An OT Country Weekend:

I write this epistle as a humorous reflection on our enjoyable weekend, without dwelling too much on the tennis itself, although we were successful.

The OT's were spearheaded by the Four Musketeers - D'Artagnan Dalziel, Porthos Chawner, Athos Osmond Evans and Aramis Summerhayes.

OE had flown into Heathrow from Monaco and was suitably met by Richard and Will. A spirited journey to Canford ensued and we arrived at a local pub for lunch (OE having given the pub his seal of approval, as he had first inspected the quality of the cars in the car park). Dalziel, ever ready, and especially after a pint or two, moved into top gear and was seen pressing a sample OTRT badge firmly upon the pretty bosom of a young serving girl. "Just checking," he said. With a charming laugh she replied "I don't mind at all."

The match itself was won by the OT's with OE and Dalziel maintaining their doubles record, although Dalziel had to be prised away from the glass door of the squash court (on route to a formerly hot but laterly cold shower), as a rather pretty girl was playing on court. A good dinner was had by all in a nearby pub - the Lamb's Green.

Chester Nobbs is at long last hanging up his racquet but regaled us with suitable stories of his magical (sic – the voice recognition software should have registered madrigal) and ecclesiastical singing with touring choirs in Italy and elsewhere.

Anthony Panes and his charming wife Diana, hosted Dalziel and the author in their delightful house on the river in the centre of Wimborne. Dalziel was in a separate room, but he did mutter something in the morning about how he had been kept awake by Osmond’s snoring. It was a cold, early start, but things improved as soon as we tucked into an excellent breakfast cooked by Paynes himself.

Then there was a crisp drive to Hyde where, as always, excellent fare was provided and the OT’s were again successful.

We had intended to stay in a local pub in West Bay, but as we were in good time, we decided to drive that evening to Bristol and have dinner there. Dalziel and Osmond clocked in at the Clifton Hotel, where the rooms were extremely comfortable but extremely small. When brushing my teeth, I knocked over the flowerpot on the window ledge and the bar of soap so filled the bathroom that I was unable to get in as well.

A splendid supper followed at a local pizza house in Clifton, where the girls were just so pretty and, despite the freezing cold, wore skirts that hardly covered their essentials. One particularly attractive girl was soon spotted with delicious Bristols (appropriately named as we were in Clifton) and we quickly named her Portobello Mushrooms. Breakfast the next morning in Racks (in the bottom of the hotel) was amazing with, I thought, simply the best pork sausages with honey and mustard that I had ever tasted. They came from Harris, the local butcher’s.

Next day on the Sunday morning was the match itself against Bristol & Bath. Mrs Newman, as always, supplied an excellent lunch and we managed to scrape a draw.

Three tired musketeers, particularly the author, drove back to London. D’Artagnan was fearful of stick from the missus, as she had already rung to tell him that the heating was out of order and, of course, it was his fault!

Anthony OE (Dec 2008)