'Urricanes in 'Ampshire

Look, I know you probably don't want to hear more descriptions of my brief travels in England: others have been before and done it so much better. Bill Bryson and H.V. Morton spring to mind. However, I had such a perfectly satisfying and memorable day in Hampshire that it must be recorded for posterity. I beg your indulgence, and I promise that all this flowery descriptive writing won't last much longer. I'll try to tone down the superlatives.

Hampshire is a county known for its 'urricanes (which 'ardly hever 'appen), apple cider and watercress. There were no hurricanes today, only a lot of fog which sat in a picturesque manner about and atop the clumps of oaks, elms, beeches and hedgerows. Our first destination was Waverley Abbey, which was the inspiration for the Sir Walter Scott novel, Waverley. Founded in 1128, it was the first Cistercian monastery in England and now sits in gothic ruins in the countryside. Despite its weatherbeaten age, it was prettier than the eighteenth century manor across the river, the colour scheme of which brought to mind the worst excesses of 1960's architecture. The Abbey itself, however, was remarkably preserved and suitably scenic, as the small section below attests.

We started out late, so stopped at the Selborne Arms for lunch before anything else, which, I fear, I am compelled describe for you. (The lunch, not the anything else.)

To begin with, it's a sweet old pub with those ancient doors you have to stoop through to enter. We got a table close to both the bar and the fireplace, and the feasting began. Starter: Welsh rarebit, with some kind of good strong cheese and vinegar and chutney. Main: half a Roasted Pheasant with a perfect roasted potato and buttery soft brussel sprouts. I was extremely pleased to discover buckshot buried in the flesh of my pheasant, as I proudly reiterated later: "there was shot in my peasant!" At this point I went to the bar and ordered a locally-made apple cider, which came in an enormous bottle and was scrumptious. Then, dessert: Steamed Sponge with Jam and Custard, in the manner of a roly-poly. It may sound unprepossessing, but I can assure you that it was heavenly. After a decent espresso, we heaved ourselves out the door and into the car, beaming foolishly at the goodness of the meal.

Not far down the road from Selborne lies the exquisitely preserved village of Chawton, where Jane Austen wrote most of her novels. Her house has been made into a good museum, which avoids being tacky by virtue of being lovingly restored and not having too many tea towels with Jane Austen's face on them in the gift shop. There was a beautiful early nineteenth century piano in the drawing room, which Emily sat down and played; I went and sat on a windowsill in the next room and listened, and grew misty-eyed at the thought of our beloved Jane playing the piano and walking these floorboards and tending the garden and dreaming up Emma and Elizabeth and Eleanor and Anne. I much preferred this museum to the one in Bath, which was overstocked with the tea towels and oil paintings of Colin Firth. I purchased a light volume of the collected letters of Jane Austen which will just fit into my luggage. (To the right: the desk on which she wrote.)

Afterwards, we walked a couple of miles through fields, got our boots muddy in the manner of Elizabeth Bennet - "my dear, almost positively medieval!" - and drove home to Morden in the dark: tired, well-fed and sated on good things.

As I write, Emily is making pasta with roasted vegetables - time to leave off the computer and pick up a book and listen to some piano music.