We went to Tatton Park. Mother suggested, if we wanted to eat, we should head for the Knutsford end. Not the Rostherne or Mere end, which is where I would live if I was a footballer. Mother had explained to Jimmy that Knutsford was famous because Elizabeth Gaskell had lived there. I was quite unnerved as we drove in to see so many places - tea shops etc - named after Cranford, which is her most famous book, but in my opinion Mary Barton is the best.
We drove into the Park - the old Park, by Tatton Mere, in my opinion one of the most beautiful places ever. I'm not expecting you to agree, it's bound up with some complex childhood memories - being forced, against my will, to go out for invigorating walks on Sunday afternoons and risk missing the Top Twenty (later, Forty) on the radio. Still, the memories are positive. And, bizarrely, I was reminded of a song I have not thought about for years Forever Autumn by The Moody Blues. Many years ago, when being anxious about missing the Top Twenty I watched a flock of migrating geese and I thought:
I watch the birds fly south across the autumn sky
And one by one they disappear.
I wish that I was flying with them
Now you're not here.
One view of the mere and that song was in my head!
We walked the length of the mere back to Knutsford. It was beautiful. And incongruous. You feel that you're in the country, strangers walking their dogs and their well-swaddled children say hello. In the distance a double-barrelled shot gun echoes around. The noise of the invisible jets leaving Ringway. Then we see one, enormous, and so low we can almost touch it with our hands, and in the next blink it's above the clouds that hang over our heads. It snows, but that's okay; by the time we get to Knutsford we're cold and hungry, and the snow has long stopped.
And we find the Portofino restaurant which has a fine setting in what appears to be an old Coaching House, and serves fine food at amazingly low (Lunchtime prices) and an excellent Chianti - just the ticket. Pavarotti sings in the background
We wander around the main street of Knutsford. I have decided that I want a pair of Fuck-Me boots. When I would ever wear black suede knee-highs with a three inch sheer stiletto, I don't know. But I desire. Jimmy suggests we go in a shoe shop. In my walking boots, and wind swept, I refuse. I'm not having some snotty Cheshire shop assistant patronising me. Jimmy obviously doesn't understand. But humours me.
We walk back along the mere, now an invigorating walk in the descending frost and declining afternoon. On the way back in the car, I ponder a question which has been unresolved nearly thirty years - what is the mere in the hamlet of Mere called?
We walk round Altrincham looking for a restaurant. there are loads of them, incidentally. I fancy one called Il Pagliacci, but, bizarrely (and somewhat reminiscent of Cuba) it is shut for the holidays. In the end we decided on Francs. We return to Mother's, and get a taxi out again. Bizarrely, the taxi-driver is Tunisian, not a nationality you expect to encounter in Altrincham.
The food in Francs was gorgeous. I had Tartelette Lorraine and Bermuda Triangle. Do not hesitate - it's some years since I've eaten there, and it was superb then, and is superb now.
