An all-American girl muses on the joys and travails of life in
Great Britain
May 07, 2008
A Nottingham spring in full flower
Today I spent a few hours in the greenhouse, baking in the 75 degree sun (it's warmer than you think!) and painstakingly transplanting my 35 tomato plant seedlings into pots. In a few weeks they'll be ready to put into the ground, I hope. Of course I don't have nearly enough space (nor even eaters) for 35 plants, so I've been spreading the word to friends that I'll have free plants to give away, assuming all goes well.
The ideal spring weather in these photos is a major contrast from the photos taken just two weeks ago that I posted yesterday. It's the third day of sunshine here in Nottingham, and I just can't get enough of the outdoors. Luckily, being in my peaceful, second-story bedroom (here in England they'd call it first-story) is almost like being outdoors, for I've got two large banks of windows facing east and south over the garden. One of the peculiarities of England is that nobody has window screens. That's right--no window screens. Instead, almost all windows swing straight out into the air. That's a boon for me, since the apple tree outside my south-facing window is currently laden with blooms, and the pear tree next to it and cherry tree next to that are just finishing up their flowering.
Although the occasional wasp, bee and the fly find its way into the room, apparently mosquitoes, gnats and the other pests we know in Chicago aren't much of an issue here. The bugs to watch out for, I'm told, are midges. Just what midges are, however, I've yet to discover.
Keep reading to see more photos of an English spring.
About two weeks ago I went home with my friend Ruth to spend a few days around Kettering, Northamptonshire. It's hard now to remember today just how cold and wet it was, as these photos attest, especially since the last few days have sparkled with dazzling warm sunshine and the once barren winter landscape has exploded in a glory of green leaves and bright flowers (I got quite sunburned today walking alongside the River Trent).
Although we shivered in winter weather two weeks ago, though, the gloom only served to heighten the atmosphere at Kirby Hall, a once stately Elizabethan manor house now fallen into ruins. However English Heritage has done a great job restoring parts of the hall and gardens to their original splendor. The small entry fee includes an audio tour that's extremely informative, explaining not only the history of the building and its owners but also about Elizabethan culture. I found it especially intriguing as I serendipitiously happened to be reading Bill Bryson's latest book, "Shakespeare" (I know I've posted about Bill Bryon several times on this site, but I swear I do read plenty of other authors!) Exploring Kirby Hall, or what's left of it, anyway, really brought Shakespeare's world to life for me, and the part when Ruth and I crouched in the ruins of a stairwell so we could eat our sack lunches out of the wind made the whole excursion even more adventurous.
While much of the main house is still standing, the less well-constructed servant's wing has fallen into ruins. This house was notable for being one of the first to incorporate curved windows.
If you’ve been reading this blog for awhile, you may get the impression that I’m living a free and easy expat life, traveling at the drop of a hat around Europe and spending every evening at the pub.
That’s true in some ways. I have been able to travel, but my travels are very dependent on my limited income (and where my friends have relatives). Yes, it’s been lovely to escape the freedom of a 9-to-5 job this year, but that also means I struggle sometimes with a sense of purpose and validation when my housemate comes in exhausted from her teaching job and I’ve just been sitting around the house all day working on articles and tidying the kitchen. It also means that I don’t have regular income or health insurance!
And yes, I do often end up at the pub with my friends of an evening, but that’s only after I’ve finished stacking chairs, emptying the bathroom trash cans and vacuuming up after a church service; or helping to lead a small group for young adults; or running a Sunday morning program for 45 hyper pre-teens.
For the real truth is that I’m doing real work here in England, and I thought it might be time for me to start sharing some of the emotional and physical struggles that have accompanied this experience. I made a major life change to spend a year in England, and the transition hasn’t been without its difficulties.
The squirrel saga will never end. It turns out that now black squirrels (that are really mutant grey squirrels) are pushing out the grey squirrels, just as the greys pushed out the reds.
Today is St. George's Day, the day when England celebrates its patron St. George (he of the Dragon).
Only, it doesn't. Not really.
"I know more about the flippin' Irish St. Patrick's Day than I do about St. George," said my housemate Dave in exasperation today. "I mean, I drink a pint of Guinness on 17th March but I don't do anything for St. George's Day."
He then proceeded to head out to the pub for a pint of real ale.
"Today is St. George's Day," I told my mom by telephone this afternoon.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I assume it's to do with St. George and the Dragon."
Luckily, the trusty Daily Telegraph that arrives each day to adorn our kitchen table (thanks to English Mum) included a special souvenir section all about St. George's and his Day, England and a growing sense of English nationalism. It's a good thing, I think, for the English to be proud of their heritage and cultural individuality, just as the Scots, Welsh and Irish--especially in this era of encroaching chain stores and the village pub and post office closures.
I probably know more about the English medieval legends of St. George (a 4th century martyr to whom medieval storytellers attached fantastic tales) than do most English, mostly because my favorite picture book growing up was the simply beautiful St. George and the Dragon, by Margaret Hodges and illustrated with lavish paintings by Trina Schart Hyman. I can't recommend the book highly enough--it won the 1985 Caldecott medal for illustrations and also introduced this 7-year-old to Edmund Spenser's "The Faerie Queene" at a most precocious age, since Hodgson retells that version of the Georgian legend. Every child on both sides of the pond should read and admire this lovely book! I still treasure my copy and am sad it's in a friend's basement in Waukegan right now, unavailable for reading on the 23rd of April.
I'm in London for a few days, visiting one of my best friends, who's just married an Englishman (after 10 years on the North Side and on the North Shore). We were strolling about a gallery space at the National Theatre this afternoon, enjoying "Beauty and Difference: Worlds Apart," an exhibition of children's artwork from around the world, when we came to the U.S. section.
There were only three entries by American art students among the 100 or so artworks, so we were surprised to see a video screen showing footage of the Bean and downtown Chicago. Suddenly, high school students were on the screen, giving messages to Chinese students. My friend and I both leaned in to read the plaque explaining the video presentation, and exclaimed at once, "New Trier!" The work was a series of video diaries created by students at New Trier high school in Winnetka. We stood for awhile watching the high school students passing on messages to their contemporaries in China, both more than a bit pleased to stumble across such a tangible link here in England to our lives back home.
It's been a sullen, grey day and the many seeds I planted on Monday are still hiding away in the earth. The mint plant that I potted and set out in the greenhouse is flourishing, though.
I quickly learned one quick difference between English and American gardening--the wearing of Wellies. Wellington boots are tall and rubbery, in order to keep out the mud, I presume. It's so much easier to slip into my Wellies (well, OK, into my housemate Julia's Wellies) at the garden door than it is putting on tennis shoes (trainers, they call them here) that are bound to get filthy and that need to be scraped before re-entering the house.
