The idea to jump on a train to Stansted airport that should drop us at Audley End station in Essex came to our mind spontaneously and, as it turned out, serendipitously: the train wasn’t the one to Stansted, it went to London Liverpool St, but the stops and the route were the same: we passed by the Addenbrooke’s complex, the AstraZeneca headquarters (shouting out to them, “hellur and, please, improve your 5G next time”), Shelford, some other meadows and finally ended up in Audley End.
It looked empty and bucolic to the extent that one felt the immediate desire to write bad poetry, but we restrained ourselves. “Since we’re in Essex, can I be regarded as an Essex girl?” I asked L., and he replied without hesitation, “Sure, you can be considered a temporary Essex girl in a sense.” I didn’t mind, and we proceeded to the Audley End stately home and gardens (secretly keeping in mind to meet up with Mrs Crocombe, of course).
It felt like we made a significant shortcut, because we arrived to the place fairly quickly (usually the route would take a solid half hour or more: this time it was around 20 minutes). A sad detail on the way: an old pub “The Fighting Cocks” seemed to be out of business, and its shabby Regency building looked gloomy despite the radiant weather.
But Audley End itself met us in full glory: no traces of the bloody pandemic, except wearing masks while visiting the house itself (we skipped this part, because we’ve been there plenty of times) and the gift shop, but other than that pure bliss and joy. And despite everything they continued to serve their cream teas, so we had one (well, ours was served with double espresso, but nevertheless). Of course, we had our scones in the proper Devon way: scone+clotted cream+strawberry jam, and no other abominable way (which is Cornish, of course).
And you simply cannot go to Audley End and miss the part with the kitchen and Mrs Crocombe! We were sure that’s she’s somewhere (we heard her voice being played in the kitchen where the whole thing is filmed for the English Heritage channel), so we sent her our warmest regards and passed them through a few Victorian maids who met the public in the tea gardens.
Our finds from the gift shop were the best ones: orange and cherry curd and the new book by English Heritage about the ghost lore and myths of East Anglia: honestly, it couldn’t be better than that. Except it could, because all the gardens were permeated by the loveliest scent of fully blooming and opulent white peonies. They were divine, as it was our little trip, the very first one after all those long and dismal months.
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