On a personal note

Well! It's been a year since publication of A Yank Back To England, and it has been quite exciting. I've done over thirty book readings and lectures, ranging from small book clubs in people's houses to bookshops, even a champagne brunch at Fort Meade and dinner at a baronial manor house brought brick by brick from England! Regardless of the venue, the response has been overwhelmingly favorable. Mind you, I have also been brought to earth a couple times, and quite dramatically! One event, for a group of seniors, sticks in my mind. I spoke after lunch and, despite my Dickensian efforts to read with bombast and, dare I say, a certain élan, my audience fell into the arms of Morpheus before I could say Ghrrrr! Most disconcerting. As you can imagine, I wrapped up the reading very quickly. At least, when everyone came to, a few books were sold! So that was all right.

Also, during the past twelve months, Frances and I have been really overwhelmed by the letters (well, emails) we have received and the comments readers have left on our website. Some say they've read the book more than once! We've been especially touched by those readers who fell in love with my funny old folks, along with my extended family and some of the oddballs we met along the way. It is so gratifying to discover the book has hit a familiar cadence with so many. Of course, not everyone has aging Cockney parents, but most everyone seems to have family experiences my story helped evoke.

Apart from the family story, our travels have also resonated with a good many readers. We have received quite a few notes from readers planning to take Yank on their next trip! Very gratifying to think that a lot more people will be discovering the wonderful literary landmarks and fascinating historical sites we found on our travels in Southern England (I encourage everyone to avoid Dagenham though, but few listen to my words of wisdom).

I hope you'll forgive the indulgence, we thought we'd post here a few of the comments and observations we've received (we won't mention names, but these are real quotes from real people). Many were accompanied by personal stories and memories evoked, which we enjoyed very much.

"The perfect blend of humor, poignancy, history, culture, and character. Well BLOODY done!!!!"

"I hated to come to the end, so I have read it over several times...thanks for sharing your family & your travels with us. I fell in love with them all!!"

"Wonderful book, but so painfully close to home as I struggle with my own aging parents and recall my own version of an English childhood. I connected with this on so many levels!! Couldn't put it down."

"I bought (Yank) simply because I like travel writing and it sounded interesting. But your book connected with me in ways I did not expect at all."

"I spent some time in school (in England) and get back every few years... so reading your descriptions of places, food and feelings brought back a lot of good memories--although I don't miss the Archers!"

"Wonderful book, I relished most every part of it."

"As a Brit who became a Yank and now takes his family back to the UK every year to visit family it really struck a chord."

And the very first personal note we received, which said, in part:
"I am almost at the end of A Yank Back to England and I will be sorry when it's over. I have thoroughly enjoyed the book and getting to know your family and your travels." (This lovely reader wrote again when she'd completed the book! Very nice indeed.)

Of course, the book was not everyone's cup of tea. But that's okay by me. After all, not everyone likes tea with milk! But regardless of how you take you tea, thank you all for taking the time and trouble to write to us.

For those of you who haven't heard, I'm also pleased to report the book has now been reprinted. And yes, I'm still doing events. Meanwhile, do continue to write and tell us if the book inspired you to take a trip to the Green and Pleasant. And don't forget to tell your friends! If they can't make the royal wedding, they can still catch up on a couple of royal events and discover the other Kate--the one in A Yank Back To England.

Happy New Year to all,
Denis

Adelard’s disappointed. Again.

“What you lot been up to? Any trips? Any fab hols?” Adelard sucked on his drink between questions.
“Not really. What about you?” Frances asked.
“Well, I went off with some friends and we did Italy. Madly impressed that we were going to stay in a fourteenth century turret, until I discovered everyone stays in fourteenth century Tuscan turrets. So I didn’t feel quite as spesh as I thought I might. And now we’re all here.” He looked around. “In Tunbridge Wells. Hmm.”

New Canterbury Tales

Surrounded by snow, we're definitely ready for a trip...at least mentally. To get in the mood, here's a lovely shot Prodigal Wife took in Canterbury on one of our annual visits.

Freaking? Have a cuppa.

“I don’t want to know!” I babbled on, “Oh, Christ. We’re not equipped, I’m not good at this! And if there’s an emergency, the bloody phone doesn’t work! And there’s my parents in there, and the other lot. Oh, God!” I started laughing.
Frances told me to get a grip, but I continued laughing. With thoughtful eagerness, she offered to smack me. I declined her kindly offer and took deep breaths instead.
“Better?” asked Frances, sounding a little disappointed, then asked me to help put out the tea things. Good idea. So that’s what I did, and my hysteria gradually subsided.

In Winnie's studio

Deep in the garden, we found Sir Winston’s art studio. Venturing inside, we found a compact room, rather like a small cottage without a bedroom level, with paintings lining the walls. Despite the obvious contrivance of a cigar left in an ashtray and a paint-stained smock across a chair, there was one very authentic touch beside the easel: stacks and stacks of Havana cigar boxes filled with tubes of paint. Churchill’s paintings were bold, brash, energetic, exuberant South of France landscapes. To me, they all seemed to be tantalizing self-portraits, yet only partly revealing.

The Best Fish and Chips in Windsor

Here is another bit I read from A Yank Back to England. We're having lunch in Windsor--this is one of our favorite stories! Hope you like...

Dagenham? You come from ... where?

“Dagenham? You can’t possibly come from Dagenham!” a flamboyant acquaintance in the West End of London once told me. “You simply must tell people you come from ‘Darn-em’ and you must place your hand over your mouth as you say it, just in case.”
Just in case? In case of what? I felt an urge to defend the place, but then thought better of it.
Dagenham. “Call it Daggers,” said another wag. Well, I called it home.

The Prodigal Tourist finds a home

You may have heard, the Prodigal household is celebrating--we've found a publisher for my book about my rediscovery of my old home! It's to be called A Yank Back to England: The Prodigal Tourist Returns and will be out in December in Washington, everywhere else in January.
We were holding off on the happy news (not on the celebrating, as you can see from the pic) until the website was ready, but we got scooped by our friend Melissa at Smitten by Britain , who already put the book in her Amazon store! (You are naughty, and we love you for it!) so... here we are! Site-less but thrilled! Until we're ready, we will link to Amazon on the side column (US, UK, Canada, & Europe) for anyone who wants to take advantage of the low pre-order price. (And tar very much!)
For those of you who are unsure, or new to the blog, we do have a wonderful testimonial from Pulitzer-prize winning critic Michael Dirda, who read the mss and wrote:

“Half memoir, half travel book, A Yank Back to England never stints the reader: Here is England seen entire, from inside out, from bottom to top, as Denis Lipman returns from America to his working-class family home in blighted Dagenham. From there he, his young American wife, and his cockney Mum and Dad embark on a series of funny, touching, madcap and even surreal adventures as they visit celebrated landmarks and holiday spots in England—as well as a good many pubs. The result is an absolutely wonderful book, not only about going home again but also about love and family and tradition and the passage of the years.”

Couldn't ask for a better quote from a wonderful critic and author. Now one more thing: I want to thank all of you who have supported and encouraged us over the otherwise-bleak last few months--reading your comments and emails has been most wonderful and cheering, and I mean this most sincerely.
So celebrate with us! Lift a glass to A Yank Back to England, to me, and to the long-suffering Prodigal Wife!
Cheers,
Denis (a.k.a., The Prodigal Tourist)

Who knew this was here?

The Hilton House had nothing to do with the hotel chain. Located just beyond Gatwick Airport near the village of Cuckfield, the former Victorian country mansion had been gently converted into a private hotel. Lounges were filled with large overstuffed chairs. The music room had a baby grand. We found the conservatory filled with a wide array of exotic foliage, pineapple plants and orchids. As we walked through, the glass doors that led outside were flanked by tumbling rose shrubs and hyacinth. We strolled onto the grounds across a carpet of green. Old stone birdbaths were surrounded by islands of geraniums, well-weathered park benches were perfectly placed for guests to enjoy the views beyond the garden.

Highway or byway? I did it my way.

“You didn’t take the motorway?" Dave, our genial keyholder, asked. "Should have taken the motorway, you would have been here in an hour. Hour and a quarter at the outside.”
I apologized again for our late arrival. Frances smiled, said nothing. To her credit, she did not gloat, at least not openly, at our navigational error. Our journey had taken almost three hours.
Dave couldn’t resist reminding me of the errors of my ways though. “You mean you were on the A12, then came off it? That’s a shame. I hate those little roads, all those twists and turns! Takes you an hour to go ten miles. Like I said—”
“The motorway.” I knew. I sighed.
He went on cheerfully, “Oh, well. Never mind, you’re all here now, so that’s alright.”

Afternoon walk

“Been up to the church, have you?” A familiar voice jarred my musings as I walked back through the quiet village of Rattlesden. Again, it was Dave, only this time he was weeding a garden beside the pub. I stopped for a moment and watched him turn over the garden.
“So Dave, the food in the pub, you didn’t actually say before—”
“Well,” said Dave with a smile spread with irony. “He calls himself a chef, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s just a cook. But the food is not too bad.”
Well, it hadn’t been too bad at all. In fact, the Sunday cold plate had passed all expectations. Not that expectations for food in pubs ever ran that high with me. But the fact was, our “local” was very local, just a two-minute walk away. And the menu was surprisingly adventurous. So it seemed churlish not to try the place for a hot dinner. I ambled back to our little nest. I found Lew, recalled to life and back in the kitchen, making tea.

Another evening with Lew--and Jack

After the ladies retired for the evening, Lew remained in place, eyeing the Jack Daniels but saying nothing. Although they would never admit it, my parents were quite alike in some ways. I took the hint.
“Fancy a splash, Dad?”
“It’s a big bottle, son, be less to carry home if we do.”
So we lessened the load. I poured the drinks, putting less in mine and hiding the difference with ice. Lew took his straight. We sat there for a moment. I told him about the old schoolhouse we had seen that day at the outdoor museum.
“Not much different from mine,” I said. “Didn’t like it.”

At Weald Open Air Museum

“It’s a lovely day for walking,” Frances smiled.
“All sunny. All lovely!” Jessie piped in, and then, as though startled, “What is this place?”
“It’s a museum,” said Lew, ominously.
“There’re lots of old houses close by. From all different periods of English history! And a blacksmith shop,” said Frances, trying to muster interest. “After we walk a bit, we’ll go look at the animals. Kate’ll like that.”
“You go on and enjoy, darling,” said Lew, patronizingly. “We’ll see you in the caff.”
“What is all this exactly?” asked Jessie, who did not know what to make of the place.
“Like I said, Mum, it’s an outdoor museum,” I said, patiently but not very helpfully.
“Outdoor museum? I prefer to be inside, meself.”

Tea on the beach

Then, with the sun beating down on us, Lew suggested tea. Frances was innurred to the fact that my family and I drank hot tea in the height of summer, but she was amazed to find this strange predeliction actively encouraged right on the beach.
“The beach tray!” I said, with jokey effusiveness. “It’s part of the English seaside tradition! Like donkey rides, Punch and Judy, and saucy postcards, the beach tea tray is a standard seaside accoutrement.”
”You’re so weird,” said Frances evenly, shaking her head, trying not to give my blatherings any encouragement. I shrugged and, undaunted. set off with Lew to buy a pot of tea with extra hot water, a jug of milk, dishes of sugar, and proper cups and saucers and spoons, all of which we majestically carted back across the sand to our little bit of beach and half-constructed castle.

Finally back in Broadstairs

“Look, that’s where Dickens stayed,” I enthused. “And that’s where he wrote The Pickwick Papers! There! D’you see? There’s a blue plaque.”
No one cared.
At the end of the High Street, the sea suddenly appeared, then disappeared from view. We turned onto Albion Street, gaily painted with double yellow lines and decorated with sporadic meters and lots of no-parking signs.
“There’s nowhere to park! Brilliant, bloody brilliant!”
Then, just past the harbor pub, The Tartar Frigate, I was relieved to find a waterfront car park tucked into the lea of a cliff. I stopped the car, got out, and stretched my legs. The harbor, originally built by Henry the Eighth, jutted out like a giant, slightly curved anvil, protecting its brightly colored, bobbing fishing fleet, a few waves away from a crescent beach, the pristine footprint of Vikings Bay.
“What do you think, not bad, eh? At the end of the harbor, we can even buy some cockles and winkles for tea!” I said, happy again.

A yank back to Broadstairs, part 2

But it’s the rocks and the sand and the sea I adore the most. Perhaps I’m drawn to the edges of England because I can’t wait to get away from it all, and that’s why I love to plunge into the very salty, very cold, very uninviting grey green sea with lemming-like fervor. Maybe I like swimming away from the coast to gaze upon the undulating shoreline that crumbles gracefully, in part, like a giant piece of Wensleydale cheese. if only to better understand where I have come from and why I always swim back to it.

High Tea at the cottage

“Right, Jessie, girl, let’s eat before it gets cold,” said Lew, rubbing his gnarly hands together. It sounded like sandpaper on wood.
“Nice bit of bacon, this. Not salty. Lovely it is. Lovely,” cooed Jessie.
“I forgot the tomatoes!” I said, jumping up again.
“Shall we carry on then, son?” asked Lew.
“I see you’ve got yourself a beer, Dad,” I said, somewhat peevishly, grabbing one for myself and Frances.
Lew raised his glass to me and smiled innocently.

Stocking up

We piled up on gourmet treats as well as English basics, including a few eccentric eats like pickled walnuts and gentleman’s relish, a kind of anchovy fish paste. Frances threw herself into this shopping spree as enthusiastically as I did, running off to the sweets counter to stock up on Cadbury Flakes, her favorite English treat, as well as Crunchy bars and Smarties, like M&Ms only better, or so it always seemed to Kate and me.
I got piccalilli pickle for Lew, who always slathered mashed potatoes with this dull, mustardy sauce with bits of pickled cauliflower and onions. I knew he’d like that. And sausages, good old Walls pork sausages, just marvelous with a thick, slightly sweet version of Worcestershire sauce called HP Sauce. Red, brown, black, green, yellow sauces, Britain has them all bottled. We also bought a small piece of crumbly Wendsleydale, marvelous with a slice of apple, a Cotswold cheese flecked with chives, and a creamy wedge of Stilton, gnarled and crusty on the outside.

A quiet evening

The new hotel we had booked for our overnight stay in Windsor was replete with bow-tied French staff who were not only competent but actually liked children. As we were feeling somewhat drained, it was quite pleasant to be sequestered on a quiet suburban street, in a big old house with a well-tended garden and a big pond full of fat goldfish.
Once settled in, we did not feel like moving. Fortunately, the hotel provided a set dinner on a French theme, not exactly memorable but quite acceptable. After dinner, we strolled around the charming garden and Kate made a bee-line for the pond like a human divining rod. Thankfully, that was the only excitement in store for us that evening.

Regatta Fever, part 1

The Royal Henley Regatta was starting the following week and, in preparation, Henley-on-Thames had thoughtfully banned street parking, created no entry streets, and cordoned off vehicular access to the river except for the main bridge in and out of town. This was, no doubt, to punish anyone not traveling in an amphibious craft of some description.
We parked miles away, near a supermarket on the outskirts of town, and walked back through a throng of tourists, would-be royal watchers, and assorted gawkers. Like lemmings, we followed the crowd towards the river. At the side of the bridge with its constant flow of noisy, smelly traffic, we glimpsed lawns that led to the river’s edge, perfectly run-down looking boathouses, and creamy white riverside mansions that looked like slightly wilted wedding cakes waiting to be cut.