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.
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