'I do like to be beside the seaside...'

Barafundle Beach, Pembrokeshire coast

"I do like to be beside the seaside"

Music hall tune written by John Glover-Kind (1907)

Every delights to spend their summer's holiday

Down beside the side of the silvery sea

I'm no exception to the rule

In fact, if I'd my way

I'd reside by the side of the silvery sea.

But when you're just the common or garden

Smith or Jones or Brown

At bus'ness up in town

You've got to settle down.

You save up all the money you can till summer comes around.

Then you go away

To a spot you know

Where the cockle shell are found.

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside,

I do like to be beside the sea!

I do like to stroll along the prom, prom, prom,

Where the brass bands play ‘Tiddly om pom pom.’

So just let me be beside the seaside,

I’ll be beside myself with glee.

And there’s lots of girls beside,

I should like to be beside,

Beside the seaside!

Beside the sea!

The seaside holiday--like the camping holiday-- is an iconic experience of British life.

Mainland Britain is blest with over 11,073 miles (17,820 km) of coastline, much of which is protected and preserved by the National Trust, and other such organizations, and easily accessible.

As a result, nearly everyone you meet has a story, or two, at least, of fond childhood memories of family holidays by the sea.

The locations may differ (Saundersfoot, Blackpool, Scarborough, St. Ives, Torquay, and son on) but the details are invariably similar: tales of stunning views, breath-taking beauty, surprising sunshine, and of course the ever-predictable rain.

Growing up in the land-locked, lush and humid landscape of the American south; where relief from an arid summer’s baking heat came only in the shape of ponds, lakes and muddy rivers, the British seaside holiday, as I imagined and read about it books, seemed a magical thing.

For me, this image/idea was captured most successfully and indelible by the singer Morrissey (The Smiths) and his song “Everyday is Like Sunday”. The video for this song splashed onto MTV in the summer of 1987; and featured amazing British actress, Billie Whitelaw, as the blithe and breezy, tea-making mum. (Billie Whitelaw should be everyone’s mum!)

Perhaps, dear Reader, if you of a certain age, you will recall this one, too?...

The DEB and I have a little Mercedes camper van that provides us with transport and shelter on our little holidays and getaways. This past week we took the Princess Puppy and ventured off to the beautiful landscape of the Pembrokeshire coast in South Wales.

We stayed at a Caravan Club site near the beach at Freshwater Water East.

The site was run by Brian & Janet and Geoff & Babs two, really helpful and friendly couples. They were always at the ready with advice and recommendations.

The location was quite remarkable, more of a park ground really, with rabbits bobbing around everywhere; and we were flanked on one side by the sound of bleating sheep on our left, and the sound of splashing waves on the right. Magic.

We were smart to plan our trip for the week just after half term, which meant – NO KIDDIES!! In other words: quiet campsite, day and night; and beaches that were practically secluded and nearly empty.

The amazing thing about British beaches is that on a really good, hot, sunny day you could be anywhere in the world, the beaches are that spectacular. The only things that “good, hot, sunny days” are never guaranteed on this precious isle.

This is one way in which living in England has changed me/my life forever. My life, as never before, is utterly ruled by weather! For our 1 week holiday in Wales, I packed as if we’d be away for 3!

Fleeces, jumpers, socks, jackets, flipflops, trainers, shorts, long trousers, capris, summer skirt, dressy skirt, warm skirt, swim suit (swimming costume), and a wet suit – just a few of the items in my bag!

It’s all about layers and being prepared for the unexpected, and the inevitable. For example, I took along three different jackets: a light, J.Crew denim one; a fleece zippy one; and a puffy, quilted water-proof one.

Well, it is only June, after all.

And, anything could happen weather-wise! On Sunday, we were on the beach, roasting (yes, roasting) nicely in the sun; Tuesday found me berating myself for foolishly leaving my precious green wellies behind!

A soaked DEB in soggy Saundersfoot

Something I would not normally have done, but my one excuse is that it was June, and I was hopeful...

A familiar, washed-out, British seaside holiday scene

Fortunately, the rain only dampened our plans for one day; and the rest of the holiday was blissfully sunny.

We explored the spectacular Pembrokeshire coastline, which made us proud to be members (and in my case, staff) of the National Trust.

The DEB at Barafundle, National Trust coastline and beach

The Princess Puppy surveying the land of her ancestors on Stackpole Estate Beach (National Trust)

We donned our wetsuits and braved the waves. The first time for me! Incredible experience, and now I’m hooked!!

We ventured off the beaten path, after taking a wrong turn, quite literally, and discovered a small village pub in called the Stackpole Inn.

The food was gorgeous, on our first visit I had salmon and the DEB had Welsh pork. We went back on our last evening and we both had fresh, Welsh lamb. Lovely! And, the most delicious Summer Pudding that I have ever had!

I have to say, I didn’t find Welsh ale very inspiring. Compared to good, old English ale, the Welsh variety seemed a bit stale, flat and bland. But, then, to be fair, I only tried one or two. I am, however, more than willing to explore this topic further!

The Welsh get a lot of stick, for their beer, and a whole host of other reasons. There’s an old adage I’ve heard, that goes like this: “The Scots hate the English, the English hate the Irish; and everybody hates the Welsh!”

Well, The DEB and I really enjoy Wales and the Welsh; and as my paternal grandmother was proudly a “Jones”, I claim a bit of Welsh pride.

The nice thing about Wales is that it is so close (4 hours drive for us to the coast), and yet “feels” so far away. Not bad for ticking all my holiday boxes: history, culture beach – and not necessarily in that order.

Pembroke Castle, birthplace of Henry VII (Henry Tudor)

(Pembroke is a nice little town, with an excellent Fish and Chip shop right near the castle!)

Where I work...

My first day at Charlecote Park, I thought I was dreaming...

It is such a magic and idyllic place.

Since then, I have struggled with the best way to share it with you. 

As words seem to escape me, I thought it best to show you...

The Charlecote deer, doing what they do best -- being arrestingly beautiful. 

A view of "West Park" from the staff gate

The oldest tree in Charlecote Park - 450 years old. Isn't she grand?

The walk to the Gate House from the public entrance

Gainfully employed

At last, at last  -- I have a job!

March has been an action-packed month, and I have scarcely been able to keep up.

First, I am finally gainfully employed.  After nearly two years of self-doubt and weeping, I have finally set a foot in the right direction, and regained a sense of self-respect.

This is not to say that I was unhappy or dissatisfied with my lot as a Housewife-Writer-and-Freelance-Shakespeare-Scholar. No, I have enjoyed that life very much, and still do!

But, there is just something in my Puritan DNA that would not, could not rest without a sense of active, lucrative employment.

I have come by my work ethic organically. My father was a tireless professional. He never seemed to stop working. To be honest, I can count the number of bona fide vacations/holidays my parents had (i.e., ones that were purely for relaxation and/or recreational purposes, as opposed to work-related ones) on one hand, and have six fingers left over. That is to say, the number is less than negligible.

To my parents’ generation, Work in a very traditional sense, (i.e., having a job, actively pursued during business hours, that pays you a regular wage) was a matter of pride and respectability. It was a badge of honour, a sign of maturity, proof of ones position as a contributing member of society.

As a result, my allowance was ‘earned,’ and tied to the efforts I had made around the house: cleaning my room; helping my mother with garden; folding clothes; polishing silver, and so on. And, it could be withheld and/or withdrawn based on occupational performance.

I must confess that I resented my friends, many of whom by my estimation, lived the life of Riley, and were given nice allowances for just being themselves, with little or no effort at all on their part.

I was also encouraged to join the workforce before many of my friends did, as well. I began babysitting professionally at the age of nine; and even spent a very lucrative, teenage, summer holiday as a live-in nanny/babysitter for several families in suburban Phoenix, Arizona.

Looking back, I have no regrets. I had some wonderful experiences, and had the joy of earning “my own money”. Of course, wages for baby-sitting or working at "The Record Rack" in the mall were ridiculously low, but the amount of money was not the point, the point was earning it.

This ethos is still with me today. As an academic, I have never earned a great deal of money, but even so, I have always been quite proud of having a good job, and one that I enjoyed.

Relocating to England provided me with a real opportunity to re-evaluate my relationship with work. To explore and uncover what it is I really want to do with my life. 

It has been a blessing to get off the academic treadmill, and take some time for myself. The D.E.B. has been quite proud and supportive of my aspirations and desire to write.

As if in response to the sentiments Virginia Woolf, expressed profoundly in her work, A Room of Ones Own, the D.E.B. has given me the space, support and freedom to write. 

At times, this incredible opportunity has felt a little like the sort of gift that prompts the view, ‘be careful what you wish for’.  Over the past year and a half, I have applied a considerable amount of pressure on myself to achieve something, anything, with my writing, and quickly.

But, of course, writing is not a pursuit that one follows with any sort of haste. My impatience in this regard has been coupled with an overwhelming desire to be a “team player,” to be a contributing member of my new and wonderful marriage.

So, this being my life, these two points have converged at the same time. Just when my writing has started to take off – e.g., my newly minted monthly column in Warwickshire Life; and, acquiring an agent for the cookbook, successfully and finally. (!!!)

And now -- the offer of a part-time job with the National Trust! I’ll be working at Charlecote Park, in the area of community engagement and audience development. I am absolutely thrilled! I positively adore Charlecote Park, and am a huge, huge fan of the National Trust.

The job will call upon my skills as an educator, arts administrator, librarian, theatre director, creative thinker, problem solver, and lover of history. Fabulous.

“I do worry for your writing,” my dear friend Julia said softly down the phone. (I miss her terribly, since she and her husband, Robert, moved from Barford.)

Truth be told, I worry for my writing, too. This post with the National Trust is just the sort of job I relish, and one in which I could ever so easily lose myself…

However, my hope is that instead of hindering my creative spirit, this new role will inspire me, and provide the discipline and structure to my craft that I so desperately need.

This Green and Pleasant Land

“Charlotte,” I hear my next door neighbour, Rachel, calling out to her small daughter, “go out into the garden and pick some blackberries for us, please.”

I hear the sound of tiny, wellington boots clomping through overgrown, summer grass. “Mummy!” sweet Charlotte calls back to the kitchen, “I will pick some for us, but I’m going to leave on enough here for Mrs. Blackbird and Mrs. Robin. Mrs. Blackbird and Mrs. Robin have got lots of babies to feed.”

Charlotte is completely adorable, in that way little, English children uniquely are. I am very often struck by her tiny, but astute sensitivity to nature. And I think this is very English trait.

“How are your tomatoes coming along, Alycia?” asks Jackie 1, during a short swimming break in the pool. “They’re struggling.” I confess sadly, fearing my less-than-green, American fingers had failed in their gardening attempts. “Oh, no,” Jackie re-assures me, “mine are dreadful this year, as well.”

‘The Brits and their gardens’ is a fascinating facet of life here. From the legendary and highly-acclaimed Radio 4 program(me), “Gardeners’ Question Time” to the weekly pilgrimages to the breath-taking gardens of the National Trust, Britons are utterly captivated by nature, landscape and greenery.

No matter the size, or lack of the size, of the plot, an English garden—even if it is merely a window box—is a must. The passion does not stop at roses and foxgloves, oh no. Long before the economic crunch, and eco-friendly, organic philosophies were all the rage, generations of Briton have been “growing their own” in allotment plots up and down the country.

Allotments are serious business here in Barford. Rumour has it that there is a 10 year waiting list for one of prized plots, just off Wasperton Lane.

I can see that in a terribly lovely, quintessentially English way, The D.E.B. longs for a garden of our own. He longs for a connection with the earth, time spent out in the fresh air, working with his hands. And I must confess, I’ve caught the garden bug, too.

I am quite, quite proud of my window boxes full of colourful pansies. And I, too, long for a back garden of our own, full of color and possibility. I think more than anything  else, I’d like to grow garden peas – that classic, English veg.

But, with thoughts of gardens, come thoughts of houses, which at this juncture is painfully sore topic.

What is it about English houses?

I mean, seriously, I’m not a very large person, by any stretch of the imagination, but when we go on property viewings, I walk into to some of these places and think (often aloud), “You have got to be kidding me, I had more room in my microscopic, one-bedroomed, New York apartment then there is here, in this ‘Cosy Cottage’.”

What is it with Estate Agents, anyway?

Do they happen to think we are all mindless, gullible buffoons? Who doesn’t know that buzzwords, such as ‘quaint,’ ‘cute,’ ‘cosy’ and ‘charming’ are all just code for: “This place is no bigger than a cat’s head?

And don’t get me started on architecture! It is as if British architects and planners of the 1960s and 70s, looked upon any vacant and available green space, and had one, insane directive: “Erect as many dwelling places in this one square foot area as possible!”

I will accept that it is a fundamental flaw in my American character that I do not wish to live like a sardine. “Terraced houses”, “semi-detached,” “end of terrace,” that’s all code for: “You don’t have space of your own. There is no breathing room between you and your neighbours.”

Yes, I am cranky about house-hunting in Warwickshire. (Could it possibly be the most expensive county in England?!)

I resent the fact that in America, somehow, even people with the slightest of means, and possibly even without any means or a steady income at all, seem to manage to have big houses, with big backyards. Land and space are practically birthrights in America.

Hyperbole? In some ways, yes, but not entirely.

Our wonderful friend, Sally, said something a few weeks ago. Sally, born and raised here in Britain, has lived great stretches of her remarkable life in the UK, USA and Canada. She reckons that in Britain today the discrepancy between the have’s and the have-not’s is greater than it has ever been. And the tightest squeeze is on those in the middle. I think she may be right.

Someone tried to explain the English property situation to me: “Britain is an island,” (Thank you for stating the obvious.) “and, as such, land is a dear commodity.” At the end of this lecture, the point was made that the “problem” here is that the bulk of the land in this country is in private hands, something like 3% of the population own something like 80% of the land.

Which leaves the rest of us to fight it out for the remaining 20%. Brilliant.

Well, all that the D.E.B. and I want (with apologies to Virginia Woolf) is a place of our own here in Barford. Nothing too grand or ostentatious. But, something with a bit of character, not too modern or flashy. With a nice garden, and room to breathe and move around in.

It’s very funny, we had a look at this one place on the market here in Barford, a “barn conversion” – let me just say, if this place had been a barn once, it must have been a barn for at the most two Shetland ponies. Or a tribe of hobbits.

The minute we walked into the “Living Room,” I thought (possibly aloud), “Our nephew, Harry, would never even fit in this room, if he came to visit.” And that was truth! It was a doll-house.

Of course, we would have better chances if we ventured further afield.  But we love Barford. We have put down roots here, made friends, feel a part of a community, and have people we care about here.

Very frustrating.

Our house pursuit comes and goes. Some days we are both very keen, and other days we don’t see the point of bothering at all at the moment. We find ourselves in a very rational frame of mind, and say to ourselves: “Let’s just hang on, and see what happens.”

Right now, I feel another “why bother” spell coming on…