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.
###
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 400th 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.
No comments:
Post a Comment