Last thoughts as I pack...

    Random observations as my latest English residency winds down...

     I shall not miss daily weather forecasts that include the words "torrential" and "deluge" and "scattered showers likely over parts of the country," which in Brit-speak means "heavy rainfall will occur everywhere within the sound of my voice." Flooding was so bad down in Somerset a couple of weeks ago, for example, that a mudslide closed a highway and buried two people in a car. Their bodies weren't found until a few days later once crews finally cleared the road.

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     The BBC gives new meaning to the concept of biased reporting. Their unapologetically partisan coverage of the Olympics doesn't bother me as much now as it did at first. I mean, they make no bones about being pro-Team GB. The 203 other countries may have dogs in the medal hunt, but from the standpoint of the BBC, they don't really care! Only the British athletes get any coverage whatsoever.
     China? Where's that? The Americans? Yeah, they've got Michael Phelps; big whoop. Usain Bolt is moderately fast, but look over here: a Team GB high-jumper just won a bronze!! The "Beeb's" presenters wrap themselves up in the Union Jack, literally jump up and down like cheerleaders and scream themselves hoarse whenever a Brit competes in any sport. Bless their hearts, it's kind of sweet. I still don't have a clue how our U.S. athletes are doing, but when in Rome...

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     Another feature about the non-stop BBC Olympics coverage to which I have become accustomed: NO COMMERCIALS!!! On any of its several Games-dedicated channels. EVER.

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     Had a delightful visit with my friend Hazel and her family in Nottingham. Hazel, as many of you know, is the woman with whom I did my first house swap in 1995. We didn't meet face-to-face until a couple of years later, but glommed onto to one another then and have been good friends ever since. It was terrific to see her partner, Marcus, and her daughter, Amy, all grown up at 18, who is on the verge of entering university. They indulged me by making a tourist pilgrimage to Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, proported to be England's oldest pub (established in 1189), nestled into the rock at the bottom of Nottingham Castle. Whether it was really patronized by Richard the Lion-hearted and his Crusaders on their way to the Holy Land is irrevelant; I went there on my first trip to Notts, and love it for sentimental reasons.

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     During my month over here, I have not heard a single American accent -- except on the telly. As I predicted, American tourists seem to be staying only around London and the Olympics in the south, and have not ventured farther north where I've been. Therefore, I have had the place to myself, relatively speaking. In fact, the Lake District is normally very popular among domestic travelers, but even the Brits themselves aren't coming in their usual numbers this summer because of the beastly weather.

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     At home we think gas is expensive, right? I have regained my perspective on that topic. To fill up my exchanger's Volvo wagon, it costs me $100.00. Ouch.

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     As much as I've enjoyed my stay over here -- and I have, despite the meteorological, domestic and physical challenges -- it'll be terrific to be back home!

Pottery, a lounge act and a trip to the sea

     The English idyll continues...Hard to believe there's only a week left.

     For collectors, old habits die hard, and when I saw a "potfest" being promoted relatively nearby last week, I just had to check it out.

     No, no, not that kind of "pot," y'all: POTTERY! In this instance, some clever organizers had assembled 103 potters from 13 countries to exhibit their wares on the grounds of a castle-type venue in what we'd probably call the middle of nowhere in Cumbria. There was a forest of tents set up, which was a good thing because, of course, it was raining buckets the afternoon I went. But never let it be said that a spot of rain kept me from enjoying a picnic and looking at beautiful pottery.

     The quality of the clay art was superb, really top-notch. I was particularly drawn to the work of a Dutch potter, whose delicate tulip-inspired vase is coming home with me. With the conversion of euros into pounds into dollars, I'm not sure whether I paid $2.50 or $32.00 for it, but it's still a gem and I'm glad it's mine!

     One evening this week two women from my village and I went to possibly the worst concert I've ever had the misfortune of attending. The outing was all the more painful because it had been my suggestion in the first place. Found out about it online, and the set-up looked promising: A vocal recital by four guys in a tiny parish church in Hawkshead, near Beatrix Potter's house, in the Lake District. We went early enough to have a leisurely meal beforehand -- the best lamb I've ever put in my mouth! -- so we arrived at the church in an upbeat mood despite the monotonously predictable downpour of rain. (Did I even need to mention the weather part?)

     Aaaack! These poor men labor under the delusion they can sing, bless their hearts, but in fact they wouldn't be out of place at a lounge in a third-rate Holiday Inn in Gastonia. Somebody needs to sell them a clue to take their Mister Microphones and Stay. In. The. Shower. Often they actually hit a correct pitch, but it was at such an ear-shattering volume (they had to scream to be heard over their canned soundtrack), that it didn't matter. They were just bad. And I don't mean that in a good way.

     With a killer headache, I left at the interval, toddled to the nearest pub, and mellowed out with a pint while watching Michael Phelps pick up another medal in the Olympics. That was splendid, even though the BBC doesn't acknowledge any other American athlete in these Games, apparently. Being British, and therefore unfailingly polite, my friends stayed until the bitter end of the wretched musicale. Being American, I am not hampered by those same conventions.

    The concert had looked good in theory, but one just never knows...On the up side, at least it was free!

     The next day, ever hopeful, I returned to the same general vicinity for a matinee performance of a British farce at Theatre on the Lake, a lovely venue with a professional cast that caters to the tourist crowds who flock to the mountainous Lake District each summer. From the look of the audience, I actually lowered the median age; the pensioners were there by the busload. "Dry Rot" was silly and without any social redemption whatsoever -- except that it was well acted, funny and a perfect antidote to the chilly, dreary weather. It didn't matter one whit that the plot was shallow and utterly ridiculous -- involving a race horse and several con artists in a British country hotel in the early '50s. It made me laugh, and it was just what the theatre doctor ordered to boost my spirits! Jolly good fun.

     Yesterday I drove across the country to Chester-le-Street, a small town between Newcastle and Durham on the east coast, for an overnight visit with a couple with whom I connected through HomeLink. Earlier this year, before I got my exchange in Kirkby Lonsdale sorted, we had corresponded about the possibility exchanging homes. Even though an exchange this year wasn't going to work out, they invited me to meet them during this trip.

     What a pleasant outing! The whole day improved when the sun -- the SUN!! -- came out the farther away from Cumbria I went. The couple, Ann and Steve, gave me a hearty welcome and made me feel right at home.

     Because I had never been in their part of England, they were all too happy to drive me around. The impromptu tour included the beachfront of the town of Sunderland on the North Sea, which was most impressive insofar as it has no highrises and no tacky arcades -- but instead, prolific flower beds in full bloom. The water, of course, is much too cold for swimming, even in the summer, but pasty-skinned tourists flock to the shore just to feel the narrow strip of sand between their toes and to gaze out on the calm, gray water. I wouldn't take it as a substitute for North Carolina's terrific, wide beaches, but it was still interesting.

     They also showed me around Durham, a small, Medieval gem of a city that seems to have gotten stuck somewhere in the mists of time.

    On the way back today -- a stunning drive over the dales of North Yorkshire -- I stopped for lunch at a farm store-tea shop. We don't have anything quite like these popular establishments in the U.S., but one sees them dotting the countryside quite often up here in the north of England. My new Durham friends had recommended the place, and so I decided to ignore the pungent odor of manure when I arrived and forge ahead.

     It turned out to be a combination butcher shop, bakery, produce stand, restaurant and zoo! In addition to lambs frolicking on the lawn with the kiddies (of the human variety), there were ostriches, emus, wallabes, a camel and heaven knows what-all else, including lots of cows, the prolific manure-producers I had already noted. Despite the aroma, my meal -- with everything sourced locally -- was outstanding. Some clever entrepreneur could make a killing in the States by copying their business plan.

     Monday I head by train to Nottingham for an eagerly-awaited visit with my friend Hazel. By the time I get back Tuesday night it'll be time to start packing up and cleaning the house. Can I hear a "Yuck!"?