After doing the house and formal gardens we arrived at the National Trust tea room at ten to one. The rather large room was bustling, every table filled with its quota of pensioners. Ahead of us in the slow-moving queue were the only two people younger than 50. He was in his late twenties, a hulking bespectacled fella in a Shaolin Temple sweatshirt, track suit bottoms and flip flops; she looked a few years older with auburn hair tied back in a pony tail, unfortunate teeth, a shell suit and her own flip-flops.
They were in love.
Clare said later that he looked liked someone who had never had sex in his life and had finally found a woman who would. She was a woman who had no problem being squeezed, hugged, patted, stroked and kissed in public by a bloke with the build and gait of a grizzly bear.
Our appetite was not entirely spoiled and the spiced pumpkin soup was excellent.
Formal Gardens at Dyrham Park
The author fronting a water feature
Clare and Stag
The Baroque Mansion