Today I take a brief break for editing Book 7 in the Amanda Cadabra series to bring you the finale of my 2021 search for the cozy village (which I intend to take up again this spring). Having found the apple of the my dreams, I went in search of lunch at a 16th century hostelry in nearby Standstead Abbotts.
Stanstead Abbotts (also spelled Stanstead Abbott) bears the distinction of having been recorded in the Domesday Book of 1086 – a sort of survey of the taxable resources and power bases of the country of that time. The village was called Stanstede, and the Abbotts was added probably because it passed to the abbots of what is now Waltham Cross. Its main claim to historical fame is that, apparently, it was given to Anne Boleyn, second unfortunate queen of Tudor king Henry VIII.
There I found a splendid 16th-century pub with a kindly and knowledgeable host. He showed me around, explaining that the building began life as a monastery in 1538. Thereafter, it morphed into a coaching inn and finally The Red Lion pub. You’ll find a lot of Red Lion pubs on these shores. Why?
There are two schools of thought: one is that it was an emblem on the coat of arms of the house of Lancaster (more of them next week!), which was a major player in the fortunes of these isles. The second is that it dates back to when James IV of Scotland became James I of England in 1603 after the death of Elizabeth I. The story is that, on his triumphant procession into London, he commanded that the Scottish heraldic symbol of the red lion be displayed on all public buildings, including necessarily, inns and taverns. To date, there are 547 Red Lion pubs in the UK.
In just such a setting, with aged beams above and a large brick fireplace warming the room, you would expect to find Amanda Cadabra and Detective Inspector Trelawney discussing murder and lunch. The Sunken Madley pub, of similar antiquity, is, of course, The Sinner’s Rue. The Christmas Ball of Book 2 in the series, Amanda Cadabra and The Cellar of Secrets, is set in the function room above.
But back to the Red Lion. The restaurant within the pub is the warmly named Amico Amici, and, from their tempting menu, I ordered lasagne. While I waited, my host brought some historical papers relating to the sale of the pub as it changed from owner to owner. On the yellowing formal documents of sale, written in a fine italic hand, were details of everything a new buyer would find on the premises. My favourite was the mention of a ‘beer pulling engine’. A mystery! Enthralled, I enquired of my host what this might import. It’s what we’d call a tap, the large vertical handle you see on a bar that staff pull to allow the amber nectar to flow into the waiting flagon below.
Bidding farewell to the friendly manager and staff, I set out from The Red Lion. There was one more stop to make. To the 13th century.
There is a mention of a priest of the village in the Domesday Book, and the original church of St James is thought to have been Saxon. The present structure is primarily 18th century, but there are parts hundreds of years older, so I made sure to photograph the good bits for you.
This porch is 15th century, and the doorway inside is 13th century. As you pass under the small wooden roof and place your hand on the stone as you enter the church, all at once you are united with the hundreds, if not thousands of feet that have trod the same surface, of hands that have touched that same place: worshippers, penitents, crafters, builders, theology and arts students, and, like me, simple tourists who admire architecture and have a love of history. And of course, who are in search of inspiration for a notable feature of Amanda Cadabra’s village: Sunken Madley’s St Ursula-without-Barnet, which is also a medieval church.
The Cozy Mystery Connection
In the nave, I found the strangest pews I’d ever seen. These, I learned from the guidebook, are called box pews. That’s right, they are literally boxed in with high wooden partitions. Here we have another link to the Amanda Cadabra series. These are shown in an engraving by the artist William Hogarth, namesake of our very own former Chief Inspector Hogarth of the Devon and Cornwall police and Thomas Trelawney’s boss.
You can see the pews in the second of William Hogarth’s series of Industry and Idleness here. The idea was to give the parishioners privacy. Back in the more austere days of the 14th century, there was nowhere to sit in churches. After that, wealthier parishioners got their own seating, in their own private pews, nicely enclosed and even including a table and fireplace! (And affording an opportunity for a covert nap) This did no favours to the organisation of the interior space of the church. So the ecclesiastical establishment gave in and had ordered rows of pews built with a central aisle for symmetry and a, no doubt symbolic, path to the altar.
Finally, the last photograph taken, I returned to the car and took the road south to what was once the kingdom of Middlesex, and home. The summer, astronomically speaking, was over, but there will be more field trips and photoshoots to come. Not only that, but there are developments with the new book, the seventh in the Amanda Cadabra series, to share with you.
More of that, next time.
PS If you want to start the series now:
Available on Amazon
and Large Print
Once Upon a Time …
A thousand years ago, a kingdom was formed. The name of this kingdom was derived from the West Saxons, to distinguish themselves from the Saxon kingdoms in other directions around them. Its name was Middlesex. It existed for a thousand until, in 1965, it was absorbed into London.
The place where I grew up was once in Middlesex, and also, for a time, was Amanda Cadabra’s village of Sunken Madley. And so it came about, that inspiration for this large hamlet was, by chance, brought to my attention there, one sunny weekend in September. It wasn’t even what I’d been looking for.
Which brings me to apples.
The Fruits of Sunken Madley
When our cozy village was forming in my imagination, I knew that it had rural connections. So, I went looking for what Hertfordshire, historically, has been famous for growing. Yes, you guessed it: apples. Sunken Madley suddenly became bordered by orchards, and you may recall that Amanda’s and her grandparents Senara and Perran’s house is number 26 Orchard Way. The orchard itself is next door and has some … rather unusual features that become apparent in Amanda Cadabra and The Cellar of Secrets.
But, what would be the variety of apples that would be growing in and around the village? It would have to be an old variety with a name evoking warmth and antiquity. Reading about apples, I made a shortlist, and the winner was … Hormead Pearmain. Into the first book it went, whilst I blithely assumed that, somewhere, there would be such an orchard that I could photograph and film for your delight.
The Challenge is On
The truth turned out to be somewhat different but much more interesting. I set about looking up orchards and, with my first phone call, spoke to Alison Rubens, an outstandingly helpful lady who is the founder of the Chorleywood Community Orchard in Hertfordshire. Mrs Rubes explained that Hormead Pearmain was, in fact, now a rarity. However, she kindly gave m a list of orchards with vintage varieties that I could contact to see if any of them had ‘my’ apple.
I worked down the list. ‘No,’ ‘Sorry, no’ and ‘have you tried …?’ ensued until I came to the last name in the list. A gentleman in what was once called Pinnora in the one-time county of Middlesex. While attempting to contact him, I looked up Pinner, as it is now called. Of course, as a north Londoner, I had driven past and through it and never taken much notice of it. And then ….
The internet presented me with an idyllic, chocolate-box photograph of a high street, sloping up to an old church. The thoroughfare appeared to consist almost entirely of 16th-century shops and an utterly charming pub. I gasped. This was El Dorado. Quickly I planned a route.
Then I made contact with Gerry Edwards of Pinner’s Gerry Edwards Orchard Services. Gerry assured me that he had a young Hormead Pearmain tree on his land. However, he was at present away from Pinner working in Dorset. Nevertheless, Gerry promised, on his return, to take some photographs and send them to me. He explained that there is a reason why these old varieties are no longer grown. In simplified terms: they’re no good. That is, not compared with newer types that are hardier and yield more fruit. They are now grown for interest and for the sake of preservation.
With thanks, I set off on my journey to Pinner, called Pinnora in 1231. I was now filled with a new purpose: not apples but further inspiration for Sunken Madley and photographs for you, dear readers.
On the way, I received a call from one of the contacts on the list. This was none other than the noted horticulturalist and naturalist, Michael Clark, warden of the Tewin Orchard in Hertfordshire. More of Mr Clark next time. I was delighted to hear that, yes, he had two trees and one had fruit. I was welcome to come along and take photographs.
By then, however, I was on my way to Pinner but promised to call back and make an appointment. As I say, more of that to come.
A Strangely Named Tavern
Which brings us to where I landed that day. Pinner is just two miles south of the Hertfordshire border, to which I drew closer for lunch. I had planned a visit to a restored 17th-century hostelry at the edge of Harrow Wield, on the ancient ridgetop road of Old Redding. The front looks over to trees, not apple trees but the woods of the common. The view from the back of the pub is truly spectacular, down over the valley of the River Pinn.
This inn goes by the unusual name of The Case is Altered. It derives from the time when the owner of the, then, cottages changed their use to a public house. I spent a delightful lunch hour. Mine host could not have been friendlier or more attentive, and on the deck in the garden looking over the magnificent vista, I must have had the best seat in the house. This spot is an excellent echo of a small place immersed, as is Sunken Madley, in the countryside even though it is, technically, within the borders of Greater London.
The Queen’s Head
Nevertheless, my dream ‘village’ road beckoned, and so I set forth. And it was as wondrous as the photograph. A perfect chocolate-box high street lined with small shops, where Tudor rubs shoulders with Dickensian Victorian, stretches up to the ancient church at the top of the hill. The jewel in the crown was The 16th century Queen’s Head, bright in the sunshine, fronted by parasolled tables with happy snackers and sippers.
I was drawn as to the lodestone rock. ‘Welcome’ barely begins to describe my reception. Naturally, I asked for permission to take photographs of the establishment. It was granted, but the staff were interested in my reason for visiting. I explained, and soon I was chatting to the highly well-informed proprietor.
Meeting Mr White
Sean White, FRSA (Fellowship of the Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce), is not only an award-winning publican but a sponsor of art, life and all that is fine. He cares deeply both for the welfare of his staff and for those who visit the Queen’s Head. Listening to Sean describe the history and present of the pub was a remarkable experience.
The Grade II listed building was originally residential, a Wealden hall house. These were built for the staff of a noble household. This one consisted of 4 bays, and in this case, one was the cottage next door. It also had a forge. Then it was repurposed into a coaching inn with stables and was originally called The Crown. A nice safe name that meant you were covered regardless of how the throne might change hands!
However, in 1766 the owner, Gideon Loot, took the plunge and named it the Upper Queen’s Head after Queen Anne. (He had another Queen’s Head at the bottom of the road).
One curiosity dates from the 1930s when the wealthy and somewhat eccentric Mr Dawson Billows was the proprietor. He briefly kept a bear in the stables and would take it for walks until, presumably, a more suitable home was found. If this photograph is anything to go by, the household did their best to care for Dawson’s animal guest.
Mr Billows made extensive refurbishments to, and had his name engraved on, the structure. You’d have to have a keen eye to find it, but Sean told me where to stand by the bar and look up. And above on a ceiling beam … there it was.
Past, Present and Future
Coming into the present and uniting with the past, Sean related that on New Year’s Day, when morris dancers make their rounds, they include at the Queen’s Head on their route, dancing inside and out. I must say, I am tempted to pay a visit on that particular day!
Sean kindly emailed me three documents detailing the history of the pub. And, in addition, he gave me a copy of the journal Proud of Pinner, which offers a wealth of information about the town, including historical anecdotes and photographs. Who knows what choice detail may find its way into the Amanda Cadabra series?
Two Hot Tips
One of Sean’s tip-offs was that most of the Tudor-looking buildings were just that: ‘looking’ rather than actually dating from that period, and built much later. Sean pointed out which ones were genuine, and you can see the best of them here or on the Inspiration page.
The second vital piece of information with which Sean’s kindly furnished me was that the church was preparing a flower festival in honour of its 700th anniversary. This I had to see, and you will know about if you’ve seen the letter to readers here and the video about that extraordinary event that I came back to experience.
The Last Leg
And so I made my progress up the high street towards my final stop: the church of St John the Baptist, where stunning floral preparations were in progress for the coming weekend’s celebrations.
If you’d like to see and read about that, you can find the letter and video here: 700 Years
There, for the moment, we leave Pinner. I have another reason to return in addition to the morris dancers. Sean informed that there is an excellent museum nearby that it would be well worth visiting.
Next stop: into smoke of a famous battle to find yet more inspirational treasures and research for the next two books in the Amanda Cadabra series.
Thank you for coming along on my journey with me. I hope you have enjoyed this expedition into the lost kingdom of Middlesex and the delights of Pinnora.
Four Free Book Days Coming
From next Sunday Book 1, Amanda Cadabra and The Hidey-Hole Truth will be available for free download from Amazon, from 12th to 15th December. I’ll remind you next week in case you’d like to check it out or pass on the good news to your friends.
PS If you’d love to start the series now:
Available on Amazon
and Large Print
Hoddesdon is a small but beautiful town in Hertfordshire, the county north of London. It is from here that the Amanda Cadabra series draws much of its rural spirit, as well as architectural inspiration.
And so, it was inevitable that it should be a field-trip destination for photographs (larger and more on the Inspiration page) for you of cottages, pubs and churches from, ideally, the 16th century when Sunken Madley, Amanda’s village, was up and running.
Before my visit a few weeks earlier, about which I wrote to you last time, to the village of Hertingfordbury, I had never heard of Hoddesdon. However, it had been revealed to me, while on hallowed ground, that there I should find the riches I sought.
Where and Water
To help you get your bearings, the map from the previous letter to you has had a new feature added: the river Lea. This is where I get my water, incidentally. Not that I visit each day in person.
The Lea flows down from the Chiltern Hills to the north, in the county of Bedfordshire, makes its way through Hertfordshire, west through the county of Essex, and finally into London to join the mighty Father Thames. More about the Lea another time. The point is that Hoddesdon is in the Lea Valley. (Please note that this map is an approximation of locations. Best not to base an expedition to deepest Hertfordshire on it.)
Having arrived at the south end of the little town, the first building outside which parked was one I was searching for: Rawdon House, first built in 1622 by the splendidly named Sir Marmaduke Rawdon. This fine edifice could easily have been the inspiration for The Grange, arguably the grandest house in Sunken Madley.
The Grange is home to the village’s oldest and most venerable resident, Miss Cynthia de Havillande , her bosom companion, Miss Gwendolen Armstrong-Witworth, and their friend, estate manager and self-styled ‘butler’ Moffat. Not only that, but it is also the residence of the unattainable Natasha, object of desire of Tempest, Amanda’s perennially grumpy feline familiar.
Rawdon House appears now to be occupied by offices, and I was kindly granted permission to photograph and film from the courtyard, as you can see. Incidentally, Sir Marmaduke also built a house for his son, called, coincidentally … wait for it … The Grange, which I hope to find one day in the future. It came to be used as a school.
But that was only the beginning of what Hoddesdon was to offer me.
Opposite and a little further north along the High Street (otherwise unromantically known as the A1170) was a jewel of a public house — tavern or inn of old. It was built in the 16th century, just the way we like them, or possibly earlier. This hostelry is very much the flavour of Sunken Madley’s The Sinner’s Rue that dates from the same time.
It was here, at The Golden Lion, that I lunched, regaled by a resident of the pub itself with fascinating tales, including one of a member of staff who was required to stay there one Saturday night for the sake of the security of the inn during the hours of darkness. Alone. Unable to bear the ghostliness of the atmosphere, she was unable to last the night and fled. Her room was now occupied by my kindly narrator, who declared that he had never detected the least hint of spookiness anywhere in the building.
Charming as the exterior of the building was, within it was even more so. The old beams of the original timber frame were everywhere to be seen. It was here I lunched, chatting to the splendid barkeep and the pub’s fascinating principal tenant. It could not have been a happier hour, in such beguiling surroundings with the best of company. This was the true Brit pub experience.
However, there was more to see and to capture on (digital) film for you, and so, at last, I re-emerged into the September sunshine and made my way north up the High Street. There I found more glorious sights. Here you can see how the juxtaposition of architectural styles as the village grew into a little town, and in the foreground, that testimony to the British Royal Mail: the red post box.
Next was The White Swan, another 16th-century inn and remarkable for having kept the same name for 400 years. Inside, the old beams and cosy inglenook fireplace are still in evidence, and there was the expected welcome at the bar.
My final port of call, having ended my soft-drink pub crawl, was the 15th-century church of St Augustine’s Church, Broxbourne, whose borough encompasses Hoddesdon. This church has the distinction of a mention in the Domesday book of 1086, but the one still standing was built 400 years later. A mere stripling by comparison. In common with many Hertfordshire churches, it was built with mainly flint-faced rubble walls with stone (Ashlar) dressing. Flint, because Hertfordshire has a lot of it. The tower’s eight bells are rung for weddings and to call the faithful on Sundays.
Again, this church echoes Sunken Madley’s own St-Ursula-without-Barnet, which is also a medieval church, though with a more modestly sized graveyard and probably fewer bells. (To be decided. Suggestions welcomed.)
What I was unprepared for was the beauty of St Augustine’s location. It stands by the New River, a tributary of the River Lea, sparkling in the sunlight, a-quack with ducks. I say ‘New River’; it was new in 1613 when it was thoughtfully created to supply the locals with drinking water. The schools were finishing for the day, and a group of eager children were clustered around the ice-cream van (one of which also gets a mention in the Amanda Cadabra series).
I stood on the little bridge over the water, knowing that, wherever I pointed my camera, I would capture something beautiful, whether it was the feathered friends below, the church tower above or the tree-lined path leading away through the park, which could easily be a village green.
And so, with the sun westering and the rush hour gathering, it was time to leave this idyllic setting and head for home. However, I had another field trip planned, for the very next day. But that is a story for the forthcoming letter to you, dear readers.
I hope you have enjoyed this romp through a small historic county town and that it has supplemented your vision of the village of Sunken Madley … just ‘three miles south of the Hertfordshire border and 13 miles north of the Houses of Parliament.
PS If you want to start the series now:
Available on Amazon
and Large Print