For goodness sake, this is going to feel like the longest drive ever, I think, shifting in the seat so he’s forced to put his hand back on the wheel.
There’s an awkward silence. I’m not good at those, they make me want to chunter aimlessly because I have to fill it, even if it’s with gibberish.
‘Do you have any other hobbies?’ I ask, knowing this conversation will keep him busy for some time. Fortunately, I’m right, Rob fills the rest of the journey with chatting about the latest rare edition of Star Trek: The Next Generation in his world-record-holding collection. I don’t think there is anything I couldn’t tell you about the entire plot and series in all its twelve-part glory.
When not talking about his Trekkie addiction, Rob mostly waxes lyrical about Richard Simms. Richard this and Richard that. They have regular evenings together playing chess. If I’m lucky, I too will be able to join them sometimes for dinner. And if I’m really lucky… even watch them play chess. Personally, I think this is a pleasure I might easily be able to do without.
I’m beginning to think that even if Rob were the last guy on earth, I’d never go out with him again, when finally, to my great relief, we drive through the beautiful countryside that surrounds Bath.
The roads are busy but we manage to drive up the hill above the city and park in a back street. It isn’t a very salubrious area, but according to the map, there isn’t far to walk to the crescent. Rob seems completely incapable of any kind of map-reading skills, so it’s over to me.
We walk along the road and round by a sort of car lot crammed with mostly smart black cars. Further on around the corner, the scene is transformed as a wonderful vista opens out onto a beautiful green surrounded by railings, in front of which stands the iconic arch of Regency housing – the Royal Crescent itself. It’s happily situated high up on a hill overlooking the whole of Bath and I stand drinking it all in. I say ‘I’ because while having my Lizzie Bennet moment gazing awestruck in front of Pemberley, I suddenly become acutely aware that I’m standing alone and, looking about me, Rob is nowhere to be seen. Though a blessing in some respects, I had sort of thought he was with me.
I look around but decide to wait where I am, thinking he’s bound to catch up soon.
After several minutes of immersing myself in the view, I become impatient. I want to go and explore the tantalising scene in front of me. Where on earth is Rob?
I turn and retrace my steps along the road, back around the corner and upon passing the car lot, I become aware that some dodgy-looking figure is skulking round in between the cars, peering in the windows. It’s Rob.
‘What are you doing?’ I call, looking about me in case someone comes along.
‘Have you ever seen so many incredible machines?’ Rob rhapsodises. ‘They’re all pretty new, Range Rover SV Autobiography, Jag XKSS, look at them all.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they’re all jolly nice, but don’t you think maybe we should move along – people will think you’re trying to steal them.’
‘I’m only looking,’ he says petulantly, like a little boy who’s been told he can’t have a sweetie before tea. ‘Anyway, I think they might all belong to someone famous, just imagine!’
‘Actually, I think they’re owned by the people who are staying at The Royal Crescent Hotel. It’s an amazing place in the middle of the Royal Crescent which is around the corner incidentally, if you were thinking we might visit it today?’
Any sarcasm is lost on Rob, he’s still lovingly stroking a sporty-looking car. I have no idea what it is, except it’s black.
‘I’m going to walk round the crescent,’ I say. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘Wait! This one has a personalised number plate PEZ 1, I might be able to work out who owns it and I can add it to my book of car number plates.’
I turn and stalk back round to the Royal Crescent, figuring that I’ll go and explore on my own if necessary. This guy’s a complete freak; he really is the limit. Perhaps being single isn’t so bad after all.
Eventually, Rob miraculously appears and practically prances along the pavement next to me, he is so enthused about the number plates. He continues to chunter aimlessly all round the crescent, seeming not to notice the amazing architecture or the view of the city.
At the door to No.1, we are greeted by a lady dressed in Regency servant’s uniform.
‘Good morning, madam, sir.’ She bobs a curtsey. ‘Welcome to number one, Royal Crescent, the home of Henry Sandford. You must be Mr Bright and Miss Johnson. Welcome, welcome! I am Mrs Rowley, here to look after your every need during your visit. Would you care for a glass of Ratafia or some sweetmeats?’
She proffers a glass of rose-coloured liquid and some yummy-looking mouthfuls, and I gladly accept as I’m always hungry, and also it has been some time since breakfast. I have often wondered what Ratafia tastes like, having heard about it in many of Georgette Heyer’s Regency romances, read in my misspent youth. It is delicious, perhaps a bit too sweet for my taste, but reminds me of mulled wine at Christmas. The sweetmeats are like little bits of candy peel and quite nice actually.
Rob takes an enormous gulp of Ratafia, pulls a face, and plonks it back down on the surprised Mrs Rowley’s tray. ‘Yuk! Haven’t you got a beer and a packet of crisps?’ He smirks, looking round at me as though he were Michael McIntyre himself.
‘Er no, sir, I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t actually know what crisps are, and beer is not generally taken by gentlefolk at this time of day.’ Mrs Rowley clings gamely to her little piece of role play.
‘I think they’re lovely,’ I say reassuringly to Mrs Rowley, who’s looking a little crestfallen. She smiles pleasantly at me and leads the way to the parlour.
‘Your visit starts here.’ She bobs a curtsey and disappears off down the corridor, her long skirts rustling behind her.
The parlour is like something in Pride and Prejudice, with a small table laid ready for breakfast, with dear little china cups and a teapot. Over the other side of the room is a beautiful wooden dresser and a chess game placed on the edge.
‘This is quite a nice little set,’ Rob gurgles, blundering across the room to investigate it.
‘Er, could sir please not touch that.’ A smartly dressed older man, who is obviously the room steward, rushes across to prevent Rob’s slimy fingers from messing about with the chess pieces.
I stand for a moment, imagining the women of the house dressed in Regency clothes, sitting at the breakfast table, watching out the window as perhaps a visitor might come to the door to leave a calling card or an invitation to a ball. The view stretches out over the green where I guess children would have been playing, their nursemaids watching over them as they bowled hoops or played ball.
My happy imaginings are rudely interrupted by Rob’s too-loud voice. ‘I’ll have you know, I’m extremely good friends with the Chess Champion for the borough of Bromsgrove and he would indeed agree with me that this set is late nineteenth century not eighteenth century.’
‘Sir, I do assure you, we have had an expert from The Bath Trust examine this chess set thoroughly and it is in fact from the eighteenth century. The charity was lucky enough to be given the set from descendants of Henry Sandford himself. If you look carefully at the portrait above the fireplace there, you will see Henry with this exact chess set. Furthermore, in his surviving papers, it is mentioned that he played with this very set with the niched horse heads.’