The old rectory: escape to a country kitchen 
About the Author:
Julia Ibbotson is the award-winning author of The Old Rectory: Escape to a Country Kitchen, first published to acclaim in the USA and now re-launched with a brand-new cover by her new English publisher in the UK. Julia has been writing creatively all her life (unpublished!) but her day jobs to pay the mortgage have been as a school teacher and latterly a university academic, gaining her PhD at the age of 57. She delights in being a wife and mother to four, with four little grandchildren. She loves reading, gardening, growing food, cooking for family and friends and country life. Having published many academic texts and papers, she came late to actually publishing her creative writing, at the age of 60 plus, when she was persuaded to write the story of the renovation of her Victorian rectory in The Old Rectory. She has combined memoir, history, research, story and recipes in this first published book, which has won a number of international book festivals in the biography category, gained 5 star reviews on Amazon, and has been widely featured (along with her house) in the media. She has begun to delve into the world of blogging, facebook and now has her own website at www.juliaibbotson.com at which she also posts blogs regularly, about writing, life and her passions. Her new project is a trilogy of novels following the life story of a new character, Jess, through from fleeing to West Africa as a volunteer teacher/nurse in the 1960s to the millennium. The first of the series, Drumbeats, is due to be published later this year. You can find out more on her website and on her author page on Amazon.
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About the Book:
Author Julia Ibbotson and her husband glimpsed the old Victorian rectory on a cold January day. It was in dire need of renovation, in the midst of the English moorlands and a mile from the nearest village, but they determined to embark on a new life in the country, to make the sad neglected house glow again and to settle into the life of the small traditional village. As Julia researches the history of the house and village, supervises the renovations and cooks for family and friends, she records their journey. This real-life, award-winning account focuses on the quest to "live the dream" and, in the end, to find what is important in life. As the book foregrounds the centrality of the kitchen as the pulse of the family and home, each chapter ends with delicious but easy recipes, both current favourites and those from the historic period unfolding within the chapter: Victorian, Edwardian, wartime and present day. Reviewers have been fulsome in their praise, including “ enchanting”, “a talented writer”, “charming story”, “delightful”, “a jewel”, “ a great writer”, “inspirational”, “truly engaging”, and “destined to become a classic”.
Purchase your copy at AMAZON.
EMBEDDING CODE FOR BOOK TRAILER:
Title: The Old Rectory: Escape to a Country Kitchen
: Julia Helene Ibbotson
Paperback: 128 pp.
Publisher: New Generation Publishing
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1909593753
ISBN-13: 978-1909593756
Purchase your copy at AMAZON.
Author Julia Ibbotson and her husband glimpsed the old Victorian rectory on a cold January day. It was in dire need of renovation, in the midst of the English moorlands and a mile from the nearest village, but they determined to embark on a new life in the country, to make the sad neglected house glow again and to settle into the life of the small traditional village. As Julia researches the history of the house and village, supervises the renovations and cooks for family and friends, she records their journey. This real-life, award-winning account focuses on the quest to "live the dream" and, in the end, to find what is important in life. As the book foregrounds the centrality of the kitchen as the pulse of the family and home, each chapter ends with delicious but easy recipes, both current favourites and those from the historic period unfolding within the chapter: Victorian, Edwardian, wartime and present day. Reviewers have been fulsome in their praise, including “ enchanting”, “a talented writer”, “charming story”, “delightful”, “a jewel”, “ a great writer”, “inspirational”, “truly engaging”, and “destined to become a classic”.
FIRST CHAPTER:
Winter: A Country Dream
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lamb Shanks Braised in Mint Gravy
Hot Oranges in Vanilla Caramel Syrup
Scrumptious Sticky Toffee Pud
Apple and Blackberry Crumble
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We first saw the rectory on a cold day at the end of January. Our car
bumped down the rough, broken drive, a long-overgrown farm track.
On either side of the track, wild branches shook themselves angrily in
the wind that howled around the car. It was a bitter Sunday afternoon,
and the old beech trees along the side of the cracked and patched
tarmac stood resolutely against the grey sky. Even the birds had fallen
silent, the only sounds those of branches snapping under the car tyres
and stones flirting from the wheels.
At last, we saw it in front of us, emerging from the tall trees that
surrounded it: the house, white with black timbers, seeming to shiver
before us at the end of the farm track. It had a desolate but imposing
beauty, and it stood proudly behind its big iron gate, a wide and
sweeping gravel drive before its pitched roofed porch and white front
door. The trees that surrounded it were stark and brittle, like witches’
fingers laced cruelly with the hoar frost of winter, a vision before us as
our car jarred into potholes and rocks as we headed towards our
appointment with the vendors.
My husband and I had already sold our current house, where we
had lived for twelve years, in the expectation of being in the best
position to find the place where we wanted to stay for the foreseeable
future. A second marriage for both of us, we had four grown-up
children between us who had flown the nest and were now (relatively)
independent from us. At least, they were all living with
husbands/partners away from home, two of the daughters with little
children, our fabulous grandchildren, and we were free now as a
couple to make decisions about where we wanted to live for the rest of
our lives. We had always wanted a house with character and with land
so that we could extend or make room for a decent-sized vegetable
garden. Or, indeed, whatever we might fancy doing!
We had put our current big “family house” on the market before
Christmas, knowing (we thought confidently) that nobody in England
even started house-hunting until well after the New Year, maybe
February at the earliest. But we would be ready for them. The form
filling would be done, the estate agent and the solicitor briefed and
ready to go.
Unfortunately, it didn’t quite go according to plan. We sold our
detached modern home more quickly than we had ever imagined; in
fact, the very first couple who came to view it phoned through an offer
straight away. They were retired farmers from the next village and
knew the house and environs well, so there was no mulling over of
facilities and local services to be had.
Of course, that meant that we were in a position where we needed
to find the right house to buy or risk homelessness.
Our home at the time when we saw the rectory had been improved
over the years we had lived there. We had added a conservatory,
which I loved, as it almost made me feel as if I were in the garden.
The kitchen and laundry room were equipped with quite expensive (it
seemed to us) medium oak units, both attractive and functional for
someone like me who enjoys cooking but, with a demanding full-time
job, had little time to do it. The garden, albeit small, had been
beautifully landscaped, with rockeries, steps, gravel paths, and a stone
waterfall splashing into a fish pond. It was a calming and relaxing
place to potter in, and I loved it. I spent many hours (when I had a
vacation at home, “a staycation” as we now call it after the financial
collapse of 2009) reading or – yes, I admit it – working beside the
pond, soothed by the gentle sounds of the waterfall.
We lived in a large old village. Although it had a long history as a
rural community, the village had been developed over the years and
now had three or four small new housing complexes. The time had
come when we felt that we had done all we could to make the house
the home we wished for, but there were still reservations about the
character of the house and its environs. It was in many respects a
commuter village, located as it was between a market town and a city.
We wanted to move to the real country, a little village, and live a rural
life, feel more a part of the changing seasons.
We also wanted a home that had a real sense of the past, which
resonated with families of long ago, living and growing in lives very
different from our own – and maybe with more simplicity and spirit
than modern life allows most of us. I wanted to be able to imagine
families of a different era sitting by that same fireside, walking in the
same garden and fields, and sense the continuity of life that represents.
I dreamed of a Georgian or Victorian house, maybe two hundred years
old, with the spirit of a bygone romantic age seeped within its stones.
Duly, we scoured the sale documents of so many totally
inappropriate properties that I lost count and became increasingly
anxious that we might not be able to either find or afford the one we
truly wanted; if we were lucky, a particular property fitted one or two
of our requirements, but it usually had glaring issues, most of them
being price. One was exciting with great potential, but its status as a
Grade 2 listed building would prevent us from making the renovations
we needed just to be able to live there in some kind of comfort. In the
UK, a Grade 2 listed building is one which is of particular historical
interest to the nation, and the owner cannot make any alterations or
even restorations without a long process of gaining permission from
the authorities.
Another property was an excellently restored cottage with beamed
ceilings, inglenook fireplace, and old French doors opening onto a
wonderful garden with mature trees, waterfalls, and a vegetable patch.
The downside was that it was right on a main road, with little or no
frontage and a tiny “drive” on the side for parking off the busy road.
Another had marvellous views of the surrounding hills but was in fact
built into a hill itself and only approached by steep steps up to the
front door.
Yet another property, this one in a lovely village right up on the
moors, allowed our hopes to rise. The village was within a fifteen minute
drive to a market town we knew and loved. Drystone walls
abounded, as did rolling hills and deep precipitous valleys, and a
charming little English village green and inn were at its centre. The
sale documents showed impressive photographs of the front of the
stone-built house, with a sweeping drive and two gates, and of the
garden, woods behind, and a stream running through.
“Wow!” I exclaimed to Husband, waving the estate agent’s sale
listings in my hand. “This one looks great. Hope at last. This could be
The One!”
But Husband seemed strangely unimpressed. He frowned.
“But it’s got a lovely large conservatory!” I cried. “And look at this
photo. There’s a beamed vaulted room that maybe we could make into
a library!”
“Mmmm,” Husband murmured. “I’ll search Google Earth and
investigate that road; I don’t like the look of it. It looks like it runs
immediately in front of the property.”
Of course, it did. And not only that, but the house was on a corner,
surrounded by roads on three sides, busy ones at that.
“Well … the stream and the woods and the garden … It looks so
peaceful,” I pleaded. “Let’s just go and have a look!”
Husband humoured me by going up there one morning and sitting
in the pub across the road from the house, counting and recording all
the traffic that passed. Apparently, there was a quarry farther down the
lane, would you believe, and heavy lorries laden with sandstone
passed at the rate of one every three minutes (he timed them all), most
of them grinding gears at the corner right outside the house before
turning onto the main road through the village. If they turned left, they
then drove past the two other sides of the house and garden. On his
return, Husband searched the Internet for the website for the quarry
and, horrors of horrors, found that there were planning applications to
extend the quarrying even closer to the village, just down the lane
from the house on the corner. Another hope bit the dust, or rather the
sandstone.
Time was running out, and our buyers declared that they wanted to
move in by the end of March. It was now the end of January, and we
had nothing to move into, not even any shortlist of possible properties.
Nothing was right. We wanted a house we could feel was The One
where we could settle. Should we put all our worldly goods into
storage and live in a rented place while we continued our search?
But that could get expensive and leaving us feeling insecure. What
if we never found the right house?
In desperation, I took to scouring the Internet property sites as well
as the brochures sent to me via mail and e-mail from the various local
estate agents. I searched everywhere I could think of. But I just
couldn’t get the picture of that village on the moors out of my mind.
One last try on one last website. And then I found it. Unbelievable.
A Victorian rectory with, the photograph showed, a sweeping drive
and a frontage to die for. What was even more incredible was that it
was located just a mile out of the village, on the moors that I had
fallen in love with …
“Jules,” Husband sighed patiently, “look at the asking price. It’s far
more than we’ve budgeted for.”
“I know, but, well, let’s just go and look at it,” I said. “There’s no
harm in that.”
“Mmmm, but that could just be our downfall,” he responded, “if
you fall in love with it and we can’t afford it. I know what you’re
like …”
“Yes, but … I have to know,” I said, “for sure … There’s just
something about it that calls out to me. It would be a dreadful mistake
to miss out on it.”
Husband reluctantly agreed to my making an appointment with the
vendors for us to view the property the following weekend.
And so it was that on a cold but crisp Sunday afternoon towards
the last days of January, we turned into the drive and first glimpsed
the rectory ahead of us, amidst tall trees, some way down the
driveway from the road. As we approached the white-walled, black- timbered
house, bumping over the rough farm track, it certainly didn’t
look quite as impressive as the pictures had indicated; the walls were
peeling, and there was a huge dark wooden garage at the side. But
somehow it caught my imagination. There was so much that we could
do to the place to make it the wonderful home we wanted. I could see
myself living here, pottering in the garden, pruning the roses, pulling
the weeds from the rockery. I could imagine sitting in the large bay
window, watching the plants growing and the world going by.
The setting of the rectory was wonderful, the countryside beautiful,
even on such a winter’s day as this. The gardens had awe-inspiring
potential, laid out as they were on two levels, with wide steps and
drystone walls on either side. Large white stone urns, planted with
pruned bay trees, stood sentinel at each side of the steps and at the
front door.
I opened the car window to hear the sounds of the
countryside. Even through the gusts of wind, we could hear the
peaceful sound of running water from the streams that bordered the
property. A paddock that also belonged to the house ran right down to
the road, so there was an unimpeded view from the house to the hills
beyond. There was an intriguing-looking rock outcrop on the hills to
the side of the house beyond the gardens. Woods surrounded it. It felt
as though the whole place were in the middle of nowhere, quietly
standing strong against the wild and beautiful land that surrounded it.
Truth be told, it was not as isolated as this might suggest; there
were a couple of farms in sight of the property and another behind it.
But the feeling the rectory exuded was one of gentle independence, a
haven from the world outside.
As we drove through the large heavy gates and onto the sweeping
gravel drive, the vendors opened the front door to welcome us. They
were a friendly couple in late middle age, and as we followed them
into the hall, I noted the high ceilings, the large imposing light fittings,
the late Victorian or Edwardian carved plaster covings, and the wealth
of wood in the banisters, spindles, and panelling. It was clear from the
first sight that the interior was much in need of renovation and loving
care, but as I gazed around me, I truly felt that the house had a quiet,
contented feel about it. Perhaps this was due to its religious past as the
home of a series of rectors and vicars. Maybe their spirituality had
imprinted itself upon the very bricks and stones. I was already feeling
a desire to get in touch with the history of the house: who had lived
here before … and what were their lives like here many years ago?
The vendors took us into the drawing room with its blazing log
fire. A real fire after the gas imitation we had been living with. There
was no comparison. I wanted to collapse on the couch at the fireside
and doze away my Sunday afternoon after a busy workweek. I
imagined family and friends coming to visit, feeling welcome and
warm by the roaring fire, with happy conversation and laughter, an
antidote to the stresses of a busy professional life.
As the vendors led us round the rest of the house, I glanced at
Husband with raised eyebrows. He smiled back and nodded. Yes, I
knew that we both felt that it was what we had been looking for.
In addition, the vendors had news for us about the quarry beyond
the village. Apparently, when the quarry owners submitted the plans
for the extension right up to the village hall, they had not bargained on
vociferous and passionate opposition. After all, the quarry company
was a well-known and respected national body, the need for the
quarried sandstone was great, and their current land had exhausted
supplies. The extension, they thought, was a foregone conclusion with
all the financing and might of this multinational. But the villagers had
joined forces and embarked on a forceful campaign to prevent the
acceptance of the plans.
Aided by various villagers whose professional expertise could be
brought to bear (solicitors, lawyers, councillors, local historians,
landowners, environmentalists, and so forth; it’s a well-connected
village!), the Opposition to Quarry Extension Group researched to the
point of exhaustion, set out their opposition rationale in a clear and
indisputable fashion, and took their arguments to the local and
regional councils. We were told that the quarry owners, a large
multinational company, imagining that a small village would not be
able to muster any valid opposition to their plans for extension, failed
to even send a representative to the final meeting in the village hall.
Sadly for them, they faced defeat, as the council found for the
villagers. This was a true David and Goliath situation.
So the quarry was to close down, having exhausted the riches of
the land around it, and the owners had to be true to their original
declaration that when they had exhausted the land for quarrying, they
would redo the landscaping and make good the site as a woodland
reservation with a lake and walking trails. Inevitably, however, there
were some villagers who had welcomed the extension plans, as they
worked at the quarry. Their livelihoods were now damaged.
Much of this we learned later, when we came to know the tensions
and infighting that rose to the surface. At the time, as we looked round
the rectory, however, we were cheered by the news, and although we
would not have been personally affected by any quarry extension, as
the house was a mile out of the village, our spirits rose with the hope
that this could only improve the village environment and its
desirability. We did feel strongly about the landscape of the village; it
was certainly an area of beauty, which we wanted to be preserved.
However, nothing in the world is ever perfect, and I guess we
wouldn’t want it to be, for where would our challenges be then? As
we looked carefully and thoughtfully around the house, trying to
surreptitiously peer into what perhaps the vendors didn’t want us to
notice – the dark corners (was that dampness on the wall there? was
that mould?) … the suggestion of rotting timber (could that be
repaired without too much expense?) – I realised that Husband and I
were murmuring to each other in the register of those planning work
rather than dismissing the prospect. So many features of the house
needed work. It was going to be an enormous project.
The décor was, although chosen in a desire for authenticity to the
Victorian origins of the house, hideously dark. The rooms were
smallish, certainly compared with our current bright and spacious
modern house, and dark walls worsened the effect. Dark crimson
seemed to be the favourite in the drawing room and the hall and stairs.
There was a sickly deep yellow in the room the vendors called the
sitting room and dull beige in the room they called the dining room.
The bedrooms were jazzy, with wildly flowered wallpaper.
A rickety cupboard probably hid a multitude of sins in the corner
of the drawing room, its doors hanging off despondently. The internal
doors of the entire house, probably once a rich walnut, were now
thoroughly dried out and splitting from neglect. The galleried
staircase, which was once probably magnificent, was the same: dried
out, uncared for, and sad.
The house needed love; it cried out for care and attention. It cried
out to shine and glow again.
But it was the atmosphere of the house that drew us. The vendors
had loads of “stuff” everywhere. But in the midst of the chaos were
Victorian gems. There was a stone fireplace with a cast iron woodburning
stove, a farmhouse kitchen range in the brick chimney. There
were steps on the landing to the front bedrooms, and a step down to
the bedroom at the back of the house. This was a lovely cottagey room
with its low ceiling, its tiled open fireplace and old ceiling beams, and
its window seat set into the thick stone walls. There was a little
dressing room off the main bedroom and a Juliet window and balcony
off another bedroom. The vendors had a passion for Victorian articles,
and there were delightful Victorian bisque dolls in velvet coats, hats
and muffs, and wooden handcrafted dolls houses. Potted palms and
bell cloches covered dusty plants in the parlour.
At the front of the house, at each side of the hall, in the drawing
room and the sitting room, there was a large square bay window, and
the view from there was magnificent. The house looked out onto an
upper and lower lawn with somewhat overgrown shrubberies and
borders. A farm gate at the end of the lower lawn opened out onto the
extensive paddock with huge chestnut, oak, and beech trees. All you
could see from the windows were trees, fields, hills, and a couple of
farmhouses a quarter of a mile apart across the lane. The land was
bordered with the drystone walls characteristic of the moorlands, and
there was a fast-flowing stream running over the rocks, between low
walls, along what seemed to have once been a small railway.
I have to admit that something about the house and the area
brought to mind the Lakeland fells of my youth, where we took our
holidays in the family’s seventeenth-century farmhouse and garth. We
enjoyed long, satisfying walks in the fells and round the becks of
Cumbria, drying out walking jackets by a roaring log fire in the
evening and toasting thick hunks of bread and crumpets or fruity
buttery teacakes in its heat. We’d doze into blissfully cosy sleep by
the comforting gently lapping flames, just letting the world go by at its
own pace. It seemed that all anyone needed was a healthy body, a full
stomach, and warm toes.
Flooding my mind as I gazed out the windows were memories of
making warm, soothing suppers after a long fell walk. Mmmm …
Lakeland lamb shanks in hot fresh mint gravy, one of my favourite
recipes and a staple of the Langdale area of the Lakes. Oh … and
baking hot oranges in vanilla caramel syrup (scrumptious and simple)
or sticky toffee pud, again a dish of choice in the Lakes. Relax