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Times
7 days ago
- Times
The quintessential village pub stay — in England's most underrated county
Tollard Royal is a tick list of country clichés. Embedded in the glorious greenery of the Cranborne Chase and old enough to have a Domesday Book mention, it's a collection of roses-round-the-door cottages with a village pond, a war memorial and a 13th-century church with bell-ringers. Adding to the feelgood factor is the King John, an ivy-clad Victorian coaching inn where the locals are tweed-wearing hunting, shooting, fishing types and the visitors are hoping for a glimpse of the area's most famous gamekeeper, the film director Guy Ritchie, who lives up the road. The pub was taken over and renovated by the southwest beer-maker Butcombe Brewery last year, which has brought a boutique spin to this bucolic spot. This article contains affiliate links that will earn us revenue Score 8/10In keeping with the locals' love of countryside pursuits, the eight rooms are named after makers of guns including Beretta, Purdey and Boss. Don't worry, the theme ends at the bedroom doors and interiors are cosy and peaceful. Walls are painted in mossy greens and cornflower blues or clad in creamy tongue and groove, with full-length arched metal mirrors, botanical prints and rural watercolours that are outshone by lovely views of the pub gardens and woodlands. A mix of antique and vintage furniture, bedheads covered in chintz or velvet and plenty of potted plants (though sadly plastic) brings a homely feel. There are thoughtful touches including pillow sprays and quirky bedside books. The ear plugs seem overcautious — the pub is roadside but there's barely any traffic late at night. In contrast, bathrooms feel functional rather than fancy and smaller rooms only have showers but all have full-sized, sweet-smelling toiletries by Bramley, made in nearby Semley. • Best UK pubs with rooms Score 7/10The welcome sign at the threshold refers to the 'wonderful' team. It's accurate if a little immodest because the staff are charming and ready to greet overnight guests with the offer of a complimentary pint of Butcombe beer or glass of wine or prosecco. The main salon is decorated in a stylish teal, with forest-green velvet banquettes and bistro chairs offset by a cheery red-tiled floor. The elegant sash windows ensure the room is light-filled. Dinner is a relaxed affair and, on balmy nights, happens on the terrace or in the tiered gardens, which rise up behind the car park. Starters of local asparagus and courgette, pea and watercress soup are summery and fresh, hearty mains of chalk-stream trout with tomato, olive and caper sauce and 28-day dry-aged steak with garlic butter, fat chips and roasted mushrooms leave little room for a dark chocolate brownie or lemon posset. Breakfast is equally meaty, with a loaded bacon butty, piled high with smoked streaky bacon, and a spicy shakshuka with a generous helping of flatbreads. There's a pétanque court and tables in the tiered Victorian kitchen garden that climbs up the hillside behind the pub. It's topped by a summertime pavilion bar which serves drinks, tapas and seafood platters. • More great hotels in Wiltshire Score 9/10Tollard Royal's Larmer Tree Gardens are 11 enchanting acres of grade II-listed Victorian pleasure grounds, with ancient trees, tranquil woodlands and blooming camellias, rhododendrons and hydrangeas (£4; larmer There is a beautiful walk from the pub into the Cranborne Chase, which is an area of outstanding natural beauty. The Saxon hilltop town of Shaftesbury is a short drive away with its cobbled Gold Hill, independent shops and antique emporiums. Price B&B doubles from £110Restaurant mains from £17Family-friendly YDog-friendly YAccessible Y Susan d'Arcy was a guest of Butcombe Boutique Inns (
Times
02-08-2025
- Times
My tour of England's glorious cathedrals produced a clear winner
I am not religious. I have only a passing interest in architecture. But I've always been fascinated by cathedrals: the elaborate vaults and arcades, the clash and contrast of clerestories, the stained-glass windows and ornate organs. Cathedrals possess an aura that compels us to touch their walls. They make us feel small. Cathedrals are seldom humble, often humbling. But I'd seen very few English cathedrals and little of England, my experience largely limited to European celebrities: Sagrada Familia, Notre Dame, Santa Maria del Fiore. Always up for a challenge, always a glutton for self-imposed deadlines, I decided in June last year to visit all 42 of England's Anglican cathedrals in the space of a year. I do not own a car, and trains require mortgages, so I often relied on family and friends for favours. My partner drove us three hours from our London flat to a log cabin in Ledbury, accompanied by our year-old whippet. I planned to start strong: three cathedrals in three days. Hereford felt homely, much like the city, and Gloucester hosted the most striking cloister I'd ever seen. But Worcester proved the favourite, not for the Norman crypt, certainly not for King John, but because it welcomed dogs. Our whippet pulled at the lead, dragging me past a well-behaved collie and timid dachshund, itching to reach a statue with an outstretched hand. The highlight of the trip: our usually quiet puppy, bark echoing across a silent nave, desperate to play with a marble Bishop Philpott. June, July, and August consisted of low-hanging fruit, day trips to cathedrals near London: Portsmouth, Chichester, Chelmsford, Guildford, Rochester and St Albans. All remarkable places with unremarkable cathedrals. My brother and I travelled to Salisbury to see a building that John Ruskin described as gloomy and profound. I found the exterior gloomy, the interior profound. Salisbury is full of surprises: the font, designed by William Pye in 2008, delivers streams of water over black marble, and an intricate Chapter House hosts Magna Carta. Salisbury proved an early favourite. It remained so for only six days. I visited Ely on the most crowded day of the year: the October harvest festival. Throngs of people ate toasties and bought trinkets by the truckload. A storm arrived at the nick of time, detaining me inside the great nave, where I joked with stallholders, selling farmhouse cider and autumnal reefs, about the Great British weather. Ely provided the coldest toastie and the warmest welcome. I can't remember much of the architecture, such were the joys. I had to squeeze in several cathedrals each time I ventured north. Leicester, Nottingham, and Sheffield proved vibrant and fascinating places, let down by their cathedrals. Then came Lincoln. If I ever tire of London, you'll find me in Lincoln. I climbed the Steep Hill, cheered on by hardened locals, and stumbled breathlessly upon the mighty façade. Lincoln Cathedral lends itself to romance, presenting the perfect marriage of complexity and size: it was once the world's tallest building, until its central spire collapsed during a storm in 1548. Every architectural feature seems enriched with armies of gargoyles or fields of carved foliage. Something captures your attention with every glance. The cathedral represents its city: self-assured, punching above its weight. I visited Winchester in January with bookish friends. Its cathedral commands attention: the endless nave, the soaring arcades, Gormley's sculpture in the perma-flooded crypt. We stumbled upon Jane Austen's grave, started discussing books, as we often did, and spent the rest of the day on the Austen trail, visiting her old stomping grounds. A few weeks later, I went to another great literary cathedral, the oldest cathedral in England, Canterbury, host to Chaucer's pilgrims and Edward, the Black Prince. My mum and I, after a few midday wines, stared at Becket's shrine and slurred about British history. The climax of Canterbury is its stained glass, the best I've seen: the south window seemed never-ending, showing off the most ancient glass in England. Canterbury is a marvel. My mum and I left feeling giddy, perhaps because of the wine, more likely because of the windows. Cathedrals are not designated by size, age or style. Function alone defines their status. A cathedral is the principal church of a diocese, a geographical area overseen by a bishop and distinguished by the presence of the bishop's cathedra, the Latin word for seat or throne. Cathedrals were once linked to the granting of city status, which explains why relatively small places such as Ely, Wells and Salisbury are cities, while larger places such as Reading and Northampton are not. As I ticked off the places close to home, places I'd been before, I noticed new details. St Paul's is an exercise in symmetry, an exposé of mathematical precision, a work of architectural genius. Or so I'm told. My memory of that day belongs largely to a Chinese tourist, probably mid-thirties, clinging to the rails, afraid to move near the top of the dome. She laughed nervously. She could not speak a lick of English, but managed to hold out a hand. I looked over my home town, standing proud in the jewel of its skyline, staring out at the Shard, the Tate and Thames. I'd been saving one cathedral, hoping to make it my last: Durham. The best view comes from the train. Legend dictates that John Betjeman pleaded for the stationmaster job because of that view. The cathedral watches over the city, the Wear protects the cathedral. I rushed over cobbles, heading down and climbing up, until I found its feet. The inside of Durham matches the beauty of the outside: the gigantic nave, rib-vaulted ceilings, the scale of Norman ambition. I spent two hours strolling with neck craned. You could spend a lifetime in Durham and barely scratch the sandstone. I saw the miner's memorial on my way out, two angels holding up a coal-black slate. The last colliery closed in 1993 but the memorial stands as a testament to Durham's history: the cathedral and the pits, two symbols of a stoic city. Durham challenged Lincoln but fell just short. My story does not have a happy ending. Time seemed to slip away and so far I've visited only 36 of the 42. I missed out on some apparent unsung heroes: Bradford, Carlisle, Ripon, Truro, Wakefield and Wells — a delight, so I'm told. I plan to visit them soon. It's nice to know there's always more to see. In England's Cathedrals, Simon Jenkins writes that, in the course of building, 'masons reflected the lives of the communities around them'. I found that many cathedrals represented their people: St Paul's felt prodigious, a little arrogant; Lincoln seemed self-assured and proud; Durham proved complex and stoic; and Worcester was welcoming to humans and dogs. But that sentiment felt unfair to other places: the people of Rochester, Bristol, Coventry, Newcastle and many other towns and cities, unlike their cathedrals, remain remarkable. The joy of visiting English cathedrals is visiting England, spending time with its brilliant characters.
Telegraph
26-06-2025
- General
- Telegraph
Why Harvard mistook its £16m Magna Carta for £20 knock-off
A British historian has blamed 'post-war chaos' for an original Magna Carta being mis-identified as a £20 copy. It emerged in May that a copy of Magna Carta bought by Harvard University for just $27.50 in the 1940s is actually an original worth $21 million (£16 million), according to scans. Speaking at a meeting of the Pipe Roll Society at The National Archives in London, Prof David Carpenter said the document was probably mis-catalogued by an auction house after the Second World War. 'This was just after the war, there was still a measure of chaos, someone has mis-read the date on it,' said Prof Carpenter, of King's College London. 'This is most likely how it happened.' The document, originally drafted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Cardinal Stephen Langton, in 1215 to make peace between King John and rebel barons, is credited with laying the foundations of many democracies around the world. Although the first version was annulled, it was reconfirmed in 1300 by Edward I, promising protection of church rights, limits on taxes and access to impartial justice. Four of its clauses, including a guarantee of due legal process, are still in law today. There were thought to be only six originals remaining from the final version and Harvard believed it had bought an unofficial replica at auction in 1946. Prof Carpenter was studying unofficial copies of Magna Carta when he came across the digitised version of the document on the Harvard Law School Library website and realised it might be an original document and not a copy. 'Of course, appearances can be deceptive, but the handwriting of the scribe who wrote the document was very similar,' he said. 'I immediately sent the image to my colleague Nicholas Vincent asking him: 'Is this what I think it is?'' Speaking at the same meeting, Prof Vincent, of the University of East Anglia, said: 'I told him immediately, you know what that is.' Harvard's document was in a poor condition and so the two professors needed to use spectral imaging and ultraviolet light to make the text more legible. 'It matched word for word with the other charters confirmed by King Edward in 1300,' added Prof Carpenter. Prof Vincent believes it was issued in 1300 by King Edward I to the former parliamentary borough of Appleby, in what was then Westmorland, and later fell into the hands of the local Lowther family. They passed it to slavery abolitionist Thomas Clarkson and then via his estate it ended up in the hands of Air Vice-Marshal Forster Maynard, who was a pilot in the First World War and served with the RAF in Malta in the Second World War. He then took it to London book dealers Sweet & Maxwell, who sold it on to the auction house where Harvard bought it. Prof Vincent told the meeting: 'It's an extraordinary story, the Harvard Magna Carta has an extraordinary provenance.'
New Statesman
25-06-2025
- Entertainment
- New Statesman
How not to plagiarise Geoff Dyer
I am close to a complete first draft of a book about England called Anglia, but stare with anxiety at the seemingly convincing and large pile of paper, knowing that lurking in the crisp, regular type is an unviable mix of quite funny jokes and some amazing drunkenly typed rubbish. In order to avoid facing this problem I keep writing more stuff to dilute the terrible stuff. I fear that, in actuality, I am maintaining about the same ratio. The basis for the project was that I could not write a book about Britain from the Middle Ages onwards, as I had for Germany and elsewhere in earlier books, because too much of the story is already well known and so often parodied. I also had to restrict the book to England, as I could only deal with Scotland, Wales and Ireland in such a cursory way as to be offensive. My heart sank at having to write about people like King John. But then I remembered a family story: my mother's grandmother was, as a little girl, present at the hanging of the 'Rugeley Poisoner' in Stafford in 1856. I realised I could start there and make a more detailed book that might have some unexpected information in it. Although flicking through the pile at the moment, an awful lot appears to be about Madame Blavatsky and her circle. County grounds I also thought as a basic writing discipline I should never refer to the royal family, elections or the empire, as these would take up too much space and would make me write filler guff. One further limit was that most of the book should clearly be rooted in specific counties, ideally with two stories from each county to spread the book countrywide, but chucking away some of the smaller bits and bobs (Rutland) to give their votes to London. In any event, with this series of Toytown-Ozymandian arbitrary decisions – an arbitrariness I now see as having deep and lasting roots in English history – I am sitting next to a pile of paper covered with words of variable quality wondering when my life took this wrong turn. Avoiding all Homework I happily had spent some three years writing and researching Anglia, inwardly smiling at some of its little bits of humour, when disaster struck. In May, Geoff Dyer published Homework, his memoir of growing up in England only about five years before I grew up in England. There is no writer I admire more and I felt suddenly that what had been my own rather special England-evoking project was now something like a trodden-on Thunderbird 5 toy facing off against a real-life Death Star. We even both grew up in spa towns and both (I assume) have access to very similar healing-waters jokes. Obviously I could not read Homework. I am drawn into the tractor beam of Dyer's prose style anyway and need to keep well away. And, worse, I saw a headline for a review of Homework that mentioned the word Airfix. I had planned to write about my Airfix model of the Nazi battleship Tirpitz, jokily saying how after hours of flailing effort with knife and glue to stick together my shambolic Tirpitz, it indeed now looked like the real thing, but in the aftermath of the RAF's legendary Operation Catechism. But what if Dyer had made the same joke and I was accused of plagiarism? In order to avoid reading his book I now had to cross out my Operation Catechism joke. The way we Wear Throughout researching Anglia there have been several points where I have found myself having to watch yet again Sunderland on Film, a DVD of documentary clips from the North East Film Archive that span from 1904 to Sunderland's 1973 FA Cup triumph over Leeds. Only an hour long, it has much of the impact of a great realist novel – the faces, clothes, gestures, hard work. The earliest films included as many people on the streets as possible, grinning and waving, as they would subsequently pay to see themselves projected on a screen. A wedding, a grand shop, a skittering horse-and-cart, two men waltzing, Great War commemorations, the Pyrex factory, an astounding scene of men blowing glass to make scientific instruments. The climax of 1973, with all shops shut and the streets empty for the final, had one shop sign stating: 'As a mark of sympathy towards Messrs Bremner, Giles & Company, this shop will be closed at 2pm on Saturday, May 5th.' The editing of the film is sort of a miracle, with shots of the game entangled with crowds watching televisions in shop windows, on a cinema screen, in someone's home, with close-ups of faces distorted and crying with tension. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe It is probably good that we are largely sheltered from watching such material – it is simply too nihilistic, too raw, too long ago, and the viewer has to sit there knowing that much of what made Sunderland great was about to be swept away. [See also: Is Thomas Skinner the future of the right?] Related
The Hill
22-06-2025
- Politics
- The Hill
Good news: We've already been king-free for 810 years. But there's also bad news.
Resistance to tyranny, suspicion of concentrated power, and a firm belief in the democratic ideals that birthed this republic. It's a noble struggle. But for all their passion and theatrical flair, the historical literacy behind the 'No Kings Since 1776' slogan leaves much to be desired. In fact, the protestors missed the mark by several centuries. Yes, the U.S. declared independence from the British Crown in 1776. But the kind of 'king' these protesters seem to fear had already ceased to exist in Britain long before that. By the time George III ascended the throne, British kings were largely figureheads, bound by constitutional limits and dependent on Parliament to govern. The Glorious Revolution of 1688 had already drastically curtailed the powers of the monarchy. And indeed, if you want to pinpoint when monarchs lost their teeth, you need to look even further back, to 1215, when rebellious English barons forced King John to sign the Magna Carta. That document didn't create democracy, but it did begin a centuries-long process of transferring power away from the crown and into the hands of parliaments and assemblies. So, by the time the American colonies revolted, they were not really rising up against a tyrannical king, but against an unresponsive and overreaching Parliament. The rallying cry of the American Revolution — 'No taxation without representation' — wasn't an anti-monarchist slogan. It was an anti-parliamentarian slogan. The colonists didn't object to authority per se — they objected to being taxed and ruled by a body in which they had no voice. And they weren't demanding the abolition of kingship. They were demanding accountability, proportionality, and representation. They were asking for a seat at the table. Fast-forward to today, and that slogan might resonate more than ever. We don't live under a king, but we do live under a political system that often behaves as if it's immune to public influence. Our Congress — designed to be the voice of the people and a check on executive power — is frequently in lockstep with the president, regardless of which party is in office. Whether through partisan loyalty or political cowardice, our legislators often abdicate their role as a balancing force. They don't deliberate. They defer. They don't question. They rubber-stamp. The real issue isn't kingship but representation. And in the absence of real legislative independence, the presidency has become more monarchical than anything George III ever imagined. And this didn't start in 2025 or even in 2017. Every American president in modern history has wielded powers the British monarch couldn't have dreamed of: Executive orders, foreign military interventions without Congressional approval, surveillance regimes, and massive influence over the national budget. If protesters truly want to challenge creeping authoritarianism, the more accurate message would be: 'No taxation without genuine representation.' That would strike at the heart of the issue. If Congress does not act independently, if it does not reflect the interests and concerns of the people, then we are not truly being represented. And if we are not being represented, then why are we funding the machine? Of course, no one is seriously proposing that Americans stop paying taxes overnight. Civil disobedience has its limits. But protest must have a point, and slogans must have meaning. A movement that aims to hold power accountable must aim at the right target. 'No Kings' is, at best, historically inaccurate, and at worst, a distraction from the deeply rooted, troubling democratic predicament in which we find ourselves. A government system that would have the Founding Fathers turning in their graves. Imagine if all that energy, creativity, and public spirit were channeled instead into a campaign to restore Congressional independence, to demand term limits, to break the iron grip of lobbyists, to push for electoral reform, or to hold legislators to account for every vote they cast. That would be a revolution worth marching for. So, to the protesters in the streets: your instincts are right. Power must be kept in check. But your history is off, and your slogan is weak. Don't fear a king who never ruled you. Fear a Congress that no longer represents you. Daniel Friedman is professor of political science at Touro University.
