The Idler

Country Diary: 3

The Idler’s Editor, Tom Hodgkinson, has retired to a Devonshire farmhouse in order to write a book. Here is the third installment of his fortnightly diary.

Of Mice and Men

THE WINTER months are now past us and the first signs of spring are here. Snowdrops line the bank of the stream and the green shoots of daffodils have appeared along the track outside the house. After our early domestic disasters, we appear to be getting the hang of things. I was comforted to read in Richard Holmes’ biography of Coleridge that he too, upon retiring to Nether Stowey in Somerset with his wife Sara and small boy, Hartley, had a rough time of it. “The cottage life was not altogether easy, especially in those first cold months… the fires in the two tiny ground floor parlours had to be constantly stoked, and Sara had to cook and dry washing over an open hearth in the back kitchen… first there was damp, and then there were mice.” Yeah, Sam, knew the score. Coleridge also spoke sweetly of the moral pain of killing the mice with traps, something which I’m sure any trap-setter has had to confront. “The mice play the very devil with us,” he told his friend Cottle. “It irks me to set a trap. By all the whiskers of all the pussies that have mewed plaintively, or amorously, since the days of Whittington, it is not fair. ‘Tis telling a lie. ‘Tis as if you said, ‘Here is a bit of toasted cheese; come little mice! I invite you!’ – when, oh, foul breach of the rites of hospitality! I mean to assassinate my too credulous guests!”

I CAN report a triumph in the form of The Pub. I am in the process of converting the scullery of our house into a pub, to be called The Green Man. I have so far installed a darts board and fairy lights, plus a few pictures. Now I’m after stag’s antlers, fish in a case, a stuffed stoat, small black and white photographs of the local area taken fifty years ago, and brass horseshoes. Pete Loveday is going to paint the sign, which will hang outside the window. It’s great having a pub in your own house. There I can drink and smoke without disturbing wife and baby, and I even take Arthur there for an orange juice and a game of darts some evenings. We says “cheers”, and he chews ice and plays with the candle snuffer while I smoke roll-ups. And best of all, I do not have walk a mile to get there. I have been sampling local brews and have discovered Exmoor Ales, who make the smooth Golden Ale and powerful Exmoor Beast, which is a black beer, very strong. I’ve also ordered a home-brewing kit via mail order. Home brew has a bad image but I think it could be fun and it will certainly save me a lot of money. It also fits in to my notions about a pre-Industrial Revolution lifestyle: before the Industrial Revolution, and before the invasion by tea of the national character, beer was brewed in almost every home and was drunk all day, with breakfast, lunch and dinner., and what happy, carefree days they must have been.

ANOTHER piece of good news is that a local enemy – an old man who shouted at me for driving down to the local bay – has moved out of the area, so I can now motor there without fear of a stick-waving and a tongue-lashing. It may sound a trifle, but, y’know, Quantulcunque estis, vos ego magna voco. I can’t tell you how much lighter I feel now that this burden has been lifted.

TONIGHT Victoria is going out to the cinema in nearby Lynton. This superb innovation was opened only a couple of years ago. It’s a fantastic little cinema which seats just 80 people. Tickets are just ��3.50, but the sound and picture quality are superb. I saw the second Lord of the Rings film there, and the whole experience was vastly superior to yer local multiplex.

MORE GOOD news is that classics scholar and cultural historian Sam Jordison has moved to within about twenty miles from here. I have asked if he would give me lessons in the Classics, as I am beginning to realise that there were lots of idlers among the writer of Ancient Greece and Rome, and it would be fun to find out more and then I could pepper my conversation with Latin quotes (followed by a knowing snort of laughter) and irritate my friends.
And I have only this to say to the scoffers out there: Qui mockat mockabitur.

Till next time.