The characters of Thorpe-le-Soken.
These are various people who we have met, whose stories have served powerfully to reinforce and remind why we are here, where we want to go next in our lives, etc.
Robbie: 18, the local Scot, Bell bartender, a charismatic self-professed ladies man, whose aspirations are, well to be a ladies man and whose qualities make him the Hot Shit of the town.
Dave: 23, works seven days a week at the Bell for which e is amassing a lot of money. But what is he saving for? Nothing. He wants to work forever at the bell, never goes out, occasionally buys drugs and will not travel because his friends don't want to travel.
Dave #2: 20, already a father, no money, save enough to buy a couple drinks. Fascinated by Americans.
Nigel: 20,works with us in the gardens but does not get paid since it is just for course credit for his course on horticulture, about which he is indifferent. With no money though he cannot travel, which is his great dream. Where would he go if he could travel? Some exotic
Eastern land? Australia? No, simply Amsterdam which is a short 50$ ferry ride away. But that is 50$ too far, and he has never left England.
Xavier: 40, the head concierge at Lifehouse, a flamboyant gay Frenchman who is desperate for friends and has chosen us as the most interesting people in town. He is a great guy but I have a definite feeling he is in the wrong town and possibly the wrong country.
Elis: 18, smokin hot blond girl, the Hot Shit of the town. Nasty, bitchy sense of humor but is worshipped for her singular good looks (and I mean singular, she is the only pretty girl in town). Quite happy to get around too it would seem. The phrase "not my type" is a vast understatement.
Kit: 18, Elis' best friend and side kick. She does not make the decisions. She just worships and makes her friend look good. When she asks for anything she is denied. This barely resembles a friendship.
An interesting cast of characters... More to follow soon hopefully.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Now we are full swing into the first week of work. Thus far, we have just been working on restoring the gardens, assisting the pro-team that have already been at work for years. Our work has included uprooting massive and powerful plants (reminiscent of Lord of the Rings quote Uruk-Hai: "Their roots go deep my lord." Sauruman: "Tear them all down." That was obviously for you Bianca.), planting various specimens all over the estate, raking leaves (which we did for one FULL nine-hour day, talk about new experience), laying a path of wood chips, and shoveling mud from one place to be moved to another (don't ask me, I just follow orders).
The highlight of the work was a rainy afternoon when the entire team (all 8 of us) set to work clearing the rubbish from days of work. That involved one tractor, one leaf blower, two shovelers, three rakers, and Sharif (the muscle), we powered down one of the forest paths simultaneously raking and clearing and shoveling and turning a ragged forest into a pristine garden. We worked with military organization, extreme efficiency, and good fun teamwork. In the rain. Laughing. Shouting. Yeah.
The team, as it turns out, is great. Everyone is super friendly and has accepted us into the fold, although some of them are veterans of TEN YEARS on this job. They range in age from a kid who is twenty to someone who, well, it's obviously the ten-year-person. We all get along excellently. The head gardener is a true scholar of horticulture and they all know their work very well, with various specialties and a generally impressive work ethic. We drink lots and lots of tea (great excuse to take a break).
Ultimately, the work could not be better. We are in constantly fascinating beautiful surroundings, with a great group of people, in mild and often sunny weather, doing satisfying physical work. We are happy.
The highlight of the work was a rainy afternoon when the entire team (all 8 of us) set to work clearing the rubbish from days of work. That involved one tractor, one leaf blower, two shovelers, three rakers, and Sharif (the muscle), we powered down one of the forest paths simultaneously raking and clearing and shoveling and turning a ragged forest into a pristine garden. We worked with military organization, extreme efficiency, and good fun teamwork. In the rain. Laughing. Shouting. Yeah.
The team, as it turns out, is great. Everyone is super friendly and has accepted us into the fold, although some of them are veterans of TEN YEARS on this job. They range in age from a kid who is twenty to someone who, well, it's obviously the ten-year-person. We all get along excellently. The head gardener is a true scholar of horticulture and they all know their work very well, with various specialties and a generally impressive work ethic. We drink lots and lots of tea (great excuse to take a break).
Ultimately, the work could not be better. We are in constantly fascinating beautiful surroundings, with a great group of people, in mild and often sunny weather, doing satisfying physical work. We are happy.
Previously on "The World at Large"...
"we set out to explore Thorpe."
And returned 4 minutes later, having not only seen every square inch of Thorpe, but understanding all that it had to offer culturally and otherwise. The town is tiny and near empty, save for a mini-Tesco's (groceries) and a few pensioners interested in the quiet life. The VERY quiet life. We had certainly downsized a bit from Paris.
However, we were not disheartened but, being resourceful and capable of entertaining ourselves, looked forward to a quiet evening. What we got instead was about 25 pints of ale and twice that many new friends. Everybody and their uncle wanted, it seemed, to meet us and make friends. Now I know that you are reading this and thinking "wanted to make friends?? Seriously?? Percy and Casey? Jesus I am only reading this blog out of a combination of pity, obligation, and boredom." But what I would say to that is, you don't live in Thorpe.
In fact, we are the first new, young, and well, lets be honest, stunningly attractive and cultured people to arrive in this town for at least a decade, so we are a big deal. We met many people that Friday night and the rest of the weekend, all of whom wanted to get to know us, and many of whom entreated us to join them for a variety of suspect activities, which, I suppose, are all there is to do in Thorpe. Some quotes from various Thorpe residents:
"Wait, are you guys dads yet? [no we are 18]. Well we are 18 and most of us are 18 or 19"
"Do you do drugs?...no, no, we mean Hard drugs."
"What do you want to do with your life? I am a hairdresser."
"Wait you met girls last night and you Didn't have sex?"
"Another pint?"
"Another pint?"
"Another pint?"
Casey and I spent most of the weekend in a state of fairly severe shock and confusion and after the first traumatic (don't worry, I use this word loosely, it wasn't too bad) night, drank not one more drop. The rest of the week was spent sleeping, eating very well (the pub serves great food, covered by our employers), watching great movies (if you are looking for any check out The Four Feathers and Where Eagles Dare), and working independently up at the spa. The Bell was full of very hospitable and fun, and the only downside of the great spot was the impossibility of going to sleep before the pub closed at...never. (We slept during the day mostly).
On Sunday we headed into Clacton, the much bigger (and by much I mean not much) town nearby, to buy some things and get a change of scene. It was certainly a change, though barely an improvement. When the weekend ended, we felt as if we had been in Thorpe for about 6 months, and perhaps you are beginning to understand why.
"we set out to explore Thorpe."
And returned 4 minutes later, having not only seen every square inch of Thorpe, but understanding all that it had to offer culturally and otherwise. The town is tiny and near empty, save for a mini-Tesco's (groceries) and a few pensioners interested in the quiet life. The VERY quiet life. We had certainly downsized a bit from Paris.
However, we were not disheartened but, being resourceful and capable of entertaining ourselves, looked forward to a quiet evening. What we got instead was about 25 pints of ale and twice that many new friends. Everybody and their uncle wanted, it seemed, to meet us and make friends. Now I know that you are reading this and thinking "wanted to make friends?? Seriously?? Percy and Casey? Jesus I am only reading this blog out of a combination of pity, obligation, and boredom." But what I would say to that is, you don't live in Thorpe.
In fact, we are the first new, young, and well, lets be honest, stunningly attractive and cultured people to arrive in this town for at least a decade, so we are a big deal. We met many people that Friday night and the rest of the weekend, all of whom wanted to get to know us, and many of whom entreated us to join them for a variety of suspect activities, which, I suppose, are all there is to do in Thorpe. Some quotes from various Thorpe residents:
"Wait, are you guys dads yet? [no we are 18]. Well we are 18 and most of us are 18 or 19"
"Do you do drugs?...no, no, we mean Hard drugs."
"What do you want to do with your life? I am a hairdresser."
"Wait you met girls last night and you Didn't have sex?"
"Another pint?"
"Another pint?"
"Another pint?"
Casey and I spent most of the weekend in a state of fairly severe shock and confusion and after the first traumatic (don't worry, I use this word loosely, it wasn't too bad) night, drank not one more drop. The rest of the week was spent sleeping, eating very well (the pub serves great food, covered by our employers), watching great movies (if you are looking for any check out The Four Feathers and Where Eagles Dare), and working independently up at the spa. The Bell was full of very hospitable and fun, and the only downside of the great spot was the impossibility of going to sleep before the pub closed at...never. (We slept during the day mostly).
On Sunday we headed into Clacton, the much bigger (and by much I mean not much) town nearby, to buy some things and get a change of scene. It was certainly a change, though barely an improvement. When the weekend ended, we felt as if we had been in Thorpe for about 6 months, and perhaps you are beginning to understand why.
We were greeted off the plane by the wonderfully hospitable Harriet Cronk (we are so lucky to know so many wonderfully hospitable people) who swept us back to the Cronk's (old family friends, and current employers) beautiful house where we ate (ahhhh Pizza and beer, so un-French and so delicious) and crashed into bed. Paris is exhausting.
The next day (after a sumptuous breakfast) we boarded a train for somewhere called Thorpe-le-Soken. This is where our employer, Paul Cronk, is currently in the final stages of constructing a health spa called Lifehouse. Little did we know, Thorpe is not somewhere, it is nowhere. But more about that later. Paul greeted us off the train and introduced us to a million future coworkers and shower us briefly around the site (though all the interesting bits were off limits under construction). The spa is set to open late November so we are here for the hectic and frantic culmination of Ten Years of work. The spa is set on the site of Thorpe Hall, and is surrounded by beautiful garden's designed by a very enthusiastic gardener and former Lady of the manor Lady Byng. The gardens are sprawled around the spa buildings (which are by the way, ultra-modern, black and white, very cool, and blend bizarrely with the surrounding red brick that remains of the manor). The red brick is also ubiquitous without the gardens, which are a combination of rigidly geometric Victorian rose gardens and 1920's "wild gardens." The whole thing was masterminded by this Lady Byng who, it turns out, was obsessed with Californian botany. So there we were, in a seaside town in deepest Essex, surrounded by madrones, eucalyptus, and other incredibly familiar plants that made us feel, if not at home, then at least a bit more comfortable. The garden's have been beautifully restored and include many paths, various lakes and ponds, and many massive exotic trees.
The project has million of employee's and is utter chaos as everyone is working hard to open in less than a month. But the atmosphere is congenial and at times almost festive and there is a definite sense of frantic teamwork. We are here at the right time. Although, unfortunately, the wrong time of the week. Before we had barely begun to work, it was the weekend, so we settled into the Bell, a pub with a couple extremely cozy rooms above, and set out to get to know Thorpe.
The next day (after a sumptuous breakfast) we boarded a train for somewhere called Thorpe-le-Soken. This is where our employer, Paul Cronk, is currently in the final stages of constructing a health spa called Lifehouse. Little did we know, Thorpe is not somewhere, it is nowhere. But more about that later. Paul greeted us off the train and introduced us to a million future coworkers and shower us briefly around the site (though all the interesting bits were off limits under construction). The spa is set to open late November so we are here for the hectic and frantic culmination of Ten Years of work. The spa is set on the site of Thorpe Hall, and is surrounded by beautiful garden's designed by a very enthusiastic gardener and former Lady of the manor Lady Byng. The gardens are sprawled around the spa buildings (which are by the way, ultra-modern, black and white, very cool, and blend bizarrely with the surrounding red brick that remains of the manor). The red brick is also ubiquitous without the gardens, which are a combination of rigidly geometric Victorian rose gardens and 1920's "wild gardens." The whole thing was masterminded by this Lady Byng who, it turns out, was obsessed with Californian botany. So there we were, in a seaside town in deepest Essex, surrounded by madrones, eucalyptus, and other incredibly familiar plants that made us feel, if not at home, then at least a bit more comfortable. The garden's have been beautifully restored and include many paths, various lakes and ponds, and many massive exotic trees.
The project has million of employee's and is utter chaos as everyone is working hard to open in less than a month. But the atmosphere is congenial and at times almost festive and there is a definite sense of frantic teamwork. We are here at the right time. Although, unfortunately, the wrong time of the week. Before we had barely begun to work, it was the weekend, so we settled into the Bell, a pub with a couple extremely cozy rooms above, and set out to get to know Thorpe.
We boarded the train to Paris Charles du Gualle. Now, as a reference, the train to Heathrow from anywhere in London takes about twenty minutes. Just a reference. We left three hours before our plane would be boarding. But, for some reason, not only was there no express to the airport, but the train insisted on stopping for twenty minutes at Every stop. After which it would begin to leave and then stop, open the doors to let on more fashionably late Frenchies, then close the doors, open them again, then finally get going at about 4 miles an hour to the next stop where we would wait 20 minutes etc...
I don't know whether this was because of the National Strike or whether it is just TYPICALLY French. Anyways, no worries except that we arrived at the airport literally ten minutes before our flight closed boarding and took off. We bolted out the Slowly opening train doors and sprinted up the stairs. No signs, no indication of where to go--There! We sprinted up more stairs , then down some, lost the signs, up, down, and then a full out sprint (by the way I am a track runner, a sprinter in fact, and we are both in decent shape, but this was an athletic feat that would make Ussein Bolt bolt in the other direction)through terminal 4B, the 3A, then 2C, then 4D, (don't ask me how these line up either numerically or alphabetically. Charles du Gualle might know) and finally to our destination 2B. Congratulations boys, you have sprinted the entire length of one of the world's biggest international airports. And congratulations also, you can't get on the plane.
Lesson: Don't take no for an answer. Whine, cry, weep, shout, stomp your foot, bitch, whimper, round off with puppy dogs eyes and voila: "Well, I guess you could run." So run we did, with the Chariot's Of Fire soundtrack playing on the airport PA system, and skidded into security, pushed our way past some incredibly polite and gracious (typically polite and gracious, you might say) English gentry, and leapt onto the plane, which was already in mid-air but had luckily been delayed 20 minutes, just enough. A sigh of relief and then we had landed back in Bristol. Despite a 4 hour traumatic traveling nightmare, the actual flight was only about 35 minutes.
I don't know whether this was because of the National Strike or whether it is just TYPICALLY French. Anyways, no worries except that we arrived at the airport literally ten minutes before our flight closed boarding and took off. We bolted out the Slowly opening train doors and sprinted up the stairs. No signs, no indication of where to go--There! We sprinted up more stairs , then down some, lost the signs, up, down, and then a full out sprint (by the way I am a track runner, a sprinter in fact, and we are both in decent shape, but this was an athletic feat that would make Ussein Bolt bolt in the other direction)through terminal 4B, the 3A, then 2C, then 4D, (don't ask me how these line up either numerically or alphabetically. Charles du Gualle might know) and finally to our destination 2B. Congratulations boys, you have sprinted the entire length of one of the world's biggest international airports. And congratulations also, you can't get on the plane.
Lesson: Don't take no for an answer. Whine, cry, weep, shout, stomp your foot, bitch, whimper, round off with puppy dogs eyes and voila: "Well, I guess you could run." So run we did, with the Chariot's Of Fire soundtrack playing on the airport PA system, and skidded into security, pushed our way past some incredibly polite and gracious (typically polite and gracious, you might say) English gentry, and leapt onto the plane, which was already in mid-air but had luckily been delayed 20 minutes, just enough. A sigh of relief and then we had landed back in Bristol. Despite a 4 hour traumatic traveling nightmare, the actual flight was only about 35 minutes.
A lot to catch up on, I know. So....
We left grimault in the early morning after my last post. Drove through the rain and the mist for a very wet (but still wonderful) Paris. We had a coffee with Caroline, a friend of Alice and Davids who we had met before, a beaming woman bedecked in black furs with a tiny white dog named shushu who came complete with a pink bow in his hair. Then we hiked across the city, through the rain, and though emotions were running high we finally made it to the d'Orsay museum, where the lovely Whitney Turley was waiting with tickets (she had been waiting in the rain for an hour or whatever and complained endlessly about it). The museum was a wonderland of brilliant art and stunning architecture. An old train station of impressive red brick arches redone with ultra-modern iron adornments, with a massive ornate clock covering one entire wall and bright light pouring down from the skylights. Highlights of the museum included stunningly complex and terrifying ten foot tall paintings by -------, some terrific sculpture of medieval and ancient warriors, a massive sculpted door modeling the entrance to Dante's inferno, a flawlessly delicate scaled model of the Paris Opera house, the luscious paintings of ------ and the flat surreal paintings of Manet (not to be confused with the bright flowing works of MOnet). Breathtaking.
Needing sustenance, we headed upstairs to the shockingly ornate gilt dining hall. We were surrounded by white, pale blue, and gold, with heavenly murals above, and a perfect view of Paris outside the window. Extravagant, opulent, and delicious, were the champagne and foi gras, duck and risotto, that we consumed in high spirits, with flushed faces and loud laughter. We criticized the haughtily French waiters and stared at the inappropriately sensuous sculptures that bent voluptuously over our table. After tasting a dozen types of gelato, we traipsed down the stairs to explore more of the museum and then emerged onto the streets.
Bidding farewell to Alice and David was not easy, though we will see them again soon, but farewell it was, and then again the City of Lights was our playground.
Whitney showed us around the vintage shops of the Marais neighborhood, where we were crammed into tiny spaces full of stylishly dressed people checking out the coolest clothes in the world. A narrow winding staircase wound down into a brightly lit cellar full of even more clothes. These were places that would put any Californian shop to shame, and I know that even as someone with a minimal knowledge or sense of fashion. We made some choices and wore our new finery for the rest of the evening. Then we wandered over to an open air market where, as evening fell, we bought dinner supplies. Ratatouille, roast chicken, a fresh baguette, and a bottl of rose were hastily prepared and then leisurely consumed in whitney's apartment, a tiny but elegantly furnished flat on the river with views of Notre Dame. We lot candles and threw open the windows so that we could enjoy the sights and smells of the city, the park below the window, and the nearby cathedral, as Edith Piaf songs filled the apartment. We were in utter awe of our own luck and brilliance finding ourselves here, now, blissful, in good company, in great spirits, on the right bank, in the Right place. After dinner we explored more of the cities nightlife, and staggered (I mean walked) home at, well, late at night.
But after a few hours I was up again, and hiked through pre-dawn Paris, waiting for the sun rise as I searched for my destination. I arrived at the Paris Opera House just as the sky was lightening, and circled it in awe. Amazing architecture and legacy with the names of all the great composers engraved upon the columns. I imagined I could faintly hear operatic scores ringing dreamily from the halls.
Then I struck back to Whitney's apartment through the grand entry of the Louvre and across the Seine right as the sun burst over the city. I arrived just in time for the arrival of Suzanne Turley, who swept stylishly into Paris with her companion Cathy Dennison, to be greeted by Whitney's screams of delight.
After a much needed round of coffee and croissants, we headed out into the bright sunshine (although the weather in Burgundy was fairly cold, this day in Paris was bright and sunny) and wandered down to the Luxemborg gardens, a splendid composition of tree-lined avenues and geometric flower arrangements. The flowers were splendid and there was a fountain with a pond upon which children sailed little mini sailboats. We also saw an incredible old fountain tucked away into the trees, with a powerfully carved Zeus gazing down on lichen and green water. There was a massive protest going on nearby which destroyed the peace and quiet but then, how could one huge economy-crippling, utterly inconvenient and obnoxious protest a week be enough for the French. We then got lunch at a very cool Chinese restaurant (recommended by Suzanne) where we ate delicious noodles before heading back out onto the streets where Whitney led us to an incredible wildlife shop that sold everything from beautifully presented insects to stuffed birds and even stuffed mammals. These included, among others several tigers, lions, rattlesnakes, deer, an elephant, a giraffe, and, well, most every other member of the animal, bird, and reptile kingdoms. All the stuffed beasts were being sold for between 5,000 and 20,000 euro. Although quiet disturbing at times, seeing these animals was certainly breathtaking.
Our wonderful little fellowship then wound it's way back to Notre Dame, and the apartment, where we bid a fond farewell to Suzanne and Cathy and a very brief one to Whitney before heading off for a series of traveling disasters or, as I like to think of it, Damn The French: Episode Two.
We left grimault in the early morning after my last post. Drove through the rain and the mist for a very wet (but still wonderful) Paris. We had a coffee with Caroline, a friend of Alice and Davids who we had met before, a beaming woman bedecked in black furs with a tiny white dog named shushu who came complete with a pink bow in his hair. Then we hiked across the city, through the rain, and though emotions were running high we finally made it to the d'Orsay museum, where the lovely Whitney Turley was waiting with tickets (she had been waiting in the rain for an hour or whatever and complained endlessly about it). The museum was a wonderland of brilliant art and stunning architecture. An old train station of impressive red brick arches redone with ultra-modern iron adornments, with a massive ornate clock covering one entire wall and bright light pouring down from the skylights. Highlights of the museum included stunningly complex and terrifying ten foot tall paintings by -------, some terrific sculpture of medieval and ancient warriors, a massive sculpted door modeling the entrance to Dante's inferno, a flawlessly delicate scaled model of the Paris Opera house, the luscious paintings of ------ and the flat surreal paintings of Manet (not to be confused with the bright flowing works of MOnet). Breathtaking.
Needing sustenance, we headed upstairs to the shockingly ornate gilt dining hall. We were surrounded by white, pale blue, and gold, with heavenly murals above, and a perfect view of Paris outside the window. Extravagant, opulent, and delicious, were the champagne and foi gras, duck and risotto, that we consumed in high spirits, with flushed faces and loud laughter. We criticized the haughtily French waiters and stared at the inappropriately sensuous sculptures that bent voluptuously over our table. After tasting a dozen types of gelato, we traipsed down the stairs to explore more of the museum and then emerged onto the streets.
Bidding farewell to Alice and David was not easy, though we will see them again soon, but farewell it was, and then again the City of Lights was our playground.
Whitney showed us around the vintage shops of the Marais neighborhood, where we were crammed into tiny spaces full of stylishly dressed people checking out the coolest clothes in the world. A narrow winding staircase wound down into a brightly lit cellar full of even more clothes. These were places that would put any Californian shop to shame, and I know that even as someone with a minimal knowledge or sense of fashion. We made some choices and wore our new finery for the rest of the evening. Then we wandered over to an open air market where, as evening fell, we bought dinner supplies. Ratatouille, roast chicken, a fresh baguette, and a bottl of rose were hastily prepared and then leisurely consumed in whitney's apartment, a tiny but elegantly furnished flat on the river with views of Notre Dame. We lot candles and threw open the windows so that we could enjoy the sights and smells of the city, the park below the window, and the nearby cathedral, as Edith Piaf songs filled the apartment. We were in utter awe of our own luck and brilliance finding ourselves here, now, blissful, in good company, in great spirits, on the right bank, in the Right place. After dinner we explored more of the cities nightlife, and staggered (I mean walked) home at, well, late at night.
But after a few hours I was up again, and hiked through pre-dawn Paris, waiting for the sun rise as I searched for my destination. I arrived at the Paris Opera House just as the sky was lightening, and circled it in awe. Amazing architecture and legacy with the names of all the great composers engraved upon the columns. I imagined I could faintly hear operatic scores ringing dreamily from the halls.
Then I struck back to Whitney's apartment through the grand entry of the Louvre and across the Seine right as the sun burst over the city. I arrived just in time for the arrival of Suzanne Turley, who swept stylishly into Paris with her companion Cathy Dennison, to be greeted by Whitney's screams of delight.
After a much needed round of coffee and croissants, we headed out into the bright sunshine (although the weather in Burgundy was fairly cold, this day in Paris was bright and sunny) and wandered down to the Luxemborg gardens, a splendid composition of tree-lined avenues and geometric flower arrangements. The flowers were splendid and there was a fountain with a pond upon which children sailed little mini sailboats. We also saw an incredible old fountain tucked away into the trees, with a powerfully carved Zeus gazing down on lichen and green water. There was a massive protest going on nearby which destroyed the peace and quiet but then, how could one huge economy-crippling, utterly inconvenient and obnoxious protest a week be enough for the French. We then got lunch at a very cool Chinese restaurant (recommended by Suzanne) where we ate delicious noodles before heading back out onto the streets where Whitney led us to an incredible wildlife shop that sold everything from beautifully presented insects to stuffed birds and even stuffed mammals. These included, among others several tigers, lions, rattlesnakes, deer, an elephant, a giraffe, and, well, most every other member of the animal, bird, and reptile kingdoms. All the stuffed beasts were being sold for between 5,000 and 20,000 euro. Although quiet disturbing at times, seeing these animals was certainly breathtaking.
Our wonderful little fellowship then wound it's way back to Notre Dame, and the apartment, where we bid a fond farewell to Suzanne and Cathy and a very brief one to Whitney before heading off for a series of traveling disasters or, as I like to think of it, Damn The French: Episode Two.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Here are Alices notes on the Music Performance:
So the show opened with The Family. Voila! But the aforementioned organizer/impressionario, Jean-Louis, had decided to jazz uup the event by backing every group with himself (of course) on heavily-stummed guitar, and Michel, with his electronic keyboard, whose speciality is ice rink ambiance. So, the acoustic Family set began in Quelle Bordelle , with neither the violinist nor the vocalist able to hear themselves at all as they sang the American singer's composion Dance With Me, which is a nice-enough waltz appropriate to violin overlay. The second song was Marianne, Leonard Cohen's piece, for which Michel-Icerink had no score, so he, well, improvised. And Percy valiantly bowed along, determined and able, but, well, quelle bordelle encore.
But, frankly no one noticed. The event drew about 50 or more persons to a hall the size of your front porch, and everyone seemed enormously pleased. And come song three, when the American singer Cindy was able to basically drag everyone off stage except The Family, they - David, Casey, Percy, rang out with a poetic and beautifully played Where Do You Go to My Lovely, and, well, I get a little ecstatic just thinking about it all.
Casey wore full regalia, a brown fedora rumaged from my closet and a white wool muffler over his black shirt, and Percy was composed and elegant in one of David's black broadcloths, and Percy's school friend, a rather elegant and adorable person you know as Whitney, whose FRench is absolutely as perfect as her posture, borrowed a ruffled black dress from me and gave groupies a new and improved image (I, too, wore black, and paired with Whitney and Marie-Francoise, the aforementioned new girlfriend and ex-wife, who is lovely, actually, and also wore dramatic dark something) and we were loud and adoring, as the music commanded us to be.We actually have pictures of the group before the concert, and you will receive some toute de suite.
The sink is overrun with dishes, the dog has thrown up the cheese she stole from the counter top, David is out of fig jam, not to mention the pile of figs he bought for us yesterday. The tablecloth is wine-stained, as I had had the sense to concoct a stew of the veal we had all chosen at market in Avallon on Saturday morning and we wolfed it before the concert, thank goodness, along with a glass of red. Sheet music is strewn on every surface not covered in discarded boy clothing. And still they sleep the sleep of innocents, more or less.
I must wake them and drag them out, as they insist on going to a Vide Grenier over the hill and far away this morning, and the rain seems to have quit, and we are off and running, I hope, with a tank full of gas and some more stored in blue bottles, which work on both stove and auto, David says.
We are proud beyond measure. The French will never see the like of our clan!
Monday, October 18, 2010
It is late and Alice, David, Casey, and the dogs are all snoring. It is dark and wintery outside, and bed beckons.
We just got back from dinner at Chateau Tourney, a castle belonging to Alice and David's dear friends Patrice and Danielle, two incredible characters transported to the present from a medieval age. They are in the antiques business. Danielle is a linguist and a foreign diplomat, who is tall and elegant and carries herself like a duchess, dressed always in floor-length gowns. Patrice has the bearing and the beard of a French Knight, and he has restored Chateau Tourney brick by brick, flawlessly, himself.
Yes, you read that right, we were just served dinner by people resembling a duchess and a knight, at a castle, a real castle with a wood fire and chandeliers and big oak table and a stone tower and a bridge across a moat. It was incredible. We ate stew and potatoes, accompanied by red wine and followed by a huge cheese board and an apple crumble. They two of them make excellent company. For the second time in Europe (first was the fox hunt), we were, incredibly, transported back in time.
But as incredible as this expedition was, I have to go to bed. We rise early tomorrow to return to Paris, where we will spend a day and a night (not to be confused with a Knight, that was earlier) with Whitney, roaming the streets and the museums some more, and then fly back to Bristol the next day. There we will meet with our next employer, Paul Cronk, and go back to the grindstone of work.
C'est la vie.
C'est Magnifique.
We just got back from dinner at Chateau Tourney, a castle belonging to Alice and David's dear friends Patrice and Danielle, two incredible characters transported to the present from a medieval age. They are in the antiques business. Danielle is a linguist and a foreign diplomat, who is tall and elegant and carries herself like a duchess, dressed always in floor-length gowns. Patrice has the bearing and the beard of a French Knight, and he has restored Chateau Tourney brick by brick, flawlessly, himself.
Yes, you read that right, we were just served dinner by people resembling a duchess and a knight, at a castle, a real castle with a wood fire and chandeliers and big oak table and a stone tower and a bridge across a moat. It was incredible. We ate stew and potatoes, accompanied by red wine and followed by a huge cheese board and an apple crumble. They two of them make excellent company. For the second time in Europe (first was the fox hunt), we were, incredibly, transported back in time.
But as incredible as this expedition was, I have to go to bed. We rise early tomorrow to return to Paris, where we will spend a day and a night (not to be confused with a Knight, that was earlier) with Whitney, roaming the streets and the museums some more, and then fly back to Bristol the next day. There we will meet with our next employer, Paul Cronk, and go back to the grindstone of work.
C'est la vie.
C'est Magnifique.
Imagine Wembley Stadium. Imagine HP Pavilion. Imagine Carnegie Hall. Now downsize to a room the size of a closet in a tiny eccentrically decorated church packed full or wonderfully exuberant Burgundian farmers and musicians, playing bizarre takes on American music. Welcome to our concert. I am a long way away from SA, Doug Gallagher, and community meeting. But I am very happy, because really music requires nothing but a few instruments and the people with the willingness to play them. Together.
That said, this event was a fiasco from the start. David, as I said, organized it, but it was soon commandeered by a man who more stubborn than Jacques Clouseau, and a lot less resourceful. Jean-Louise took over the concert and proceeded to cause more chaos and stress than David could possibly have done deliberately. Everything was miscommunicated, everything mixed up, rehearsals cancelled or postponed or both (don't ask me how that works, remember I am confused). But being disorganized is forgivable, if you are a good musician. Hmmmm.
But we eventually got used to the idea of Jean-Louise shredding inexpertly but very loudly and out-of-tunely on his electric guitar while we played slow acoustic ballads and delicate harmonies. We sacrificed a little quality, but everyone had a good time. Then in came Michel, a man whose musical prowess extends only to putting the recorded tracks on his keyboard on a loop on max volume and drowning out all competition, as well as using a voice modifier to put him constantly in tune and create multiple artificial harmonies. I have about as high of an opinion of this style of music making as I do of Emma Ritcey (and my opinion of Emma Ritcey is, well, abysmal). But, setting aside my perfectionism and classical training, I settled in for a night of surprises and interesting music and that is, of course, what I received. Alice's outsider account will shortly be posted (remember, she is a writer by profession so have very high expectations). There were, in fact, some very good musicians, including David's friend Cindy, who writes good music and has a wonderfully lustrous voice, a jazz keyboard player come down from Paris, and his wife, who sings American songs with a fiery passion and even more fiery sexuality. Whitney and Alice came dressed to kill in black and red flamenco dresses. Posing before the concert they were mistaken by a passing fashionista as Vogue models.
Our set went very smoothly. It was our international debut on the music scene (we are here till Thursday!!!! Wooooo!!!! Thank you Noyers-sur-Serein!!!! You've been a great crowd!). It was also Casey's first time singing solo vocals and using a mike, but he sang with a voice that made most audience members swoon. Clear and powerful, each word leapt across the room, and the meaning though in a foreign language, was not lost on anyone. I had (if I do say so myself, and I do) a couple fiery violin solo. David kept the whole thing together with the steady professionalism of someone who has jammed with the Grateful Dead and David Bowie and Crosby, Stills, and Nash, and not a few others. (If you think I am joking or exaggerating, I can have Steven Stills on the phone in five minutes. Not kidding). The whole set went very smoothly and we got many, many "Bravos!!" and a few requests for CD's!!!! We are fast becoming legend.
It would a concert that would make many people laugh, some people cry, and a few cringe. But it was a blast, and will never, never be forgotten.
That said, this event was a fiasco from the start. David, as I said, organized it, but it was soon commandeered by a man who more stubborn than Jacques Clouseau, and a lot less resourceful. Jean-Louise took over the concert and proceeded to cause more chaos and stress than David could possibly have done deliberately. Everything was miscommunicated, everything mixed up, rehearsals cancelled or postponed or both (don't ask me how that works, remember I am confused). But being disorganized is forgivable, if you are a good musician. Hmmmm.
But we eventually got used to the idea of Jean-Louise shredding inexpertly but very loudly and out-of-tunely on his electric guitar while we played slow acoustic ballads and delicate harmonies. We sacrificed a little quality, but everyone had a good time. Then in came Michel, a man whose musical prowess extends only to putting the recorded tracks on his keyboard on a loop on max volume and drowning out all competition, as well as using a voice modifier to put him constantly in tune and create multiple artificial harmonies. I have about as high of an opinion of this style of music making as I do of Emma Ritcey (and my opinion of Emma Ritcey is, well, abysmal). But, setting aside my perfectionism and classical training, I settled in for a night of surprises and interesting music and that is, of course, what I received. Alice's outsider account will shortly be posted (remember, she is a writer by profession so have very high expectations). There were, in fact, some very good musicians, including David's friend Cindy, who writes good music and has a wonderfully lustrous voice, a jazz keyboard player come down from Paris, and his wife, who sings American songs with a fiery passion and even more fiery sexuality. Whitney and Alice came dressed to kill in black and red flamenco dresses. Posing before the concert they were mistaken by a passing fashionista as Vogue models.
Our set went very smoothly. It was our international debut on the music scene (we are here till Thursday!!!! Wooooo!!!! Thank you Noyers-sur-Serein!!!! You've been a great crowd!). It was also Casey's first time singing solo vocals and using a mike, but he sang with a voice that made most audience members swoon. Clear and powerful, each word leapt across the room, and the meaning though in a foreign language, was not lost on anyone. I had (if I do say so myself, and I do) a couple fiery violin solo. David kept the whole thing together with the steady professionalism of someone who has jammed with the Grateful Dead and David Bowie and Crosby, Stills, and Nash, and not a few others. (If you think I am joking or exaggerating, I can have Steven Stills on the phone in five minutes. Not kidding). The whole set went very smoothly and we got many, many "Bravos!!" and a few requests for CD's!!!! We are fast becoming legend.
It would a concert that would make many people laugh, some people cry, and a few cringe. But it was a blast, and will never, never be forgotten.
Away, at last, from the swirling lights and vivid colours of gay Paris into the land of Burgundy.
Into a land of endless flat fields, temporarily barren of their lush produce. Into the countryside, where people are endlessly polite, conservative, and old-fashioned (one kiss one each cheek, NO exceptions). Into a medieval wonderland of ancient stone houses, castles, and churches that have been thrice ransacked in various revolutions. Into the food and wine heartland of France, home of incomparable cheese and wine, not to mention dishes like Boeuf Bourguinon (Pardon the spelling, I can in fact speak French, which is verified by the French consulate at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FK-wcXJVSbw). Into a haven of tranquility where music is only interrupted by food, which is only interrupted by the occasional nap, which is only interrupted to wander the streets, ramparts, or cloisters of some brilliantly ancient wonder.
Rue d'Enfer (Street to Hell) is nothing like the name implies. It is a tiny street that runs through a tiny town filled with tinier people living out lives that are almost decadent in their delicious simplicity. We are here because our grandparents, the infamous Alice Thibeau and David Thorpe, have called us across the oceans to join them. [For more information on Alice and David, speak with Peter Tatum about reading his short story "My Life in France" which is available at most major bookstores,and will shortly be published additionally on the blog] These two beloved individuals have ever been, and are, some of our dearest family members, and have over the last few years created, as I said, a haven of music and simple luxury in the countryside of Burgundy, in the tiny town of Grimault, to which we have often made a pilgrimage for peace or happiness. So here, in Grimault, a town you will never find on a map, we have been for the last week. The days blend together in blissful harmony, so I will detail a few highlights. Harmony is truly the best word to describe our lives here. Harmony in company, in music, and in general.
The house is small but ideal, built simply of stone, and nestled in a garden of flowers and fruit trees up against a stone wall built into the hillside. Vines adorn it's exterior and art it's interior (Alice is an artist by profession, and paints everything from portraiture to medieval and religious art). There is a main room with a crackling fire, full of music and all of music's accessories. A tiny kitchen that produces more wonderful food than almost any other I have ever seen. And upstairs the master bedroom, complete with an elaborate antique headstand that literally forms a massive crown over the bed. There are two massive dogs named Grace and Fideaux (note French spelling). Outside is a tent in the garden for eating lunch and playing music, and next door is a cozy room where we sleep. A stone room with a tiled roof, two cozy beds with painted bedspreads, piles of good books and a cupboard full of wonderful costumes and art supplies. We sleep in Victorian nightgowns (pictures of us in our nightgowns will shortly be posted, pending approval from the extremely self-conscious Casey Brazfield).
We eat a light breakfast (great coffee) and a massive lunch. While not the standard (and, quite frankly, exhausting) 4 course, 4 hour affair generally accepted across Frances, our lunches are a joy to see. Alice is a wonderful cook, but frankly, she could survive even without her prodigious skills, since the raw materials are so breathtakingly good. We eat beautiful cuts of meat from the Boucherie. We eat fresh loaves of incomparable sourdough from the Boulangerie. We eat cheese that ranges from plain to delicious to putrid from the Fromagerie. Vegetables and fruits are dragged in heaping baskets from the open air market, and generally include fresh squash, cauliflower, pears and figs. David loves apple sorbet and incredible chocolate, so that is the perennial finish to our feasts. Creme de Marron (chestnut) and pear jam are other favorites. Eating is not a chore, but a joy. It is quite easy to literally live for meals that are this good. Dinners are stupendous, just with rather more wine.
You may be wondering why we would do anything other than eat (I occasionally ask myself that too), but every moment here is filled with music. Alice and David are artists in every sense of the word, from painting to Flamenco to playing guitar, banjo, and mandolin. So music is the way of life here. And we arrived wonderfully, three days before a benefit concert that David organized for the local library and for which we were (surprise!) headlining. My next post will detail the event itself, but we spent the preceding days putting together songs. David sings in a deep and powerful bluesy rumble, which blends wonderfully with Casey's fantastic (and rapidly developing) voice. Their two guitars intertwine, laced together with the luscious tones of the violin. We play Dylan, Cat Stevens, Leonard Cohen, Beatles, Donovan, Lou Reed, and Neil Young, as well as a medley of Blues standards. Playing music is endless work and endless fun, constant invention and collaboration, with the occasional compromise. Finally we settle on "So Long Marianne" (Cohen), "Jesus, Etc." (Wilco), and "Where do you go my lovely?" (Peter Starsted). But more about that show later.
We all read and study and argue and debate endlessly. Alice and David are academics and historians, and the conversations are endless, ranging from conspiracy theories and the French strikes to Joan of Arc and John the Fearless. Casey and I satisfy our hunger for intellectual stimulation with self-imposed studies: he studies architecture and I music theory, and our studies, for once voluntary, are immensely satisfying and invigorating. Alice is writing a book (several actually) and David has recently written a song called "I'll live the Blues with you," and is working on his third CD. So life here is a buzz of constant activity, but all constantly at our leisure.
And then, one day, we drive to Montbard, to the local train station. We sit drinking espresso and waiting until out from the Dijon train issues an individual of such style and charm that random French people come up to her and talk for hours about nothing in particular, just to be near her (that actually happened). Whitney Turley swept in from Nuits-St.-Georges and spent three days with us. The happiness of this reunion with one of my favorite people on this earth cannot be understated. For every moment she was here, we had a good time. A damn good time. Luckily she doesn't read our blog (she is working hard as an au pair at a local winery) so she won't read all these silly compliments and get full of herself because that would be terribly obnoxious.
So back to our Burgundian lifestyle (which now involves Whitney) Every day involves, besides all of the above, an outing of some description.
-We go to the outdoor market where we wander amid endless rows of beautiful food and barter for sandy carrots (much better than normal carrots) and celeriac, which looks like a cross between a turtle and a hedgehog. We try new delicacies (yummy escargot among others) and buy enough food to last a month. It lasts two days.
-We also go to the supermarket which is incredibly good and, if it weren't for the outdoor market, would be the best I have ever been to. We bought half the store.
-We go to a friends Brocante (Antique shop) which is bursting with terrific swords, pistols, bayonets, and other antiques.
-We go to a huge Flea Market, where we wonder through the stalls buying cool stuff and bargaining for priceless relics of the past (including great clothes, we look very French).
-We go into the local church, Eglise de St. Barbe, which Alice and David have recently restored at the bequest of the Mayor, giving them unlimited access to its otherwise vacant halls. It has breathtaking acoustics so I bring my violin in and serenade the others for hours. I don't know whether it is sacrilegious to fill the halls with celtic airs and Bach, but it is certainly breathtaking. It certainly felt like sacrilege when we did our unimpressive rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariots. We spend hours recording.
-We make friends with a Donkey, who Casey names Thomas.
-And a duck, who Casey also names Thomas. Very inventive.
-Casey and Whitney and I wandered the streets of Grimault and Noyers at night. Which is not as exciting as it sounds. However, we were the first teenagers to cause mischief in these sleepy little towns for over a century, so we felt very cool. We were young hip French kids. Or trying to be, which is what counts.
Each day we rise and creep through the cold to rub the sleep out of our eyes in front of the crackling fire. Each evening we dress in hour nightgowns and collapse into bed. Something which very shortly, I must do.
Into a land of endless flat fields, temporarily barren of their lush produce. Into the countryside, where people are endlessly polite, conservative, and old-fashioned (one kiss one each cheek, NO exceptions). Into a medieval wonderland of ancient stone houses, castles, and churches that have been thrice ransacked in various revolutions. Into the food and wine heartland of France, home of incomparable cheese and wine, not to mention dishes like Boeuf Bourguinon (Pardon the spelling, I can in fact speak French, which is verified by the French consulate at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FK-wcXJVSbw). Into a haven of tranquility where music is only interrupted by food, which is only interrupted by the occasional nap, which is only interrupted to wander the streets, ramparts, or cloisters of some brilliantly ancient wonder.
Rue d'Enfer (Street to Hell) is nothing like the name implies. It is a tiny street that runs through a tiny town filled with tinier people living out lives that are almost decadent in their delicious simplicity. We are here because our grandparents, the infamous Alice Thibeau and David Thorpe, have called us across the oceans to join them. [For more information on Alice and David, speak with Peter Tatum about reading his short story "My Life in France" which is available at most major bookstores,and will shortly be published additionally on the blog] These two beloved individuals have ever been, and are, some of our dearest family members, and have over the last few years created, as I said, a haven of music and simple luxury in the countryside of Burgundy, in the tiny town of Grimault, to which we have often made a pilgrimage for peace or happiness. So here, in Grimault, a town you will never find on a map, we have been for the last week. The days blend together in blissful harmony, so I will detail a few highlights. Harmony is truly the best word to describe our lives here. Harmony in company, in music, and in general.
The house is small but ideal, built simply of stone, and nestled in a garden of flowers and fruit trees up against a stone wall built into the hillside. Vines adorn it's exterior and art it's interior (Alice is an artist by profession, and paints everything from portraiture to medieval and religious art). There is a main room with a crackling fire, full of music and all of music's accessories. A tiny kitchen that produces more wonderful food than almost any other I have ever seen. And upstairs the master bedroom, complete with an elaborate antique headstand that literally forms a massive crown over the bed. There are two massive dogs named Grace and Fideaux (note French spelling). Outside is a tent in the garden for eating lunch and playing music, and next door is a cozy room where we sleep. A stone room with a tiled roof, two cozy beds with painted bedspreads, piles of good books and a cupboard full of wonderful costumes and art supplies. We sleep in Victorian nightgowns (pictures of us in our nightgowns will shortly be posted, pending approval from the extremely self-conscious Casey Brazfield).
We eat a light breakfast (great coffee) and a massive lunch. While not the standard (and, quite frankly, exhausting) 4 course, 4 hour affair generally accepted across Frances, our lunches are a joy to see. Alice is a wonderful cook, but frankly, she could survive even without her prodigious skills, since the raw materials are so breathtakingly good. We eat beautiful cuts of meat from the Boucherie. We eat fresh loaves of incomparable sourdough from the Boulangerie. We eat cheese that ranges from plain to delicious to putrid from the Fromagerie. Vegetables and fruits are dragged in heaping baskets from the open air market, and generally include fresh squash, cauliflower, pears and figs. David loves apple sorbet and incredible chocolate, so that is the perennial finish to our feasts. Creme de Marron (chestnut) and pear jam are other favorites. Eating is not a chore, but a joy. It is quite easy to literally live for meals that are this good. Dinners are stupendous, just with rather more wine.
You may be wondering why we would do anything other than eat (I occasionally ask myself that too), but every moment here is filled with music. Alice and David are artists in every sense of the word, from painting to Flamenco to playing guitar, banjo, and mandolin. So music is the way of life here. And we arrived wonderfully, three days before a benefit concert that David organized for the local library and for which we were (surprise!) headlining. My next post will detail the event itself, but we spent the preceding days putting together songs. David sings in a deep and powerful bluesy rumble, which blends wonderfully with Casey's fantastic (and rapidly developing) voice. Their two guitars intertwine, laced together with the luscious tones of the violin. We play Dylan, Cat Stevens, Leonard Cohen, Beatles, Donovan, Lou Reed, and Neil Young, as well as a medley of Blues standards. Playing music is endless work and endless fun, constant invention and collaboration, with the occasional compromise. Finally we settle on "So Long Marianne" (Cohen), "Jesus, Etc." (Wilco), and "Where do you go my lovely?" (Peter Starsted). But more about that show later.
We all read and study and argue and debate endlessly. Alice and David are academics and historians, and the conversations are endless, ranging from conspiracy theories and the French strikes to Joan of Arc and John the Fearless. Casey and I satisfy our hunger for intellectual stimulation with self-imposed studies: he studies architecture and I music theory, and our studies, for once voluntary, are immensely satisfying and invigorating. Alice is writing a book (several actually) and David has recently written a song called "I'll live the Blues with you," and is working on his third CD. So life here is a buzz of constant activity, but all constantly at our leisure.
And then, one day, we drive to Montbard, to the local train station. We sit drinking espresso and waiting until out from the Dijon train issues an individual of such style and charm that random French people come up to her and talk for hours about nothing in particular, just to be near her (that actually happened). Whitney Turley swept in from Nuits-St.-Georges and spent three days with us. The happiness of this reunion with one of my favorite people on this earth cannot be understated. For every moment she was here, we had a good time. A damn good time. Luckily she doesn't read our blog (she is working hard as an au pair at a local winery) so she won't read all these silly compliments and get full of herself because that would be terribly obnoxious.
So back to our Burgundian lifestyle (which now involves Whitney) Every day involves, besides all of the above, an outing of some description.
-We go to the outdoor market where we wander amid endless rows of beautiful food and barter for sandy carrots (much better than normal carrots) and celeriac, which looks like a cross between a turtle and a hedgehog. We try new delicacies (yummy escargot among others) and buy enough food to last a month. It lasts two days.
-We also go to the supermarket which is incredibly good and, if it weren't for the outdoor market, would be the best I have ever been to. We bought half the store.
-We go to a friends Brocante (Antique shop) which is bursting with terrific swords, pistols, bayonets, and other antiques.
-We go to a huge Flea Market, where we wonder through the stalls buying cool stuff and bargaining for priceless relics of the past (including great clothes, we look very French).
-We go into the local church, Eglise de St. Barbe, which Alice and David have recently restored at the bequest of the Mayor, giving them unlimited access to its otherwise vacant halls. It has breathtaking acoustics so I bring my violin in and serenade the others for hours. I don't know whether it is sacrilegious to fill the halls with celtic airs and Bach, but it is certainly breathtaking. It certainly felt like sacrilege when we did our unimpressive rendition of Swing Low, Sweet Chariots. We spend hours recording.
-We make friends with a Donkey, who Casey names Thomas.
-And a duck, who Casey also names Thomas. Very inventive.
-Casey and Whitney and I wandered the streets of Grimault and Noyers at night. Which is not as exciting as it sounds. However, we were the first teenagers to cause mischief in these sleepy little towns for over a century, so we felt very cool. We were young hip French kids. Or trying to be, which is what counts.
Each day we rise and creep through the cold to rub the sleep out of our eyes in front of the crackling fire. Each evening we dress in hour nightgowns and collapse into bed. Something which very shortly, I must do.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Sitting in a cafe called La Esmerelda, in the 4th Arrondissment (neighborhood), nestled in the park behind Notre Dame, with stunning views of copper statues and flying buttresses, we sip espresso and listen to the adjacent accordionist as we read and write and lounge in the fresh morning. The heaters overhead combat the cool breeze off the Seine, which slides by only feet away.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Second day in Paris included a wander through the Tuileries, a beautiful garden established in a certain year by a certain person for a certain occaision (Alice Thibeau has volunteer to supplement all French historical facts and dates needed on the blog). Seriously though, the Tuileries were beautiful, it was a breathtakingly gorgeous day, bright blue skys over the beautiful city of Paris.
A city unlike any other, and that I cannot describe in words that have not already been used by every poet, artist, and writer to frequent its streets. Imagine not being able to look at any vista, any building, or any individual that was not BEAUTIFUL for a whole day. It is unnerving.
As we were leaving the Tuileries we saw a wallet lying on the ground and reached for it to determine it's owners phone number and he chose that delightful moment to arrive and see us riffling through his wallet. Luckily the language barrier allowed us to confusedly run away.We didn't take anything. Honest.
After the Tuileries we had a picnic of sandwiches and wine (the large quantities of wine are, needless to say, justified by the fact that we are in Paris. Duh.) the river and rolled around laughing for about an hour before wandering over to a cafe appropriately named "L'Ebulliante," where we drank espressos and basked in the sun in a tiny alleyway of old stone buildings, our heels resting on cobblestones and our eyes resting on the long tendrils of ivy climbing every wall, our minds whirling with the sound of a violinist playing gypsy tunes expertly on a nearby street corner.
I guess you have to be in this situation to understand French. At the very least, I can now deeply understand the meanings of two phrases: Joi de vivre, and Raison d'etre (excuse misspellings, I am, afterall an ignorant American).
On our way back to the Hotel we were quite literally stopped in our tracks by a march (a Manifestacion) of thousands of Parisiens marching for Liberte Egalite and Fraternite. We saw everyone from the Young Communists to the Airline workers (who we are not particularly fond of, if you recall. Actually, not a huge fan of the Young Communists either). This protest would make Bianca Bisson's jaw drop. Such noise, such passion, such music, such fire, such hate for Sarkozy, such passion for justice. Why, you may ask? Because the government, not being immune to the Global Recession, had the nerve to raise the retirement age from 60 to 62. Still one of the lowest in the world, but about 45 years too late for the typical Frenchman. Legislation that can really bring out the masses. Absurd really. (I will leave it to you to deduct whether I refer to the legislation or the protest).
But the protest was a great time to people watch, so we sat for two and a half hours and watch seemingly every citizen of Paris stream past. After which we returned to the Hotel, and then headed back into the city for another night of fun. We visited several interesting establishments, a Jazz Bar and an Australian Bar and for whatever reason ended up running away from various places. It's not illegal to get settled into a nice cafe, decide the prices are too high for your backpackers budget, and bolt inelegantly out the door, right? Oh well.
Slept wonderfully,and awoke again in the most beautiful city in the known world. At least our known world.
A city unlike any other, and that I cannot describe in words that have not already been used by every poet, artist, and writer to frequent its streets. Imagine not being able to look at any vista, any building, or any individual that was not BEAUTIFUL for a whole day. It is unnerving.
As we were leaving the Tuileries we saw a wallet lying on the ground and reached for it to determine it's owners phone number and he chose that delightful moment to arrive and see us riffling through his wallet. Luckily the language barrier allowed us to confusedly run away.We didn't take anything. Honest.
After the Tuileries we had a picnic of sandwiches and wine (the large quantities of wine are, needless to say, justified by the fact that we are in Paris. Duh.) the river and rolled around laughing for about an hour before wandering over to a cafe appropriately named "L'Ebulliante," where we drank espressos and basked in the sun in a tiny alleyway of old stone buildings, our heels resting on cobblestones and our eyes resting on the long tendrils of ivy climbing every wall, our minds whirling with the sound of a violinist playing gypsy tunes expertly on a nearby street corner.
I guess you have to be in this situation to understand French. At the very least, I can now deeply understand the meanings of two phrases: Joi de vivre, and Raison d'etre (excuse misspellings, I am, afterall an ignorant American).
On our way back to the Hotel we were quite literally stopped in our tracks by a march (a Manifestacion) of thousands of Parisiens marching for Liberte Egalite and Fraternite. We saw everyone from the Young Communists to the Airline workers (who we are not particularly fond of, if you recall. Actually, not a huge fan of the Young Communists either). This protest would make Bianca Bisson's jaw drop. Such noise, such passion, such music, such fire, such hate for Sarkozy, such passion for justice. Why, you may ask? Because the government, not being immune to the Global Recession, had the nerve to raise the retirement age from 60 to 62. Still one of the lowest in the world, but about 45 years too late for the typical Frenchman. Legislation that can really bring out the masses. Absurd really. (I will leave it to you to deduct whether I refer to the legislation or the protest).
But the protest was a great time to people watch, so we sat for two and a half hours and watch seemingly every citizen of Paris stream past. After which we returned to the Hotel, and then headed back into the city for another night of fun. We visited several interesting establishments, a Jazz Bar and an Australian Bar and for whatever reason ended up running away from various places. It's not illegal to get settled into a nice cafe, decide the prices are too high for your backpackers budget, and bolt inelegantly out the door, right? Oh well.
Slept wonderfully,and awoke again in the most beautiful city in the known world. At least our known world.
From Northampton we took a bus (very much unlike the Greyhound, since it was filled with elderly and elegantly-dressed Englishmen instead of coke dealers) to the airport, and swam across the Channel to Paris where we used a guillotine to decapitate 500,000 Frenchmen, thereby eliminating the strike and allowing us to travel to Paris, which we promptly did.
We landed in Paris and, humming Edith Piaf tunes, leapt onto the metro and steamed into the Ile de la Cite. We checked into the Hotel Du Commerce, (which costs 750euro a night, I don't know how we are affording it on a gap year budget). In reality it is a very cozy little hostel with brightly painted walls and typically surly French service. But a great hotel in a perfect location.
We sped out into the city, for a fun night, the highlights of which included:
-Getting ripped off by a bartender who charged us 7euro for a pint of Leffe (great Belgian beer). Stupid Americans.
-Getting SHUT DOWN by two devastatingly beautiful Russian exchange students who spoke English (although the only words we heard were: "Go away, we are out of your league, stop trying to make flirtatious small talk with us. We are imune to your charming demeanor, overwhelmingly vivacious charisma, and darkly handsome good looks." Or something like that.)
-Drinking a bottle of wine by the Seine.
-Sharing two baguettes stuffed full of pate and camembert at 1AM.
It was a fun night.
We landed in Paris and, humming Edith Piaf tunes, leapt onto the metro and steamed into the Ile de la Cite. We checked into the Hotel Du Commerce, (which costs 750euro a night, I don't know how we are affording it on a gap year budget). In reality it is a very cozy little hostel with brightly painted walls and typically surly French service. But a great hotel in a perfect location.
We sped out into the city, for a fun night, the highlights of which included:
-Getting ripped off by a bartender who charged us 7euro for a pint of Leffe (great Belgian beer). Stupid Americans.
-Getting SHUT DOWN by two devastatingly beautiful Russian exchange students who spoke English (although the only words we heard were: "Go away, we are out of your league, stop trying to make flirtatious small talk with us. We are imune to your charming demeanor, overwhelmingly vivacious charisma, and darkly handsome good looks." Or something like that.)
-Drinking a bottle of wine by the Seine.
-Sharing two baguettes stuffed full of pate and camembert at 1AM.
It was a fun night.
Farewell White House!!
Our many wonderful companions of the last month gave us a spectacular farewell party on Sayturday night that we shall not soon forget which included, among other things a Tarot Reading, a "Disco Dome," "Strobe," and "Stampede." Yes, it was an interesting night. Possibly the best at White House so far. If any of our friends are reading this from college, you should know that no matter how wild your school/dorm/frats/sororities/parties are, they would pale in comparison to the way my Aunt Emma throws a party. And I am not afraid to prove that, with footage taken on the night of Oct. 9, 2010.
Anyway though, our departure date proved much less festive and was, in fact, very solemn. We helped organized a BDAY party for Anya, which involved dozens of kids running around screaming (typical, I believe, of 5 year old parties). Then we visited the gravesite of my grandparents, which is a quiet graveyard (duh, all graveyards are quiet, I mean it is on a quiet hillside in a tiny village overlooking a beautiful chapel). Their headstone is elegant dark marble with a silver inscription, and it was a bright and cold day when we stood on the hillside and paid respects not only to my grandparents, but my great grandparents.Then we returned to the house and said some excruciating farewells to our various companions. We had imagined that leaving California would be our only difficult farewells, but in fact farewells seem to be difficult whenever you make good friends, which we certainly did on this leg of the journey.
Then we retraced our steps directly back to the train station, train back to Northampton, and back to Pooty's house. We went for a drive through the unbelievably lovely, quintissentially English (if you don't know what they wierd q-word means, shame on you, it sounds awesome in a British accent) countryside, which I will not describe further because I feel like too much of this blog is spent describing how beautiful England is.
Suffice to say, it just is.
The feast served by Pooty surpassed almost any other we have received thus far. I should note here that some of our readers have requested a decrease in descriptions of food. I would like to remind the reader (Emma Ritcey), that we don't take requests, we never said reading this blog would be easy, and we don't particularly care if you are hungry. Just kidding, we do care, go get a snack from a vending machine. [Pause from writing while I eat a huge bite of creme brulee]...
Anyway, Pooty's feast included cauliflower in cheese sauce, homegrown squash in homegrown tomato sauce, potatoes, peaches cooked in cinnamon, cabbage salad, a homegrown ham, and to finish, a Sticky Toffee Pudding. Needless to say, this meal was followed very quickly by total cerebral and physical shutdown and collapse into bed.
Our many wonderful companions of the last month gave us a spectacular farewell party on Sayturday night that we shall not soon forget which included, among other things a Tarot Reading, a "Disco Dome," "Strobe," and "Stampede." Yes, it was an interesting night. Possibly the best at White House so far. If any of our friends are reading this from college, you should know that no matter how wild your school/dorm/frats/sororities/parties are, they would pale in comparison to the way my Aunt Emma throws a party. And I am not afraid to prove that, with footage taken on the night of Oct. 9, 2010.
Anyway though, our departure date proved much less festive and was, in fact, very solemn. We helped organized a BDAY party for Anya, which involved dozens of kids running around screaming (typical, I believe, of 5 year old parties). Then we visited the gravesite of my grandparents, which is a quiet graveyard (duh, all graveyards are quiet, I mean it is on a quiet hillside in a tiny village overlooking a beautiful chapel). Their headstone is elegant dark marble with a silver inscription, and it was a bright and cold day when we stood on the hillside and paid respects not only to my grandparents, but my great grandparents.Then we returned to the house and said some excruciating farewells to our various companions. We had imagined that leaving California would be our only difficult farewells, but in fact farewells seem to be difficult whenever you make good friends, which we certainly did on this leg of the journey.
Then we retraced our steps directly back to the train station, train back to Northampton, and back to Pooty's house. We went for a drive through the unbelievably lovely, quintissentially English (if you don't know what they wierd q-word means, shame on you, it sounds awesome in a British accent) countryside, which I will not describe further because I feel like too much of this blog is spent describing how beautiful England is.
Suffice to say, it just is.
The feast served by Pooty surpassed almost any other we have received thus far. I should note here that some of our readers have requested a decrease in descriptions of food. I would like to remind the reader (Emma Ritcey), that we don't take requests, we never said reading this blog would be easy, and we don't particularly care if you are hungry. Just kidding, we do care, go get a snack from a vending machine. [Pause from writing while I eat a huge bite of creme brulee]...
Anyway, Pooty's feast included cauliflower in cheese sauce, homegrown squash in homegrown tomato sauce, potatoes, peaches cooked in cinnamon, cabbage salad, a homegrown ham, and to finish, a Sticky Toffee Pudding. Needless to say, this meal was followed very quickly by total cerebral and physical shutdown and collapse into bed.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
I believe I am quoting the Duke of Wellington, Tom Stubbs, and Myself when I say:
"Damn the French!"
Why? You might ask...Well, firstly, one does not need a reason to damn the French but this time it happens to be because the French Air Traffic Controllers decided to go on strike on a very inconvenient day.
This is an excerpt from an email I received at midnight last night "Dear Mr. Stubbs, We are really sorry to inform you that due to Air Traffic Controller strike in France on 12th October 2010 your easyJet flight 6223 to CDG on 12/10/2010 has regrettably been cancelled."
Once again, damn the French and damn their striking!
"Damn the French!"
Why? You might ask...Well, firstly, one does not need a reason to damn the French but this time it happens to be because the French Air Traffic Controllers decided to go on strike on a very inconvenient day.
This is an excerpt from an email I received at midnight last night "Dear Mr. Stubbs, We are really sorry to inform you that due to Air Traffic Controller strike in France on 12th October 2010 your easyJet flight 6223 to CDG on 12/10/2010 has regrettably been cancelled."
Once again, damn the French and damn their striking!
Friday brought the end of the week. (WooHoo!!)
The end of our employment. (Good Riddance Ben and Toby)
Our last day in the Warehouse (which is now spottlessly tidy and well-stocked).
Our last day completing the Stable. (Horses move in today. YEAH! NEIGH!)
Payday ("Hecka skrilla" as Emma Ritcey might say, if she had a job)
We enjoyed a cider at Quartz Brewery with Simon, Lesley, Ben, and Toby, and then returned to White House Bar/Disco/Techno Rave Dance Floor/Curry House/Music central, for a night that included, well, all the things I just listed.
Tonight is our last night at White House, tomorrow is Anya's birthday, and the next day, we fly to Paris.
The end of our employment. (Good Riddance Ben and Toby)
Our last day in the Warehouse (which is now spottlessly tidy and well-stocked).
Our last day completing the Stable. (Horses move in today. YEAH! NEIGH!)
Payday ("Hecka skrilla" as Emma Ritcey might say, if she had a job)
We enjoyed a cider at Quartz Brewery with Simon, Lesley, Ben, and Toby, and then returned to White House Bar/Disco/Techno Rave Dance Floor/Curry House/Music central, for a night that included, well, all the things I just listed.
Tonight is our last night at White House, tomorrow is Anya's birthday, and the next day, we fly to Paris.
Wednesday was Anya's 5th birthday, and I played Happy Birthday on my violin, which was a disaster as it moved Anya to tears and screaming. Despite this (I guess she doesn't like attention) she had a great birthday. The biggest present was a doll of Jessie from Toy Story, of which she and Quinn are huge fans. Casey and I have learned several Toy Story songs for them, including Woody's Roundup and You've Got a Friend in Me.
Monday night: Awesome.
After work, Toby and Kate invited us over to experience their incredible home theater. And when I say incredible...
After a delicious feast of burgers and beer, we wrestled over the choice of movie and finally chose The Dark Knight, a masterpiece of action, thrill, and heroism, not to mention an excellently made movie with great acting and and powerful score. I am obviously a fan.
Toby asked us whether we wanted loud, very loud, or Way Too Loud. You can guess our choice easily enough. Toby and Kate are a lot of fun, it was a great movie with killer sound on a massive HD screen, and we powered through all three hours and walked home at midnight to collapse joyfully into bed, wondering when and where we had ever had such fun as we are having. Here. Now.
After work, Toby and Kate invited us over to experience their incredible home theater. And when I say incredible...
After a delicious feast of burgers and beer, we wrestled over the choice of movie and finally chose The Dark Knight, a masterpiece of action, thrill, and heroism, not to mention an excellently made movie with great acting and and powerful score. I am obviously a fan.
Toby asked us whether we wanted loud, very loud, or Way Too Loud. You can guess our choice easily enough. Toby and Kate are a lot of fun, it was a great movie with killer sound on a massive HD screen, and we powered through all three hours and walked home at midnight to collapse joyfully into bed, wondering when and where we had ever had such fun as we are having. Here. Now.
Speech written by Tom Stubbs and delivered by his son. Gives an idea of the occaision.
"I am truly sorry to be missing this important family milestone and what is undoubtedly shaping up to be the greatest bacchanal since the Fall of Rome. I am visualizing a roaring crowd of people in the kitchen. I am visualizing steaming heaps of magnificent food produced effortlessly by Emma. And I am visualizing a certain amount of raucous and inappropriate behavior. Particularly from Uncle Anne.
I think we have all been astonished at the new vitality that Ben and Kat have recently introduced, which makes it such an appropriate time for this 100th anniversary. It seems like yesterday that their half of the house was gleaming with the iridescence of decay and I am guessing that not only Mot and Fat but also Percy and Frances must be looking down with affection at all the new color and light and laughter that have been injected into the old bones of the Whitehouse."
[He also mentioned] "Percy and Casey, who as Ben will tell you are the perfect embodiment of English ingenuity and cheap American labor. I can say without fear of contradiction that they know how to throw a party by then will have had ample time to prepare." etc.
"I am truly sorry to be missing this important family milestone and what is undoubtedly shaping up to be the greatest bacchanal since the Fall of Rome. I am visualizing a roaring crowd of people in the kitchen. I am visualizing steaming heaps of magnificent food produced effortlessly by Emma. And I am visualizing a certain amount of raucous and inappropriate behavior. Particularly from Uncle Anne.
I think we have all been astonished at the new vitality that Ben and Kat have recently introduced, which makes it such an appropriate time for this 100th anniversary. It seems like yesterday that their half of the house was gleaming with the iridescence of decay and I am guessing that not only Mot and Fat but also Percy and Frances must be looking down with affection at all the new color and light and laughter that have been injected into the old bones of the Whitehouse."
[He also mentioned] "Percy and Casey, who as Ben will tell you are the perfect embodiment of English ingenuity and cheap American labor. I can say without fear of contradiction that they know how to throw a party by then will have had ample time to prepare." etc.
"Welcome to the Stubbs family, and God help you."
-Denys Stubbs, spoken to John Mahood upon request to marry Denys' daughter
One Hundred Years. A little has changed since 1910, but one constant through those many years has been White House farm, home of the Stubbs Family. One October Third the many Stubbs' from across the UK (unfortunately we were the only representatives of the US contingent) gathered at White House to celebrate 100 years since Percy Stubbs the First became owner of this house and the land around it. Since then, he and his wife Frances handed it down to Denys and Margaret (my grandparents), who turned it into one of the greatest family centers ever known to man. With first five children, then five children-in-law, then dozens of grandchildren, then eventually a smattering of great grandchildren, their was and is a true family clan. Now that they have passed on (both in the last couple of years) the house is filled with even more light and laughter and, especially, music, always music, played exclusively at one volume setting (very loud). An old house, made of red brick, with sprawling farm buildings behind (including our newly constructed stable), and rolling green pastures filled with white sheep. The house has a white facade, hence the name, with tall black windows and bright green trees springing up the wall, with flowers at their feet. The house, though ancient in exterior and in framework (there are still massive oak beams criss-crossing the ceiling), has been brightly and brilliantly redecorated multiple times by various inhabitants. In my humble opinion, it is now at the most beauitiful it has ever been, with Emma Stubbs (an artist of great skill who paints pastoral animals and religious icons with equal ease) on one side in a house bedecked with fur and wool and butterflies and monkeys and luscious pinks and yellows, and Kat Stubbs (another artist, and skilled decorator) on the other side, a menagerie of bright bright colors, blooming plants, russian dolls, silver, gold, colored glass. Both sides are utterly luxurious, and a constant feast for the eyes. I can say with absolute honesty that every day I have been here I have discovered a new ornament of some description.
But better by far then either exterior or interior has always been the inhabitants. I have attempted to paint a bit of a portrait of the various characters but suffice it to say that they are all huge personalities with a million fun traits and talents. The friendships that Casey and I have developed with Ben, Kat, Toby, Kate, and Emma are, thus far in our travels our greatest treasure. (I have of course known these people a long time, but have only Really met them on this trip). It is wonderful to have so many Great friends in my family. Families can be a place of trial, but this one, for me, is a place of exultant happiness and comfort.
So, all that said, it should come as no surprise that the Centenary Weekend was an absolute success. It started when work ended at 11AM on Friday, with a three-hour delectable Thai feast of an Executive Lunch (featuring green curry, prawn tempura, and ginger chicken stir-fry). After this excessive feast we returned home and launched into party prep, which involved sweeping up 10,000 wet leaves in the front driveway (the Late Summer weather has not yet disappeared, but is occasionally replaced by brief, intense rain showers), and clearing up the entire exterior of the house, followed by and intense interior cleanup, the house bedecked with flowers, vines, lights, art, and a more than a little bit of champagne and wine (which helped fuel the cleanup). The anticipation was constant, and for all of Saturday we did countless odd jobs, played music, and lounged in the sunshine in the Croft (Emma's refuge, a garden full of jubilantly decorated caravans and fun nooks and crannys to hang out). Saturday night the family arrived, as did the Ale, delicious, crafted at a local brewery and delivered in a keg (leaving us to complete The 72! Challenge, that is to drink all 72 pints in 24 hours, which, needless to say, we did). Then began the real party, as Kat converted the house into a disco, complete with sparkling disco lights and Michael Jacksons The Way You Make Me Feel.
"Festive" is a totally innadequate word.
Finally came the official party, at noon on Sunday. We devoured mountains of canapes of delicate fish and crackers, spicy and savory and lovely. The tables were groaning under heaps of our local pork, jacket potatoes, a lush salad, bread and corn and a million delicious treats. And then the desserts, 6 different pies from almost every branch of the family, including apple strudel, cherry pie, peach pie, apple, rhubarb, and merangue. And then the cheese board, from Cornwall, with exquisite cheddar and blue cheeses that sent me, if possible, into even greater extasy than the pies had. Everyone was dressed stunningly, and the room was bursting with joy. I read a few words my dad had sent (I will post next), and we had very speeches reminiscent of Bilbo Baggins at his 111st Birthday. One of the guests (aged 91) had actually met his wife at White House, while another had been working for Denys for 35 years, so the speeches carried some heft. Margaret and Denys would have been very happy and proud. It was a wonderful event, incomparable. As the guests drifted away we collapsed into a joyful Sunday evening stupor, extremely well deserved.
A final note: sorry about the long wait since the last post...major technology breakdowns and having a good time gets in the way of blogging. more to come....
-Denys Stubbs, spoken to John Mahood upon request to marry Denys' daughter
One Hundred Years. A little has changed since 1910, but one constant through those many years has been White House farm, home of the Stubbs Family. One October Third the many Stubbs' from across the UK (unfortunately we were the only representatives of the US contingent) gathered at White House to celebrate 100 years since Percy Stubbs the First became owner of this house and the land around it. Since then, he and his wife Frances handed it down to Denys and Margaret (my grandparents), who turned it into one of the greatest family centers ever known to man. With first five children, then five children-in-law, then dozens of grandchildren, then eventually a smattering of great grandchildren, their was and is a true family clan. Now that they have passed on (both in the last couple of years) the house is filled with even more light and laughter and, especially, music, always music, played exclusively at one volume setting (very loud). An old house, made of red brick, with sprawling farm buildings behind (including our newly constructed stable), and rolling green pastures filled with white sheep. The house has a white facade, hence the name, with tall black windows and bright green trees springing up the wall, with flowers at their feet. The house, though ancient in exterior and in framework (there are still massive oak beams criss-crossing the ceiling), has been brightly and brilliantly redecorated multiple times by various inhabitants. In my humble opinion, it is now at the most beauitiful it has ever been, with Emma Stubbs (an artist of great skill who paints pastoral animals and religious icons with equal ease) on one side in a house bedecked with fur and wool and butterflies and monkeys and luscious pinks and yellows, and Kat Stubbs (another artist, and skilled decorator) on the other side, a menagerie of bright bright colors, blooming plants, russian dolls, silver, gold, colored glass. Both sides are utterly luxurious, and a constant feast for the eyes. I can say with absolute honesty that every day I have been here I have discovered a new ornament of some description.
But better by far then either exterior or interior has always been the inhabitants. I have attempted to paint a bit of a portrait of the various characters but suffice it to say that they are all huge personalities with a million fun traits and talents. The friendships that Casey and I have developed with Ben, Kat, Toby, Kate, and Emma are, thus far in our travels our greatest treasure. (I have of course known these people a long time, but have only Really met them on this trip). It is wonderful to have so many Great friends in my family. Families can be a place of trial, but this one, for me, is a place of exultant happiness and comfort.
So, all that said, it should come as no surprise that the Centenary Weekend was an absolute success. It started when work ended at 11AM on Friday, with a three-hour delectable Thai feast of an Executive Lunch (featuring green curry, prawn tempura, and ginger chicken stir-fry). After this excessive feast we returned home and launched into party prep, which involved sweeping up 10,000 wet leaves in the front driveway (the Late Summer weather has not yet disappeared, but is occasionally replaced by brief, intense rain showers), and clearing up the entire exterior of the house, followed by and intense interior cleanup, the house bedecked with flowers, vines, lights, art, and a more than a little bit of champagne and wine (which helped fuel the cleanup). The anticipation was constant, and for all of Saturday we did countless odd jobs, played music, and lounged in the sunshine in the Croft (Emma's refuge, a garden full of jubilantly decorated caravans and fun nooks and crannys to hang out). Saturday night the family arrived, as did the Ale, delicious, crafted at a local brewery and delivered in a keg (leaving us to complete The 72! Challenge, that is to drink all 72 pints in 24 hours, which, needless to say, we did). Then began the real party, as Kat converted the house into a disco, complete with sparkling disco lights and Michael Jacksons The Way You Make Me Feel.
"Festive" is a totally innadequate word.
Finally came the official party, at noon on Sunday. We devoured mountains of canapes of delicate fish and crackers, spicy and savory and lovely. The tables were groaning under heaps of our local pork, jacket potatoes, a lush salad, bread and corn and a million delicious treats. And then the desserts, 6 different pies from almost every branch of the family, including apple strudel, cherry pie, peach pie, apple, rhubarb, and merangue. And then the cheese board, from Cornwall, with exquisite cheddar and blue cheeses that sent me, if possible, into even greater extasy than the pies had. Everyone was dressed stunningly, and the room was bursting with joy. I read a few words my dad had sent (I will post next), and we had very speeches reminiscent of Bilbo Baggins at his 111st Birthday. One of the guests (aged 91) had actually met his wife at White House, while another had been working for Denys for 35 years, so the speeches carried some heft. Margaret and Denys would have been very happy and proud. It was a wonderful event, incomparable. As the guests drifted away we collapsed into a joyful Sunday evening stupor, extremely well deserved.
A final note: sorry about the long wait since the last post...major technology breakdowns and having a good time gets in the way of blogging. more to come....
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