It’s not all castles and cakes

Some days I get to help make a milk jug igloo. Glamorous.

Day out: Avebury

Some very wise friends have given me good advice: when the sun comes out in England, drop everything and get outside.  Soak it up.  Revel.  Raise your face to the sky and store up your overdue recharge of solar power.  If you’re having a bad day, so much the better.   Get out of the house and plunge into the gorgeous scenery this country has to offer.

And so we took ourselves off to Avebury, Stonehenge’s slightly less well known, but far more approachable, sibling.

After keeping our distance at Stonehenge — on an overcast and chilly day — it was (dare I say it) brilliant to be able to walk among amid and through these monoliths.

The village of Avebury sits inside the large ring of stone and earthwork that make up the Henge.

Circumperambulation of the Henge requires crossing the main streets through the village.

In many places the original stones are missing or buried, and modern markers take their place.

One can walk up the great earthworks and look over the ditch, across the inner ring of stones.

Or turn around and from the top of the bank sigh over the Wiltshire countryside.

Or enter the museum and view the site as if you were an alien looking for a nice well-marked landing spot.

The museum includes some information shared by modern-day Druids, which seems very friendly.

At very nearly the center of the Henge is the Red Lion, and an average English Sunday Roast.

We sat next to the locally famous 17th century village well — covered with glass, so you can look down, down, down the 86ft to the bottom — where the dead body of adulterous Florrie was thrown after her murder by her husband.  Now her dark ghost occasionally haunts the pub.  No one ate at this table.  Hm, wonder why?

One of the many pleasing games we played while walking through the stones was shape spotting.  We found stones which looked like crowns; diamonds; chairs; and this one we thought looked like it had a heart.

It’s chilly, rainy and grey today — but I’m warmed just looking at these photos again.  Batteries: recharged.

Taking stock

Although this post would be an ideal place for it, I do mean taking stock, not making stock. ~Waving goodbye to anyone who dropped in looking for food.~

We’ve been here five months.  I’ve been told it takes about six months to feel adjusted to a new country — or, really, anywhere from six to eighteen months.  Before we moved, in my massive arrogance and naïveté, I thought: “It won’t take me that long.”  Like the soon-to-be new parent who thinks she’s figured out this mothering gig before she’s even felt a contraction, I knew it all.  And like that same new mother, life is teaching me — hard, fast, and with no mercy whatsoever — that I am a complete idiot.

I’ve moved before — often, almost.  Moving to a new country is not like that at all.  Everything is different, from small things like how to make coffee, to big things like the position of the sun.  There is no moment when you can throw your head back and say ‘ah, everything is different but at least this one thing is familiar, and having found this one place I can relax here and renew myself for the future.’

Maybe that place does exist, but I haven’t found it yet.  And seriously people, I have been around.

Hm, this post is getting off track.  I’m feeling positive overall.  Six months is enough time to build up some routines.  I could drive the kids to school in my sleep.  I know where to buy milk.  I am madly in love with English bacon.  I have food in the fridge and my very own kitchen to cook it in — or if we want to go out, I know where we can go with the kids, or where to go for a nice dinner out with my guy.   I can drive through town without the satnav (tho’ not anywhere else).  I can ride the bus, ride the train, call a taxi, get gas, get on my feet, get around.  I’ve found some other ex-pats who like to explore.   I’ve met the neighbors — we have a ladies lunch, which is so charming I want to bust, even though I feel young and silly next to everyone else.  I have this blog, which has been rewarding in completely unexpected ways.  Some days I look up over the Cotswolds and just can’t breathe for beauty.

But … but.  It’s not home.  Right now it doesn’t feel like it ever will be home.  I miss honeysuckle and barefoot walks by the Chesapeake Bay and my picnic tables and iced tea and American friendliness.  It’s not just that I miss summer and sunshine — which of course, I do — it’s not just that I miss feeling competent and self-assured — which of course, I do — but I miss the me that I was at home, and haven’t yet discovered the me I am here.

Sigh.  That’s sufficiently tortured for one day, I think.  Since a post without a photo is like England without rain, here’s one from our recent trip to Puzzlewood — magical, mysterious, enticing yet forbidding — and lacking any clear path — just as I feel about our life in the UK right now.

I Spy

Play along today, and guess where I spy with my little eye…

… the inside of a clock face.… the outside of that same clock face.

… a peephole in the ceiling.

… that same peephole in this ceiling.

… ropes going up through the ceiling.

… those same ropes leading up to these bells.

… a fairly terrifying staircase.

… an even more terrifying staircase.  (The rope is for you.  To hold on.  So you don’t fall.)

… a church rooftop.

… that same rooftop, down there on the left.
(I also spy a world famous Roman ruin — do you know where we are, yet?)

I spy with my little eye …

… a beautiful Georgian city from very very high.

… a beautiful Georgian city from just a little high.

I spy with my little eye…

Do you know where we are?  Bath Abbey describes itself as ‘where heaven and earth meet’ and a tour of clock tower, roof, and bells provides a clever and interesting introduction to this duality.  And with 212 steps up and the same down, it feels like a pilgrimage through determination, despair, exhaustion, fear, repose, inspiration, and finally, satisfaction (and the strong urge for a good snack).  Can’t go to Bath?  Try the 360 tour.  (But you must jog in place while watching to really earn that feeling of satisfaction.)

Just like Phineas and Ferb

We went to London and went up the London Eye.  Just like Phineas and Ferb.  The kids mentioned this to me repeatedly, all the while looking around expectantly for a giant waterslide to appear.  I suspect most of their expectations for London, and England as a whole, have been established by Phineas and Ferb.

It’s pretty close, really.

The Eye is very very big.

We visited on Valentine’s Day, and were reassured to see that the Eye is anchored by love.  If you visit on some other day, I guess it’s anchored by physics and stuff.  But Feb 14th?  Love.

Entry to the pods is a bit hairy if you have any kind of motion sickness … you get to dash on while the pod is moving.

It’s cool.

It’s awesome.

It’s very very high.

There’s a “4D Experience” you can see before you get on the Eye.  Although husband was not impressed by what is essentially a long commercial for the ride you have already bought a ticket to enter, the kids and I thought it was great.  There were bubbles, snowflakes, fog, rain, fireworks, dragons, dancing ladies, and lots of kablammo kapow.  I left thinking that from now on, all business power point presentations should be done in the style of the London Eye 4D Experience.

If I had a stupidly huge amount of money to waste, I would totally go back and take one of the speciality trips.  Champagne Afternoon Tea at over 400 feet for 20, anyone?  Only 1300 pounds.

Lots of photos of the Eye here, and here, and here.

Short and sweet

You know when you do something that you really enjoy, and you sort of think you do pretty well for an amateur, and then you realize you know many people who do it way better?  That’s how I’ve been feeling about baking lately.   And photos of baking.  I blame the internet.  And blogging.  And … people.  And … the universe.

But, succumbing to child-led begging, we did make some cupcakes this weekend, using our old standby recipe (which also works just fine when modified).

The big version.

The small version.

The M&Ms give a nice size comparison.  I think I’ll measure all sorts of things in M&M Units — MMUs — from now on.

Half term break

Friday of half term break.  My half-baked plans for holiday did not materialize, but we’ve made do with lots of pancakes and Wii, a few day trips, and today: building an amusement park for the cats.

It’s not that I’m a crazy cat lady.  It’s just that I’m so glad to have them with us again, I’ve dedicated an entire corner of my sun room to the cats.  This is slowly evolving in to a crazy-book and crazy-cat room.  Stick my Tassimo in here and there’d be no reason to come out. Crazy cat-book-coffee lady, that’s me.

I haven’t quite worked out the cat’s place in the UK domestic animal hierarchy. The biggest local pet store has a decent variety of food and some varieties of litter, but nothing like what I’m used to seeing, and all in small sizes.  Our cat tree was obtained online — no luck finding anything locally.  While looking for it, I discovered the new-to-me sub-genre of outdoor cat shelters.  This is another one of those thing that I’m going to think of as uniquely English, accurate or not, because I’d never heard of them before we moved here.  Do English cats most often live outside?

Paid in false coin

One in every 36 British pound coins is fake.  This is a fairly shocking number: that’s about 41 million pounds (64 million dollars!) worth of counterfeit money in circulation.  BBC news has some articles discussing how to spot fake coins.  There are detailed sites helping individuals identify fake coinage.  It’s gotten so bad, apparently some people have floated the idea of reminting the pound.

It was only a matter of time before we received a counterfeit coin during a commercial transaction.  I know to look for misaligned front and back designs, incorrect printing on the sides of the coins, poor workmanship, differences in weight … but what do you do, right at that moment when you think you are being given a counterfeit coin?  I, of course, took it so I could show the kids and take photos.

Which is the counterfeit coin?  Can you guess which one I suspect?

I should note that I don’t *know* that the coin is counterfeit for sure — but I haven’t found a coin machine that will accept it yet.  I’m taking that, along with my observations and my one in 36 chance of picking one up eventually, as proof.

Tintern Abbey

Midway through a quiet Sunday, I’m possessed — I’ve remembered I didn’t come here to vaccuum – and I haul up any kids interested in coming along and we hare off for Wales and Tintern Abbey.  My sat nav proves once again she’s trying to kill me, but an eight mile detour through one track hedge-rowed lanes does not deter us, and soon enough we see the shattered skeleton of Tintern Abbey  rise above the Wye.  Gorgeous.

I don’t know what it’s like in summer, but on a not-raining but cold Sunday afternoon in February, the Abbey is largely deserted.  There were a few other families out exploring the walls and remains of rooms and ruins.  The visitor center sells a great guidebook — the entry fee gets you in, but if you want any information: that’s extra.  I have a good collection of these guidebooks now, so I can say definitively that  this is a good one.

We’ve visited the ruins of Hailes Abbey — another Cistercian abbey complex — so it was exciting to compare the sites and the relative levels of preservation.  Well, I was excited.  The kids were flabbergasted at the idea of only three fireplaces in the whole compound — kitchen, warming room, and infirmary.  Daughter also wanted to know why it was just men.  I offered: “Because they thought it would help them concentrate.”  After thoughtful consideration, she decided they should instead have worn better clothes, eaten better food, and had more fires to stay warm.  “Then they could concentrate better.”  Youngest contributed: “If they had turkey, I would like it.  No turkey, then I would not like it.”  So there you have it.  When they learn about Cistercians in school they will remember cold water and lack of turkey dinners.

My middle child decided to help me with the photos.  She selected the ones for you to view today, and directed the editing.

“I like making the picture look old.  Because that place was old.  Like you, Mommy.”

“I don’t want to make this one black and white. I want to make it pink.”  “I like black and white.”  “Why?”  “It makes me think of vampires, and vampires are cool.”  “You’re weird.”  (I’ll leave you to guess who is child and who is me.)

“Remember when I called this the grave tree, because I thought someone was dead under it, but it was really a King tree for Queen Elizabeth?”  “A Coronation Tree for George V.”  “Right, that.”

“Sometimes looking at clouds makes my mind go whooooom.”

We agreed to disagree about this one.  I like the three arches, she thinks it’s kind of boring.  And it reminds her of a banana?

“Oh, yeah, I liked yelling in there.  It was all echo-y.”

“Fine, you can do that one black and white but only if I can do whatever I want on the next one.”

“That … is … AWESOME.”

Day out: Everyman Theatre

Here’s a warning, right upfront: I think theaters are cool.  Something about performance and performing, about magic and excitement, about the line between stage and audience and where it blurs — I love it.   Going backstage is like jumping in to a magician’s hat.  And there’s the romance of the inevitable theater ghost or phantom, and the joy of carving out a space in the shadows that is so private no one can find you — and yet, you’re in the middle of a huge show.  So, yeah, I like that.

Oh, and I have some photos of the theater in use, from our visit to the Panto.

Enter the ‘dress circle’ — the first balcony — and my eyes go up to the beautiful dome.

The theater was built to house opera as well as drama, so the proscenium is very high and the dome was meant to help project the voice.  The original gas lamp in the dome was also a ventilation system for the theater.

A view of one of the two theater boxes.  There are only three seats in each box, and the view of the stage is not the best — but the tickets include champagne, and everyone can see you very well.  Wave like the Queen!

The refurbished seats, and the very discreet ventilation ducts.

The two angels to either corner of the stage are very possibly my favorite decorative elements in the entire theater.  What I wouldn’t give to have her view for just a moment, as she sits holding that small sun.

And now we move backstage — oooh, the dressing room.  I should have brought flowers.

The fly floor.

Looking down to the stage from the fly floor.  Wheeee!

There was a lot of technical talk up here.  Things going up and down, grids, proper weighting, marking, safety, timing.

A trip through wardrobe.  Most shows bring their own costumes — even their own washers, driers, and ironing boards — but the panto stores costumes here year-round.

Scene shop.  Smells like IKEA.  Looks like awesome.

View from backstage up to the fly floor.

Now imagine this:  you are standing on stage.  Look to your right and you’ll see this:

Take one step and look to your left and you’ll see this:

C’mon, that is magic.

The stage was set for a show when we visited.  I’m trying to get all arty with my shot.

And a view back up the balconies from the pit as we walk out.  These used to be benches — the theater was built to accomodate nearly 1500 people, apparently on friendly terms.  Now it holds about 700.

For a history of the Everyman Theatre, I glowingly recommend Michael Hasted‘s A Theatre for All Seasons: The History of the Everyman Theatre, Cheltenham.  A new edition is coming out in paperback next month, if you can’t find a copy of the hardback.  It’s full of information not just about this gorgeous theater, but the history of the performing arts in Cheltenham.  I even discovered through this book the location of the Cheltenham Assembly Rooms (now a bank) — where Wellington danced, and Paganini once played!  But that’s a post for another day.