Three generations, one Tudor manor and some light trauma: a multi-generational break in Somerset | Somerset holidays
RThe last time my family, by which I mean my father and sister, lived in a house together, Tony Blair was Prime Minister and my most pressing concern was the effectiveness of the dry shampoo. Over time, we picked up family members—two new men, four new kids, some mild traumas—and it was decided that we should all go somewhere to celebrate, in part, our survival. “Two weeks?” My mom suggested. “Nice day trip?” I answered. “One week?” I tried, an entire WhatsApp group littered with discussion, “In France?” Finally, we agreed on a long weekend, in Portishead.
It’s not exactly the town of Portishead that the M4 draws us towards Bristol, instead it is a house. Court House Farm is a Grade II listed Tudor Manor House recently refurbished by its new owners, who have added an ornamental and flower garden and, in a neat barn, a small hot tub. It sleeps up to 14 — sometimes they host art retreats, other times they hire the space for weddings, and the rest of the time they rent it out on sets like ours, a Motley Fool family already squabbling over what to take to tea.
We drive past a field of flowers, sweet peas and Dahlias and roses, and as we enter the house through the back door, it opens like a book before us. The kitchen is to the right, with inset windows looking down from the bedroom levels above and to the side is a double-height sitting room hung with tapestries, a stove, music and wooden books. Behind the kitchen, a den for the children, their coloring and khalees, then a wide staircase leads to five bedrooms, one hidden in a turret, another with a very small en-suite bathroom made of pale wood. All around velvety and light, with vintage kitsch, and nice little touches that my mother appreciates and we tell the kids not to break it.
You imagine, when planning a vacation like this, that it will be a time of revelation and deep conversation. Maybe some warm tears. Instead, I’m obsessed with my right foot. I have an inhaler and for all the intelligent discussion about the news and loud appreciation of the kids (the youngest of three, the oldest of 10), I turn most discussions to the black dot in the center of my insole. My family goes on – they are in the garden, the luxurious fig tree, wide and perfect and surrounded by tall grasses and flowers – but I intrude with reminders of my pain. I’m harping along, however.
The High Street is at the bottom of the drive and my mum and I pop into their very good charity shops, visiting The Butcher and (my favourite) the middle aisle of Aldi for supplies. The meal we cook here differs from home only in luxury and performance, the thrill of a strange cuisine and the pleasure of children in each other’s company. They share beds, get up skidding and tangling, and debate the hot tub experience and whether Sweetpeas are edible.
There are good tracks nearby, hills, woodland, nature reserves and coastal paths, some with views of the Welsh Hills, but we’re outdone by the kids, who lead us to the marina. That’s the thing about a three-generational vacation, I quickly realize—it’s completely governed by the whims and appetites of its youngest guests. We eat fish and chips and look for a purpose-built pontoon before returning home and setting the long table outside for tea. Some of us are napping on the grass, others are reading by the fire, the kids are bickering, but overall, it’s like straight out of old novels. We congratulate ourselves every hour on how successful we are.
It’s not that my family doesn’t see a lot of each other—in adulthood, my sister has returned to roughly where we grew up—but for an hour or two at a time, it’s never the same. , the days stripped of time, where cousins could share bedrooms and adults could share breakfast. We line up for family photos next to an extravagant silver mirror, eat chocolate and play CDs. Then we all take our familiar roles – my mum and partner cook, my sister and her husband choir The Kids, my dad sings on a book, and I tap my feet. It’s one of those nagging pains that you completely forget about until you take a step, then the pain swells intensely through your body and becomes loud at anyone nearby, and then you completely forget about it again.
And so the weekend passes, three generations of packages, mingling like pals in a house big enough to contain all our love and irritation, and flowers that smell of honey. It’s less of a holiday of activity, of exploration, and more of a process of keeping experimental time and wine…but for all the laughter and small pleasures, the best moment I think is when we’re about to leave.
My mom has a memory — not of us being kids, screaming and mirroring our kids in the ping-pong barn, not of my sister’s mini-wedding (which we agree, it was lovely here) or the holidays. , but from how to remove the splinter. She makes a little bath in a piece of Tupperware—hot water and salt—and I playfully lower my foot into it. We recline in the den. Around us are children tidying up their pens and men milling about maintaining the car. My feet feel vaguely pampered with attention and I enjoy the excuse of not crowding the dishwasher. “Just a minute more,” my mom says, every time I start to sit up. “One more second.” The water cools just as the kids are strapped into their car seats, and I cautiously lift my feet into the air. With two thumbs, I gently press on the swelling, the lightest touch and the towel – 2 cm from the floor plate is pale, elegantly rising from the skin. The adults run to the den in our ecstatic cries. It’s unbelievable. I mean, it’s an incredible vacation.
Tudor Manor from Court House Farm sleeps up to 14, from £321 per night; Kiphideaways.com
