Britain
“No, no, no—I’m NOT doing it. I don’t care what she says, it isn’t happening!” Tim shouted as he banged his hands on the steering wheel.
He stared at the hand-lettered sign in front of us and then glared in defiance at Victoria, the GPS, reached down, and turned off the ignition. “Not Advisable for Motorized Vehicles” the sign read. We could see through the rain-splattered windshield that after about six feet of pavement, the road turned into a black, muddy bog full of waterlogged potholes.
“Okay, okay, take it easy,” I said, patting his left hand that rested on the gearshift knob. Yes, his LEFT hand. This was Tim’s first day of driving on the left side of the road, shifting gears with his left hand, and learning to glance up at the rearview mirror, which was on exactly the WRONG side for everyone on earth except the British and the countries they conquered over the centuries.
That morning, we had picked up the car at Heathrow Airport in London. Our goal was to reach Bucklawren Farm, a B&B on the Cornish coast, before dark. And preferably in one piece. It was beginning to look as if we had made one of our famous miscalculations, because Tim was thrust into this new form of driving with no time for a practice run. I had driven in Ireland when I lived there for a couple of years in the nineties, and I didn’t remember it being terribly difficult. Of course, I was younger (and therefore less daunted), had already been a passenger many times in the cars of experienced Irish drivers, and had been aided by plenty of parking lot practice before I made my first solo excursion. So I had much more help before I actually took off.
Our drive started well on the M3, a major six-lane artery that runs east to west. After a few hours on that highway, Tim felt like he mastered the car’s basics. British traffic was well regulated, the drivers competent and courteous, and Victoria, the GPS, was having a great day of accuracy, probably because she was on her own British turf. Seriously, she sounded much more relaxed than she had in Italy and France.
“You know, honey, I don’t think this is going to be too big a problem for me,” Tim had said. “The mirror is disconcerting [he never did get used to looking left when he glanced at the mirror], but overall, it’s not so hard. I think I’m getting used to it.”
Moments later, when we got off the highway and approached the first traffic circle, things changed dramatically. In Italy and France, we entered and exited the roundabouts from the right. Here, they were exactly opposite, with traffic moving in and out on the left. The trouble was that right-hand drivers automatically look to the left for traffic. In this case, everything is happening on the right, so with every maneuver the driver is required to ask his brain to switch its focus. It’s terribly difficult. The gear shift is also on the driver’s left, and as I mentioned, the rearview mirror is on his left, too, which is disconcerting when you instinctually reach or look the other way in the middle of a busy intersection and find it’s not there.
It took all three of us—Victoria, Tim, and me—to get through the traffic circles. We worked out a routine whereby long before we reached a roundabout, I’d study the GPS map and say things like, “Okay, in three kilometers you’ll enter the roundabout and take the exit at one o’clock. It’s the third exit. One o’clock. Got it?” I tried very hard to speak with a calm, unhurried cadence.
“Yep,” he would respond through clenched teeth, a death grip on the wheel.
Half the time, we picked the wrong entry lane. We circled again, struggling to stay in the lane that would release us from the circle at the right place. Every time we got it right and no one honked at us, we felt victorious.
The road to Bucklawren took us through quaint villages, where the owners of authentic cottages displayed their well-tended gardens, and through tiny farming hamlets, forests, and fields outlined with ancient gray stack-stone fences festooned with vines. It was very beautiful, very English, and very nerve-racking. The deeper into Cornwall we ventured, the narrower the roads became. Those low stone fences crept closer to us and grew taller until they were about three inches from the side of the car and impossible to see over. Every oncoming car looked as if it was going to hit us head-on. Tim instinctively dodged to the left and hit the curb more than once. Just to add a little excitement, the skies chipped in: a light drizzle became more insistent. We were soon listening to the grinding of an improperly adjusted windshield wiper. Grrrriiiiinnnnchhhh, grrrriiiiinnnnnchhhhhhh, grrrrriiiiiinnnnchhhhhh. Great for the nerves.
Suddenly, the road reduced to one lane, but cars were still coming our way! We saw small, muddy pullouts along the road. Each time we met another car, someone had to back up and wiggle into a space to let the other pass. Most of the people drove Range Rovers or some other four-wheel-drive beast that looked as big as the Space Shuttle. Backing up and squeezing into a space half as big as their car didn’t seem to bother them at all, but it terrified us. By this point, Tim and I had given up conversation. Occasional gasps, groans, or long sighs were our only forms of communication.
Eventually, between the instructions emailed from the B&B owner and Victoria, who finally got a grip on her homeland’s strange road system, we crunched onto the farm’s gravel parking lot. Hurray! The TripAdvisor listing made much of the fabulous views, but through the rain and fog, we could barely see the house, let alone anything like a vista! We ran from the car to the building and stood dripping in a little covered vestibule, sheltered from the weather. At that moment, the door opened and the owner, Jean Henly, a tiny woman wearing a welcoming smile and a crisp little apron with a strawberry theme, shooed us inside. “We’ve been waiting for you. This weather is dreadful. Please come in and we’ll see to your things later. Come with me into the sitting room. Would you like tea or coffee? Are you hungry?”
We felt as if our mother were welcoming us home after a particularly bad day at school. She parked us in the parlor near a little electric fireplace and brought us coffee and homemade cookies—plus the bright news that the next day would be sunny.
A young English couple occupied the sofa in the living room. The girl, with the unlikely name of Fliss Mooncannon North, told us she had been coming to Bucklawren Farm since she was a child. Her beau, Sean Twomey, was a mechanic. When the rain slowed, we were so grateful when young Sean wouldn’t hear of Tim’s hauling our luggage up the steep stairs alone. That day, we needed all the help we could get.
The old house looked typically English: cabbage roses and figurines, painted teacups and small flower prints hung a little too high on the walls, a creaking staircase and linoleum on the bathroom floor. The quilts and towels were thin but very clean. It felt like a trip to Grandma’s!
In addition, the farm next door had been converted to a small hotel and restaurant. How fortunate: we would have rather starved to death than attempt those roads at night.
After Jean handed us a flashlight, we found our way next door and joined a chipper group at the bar. We placed our dinner orders, relaxed over a drink, and then walked downstairs. We were surprised to find a warm, attractive dining room where they served us an impressive steak dinner. The day, for all its drama, ended pleasantly, for which we were grateful.
That night, as rain pounded our bedroom windows and we waited for sleep to engulf us, I turned to Tim and sighed. “I don’t know, honey, but after a day like this, I sometimes wonder if we’ve lost our minds. I’m so tired and I know you are, too. Do you think we’ve taken on too much?”
Indeed, the dampness, cold, and uncertainties along the way had wrung us out. The whole day left us more than a little apprehensive about how we would fare with so many challenges ahead. We had no idea if the apartment in England would be a haven or a hovel (it’s always a relief when the places we rent turn out to be what we’d hoped), and moving in always presented a new set of unpredictable hurdles that had to be addressed. We still had London, Ireland, Morocco, and a couple of nights in Barcelona ahead before we were able to collapse in our stateroom on the way home. And who knew what that ship would be like? Being tired didn’t help our outlook. Plus, both of our birthdays were coming up, and we felt a little vulnerable. Although we are lucky to be completely healthy, we certainly are aware of our age and the lessening of resilience that comes with it. Our recovery time from stress and exertion was much slower than it had been a few years earlier.
“No, I really don’t,” Tim replied reassuringly. “I do think we shouldn’t have tried to come this far in one day, and we’ll have to remember not to make such an ambitious start in the future. But I’ll bet you’ll feel much better in the morning and be ready to see what’s around here!”
Of course, Tim was right as always. Jean’s weather prediction hit the mark, too: the new morning revealed acres of deep green cornfields. Beyond the stalks and tassels, the Cornwall coast sparkled in bright sunshine. The wind whipped up whitecaps and howled through the trees, just as it was supposed to do in this section of the world. Our spirits were further revived by a great night’s sleep in our cozy room under a downy duvet, followed by a full English breakfast in the old-fashioned dining room. Cut-work linens and hand-painted Limoges serving dishes, silver toast racks and tasty sausage left no further doubt: we were in England! Our eagerness to see Cornwall replaced all worries.
As an enthusiastic English crimmie fan, a nut for P. D. James’s, Ruth Rendell’s, and Elizabeth George’s deliciously complicated, colorful murder mysteries, I can tell you with authority that the Cornwall landscape factors into many books in that genre. Someone is always falling, being pushed, walking moodily along, or hearing a gunshot from the cliffs of the rugged Cornish coast. I came here with a reader’s high expectations and perceptions of how it would feel. It proved to be everything I had anticipated and then some: wild, romantic, and even filled with suspense and intrigue—in our case, a splendid day dodging Range Rovers and tractors, which barreled along those narrow roads beneath immense rolled hay bales attached fore and aft. Despite feeling like a nervous wreck, Tim managed to pull off the driving chores without a scratch.
Until the next morning, that is. The fog and drizzle returned. After another of Jean’s fortifying breakfasts, our young friend Sean and Tim dragged our belongings down to the front door. When they walked outside with the first load, they discovered that our left front tire was completely flat, apparently damaged by repeated collisions with the curbs on those narrow streets. Sean went to work. He was soon joined by Robert, Jean’s husband. I peeked out to check on their progress and saw Tim doing his Tom Sawyer imitation. There he stood, sheltered by a tree, smoking a cigar as he watched the other two crouched on the gravel installing the little donut spare. I would like to think that he was ashamed of himself, but he didn’t look at all remorseful to me. The scene amused me so much that I took a photo to record forever Tim’s “special talent” for getting things done without getting his hands dirty.
We replaced the donut tire with a new full-size one in the next little town and headed off to Bath, another part of England that enjoys endless literary references. Think Jane Austen right up through Harry Potter. You get the idea. We spent two nights in a grand old hotel/spa and cabbed it to town, where we inspected the famous Roman thermal baths, gorged on Georgian architecture, and shopped for sweaters. The weather was turning cooler every day, and we were both tired and ready to get settled in our next home near London. We had traveled on the road like tourists for three weeks and badly needed some cocoon time to regroup.
Along the way, we stopped in a couple of Cotswold villages and paid a visit to Stonehenge. Sadly, the ancient astronomical observatory has lost much of its mystery and impact because its vulnerability to tourists forced the British government to cordon it off. Visitors can only view the massive stones from a distance these days. Furthermore, the enormous crowds who come to see them created a need for snack bars, toilets, and a visitor center. All of it seemed necessary and well done, but I felt very lucky to have visited Stonehenge many years before with my dad, when my parents were staying in London. In those days, we simply parked the car and walked through a field to the stones. No one else was at the site, and we stood silently for a long time with our umbrellas, wondering about the mysterious people who had moved the stones five to seven millennia ago and created the huge circle that aligns to summer solstice and other precise astronomical markers. I’m grateful that he and I were able to share that moment together.
As we drove toward London, Tim seemed much more relaxed behind the wheel, enough to occasionally glance at the passing sights. It was a big breakthrough. “You know, so far we’re doing just fine, but I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, and maybe next year, we should reconsider the way we plan things,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s occurred to me that when we take side trips at the beginning or end of our visit to a country, we are being tourists. We do love exploring, but we might want to do it in another way. See, we’re not really tourists, because tourists get to go home. After a trip they unpack, rest, put away their stuff, and have a break. We don’t. When we’ve been out running around, instead of getting a rest in familiar surroundings, we have to set up a new home and figure out the territory.” He patted my knee. “It’s hard work, and I think we can find an easier way to do this.”
***
I agreed. Tim whittles away on our plans constantly. His quest for repositioning cruises, flights, car rentals, and settling all the other necessary details never ends. (It’s one reason why Internet quality matters greatly to us!) But his incessant attention to detail has proven vital for success in this type of living. As we thought where we’d like to be for the next year, we faced surprises we could not possibly predict, changes and opportunities that would radically alter our plans. Our life may be unusual, but it’s certainly never dull.
We were relieved because the drive between Stonehenge and our apartment was remarkably easy. We had dreaded being caught in the tremendous traffic that surrounds the capitol, but we skirted London and easily found our new home near Hampton Court Palace. Tim connected with and settled into the rhythm of English drivers, so steering wheel banging and growling at other drivers occurred much less frequently. Hitting curbs was a thing of the past. Robin Hurblatt, the owner, greeted us in the sunny fourth-floor apartment. It would turn out to be one of our favorites. Right away, we were delighted with the place. It featured a spacious bedroom with ample storage, an equally comfortable main room, a fine kitchen separated by an ample island that gave me plenty of counter space, and excellent elevators, all in a clean and bright building. Forget Cornwall’s well-tended gardens—this was my idea of an English paradise!
After Robin left, I said, “Oh, Tim, you’ve really done it this time! This place is just perfect, and I’m crazy about being so close to the Thames! Look at this little balcony. We can see everything that’s going on at the river. We’re going to have a really good time here! Can you believe we can walk just around the building to get to a big market? We’re really in business this time!”
He smiled, pleased that his efforts were appreciated. “Hey, let’s go have a look around. We can unpack later.” We took off, anxious to see our new home-free neighborhood.
We walked a few yards to the towpath that runs along both sides of the Thames. Trees lined both sides, and lovely houses and an occasional pub appeared as we ambled along. Teams of rowers glided by as their coxswains shouted out instructions. Walkers, runners, families with baby buggies, and bicyclists shared the walkway. Sailboats and motorboats were on the move everywhere. Since the river is only one hundred feet wide in some places, it took their experience and skill to safely negotiate the water. People played Frisbee with their dogs in open spaces, and kids chased each other and played on park swings. Within a block of our house, there was a tiny dock with a dazzling white archway on which “Ferry” was emblazoned in nautical blue. People wanting a quick way across the river would ring the little school bell that hung from the post to summon the ferry man to take them over. He charged a pound for the trip.
We found a spot on a bench along the river not far from our apartment and sat drinking in the peaceful scene of river life. Tim said, “Now we’re going to have an entirely new experience! I have a hunch we’re going to be more relaxed here than we’ve been in quite a while. I think we’ll enjoy being a part of this river life! I already feel as if we’re part of the community just because everything moves so slowly and people really stop to have conversations.”
“You’re so right,” I replied, taking his hand. “Every time we are in England, we’re so wrapped up in London that we’ve missed this entirely different world. We’re going to love it here. You made a terrific choice, honey. And by the way, I love you!” He squeezed my hand as we rose to leave that bench, which became “our bench” on many sparkling autumn afternoons that September.
We returned to sort out our new home. “Tell you what—I’ll get us unpacked while you go next door and get the things we need to get started here,” Tim said. “I’ll bet you can just roll the cart across that little driveway that divides the buildings, and then I can help you get the stuff up here.”
Off I went with my list to Tesco, a branch of the big grocery chain with stores all over Britain and Ireland. By now, four countries into our new life, we swung into our move-in routine without even thinking about it. I spent a happy hour buying what we needed. I’m fond of grocery shopping because I love food, and for the first time in four months, the labels were in English. The British are very courteous, and their non-combative shopping atmosphere was just what I needed! The offerings may not have been as exotic and plentiful as those in France and Italy, but it surely was easier to shop. I filled up a cart with the basic necessities, like wine and chocolate, and, oh yes, threw in some fruits, veggies, and meat, too. After the checkout, since I had so many things, I planned to quickly wheel the cart next door and bring it back when we’d finished unloading all the groceries. I merrily pushed the cart down a short sidewalk, past the little post office, and started across the driveway.
The cart stopped dead. One of the wheels had quit working. I pushed, shoved, and muttered things a woman my age is never supposed to say. Finally, I gave up, ran across the driveway, and called Tim on the intercom. We hoisted the bags to our building, and he manhandled the cart to the sidewalk. How strange. I’d never heard of a grocery cart getting a flat.
The next time I crossed the driveway to shop, I looked up and saw a big sign in yellow neon. It informed me that taking a cart off the premises would result in the wheels of the cart locking up. I glanced in the post office and realized that the attendants, whose counter was just inside the window, had doubtless enjoyed watching our little Yankee performance, wrestling with the stubborn thing! We’ve probably entertained a number of people as we stumble our way around the world, trying to figure out the local customs.
While I had been doing battle with the grocery cart, Tim had unpacked and begun sorting out the rest of the move-in details. He’d set up the Internet, so we were able to take advantage of the wonderful connection Robin had provided. The Internet allows us to indulge in conversations with our family and our pals on Skype and FaceTime. Email is a marvelous convenience, but there’s nothing like hearing the voices and seeing the faces of people you love. It’s amazing how important small details become when you’re far away. Descriptions of birthday parties and first school dances, local news (good or bad), plans and disappointments, even weather reports, take on a whole new meaning after many months away. A granddaughter showing off her puppy’s new handshaking trick becomes a major event when viewed live on a computer screen.
We spent that first evening catching up with all four families, which reminded me of how different times were when my parents, who were truly travel pioneers, were abroad many years ago. After my dad retired in the 1970s, they sold their house, put their things in storage, and hit the road for seven years. They planned their journey without the Internet: finding places to live, arranging for transportation…all of it. In those days, we wrote letters and sent photos back and forth to stay in touch. We would set a time, weeks in advance, for phone calls from Morocco or Italy or Greece, and we’d eagerly take turns to have a short, expensive conversation with them. The connection was usually far from perfect. They were a hardy pair and made their final big journey abroad when they were both in their eighties. Tim and I call them our founders, and it would thrill them to know we’ve followed their trail around the world. They were particularly fond of Great Britain, so they lived very much in our thoughts while we stayed there.
We loved our little town, East Molesey, but we were also very excited about getting into London finally. Hampton Court Station was the end of the line for a little spur railroad that served the southeastern region of England. But the commuter railway was a new way of life for us. In the old movies I’ve heard James Stewart or Cary Grant or Ray Milland say something like, “Oops, must go, gotta catch the five-oh-two,” and then put away the pocket watch he was holding, but it never really occurred to me that we might one day rely on them on a daily basis. We had a timetable and quickly learned to schedule our departure from home so we’d be at the depot five minutes before the cute little red commuter train appeared. It was usually full of people coming to see the famous palace which the station is named, where Henry VIII carried on with his six wives and countless lovers. As locals and tourists alike streamed out of the train, we’d zap our Oyster Card tickets on the electronic eye and find our favorite spot at the back of a car. We’d each have one of the gloriously cheeky English newspapers and a cup of coffee we’d bought at the station. It was fun pretending to be locals while we enjoyed a twenty-five-minute trip to Waterloo Station, a Grand Central in its own right. At first, that vast depot mystified us with its shops, bars, commuters, tourists, and bicyclists swirling through its enormous spaces, but over time, Waterloo became as familiar as our own little station. It’s possible to go anywhere in London and make connections to all of Britain by train and the underground, to which we could connect without leaving the building. For Californians like us, who spent years trapped in wasteful commuter traffic, efficiently functioning public transportation remains a modern miracle.
Getting home was trickier. Either we made the train on time…or else. “Or else” meant waiting thirty minutes for the next train during the day, which wasn’t too bad. At night, however, if we missed the next to last train at 10:30 p.m., we’d wait an hour for the last train, which put us home at 1:00 a.m. I have no idea what we would have done if we’d missed the last train, but I can tell you that a hike over Waterloo Bridge from Covent Garden in a chilly drizzle after being unable to find a taxi, trying to catch that last train from Waterloo station, is no fun.
After a session in hectic London shopping or sightseeing, it always made us happy to get home. We billed the apartment and tiny balcony as our “penthouse” because we sat atop a four-story building. From our vantage point, it was impossible not to check out the action at the river many times every day. We used the path often, strolling to the center of the village and being entertained all the way by stopping to chat with locals and river people who tied up and left their boats for shopping or to exercise their dogs. We saw fishermen park themselves in camping chairs, ringed with ice chests, tackle boxes, and backpacks, and they would proudly show us their catches and describe in detail their techniques. Sometimes their accents were so thick that we’d just smile and nod, never having understood a single word but enjoying the interaction. I’ve mentioned how much we enjoyed Sundays in Europe because people really do take the day off, and it’s revealing to see what they do with their free time. The same goes for England. The English are outdoor people, and on Sundays, our tow path came alive with locals and Londoners enjoying a day of fun outside.
One time, we discovered the East Molesey Cricket Club, founded in 1871 and said to be the oldest in England. The scene could not have been more authentic. The players wore sparkling white pants, shirts, and V-necked sweaters. The stands filled with people in casual but great-looking garb. They personified the preppy look—khakis, subtle plaid shirts, Ralph Lauren belts, and cardigans draped just so over their shoulders, tied loosely at their collarbones. When the kids played, their moms and dads behaved exactly as the soccer moms and dads do in the United States. Everyone jumped into the act, urging William or Percy to smack the bowler’s latest offering deeply down the pitch and quit staring at the sailboats on the river!
A little farther down the Thames, near the entrance where Henry VIII would have arrived from London to enjoy his country palace, we found a small dock for a local ferry line that ran between Hampton Court, Kingston, and Richmond-upon-Thames. One sunny day, we joined a little queue of passengers waiting for the boat, paid a nominal fee to the captain, and found ourselves a spot with a good view. As we drifted along, we viewed gorgeous estates with well-tended gardens and velvet lawns that led to private docks and boathouses, where spiffy yachts waited for a cocktail cruise with their owners. People got on and off at various stops, and we were even more fascinated with the lives of people who are on the river every day. To them, it’s like the local Main Street, just with floating traffic instead.
Once more I was elated because we had made the choice to spend real time in other countries. These seemingly insignificant experiences, a chat with a fisherman, watching kids learn to play cricket, mastering the train from our little station, add up to an adventure, and a richness of experience, that I never dreamed would be possible in my later years.
When we arrived at Richmond-upon-Thames, we wandered up the tow path, looking at restaurants where people sat under the trees and enjoyed their midday meal. A café with wrought-iron tables and chairs shaded by weeping willows and leafy sycamores attracted us. It sat next to the path, offering front-row seats for a little sailboat regatta. Boys and girls rounded buoys in their tiny one-man sailboats expertly as I walked inside to get our lunch and Tim sat down at one of the tables.
When I returned with sandwiches and drinks, Tim was involved in a lively conversation with an attractive mature woman in a flowery summer dress who sat at the next table. We learned that the woman, Beatrice, had lived in Richmond all her life and walked to the river every day now for lunch by herself. “My husband, Harold, refuses to take me anywhere,” she said in a well-bred English accent. “It’s awful. I’ve retired recently and I thought he’d be taking me out, that we’d have fun together, take rides in the car, go dancing. I love to dance! But he just wants to play golf with his friends. It’s a beautiful day, and I begged him to take me out to lunch, but he refused and has gone away with his mates. He won’t return until teatime, so I’m on my own all day. He does this all the time. Even our children are furious with him for treating me this way. What do you think I should do?”
We glanced at each other and I recognized pity for her and a flash of anger at her husband’s total lack of regard for her wishes wash over Tim’s face. It made us sad to see someone so disappointed in her mate after all these years. We came up with all kinds of ideas: she should join a dancing group; get active in some clubs; head back to school and learn something she really wanted to know about; proceed with her own life until Harold came around.
Tim poured out ketchup for his French fries and asked, “Have there been any changes lately that would affect his behavior?”
“Well, the doctor has given him some new medicine to treat his prostate cancer.”
“Then why don’t you get in touch with the doctor and see if he could change the prescription to something that won’t make him act this way?” Dr. Tim took a bite of his sandwich.
Beatrice and I looked at him quizzically. What’s to say it was the medicine? “So, how long has he been treating you indifferently?” I asked, probing for more details.
“Well, let’s see, I’d say forty-four years, for as long as we’ve been married. This is nothing new.”
And there it was. Clearly, Beatrice had been so busy working for forty-four years that she failed to notice she was married to, well, a jerk. I volunteered Tim to go over to their house and punch him in the nose, then jump on the boat and sail away. We all laughed at the idea, and Beatrice thought that sounded like a winner. Tim? Not so much.
As our ferry left for Molesey, we waved to Beatrice. We still speak of her often. She did give us a small laugh, too, I’m embarrassed to say, because the notion of living with someone for forty-four years and not noticing what an uncaring person he was is almost absurd, the stuff of dark comedies. We wonder what she ever did about Harold’s neglect, or if she just kept trying to ignore it. I certainly hope she branched out a little! Incidents like that always make me appreciate my darling Tim and his sweet nature even more than I already do.
***
Meeting people is the most interesting experience of our wandering life. An invitation to someone’s home for a drink, dinner, or even coffee takes on added importance because being on the road, frequenting restaurants and public places all the time, makes us crave being inside a permanent home, just for a few hours. Speaking of homes, when people ask us what we miss most about not having a home, we say in unison, furniture. Of course we miss our family and friends most of all, but a comfortable chair molded to fit you perfectly over years of use comes in a close second! Think about it: who in their right mind would put really expensive furniture into a place they plan to rent out regularly to complete strangers? Most of our rentals have been very attractive, well situated, clean and fairly well provisioned, but not one has contained a decent sofa or a truly comfortable chair. For some reason, the beds have been uniformly acceptable, but the seating situation is usually abysmal.
Our deprivation has resulted in marginal behavior on several occasions: While we lived in East Molesey, old friends of ours, Margo and Rick Riccobono, who were living in London, invited us to Sunday lunch, to share a joint, which is what the British and Irish call a roast (now, now, no naughty thoughts, please), and spend the afternoon in their spacious town house. The instant the greetings and hugs ended, Tim and I bolted for the living room and rudely claimed the soft, cushiony leather chairs. As we sighed with pleasure, Margo and Rick looked at us as if we’d gone crazy. They sat in those chairs every day, so what was the big deal? When we explained that a soft seat with good back support was the thing we missed most being on the road, they kindly let us roll around in those big chairs all afternoon. They could have served cat food for lunch and we would have been happy, as long as we could spend another half hour loafing luxuriously. (Actually, they treated us to a fabulous meal, and even their dining room chairs were comfortable.)
We learned to restrain our new obsession with comfy furniture by visiting houses where we couldn’t sample the furniture at all. We took a train to see Windsor Castle and particularly enjoyed the kitchens, which have functioned forever and still serve Betty and Phil (that would be Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip, for those of you not in the inner circle) when they’re home. Another morning, Tim drove us through traffic, fog, and rain to reach Highclere Castle, the magnificent estate where the BBC films its popular television series Downton Abbey. The castle, which sits in the middle of five thousand acres, is the most stately and beautiful home either of us had ever seen. We reveled in its understated opulence. In person, the home, with its priceless paintings and antiques, far exceeded its appearance on the series. As the sun began to appear later in the morning, and we toured the glorious gardens, Tim remarked, “I’ve really loved seeing this place. Too bad we didn’t get to sample the furniture, but I’ll bet you none of it is as comfortable as Rick’s leather chairs!”
We also became adept at catching our little red train. When England gave us a beautiful day, we’d hop aboard and venture into London town. Old favorites like the Victoria and Albert Museum, or the Vic and Al, as it’s called, the world’s largest museum of decorative arts, claimed an afternoon. It remains Britain’s granny closet, even after a smartening up with new display cases and fancy interactive features. I’ve visited the museum at least once in every decade since the 1960s, and it always seems filled with things of value the people in charge don’t have another place for. Inlaid inkstands, lace bracelets made of human hair, and eighteenth-century Christmas cards sit alongside priceless furnishings, art, tapestries, and archaeological treasures. We could have spent weeks there. We stepped into Westminster Abbey to pay our respects to royals, poets, musicians, and clergy. We marveled once more in the British Museum at the Elgin Marbles, those huge chunks of Greece’s Pantheon that the Brits took home for “safekeeping” in 1803 and refuse to give back to the Greeks. The museum, lovely and imposing, stands along a tree-lined street near a string of pubs that have revived exhausted tourists for two hundred years. The museum remains endlessly fascinating and daunting. We try to see one new portion each time we visit, while saving energy to call on our old favorites.
Portobello Road, famous for its Saturday outdoor market that stretches for many blocks, also gave us an entertaining afternoon. For once, this was a surprise I could offer Tim, since I had been there many times on other visits to London. Shops full of dusty castoffs stir up business next to stores selling high-priced antique jewelry, cart owners hawking plastic toys, and art galleries presenting high-priced paintings from known artists. The brick-and-mortar shops are fascinating, but the vendors under their tents also offer their own brand of excitement. Tim and I inspected silver pieces, old books, antique jewelry with arcane finds like champagne swizzlers gentlemen used to calm the bubbles that might annoy the lady he was serving, and trays of monocles, opera glasses, and hundreds of other curiosities. This browser’s paradise tested our resolve to refrain from adding to our luggage burdens. Some of the boxes in our storage unit contain marvelous little goodies I have dragged home from Portobello in years past—a cut-glass bottle with a sterling stopper, a silver calling card case from 1848 with its owner’s name engraved under the lid, a traveling wooden writing desk with its old glass ink bottles with brass lids. Unwrapping those treasures when we finally settle again will be like Christmas!
***
The September weather and the leaves continued to turn. That meant spending several afternoons plying Oxford Street looking for sweaters and jackets. We had planned to shop for them in London anyway, since it made no sense to drag these heavy, bulky items along all summer. The big shopping streets led to some of the busiest pedestrian sidewalks we had ever seen, one of the few places where we became consciously aware that we were slowing down a little with age. London is full of people in a hurry. They give no quarter for those who hesitate. The other pedestrians weren’t necessarily aiming for us, but they jostled us enough times to catch our attention. Our safest bet turned out to be walking single file, with Tim blazing the trail. When we needed to make decisions, we would stop at the side of buildings, not in the middle of the sidewalk. The Brits have thoughtfully provided signs on the pavement and lampposts, reminding tourists to look to the right before stepping off the curb (kerb, as they say).
Sometimes, we stayed in the city for dinner and a show. Seeing a play or a musical in London felt particularly comfortable. The theaters are smaller and more intimate than in many cities, creating a more personal experience. Covent Garden, the center of the theater district, is lively at all hours, full of tourists and theater patrons, and crowded with busy bars, restaurants, T-shirt and souvenir shops. We enjoyed two musicals and a play, after which we raced across the bridge to Waterloo to make that last little red train leaving on Platform 2. One play, Chariots of Fire, was entertaining because of its unique staging. It featured a short track on which a very physical cast ran. As we applauded at the end of the show, the cast began to applaud, too, and members of the audience came up to the stage. The Summer Olympics had concluded the week before, and medal-winning British athletes had been invited to the performance. We joined the excited audience in celebrating their excellence. The evening became particularly memorable for us. It was impossible not to be affected by the swelling of pride we felt around us. I always think of the British as being plucky. Being a child of World War II, I have faded memories of seeing news film at the movies of children picking through the rubble of bombed-out buildings, and of the lines of refugees boarding trains to be taken away from London to escape the horrible bombing raids. That spirit of nationalism erupts often in England. There’s a “can do” endurance that is impressive and touching to me. Their appreciation of their countrymen’s achievement and seeming devotion to sportsmanship has always spoken to me, so I had to hide my moist eyes and drippy nose from Tim, who might have teased me for being so sentimental about the British. He is, after all, practically 100 percent Irish!
Not every day was filled with tourist fun. Tim continued working on his novel while I was wrapping up my article for the Wall Street Journal. The WSJ had asked me to expand it to a two-thousand-word piece and had hinted that it would be the lead piece in the Next section, which addresses retirement issues. My muse, Tim, had also suggested that I begin working on a book proposal, so I was trying to do that, with mixed emotions of excitement and my ongoing terror of rejection. On many days, our writing work and household chores seemed just as mundane as they would have been in California, ending with a homemade meal like pot roast or chicken and an evening of TV or a downloaded movie. Again, we felt right at home in our home-free life, even if the sofa was slightly less than comfortable.
Our domestic horizons had also expanded to include a shopping area a few miles away, which boasted a more upscale supermarket, a big Boots pharmacy, and other stores we were happy to find. One day, as I was searching the drugstore for things I needed, Tim grew restless and said, “Look, I’ll just go take a walk to see what’s up the street. Take your time. I’ll be back in a few.” I muttered an agreement and continued my perusal of the merchandise.
About fifteen minutes later, he appeared at my side brandishing a large sack. “What in the world?” I asked.
“You’re not gonna believe this.” He pulled a gorgeous black overcoat out of the bag and put it on right there in the shampoo aisle. “Twenty pounds!” he said excitedly. It fit him perfectly, was the right length, and looked warm and fashionable.
“How on earth did you do that?”
“Salvation Army Store, m’dear, right up the road. There’s one for you, too!”
I laughed and we hustled up the street. Sure enough, the Salvation Army Store carried a black double-breasted mid-calf gently worn coat just my size. Why not? That set us well for autumn in England and a chilly October in Ireland, our problem solved for around sixty dollars. We felt proud to have done our bit to save the planet, too, by buying used. When we returned to the apartment, we investigated the coats and discovered that mine, a name brand, retailed for around $400. We were even more puffed up with our brilliance.
Even though we try to keep our luggage to a minimum, wardrobe and grooming loom large in our nomadic adventure. They’re important to us. We’re not clothes horses, but we try to look presentable and appropriate. We have to remind ourselves that we’re not seeing the same people all the time—except each other. We also have to remind ourselves to mix things up a bit. Sometimes, I step out of the bedroom, look Tim up and down, and say, “What time’s the funeral today?” because we have once again fallen into the traveler’s trap of wearing black all the time. Our thinking is that it always looks smart, doesn’t show dirt, everything matches and—yes—it makes us look thinner!
By the time we arrived in England, after four months on the road, we knew that buying seasonal clothes in almost any city was easy, particularly since we are not tourists and have the time to shop as carefully and smartly as we would at home. Thus, finding a sweater, blouse, or jacket was never a big problem.
That said, we were (and still remain) on the perennial lookout for lightweight, multipurpose clothes that retain their good looks without the use of a dryer. In our experiences so far, those appliances are almost universally unavailable abroad, and the machines that claim to perform both washing and drying are plain useless. Thankfully, most rentals provided either a clothes drying rack or some other method of hanging out the laundry. But sometimes they didn’t, and on laundry day, our apartments looked hilarious with underwear adorning lampshades and jeans splayed on towels over the dining room table. Since then, our braided nylon clothesline has become one of our most valued tools. We became shameless about wearing jeans far more often than we would have considered sanitary when we had unlimited use of laundry machines. We’ve discovered that as long as there’s no evidence of last week’s spaghetti dinner, we can still look presentable to those who don’t know that our jeans could probably stand up on their own!
Shoes are another matter altogether, particularly for me. I left California without a pair of dressy shoes because my feet had grown from an 11 AA to 11½ AAA while we were in Buenos Aires. It was a shocking development for a woman my age. We couldn’t find any dressy shoes before we left home, and neither Florence nor Paris offered any solutions. We searched the Internet and finally found Crispins, a shoe store in London that specialized in large ladies’ shoes, and my sweet, sympathetic husband willingly went with me to shop there.
We boarded our little red train and negotiated Waterloo to the underground. After several subway changes, we stood within blocks of the store. The traditional Georgian street looked as if Henry Higgins was going to step out one of the elegant doors any minute. Distinguished boutiques, exclusive dressmakers, and chic designer shops lined both sides. It made me nervous because everything was so chic and expensive. Even though I had worn my nicest blazer, I still felt like a fraud. What was I doing in a neighborhood full of designer boutiques?
Finally, we found Crispins. When I told the saleswoman what I wanted, she snapped her fingers and said gleefully that she had just the thing. In moments, she reappeared and my Cinderella fantasies were realized. A pair of Stuart Weitzman 11½ AAA black suede wedge shoes, trimmed with elegant bows and a shiny black buckle, slipped on my feet like soft gloves. They were outrageously beautiful—and so expensive that both Prince Charming and I gasped. These treasures were not on sale. But, knowing a maiden in constant shoe distress when he sees one, my gallant man insisted I have them.
I have requested that when I leave this earth, I take those Stuart Weitzmans with me. (For the record, I’d also appreciate being dressed in Eileen Fisher for the occasion.)
The wedges were so special that they deserved their very own carry-on, so we looked a little like refugees when we bid England “cheerio!” and boarded our next flight a few days later on our way to our next home abroad. Tim had become so expert at left-hand driving that by the time we approached the massive traffic around Heathrow Airport, he didn’t flinch at all. What a marvel he is! As we gathered our belongings, Victoria was the last to go into my carry-on. I’m not sure, but I thought I heard her whimper when I unplugged her from the British car. Maybe she had a hunch she was headed for the Republic of Ireland.