Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  As an enthusiastic English crimmie fan, a nut for P. D. James’s, Ruth Rendell’s, and Elizabeth George’s deliciously complicated, colorful murder mysteries, I can tell you with authority that the Cornwall landscape factors into many books in that genre. Someone is always falling, being pushed, walking moodily along, or hearing a gunshot from the cliffs of the rugged Cornish coast. I came here with a reader’s high expectations and perceptions of how it would feel. It proved to be everything I had anticipated and then some: wild, romantic, and even filled with suspense and intrigue—in our case, a splendid day dodging Range Rovers and tractors, which barreled along those narrow roads beneath immense rolled hay bales attached fore and aft. Despite feeling like a nervous wreck, Tim managed to pull off the driving chores without a scratch.

  Until the next morning, that is. The fog and drizzle returned. After another of Jean’s fortifying breakfasts, our young friend Sean and Tim dragged our belongings down to the front door. When they walked outside with the first load, they discovered that our left front tire was completely flat, apparently damaged by repeated collisions with the curbs on those narrow streets. Sean went to work. He was soon joined by Robert, Jean’s husband. I peeked out to check on their progress and saw Tim doing his Tom Sawyer imitation. There he stood, sheltered by a tree, smoking a cigar as he watched the other two crouched on the gravel installing the little donut spare. I would like to think that he was ashamed of himself, but he didn’t look at all remorseful to me. The scene amused me so much that I took a photo to record forever Tim’s “special talent” for getting things done without getting his hands dirty.

  We replaced the donut tire with a new full-size one in the next little town and headed off to Bath, another part of England that enjoys endless literary references. Think Jane Austen right up through Harry Potter. You get the idea. We spent two nights in a grand old hotel/spa and cabbed it to town, where we inspected the famous Roman thermal baths, gorged on Georgian architecture, and shopped for sweaters. The weather was turning cooler every day, and we were both tired and ready to get settled in our next home near London. We had traveled on the road like tourists for three weeks and badly needed some cocoon time to regroup.

  Along the way, we stopped in a couple of Cotswold villages and paid a visit to Stonehenge. Sadly, the ancient astronomical observatory has lost much of its mystery and impact because its vulnerability to tourists forced the British government to cordon it off. Visitors can only view the massive stones from a distance these days. Furthermore, the enormous crowds who come to see them created a need for snack bars, toilets, and a visitor center. All of it seemed necessary and well done, but I felt very lucky to have visited Stonehenge many years before with my dad, when my parents were staying in London. In those days, we simply parked the car and walked through a field to the stones. No one else was at the site, and we stood silently for a long time with our umbrellas, wondering about the mysterious people who had moved the stones five to seven millennia ago and created the huge circle that aligns to summer solstice and other precise astronomical markers. I’m grateful that he and I were able to share that moment together.

  As we drove toward London, Tim seemed much more relaxed behind the wheel, enough to occasionally glance at the passing sights. It was a big breakthrough. “You know, so far we’re doing just fine, but I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, and maybe next year, we should reconsider the way we plan things,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s occurred to me that when we take side trips at the beginning or end of our visit to a country, we are being tourists. We do love exploring, but we might want to do it in another way. See, we’re not really tourists, because tourists get to go home. After a trip they unpack, rest, put away their stuff, and have a break. We don’t. When we’ve been out running around, instead of getting a rest in familiar surroundings, we have to set up a new home and figure out the territory.” He patted my knee. “It’s hard work, and I think we can find an easier way to do this.”

  ***

  I agreed. Tim whittles away on our plans constantly. His quest for repositioning cruises, flights, car rentals, and settling all the other necessary details never ends. (It’s one reason why Internet quality matters greatly to us!) But his incessant attention to detail has proven vital for success in this type of living. As we thought where we’d like to be for the next year, we faced surprises we could not possibly predict, changes and opportunities that would radically alter our plans. Our life may be unusual, but it’s certainly never dull.

  We were relieved because the drive between Stonehenge and our apartment was remarkably easy. We had dreaded being caught in the tremendous traffic that surrounds the capitol, but we skirted London and easily found our new home near Hampton Court Palace. Tim connected with and settled into the rhythm of English drivers, so steering wheel banging and growling at other drivers occurred much less frequently. Hitting curbs was a thing of the past. Robin Hurblatt, the owner, greeted us in the sunny fourth-floor apartment. It would turn out to be one of our favorites. Right away, we were delighted with the place. It featured a spacious bedroom with ample storage, an equally comfortable main room, a fine kitchen separated by an ample island that gave me plenty of counter space, and excellent elevators, all in a clean and bright building. Forget Cornwall’s well-tended gardens—this was my idea of an English paradise!

  After Robin left, I said, “Oh, Tim, you’ve really done it this time! This place is just perfect, and I’m crazy about being so close to the Thames! Look at this little balcony. We can see everything that’s going on at the river. We’re going to have a really good time here! Can you believe we can walk just around the building to get to a big market? We’re really in business this time!”

  He smiled, pleased that his efforts were appreciated. “Hey, let’s go have a look around. We can unpack later.” We took off, anxious to see our new homefree neighborhood.

  We walked a few yards to the towpath that runs along both sides of the Thames. Trees lined both sides, and lovely houses and an occasional pub appeared as we ambled along. Teams of rowers glided by as their coxswains shouted out instructions. Walkers, runners, families with baby buggies, and bicyclists shared the walkway. Sailboats and motorboats were on the move everywhere. Since the river is only one hundred feet wide in some places, it took their experience and skill to safely negotiate the water. People played Frisbee with their dogs in open spaces, and kids chased each other and played on park swings. Within a block of our house, there was a tiny dock with a dazzling white archway on which “Ferry” was emblazoned in nautical blue. People wanting a quick way across the river would ring the little school bell that hung from the post to summon the ferry man to take them over. He charged a pound for the trip.

  We found a spot on a bench along the river not far from our apartment and sat drinking in the peaceful scene of river life. Tim said, “Now we’re going to have an entirely new experience! I have a hunch we’re going to be more relaxed here than we’ve been in quite a while. I think we’ll enjoy being a part of this river life! I already feel as if we’re part of the community just because everything moves so slowly and people really stop to have conversations.”

  “You’re so right,” I replied, taking his hand. “Every time we are in England, we’re so wrapped up in London that we’ve missed this entirely different world. We’re going to love it here. You made a terrific choice, honey. And by the way, I love you!” He squeezed my hand as we rose to leave that bench, which became “our bench” on many sparkling autumn afternoons that September.

  We returned to sort out our new home. “Tell you what—I’ll get us unpacked while you go next door and get the things we need to get started here,” Tim said. “I’ll bet you can just roll the cart across that little driveway that divides the buildings, and then I can help you get the stuff up here.”

  Off I went with my list to Tesco, a branch of the big grocery chain with stores all over Britain and Ire
land. By now, four countries into our new life, we swung into our move-in routine without even thinking about it. I spent a happy hour buying what we needed. I’m fond of grocery shopping because I love food, and for the first time in four months, the labels were in English. The British are very courteous, and their non-combative shopping atmosphere was just what I needed! The offerings may not have been as exotic and plentiful as those in France and Italy, but it surely was easier to shop. I filled up a cart with the basic necessities, like wine and chocolate, and, oh yes, threw in some fruits, veggies, and meat, too. After the checkout, since I had so many things, I planned to quickly wheel the cart next door and bring it back when we’d finished unloading all the groceries. I merrily pushed the cart down a short sidewalk, past the little post office, and started across the driveway.

  The cart stopped dead. One of the wheels had quit working. I pushed, shoved, and muttered things a woman my age is never supposed to say. Finally, I gave up, ran across the driveway, and called Tim on the intercom. We hoisted the bags to our building, and he manhandled the cart to the sidewalk. How strange. I’d never heard of a grocery cart getting a flat.

  The next time I crossed the driveway to shop, I looked up and saw a big sign in yellow neon. It informed me that taking a cart off the premises would result in the wheels of the cart locking up. I glanced in the post office and realized that the attendants, whose counter was just inside the window, had doubtless enjoyed watching our little Yankee performance, wrestling with the stubborn thing! We’ve probably entertained a number of people as we stumble our way around the world, trying to figure out the local customs.

  While I had been doing battle with the grocery cart, Tim had unpacked and begun sorting out the rest of the move-in details. He’d set up the Internet, so we were able to take advantage of the wonderful connection Robin had provided. The Internet allows us to indulge in conversations with our family and our pals on Skype and FaceTime. Email is a marvelous convenience, but there’s nothing like hearing the voices and seeing the faces of people you love. It’s amazing how important small details become when you’re far away. Descriptions of birthday parties and first school dances, local news (good or bad), plans and disappointments, even weather reports, take on a whole new meaning after many months away. A granddaughter showing off her puppy’s new handshaking trick becomes a major event when viewed live on a computer screen.

  We spent that first evening catching up with all four families, which reminded me of how different times were when my parents, who were truly travel pioneers, were abroad many years ago. After my dad retired in the 1970s, they sold their house, put their things in storage, and hit the road for seven years. They planned their journey without the Internet: finding places to live, arranging for transportation…all of it. In those days, we wrote letters and sent photos back and forth to stay in touch. We would set a time, weeks in advance, for phone calls from Morocco or Italy or Greece, and we’d eagerly take turns to have a short, expensive conversation with them. The connection was usually far from perfect. They were a hardy pair and made their final big journey abroad when they were both in their eighties. Tim and I call them our founders, and it would thrill them to know we’ve followed their trail around the world. They were particularly fond of Great Britain, so they lived very much in our thoughts while we stayed there.

  We loved our little town, East Molesey, but we were also very excited about getting into London finally. Hampton Court Station was the end of the line for a little spur railroad that served the southeastern region of England. But the commuter railway was a new way of life for us. In the old movies I’ve heard James Stewart or Cary Grant or Ray Milland say something like, “Oops, must go, gotta catch the five-oh-two,” and then put away the pocket watch he was holding, but it never really occurred to me that we might one day rely on them on a daily basis. We had a timetable and quickly learned to schedule our departure from home so we’d be at the depot five minutes before the cute little red commuter train appeared. It was usually full of people coming to see the famous palace which the station is named, where Henry VIII carried on with his six wives and countless lovers. As locals and tourists alike streamed out of the train, we’d zap our Oyster Card tickets on the electronic eye and find our favorite spot at the back of a car. We’d each have one of the gloriously cheeky English newspapers and a cup of coffee we’d bought at the station. It was fun pretending to be locals while we enjoyed a twenty-five-minute trip to Waterloo Station, a Grand Central in its own right. At first, that vast depot mystified us with its shops, bars, commuters, tourists, and bicyclists swirling through its enormous spaces, but over time, Waterloo became as familiar as our own little station. It’s possible to go anywhere in London and make connections to all of Britain by train and the underground, to which we could connect without leaving the building. For Californians like us, who spent years trapped in wasteful commuter traffic, efficiently functioning public transportation remains a modern miracle.

  Getting home was trickier. Either we made the train on time…or else. “Or else” meant waiting thirty minutes for the next train during the day, which wasn’t too bad. At night, however, if we missed the next to last train at 10:30 p.m., we’d wait an hour for the last train, which put us home at 1:00 a.m. I have no idea what we would have done if we’d missed the last train, but I can tell you that a hike over Waterloo Bridge from Covent Garden in a chilly drizzle after being unable to find a taxi, trying to catch that last train from Waterloo station, is no fun.

  After a session in hectic London shopping or sightseeing, it always made us happy to get home. We billed the apartment and tiny balcony as our “penthouse” because we sat atop a four-story building. From our vantage point, it was impossible not to check out the action at the river many times every day. We used the path often, strolling to the center of the village and being entertained all the way by stopping to chat with locals and river people who tied up and left their boats for shopping or to exercise their dogs. We saw fishermen park themselves in camping chairs, ringed with ice chests, tackle boxes, and backpacks, and they would proudly show us their catches and describe in detail their techniques. Sometimes their accents were so thick that we’d just smile and nod, never having understood a single word but enjoying the interaction. I’ve mentioned how much we enjoyed Sundays in Europe because people really do take the day off, and it’s revealing to see what they do with their free time. The same goes for England. The English are outdoor people, and on Sundays, our tow path came alive with locals and Londoners enjoying a day of fun outside.

  One time, we discovered the East Molesey Cricket Club, founded in 1871 and said to be the oldest in England. The scene could not have been more authentic. The players wore sparkling white pants, shirts, and V-necked sweaters. The stands filled with people in casual but great-looking garb. They personified the preppy look—khakis, subtle plaid shirts, Ralph Lauren belts, and cardigans draped just so over their shoulders, tied loosely at their collarbones. When the kids played, their moms and dads behaved exactly as the soccer moms and dads do in the United States. Everyone jumped into the act, urging William or Percy to smack the bowler’s latest offering deeply down the pitch and quit staring at the sailboats on the river!

  A little farther down the Thames, near the entrance where Henry VIII would have arrived from London to enjoy his country palace, we found a small dock for a local ferry line that ran between Hampton Court, Kingston, and Richmond-upon-Thames. One sunny day, we joined a little queue of passengers waiting for the boat, paid a nominal fee to the captain, and found ourselves a spot with a good view. As we drifted along, we viewed gorgeous estates with well-tended gardens and velvet lawns that led to private docks and boathouses, where spiffy yachts waited for a cocktail cruise with their owners. People got on and off at various stops, and we were even more fascinated with the lives of people who are on the river every day. To them, it’s like the local Main Street, just with floating traffic instead.

  Once more I was elated
because we had made the choice to spend real time in other countries. These seemingly insignificant experiences, a chat with a fisherman, watching kids learn to play cricket, mastering the train from our little station, add up to an adventure, and a richness of experience, that I never dreamed would be possible in my later years.

  When we arrived at Richmond-upon-Thames, we wandered up the tow path, looking at restaurants where people sat under the trees and enjoyed their midday meal. A café with wrought-iron tables and chairs shaded by weeping willows and leafy sycamores attracted us. It sat next to the path, offering front-row seats for a little sailboat regatta. Boys and girls rounded buoys in their tiny one-man sailboats expertly as I walked inside to get our lunch and Tim sat down at one of the tables.

  When I returned with sandwiches and drinks, Tim was involved in a lively conversation with an attractive mature woman in a flowery summer dress who sat at the next table. We learned that the woman, Beatrice, had lived in Richmond all her life and walked to the river every day now for lunch by herself. “My husband, Harold, refuses to take me anywhere,” she said in a well-bred English accent. “It’s awful. I’ve retired recently and I thought he’d be taking me out, that we’d have fun together, take rides in the car, go dancing. I love to dance! But he just wants to play golf with his friends. It’s a beautiful day, and I begged him to take me out to lunch, but he refused and has gone away with his mates. He won’t return until teatime, so I’m on my own all day. He does this all the time. Even our children are furious with him for treating me this way. What do you think I should do?”