Why didn't we just pack sandwiches? -- Devon, England

We may pass violets looking for roses. We may pass contentment looking for victory. 

~Bernard Williams 

Violet and Harry have a game. Many children create games that deal with the socially inappropriate (hence hilarious) bodily function of flatulence. Growing up in the Bourget household, we would rarely acknowledge the stench because,

"Oh my god, that's vile."

was usually greeted with a smug --

"He who smelt it dealt it."

So we pretended that farts had no fragrance and reduced our resentment to accusing looks that said,

I really do smell that, you know. And I'm sure it's your fart because it smells just like the one from yesterday when you were the only other person in the room. *intensifies glare* Yes. This is your fart. 

Violet and Harry's game is much more useful because it permits the victims to know who polluted the air and against whom to send their seething stares. When these kids pass gas, they quickly utter the word, "safety!" to avoid being "doorknobbed" by the other sibling.

Violet and I shared a bunk bed in one of Sarah's spare bedrooms, the little lady on the bottom and myself on the top. I awoke at half six to an unfortunate smell and a sweet, sleepy voice whispering,

"Safety..."

Charlotte and I had planned to take Spike and Willow out on a hack through the country roads of Devon, but time conspired against us (as it so often does on family vacations), and we decided to postpone until the next day. Jack and Harry set off bright and early for a mackerel fishing excursion, and Charlotte, Sarah, and I all started preparing foodstuffs for the planned beach barbecue that evening. I cut courgette, onion, peppers, and broccoli and marinated them in a tupperware with lemon, olive oil and herbs. Sarah prepared a bean salad from various tins of beans and a green salad from various leafy things growing in her garden. Charlotte handled the logistics of picnic utensils and toys to occupy children, which was definitely the more strenuous task.

Early afternoon and after a lunch of cheese, salad and plum chutney, we piled into two cars and drove into Kingsbridge to visit Charlotte's grandmother in the nursing home. As Violet sang for the sweet old woman with trembling hands and sparkling eyes, I was whisked back to the time where I performed "Couple of Swells" with my childhood BBF at the nursing home in Rifle, Colorado. I had worn black slacks, a suit coat, a makeshift tie, and a bowler hat with a hole punched through it. I sang and danced and stuck out my tongue and went around the room to hold the trembling hands after the music stopped. Some of my young colleagues felt like visiting nursing homes was a bore and a chore, but I loved it. People were always so happy to see me there. As a child, there was something affirming about believing that my mere presence made people happier.

Everyone in the nursing home in Kingsbridge adored watching Violet sing. I'm not sure whether or not anyone heard her soft (she sings much louder on the toilet, as do we all) charming voice, but they were all transfixed on her precious little face.

We scheduled a lunch for Sunday at the Crabshell pub, bid farewell to granny, and loaded back into the cars for some final pre-barbecue grocery shopping. When we finally returned to the Frogmore cottage, I found Jack busily cleaning mackerel in the kitchen. Loads of mackerel. It had been a very successful day at sea for Harry and his dad, and we would eat well because of it. Charlotte prepared a marinade for the mackerel, wrapped them in tinfoil, and added them to the bulging bags of food and accoutrement.

This all seems rather easy when written down in blog form, but I ought to remind my reader that we'd been working on putting this barbecue together since around noon. It was a day rife with,

"Did you pack the spatula?"

"How are we going to cook the fish -- disposal barbecues?"

"How are we going to get the fish to the beach?"

"Are we bringing blankets? Which blankets are okay to use?"

"How many cars are we taking?"

"Are there enough plates?"

"Do we have water bowls for the dogs?"

"Do we have a table so the dogs can't get at the food?"

"It looks like it's going to rain... do the kids have their jumpers?"

"Why didn't we just make sandwiches?"

Regardless of how long the preparations took and how often we questioned the value of our massive undertaking, we arrived at the beach around 19:00 on Friday evening.

The sand was soft, the landscape was stunning, and the weather was windy and cold. I immediately donned a blanket (I usually wear them like high-waisted old lady skirts, but I wore this one like a poncho) and set about arranging chairs and bags. The dogs scampered happily, the children dug holes, and Jack stalwartly fought the wind to light the barbecues.

And then it started to rain. Proper rain. We gazed at each other dolefully and then proceeded to pack up our things and relocate to a cave of sorts where we were sheltered from the rain and wind, but were situated right underneath a "DANGER, FALLING ROCK" sign. As these warnings adorn just about every roadside in Colorado, I tend to disregard them.

Thanks to Jack's persistence, the barbecues were finally lit and at the proper level of smoldering. I appointed myself grillmaster, and started roasting vegetables and mackerel.

The "DANGER, FALLING ROCK" sign would have been much more appropriate had it said, "DANGER, FALLING SAND". I believe that some of the veggies I dished up might have been more sand than vegetable, but the fish was still absolutely delicious. I sat with my back against the cave wall, spatula in my right hand, glass of red wine next to my left knee, sand in my hair, and I watched. I watched the kids I'd grown to love playing in the sand, the dogs I'd grown to love frolicking in the ocean, and the parents I'd grown to love drinking wine/budweiser and chatting about horses and dogs and laughing at Jack's jokes.

I watched the clouds roll in. I watched the waves gently crash into sand. I watched the undulating colors of the Atlantic.

 I watched the campfire flicker in the wind and taught Harry and Olivia how to play "these old boats".

Then Jack played and beat me at my own game.

Then we packed up and headed out.

It was a beautiful evening, and I'm glad we didn't just pack sandwiches.

Family Roadtrip -- Devon, England

There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face. 

~Bernard Williams

 

Tuesday and Wednesday were spent recuperating from Sunday and Monday. I had planned to teach a yoga lesson to a young dancer whose family lives at Waddeson manor Tuesday morning, but Charlotte was feeling poorly, so we postponed the lesson and had an easy day in. I fiddled around in the kitchen for a bit, recorded a yoga video, took the dogs out walking, and prepared lunch for the kids. Walks with the dogs have been much longer, as of late. Why?

The blackberries are finally coming into season. They're sour, bitter, and full of seeds that get stuck between all my teeth, but they're blackish purple and I eat them because I can. Oscar and Lucy frolic ahead, plunge into the hedges after pigeons or pheasants or butterflies, and come bounding back, confusion written across their faces. 

"Vhy must you alvays stop, friendbeast?" Oscar quizzically tilts his Russian head. "I vish to keep moving, so I vould have great appreciation if you vould please stop eating za black bird food zat hangs from za bushes, yes? I have za hedge to attack. Or perhaps you could just feed me za black bird food zat hangs from za bushes. Zat vould be a good plan, yes?"

Violet rode her Dartmoor pony, the sturdy, stocky, lovable "India". Charlotte helped lead Violet around the arena and I mounted Eve, a chestnut pony desperate for work. I ended up hopping around on strange bouncy stilts in Bob and Anne's backyard when Violet decided to switch ponies and give Eve a go, and had a marvelous time. 

The bizarre things I do whilst traveling. I love it.

Upon returning to the house, I was nearly knocked flat by a tantalizing wave of sumptuous smells. Regardless of how sick she was feeling, Charlotte was intent to keep her promise of making me an English dinner. Gluten-free Yorkshire pudding, lamb that had been slow-roasting for four hours, a sublime gravy made from meat drippings, mashed vegetables and red wine, roasted sweet potatoes, gluten-free stuffing balls, and a glass of wine. I slowly pulled the flavorful lamb off the bone and savored each bite I brought to my mouth. 

I didn't realize heaven could taste so good, I closed my eyes and tried to absorb all the glorious sensations happening in my mouth. The kids were making some absurd complaints about how the gravy wasn't up to par, but it was all white noise. 

The ignoramus who said England has bad food should be shot. This is exquisite. I... I don't have any words for how good this is. I plunged my fork into the sweet crispy 

Gluten-free yorkshire pudding and stuffing balls. Charlotte has been so accommodating regarding my food sensitivities. She also bought me gluten-free muesli, wraps, and baked gluten-free bread. 

Wednesday... Wednesday was quiet and beautifully simple. Wednesday saw an interview with Pascaline, packing for the trip to Devon and a quiet night in with Charlotte. 

There's something about the peaceful days that I love, I flipped through one of Jack's curry cookbooks and let the voluminous cushions of the smaller black sofa swallow me. I could have had a day like this at home. Simple days where no famous landscapes are seen and leftovers are consumed for two out of three meals make me feel like I'm living -- not just traveling. For the next few days, this is my home. I can relax into it the way Charlotte relaxes into it. 

Oh. Yes. And Wednesday saw the creation of gluten-free scones. I felt as if I had finally assimilated into English culture as I took a dainty bite of my delicate scone covered in damson plum jam and slathered with clotted cream.

 

I woke up early Thursday morning to check on the kale chips Charlotte was dehydrating (which were better than my mom's. Which is really saying something, 'cos my mom makes some damn fine kale chips) and to take the dogs on a walk before the four hour drive to Devon. The plan was to leave at nine am, but with the general sort of idea that between Violet trying to sneak extra teddies in the car, packing issues, and last minute toilet trips, we'd be on the road by ten.

"I am Oscar. King of cushions."

We pulled out of the driveway at 9:40. Splendid time. I settled into my seat behind the driver and eagerly gazed out the window. I was off to Devon. The south of England. A land of palm trees and hard cider and many types of cheese. Yes please. Snuggling up to the window, I let out a sigh of complete contentment. 

This is going to be a good trip.

However, the sigh of complete contentment quickly morphed into a forced expression of contentment. Within a grand total of ten minutes, WW3 had commenced in the backseat of the Honda. Violet and Harry are marvelous children and I love them ever so much, but they're young and related and are therefore obligated to create chaos during family roadtrips. Also, they were stuck sitting next to each other in the backseat of a car for four hours with the smell of wet dog wafting up from behind them. 

"How much longer?"

"I'm hungry."

"I want chocolate."

"Mummy, Violet kicked me!!!"

"No I didn't!"

"Yes you did!"

"Well, that's only because you elbowed me."

"I didn't!"

"You did!"

"No I didn't." 

"Yes you did!"

"How much longer, Mummy?"

I slouched my shoulders in and tried to keep my hands to myself and my face glued to the window, but Violet kept bumping into me with her booster seat and drawing me out of my meditation and back into the tumultuous fray. 

I should have actually paid attention during the meditation part of yoga training. Spending that half hour thinking about the horrible breakfast we were about to eat and the mosquitoes none of us could escape didn't do me any good at all. I took a deep breath and consciously relaxed my eyebrows.

"MUMMY!"

Argh...

We pulled into Frogmore at about two o'clock in the afternoon. Poor Lucy had been sick all over the blankets in the back and my poor English family and me had been smelling sick for a good twenty minutes. We all frantically tumbled out of the car, grateful for the fresh air and the opportunity to stretch our legs. Charlotte's mother greeted us (I bungled it admirably, once again), and the kids managed to find water balloons and a contraption that launched them into the air. Charlotte immediately washed the vomit off of Lucy's paws and stuffed the malodorous blankets into the washing machine. 

Beds were assigned, lunch was eaten, balloons were blasted, new dogs were cuddled, and the sensational scenery was taken in. 

Lucy and Tess played all afternoon. I grew fatigued just watching their shenanigans.

I thee you haf a thtick. You should share your thtick. 

Hey. Hey, Tess. I would like it efer tho much if you would share your thtick.

After letting the dogs romp about Charlotte's mum's field, we drove off to check on Sarah's horse.

Spike. A very nosy gelding stabled with Sarah's filly, Willow.

Sarah's stately German shepherd. Of the American variety. Molly was raised in an environment where she was confined to a glass box, so she's still learning how to trust people and how to actually be a dog. She's still discovering what it means to "play".

Sarah, Harry, Violet, and Willow.

Hey... unsuspecting human with frightening device that clicks. Your hair looks delicious.

Just a nibble... I promise I'll leave you some.

Willow has the most beautiful eyes.

Fine. I will settle for a nose snuffle instead.

Horses checked and all well, we continued our journey down to the beach.

Which greatly pleased the pooches.

We ate dinner at a pub on the beach and then drove to Dartmouth to watch a band perform. The music was great, my dancing was awkward, and the fireworks were lovely. What more could a girl want?

I adore these kids.

Preconceptions: None today

Challenges: Nope

Notting Hill Carnival -- London, England

Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit. 

~Bernard Williams  

I awoke in Violet's top bunk Sunday morning to the reverberating sound of Oscar's "I MUST POO NOW" bark. This breed of bark is lower and more rhythmic than his "THE POSTMAN HAS ARRIVED I MUST DEFEND MY STUFFED SNAKES AND HUMAN FRIEND BEASTS" bark. 

Reluctantly, I rolled out of bed, dropped to the floor, and released the hound. The morning mist blanketed the back garden and Oscar was granted a moment of privacy as he accomplished his before breakfast bowel movement. The mist quickly yielded to woodfiddly rain, and I decided to save the weekend's poop scooping work until after I'd made the American pancakes I'd promised my English family, hoping the rain would relent before I biked to look after the two horses up the road. Table set and fat, fluffy banana pancakes wrapped in tinfoil and stacked in the oven, I looked out the window. 

Still mawky out. Bullocks. 

The weather cleared slightly after breakfast was eaten and the dishes were tidied, and Charlotte drove me to the station in Great Missenden. I was London bound. Pascaline had already gone off to the outskirts of London to stay with a friend she'd met whilst living in Spain (a well-traveled Scottish chap named Orlando), and had invited me to stay with them Sunday night. I'd arrive at noon on Sunday, explore the famous (or infamous) Notting Hill Carnival, stay with Orlando, his younger brother, and Pascaline Sunday evening, scamper about the carnival Monday afternoon, and board the train bound to our respective homes that evening. 

I'm finally going to London. Win. I've spent over seven months in the UK and have yet to visit London. It's high-time I rectified that situation.

The train arrived at 12:07, and I scurried out of the coach and into the station, scanning the thronging crowds for signs of Pascaline and the faceless Scotsman (who has English heritage as well, but I'll refer to him as Scottish because his accent seemed more Scottish than English to this tone/lilt deaf American). I quickly spotted my French friend in her flowing pants, vibrant shirt, and bold necklace, and I assumed that the blonde fellow standing beside her was the friend with whom we were both staying. Knowing that toilets are excruciatingly difficult to find in Europe, I hugged Pascaline, awkwardly hugged/kissed Orlando --

"I always do that! GAH!"

and immediately moved on to --

"Would you guys mind if I used the toilet real quick like?"

Tip for travelers in Europe: Make good use of public facilities. They are few and far between, so don't feel too tremendously guilty for making people twiddle their thumbs and wait on you because the opportunity to pee for free is too good to miss. 

Orlando hadn't lived in London for years, but he still managed to get us from the Marylebone train station to the Notting Hill Carnival with only one or two switchbacks. On the way, he did his best to point out various famous streets and explain the history of the upcoming carnival.

A Bit on Notting Hill

One of the largest street carnivals in the world, Notting Hill Carnival has been taking place in London over England's three day bank holiday in August since 1966. It emerged as a reaction to racial issues in London (led by Claudia Jones in response to the Notting Hill Riot) and as a general hippie movement (led by general hippie, Rhaune Laslett). 

The event seems to have morphed from a social issues/hippie haven to an advert laden, exorbitantly priced food nightmare. Mostly. However, no one has been shot/stabbed to death whilst in attendance since 2004, which is somewhat encouraging. There was a cheeky chap named Greg Fitzgerald Watson who was stabbed to death in 2000... because he argued over the price of his food. After paying seven pounds for a pathetic looking piece of jerk chicken atop a bed of flavorless rice and iceberg lettuce, I have much more empathy for his... umm... tactless reaction.

I don't know exactly what I expected the carnival to be... but whatever I expected, I was certainly taken by surprise. Memories of Morocco flashed in the back of my mind. The chaos, the crowds, the overwhelming smells, the lack of respect for personal space and the noise made me relive my two months in the hornet's nest of Marrakesh. But instead of Moroccans garbed in djellebas flaunting their pistachios, figs, and tagines from the backs of donkeys, it was a crowd of Caribbean Brits semi-garbed in bling, flaunting their fried plantains, jerk chicken, red stripe beer, and goat curry from street side grills.

They filled the bowl with cheap rice and beans so they could skimp on the goat curry. Clever, crafty Caribbeans.

 Honestly, the first day was tiring and disappointing. I tried to keep my chin up because my company was so lovely, but I'd hoped to see more vibrant costumes, choreographed dances, and affordable food. Instead, the food absolutely broke me, the "dances" involved walking down the street with a smidgen of provocative ass shaking thrown in every now and then, and the costumes were primarily fluorescent shirts with logos printed on the front/back. We saw a couple of things worth stopping to watch, including a fine display of Capoeira. Capoeira is a form of Brazilian martial arts that combines dance, music, and acrobatics. It has a very playful feel to it, but Orlando assured me in his Scottish accent (that I dare not try to write, for fear of completely butchering it) that it could be quite dangerous.

 After five or six hours of agonizing stimulation, we took two metros and a bus to the apartment of Orlando's mother. We slipped into a supermarket on the way, purchased three pints of Bulmers, and found a bench where we could enjoy our drinks and watch a game of cricket. Orlando did an admirable job attempting to explain the bizarre sport to me, but I regret to admit that I'm still 90% in the dark regarding what exactly you have to do to stay IN the game (just about everything gets you out, apparently).

Dusk had fallen, the game had culminated (I'm not entirely sure as to which team won), and our ciders had only the dregs remaining. We picked ourselves up and trudged to Orlando's apartment. Although it was just around the corner, my aching feet made it seem worlds away.

Carnivals are hard work. 

Once inside, I gravitated towards the bookshelves and immediately started flipping through Orlando's multitude of Jamie Oliver books. Orlando's little brother Oscar came downstairs, and between the entertaining bouts of brotherly horseplay, I had a very engaging (to me, anyway) philosophical conversation with the younger Scotsman. He was a very well-spoken, intelligent chap studying philosophy at Cambridge who possessed mannerisms that were uncannily similar to those of my old roommate, Rudy. We chatted about cooking and the culture of gift giving and dined on a sort of Spanish tortilla Orlando quickly whipped up for us.

After which we watched an incredibly disturbing French film. As one does when staying at the home of an international Scotsman in London.

We didn't get out of the house the next day until after eleven -- which is usually not how I operate (I'm the earliest of the early birds), but Pascaline is a lady who requires a significant amount of sleep in order to function properly. So I plopped myself down on one of the living room chairs and swiped my Kindle awake and commenced guiltily gobbling up Game of Thrones.

After sipping a cup of coffee and saying goodbye to Orlando and Oscar, Pascaline and I boarded our first bus back to London center and to our second day of Notting Hill Carnival. We prayed it would be better than the first.

Our prayers seemed to be answered, as the second day did indeed start off much better than the first. The only early afternoon mishap was the purchase a sad looking bowl of obscenely expensive food that was bland and disappointing... but we found some London gin! The cocktails were all made for the carnival, so we had to order off of a limiting list, but Pascaline and I were both pleased with the outcome.

We had the Sky Juice. I challenge my reader to find something more unhealthy and delicious.

 The second day had more dancing and parade participants wore more interesting outfits than fluorescent shirts advertising big businesses.

 One of my goals for the afternoon was to try fried plantain.

 So we did.

 And it was delicious. Significantly better than the sad looking chicken from earlier.

 The costumes truly were resplendent and diverse. As were the various body types wearing them.

The way men and women danced whilst wearing these rather skimpy costumes made me worried that someone was going to accidentally contract a baby. While I certainly don't judge (and am more than a little jealous of some of their sexy dance moves), I was just mildly surprised that this manner of movement was permitted in public.

 Having sated our desires for loud music, barbecue smoke, and scandalous costumes accompanied by sketchy dance moves, Pascaline and I decided to call it a day. I phoned up Charlotte on Pascaline's phone and asked if she'd be available to pick me up from the train station in Great Missenden at 19:00.

"I'm having an absolutely fabulous time," I added near the end of the phone call. "See you soon!"

And I was having a fabulous time.

And then I wasn't.

Chaos struck. Pandemonium. Mayhem. If using more synonyms could convey just how stressful the situation was, I would copy/paste the entire page from Thesaurus.com. Thousands upon thousands of drunk, high, overly enthusiastic carnival-goers thronging through the streets. I suddenly found myself being pushed and shoved by towering sweaty bodies reeking of marijuana and alcohol. I clung to Pascaline's backpack and we did our best to navigate our way through the overcrowded streets. I felt a bubble of panic rising in the back of my throat after we'd been immobilized for a few minutes.

The stench of others.

The sweat of others.

The inability to see where I was going because I was so surrounded.

The pounding music that jarred my spine, deafened my ears, and vibrated in my chest.

The violent shoving and groping.

"Zis is just 'orrible!" Pascaline shouted over the terrible cacophony.

I nodded, mouth dry and head spinning. A group of 5-10 generously sized blokes decided that they'd had quite enough of crawling along at a pace a snail could laugh at, so found that the best solution to their dilemma would be to aggressively charge through the crowd as a unit. An elbow jabbed against my ribcage and I hurtled against the person to my left, and the desperate men nearly knocked over an elderly woman with a walker.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to close my eyes and float out of my body and be above it all.

Instead, I kept my purse in front of my stomach, my hand on Pascaline's backpack, and my scream inside my head. After an hour and a half of this 'orrible chaos, we made it through.

I was exhausted. Absolutely spent.

We made it to the train station with admirable ease, boarded our coaches, and set off for home. My smelly, bruised body collapsed into the seat, but my mind refused to let me sleep. My brain felt like it was doing a dance on hot coals whilst juggling hot potatoes.

I arrived in Great Missenden just before seven and was delighted to find Jack waiting for me outside the station in his Porsche.

My brain let go of the potatoes and started to relax.

We walked through the front door of my Buckinghamshire home and a gorgeous smell wafted over us. Charlotte had been cooking.

I love it when Charlotte cooks.

Ribeye steak with melting cheese, sweet potatoes with rosemary, caramelized onions and courgette cooked in a wine and cream sauce.

My brain stepped off of the hot coals.

Preconceptions: None for today

Challenges: London Gin!