Old Finds and New Friends

I sat down to relax and twist around on the boys’ swing set the other day to absorb some sun and peace and quiet before Catherine got back from picking the boys up from school; you know the ones, with the see-saw and the slide on the end. It’s a child’s swing set, but I probably didn’t look all that out of proportion. These last few days have been scorchers so I had my capri’s rolled up and although the sun wasn’t terribly bright, the reflection off my legs was killing me. It sure was delightful, though; one of those "life is beautiful" moments. Later that day, we went to Box Hill; it’s a sort of war memorial that’s actually mentioned in a few Jane Austen books. Don’t ask me which ones, but I have read Pride & Prejudice and the name did sound familiar to me. I took some really nice pictures of the kids there. I realized recently that I can just delete the pictures that aren’t imperative when I need more room, so I posted a few more of the house and such.

Concerning my last entry, I bet there are a few of you who are thinking "You’re in bloody England, quit your griping!" Don’t worry, I absolutely agree with you. Unfortunately, you can’t always control your emotions, but let me just say that there’s a big difference between traveling through another country and living in another country. With that said, I’m settling in quite nicely here and every day that goes by, I find myself feeling more and more at home. Not that I don’t miss my dear friends and family, but it’s a welcome variation from all that I know and this place really is incredible.

I went for another walk yesterday; on one of the hottest days of the year. Most of the bridleways are shaded, but I walked a good 5 km’s to Ashtead and by the time I got back, I was absolutely exhausted. Catherine just came up (it’s just past 9:00pm) and brought me a cup of tea and the last of the cake that I baked yesterday; what a sweetheart, eh? Anyways, there wasn’t much to see when I arrived, but the pathway merged onto a residential street that really could only be accurately described as a lane. It’s common to see houses with names, but every house on this street had plaques on brick posts at the base of the driveways clearly displaying the names that were probably given to them a century ago when the houses were built; things like: "Drovers", "Fox’s Run", "Thirty Trees", "Little Orchard", "Long Reach" and my favorite, "Hawthorne Cottage". Beautiful houses too; it was really charming.

Today I met Martmarie, the South African au pair who lives with friends of Jonathan and Catherine’s. She’s absolutely lovely and it was really nice to have a conversation with someone in my own age group. We’re planning on meeting for "coffee" in the near future and hanging out when we get the chance; this made easier, as I already mentioned, by the fact that she has a vehicle at her disposal. She’s probably going to join me and Nina (my au pair internet friend from Finland) in London the weekend following the next. Speaking of Nina, she’s agreed that spending the night is a good idea, so we’ll be making a weekend of it. A friend of hers (another au pair that’s living in London) will also be joining us, so that makes four; should be a blast.

I went for a stroll through Bookham today too; it’s a really old, quaint little town near Headley. I spent some time wandering in and around a church there and while chatting inside with a local elderly lady, found out that it was built in the 12th century. I don’t know what it is about old and ancient cemeteries, but I just can’t get enough of them. Every time I pass a cemetery, I get absolutely drawn in and will go out of my way to spend time meandering through the headstones. I love reading the names and the dates, I love the way they teeter precariously and look as though there was never a time when they didn’t exist in that very spot; all grey, worn and moss covered (thanks to years of England’s dreary climate). They have such a wonderfully morbid existence, yet even the ones that aren’t standing straight anymore seem to have a certain poise and purpose; I can just hear them all chattering among themselves with their British accents saying things like: "Here comes another one, nosing around like we’re some kind an attraction; if they only knew what we’ve endured…", "Quit your jabbering, do you how many times I’ve seen the back end of a terrier this week?". I just love old things in general, I guess, and all that they’ve seen and being amongst them somehow makes me feel timeless...romantic. All the really old churches here don’t have separate plots of land dedicated to the dead and buried; the headstones are just planted densely and randomly around the property like reproducing lawn ornaments. Even the main paths to the front doors of the churches are lined with them; nothing like a dose of mortality to make those wooden pews feel a little harder on Sunday morning.

It’s always nice to end a post on a random note, so here you go: every other male child in this place is named either Thomas or William…it’s bizarre.