A day in Downton!

Way behind in my blogging...and now we're already packing up to come home. The time has galloped these last two weeks with Little Margaret and Susan here. We put 1,300 miles on the car, saw some extraordinary sights and wore ourselves just about slam out -- in a good way, of course. When we all eventually get to The Home, we don't want to look back and regret passing up an opportunity to see that one last English garden.

Anyway, the two headliners this week -- which had to be pretty doggone splendid even to rate, given our weekend in northern Wales -- were HIGHCLERE CASTLE, home of the PBS drama "Downton Abbey" to which we three are addicted, and Great Chalfield Manor and Garden, a National Trust Property in Wiltshire which Little Margaret now claims as her ancestral home. More on that probable family connection in a later blog.

First, Highclere. Oh. My. God.  Picture it: Driving up a narrow lane lined by majestic Cedars of Lebanon. Sheep and horses grazing contentedly in pastures on nearby hills. White puffy clouds lazing carelessly in the warm English summer sky. And then up in the distance, on a level, perfectly manicured green field, one finally spots the familiar, stately home of the "Earl of Grantham," taking the breath away. I get chills just thinking about it!

The only thing missing was that fabulous theme song wafting in the background...

Actually, Highclere is owned by the Earl of Carnarvon and his family, who move out for several months a year to another, less imposing house on their huge estate to accommodate first the film crew, and then hordes and masses of tourists who pay a pretty penny to wander around the property inside and out for a few weeks each summer.

If you ever have a chance to visit the place, DO, whether you're a fan of the TV show or not. For "Downton" fans especially, it's a must. For the casual lover of English stately homes and history, it's still totally cool, with a bonus exhibition of Egyptian artifacts brought back by one of the late Earls of Carnarvon, who discovered the tomb of King Tut. 

TV's fictitious Downton is located in Yorkshire a couple hundred miles to the north. But never mind: The spirit of the show is housed here at the castle in the rolling hills of Berkshire about one hour west of London. Imagine wandering through the Earl's library; the formal dining room; the ladies' sitting room where Lady Violet holds court after dinner; the bedrooms of Cora, the Countess of Grantham, and her daughters Lady Edith and the late and sadly lamented Lady Sybil; and even where Mr. Pamouk, the naughty Turkish gentleman, was laid to rest! The entire first two floors are open to visitors, all of which open into the center gallery that plays so prominently in many scenes. I got a particular kick out of descending the main, red-carpeted staircase -- you know the one that Mary and Edith both came down as brides? Yes, it's just as grand as it appears in the show.

The furnishings are plush and magnificent, reminiscent of bygone days when the English aristocracy, thanks to the infusion of doweries by wealthy brides, could afford to plunder castles of deposed kings from the Continent and buy their treasures for a song. The architectural and design detail in the rooms wreak of wealth. In fact, a Rothschild heiress from the late 19th Century who married the present Earl's great-grandfather is responsible for much of the finery seen there today. One expects Carson the Butler to swan through at any moment, organizing a hunting party for Edward, Prince of Wales.

Interestingly, the house is not as big in person as it appears onscreen. Odd, that. But the ambience and grand character of the place absolutely lived up to my expectations. Even if Highclere Castle weren't associated with a crazy-popular hit TV show, it would be an imposing place. And the history of its real-life family is every bit as fascinating as the world created by the show's writer, Julian Fellowes.

On our day at Highclere, Margaret, Susan and I had lunch in a tent on the expansive grounds reminiscent of the annual fete Lady Grantham holds for the villagers from fictitious Downton in the show. I want to believe Mrs. Patmore whipped up my tuna-and-cheddar sandwich with her own hands. Alas, we weren't wearing hats. Lady Violet (the unequalled Maggie Smith) would not have approved.

Making memories of a lifetime

Whew! What a week! My cousin Little Margaret and our Guilford College friend Susan arrived last Tuesday and we've been on a blazing streak of fun ever since. Let's see how many superlatives I can haul out to describe it all...

On Wednesday we headed to Glastonbury Abbey, down the road just a few miles. The magnificent ruins there are associated with the establishment of Christianity in the British Isles, as well as Arthurian legend. In fact, it's said that King Arthur and Queen Guinevere are buried there. Since there's nobody around now who can dispute it, many people like me still choose to believe it. The enormous Benedictine abbey fell to ruins after the bishop's execution and the dissolution of the kingdom's monasteries in the 1530s, thanks to King Henry VIII 's break with Rome and Catholicism.

Anyway, as serendipity would have it, we had the abundant good fortune to run into one of the Abbey's history interpreters. This congenial volunteer was in full costume depicting "Sir Richard Pollard," Henry VIII's debt-collector, who was all too happy to give us a personal tour, fill us in on Glastonbury's history, and help us sort out for ourselves the facts from the myths. Joseph of Aramathia, the Virgin Mary's brother, allegedly brought his nephew Jesus there as a lad. Fact or fiction? It makes for a great story.  "Sir Richard" was a gem, and enhanced our visit to this holy place immeasurably. It was a terrific kick-off to the week.

For supper that evening we went to the local pub, the Puriton Inn, and happened upon biweekly Quiz Night. These trivia contests, played in teams, are very popular over here. For the sake of British-American relations we felt it only fitting that we participate. Our team, Guilford Girls, were in first place after the first three rounds! We were feeling pretty smug indeed.

And then we hit the rounds on U.K. sports, shipping lanes, rail routes out of London and other obscure stuff that would stump even the cleverest native Brit. Down the Guilford Girls went in flames. Our only saving grace was on "What is the title of the American national anthem?" When the answer was read and we lit into a spirited vocal rendition of "Oh, say, can you see...," we were cheered roundly. Unfortunately, our patriotic fervor did not match our final score: Even bartering some answers from the table next to us, our team came in dead last. We stayed late, made some new friends, and had a buzz from laughing so hard for three hours. Quiz Night was the most fun we had ever had for a mere one pound!

Thursday was our Wells day -- Wells Cathedral for an organ recital and a stroll through the Bishop's Palace and gardens with its moat and famous swans under gorgeous blue skies. Delightful!

On Friday we struck out to northern Wales, home of the famous Llangollen International Eisteddfod (music festival). I had attended this extraordinary event last year and enjoyed it so much I wanted to go back and share it with friends. We checked into our charming B&B, Ye Olde Boot Inn, in Shropshire and soon off we took to the sheep meadow in the picturesque valley beside the River Dee that has been the home of the Eisteddfod since 1947.

The highlight of Friday night's concert were the Welsh choir Only Kids Aloud accompanied by the British Sinfonia Orchestra. Ahhhh! We were in tears from their first note. These children, who range in age from 9 to 14, were simply angelic. There were also two South African vocal ensembles that help reinforce the international nature of this well-established festival, whose motto is Blessed is a world that sings; gentle are its songs.

Punctuating this beautiful message was Terry Waite, the British cleric who was imprisoned for several years by the rulers of South African apartheid. Like his friend Nelson Mandela, Waite -- who grew up in the Quaker faith -- became a symbol of the oppression in that country and has written eloquently about the struggles to create a democracy there. He is now the chairman of the Llangollen Eisteddfod. In his brief remarks he reminded us of how vital it is that people of the world respect and embrace one another's differences to try to maintain peace. His point was that music and experiences like the festival are a wonderful step toward achieving that goal. Amen to that!

Incidentally, we Guilford Girls had the privilege of chatting with him on Saturday. We made our common Quaker connection known (he was familiar with Guilford, of course!), and were able to commend him for helping maintain the eisteddfod as a powerful symbol in promoting positive relations internationally.

Saturday we heard choirs from England, Wales, the Czech Republic, Iceland, the Philippines, Costa Rica and elsewhere compete for the Choir of the World trophy. Ironically, the choir we heard first, a mixed ensemble from Argentina, ended up winning the big prize that night. They were top-notch and deserved to win, in our opinion. We also saw folk dancers from Northern Ireland, Scotland, India and Kurdistan compete for the Heritage Dance award. The pugilistic Kurds, sadly, gave me a headache; the joyful Irish won hands down and I was happy with that.

Sunday we checked out of Ye Olde Boot and headed even deeper into Wales. To my mind, it's a largely undiscovered tourist gem -- by American tourists, at least. Our goal for lunch was a castle in the purpose-built village of Portmeirion on the western coast. This fanciful tourist destination was the brainchild of an industrialist who created his own little Italian seaside resort there on the edge of nowhere -- with a Welsh postcode.

After adding a few strategic pieces to my collection from the Portmeirion pottery outlet shop, we began the long, long, long drive home. The design of this day may not go down as my finest hour as a travel planner. In fact, as the hours and miles dragged on and on and on, more than once I questioned my right to plan a trip ever again! What was I thinking??! OK, the scenery was second to none -- the heart of unspoiled, undeveloped northern Wales populated mostly by sheep; the breathtaking Snowdonia Mountains; the road hugging the northern coastline. Truly awesome and awe-inspiring.

But after being in the car for what seemed like half of our natural lives, we were all bone-weary and evermore ready to get back "home."  Yesterday the British highway signage left a great deal to be desired, and while we knew where we were supposed to be headed, we couldn't seem to get there. It didn't help that my map was out of date! No, I don't use sat-nav (see previous blog postings), and I wouldn't have believed anything that accursed gadget told us, anyway. It also didn't help that many people over here (a) don't know how to give directions, and (b) can't even show you on a map where they are!

Let's just say that if I ever tell you I'm going anywhere near the cities of Chester and Birmingham in an automobile, just shoot me.

Eventually, of course, after losing our will to live and getting so punchy we were giggling like deranged hyenas, we finally rolled bacl into Puriton. This little house never looked so welcome!

Today, tired but content, has been a domestic day. We wouldn't have climbed back into that car if our lives depended on it. If memories could be framed, we'd have a gallery-ful.

"Happy Thanksgiving!" and other Fourth activities

Just wrapping up a distinctively low-key Fourth of July weekend -- with nary another American in sight. My neighbors across the street did wish me "Happy Thanksgiving!" Friday morning, which I did appreciate thoroughly, and was as close as I came to being able to wave my flag. They meant well, bless their hearts.

I have to give them big brownie points for friendliness, as a matter of fact, since they actually spoke to me first. Over here in England, neighbors are a bit more reserved and seldom initiate contact with me. Once I make a point of speaking, they're usually just as friendly as can be.

Friday evening, July 4, I was really feeling the need for human contact, so I sallied forth to a nearby village for a concert featuring three community choirs. I read about it online and thought, "How bad can it be?" After all, I do love me some choral music, and applaud anybody else who, like me, sings. It's a healthy, wholesome thing. Whether you've got any talent or not.

Well, the fact that I'm not disclosing the name of the village or the choirs should tell you something about the evening -- or at least the half I heard. Let's just say that they tried, bless their hearts. The proceeds went toward a local charitable organization, so kudos for that. The venue was full. My ears didn't actually bleed, but I'll never get that hour of my life back. The best part of the concert was the few measures the men played on kazoos. That's right, kazoos. And may I just remark to choral directors everywhere that the world does not need any more ABBA or '80s disco covers by singers who can barely manage unison, let alone two-part harmony?  

Having escaped Friday night's epic choral flop, I hesitated striking out Saturday evening for more home-grown talent. Again, tact dictates my withholding the name of the village. Held in a 13th Century church, it featured both a brass band and a choir, comprising all local amateurs. The band was rousing and quite wonderful, as a matter of fact, playing pieces all composed by Americans. Their renditions of John Williams' theme to the movie "Jurassic Park" and a Duke Ellington piece were absolutely stirring -- shown off to great advantage in that ancient space with such live acoustics. Loved them!

The choir, on the other hand, tragically answered the question once again, "How bad can it be?" I wanted so much for them to be good...and I admit that on their medley of British songs associated with war -- "White Cliffs of Dover," "It's a Long Way to Tipperary," "There'll Always be an England" and others -- I got a bit of a tear in my eye. The rest of my tears, I'm afraid, were coming from entirely different emotions. I made an early escape after the band finished its second set and before my eye-rolling got too obvious.

Speaking of war-associated music, this is the 100th anniversary of the beginning of the Great War, also known of course to Americans as World War I, and over here there is a coordinated effort to remember that tragic time in British history. I think we Americans have forgotten what a huge sacrifice the Brits made in that war. The fact that they still honor the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who died is very touching. And of course the 70th anniversary of D-Day in June was also a big occasion.

On another, entirely different note, one couldn't be in the U.K. and miss another milestone that was taking place a mere 15 miles from me last weekend: The Glastonbury Festival, the world's oldest and largest continuing pop/rock music festival. It was held for the first time in the early '70s as a latter-day Woodstock, and has been going strong ever since, pulling in aging and would-be hippies from all over the country. Last year, the Rolling Stones were the headline act and drew the biggest crowd to date. This year, the headliner was none other than our own Dolly Parton, and organizers estimated that the crowd of 150,000 was the biggest in the festival's history. You couldn't have paid me cash money to get in that crowd of crazies, but I'm evermore proud of how well Dolly was received.

My technical headaches seem to have tapered off a lot, although in keeping with the theme of the trip so far, there are still the occasional hiccups. Case in point: The sat-nav. It is cursed, I'm sure of it. The other day, in an ill-guided attempt not to let it get the best of me, I plugged it in on a trip into Taunton, the nearest city of any size.  I wasn't on a deadline to get anyplace at a certain time, so figured it would be a good time to master this device once and for all. My destination was a Waterstone's book store in the center of town.

It wasn't long until that blessed thing was  insisting that I had made a wrong exit off a roundabout, and was "recalculating." We went through this rigmarole about five or a dozen times, with the sat-nav "recalculating" and me getting more and more annoyed. I had studied the Taunton map before I left home, so I knew I was getting close, but the beastly device kept telling me to turn right, turn left, turn around, and I was simply going around in circles. I lost my cool entirely when it kept telling me to turn right while I was waiting for a funeral procession to pass! You all know that we in the South come to a stop for hearses to pay our respect; it's the thing we do, and I didn't care what that bloody disembodied voice was saying!

Anyway, as soon as the procession had passed, I decided to use my own good judgment (and maybe out of pure stubbornness), and turned left. Voila! there on my RIGHT was Waterstone's. And wouldn't you know it, that ridiculous little box was intoning, "Your destination is on the LEFT."

I pulled the plug on the sat-nav then and there, and have retired it permanently. I mean, puh-LEAZE, if the thing doesn't know its left from its right, why should I listen to the bloody thing??! I can go around in circles well enough on my own, thank you very much.

Feeling grounded

One of the many advantages of house-swapping is the ability to behave as a resident, not necessarily as a tourist. I know it may sound crazy, but I actually enjoy piddling around the house -- doing little chores like watering the tomato plants, setting out the recycling bins, doing the laundry. It makes me feel like a true Brit, not just a visitor.

I've grumbled about the almost universal absence of clothes dryers over here, but the fact is, hanging wet clothes on a line outdoors has become a nostalgic, Zen thing to me. It takes me back to the '50s and '60s on Eastside Drive in Lexington, NC, with Mama and her clothesline. I wouldn't want to go back there, but there are worse things than having to rely on sunshine and wind to dry one's laundry. It makes me stop and think about the lengths we Americans go for the sake of convenience.

Since my last blog posting, I've had several adventures, even though quite a bit lower-key than the likes of Cambridge or Sissinghurst. One evening I drove a mere seven miles down the road to the village of Moorlinch, where, ironically, I did a house swap in 2001. I remembered the pub there, the Ring o' Bells, as serving really top-notch food and excellent local cider. I was glad to find things hadn't changed a bit, even with new management. It's still a friendly, welcoming place.

Saturday I went a bit off the grid on what's called the Jurassic Coast, which stretches along the English Channel in Dorset. My target was a concert in the small parish church in the seaside resort village of Lyme Regis, whose terrain resembles an egg carton -- up and down, up and down. This Medieval gem of a village is packed so tight it's hard to see how one more single vehicle, building or person could be squeezed into it.

After finding a parking spot (no mean feat) I had a daunting hike up to the church, perched on a cliff overlooking the Channel -- a stunning site. It was completely worth it. The visiting City of Bristol Choir sang their hearts out, especially on big English anthems by Hubert Parry and Handel. The acoustics in the ancient church didn't hurt, either. A fine, rowsing evening of choral music.

The Jurassic Coast has a well-earned reputation for beautiful scenery, but for my money, there is no more spectacular coastline in the world than Cornwall's. Tuesday I met my Cornish friend Carolyn for a day out along the northern coast of Cornwall, where the Atlantic has been doing battle with the land for eons. The visual result is just heart-stopping.

Our rendezvous point was Port Isaac, where the TV show "Doc Martin" is filmed. (If you watch PBS, you may have seen it on Saturday nights.) Tourists were packed in like sardines, but we didn't let that stop us. Ate in a café on a cliff overlooking the water, and then drove in and out of several coves up and down the shore, oohing and aahing the whole way. Even Carolyn, a native of the lovely Cornish coastal town of St. Ives, enjoyed the sights just as much as I did. I just felt so blessed to be surrounded by all that amazing  beauty. It literally took my breath away.

Yesterday I went to another National Trust property, Lytes Cary Manor and Garden, just down the road a bit here in Somerset, and wound up at Wells Cathedral for choral evensong and an evening organ recital. The guest organist was marking his 80th birthday by giving a concert by composers who were either born or died in the year of his own birth 1934. Despite his age -- or maybe because of it -- he could evermore pump those pedals! A terrific show all around, capped off by wine and birthday cake for the entire audience. Another wonderful outing.

These day trips represent the gentler, less hectic side of house exchanging  -- having a home base from which to see some sights that are often off the beaten tourist track.  Now, if I could just figure out how to get the washing machine to take less than three hours to run a load of clothes...

I'm ba-a-a-a-ack!

The postcode here says I'm in England, but the house is straight out of "Star Trek." Yes, I'm on another home exchange, and as usual there are rather...remarkable...features. What would one of these residential adventures be without oddments of some description? After all, if I wanted to replicate what I have in Charlotte, why would I ever leave home to begin with?

Don't get me wrong: It's an extremely nice four bedroom, three-and-a-half bath house, built only two years ago. In contrast to the monastic-like cell in which I stayed last summer, that Welsh flat, this place is downright plush. Its owners, my exchangers, are a retired engineer who loves guy stuff and everything state-of-the-art, and his wife, a retired nurse. If anything, it's the exact opposite of the Spartan digs in Cardiff with the minimalist furnishings, the kitchen equipped with nothing but a dull paring knife, the bathroom with no soap and only one towel...I could go on and on. I did not grieve when I closed the door on that sad little place for the last time.

Arriving here on Thursday, I felt like I had stepped into the 23rd Century, albeit in East Anglia. For the geographically challenged, that's the county of Norfolk northeast of London. My tiny village is between Diss and Norwich. Being flat and bordering the North Sea, this area was the site of lots of American Army air bases during WWII. Now it's still rural with farms and windmills alike dotting the lush countryside.

Back to my current exchange house.  The large solar panels on the roof should have given me a clue about what I was in for, and my exchange partners did duly warn me it was a modern house. Indeed, it's an homage to ecology and the environment. Every measure has been taken to conserve energy -- and to drive guests crazy! As most of you know, I don't have a technological bone in my body, and let me just tell you, trying to figure out space-age appliances just about sends me over the edge.

For instance, the stove: It's an invection thing, or maybe it's induction? Conviction? Convection? Whatever. The manual runs over 50pp, and is written in a variety of languages, including Greek. I am not kidding. Greek. Once I read that the operation of this stove by anyone with a pacemaker could result in death, I lost my appetite.

OK, I've still got the microwave, right? Er, which one of these things mounted on the wall is the microwave? You know you've gotten old when you cannot even suss out which appliance is the microwave, let alone how to operate it! Mine at home is either On or it's Off. Punch two buttons and you're in business. Not here. Oh, no. There are so many buttons it looks like a Boeing cockpit. Hauled out the manual. After 17 steps, I gave up. Ate cereal.

The next night, after a good night's sleep and with my American resolve in overdrive, I approached the oven. Thought a nice ready-to-eat chicken-and-mushroom pie would be just the thing. Surely the oven is easier and more straightforward...HA HA HA HA. Ate cereal.

The TV set-up is somewhat more straightforward: There have been only six remote controls to master (I'm not lying here) and an entire closet devoted to its satellite wizardry. Nevertheless, I'm proud to report that I've been able to find my brilliant Alibi, ITV and Drama channels for a proper fix of mysteries. And I've just about gotten used to the motion sensors on the lights in the bathroom, the water-heating system that shuts off after 8:30 a.m. (yielding tepid water for my late-night showers) and the curious absence of a clothes dryer. They're putting a man on the moon, metaphorically speaking, in the kitchen and they didn't bother installing a clothes dryer in the utility room??! These challenges are offset, on the other hand, by the icemaker that dispenses crushed ice -- unheard of over here -- the boiling-water tap for tea and the room-to-room climate control that keeps the house at a steady 72 degrees.

And my exchangers' car is a dream: Automatic transmission PLUS air-conditioning!! Over-the-top comfortable. It's a Russian make, I think. Of course, it has many technie features. I'm touching none of 'em.

It's too bad I inherited my mother's pear-like frame instead of my daddy's keen intellect regarding machines and technology. He'd have a field day in this place. Me, I'm either going to get into the groove of this household or go barking mad. I've got three more weeks here before I move on to the next exchange. Don't count me out yet. But tonight I'm dining on cereal.