Bleak House II

The day continued with the weird sayings of Lee of Bleak House. He continues to rush round without a pause, taking orders for breakfast as quickly as possible, but he has no working memory, and without a written memo he kept forgetting and mixing up everyone's orders, coming back half a dozen times to remind himself of what we wanted, then bringing the wrong food in. One lady said we should just order everything, and leave what we don't want. Another guest said she didn't like to see food wasted, but the first said, with so many wrong orders, it was all being wasted anyway. Another man said he was going to buy Lee a notebook, but thought he'd forget to use it or lose it.

Yesterday, I'd said to Ann how fantastic Dickens' must have been to imagine such a vast range of iconic characters. The rest of us just write our own dull stories to greater or lesser acclaim, but he generated his stories from the wild world of his fantasy, and that made him unique. But today, I realised why he loved Kent. This county is filled with weird characters that make Lee seem tame.

The Tartar Frigate has a landlady who shouts loudly at her visitors: "Sit down! What do you want! We don't have it!" But when she brings the plates, she talks softly to them as she sets them down, "There, my beauty, you sit here," and strokes them lovingly. The hotel owner is as crooked as Bill Sykes.  He runs a jewellers in which he passed off imitation costume jewellery as solid gold, but was discovered when it turned a customer's fingers green. He sold a fake Rolex watch to someone who'd won the lottery, and that was discovered when they went swimming and the watch leaked. He seems to have got away with these crimes, but has also been charged with more violent crimes, and was found not-guilty on a murder charge. So possibly, Dickens' had no more imagination than the rest of us. All he did was describe everyday life as he walked the streets of Kent.

Bleak House

We are staying at Bleak House in Broadstairs, after stopping via the Leather Bottle at Cobham – an ancient inn also used by Dickens, with many of his memorabilia including a strand of his hair and his chair. It features in the Pickwick Papers – but this is not a distinguishing feature, as so many pubs in England seem to share this touch of fame.

Ann outside the Leather Bottle

Bleak House was Dickens' home for many years, with rooms named after his characters.  Last time, we had Fagan, but this time we have moved upmarket with the Copperfield Bridal Suite – a glorious, large airy room with full dressing room, en-suite  bathroom with bath big enough to swim in, and a balcony overlooking the tiny harbour and the town.

On the balcony at Bleak House

Dickens' Study at Bleak House

Dickens' study – where he wrote David Copperfield, overlooking the wild North Sea and the treacherous Goodwin sands – is open to visitors, and wonderfully atmospheric, for folk who enjoy treading the nostalgic path of history. The place is run by Lee, a gaunt, wiry old man with thin round glasses and a grizzly grey beard, who sleeps in whatever room is vacant, or – as last night – the bar when the hotel is full, which he seems quite happy with. He wears a thin flowery top that makes him look as though he rushed to get up and is still in pyjamas. He appears to do everything: receptionist, porter, barman, waiter, carpark attendant, and even chef and room cleaner if other people don't turn up. One guest said, "weren't you on duty last night?" He said, "no that was my identical twin brother!"  Tonight he said, "I've only had two cigarettes today. I'll just run out to get another pack. He reminds me in appearance and manner of my brother, Peter, except that Peter would roll his own, and use his special tobacco.

Last evening, I dozed on the bed after driving down, to be woken by a shouting match. Ann had already left the room to deal with it, telling the woman her husband has cancer and was sleeping, and she did not expect staff disputes to waken the guests. This morning, the factotum came into the breakfast room with fulsome apologies, kissing Ann's hand and clasping mine, appologising for the behaviour of his manager, who had been shouting at him for some minor thing. He said he had told her before about unprofessional behaviour in the hearing of the guests. Then he brought us a first class breakfast, before having to step over his bed behind the locked bar for a pint of coke for another guest's breakfast. Kent has always been a little quirky.