Page 8 of A Very Irish Christmas
Irish blessing
SIX
ENGLAND
My little slice of English paradise, it turns out, is very, very wet. So wet I wish I’d packed an inflatable dinghy.
I spend a few days sightseeing in London, admiring the sparkling Christmas lights in the shopping streets, taking selfies with the bright red mailboxes, double-decker buses and the chunky black cabs. I snap pictures of the huge Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square, and send all of these to my family and to June, determined to put a brave face on things.
Truthfully, I haven’t had a great time so far. Being a lone female traveller, it turns out, isn’t very glamorous at all. It’s actually just a bit lonely, and every time I see something fun or interesting, I wish I had someone to share it with.
Yesterday, I wandered the aisles of the famous London toy store, Hamleys, picking out gifts for my nephews. The place was packed with excited children and tired looking parents, a glimpse into a life that I will probably never have. I left the place feeling old and past my expiry date. Ted and I had always discussed starting a family quickly, but now it seems like an impossible dream. Deep down, I don’t want to be a glamorous lone traveller. I want to be one of the tired looking parents.
Dad had been right about a lot of it, too, and I spend way too much time standing at busy roads, wondering if it is safe to cross. I try to pay for everything with the wrong coins, the bathrooms all feel a bit weird, and everything is loud and overwhelming.
I’m from New York – it’s not like cities intimidate me – but London is a very different kind of city, and after a few days of grey skies and relentless rain I’m glad to get away. The only person I’ve really spoken to is the woman on reception, who is Scottish. I don’t understand a word she’s saying, and just try to laugh in the right places.
Today, I take my criss-cross journey by train through England to Whimsy Cottage, and it’s good to be on the move. Even in the dull weather, the countryside is picturesque, and I love looking the journey up on my phone and seeing all the place names.Berkshire, Hampshire, Oxfordshire– it’s like something out of a movie, the scenery rolling past the rain-streaked windows in a blur of green.
The little local train station I finally end up at is impossibly pretty, with white painted fences and quaint Victorian buildings. There’s a tiny plastic Christmas tree behind the ticket booth, and the elderly lady serving is wearing dangling reindeer earrings. It’s festive, and my spirits lift – right up until she tells me I’ll have to wait for ‘an hour or so’ for a taxi.
My stricken face must show my disappointment, because she smiles kindly at me before picking up the phone.
‘Bob, it’s Linda down at the station. Got a nice young lady here needing to get to Little Ireland. I know it’s your day off, but I wondered if you could drag yourself out of your pit and give her a lift?’
I’m confused by the whole conversation, partly because she has an accent so dense I feel like I’m listening to it through a bowl of soup – and partly because of what she says.
‘Why did you call it Little Ireland?’ I ask.
‘You’ll see when you get there! Now, just you have a little sit, he’ll be here soon – probably not long enough for a cup of tea, I’m afraid. Anyway. My cousin lives in America. Maybe you know her?’
‘Um. Maybe. Where does she live?’
‘Atlanta.’
‘Right. Well, no, I guess I don’t then.’
‘Probably for the best. She’s a bit of a moody cow. Rainy, isn’t it?’
I gaze outside at the torrential downpour, and nod. ‘Yeah. Does it ever, you know, not rain here?’
‘Oh yes! In a good year, we can get as many as four or five clear days in July! We all run around in our bikinis! I’m only joking, my love, don’t worry – this is supposed to clear up tomorrow. Then we’re due some blue skies, just before the snow kicks in. Hope you packed your wellies!’
I assure her I did, though in all honesty I have no idea what those are. I mean, I might have packed them, who knows?
We chat until Bob arrives, and as I leave she gives me a cheery wave, and says: ‘Say hello to Ryan for me!’
I have no idea who Ryan is, but she actually blushes and looks a little dewy-eyed as she says his name.
Bob is a taciturn man in his fifties, and he shows zero inclination to chat as we drive through narrow country lanes and pretty villages. I don’t mind; it gives me the chance to acclimatise, and to gaze out of the window with a big, stupid smile on my face.
Okay, so the weather is foul – I’m beginning to understand why they talk about it so much – but this place is gorgeous. So green and lush, the roads lined with dripping bushes and alive with twittering birds. The fields around us stretch on intoinfinity, neat little patchworks of emerald and brown, herds of cartoon black and white cows grazing contentedly.
As we wend our way through the countryside, I notice most of the buildings are made from the same honey-coloured stone, lots of them with thatched roofs. If you took away the lights and the road signs, you could be in a different century entirely.
We have our own history in the States, but nothing like this – you can feel the age oozing from every farm house, every little pub, every row of pretty cottages. I’m living in a fantasy world, and by the time we arrive at the Bancroft Estate, I am on a natural high.
‘It’s so beautiful!’ I can’t help saying aloud, earning myself a shrug from Bob.
