Visiting the cemetery and other treats

A packed week. My dear friends Mark Blonstein and Don Faircloth from Greenville, SC, joined me in East Anglia for three nights and we stayed on the go. It was terrific having "playmates" for the last stretch of my stay out there. (For the record, even Don, a trained engineer, couldn't figure out all those technological marvels in that house! The satellite reception pooped out Thursday on the TVs, for instance, and even his considerable expertise couldn't get Sky back up and running. A whole room devoted to electronics, and the wretched TVs were dead as doornails. Nice to know it wasn't just me that was flummoxed by all those doodads!)

Anyway, as I was sayin'. Although it was a long haul from my exchange house near Diss down to Kent, Mark and I had our hearts set on going together to the magnificent Sissinghurst Castle and Garden near Cranbrook.

Most of you have probably heard me carry on for years about Sissinghurst. For my money, it's the quintessential English garden. It was the labor of love of a quite celebrated couple, Vita Sackville-West, a writer, and her husband, Harold Nicolson, a career diplomat, beginning in the early 1930s. They continued planting and designing and creating indescribable beauty in the garden until their deaths in the '60s, when they willed it to the National Trust. I first went there in 1998 and fell in love with it. I think so highly of it as a place of peace and beauty that I've instructed my friends, including Mark and Don, that my ashes should be scattered there.

I'm a member of the Royal Oak Foundation, the American arm of the British National Trust, which preserves, maintains and operates over 500 historic properties and areas of natural beauty like the garden at Sissinghurst throughout the U.K. And so when I pay my dues every year, I view it as contributing to my own personal "cemetery fund."

All of my friends will be invited to go to Sissinghurst -- I'm under no illusion that many will actually make the trip -- but if there's anybody around to make the pilgrimage with Mark, you're all instructed to leave a little pinch of me here and a little pinch there...I'm particularly fond of the famous White Garden. There are some magnificent white delphiniums,, lilies and roses with which I think I'd be most compatible. But save some of me for the purple irises in the cottage garden, too, please. There will be plenty of me to go around! And then into perpetuity, faceless throngs will visit the garden and admire these lovely plantings and not even realize what a good job I'll be doing in making them thrive. Can you think of a better place to be remembered?!

No, I have no intention of being scattered at Sissinghurst any time soon, but it doesn't hurt to have a plan. The thought of being buried in a casket doesn't appeal to me at all. And since I have such a strong psychic connection to this place -- England, and gardens, and Sissinghurst in specific -- this strategy just feels right. Eccentric, maybe, but ask me if I care!

So Thursday's long drive to and from Sissinghurst was worth the effort to me -- you know, to assure myself that the high standards of Vita and Harold are still being maintained. They are. In its summer finery, the property was as I remembered it -- dreamy. It's an absolute must on your itinerary if you ever make it to England.

Friday the boys and I spent a delightful afternoon at Sandringham, Her Majesty's estate in Norfolk. This is where the Royal Family spends every Christmas. It was bought in the early 1860s for the then-Prince of Wales, who became Edward VII, and has been a retreat for the British royal family ever since. It's never used for state occasions; instead it's considered more of a family home, owned by the Queen personally and not by the nation. It's filled with lots of family photos and mementoes. We also visited the little church on the edge of the estate. If you've ever seen news footage of the Royals walking to church on Christmas Day, that's where they're headed.

Back in my "home" village we loved the local pub so much that we ate there all three evenings, becoming practically locals. Though located in a rather isolated spot, the Crown boasts an excellent bill of fare. Of course, it's the only place anywhere for miles to eat or drink, so as you can imagine it was well patronized.
  
On Saturday the boys and I both left Norfolk -- them to head to Scotland and me to my second exchange house here in the village of Puriton near Bridgwater in Somerset. More on that military-like operation later. Suffice it to say that here, the technology is accessible. Not a single operator's manual or space-age doodad in evidence. Can I hear an Amen?!

Microwave 5, Emily 1; and other highlights

Yes, I'm finally on the scoreboard! After several defeats, I have finally managed to heat something to eat in the space-age microwave here at my exchange house.

As it turned out, the procedure was dead simple -- thanks to the one-two-three steps explained by phone by my exchange partner. My breakthrough also came right after my return from Cambridge. Now, I'm not sayin' there's a cause-and-effect here, but I do believe my IQ rocketed up several points just by driving onto those hallowed grounds of learning...

Cambridge scholarship or not, I'm still not planning to tackle the manuals for the Electronic Single Channel Timeswitch with Service Internal Timer (for the heated towel rail), the Norwegian ventilation system, the Small House Control Panel Installation for electrical wiring with chemical dosing pump (which comes with dire warnings of death), or the gravity rainwater harvesting system -- all of which are part of the home exchanger's packet. If I can't figure out how to operate the dishwasher, I'm not really interested in the solar PV electronic installation schematic, if you get my drift. I can foresee no scenario whatsoever that would lead me to climb onto the roof to install or repair the solar panels, can you?!

The quirks of the house aside, I've had a fine week. The highlight was Tuesday when I took the train into London for a day of Culture. Met my British friend Maureen at the V&A (Victoria and Albert Museum) to see two exhibits -- wedding dresses 1775-2012, and Italian fashion since 1945. Then on to Evensong at St. Paul's Cathedral, and finally the main event at Barbican Hall: A choral concert broadcast live by BBC Radio 3 by The BBC Singers and The King's Singers under the direction of Eric Whitacre. The ensemble sang pieces by some of my favorite composers -- Bob Chilcott, Morten Lauridsen and Eric himself, and they were evermore on fire! Heavenly!

The remainder of the week has been a bit more laid back. On Wednesday a new friend from here in the village and I went to a local garden center known for its rose garden. Not only do garden centers over here sell plants, most of them offer lunches and teas, as well, so Sally and I ate outdoors amidst the roses. How civilized!

Afterward we took a brief cruise on the Norfolk Broads, one of the unique features for which this part of England is known. The Broads are a series of shallow lakes dug centuries ago by the Viking settlers. When they arrived from Scandinavia, they were appalled to find the native Celts burning trees for fuel. Wanting the wood to build ships instead, the Vikings introduced the practice of harvesting peat in the low-lying marshes as an alternative fuel. After centuries of digging, many of these depressions flooded and now form a linked, protected system of navigable waterways that teem with birds and wildlife seen nowhere else in the U.K.

Yesterday I attended a brilliant two-piano concert in a tiny, ancient church in the village of Blythburgh near the coast. Had found it online as part of the big-time Aldeburgh Festival. Getting there was an adventure in itself; Blythburgh is barely a speck on the map, and its 900-year-old church seems on the surface as an odd choice as a concert venue. But the place was packed at 11 o'clock on a Saturday morning, with cars rammed into the adjacent meadow like those of groupies attending a rock concert. When those two pianists revved up all four hands on their big-ol' Steinways, you could hear a collective gasp -- "AAAHHHH!" In particular, Ravel's "La Valse" absolutely soared.

Being so close to the sea, naturally I sought out a "chippie" (fish n' chips shop) for lunch. The nearby Southwold Pier, which could give any Myrtle Beach arcade a run for its money, turned out to be just the ticket. The gray, ice-cold North Sea was having no takers yesterday, however, despite the fact that it's mid-June. It was so chilly even the seagulls stayed away. Maybe they were all inland visiting their cousins on the Broads.

The holiday seems to be going fast. I've settled into a rhythm of sorts. Pleased that I'm doing plenty to make the most of my time here, but not wearing myself out. In Charlotte I tend to get into a rut -- don't we all, at times? -- but over here I'm making deliberate decisions to do stuff and to maximize my time rather than to allow myself to drift. That's the great lesson of travel, I think: To remain conscious of the passage of time, and of how precious it is.

Emily: Cambridge Scholar!

During these annual pilgrimages to England I have had some stellar experiences -- for which I am mighty grateful -- but this weekend may have been one of The. Best. Ever.

I attended a seminar at Cambridge University. Yes, THE Cambridge University. It was through the university's Institute for Continuing Education, which is housed at magnificent Madingley Hall, an historic 16th century country house on the outskirts of Cambridge.

According to its website, the Institute "offers adult learners the opportunity to study at the University with options ranging from weekend courses to two-year, part-time Master's programmes, with thousands of enrollments each year from all over the world."

A session entitled "Behind the Scenes of History: The Ordinary Women who have Shaped Our World" had my name all over it. The "tutor" (the term for the seminar leader) was Jane Robinson, a prolific author and Oxford-trained social historian. The chance to go to Cambridge University, meet some interesting women, learn something new from a well-known scholar -- what's not to love?

Being able to stay on the premises of Madingley was also a big draw for me, but to tell you the truth I was expecting rather primitive, Medieval-standard living quarters. But no! This conference center is state-of-the-art -- on the level of a Holiday Inn Express, actually -- but with a candlelit Elizabethan dining hall in which everyone is served exquisite food on linen-draped tables. Following a prayer in Latin, of course.

My session: How can I describe it? From my arrival Friday afternoon to departure after lunch on Sunday, it exceeded all my expectations. I could have listened to Jane for hours -- and did, as a matter of fact: Ten-and-a-half hours, to be exact. The time galloped by, and I was not ready to leave! She introduced us to scores of "ordin'ry" women who have done "extraordin'ry" things over the centuries, and led us in discussions about what their contributions have meant to us personally. I was utterly mesmerized.

Her presentation was organized into seven general topics: History's first career women, the eccentrics who became the world's first women travellers, the fight for education for women, women writers and literature aimed at instructing women on "proper" behavior, the lives of women pioneers and immigrants, military wives and women on the battlefield, and the role played by the Women's Institute, a prominent organization in the U.K.

To supplement the original documents and books she herself had brought, Jane asked us to share photos or mementoes of a woman who shaped our own world. Thanks to my cousin Jack, the family's historian, I was able to share material from Jack's intrepid aunt -- my mother's first cousin -- Tela Beanblossom Apple, who was the first person in the family ever to attend college and died in 1997 only three months shy of her 100th birthday. "T" was a real original, a strong, beautiful lady who was loved and admired by everyone fortunate enough to meet her. She inspired me more than she ever knew.

If I do say so myself, my classmates seemed to enjoy my "show-and-tell," which included one of Tela's signature lacy handkerchiefs. To think how modestly proud she would have been to be remembered this way in this particular setting just makes me well up with tears. Of everybody in my family, T would have been the most curious and interested to hear of my weekend's experiences.

Mine was one of several continuing ed courses offered this weekend. There were men and women studying pollination, geology, fossils and Ovid's Metamorphis -- in Latin, of course. The rowdiest group were the creative writers working on their Master's degrees, but they kept to themselves mostly. The bee and rock people were much more sociable with us "ordin'ry women," and I enjoyed mingling with them at meals and over innumerable cups of tea, which appeared at every break.

Besides myself, Jane's group comprised four high school history teachers, an artist, a retired barrister, a couple of retired scientists, all from England, a obstetrician from Kurdistan, and a Ranger with the U.S. Park Service stationed in New York City. I was fascinated with them all.

The few images here don't come close to conjuring up the experiences of me, your enthusiastic Cambridge scholar, trodding the halls of an Elizabethan estate, heading up to the Prince Consort Room for her next session, sipping tea on the terrace overlooking the impeccably trimmed topiaries and manicured lawn, smelling the intoxicatingly fragrant roses climbing within the walled garden, dining on succulent British beef and Yorkshire pudding, having her head filled with marvelous social history which she has never even imagined existed, and pinching herself that she is blessed with such bountiful riches.

A glimpse into my future

Proud to report that I'm gradually conquering most of the technological mountains in my exchange house. Still haven't tackled either of the TWO dishwashers, but when I figured out how to get the oven to work -- and it actually yielded a hot entrée -- I did a Happy Dance worthy of "Dancin' with the Stars"!

Another victory: a hot shower at night rather than 6:30 a.m., which is the default setting of the water heater. The clothes washer was dead simple by contrast. And I finally purchased a clue and pieced together that the space-age chimes wafting from the computer room was an incoming TELEPHONE call!

Next up: The microwave.

After all, I'm an American, right? And reasonably intelligent. This house shall not defeat me. Failure is not an option. If I could only get that ding-dingy sound to hush up in the car...

Anyway, I've settled in reasonably well and am thoroughly enjoying this latest British sojourn. I don't identify myself as a tourist so much as a temporary resident. As such, I'm doing more of the stuff that the locals would do, and less of what visitors might expect. A perfect example: The coach trip Monday with 45 other retirees to a flower fete in a church in Walpole, a village about an hour north here.

My presence on the coach, or bus, dragged down the average age by several years. I got a glimpse into my future.

I was invited by a neighbour who's a very robust 86 years old. She lived in the U.S. a long time but has resettled back here in Burston where she was born. Her daughter lives in Huntersville, NC, of all places, so she's quite familiar with Charlotte. Dorothy is quite a lovely character who remembers vividly the American soldiers stationed here during WWII. Her stories are fascinating. Anyway, she was very gracious to include me on this outing with her and her friends, which in hindsight was an anthropological expedition as much as a trip to see some beautiful flowers.

Walpole's flower show is an annual fundraiser for their church, built in the 13th Century. Each year they choose a theme for floral displays in the sanctuary. This year it was "Proverbs," but was expanded to include pithy phrases like "A woman's work is never done," "Don't count your chickens before they hatch" (complete with live chickens!), and "He who dances must pay the piper." One old geezer was wandering around with a jar of jelly beans ("Don't take candy from strangers"), and there was the outline of a body drawn on the floor in front of the pulpit with a flower-draped mannequin above to illustrate "Look before you leap." All very clever and fragrant. These people do love their flowers, and as I've often seen over here, they're second to none in creating brilliant displays.

Tents with homemade refreshments, plants, handmade crafts and books for sale were set up on the church grounds. After everyone had had their coffee -- which they call their Elevenses -- and a wander through the stalls and the sanctuary we went across the road to the community hall for the standard midday English fare, a ploughman's lunch. And several cups of tea. Then we loaded back onto the coach to go into King's Lynn, where we had two hours to kill before heading home.

As it was Monday, most things of any interest in King's Lynn were closed. Had this been an American outing, there would have been widespread mutiny and loud obnoxious grumbling, but nobody uttered a whimper of complaint (except for me, who had the gracious good sense to keep my exasperation to myself -- for once). To pass the time, much more tea was consumed.

After what seemed like days and days, the coach finally deposited Dorothy and me back in the vicinity of home. It was all velly, velly English, but now that I've done it, I'm not sure whether I need to do it again. Our American impulse would have been simply to jump into our own car, motor up to Walpole, see what there is to see in about half an hour, head directly back home and get on with our lives. I just don't do groups very well. This gentler, more civilized way has its charms to be sure. But I do admit I was about ready to jump out of my skin before the long day was over.

Or maybe it was all that tea and coffee. Caffeine tends to do a number on me...

Tuesday I headed to the prominent Beth Chatto Garden near Colchester on my own. It was exceptionally beautiful, with a riot of color and textures against a background of birdsong, but I felt that something was missing somehow. Perhaps it was a herd of retirees.

My Independence Day celebration

Fourth of July in Cardiff...No fireworks, no flags, but a celebration of sorts nevertheless.

As you're no doubt tired of hearing, I've been nagged by back pain for several years now. It has increasingly affected my life and activities for longer than I care to remember. For all intents and purposes I have stopped going places that require me to walk or stand upright. I've hated it, hated it, but I couldn't afford to do anything about it until I got that golden Medicare card in May.

The back specialist I saw told me that I didn't require needles or knives, but that I needed to do three things: Lose weight (surprise, surprise), exercise and go wheat-free. Wheat, goes his theory, is a leading cause of inflammation and by eliminating wheat from my diet I'd be promoting weight loss as well as removing the cause of a lot of my leg and back pain.

Because I was desperate to get out of pain, I would have done anything, so going wheat-free was not really a sacrifice. I went cold-turkey on May 13. No bread, no cookies, no pie, no gravy. It wasn't long before I started noticing a difference.

Today I observed a milestone: I went to a museum. And my back allowed it!!

OK, I did sit several times along the way -- to gaze upon a Rodin sculpture or some lilypads by Monet -- but it was so I could enjoy the beauty, not because I was writhing in pain. The absence of pain was remarkable. I mean, this was HUGE! I can't recall the last time I was able to walk through a store, let alone a museum, without feeling like I was being stabbed in my back and legs by a heathen invader.

I'm not quite ready to climb down off my martyr's cross and give away the wood,. And I'm not declaring the National Museum of Wales as a holy site for future pilgrimages. But I'm cautiously optimistic that this wheat thing is working.

Freedom from pain -- at least for the time being: On this fine July Fourth, I'll take it!

Technology blues

Ahhh. where to begin? I arrived here in Cardiff, the capital of Wales, a week ago. I've been trying to think of positive things to write about the flat for which I'm swapping my nice, comfy house in Charlotte. Mama always said if you can't think of anything nice to say, just don't say anything at all. For once, I'm gonna follow Mama's advice.

On brighter notes, the weather has been quite cooperative -- in contrast with last summer's tragic string of cold, wet days up near the Lake District. That, and the fact that I have to climb no more stairs once I'm inside my third-floor apartment, have helped my adjustment enormously.

The first couple of days were devoted to setting up housekeeping. Funny, how we take things like kitchen utensils, telephones, soap in the bathroom and MAPS for granted...No, none of these things awaited me, so off to the store I set. Finding a grocery store without a map or any instructions is just one of those things one must be prepared to do when traveling. Around here, however, everybody seems to depend exclusively on satellite navigation devices. I, too, use a high-tech device: I call it My Brain. And eventually I always find my destination.

I don't know how to set a sat-nav. Maps help to a certain extent, of course, but only if the streets are marked with actual names. Even after I procured a map from the public library, I quickly discovered that Cardiff doesn't do that. Oh, they name the streets, but DON'T POST THE NAMES ANYWHERE. It's a real beast when trying to find one's way.

But as a cocky American, I believe that failure is simply not an option, so off I boldly go. My first significant outing was Saturday, where I attended a concert in the seaport town of Swansea by the mighty Morriston Orpheus Choir, one of the best-known male voice choirs in Wales. This 110-member ensemble has its roots, as do most male choirs hereabouts, in the coal mines. Its conductor is a gorgeous blonde babe who was wearing a sleeveless black evening gown with just enough cleavage to hold the attention of those old boys without ever having to wave her arms. But wave she did, and they responded lustily! This gaggle of geezers -- average age, at least 65! -- were in top form and sang their hearts out. A young choir called Ariosa joined them on the program, which was filled with everything from Broadway to classical. It was absolutely terrific, and I was moved to tears any number of times.

Sunday I drove two hours east to Newbury to spend the afternoon with Jane and Tom Martin, the couple with whom I exchanged in the fall of 2010. We ate lunch in their garden in the sunshine. It was so English, and so perfect! My friend Maureen came over for dessert -- fresh strawberries with cream -- to round out the delicious meal and visit. I couldn't have asked for a more pleasant visit. The Martins' hospitality has always been one of the stand-outs of my home-exchanging experiences.

I was also treated to lunch Friday at a little tearoom here in Cardiff by my home exchanger's mum. We were joined by a friend of hers. Lovely meal, followed by a wander through Cardiff Castle, which is smack-dab in the center of town. There has been a fort on this site since the days of the Romans. Today the main thing to see is a curious house built on the grounds during the Victorian era. Really interesting, even though it's an odd anachronism.

There'll be more later as I continue to process and get my bearings. At the moment I'm at the public library, given the fact that the iPad at the apartment -- my only link there to the internet -- is an instrument of the devil and I hate it with every fiber of my being. Is it possible that I've gotten too old to adapt to any additional technology? There's the new pay-as-you-go phone, the sat-nav and the iPad, all of which I'm expected to master in order to function properly here.  AAACK! Stop this technology before it makes my brain explode!!

Another concert awaits tomorrow night -- this one at the Royal Welsh Academy of Music -- which should further soothe my technologically-strained soul.

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!