This bit's too tour-guidey...

Kent has some dramatically rocky and jagged coastline, punctuated by a few Victorian seaside resorts seemingly preserved in briny aspic. Here, in this southeasterly part of England, a visitor can easily discover oyster beds laid down by the Romans, forts with crumbling battlements, the grassy foundations and outlines of Roman temples and soldiers’ barracks, and part of a road that runs as straight and true as the shadow Caesar once cast over this part of Britain.

No milk in your tea?

“And you never have milk in your tea?” Mum said it sympathetically, finding it hard to believe.
“Never. Tastes better. Really. You should try it,” said Frances.
“At my age! Tea without milk.” She laughed, then tried one more time. “Frances, you never had milk in your tea? Not ever?”
Frances confessed to drinking her coffee black too.
“Oh, well, coffee, yes, but tea? Funny, really. Oh, well.”

Daggers in America

Those of you who've been following this blog for a while know we lost our handsome and well-loved Oscar Wilde earlier this year. Well, Prodigal Wife's birthday came around, bringing along a lovely new kitten. We've named him Daggers (see last post). It's the perfect name for him--he's a tough little lad, even though he's not much bigger than my hand. He's friendly though and, at least so far, we haven't seen any English-style reticence (a little bit of demure wouldn't be so bad!). So join me in welcoming our new family member--and wishing Happy Birthday to the Prodigal Wife, of course!

Dagenham? You come from ... where?

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

Random meanderings

“Let’s order some wine?” I said.
“Thought you’d never ask! God, it's hot, isn’t it? Or is it me?”
“No air conditioning,” I said.
“Oh, I’m used to it now. Well, I should be. I’ve lived in England, what – twenty years?” Adelard was originally from Canada. “You have to get used to it. But I’ve come prepared. I’m Roget-Gallaired from stem to stern. And, as Bette Davis would say—” Adelard puffed on an imaginary cigarette and whisked the air with his paw. “Body odor offends me!” Adelard emitted a long, theatrical sigh quivering with happy recollections. “Aaaah, we don’t have stars like that anymore, do we? And the ones we have left – dropping off like flies, aren’t they?”

And the award goes to...

We have been hoarding wonderful awards like squirrels hide nuts before winter, but now it's time to reveal all...

The lovely Helen, A.K.A. The Machinist’s Wife, awarded me the "Honest Scrap" award, which really made me smile. You're supposed to list ten honest things about yourself, then pass it on to ten other deserving souls. Well, the reason it made me smile is, since we're being honest, I've already revealed quite a bit about myself on this blog and anyone who wants to get in deeper is going to have to, well, read the book!

I was honored to discover that the Transylvania-loving Rebecca of Living a Life of Writing me worthy of the Tao of the zombie chicken – excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. Apparently, these amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. What can I say other than thank you!


The lovely Michelloui at Mid-Atlantic English , who is living my life in reverse—she's even married to an Essex boy like me—and whose blog we admire very much gave us this coveted award, which is given to writers with a “continually creative (“kreativ”) way of keeping their blogs interesting." Thank you very much—and ditto.





And, last but in no way least, our book-loving friend Carol at The Writer’s Porch gave us the "your blog is bloody brilliant" award, which is for bloggers who inspire, whether through laughter, grace or just darn good writing. This award, of course, was originated by the wonderful Melissa at Smitten by Britain, who is our first nominee for the Kreativ Award. (And wasn't I clever, picking the cupful of roses—now I have both!)

In fact, since some of these awards have been out and about, I think I will follow Melissa's lead and let our nominees pick their own award (though I do have some thoughts about this, let me know what you pick so I'll see if I was right!). So here we go. The award of choice goes to:

*Eternally Distracted
* Linens and Royals
*Mrs. Bee at Bee Content
*Jo at A Brit in Tennessee
* Brit Fancy
* Anglophile in LA
*and Her Grace, the Duchess of Tea, at Rose Tea Cottage
I believe that is eight, so I now add the lady bloggers in my life:
*Prodigal Wife at A Slide of Life
*Prodigal Daughter at Games Class
Congratulations, everyone, keep up the great work! And to those who nominated this blog for these wonderful honours, thank you very much—may you long continue to visit!
Cheers,
The Prodigals

A taste of Rome in Old Britannia

Beyond the main exhibits, near the entrance, was a gift shop. Among the various bits of Roman memorabilia were genuine individual oil lamps, found onsite. There were hundreds of them and quite reasonably priced. The shop also sold recipe books and jars of condiments locally made from original Roman recipes. One contained a kind of poultice of compressed raisins and apples, another was an intense anchovy paste with a musty flavor. Bravely, we took a chance and got a few jars as souvenirs.

A ruin by any another name...

Despite Frances’ enthusiasm, I was not all that keen to explore another ruin. Roman arenas and aqueducts and arches were one thing, mosaics under glass quite another. But I kept my thoughts to myself. Frances had been such a good sport about hosting my parents, I could hardly complain about a little sightseeing. And, I had to admit, some of the sites she’d picked had turned out to be a better kettle of fish than I had imagined.

A view of the beer-after

Gareth at What England Means to Me sent us this lovely photo of The Jacobean Bell Inn in Burwash (Sussex), which was featured in Rudyard Kipling’s Puck of Pook’s Hill:

“And while I am tearing my hair over this, Ticehurst Will, my best mason, comes to me shaking, and vowing that the Devil, horned, tailed, and chained, has run out on him from the church-tower, and the men would work there no more. So I took ‘em off the foundations, which we were strengthening, and went into the Bell Tavern for a cup of ale.”

Kipling lived at Bateman's in Burwash, of course, and you know how much we love literary travel!
If you're wondering about the proximity of the graveyard to the pub, you see that a lot in English villages, where the pub and the church are right next to each other and the heart of the community. And of course, old pubs in England invariably started life as inns, where weary travelers rested their heads and their horses.

Kate meets T-rex

From Thurloe Square, it was a short walk to the Natural History Museum. Our timing was perfect. It was after four o’clock, and the entry was free.
This famous Victorian museum was enormous and smelled as old as the fossils and dinosaur bones it contained. We walked around one of the newer exhibitions featuring dinosaurs covered in plastic skin that roared and clicked and made slobbering sounds. Kate was fascinated by dinosaurs, as most young children are, but even so, she was a little disturbed by their realistic look. And yet she was quite unperturbed, once I picked her up, by the huge, life-sized, animated Tyrannosaurus Rex we encountered in the high-ceilinged atrium by the museum teashop. Odd to see a fearsome dinosaur swishing a huge tail, roaring and swooping about as weary museum-goers drank their tea and did their level best to ignore it. In England, dinosaurs should not make scenes in tearooms. It just isn’t done.

In the Queen's gardens...almost

We parked the car back at the hotel and strolled to the old part of Windsor, just ten minutes away. We swung by a sedate Regency street that led to Windsor Great Park, in fact Windsor Castle’s back garden. And what a garden it was, seemingly going for miles. The road from the castle to the park was covered in tiny yellow pebbles and not open to the public. Cars speeding down that thoroughfare probably contain a royal. At the end of the road, and across it, we noticed garlands of spiky chain, just in case someone did not understand royal protocol.

Champagne? How civilised!

OK, this is not exactly the type of England photo we usually post but, as you know, the Prodigal household has been celebrating the lovely endorsement from Michael York, and it's a holiday weekend too, so... when Meagan of Lady Whole Lunches sent on this photo it seemed like just the thing.
Here's what Meagan says:
"It was a particularly sunny day in May at a wedding in the Clearwell Castle in Gloucestershire. The champagne had been delivered to the table, but no one was there to drink it, as they all went to watch the attempt at cricket. I love how it is the older men who are off running to get the ball, and the children seem to be idly inching forward."
Thanks Meagan--and Happy Labor Day weekend everyone!

A math lesson to remember

“I was good at maths,” Lew said, casually.
“You what?” I blurted,
“Didn’t I tell you? When I was in the artillery, I calculated gun angles, so the shell would land on the target. Six guns, I had. Different elevations, different targets, distances... Lot of things to take into account. Logarithms – did all the calculations an’ that in my head. We had a contest. I had my guns set up and ready to fire when everyone else was farting about trying to calculate the range. I won. Monty himself came up to me personally, congratulated me, he did.”
“You never told me.”
“About Montgomery?”
“About the math.”
“It was a long time ago. Mind you, I can still do all your mother’s bets.”

Fellow expat Michael York says...

I know Brits are not supposed to show emotion (stiff upper lip and all that) but you know me better than that by now! Plus, what can I say? Michael York thinks the characters in my book -- my family in other words -- are rather Dickensian! Well! Well, I'm not in the least offended, in fact I totally agree and I love it! Anyway, Michael finished reading A Yank Back to England: The Prodigal Tourist Returns, and here is what he said:

"A perceptive, engaging and informative take on contemporary England as seen through the eyes of a fellow expatriate who writes with humor and affection. The cast of characters has an almost Dickensian vivacity." Michael York

What a gentleman! I always knew I liked him. Now the ball is in your court--I hope you'll give the book a read and enjoy it too!

A cool and peppery starter at summer's end

Being a Brit, I’ve always had a fondness for watercress sandwiches, the kind one has for tea with the crusts cut off, but I’ve always wanted to take their sophisticated, contrasting flavors from the tea table to the dinner table. Here, then, is my take on an old favorite, now transformed into an elegant cold soup for a lovely summertime lunch or dinner.

Choose your weapons
The hardware. A chopping/mashing machine of your choice—luddite that I am, I like to use a pestle and mortar, but this is not necessary. Also a hand-held blender/whirring machine, and You a couple of glass bowls.
The ingredients. A bunch of watercress, an avocado, and a ripe pear, three cups of light chicken stock, four-five thick slices of crustless country bread, a good dash of salt, a garlic clove, three tablespoons white wine or cider vinegar, and a lemon from which to squeeze a few tablespoons of juice. You’ll also need a quarter cup of olive oil, plus a teaspoon or two. If you feel so inclined, a tablespoonful of whipping cream won’t hurt.

Let’s get cracking
Peel and chop up the pear into very small dice, squirt with lemon juice, and set aside. Now wash and chop up the watercress leaves and just the tenderest stalks, put into a glass bowl, reserving a little for garnish. There, simple.

Onward!
While your chicken stock is coming to a low boil, mash up the bread, olive oil, salt, vinegar and tablespoon of lemon juice in your pestle or other mashing implement. Drop the garlic clove in the stock, blanch for 30 seconds, then fish out and add to your sloppy bread mixture. Mash up well. Tip the just-boiled chicken stock over the watercress leaves; this blanches them and adds to the vibrancy of the finished dish. Mix in the bread mixture. Chop up the avocado and add to your mixture. Now whirr everything up with your hand mixer (or food processor). If your soup is too thin, add a bit more bread and whir it into the soup to thicken.
Now chill the concoction for a few hours, and you will end up with a vibrant, peppery, creamy soup. Check for salt, it may need a little more; if you’re concerned about salt add a little more lemon juice instead.
Serve up in little bowls and sprinkle with the tiny pear fruitions––voila! You make of course make bread croutons if you’d rather, but ripe pear adds a luscious contrast. Top with a sprinkling of chopped watercress and, if desired, drizzle on a little cream—et voila! You have a cold, elegant soup with a hint of teatimes past, just perfect for a warm summer’s eve.

Washed out in Sissinghurst

Just as we arrived, the sky opened up and poured down buckets. I could barely see anything.
“Go check it out, see if it’s worth going in,” said Frances.
I felt no great desire to get out of the car. “If we go in, we’ll still be outside. It is a garden,” I said, trying for once to use logic on Frances.
After a bit more prodding, I got out to reconnoiter. I peeked over a fence for a free look.
In good weather, the crumbling monastery sprouting plants and shrubs and flower beds must have looked quite delightful, but all I saw was an overgrown, sprawling, crumbling mess awaiting demolition. Only the keenest of enthusiasts could derive any joy from the garden in that downpour. And some did. I saw a flock of old ducks in see-through plastic bonnets, pointing out specimens to each other with unabashed excitement. Oblivious to the weather, they even smiled.
Straddling large puddles, I hurried back to the car and explained the situation to Frances, who was now in the back seat entertaining Kate. I suggested she check the place out for herself. Wisely, Frances declined to leave the warmth of the car. As we pulled out, a coach was pulling in, with obviously hardier types than us.

Another English garden

One of England’s most famed gardens, Sissinghurst was created by the writer Vita Sackville West and her essayist-publisher husband Harold Nicholson, two members of the Bloomsbury Set who, after sowing their gayest and wildest oats, decided to take up gardening. The English either come out of the closet or the woodshed. Vita and Harold came out of both. Not exactly faithful to each other, they were faithful to their garden. Ironically, long after their deaths, with books and scandals all but forgotten, the garden they created became their most enduring legacy.

England's "most beautiful garden"

One of the things I've come to love about England is its fabulous gardens. So I was delighted when the lovely Teresa Inside the Mind of a MiniMadWoman sent on this wonderfully inviting photo of Hidcote Manor in Gloucestershire. Hidcote Gardens are considered by many afficionados to be the most beautiful in England—a definite must-see! (The manor looks pretty nice too!)

If you have a great photo of England, share! Email us and we’ll link back to you if we post it. (72 dpi please!)

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!

A room in the attic

We reported back at the front desk. Our room was ready. Perfect. Need help with bags? Thank you. The hotel was three stories high, apparently not worth installing elevators, so we followed our porter up a staircase becoming less salubrious and narrower as we ascended. We were heading for the old servants’ quarters. No matter, our room was big with a ceiling high enough to throw an echo. The bathroom was long and skinny and incredibly ornate, with a tub I could stretch out in. Big tubs – one of the things I loved about coming back to England. But first a nap. Two hours later, we were up and about. I felt human again, Frances was smiling, and Kate was eager to go out and run around.