Lunch in Long Melford

We walked past the village green, framed by a couple of pubs, and stopped to get our bearings. On closer inspection, one of the pubs was not a pub at all, having been completely converted into an interesting looking restaurant. Inside, the decor was bright blues and yellows, and looked very Mediterranean. Surprisingly, the food was English and good. I had a succulent rack of lamb and a trendy salad of tender young leafy things that, left to grow, would turn into stinging nettles and foul-smelling weeds. Frances had a veal chop and spinach. Kate had her normal one-course meal of formula. If the weather had been better we might have lingered around the antique shops, but it was getting cold and we were still pretty damp from the previous downpour. We decided to head home.

I've had enough!

When we came outside into the insipid daylight, I looked up. Clouds, I noticed, were still gathering like a mighty armada of gray battleships waiting to attack once more. We started to look for somewhere to eat. Quickly. Across the street, we saw another large stately home, but I had seen enough for one morning. Even Frances did not press me to see more.

Searching for Beatrix Potter

Down a corridor, an elderly lady in a black cardigan sat alongside one of the bedrooms open to the public. She looked quite still and very official, but rather too old and frail to be a security guard. I assumed she was a guide of sorts, brimming with facts and fables and historical anecdotes.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me something about the house? The connection with Beatrix Potter?”
“No.” She smiled vacantly, eyes unblinking, then went on proudly, “Don’t know the first thing about it.”
I thanked her, if not for her knowledge, at least for her honesty.