I went to the Messenger’s cottage yesterday for lunch, as arranged, It’s situated in the middle of pretty picture-postcard Cotswold country- pretty even this time of the year, when there isn’t a leaf to be seen on the deciduous trees. The road wound and undulated between dewy meadows and green humpbacked hills dotted with sheep, through villages embalmed in a Sunday morning hush, past ancient churches and neat farmhouses and snug thatched cottages. ‘Horseshoes’ has a thatched roof, but it’s more of a house than a cottage – double fronted, built of mellow Cotswold stone, its walls covered with wisteria which one can imagine dripping with mauve blossom in May. It has low, raftered ceilings, and a bumpy flagged floor covered with rugs, and a huge open fireplace in the living-room. Needless to say it’s provided with central heating and other mod cons, all tastefully integrated into the eighteenth century fabric.
Here the Messengers’ family simulates the life of English country folk for one or two days a week: Carrie bottles fruit and make preserves on the oil-fired Aga. Emily rides the pony she keeps at a local stable, and Ralph chops wood for the open fire or takes the younger children out for rambles and bike-rides. At the back of the house, however, a more exotic and sybaritic note is struck: a balcony, or ‘deck’ as they call it, has been constructed on two levels, with a redwood hot tub on the lower level. The effect is rather bizarre as you pass from the English eighteenth century of the house to twenty-century California in the back garden, like walking through different film sets in a studio.
After lunch ( a superb leg of local lamb, roasted to perfection, with slivers of garlic and sprigs of rosemary delicately inserted into its layer of fat) we went for a walk around a circuit of lanes and footpaths in the neighbourhood.
My ‘ lunch’ invitation stretched inordinately, and in the end we left the house together at about seven o’clock. Suddenly the pace of life speeded up. Everybody bustled about, supervised by Carrie, picking up things and putting them away, resetting thermostats and turning light off, drawing curtains, and fastening shutters, making the house secure for another week. It was as if the curtain has come down on some dreamy pastoral idyll and the company was suddenly galvanized into actions shedding their costumes and packing up their props before moving on to the next venue. We parted in the lane outside the house as we got into our respective cars. I said goodbye and thanked them sincerely.
Form the book ‘Thinks’ by David Lodge

The conversation is taking place in the hot tub in the back garden of the Messengers’ country cottage. The ground slopes quite steeply away from the rear of the house, and a timber balcony has been constructed with steps that lead down to the garden. Halfway down there is a kind of mezzanine deck in which a redwood tub, some seven feet in diameter and five feet deep, has been fitted flush with the surface. A bench runs round the inner circumference, on which Helen and the Messenger family are companionably seated, hip to hip. The hot water bubbles up between their legs and sends wraiths of steam into the cold air. It is late afternoon, or early evening, and already dark. The only illumination comes from the blue light fitted inside the tub below the waterline, and the lanterns with thick amber glass cowls fixed at intervals on the staircase and along the decks.
Carrie clambers out of the tub, steadying herself with a hand on Ralph’ shoulder. The water streams from her tight, dark swimming costume and pallid heavy limbs. She wraps herself in a towelling robe and thrusts her feet into a pair or rope-soiled mules. ‘Time you kids got out too,’ she says.
Form the book ‘Thinks’ by David Lodge