Chapter 5 The Pilgrimage: A Rose Blooms

The pink English roses Auntie Mary planted 40 years ago bloomed my last day in England. Seems fitting.  Because the entire week I’ve been in northwest England those gloved bud cocoons were waiting for just the right moment to be noticed.

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They tell me, “You must have brought the California weather with you” because it’s been lovely, sunny, legitimately hot since arriving at my cousin’s family home. I’m afraid I can’t claim the Bearer-of-Good-Weather title as it was bitter cold most days I was in London; it hailed twice in one day prompting me to buy warmer clothes. But it’s Spring, I kept saying. Still, I’ll take the compliment as the expression is one of many Britishisms I’ll take with me.  

Luv, luv, luv. Everyone’s a luv. Or a darling. And the way the Brits genuinely look in your eyes. And how they say “sorry”— a lot. 

“Have a lovely day, luv.” 

“See you soon, luv.” 

And many, many other expressions of appreciation I should have written down so I can take them back to The States where we need a whole lot of love.  

I’m not good at math or foreign languages, dates or memorizing lyrics to favorite songs. I am, instead, a watercolor impressionist, remembering the swirl of magenta rhododendrons showering down on my cousin or that raging hot Spring day we hunkered down in her apartment and binged on “Married at First Sight Australia” or that beautiful Walls vanilla ice cream with a Cadbury Flake. Don’t ask me the day it happened or the route we took to get there because I’m not good with data.

What I will remember about my 70^th year birthday celebration is the love, for my cousin, for this country, and her people. I’ll never forget talking to everyday folk and learning that …  

• Brits are mad at the government for allowing illegal immigrants into the country. They’re mad that unvetted refugees are being “put up” in apartments, getting free mobile phones, medical and social services. (I don’t know if any of their complaints are true or not, but this is a largely accepted impression.)
• Every person I’ve spoken to—from cab driver to store clerk—despises Donald Trump. Brits blame the U.S.’ leader for inflicting economic pain on them. Diesel fuel, when converted to dollars and gallons is about $9.49. It costs Sue, my cousin’s dear friend, a hundred pounds to fill up her Barbie pink Ford Focus which she bought a few years back. That’s a tenth of what she paid for her car. 
• As an American, no one can tell you are—unless you speak. If you choose to talk, they want to know, politely at first, your reaction to the president and his actions. Depending on your answer, there may or may not be a sigh of relief, followed by outrage and fear that their country is vulnerable and headed in the same wrong direction.
• Oh, and how the Brits love their football, chanting, singing, illegally drinking on the train on their way to a weekend game. If you’ve ever seen the fans on “Ted Lasso”, exactly like that.
• And as gracious and lovely-voiced they are, the Brits sure do enjoy their F-bombs. Massively. 
• They tend to dress up, make an effort when going out for dinner or a walk in the Village or the park. Maybe it’s the black or fondness for navy blue, but they look smarter, more polished than us Yanks. 
• The pub. They partake. Regularly. And it’s fun. Conversational. And depending on where you go, not fist-fight confrontational. They’re neighbors. Typically rooting for the same team. 
• Many Brits depend on public transportation. When you grow up in Southern California like I did, riding on a train is like being at Disneyland, it’s a novelty. But for my cousin and others, when workers threaten to strike or a line is randomly stopped, it triggers stress, rage, confusion, and assortment of bloody hell F-bombs. But as they’ve done throughout time, they Keep Calm and Carry On.
• The supermarkets I’ve shopped at—Tesco, Marks and Spencer, Morrisons, Sainsbury, Waitrose and Aldi—all reflect the British palette, reminding me of my parents’ culinary influence: steak and kidney pie, pork pies, blood pudding, sausage rolls, watercress, marrow and other veggies grown in the UK. And don’t let me get started on British chocolate, vastly superior to America’s fake, waxy candy. No comparison. Next time I visit I’ll be sure to bring an empty suitcase to stock up. 

Next time. 

And there will be one. And it won’t be another decade from now like it was the last time. Because I know that this place is another one of my places of the heart. It’s not just the lush landscape or my family’s lore, it’s the beautiful people I’ve met, that I’m related to, who have generously embraced me as their own; it’s slowing down and listening to their joys and sorrows; it’s not having an agenda, but staying open, pivoting, tossing out the To-Do list. 

That’s my travel style. No daily check list itinerary. I just want to absorb, take it all in. 

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It’s 6:45 a.m., and I’m Christmas-morning-awake having finally adjusted to the British time zone. The south-facing room is already blazing signaling toasty start to my last full day in England. Everyone loves the weather, but in the same breathe complains about how “close” it is making it hard for some to breathe. The humidly level is real, but nothing compared to New York where I’m headed. 

My tiny carry-on suitcase is jammed with uniform black, white, tan and navy blue clothes and shoes, an olive Bismark T-shirt, toiletries, odds and ends, British candy, a new book about vanlife, my aging laptop, and a couple of trinkets for the grandkids.

I bought two souvenirs for myself on this trip: An orange scarf I bought from wares stand at Walton Park, and a small make-up bag with a sardine and two daffodils on it. I bought a book to read on my continued travels, which I’ll donate to the Cambria Library once I’ve read it.

I don’t need things anymore. I have so much, given away so much, really, enough is enough. Instead, I’ve become a collector of people. I’ll never forget their generous smiles and willingness to share a chat with a stranger about the weather, a favorite rose, a football team, high prices at the grocery store, holiday plans, politics, health—pretty much the same stuff we talk about back in The States.

Travel light. Love big. I leave Great Britain a fatter—all the cream deserts, fish and chips and pub-ing—a richer woman. Broken bits have been stitched together; I am content, at peace, ready to step on the plane in a few hours and gather those grandchildren, big children, nieces, nephews in my arms and kiss them and hug them like I never have before; for I have cried at the grave of those I have loved and know love never goes away and there can never be too much.

Goodbye dear Britain. Until we meet again.