Breaking news!

The DEB and I have put in an offer for a house here in Barford, and our offer has been accepted!!

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…

The readiness is all

Property. 

As a New Yorker, the very concepts of property and real estate have always been incomprehensible. No one I know owes property in Manhattan. NYC is, and will always be, a city of renters. 

I lived in New York for nearly five years, and at the end of each year, what did I have to show for it? As my father, god bless him, was always so swift to remind me, nothing. Nothing but a "receipt book." According to him, the goal of the game is acquisition. Acquiring property, equity and so forth. In the end of course, we can't take any of it with us, but, while we are here at least, capital and real estate are king.

The D.E.B. and I looked at a property here in Barford last week, and there is not much to report beyond that. We looked, we liked, we left.

We chatted about it incessantly after, dreamed about it, and even had a chat with a mortgage office at a local Building Society on Monday. Then...nothing. The house has not been mentioned since. I have tried to bring it up casually, to no avail.

As a rootless New Yorker, I am desperate to have a place to call my own. A kitchen that is mine, a garden that is ours, and etc. The D.E.B. seems, well, indifferent. Which quite unlike him, to be sure. Perhaps the current financial climate is the source of his cautiousness, or perhaps he is just feels the need for us to focus on one thing at a time. (Boys are like that, aren't they?) We are neck-deep in the midst of wedding planning at the moment, maybe another big move would be a bit much to take on just now. (As a side-note: I once had a friend who managed, rather fearlessly, to graduate from University and get married in the same day! How's that for multi-tasking!)

At any rate, I just don't want this cottage to get away!!! It could be years before another such property comes on the market in Barford. There is very little turn over in locales like this.

Okay. In true English cottage fashion, the house we looked at--built in 1820--is tiny and narrow. But it has the benefit of being bright and cheery, with lots of 19th century charm and character. A working fireplace, a cellar, small conservatory--perfect, perfect writer's space--and a sweet, little garden. 

The master bedroom is a good size, the second bedroom is only so-so. Again, in true English fashion, there is precious little storage space. I actually asked the woman of the couple selling the place: "Where do you keep your clothes?" Her reply: "I downsized." (Yikes!)

So, okay, less than perfect, but far from a write-off. I think it would be a great start for us. 

Especially as we are keen to start working on a family soon.

I have to gauge how much and how far to push on this. A part of what I am feeling is fueled by the overwhelming nesting urges I have that are completely in over-drive at the moment, but also by my deep-set sense of the pointlessness of renting.

The D.E.B. comes from a different mind-set. This is the first time in his adult life that he has lived a renter, and I think he relishes the new-found freedom that non-property-ownership brings. I just fear we are going to look up one day and see a SOLD sign in front of that cute cottage over the road...

Solutions and possible new challenges

Having a lazy Saturday morning with the D.E.B. Sitting side-by-side with laptops and cups of tea. This sunny morning has come with solutions and a possible new challenge. Friends have been really supportive on the "Bridal Entrance music" issue" and I am feeling much, much better about it all now. (Thank you, global village!) 

One suggestion was that I consider the actual mechanics of the Bridal entrance, i.e. the British way or the American way. Traditionally, in British weddings, the vicar instructs the congregation to raise, he then proceeds up the aisle to meet the Bride, and then the procession follows in this order, Vicar in front, followed by the Bride and whomever is walking with her, i.e. parent, friend, brother, what-have-you. Any attendants, bridesmaids and so forth follow the bride. In American weddings, it is the opposite: flower girls, Bridesmaids, page boys and whomever else is walking down the aisle as part of the line-up all enter before the bride.

 

Before all this music nonsense, I was going to try and do this the British way, but, if our vicar is willing, I think I may have a stab at doing it the American way round. The DEB is quite keen for me to enter the church in the American style, and that has been his opinion all along.

 

The D.E.B. has also offered another fabulous solution. Last Sunday, the D.E.B. and I attended the “Wedding Fayre” at The Glebe Hotel. What a splendid way to spend a Sunday afternoon. As we walked into the hotel, we were struck by the ethereal sound of a woman playing the harp. So lovely. As it turned, this harpist had been recommended to the D.E.B. weeks ago by an old school chum of his, when The DEB told him we were getting married. At that time, we both found the idea a little excessive, but now, standing in the midst of that sound. Wow.

 

So, when the entrance music kerfuffle surfaced this week, the D.E.B. suggested I consider the possibility of using the harpist we'd met at the “Wedding Fayre.” She was really lovely, and we chatted at length about various possibilities and ideas. So – “Pollyannas” of the world will agree with me -- things can work out better than when expect. (I wanted to avoid being noxious and saying: "When one door closes, another one opens." But guess that is what I'm saying.)

 

The harpist has offered a much more flexible approach to the bridal entrance and will in fact be even more dreamy and romantic than the organ! So, I have lost the battle to have Sissel and her beautiful lyrics, but in the end I think I may have won the war. 

 

On to new battles…

 

A new house has come on the market here in Barford. And, it is actually affordable. Barford is quite a pricey village (in a very pricey county) property-wise. We haven’t been looking, but we know we’d like to stay in Barford if we could. We are renting/letting our place here at the moment, but I think we would both fancy the idea of having something permanent. But, are we ready? Could we really take on moving house and all that right now? It’s kind of like that moment in the movie, Speed, when Sandra Bullock asks Keanu Reeves: “What, did you need another challenge right now?”