Showing posts with label Leamington Spa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Leamington Spa. Show all posts

09 July 2011

Special assignment: Horses

I adore my column in Warwickshire Life magazine! This monthly assignment affords me the opportunity to explore some quintessentially British experiences and write about them. And, recently, the penny finally dropped, and I realised my column is a great means to just having a bit fun!


 Red House Proprietress,
Nikki Shakespear
So, I am allowing myself a few English indulgences. This month: Horses. With the goal of uncovering the great British love affair with horses, I had a very nice lunchtime meeting with the Head of the British Horse Society in the Midlands; have a visit scheduled to a Warwickshire-based horse sanctuary; and yesterday, I was treated to a lesson at the Red House Riding School.


And, what an amazing day it was! Tucked snugly between Leamington Spa and Lillington, Red House Riding School, was a bit tricky to find. I trundled through housing estates, disbelieving my iPhone's insistence that I "turn right", but when I did eventually "turn right", the wide open spaces of Red House Riding school opened before me, offering the most unbelievable and 
breathtaking views of the Warwickshire countryside.


Between intermittent squalls and dazzling sunshine, I spent a glorious afternoon atop a gorgeous Welsh Section D - Cob called "George". Welsh Section Ds are known for their hardiness and gentle nature, and this sweet chap was like a version of my dearly missed and dearly beloved Lucy, in equine form!


Gorgeous Welsh Cob, George
Having grown up in the country, in the southern part of America, my association with horses -- and proper riding -- have been surprisingly limited. Of course, when I was little, there were obligatory pony rides at state fairs, and magnificent displays of cowboy prowess at rodeos; but the serious pursuit of riding and horsemanship was something different entirely.


My middle sister (9 years my senior) attended boarding school in the heart of very horsey, bluegrass country in Kentucky. There, she excelled and won numerous white ribbons for riding. As riding was "her sport", my interest in that activity remained closeted. I merely wondered at it from afar.  


How nice now, to be free from silly constraints and have a go, finally! Interesting, according to Andrea Jackman of the British Horse Society, the fastest growing group amongst riding enthusiasts are the over 40s and beyond! No longer merely the domain of horse-mad adolescents, adult first-timers are making up for missed opportunities, and turning to riding as a delightful means of exercise and recreation.


And, I don't blame them one bit! Although, I woke this morning with a slightly achy lower back, and sore thighs, the experience has left a permanent smile on my face. There is something so soothing, almost mesmerising about being in the company of a horse. Their serene calm and majestic gentleness completely overwhelms your senses. 


Rider Rachel & her beautiful chestnut, Prince
As I sat atop George, out in the fresh air, with Warwickshire stretching out beautifully before me in the foreground, all my stresses melted away: The column deadline I'm absolutely frantic to meet; the crazed week I have ahead, with back-to-back Shakespeare lectures Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday - on three different plays! The impossible train journeys I need to make this week to take a group to see Merchant of Venice in Stratford, after a full day lecturing in London! On and on...None of that mattered as I swayed from side-to-side on this magnificent Cob.


Ironically, my wonderful instructor was most aptly named Nikki Shakespear. Nikki is a gem, and takes a caring, friendly approach to teaching riding. I will confess I was very nervous when I arrived at Red House - more anxious about the people, than the horses.


Undoubtedly, there are more than a few preconceptions about riding circles; and (also undoubtedly) in some cases these preconceptions probably ring true. Like many a newcomer, I'd expect, when I arrived at Red House Riding School, I feared that I would be walking into a very exclusive, closed and uninviting club. However, my actual experience there could not have been farther from my expectations! 


Having a go!
Everyone at Red House was welcoming, friendly and keen to help and encourage me. Nikki provided all the gear I needed -- and tea and jaffa cakes after! Nikki and her assistant, Mel, were patience and supportive during my lesson. I felt empowered, and not the least bit awkward, uneasy or out of my depth. 


They even gave me a few small challenges to complete on my own within a very well-supported context (walk, trot, dismount). In addition, the social side of things is clearly at the heart of this riding school. Everyone was jovial, smiling and laughing as the mucked in, and out, together (quite literally).

Another myth dispelled by my experience yesterday - the cost of learning to ride, at least at Red House Riding School, is not as dear as I'd have thought it would be. Nikki favours Group Lessons over private ones, and offers them for a range of experience levels and age groups. Comraderie and kinship is key to this fellowship of the horse. And, I have to say that yesterday was a truly remarkable day. A highlight of my life here in Warwickshire that I will never forget!


17 June 2010

May column: "Why I W.I."

There have been few moments in my life more powerful than one I had a few months ago in Leamington Spa. On a bright, spring day in March, I found myself in the auditorium of the Spa Centre, in the midst of roughly 1,000 Warwickshire women, standing shoulder to shoulder, singing a rousing rendition of “Jerusalem”. My heart swelled with pride, and I fought back tears, as I surveyed the sea of sisterhood that surrounded me.

I am proud to be a member of the WI.

I will confess, when I first joined the Barford WI in 2008, I was secretly harbouring an ambition be “Miss August” – but I soon realized that there is more to being a member of the WI than Calendar Girls.

Surely, I can be forgiven for my initial, naïve assumption. In my American imagination, fueled by novels, television, and films, I envisioned the quaint world of the WI as one teeming with formidable, handsome women, dressed in sensible skirts of year-round tweed; gliding through idyllic, English villages to their monthly meetings on little bicycles, with wicker baskets affixed to their handle-bars, filled to the brim with flowers that had been arranged with great care. To be sure, I also understood that the niceties and tweed of this Marplesque world were on occasion put aside, or rather, shed for the camera in aid of a good cause.

First formed in 1915, the Women’s Institute, was established with two key objectives: to revitalise rural communities, and to encourage women to become more involved in food production during the First World War. Since that time, the WI’s aims have broadened to play a unique role in providing women with educational opportunities, the chance to learn new skills, to take part in a wide variety of activities, and to campaign on issues that matter to them and their communities.

The WI is the largest voluntary organization for women in the United Kingdom, with over 205,000 members. Of course, the WI was emblazoned upon the global imagination by the film Calendar Girls. However, beyond the delightful characters, and the wonderful controversy of the film’s storyline, I was most impressed by the incredible sense of community these women espoused, and their willingness to ‘tough it out’ together. The cause that spurred them on was immediate and personal - one woman’s loss became the community’s crusade.

I was moved by the evocative ending of the film wherein the dynamic Calendar Girls returned to their tiny village, after their somewhat fraught promotional trip to Los Angeles. They arrive just as the monthly WI meeting has commenced, they creep into the village hall tentatively, unsure of their welcome; but rather than being shunned, as they expect, they are enthusiastically gathered back into the flock, just in time to join in singing “Jerusalem”.

I recall my own apprehensive approach into the WI on a brisk, autumnal night in 2008. I slipped shyly into the Barford Village Hall, unsure of my reception, and was met immediately by the warm, smiling face of Jean Tuck, Barford WI Registrar at the time, who encouraged me to sign the book. With a giddy heart and trembling hand, I added my name, just as then-President, Angela Watkins, lowered her gavel to start the meeting. There and then, I, too, was welcomed and embraced into this incredible fold. Never once feeling out of place, out of step, or out of sorts. I felt, and still do, that I belonged.

I never had the opportunity to join a sorority in my undergraduate or post-graduate university days – as nearly all of the women of my family have done. So perhaps, now, at this stage in my life, I am seeking out sisterhood - beyond the standard bonds of family or friendship - an ‘incorporated sisterhood,’ or, a sisterhood with a mission statement.

Despite long-held views of the WI being merely a composite of ‘middle-aged, middle-class, Middle England,’ in truth, the modern WI is a thriving and evolving organization that has a solid appeal to women across ages, cultures, economic backgrounds, races, and geography.

Notably, in recent years there has been a rise in the number of newly-formed WIs, particularly of a younger generation variety, who have dubbed themselves “WI Lite”; as well as a steadily growing number of urban and inner-city WIs, springing up in places as seemingly un-‘bicycles-with-wicker-baskets’ as Hackney and Manchester.

Such evolution should be no surprise in our age of economic re-evaluation, clarion calls to thriftiness, and communal goals of living more simply and responsibly. With its utopian ideals of ‘building Jerusalem’ from the hearth, home and garden, the WI has always been at the fore of progressive thinking, long before the now-fashionable ‘mend, make, and recycle’ trends being championed today by such social commentators as India Knight.

But just what does the WI mean to the diverse range of women who are being drawn into its ranks? I can only speak for myself and surmise what it has meant to and for me.

The WI has helped me to re-connect with the more practical and crafty side of myself; offered opportunities to campaign for a tidier village, the British honeybee, trees in Ethiopia, AIDS prevention in South India, and against violence to women; provided an outlet for my longstanding trivia addiction with its regular Quizzes; and has renewed my interest in the all-important hearth and domestic realm; which, in turn has rejuvenated my professional life as a Shakespeare scholar, by inspiring me to pursue a cookery book project centred on Shakespeare and food. In short, the WI has improved the overall quality of my life.

In addition, and in some ways more importantly, the WI has shown me the true meaning of community. My status as a newcomer to this area could not have been more pronounced for me than last year, when my ‘Darling English Boy’ proposed (on Christmas Eve, no less) and we decided to marry in May 2009.

Here I was, a lone bride-to-be with family and friends an ocean away. My WI chums became the mothers, aunts, and sisters that I so desperately needed. They were quite literally and metaphorically, anchors of support in the midst of my nuptial travails.

Their ingenuity, creativity, good humour, and endless cups of tea helped me through the drama of orchestrating a transatlantic wedding: from offering advice on wedding music (“Jerusalem” was the chosen as the closing hymn, of course); to churning out vats of the Lavender Jam (made from a recipe we invented) that became the precious wedding tokens given to our reception guests.

Their role and importance on the wedding day itself cannot be overlooked. As Queen Victoria once noted, every bride, no matter who she may be, is ‘pale and anxious’ on her wedding day. As I stepped into St. Peter’s Church, that glorious May afternoon, I was indeed somewhat pale, and undoubtedly anxious.

Then, I heard the sturdy tones of my fellow WI-er, Philippa Wilson, who declared resolutely in my direction, “Beautiful.” My nerves subsided instantly as I looked up and saw her, and a gaggle of the Barford WI filling the rear pews of the church.

Just as they shepherded my arrival, the Barford WI enriched our coming forth. As my new husband and I exited the church, to our surprise, we were flanked on either side by a stunning WI guard of honour, holding aloft long wooden spoons decorated beautifully with garlands of flowers and streaming ribbon.

It was an incredible moment. Like a scene from a Jane Austen novel! But more than that, it seemed to encapsulate my rite of passage from one phase of womanhood to another, shielded by the matrons of the WI.

Clearly, on that fortuitous evening in October 2008, I came away from my first WI meeting with far more than just a jar of green tomato chutney and blackberry jam. The Barford WI is a group of terrific, dynamic, engaged and engaging women. Women I am proud to call my friends. Our membership spans an age range of ‘the nearly 100s’ to the ‘nearly 40s’. The fellowship, exchanges of ideas, sharing of wisdom, tradition, history, and life experience that transpire therein are quite remarkable.

I have yet to master ‘the merciless Marmalade’ (my sole attempt at the great WI institution that is “Seville Orange Marmalade” was more akin to congealed orange Fanta), I doubt I will ever win the Annual Corsage competition, and sometimes, I still hanker to be “Miss August,” but beyond a shadow of any doubt, joining the WI is one of the best life choices I have ever made.

03 December 2009

Things are looking up!

Things are looking up!

A call from RSC head of education for a mid-December coffee and chat; a request from 'The Annie Othen Show' to be a guest on “The Coffee Club” - a late morning chat show on BBC Radio Coventry; and an job offer for position as a freelance GSCE and A-level Drama Examiner (…welcome to the dark side…), and an evening out tonight with my precious DEB for The Vienna Festival Ballet’s production of “The Nutcracker” in Leamington Spa.

The start of Advent brings much-needed joy!!!

20 May 2009

Ten days...

"Journeys end in lovers meeting.” - Twelfth Night

“I can’t wait to put that ring on your finger,” the D.E.B. said, waking me with a kiss in the soft light of morning. After days and days of rain, the sun has finally deemed to shine in these parts, and the birds outside our bedroom window twittered joyously in their dawn chorus.

Ten days from today I will be Mrs. D.E.B., and what an amazing journey it has been. I have surprised myself with the level of calm I seem to have found in these past few days. I have no doubt that all of that will change drastically next week, but at least for now, there is peace of mind.

Things are coming together beautifully. I had a very successful meeting with the Vicar (He is lovely.) about the flowergirls, and he has even taken on board the possibility of me entering last during the bridal procession.

Monday of last week, I turned up at the rectory with flower girl baskets in hand, to show the Vicar what we intended. Just the Vicar and I made our way across the churchyard for our trial run with the flower petals – PLOP! I got splattered by a low flying pigeon. “Well, that’s good luck!” the Vicar laughed. He has a great sense of humo(u)r.

Good omen it was indeed. Our meeting went very well. The Vicar himself sprinkled bits of lavender and rosebuds from the baskets during the test run. Most importantly, he tested how easily the bits could be swept up.  Looking up at me, as he knelt down with broom and dustpan in hand, he declared: “Yes, I think we can manage this.” Without restraint, I threw my arms about him in a shower of thanks.

I left that meeting with a very strong sense that all would indeed be well, that everything would be fine. And so it seems. The “Jam Making Maven of Barford” stepped in and saved my sanity and the wedding favour project (Blueberry and Lavender Jam); and all in less time that it would take me to make a cup of tea.

The quilt saga has yet to be fully addressed, but will receive my full attention this weekend. (I’m learning to focus on what I can control, and on one thing at a time.)

There is a turn of phrase I hear a great deal around here: “Well, you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?” This bit of British truism is advice to which I am trying to adhere. I had a true test of this last Friday.

Last Friday was my “Day of  Reckoning” – my final fitting at Eternal Bride in Warwick. This was the moment for which I have been running, swimming and sweating for nearly five months.

Of course, I arrived late. I wanted to achieve the “full effect,” so I booked a last-minute appointment beforehand at my wonderful, newly discovered hairdressers (Pardeep at Toni & Guy in Leamington Spa) and got a haircut. Dashing back to the car, I grabbed some flowers from a street vendor on The Parade, a spur of the moment “thank you” gesture for Morag, the alterations/seamstress at Eternal Bride.

Little did I know, these flowers would be so well deserved. I zipped carefully from Leamington to Warwick (becoming ever so confident driving the Tank these days!), and sprinted into the shop.

Poor Karima had been sat waiting for me for twenty minutes (I should have got flowers for her, too!). Morag’s next client had already arrived so I took Karima for a coffee until Morag was free again.

I envied the lemon cheesecake Karima had ordered with her coffee, but I was good and resisted. “Think of the dress,” I thought to myself. Finally, we went back to Eternal Bride and climbed the stairs to Morag’s loft. I was ready for my Cinderella moment.

I skipped behind the curtain, and slipped into the bottom half of the dress with ease. Then leapt out of the changing area, giddy with expectation, holding my ivory, silk bodice in front me. All smiles, I stood before the mirror awaiting further assistance.

Morag moved swiftly and came to stand behind me, taking the ends of the bodice in her hands. I watched in the mirror as Morag and Karima’s smiling faces slowly turned from gleeful delight to shock and dismay.

“What have you done?” Morag said softly to my perplexed reflection in the mirror. I looked to Karima. “It won’t close,” Karima said with tears in her voice. “That’s impossible,” I squealed. “There is no way I have put on weight,” I said, trying not to cry.

“No, my dear. You haven’t put on weight. You’re not fatter. You’re bigger. Broader.” Morag said, completely confounded. She grabbed her measuring tape to confirm the fact. “Well,” she sighed, “You’ve taken two inches off your hips, one off your waist, and you’ve added inch to your torso. In short, my dear, you have reshaped your body type.”

I was stunned. “I told you you were working too hard!” Karima insisted. “What have you been doing?” Morag demanded.

“Running, lifting weights and swimming. Two and a half hours a day. Five days a week, plus Pilates on Tuesday afternoons...” I said meekly.

Morag needed to sit down.

With the wedding roughly two weeks away, I stood before her, a bride in an altered dress that did not fit. A dress, once several sizes too big, now a size too small. A bride who had come to her as a pudgy, but shapely petite, who had rebuilt herself unwittingly in a blind fitness frenzy. 

I stood before her now, looking like Michael Phelps in a dress.

 “What are we going to do!!?” Karima panicked. 

Morag stayed silent and thought. I could see the designing wheels turning in her head. This woman has designed her way around the world, costume dramas for the BBC and countless other stage and screen productions. This was surely, hopefully, just a minor blip on her landscape.

“It’s going to be a long weekend.” Morag said finally.

She then shared her strategy for rescuing and essentially re-designing the dress. She’s a genius. I am so sorry that she will need to go to so much trouble, but I think her interventions will not only save the dress, but will even improve upon it.

This was an utterly harrowing experience, but I think even this, too, will be one of those “It worked out even better than I expected” moments, when all is said and done. 

Well, you’ve got to laugh, haven’t you?

 

19 November 2008

Sugar and Spice? The Modern British Woman

Get ready for some really interesting numbers. This past weekend, The Sunday Telegraph published results of a recent survey of over 1,000 British women. The results are fascinating, and offer an intriguing glimpse into the mind and ways of British women, and a provocative commentary on British society & culture generally…

73% - # of women surveyed who would prefer to have a male boss than a female boss

38% -  Described themselves as “feminist”

46% - Believe couples should live together before they marry

49% - Do not believe couples need to be married before having children

66% - Believe it is better to divorce that to stay in an unhappy marriage

67% - Said they would rather hold out for “a perfect, romantic partner” than settle for a man who’s just “good enough”.

42% - Women who have never been on a diet

21% - Women who do not take any form of exercise during the week

50% - Were either “very happy” or “fairly happy" with their bodies

91% - Said they would rather have a new kitchen than a face-lift

30% - Lost their virginity before they were 16 years-old

9% - Met their husbands through the Internet

Margaret Thatcher and Nelson Mandela topped the charts for “Greatest role models - female/male”.

Only 1.9% found Keira Knightly to be “the most attractive famous woman,” which, as far as I’m concerned, goes someway to rectify (though not excuse) the  somewhat scary fact that Jordan/Katie Price placed 3rd in the “Most Admired Woman” category, after The Queen (#2,) and Margaret Thatcher (#1). 

Jordan/Katie Price is a reality show “star,” from the UK version of the reality show “Big Brother.” I’m guessing that the American equivalent would be someone along the lines of  Tia Tequila or “New York,” from the reality show, “I Love New York.” (Interesting.)

So, what do all these numbers tell us about today’s British woman. Well, beyond the Jordan anomaly, today’s British woman seems a forthright, free-thinking gal, with a mind of her own; who’s not afraid to go against the grain in terms of tradition and conventionality; she has a take charge attitude, though she may prefer to remain the chief and/or only lioness in workplace pack; and I think most notably, she is not nearly as self-consciousness (dare one say self-obsessed?) about her weight, body, and/or looks as her American cousins.

To my mind, today’s “Modern British Woman” is not such a far cry from the modern British women of yesteryear. A few days ago, as I was recovering from my job interview woes, I was invited out for tea by Tracey, my neighbour, but one. (Don’t  you love that? “My neighbour, but one.” That’s a fancy English way of saying: “Tracy, who lives next door to the person who lives next door to me.”) I felt too woebegone to go along, but in the end I went, and met Tracy at the Machado Gallery on Wellesbourne Road.

The Machado Gallery is a snazzy little art gallery that is an institution here in Barford. It is “art central” for the village of Barford. I went there for a “Coffee Morning” a few weeks ago, and by the end of a two-hour visit, I had been “volunteered” to lead the soon-to-be-formed Barford Writers Group. 

Tracy and I were joined for tea by her friends, Sonia and Armelle. Sonia is the Barford “Lollipop Lady”. 

She stops traffic, and keeps all the kiddies safe as they cross  the road going to school. “Lollipop Lady” -- is that not just the most adorable name ever? You can’t help but smile when you say it! In America, we’d call her something utilitarian like: “Toddler Pedestrian Patrol Officer”, or “School Crossing Attendant”. Every time I see Sonia in her bright yellow jacket and hat, I nearly lose my life rushing across the street to hug her!

I was stunned to find out over tea, that Sonia is well over 60. She is so youthful and spry. She and Armelle kept us all in stitches with their tales of life in the “good old days”. Armelle, who is nearly 80, has a mischievous sparkle in her bright blue eyes. Call it writer’s instinct, but I took one look at her, and knew she had a story to tell.

1948. She was out with her “best lad”. He had taken her up to “The “Pally” - the Palace Ballroom  in Leamington Spa. Lo and behold, in the midst of the foxtrot and the waltz, Armelle urged her dance partner to let loose, and she began to dance “the jive”. Jive, then a new-fangled American import, was of course frowned upon in good society, and the Palace Ballroom Dance Master was swift to put an end to such nonsense. Clapping his hand upon Armelle’s shoulder, he declared her “barred from the  Ballroom.” Armelle and her escort were forced to leave immediately. But Armelle was a popular gal, and when her large gaggle of friends warned the Dance Master that they would all leave and never come back to the Pally -- unless Armelle was allowed to return, he changed his tune. As Armelle spoke, with her soft, gravelly voice, I could hear that old '80s tune, “Come Dancing,” by The Kinks in the back on my head. I used to watch that video on MTV, Armelle actually lived it.

And this was not her first scrape against the grain. Armelle was a rebel from the beginning. Her mother, who was French and very Catholic, sent her to “convent school” in Kenilworth, and Armelle hated it. She begged her mother not to go, but her mother would have none of it. With no other means of reprieve, Armelle set about driving the nuns to drink.  She regularly played truant, and eventually gave up altogether and got a job. And she became a Librarian. (Could this woman be any more my hero?)

Bad behaviour seems to have been rife amongst young women in 1950s Britain. Sonia, the mild-mannered Lollipop Lady, got barred from a ballroom in Hampton-on-the-Hill in 1950! Those were the days, they say. Of getting dressed to the nines, and walking fours miles home, over rolling, green English hills by the light of the moon. What days those must have been.