God save us from…Boorish Brits Abroad

'Tis not my fault, the Boar provok'd my tongue, 

Tis he, foul creature, that hath done me wrong!' 

- Venus & Adonis 

It is a perennial problem. Idyllic French campsite, nestled in the shadow of a magnificent chateau, encircled by a lush and verdant landscape, with leaping carp and ducks gliding gracefully across a tranquil, emerald lake; sunsets to write home about, church bells softly tolling in the distances, glorious sunshine and tomatoes the size of your head…

This, is the reward for months and months of hard graft, head to the grindstone and gritted teeth. Heaven on earth. Paradise. That is, until the Boorish Brits arrive. Then, the silence is suddenly shattered, and a cruel holiday reality sets in.

You know the type. They travel in packs, or rather, successfully find members of their tribe upon arrival. They find themselves infinitely interesting, and endlessly amusing. They’ve untapped the Belgian beer and the Calvados, and they’ve got stamina. They can go for hours, and they’re here all week. “Manners” mean nothing to these people, and ‘etiquette’ is just another French word that rhymes with ‘baguette’.

And, what are we to do -- those of us for whom “holiday” means ‘a bit of peace and quiet’; a chance to catch up on all those books I’ve been meaning to read for the past 12 months; a chance to sit and watch the sun set, and actually have an uninterrupted conversation with my spouse, about nothing in particular -- when that serenity is disrupted by a bunch of boors braying and guffawing, as loudly as possible, just to show the rest us what we’re missing?

It is, of course, their right, they will have you know, to enjoy themselves as they please, but what about our right to enjoy ourselves as we please? The sad truth is that there is actually very little one can do in a situation such as this. As the revelry carried on past midnight, I tried to sooth my seething soul by penning a well-crafted letter (in both French and English) to the chateau staff. A sympathetic shoulder shrug with a “Quelle dommage”, however well intended, provides little relief.

I’m angry. And, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sure we are not the only ones feeling this way, but, the only option that exists for us all is to suffering in silence.

How did things get this way? There used to be a time when you could approach an individual and say, politely, “Sorry, but would you mind…” and it actually had an effect.

To my embarrassment, I recall an instance, years and years ago, when I was a student living in London.  I had a little job at a pasta shop in Marylebone High Street. One morning, I was feeling a bit cheeky, and carried my portable music player with me to work. I provided myself with an audio soundtrack as I sashayed to work. “Young lady, you can turn that down for a start.” An older male voice admonished me, clearly unappreciative of Duran Duran so early on a Saturday. I snapped to attention, and switched the player off immediately.

Those were the days!

If one dared to engage in that sort of social admonishing nowadays, you’d need to be prepared for fall out, backlash or a black eye! There is no reasoning with these people. They are bigger, louder, ruder, and undeniably, here to stay.  So, what is one to do, apart from suffering in silence?

No use complaining to camp ‘authorities’, they could do without the aggro. They don’t want to intervene, as they’d rather not have their heads ripped off in your stead! No point appealing to camping organisations like the Caravan Club. Not their problem. As long as members pay their subs and clear up after themselves, these organisations are not bothered about behavior or social harmony.

Perhaps, if there was a monetary incentive these groups and camp authorities could and would get involved. What if they could extract a hefty fine from individuals who breach the peace past a certain hour? Or, following a certain number of complaints? What if groups of boors could be barred from a site after repeated infringements? Well, I suppose that would make too much sense.

Quelle dommage.

So, it is assumed and the more civilized amongst us are meant to just accept it, chalk it up to experience, vent our spleen on Trip Advisor and try somewhere else next year.  But that doesn’t stop us imagining what we might do - or pursuing creative ways to sooth our rage and frustration: strategically placed stink bomb in the bedding quarters of the offending boor’s Unicorn caravan? A ritual flogging of said boor, at dawn, outside the campsite café?

Close, but not quite right. The punishment should fit the crime. And, at the heart of this particular crime is a desire for attention and public recognition. The other side of it, my side of it, is that feeling of helplessness, the frustration of having my highly-prized solitude and privacy invaded. How can I ever place ‘the Boor’ in the same position? By writing him an open letter, of course. And, include his car registration details for all to see.

Dear Mr K40 CWP,  

The boorish behavior you and your newfound chums displayed on the campsite last night was obnoxious, unnecessary, rude and ignorant.  Why you felt obliged to share your bravado and ill manners with the entire campsite remains a mystery. 

 I regret to inform you that your ambitions to become a stand-up comedian are woefully misguided. Your act may go down well in your local, however, I have no doubt that the strangers laughing at your sad jokes and trite stories last night were merely doing so for the free beers and crisps that were on offer. Behind your back, they think you’re as big a berk as the rest of us do. 

 Upon reflection, I realise that it is not your fault.
I blame “Top Gear”. But, not in the way you might suppose. The format of Top Gear is to blame: lively presenters, surrounded by a gaggle of enthusiastic sycophants, eager to laugh at every line. That is the dream to which you aspire. Unfortunately, Mr K40 CWP, life is not an episode of Top Gear, and you are not Jeremy Clarkson, Richard May, or even, “The Hammond”.  

Like them or loathe them, one must admit that they are knowledgeable and gifted ranconteurs who are, in fact, engaging.  They, in stark contrast to you, are professionals. Perhaps Top Gear should come with a warning: “Do not try this at home – or on a campsite.”  

Of course, Mr K40 CPW, you have every right to live out your Jeremy Clarkson fantasy as you will. But, please understand that I, likewise, have the right NOT to be an unwilling participant in that fantasy. 

 I’m not quite sure for whom I feel most sorry: myself and my husband, having a lovely, peaceful, summer evening ruined; the family camped next to you, too afraid to register their discomfiture; your wife, snuggled up on her own inside your caravan, with a well-worn copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, since your idea of ‘quality time’ on holiday is showing off to group of strangers; or, should I feel sorry for you?  

No, I think not.

Well, they do say the pen is mightier than the sword. One can only hope.

Holiday, celebrate

Excellent day at Coughton Court yesterday! Even ended up as a "Live Spot" on BBC1 "Midlands Today".

Full details upon my return!

Off with the D.E.B. for a week's holiday in the Lake District until 28 September.

Until soon...

Coffee mornings

Glorious morning full of sunshine – at last!

Yesterday, after a quick swim, I went along to the Coffee Morning at the Machado Gallery. Sue Machado’s “first-Friday-of-the-month” Coffee Mornings are an institution in Barford, and yesterday was no exception.

I arrived around 11:30 AM to find a gathering of familiar faces. Sue Machado maneuvering graceful in her wonderfully bright and hearth-y kitchen area. Her formidable AGA was working at full tilt producing an array of beautifully baked breads, and goodies. (I opted for the spelt & ricotta pancakes with rhurbarb & maple syrup and homemade vanilla ice cream – yum!)

Out in the garden, the “Old Barfordians” were basking in the sunshine. The Old Barfordians are a group of ladies who re-unite at the Machado every month. All roughly in their 80's, these women grew up together in Barford, went to school and were in "Girl Guides" (British equivalent to "Girl Scouts") together. They have seen many changes of live together over the ways, some of them now live far away, but make the journey to Barford every month to reminisce over coffee and nectarine flan. They shared some of their old photographs with me.

Another regular feature of the Machado Coffee Morning is Di Hadley from Middle Watchbury tempting us all with lists of her farm offerings: locally raised and reared beef, pork and lamb. Her “Mutton and Mint” sausages are to die for. I ordered a pack of these, and put in a tentative order for a small Goose for Christmas.

Orders for Christmas, in August? Good grief, but, it will be here before we know it. I’d love to have a go at cooking a goose. Reminds me of one of those old English carols we use to sing in Choir, in junior high school.

For my life, I can’t remember the title of the song, but one of the refrains is: “Christmas is coming, the goose is going fat. Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat.”  I used to love that tune! And whenever we sang it, my thoughts would drift away to this blessed isle, and images of happy, English Christmases with plump roasted goose, steaming puddings, hats and Christmas crackers.

Last year, the D.E.B. and I had another English classic, a sexy alternative to traditional roasted fowl for Christmas dinner: “Sirloin Steaks and Stilton.” It was absolutely gorgeous, but this year, I’m thinkin’, “Bring on the poultry!”

 My thoughts about Christmas are only fleeting at best, I’m one of those people who likes to hang on to summer till the bitter rainy end. The D.E.B. is dying for us to go for a camping holiday in our little camper van. We should be away to the Cotswolds this weekend, but we feared that the weather wouldn’t cooperate, and of course, it’s sunny instead.

Ah, British weather you have to love it!

Our holiday plans have also been complicated by the fact that we were recently invited to a wedding in Spain. (One of my former students is getting married.) I’d love to go – any excuse to wear a hat – it falls at a somewhat awkward time for us to get away.

But, if we don’t go to Spain, we could delay our summer holiday to September instead. The weather here may in fact be better then, than it is now. We’re thinking a trip to visit the rellies in the Lake District, or a road trip on in search of my ancestors in the mountains of Wales.

For now, morning cups of tea in bed… 

On Holiday in the Lake District

Away until Sunday, 4 January 2009.

Happy New Year!

Northern soul

Warwickshire, the English county that I live in, is often referred to as: “England’s England.” 

To be sure, Warwickshire it is a truly remarkable and enchanting place.  A place I feel proud and very lucky to call my home. But, if Warwickshire is as it describes itself, “England’s England,” I have decided that Cumbria must be “the England of our dreams.”

The Cumbrian landscape is dotted with quintessentially English-sounding place names, names that make American ears tingle with glee: Greenodd, Arrad Foot, Cartmel, Hard Crag, Castlerigg, Hawkshead, Buttermere, Haverthwaite, Bassenthwaite, Windermere, Barrow-in-Furness, Low Brow Edge, Loopergarth Clappersgate, Ambleside, Cross-a-Moor, and so on… 

This is the England we Americans imagine in our most nostalgic, Anglophilic fantasies. Fantasies nurtured and nourished by a steady diet of “Upstairs, Downstairs”, “Fawlty Towers”, “Miss Marple,” “Masterpiece Theatre,” “Mystery!” and countless other British imports presented in heavy rotation on PBS (Public Broadcasting Service). 

For me, Cumbria and the Lake District – the land of Beatrix Potter and Wordsworth – is a magical landscape that fulfills every one of my romantic English imaginings.

We drove up from Warwickshire on Wednesday night. Got stuck in bottleneck traffic on the M6 out of Birmingham, for what felt like hours – eager as we were to get to Backbarrow. It was nice, however, it to have the D.E.B. all to myself, and we laughed and talked all the way. Once out of Birmingham, it was smooth sailing “up t’North.” It just started to drizzle as we entered the enchanted land of Cumbria.

Even with leaving Warwickshire at 6PM, we didn’t get to Backbarrow until around 10PM-ish. We had hoped to make last orders at the pub, but opted to find a “chippy” (Fish n’ chips - my fave!!) in Ulverston, the nearest big town. 

We found a Chinese take-away that specialized in “Chinese Meals and Fish n’Chips” – what more could you need in life, anyway? 

A really sweet, young Asian woman – sporting a New York Yankees hat no less!--served up absolutely dee-lish fish and chips, and offered me my first sampling of the lovely, local Lancashire accent.

It is in these moments that I’m reminded how in the States we are often misled to believe that are only two native English accents: “posh” and “not posh,” a.k.a., “Cockney” (Thank you, Mary Poppins.) When in fact the English phonetic landscape is so very diverse, surely as equally varied (more so?) as  American accents are—which are themselves more varied than most English people have been led to believe, a vicious cycle it seems. But, I digress. 

Our first night in Cumbria…It was too dark to see anything. I was so eager for daylight I almost found it hard to sleep, like a kid waiting for Christmas. I say almost, because, truth be told, I slept like a baby. We’d rented a lovely cottage called “Abbot’s Vue” from the D.E.B’s friend, Richard. 

The DEB’s wonderful rellies/relatives (I absolutely adore them!) Auntie Dorothy and Uncle Colin had offered us to stay with them on Walney Island. And we would have, but we had Lucy, the Princess Collie, along with us and Dorothy and Colin have cats that hate dogs. 

It would have been nice to stay with them, but staying in Backbarrow did put us more inland, and closer to the Lakes. Abbot’s Vue is a lovely cottage, with all the “mod cons” as folks round here would say. Wood burning stove, spacious kitchen, comfy beds with feather-filled pillows and comforters—it felt like sleeping inside a croissant! 

Abbot’s Vue is in a perfect location for exploring the Lakes, with lots of nice restaurants and pubs nearby. Previously, Richard only intended to rent/let his place to friends and family, but I think he is considering broaden his scope. I’d recommend his place to anyone! We loved staying there.

Waking in Cumbria the next morning was magic. I whipped open the bedroom curtains to discover soft grey and pinkish light beaming behind thick white clouds that hung low atop steep, rocky hills. The warm, red brick of Warwickshire had given way to ashen stone and pebble-dash houses with slate roofs the colour of charcoal. 

I hope that I can get away with saying this, I do mean it with utmost love and respect, but to me it felt like being inside that old  "Hovis" bread commerical. Okay, I do realize there are a number of problems with my using the famous Hovis ad as a reference: a.) The ad is meant to be depicting Yorkshire, not Cumbria; but I’m just going to claim American ignorance of the difference between the two and let it go.  And, b.) I also realize that the Hovis ad, though supposedly depicting Yorkshire, was actually filmed in Dorset…the mind boggles…So, given its own complex history, I think I can use this ad as I wish!

I threw open my window, wanting to breathe in beautiful Cumbria all at once. The DEB drew me back down next to him, and whispered in my ear: “I want to make you this happy for the rest of your life.”  (…SIGH…)

After breakfast, we did a big walk up the steep hill around Brow Edge and Low Brow Edge. We drove along the coastal road toward Barrow-in-Furness, stopping at picturesque beauty spots along the way to take pictures, and allow the Princess Puppy to chase seabirds on the rocky beaches. 

As we passed through Morecambe Bay, the DEB remembered a little bayside village called Rampside that he’d visited with his family as a child. 

We drove there, and the old hotel that he and his family had stayed in was still there! I insisted we stop and go in.

The DEB’s mum (Elsie, sister to Auntie Dorothy) was born and raised in Barrow-in-Furness, and was proud of her Northern roots. The DEB’s family always spent their summer holidays in Cumbria and the Lakes. 

Once, on a summer visit, the DEB’s Aunt and Uncle were having work done on their house, so the DEB and his family had to stay elsewhere. They stayed at Clarke’s Hotel. There is a blissful twinkle in the DEB’s eyes as he recalls those bygone family times, and I am elated as he shares them with me. He was just a little lad then, and so excited to be spending a holiday in this swanky seaside hotel. (I can just imagine a little DEB, in his little schoolboy shorts and summer woolen jumper/sweater! Too cute for words!!!!)

I was just as excited to see it now, as he might have been seeing it for the first time all those years ago. And Clarke’s did not disappoint. It, too, played right into my nostalgic, Anglophile fantasy. 

The manager, Mr. Thomas Twigge, a tall, thin, reed of a man, with cute sticky-out ears, greeted us from behind the bar with a big, broad smile. As he pulled us a pint and a half (I’m dieting) of the local ale, I had a look around. 

The Clarke has an old-fashioned charm, and has retained its understated Victorian glamour. It’s all ‘dark wood, roaring fireplace, over stuffed chairs, and a view of the sea’. The feeling is one of warmth, coziness and comfort. 

The bar’s sitting room is like being in your Granny’s parlour – well, that is, if your Granny had been a late Victorian woman of some means, perhaps a former high-society Madame, who’d landed on her feet as the mistress of a wealthy industrialist. 

The Clarke's Hotel is a study in contrasts: elegant, yet humble. Needless to say, I fell in love it. We stayed for lunch (huge portions), and a few more pints. (The diet had already been blown by huge honking portions of hot roast beef sandwiches and chips, so why not?)

After lunch we waddled back to car and headed for Walney Island to see Auntie Dorothy and Uncle Colin. After a cup of tea, Dorothy and Colin showed us a few of the highlights of Barrow-in-Furness, such as Furness Abbey and Biggar Bay Beach. 

On a clear day you can see the Isle of Man. The DEB and I took the Pup to play and watch the sun set on the Irish Sea, while Dorothy cooked us a huge meal for dinner: Steak and Mushroom Pie, with mash (mashed potatoes) and peas (green peas). I LOVE Northern food! Good solid, stick to your bones fare. After all that, all we could do was collapse.

The next day, Friday, we spent the day on Lake Windermere – England's largest lake, and an extra treat for me, Oscar Wilde fan that I am! (One of his plays is Lady Windermere’s Fan, though I don’t think it actually has anything to do with the Lake…)

It was a glorious day, even if it was a bit brisk. The town, Bowness-on-Windermere is a little touristy, but I’m a tourist, so I loved it! This place – and the Lakeland area generally—is Beatrix Potter mad. I love Beatrix Potter, too, so I was in heaven. 

They don’t seem to make as much of a fuss over the fact that this is also “Wordsworth Country”, though. Wordsworth’s house, “Dove Cottage,” is really quite splendid. Goes without saying that the Lakes are a walkers/hikers paradise. There is just too much to see and do in one little visit, so I have demanded that we go back as often as possible. I love that DEB’s family had a tradition of going there every year, at least whilst the DEB and his brother were little boys. It is my goal to resurrect that tradition!

We ambled through Ambleside, saw Wray Castle from a boat on Windermere, and at the end of the day the DEB drove us to Grasmere. 

Grasmere was one of the DEB’s parents’ favorite places. They spent their honeymoon at an old inn (The Wordsworth Hotel) in Grasmere.  (So romantic.) And while there, they fell in love with the works of the Lakeland painter W.H. Heaton Cooper. 

So, we visited the Heaton Cooper Studio, which was still open after 5PM on a late autumn night, surprisingly. Another nostalgic moment for the DEB: after their honeymoon, the DEB’s parents started collecting works by W. H. Heaton Cooper. Sadly, both the DEB’s parents have passed away, god rest them, and the paintings they collected have been passed around, ultimately ending up (equally sadly) in the hands of the DEB’s ex’s brother. Apparently, “The Ex” did not like them, which, of course, is/was her prerogative. But, I have to say: Where’s your sense of romance and family tradition, girl?!?

Here is where a dreamy (in the sense of “head full of dreams”), nostalgic, Anglophile American damsel comes in handy! We LOVE stuff like this! I mean, just think about the scores of little side-of-the-road Antique shops (I use that term lightly…) on American highways and byways offering to sell you “Instant Ancestors” – I’m not the only person who has seen these! 

Basically, they are old, black and white photographs – of strangers. These strangers become your “Invent-a-Story” relatives. I realize I have now given away a huge State Secret here, but there it is. I’m not saying it’s bad thing. If purchasing a photo album full of “Invent-a-relative” pictures makes you happy, and feel better about yourself, more power to you!

The bottom line is that Americans LOVE history. We LOVE tradition. Americans love history and tradition so much, that if we don’t like our own, we will gladly latch on and co-opt someone else’s! 

I also think this goes a long way to explain why WE are the nation that invented the ridiculous classification: “First Annual…” (insert any appropriate phase here, i.e., “Chili Cook Off,” “Pumpkin Festival,” & etc.). This grammatically challenged bit of phrasing is one of the most apt signs of the American love of, nay, need for history and tradition, it says: “We’ve always done this!” So, unlike “the Ex,” I’m genetically programmed to be enamored of such things. Besides, the look on his face as we surveyed the paintings in the studio…who wouldn’t want to support that, have a share in that? 

The rest of our holiday was much, much more of the wonderful same: ambling along footpaths, walking—in my case twirling—on beaches, cozy fires, countless pints, spending time with family, and scenery to die for.

On our last day in Cumbria we went to Coniston Lake and saw the peak called: “Old Man”. The DEB climbed this peak as a boy. It seemed like Everest to him then. Our last stop was Tarn Hows, a mountain lake where the little boy DEB fell into the water from a broken bower. 

He’d been goofing around with his older brother, and fell in fully clothed. His parents were furious. The DEB and I both laughed until we cried at the thought of it, as we stood where it’d happened. Amazing memories.       

Memories of his past that prompted us to have a conversation about our future, and our future (hoped for) children. Of course, I’d want them to cherish their American roots and ancestors, but I want them to have little Northern souls, and magical childhoods like the D.E.B.’s, full of Lakeland walks, Cumbrian food and seaside memories.

"On Holiday"

Going up North to Cumbria for a short "holiday" to visit "the rellies" in the Lake District! Back next Tuesday, 25 November...