Reminiscing -- Buckinghamshire, England

I could say that I haven't been writing as much because I haven't had the time, but that would be a boldfaced lie. I have all the time. I could say I haven't been writing as much because I've lost the desire, but saying such would be an even worse perjury. I have so much desire.

I haven't been writing so much because I've settled in, and once settled, it's more challenging to find the odd bits about which to write. In the three weeks I've been here, I've developed a splendid community (thanks to Charlotte's consideration), and for the first time in the last two and a half months, I nearly feel at home -- and that says a lot. I don't have a personality that feels at home very easily, even when I've been stationary for months/years. Part of me forever wanders. Part of me thinks about all the other places at which I could be at home. But here, in this lovely part of the world connected by country walks and small villages and bike trails and homemade ice cream and farms down the road, I feel at home. I love that I can pop over for a chat with Pascaline, a yoga session with Anne, or a ride on Peter or Eve (a pony I took for a hack the other day). I love that I look forward to my yoga session with Charlotte every morning and our inevitable conversations about horses, health, theatre, yoga, and food. I look forward to hearing about Jack's day at the office and listening to his stellar impersonations, picking up bits of cockney slang, and the odd joke that sends me into fits of laughter.

I don't take as many photographs not because the scenery is any less beautiful than in Wales or Ireland, but because I've grown accustomed to green rolling fields and am no longer possessed by trigger happy camera hands.

What a stunning field... I should take a picture. No. I already have a dozen pictures of stunning fields. I'm just going to look at this one. 
 
I could say that I haven't been journaling about color as much because the colors aren't worth journaling about, but that would be a cowardly excuse. The colors are vibrant, pallid, stark, soft, dramatic, subtle and all the variations in between -- I've just found that I notice the same thing, over and over and over again.

I notice the greens. I notice tapestry of color in the sunrise. I notice the cotton candy flowers on the way back up the hill from one of the dog walks. I sadly notice how the blackberries are not yet black and probably won't turn black until the day after I leave.

And I feel pathetic and uninspired, noticing the same things, day after day after day.

I feel like Homer must have felt after he wrote, "And Dawn spread her fingertips of rose," for the 300th time.

"damn, I've used that line a lot... perhaps Dawn should spread her fingertips of azalea. Those are pink, right?" 

The sunrise this morning was indescribable. I stood by my loft window and watched it pierce the speckled sky, grateful for the offerings morning makes for us early birds.

I've been seeing a lot of Pascaline, as of late. We take the dogs out walking through the maze of National Trust trails, spend half the time talking about the places we want to visit and the other half talking about how lucky we feel to be staying with our respective families.

"I don't feel like a workawayer," I said for the umpteenth time. "I feel like I'm here with friends. The most generous, welcoming, interesting friends."

"I feel za same," Pascaline responded, flashing her persistent genuine smile. "I am so happy wis Bob and Anne. We are so lucky. I 'af 'eard stories from friends who were not so lucky. Zey were only zere to work -- not to be a part of za family. Zey did not eat togezer, zey only farmed. Zey did not talk -- just farm. It was not for za exchange of cultures or ideas."

"I'm not sure that I will workaway again," I carried on as the dogs trotted merrily ahead, dive bombing in and out of the hedge in pursuit of rustling leaves, large caterpillars and grumpkins. "This has been so good that I will feel like something's wrong at another place."

"It is za same for me. Bee! Bee-Bee! Come!" Pascaline called futilely after the fleeing border collie.

"And they feed us so well!" I laughed as Bee pointedly ignored Pascaline. "Charlotte and Jack are both brilliant cooks. I will have to go on a diet when I get to France. That's normally not what one expects, is it? To eat extraordinarily well in England and have to diet when one gets to France."

The plums are ripe in the back garden of Charlotte's and Jack's. The apples are nearly ripe, so I've been researching various plum and apple chutneys and jams I could concoct for the family, preserving their magnificent summer harvest in loads of tiny glass jars in the pantry. I made a very sour chutney with plums, ginger, nutmeg, cloves, lemon, sugar, and chilli. It didn't thicken properly, so Charlotte will purchase some agar-agar to add to the mixture today, along with some brandy to give it a hearty kick.

We anticipate it will taste rather nice over ice cream.

Today I will experiment with cardamom. A sweet plum, apple, cardamom jam. Yes?

I leave for France in two weeks. It feels strange to think that I've been moving for nearly three months. Three months seems like the first block of time, as it's every three months that I have to change location to keep things on legal with my tourist visa. I feel like I've just about finished the first big step of this adventure.

And what an adventure it's been. This is one of those moments I regret being a solo traveler, because it's a moment I really just want to reminisce.

I want to jab someone with my elbow, smile reflectively, sip a cup of coffee and journey into --

"Remember that time I nearly got sent back to Philadelphia?

"When you sat brokenly on your suitcase outside of George's?"

"The time I danced until four in the morning at an Irish wedding in Westport?"

"When you were stranded in Cork and had to fly by the seat of your pants and be okay with it?"

"The time I experienced freedom from time in the Burren?"

"When you took the wrong ferry to Wales?"

"God, that was awful."

"No it wasn't. It was the wrong ferry. Big deal, Bourget."

"The time I first met up with Jeremy and found out he'd already read most of my blog entries?"

"That was pretty cool, wasn't it?"

"Made me realize why I write."

"Pretty cool."

"The time I watched Charlotte work with Peter and remembered what it's like to watch someone dance with horses?"

"When you tried Jack's f*cking amazing green chilli sauce."

"The time I went biking with Pascaline and found out that her gears and brakes weren't working? haha... oh my god, that was hysterical. Especially going down that hill. Haha..."

"Hysterical for you."

"Haha... yeah."

"And when you opened the email from Baris, giving you directions to his apartment in Nice with a "big squeezing hug"?" 

"That was a good time."

"Yeah. Yeah, it was."

Preconceptions:

Remember that thing I said about most people having "good teeth"? I think I take that back. Teeth have character here. I like it.

Challenges:

Artisan cheddar cheese!

 Pimm's! Really good... wish I had this for rafting trips in Colorado. I would get quite tipsy and not be made fun of for bringing glass on the river.

Oscar. King of couch.

This is the back garden of a pub in Lacey Green called "The Pink and Lilly". It had great facilities and was fantastic for dogs and kids, but dreadful staff. So brusque and impolite.

Lucy!

The tiny pony I rode on a hack with Anne and Pascaline.

Mouse. One of the many farmyard cats and quite assuredly the most dignified.

Princes Risborough

The signs for the Phoenix Trail

Bee. One of the many farmyard dogs, and assuredly the most diva-like.

Pascaline. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the neighborhood workawayer was actually the sort of person I'd love to be friends with outside of this environment. When volunteering in a new country, hosts (if they're the considerate type) will often try to set you up with other volunteers in that area. There seems to be an expectation that since you're both the same age and you're both volunteering, you're bound get on like a house on fire. In France, this was most certainly not the case, as I found the other workaway girl (from England, oddly enough) extremely tedious. But Pascaline is lovely. I hope we stay in touch.

Walking the dogs. I live a hard life. ;)