The Bulldog Club            London and Britain

"Brilliant," Maggie concludes as we confirm plans for my London stay at a Bulldog Club home. Maggie calls her homes five-star B and B’s, but they are champagne and chandeliers above the ordinary. A traveler’s treasure really: an impressive, intriguing, often historic place to stay, a peek inside a stately home, and the pleasure of getting to know the natives, not innkeepers, but people who welcome a guest or two into their home.

Maggie is Maggie Jackson—she’s the innkeeper. She runs the Club, does the bookings, describes the houses, handles the money and dispenses travel advice to the member guests—all Anglophiles and dreamers welcome. London has the most choices but it’s also possible to tour most of Britain visiting Bulldog Club hosts. I’d meander from the sixteenth-century restored vicarage on the rugged cliffs of the Cornwall coast to the Cotswold manor house set in acres of gardens. Then I’d wander on up to Scotland to the seventeenth-century and dwell in manorial fashion in a country home, playing tennis on its twentieth-century court.

Now, however, I want to be in the middle of things and cloaked in peace and quiet—a big order for central London perhaps, but not for Maggie. So, I pass on the avant-garde designer’s Dockland’s penthouse even though I could breakfast overlooking the River Thames. A noble lady in a cobbled mews, flush with roses and near the Victoria and Albert Museum, has two guest rooms, but I like the idea of being the only guest. I settle on a flat near Hyde Park with its own private park. Just minutes from Marble Arch and near two tube stations, it does, indeed, sound brilliant.

The British are nothing if not discreet, so it was only after I finalize my booking does Maggie divulge the address and name of my hostess. At the end of a quiet side street, my big black cab stops at the back of a classical, four-storied, terraced house in the Regency style. It is one of a whole block of mansions—think Bath in a straight line. 

 In 1836, when these mansions were built, Hyde Park was the King’s hunting ground. The King liked the back of the houses with their terraces and demanded they be built back to front. Even Monet was inspired. A painting of his, looking across Hyde Park to this mansion block, hangs in the Rhode Island School of Design.

Converted to sumptuous flats in the 50’s, my hostess is on the garden floor. A tapestry’s rich blues and reds captivate me as I enter. It depicts an evening’s entertainment with a Lord chatting-up a Lady and others at cards under an arbor. This intriguing hall-cum-art gallery bursts into a golden yellow room of vaulted ceilings, exceptional antiques and high arching windows where the light and elegance of the Regency style reign.

A table, skirted in the same golden silk as the draperies, embellishes the pair of lovely, yet comfortable chintz sofas. Perky yellow and white marguerites (aka Paris daisies) and lush hydrangeas the color of old roses stand in Oriental cachepots. In the English manner, small collections of crystal bottles, little silver boxes and Chinese figurines cover the table tops. Out the vaulted door, the terrace, smelling of jasmine and pink Irish rose, is fitted out with chaise and glass-topped tables. An old padlock opens the iron gate to a small park, all fenced in for privacy.

Call me unworldly, but this is my first private park and I love it. I can mosey around alone at any hour—unafraid. A swath of British-green grass, stately shade trees, foxgloves and English roses embellish my wanderings. Discreetly, I rubberneck at the neighboring mansions. The only people I meet are the gardener and an underfed-looking woman who rather ineffectually requests her King Charles spaniel to refrain from growling at me—but I’m still not afraid.

My park also mutes the sound of the city. So—and this is a London first—I sleep the sleep of the just, my windows open to the soft cadence of crickets. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I am stashed away under vaulted ceilings and nestled in with a white appliquéd duvet with pillows galore. I devour the gobs of books and pamphlets on London. A private phone, hairdryer, coffee maker and mineral water are at my service. My bath features a humongous English tub fitted out with milled soaps, herbal bath oils, and a dinner-plate-sized shower. Warmed towels are close at hand.

A polished silver tea service and cupid-encircled napkin ring are the trappings of my breakfast. I slather definitely-tastier-than-home English butter and marmalade on my toast while studying the family photos, attempting to piece together the relationships. The Times of London is presented daily with my breakfast so I skim the news and devour the theater reviews.

Actually, my hostess is a far better and decidedly more charming source on the local scene. With a real eye for and interest in art, gallery openings and exhibits are her forte. Although current theater, restaurants from "cheap and cheerful" to "you should have booked last month," and where to shop for just about anything are well within her realm; as is the more prosaic, but indispensable, best way to get from here to there. I absolutely enjoyed our chats, gaining glimpses of her interesting life, comparing notes on Sardinia in the 60’s—and, not incidentally, seeing what this gorgeous woman would wear to the theater tonight.

Myself, I went to the theater last night—dressed rather plainly, I’m afraid—and laughed my way through Art. Tonight, dressed to the nines in my jeans, I shall stroll leisurely around my park.  

Kate Crawford         September 2001

LINKS WITH ATTITUDE

Here's the Bulldog Club's web site so you can contact Maggie.

To brush up on your history, try the history section of the BBC site and you can check the London weather while you're there.

I was just love wandering around the British Museum.