Generation gap—or culture shock?

“Oooh-oooh! It’s Nanny! Hello Katie! Hello Katie!”
Morning brought forth the sun, and Mum was ebullient in bright pinks and smiles. Kate took a running jump at Jessie’s legs, gave her a big hug, and started tugging, dragging her towards the patio.
“Where’s your mother, where’s your mother?” asked Jessie, a little nervous in the face of Kate’s exuberance. As Kate tottered after a ball, Jessie tottered in the opposite direction.

Laps 'round the grounds

We went around to the stables. The manager was merry and enthusiastic, and said she was looking forward to taking Kate on her first pony ride, a very important event in a young girl’s life.
“Wonderful view. You must have some great rides here.” I indicated the rolling countryside, framed by poplars and willow trees around a pond.
“Unfortunately, the hotel’s property ends at that line of trees.”
“Really? I thought they owned acres and acres.”
“They did, but they sold it. Think they regret it now, selling it off, you know. Still, we’ve got enough space for the younger riders, so it’s not too bad, is it, Kate!”
Kate beamed. After having a gander at the ponies and horses, we strolled through the grounds and ended up at the indoor swimming pool, an oasis with palms and large glass windows looking onto the park-like setting. Kate splashed about in the tiny paddle pool with Frances, I managed a couple of languid laps, thinking all the while about the racing turns I intended to make in our enormous bathtub back in the room. Couldn’t wait!

It's not the Med, is it, Denis?

Somerset Maugham renamed Whitstable “Blackstable” in one of his first novels. He had grown up here and hated the place. I understood. Visiting the seaside in the summer is nothing like living there year-round. I remembered the sea around the British coastline as mostly mackerel gray, offset by startling blue skies in the summer. But when it rained, or threatened to rain, the grayness was omnipresent, inescapable. Although it was not raining now, the air was damp and chilly.
“June the first,” I said. “All looks a bit bleak.”
“Well, it’s not the Med, is it? This is England. Denis, you are so funny.”
As we approached the harbor area, however, the bleakness softened a bit, with hints of sunlight again piercing the dulled silver sky.

Searching for Beatrix Potter

Down a corridor, an elderly lady in a black cardigan sat alongside one of the bedrooms open to the public. She looked quite still and very official, but rather too old and frail to be a security guard. I assumed she was a guide of sorts, brimming with facts and fables and historical anecdotes.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me something about the house? The connection with Beatrix Potter?”
“No.” She smiled vacantly, eyes unblinking, then went on proudly, “Don’t know the first thing about it.”
I thanked her, if not for her knowledge, at least for her honesty.

Under the Queen's wing

Kate and I walked down to a small gate that led onto the embankment. Feeding ducks or swans had become one of those things we did together when we were in England.
“They’re owned by the Queen, you know.”
A squat little girl with a suspicious look had sidled up close to us. Her red socks were rumpled and she wore a PVC rain mac over a print dress.
“Which ones are the Queen’s?” I asked, trying to be friendly.
“They are all owned by the Queen. Every one,” the girl said, darkly.
“Really?”
“If you kill one of them, the penalty is death!” The child pronounced “death” as in “deaf.”
Kate gazed anxiously at the girl. I told her to carry on feeding the swans.
“Well, we’ll be sure not kill any, just feed them, alright?”
“I suppose—” The sullen girl began kicking pebbles into the water.
“Do you want some bread?” asked Kate.
The child shook her head, then turned and walked away. Odd. Kate shrugged and carried on throwing brioche at the birds.

Wherefore art thou, Alfa Romeo?

I sat behind the wheel, stitched with real leather. I ran my fingers over the smooth wood dashboard. The engine purred. I was behind the wheel of an Alfa Romeo. Me. And I wanted that car, if only for a week. It was rather like destiny.
“What about your parents?” Frances broke the spell.
“What about them?” I said, baffled.
“Where are they going to sit?”
“In the back. With Kate. The leather – did you smell the leather?”
Vroom. Vroom. I revved the motor just a little. The spell was not entirely broken.
“There’s not enough room. Where are we going to put their luggage?” Frances asked, slowly.
“I don’t care! They can put their suitcases on their laps. I love this car—”
I was in a giddy fog, quite like Mister Toad, totally in thrall to the hum of a hot roadster. This was a performance car, not meant to be in the least bit practical! The sleek body tapered elegantly at the rear, ensuring the two passengers in the back a cramped fit – sacrificial victims of style and speed.
“Do you want to go for a quick spin? You have a few minutes.” The lovely lady at the car rental place, she understood.
“Can I?”
When I returned from a lap of honor around the car park, Frances and Kate were waiting next to a station wagon, a “shooting brake” my new friend called it, built like a tank. And built with a tape deck.
“We could have made the Alfa work, you know.”
“Weirdo!”

A chocolate coin

Just outside the train station, buskers were performing. A string quartet played patriotic sea shanties. One white-faced clown made Kate a balloon animal. I gave her a coin to give him, and he gravely asked if she had a chocolate coin instead. Kate’s face brightened, for there, tucked in a pouch in the back of her stroller, were a few chocolate coins covered in gold foil. I’m sure the clown regretted his moment of whimsy, for his professional smile cracked when presented with golden payment for his modeled balloon.

Enchanted once more

We parked and set off on foot, in search of that fabled glade. The Ashdown was not just a forest of trees, it was a wild mix of sandstone ridges, gullies, cracked stone openings, and scrubby moorland. The upward path was banked by trees and covered in soft golden fern and leaf mold. After about fifteen minutes, the path opened to a clearing surrounded by huge boulders, like cliffs squeezed together on a coastline. Below the rocks we saw the smooth sandy bottom, Roo’s sandpit. We walked around the dense woodland and rocky outcrop and found a way down. Frances did not share our enthusiasm for things Pooh, but she did appreciate areas of natural beauty, and this certainly was one. I looked around and smiled. Silence. It was so still.
Kate, of course, was far too busy playing in the sand to get caught up in my literary imaginings. Frances rolled her eyes. After a bit, we carried on. Hiking upwards through grasses and tiny dune-like ridges of packed sand, we finally made it to the top of the hill. Before us was a vast patchwork of rocky promontories, sandy clearings, and ancient moorland with exposed tree roots sprawling into dark green forest. Atop the hillside, I was unaware of anything other than the quiet magic of the place, a strange hodgepodge of wild, silent beauty bordered by sprawling towns, villages with cricket greens, and wealthy suburban spurs curving back as far as London. Somewhere in the Ashdown Forest was a statue of Winnie the Pooh. We never found it, but we did find a plaque dedicated to A. A. Milne, tucked away in a semi-circle of trees, almost hidden, overshadowed by the forest he immortalized, those acres of woods he planted in the imagination of so many.

Pooh's emblazoned corner

Hartfield was on the bottom edge of Ashdown Forest, a small, pretty village with a teashop, a couple of pubs, and a few stores, one of which had been renamed Pooh Corner. The very same village shop where A. A. Milne’s son, the real-life Christopher Robin, once got his weekly ration of sweets and candies. Every bit of available space in the tiny shop was devoted to Pooh and his pals. Everything. From doorstops to gob stoppers, everything was emblazoned with the bear. Even so, the shop had retained its charm and I could easily imagine Milne and his son ambling in from their summer home, just a little way up the hill.

Is that a saddle on the dog?

A chance encounter

On the return from Horsted Keynes we stopped off at the recently restored Kingscote Station and ambled around the platform. The trains and stations were maintained and run by members of the preservation society. Like Civil War enactors, they dressed for their particular part – drivers, firemen, conductors, guards. One old chap was busily sweeping up, dressed as a porter. He wore a blue-striped shirt, a red polka dot kerchief around his neck, big blue dungarees, and a peaked oil cloth cap.
“They keep you busy,” I said.
He smiled, quite happy to stop and talk.
“There’s always work to do. We’ve just opened up this station, in fact.”
He had a rich, sonorous voice, a voice I had heard before but could not place.
“You don’t sound like a porter.” I smiled.
“We’re all volunteers, actually. Station was totally derelict until quite recently. We restored everything. Come with me. You won’t believe this.”
He led us down to a tunnel beneath the rail bed connecting both platforms. An Aladdin’s cave of shiny white porcelain bricks plastered and lined with very ancient enameled, baked metal posters for Camp coffee, baking powder, soap, cigarettes, and products long gone from supermarket shelves. Kate particularly liked the Cadbury and Fry chocolate posters.
“It was completely filled in,” our friendly guide explained. “Didn’t even know it was there until someone found the beginning of the steps. Quite a job of excavation, as you can imagine.”
“Wonderfully preserved,” I said.
“Isn’t it just!” he exclaimed. “A perfect record of an another era!”
“Why did they fill it in?” Frances asked reasonably.
“Haven’t the foggiest idea!” The volunteer porter chuckled like a big old walrus.
We said good-bye and caught the next train back to Sheffield Park. Then I remembered. Our porter was an actor I had seen on the box, years ago, but never in the role he now played with such relish.

We're on our way

A whistle blew, a flag waved, the train hissed. Engine wheels spun until they caught traction, and our car juddered and shook ever so slightly. We were on our way.
Our vintage train chugged out of the platform, billowing thick smoke, puffing and spluttering along, unhurried by timetables. We had to close the window every time we passed under a bridge or went through a small tunnel. But when we could, we leaned out the windows, enjoying miles of magical woodland and embankments tumbled with wildflowers. Tall grasses and hollyhocks seemed to sprout from the sides of soot-red bridges. Regiments of pink and purple foxglove stood to attention as we passed by and, not surprisingly, great swaths of bluebells gently swayed in the train’s wake.

OK, OK, here's a photo...

Lew, Jessie with Kate, and me

Tommy Tank Engine and "round trip" tickets

We were lucky. Thomas the Tank Engine puffed and chugged into town, resplendent in red and blue, with a smiley face on the front of the boiler. As Thomas pulled up, we all applauded and children lined up to climb aboard. Kate got on the footplate of another train’s engine as it stood beneath a water tower getting a drink. We took her picture with a young costumed engineer before she took off for a ride on a miniature train.
By then we all wanted a trip on a train – a proper train! Two trains were running that day, one with an engine over a hundred and thirty years old. After buying return tickets, “round trip” Frances called them, we walked the length of the platform, eyeing the waiting train, debating where to sit. We had a host of different cars to choose from and, as there was no surcharge, we decided to travel first class. Our carriage had serviced the South Coast Railway until the mid-nineteen fifties. The framed mirrors were of etched glass, leather straps lifted or lowered varnished, wood-framed windows. Walnut-framed maps adorned the compartment. Polished brass fittings sparkled. Lace doilies draped the headrests. Kate particularly liked the footrests. The seats were as large and comfortable as armchairs, upholstered in spiky royal blue velvet. Gold braid tassels held back curtains. A small side table stood beneath the window with a vase holder for flowers. This was the way to travel!

Daytripping, part 2

We joined crowds of people and loads of families with young children, and became part of a typical English Bank Holiday Sunday. Lots of smiles and squeals of anticipation all around. On one platform we found a restored station buffet, tall cast-iron girders, wooden eaves, big glass windows, polished tea urns, and a big marble counter. We peered in, then took off, looking for trains! On one siding were four steam mammoths and various antique railcars, some of which were being restored. We climbed aboard a luxurious Pullman, an old Great Western restaurant car, and one or two freight cars. Beyond the sidings were locomotive sheds, a museum, and another station buffet. So much to see.

Daytripping, part 1

Cuckfield turned out to be a great base to see nearby attractions. After a sumptuous breakfast, we headed out to Sheffield Park, home of the Bluebell Railway and its working steam trains, with a restored track stretching to Horsted Keynes twenty miles away. Sheffield Park was a beautifully preserved country train station, thronged with more people than it ever saw on its busiest day as a stop on a small branch line. British Rail closed many unprofitable lines in the late nineteen fifties, and this was one of them, but a preservation society reopened the rail line in the early nineteen sixties, attracting well-wishers and steam train enthusiasts of all ages.