by Lil Cromer
After Irene’s husband died, she booked a Mediterranean cruise with her granddaughters where she had a stroke never to return to Florida. She went to live with Jeff and Cyn in West Sussex but I kept in touch with them.
After Hal died, I decided it was time for a trip to England. I phoned my friends who promptly invited me to stay with them. Imagine my good fortune to have somebody hold my hand while making my first trip to Europe. Here’s the letter I sent to Cyn prior to my trip.
January 26, 2001
Dear Cyn,
You just can’t imagine my elation now that I have a ticket in hand and am actually coming across the pond. I feel so blessed to have you and your family treating me like I was one of the British Royalty. My friends are envious when I tell them about my upcoming trip and your generosity.
Thank you for the phone call inquiring as to what I wanted to see while visiting. As I mentioned before, you could show me mucked up horse stalls and sewage treatment plants and I would be a happy camper. Coming to England has been a dream of mine for many, many years. I’ll be pleased to look at anything, and go anywhere, even to the food store.
However, I don’t want to be a burden on you and hope that my two week stay is not too long or an imposition. My travel agent provided me with the name of a B & B near Gatwick that I’ll stay at on the Sunday before I fly back to the States. They provide transportation to the airport, that way you and Jeff won’t have to make an early morning drive to Gatwick on Monday. I can also stay there for a day upon arrival, if you think that’s a good idea as well.
Also, I want you to know that I do not have to be entertained. Just being with your family and treated like a member will suit me just fine. Taking off on my own on the bus will also lessen the chance that my visit may become onerous.
For the next two months I’m reading all the British travel guides I’ve accumulated over the years as well as viewing UK travelogue videos. Reading all the old “This England” magazines Irene had passed along. I’m lunching with my friend when she returns home from Derby next month and will pass them along to her. I have a long list of questions for her. Hopefully by the time I get there I won’t be labeled an “Ugly American.”
Give yourself a pat on the back for the brilliant job of caregiving you’re doing for Irene. I’ve been there and don’t believe there is a more difficult chore. It’s the roller coaster ride that’s so frustrating, hang in there.
One last thing, please tell Jeff I have a good story to share with him about answering a personal ad. No blind date this time, I nipped it in the bud before it got to that stage.
Take care of yourself, and thank you for all your efforts on my behalf. I can hardly wait to visit.
Love, Lil
My first trip abroad in April of 2001 was a smashing success. Selecting US Air for my transatlantic flight was serendipitous. Their newly configured planes and competent staff made the nearly nine hour night flight seem as short as penguins’ legs. My round trip air fare from Tampa to Gatwick was $485.00.
The utter graciousness of my hosts emerged immediately upon on my arrival; they were standing in the queue to meet me as I cleared customs. My knuckles were as white as chalk during the hour drive from Gatwick airport south to their bungalow near Littlehampton, West Sussex. I decided an engineering degree is mandatory for negotiating the roundabouts in England. Several had six or seven spokes, none of the drivers slowing down, always yielding to the right. My heart was in my throat several times when I could see the nose hairs of the driver waiting to enter the roundabout.
True to form, out of the fifteen days of my visit, it rained thirteen of them. As one of my new Brit friends said, “If you wait for the weather to clear up in England to go on an outing, you’ll never go anywhere.” Each day we set off in another direction and by the end of my holiday, I had seen nearly all of the countryside and seashore from Portsmouth on the west to Folkestone on the east and north to London. Sussex was divided into East and West for administrative purposes. The West is peaceful and reflective, the East much more wild and dramatic.
My hosts have four adult children living nearby. They all made me feel a part of their family. Mother’s Day is celebrated the end of March in England which we celebrated in the Arun View Inn located directly on the Arun river, which was quite muddy due to the ceaseless rain and a stone’s throw away from the Arundel Castle built by the Normans in the 10th century.
My friends Cynthia and Jeffrey with part of their family
I lost count of the number of quaint, unique pubs we visited, all with interesting names like the Swan Inn at Fiddleworth, the Dog and Bacon, Parson’s Buttocks and my favorite Happy Cocks. Lunch at a pub, which is a shortened name for a public house, is a real treat. The ploughman’s lunch, a satisfying array of cheese, bread, pickles, chutney, beets and eggs was my favorite. I sampled baked filled jackets, which were large baked potatoes with various fillings like bangers (sausage) and beans, prawns, or gammon (ham) & cheese. Cornish pasties, bubbles and squeak (mashed potatoes & cabbage) and fresh baguette sandwiches were washed down with pints of refreshing beer. Here’s where I parted company with the true pint drinkers. They prefer “real” beer which is called bitters or ale and served less than ice cold. I fancied the lagers, more mild and served cold. Each pub we visited offered an ample variety. Drinking in England is a national pastime. A recent statistic reports one in five teens in Britain is an alcoholic. At pubs you serve yourself and while you’re sipping your drink, you peruse the menu, some are on the blackboard, then order your food at the bar, giving your table number. The waiter would then bring the food to you. In England, they use a big spoon, like our serving spoon, to eat their sweet (dessert) with, whether it’s pudding, cake, ice cream or pie.
Shopping in the grocery stores in Britain proved to be most interesting. There are no baggers, so one must bag your own groceries. The array of fresh fish makes our Florida seafood markets look like second cousins. I was gobsmacked (surprised) at the numerous varieties of cheeses, my favorite being Stilton. Take away (carry out) is very popular in Sussex. Whether you’re in the mood for Italian, Chinese, Indian, they’ve got them all, and I don’t mean in the freezer section, but right there in the refrigerated section. Sweets with names like gobstopper (jawbreaker) and wine gums (jelly bellies) intrigued me — they were quite good. One item I refused to even try was black pudding, which is not what the name implies. This is a blood sausage with a jet black casing. Why we don’t produce bacon in the USA like they have in England is a mystery. Theirs is a wide, meaty, tasty variety, not the curled up streaky stuff we’re accustomed to. A sarnie is a bacon sandwich, spotted dick, a suet and fruit pudding, have a bickie (biscuit) with your tea and pasties as big as bowling balls. I was gobsmacked to learn that toilet paper was called bogroll, a diptick was a space cadet, apples and pears refer to stairs.
My hosts called me Lady Lil; the treatment I received while visiting made me feel like royalty. Irene brought me a cup of tea in bed each morning. Having lived in Florida for some thirty odd years, my palette cried out for iced tea, a real joke in a country that makes a ritual out of tea time. One afternoon I decided to make myself a glass of iced tea, the looks of revulsion on my hosts’ faces prohibited me from doing it again.
While driving in the countryside I observed each cottage sported brightly painted doors and each one had a name. Some were surnames, others clever combinations. My hosts called their bungalow, “Pippins” after the apple, as they were on the site of an old apple orchard. Realizing that England is an island and a small one at that, parking was at a real premium in most places. Most Brits drive small cars and wisely so, due to the parking situation as well as the price of petrol (gasoline), nearly $6.00 per gallon.
One day Cyn and I took a ride along the southeast coast through Brighton Beach, a fashionable seaside resort, then on to Pevensey past Eastbourne where her friend Christine lives in a converted Martello Tower. These towers have thick walls, a large prison door, and a ledge around
the top floor where they used to roll the cannons around to protect the land from invasion by Napoleon’s troops. What a clever place to call home.
Gardens take priority over parking. No matter the size of the property it appears that everyone has a garden, some only a planter box, but a garden nonetheless. Each place I visited had an array of garden magazines, and nurseries were almost as prevalent as mobile (cell) phones, one half of Britain’s population have them — even the youngsters. When I questioned the cost of use, the monthly fees were comparable to those here in the states. What a fine marketing job the mobile phone industry has done in England. Another interesting item: child support in England is socialized, not unlike their medicine.
Probably the most humorous sign I saw said, “Elderly Crossing.” These were generally in a neighborhood where retirement centers and nursing homes were located. Here in Florida, we’d need these signs everywhere. The sign, “Amenity Tip,” fascinated me. My hosts explained this designated the dump. Curiosity got the best of me and I offered to go along on the next trip. Beside one big mound of trash and rubbish were several huge dumpsters for recycling. Couldn’t resist surreptitiously snapping a photo of one of the employees, a middle-aged man sporting a colorful jester’s hat. When he spotted me recycling a large box of empty beer and wine bottles, he asked why he wasn’t invited to the party.
In this age of debit cards and ATM machines, getting cash, either in pounds or in francs, was as easy as losing money in Las Vegas. You merely select the language you want and the amount of withdrawal, and then receive the exchange rate that day. Some machines charged no ATM fees, others were nominal.
The newspapers in England could only be called “tabloidal.” Now I know where the term “news hound” came from — British reporters hound people, especially the royal family. Most papers are heavily illustrated, often concentrating on sensational or lurid news. Utter twaddle! I did locate one paper, the “Daily Telegraph,” which accurately and comprehensively printed the news. The British press is anti Tony Blair and quick to criticize the royal family. The newspapers in the states seem to be emulating those in Britain. Several articles were written about the misinformation appearing in foreign papers about the foot and mouth disease that was currently plaguing the farmers in the UK. Unlike the mad cow disease which affected humans, the foot and mouth only affected animals. Taking the lead from my hosts, I ate beef whenever the spirit moved me, immensely enjoying a homemade shepherd’s pie one night. While perusing the obits one day I noticed a phenomenon. Each and every one of the deceased died or passed away peacefully, except those who died suddenly. None died a horrible painful death, quite amazing really.
A couple of observations: The Brits, who have spilled so much blood over religion down through the centuries, don’t seem particularly devout. The English take pleasure in small things — a nice cup of tea or twenty minutes of direct sunshine.
My tour of London was a one day whirlwind that began with a ninety minute train ride into Victoria Station, a place I could have dawdled around for hours. Next we boarded a double-decker red bus which took us around this impressive city; a commentary accompanied the tour. Busses are not permitted to drive in front of Buckingham Palace, but the spectacular view of the Parliament and Big Ben is forever etched into my brain. When I shared my photos of London with a friend, she paused at the picture of the bright red telephone booths and commented, “This is what we’re missing in the US, privacy when making phone calls.” Cyn got a kick out of me snapping photos of the inside walls of the red telephone booths; ads complete with photos of prostitutes covered the entire wall.
It took me a while to get used to the fact that all their statements sound like questions, for example, “What a lovely day, huh? This is called uptalk or upspeak. Have you ever eaten fish and chips (French fries) wrapped in newspaper? Have you ever sprinkled malt vinegar on the chips?
Not only was I able to experience the culture while assimilated into a local family, I was able to play tourist on a weekend coach (bus) trip to Paris through the Chunnel.
The bus driver, a Cockney, with a great sense of humor, came out with some expressions that were totally foreign to me, like: apples & pears (up the stairs), pony & trap (fecal matter), dog & bone (phone), Rosie Lee (cup of tea), and mint rocks (socks). Being the only American on the bus I was a little intimidated on the first day, and a long day it was. Due to a mechanical malfunction delay as well as a delay at the Chunnel, we were nearly fifteen hours getting to Paris. In England they’re used to getting on their knees to authority while we Americans rebel, thus the others kept a stiff upper lip through the entire ordeal. It must be their congenital shell of timidity. I, on the other hand, took it upon myself to open the roof vents for some air as the replacement coach had no air conditioning. A quiet chorus of “thank yous” echoed throughout the coach.
I looked toward the back of the bus for the loo (toilet). It was located in the middle of the bus down a steep step. The shelf on top was set up for making tea, a very efficient use of space.
The three day tour of Paris was quite comprehensive, albeit brief. While the city is truly an architectural marvel, the Parisians could use a lesson in sanitation and health, not to mention manners. Their love of dogs has made walking the streets comparable to walking in a land mine. Pooper scoopers are unheard of in Paris. The profusion of cigarette butts everywhere, including between the cracks of the old stones approaching the Chateau at Versailles, made me curious as to the incidents of tobacco related deaths among the French. The French are not merely rude, they just despise us. It seemed the males were ruder than the females. The bartender at our hotel tried cheating us out of change for our two drinks, until he found out Cyn could speak French. In a crepe restaurant I was locked in the loo. Nearly all the toilets in Europe, Paris no exception, are downstairs or occasionally upstairs, I never did figure out why.
Any place that serves beer has to let the public in to use the toilet. I would just confidently walk in head toward the back and look for one either upstairs or down. And never ask for a bathroom because it will definitely not have a toilet in it. It’s either a toilette or a W.C
It’s been my experience that it’s the people, rather than the places, that make traveling interesting; the people on the bus tour with me were an interesting lot. Once I penetrated their crusty exterior, we had an ongoing dialogue that provided the entire coach with laughs upon laughs. One special man, Brian, a tall, helpful gent with a twinkle in his eye was awarded the “Good Samaritan Award” for kindly helping passengers on and off the coach as well as helping the driver load and unload the luggage.
The most memorable passenger, Olive Green, a ninety year old campaigner, a retired school teacher, who walks with a stick, was traveling solo. She entertained us with some marvelous quotes. “I’ve walked so much in my life; I’ve worn my knees out.” She never married, although she admitted to a few prospects and attributed her long life to the fact that she “didn’t have to put up with a man.” Her thoughts on dying, “I don’t want to die of cancer or a stroke, I much prefer a heart attack, it’s so much quicker. I shan’t mind dying in the autumn, but not in the winter, I don’t like winter.”
On the return trip back to the Chunnel, Brian and I were sent to fetch Ms. Green on one of the scheduled rest stops. His comment to me, “Lily, it’s getting a little late in the day for me to pull up somebody’s knickers.”
Rather than inconvenience my hosts on the day of departure by having them drive to Gatwick airport in the rush hour on the Monday morning, I asked them to drop me off on Sunday afternoon. After a brilliant lunch at “The Priory” in Haywards Heath they deposited me at a small B & B about five minutes from the airport. The next morning, Mr. Graham Smith, a most competent host, prepared and served me a proper English breakfast before motoring me to the airport for the flight back home.
Traveling across the pond has made me want more. Maybe the next time I’ll get up enough courage to attempt driving on the left side
of the road. I’ve already mastered the art of pub crawling. My friend Rachel and I are discussing a three week tour of the countryside, for example the Lake District, Cotswold and Cornwall. Rachel drove a school bus for years and offered to drive on the left side.
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Ten years later, in 2011, I decided on another trip to the UK. While surfing the Internet I discovered a family owned travel agency in Dallas, TX which specializes in tours to the British Isles. Since this company does so much business with Globus they are able to offer a nice discount. Coupled with the fact that I received a hefty discount for paying for the entire tour nine months before departure — it was a no brainer.
Departure day coincided with Hurricane Irene’s arrival up the East Coast. Lucky for me, my flight to London was out of Charlotte, NC rather than NY or NJ.
There’s always been some confusion in my pea brain as to what constitutes the “British Isles.” Thanks to Rick Steves and his easy to read tour books, here’s the skinny. It’s easy to think that Britain and England are one and the same. England is the southeast part of Britain and is the size of Louisiana. Britain is the name of the island. Great Britain is the political union of England, Wales and Scotland. Throw in Northern Ireland and you’ve got the United Kingdom. The British Isles also includes the Republic of Ireland.
Regardless of the revolution that occurred some 230 years ago, many American travelers feel that they “go home” to Britain; it seems to have a strange and powerful influence over us, at least it does to me. The English people have a worldwide reputation for being cheerful, courteous and well-mannered. People go to public houses (pubs) to be social, they want to talk. Since I’m not shy I visited my share of pubs and got vocal with the locals. However I really tried to curb the decibel level, not an easy task for me, as the Brits place a high value on speaking quietly in public. Generally they like Americans, but their image of us is that we are loud, aggressive, impolite, superficially friendly and a bit naive.
