Friday, May 7th, 2010
As it turns out, I could not duplicate, nor really in any way experience, the sights and sounds and tastes and smells and feelings of Lawrence Durrell, author of Bitter Lemons…the single book I have ever read that sent me on a voyage of discovery.Durrell, for the three years the India-born British writer stayed in Cyprus, lived in Kyrenia, now in the no-man’s-land of northern Cyprus, grabbed at gunpoint by Turkey in 1974. Indeed, our travel advisor’s description of the 37.5 percent of Cyprus now claimed by Turkey almost made me cry. It is impoverished, while the Greek portion is booming. Famagusta, an ancient historic city, is now of blessed memory, a Turkish ghost town. Taken by force, the inhabitants fled, especially the Greeks, often biding their time and hiding their treasures for years before being able to cross the line into the republic that is an independent Cyprus.
Driving up into the Troodos Mountains, through which the dividing Green Line runs, was nerve-wracking for more than the rocks the mountains had spit onto the rain-slick roads. The ubiquitous transformation of Turkish coffee and Turkish delight into Cyprus coffee and Cyprus delight (why not Cypriot, to mimic the original usage?) was disheartening. It was like knowing one was in St. Petersburg, Russia, but having to call it Leningrad, USSR, during those bad days of the Cold War when unseen eyes would be upon one, waiting to ship one off to a Siberian gulag for defaming the Communist overlords. It was unsettling, the more so to me because I had cared deeply about seeing Cyprus, with all its wonderful edge-of-Asia-Minor/edge-of-the-Med magnificence, for more than forty years. I was dismayed that so much of it was lost to civilized commerce; cross into “Turkey” on an EU passport, stay after five pm, and one might not be allowed back into Cyprus. I couldn’t risk it on the first trip.
***
The summer after my senior year of college, I was working and waiting for my husband to finish his M.A. After four years of reading the great works of the English language―Chaucer in Middle High English (I still love it), Shakespeare, the Romantic poets, 20th century American dramatists, Ernest Hemingway―and having not yet discovered the joys of truly light reading, such as Agatha Christie, I cast about for something entertaining to read. In the college bookstore, in the small section of paperbacks that had nothing to do with anyone’s coursework, I found Bitter Lemons by Lawrence Durrell. I had always loved lemons; as a child, I ate them as other kids ate oranges. Plus, the cover picture was really cool, sort of modern lemons with wobbly black outlines. At least, in 1968 it was cool.I loved that book. I loved Durrell’s description of Cypriots sitting under branching trees in mismatched chairs eating local foods and drinking village wine. I loved his description of the beach, and the mountains. I was entranced by the idea that the island had an uneasy amalgamation of those with Greek or Turkish ancestry as residents, and that the once-almighty British government was preparing to cut the island loose to find its own way, encouraged most by Greek partisans. I lost the original copy somewhere on my journey to 2003; I found a used copy on the Internet, ordered it, reread it, and got fired up all over again. That book didn’t come with us to England, but is―thankfully―in transit as of yesterday, along with lots of its kith and kin.
I did have a book about Cyprus to read before the trip, though. My restaurateur friend, Suzanne Oldfield (Steps Restaurant; see April 26th post), on hearing of our upcoming trip, loaned me a book she had just read, Small Wars by Sophie Jones. Like Durrell, Jones is a Brit, and she writes about the same time period, the “emergency” that began in 1956, as the British began to tinker with the Pandora’s box that was, and still is, Cyprus. But I haven’t read it yet. Jones has written fiction; Durrell wrote the truth as he saw it. A brief glance at the Jones book tells me that either women are more cruel, or Durrell truly did love Cyprus, and Jones does not. But I do her an injustice; I will read the book anon. I could not touch it, not even open a single page, until after I had seen my longed-for island for myself.
I have seen it now. Some of it. I have seen some beaches, the mountains, the Green Line. I have eaten its food, met its restaurateurs and hoteliers, its Vietnamese hotel staff seeking a better life, its Bulgarian waiters with an amazing facility for languages peaking in an Irish brogue or French-accented English or prime Brit and studying accounting.
I have eaten mosfilo, not enough mosfilo; it’s delicious and unique. I have eaten souvlaki, far too much souvlaki. Chicken, lamb or pork, souvlaki is all pretty much alike. I have eaten halloumi, and loved that which was made from milk of goats that fed on the wild thyme on the mountainsides. Feta I have never liked, so I didn’t eat it. Nor olives: I love the oil, but not the fruit itself. Lemons….well, one cannot have too many lemons, nor the big, sweet juicy oranges either.
I have, at last, been swimming in the Mediterranean…. I have seen olive trees growing wild, with fruit ready to be picked by reaching out the car window…. A front-porch table with a bowl full of lemons…. Geraniums growing in bushes three feet tall and three feet wide, geraniums in all the colours we know―the pinks, salmons, reds, whites―and an amazing purple. The mating dance of a tiny bird….Two ubiquitous Cypriot cats in a restaurant patio making more cats….A man with a moustache that makes Hercule Poirot’s moustache look like the moustache of a man afflicted with minimal hair growth….A totally gorgeous young woman with raven hair and green eyes eating bread and tomatoes in a taverna….Several old women dressed all in black in the blistering sun, walking to town or back with heavy bags, up hills steep enough to stop a goat….
I don’t know a single thing about Cyprus. I have not gauged the Cypriots, as I gauged the Irish on first meeting, or the Parisians. Or Bahamians, or Canadians. There remains about Cyprus and the Cypriots something very un-European, very un-British, despite virtually everyone being at least minimally bilingual in Greek and English.
I think the British did the Cypriots a favour by being there, something I would not say about America or Ireland. I haven’t yet put my finger on it, not totally.
Perhaps I shall, as I explore Cyprus in retrospect, through my eyes and ears and the camera of my British husband in a few upcoming posts.
An ex-pat visits Cyprus
Sunday, May 2nd, 2010
To be truthful, Cyprus has fine internet service, and I’m on it right now, obviously. I don’t find it at all difficult to sit on a breezy balcony with a view of the Mediterranean drinking Cypriot coffee.
A trip up to Kykkos Monastery in the high mountains yesterday–two hours over rock-strewn switchbacks, including lack of tarmac in spots and slippery mud, was a bit less enjoyable…although the monastery was incredible. Passing very close to the dividing line between Greek Cyprus and Turkish Cyprus was spine-tingling, and very sad, really.
I have wanted to visit Cyprus since I was in college and read Bitter Lemons by Lawrence Durrell, right before the British left and handed it over to the never very placid Greek/Turk communities. It muddled along, until 1974 when Turkey invaded….but that’s another story, and one I will tell at the end of this week or beginning of next.
I view it as a three-layer cake: American expat from England visits formerly British Cyprus.
Anyway, the husband person got lots of lovely shots of truly Cypriot stuff, and I’ll be back with it all on May 7. Until then, before I throw this teensy keyboard off the balcony,
Yamas (which is Cypriot for Cheers!)
A trip up to Kykkos Monastery in the high mountains yesterday–two hours over rock-strewn switchbacks, including lack of tarmac in spots and slippery mud, was a bit less enjoyable…although the monastery was incredible. Passing very close to the dividing line between Greek Cyprus and Turkish Cyprus was spine-tingling, and very sad, really.
I have wanted to visit Cyprus since I was in college and read Bitter Lemons by Lawrence Durrell, right before the British left and handed it over to the never very placid Greek/Turk communities. It muddled along, until 1974 when Turkey invaded….but that’s another story, and one I will tell at the end of this week or beginning of next.
I view it as a three-layer cake: American expat from England visits formerly British Cyprus.
Anyway, the husband person got lots of lovely shots of truly Cypriot stuff, and I’ll be back with it all on May 7. Until then, before I throw this teensy keyboard off the balcony,
Yamas (which is Cypriot for Cheers!)
Tales of Three Martinis
Monday, April 26th, 2010
Do not, whatever you do, order a martini in southwest England. You may at first be confused when the server asks if you want it with lemonade. (I had this concoction once, which was a sweet white vermouth with a mixer that is more akin to Schweppes Bitter Lemon than anything an American would call lemonade.) To all such questions, just say no. But then explain that you are probably using an Americanism, and what you really want is some gin or vodka, shaken vigorously over ice after a dash of the driest possible Martini has been added. Ask for it to be served either over ice with a slice of lemon (or an olive), or in a cocktail glass.
Regarding the cocktail glass: DO NOT stand on ceremony. Accept a champagne flute, or a fishbowl if need be. Being willing to instruct and able to accommodate is about the only way you’ll ever get what Americans call a martini in southwest England…at least now that The Waterfront restaurant is gone.
In case you’re wondering, Martini is a brand of white vermouth, but usually it is a relatively sweet vermouth, as slung about in southwest England, although there is a dry form. It’s still not as dry as what Americans think of as dry vermouth, but it will do unless, like me, you’d just as soon have unadorned Bombay Sapphire or Hendricks (very hard to come by), shaken over ice until very cold and adorned with a bit of lemon.
***
Following are tales of three southwest England martinis:
The Barbican, a medieval section of Plymouth near the waterfront and the Hoe
The day after we moved to Devon, we had to do two things: Buy a car and return the rental van to Enterprise in Plymouth. Not just in Plymouth, but in the Barbican, a maze of tiny medieval streets. For walking, it’s charming. For driving, not so much.
First, buying the car. My husband has an old friend who owns a big car repair shop. As it happens, one of his customers had just bought a brand new second car and wanted to sell her old Ford Escort. It met the specs. It was four on the floor, air-conditioned (one needs it approximately twice in an average summer), grey (so no fade), and in tip-top shape despite suffering advanced age. Plus it was cheap. In fact, we paid as much for the insurance as we did for the car. Best of all, we could just run downtown, buy the insurance, bring the papers and the money back to Paul, and drive off.
That’s what we did. Simon drove the rental van, as only his name was on the contract, and I followed in the new old car. There are good roads between our house and Plymouth, mainly. The drive of about 22 miles generally takes about 30 minutes. There are, of course, roundabouts or what Americans call traffic circles. Lots of them. Two layer. Some with traffic lights, some without. By the time we got underway on a really lovely Friday afternoon―sweater weather in the end of November―rush hour had begun. I followed Simon as best I could. I ground the gears a couple of times; I had junked my standard transmission junker a couple of years earlier, and had been driving a big automatic Land Rover in the States. On big roads. This was none of the above.
By the time we got to the Barbican, I was frazzled. And then there was the problem of finding a parking space. Finally, we did, and Simon honked and sped off, while I parked. Shortly, he returned. Not there, he told me, but around the corner. Oh. OK. I had to back up…a lot. But I got it round the corner, locked it and went to Enterprise, where I am now certain I set down and left forever the spiral notebook containing the entire packing list of our possessions still to be shipped from the states.
We were very hungry and decided to find a restaurant on the sea front for a late lunch. We found The Waterfront. It presented another parking problem, beginning with a steep turn from the main road around the Hoe (the place where Sir Francis Drake played bowls while waiting for the Spanish Armada to heave into view), and ending in a relatively nice private car park requiring documentation from the restaurant.
It quickly became clear we were a tad underdressed. It was an elegant restaurant. The owner didn’t hesitate to seat us, however, and he took our drinks order immediately. He came back to the table with a big, lovely, clear, frigid, lemon-zested very large martini in an oversized glass. He set it down before me and said, “You looked like you needed this. I’ll be right back with your husband’s G&T.” I LOVE England. So sensible. So kind. Unfortunately, the recession seems to have killed off The Waterfront. I am highly disappointed. In addition to the martini, I had luscious local mussels.
Sigh.
Widemouth Bay on a sunny, breezy April afternoon
The Bay View Inn, Widemouth Bay
First, it’s not wide mouth; it’s pronounced widmith. OK. Once you’ve got that, then you walk into the bar to order, and they bring your food to inside or, weather permitting, outside tables. We have lunch there quite often, but only a month or so ago did I notice a martini shaker and martini glasses. I asked the bartender if she could make a martini. She said she could if I would tell her how.
The masterful martini-slinging of The Waterfront is far from the norm in Devon and Cornwall. But being willing to have a go is quite common. So, we told her how to make a martini. The bartender was pleased with her new knowledge, but wondered how many people would come in and order one. I wonder, too. Drinking pints is much more common, or a glass of wine, or whiskey neat, or the ubiquitous British Gin and Tonic. Gin and Tonic was such a standard, frequent and common drink in my house before I became a martini aficionado that I simply called the thing Vitamin G. We still refer to the major ingredient as Vitamin G.Bay View Inn
Marina Drive, Widemouth Bay
Bude EX23 0AW
01288 361 273
St. Eustachius Church tower, Tavistock, with Dartmoor in the background at dusk
Steps Restaurant, Tavistock
This restaurant is on the main street in Tavistock and is, as the name implies, up a flight of steps. Thirteen to be precise. At the top, Suzanne Oldfield awaits to serve you; in the kitchen, her husband, Adrian, awaits to cook good English food in the very best way. If I never had another potato, Adrian Oldfield’s sautéed potatoes would do very nicely, thank you. My recent dinner of poached salmon was sublime. The cottage pie is exquisite. For dessert, the crème brulee is wonderful. In fact, I’ve never had a bad meal there, nor has anyone who has visited us and been taken there; they always ask to go back.
The wine is good as well. Suzanne’s list is reasonably priced, but well-chosen and served at the proper temperature.
The cocktails are created by Suzanne herself. My husband’s G and T is easy. My martini is more demanding, as I think I’m her only customer who orders one. Nonetheless, she happily shakes the gin over ice, pours it into a champagne trumpet with a slice of lemon peel, and serves it up. Fine with me, especially as the crab-meat stuffed mushrooms arrive right behind it. One always knows, because one can hear Adrian furiously ringing the bell to carry through to the front dining room if need be, and Suzanne hurrying back to gather the plates.
Steps
75 West Street
Tavistock PL19 8AJ
Phone: 01822 614 280
How to Make a Dog Incredibly Happy
Friday, April 23rd, 2010
Take one rescued mutt from Baltimore. Love it. At great expense and a good deal of trouble, move that dog to Devon, England. Take it to run on Dartmoor.
Find the best places to park among those provided by a thoughtful government. Preferably find one with a stream, like this one.
Take the aforementioned dog to play in the stream, jumping across it or plunging into it, as the spirit moves her, as one climbs up the local tor, or mountain. (Really, they are big hills, but nonetheless, they are tors.)
Allow the dog to sniff in the reeds, roll on the short, sheep-cropped grass and bark at the bubbles made by two dozen little waterfalls.
Let dog get really, really wet, then dry it off and head home.
Dog sleeps the sleep of angels.
You? You are rewarded by knowing you have just made one small, cute creature as happy as it is possible for a living thing to be.
Find the best places to park among those provided by a thoughtful government. Preferably find one with a stream, like this one.
Take the aforementioned dog to play in the stream, jumping across it or plunging into it, as the spirit moves her, as one climbs up the local tor, or mountain. (Really, they are big hills, but nonetheless, they are tors.)
Allow the dog to sniff in the reeds, roll on the short, sheep-cropped grass and bark at the bubbles made by two dozen little waterfalls.
Let dog get really, really wet, then dry it off and head home.
Dog sleeps the sleep of angels.
You? You are rewarded by knowing you have just made one small, cute creature as happy as it is possible for a living thing to be.
Ewe
Wednesday, April 21st, 2010
This is all about ewe, isn’t it?
Yes, it is. Springtime on Dartmoor is mainly about ewe. And lambs. at the moment, they’ll serve for a few very personal ponderings on the nature of Britishness.
While most people think being British is all about a stiff upper lip and all that, perhaps I had inklings that this was not so when I was about 14. That summer, my father decided one day to tell me the drawbacks of the nationalities I might encounter as I began dating. I don’t recall all of his biases, but I do recall one. “The English,” he said, “are sentimental. It will drive you nuts.”
Yes and no. They are sentimental, but it doesn’t drive me nuts. Indeed, just the opposite. A true story to illustrate:
We wanted to sell our house in Maryland and move to England. So we hired an agent who came, the next day, to take pictures. Two stuffed animals, a Grinch and his dog Max, sit on the back of our living room sofa all the time. They were put there five years ago, and my husband, who is British, couldn’t bear to put them away in a box, so there they stayed. We also had the two little “sleeping bears” on our bed. One was a gift to me several years ago when I was feeling ill, to comfort me. The other was a companion for that bear that my husband and I bought in England a few years ago. They always sleep with us, and they always travel with us. They are much better than sleeping pills.
Anyway…the US realtor said, “You’ll have to put away the stuffed animals for the photographs.” US buyers want to see a house as if no one had ever lived in it. (Why not just buy new?) Stuffed animals clearly reveal the sentimentality, in great particularity, of the sellers. Goodness, gracious…can’t have any of THAT, can we? The great American society of rugged individuals must be homogenized into oblivion to sell them a “used” house.
A month or two later, we flew to England to put our flat (apartment) on the market so we could buy a house when the house in the States sold, and maybe have it ready to move into when it all came together. We hired an agent and he came the next day to take pictures. Sure enough, the two little travelling sleeping bears were on our bed. “Should I put them in a drawer for now?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” he replied. “Leave them there. It gives the buyer a nice feeling that real people are enjoying living here.”
To me, our agent’s statement is the major difference between Brits and Yanks. The Brits are comfortable in their own skins, so comfortable that they are able to enjoy seeing what others enjoy. When buying a house, they’d much rather see evidence of someone else’s reality than be left to imagine whether a house has good or bad vibes. They don’t really care about the décor (which in the US must be all neutral and motel-like); they figure if they don’t like it, they’ll change it. Apparently, Americans have the imaginations of a tub of Crisco, in comparison.
In the end, we didn’t sell the flat. We got an exceptionally good offer in only about six weeks during the meltdown, when there was no movement whatsoever on our house within commuting distance to DC. We turned it down. We didn’t know how long it would take the US house to sell, and we didn’t want to be without a perch in England.
In the end, we moved to England before the US house sold because we could, since we already had a home. And we are planning on staying in it; the little sleeping bears are happy here, and so are the Grinch and Max, who are perched on the back of the sofa. Plus my raccoon (how many people have a stuffed toy raccoon?) likes it on my nightstand. And the real animals―the cat and dog―are quite happy with their living arrangements as well. Romeo (the cat, also known as Sir Compton Pauncefoot after one of our favorite towns on the way from home to Heathrow) has a picture window to sleep in when it’s sunny, and a fireplace to sleep near when it’s not. Brownie (the dog, also known as Lady Bronwen Marbella McGee, because she was a rescue and deserved a grand moniker) has walks on the moor, romps on the beach, swims in streams, and the sheer joy of hoping (fruitlessly, as she stays on the lead then) for a fowl lunch when we take her to the canal where children and old folks and everyone in between feed the ducks.
What’s this got to do with ewe? Perhaps the English like their stuffed animals, and other animal art forms, so much because there are so many animals about. For the past six weeks or more, the green fields have been dotted with large, dirty white lumps and small, bright and clean white lumps. Ewes and lambs abound. On Dartmoor, while some are kept behind fences, most are simply marked with the owner’s colour on the owner’s selected spot, and allowed to wander the moor at will. Often, they wander across the road, which is one reason for the frequent signs to “Take Moor Care” and “Keep dogs on leads; lambing.” There are others that say, “Kill your speed, not a pony.” Dartmoor ponies are just now foaling; we saw the first two with their Mums just Sunday.
In England, cars might have the back window strewn with stuffed lambs, and not just teenagers’ cars, either. Houses often have stuffed toys laying about, and almost certainly there will be small statuary of horses or dogs or birds or cats or camels or anything the person particularly likes. The little sheep sculptures pictured are in a gift shop in Widecome-In-the-Moor, a town tucked into Dartmoor, rather than on its edge. I thought about buying one, but our totems really are raccoons, bear and pelicans. (England has no raccoons, but I imagine badgers are close relatives and serve the same function; I always liked Badger when I was a child reading and rereading The Wind in the Willows. Click here to see a wonderful photo of an original Wind in the Willows illustration . Click here for a downloadable copy of the book.)
I’m sorry we decided not to sell the flat for only one reason; the agent worked hard and well for us, and didn’t earn a commission. But if we ever do decide we need a house, he’ll be the first to know, and then he can get two commissions, one on selling the flat to someone else, and one from finding us a proper house for two people, one dog, one cat and a still-growing family of very British stuffed animals and other animal images.
A wonderful springtime with strawberries and a really REALLY old pub, flowers and a great house
Aside from the fact that the high pressure weather system we’ve been enjoying in England Southwest for the past two weeks is holding the volcanic ash cloud in place…and potentially derailing our trip to Cyprus in less than ten days…this has got to be the absolute best of spring times in England.
To prove it, here are a few facts:
1) The strawberries I bought in the supermarket in plastic clam shells were grown in Kent in a hothouse and looked anaemic at the tops. They were delicious. Tender. Sweet. Flavourful. British growers just use a different variety than the ruby red, hard-as-rocks things I was used to in the States. Well, correction: That I got used to after the English-type strawberries disappeared sometime between my youth and middle age. I do, vaguely, recall tender berries, from which the stem end could be plucked away, leaving luscious, pinky-red edible fruit behind. The only way to get recent US store-bought strawberries to the edible stage was to cut out the hull, mash them a little, drown them in sugar, and hope for the best.
All winter, we have had strawberries from Spain. Even those, after their trip, were tastier and less wooden than their US counterparts. But there is nothing at all like an English strawberry, except another English strawberry. They only come in good, better and best. Acceptable is simply not acceptable.
So, come to England Southwest for the berries. The local Devon and Cornwall berries come in June and July and every roadside lay-by seems to offer a station-wagon full of them for sale. (The ones pictured were at a food fair in Tavistock in July, 2008.)
2) An 11th century inn looks a lot like a 15th century inn from the outside. Yesterday, we were rushing to Coleton Fishacre, the vacation home of the D’Oyly-Cartes (the family hat produced Gilbert & Sullivan), and noted a sign for an 11th century inn. On the way back, we drove down the appointed road. Sure enough, in a place called Rattery ― no more than a crossroads, really ― there was the Church House Inn, with a “founded” sign reading 1028. 1028! To an American who loves history and grew up with so little, that was amazing. So what if it looked like all the 15th and 16th and 17th century inns? (I’m getting so jaded.)
In fact, I looked up the inn’s home page today, and found that there was a building there in 1028, but the current building itself dates only (ONLY) from 16th century. Humph! Catch me in a new building like that, will you?
Actually, yes, you will. But not yesterday. The climb up from the lower part of the Coleton Fishacre gardens had done me in, and I wanted only to get home and take a nap before dinner. Dinner would be enhanced by yet another National Trust CD, Sophisticated Lady, containing great songs of the swing era, including a rendition of Anything Goes by the composer himself, Noel Coward.
3) Coleton Fishacre is a wondrous house, despite it being an infant in terms of historic homes in the UK, built in the 1920s in the Arts & Crafts style. The grand piano in the salon is open to visitor musicians, amazingly enough, as they wander through and would like to canoodle for a while; yesterday, a man we met while resting on a park bench from the upward climb said the visitor who sat down during his wander through the house was playing Debussy.
(It should be noted, one is not escorted on most National Trust visits, as in US historic homes. One wanders at will to the open rooms, in each of which a volunteer docent stands. Some are informative, some are not so much. Some are chatty; some are all business. But, either way, one can avail one’s self of their knowledge, or not; it’s totally up to you. I usually just pick up the information card at the door and let myself experience the house as itself. Once, though, I was mad to see an original bargello tapestry-covered chair from the 16th century at one home. They had it covered with a facsimile to protect it from light and dust. My disappointment registered with the docent and he lifted a little corner for me to feast my eyes on the genuine article, bless him.)
After our stroll, we went to the restaurant instead of the house and had ice cream cones outdoors in the truly hot sun. Simon had mint chip, one of his favourites, and I had vanilla honeycomb. Why is it not possible to find odd flavours in the States? A little local chain in Maryland used to make raspberry soft serve, but that’s as adventurous as I ever saw it get. Rocky Road. Ho hum. Coffee. Snore. Artificial strawberry flavour and the colour of a toy fire engine. Egad. Please see the section on actual strawberries, above. Although I do love Ben & Jerry’s interesting Cherries Garcia, and one can get it here, it still pales in comparison to local flavours that use local delicacies, and the honeycomb is one.
3) Coleton Fishacre gardens offer acres and acres of walks and plants, even in early spring, and a view to the English Channel.
I am convinced that actually, England is a jungle. There’s a profusion of plants, peeking through the minute there’s half a day of weak sun. Bees emerge at the first warm zephyr. Lambs begin to appear with their mothers on the moor, like little balls of fluff overnighted from sheep heaven. This year, that was in February, when we also began taking the dog to the beach to run and splash in tidal pools.
Still, we didn’t think the foliage would be so grand at Coleton Fishacre yet, and certainly not much in the way of flowers. But we were very wrong. Its location on a hillside running down to the Channel allows it lots of sun; the sheltering arms of two higher cliffs to either side of the site keeps a lot of the wind off. No wonder the D’Oyly-Cartes bought the place. It’s hard to imagine what it took to take it from nothing to the botanical treasure it is now, kept up by the National Trust, possibly my favourite non-profit in the world after dog/cat rescues.
The National Trust, which gets its share of criticism for a panoply of supposed ills depending on who’s speaking, nonetheless restores and protects an enormous amount of both the built and natural environments with mainly volunteer labour. The yearly memberships are not expensive, considering that one then has access to the house and grounds of the stately homes, the seaside walks and beaches, a number of oddities such as a Cornish tin mine…and more. I have considered making a visit to every single National Trust property a lifetime goal. I may yet decide on it, which will also mean I’ll get to know a lot more about Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland as well, not to mention Lundy, island of puffins.
Coleton Fishacre, below:
To prove it, here are a few facts:
1) The strawberries I bought in the supermarket in plastic clam shells were grown in Kent in a hothouse and looked anaemic at the tops. They were delicious. Tender. Sweet. Flavourful. British growers just use a different variety than the ruby red, hard-as-rocks things I was used to in the States. Well, correction: That I got used to after the English-type strawberries disappeared sometime between my youth and middle age. I do, vaguely, recall tender berries, from which the stem end could be plucked away, leaving luscious, pinky-red edible fruit behind. The only way to get recent US store-bought strawberries to the edible stage was to cut out the hull, mash them a little, drown them in sugar, and hope for the best.All winter, we have had strawberries from Spain. Even those, after their trip, were tastier and less wooden than their US counterparts. But there is nothing at all like an English strawberry, except another English strawberry. They only come in good, better and best. Acceptable is simply not acceptable.
So, come to England Southwest for the berries. The local Devon and Cornwall berries come in June and July and every roadside lay-by seems to offer a station-wagon full of them for sale. (The ones pictured were at a food fair in Tavistock in July, 2008.)
2) An 11th century inn looks a lot like a 15th century inn from the outside. Yesterday, we were rushing to Coleton Fishacre, the vacation home of the D’Oyly-Cartes (the family hat produced Gilbert & Sullivan), and noted a sign for an 11th century inn. On the way back, we drove down the appointed road. Sure enough, in a place called Rattery ― no more than a crossroads, really ― there was the Church House Inn, with a “founded” sign reading 1028. 1028! To an American who loves history and grew up with so little, that was amazing. So what if it looked like all the 15th and 16th and 17th century inns? (I’m getting so jaded.)
In fact, I looked up the inn’s home page today, and found that there was a building there in 1028, but the current building itself dates only (ONLY) from 16th century. Humph! Catch me in a new building like that, will you?
Actually, yes, you will. But not yesterday. The climb up from the lower part of the Coleton Fishacre gardens had done me in, and I wanted only to get home and take a nap before dinner. Dinner would be enhanced by yet another National Trust CD, Sophisticated Lady, containing great songs of the swing era, including a rendition of Anything Goes by the composer himself, Noel Coward.
3) Coleton Fishacre is a wondrous house, despite it being an infant in terms of historic homes in the UK, built in the 1920s in the Arts & Crafts style. The grand piano in the salon is open to visitor musicians, amazingly enough, as they wander through and would like to canoodle for a while; yesterday, a man we met while resting on a park bench from the upward climb said the visitor who sat down during his wander through the house was playing Debussy.
(It should be noted, one is not escorted on most National Trust visits, as in US historic homes. One wanders at will to the open rooms, in each of which a volunteer docent stands. Some are informative, some are not so much. Some are chatty; some are all business. But, either way, one can avail one’s self of their knowledge, or not; it’s totally up to you. I usually just pick up the information card at the door and let myself experience the house as itself. Once, though, I was mad to see an original bargello tapestry-covered chair from the 16th century at one home. They had it covered with a facsimile to protect it from light and dust. My disappointment registered with the docent and he lifted a little corner for me to feast my eyes on the genuine article, bless him.)
After our stroll, we went to the restaurant instead of the house and had ice cream cones outdoors in the truly hot sun. Simon had mint chip, one of his favourites, and I had vanilla honeycomb. Why is it not possible to find odd flavours in the States? A little local chain in Maryland used to make raspberry soft serve, but that’s as adventurous as I ever saw it get. Rocky Road. Ho hum. Coffee. Snore. Artificial strawberry flavour and the colour of a toy fire engine. Egad. Please see the section on actual strawberries, above. Although I do love Ben & Jerry’s interesting Cherries Garcia, and one can get it here, it still pales in comparison to local flavours that use local delicacies, and the honeycomb is one.
3) Coleton Fishacre gardens offer acres and acres of walks and plants, even in early spring, and a view to the English Channel.
I am convinced that actually, England is a jungle. There’s a profusion of plants, peeking through the minute there’s half a day of weak sun. Bees emerge at the first warm zephyr. Lambs begin to appear with their mothers on the moor, like little balls of fluff overnighted from sheep heaven. This year, that was in February, when we also began taking the dog to the beach to run and splash in tidal pools.
Still, we didn’t think the foliage would be so grand at Coleton Fishacre yet, and certainly not much in the way of flowers. But we were very wrong. Its location on a hillside running down to the Channel allows it lots of sun; the sheltering arms of two higher cliffs to either side of the site keeps a lot of the wind off. No wonder the D’Oyly-Cartes bought the place. It’s hard to imagine what it took to take it from nothing to the botanical treasure it is now, kept up by the National Trust, possibly my favourite non-profit in the world after dog/cat rescues.
The National Trust, which gets its share of criticism for a panoply of supposed ills depending on who’s speaking, nonetheless restores and protects an enormous amount of both the built and natural environments with mainly volunteer labour. The yearly memberships are not expensive, considering that one then has access to the house and grounds of the stately homes, the seaside walks and beaches, a number of oddities such as a Cornish tin mine…and more. I have considered making a visit to every single National Trust property a lifetime goal. I may yet decide on it, which will also mean I’ll get to know a lot more about Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland as well, not to mention Lundy, island of puffins.
Coleton Fishacre, below:
Wednesday, April 14th, 2010
Perhaps it comes just from being so close to it all the time, but I can’t imagine any public authority in the US being as cavalier about the possibility of plunging 100 feet to a rocky death on the way to a final splashdown as they are in England.
On the first day of our recent four-day escapade in the early springtime sun, we ended our tour at Carnewas, a cliff walk administered by the National Trust, and sporting the usual tea room, gift shop and toilets.
A word on the toilets (yes, I know, I seem obsessed with toilets, having written on examiner.com that they were a big part of the reason I moved here): The ones at Carnewas are prime toilets. For women, three little self-contained rooms with the expected facility, a small sink and a rapid air hand dryer. The end one had a window that opened. What more could one desire? All the comforts of home, and fresh sea air.
But, back to the cliff. At intervals along the edge were fairly small signs saying “Great Danger. Sheer Cliffs.” You can just see the edge of one in the photo.
Subtle. But apparently enough. So much enough that when someone found some sort of human-looking bones at Widemouth Bay last Saturday evening, it brought out the police helicopter, police launches, and a copper with a sniffer Alsatian walking the beaches there Sunday afternoon. As it turned out, the bones were not human at all, but seal. Still, it would be unusual for the police to get such a call, as very few people go over the cliffs in England. Except at Beachy Head in Sussex. In fact, at 530 feet the tallest cliff in England, Beachy Head is renowned for up to 20 suicides a year, being just behind the Golden Gate Bridge as a preferred venue. But a suicide is not an accident.
Beachy Head notwithstanding (it has patrols and signs directing jumper wannabes to a help line), why do the British think, in general, that some small signs a few feet back from the cliff edge of most cliffs will suffice when Americans would festoon the place with high fences topped with razor wire, at the very least?
For the same reason, I think, that British people do anything else: Because it’s sufficient, whatever it is.
My husband’s mother, on refusing offers of another helping of food, is reputed always to have said, “I’ve had sufficient, thank you.” I always thought that a bit cold. On the other hand, it is possibly emblematic of doing that which suffices, and not doing that which is, in modern terms, over the top. An America would be much more effusive in his or her refusal.
Common sense might explain a lot. If you take one quick look at the cliffs to either side of you, anywhere on the south coast of England, you will have very little inclination to run up to the edge or let your children run up to the edge, or your dogs…and dogs are basically welcome everywhere, although there will often be a sign saying, “Well-behaved dogs welcome.”
That’s sufficient. It also implies that well-behaved children, and for that matter adults, will also be welcomed at the establishment.
And it implies that it is one’s personal responsibility to present well-behaved dogs and children, and to ensure that they don’t run amok, or off a cliff.
One might say that the signs, whether about the danger of cliffs or behaviour of dogs, are sufficient. Once you’ve been told what your own senses should have long-since revealed, it’s your responsibility. Period.
Sensible. Sufficient. Workable.
Come visit, and see all this from as many feet back as you like.
On the first day of our recent four-day escapade in the early springtime sun, we ended our tour at Carnewas, a cliff walk administered by the National Trust, and sporting the usual tea room, gift shop and toilets.
A word on the toilets (yes, I know, I seem obsessed with toilets, having written on examiner.com that they were a big part of the reason I moved here): The ones at Carnewas are prime toilets. For women, three little self-contained rooms with the expected facility, a small sink and a rapid air hand dryer. The end one had a window that opened. What more could one desire? All the comforts of home, and fresh sea air.
But, back to the cliff. At intervals along the edge were fairly small signs saying “Great Danger. Sheer Cliffs.” You can just see the edge of one in the photo.
Subtle. But apparently enough. So much enough that when someone found some sort of human-looking bones at Widemouth Bay last Saturday evening, it brought out the police helicopter, police launches, and a copper with a sniffer Alsatian walking the beaches there Sunday afternoon. As it turned out, the bones were not human at all, but seal. Still, it would be unusual for the police to get such a call, as very few people go over the cliffs in England. Except at Beachy Head in Sussex. In fact, at 530 feet the tallest cliff in England, Beachy Head is renowned for up to 20 suicides a year, being just behind the Golden Gate Bridge as a preferred venue. But a suicide is not an accident.Beachy Head notwithstanding (it has patrols and signs directing jumper wannabes to a help line), why do the British think, in general, that some small signs a few feet back from the cliff edge of most cliffs will suffice when Americans would festoon the place with high fences topped with razor wire, at the very least?
For the same reason, I think, that British people do anything else: Because it’s sufficient, whatever it is.
My husband’s mother, on refusing offers of another helping of food, is reputed always to have said, “I’ve had sufficient, thank you.” I always thought that a bit cold. On the other hand, it is possibly emblematic of doing that which suffices, and not doing that which is, in modern terms, over the top. An America would be much more effusive in his or her refusal.
Common sense might explain a lot. If you take one quick look at the cliffs to either side of you, anywhere on the south coast of England, you will have very little inclination to run up to the edge or let your children run up to the edge, or your dogs…and dogs are basically welcome everywhere, although there will often be a sign saying, “Well-behaved dogs welcome.”
That’s sufficient. It also implies that well-behaved children, and for that matter adults, will also be welcomed at the establishment.
And it implies that it is one’s personal responsibility to present well-behaved dogs and children, and to ensure that they don’t run amok, or off a cliff.
One might say that the signs, whether about the danger of cliffs or behaviour of dogs, are sufficient. Once you’ve been told what your own senses should have long-since revealed, it’s your responsibility. Period.
Sensible. Sufficient. Workable.
Come visit, and see all this from as many feet back as you like.
Monday, April 12th, 2010
It’s very difficult to find time to write about Southwestern England when one is actually in it; there’s way too much to do, especially when the weather is as fine as it has been now for five solid days―between 60 and 65 degrees, no wind, sunny.
Still, the sun has to set sometime, and then, I can write and my husband can process photos, like the ones from last Thursday posted here.
In our odd division of labour, Simon found out something about a beach we had been to several times before to let Brownie swim in tidal pools at low tide. We never really ventured off the beach, except to buy coffee at the beachside lunch restaurant to have with our sandwiches. (Funny thing: There are lots of little restaurants and pubs all over south-western England, but we have found a great deal of pleasure in packing a lunch and, even on cold, windy days when only the dog is really totally gleeful outdoors, finding a spot overlooking the sea and eating there, even in the car. Brownie has discovered a passion for yoghurt cereal bars that are only sold at one supermarket in town, and not my usual one either. I buy nine at a time and hope to have four on hand for dog degustation, as Simon has also discovered them and since he has hands and can open the pantry….)
But, back to the beach. Dogs are not allowed on the beach at Trevone between Easter Sunday and October 1. But they are allowed in the car park, and from there, one can reach the coast path, a footpath that literally rings southwest England and skirts not only the ocean on top of sheer cliffs, but farms and pastures and hamlets and towns. We didn’t mean to walk far, just up and over the first cliff and past the Round Hole.
Each time we came to the beach during the winter and early spring, we had noticed a sort of big ditch―maybe something agricultural?―in the grass stretching from the car park to the sky. Thursday, we walked toward what Simon said was The Round Hole. I had no idea.
I still have no idea. There was absolutely, positively no way I was getting any closer than ten feet from the thing. As we approached, I heard waves crashing…as if they were crashing inside the Round Hole. They were. There was sea water pouring in as the waves sought shore for the approaching high tide. They splashed up, but not so high as the rim. I thought about lying down on my stomach and inching forward to peer into the hole. No. Couldn’t. No way. I prevailed upon Simon to stay well back, also, although it didn’t seem to take much persuasion. It’s one heck of a hole. Sheer dirt and rock walls all the way down to where the waves crash in from the sea 80 feet below. Indeed, the hole is actually a collapsed sea cave. Sea caves dot the Devon and Cornwall coasts, a great boon to the smugglers who once preferred the area to all others. The rocky coast made for extra loot from wrecked ships, but also offered hundreds of coves in which, especially those with caves, any sort of contraband could be stashed.
We didn’t really intend to go much beyond the Round Hole, but we did. We didn’t go to the really scary stile at the edge of a cliff between two great slopes overlooking a serious indentation in the coastline. If it sounds as if clambering over it scares me, you’re right. Especially with our bouncy little terrier, also known as a terrier-ist, along. Too dangerous by half. But if we keep doing bits of the coast path all year, maybe sometime without the strain of holding onto the bouncing doggie, I’ll do some of the more challenging things.
But we did sit down on the grass on the second slope past the Round Hole to just look at the sea and the gulls nesting on the cliff face to our left. There was a fishing boat down below, checking lines. There was a sailboat cruising past one of the rock outcrops that is charming in fine weather, but chilling in a gale. The gulls whirled overhead, and sometimes disappeared out of sight below the edge of the green field, that edge marking the difference between land and sea a deadly drop below. A few early bees buzzed, the odd serious hiker came by, pants legs rolled up, making time around the south coast to get to…perhaps Padstow for lunch at celebrity chef Rich Stein’s restaurant.
Or one of his four. We have had lunch at Rick Stein’s Café, a tiny charmingly European almost-waterfront restaurant in Padstow. I’m a pushover for mussels, and the River Fal mussels with tomato, chilli and parsley was wonderful. I liked the duck noodle soup…but after world-class mussels, for a mussel lover, nothing can measure up completely. I had no room for dessert, but next time, I will leave room for Colston Bassett Stilton served with nuts and honey…and fool myself into thinking it is not at all fattening, being mostly protein and a natural sweetener.
Hunger did, finally, cause us to arise and head for the car and the day’s sandwiches (shredded cheddar and onions in mayonnaise and spread like tuna salad on a medium-dark bread) and coffee in the new thermos. Brownie had her yoghurt cereal bar and water. And a few barks at doggies passing our parked car on the road.
Simon convinced me to walk back down not between the Round Hole and a farmer’s field, as we had gone up, but between the Round Hole and the cliff edge. I’m certain other people see quite a bit from that vantage point.
I more or less saw only my own shoes.
Still, the sun has to set sometime, and then, I can write and my husband can process photos, like the ones from last Thursday posted here.
In our odd division of labour, Simon found out something about a beach we had been to several times before to let Brownie swim in tidal pools at low tide. We never really ventured off the beach, except to buy coffee at the beachside lunch restaurant to have with our sandwiches. (Funny thing: There are lots of little restaurants and pubs all over south-western England, but we have found a great deal of pleasure in packing a lunch and, even on cold, windy days when only the dog is really totally gleeful outdoors, finding a spot overlooking the sea and eating there, even in the car. Brownie has discovered a passion for yoghurt cereal bars that are only sold at one supermarket in town, and not my usual one either. I buy nine at a time and hope to have four on hand for dog degustation, as Simon has also discovered them and since he has hands and can open the pantry….)
But, back to the beach. Dogs are not allowed on the beach at Trevone between Easter Sunday and October 1. But they are allowed in the car park, and from there, one can reach the coast path, a footpath that literally rings southwest England and skirts not only the ocean on top of sheer cliffs, but farms and pastures and hamlets and towns. We didn’t mean to walk far, just up and over the first cliff and past the Round Hole.
Each time we came to the beach during the winter and early spring, we had noticed a sort of big ditch―maybe something agricultural?―in the grass stretching from the car park to the sky. Thursday, we walked toward what Simon said was The Round Hole. I had no idea.
I still have no idea. There was absolutely, positively no way I was getting any closer than ten feet from the thing. As we approached, I heard waves crashing…as if they were crashing inside the Round Hole. They were. There was sea water pouring in as the waves sought shore for the approaching high tide. They splashed up, but not so high as the rim. I thought about lying down on my stomach and inching forward to peer into the hole. No. Couldn’t. No way. I prevailed upon Simon to stay well back, also, although it didn’t seem to take much persuasion. It’s one heck of a hole. Sheer dirt and rock walls all the way down to where the waves crash in from the sea 80 feet below. Indeed, the hole is actually a collapsed sea cave. Sea caves dot the Devon and Cornwall coasts, a great boon to the smugglers who once preferred the area to all others. The rocky coast made for extra loot from wrecked ships, but also offered hundreds of coves in which, especially those with caves, any sort of contraband could be stashed.
We didn’t really intend to go much beyond the Round Hole, but we did. We didn’t go to the really scary stile at the edge of a cliff between two great slopes overlooking a serious indentation in the coastline. If it sounds as if clambering over it scares me, you’re right. Especially with our bouncy little terrier, also known as a terrier-ist, along. Too dangerous by half. But if we keep doing bits of the coast path all year, maybe sometime without the strain of holding onto the bouncing doggie, I’ll do some of the more challenging things.
But we did sit down on the grass on the second slope past the Round Hole to just look at the sea and the gulls nesting on the cliff face to our left. There was a fishing boat down below, checking lines. There was a sailboat cruising past one of the rock outcrops that is charming in fine weather, but chilling in a gale. The gulls whirled overhead, and sometimes disappeared out of sight below the edge of the green field, that edge marking the difference between land and sea a deadly drop below. A few early bees buzzed, the odd serious hiker came by, pants legs rolled up, making time around the south coast to get to…perhaps Padstow for lunch at celebrity chef Rich Stein’s restaurant.Or one of his four. We have had lunch at Rick Stein’s Café, a tiny charmingly European almost-waterfront restaurant in Padstow. I’m a pushover for mussels, and the River Fal mussels with tomato, chilli and parsley was wonderful. I liked the duck noodle soup…but after world-class mussels, for a mussel lover, nothing can measure up completely. I had no room for dessert, but next time, I will leave room for Colston Bassett Stilton served with nuts and honey…and fool myself into thinking it is not at all fattening, being mostly protein and a natural sweetener.
Hunger did, finally, cause us to arise and head for the car and the day’s sandwiches (shredded cheddar and onions in mayonnaise and spread like tuna salad on a medium-dark bread) and coffee in the new thermos. Brownie had her yoghurt cereal bar and water. And a few barks at doggies passing our parked car on the road.
Simon convinced me to walk back down not between the Round Hole and a farmer’s field, as we had gone up, but between the Round Hole and the cliff edge. I’m certain other people see quite a bit from that vantage point.
I more or less saw only my own shoes.
Friday, March 12th, 2010
Entrance to Pannier Market
I’ll grant you that some of them are mighty cold. For example, the first Little Chef restaurant on the A303 from Heathrow southward to Devon has a ladies loo that will ensure your enjoyment of your hot coffee and full English breakfast. Cold, but clean, clean, clean. Best, of course, the cleanliness doesn’t depend only on attendants’ efforts; English women seem actually to know how to plunk that magic twanger (I can’t answer for their skills with any other magic twangers.)
I simply love the loos. I love the cleanliness of them, but I also love the ubiquitousness of them. Every town has at least one Ladies and Gents, centrally located and free to the public. Did I mention clean? Most have plenty of paper products in the stalls, but many, these days, have combination soap/water/hot air dispensers that work amazingly well. Even in such few as had a bum part (in Crackington Haven, last week, the soap part wasn’t working), the rest is magnificent. Imagine, for instance, that you didn’t have to stand in front of the hand dryer long enough to get a manicure, as is the case in most US ladies’ facilities. Generally speaking, the dryers in England are so powerful, the skin on your hands ruffles back like the flews on a dog’s mouth when he’s airing himself out a car window.
I don’t usually spend time thinking about loos. Wait. Yes I do. I thought about them again when, while shopping, I needed relief badly. In New York―or DC, or Maryland, or Georgia or Florida or anywhere in the US―I’d be wracking my brain to figure out what coffee shop I could sneak into, past the staff, and “spend a penny.” Or I’d just buy coffee and not drink it (especially considering the reason for being there to begin with, which often has to do with coffee).
But in England, there’s no need. Simply head for the nearest free, public toilets and be assured you won’t be asked to buy anything; unlike in Paris (many of them at least), you won’t even be asked to put a coin in a slot. Plus, the public toilets are safe. In my town, they are located right next to the police station, and it doesn’t get much safer than that.
But alas! When all this crossed my mind as I crossed my legs a couple of days back, I had actually forgotten about the toilets by the police station. But I remembered the lovely ones at the back of the Pannier Market, so the day was saved. Plus I got to look at all the things on offer in the stalls selling everything from antique spoons to dog beds to locksmith service to cakes….and no one pressured me to buy anything.
I went home with clean hands and a purse not lightened at all by my need to do what comes naturally to us all.
Long live the English loo!
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