Cotswold Diary
19 June 2022 Today was open garden day in Sherston. By the end of the day, my fitbit said I walked over ten miles as I wanted to see them all. They were amazing and the smaller ones in particular were incredibly inspiring. Gardening in England is an art form and a passion for many. I can only imagine the time and effort that goes into creating and maintaining such outstanding landscapes. I know I work in mine a bit everyday just to just to keep the snails at bay. And you would’t believe how big the slugs are here. I feel fortunate that so many people, eighteen in all, welcomed everyone that bought a ticket into their gardens and were gracious in answering questions. Several even provided refreshments which was an added treat. And for a mere four pounds you could have tea and cake in the church as the event was organized to raise funds for the refurbishment of the church building. You could also try your hand at ringing the bells in the belfry. I climbed up to watch the bell ringing, but was a bit disappointed that the bell ringing room in the tower didn’t have any windows so that I could see the view. My favorite garden was one of the smaller ones. It was so well organized and so lovingly tended it just felt like a happy place. It is popular here to divide a garden up into areas for different purposes, like rooms. I think they even call them rooms. Summer houses, huts, and garden sheds intended for human occupation are also popular. This garden was long and narrow but flowed into about five different areas that included an art studio, barbecue pit, raised vegetable beds and a “man shed.” I just loved it. There was so much packed into the space, yet it was incredibly well organized. Even the vegetables stood in even rows meticulously spaced. What ever they used for fertilized was really doing the trick as the veg seemed to be much farther along than what I can see in the allotments which are serious veg patches. Another smaller garden contained all of the traditional elements in probably about 200 square feet. There was even an espaliered apple tree, a tree that is grown in a small space by pruning and tying the branches to a frame. This one was against a wall and was heavy with fruit. There was a pond with a willow tree and a story of how the cranes (I think that is what they were) ate all the fish, the ever popular and amazing climbing roses, a lawn area, and a winding path that made me feel like I was traveling in an enchanted land. This garden had been developed over many years and was very established. The woman who created and tended it was charming and ever so proud of her accomplishment as she should be. There where large gardens with sweeping swaths of lawn surrounded by high stone walls, water features large and small, the occasional statue, but mostly there were flowers of all shapes, sizes and colors. As it was a cloudy day with no direct sunlight the colors seemed to be enhanced and even more vibrant than you would expect. Many gardeners went for color combinations, in particular the blue and yellow of Ukraine, while others went for a more natural English cottage effect with a mix of traditional perennials and roses. There were regimented beds of lavender and box, various greenery of an infinite number of shades from lime to forest, and numerous plants I had no clue as to what they were. Summer flowers tend toward blues, but there were various shades of pink, red, and white. I love white flowers as they reflect the moonlight and are other worldly at night under a full moon. Yellow was used judiciously in some gardens and with abundance in others. I did miss the sunflowers on the allotments we saw last time. The man that had planted them before said he just forgot. In California you could put them in late and still get a good showing, but not here as the growing season is much shorter. It is too late for the wisteria, but roses climbed against walls and draped over doorways. Red, pink, white, yellow, they bloomed profusely and scented the air. I have never seen rose bushes so heavy with bloom. It must be the weather, and the soil perhaps, as I never could get them to grow so well in California. Even the ones in my garden here have numerous blooms and more are coming along as I remember to deadhead them. I don’t have one over our cottage door as it would need to be in a pot and I wouldn’t be here to water it regularly but it would look amazing with a climbing rose agains the stones. I’m not sure what color. Not red. The door is blue, perhaps yellow or my favorite, Sterling Silver. Something to think about for next spring!
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On Good Friday I made the pilgrimage that the villagers have been doing for hundreds of years. Originally, it included all five villages—Sherston, Easton Grey, Foxley, Norton, and Luckington—walking from one to the next in a daisy chain, and took all day, but now it is a walk of about two miles from Sherston to Luckington. We started the journey at the Church of the Holy Cross in Sherston after a short service. There were about a dozen of us and two sweet little dogs, one of which, a Jack Russell, kept up a conversation of chirps during the sermon to the amusement of the children present. Husband had asked if I was bringing the dog, but that would pose a myriad of issues, the least of which would have been the sounds of his barks bounced about by the perfect acoustics of the medieval chapel. So no.
The service was nice, although I didn’t know any of the hymns, not that I would, and I spent most of the time marveling at the columns that hold up the building. If you have ever seen the movie Pilars of the Earth about building the great cathedrals of England or read the book, you will know what I mean. They looked medieval based on their design and a quick search online revealed that the church is Norman and was built in the 13th century, so I had the right time frame in mind. I also learned that the church contained several interesting religious items, including remains of a Norman wall decoration, and a crucifix donated to the church by Italian soldiers during World War II. There are other artifacts left by the Italian prisoners around the village, but that’s another story. I didn’t see any of those historic items but will be on the lookout for them next time I stop by and can roam about a bit. Perhaps on Wednesday night as I want to go to bell ringing practice and see how it is done. I haven’t been able to figure out how you even get into the bell tower. Probably a very carefully hidden doorway and worn, stone steps. We shall see. I joined in on this religious event because I couldn’t resist doing something so historical and also because I hoped to meet people I might be able to walk with on a regular basis. I haven’t wanted to venture to far afield alone even though the dog is excellent protection seeing how no one can get within six feet of us, but having a walking companion or two would be great. Then I would feel confident I could use the footpaths across the fields and not get lost. Sadly I didn’t meet anyone I could walk with regularly, but did meet some lovely people. The journey took us out past the pub which is across from the church, down over the bridge crossing the river Avon, past the Horse Wash cottage (named as such perhaps because that is where they washed horses in the river or is a wash another name for a ford?), and out a back road through cultivated fields. I have no clue what is planted out there as the ground is very rocky. My walking partners told me they use silage in the fields, as fertilizer I presume, as certain times of the year the area was very odorous. In the US, silage is what they feed the cows, so I may be wrong about that. We walked down to cross the river again, using a ford, which is basically a wider, shallow section of river that you could drive through in a carriage, cart or car. I remember this stretch from our last stay in the area as we drove down the track that parallels the river, but not wanting to drive through the ford, we ended up having to back up all the way to the main road. Once over the river we crossed through a section of newer houses, although I couldn’t tell if they had been build in this century using sympathetic design to fit in with the older buildings or if older buildings had been modernized. Either way, they fit in perfectly, being made of the golden cotswold stone and that four square design. Two up, two down as they say. Rooms that is, usually with a kitchen extension to the back. The rest of the journey to the church crossed behind Luckington Court, a stately home used in the filming of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth, and the old vicarage. Many villages have an old vicarage which has been sold on and renovated into a private home, and a newer, smaller house is used as the vicarage. The days of large families, think five to eight or more children, are long gone and the cost of heating those buildings is astronomical, not to mention the upkeep. Luckington has done this as well, but we were to be hosted by the new owners of the old Vicarage. We then went into the church yard through a small gate, and around to the front where some cars where parked off to the side. Strangely the church sits in the middle of what looks to me to be a large pasture and part of Luckington Court. I am guessing, and should have asked, that it was organically the chapel for the Court? I’ll need to check that out. The Court itself is surrounded by very tall stone walls and except for the ornate iron gates where you can get a peek, you can’t see much of it. A quick google tells me that Luckington Court was used in the 1995 film Pride and Prejudice, both interiors and exteriors, as the Bennet family home Longbourne. I also learned that another resident of the village in the 1930’s, Major General Sir Steward Menzies was head of MI6, and the inspiration for “M” in the James Bond novels. In 2017, Luckington Court was one of the estates Prince Harry considered purchasing as a family home, for a mere 9.5 million pounds. I have no clue who lives there now, although I am told it is still for sale. We did not get to see the church as we had a brief service in the pasture— the sun was getting rather warm by then— and then off to the old Vicarage where the new owners keep up the Easter tradition by offering nourishment to the pilgrims—my words, not theirs—in the form of Tea and Hot Cross Buns. If you have never had a Hot Cross Bun, it is very much like a cinnamon roll with raisins, with out the cinnamon— another spice is used, nutmeg I was told but it didn’t taste like it to me—and with out the frosting. They split and toast them, then slather them with butter and they are very tasty. It was really lovely to sit out in the garden of the lovely old house and chat with my fellow villagers. I met the new vicars wife, although I am not sure where he is the new vicar, as the Easter service was conducted by the women vicar we meet before in Sherston, the elderly couple who are so sympathetically restoring the old vicarage, and a number of other women whose names my feeble brain just couldn’t absorb. Hopefully I will meet them again and get a chance to commit names to memory. I was just contemplating how long it would take me to walk back, many people had some how left their cars in Luckington so they din’t have to walk back, when the women I knew as the vicar offered me a ride back to the village. It didn’t take me long to decide that was a good idea, as once I got back to Sherston, I was going to have to take the dog for a walk. Needless to say I logged way more than 10,000 steps that day! I went to a lecture today at the village church. A friend was organizing it and invited me, which was very thoughtful of her. It was given by a man whose family has lived in the village for a long time. I am not sure how long, but at least a hundred years or so. Sherston dates back to Roman times remember. He has some scholarly affiliations as well, but I am not sure what or where. I really didn’t know much about the event, so had no expectations.
Our presenter spoke directly from a paper that he had handed out to us, us being about fifty people, but he tended to go off on tangents. The most interesting tangent was about a women named Lady Blanch Scott-Douglas (1897-1968), nee Somerset, who lived in the village up until the late sixties. She kept an airplane on the hill behind our house known as Flying Hill, the one we watch the cows traverse, and the clouds dapple, and once, the hunt gallop across with the hounds in full cry, and I can just imagine a little bi-plane sitting up there waiting for adventure. We learned that after burying two husbands, both died from riding accidents, (perhaps on said hill?), Lady Blanche took up flying and became an aviatrix. I have always loved that word, and the idea of a female going against the standards of society to take up flying. It must have represented the ultimate freedom, in a time when women were practically shackled to the house, consumed with the care of others and couldn’t do anything with out their husbands permission. Of course she had money, being the sister of the 9th Duke of Beaufort, and the opportunity, if I may use a cliche, to fly in the face of convention. I was drawn to her immediately. I learned that at age 37 she qualified as an aviator and bought a Miles Mk 2 Hawk Major areoplane. This was an open cockpit monoplane. I looked it up online. It was first flown in 1934 by the British and the Spanish air forces, the year she bought one, so rather untested. I wonder how she was able to acquire one. But acquire she did and not long after buying it, she decided to fly from Sherston to Bengal India. Seriously! Just for her own amusement we were told. So the story goes, that she decided to visit the Maharajah Couch Behar Bengal, as one does, and she enlisted the help of her flying instructor, Oggie Ogden, ex RAF, to go with her. They left from Croydon Airfield in Kent (about 120 miles from Sherston to the east), and made stops in France, Italy, Greece, Palestine, Cairo, and Baghdad, then crashed in Basra. Not being able to take off together because of boggy ground, Oggie flew back to Bushire for repairs alone, and Blanche set off by foot with Persian soldier guides to traverse the last 70 miles. It took her five days to make Karachi and then on to Bengal. She walked out for goodness sake! In my minds eye, she is dressed in white linen, proper hat on her head, and a string of sherpas with crates on their heads strung out behind us. I the day, Hailey Mills would have player her in the movie. But I digress. Amazingly, after repairs, they flew back to England. I don’t know if Blanche made any other memorable flights; he didn’t say and neither did Wikipedia. I do know that eight years later she sold the plane to a garage in Burton for scrap, so I am guessing she didn’t continue flying at that point. Maybe after making such a long and monumental flight, she just didn’t see the point. Our speaker said she started breeding racing greyhounds at that point and a number of people in the village have ancestors of some of those dashing hounds to this day. Even though she sounds like a thoroughly interesting individual, I could find little about her online. The only reference to her in Wikipedia was a paragraph about her brother, but it was primarily about the men in her life rather than her, regardless of her accomplishments. I also checked newspaper archives online, our library here has wonderful access to these kinds of resources, and found a number of articles over the years, but most of them were about what she wore to the hunt ball, or who her daughters married and what they wore to the hunt ball. I shall continue to search for more information, as this is too good a story to let go and Lady Blanche deserves more. From Wikipedia: Lady Blanche Linnie Somerset (1897–1968), married John Eliot, 6th Earl of St Germans (11 June 1890 – 31 March 1922), who died in a riding accident during a steeplechase, aged 31, leaving as issue two daughters. On 15 July 1924, she married George Francis Valentine Scott Douglas (14 February 1898 – 12 June 1930), who died from a polo injury. They had one son who died as the last of the Douglas baronets of Maxwell in 1969. Her descendants are the sole surviving descendants of the 9th Duke. Lady Blanche's eldest surviving grandson, David John Seyfried-Herbert, 19th Baron Herbert, eventually had the barony of Herbert called out of abeyance in his favour in 2002, after eighteen years. We have all arrived safely and are finally settled in at our lovely English cottage. The dogs traveled well and were very excited to see us when we picked them up at the Animal Reception Center. It took about three hours for them to get “processed” through customs and all that. They proceeded to sleep during the ride home and all that night. I doubt they got much sleep on the flight over as they had a companion on board, a small very yappy dog who probably barked until his vocal cords gave out. Daisy in particular sleep most of the time for days as did the husband. Jet lag really got to them, but Buster and I proceeded to walk out around the village to see what was new. All was as before and all was different at the same time. Nineteen months is a long time and COVID had taken its toll. Masks are no longer required, but I am not confident enough yet to not wear one indoors in public places as are others. As I am outdoors much of the time that isn’t a big deal. The shop staff ( I am told it is not s store, that is where you keep things, not buy them) still wear masks as do some customers. It is a small space after all with dubious ventilation as it is very old. Originally it was the village school building. Now it houses the shop, post office, and various small businesses that have no public facing function except for the hair salon. Sherston really has almost every business you might need in daily life, including a wine shop, graphic arts company, service garage, and an Estate Agent, although the Estate Agent’s office has moved to a new building. The WI have started meeting again, although there are a number of faces missing. I hesitated to ask if they are still with us, as several of the members were in their nineties when I was here last, but some I know are just being careful because of COVID. I was well received at the first meeting I attended, many familiar faces seemed glad to exclaim, “you’re back!” But I am so terrible with names, I am glad we all wear name badges. The cake for the competition this month was a lemon seminal cake, but it required a number of ingredients I don’t keep on hand so I did not attempt to bake one. At some point I will give it a try though. Thankfully the friendliness of everyone here has remained the same. That is the biggest difference between here and where we came from in the states. Everyone smiles and waves, people say hello whether they know you or not, and just plain acknowledge your existence. There is a real spirit of community here that is sadly missing in the US. A far cry from what we left behind as when we first arrived back in CA almost two years ago my car broke down in the middle of the road. You can’t get these computer managed automatic transmissions to go into neutral if the car is dead. I was trying to figure that out, when a man pulled up next to me in a pickup truck and yelled at me that this wasn’t a parking lot. Then two more guys in pick ups zoomed by and flipped me off. No one stopped to offer help. That would never happen in our English village. Amazingly, considering there is a war not too far away and that COVID still lurks around every corner, there is a real sense of optimism and hopefulness that Americans seem to have lost. Even in our small circle of friends and family back in the US, some of which have the sunniest dispositions one can find in humans, the last few years have taken a toll. I realized this the first time we met up with our local friends at the pub here. We actually laughed and well before finishing a pint! The friends we made, and regularly met at the pub on Friday nights, are all still here thankfully. No one comes in as often as they did before, what with costs going up and COVID concerns, and Monday has becomes the new Friday, but mostly it is a we remembered, and loved, with just a few changes. We used to meet the locals on Friday night when the pub put out gratis appetizers, but that night and Saturday, has been taken over by a younger crowd. Monday is a quieter, less populated night and now when we look forward to seeing our friends at the pub. The other change at the pub is that the previous manager is gone, and the proprietor has taken over the role. He is there most nights and when it is slow sits with us to regale us with stories of the time he spent in the US during his youth. Gap year escapades I suspect, with a lot of the time spent in California, and Santa Cruz in particular. We love hearing his stories as we know the area well, and he is quit the raconteur. Based on his stories, I would say he was there during the heyday of the sixties, but he isn’t old enough. Well actually, the sixties have never ended in that part of the state, so in a way, he was. Day time is the same as we enjoyed before. I get up early and try to write, fix breakfast of the delicious bread they have here and then Buster and I go out for a walk. I still walk out every day, often two or three times unless we do a “big ramble” in the morning. I have expanded my jaunts to include the footpaths across fields and woodlands, and not just the lanes. I am working on traveling all of the Sherston Walks from the book and website. We have done half of them now I think, Brookend Ford, Commonwood Lane, the Cliff, and Shallowbrook Lane, although not all with the dog. On Good Friday, I did Brookend Ford with a group from the church as a pilgrimage that ended at the Luckington Vicarage, the old Vicarage, where they served us tea and Hot Cross Buns, but that’s a story for another day. Enjoy yours, Bridget If you are interested go to: http://www.sherstonwalks.org.uk We have all arrived safely and are finally settled in at our lovely English cottage. The dogs traveled well and were very excited to see us when we picked them up at the Animal Reception Center. It took about three hours for them to get “processed” through customs and all that. They proceeded to sleep during the ride home and all that night. I doubt they got much sleep on the flight over as they had a companion on board, a small very yappy dog who probably barked until his vocal cords gave out. Daisy in particular sleep most of the time for days as did the husband. Jet lag really got to them, but Buster and I proceeded to walk out around the village to see what was new.
All was as before and all was different at the same time. Nineteen months is a long time and COVID had taken its toll. Masks are no longer required, but I am not confident enough to not wear one indoors in public places as are others. As I am outdoors much of the time that isn’t a big deal. The shop staff ( I am told it is not s store, that is where you keep things, not buy them) still wear them and various customers. It is a small space after all with dubious ventilation as it is very old. Originally it was the village school building. Now it houses the shop, post office, and various small businesses that have no public facing function except for the hair salon. Sherston really has almost every business you might need in daily life, including a wine shop, graphic arts company, and an Estate Agent, although the Estate Agent’s office has moved to a new building. The WI have started meeting again, although there are a number of faces missing. I hesitate to ask if they are still with us, as several of the members were in their nineties when I was here last, but some I know are just being careful because of COVID. I was well received at the first meeting I attended, many familiar faces seemed glad to exclaim, “you’re back!” But I am so terrible with names, I am glad they all wear name badges. The cake for the competition this month was a lemon seminal cake, but it required a number of ingredients I don’t keep on hand so I did not attempt to bake one. At some point I will give it a try though. Thankfully the friendliness of everyone here has remained the same. That is the biggest difference between here and where we came from in the states. Everyone smiles and waves, people say hello whether they know you or not, and just plain acknowledge your existence. There is a real spirit of community here that is sadly missing in the US. A far cry from what we left behind as when we first arrived in CA two years ago my car broke down in the middle of the road. You can’t get these computer managed automatic transmissions to go into neutral if the car is dead. I was trying to figure that out, when a man pulled up next to me in a pickup truck and yelled at me that this wasn’t a parking lot. Then two more guys in pick ups zoomed by and flipped me off. No one stopped to offer help. That would never happen in our English village. Amazingly, considering there is a war not too far away and that COVID still lurks around every corner, there is a real sense of optimism and hopefulness that Americans seem to have lost. Even in our small circle of friends and family back in the US, some of which have the sunniest dispositions one can find in humans, the last few years have taken a toll. I realized this the first time we met up with our local friends at the pub here. We actually laughed and well before finishing a pint! The friends we made, and regularly met at the pub on Friday nights, are all still here thankfully. No one comes in as often as they did before, what with costs going up and COVID concerns, and Monday has becomes the new Friday, but mostly it is a we remembered, and loved, it with just a few changes. We used to meet the locals on Friday night when the pub put out gratis appetizers, but that night and Saturday, has been taken over by a younger crowd. Monday is a quieter, less populated night and the one when we now look forward to seeing our friends at the pub. The other change there is that the previous manager is gone, and the proprietor has taken over the role. He is there most nights and when it is slow sits with us to regale us with stories of the time he spent in the US during his youth. Gap year escapades I suspect, with a lot of the time spent in California, and Santa Cruz in particular. We love hearing his stories as we know the area well, and he is quit the raconteur. Based on his stories, I would say he was there during the heyday of the sixties, but he isn’t old enough. Well actually, the sixties have never ended in that part of the state, so he was in a way. Day time is as we enjoyed as well. I get up early and try to write, fix breakfast of the delicious bread they have here and then Buster and I go out for a walk. I still walk out every day, often two or three times unless we do a “big ramble” in the morning. I have expanded my jaunts to include the footpaths across fields and woodlands, and not just the lanes. I am working on traveling all of the Sherston Walks from the book and website. We have done half of them now I think, Brookend Ford, Commonwood Lane, the Cliff, and Shallowbrook Lane, although not all with the dog. On Good Friday, I did Brookend Ford with a group from the church as a pilgrimage that ended at the Luckington Vicarage, the old Vicarage, where they served us tea and Hot Cross Buns, but that’s a story for another day. Enjoy yours, Bridget If you are interested go to: http://www.sherstonwalks.org.uk Last weekend I went on a round up with some cattle rancher friends. It’s been a few years since I have been atop a horse and I was a bit anxious about it all, but my excitement on being able to get outdoors and do something I have loved since childhood overshadowed my anxiety. Plus I encountered the horse they were loaning me daily on my walks, and knew him to be a gentle creature, barely more than a pony, thus I wouldn’t have far to fall should that transpire. I am a good rider, if I may say so myself, with years of experience riding green (untrained) horses, and I had no doubt it would be like “riding the proverbial bicycle” and muscle memory would kick in once I was astride. At least I hoped it would.
It did. And Tippy the Appaloosa, proved to be an amiable companion. The weather also cooperated and the day was stunning. The sun shown brightly, making the still golden landscape of dried grassy hills stand out, and it got so warm by midday that we had to take off our jackets off and tie them around our waists. Horses don’t have trunks, or car boots as my Brit friends would say. I had been told at the beginning of the ride that our mission was to find the cows and bring them back to the corrals near the entrance to the two thousand acre ranch. I tried to calculate how far we might have to ride to find the cows, especially if they were on the far side of the ranch and figured it was a couple miles at most. What I didn’t factor in was the hills and valleys that comprised the landscape, so it took two hours before we finally spied a cow, or actually, a bull. Unfortunately he wasn’t one of the group we needed to herd back to the corrals, but he followed along anyway. To a cow, humans basically represent the possibility of food, so as long as you aren’t trying to do anything to them that requires being handled, they are happy to follow along. The cows, calves—a cow and calf are called a pair and you count them by pairs, thus a rancher who has a herd of a hundred has 50 pairs—and yearlings were scattered between two valleys and required a bit of “cowboying.” Luckily my job was to stand at the top of the hill to prevent them from heading the wrong way, while the other two more experience hands rounded them up. Then, as we headed back towards the corral, I became the rider on the right to keep the cows from heading off that way. Luckily again they basically followed the trail they had created over years of walking from one water hole to the next, and I was not called on to do anything but enjoy the ride. It took us a mere forty-five minutes to get them back to the corral, and I learned how to open gates from horseback, a handy skill to acquire. At this point I had been in the saddle almost four hours and my seat was getting rather sore. Muscles in my legs were protesting a bit, so I was glad to see the corrals come into view, signaling what I thought was the end of our journey. Ha! It seemed we now had to “cut out” three yearlings from the dozen cows and calves that had come along with us and the bull had tagged along. The cattle walked single file into the corral meekly enough, so that seemed encouraging. I waited while my friends decided on how we were going to go about the separating the three they wanted to take to a livestock auction later that week, rising in my stirrups to stretch my leg muscles. I contemplated dismounting as I figured I wasn’t needed any more, when my friend motioned me over to the far side of the corral. It seemed my work wasn’t done, as they explained I would need to go into the corral and cut out the three yearlings while they worked the gates. I reminded them I didn’t know how to do that and they said I didn’t need to, my horse did. Up until then Tippy had been a rather sleepy ride, slowly picking his way through rocky outcroppings and moseying down hills, requiring the occasional kick to get him to keep up with the others, so I was rather skeptical. I shouldn’t have been. They said, just point him at the cow you want and hold on to the saddle. It was amazing! As soon as he got in the corral and I pointed him at a cow, his ears pricked forward, and he revved up to full throttle. Dodging left and right as the cow tried to get back to his friends, he deftly moved the steer to the gate and out. I think he even had his teeth barred he was so ferocious about the job. Good thing I was holding on. The three were in the smaller corral in short order and I had a big smile on my face, aching muscles long forgotten. We then had to herd the remaining cows and calves up along a fence and get them headed back up to the high country where they came from. I closed the last gate behind them, and waited while my friends tried to hustle up the bull but he ran along the fence the wrong way, calling to the cows, who ignored him, concentrating on getting back to greener pastures. I was getting apprehensive that I would be called on to do a bit more of the fancy work Tippy was so good at, but just then the bull changed direction, galloped down along the fence towards the gate. I quickly re-opened it, scooted out of the way, and then swung it shut behind him. We all cheered and headed back to the horse trailers to go home. When I slid off Tippy, I walked bow legged for a while, but that was a small price to pay for the great day we had just experienced. I dug the carrot I had brought for him out of my pocket and watched as he chomped away at it, then pushed his nose into my hand looking for more. I knew exactly how he felt, my stomach was growling as well. Good thing there was a great little local café that did take away on the way home. I wondered if they did veggie burgers. * Cowboys often refer to cows as “dogies” or at least they do in the song sung by Roy Rogers. Yes I know, it should be two “g’s” but that is how I found it spelled. Today I feel terrific. Finally the fugue state I seemed to be living in has evaporated and I feel optimistic that life still has much to offer. Perhaps it’s the new protein shake I had for breakfast, or maybe it’s because the husband let me use his power tools recently, or that the election is finally over, but today is a good day and I am enthusiastic about writing my blog again. I finally feel like I have something positive to say.
The heat and smoke are gone, although the dust remains, and in their place are crisp cool mornings, bright shinny days, and dark velvety nights dappled with stars. I love the fall, or autumn as my Brit friends would say, and I don’t want to miss a minute of it. The colors, the sounds, the smells, and the events, everything thrills and invigorates me. The temperature is no longer bone sucking hot. I woke up to a chill in the air, so much so that I took a few extra moments to snuggle down into the comforter and savor the warmth, before jumping up and rummaging around in my closet for a pair of sweatpants and, yes, a sweater. Shorts weather is over, and its time to wear my favorite fabric--wool! I was reminded of mornings at the cottage in Sherston, when I used to drape my clothes over the radiator by the bed the night before, so they would be warm and ready for me to reach out and pull under the covers to put on in the morning. The socks, though, always seemed to fall off in the night and end up under the bed with the drifts of dog hair that evaded my broom. Then, I watched the sun rise out of the kitchen window while I waited for the kettle to boil. A Pumpkin Spice Latte would have been lovely, but Starbucks is too far away, and I refuse to buy five dollar cups of coffee. I settled for Chai from the meager supply I brought back from England. The scent of fall to me is a mix of wood smoke and cinnamon. But please, pumpkin spice is a spice people, if a Pumpkin Spice Latte had pumpkin in it, it would be a Spiced Pumpkin Latte. My British friends might not understand this reference to PSL—Pumpkin Spice Latte’s—but there is a big controversy over here as to whether or not Starbucks puts pumpkin in a Pumpkin Spice Latte. They do now it seems, as so many people expected it, but originally it was just the spice mixture they added to the latte and as they aren’t orange, there must be a negligible quantity of pumpkin in them. Pumpkin Spice is what you use to make a pumpkin pie, an aromatic mix of cinnamon, ginger, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice, although recipes vary, but that appears not to be apparent to so many people over here, and leads me to wonder if the art of home baking is dying off in the states. Mary Berry would cringe. As I sipped my Chai and made a mental note to pick up some milk so I could have Chai lattes, I listened to the birdsong. Not the dawn chorus we heard in the cottage every morning, but still a joyous addition to the day. It delights me every time I hear birdsong here and each year it seems a new species makes their home on the ranch. This year Black Phoebes have taken up residence and like to alight on the wind chimes on the back porch and peer in our windows. You must understand that when we first moved here there was only one tree on the property. Not really a habitat for birds. The surrounding area was and is dense with a variety of deciduous and evergreen trees, but our little spot on the river was rather bare. We immediately planted a plethora of saplings and they have all now reached dizzying heights, and with their fall color they make the landscape look like its dressed in tweed. There are maples in particular that have gone from green to gold to rich burgundy. They were about six inches tall when we planted them! And just as the sights, sounds, and smells, have changed with the season, so have the flavors in my kitchen. Deeper, richer flavors have replaced the fresh, vibrant, lemony-ness of summer fruits and veg. I am now cooking with piquant chilies, and winter squashes. Soups and stews have taken the place of salads that we made all summer so as not to have to add to the oppressive heat by lighting the oven. But now that extra heat, and the comforting aromas of baking and slow cooking that it produces are welcome. I have been experimenting with making green chili enchilada sauce, and roasting the veg before blasting it all in the blender imparts a sweeter, mellower flavor that fits the time of year better than the bright tartness of my summer method of simmering everything in vegetable broth. Yesterday I even roasted a pumpkin and froze the flesh, in anticipation of making soup for Thanksgiving. I can’t wait; it’s my favorite holiday! Until then, I leave you with this thought by Gladys Taber: “We are in for a spell of perfect weather now, every day luminous, every night brimmed with stars. Picnics at noon, supper by the apple wood fire at night, a walk in the cool moonlight before bed.” Gladys Taber (1899-1980) was a columnist for the Ladies Home Journal and wrote 59 books including the Stillmeadow series about living in a Connecticut farmhouse. She is a brilliant chronicler of the natural world and everyday living. I can’t believe it has been five weeks since our return to California. In some ways the time has gone quickly, in others not so much. The slow crawl of hundred degree afternoons is only bearable if we sit under the fan and drink copious amounts of iced tea. I really don’t know how we did it all these years, and I marvel at the fact that I used to ride four or five horses a day in this heat! Our decision to rent the place wasn’t that hard to arrive at once we endured a few sweltering days.
We spend all morning in the shop building, sorting and straightening, getting ready for our big estate sale, until the sun on the tin siding heats the building to unbearable. The burglars have stolen some of the most bizarre things—the bottom of a silver soup terrine that was my grandmothers, but not the top, our camping cutlery, but not the set of silver flatware in the nice wooden case. Husband reminds me that they must have done it all by flashlight, so maybe that explains how they missed some of the good stuff. They did get the deep sea fishing reels which are very pricey, all of the cordless power tools but none of the corded ones, and all the smaller craft tools—dremels, sanders, and the like. I wonder if they will actually use them or is there some black market for used craft supplies? They also broke a number of things in the process of rifling through our belongings, but at least those are identifiable. It’s what we don’t remember that is gone that haunts me. Years from now, will I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder what happened to Grandma’s roster figurines or yet another treasure that we have temporally forgotten due the magnitude of the destruction they caused? Yes, they were not neat. Every box and case has been opened and either pushed aside or relieved of its contents. Which has made for easier identification of what is missing, as how do you remember decades of stuff that if there is a place for it, you keep? The house has been easier, but still, I will open a drawer for something and find it missing. What are they doing with my everyday flatware? And the bath towels? They really weren’t all that nice. I am thinking they probably used the Hinkle knives to open sealed boxes, although I haven’t found them laying around anywhere and I have been through the whole house now. I have identified what is to be sold, given away, and donated. First I went through all of our clothes, and tossed things on an every growing donate pile until dressers, armoires, and closets were empty. Now only about one quarter of a walk in closet is occupied. You know how you are told to get rid of any piece of clothing you haven’t worn in a year, what about five years or more? Is there a rule of thumb on when things come back in style? And if it still fits? I have a bad habit—at least it seems bad now—of saving the good stuff for special occasions. At this point in my life, I am thinking every day is special and I might as well use it while I can. I’m currently wearing a lovely little hand beaded and embroidered sweater over my thrift store shorts and tank top in the mornings. I feel like a tom boy princess and why not, at some point this lovely little cardigan will end up on the donation pile too, it certainly isn’t going to the office any more. I’m also marveling at the shear number of some items. I have enough post its to wallpaper multiple houses, a stack of lovely little notebooks almost three feet high, and I haven’t even begun to catalogue the table linens. Post its and notebooks I use daily, but I can honestly tell you that I have used the same table cloth for years as it is easy to wash and doesn’t need ironing. The special occasions the others are patiently sitting in drawers waiting for have yet to materialize. So my friends and family are getting lovely care packages of things that I love, and I want to share that love with others. I have two friends that are moving home, and their “new home gift baskets” are shaping up nicely. I do hope they use these items, and don’t pack them away for that special day. Well I best get out and start working, as it is probably warm enough now. The difference in temperature between mornings and afternoons can be more than forty degrees! Even the dogs want to come into the house and lay on the cool bathroom tiles in the afternoons. Which, if they weren’t so hard and unyielding, would be a nice place for an afternoon siesta. We are back in California and to say we miss our lovely cottage and peaceful village in the Cotswolds is an understatement. I was woken at 2am the first night by animal sounds and went to look out the kitchen window. Of course I couldn’t see anything as the bushes in front have overgrown a bit, but heard the desperate cries of one creature and what sounded like the squeals of a pig. If we had still been in Sherston it wouldn’t have surprised me as farm animals graze across the river behind us, but at our ranch in California it is usually coyotes and certainly not pigs.
Intrigued, I cautiously opened the front door and turned on the outside light. The scene that greeted me froze me in my tracks. A wild pig, boar, whatever, was ripping apart some smaller animal, which screamed in agony. I jumped back, shut the door, and went out the garage door, which provided me a safer distance. At this point the pig picked up its pry and ran off across the street to the river. Now I knew we had wild pigs further up in the Sierras proper, but I have never heard of or seen any in the foothills around this area. Perhaps it was because the dogs had been gone so long. Nature was taking over in more ways than I had imagined. I had no idea what it was trying to eat, but hoped it wasn’t the neighbor’s cat. I remember when we moved here years ago. The first night the cows mooing in the field behind us kept us awake. Yes in general the country is quieter than the city, but it was the new night noises that were foreign to our ears. Not so in the cottage. The thick stone walls kept sounds at bay, even the wild winds were only heard by our dogs. We quickly got used to the animal sounds at night on the ranch, but every time a horse nickered I would get up and go check on them. Horses are notorious for getting them selves in trouble. But wild animals where nothing compared to the humans I would encounter the next day. Having charged my car and determined it was fit to drive, I headed out for the grocery store. Almost there, and three car lengths from the fuel station, it quit and wouldn’t start again. I quickly determined that the electrical system was caput. I pulled out my Triple A card and was trying to call for roadside assistance, when some guy in a pickup pulled up next to me, mind you I am on the far right side of the road as I was starting to make a turn, and yelled at me for parking in the road. Really? It never occurred to him that I was broke down? Flustered by the heat, jet lag, and the situation, I yelled back and asked if the jerk would help me push my vehicle off the road. He flipped me off and burnt rubber as he raced away. Perhaps my choice of words didn’t endear him to me, but his were much more colorful. This happened two more times, guys in pickups pulled over to yell at me. I so wished I could click my heels together like Dorothy, murmur, “there’s no place like Sherston,” and magically reappear back in my Vauxhall on an English country road. Then a very ancient man in a very ancient car, pulled up to ask if I needed assistance. I was relived to find one good Samaritan on the road, but so concerned for his health, what with the intense heat and the virus still raging in the US, that I assured him help was on the way and thanked him profusely. At this point the auto club operator assured me that help was on it’s way and that I was a priority as I was stuck in an unsafe location. Then a man in a face mask tapped at my passenger window and signaled that he would push me off the road. I tried to roll down the window, but of course no power, no power windows, and had to reach across the open the door. He stepped back, asked if I was okay, and said he would push me into the gas station. I was thankful there were still a few good guys in the world, and I tried to shift gears into neutral. Now you need to know that when I bought this lovely vehicle, I wanted a manual transmission, but it seems that those are being phased out in the US. I have always driven a stick, and much prefer it, it’s more fun to drive, but they sold me on the fact that the new automatics where more fuel efficient. Being thrifty in nature, this swung my decision. Now I wished I had stuck to my original plan, as it seems when new computer controlled cars shut down, everything locks up. It would not shift into neutral. I had put it in park when it stalled and still had some power, to try and restart it, but now it was stuck there. Good Guy #2, pulled out his cell phone and asked Siri what to do. This made me smile, even as more cars whipped by, some honking and probably giving me rude gestures, but now I was confident that between the auto club and Siri, all would be well. It seems there is a secret little hole you can stick a screwdriver down next to the gearshift and unlock it. Just like you would do on a computer to do a manual reset. Of course that’s it I thought. Well the video Siri conjured up for us to watch made it look easy and quick. It wasn’t. The screwdriver Good Guy #2 retrieved from his car, was too fat. We tried to use my cell phone as a flashlight to look down the hole to see what was wrong, but that didn’t work in the glaring sunlight. At this point a tow truck loaded with a heavily damaged car pulled up in the middle turn lane and a young man got out and ran over to us. He wasn’t my tow truck driver he said, that was on its way as he was already engaged, but he could help us get the car off the road. He said we needed something thinner to unlock the gearshift, and pulled the ink cartridge out of a ballpoint pen and stuck it down there. It worked! They pushed me off to the side of the gas station where it would be safe to sit. I waved goodbye to Good Guy #2 and Good Guy#3, the tow truck driver, offered me a bottle of water and told me he would call dispatch to give them my new location. I no sooner waved him off and my tow truck pulled into the gas station. He told me to wait in the air conditioned cab and quickly loaded my car onto the truck. When he was done, he asked where I wanted my car taken. Now this was a good question as the dealer was outside of the free five mile tow radius the auto club provided. Plus I didn’t think it was still under warranty, so somewhere closer would be better. Our go to auto shop was just down the road so I suggested there. He said good choice as they are fair and honest mechanics and we were underway. They of course, it being a Friday afternoon before a holiday weekend, were closed, but he put it in a safe spot and told me to call them on Monday morning. Now the question was, who to call to pick me up? I dreaded calling my go to girlfriend, as she had done so much for us already regarding the break-ins at the house, and my good neighbor had major health issues, which didn’t seem like a good idea, and of course family was miles away, so friend it was. She raced over, took me grocery shopping, but that is a story for another time, bought me a Starbucks, and took me home. As I got out of the car, I said I wished I could give her a hug, but thanks for the girls’ trip! We both laughed, as the one thing the virus has given us, is the appreciation of small favors. As I write my last blog from the village we have come to love, I keep thinking of all the things that I will miss, most of them quintessentially English. We head back to California in few days for a while but I will continue the blog from there. Here is my top ten list of what I have come to love about England, although in no particular order.
The Rain- Yes, I will miss the weather. It’s ever changing nature always delights. I find weather apps are only barely reliable for the current day, let alone the week, so it is always a bit of a surprise. As they say, give it an hour and it will change, but I love the unpredictability of it. Not like the monotonous dusty blue skies of northern California. I do love the wild nature of bustling winds, the way the clouds whip across the hills behind us, shadowing the sheep, cattle, and horses that graze there, then clearing to let a single ray of sunshine cast as spotlight upon the countryside. I also appreciate the ever-present moisture, as it keeps my skin and Daisy the Labradors supple and itch free. The Lanes- We have never driven down a lane here with out coming upon some thing of beauty. Be it an ancient farmhouse, a well laid stone wall, or a meticulously groomed pasture, dotted with sleek horses, something is sure to catch the eye and “make a picture” as my husband would say. Plus there is the joy of navigating the twisty, narrowness that brightens my day and I always makes me think of Mister Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland. The Food- I know many people have the impression that British food is dull and tasteless, and maybe it was in the mid part of the last century, but that has all changed. I continue to marvel at how fresh and local most ingredients we buy are here. Brits tend, at least around here, to eat what is in season, especially if they have a garden or allotment teaming with fruit and veg. I also can’t get over how much fresher is seems to be compared to what we get in California. Perhaps it is because local tends to mean with in a few miles here or at least the county, and it isn’t genetically modified as much of the US produce is now. The Villagers- I still get that picture in my head of an unruly mob brandishing flaming torches when I use the word villagers, but this is a far from the truth as possible. Our village is populated with the nicest, friendliest people I have ever come across. Our friends and neighbors have kindly helped us out with our every need, be it how to go about refinishing ancient furniture or finding a garden where we can let the dogs run. Everyone we meet has been generous with their time and taken all of our questions with serious thoughtfulness. Perhaps we are a novelty here, but I think it is just their nature. I will miss meeting up with the usual crowd down at the pub on Friday nights when any questions we had, were received with interest, and often jollity. I like to think we afforded them an opportunity to see the charming village and their beautiful country a new. The Pub- There just isn’t anything like a British Pub in the US, and its not just because they welcome dogs as well as people. Our “local” as they call the pub you frequent locally, is a meeting place, dinner house, news hub (never gossip, Brits, at least the ones we know, don’t talk about the goings on of their neighbors like Americans do), sports bar, concert hall, and beer garden. They hold local concerts, sports events, and charity fundraisers through out the year. And, as the song goes, it’s a place where everyone knows your name. The language- It’s true what they say, that the UK and the US are countries divided by a common language. The English they speak here is much more vivid, interesting, and descriptive than what I hear in the states. Be it in novels, newspapers, movies and TV programs, or conversation, their vocabulary is rich and varied, giving me constant opportunities to learn new words. The reading material- I devoted a whole blog to the number and variety of newspapers here and I still marvel every time I go to the store at the choice I have access to even locally in our small shop. There are national and regional papers, daily, and Sunday editions that are three inches thick, comprised of a variety of glossy supplements. And the content always includes feel good pictures and stories about anything from puppies and ponies to farmers and flowers. I know very little about UK politics so I pass over all of that, and still there is ample opportunity to immerse myself and learn something new on a daily basis. The horses- We have taken every opportunity to immerse ourselves in all things equine as we have always been horse people. From Fox hunting to polo and eventing, we have tried to see it all. If it had been a “normal” year and there had been no lockdown, we would have also been able to go to horse races, horse shows, and any number of equine themed functions this spring. We have loved seeing the high caliber horses that abound here and meeting their convivial owners and riders. I promised a friend here I would go fox hunting with him when we return and I do plan on keeping that promise! The Charity shops- The one thing we have really missed during lockdown, well one of the things, is finding new villages and charity shops to browse. Except for the bed and the TV, everything we bought to furnish the cottage came from charity shops. One of our favorites is a used furniture depot in Stroud and even though we don’t have room for any more furniture, we still love to wander through it and marvel at the unique antique pieces they often have. I am enamored of these huge, dark Jacobean pieces that are so big they would only fit in a castle. The Gardens- To me, there is nothing that rivals an English cottage garden. It is amazing how much beauty can occupy such small spaces. And it’s not just the footage in the front and rear of a cottage where things grow, but the cottages themselves as well. Most have at least a couple of window boxes or pots bracing either side of the doorway, but some have their whole stone edifices smothered in clematis, roses, or wisteria. We have a climbing rose on the back of our cottage and a clematis with striking lime and white flowers, which I finally identified as Alba Luxurians. And luxurious it surely is, as it climbs and drapes itself across the boxwood and Flaminco Salix in our small garden. There are any number of other things I will miss—BBC programming, all our British friends, bowls, their amazing breads and scones, among others—but I promised a top ten. As I wrote this, I also tried to think of what I won’t miss, but nothing came to mind. I will be sure to write about it, if anything ever does! |
AuthorI am a Californian living in a Cotswold Village in England. A dream come true. Archives
May 2022
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