Tale guide

Ann of Africa and the bushman let loose in the English countryside

I’m not entirely certain why this happened. I mean we are supposedly a charming elderly couple which according to the Oxford English dictionary means that we are over the age of 65 as well as being chivalrous, courteous, kind, and honourable, the latter of course for those in doubt, means we are not politicians. Nor did we donate a few million pounds to an obscure Tory backbencher in return for a seat in the House of Lords.

The titles Lord and Lady of the manor first came about in medieval times following the Norman conquest. Back in 1086 the Manor of Hougun was listed in the doomsday book as an area comprising 26 townships held by the Earl of Hougun, an Anglo-Saxon Earl of Northumbria and brother of King Harold Godwinson.

Today the land forms part of the Southern Lake District in Cumbria, Northwest England.

In the not-too-distant past, we visited the Hougun estate and while we were taking a stroll through the hills surrounding the Coniston Water, the third largest of the lakes in Cumbria, we encountered a spritely elderly gentleman in a tweed suit and a matching deerstalker. He was walking a rather large angry English Mastiff he called Hadrian pronounced ‘adrian’ but about which I felt somewhat inhibited due to its rather aggressive countenance.

As we were exchanging pleasantries on that particularly hot summer’s day, ‘Adrian escaped his master’s lead. The giant Mastiff galloped off at an alarming speed in the direction of a field halfway up the hillside.

The lord shouted as the dog bolted and then began to frantically call out “Here boy, here boy. Come back Adrian. Desist at once and return to my heel now!”

Hadrian would have none of it. It fleetingly occurred to me that Hadrian didn’t like his name shortened as he was clearly determined to ignore his master’s voice. But my attention was brought back to reality with a thump when I realised that in fact the attraction was what I perceived to be a cow quietly grazing in a nearby field.

Hadrian was clearly intent on bringing down this lonely critter. A little like a how a lioness brings down a buffalo, something we’d witnessed on a few occasions in our earlier life in the African bush.

I decided to do the honourable thing and give chase. It was only after ten yards or so that I began to realise that being a septuagenarian, giving chase was easier thought than done. I lunged and stumbled my way up the hill at a rapidly diminishing speed, climbed over a wooden stile that Hadrian had cleared with meters to spare and continued to try and chase him down.

By this time the cow had heard the commotion and was standing quite still, staring at the oncoming galloping dog. It did occur to me that it was strange that the animal didn’t turn and run but my focus remained very much on catching Hadrian and bringing him under control.

Somewhat of a commotion had arisen with the continuing cries from a number of other hikers whose attention to the unfolding predicament had given rise to a gathering of onlookers.

While their calls were clearly not front of mind at that moment in time, the ruckus in the background conveyed to my peculiarly optimistic sense of reality, that they were responding to my heroic endeavour by shouting encouragement.

Most of the onlookers’ dogs also joined in the commotion as they barked and howled in unharmonious crapella at the excitement of it all.

I had made some ground and was about ten yards from gaining control of Hadrian who, in turn was getting very close to his prey when the cow turned towards us, dropped its head, snorted angrily and charged his assailant with spectacular speed. The ground shook with the impact of thundering hooves.

It was at this precise moment that I realised that I had mistaken the cow for a very large stag, and I got the instant impression that the dog had simultaneously come to a similar conclusion.

For those who may not be au fait with Cumbrian wildlife, a stag is a male Red Deer weighing in at around 500 pounds and proudly bears a pair of horns known as antlers. How I confused this magnificent steed and its well-developed antlers with a cow, the Lord only knows!

The dog and I turned in unison and I found myself briefly being chased by the mastiff as I found extra strength and determination in my stride. But that didn’t last long as the dog flew past me like a bolt out of hell and cleared the stile with amazing agility.

As I reached within a yard of the wooden steps of the stile, I was certain the stag was so close he would poke the sharp end of his antlers under my bum and toss me over the fence. I leaped forward; My foot missed the step, and I came down spreadeagled onto my crutch; I shrieked, clambered up and over, caught my right foot on the top cross beam and catapulted headfirst into the adjoining field just as the stag applied brakes in a cloud of dust behind me.

It took me an excruciating few minutes to start to regain my dignity. I lifted my head slowly, still gingerly holding my nether region.

The tweeded gentleman hadn’t moved much since I left him. He was vigorously patting Hadrian and praising him for obediently responding to his calls to return.

Some of the hikers rushed to my aid and I began to understand that their calls of encouragement were in fact calls of caution as they had been in no doubt that the stag would have made short shrift of me had I’d been caught.

What they had been saying in fact, was something along the lines of stop you bloody idiot. Its rucking time and that stag is crazy!

Eventually I raised my broken body, covered in bruises and scratches, and climbed to my feet before dragging myself back down the hill. “You mean like an elephant in musth?” I whispered enquiringly.

“Must?” came the reply, “must what?”

“Oh, forget it,” I gave up.

The tweeded gentleman was reservedly impressed by my efforts to save his beloved mastiff. He shook my hand firmly. (Note to SAFFAS - Englishmen would not be seen dead hugging or embracing like the boys back home. By their very nature, they are never overawed or become excited about anything!)

“My grateful thanks sir,” he said, “Would you and your charming wife afford me the honour of offering you a cup of tea back at the Manor where you may visit our guest privy and dust yourself down.”

We accepted the invitation as one does.

And so it was that we found ourselves in the middle of an Edwardian drawing room of a manor house in the lake district of old England, sipping from a fine bone China teacup and concentrating hard to avoid slopping down my shirt.

Once I had ‘dusted myself down’ in the privy and gingerly cushioned my still aching nether region, I rejoined Ann of Africa and the tweeded gentleman and graciously accepted the warm cup of tea.

It was at this point that the tweeded gentleman introduced himself as the Earl of Hougun and explained that under the circumstances he felt that it would be right and proper to confer the title of Lord and Lady of Hougun Manor on Ann and I in recognition for my unsolicited foolishness.

But there was a catch. He explained that in order for the titles to be entirely legitimate for general use under the laws of the United Kingdom, we would need to purchase a piece of the Hougun estate.

After listening intently to the sales pitch, as one does, we went ahead and bought five square feet of the Hougun Manor estate in Cumbria and were issued with an official certificate confirming both the lawful ownership and corresponding titles.

Of course, the very first thing I felt necessary to do was to swap my bush hat for a bowler so that I could at least prove that this is not a tall story.

I am currently in the process of changing my membership cards, credit cards, bank accounts, and social media profiles to reflect my new title.

In future I will of course be making restaurant reservations and holiday excursion bookings under the name of Lord and Lady Phillips to ensure that we are treated with the appropriate level of deference associated with one’s position in society.

I have also enrolled in a posh language school so that I can speak proper in future.

Despite all of the above somewhat dramatic changes that have occurred in the lives of Ann of Africa and the bushman, they wish to record that they have absolutely no intention of disassociating themselves from their ordinary friends-without-title. In fact, in order to assist those who may be cautiously apprehensive as to how to behave in Lady Ann’s company going forward, they have taken the liberty of confidentially outlining the desired conduct guidelines to avoid any unnecessary embarrassment.

• They must address the Lady as Ma’am pronounced as in ‘ham’. (Not marm ‘alade’)

• Children must play outside at all times.

• They must dress appropriately.

• They must not take selfies.

• They must avoid any foods that Ma’am doesn’t eat.

• They cannot go to bed before the Lady.

• They must sit in a certain way. (i.e., not like Sharon Stone.)

• They must always walk behind the Lady.

• Hugging, kissing and other gestures of affection are to be avoided, as they are not very British.

• Dogs are allowed, but must stay off the furniture and pee in the garden

Ps: Our grateful thanks to Gary, Leani, Jonathan, and Matthew for sponsoring the purchase of the land.