A MAGI MOMENT
Act 3, Scene 3: Luncheon at the New Court Hotel
If you’ve ever read O Henry’s, “A Gift of the Magi,” you’ll understand.
Two young newlyweds make huge sacrifices to enable them to buy gifts for each other. Their sacrifices made the gifts they received useless. It’s a lovely story about giving. And that’s what happened to me last Sunday.
Paul and I had chugged into Abergavenny in our wreck and even found a free parking spot on Saturday. Breezing through the market town we picked up rashers of bacon and three homemade pork sausages from Sausage Man, fresh veggies from Veggie Lady, farm fresh butter and eggs from – you guessed it — the Butter and Egg People. After a stop for coffee and toasted tea cakes with our friends Malcolm and Pat, we putt-putted back to our hilltop aerie to watch the sheep.
Sunday morning dawned rainy and cloudy but the haze lifted by late morning and Paul went off to get a haircut. I took our purchases from yesterday and decided to have a lovely Welsh breakfast ready for him when he returned. Now, a Welsh breakfast isn’t just bacon and eggs. It’s bacon, sausages, grilled tomatoes, sautéed mushrooms, planks of toast, fried eggs and beans. Yes, you read that right, beans.
The sausages browned slowly on top of the stove. The tomatoes were grilling. The
bacon, not the thin, skinny strips found in America, but long, wide cuts of
pork, sizzled. Mushrooms were sautéing a la Julia Child (if you’ve never made
mushrooms from her recipe, you haven’t lived! (Turn to page 513, top, in the
“40th Anniversary Edition of Mastering the Art of French
Cooking.”) Toast popped out of the toaster and was waiting to be slathered
in the fresh butter. The air in the kitchen was swimming in the aroma of
breakfast as found only in the UK. I sautéed away, humming and happy in my
work. Until Paul came home.
Haircut? Good. There was still some hair left on his head. But while in the barber chair
he’d struck up a conversation and learned about a good little restaurant in
Usk. And since it was Mothering Day (the UK equivalent of Mother’s Day) he
thought I deserved a nice Sunday lunch – out. Reservations were made and he
burst through the door all smiles, so pleased with himself and his plans for
the afternoon. Until that aroma hit him.
He was delirious to see and smell all his favorite foods grilling, sizzling, roasting
and toasting. There’s nothing like a good meal to make your man raise his
plumage in appreciation and strut around the room. Until he realized the
conflict.
Paul got one of those crazy grins on his face that made him look like the little boy he once was. You know the type — one sock up, one sock down, always getting into mischief. The grin explained itself when he told me about our luncheon reservations, set for, yes, – 1 ½ hours away! What could I do but laugh. At the two of us, standing at the crossroads, each with a gift in hand.
We compromised. We ate half of the breakfast and then went out for lunch! The
other half would be saved for dinner. As Yogi Berra once said: “When you
come to a fork in the road, take it.” We did. We’d had our Magi moment and
made the best of it. Thank you, Paul, for a lovely day. And Happy Mothering Day
to all who celebrate!
BACK HOME
My little potato peelers
I left Wales and went back to the States after being away for five months. I was hungry – for a plate of sweet hugs from my daughter, Cashley; being smothered in kisses from my two grandsons, and a bit of tartness from my parents, who can’t resist a dig every now and then about my being so far away from them. Walking from the plane at Palm Beach International Airport, I was surprised by two little munchkins and their beautiful mom as they popped out of a doorway to greet me. After a few giggles, the smothering began. I was in heaven.
Show and tell began immediately as both Jacob and Nicholas regaled me in what was new in their lives. Jacob showed off the fact that he was no longer in a car seat, but rather, a booster. He’s a big boy now at six years old! Four-year-old Nicholas showed me how he could buckle up the harness in his car seat by himself, refusing even a suggestion of help. They insisted I sit between them in the back seat. I couldn’t fit.
The chatter began and for three weeks grandma was the center of the universe for them. They donned their Welsh aprons I’d brought and we cooked. Standing on their stools in front of the kitchen sink, both became expert potato peelers. I made their favorite chicken cutlets. I roasted, basted, stirred and tried every which way to encourage them to eat food that wasn’t pizza. Sometimes I was even successful.
When I moved to Wales from the States, both my daughter and my parents were upset that I had left. They felt deserted. They were angry. The top layer of bread in the club sandwich had flown off, leaving just the filling and bottom crust. I was what kept the family together, and they were left to fend for themselves. Was it kind of me? No. Was it necessary for me? Yes. And thankfully, with this visit, the sandwich came together again, sealed with a creamy mayonnaise that glued us back to where we were before I moved.
Every night at my daughter’s house one little being or the other climbed into my bed to snuggle. I had time to read to them. We played games. I bathed and dressed them. These were things I didn’t get to do on a daily basis even when I lived ten minutes away. There’s such a difference when you are actually living in the same house. An ease sets in. An expectation. Every moment was delicious.
Jacob expected me to meet the school bus every day. When I wasn’t there, he hung his head. Nicholas expected me to walk to the 7-11 every day, holding his hand as he led me through the secret passage. Both expected me to be there for dinner, and when I wasn’t, grandma was in trouble!
The visit with my parents was eventful as well. Suffering the heat of an 80 degree house that people in their late 80’s seem to cherish even in Florida, and the mega-decibel volume of the television, I sat for five days. Lacking internet service, the local library became my office every morning. When I returned to their house, we talked. About books, television, the rotten government (my mother’s point of view), about how many cigarettes my 88 year-old father is smoking (does it make any difference at his age?). We were together and it was lovely.
After three weeks, it was time for me to head back to Wales. The big question to myself was how I would respond – to leaving my family again and how intensely the draw of Wales would affect me. I had an inkling of how my heart would react when the excitement of returning began before I even boarded the airplane in Florida. It grew as I came closer to the UK. Even the dreaded National Express bus from Heathrow to Newport didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. And when Paul met me in Newport, I was thankful to be smothered once again in love. And then, we were off. Off to my home — in the Heavenly Usk Valley.
DRIVING ME MAD
It only took five months, but I’ve finally nailed driving in the UK. Mind you, I’ve been driving since I was 13… that’s 50 years, and still, I was intimidated by the thought of driving here in Wales. Let me explain…
People in the UK drive on the “other” side of the road.
People in the UK have the steering wheel in what I call the passenger seat.
People in the UK shift gears with their left hand.
People in the UK drive on roads that seem two feet wide.
People in the UK drive on roads and lanes that aren’t lit at night.
People in the UK are used to HUGE trucks (lorries) coming at them in the opposite direction that don’t move over causing the People in the UK to swerve to the edge of the road and throw their passenger into the bushes, scratch the car, ruin the tires and then inch slowly back into the traffic ahead calming their racing heartbeat all at once.
I am now, proudly, a People in the UK.
When we first moved to Wales, we bought a small, very old, very used car – a 1995 Toyota Corolla. The price was right – about $700US. It was the perfect vehicle for me to learn in. I wouldn’t have to worry about all the branches and leaves that would embed themselves into the paint on the passenger side. I wouldn’t have to worry about the side mirrors that would fall off as I scraped by cars parked on the left side of the road. The transmission had lasted this long, it would survive my frantic searches for the right gear. It had been a long time since I drove my 1974 Ferrari and my lack of expertise showed!
All I wanted was a sticker for the back of the car: “Yank driving. Please be patient.” But couldn’t find one.
- A gift from my daughter, Cashley, after she read this post!
There’s an art to driving in the lanes. When faced with a car or van coming in the opposite direction (not to mention school busses or trucks, err, lorries) one of you has to move over. This is a very polite dance of manners as one driver or the other decides who has the best opportunity to pull aside. It usually means backing up into someone’s driveway or a small pocket of road, and allowing the other vehicle to pass. A flurry of hand waving and thank you’s follow, and both continue on their merry way. Finding reverse was my only problem.
Once the lanes were mastered, I ventured into our local town, Usk. That meant turning onto roads that had traffic. I became paralyzed again. Paul grimaced and closed his eyes. I charged forward, or rather, rocked forward, maiming first gear. But the lovely People in the UK, manners at the forefront, waved me through the traffic and I made it!
Next – Abergavenny. Roundabouts. Horrors! When Katie and I went to France a few years ago we encountered roundabouts. The good news was that we were driving on the side of the road that we were used to. But reading the signage, in French, and figuring out which exit off the roundabout we were to take often meant driving around, and around, and around, until we could make a decision.
There’s a technique to driving the roundabouts here in the UK. It’s called closing your eyes and praying! There I was, driving clockwise, switching lanes, finding my exit, signaling as best I could without the windshield wipers flapping in front of my eyes because I couldn’t find the right lever to pull. Not too many cars were left in the dust. Maybe a few angry words were politely muttered, but we all made it.
Next? I had to pull all the elements together and drive into Cardiff.
I prepared for my trip to Cardiff for days. I had the maps, the location, a sense of where I had to go. Even the sat-nav (GPS here in the UK) was on standby. I got into town, dropped Paul off, and sat in the parking lot prepared to put the information into the little box that speaks English with a British accent. But the maps were missing. Not in the back seat. Not in the trunk (boot), not under the seat. I’d left them at home!!! I was stuck. Lost. And the only thing I remembered about where BBC Wales was, was that it was near the Cathedral.
I made wrong turns. I headed out of town. I was hopelessly lost. I asked for directions. He pointed me towards France. I whizzed past Cardiff Castle. I waved at the majestic Norman Ruin. It laughed — at the crazy Yank and her attempt to navigate the town.
The good news? I was so concerned about finding my destination that I forgot all about driving on the “other” side of the road. I forgot about the roundabouts. I forgot about the busses lumbering toward me. I only scraped one parked car. Remembering the words of my golf pro, Valerie, who said, “Don’t think. Just do.” I did. And I got there!
Full of confidence, I even got to my favorite Chinese restaurant after the meeting. And then on to the library. I picked Paul up at the bridge club. I was on my way!
I’ve now driven at night. Down dark roads, over narrow lanes, through big cities — well, kind of big. The transmission is still intact. The car chugs on. Paul may be in the bushes every now and then, but aren’t all husbands?
So, watch out, People in the UK. This Yank isn’t just coming and wearing a red coat. She’s arrived!
WELCOME TO CHRISTMAS, AGAIN
It was definitely a brass band playing the tune “Jingle Bells” that we heard through the walls of the auditorium as we made our way into the building. The fact that it was January 15 brought out the humor, as we laughed and pinched ourselves for the good fortune of being at the Chepstow Leisure Center at last!. To hear a Christmas Concert performed by the Chepstow Male Voice Choir. On January 15, 2011!
The Chepstow Male Voice Choir
Let’s backtrack a bit. The original concert was scheduled for December 18. It snowed. A lot. The concert was rescheduled to another December night. It snowed. A lot. The concert was postponed, and then rescheduled for January 15. At last!
I had wanted to hear a Welsh Male Voice choir, live, for years. It’s a Welsh tradition dating back to the late 1800s. The north has its brass bands; Wales has its male voice choirs. And there is nothing so moving, uplifting, and heart-poundingly beautiful than listening, with your eyes closed, as the tenors, baritones and bases’ voices penetrate your soul.
Imagine this: A narrator is reading Dylan Thomas’ “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”
“One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”
In the background a hint of humming sneaks in to join the words, and as the poem unfolds, the delicate hum grows in volume. The words of Dylan Thomas seem written in a velvet snow that is the earth. The hum, its aura.
”Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang “Cherry Ripe,” and another uncle sang “Drake’s Drum.” It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird’s Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”
Music is one of the threads that are woven into the tapestry of Wales. The coal miners sang as they marched into and out of the mines. The rugby fans of today sing. The Welsh National Anthem brings tears to the eyes of those big, strong, masculine Welsh men whenever they hear it. The song “Calon Lan”, a Welsh hymn written and set to music at the beginning of the 19th century, and asking God not for riches, but merely a “Clean Heart” is sung today at Welsh rugby games. Performed by the Chepstow Male Voice Choir, in Welsh, as is the custom for this hymn, it seemed translated and brought home as their voices blended and reached the heavens.
Not wanting to break the mood, the choir moved right into Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus,” grabbing and tugging and wrenching our emotions yet again.
When looking at the choir, I was tickled at the snow that topped most of their heads. Or was it their grey hair? Their ages only added the wisdom of life that words to a song need. These men were spritely, dressed in tuxedos for the first part of the concert, and sporty red sweaters (called ‘jumpers’ here in Wales) for the second. Donning their glitzy red Santa hats, their enthusiasm was contagious as the audience joined in the singing of favorite Christmas carols. It didn’t need to be Christmas (although, technically, we were still within the Christmas Season) to enjoy singing some of our favorite songs.
Musical Director Karl Daymond, resplendent in his “It’s Christmas, Kiss Me” tie, had toyed with some of the words of “Let it Snow.” Hands uplifted, as if in prayer, they begged to the heavens: “No more snow, no more snow, no more snow!”
Next December we will return to Chepstow for the Chepstow Male Voice Choir’s annual Christmas Concert. Or will it be January? Or February? Who knows. Who cares? Whatever the season, their voices will always bring Christmas to our hearts.
CHRISTMAS DAY ON PUDDING ISLAND
Not quite a “ramble” (a wander over the hills and dales), and dressed in our boots, jackets and gloves, we marched up the one last hill beyond Kate and Justin’s home toward a clearing. On the way we heard from the resident pheasant that lives in a towering tree and spied rabbit tracks in the snow. Just a short trek away we came to the flattop and beheld a wondrous outlook. Every home, every tower, every village for miles was neatly laid out below us. We felt on top of Everest. We felt at one with Wales. We felt peaceful. Serene. Almost religious. And definitely hungry — so we clambered off the mountain top and headed straight back to Wood Cottage and the meal of the century!
Three Magi - Kate, Kate's mom Pat, and Jann on top of the world Christmas Day
Justin doffed his walking clothes and again took command central between the huge cooker (stove) and prep island. Deflower the Brussels sprout stalk. Ribbon the sprout leaves. Sip some wine. Core the parsnips. Angle cut the carrots. Separate the goose fat. Drizzle the roasties (potatoes) with same. Sip more wine. Suddenly, the hob (cooktop) was doing what it was created to do and we had a lull. Perfect time for a nap as everyone settled down for a few minutes to gather more energy for the meal ahead.
Only one thing got between the nap and the meal and she was on the telly (television) promptly at 3 PM. The Queen. Every Christmas the Queen delivers “The Queen’s Speech,” a greeting with a small message and big wishes for all her subjects on this special day. All of Britain tunes in to watch. Throw in a song by the choir at Hampton Court, and in just a few minutes, the Queen’s Speech has come and gone, and we’re back in the kitchen for final preparations.
The goose comes out of the oven and is defrocked. The roast beef makes an appearance and is sliced into wafer thin morsels. The cranberry/pomegranate jello mold (jelly) is upturned and plattered. Vegetables (veg) are seasoned and sautéed to perfection. Stuffing. Gravy. Roasties and parsnips are brown, crispy and gleaming. The table is set in the conservatory, wine bottles lined up like tin soldiers, and the hungry converge. We eat until almost full, but are sure to leave a little room for the traditional, very British, ever-present and looked forward to – pudding!
There’s a reason that Britain is known as Pudding Island. The Brits love their desserts, and the generic term for anything sweet served after a meal is “pudding.” It can be a Victoria Sponge (cake with jelly between the layers), or, as in our case, a poached pear frangipani and a chocolate tart served with freshly whipped cream. Forks and spoons flashed in the air like a gathering of fencing enthusiasts, and no sooner had we been served than the dishes were empty. We were full. We were sated. We were deliriously happy. And we’d eaten so much that the real, traditional Christmas pudding (a fruitcake laced with alcohol and left to stand for at least a year) had to be put back into the cupboard for yet another year.
And that, my friends, is what Christmas is like on Pudding Island. Thank you Kate and Justin for making this day so satisfying — and filled with love and affection. Merry Christmas every day to you both.
STOP AND SMELL THE SAUSAGES
No Sunday meal is complete without fresh, farm-made Welsh sausages!
One of the first things we noticed when we came to Monmouthshire County, Wales, was the inordinate amount of Michelin- and British- starred restaurants there were within a five mile radius of our new home. Add to that the fresh markets to be found almost every day in one village or another, and it seemed we’d landed in the middle of “foodie heaven!”
Sheep dot the hillsides. While they are cute to look at, everyone here knows that sooner or later they will end up lavishly presented on an heirloom platter, swimming in gravy and surrounded by crispy oven-roasted potatoes and bright green Brussels sprouts. Lamb is a staple in the diet here, and with a bit of daring-do, even the cheapest cuts can be turned into scrumptious meals.
Next to the preponderance of sheep, there are the pigs. Our little cottage has two magnificently constructed brick pig pens adjacent, with solid iron gates and even a courtyard for them to roam. No, we don’t keep pigs here, but instead, the stys are used for storing wood for the wood-burner and pots for the garden. But pork is a big business and all it takes is a stop into our local butcher to see the array of pork products available. That brings us to the sausages.
In our market town of Abergavenny we’ve discovered a little butcher located on a side street, adjacent to a Chinese takeout and down the lane from a fish and chip emporium. The store, barely ten feet wide, houses a cold case resplendent in sausages of all kinds — blood sausages, beef sausages, and a variety of country pork sausages that have garnered prize ribbons throughout the years. It’s the pork sausages that call out my name.
Raised locally, you can taste the freshness of the meat as it oozes just slightly when sautéed. Seasoned with local herbs and spices, the sausages have an unmistakable flavor when sandwiched within a freshly baked brioche roll, purchased at the Frenchman’s bakery stand at the nearby fresh market. Add a dollop of English mustard, and you immediately forget the hot dogs of home and adopt the sausage roll as your new best friend.
And it’s that fresh market, located in the over 150-year old Market Hall, where everything local and recently pulled from the ground can be purchased. Welsh potatoes still have the earth covering their skins. Brussels sprouts have yet to be plucked from their shafts. Carrots are bright orange, massively round, and taste like – well, carrots! A fishmonger, butcher, cheese and butter maker — everything you need for your weekly meals can be purchased at the market. This is one of the glories of living in the middle of a market basket.
On a recent outing to our 800-year old town of Abergavenny, I bought five potatoes, five carrots, a bag of mushrooms, 3 onions, and some runner beans and it cost me less than $US3.00. Can you beat that, Publix?
If you watch the television chefs anywhere in the world, including the French chefs who are turning in their Michelin stars at lightning speed, you’ll learn that “fresh is best” is the new kitchen-cry. Go to your local fresh markets wherever you live. (Unlike the chi-chi greenmarkets that charge at least 3-times the store price). Buy what the farmers are offering. You’ll find that preparing food will take on a new dimension for you as you explore the variety of different meals you can make every season of the year. The bonus is that your produce will be much less expensive than if bought in a supermarket, much more fresh, probably organic and grown locally, not in some far-away country. The same holds for local meet and of course, sausages.
Pick up a head of cabbage from the vegetable seller. Chop it into wedges. Sauté in olive oil and a knob (that’s British-speak for large chunk) of local butter until just wilted. Remove to a serving dish, drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with sea salt and fresh pepper. Then shave some parmesan cheese over it and you’ll have a side dish that is new, tasty and incredibly fresh. That simple side dish is only one of the glories of living in what seems to be our own personal vegetable aisle. If you have a choice, forget the local supermarket. Take a few minutes to investigate local markets, and never, ever, forget to stop – and smell the sausages.
A THANKSGIVING STORY
Commemorating the sailing of the Mayflower from Plymouth, England to Plymouth, Mass.
Thanksgiving morning arrived bright, crisp and refreshingly tantalizing here in South Wales. There was no hint of the snows to come only a few days later, the leaves on the hedges were still a bright orange, and the local wildlife flitted about tucking away their meals for the winter to come. It was a perfect day to celebrate Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated in the UK, so with great hope, the local butcher in our market town of Abergavenny had been given our turkey order several weeks before. I had appeared in front of the meat counter with my roasting pan in hand and only had to describe the small ovens I was working with back at my cottage for him to instantly recognize my dilemma. “A twelve pound turkey will fit. No larger.” So a twelve-pounder I ordered, and began paring down my invitation list. Last year, in Florida, we were 22 around the table. This year, the pilgrims and Indians would be limited.
Every week while doing my normal meat marketing, I’d check in with Chris, the butcher. HJ Edwards and Son has been serving the Abergavenny area for over 150 years, so if they couldn’t get me a turkey, no one could. Chris was frustrated. The turkey farmer had gone missing, wasn’t answering his phone, was out feeding his birds, or doing things other than assuring us that our turkey was plumping up for his special day.
The turkey season in Wales is in December, when all the local tables are festooned with the crisp, golden birds. November was still out of season. So I was thankful, relieved, appreciative and humbled when I looked in Edwards’ cold case just two days before Thanksgiving. There sat the most luscious fresh turkey I had ever seen. Boasting a “sold” sign, I was the envy of all the shoppers at Edwards the Butcher that day!
My other challenge was preparing the side dishes with my American recipes and British measurements and products. For twenty years I had prepared a pomegranate, walnut, pineapple, celery, cranberry jello mold the likes of which you’ve never tasted. Thanks to my friend Liz in Los Angeles, who first gave me the recipe, our guests would wait in anticipation for the mold to be served. This year, I was faced with preparing it with “jelly”, the British version of jello that comes in squishy cubes, pineapple squares, not crushed, and pale pink pomegranates. I could only hope.
Turkey stuffing was another challenge. There were no Pepperidge Farm packages of seasoned sage stuffing chunks on the shelves, but instead, tiny packets of breadcrumb-size bits that called themselves stuffing. Add to that my having to use beef sausages (a few Kosher guests were coming), all I could do was cross my fingers.
The good news was that the butter I used was totally fresh from the farm, my chicken stock was homemade and containers of it occupied the shelves in my small freezer, frozen peas are a staple here, and the carrots tasted as if they had just been plucked from the ground, which they had. I was ready for the Indians.
My table was set, the turkey was in the oven, and my side dishes were humming along, and all was well, when a rap at the front door tore me from the kitchen. I wasn’t expecting guests yet. Opening it, I saw it was Michael, the groundskeeper who, with his brother Ron, work the property for the landlords, who live several hours away. Michael and Ron have been wonderfully helpful in teaching us the ins and outs of rural life here in South Wales.
From them I learned that the sheep in the adjacent fields had been prepared for “tupping” (mating) the month before and little lambs would dot the pastures in January. That the mud nests of the house martins, left behind in the eaves while their occupants winter in Africa, shouldn’t be hosed down as they are a symbol of blessings on the house. They tried, many times, to educate us as to how to build a lasting fire in the wood burner that warms the outbuilding adjacent to the pig pens adjacent to our cottage. They fix things for us. Trim our herb garden when it needs it. Cut back the lavender. They take wonderful care of us and don’t laugh when their dumb American tenants ask stupid questions.
Michael stood in the doorway and shyly presented me with a beautifully decorated bag and announced “It’s a present. For you”. I was in shock. “But, why” I asked. “Because it’s Thanksgiving” was his only reply. He then disappeared before I could wipe the mist gathering in my eyes.
I opened the bag. Inside, snuggled in the middle of layers of tissue, laid the most magnificent china tea cup I had ever seen. Decorated with a painting of the Mayflower, it was produced by the noted British company Aynsley in 1970, in commemoration of the 350th anniversary of the sailing of the Mayflower from Plymouth, England, to Plymouth, Massachusetts. A verse about the pilgrims decorated the back of the mug, and the American flag peeked out from the china handle. How he’d come across it, I wasn’t able to ask, but not only did he give it to me, he understood the significance of the day and like a true Indian, gave.
Was I touched? More than I’ve ever been in many years. Michael had no idea how his gift brought home the meaning of Thanksgiving to this American living “across the pond”. Just as the Indians welcomed the pilgrims from Britain, the British warmly welcomed this pilgrim. What goes around…
The story of the Pilgrims. We were the Pilgrims this year as our Welsh friends shared our bounty of their friendship!
OF LOLLYPOP LADIES AND BIN BAGS
For the past two months my husband and I have been actually, truly, really “Living Dibley”. The dream has become a reality and for all of you who just hold tight to dreams, my suggestion is that you take the plunge. Go for it. Even if it’s just for a few months, or a year or so, DO IT!!!! The ride is incredible and your perspective will be enhanced a million-fold. There are ups. And there are downs. And there are hurdles you never imagined. Like language.
I thought that moving to the UK would be easy because the British and the Americans speak the same language. I was wrong. They don’t. Like any language, British English is studded with so many different terms, words, spellings and meanings that I’m forced to learn a totally new language.
While Wales is a part of the British Commonwealth, it, too, has its own language and in many parts of this country, you’re not considered Welsh if you don’t speak Welsh! Heavens! What’s a Yank to do?
Learn. Watching the morning news the other day, one of the “television presenters” (hosts) actually said of a “footballer” (soccer player), “His reasons for leaving the sport won’t matter a dicky bird for the rest of the team”! I roared! Imagine The Today Show’s Matt Lauer coming out with his own version of British-speak: “Yesterday’s meeting of the U.N. Security Council was delayed because of the higgledy-piggedly arrangement of seats around the table”.
Phrases that are beloved to the British are also delightful to the ears. I’m invited to a “Hen Night” at the end of the month. In America it’s known as a bridal shower – only here the bride is regaled with gag gifts and raunchy wishes, the evening is fueled by anything alcoholic, and heavens knows the condition of the bride-to-be in the morning!
In a newspaper article, a large home in the country was referred to as a “pile”. I’m assuming that after the Hen Party, many will return to their pile in the country for the remainder of the weekend.
How’s your “pension pot” (retirement fund) doing these days? I thought it was my investment advisor “ringing” (telephoning) the other day when he caught me “mid-bonk” (use your imagination). No longer in the mood, I got up and grabbed some orange juice from the container marked “extra juicy bits” (lots of pulp).
I just came back from the doctors’ “surgery” (office) where Nurse Lisa gave me my flu “jab” (shot) and then prescribed all my monthly “tablets” (meds). After a stop at the bank, where I still have problems filling out the “paying in” slip (deposit slip), I strolled into the local market to buy some “ginger nuts” (cookies) that I just love with my afternoon tea.
The sheep that loll about in the field adjacent to our pile have incredibly large “bollocks” (ahem…) The groundskeeper told us they were resting, preparing for their autumnal duties of “tupping” (get creative here) the ewes. Rest assured that the number of spring lambs frolicking in the fields next year will be plentiful.
About those lollypop ladies… no, they’re not saleswomen in the local “sweets” shop. Hoisting long poles with round signs signaling “stop”, they inhabit the crosswalks of schools across the country in an effort to halt traffic and allow the children to cross the road safely.
And the bin bags? That’s another column altogether. Just know that every home, in an effort to recycle effectively, is provided with pink, purple, green, white and black “bin bags” (garbage pail liners). The hardware store even advertises designer “peely bins” (small garbage holders used for food preparation waste) that sit proudly upon kitchen countertops.
No longer is British English simply defined by the proper pronunciation of “tomato” (toe-matt-oh), but instead, it envelopes everything from Lollypop Ladies to Bin Bags. “Ta rah, well” (Welsh English for bye for now)!
DREAM IT, THEN DO IT
My husband and I talked of our move from South Florida to Wales for a long time. There were advantages galore and a few major disadvantages. Leaving my daughter and her family, including two cuddly grandsons, was the wall put up in front of me that could have prevented this move. But I was determined to help myself, and as a result, I would be in a better position to help them.
So, here we are, actually Living Dibley (the fictional town where the comedienne Dawn French reigns as the local Vicar). The view from our patio is incredible. The mountains (yes, hills and mountains dot the landscape) are lush and green. The weather is perfect for a jacket or sweater. And the rain is – well – ever present! But somehow, even with the rain, a blue sky manages to break through at least once every day.
Living in the UK is like breathing fresh air. Actually, it IS breathing fresh air. There isn’t any smog in my community here in the Usk Valley. A river runs through it — The River Usk. Salmon and fresh water fish are plentiful. Organic food is the norm not the exception. And water runs cold and sweet from the tap.
Everywhere we go, people are friendly and helpful. I went to my local Asda (think WalMart) and couldn’t find vanilla for cooking. When I asked the girl stocking shelves where I could find it, she not only told me where it was, but actually walked me to the aisle, the shelf, and then wanted to know if there was anything else I needed help with! This isn’t just something that happened once. Store personnel actually apologize if they are busy helping someone else and CAN’T take you to the exact product you’re looking for! Every market where I’ve shopped, the help has gone out of its way to do just that – help. Take note, Publix.
No one asks me if I want the instructions in Spanish.
Cars stop at red lights.
Good manners are fundamental. Even the street signs say “please”.
There are no commercials on BBC broadcasts.
No politicians trash other politicians on television ads.
You won’t find drug manufacturers touting their side effects on tv.
Ambulance-chasing attorneys are being banned from advertising.
Radio as we knew it as children is alive and well. Stories, talk shows, soaps, mysteries – all can be tuned into every day.
Home delivery is offered as a service, usually at no charge.
Sheep rule!
I’m am totally at home here in Wales. Perhaps it’s my age and where I am in life. But sitting here at my desk (real Victorian mahogany purchased at a local shop for not much money), looking out the window and across the meadow to the gently rolling mountains beyond, I know I’ve been given a chance to stop and smell the heather. I’ve dreamed of Living Dibley. Now I’m doing it!
Anxiety
Today is my last full day of living in Florida as a resident. After a year of planning and working toward a goal, I face tomorrow as the day I depart for my new life in Wales. Am I afraid? No. There is nothing to fear about living in the beautiful Welsh countryside. Anxiety ridden? Yes. Why? Probably because I’m 63 years old and change doesn’t come as easily for me now as it did even ten years ago. It also doesn’t come easily to my family, who are forced to sit by and watch as my life changes direction.
My motto of “dream, then do” is giving me a direct hit, and I find myself face-to-face with my own directive. Words are cheap and easy. Action is harder. It’s now my time to step up, and DO, but “doing” requires that I leave my family behind. Hence, my anxiety.
I feel like an Oreo cookie. My parents are the chocolate crunch at the top. In their late 80s, they live independent lives about an hour away from where I currently live. I was there for them when mom had total knee replacement, living at their home for a month and taking care of my father while my mother recuperated. I am there for them to provide a festive setting for Thanksgiving, Christmas and holidays in between. I am always there for them.
My daughter, her husband, and my darling grandsons are the bottom cookie. They depend on me for babysitting tasks and to be a relief station when the demands of life require a day of sleep. I depend on my daughter to see our lives as independent of hers and to appreciate the diversity my life brings to theirs. I depend on my grandsons for hugs, kisses and the unconditional love a little child lavishes on a grandparent.
I’m the cream in the middle continuously dancing the dance in an effort to keep the sandwich together. Now, the cream in the middle is leaving the cookie, and the anxiety I feel is for my family. My inner turmoil bounces between the guilt of leaving and the excitement of facing another adventure in life. And that’s the operative word – adventure. At age 63, I still have a few adventures left and I need to follow my dream – which requires that I “do”.
So while there’s an uprising in the cookie jar, my friends have attached themselves to my (our – my husband is with me in this!) decision with sadness at our leaving, and then excitement at the prospect of us being the “pathfinders”, blazing the trail for their future travel plans.
We are surrounded by a handful of wonderful friends here in Florida, and throughout the country. One friend flies from Los Angeles to wherever in the world we are to spend Thanksgiving with us. That speaks for him, and for us. Other friends from far away come to our home for rest, relaxation and the warmth they find in our home environment. Local friends share our table, food, conversation and wine with enjoyment and appreciation. And in turn, we share their homes and generosity. We will miss that tremendously because their friendship is given without strings attached. It is voluntary, and given and returned with love.
All of our friends have wished us safe travel and many are already booking flights to visit. We love the fact that we are able to open a door onto a world where most people would never even think of visiting. That’s our gift to the friends in our lives.
The dinners will continue – they’re just a bit farther away! And we know our table will be full with visitors from near and far. I just hope that my family finds it in their hearts to see this chapter in our lives in a positive light and that they will walk through that door knowing that an exciting and adventure-filled world awaits. It may take them a while, but I pray it will happen.
Living Dibley's Blog 
