Forget the booze--smuggle me out!

By happy coincidence, Carol of istitchaholic, who lives in Deal, has just sent us this lovely photo of Middle Street, showing lots of colorful old houses. Apparently, many are joined up by smugglers' tunnels--wish we had known that when we were there, we could have used a quick escape route from our rental house!
If you have a photo of England you want to share, email us! If we post it, we'll link back to you.

Deal us in!

In the annals of literature, Deal has not been viewed too kindly. A Regency travel book described the town as “a villainous place filled with filthy looking people.” A century or so before, the diarist Samuel Pepys called Deal “pitiful.” Well. We enjoyed our walk in a delightful part of the old town Pepys must have missed. Especially when the sun quite unexpectedly took a shine to us.
Some of the smaller streets and alleys were cobbled and the houses at least two hundred years old. With Kate in her stroller, we spent a pleasant hour zigzagging from the high street hubbub down to those quieter, more picturesque alleys and turnings, before finding ourselves back on the front looking out at the emerald-gray sea.

Deux, trois, quatre... "sink"?

I explained to Frances that the “Cinque Ports” were, originally, a cluster of five ports dotting the south coast of England, established and reinforced by the Plantagenet kings in the thirteenth century to protect the realm from sneaky and persistent French attacks. The ruling class in those days, descended from William the Conqueror, spoke mostly French, and “cinque” had been derived from the French word for “five.” Even so, no attempt at French pronunciation was ever made or even countenanced. It just wouldn’t be cricket.
“So a ‘cinque’ port becomes a ‘sink’ port? That’s odd,” said Frances.
“Odd? Doesn’t sound odd to me! English pronunciation of French – get it?”

The repairman cometh, part 2

I opened the door to a large man, about forty, graying temples, somewhat overweight, with a friendly face. Frances must be right: an off-duty repairman.
“Denis?” he asked.
“Yes! Good. Well. Come in, come in,” I said, eagerly, then led him to the padlocked phone. “There it is.”
“Right – the phone? On the blink, is it—?”
“Totally dead.”
“Don’t see many like this anymore—” He picked up the phone and examined it.
The guy seemed to know what he was doing, so I left him alone and moved back to the kitchen. Frances was still standing in the back doorway, looking down the street.
“Denis, look,” she said, calling me over. “That car there.”
I looked at the parked car, saw two women, shrugged, and turned back.
“Look, the older woman. She looks just like your Aunt Flo.”
I went outside for a better look. I saw a youngish woman and a stately, older woman. I walked slowly towards them. The older woman started laughing and waving at me. She did look vaguely familiar.
“Oh, my God. Aunt Mary!” Grinning, I waved back, then quickly legged it back into the house. The large guy with the friendly face was still holding the phone.
“Sorry, mate, but this phone is buggered!”
“Are you my cousin Ken?
“Kevin,” he said, rather casually. “I thought you’d twig it eventually!”

The repairman cometh, part 1

After a late start, we finished unpacking and sat down with a cup of coffee. Suddenly, around eleven, “Colonel Bogie” blared throughout the kitchen. Normally whistled, the World War Two ditty seemed to be playing on a carillon of bells built into the walls or ceiling of the house. At first, we thought it was an alarm. We checked the radio, the TV, the kettle, the oven, the phone – still dead – then we looked at each other. The door.
“Can’t be the doorbell,” I said, firmly. “It’s too much.”
The ghastly tune rang out again. This time I saw a shape through the fuzzy glass door at the back of the house.
“Oh, God! It is the doorbell! It’s them!” I was near to panic.
“It can’t be,” said Frances, with some certainty. “They won’t be here before noon. Relax.”
“The telephone repairman? They said they were getting someone in.” I smiled.
“Wouldn’t that be something!” Frances sounded impressed. “And on a Sunday!”

Beware the Ides of Deal

As we ambled back across the wide promenade, Kate ran ahead to look at the sea. Frances found a plaque marking the spot where Julius Caesar first came ashore fifty odd years before the birth of Christ.
“At least he landed in a better part of Deal than we did.” I sounded sour, unconcerned with historical significance. We had been promised a coastguard’s cottage, and a coastguard might have lived in our cottage at one time, but there were no nautical knickknacks or seafaring foolery at our end of town.
“Oh, please, cheer up.” Frances was delighted to find the plaque. Caesar and Rome had supplanted Merlin and Camelot in her literary interests, a case of might over magic.
“Only kidding. Only kidding.” I shrugged and looked up at the sky.
Frances shot me a glance with the hint of a smile. “And don’t make it rain!”
“Who, me?” I smiled back. “Wouldn’t dream of it!”