Since I still use my American bank, I seldom interact with the British banking system. Today, however, I needed cash so I visited a Barclay’s bank “cashpoint. (Note to British readers: In America this is known as an ATM for Automatic Tiller Machine, or, as my uncle calls it a Magic Money Machine). Apparently I haven’t used a Barclay’s cashpoint before, because after choosing to withdraw cash, the machine asked if I wanted an advice slip. This was a new phrase for me.
An advice slip? It had to be the same as a receipt, I figured, about to push the button, since I always collect receipts for automatic transactions. But then I hesitated. What if “advice slip” was really some sort of clever marketing ploy. By pressing “advice slip,” was I inadvertently signing myself up for some kind of personal banking scheme?
What if the machine had retrieved full access to my accounts once I slipped in my card, and, using some sort of cruel algorithm blind to the plight of an overseas volunteer living with a not-very-friendly-exchange rate, had determined that my outgoings far exceeded my incomings and I was in desperate need of financial advice? Perhaps the slip would read, “You are an economic fool. We are putting a temporary freeze on your bank card until you sign up for one of our excellent savings plans. A bank manager will ring you shortly.”
Curiosity got the better of me, however, so I pushed the button. Out came an innocuous little slip that was hardly a receipt. All it did was record the amount of my withdrawal.
I then proceeded to meet a new friend for lunch. As we discussed British-American differences, I told her about the “advice slip” quandary, and fished it out of my purse.
“Advice slip?” she said, chuckling. “I suppose that does sound a little odd. Don’t worry, it’s just a receipt. It’s not going to tell you it’s time to lose weight or anything like that.”
The advice slip adventure reminded me of a particularly frustrating run-in I had with an Irish cashpoint outside Dublin during my March visit. We stopped to get some Euros, and after I put in the card the machine asked me, before asking anything else, if I’d like a receipt for the transaction. I pressed Yes. A few questions later, it once more asked me if I’d like a receipt for the transaction. Once again, I selected Yes.
A few questions later, the screen flashed, “You have a requested a receipt for this transaction. Is this correct? Press ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to proceed.” I pressed Yes. The machine then flashed another screen that read, “This machine is unable to print receipts at this time. If you would like to proceed press ‘Yes.” I pressed Yes once more. Finally I walked away with Euros in hand, sputtering with both laughter and annoyance. But I never did get a receipt. Or an advice slip.
Last fall my parents were vacationing in Laughlin, Nevada when they heard a couple in the hotel dining room speaking with British accents. Being the hospitable folks that they are, they invited the couple to join them for breakfast and told them their daughter had just moved to Nottingham. The Brits, it turned out, lived practically just down the road in Leicester, and the two couples spent hours chatting. Their friendship now continues via email exchanges and occasional Taste of America and Taste of Britain care packages that wend their way back and forth across the Atlantic. It wasn't long, of course, before I was drawn into this email exchange. I am looking forward to a visit with David and Pauline in Leicester in two weeks time, and I thought American readers might enjoy this email David sent to my parents and me concerning the current "summer" weather here in England--we've had a spate of eight sunny, warm days. I've also included my reply.
On Tue, May 13, 2008 at 7:48 AM, David F. wrote:
Well I never! According to the paper this morning, the 'hot' period that we are having at the moment is the hottest May since 1772! Just think that the last time that Brits were going around in inappropriate clothing, getting burnt to a cinder and looking like tomatoes, America was still under British rule, Mozart was a mere 16 years old and Beethoven was toddling around on tottery legs! I hope the pleasant weather continues if only to encourage all the gardeners to get bedding plants in their gardens. However, the old English saying of "Cast ne'er a clout* 'til May be out" is often true and many gardeners and those who have espoused their winter clothes should be warned! Hope all is well, With all good wishes, David.
Stephanie Fosnight to David F. on Tue, May 13, 2008 at 12:25 PM
Hi David,
Haha, I love your email! It certainly has been a gardener's paradise. And woe betide the slugs who come across my path! I've heard the "ne'er cast a clout" thing a few times before, but I've cast away with abandon the last week.
Be well and ENJOY THE "HEAT." (Every time someone asks me how I've managed to cycle about in all this "heat" I have to work hard not to snicker, Arizona girl that I am).
Stephanie
P.S. Mom and Dad, this insane heat everyone keeps talking about is actually very pleasant weather in the mid- to high- 70s. :) It's rough, but someone has to endure it.
My tomato plants are thriving! It's been less than a week since I transplanted them to their pots and placed them in the greenhouse and, despite the fact that the greenhouse is missing several key panes of glass, the plants have been so very happy. They've quadrupled in size in the past 5 days, and today I proudly gave the four strongest and tallest to my friend Emma so she might put them in her garden. My potted mint plant is very happy, as well, and I've been loving the chance to dart out to the greenhouse for a handful of mint leaves when I've made lemonade or iced tea.
Both of those iconic American drinks, however, take a little bit of work on this English isle, for neither is common at all. That is to say, there is a common drink called lemonade that is available at every bar, but it's actually what we'd call 7-Up or Sprite or, to use the generic term, a lemon-lime soda pop. The church I'm volunteering at has a fully licensed bar that we open after the evening service, and I work behind the bar once a month. The first time I was there, the team leader asked me to check the lemonade and see if it was OK, so I pressed the little button marked "L" on the soft drink dispenser (or, as they'd say, fizzy drink dispenser) and poured myself a glass, thinking it was strange that the lemonade was carbonated. I tasted it and announced, "Something's wrong with the lemonade. It tastes like Sprite." I was soon set straight--that is lemonade in England. I also quickly learned that a popular bar drink is a shandy, a mixture of "lemonade" and lager from the tap (our lager on tap at the Trent Vineyard bar is Carlsberg Export, and I've grown to quite enjoy an occasional cheeky half of this pleasing little brew). I've since learned that what we Americans call lemonade is most often referred to here as "cloudy lemonade" and is served as a specialty bottled drink in the better pubs. However, my English brother Dave brought home a bottle of lemon squash (concentrated fruit drink that is diluted with water before serving) that's actually made with real lemons and sugar, and it's delicious. When I mix in cold water, ice cubes and mint leaves, it's like I'm sitting on my Great Uncle Roger's Colorado farm, enjoying his signature summer beverage.
Iced tea is, of course, a complete anomaly here in England. My British friends can't imagine why I'd want my tea served over ice. I suppose the fact that all hot tea drunk here has added milk has something to do with it. And, in fact, while the Brits do certainly drink enormous quantities of tea (despite the growing popularity of coffee), they usually just drink plain old black tea. It's nothing like home, where herbal teas and green teas and white teas and specialty flavored teas abound. I've always been a tea drinker so I'm at home here, but having milk in my tea took some getting used to. Now I love how it makes the tea creamy and mild, but when I've brewed myself a cup of tea and poured it over ice, I definitely eschew the milk. A few homegrown mint leaves from the greenhouse are the perfect and only necessary addition.
The main problem I've encountered thus far in an English garden is slugs. I suppose they're also snails, but when I find them, they are minus the shell and merely a sticky, slimy little creature hiding in a pot or under the leaves of a plant, like in my mint plant. The best thing about the slugs, if there can be a best thing, is that they leave a shimmery, glittering trail on the leaves they've crawled over. In fact, I would even consider the beglittered leaves somewhat pretty, if I wasn't so disgusted. Consider the day I visited the greenhouse to discover my young mint plant sparkling with slug "glitter." Several leaves had also been chewed through. I merely pulled off the shiny leaves and left the plant.
It wasn't until a few days later, when I was busy sorting through the dozens of dusty, spider-webbed pots that have sat untouched for a decade, that I started to come across the slugs themselves. At first I saw one slithering along the rocks. It was fat and happy and utterly disgusting. I pulled on my gardening gloves, picked up the squirmy thing, and dumped it in the compost bin. I figured it would be happy tunneling through the compost until the rubbish collectors picked it up and squashed it with all the other garden waste. A few minutes later, I was happily sorting pots when I realized I'd somehow grabbed a slug with my bare hands. I squealed and shook it off before wiping my hand thoroughly on the grass. I know it's silly--I have no problem picking up worms--and also prejudiced--I carefully, almost lovingly return the worms to the soil so they can continue their good work, whereas I chuck the slugs into the bin as quickly as possible. It's not fair to the slugs. They can't help being slugs. But they are gross!
English Dad told me I could use slug pellets or other poisons to keep them away from my plants, but I prefer to make my gardening as organic as possible, especially when dealing with food plants, so he suggested I simply check the plants morning and evening, pulling off all the slugs I encounter.
"I've found that if I do that at the beginning of the growing season, they don't tend to come back," he said.
So that's what I've been doing, making a daily or twice daily check of my pea plants in the ground, my lettuce mixture in the big pot, and my four dozen or so potted herbs and tomatoes in the greenhouse. It takes a bit of time looking at the leaves and checking under the pots, but it's worth it when I find the slimy little creatures. And the good news is that I haven't seen a slug or traces of a slug for three days!
I told my mom about this on one of my frequent calls to my Arizona hometown, and also about my prejudice of them. Then she said, "I know exactly how you feel. I used to get so annoyed by the slugs in our garden back in Minnesota that I'd squash them with a rock. But eventually I got to the point where I just squashed them with my bare hands."
At least I throw them into the compost bin, where they can spend the remainder of their days happy and content eating their way through leaves and grass, before that cruel moment when they're squashed by the trash compactor.
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.
Suddenly we are bathed in a literal glow of green, with spots of color popping out all over the place, as in this flower bed next to the greenhouse. (Full credit goes to English Dad, by the way, for all of his hard work on the garden, lawn and hedges).
The ivy is creeping over the house once more, and will cover it with greenery before turning glorious coppers, reds and golds this fall.
Although most of the daffodils are gone and only a few red tulips are still holding out, summer flowers are now taking over.
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.
It was an extremely cold and windy day, but I'd love to see these gardens in the summer.
Peacocks strolled about the property.
These lovely purple flowers grow down many an English wall, as I've discovered.
