I ache, pleasantly. English countryside hiking, though unkind to a body neglected, is magic for my mind. And exercise, on the heals of a lunch of gargantuan proportions, is a challenge even for those that have earned physiques that inspire second glances. Nancy and I took an early walk. We followed bridal paths that were not much narrower than the modest width of Isle of Wight roads, the difference being, the bridal paths are not paved. And, they intersect private properties. Gates that keep wandering livestock from strolling away from the land where they belong, are routinely breached by horseman, cyclists and walkers, who all politely understand the importance of closing the gate behind you. I fought my sense of invading anothers space and walked vast pastures filled with cows and goats. Hedges, thick with Stinging Nettle, were filled with ripe blackberries that filled our bellies with sweetness and left our fingers stained purple. Our lunch took us to a pub. It was called, The Ferrymans Daughter. I began to sample ales. I decided to run the tap handles from right to left, and got as far as a Bitter, an Old 49er, and a Cloudy Cider (we do cider wrong!) before my roast Beef Dinner arrived. Nancy had chosen a Stilton stuffed Portabella buried in Arugula (OMG!), and a sharing plate that included prawns, mackerel pate, and cod joujons. After I had devoured the beef, parsnips, roast and new potatoes, peas, cheese cauliflower, and yorkshire pudding (not a Brit in the place could explain to me why it is called pudding when it looks like bread...unimportant point when you consider its deliciousness when soaked in the ample gravy that defined the ground floor of my plate), I was left an unusual square of something that was gelatinous and slightly to the brown end of the yellow spectrum. I was told it was a horseradish dumpling. It was not as pungent as we normally think of horseradish being, but it had a strong but less than overwhelming horseradish profile, packaged in doughy textured bites of gooey goodness. Post dinner, Nancy and I snuck away to explore an ancient village. Though there were a few touristy shops, they were interspersed amongst traditional shops that featured hand made leather goods and turned wood art. The buildings were circa 16th and 17th century. Their present contents were far less important than the spirit of their structure. Every stone, every laid wooden beam, reeked of the thousands upon thousands of days they had witnessed. We turned a corner, and spied rows upon rows of headstones, angled at various dispositions as the result of gravity and so many years of standing at attention. The bodies at rest, guarded a church, first established in the eleventh century. Its present structure, old by American standards, but just a baby by the measure of English time, was built in the mid 1700s. It is still functioning church, called St. Georges. Of course, because we are in southern England, Anglican, or what we identify with in America as Episcopalian. Its the domination of the church that I grew up in. And Episcopalian is church that is dear to the heart of my mother today, still. And though my Sunday worship attendance record is far less than exemplary, upon stepping into the storied edifice, I was overwhelmed with a need to pray. I thanked God for the fortune of this trip. And I felt especially connected to my mother and my grandmother, whose devotion to their faith is the basis of who I am. My eyes were wet. As we left, I gave way to tears, when I saw the tomb of The Ferrymans Daughter. So, belly and spirit filled, we scooted over to a car boot sale...a what???...a car boot sale. Its a Sunday tradition in England. Part garage sale, part flea market, its a gathering in a parking lot (here, called a car park, park being a noun...man Im beginning to understand why they think that we have bastardized their language!) where citizens unite to cheaply exchange their junk. Cars open their boots (trunks) AND SELL THEIR LEFTOVER SHIT!!!! Its stupidly geeky and amazing at the same time. We kibitzed, laughed til I though I was gonna wet my pants, and I bought four classic vinyls for a Pound ( a buck sixty three), that I know my son Josh is going to love. But, I digress, as I led with a pleasant ache. We returned to our farm. As I readied myself for a leisurely evening, with a Jack and water in hand, I was told we were going for yet, another hike. We found a geocache to find (look it up), found it and hiked for a couple of miles....all downhill. Which implies an uphill return. My legs burned. My chest pounded. And about the time we were a quarter mile from home, Allison, the owner of the farm where we are staying, strode up from behind us, with her three dogs. They are Collies, trained to herd their sheep. Allison walks with a confidence and conditioning that is in sharp contrast with her seventy one years. She encouraged me up the hill. Her youngest pup, Swift, only two years old, is early in her training. Nancy met Swift and fell in love. The two of them pranced through the pasture. Swift play-nipped at her heels, herding her in the directions she wanted Nancy to go. They fell into the long grass, Swift dove atop of Nancy, and Nancy scratched her belly until that pup literally smiled. My dog loving bride was smiling bigger than Swift. We stopped short of our room, intercepted by Allisons hubby of 55 years, Harold. Harold was told he had a year to live, some five years ago. And I figured out in talking with him, that attitude might just be the best cure for anything. We chatted golf, and ancient things they had found on their farm. Allison showed us a 16th century purse handle. Harold had culled out of me that I loved golf. He sensed my less than enthusiastic response to a purse handle. And he smiled with delight over my zest for the hundred and fifty year old gutta-percha golf ball he had found on the farm (his second find, the first netting him 500 British Sterling Pounds from a Sothbys Auction). We chatted for some time. Harold even offered me his clubs, should I want a round before we leave. And now, I sit here and write, aching in my legs, pleasantly satiated in my heart. Tomorrow, Harold and Allison will be herding and sheering 140 sheep. I will be watching...and rooting for Nancys new buddy, Swift.
Posted on: Sun, 21 Sep 2014 22:21:51 +0000