By the book

Just returned from an idyllic holiday in Wales. The weather was bleak, but beautiful.  We were spared the heavy rains that deluged Cumbria, and just had heavy, howling winds and grey skies. Perfect weather for those of us with “Wednesday Addams” sensibilities.

The DEB and I had a restful time, cozying up in our little, rented cottage near the tiny village of Trelech. We cuddled up by the fire, read books and watched movies. Some days not even bothering to get dressed, and reveling in our “naughty kids” status by staying in our pajamas all day! Heaven.

I cannot say how long it has been since I have actually just sat and read a book, for pleasure. Since reading has always been such a vital part of my job as “professor” and “scholar,” I have developed a habit of reading that is in indicative of my trade. I read for speed, I read for facts, answers, information; and for some reason, I find this part of brain hard to switch off.  I often find it hard to sit and just relax, and lose myself in the written page.

Nowadays, this situation is compounded by my writerly ambitions, that impend my progress through a book by means of a non-stop internal monologue of directives: “I should be writing!” “Why didn’t I write this book?” or, more simply (and jealously) “This sucks!”

Magically, away from home, away from email and text messages, in the rolling, green valleys of Carmarthenshire, I found peace and quiet.  Time seemed to stand still, and angst subsided.

My book of choice was Hilary Mantel’s incredible tome, Wolf Hall.

The sheer heft of this volume is enough to impress. It’s smaller than a single volume edition of the complete works of Shakespeare, but bigger than the Oxford New English Study edition of The Bible -- by a third!  

To say that it is an “epic” doesn’t even come close. Size, as they say, is not everything, and indeed that is the case with Wolf Hall. There is more here to admire than the fact that it is “a huge heap of words.”  The writing, my God, her writing is extraordinary.

“A fictionalized account of the life of Thomas Cromwell.” To some, that would sound like a snooze fest looking for a place to happen, but Mantel has done an incredible job of doing quite the opposite.

While I lost myself peering lovingly through Wolf Hall, the DEB uncovered Dan Brown’s latest effort, The Lost Symbol and Robert Lacey’s History of Britain. The DEB is a much faster reader than I am, and so he is now waiting for me to finish Wolf Hall so he can dive into it.

(Can I just say, what a joy it is to share ones life with a man who loves to read!)

Reading and writing became the twin themes of our time in Wales. One windy night, we watched a dramatization of the life of novelist, Enid Blyton. Good grief, what a story. Helena Bonham Carter, one of my all time fave actresses, did an amazing job as the troubled and troubling children’s author.

Blyton’s story was grim to be sure, but I must say, from a writer’s point of view, she was pretty remarkable. She managed (by sheer force of will, neglect of her children, and the help of a few servants) to meet her target of writing no less than 6,000 words per day. Like her or hate her, that’s pretty impressive.

On the two sunny days we had, we ventured out to Laugharne and St. David’s. Set on a cliff, overlooking the Taf Estuary of Carmarthen Bay, Laugharne was the principal home of legendary Welsh bard, Dylan Thomas. Thomas’ Boathouse has been maintained for visitors to see, as well as his writing shed, where he drafted such works as Under Milk Wood.

Thomas’ writing shed had the most incredible views of sea and sky. I turned to the DEB and said, “Who couldn’t write with a view like this for daily inspiration?” Seeking to inspire me further, the DEB drove us to St. David’s on the next sunny day.

On the southern tip of Wales, reaching out toward Ireland in St. Bride’s Bay sits St. David’s. A tiny town, with a populace of 1800, St. David’s is home to one of the oldest and most glorious cathedrals in Britain. St. David’s Cathedral has attracted millions of pilgrims to this remote spot in Wales since the Middle Ages.

In medieval times, Pope Clement I declared that two pilgrimages to St. David’s was worth one to Rome. The ruins of the Bishop’s Palace, across from the church, attests to the great wealth and powerful this cathedral once held.

This place is an absolute haven for ecclesiophiles! I am not certain, but I think I may have just invented this term, meaning “lover of churches, church buildings and architecture”.

To my knowledge this word is not in general usage, but it absolutely should be, as its opposite term, ecclesiophobe –one who fears churches/church buildings—does exist. At any rate, St. David’s is an ecclesiophile’s paradise!!

In addition to the breath-taking architecture, there are several reliquaries throughout, and opposite the choir stall lie the remains of none other than Edmund Tudor – grandfather of Henry VIII. Bibliophiles will swoon at the vast and exceedingly rare holdings of the Cathedral Library.

The Canon, a sweet faced man, with a beautiful, sing-songy Welsh accent chatted with us for a bit, before hurrying off to prepare the church for Evensong. Just as we left the cathedral, a bright, full moon was rising over the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace. Magic. The perfect location for a murder mystery!

The DEB and I made our way through the dark, quiet, narrow streets of St. David’s, and found ourselves two very nice pints of ale, and a bowl of water for Lucy, at “The Farmer’s Market” pub. We enjoyed the pints so much we stayed for a meal.

The topic of writing filled our dinner conversation. “You just need to trust yourself, and go for it,” The DEB advised. (How remarkable to have someone in my life with such blind and dedicated faith in my abilities.)

While driving to St. David’s, I had phoned the DEB’s sweet rellies in Cumbria to see how they were faring in the wake of flooding there. They were fine, and my conversation with the DEB’s beloved aunt swiftly turned to writing.

She, too, is an avid reader, and knows good writing when she sees it. She was full of good advice, and now that we have returned home I find an email from her, picking up from where she’d left off in our telephone conversation.

It is so nice to have such encouragement and support abound. Just wished I could something about my indisputable scritturaphobia…

 

American Women & British Men

Finally. We get to the heart of the matter. 

Just what is it about British men? And why do we American women love them so?

Think of the laundry list of American female celebs who have fallen into the arms of British men: Gwyneth Paltrow, Madonna, Jerry Hall, Marsha Hunt (the inspiration for Mick Jagger's "Brown Sugar"), Gillian Anderson, on and on. 

Funnily enough, even among my own circle of friends, I can count a higher than average number of American female-British male couples.

I blame MTV. 

I grew up a child of the '80's. Wham, Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet, Flock of Seagulls, Kajagoogoo, The Cure, Culture Club, Pet Shop Boys, and the list goes on and on. We were inundated with images of gorgeous, perfectly coiffed, and often heavily made-up, British men. Who didn't want to be "Rio," or that girl who got to roll around in the jungle with Simon Le Bon in Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" video? 

Then, there were the Merchant-Ivory films. I mean, who didn't want to be Helena Bonham-Carter in A Room with a View, with that "win-win" choice between Daniel Day-Lewis and Julian Sands? 

But, what is it really, about the Brit boys that drives us mad, and makes us sooooo weak in the knees. Can it just be the accent? No, I think it goes much deeper than that. In a recent article in The Hindustan Times (don't ask), Englishboy cutie-pie Jude Law reckoned that American women go ga-ga over British men because:

"It's the use of words. We [British men] use words like 'lovely', and 'naughty'. I think they quite like that."

...Um, yes, Jude, we do rather like that. But, more than word choice, I think there is a larger issue here: the fact that words are being used at all. What I mean is, the fact that a British man is actually talking to you -- and listening, in fact. A conversation is being had, and, in my experience at least, a very engaging one at that. Yes, I think that might be it. I can honestly say, that for me and my D.E.B., it was a meeting of minds, first and foremost. We could actually talk about things, he actually wanted to share and know my opinion, and he loved/loves and relished/relishes how smart and sassy I was/am. 

And besides, a man who knows his Jane Austen always, always, always wins! I will never forget the time, early on, when the D.E.B. signed off on one of his emails thus: 

"Ever yours, Mr. Darcy -- or, Colonel Brandon, which do you prefer?" 

My heart skipped a beat, my pulse began to race, I broke into a sweat, and my brain melted out of my ears. In that moment, I could have crossed the Atlantic on foot!! A seduction of the mind.

Of course, I know not all English or British men are "D.E.B.s." Just like not all American men are mindless neanderthals, who can't hold a conversation. The bottom line is, I suppose, just one of individual preference. But, really, what is there not to love about an Englishman? He knows how to dress, can hold his own in a conversation, isn't afraid to be romantic--even in public!--has good manners, knows which fork to use, isn't afraid to cry, loves his mum, *SIGH* I could go on and on...  

History is also on the side of the alliance of the elegant American woman and her charming Englishman. Our greatest standard bearer was of course, Mrs. Wallis Simpson. What a woman of class, style and grace! What a beauty. Although a well-to-do socialite from a good family, to the British press and British public she was: "An American, two-time divorcee from Baltimore." 

I found an article the other day that said, when it became clear that King Edward had "feelings" for Mrs. Simpson, several groups formed around the country in protest, such as one group of women, who started a campaign called "Mothers Against the King."

Wow. Just imagine the hate mail Wallis Simpson must have received. 

Shakespeare wrote: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind." When Edward looked at Wallis he could see what others could not. And so great was his love, he gave up his crown, his kingdom and his country for her. Now, that is love.

And perhaps, that is what is so very appealing about Englishmen. Their grit, their almost majestic resolve and determination, and their incredible passion, coupled with great sensitivity. These are what have, and continue to attract, entice and beguile us American damsels.