Weathering Brexit, Iceland and those pesky Hobbits

Drama of epic proportion continues here in the not-so-united kingdom. As if it wasn’t enough that voters chose to leave the European Union, the British national football team LOST to Iceland Monday in some big European Cup thingy, which is roughly the international Super Bowl of soccer. Imagine if, during the run-up to the NFL championships, the Carolina Panthers lost to Central Piedmont Community College. For British footie fans – and that’s everybody with a belly button – the humiliation is biblical in scale.

So as I wrap up the first leg of my holiday, there’s a wave of collective national depression. Even the talking heads on the staid BBC are in as much of lather as I’ve ever seen them over last week’s “Brexit” vote. And now there’s this football mess with Iceland, a country with the same population as the city of Coventry in central England.

Brits, as most of you probably know, never get all that worked up over anything, and even when the news is upsetting, they always put a modest spin on things. A train derailment leaving dozens of people maimed or dead would rank quietly as a “minor accident” – unless a dog were also found in the wreckage, and then the tone would turn to despair. But in the best stiff-upper-lip tradition, witnesses would simply step stoically over the dead human bodies, remain calm and carry on. Bless their hearts.

The media get absolutely giddy about stories involving dogs. A heroic pooch is certain to make national headlines. Not sure what the BBC would do if a terrorist’s German shepherd rescued a tot from drowning in the Thames…

But I digress. The fallout over the U.K.’s referendum to leave the EU – and now defeat by ICELAND, for heaven’s sake -- has sent everybody into a tailspin, the media included. Nobody seems happy with the outcome, even the Leavers, and they won. It doesn’t help that the weather is crap – relentlessly rainy and cool -- and that summer is stubbornly refusing to arrive.

 I’ve never seen commentators and citizens alike in such a state of agitata. The politicians continue to resign in droves, insults are loud and ugly, and accusations of lies, misrepresentation and racism during the campaign are being slung by both sides toward one another. Kinda reminds me of the mature rhetoric we hear in Washington…

Naturally, the coach of England’s football team quit in disgrace, as well.

One thing’s clear: People are tired of business as usual in their government. They’re tired of immigrants coming into the country and taking “their” jobs away from “real” British citizens. (Sound familiar?) The vote last week represented a desire for change. But what kind of change? Armageddon is being predicted.

One positive dividend: Amid all this turmoil, the value of my American dollar has gone up again. Since I didn’t have any skin in the Iceland match, I’m OK there either way.

But having to deal with the cool, rainy weather and the enraged, hammer-wielding Hobbits who inhabit the boiler in this house has stomped on my very last nerve. Being awakened every morning at 6 by all that knocking and banging is making me lose the plot…The boiler repairman came and went, and yet the Hobbits remain. The racket has gotten worse, and I have advised my home exchange partner that she needs to consider both a new boiler and an exorcism.

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When I arrived over here June 16 I was in a cultural coma from Charleston’s brilliant Spoleto Festival. Of course, I had been determined to sample some of everything on Spoleto’s spectacular bill of fare, which meant that by the end of the festival I was in an exhausted stupor – in a good way, of course. Coming to the U.K. was sort of like jumping from the cultural frying pan into the fire.

Out here in Devon the goodies involve stately homes, gardens and magnificent scenery. Beat me, whip me, make me visit a National Trust property. The performing arts? Let’s just say I’ve learned to trim back my expectations.

As the 400^th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death, 2016 is seeing a lot of tributes to the Bard, and of course that suits me down to the ground. Up the road on Sunday afternoon was one such choral concert held in the great hall of a Medieval mansion. What better setting could one ask for? I loved the readings from his sonnets and plays interspersed with a string quartet and a fabulous soprano soloist. There was a choir, too. Their attempts were, let’s say, ambitious. Bless their hearts.

Though my pace has been casual, I’ve also managed to check out three National Trust estates in Devon, including the home of the great Elizabethan courtier Sir Francis Drake (who defeated the invincible Spanish Armada), a working Benedictine abbey, and the outstanding Royal Horticulture Society’s Rosemoor garden.

Also visited two private gardens whose owners open them periodically in exchange for a donation to their favorite charity. The National Garden Scheme lists literally thousands of such homeowners around the country – assuming you can find them. Directions are often a puzzle wrapped up in an enigma, and since I don’t have a GPS, it’s usually quite a navigational feat. But I love having the opportunity to meet these passionate gardeners and see the fruits of their efforts. Haven’t met a gardener yet who wasn’t proud to show off her little patch of England – justifiably so.

Now I’m evermore ready to move on to my next exchange house in Cornwall. I’m praying for some quiet on the domestic front. Anything shy of a bed in a bowling alley will be an improvement.

So long, EU. (Subtext: So what?)

What a week here in the U.K.! As you may have seen in the news, the Great British public held an historic referendum to decide whether to leave or remain in the European Union, which as best as I can ascertain, would be the equivalent of Charleston’s decision to leave or remain in South Carolina. The average British man-on-the-street doesn’t seem to know exactly what the European Union is, or what leaving will actually entail, but a majority of the people voted to leave, and so leave they shall.

From what I’ve been able to gather, the campaign – Leave vs. Remain – split along the same fault lines as our ideological Red State/Blue State debate. Lots of rhetoric on both sides that went something like, “Y’mama sucks!” and “Oh, yeah? Blow me!” Except with an English public-school accent, which of course makes it all sound extremely classy and cultured.

The issues seemed to be centered around emotionally charged issues like immigration, jobs and loss of independence to lawmakers abroad. An undercurrent was “terrorism,” which is always guaranteed to heat up any discourse regardless of which side you’re leaning toward. I think it might have been sort of like throwing around a heated topic like taxation without representation 250 years ago in Philadelphia or Boston. That led to a big “Leave” vote, too.   

And now there’s a similar reaction: Yikes! NOW WHAT??!  A lot of people are nervous, even though they’re still not sure what the European Union is, or what it does (or doesn’t do), and how the U.K. is going to cope on its own. One immediate outcome has to do with the exchange rate, which has a positive impact on my pocketbook already. When I left home ten days ago, it cost me $1.56 to buy one British pound. On Friday, the day after the referendum, it cost me only $1.36 for a pound. I’ll give the terrorists that one.

Just like our Red State/Blue State divide, the kingdom was split in its decision. Most of England – with the exception of London and its suburbs – voted to Leave. However, Scotland voted solidly to Remain, as did much of Wales and Northern Ireland. The Scots wasted no time to renew the issue of independence for itself, and are threatening a new vote as soon as they can get it on a ballot. Who knows what the Irish or Welsh will do, but there are nationalistic rumblings all over the news here. In a year or two, the unthinkable may occur: the United Kingdom may split and be united no more.

Buckingham Palace, as would be expected, has been quiet since the vote, but one can imagine that Her Majesty is not amused.

Meanwhile, Prime Minster David Cameron – who called for the referendum in the first place -- has resigned, as have a passel of his Cabinet ministers. I don’t understand why the PM just didn’t leave well enough alone. If he liked the EU so much, why raise the question of leaving in the first place? But British politics are never simple, it seems.

Not to be outdone, leaders on the other side of the political aisle have also resigned in droves this weekend. Why, I cannot fathom, since they won. So it leaves one to wonder who’s in charge. I hope the terrorists haven’t noticed.

And in an even stranger bit of drama, the media’s talking heads are surmising that the frontrunner to replace Cameron as Prime Minster is one Boris Johnson, an egotistical, roly-poly oddity with wild, unruly bleached-blond hair that looks like he just stuck his finger in an electrical socket and who does not own a comb. Sound like anybody familiar? I’m not making this up.

She's ba-a-a-a-ck!

Well, folks, after a two-year absence, I'm happily back “home” in England. I didn't kiss the tarmac at Heathrow (I'd never have been able to get back up!), but I surely felt like it.

I was fortunate enough to organize THREE back-to-back house swaps this summer. Seems that my new residence of Charleston is just a wee bit more attractive to prospective vacationers than Charlotte. Imagine! Not that Charlotte is a bad place to visit, but without an ocean, to say nothing of distinctive architecture, culture, history and its own distinctive cuisine, it’s certainly no Charleston.

And if anybody surmises that my plan to be away from the Lowcountry during the hottest and most humid time of the year was deliberate, bingo! A no-brainer. It’s a win-win as far as I’m concerned, although I think my British visitors may be in for a climatic shock…

So here I am at House #1 – in the village of Ashburton in south Devon between Exeter and Plymouth. My exchange partner, Lindy, is a retired teacher; she is staying in my house in Charleston with her friend Jenny, a retired nurse. I got to meet them briefly before I left on my own journey. We each have arranged for our friends to reach out with hospitality, which is one of the nicest bits of house-exchanging, I think. Two of my neighbors at The Elms have taken them out to dinner and a concert already, and my exchangers have introduced me to several lovely ladies here in the village who have given me a warm welcome and taken me on outings, as well.

Ashburton is on the edge of Dartmoor National Park, a rather stunning spread of geography that includes windswept vistas and dense forests through which runs the River Dart. My house, in the center of the village within walking distance of lots of locally owned shops, has a little patio enclosed by an old stone wall covered with climbing roses. Virtually on the other side of the wall is a 900-year-old Norman church that chimes the hour round-the-clock. I find it very comforting.

Naturally, it wouldn’t be an Emily trip if there weren’t a few glitches along the way. I’ll try not to bleat on and on about all the annoying little issues that tend to crop up on my trips, but already I’ve had to contend with two amateur mistakes I’ve made from the get-go.

One: I failed to bring an ice tray. Because the Brits would rather pull their own molars than drink an iced beverage, I’ve learned over the years to bring my own plastic, throwaway trays. Had ‘em at home; didn’t pack ‘em. Stupid mistake.

Second: I ended up packing only one extra bra. What was I thinking?! Got over here with three – count ‘em – THREE new tubes of mascara, but only two bras. Got the eyes well and truly covered, but mammographic support? Tragically, my bosom-to-lash ratio must have been skewed in my mind.

So on my first full day in England, when I was also forced to sort out a proper plug/adapter/surge protector for my laptop, it occurred to me that I might as well address the foundation garment issue, as well. Headed to the nearest big town, Torquay. Fortunately, being in a civilized country proved fortuitous, insofar as the big-box computer store was right across the car park from Marks & Spencer (think Belk’s), who gladly served me a tasty lunch and sold me a fine, hefty bra. Popped into the neighboring Sainsbury’s and did a week’s grocery run all in one productive outing.

Like all of Europe I’ll be watching the outcome of the big referendum tomorrow, in which the Great British public will vote to remain or leave the European Union. Much drama there. The media pundits and politicians alike are predicting Armageddon regardless of which way it goes. It appears to be an extremely close call, with no clear winner in sight. Mark my words: Whichever side wins, the other will cry foul and will contest the result for years to come.

As I swan around the country over the next two months – details to unfold eventually – I’ll be sharing some of my escapades and observations. I’m not much of a photographer (don’t have the tech support, unfortunately), so think of these blog entries as my “word postcards.”

Of course, I can’t promise to ignore all of those household issues that can tend to drive me absolutely nuts. The ancient boiler in this house springs immediately to mind. Let me just get it off my chest: This contraption is programmed to cut on twice a day – one of which is 6 a.m. When it does, imagine a platoon of belligerent Hobbits armed with sledgehammers living inside it, hitting pipes as hard and as relentlessly as they can for three hours! The racket is enough to raise the dead not only in the cemetery behind me but throughout Ashburton! "LOUD and obnoxious" doesn’t even touch this noise.

So every morning at 6 I’ve been awakened by the Hobbits and their hammers knocking on the gates of Hell. Sleep is out of the question as soon as the cacophony commences, and for the three hours thereafter. As those of you who know me well can attest, I am SO not a morning person. Nothing of any consequence occurs before noon. One does NOT disturb Emily in the morning! Therefore, nerves are shot; good humor has evaporated.

I emailed Lindy about this deafening din; she claims not to have noticed it. In my mind, that’s like claiming that you live in the infield of Charlotte Motor Speedway and have never noticed the sound of the cars. However, she has given me the name of her boiler man, who is coming tomorrow morning to take a look at it. Stay tuned.

Having mentioned the boiler, however, I do intend to dwell mostly on positive things – the obvious being the huge blessing that I’M BACK IN THE MOTHERLAND! Hallelujah -- and God save the Queen!