Doug PollardLondon travel notes (contd)
After a couple of days in the city we headed out into Buckinghamshire. This involved packing up, calling a cab (thank goodness for London taxis), and tracking down our hire car.
Over the years I have got used to the little dance car hire companies make you do, and despite having been married for almost 20 years to a man who once worked in the business, who has explained the whys and wherefores at length, I still hate the whole process.
Like most businesses billing themselves as ‘customer focussed’, car hire is in fact entirely focussed on itself, and the needs of the customer are almost incidental.
It's been like that since the days of the Roman Empire.
"Chariot, guv? Did you say chariot? Hmm. I can do you a nice litter, four slave-power? It's only another ten denarii a day."
They never have the car you book. I don't know why they even ask. Ask for a small car – they wheel out a big one. Book an estate – they shrug and offer you a people-mover. Specify a small automatic – they only have large manuals.
“Does it absolutely have to be an automatic, sir? Only we’re having a bit of a problem with automatics today.”
How interesting. However, as you so rightly say, YOU are having a problem – not me.
“I’m afraid it does.”
“Only I don’t know as I have an automatic. Is your licence just for automatics?”
“No, I have a full licence – but I haven’t driven a manual for twenty years.”
I don’t mention that I was landed with a manual a couple of years back and nearly wrecked the thing – and my nerves.
“Only, like I say, we’re having a bit of a problem with automatics."
I take a seat, smiling sweetly.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be able to sort it.”
After a bit more huffing and puffing, he points out of the window at nothing, saying, “I’ll just go and see if there’s one on that truck,” as if he were about to flag down a passing car transporter.
He rushes out the door, but heads in the opposite direction. After less than five minutes he reappears with a set of keys. Now he’s all cheerful, as if the previous conversation never happened.
“There you are sir, it’s a grey Passat, got a full tank. You just go out this door, turn right and down to the garage beneath: I’m afraid you’ll have to hunt for it, I don’t know exactly where it is. Do have a nice holiday. Thank you sir.”
I wander the packed crypt, pressing ‘open’ on the remote and looking for the telltale flashing ambers. Tucked away in a tight spot on the third row I find a black 2.0 litre diesel automatic Jetta Coupe, with smoked windows and black leather seats. That’ll do.
Of course, I was SUPPOSED to have said either, “Oh don’t worry, a manual will do,” or, having stuck to my guns re an automatic, said “Well if you don’t have a small auto, perhaps you have a larger one?”, thus landing myself with the higher daily charge.
As it is, I’ve got a rather flash motor for the price of a Golf.
There is a moment of comedy as I try to find the handbrake.
There isn’t one: well, to be strictly accurate, that’s automatic too. Bring the car to a stop – it’s applied. Press the accelerator: it’s released.
I don’t find the manual override till the next day.
-0-
I drive. R navigates. This is a whole drama in itself. But we manage.
More comic relief when I can’t remember whether Waddesdon comes before or after Aylesbury.
Eventually we get to the Five Arrows.
Now a hotel/gastropub run by the National Trust, it was originally erected to house the managers who were building Waddesdon Manor for Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild. Now it sits by the gates to the estate.
The place is run by a very smart young man named Duncan, one of those fresh-faced apple-cheeked public schoolboy types, with accent to match, and of course, impeccable manners.
Most of the rotating cast of staff appear to be French, or possibly Belgian. The place is very Victorian British, but without being overpowering.
The elaborate tap and shower arrangement over the bath is classic steampunk rendered in chrome and artificial ivory rather than the more traditional brass.
Propped upright at the head of the bath is a tightly rolled shower mat, secured with a loose bow of red ribbon.
It looks for all the world like the bathroom of an elderly eccentric solicitor who gets his briefs printed on perforated rubber, the better to study them while bathing.
The bedroom is dominated – in fact, almost completely consumed – by a four poster bed with canopy.
The low evening sunlight highlights the dust under the chest of drawers.
Tomorrow is the wedding.
