Low life
Cottage loafer
Jeffrey Bernard
This is a far cry from depressing West Hampstead and I thank God for it. I'm staying in a village called Stacey in Norfolk with a friend, Charlie Hurt, and we are trying to put a book together, which is to say that he is extracting it from me as though it were tooth by tooth. I now loathe work of any sort even if it is done in front of a log fire or done in a kitchen that is as warm as toast.
Luckily there are distractions. One of them is Bruno who, when he is not jogging across the marshes, lies in front of the fire. He is a teetotaller and a non-smoker and his lungs must be as pink as a rose that is newly sprung in May. He is the first Jack Russell I have met who isn't a bloody nuisance.
Then there are the pubs in Norfolk, some of which should be listed and so made impossible for breweries to ruin. They should also be made compulsory for London publicans to visit to see what pubs should be all about. Yesterday, in the local, the Red Lion, a pub with three rooms and three log fires, I lunched on crab-and-avocado bake, a far cry from Norman's overcooked sausages. On Sun- day in the Three Horseshoes at Warham I had jugged hare, a prince of dishes and one which I noticed was much appreciated by our own dear cookery writer, Jennifer Paterson. A hare is a rabbit that went to Eton.
Hares apart, wild-fowl flourish on the muddy marshes, pheasants cluck away in the trees outside my bedroom window and huntsmen block up the road when you're trying to get to the pubs. Last Saturday my brother Oliver drove over and we had roast pigeons at The Moorings at Wells-next- the-Sea. It is a very good restaurant and especially so if you happen to be a non- smoker. Twice we all trooped outside and stood on the pavement for a couple of minutes to have a puff and a drag. It must have been a ridiculous sight and it was certainly horribly cold. Every restaurant should have a smoking area.
Today we hope to visit the woman whom I first came to know two years ago when I mentioned in this column that I admired, very much liked and was struck by the sight of a barn owl — a magnificent animal. She is Janet Cobham, who lives near Fakenham, and she breeds barn owls and then sets them loose into the wild. An admirable occupation between jobs.
Meanwhile, I gaze at the blazing logs and wonder just what the hell I am doing living in London. Can it be that I really depend so much on the old faces, dialogue and company of my friends and acquaint- ances in Soho? If that is so it is rather pathetic of me. I don't mind being alone but I am bored by my own company. The same turgid thoughts and memories.
Nevertheless I shall shortly pay a visit to an estate agent in Suffolk and try to rent a cottage which will probably, if I succeed in doing so, have buff envelopes around the door and not roses. I would like a cottage with a garden for the summer and some of these Norfolk fires for the winter. That would do if only a freelance hack could take early retirement, earn some royalties and throw Monica, this wretched typewri- ter and nagging companion, out of the window and on to a rubbish tip.
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