Yule Tide
Thanksgiving, American Style
The Cornwall Report
Where Angel Fear to Tread
Stepping Out
Return
Yule Tide
23 December 2005
I’m in the King’s Head pub in the little village of Upper Beeding, just outside of Small Dole. Upper Beeding is a traditional old village, the kind with narrow streets, narrower sidewalks and where the doors to the flint and brick houses open directly onto the pavement. It also has a traditional, quirky name, made more so by the fact that Upper Beeding is below Lower Beeding.
The pub, I am happy to say, is traditional as well; a 15th century structure of stone walls and low beamed ceilings decked with horse brasses and pewter tankards. There’s a proper fireplace, as well, where a real log fire is burning. The bar is full of locals, all chatting and laughing together and, even though no one is talking to me, the conviviality is comforting.
In places like Upper Beeding, pub life remains a civilized and enriching tradition. In cities and larger towns, “going out for the evening” has become a euphemism for getting as pissed as you possibly can, starting a fight, breaking some windows and throwing up on the sidewalk. But village pubs continue to serve as community centers, and stopping by for a pint after tea is looked upon as an opportunity to converse with your neighbors and catch up on local gossip, not a prelude to random violence.
The pub is crowded tonight, as it appears to be simultaneously hosting several Christmas parties. (As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here. My wife and her work-mates are off at a corner table drinking white wine spritzers, pulling crackers and wearing funny hats. It’s my job to stay sober and drive us home after all is said, done, eaten and drunk.) Even so, aside from a few festively decked-out young ladies and the odd holly sprig, you’d be hard pressed to detect it was Christmas by looking around the room. And that’s just fine with me. Gaudy garlands and flashing lights would only detract from the atmosphere. Overdone decorations are not something the British do.
Having said that, a guy wearing a flashing Santa hat just walked in. But that’s what it’s like here in general; you can drive for miles and see nary a twinkling light, then come upon a display that could be spotted from low-orbiting spacecraft. And these displays always seem to come in clusters, as if some American-borne virus has infiltrated the local water supply, causing everyone on an entire street to engage in a bizarre contest to see who can generate the largest electricity bill.
Another quirk of the Christmas season in Britain is that every scene depicting Yule Tide activities–be it in greeting cards, holiday displays or on the telly–snow is a factor, even though snow, for the people born and bred here, is little more than a distant memory. But that’s how I like my snow, in pictures and in the past. Occasionally, we’ll get a frost, and that’s close enough for me.
But the overall best thing about a British Christmas, in my view, is the fact that we can still wish each other a happy one. It’s not that we don’t have our own legion of PC Police here–far from it–it’s merely that, thus far on this issue, we been giving them the attention they deserve. So, while I am still legally allowed, I’d like to take this opportunity to wish you all Happy Christmas and blessings in the New Year.
Merry Christmas
Happy Chanukah
Belated wishes for a festive Diwali season
And, of course, thanks for reading.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think someone needs a ride home.
Thanksgiving, American Style
03 December 2005
We cooked another ‘traditional’ Thanksgiving dinner last week. I had about given up trying to make anything remotely like I remembered it from America since the episode we now refer to as ‘The Chowder Incident.’ Attempting to make American-style food over here always results in forced substitutions and ends up being disappointing, inedible or both. This year, however, was different; I used real American food.
Thanks to a company I discovered on the Internet, I was able to import authentic stuffing and some tins of Creamed Corn.
This was all we required to move the meal from the ‘what the hell is this’ category into the ‘just like Grandma used to make’ arena. The guests were the ones saying, ‘what the hell is this?’
We were still unable to cook a actual turkey due to the size of our oven, but I placed two turkey breasts in a large pan and packed an amble amount of Pepperidge Farm stuffing around them and it came out better than I hoped. The stuffing tasted almost as if it had been cooked inside the bird and the turkey, thanks to the blanket of stuffing, came out moist and tender.
And the stuffing was a huge hit. Everyone said it was better than the English stuffing, which is sort of like breadcrumbs mixed with water and cooked in a pot. Think Stove-Top Stuffing, but not as good.
The creamed corn was a curiosity. They don’t have any over here so there was nothing to compare it to. My wife kept referring to it as Cream of Corn and my guests looked askance at it until they tasted it and found it quite palatable. I admire their courage; to the uninitiated, creamed corn does bear a disturbing resemblance to corn someone already ate.
The meal was capped off with pumpkin pie, another thing unheard of over here. I found this amazing, as we bought the pumpkin–the same brand as I used to buy in the states–in the local market, with the recipe printed on the side of the can. Everyone at the table (my wife, who had actually made the pie, include) said it would never occur to them to make a pie out of canned pumpkin–over here, it’s reserved for soup.
But the pie, like the stuffing, was greeted with universal approval. And they all ate it with a traditional dollop of whipped cream, even though custard was provided.
The only disappointment was the cranberry sauce. I didn’t buy any from the web and, instead, picked up a jar locally. It was tart and tasty and not at all like the solid packed jell in the can that comes out in a purple cylinder and tastes of tin and artificial flavors. Now that’s a traditional cranberry sauce.
Maybe next year.
The Cornwall Report
05 October 2005
No travelogue this time. Believe it or not, it becomes tiresome taking notes while on holiday, so I left my pad behind and proposed to simply enjoy myself. Just as well; the holiday was peaceful and relaxing and practically devoid of the sorts of foul-ups and disasters that make for fun reading. In short, it was too boring to write about (except for the seagull incident in St. Ives).
Cornwall, however, is a lovely place; you must go there. It might be wise to visit in the off-season, as we did, because during the summer months, everyone else is there. The picturesque little sea-side villages have the narrowest streets I have ever seen (occasionally, while walking on what we believed to be a foot path, we found ourselves squeezing into doorways to allow traffic to pass) and plunking several thousand tourists into them during the hot days of August cannot do a lot to enhance their charm.
We did a bit of walking, a lot of sightseeing and had more than a few cream teas (Cornwall is famous for its clotted cream so you can’t swing a cat without hitting a cream tea). We visited a few castles, gardens, the Eden Project and, of course, Land’s End (no, not the clothing outlet).
The weather was kind throughout the week, perhaps too kind; I took nearly 300 photos. The dozen or so that were any good are posted in the album pages. Enjoy.
The End of The End
Land’s End is, as its name suggests, the end of the land. It is the most westerly point on the main island of Britain and is the sort of place you go to for no other reason than it’s there. It used to be little more than an interesting waypoint along the Southwest Coast Path and the destination or starting point of ambitious hikers/cyclists traversing the entire island.
My wife went years ago, when it was merely a barren point way out in the middle of nowhere. There was a Post Box, a public house (both proudly proclaiming to be the ‘First and Last’ in Britain) and the famous signpost (you know, 3000 miles to New York, 500 odd miles to John O’Groats. My wife, as every tourist must, had her photo taken standing next to that sign. Other than that, there wasn’t a lot to do out there except enjoy the view.
These days, it is still out in the middle of nowhere, but it is no longer a barren point. There is a theme park, shopping village and enough parking for several hundred cars. We arrived relatively early and had to go to the overflow lot. The coach park was filling up as well. Swarms of people queued up for amusements and paraded through the shops. The ‘first and last’ post-box was closed and we had to use the one at the visitor’s centre in the amusement park. Most disturbing (aside from the fact that you have to pay £3 for parking) is the fate of the famous signpost. You can still have your photo taken standing next to it, but you have to pay. The post is surrounded by a fence, and in the kiosk guarding the entrance sits a professional photographer who will take a souvenir photo for you.
It’s all so horribly wrong. I snapped a picture of the post from a distance; maybe I’ll superimpose my image next to it.
Ode to a Knight
What does a trip to Cornwall and the 65th anniversary of the Battle of Britain have in common?
Cornwall is the traditional local of Camelot, King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Arthur was reputedly born in Cornwall and the legendary Camelot located in nearby Devon. The knights, according to legend, are not dead, but merely sleeping, waiting for the time when Britain is in danger and they will awaken to defend her.
It has been observed that they slept through two world wars, both of which were opportune times for them to stir out of their slumber, but they did not. I don’t agree.
First of all, England itself was under no threat during the First World War. It was a horrible, costly conflict that drained their resources and killed their young men, but the island itself remained secure.
During World War Two, I contend, they did wake up.
In August and September of 1940, after rolling through Europe, Hitler turned his attention toward England. There was little to stop him from crossing the Channel to take the island. If that happened, the war would have been lost, as no other country, at that time, was standing against the Nazis. America, even if it entered the war, would find no convenient place from which to launch an attack on fortress Europe. The world, as we know it, would be a much different place.
But as the Luftwaffe attacked Britain, the knights awoke, in the guise of fighter pilots*. Outnumbered and facing a heretofore an unstoppable advance, they took to the skies in their Spitfires and Hurricanes, holding off the German juggernaut and, eventually, turning the tide. By the end of September, having failed to gain air superiority, Hitler abandoned his plans to invade Britain.
Even if these young men were not literal reincarnations of Arthur’s Knights, it cannot be denied that they were imbued with the spirit of Camelot. They fought, defended their kingdom and defeated the enemy. Thanks to them, Britain remained safe.
The knights are asleep once more; let us hope, this time, they can rest in peace.
* It needs to be said that not all of the pilots were British. Among their ranks were Poles, Czechs, Australians, Canadians and a number or other nationalities
Where Angels Fear to Tread
12 July 2005
We went to London this past Saturday. I don’t consider myself very brave (quite the contrary) nor was the outing infused with the notion of waving two fingers in the face of the terrorists. No, we went because that’s what we had planned to do on Saturday and you can’t let a pack of nut-cases with explosives dictate how you live your life.
Unless, of course, you’re the United States military.
I was surprised to hear that all American military personnel are forbidden from venturing beyond the M-25 ring road that encircles the greater London area like a 6-lane concrete moat. Their families, though not specifically ordered to remain hiding in their homes, are ‘encouraged’ to avoid the area as well.
Sure it was a tragedy. Certainly there are a lot of grieving families here. But the rest of Britain is simply getting on with it. The morning after the bombs, most of London was back at work. On Saturday, the trains were running on time (well, on time for British trains) and London, while not heaving, was respectably crowded with tourists and Londoners alike.
We went to give the fifty-cent tour to our American visitor. When the bombings happened, there were a few hours of ‘this might make our London trip a bit awkward,’ and we did wonder briefly if our guest might not be more comfortable in a less target-rich environment, but cancelling the outing was never seriously considered.
And it was a lovely visit. The weather was grand, there were lots of events throughout the city (scheduled events that, like our visit, were not put off by a few bombs) and even the Queen was out unveiling a sculpture or performing some such Queenly duty. Going about your daily life is the best way to assert control and send a message to the enemies of freedom that their tactics are not succeeding.
This is why I find the US reaction so startling and a bit sad. It’s like waving the white flag and saying to the bombers, “Okay, you win, we won’t go there; you’ve made it far too dangerous for us!” Talk about giving aid and comfort.
I hope they come to their senses, though I expect the damage is already done. The American reaction will embolden and encourage the terrorists and sooner, rather than later, they will slither out of their dens to wreak more havoc in the gleeful expectation of hearing Uncle Sam cry, “Uncle!” once again.
Now, more than ever, I’m glad we went to London.
UPDATE: Before I even posted this I heard the US rescinded the no-go order from London. In my opinion, it was too little too late, the damage has already been done.
Stepping Out
08 May 2005
As I wandered innocently into town yesterday, on my way to the pub for a pint and a quite cigar, I suddenly found myself surrounded by bearded men in astonishing hats clad in colourful bits of rags with jingle bells strapped to their ankles. They were prancing about in a circle to the music of an accordion, chanting and banging big sticks together.
This sort of thing happens all the time here, really it does, which is why I often carry a camera.
The men were not insane (well, not necessarily, anyway) they were Morris dancers performing a traditional English folk dance. Women dancers–similarly dressed and called Magogs–were present as well, but they were waving handkerchiefs instead of sticks. There are thousands of these groups throughout England and I reckon most of them were packed into the town square on this particular afternoon.
I stopped to watch for a while (I had to, I couldn’t squeeze through the crowd) before making my way to the pub where I ordered a pint and savoured the relative peace and quite. This lasted a full ten minutes, until a sudden cloudburst sent the dancers–replete with accordions, banjos, sticks and gaudy hats–jingling into the pub with me, the barmaid and several startled patrons. They all gathered into their own groups, drinking pints out of tankards that appeared to be part of their wardrobe and raised the raucous level of the pub from intensive care ward to cup final crowd level.
For those of you not keeping up on the back-story, I used to be an Irish Step Dancer, and I still miss those days terribly. I miss the camaraderie, the practicing, and the ritual of preparing for a performance. I miss friendships bonded by a shared passion and I miss the fact that dancing kept me slim and supple, resembling an athlete instead of a rusting, bloated geezer who groans every time he bends down to pick up his socks, which is what I am rapidly turning into.
When I arrived in England, I searched diligently for an Irish Dance team but there were none to be found. All there were, it seemed, were Morris dancers, who I was currently elbow-to-elbow with, affording me my first up-close inspection of their costumes.
Irish dancing, to be sure, involved fancy costumes, but that was mostly for the women. I was in the enviable position of being able to perform, change my shoes and walk into a pub wearing my dance outfit and not draw the slightest bit of attention. Those were good days, and I felt the longing for them quite keenly in the company of these foreign folk dancers.
After about fifteen minutes, one of them shouted, “It’s dancing weather”, and the pub suddenly cleared. I resumed my pint and my nostalgic musings and, eventually, headed home.
I stopped to watch them again, this time on purpose. Could I actually join one of these groups? Could my passion for folk dancing overcome the necessity of donning a costume that looked like a cross between lederhosen, colourful chicken feathers and Clydesdale tackle? I thought not.
Sadly, and carrying just a little more weight around my middle, I turned toward home.
If only their costumes weren’t quite so silly; I really fancy the idea of swinging those sticks around.
