Haven’t seen the sun for days, as has been the case
for pretty much all of England. Many
areas across the country are on flood alert, with many trains grounded. Bad, especially
now, since it’s Christmastime and many persons are having difficulty reaching
their loved ones. While snow and ice are NOT in the forecast, as Christmas
approaches ‘the weather is NOT playing ball,’ (as reported on the BBC One
‘breakfast show’. (Hurray, I figured out how to work the little television in
my room this morning! Got to do one of my favorite things, something I haven’t had
the chance to do since arriving in England – watch the morning news on the telly
in the safety and security of my own little room. Amber Warning, meaning severe
weather warning, is in place for many areas of the UK, (while in the U.S. an
Amber Alert is a child abduction alert bulletin.)
One of the options for the guests today was a
coach tour - naturally, didn’t want to miss out on that opportunity! Saw some great
bike paths as we headed out into the countryside – McKay take note! As we
neared what turned out to be our destination, the driver called out, ‘about ready
for some Christmas shopping?’ to which everybody cheered. I thought that was a
bit odd – ‘shopping and countryside.’ Turns out I seemed to be the only one who
hadn’t realized what this morning’s excursion was all about – a case of
miscommunication, as I had totally misinterpreted what I thought Loraine had
said. Instead of a sight-seeing tour around Dorset (green rolling-hill county
of England), it was a ‘last day before Christmas’ shopping trip to the historic
market village of Dorchester. (And I hadn’t even brought a purse!) Dating back to the time of the Romans, and perhaps
best known for the works of Thomas Hardy, one of my favorite British authors,
it was known for centuries by the ancient name, Durnovaria. One lady, the most
stylish and youngish-old of the women in the group, remarked to me quite
excitedly as she exited the bus that she was going ‘vintage shopping’ – meaning
she would be hitting all the charity shops, searching for treasures. Lucky dog!
Made friends with the coach driver – of course I
had opted to sit on the seat right behind him, so I could see and hear to the
max – AND ask questions. At one point in our private conversation, he mentioned
that his father had died the day before, but here he was at work. He had had
cancer for over a year, the end imminent – for now there wasn’t a whole lot he,
the driver, could do to help, and thus was here doing his usual thing.
As it was raining, others besides myself opted to
stay on the coach. Before we knew it, our congenial driver had taken pity on us
and asserted that he would happily drive us around for a while so we could take
a look at a few of the sights worthy of note in the area. Hurray – sightseeing
after all . . . even if it was through rain-stained windows! One of the first
things pointed out to us on the way out of town was a sort of urban development
created through the efforts of Prince Charles (future king of England, former
spouse of Princess Diana), Poundbury, that the driver called a town within a
town (similar idea to Daybreak in Salt Lake valley), containing a variety of
residential and commercial properties. According to what I read on the Poundbury
website, the development ‘seeks to implement the principles expounded in the
1989 book by the Prince of Wale’s, A
Vision of Britian.’ While we just barely grazed the borders, I was actually
quite impressed with what I saw – looks like the sort of place in which I wouldn’t
mind living. To learn further details about the plan, visit: http://www.duchyofcornwall.org/designanddevelopment_poundbury.htm.
Here we were, in the English countryside of
Dorset, a county in southern England, Thomas Hardy territory – green rolling
hills, sheep farming, stone outcroppings. (The country of England, part of the
United Kingdom – made up of England, plus Scotland and Wales – is divided into
smaller segments known as counties. For instance, I first lived in Grimsby,
Lincolnshire; then Birmingham, West Midlands; and now in Weymouth, Dorset.) It
was SO picturesque – I can hardly put it into words to describe it adequately –
little villages with thatch-roofed houses, grazing livestock in the meadows,
old wooden fences criss-crossing the rolling grassy landscape.
We traveled through the narrow lanes of several small
villages, a word I’ve come to realize we don’t use very often in America – for
a place like ’Gardner Village,’ yes, but not so much in reference to a
small-sized town. It always surprises me how, where in teeny roads
like these – for all intents and purposes, an alleyway – parking along the road
is NOT prohibited. At one point the way was SO
narrow that it was necessary for the coach to be driven up over the curb onto
the walk in order to be able to pass through. One such village was
Casterbridge, known to many as the setting for one of Thomas Hardy’s better
known works. (At this point it has
become annexed into the larger Dorchester.) Several times on our journey today,
when referring to changes that towns have been through time, the driver used
the term ‘grown up,’ in reference – not to a person – rather a community. For
instance, when describing Casterbridge back in the day, he said, ‘it wouldn’t
have been much back then, but it’s grown up.’ He said this more than once,
reminiscing as we drove through towns he had had past experiences with, saying
something like it used to be like such and such, ‘but now it’s grown up.’
We saw many instances of flooding in the lowlands
on our travels today. Most of the streams we drove past – and there were many –
are in the full-flood stage, creeping up over their banks. You could also see
that the clay soil in the plowed fields was saturated to the very brink, little
rivulets of water sitting on top of the individual rows – or else so much that
it had combined to form pools of water. One of the main roads the driver wanted
to take to head us back into Dorchester was blocked off due to flooding. Also notable,
in relation to water, much of the watercress that is exported to locations all
around the world comes from farms right here in this area of Dorset.
At one point we passed through the Piddle valley,
(so named because it is situated next to the River Piddle), into the adjoining
valley known as Puddle valley (where besides Puddletown, there were other small
villages, like Tolpuddle, Affpuddle, Briantspuddle – with, no doubt, a number
of other ‘puddles’ as well!) You could tell it gave our driver great pleasure to
be able to say, ‘I guess you could say Piddle turns into Puddle,’ knowing it
wasn’t the first time he’d said it, either! Haha. Silly, yes; however, it is right
here where the origination of the phrase ‘to piddle,’ meaning to urinate, comes
from. As
a large stream, when the water level is high, there‘s no mistaking its presence
– in dryer times, it practically disappears.
When you take into account the possible sizes that a stream can be, a
piddle, as it comes out of you or me, is indeed a very small one. (Funny that
my mom during our growing up years, on rare occasions, in her most exasperated moments,
would use the expletive, ‘piddle ‘- as in, ‘oh, piddle!’ It just now dawned on
me for the first time, in thinking of this term, what she was saying – but did she?!)
Printed on a hand-lettered sign I saw next to a farmhouse: Sacks 4 Sale – 10p (pence), free string. (Is
that funny to you, or is it just me? If the sack is practically being given
away for nothing, why bother to even mention the string?!)
Close to the village of Cerne Abbas we came upon
the Cerne giant – 180-foot carving of a naked man looking down at us from the
chalk hillside. (He is one of four such images that have been discovered in
England. No one has been able to determine when
they were made, why they were made, or
who made them. It all remains a
mystery – though there are plenty of guesses!) On another hilltop the driver
pointed out what he called neolithic earthworks. What you see is the shape of broad,
low, terraced banks, concealed through the eons by earth and grass.
Towards the end of our
extemporaneous tour, the driver, knowing JUST what his riders would like, as
well as RIGHT where to get it, stopped at an inn where everybody, but me, went
in for a cup of steaming comfort. I was greatly surprised to learn by the
driver’s comment, as we arrived back in Dorchester to the spot along the curb
where we had dropped off the others – waiting patiently there for us now – that
in all our wanderings we had never been further than nine miles outside the
city limits at any one point. I never would have guessed that!
Late in the afternoon went out and did a little
last minute shopping – for Loraine – as one by one the stores closed behind me
– it was Christmas eve! The wonderful, amazing thing is that, even though it
was close to 5pm when I got back in, all I needed was a sweater – the
temperature by then topping out at all of 52 degrees. (Palm trees, keep telling
yourself, palm trees!) At the hotel, life went on as usual – bingo*, then live
lounge-style entertainment in the bar as people purchased their cocktails and
were encouraged to sing along with the music. It was the start of the most
un-Christmasy of Christmases I’ve ever experienced.
*[Bingo cards go on sale each night, starting
around 745, for something like a pound a try. (Their grid is configured
differently than ours: whereas ours is rectangular vertically, theirs is
rectangular horizontally, plus there is no possibility of winning with a
diagonal line – only up-and-down or across, and NO ‘free’ space in the middle.)
About two-thirds of the ante goes to the person who first completes a line, with
the remainder to the one who fills up their entire card. There is an actual
electronic system that the caller uses – the caller consisting of one of the
children usually. It is very interesting
to observe because, starting with Jamie up, they have this distinct way of
calling out the numbers (for instance, number 10: Cameron’s den [referring to
#10 Downing Street, the headquarters in London of the Prime Minister of
England, John Cameron); number 69: bright in
line (?); number 88: two fat ladies; number 11:
legs, 11; number 2: one little duck, quack (participants join in and say quack, as well; number 22: two little ducks, quack quack; etc.) and they do it rather quickly, with a definite cadence to it.
The first time I observed this phenomenon - so had no idea what to expect - it
was the youngest of the siblings, Jamie, in the game host position. And he did
it no less expertly than any of his older brothers or sisters – you never would
have guessed he was 15. I get the distinct impression that this boy is old for
his years (or wants to be anyway), for whatever experiences he’s had in his
short life so far, besides having shown up as the caboose of the family train.
Anyway, kind of fascinating the first time, after that I found it rather
annoying – just call out the numbers, for heck sakes!]
Photos_
1- from the Daily Mail – vehicle floating through
bridge on top of flood waters
2- puddled fields
3-6 through rain-streaked windows
a two-lane
pass we’re about to enter
thatched cottage
maneuvering
village streets
Gothic
church in Dorchester
7- giant chalk man – in the buff (headlines: Youngsters recreate Olympic
torch on Cerne Abbas' chalk giant – Pupils from Cerne Abbas First School joined forces with members of their
local community and children from other schools to climb the hill and recreate
the Olympic torch on the famous chalk giant that overlooks their village.)
8- Christmas eve dinner
8- Christmas eve dinner
