Frivolous Friday: An English Obsession . . . Antique Roadshows

One of the most fascinating things about moving to a new country is learning the foibles and idiosyncrasies of one's hosts. And trust me, the English have plenty of those. But one of the quaintest I've discovered is the obsession with antique fairs, roadshows and TV programmes about antique roadshows and fairs. 

Now, in all truth, I never watch TV – it cuts into valuable reading/blogging/writing time – but I admit to being a little captivated by the box when we first arrived in the UK. (In my defence, it was winter . . .) 

So imagine my surprise when I discovered that just about every channel had at least one antique-hunting-buying-selling programme. I was enthralled for a time. 

The kids rolled their eyes every time they walked into the lounge to see me – the mother they thought they knew – watching yet another couple of bargain hunters scratching through piles of junk at an antique flea market.

Then our very own antique flea market came to town and Andrew and I couldn't resist a visit. 

Elbowing pasts at least two camera crews filming eagle-eyed bargain hunters sporting t-shirts displaying the TV programme they represented, we carved a path through miles and miles and miles (did I mention it was miles?) of bric-a-brac. 

After the first hall I was satiated. I've never seen so many tin boxes, kitsch porcelains, glitzy costume jewelry and child-worn toys under one roof. And this was just the start.

Andrew had to keep reorientating me as we left one hall and stumbled to the next. I was like one of those whales who loses its sonar and ends up beached in the shallows. I kept wanting to go back the way I came . . . I swear, every thing just looked the same and my senses were jangling.

The visit did serve one useful purpose, though . . . it cured my obsession for antique auctioneering programmes on TV. With nothing left to watch, I now do what I was designed to do – read. So much more satisfying.

Who would actually pay good money for this stuff?

Coffin brasses?
Yup. The seller assure me they'd never actually been used . . . 

Who still collects printer's trays?
Or thimbles?

The final word in kitch?

Happy weekend all from a gloriously sunny Lincolnshire. Long may the sunshine last!

Cheers
Gwynn

P.S. Comments always appreciated. 
P.P.S They stop me feeling as if I'm writing into the great void. . . 

Frivolous Friday: Just When I thought I'd Died And Gone To Heaven . . .

The churchyard at St Firmin's church in Thurlby

About two weeks ago we had summer. It was fantastic. The days were balmy – a magnificent 20 degrees C – without a cloud in the sky. Not a breath of wind. Idyllic. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

And then there were the nights . . .  

As I wrestled with my sheets, I was reminded of my grandmother's mantra: Ladies do not sweat, they glow. Men apparently perspire. It's left to horses and other beasts of burden to actually drip salty water. Or something like that. 

Anyway – despite my brother's evil prognostications that it couldn't last – the weather was so blissful, I actually packed away my winter pyjamas – the ones with the colourful sheep on that I love so much. 

I even pulled out all my summer gear – shorts and t-shirts – and went so far as to wash them. Clothes tend to get musty, crumpled for nine months in storage boxes. 

(Is it really so long ago that the sun generated enough heat to be discernable on this soggy patch of planet Earth? Ah, well, let us not dwell on such gloomy thoughts . . .)

During that glorious interlude of sunshine and warmth, I actually managed to glow onto two pairs of shorts and two t-shirts. 

And then?

Rain.

Rain. 

Rain.

Incessant bloody rain. 

Piddling down like there's no tomorrow. 

All it needs is a howling gale and this could be Cape Town in mid-winter. 

Sigh. 

They – the eternally optimistic English (did I mention how irritating all that positiveness can be?) – tell me all is not lost and we may still get another couple of warm days before Autumn set in . . . in September. 

I'm not holding my breath. All Hail The English Summer!

So, wherever you are, enjoy what the elements are flinging at you. It cannot be worse than the deluge we're having.


Cheers
Gwynn

PS. Don't be shy to comment. Despite my acerbic humour, I don't bite. Much.

Frivolous Friday: One Does Not Simply Drive Into Heathrow

No kidding! Especially if you are stupid enough to have booked yourself onto a 10am plane. But, innocent that I am, in the quest to be a good wife I have now fallen twice into the get-to-Heathrow-on-time-through-the-traffic trap. I must be either insane or I love Andrew very much. I haven't quite figured out which is which.

My first foray into the madness of the M25 highway happened a week or so ago when I had to get him to Terminal One for a 10 o'clock flight to the US.

I thought we had set off in a timely manner. Five thirty in the morning is flippin' early, if you ask me, especially for a trip that should only take 1 hour and 42 minutes according to Google maps.

They lied.

Try three and a half hours and you might just make it in time to witness them slamming closed the gate to your flight.

The problem? Forget about bumper-to-bumper traffic, you couldn't have slipped a playing card between the almost stationary cars stretched for about 30 miles ahead of us . . .

And the worst? I was desperate for the loo.

Ever heard that crude expression 'my back teeth were floating'? Yeah, well, they were. Just about.

But as the clock hands clicked relentlessly towards gate closure time, there was no hope of mentioning a pit stop to Andrew. He was grinding his teeth to the gums in frustration . . . We had stopped counting trucks carrying pipes and trucks carrying big cranes some hours back. . .  We do that to pass the time on long trips. (He won, by the way . . .)

I finally turfed him out the car at Heathrow a few minutes before nine, waited to see if he'd made the flight - he did. Just. And then I sped off to find the closest service station - only to discover it's about thirty miles from Heathrow . . . by that time I was driving with my legs crossed. Trust me, that's an interesting manoeuvre, but I think the subject for a post on another day.

So, walking into Mordor? Those black gates guarded by Orcs are nothing compared to the perils of the getting to Heathrow via the M25.

And as for the air? The poison fumes come from nothing more than ten thousand car exhausts. I added a blinding headache, even with the window closed, to my woes by the time I reached the terminal building. That airport sure guards its departure lounges well.

And to think I used to complain about a 40 minute drive in bad traffic to Cape Town International airport. We honestly don't know when we're spoilt!

Have a great weekend
Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: New Birth

Easter has always been special. Unlike Christmas, it's a more introspective time for me. Must be something to do with a real person - not just a book character - being willing to die for me. Pretty humbling that. And then there's the promise of new birth that comes with Easter Sunday that always fills me with joy.

Up until my move to England, all my Easters were spent in the southern hemisphere where the world is slipping majestically into Autumn. Now, I love Autumn, I really do. Little can beat the golds and reds as the trees turn, but as romantic as that is, Autumn still bodes death.

Spring, on the other hand, means life and new beginnings. Deep, huh! Yeah well, that said, this Easter in England has been a totally new experience as Lincolnshire bursts into life around me. I don't think I've ever seen such a profusion of blossoms of every hue. Every tree is laden with flowers, sending me into sensory overload.

My blossoms amid the blossoms

And then there are the daffodils - growing wild in places, exactly as Wordsworth saw them over two hundred years ago.

I wandered lonely as a cloud . . . 

How can I fail to mention the bluebells in the woods? My mind goes into overdrive, imagining fairies around every tree stump.

And then there are rape seed fields burning yellow as far as the eye can see. Set against the blue sky (yes, sometimes it is blue, even in England) and the emerald grass, the golden yellow is insane. Only a master creator could have envisaged something so magnificent. Pity my photo doesn't do it justice.

Rape Seed Fields

I  know Easter is for everyone, everywhere, but I can't help think there was a real significance to the tomb opening in Spring in Jerusalem. Here's wishing you all a wonderful Easter whether you believe or are just enjoy enjoy the bank holiday. May your weekend be filled with joy.


Cheers
Gwynn

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth

Frivolous Friday: When The Fun Fair Comes To Town

When I was a kid I loved Enid Blyton's books, especially her adventure stories with the Famous Five and, maybe less so, the Secret Seven. Apart from thrilling me with exciting tales in which children did extraordinary things (that, in a day when kids were seen and not heard and adults controlled everything), she also introduced me to the wonder of the English countryside.

I was enthralled by her descriptions of secret islands, haunted castles, forbidding forests, and green meadows where sheep grazed and noisy dogs chased rabbits. But her most enduring legacy were the tinkers and gypsies. I still sometimes (often) dream of packing it all in and taking off in my horse-drawn caravan, complete with pots and pans dangling from the back bumper. Only today my caravan would be Andrew and my handcrafted, custom-built four wheel drive camper designed to go anywhere as long as the countryside is stunning and far away from people . . .

Reality check!

Part of the appeal of Enid Blyton's gypsies and tinkers was the fun fair that always accompanied them where young adventurers could get themselves into no end of trouble from shifty-eyed tambola operators.

The old and the new.
That church is about nine-hundred-years-old. I bet it could tell a tale or two  . . .

Travelling fun fairs were pretty much alien concepts where I grew up, so the idea of a hundred colourful caravans pulling into town loaded with thrill rides was utterly enchanting. I would dream of eating toffee apples (yuk) and candy floss (not much better) while winning that blue-eyed doll at the archery stand. Dreams are great . . .

So imagine my delight this week when the fun fair arrived unexpectedly in my town. (Okay, everyone else knew about it, but see my point above about getting away from people. My hermit tendencies often mean I miss out on the cool stuff.)

Back to my story.

Unfortunately, my discovery of the fun fair came when I was looking for parking. So, instead of being enchanted, I was just plain irritated. It seems that fifteen minutes spent inching along narrow streets - care of our medieval town planners - cluttered with colourful caravans and enormous thrill rides does that to me. What a let down.

Having teenage girls helps though, and E & K, my pair, where not missing out on a chance to have their teeth rattled from their heads while being shot a hundred feet into the sky by a giant hydraulic catapult, so we grabbed a group of friends and hit the fair.

Even though the weather was misty and cold (it is spring in England, after all) I'm happy to announce that my heart was warmed by the experience.

Enchanted, in fact. But to honest, I have to admit that was mainly the result of all the twinkly lights - another obsession of mine - sparking on every ride, luring us suckers in. Unable to resist the gaudy horses, I fell for a carousel. It was fantastic! I felt like a child again.

So, how do take a good pic of a carousel?
Because this certainly isn't one.

Did I see any shifty-eyed tombola operators? Nah. They must have all been off at some forbidden castle chasing banshees . . .

Enjoy the pics . . . and have a wondrous weekend filled with fun.

I couldn't resist this.
Every time I see a giant tea cup I am reminded of Lilith from Cheers telling Fraser to go an find his manhood on the giant tea cups . . .

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: The British Obsession With The Weather: Careful, It's Catchy

I come from a country with a reputation for year round sunshine. In fact, I grew up to the strains of a radio commercial (we didn't have TV back in South Africa then) that went like this: "We love braaivleis (barbecued meat), rugby, sunny skies and Chevrolet.

Then I moved to Cape Town and all that changed. But Cape Town is in South Africa, I hear you say.

Windmill: Taken by Andrew White

True. But Cape Town has the worst climate in Africa. No contest. It's so bad that us Capetonians often claim that our beloved Mother City doesn't actually have climate. It has weather. Often four different types in one day.

When you add a winter of howling gales, horizontal rain, and miserable cold that starts in May and petters out at the end of November into the mix, you begin to understand why Capetonians don't boast about the weather. Much. You see, even in winter we do get the occasional  - and I do mean occasional - perfect, windless, sunny day that makes us forgive the other 240 miserable ones. That's when we really start bragging.

Come summer, the gloating stops because now Cape Town is at its magnificent worst. December brings more wind: Chilling gales that come howling off the Southern Atlantic, keeping everything decidedly cold. They also make a trip to the beach an exercise in endurance, dodging sandstorms. But by the beginning of January all that changes with temperatures now soaring deep into the 90s and often topping the 100s. Then, just when we think we will expire, Autumn comes, bringing March and April, two perfect months. And the whole cycle starts again.

But in all the years I lived there, I never had a weather app on my phone. (Okay, one comes standard on the iPhone, but I never used it) I also never hung out with people to whom the vagaries of the weather are the primary topic of every conversation.

Cape Town: The Mother City

So imagine my surprise when I arrived in England to discover that every conversation - whether on the radio, in the supermarket, at a friend's house, at church, anywhere - is proceeded by a loooong discussion on the weather. And being England - another country with positively foul weather - you can imagine how depressing those discussion can be. And the English absolutely relish it. I swear, nothing gives the weatherman more pleasure than to announce that: "It will be a dull day, with ice to start, gales by lunchtime, rain by tea, and, oh yes, don't forget to cover the plants because air frost will follow."

Worse even than that, my weather app now has scuff marks from the number of times I look at it a day. It's like the bodysnatchers came past, taking Capetonian me with them, leaving this weather obsessed shadow behind.

Ah, dear me, brain rot. I've been here way to long.

Have a fun weekend.

Cheers
Gwynn


PS: My husband Andrew jokes that it's highly possible that the mapmakers got the shape of England wrong . . . Who can tell? There are so few clear days on which to check.

Frivolous Friday: Are we defined by what we eat?

Definitely. Food, that all important stuff not only keeps us alive, but it defines us too.  Huh. You maybe, but not me, I hear you think. Well, imagine this: An Indian without curry. Or the English without roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. The mind barely goes there. Even us South Africans have our favourites. What would life be without koeksisters, boerewors, bunny chow and All Gold Tomato Sauce? In a word: MISERABLE. And I don't even like boerewors. But there, I've said it: life is miserable without them because food is part of what defines us, telling us how to see ourselves. It provides us with home from which we then build our homes. Deep stuff. 

But as an aside, in case you think I'm being literal, I don't see really myself as a stukkie wors, exactly. (Translated from Afrikaans, a stukkie wors is piece of boerewors sausage. See glossary below. For the uninitiated, boerewors is a South African institution a bit like sunshine, rugby and Nelson Mandela. It's total sacrilege to admit to not liking it. People have been stoned for less.)

But, I digress.

Before I came to England, I had no idea how important food and shopping for food was. In the past, I would sally down to my local supermarket, grab a trolley (shopping cart, for my American readers), and breeze down the aisles, chucking in familiar products as I went. An entire monthly grocery shop for a family of five would be done in twenty minutes. Half an hour tops. I admit, I'm a very predictable shopper with a list in my head that I hardly ever deviate from. My world would collapse if they ever dared rearrange the supermarket shelves . . .

And that was the main problem when I arrived in England.

Picture Aladdin stumbling into the robbers' cave.
See his expression.
Hear his whoop of delight.
Then freeze the frame.
Now tell him he has twenty minutes to fill his trolley with everything he thinks he needs for a month. Sure, he'll just grab at the brightest, sparkliest bling. Who wouldn't? 
Fast forward to him getting home, parking his magic carpet in the garage, and unpacking his haul. Watch his delight turn to consternation.
Hear him gasp, "How in heaven's name am I supposed to live - feed a family - on this lot? Where's the pre-chopped butternut squash we eat once a week? Or those really useful packs of pre-made chicken ala king sauce that are always so handy when I'm in a rush?" 
Feel the slap from the cold hand of reality. 
Gone. All of them. 

Nothing in Tescos, or Sainsbury's or any of the UK stores look ANYTHING like what I used to buy back in South Africa. Even the Cadbury's chocolate tastes different. So now a twenty minute shop has become an epic - almost like trying to find the Holy Grail. 

In the beginning, I actually cleared my diary for shopping day. And then there's the humiliation . . . yes, the humiliation of standing for ten minutes staring at the peanut butter, wondering which tasted anywhere near as good as Yum Yum. The other shoppers would look at me like I was some kind of peanut butter pervert. I shudder to imagine what they were thinking exactly . . . 

When I shared my shopping nightmare with my sister-in-law, Kaz, she told me of a South Africa woman she knew who actually broke down and cried at the tomato sauce aisle in a store in Perth, Australia. I feel for you, sister! By the way, like half the rest of South Africa, Kaz and my bother moved to Perth, Australia a few years ago. 

But months on, I have to admit, it's not all bad.

We didn't have Bakewell tarts back home, or easily accessible Doctor Pepper, or really cheap Terry's Chocolate Orange. 

Bakewell Tarts. A very good reason for moving to England

I guess one must count one's blessings. Or, as as those people filled with annoyingly positive optimism would say:  Bloom where you're planted. 

My roots are still a little on the fragile side, but I'm getting there.

Enjoy the weekend. And for my South African readers - have a braai for me!
Cheers
Gwynn


Glossary of Terms
koeksister: An amazingly delicious, super-sweet, deep-fried, plated doughnut dunked in syrup. Served chilled. To die for.

Boerewors: A greasy, highly spiced sausage, often barbecued - or as we say in South Africa, braaied - and usually served in a hot dog roll. The smell of braaiing boerie hangs heavy in the air over the suburbs of South Africa, especially over weekends.

Bunny chow: Another food designed to slam your arteries shut. Usually bought as takeout, bunny chow consists of a hollowed-out half loaf of bread - usually white - filled with vegetable or meat curry. Nothing beats coming back from a really long camping trip in the bush, stopping at the first take-away, (usually reeking of rancid cooking oil) buying a bunny chow and plunking down on the pavement to eat it with your fingers. Now that's civilization.

All Gold Tomato Sauce: The best brand of tomato sauce - ketchup - in the universe. No exaggeration.

Yum Yum: See comment above about All Gold Tomato sauce, only here it applies to peanut butter.

Click Here

Frivolous Friday: The Difference between South Africans and the English.

I know, I know, political correctness says we should embrace similarities, not differences, but sometimes the differences are so glaring that to ignore them would be like pretending the freight train barreling down the track towards you isn't really moving. That's just daft and I try not to do daft. Too often at least. But still, here I go into the shunting yard of national quirks and idiosyncrasies of both South Africans and the English. (Please go easy on me in the comments section.)

In my last Frivolous Friday post I mentioned English accents and how unspeakably difficult it sometimes is to figure out what people are saying. Well, it seems the knife cuts both ways. South Africans have accents too, apparently.

Of course I knew that before I came to England. I mean, I can recognise a guttural Afrikaans accent thick with rolled r's and g's anywhere. Not to mention a quirky Cape Coloured accent filled with 'jay's' and 'nay's. Or a black accent peppered with 'wekers' and 'eishes'. But I never thought I had a South African accent. No siree, I was exempt, because back home most people asked if I came from England. Now everywhere I go people ask if I'm from South Africa. How weird is that?

But one thing that having an accent does do is open doors to interesting conversations. Like the differences between the English and the South Africans.

Did you know that the English think us South Africans brash? A bit like Americans and Australians apparently. In fact, just by writing this post, I'm probably being 'brash'. But you must understand, the English would never actually use the word 'brash'. That is far too in your face. 'Brash' is what South Africans would say. My English friends gently accuse me of being 'direct'. That is not necessarily a compliment.

That is not the only difference between us. There is another that has taken me almost seven months to figure out. You see, where a South African would use one word to explain something, the English will use seven. That is being polite. Longwinded, but polite. Back in South Africa, we say why use seven when one will do? See? Brash.

Now I'm in England I have become ever conscious of how I am perceived. After all, I do want to become part of the nation. So suppressing the urge to speak bluntly and to express strong opinions has become a daily quest. I admit, I'm not very good at it yet, but watch this space . . . who knows, one day I might even be as English as the English: self-depreciating, with razor-sharp sarcasm delivered with a deadpan face. That would be a fine thing.

Enjoy your weekend.

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: Life In The Twilight Zone

Almost seven months have passed since I arrived in the UK with my family. To say those months have been tumultuous would be an understatement. True to the experience of all immigrants (many of them my friends and family who transplanted themselves to other parts of the world), my parcel of challenges – some expected, others complete whammies – was waiting for me when I arrived at Newcastle upon Tyne airport.

Yes, we landed in north where the accents are so broad we wondered if the people were actually speaking English. Check out this beauty told to me in a parking lot: ‘gan canny or you’ll dunsh summick.’ Translation: Go carefully or you’ll crash into something. As a generic observation, seven months in and I still struggle with some of the accents. Yes, I’m talking to you, the Brummie I met at the tyre fitment centre in Redditch . . .

Anyway, back to the beginning of my story.

For the first month here, my brother’s cottage in Frosterly in Durham County was our home – hence our arrival at Newcastle. Part of the reason we landed there was that, quite frankly, we didn’t know where else to go. Unlike many immigrants, Andrew and I brought an existing business – an internet-based one that knows no boundaries - to England, so we were not headed for a specific job in a specific town. This was the first challenge. Erin tells with some delight of walking into the lounge to see us throwing darts at the map of England. She’s exaggerating. We were poking it with teaspoons. The biggest splash of hot chocolate landed on Lincolnshire, so that's where we settled.

Did you know that the south-eastern parts of Lincolnshire, known as the Fens, are amongst the flattest places in England, maybe even the world? No? Well, we didn’t either. That was quite a shock after the mountains of Somerset West. But the worse was yet to come.

In our desire for village life, we rented a house in a hamlet (spot the mistake) named Thurlby. Now, let me describe Thurlby to you. If my grandfather were still alive, he would have said that it's the kind of town where they roll up the pavements and roads after six in the evening. He was of Cockney descent, so I’ll admit his humour was a bit dry, but that perfectly sums up life in Thurlby.

So it came as no surprise when Erin and Kate started muttering things like ‘old age home’, ‘morgue’ and ‘our parents have gone mad’ within days of arriving. A month in and we had a full-scale rebellion on our hands. My daughters, who have moved about ten times in nineteen years, were demanding that we pack up and leave. Instantly. London became the mantra, but when the cost of rentals in the Greatest City On Earth blasted that idea out the sky, they took up a new cry: 'please, anywhere but Thurlby'. But tied to a lease and their schooling, moving isn’t that simple. So here we linger, in the twilight zone that is Thurlby.

Still, hope beacons . . . Come June, when the schools close for summer, we’ll be doing the great migration again, this time to Worcestershire - the county that inspired the Shire in Tolkien’s Hobbit. How can that be bad?

Until then, I take pleasure in simple things . . . the lengthening of the days, spring blossoming around me . . . new bird calls . . . crocuses, seen for the first time, daffodils growing wild . . . the anticipation of bluebell . . . like I say, simple things.

The daffodils in St James Park, London

Crocus and snowdrops seen on the walk to the post office. Yes, Thurlby does at least have a post office and a tiny convenience store. We count our blessings . . .

Isn't that colour amazing? Crocus seen at an open garden near Thurlby

Daffies in Green Park, London

Now for those wondering . . . yes, my blog went off the air for a while, but now I’m back, hoping to charm you with short observations on life in England, the occasional book review, and the odd commentary on writing and publishing the perfect novel. I hope you will join me in my journey.

Until later

Cheers

Gwynn

PS. Kate still thinks Andrew and I are as daft as a pair of brushes for not moving to London.  

Frivolous Friday: As the days darken and the night sets in . . .

Happy Friday everyone! 

I hope it's frivolous and filled with fun.

I have always said I would like to live in New York City for a year. Why a year? So I can see the changing seasons. While Thurlby in Lincolnshire where I now live is hardly NYC, I'm still having a enthralling time watching the changing seasons in this new world. 

Bryonia berries

I arrived in the UK on the 15 August, right in the middle of one of the best summers the English have had in years. September continued warm and balmy, sliding gently into Autumn in October. As Autumns go, I think I have been a little disappointed. I'm surrounded by deciduous trees and expected a burst of jewel-like colours as the leaves turned. Not so. Apart from the fantastic red berries found in abundance on almost every tree or bush (slight exaggeration, but you get my drift) the Autumn has been unimpressive. 

But what I am watching with fascination is the shortening of the days. Obviously I had been warned of the strange phenomenon of night closing in at 4 o'clock in the afternoon, but to actually experience it is quite something else. Each day, I watch in awe as the clock's hands hit three and the light begins to fade - a pale, washed out sort of twilight. By four-fifteen it's almost dark. By five o'clock the stars are out. That was a surprise the first time I saw it. It was also the first time I really saw the stars since arriving here. I was having an afternoon kip on Saturday and awoke to the darkening sky. I lay captivated, watching the stars appear one by one through my bedroom window. A glance at the clock told me it was five o'clock. 

Like in so many other parts of the world, as November deepens Christmas also appears in the stores and high streets. It is no different here. The photo below was taken in the Church of John Baptists, a cathedral-like building (mini cathedral, I admit) in Stamford, close to where I live. They were selling charity Christmas cards. I thought the setting was amazing. Hope you enjoy the photo.

Church of John Baptist Christmas card sales

Until next time!
Cheers
Gwynn

P.S I'm almost as bad as the English, talking about the weather. It's an obsession here!

Frivolous Friday: October is Birthday Month

Welcome to the weekend! I still have no internet (the less said about England's internet and cell phone service delivery the better), but I couldn't resist a quick Frivolous Friday post. 

This month we celebrate two birthdays. My daughter Kate turns sixteen. And my brother Tom hits an age too high to mention without having to wash my mouth out with soap and water. This means the birthday dinner is at our house. I always do a roast with spuds and all the trimming for birthdays. It's become an institution. Hopefully it tastes better, though.

All Kate wanted for her sixteenth was a cat. So, today we went to a real English farm, complete with a dozen farm cats and kittens. The owners filled a bowl with milk and we were swamped with felines. In the end I'm not sure who picked who . . .  Spot Lexie (the kitten's current name) hiding in Kate's hoodie! She climbed in there herself and didn't move until she got home. 

Kate and little Lexie

Being the kind sister she is, Erin made Kate a hippie truck birthday cake. Looks really cool. Tomorrow we are heading down to the Norfolk Broads to have some family fun. Pictures to follow.

Until next time, have a great weekend everyone. Chat soon - hopefully, if I ever get on line!!

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday - Everything from chewing gum to giant leeks!

Happy Friday all! 

It's been a hectic week so I'm pretty glad the weekend is upon us. Part of what I've been doing has been checking out the local shops, trying to get my head around the concept of high street shopping.

Back in South Africa, shopping tends to be divided along wealth lines. Those with cash tend to shop in plush indoor malls where the stores are very specialized. There, you are highly unlikely to find garden tools and hardware in the kitchen shop, like I've seen at a gorgeous store in Bourne, my closest town here in England.

And as for the high streets in most South African towns . . . well, they have largely been given over to open air street vendors, (know locally as spaza shops) catering to the poorer folk where you can buy anything from chewing gum to airtime to deodorant. So it has been quite an adjustment getting used to shopping here in England.

But one of the things that really struck me this week as I trawled the stores were the snippets of conversations I overhead. It seems harvest festivals are uppermost in people's mind. I guess that makes sense with it being Autumn and all. So, getting into the spirit of things, I decided to share some pics I took a few years ago when I came to England on holiday and visited a small town harvest festival with my brother Tom (long before living here had even hit the radar screen).

Some of the veggies had to be seen to be believed, like this giant leek, held by Tom, or the onions, almost as big as his hand . . .

How they get them that size is anybody's guess, although I'm told the recipes are highly guarded, almost subject to the special secrets act. I think it highly unlikely I'll ever need the info, but who knows? Stranger things have happened. You might just find me of an afternoon, digging over my allotment, tending giant cabbages . . .

It's never going to happen!

Have a great weekend everyone.

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: Teaching Old Dogs New Tricks

Happy weekend all!

I am feeling particularly frivolous today because my dogs have finally arrived in England after a month-long separation. What a welcome we got yesterday at the Heathrow Animal Reception Centre! Bella, my Toy Pom, was a trembling ball of fluff, but it wasn't joy that had her shivering. The poor things was terrified. She dived into my arms and it took a few minutes before I got a few kisses on the nose out of her. On the drive home, she lay in my arms, refusing to move. Thankfully, a good night sleep seems to have cured her. That said, she won't let me out of her sight for a second. Holley, my lab, couldn't have been more different. She was bouncing with joy and couldn't love us enough. Once in teh car, she promptly feel asleep until we got home. 

What a delight having them back. It has gone a long way to helping me settle. 

Now they're home and the challenges of a new life starts. Having lived in bungalow-style houses all their lives, neither of them know how to climb stairs. Oh dear, the stress when I vanish onto the top floor. Bella at least can be carried, but Holley . . .  all forty kilos of her? Not likely. So, any pointers on teaching old dogs new tricks?

Have a wondrous weekend.

Cheers

Gwynn

Frivolous Friday - Home At Last

Happy Friday everyone! 

At last, after a long – unscheduled absence - Frivolous Friday is back. That means life in the White house is getting back to normal. Sort of.

With the boxes unpacked, the curtains hung, and my books safe in their allotted places, my office is now officially ready for work on Monday. 

My little room is not quite the same as my special space back in South Africa. For one, I don’t overlook my old rose garden. Instead, here I have a brilliant view of the sky, sometimes pewter-grey, but also sometimes bright with patches of sun. It reminds me of Cape Town from about May through to the end of November! Home from home . . .

So, it is with great excitement that I pick up the threads of my current book. I hope the characters still remember me because it's been almost a month since I last typed a word. Now the pressure is on to finish the first draft by the end of the year.

And my blog? Hopefully next week will bring a telephone line and some broadband so my blog won’t be so neglected . . .

In the meantime, chill and enjoy the weekend. Andrew and I are installing shelves into our wardrobe. Fun.

Cheers

Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: A Week Spent Peering Over Hedges . . . AKA House Hunting

Happy weekend everyone!  

My first week in England has been dominated by house hunting. Our quest has taken us from the very north - Durham - down to the bit in the middle just off to the right side of the country - Cambridgeshire for the purists amongst us.  Part of that search included taking some fun photos  . . .

Kate's eyes lit up when she saw these boots. They would have been ideal for stomping around the country looking for houses . . .

Who can resist a chocolate bear? Or the song "Teddy Bear's Picnic?"

The girls and I stumbled onto a mouthwatering chocolatier in Durham . . . pity chocolate hates me!

This awesome pear tree espalier graced a wall of an ancient house in the quaint town of Duddington.

Andrew was very keen on this stone cottage in Duddington. Gorgeous on the outside but waaaaay beyond rustic on the inside. Living there would have felt like we'd been transported to Cranford - fine for a book or TV series, but to live? I don't think so. It would have been proof conclusive to Erin and Kate that we'd finally flipped over the edge . . .

In the end we settled for a very boring-looking, but infinitely more comfortable house in Lincolnshire. 

Now we await all the legalize with the rental agency. Meanwhile our container of furniture arrived in England today. it will go into storage until the house is ready for us to move into at the beginning of September. Can't wait.

Now for some bookish news . . .

You have probably noticed that my blog has been very quiet for the past week. Don't despair, normal transmission resumes tomorrow. I will be posting a review of Beguiled Again by Patricia Burroughs. In the meantime, have a great weekend.

cheers

Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: Happiness is . . . England

So we have arrived in the UK. My verdict? It's fantastic! Yes, I know, we've only been here a day, but still, I'm as happy as a cat lying on a sunny windowsill. For those who are wondering, we've decided to settle in Durham county - up north where the countryside is beautiful (as seen in my pic) and far less crowded than down south. Andrew arrived here ten days before me and the girls and he spent that time trying to find us a house down south. He was constantly texting me saying he was claustrophobic. For us Africans used to wide open spaces, big skies and isolation, the thought of living cheek by jowl with masses of other people is not appealing. A little village in Durham seems like the perfect answer. Living so far north does come with a drawback though . . . the weather can be savage! Thank goodness for central heating. . .

Today was spent sorting out a school for Kate and a college for Erin. We also managed a quick visit to Waterstone bookstore in Durham. Drooooool . . .  Erin and my tongues were hanging out at the size of the store and the choice of books. I managed to snag a copy of Crown of Midnight by Sarah J Maas. This was a find for me considering that it will only reach South African shores in October. Even better, it was considerably cheaper than what I would have paid in South Africa. Here's me smiling.

The weirdest things seen today? The prize for that definitely goes to the fish foot spa we passed in Durham. I really should have taken a pic, but I was too grossed out to even think. What is a fish foot spa you ask? Very simply, you plop your feet into a large fish tank filled with a school of finger-length fish. With a flash of silver, a dozen fish attack, latching onto your (no my) feet, gnawing off all the dead skin . . .  Urgh. Gross. Not for me.

On that fishy note, have a happy weekend everyone . . .

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: The Art of Re-Inventing Yourself

I'm a firm believer that life is lived in chapters. For me, the best chapters are those that allow me to reinvent myself. Those opportunities are few and far between and therefore all the more cherished. I have less than a week left in South Africa and I am now so excited - like a child on Christmas morning.  It's like I have been given a beautifully wrapped gift, filled with new beginnings.  I can't wait to rip it open (I'm definitely not one of those protect-the-paper people) and start playing. Who knows what I'll find? Who knows how I will change? I don't have the answers. All I do know is that I can't wait.

And the photo? You northerners (I have very few days left in which to say that!) may be basking in the summer sun, but us folk on the southern tip of Africa are in the grips of winter. A mild one, I must admit. But this week a vicious cold front swept in with driving rain, cold and wind. When it all cleared, we woke up to this  . . .

The Hottentot-Holland mountain range 

The little town where I live nestles in the shadows of these mountains. It's a view I will miss. . .  Bring on the rolling hills of England.

Have a wonderful weekend everyone

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: A New Spin On Camping

Through the years I've sat around some beautful campfires in some pretty amazing places, but never one quite like this. This photo (with Bella, my dog on my lap) was taken in my empty lounge. My furniture left for England this week and kind friends have lent us some camping chairs, a camping table, some beds and bedding to tide us over until we vacate our home. It's amazing how echoey a big house is with nothing in it!

The challenge with moving overseas is when to let the furniture go. With a twenty-five-day shipping transit you're going to have to camp at some point in the process. We figured it was easier to camp here where friends could step in and help. Who knows what will happen when we arrive in Cambridgeshire, England? Yes, that is where Andrew's business calls us. He leaves on Monday. Erin, Kate and I leave on the 14th of August. Stephanie, my eldest daughter, is staying behind (with friends) to finish her schooling. That cracking sound you hear . . . it's my heart breaking at leaving her behind. But we will see her in December and who knows what the new year brings . . . My gold-plated dogs? They're coming with us. Gold-plated? It's cheaper to transport four adults than two mutts to England. I shudder at the cost, but some things just have to be borne.

What about my blog over the next couple of weeks? It will slow down, no doubt about it. But I will still do my weekly meme and keep up with Frivolous Friday. Reviews may have to wait. Please bear with me, regular transmission will resume as soon as my feet hit the ground.

And my writing? My current book steams ahead. Working on it is the most therapeutic thing I can do at the moment. It's my escape from all the stress, even more so than reading. That's good, I guess.

The hardest part of moving? Definitely the goodbyes. We had to say goodbye to Stephanie's horse today. He has found a new (we hope) loving home with a young girl who is so exited by his arrival in her life that she can hardly speak. It was heart-wrenching watching the horse box pull away with him inside. Weird that so much sadness can bring someone else so much joy. Life is strange. Saying goodbye to Louis was just the beginning . . . The next twelve days are going to be tough. Think of me when you are enjoying yourself with family and friends. You don't know how precious they are until you have to say goodbye. . .

Have a wonderful weekend.

Cheers
Gwynn
PS. Elisa is doing some hiking this weekend and she's posted a stunning picture of where she's going. Check it out here.

Frivolous Friday: I'm better at hello than goodbye

In the movie, Out of Africa, Karen Blixen, one of my all time greatest heroines, immortalized the phrase: "I'm better at hello than goodbye."

I know how she feels. With my move to the UK now imminent, I'm suddenly so aware of what I'm leaving behind on the African continent. I don't even want to mention my friends or my beloved aunt and mother-in-law, my last remaining family here. The loss of you all is just too painful to consider. So, I allow my mind to drift to other, less tangible things, but no less painful . . .

That eerie royal-blue sky just before a thunderstorm when the light is so vivid all the colours stand out in bold relief. The Jacaranda trees, shining purple and almost too brilliant to look at against that sky . . .

The smell of the dust when the first raindrops, the size of shiny coins, splatter the ground. A burnt smell, almost like ozone after a lightning strike . . .

Lightning . . . that incredible cosmic pyrotechnic display that entertained me as a child and thrills me as an adult . . .

Catching the first whiff of the evening campfire, that indescribable smell of burning mopani or camel thorn wood, that spells closure of the day . . .

Insane sunsets . . .  purple, orange, pink, red, black and blue. Yes blue, as the day fades and the night claims the sky. Venus, always first, looks down on us, cold and uncaring . . .

Steak cooked on the coals. The aroma of bread or a cake baking . . . Birthdays spent in the bush, complete with frosting on the cake, balloons and candles . . .

Long evenings around the fire. Laughter. Songs. Every world problem solved . . .

Even longer walks into the bush to see the stars. All sixty billion spangled galaxies there on display in a sky unpolluted by anything but dust . . . Humbling. Uplifting. Inspiring . . .

The heady scent of wild sage perfuming in the night air . . . Nights filled with the promise of hyena, genet and other noctural visitors to the campsite . . .

The smell of elephant dung, shouting wild, free, open spaces in a language that is unequivocal . . .

The azure sky - not milky-white as one sees so often in the northern hemisphere - arched above, stretching on forever, home to soaring eagles and squabbling sparrows. Endless. Unchanging.
Home . . .


Have a wonderful weekend.

Cheers
Gwynn

Frivolous Friday: Elephant Hugs

It's a week ago since I abandoned the family and shot off down the coast to Knysna to see my aunt. See post explaining all here. Anyway, while I was there, we visited the Knysna Elephant Park. The Tsitsikamama Forest near Knysna used to be home to hundreds of elephants, but poaching and hunting have brought the natural herd to the point of extinction. (There are still wild elephants in the forest, but in numbers so small you can probably count them on one hand) So, enter the Knysna Elephant Park. 

At this sanctuary rescued elephants are ambassadors for the entire ellie species. Visitors, like us, are able to touch these giants. You can even get an ellie cuddle - like I did from this six-year-old baby boy. Standing next to him, rubbing his leathery, bristled skin was thrilling. 

Me, getting hugged by an elephant

Being shadowed by his giant matriarch Sally? Not such fun. 

Me and Sally

That was just plain intimidating. She is HUGE. Her legs are like oak trees  - and you can imagine if one of those fell on you.

South Africa has one of the largest, most viable elephant populations left in the world, but due to limited habitat and elephants natural tendency to wreck their environment, the South African Wildlife Department run regular culls to keep the herds healthy. This controversial programme does result in orphans. The Knynsa Elephant Park is just one place where these babies find homes. 

Do I agree with culling? 

I believe elephants are akin to dogs, dolphins and whales when it comes to pure intelligence. I lived for a year in the Okavango Delta in Botswana where wild elephants were as common as sparrows. They visited my home daily, ripping up trees, threatening to flatten my house, entertaining Andrew and my guests with their incredible - and often dangerous - antics. I adore them. They are without doubt my favourite wild creature. 

But I have also seen them amble through a forest, snapping the trees like they were matchsticks, moving on without even feeding, leaving total devastation behind them. This natural behaviour seriously threatens their own and other animals viability. In the day when Africa was theirs, it didn't matter, but now with people, governments and borders, that lifestyle just isn't an option. So, sadly, yes, I do believe in controlled culling by humane wildlife experts. And thank heavens for places like Knysna Elephant Park who step in and help with the casualties when things go terribly wrong.

Hope you like my pics. Have a happy weekend.

cheers

Gwynn

PS. Don't forget to drop in and visit Elisa for her Frivolous Friday.