Full English

It was the fourth year we would be staying at Fleuchary House, a sprawling Edwardian bed-and-breakfast in St. Albans, 20 miles north of London, owned by a Scottish woman, Linda Matheson-Titt. The purpose of the trip was to visit my mother-in-law, Violet. We’ve been returning every year since her 90th, when she hired a jazz band to entertain family and friends. I hope my husband, Mick, has inherited her longevity genes. He certainly has his mother’s sense of humor and calm, patient attitude toward life.

Staying at Fleuchary House is like coming home, amazing when you think of the ocean that separates us. When we arrived, Millie, Linda’s Parson Jack Russell, greeted us, licking my face as I bent to say hello. I thought she remembered me, but Mick thought it was the dog treats I brought that she remembered. She had a fluffy, off-white, coarse coat, with one ear up and one down, and exuded charm and intelligence. We invited her into our room for a visit and then sent her on her way with a “Go on home now, Millie,” and off she went.

St. Albans is an old Roman town with remains of a Roman theater and a small museum filled with artifacts from the first century. First called Verulamium, the city was renamed St. Albans after a British Christian martyr. It has a majestic stone abbey where last year we enjoyed an Evensong service that featured a boys choir. The boys wore long red robes with white surplice overlays and starched lace Elizabethan collars that harked back to an earlier age. As we sat in the hard wooden pews, we could hear their voices carry to the top of the abbey, vibrating like starlings on a wire.

Arriving at Fleuchary House is like visiting the United Nations; one never knows what country will be in residence. Our first morning, breakfast was a full English production consisting of one or two fried eggs, bacon — like Canadian bacon — fried to crisp perfection, sausage, grilled tomato, mushrooms, hash brown potatoes, toast, and coffee or tea. Three French teachers from Lyon had brought a dozen French students to stay with local families for a fortnight to practice their English. They sat down and tucked into their eggs, holding their forks in their left hands, knives in the right, as Europeans do, guiding any resisting bits of egg or potatoes to their waiting mouths.

The women didn’t look at all like schoolteachers. They were well dressed, their faces lightly made up and their scarves arranged with Gallic precision and intricacy. Hermés has a book on 100 ways to tie a silk scarf; it seems they had studied it assiduously.

“What do you do while the students are with their host families?” I asked, using my rusty French.

 “We go into London to the British Museum, to the opera, to the London Philharmonic, and to the latest Shakespeare production at the National Theatre.”

“Wow! What have you seen?”

They reeled off a list that anyone would envy.

An Italian man came down to breakfast. He was from Milan, in London giving a paper on environmentally sound building. Our host appeared during my aria of Italian and said with some satisfaction, “I have someone coming down to breakfast that you won’t be able to speak to.” A few minutes later, Zoran, from Croatia, introduced himself and I laughed. Linda had the last word.

The next morning four Scottish groomsmen in a wedding party assembled on their way to the church ceremony, looking very handsome in their tartan kilts. They were speaking English but I couldn’t understand a word. A translator was needed. I just nodded and smiled.

Another of Linda’s guests, a well-traveled, well-upholstered woman, remarked, “Nothing is lacking.” The instant hot water kettle with tea, coffee, Cadbury’s hot chocolate, Scottish shortbread, heated towel racks, and fresh linens that Linda provides every day attest to her warm welcome. She prints out train schedules, recommends restaurants and local sights, and acts as a concierge.

She is constantly improving and decorating. This year we noticed the imposing suit of armor was gone from the front hall, but otherwise all was the same. Linda is stolidly middle class — nothing out of place on Linda or in her establishment. A financial analyst in London before opening her bed-and-breakfast, she uses her business acumen to run the establishment. She also has great taste and is a good cook, as evidenced by her breakfasts and the alluring smells that come from her kitchen at suppertime.

We have a shared love of good food, nice linens, and home furnishings such as alpaca throws. This year we exchanged cookbooks. I gave her a “Real Simple” cookbook, and she gave me one on classic Scottish cooking that includes recipes for pheasant, venison, and other game.

When we told Linda we were planning a drinks party and supper for Violet, now 94, she asked, “Would you like to go to Costco with me?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” I replied.

We had a great excursion to the local Costco, a cookie-cutter replica of its American cousin, except that the cheeses, coming from Europe, were better. At the checkout Linda stood next to me as I put an industrial-size package of Yorkshire tea bags on the counter.

“That’s builder’s tea,” she said.

“You mean it’s strong enough for construction workers?” I replied.

“Yes,” Linda said, as if she didn’t approve of my tea selection. But I laughed and bought it anyway.

We had the drinks party and supper in the large common room at Mymms House in Welham Green, where my mother-in-law lives in a small flat. About 25 people joined our celebration. The gathering was a way for Violet to thank all the people who helped her with the computer, took her to doctor’s appointments, and picked up shopping for her. It’s a nice community, and they look after one another, which is comforting to us living across the Atlantic.

Those ladies, ranging in age from late 70s to late 90s, drank eight bottles of Santa Margherita pinot grigio and four bottles of very nice Costco Italian Chianti. The poached salmon, shrimp, salad, cheeses, and apple pies disappeared, leaving only a few lonely lettuce leaves. Violet says they had a great time and her friends are still talking about the party. If consumption of wine thins the blood and promotes circulation, these ladies will be very well preserved and live on into their 100s.

The last morning at Fleuchary House, bags stowed in the rental car, Mick takes some photos of Linda and her dog in front of the deer antlers in the front hall and also next to the six-burner range in her kitchen for possible use on her website. Millie stares patiently into the camera, waiting for the treats I keep in my pocket.

On the drive back to Heathrow along the English country roads, I watch the hedgerows extend their branches overhead, creating a green tunnel with golden, flickering light, beckoning us to return soon to Fleuc­hary House.

Joanne Pateman, a regular “Guestwords” contributor, lives in Southampton.