Tini was down for a few days, so yesterday we once again jumped into the car and drove the 90 miles or so to the Suffolk coast. She hadn’t been to Benacre and its estate before, and I hadn’t seen her for almost five years (she hadn’t even met Nik), so although a long day was ahead, it didn’t matter, and in any case, it would get us away from the computers. Leaving before breakfast, we made good time and arrived in time for late – but not too late – eggs and muffins, washed down with coffee and tea. Strangely, poached eggs were a new thing for Tini, but I’d have thought that at some time in her 80+ years she would have come across them. Maybe they’re just not that common in the Netherlands.

The day had dawned bright, but we weren’t quite prepared for what that brightness would become. A day of full-on heat and sunshine, we ventured out to explore the walled gardens. Tended and nurtured carefully, numerous small patches of land back onto each other, and are separated by old brick walls, reminding me of more formal gardens at a country house, something which Benacre Hall must have had at some point in its rich and varied past. Sitting in the shade of a tree on a bench chatting to mum and Bart was more of a social time than we thought; it was soon time for lunch, and once Tini had strode across the grass to join us, an impromptu picnic beckoned.

A veritable feast was laid out before us, and while two of us sat on the white sheet that masqueraded as a rug, three of the party sat on the bench, talking about history, culture and how really beautiful the day had turned out to be. Post-lunch, mum, Nik and I headed to Southwold and the brewery shop where we ooh-ed and aah-ed at all manner of expensive kitchen gadgets on display, before taking coffee in the newly-built coffee shop. A quick around the town followed, before we jumped back in the car and weaved our way up the long Bencare Estate drive, narrowly missing the sheep and their just-born lambs. Being a meat eater – but increasingly less often – the cute lambs are enough to put you off, all large ears and gangly thin legs, with the odd tiny black face making an appearance.

More tea was made and preparations for dinner were started. The pair of us ventured out for a walk around the grounds of the estate, and as the evening sun descended through the trees, we took pictures of the countryside scenes and the fog and sheep-filled fields, before going indoors to eat. We had to be back in Essex today, so bid out hosts goodbye after the evening meal and a couple of thoughtfully-played hands of cards. What with the hot weather and the abundance of lambs on the estate, it really had felt like the start of spring. Maybe the best start for a long time.

Benacre picnic: mum, Tini, Nik, me and Bart

Benacre picnic: yum!

Benacre Hall, Suffolk

Benacre Estate, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sunset, Suffolk

I don’t know why, but we really weren’t expecting a 16th-century Grade 1 listed small mansion house just behind the A2 on the outskirts of the big smoke. (Yes, I know, it’s technically Kent, but even so…) But, Hall Place is pretty and has small formal gardens with beautifully laid-out flowers and topiary bushes sculpted into dogs, dragons, horses and unicorns, ideal for little ones to run in and out of and hide behind. All very tranquil, I’m sure the sunny, bright and almost warm weather helped us appreciate the countryside-like (and very green) surroundings.

Sat on the banks of the river Cray, Bexley, Hall Place was built in 1537 for wealthy merchant Sir John Champneys, Lord Mayor of the City of London from stone recycled from a former monastery, Lesnes Abbey, closeby. A manor house was recorded some 300 years earlier on the site. Now there is also 65 hectares of parkland (where we fed the ducks and geese their lunch) and a tea shop, which overlooks the river, as well as traditional glass houses, which house and sell a bewildering array of colourful plants.

It was something of a green-fingered afternoon. After Hall Place, we stopped off at Ruxley Manor Garden Centre, where we wandered along the aisles festooned with all manner of plant life, books, patio furniture and pet paraphernalia (how did we miss the chickens for sale, though?). One orchid, one succulent, two pots and a bit of minor celebrity-spotting later, we were back at Sal’s enjoying tea and handmade birthday cake. An enjoyable day all round, not in the least bit rushed busy, and it even showed that south east London has something to offer on a day that isn’t a work one.

Then a couple of weeks later, as 2010 went into 2011, Nik was cleaning our flock of eight hens out and he spotted another poorly bird. Another week of the very same treatment resulted in the very same outcome. And while the second patient was noticeably and visibly more distressed than the first, she seemed to recover well.



We thought we’d tracked down the problem. One hen in particular seemed to be pecking out beakfuls of feathers from her seven sisters, so we kept a closely-monitoring eye on the group and although still a matter of concern, once we’d put new wood chippings into the compound, the problem was less pronounced.

The reason why? We think they were alleviating boredom by pecking at each other; the new chippings gave them plenty of material to scratch and turn over. You only had to look at how much enjoyment they were getting from dustbathing once we’d turned the mud over to reveal dry earth, ready for the chippings to go down.

We thought all was well. We obviously thought too soon. Imagine our surprise when on Monday morning, I found Gabby (so-called because her left eye was smaller than the right one due to an encroaching eyelid) standing out on the chippings shivering, and puffed up just like Barbara was when she was poorly.

Recoiled into herself, Gabby showed little sign of wanting to do anything, and had not gone into the house the night before. We suspect now that it was due to a lack of energy, and although her rear end was a little, shall we say, messy, it showed no sign of a prolapse. So again, the cat kennel was called into service as a chicken isolation ward and we left the poorly hen for the afternoon.

After I’d been out doing the routine weekly cleaning of the compound in the afternoon, Gabby wasn’t looking well at all. Barely responding to my touch, her head was hanging low, she was hunkered down, puffed out, and hadn’t eaten a thing. With colour drained from her comb, face, and wattles, she was definitely slowly but surely dying.

We left her alone until the others had gone to bed, and then removed her gently empty sleeping carcass and, with nothing else to do, wrapped her in two bin bags and placed her gently into the refuse bin. Sudden yes, but probably all the better for it. She arrived last March with two more Rhode Rangers in our second batch of hens, and so sadly wasn’t even a year old when she died.

And, although it was only her misshapen and distorted eye and her honking noise (she never clucked and probably thought she was a goose) that endeared her to us, we were disappointed that it was her who happened to be the one who was chosen to go to the big henhouse in the sky. Silly, a chicken should be just a chicken after all, but some, occasionally, are a little more than that.

We haven’t been to watch a film at the cinema for over two years. Why? We don’t really know, as there have been films we’ve wanted to see after all, so there’s no real reason for our non-attendance. But, Thursday night saw us at the Odeon in Chelmsford to watch the five-star reviewed The King’s Speech.

There with three other members of my Starfish Project stammering recovery group and their other halves, we didn’t really know what to expect from a two-hour film depicting King George VI’s struggle with his stammer, played out against a subtle backdrop of the abdication of his brother Edward VIII (who was to marry Wallis Simpson), the ensuing accelerated ascension to the throne, and the outbreak of World War II.

What we got was certainly deserving of the much-praised five-star reviews in the press; a brilliantly honest, and, at times, emotionally touching account of ‘Bertie’s’ stammer and how he overcame it with Australian ‘speech defect’ specialist Lionel Logue. Tom Hooper’s film starts with George VI reluctantly and uncomfortably addressing the 1925 Empire Exhibition at Wembley Stadium, and chronicles his and Logue’s journey, resulting in his 1939 three-page radio speech declaring the start of World War II.

What’s interesting is the close friendship that the two men developed. Through a mixture of honesty and trust (much like that of a speech therapist and a patient), the viewer sees them go through ups and downs, and scenes both hilarious and hysterical, all accurate portrayals of how nearly all stammerers feel during the varying degrees of their recovery.

A stellar cast certainly helps the film tells its story. Colin Firth is breathtakingly accurate in his portrayal of ‘Bertie’, while Geoffrey Rush plays the part of the understanding Logue brilliantly. Helena Bonham-Carter is the ever-supportive Duchess of York (later the Queen Mother), while a supporting cast of Guy Pearce (Edward VIII), Michael Gambon (George V) and Timothy Spall (Winston Churchill) make sure that all the pivotal characters play their part.

With beautiful cinematography depicting a 1930s London, the film’s script was reportedly updated after the discovery of some of Logue’s original notes. Years in the making due to the late Queen Mother’s apprehension about its release, it’s one of the best films I think I’ve ever seen. And while that may in part be down to personal reasons, The King’s Speech shouldn’t be overlooked. To enchant an audience with what could be a particularly difficult or dry subject for two hours is something both truly special and inspirational.

So, at around 08.30 on Sunday morning we started our uneventful zizz up the A12, and prayed that the weather stayed dry, as a walk around the Benacre Estate was in the offing. We were rewarded with clear-ish skies, and so after an egg and muffin arrival breakfast we pulled on our best wellies, gloves and hats, and set about our stomp through the grassy meadows, tree-lined and leaf-covered avenues, and damp back roads. Out for an hour and 40 minutes, we all certainly felt like we’d done more than a fair distance.

It was back to Bart’s apartment for tea, homemade ginger biscuits and presents, although the man himself took himself to bed. During the walk, he started to feel quite nauseous and unwell, and as we suspected, he hadn’t quite avoided Ean’s bug and it developed at an accelerative pace during the afternoon. So, only five of us ate the Tasty Fish Bake mum had found in one of Mr Oliver’s books, and went to a large and indulgent selection of cheeses followed by a game of cards. And as the darkness grew ever darker, we said our goodbyes and wended our way home.

As is usually the case, we’ve had somewhat of a social festive season, what with Andrew and Sheila’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Bart’s for Boxing Day, and Geoff’s for a buffet lunch on the 27th. Then there was Andrew, Sheila and Viv at ours on the 29th and my 37th birthday yesterday, New Year’s Eve. Creatures of habit, we spent that as we usually do, with warmed camembert, French bread and the cat, all on the rug on the lounge floor; a sort of an indoor picnic if you like. We’ve still got a couple of social gatherings to go before work calls us back on Tuesday, but by then we should hopefully be refreshed and ready.

My name is Richard Gooding and I am a marginal speeder. I wasn’t until the first week of November, but a lapse in concentration or just plain ignorance resulted in a speeding ticket landing on the doormat. What was the damage? A £60 fine and 3 penalty points or a National Speed Awareness course for £82 and no points on my licence. You can guess which option I took, although it wasn’t without some deliberation. But, when it comes down to it, £22 seemed a fair price to pay to avoid any endorsements. And all for going 35mph in a 30mph zone, on a country road, where I don’t remember either a camera or a warning sign.

So, the day before Christmas Eve, I found myself driving up the A12 from Essex to Suffolk (courses are usually offered in the county of prosecution) to an industrial unit in Ipswich, and to the four-hour class run by AA DriveTech, a specialist driver training division. There were 18 of us, with over half the class over 45 years of age plus; the instructor informed us that the average age of attendees on the courses was 40, and with up to three courses a day, over 60 people are retrained in the laws of the road daily. Why no young people? They choose to speed apparently, and so aren’t offered the educational alternative that National Speed Awareness courses offer.

The statitstics gave food for thought. Motorways are the safest roads of all, with 55% of drivers accelerating past the limit, while the majority of accidents happen on urban roads; 69% of drivers speed in towns and cities. A speed camera costs a local authority £23,000 to install, and while Suffolk is one of the lowest camera-populated counties (with eight currently in use), I think I was caught by one of the numerous mobile sites. But by far the most shocking figure was that it costs over £1 million pounds to administer just ONE death on the road, and as there were 2222 fatal casualties last year, the money spent soon adds up.

A theory session only, attendees must ‘pass’ the course (though no proof is given), and ‘actively participate’, so there are plenty of ways to interact, from speaking, to watching videos, to voting on multiple-choice questions with handsets straight from the set of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Basically a PowerPoint-powered refresher of Highway Code information, the courses certainly serve a purpose, and the videos showing changes in braking distances and what happens in a multiple pile-up graphically illustrate what effects even small increases in speed can have on potential accidents. Proof if proof were needed that speed does indeed kill.

Happy Christmas! I’d like to extend season’s greetings to all the loyal readers of goodrichard.com and thank you for your ongoing support. I hope you have both a fun-filled and restful festive break as well as a healthy and prosperous 2011.

No news is good news, or at least that’s how the saying goes. Look at the date of the last post here, around three weeks ago. The reason? Apart from the usual suspects of a busy and full life, I’ve become addicted to Twitter. I opened an account for PoloDriver.com a few months ago and primarily use it to send post headlines to the social site automatically. This then hopefully encourages readers to go to the site to read the latest updates.

All very clever, but I’d resisted the temptation to open a personal account as I thought it was just yet another thing to update and read, and what with numerous daily RSS feeds from other websites, Facebook updates and the never-ending pile of reading matter at home, there just simply aren’t enough hours in the day.

Until now, that is. No, I haven’t managed to bend the rules of science and make my days longer, but I have found that I can integrate Twitter into my daily jobs list with literally no effort. As with other ‘news’ and update sources, I pick and mix what I want to read, but already it’s proved useful, enabling me to download music tracks from my favourite artists and find stories for the Polo website.



Of course, you have to have a smartphone to use it, and the availability of Nik’s first-generation iPhone was timely. At the moment, I think the novelty is still there, and I can’t wait to see what everyone’s been up to, and what my favourite pop stars and car magazine writers are up to. A late adopter, yes, but as a way of ‘mini-blogging’, it’s brilliant, and allows you to connect to friends without the sometimes overly-intrusive nature of Facebook.

I’ve still got to learn about ‘retweeting’, replying and other such essential tools for would-be tweeters, but I’m getting there, slowly. And although my number of followers is small (PoloDriver has more), I’m hoping that in time, they’ll grow. Catch me at www.twitter.com/gooding2shoes and if you’re interested in all things Volkswagen Polo, follow the PoloDriver feed at www.twitter.com/polodrivercom

Nothing unusual in that maybe, but they were very friendly, and would nuzzle your hand if you put it close enough to the large-holed wire fence. Some of the males (the bucks) were getting their antlers for the rutting season, while some of the babies were very small, suggesting they were only born this year. Their spotty backs and almost ginger colouring contrasted well with the low-hanging sun-filled and cloudless sky, while the dewy grass sparkled a near-lime green.

A 500-acre, 700 year-old open space of lakes, parkland and tree-lined avenues, Weald Country Park is just west of Brentwood (we explored the nearby High Street post-park) and is the largest of the Essex County Council parks. It was landscaped in the 18th century by Capability Brown, for the then lord of the manor, Hugh Smith. His grand house, Weald Hall, once stood in the park, but was demolished in 1950-51, due to war damage. There’s still lots of nature-inspired things to see, though, and we left a good deal of it to explore next time.

It’s not often we stay over at mum’s but this weekend we did just that. It’s not often we go to the ballet either; yesterday’s evening at the Theatre Royal in Norwich was the second time in six months – we hadn’t even watched one before May’s night in London at the Royal Opera House. But, to get us in the mood for Christmas (in early November), mum and Bart invited us to a performance of one of their favourites, The Nutcracker, performed by Northern Ballet.

Basically the story of a little girl whose Nutcracker doll comes to life (and conveniently turns into a Prince), the tale tells of their adventures in icy, wintry lands where snowflakes and Sugar Plum Fairies dance and toys come to life. Performed to Tchaikovsky’s specially-written score, you know more musical pieces from it than you think you do, and as the Northern Ballet Sinfonia were under the stage in Norwich, you forgot you were actually hearing the music played live.

Northern Ballet’s performance of the traditional Christmas ballet was a blaze of colour, and the Theatre Royal lent itself well to such a showing. The costumes were lavish, the backdrops and set pieces charming, and the production well-paced. But, we’ve come to realise that the second half of any ballet is really just to let the prima ballerina have her (more than one) chance in the spotlight, pirouetting time after time, exiting and then entering the stage again and again, adding nothing to the story at all. Still enjoyable, though.

This morning, we headed over to Bart’s apartment on the Benacre Estate for an egg and muffin breakfast. We provided the eggs, while mum and Bart gave us company and post-eating, we all went for a walk through the leafy lanes and sheep-filled fields that make up the 6700-acre Suffolk estate. The 18th century-style rebuilt Benacre Hall stands as the imposing centrepiece of the estate, while surrounding stables and ex-groom houses lend themselves as perfect, getaway-from-it-all apartments in lavish and quiet grounds.

A traditional mixed farming estate situated on the Suffolk Heritage Coast between Lowestoft and Southwold, the majority of the Bencare Estate lies within an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and has just over 3 miles of eastern coastline. It’s a haven for wildlife, and during our brief visit, we not only saw endless sheep and pheasants, but also a herd of jumping Fallow Deer, along with a solitary Muntjac. You wouldn’t believe that you can see that much wildlife literally a stone’s throw from the main A12 Lowestoft to London trunk road, but for part-time townies like us, it helped make the weekend.