Another lovely surprise

Afternoon Tea Break , a new blogger trying to help people change careers in these challenging times, has surprised us with the very gratifying (and humbling) "Noblesse Oblige" award. Apparently, we are being recognized for the following:
1) The Blogger manifests exemplary attitude, respecting the nuances that pervades amongst different cultures and beliefs (don't know about this one!).
2) The Blog contents inspire; strives to encourage and offers solutions (if this is true, so delighted).
3) There is a clear purpose at the Blog; one that fosters a better understanding on Social, Political, Economic, the Arts, Culture and Sciences and Beliefs (well, maybe a couple of these).
4) The Blog is refreshing and creative (thank you very much).
5) The Blogger promotes friendship and positive thinking (not sure about this one either, but I hope so).

The Blogger who receives this award will need to perform the following steps:
1) Create a post with a mention and link to the person who presented the Noblesse Oblige Award (done).
2) The Award Conditions must be displayed in the post (done).
3) Write a short article about what the blog has thus far achieved – preferably citing one or more older post to support (well...).
4) The Blogger must present the Noblesse Oblige Award in concurrence with the Award conditions (this one's easy).
5) The Blogger must display the Award at any location at the Blog (OK).

What my blog has achieved so far: Well, we started the blog with the intention of getting the word out about my book, a travel memoir about our trips back to England. Since we still haven't secured a publisher, this hasn't been as successful as we hoped; however, we've made lots of interesting cyber-friends, and we've been surprised to discover you all are interested in English cookery! And of course, the lovely comments and emails (and yes, awards!) have encouraged us enough to continue on that elusive hunt for a publisher. So thanks to all our readers, do hope you continue to enjoy our adventures.

We'd like to pass on this award to several people more deserving than us:
* Brian at The New Author for trying to help poor fools like us get a book published;
* Mike at My Thai Photo for not only sharing his beautiful photos of Thailand but also helping people learn English;
* Josephine at A Brit in Tennessee for her big heart and for moving us to tears with her stories about rescued pets and other furry and feathered friends; and
* Carol at The Writer's Porch and Christine at Scully Love Promo Reviews for giving us hope that someone out there is still reading books.
Thanks everyone!

"With love from across the Briney"

Cousin Kevin ( The repairman cometh, part 1 and part 2 ) sent us this fabulous photo of Chertsey Bridge on the River Thames. We had to share! And it gave us an idea: if you have a beautiful photo of England you'd like to share, email us and we may post it with a link back to your blog! (Please, one photo at a time and no more than 100k.)

Bubble, bubble, but no trouble

We decided to use up the remaining vittles in the fridge. So dinner that night consisted of a happy mishmash of savory dishes. Eggs, tomatoes, salad, baked beans, and, of course, sausages. I also melted down some bacon and fried up some leftover spuds and greens in the rendered fat, and ended up with another cornerstone of English cuisine: Bubble and Squeak. It all went down very well with everyone except Kate, who would eat nothing but sausage! All in all, it was quite a feast, like having breakfast for supper, but instead of drinking tea and coffee, we polished off the remaining beers and the last bottle of wine. Then we made tea.
(Photo depicts my home version of Bubble & Squeak, with leftover cabbage and boiled spuds fried up in lots of bacon.)

An Ivy League of its own

Great shot of King's School.

Endowment fit for a King's

Hard by the cathedral was the King’s School, founded by Henry the Eighth. This is a public school, what Americans would call a private school or a bastion of privilege. Alumni include Kit Marlowe, Hugh Walpole, and a writer I admire, Somerset Maugham. Even though he hated his time at King’s, Maugham left money to the school and some rather bizarre bookends, for buried within the walls of the library are his endowed ashes.

Where is that meddlesome priest?

After tea we set off down the high street and ambled slowly towards the cathedral. Set within its own grounds, Canterbury Cathedral was an ornate, gray-stoned edifice surrounded by patches of green lawn and clumps of trees. Of course, this cathedral is most famous for the archbishop who was murdered near its altar at the implied request of Henry II, who famously cried out, "Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?"
Although Henry the Eighth dismantled the shrine around the place of martyrdom, the spot where Thomas a Beckett was murdered is still marked. Or so we were told. On the big, black, studded doors, a little typed notice informed us the cathedral was closed for some event of a religious nature. Lew found it most galling.
“Bloody unlucky, that is! I mean, it’s not as if it’s Sunday, is it? Coming all this way!”
Lew sounded more than a bit miffed, convinced all religious events should only happen on the day of rest. But the weather was pleasant, if a little cold, so we decided to walk around the cathedral’s precincts. The soaring towers, ornate windows, and perching gargoyles were still worth seeing. I could easily imagine how, upon its completion seven hundred years ago, this building would have had a profound impact on the pilgrims of the day. Especially since practically all the buildings in the immediate vicinity were squat and lowly dwellings of thatch and clay and cow dung. How imposing, yet how incongruous this towering edifice must have appeared, with its walls of windows and sweeping stonework: the physical manifestation of God’s glory, or man’s folly.

In search of history

We were all surprised how quickly we got to Canterbury. We were within earshot of the cathedral bells in just under an hour. Although parking was expensive and complicated to find, we managed to snare a space within walking distance of all the sights, just inside the ancient city precincts. Canterbury was a walled town and, despite the best efforts of the Luftwaffe, the cathedral was mostly undamaged during World War Two and much of the town’s medieval ambiance remained intact.

Time to go!

“Where we going again?” asked Mum.
“Canterbury, Mum, Canterbury. Frances wants to have a look around. Might be interesting, it’s very old,” I conceded. “Can’t remember going there, myself.”
“All that way – a cathedral. Hmmm. I’ve seen one of them.”
“Well, if you want to go to Canterbury, we have to make an early start of it,” said Lew. “It’s a long way. And the traffic!” Lew shook his head ominously, as if he knew, which he didn’t. “Well, the traffic, I wouldn’t like to say.”

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!”

On a personal note

We are pausing briefly from our memories of England to remember our beloved Oscar Wilde, who has left us for the Field of Mice. You'll always be with us.
Happy Hunting!

A culinary tradition, reclaimed

Cauliflower Cheese is a classic English staple. And when it’s done well, it’s a wonderful thing. Sadly the reputation for this dish has waned over the years and been relegated to the realm of ghastly pub food, made en masse for the lunch crowd because it keeps its heat, like shepherd’s pie with its layer of crisped mash. Even now, this maligned dish is usually found rubbing shoulders with a tray of baked beans and bangers, all held under the ubiquitous glass coffin atop near the beer pumps. And so after an hour or so, the cheese sauce turns into a rubberized cap, the kind a grandmother would swim in. This of course does nothing for the taste but it does act as a heat-sealant.
This is a culinary tragedy. Done right, Cauliflower Cheese is a truly wonderful dish, good enough to be savored alone. But when it accompanies a prime rib roast...you are in God’s own country.
Here’s how to turn a travesty into a culinary triumph.

Cauliflower Cheese, prodigal-style
Break up the cauliflower into florets, chop up bits of stalks if you are feeling virtuous, frugal, or both. Steam until crisp-tender, or cover and microwave for about 5 minutes. (If you use the microwave and value your fingers, leave the florets alone in the microwave for a few minutes to calm down. Anyway, you'll be kept busy making the sauce. )
Put 4 tablespoons of butter and 3 tablespoons of flour in a small saucepan; melt butter with the flour, whisk until no white bits remain. Take saucepan off the fire and let the flour cook off the heat. Add a little salt, a good pinch of nutmeg, and a 1/2 teaspoon of Coleman’s powder mustard (or a couple of shakes of powdered white pepper). Throw in a bay leaf if you must; I never do, I find bay leaves overrated. By now it should be safe to remove the cauliflower from the microwave, which you will use to warm up two cups of milk, either fat-free or whole if you are feeling naughty. Mind you, if you’re feeling particularly decadent (and I know there are one or two of you out there) add a little cream. Now put the saucepan back on the fire, whisk in the warmed milk, keep whisking for a minute or two until the concoction thickens. You have now made a Béchamel sauce. Congratulations. I don’t tell Frances but I now add a dollop of cream cheese, about a large tablespoonful, for extra enrichment and flavor. To your creamy cheese sauce add a large teaspoon of Dijon style mustard and a shot of Worcestershire sauce. (And by the way, this is pronounced Wooster Sauce. Wooster as in Bertie Wooster. No shire. No cester. Just Wooster.) Whisk your sauce again then set aside.
Butter a large glass dish and turf in the cauliflower florets and edible stalk bits. If you have a 1/4 cup of cauliflower water residing aimlessly in the bottom of your glass dish or steam pot, add it to your sauce. I now sprinkle a generous amount of grated Swiss cheese over the florets, but you could use any grated mousetrap you happen to have kicking around. Then enrobe the cauliflower with your lovely sauce. The experts pour, but I prefer to spoon it on gently, making sure the sauce covers the cauliflower evenly. Now put the dish in the fridge for 24 hours to rest. No, no, I’m only kidding!
But you do need to top the dish with parmesan cheese before going any further. For additional flavor and crunch I also add fresh breadcrumbs toasted in butter--it’s worth the extra step. Now you’re almost there. Mix a couple of tablespoons of the crumbs with an equal amount of Parmesan cheese and sprinkle this mixture over the sauced cauliflower. Pop the dish into a 350 F oven for 1/2 hour or so, uncovered. When the sauce bubbles and the top is a gold, mahogany brown ––et voila! Do let your cauliflower cheese repose for a few minutes before serving.
This wonderful dish can be prepared ahead, and kept covered in the fridge for hours even overnight. Just don’t sprinkle the crumb mixture until you’re ready to bake. And no, it really doesn’t need any additional salt, the cheese takes care of that. And you can adjust the pepper and dry mustard to your taste. But do use the Worcestershire Sauce, especially now you know how to pronounce it. Enjoy!

A cauliflower grows in Dagenham, part 2

For some unknown reason, the cauliflowers attracted an inordinate amount of caterpillars. Every day these green and white creatures would promenade across the plants’ bulbous surface. When they first appeared, Lew was going to spray them with DDT but thought better of it. Using a stick he knocked the insects off and I had the fun job of smashing and mashing them to bits.
Eventually a caterpillar-free, fully grown cauliflower was delivered to Jessie. The large, heavy plant was divested of its outer greenery, then plunged whole into a pot of water in which it was boiled.
And boiled.
Eventually, the cauliflower was retrieved like a hot and soggy sponge, with all its flavor and nutrients drained away. The cauliflower was divided and served as a side dish. The remains of the florets had turned grainy and mealy, and overall the cauliflower tasted of hot water with fibrous bits.
To suggest to Jessie that a vegetable could be cooked less and retain a touch of crunch would have evoked derisive laughter and looks of incredulity mingled with pity. The idea that a cauliflower could be enrobed in a velvety cheese sauce would have caused my mum great consternation and might have had her doubting my masculinity. Mum would not brook such adulterations.

A cauliflower grows in Dagenham, part 1

If Jessie had the green thumb in our family, Lew had patience, a little skill, and great earth. Dagenham dirt was brown-black and rich in nutrients, either reclaimed marshland or ploughed-over farmland. Despite the sameness and dullness of the housing estate, all terraced houses had a plot of garden front and back. And this is where individuality flourished and occasionally bloomed.
The first part of the garden consisted of a small lawn, with beds of plants, mostly hydrangeas and roses. This was Jessie’s domain. Beyond the trellis and the spreading apple tree, the land belonged to Lew. Apart from the usual root veggies, Lew occasionally went in for more exotic edibles. One year, he decided to grow cauliflower, and he grew it from seed. After what seemed to be an eternity, tiny bits of green fluff began to appear. Then, before we knew it, small, white, carnation-like plants sprang up with thick gnarly green stalks. Within weeks the florets began to grow, yellowy at first, turning firm and white and knobby like a scoutmaster’s knees.

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.

Thoughts of Spring

Cambridge

Lavenham

Canterbury

"I love my stutter song!"

A stutter song for Kate

While we cleared, Jessie and Lew took Kate and settled into the lounge with a glass of cheer. By the time we joined them, Lew was serenading his granddaughter with great verve.
“Oh, beautiful Katie, Oh, beautiful Katie,
"You’re the only little girl that we adore...”
Then Jessie joined in. “And when the moon shines over the mountain,
“We’ll be waiting for you at the k-k-k-k-k-k-kitchen door!”
My first reaction was, oh God, they’re choking. Then they both started laughing, gently prodding Kate in the ribs as if she were a giggly pin cushion.
“You haven’t swallowed your teeth, have you, Dad?”
“Naaaw, I’ve got ‘em right here!” He took his teeth out of his trouser pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief. “I ‘ad ‘em in at dinner – gives me gums a rest.”
“Lovely!” I said laughingly. “Just lovely—”

Where in the world is this church?

We've started scanning in Frances' photos from our trips to England and we need help--we don't remember where we saw this beautiful, double-spired church! We found it among the Rattlesden photos, so we're thinking East Anglia. Can you help? Please leave a comment or email me.
Thanks in advance!

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!”

A Saturday Surprise

What a lovely surprise we had this morning to find that Carol at the Writer's Porch had given our blog this fabulous award—our first! It means a lot to know she enjoys our lighthearted journal and journeys back to Blighty as much as we enjoy stretching out on her porch at the end of a day of traveling! Visit Carol at http://thewritersporch.blogspot.com and see what we mean.

Now, apparently, the award has a few strings attached, and here they are:

• You must pass it on to 5 other Fabulous bloggers in a post.
  
• You must include the person who gave the award to you and a link back to their blog.
• You must list 5 of your Fabulous Addictions in the post.
• You must copy and post these rules in the post.
  

So here are 5 of my Fabulous Addictions: Travel, writing, working from home, my wonderful family, and Kate's softball games (a new discovery for me!).
And here are 5 Fabulous bloggers you should all visit:

• Willow at http://willowmanor.blogspot.com because there's always something new and different waiting there (plus, we covet your stone house!);
• Weenie Elise at http://odetomrsbeeton.blogspot.com for your valiant efforts to restore Britain's culinary heritage;
• Trixie at http://plaidraincoat.blogspot.com because we so enjoy following your triumphs and travails;
• Melissa at http://smittenbybritain.com because your blog is always so cheerful (plus, you always have something nice to say about England!);
• Victoria at http://vintagetea.blogspot.com -- to an Essex lass from an old Essex boy; and
• Amy at amysaysmeh.blogspot.com because we just love your sense of humor.
  

Oops, that's six! Oh well, there it is. We love your blogs! (Right click the Award and save to your computer and post it on your blog.)

Thanks again, Carol! We'll keep an eye out for you on the porch--maybe we'll spot Hemingway!

Club Row and my first bagel

Club Row was a place to itself. Located just out of the stream of pedestrian traffic that either spilled out to Liverpool Street and Bishopsgate, or double-backed up to Aldgate. When I was a kid, Club Row was derelict, the enduring result of bomb damage from the London Blitz. But on Sundays, this empty space filled up with vendors. There were birds for sale, exotic parakeets, gaudy parrots, tiny songbirds, and hundreds of racing pigeons warbling with discontent, stacked up, cage upon cage, way beyond my gaze. Bordered with old warehouse buildings, ancient offices, and clothing sweatshops, Club Row also housed a variety of stores at street level, open on Sunday because it was an old Jewish neighborhood.
I particularly loved the bakeries, with their weirdly shaped loaves, twisted and plaited and covered with what I thought was bird seed. And rolls with holes, threaded onto long sticks! Amazing. No bread was sliced, or pre-wrapped in printed waxed paper. Fresh. Lew once bought us a bag of small, hot breads that were soft on the inside and crusty on the outside. Steam filled the bag and a yeasty, sweet aroma filled the air. My first bagels. What a treat. We ate most of them as we mooched around, looking at budgies and songbirds and kittens and puppies. For a few hours, I had become a part of Lew’s polyglot, unpredictable, and distant past.

Up Front with Victor Spinetti

I spent a long and languid weekend in the wise, compassionate, and tremendously funny company of an old friend. I’ve just finished reading Victor Spinetti’s Up Front! As I turned the pages of this terrific (and quite salty) autobiography, I recalled many of the stories Victor used to tell about the famous folk who became his friends—the Beatles, of course, but also Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, Marlene Dietrich, Sean Connery, just for starters. And I remembered with great pleasure how he used to perform those outrageous vignettes with devastatingly spot-on impersonations!
Reading about Joan Littlewood was a treat for me. She was my theatre hero (Oh, What a Lovely War! A Taste of Honey). Victor kindly arranged for me to meet her. My writing mentor, American director Cy Endfield, insisted on coming along too. He hadn’t seen Joan in years. He told me, it was Joan, Victor, and the rest of Theatre Workshop who were creating a relevance in theatre when he first came to Britain in the Fifties, something modern theatre still strives for today but rarely achieves.
But the book is much more than just a reiteration of show biz stories. I got to know the young Victor. The racism he experienced, the kindness he was shown, the harshness of life in the Welsh valleys and the sheer bloody mindedness he dealt with so very close to home. Like Up Front, Victor is, and always has been, refreshingly real. I know that for a fact. He never played “the star” when we worked together many years ago.
I am convinced anyone reading Up Front will feel they are not just reading a smashing book but making a wonderful (though outrageous) friend in the process. For me, I feel I have rekindled a friendship. I am so glad Victor wrote the book. So pleased to have read it. So chuffed to have spent so much time in an old friend’s great company, once again. Victor, it was a wonderful weekend!

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.

The spell is broken

Quite suddenly a huge group of Japanese tourists descended on Pooh Corner and began photographing one another. We were not used to coachloads of visitors. Most places we had discovered on our travels tended to be off the beaten track. Not that place. We grabbed our souvenirs and fled.
We turned and fled, driving up the wooded hill. We found a clearing, discreetly designated for cars and signposted to the various Pooh Bear sights. The Japanese were right behind us, heading en masse for Pooh Sticks Bridge, so we decided to continue onward for the Hundred Acre Wood and Roo’s Sandpit – the Enchanted Place!

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.

Winkling out Winnie the Pooh

“Kate will love it. I will love it! We can see the actual locations she has read about!”
Truth be told, Winnie the Pooh was an adult enthusiasm I had come to recently, with my daughter. As a boy, I knew nothing of Christopher Robin or, for that matter, the Railway Children, or Billy Bunter or the Famous Five, or Just William, or Narnia, or Mister Toad and the other river bankers. In fact, I hardly knew any children’s books at all.
My parents bought me toys and I had lots of stuffed animals, but books rarely made it onto my list. After baby books, I didn’t know interesting kids books existed and I don’t think my parents did either. Yet all the books I read to Kate were in the library at my old school, and at the children’s public library in Dagenham. All I needed was a library card. And to get a library card, all I had to do was recite the alphabet. Easy peasy. Anyone could do that. Anyone, that is, except me. Absurdly, I always fumbled the test. The annoying thing was, by the time I was seven, I could read quite well but still could not memorize the alphabet.
I took the test every other week, and every other week I failed. Finally it happened. Despite a few pauses and the odd stutter or two, I made it through to zed and got my library card. I was ten years old by then, and too old for whimsical tales of river creatures and bears with a fondness for hunny. So, along with Kate, I had recently discovered a pantheon of children’s literature. I loved those stories as much as she did. And now, on a sunny Sunday in June, we had a chance to visit Pooh Corner, find the Enchanted Place. Quite impossible to pass up.

Twilight over the Downs

As we had not arrived until late afternoon, we decided to eat in the mansion’s original dining room. I had a very succulent loin of lamb, Frances had a tenderloin of pork, and most importantly, Kate had a hamburger, which made her very happy, indeed. After dinner, we took the remains of our wine and sat out on the patio and watched the sun make its languid descent beyond the mottled emerald line of box and oak.

"We're in with the servants, madam!"

Of course, nothing is perfect. Some of the bedrooms were wonderfully appointed with four poster beds. Rooms for couple traveling alone. We were given the original servants quarters at the very top of the house, up several steep flights of stairs. Even though our room was huge and filled with charming furniture, it was still the attic. The location was obviously geared for families traveling with small children, who could scream to their hearts content without disturbing the other guests. Poor us.
“They’ve put us in with the servants, madam!” I groaned rather dramatically.
“Must have known you came from Dagenham.” Frances smiled.
In spite of myself, I grinned back.

What people?

Unmarred by any other building, the South Sussex Downs rolled out before us cascading into the distance like waves of green pasture, racing to meet the shiny turquoise of the sea some fifteen miles beyond.

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.

For whom the school bell tolls

“You weren’t much for school,” said Lew.
“Out when I was fifteen.”
“Not much older than when I left school.”
“You didn’t want me to stay on,” I said, wanting to know why.
“Wasn’t like that in my day. I got this lovely job, I did, at a bank. On account of me being tall. They gave me a uniform, with a lovely thick overcoat. And all I had to do was stand outside. But Mum found me another job that paid sixpence more a week. So that was that. I had to give up my job at the bank and give back that overcoat, all for sixpence more a week.”
“You could’ve said no,” I said.
“No? Naaaw! Didn’t say ‘no’ in those days. What your mother told you to do, you did. Gawd help you if you didn’t.”
“I never did what you wanted me to.” I said.
“You passed that exam, you got in the print. You did what I wanted you to do.”
“I think I really wanted to stay on at school.”
“Well, you weren’t much for it. Told you at the time. You weren’t good at maths.”
“Not much cop at algebra. Physics. The teachers...they weren’t bothered.”
“Gawd’s truth! You should’ve seen the teacher we ‘ad. The headmaster tried to cane me once. I broke his cane for him. Got me expelled. But,” Lew said expansively, “I was leaving anyway—”

Teaching Denis to savor scones

My Mum could barely cook water. Baking, for her, was another country altogether, a dangerous land filled with peaks of burnt crusts and valleys of undercooked batter as treacherous as quicksand. When it came to scones, Jesse wisely went to the bakery aisle of the local Co-op. So I grew up with pre-wrapped, pre-cooked scones best described as baked widgets. These scones had hard brown crusts, the insides of which possessed the look and texture of hard-packed snow, with just as much flavor.
The scone Frances bakes is another matter entirely. This is a light, ethereal creation with an achingly soft yet firm top, beneath which is a light buttery interior where plump raisins hold sway. With each bite this tiny concoction tumbles apart with languid ease into a soft, sweet, slightly chewy morsel and the world is a decidedly better place for it. Proof in the pudding? Try baking Frances’ scones yourself. Just add clotted cream and strawberry jam (well, butter or whipped cream in a pinch). And if, at that point, your taste buds fail to fandango and saliva glands adamantly refuse to gush, you are beyond hope and you have my sympathies.

Here’s the recipe:
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 Tbsps baking powder
1/4 cup sugar
6 Tbsps (3/4 sticks) cold unsalted butter
1/2-3/4 cup raisins
1 cup milk

Stir dry ingredients together in a bowl. Cut butter into mixture with pastry cutter or 2 knives until butter is reduced to pea-sized crumbs. Add raisins, pour in milk and stir quickly to make a firm dough. Don't overmix--no need to get rid of every flour speck and the butter bits make scones flakier.
Roll out dough on floured surface or between plastic wrap sheets until 3/4"-1" thick; cut into 2" rounds with cookie cutters and place and parchment-lined cookie sheet. Brush lightly with milk and bake in preheated 400 F (200 C) oven for 12-15 minutes or until lightly golden. Cool slightly but serve warm! Makes about 16. (Note: We made 50 teeny-tiny ones to take to international night at Kate's school and they went faster than the chocolate chip cookies!)
Enjoy and let us know what you think!

Teaching Frances to eat scones

Frances parked the stroller inside the front parlor of our Elizabethan teashop, then we slowly edged my parents and Kate over to a table. Frances and I had tea, Kate had formula. Lew and Jesse had coffee and toast and cheese and Dundee cake, a rich fruit concoction strewn with slivered almonds. As the name implies, this sweet cake originated in Scotland and, with luck, is impregnated with that golden highland beverage. Frances ordered scones, which arrived with strawberry jam and a pot of thick, bright yellow, velvety clotted cream.
“No, no, darling, you don’t put butter on ‘em!” Lew snickered, but in good humor.
“What do you mean? How’re you supposed to eat them?”
I cut a scone in two for her, applied a layer of jam to one half and topped it off with a dollop of clotted cream.
“There you go! No butter!” I said. “Bon appetit!”
We all watched with approving smiles as Frances started to eat and enjoy her first perfectly layered scone.
“Oh, it’s so good – taste?” She did not have to ask twice.

One more from Lavenham

We toddled on a bit farther and then we found our tearoom. This was a classic Olde Worlde, hickledy-pickledy kind of place. Just what you would expect to find in a village that was thriving when Shakespeare was still an undiscovered playwright.
Across from the teashop was a private house gloriously overrun by a dazzling array of purple and white wisteria. On closer inspection, I saw that ancient branches of the tree had sprung from the pavement to enclose the lower part of the house in its gnarly grasp. But from just a short distance away, the effect was magical, the house appeared to float on a huge bed of fluffy petals. The perfect backdrop for our “elevenses,” the mid-morning break when tea or coffee is slurped down with cakey things and hot buttered toast .

More from lovely Lavenham

Seeing pink in Lavenham

We went to Lavenham in pursuit of history and a betting shop. When we arrived we found a well-preserved town with streets of half-timbered houses dating from the early part of the sixteenth century. Frances loved it from the moment she saw it. There was no beach in sight but, I had to admit, good views could be enjoyed from any direction. We parked along the high street, then gently made our way around to the market square. Interestingly, not all of Lavenham’s Tudor half-frame buildings were starkly colored in black and white. We discovered a cream-and-apricot colored guild hall, musty ochre-colored houses, and bay-windowed shops awash in muted Suffolk pink. All were dramatically framed by black oak timbers interspersed with high-gabled windows, sloped and gracefully curved with age.

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.”

Stopping for directions

“Now, when you get up there, you’ll come to this thing we call a ‘roundabout.’ Got that, yeah?”
He talked slowly. He talked loudly. We realized he thought I was foreign. He thought I was an American! He said again, but slower, “a ‘ran-da-bhat.’ ” Bloody nerve.
“Anyway, you’ll come to this ‘ran-da-bhat’ and—”
He never explained what a ‘ran-da-bhat’ was exactly. Instead, he started making large circular movements with his oddly bent hand and arm. If I had been American by birth and not by choice, I might have imagined he was describing a carousel with gaudily painted wooden horses placed on the highway to amuse passing commuters, rather than a traffic circle. I stared at him. He smiled, nodding, looking like the amiable idiot he thought I was.
“Yes, yes, I know what it is, I’ve been ‘ere before.” I tried to thicken up my Cockney accent. He went right on, ignoring me and my strategically dropped aitches.
“But don’t go right a-rhaand it. Turn off before you do, and that’ll get you on the Ilford Road. Can’t miss it.”
I thanked him and we were on our way.

Down the garden path

The view from the garden of our 16th century thatched Tudor cottage in Rattlesden.

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.

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.

Variation on an East End symphony

My elementary school did have something the Weald schoolroom did not possess. Electrical equipment! Once a week, two teachers wheeled in a large gray box covered in stretched cloth. In the box was a gramophone – without a wind-up handle! Through this mysterious contraption, we heard Tchaikovsky’s Peter and the Wolf and Britten’s Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra. Of course, I did not know it was Britten at the time. I found out years later, when I heard it again, without the school version’s patronizing narration. Back then, the energy and excitement of the music was lost on us. We stared into space, trying to fathom why our teachers were so happy. They beamed at each other, rocked back and forth on their feet, and nodded sagely over something or other. One teacher conducted an imaginary orchestra with his hands in his trouser pockets. A little provocative, even to our innocent eyes. Occasionally, and with less gyrations, he conducted by gripping the lapels of his tweed sports jacket; then only his folded arms would flap about, like stunted wings. He tried hard not to betray the passion he so fervently felt and we hopelessly lacked.

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.

Cold as brass monkeys

Moments later, in my improvised cut-downs, Kate and I were jumping icy, gray waves that formed perfect semicircles on the smooth, flat sand. Plucking up courage, we raced into the water. I gasped, looked down, and saw my legs turn deathly white as blood fled my frozen pins. Kate just laughed. Adjusting to the cold, we waded in a bit farther. Tiny, gray-green waves collided in silvery arcs, dappling our mouths with the taste of salt, seaweed, and sun. After some extensive water play, we clomped back to the shore and tried to persuade Frances to join us for a paddle. Cleverly, she saw through our bold fibs regarding the tropical nature of the ocean blue and declined.

At the beach

“Did you bring Kate’s bathing costume?”
“A bathing costume?” Frances looked at me as if I were an exhibit in a museum.
“Alright, alright, but did you?”
“No,” said Frances firmly. Then she smiled. “But I did bring her swimsuit.”
In addition to my arcane bathing terminology, Frances found my family’s English beach etiquette mildly amusing. She watched as we staked out a piece of beach with deckchairs. Within short order, Mum had taken off her hat and shoes and cardigan, and begun studying racing form. Meanwhile Lew had unbuttoned his shirt, taken off his shoes and socks, and rolled up his suit trousers to his knees. I was still ripping up my jeans, trying to create shorts, as Kate rushed towards the water’s edge.

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.

A yank back to Broadstairs, part 1

I was secretly longing to get back to the sea. I find myself drawn to the coast, and I need a connection with the ocean that pounds and tries to batter Albion into submission. I long to swim in the water or, if the weather turns inclement, to at least paddle my feet in the briny foam. For some reason I’m drawn to English seaside places, specifically Broadstairs, with its huddle of Victorian abodes clustered around the cliff top. I fondly imagine bewhiskered gents and corsetted ladies from a century ago, promenading along the front, taking in deep breaths, listening to brass bands in Cliffside Gardens, trying to escape the constraints and the conventions of their day, if only with an occasional burp or fart swallowed up in the sound of a brass cymbal or a crashing wave. I love the town’s rocky terrain, the tiny harbor, the gaudy seaside swag, its weather-beaten elegance and quiet claims to the past that always seem so warm and inviting, whatever the season.

Parental chitchat

“Have we missed the East Enders?” asked Jessie.
“That was ages ago,” said Lew.
“Bugger it,” said Jessie.
And surprisingly predictable. She’d missed her favorite show, so she settled for what was showing. Lew had brought a book and was not bothered either way. When Frances entered the living room, Mum had already nodded off and Lew was looking at the racing page.
“’Glorious Goodwood,’ that’s what they called it. Glorious, my arse! Nothing special. Lose your money on that course as well as any other course.”
“We could visit Goodwood. If we had some binoculars, you could see the racing from the garden.”
“Naaaw, better to see the racing on the telly.”
“What’s going on?” Mum woke up, blinked at the TV. “Did I go to sleep?”
“You were out like a light, come on, time to get you up to bed,” said Lew.
Lew pried Mum out of the armchair and together they toddled upstairs.

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 2

Henley was filled with an air of tepid expectancy. The whole town was in the grips of discrete pre-regatta fever, and we saw lots of activity. People with clipboards were gadding about, looking for things to supervise. Boats and bleachers were being quietly hauled out of trucks. A bandstand was getting a fresh lick of paint. Large marquee tents were going up with silent ease. Guy rope tightened. Unopened, dark green ticket booths were getting a cleaning and etched gold letters were being retouched.
We had scones and tea in a small restaurant with a view of the bridge at Henley and its endless stream of heavy traffic which, like the river below, seemed to flow in one direction. Away from Henley. The locals, it seemed, had somewhere better to go. And so did we. Suddenly we both missed Windsor and realized how much we enjoyed it. We checked the map. Happily, Windsor was, as the tarmac flowed, less than half an hour away. Forty minutes later, we were happily strolling around the old castle town again.

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.

Back to Bleedin' Blighty, part 2

I gazed out of the window at the thick, snot-colored clouds that seemed to go on forever. England. It had to be England. I pulled my face into a grimy crease to speak, but the attendant was on a mission and spoke first, with authoritarian kindness.
“You’ll have to hold your baby in your lap and strap her in. I have to stow the cot.”
“How can I—?” I asked, lamely. But she was gone, mumbling something about landing soon and being back in a jif. A jif, a jiffy, the attendant was becoming a little more English, a little more quaint, the closer we got to London.
Here we go again, I thought. Another so-called vacation.

Back to Bleedin' Blighty, part 1

I was hot. I had a headache and my daughter needed to be changed. Her diaper had blown up as big as a zeppelin, only heavier, warmer. The attendant returned wearing blue plastic gloves. She grabbed my package of squelchy diaper, popped it in a bag, then wagged a blue plastic finger at me.
“I really must ask you to strap yourself in, sir.”
“Yes, alright, but—”
The plane squeaked, the sound of foam polystyrene packaging slowly being twisted and torn. I was feeling a little anxious.
”Is it supposed to sound like that, the plane?”
“Oh, what, the squeaking? I know, I know, they do that, don’t they? Everything’s made of plastic now, isn’t it?” Thinking she had reassured me, the perky attendant turned her attention to Frances before scurrying back down the gangway.
“You’ll have to strap yourself in too, madam.”
“Did you sleep?” Frances asked me kindly.
“No. I drank. Headache.”
“Twit.”

A Brit’s Christmas in America

In Dickensian England, goose was the bird of choice for the big feast. When I was growing up in the East End, most families served turkey at Christmas or, in small families like ours, a capon, which is a fat and juicy, knackerless chicken. Since Christmas comes so soon after Thanksgiving, and perhaps because I am so far away from the Green and Pleasant, my American Christmas dinners are invariably roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, based on the traditional Sunday lunch.
For the uninitiated, a Yorkshire pudding is like a popover, only better. Sometimes made with beef drippings in a large tin, I prefer a pan with small indentations that proffer individual servings. This way everyone gets a pudding that resembles a golden, crusty well just waiting for lashings of rich gravy.
Mum was not always a bad cook, but she was always a surprising one. Sometimes her puddings would rise like golden mountain peaks, other times they would sit there, in a pool of meat fat, looking and tasting like a rubber bathmat. There was never any way of knowing in advance. Although inured to Mum’s culinary failures, we could still be buoyed up her erratic successes.
When it is done right, as it will be tomorrow, nothing can beat this classic Sunday lunch of a rib of beef, pink-to-rare on the inside, crusty on the outside, with a freshly made Yorkshire pud, crispy vegetables, as well as meltingly roasted potatoes and parsnips, and a little horseradish cream on the side. This feast is a thing sublime, with the looks, aromas, and flavors of Thanksgiving and Christmas all rolled into one.
Merry Christmas. Eat and drink hearty!

Christmas at St. Paul's

“Remember when Denny took us up to Saint Paul’s for a Christmas Eve service?” Lew asked Mum.
“Lovely. Lovely place, Saint Paul’s.” Jessie spoke with solemn reverence. “Lovely place. At Christmas – that’s when we went.”
“Packed it was. Packed!” said Lew.
“Anyone would’ve thought it was Christmas.” I could not resist.
“Don’t you laugh,” Lew looked at Frances. “Holy communion, they had, and everyone, I mean everyone, went up for it – everyone except us, that is. I couldn’t believe it, took ages. Do you remember that?” Jessie shook her head and shrugged. Lew went on, “Well, I bloody well do. You turned around and said ‘they’re tearing the balls out it,’ that’s what you said. ‘They’re tearing the balls out of it.’”
Frances looked a bit disturbed.
“The choir was wonderful,” I added.
“After midnight, it was. Denis had a car then,” Lew said, recalling.
“Just as well he did. That’s why he can get around and we never could.”
“Don’t start that again,” said Lew.

Dinner at the cottage

The pub was out. That evening, I sautéed the duck breasts we had bought, deglazed the pan with some red wine, then mixed in some blackcurrant jam for a sauce. I sliced the pieces with one passably sharp knife and served up the duck with some baked spuds. Mum and Lew seemed wary about eating rare duck, but quickly overcame their timidity and tucked in with great gusto. Even Kate liked it.
“Where did you learn to cook like that, son?” asked Lew.
“It’s fancy cooking. I never liked fancy cooking,” said Mum defensively.
“From books. When I lived over in Putney.”
“Ah, right, I remember—” said Lew. “Trundle Towers!”
“Well, at least I can say I’ve eaten duck now,” said Mum, with great satisfaction.
“You’ve had duck before, woman,” said Lew.
“I know what I’ve had. And I’ve not had duck. Never!” Mum said angrily.

Mum vetoes the pub

“I didn’t like that place. I didn’t like to say,” said Jessie.
“But you did Mum, several times, in fact.”
“I was just speaking me mind.”
“What didn’t you like about it? The food wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t the food. Dingy. The atmosphere. Not cheerful. No life. I like a bit of life meself.”

Black clouds overhead

“Look at it, look at it! Bloody weather! Typical! Typical!” I was ranting now.
Frances was looking displeased, not with the weather, rather with the black cloud that had settled about my shoulders. She told me to lift it. Lighten up. Or at least, smile sardonically. And the cloud would lift and the weather would improve. She really said that. Annoyingly, she was usually right when it came to this cloud business. But I was having none of it. I was tunneling away, deeper and deeper into the darkness of my mood. And that was that. Frances, with Kate in tow, was understandably trying to ignore me, hoping perhaps, I’d go away. But I did not go away.

In the footfalls of Oscar Wilde, part 2

We did not explore the town, but walked instead by an old wooden lock located by the river, in a separate channel. A man was maneuvering his boat into the lock. He never looked up, but he obviously knew what he was doing. He jumped to the side and, using a big paddle like a handle, shut the lock gates. Then he turned wheels and opened two sluice gates. Creamy, green water gushed from one part of the lock to the other, and his boat rose to meet another level of river. Then he reopened the gates, untied his boat, jumped back on, and put-putted away. I felt like applauding. I could not imagine myself doing such a thing. I would have panicked and, no doubt, disrupted the flow of water or disabled the lock.
Just beyond the bridge, the river widened and opened up, with an old mill on one side and the squat gorge on the other side. We enjoyed the view but had seen enough. Looking for Oscar’s old haunts seemed a bit silly now, even to me. Besides, we were all very hot and getting hungry.

In the footfalls of Oscar Wilde, part 1

Just about noon, we shot across a bridge and promptly left Goring-on-Thames, our destination. Sheepishly we turned back, gently recrossed the river, and parked near a post office. We were welcomed by a church and few houses, but not much else. At least it was not flat. Just across the bridge, we could now see the land suddenly hiccuping into a small forested gorge, providing a delightful, verdant backdrop to the slow-flowing river.
Oscar Wilde had spent a family holiday in Goring, but I could not think why. We never saw anyone, even the ubiquitous Swan Hotel on the opposite bank looked deserted. Perhaps the heat of the day had scared everyone inside. Safe to say, we were the only tourists strolling across the bridge that afternoon. The river was flowing quite well and part of the greenish water was filled with mud, like a seam of fast-flowing milk chocolate.

At Arundel Castle

The family chapel was large, like the inside of a small cathedral. The vaulted ceilings seemed cavernous. The floor and some of the columns were made of khaki-colored marble. Down the center of the chapel was a massive oriental carpet. The altar had silver vases and heavyset candlesticks. Above all this was a very narrow stained glass window, like a bejeweled bracelet in a stone setting. The rest of the chapel was also made of stone and looked like fussily carved icing, as if someone had gone overboard in a cake decorating contest.
Down more corridors and through more doorways, we eventually found a room that appeared to be shoehorned from a well-to-do suburban house into the bowels of the castle. We were in a lounge and office with working electric bar fires and a dropped ceiling. Perhaps this area was used by the family when the gawking hordes had gone.
“This must be the private parts,” said Jessie innocently.
“Not that private, Mum,” I said with a smile.

Sunday seafood teas in Dagenham, part 2

The fishman showed up regular as clockwork. A few honks of the horn was all it took to attract his regular customers. I always went out with Lew, to help him make his selection. The fishmonger’s thick cheeks, hands, and forearms were lobster-red. He always wore a floppy green jersey and a bright, starched white apron. The crustaceans were never weighed out, but rather scooped up in pint and half-pint tin mugs. Mum always requested pinky red prawns.
“Knock ‘em down,” Lew would say in his gravelly growl, and the fishmonger would reluctantly bash the tin mug on his makeshift counter, bending a sea whisker or two but allowing a little room for a few more prawns. The cockles were like very tiny clams and, along with winkles, were my favorites. Winkles, those very tiny black sea snails, were tasty but required patience and a little skill. Needles or hat pins would be distributed with saucers filled with vinegar and pepper. Using a needle, I would flip off the winkle cap then twist inside the shell and pull out a tiny crustacean. I preferred ‘winkling’ out a whole bunch at a time and making a sandwich.
“We didn’t always get prawns,” said Jessie, half remembering.
“No, WE didn’t.” Lew cast a knowing smile in my direction.

Sunday seafood teas in Dagenham, part 1

“Remember the teas we had on Sunday, Mum?”
“No, I can’t say I do,” said Jessie, tearing at a slice of bread.
“Of course you do,” scolded Lew. He went on to explain, mainly for Frances’ benefit, what afternoon Sunday tea was like.
“The fish man showed up, on Sunday. He sold prawns and winkles and cockles, welks. Never much liked welks. Mum got the prawns, I got the winkles, and Denis had the cockles. Lots of vinegar and pepper, and bread and butter. Lovely.” He grinned at the memory and I recalled it myself.
Seafood was a regular Sunday afternoon treat in Dagenham. Shrimp, tiny, tiny crustaceans, heads and tails pinched between forefinger and thumbs, a slight crunch like biting into the sea. Cockles, chewy and soft and tasting mostly of the vinegar and pepper they were dunked in. The seafood was sold from the back of a van that dripped with briny ice water and smelled of the sea.

Going nowhere fast

“What was it that happened?” Jessie shot a look at Lew, “Something happened.”
“Nothing happened,” said Lew.
“Something happened,” said Jessie, stubbornly.
“We almost got lost, but Pam knew the way,” said Lew, quickly.
“Oh that was it. He almost got us lost!” Mum recalled triumphantly.
“You going to tell the story, or shall I?”
“What story? What story you telling?” asked Jessie. “I like a good story.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I just got a leg over with me directions.” Lew fumed.
“It was alright, I knew where I was going. Used to come down this way a lot,” said Pam.

My Nan holds court at “The Vic,” part 2

“I’ll have what she’s having,” my Nan would say, pointing. An assortment of half a dozen liqueur-type drinks would appear, which she would drain like shooters. Inebriation was never far behind, a condition feared by all the menfolk who dated her daughters. Unfortunately, curtailing Nanny’s booze intake evoked her wrath, but plying her with drinks did not abate it. For no particular reason, my Nan would focus her ire on one of her daughters’ boyfriends.
I’m sure it was the same thirty years before when Lew was courting Jessie.
“So the journey down was okay?” asked Frances, changing the subject.

My Nan holds court at “The Vic,” part 1

“Like a Tartar, Mum was,” said Jessie. “A real Tartar. When the drink was in her.”
Jessie said ‘the drink in her’ as if her mother, my grandmother, had been possessed of a spirit other than gin. And Jessie could see it as clear as clear, as though it were yesterday. I thought I could, too: an aging lady, her looks, along with husbands and lovers, all gone – but there she was, holding court in that pub, holding onto what was left. Friday night was always the big night out, because Friday was pay day and the Vic, really the Victoria Public House, was the place to go. And Nanny Evans always came along. According to Lew, my old grandmother would sit in the corner nursing a Guinness. Then, suddenly, she’d be reminded of the vicariousness of her existence and the fragile jollity of her demeanor would implode into a searing jealousy of her daughters and their boyfriends. It was their time.
“And your Nan would sit there drinking and then, for no reason, she’s start in on one of us. For no reason at all,” said Lew, to me. “And God help us when she did. All us boys were fair game.”
Then Saturday morning would roll around and, I was told, she would happily remember nothing.
“You dreaded it, but you had to take it.” Lew sounded regretful, even sympathetic. “Had a hard life though, your Nanny. They all did in those days.”

At the Beetle & Wedge, part 2

I glanced at the menu the waiter had left and nearly fell off my chair.
“That coffee is five bloody quid! Five quid!” I was almost yelling.
“Calm down,” said Frances. “It's a whole pot, and these cookies are delicious. Try one!”
I was not to be placated. “Are you going to drink it all?”
“I don’t know yet, probably not.”
“That’s what I thought!”
“There’s plenty for two. Let’s get another cup.”
“They’ll charge another fiver for that!”
I was having a rare but full-fledged cheap moment. After Frances finished a couple of cups, I polished off the rest with the cream. I was not about to leave anything. Frances divided the rest of the pastries between me and Kate, who was just back from flirting with the bartender.
“These are delicious! And don’t say they ought to be. Just enjoy them, and relax.”
“Relax!”
“Yes.”
“Probably want a bloody tip as well,” I mumbled.
“Don’t worry about the tip,” said Frances expansively. “I’m sure it's included.”

At the Beetle & Wedge, part 1

We sat down and ordered without looking at a menu, a glass of cider for me and coffee for Frances. Kate was, as ever, happily sucking on a bottle of milk. The wait-staff were all French, but unlike our friendly frogs back in Windsor, this mob had definitely been enlisted from the haute cuisine brigade.
Our waiter brought my cider and a French-style plunger pot of coffee with a jug of cream, biscuits, and petit fours. This was a luxurious cup of coffee, to be savored after a sumptuous meal rather than slurped down on a rather stressful road trip.
“Ave you ze booking for ze lunch? No? No problem. You can eat at ze bar. Mais no. Not a river view, iz not possible. Iz all booked.”
“We’ll stay with the drinks for now. Thanks.”
“Az you wish.” A French shrug of the mouth and he was gone.

A riverside discovery, part 2

Eventually the sky opened up, the brush and trees disappeared, and we came upon the river Thames and the tiny village of Moulseford. We pulled up at what we thought was a pub but, on closer inspection, it seemed we had found the Beetle and Wedge, a fancy riverside restaurant with a small adjoining hotel. Cars were already in the parking lot. A good sign. As we headed to the entrance, we saw someone piling lumps of coal on a semi-outdoor grill. I had not seen coal on a fire since I was a boy.

A riverside discovery, part 1

We saw, by luck, a tiny bracken-covered sign leading to the tiny, riverside hamlet of Moulseford. The road seemed narrow, with tall grasses brushing the side windows as we turned. Then the road became narrower still, shrinking to the size of a bike path. This teeny roadway was thoughtfully dotted with tarmac flanges placed, presumably, to minimize head-on collisions and murder-suicides. In such a tight spot we finally ‘killed our speed,’ but no one else did. A stout man in a Jag, the actor who played Inspector Strange on Morse, one of my favorite shows, mimed swear words at us as we dithered onto a nearby flange to let him pass. I had no idea who had the right-of-way, but I had a young family and a desire to live.

Still wending our way around the Thames Valley

We were still eager to discover the picturesque Thames Valley, still desperate for a stroll at the water’s edge. But the more we zigzagged the ancient waterway, zooming along at sixty miles an hour despite the ‘kill your speed’ signs, the more we seemed cut off by the very thing that had attracted us to the area in the first place – the river. Quite often, we approached a town, drove over a span of bridge, and found the town gone. Most, it seemed, had been built on one side of the Thames and had sprawled along that one bank. Crossing the river at a promising spot, we’d find nothing except boring bits of pasture and a few trees. We actually double-backed several times to see what we might have missed. And sometimes we overlooked the teeny-tiny directional arrows and missed a village completely, resulting in more zigzagging and even more backtracking.

We later realized, the best way to see the Thames Valley was on a boat, floating around the soft curves of the river, traveling at the water’s pace, discovering tiny bank-side hamlets, and generally enjoying the slowness and tranquility of the journey, rather like Mole and Ratty.

A literary journey (not), part 2

The closest we got to any literary memorabilia was the Swan Hotel, right on the river’s edge. Pubs called ‘the Swan’ abound in this part of the world, but the one in Pangbourne is mentioned in Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat. Appropriately, the pub was like a big old boat house, complete with an ancient wood rowing boat suspended to the ceiling. Outside the pub, beyond the run-down landing dock, was a rather impressive horseshoe-shaped weir cascading noisy water. The weir sounded like the shushing interference on our old television at home in Dagenham. So instead of musing about Ratty and Mole, I was again thinking about Jessie and Lew. Oh, well.
“So, have you—” Frances did not know how to phrase her question.
“Got my literary fill? Well, yes, I suppose I have.”
“I was going to say, ‘Seen all you want to see?’”
“Yes!” I had.