in each hand and stood holding them out to me like some two fisted corner man at a boxing match.
“Can you cover me with them?”
“You’re under all the covers already.”
“Freezing. Lay them one on top of the other over me. Please.”
I felt the warmth and weight of the robes as hubby tucked them around me and that’s all I remember. My head sunk gratefully into the crisp, clean and very comfortable pillows and I promptly passed out.

Sometime later, it could have been an hour or a month, I woke to find Hubby offering me orange juice. He’d gone out into Bath, all on his own, and found a nearby newsagents where he bought juice. There was even ice in the glass. I sipped. Nectar!
“They didn’t have your usual orange, pineapple and banana juice, so I got this. I think it’s orange and mango.”
I drank some more and looked at my surroundings – huge windows, a desk, even a window seat. The Wellington Suite. I fell back upon the bed.
“Medicine,” . . . croaked I, and passed out again.
The next time I woke up, it was growing dark outside and Hubby was sitting on the side of the bed and handing me a chicken wrap.
“Where’d you find that? I croaked.
“There’s this great take-out place over that bridge up the street.”
Pulteney Bridge, I thought.
“I’ve been walking all around Bath. You were right, this is a great City. And not half as crowded as London.”  Well, at least one of us was getting something out of Bath. If only Hubby’s personal scavenger hunt would include something more practical. Again I collapsed upon my pillow and croaked, somewhat more forcefully, I hoped, “Medicine.”
The next time I surfaced, Hubby had indeed found me some sort of vile tasting cough and cold syrup and a packet of throat lozenges. As I sucked on one, I noted that it was well and truly dark outside now. Our first day in Bath was gone and I had spent it bed, barely on this side of living. Cholera might have been an improvement.

Day Six Coming Soon!

A Couple In England – Day Five – Part Two

When last we met, I was sitting in the first class carriage of the Bath bound train shivering, coughing and feeling feverish. Beyond the windows, the English countryside sped by as I sat huddled beneath two coats, my gloved hands shoved deep into the pockets of the top coat. I tried to focus my mind . . . how long could this illness (cholera, typhus, the bird flu, whatever it was) possibly last? Was there even the ghost of a chance that it was but a passing fancy and I would recover by tomorrow? I took stock of my symptoms and decided that it was highly unlikely.
 
The ticket guy came through the car at this point. What is the ticket guy actually called? The conductor? Wasn’t the conductor the guy who drove the train? Was he a ticket taker? Nah, that didn’t sound right. Does anyone actually drive trains anymore, or are they all on auto-pilot like the airplanes? Remember when you could actually smoke on an airplane? What were they thinking?
 
“Tickets, please.” The ticket guy’s voice interrupted this fascinating stream of thought. I pulled my bag towards me, fished around for my wallet and finally presented my credit card along with the required tickets. 
 
The ticket guy/ticket taker/conductor upgraded us for the aforementioned fifteen pounds each, sliding my credit card through his hand-held credit card thingy before handing me two new tickets and moving on.
 
Hubby was looking at me expectantly. “Done and dusted,” I told him.
 
“Huh?  How much did he charge us? Did it work? Speak English, will ya?”
 
Sigh. Cough. Shiver. “Yes, just like the woman told me. We’re now officially first class passengers for only fifteen pounds more. You can relax.”
 
“Done and dusted? Where do you get this stuff? What was that thing you said to me when we were first dating? Remember? That English thing you threw at me?”
 
“Behoove.”
 
“Yeah. Behoove, that’s it. I mean, who talks like that? And our wedding ceremony, oh brother!”
 
“I told you to read through the vows beforehand. I encouraged your participation. You couldn’t be bothered. You left it all up to me, remember?”
 
“Who knew you were going to go with I pledge you my troth? What in the Hell was that? What in the Hell is a troth?”
 
I chose to interpret Hubby’s question as being rhetorical and closed my eyes. The next thing I remember is pulling into Bath Spa Station. I got up, unsteadily, from my seat and took a few steps towards our luggage.
 
“I’ve got it,” Hubby said, in a brook no argument sort of way.
 
“You can’t manage it all,” I told him.
 
“I can. You just worry about yourself.” God, I must look even worse than I feel. I directed Hubby to the elevator and we went down a flight.

Coming out of the lift, I marshaled what little strength I had to hand, took one of the bags from Hubby, headed towards the exit turnstiles and tried to get through.
The bar wouldn’t budge. Again I tried. Again the bar wouldn’t move. After my fourth attempt, and just before I was ready to duck beneath the arm and get the Hell out, a nice young man in a Great Western uniform approached.
“May I help you?” he asked. “Do you have your ticket?”
My ticket? What’s my ticket got to do with the price of turnstiles? Not in the mood to argue, I felt in my coat pocket and produced our tickets, which the nice man took from me and inserted into the little slot on the top of the turnstile, which then magically slid open. Yes, Reader, that’s how sick I was. Imagine my forgetting the reason for keeping one’s ticket handy.

Outside, it was a miserable day – grey and wet with a dash of blowing wind. I huddled under the awning and looked bleakly at the empty forecourt. Don’t let the picture above fool you. I swiped it off the web. When Hubby and I arrived, there was not a cab in sight. You’d think the cabs would have the arrival times down pat, especially in such bad weather, but there we were, marooned at Bath Spa Station.
“Where do we get a cab?” Hubby asked.
“Here.”
“But there aren’t any.”
“They’ll be along in a minute,” I told him, pulling my scarf up to my chin.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, lying through my chattering teeth, whilst all the while thinking a cab, a cab, my kingdom for a cab. Sigh.
 
Part Three Coming Soon!