It has been a decade since my second sojourn to Britain.
I would live there if I could.
Journal entry. British Channel. Calais, France. 2012.
I enjoyed the ferry to Calais.* Sun shining but you could tell the clouds were on their way from the east, Just as predicted. Two Irish blokes joined my small round table on deck. They were out of a Frank McCourt novel,** one a quiet listener, the other with the gift of profane gab, but what a storyteller.
“Jesus, you’re a different sort of chick, you are,” he said when I told him I had no phone for the trip, just wanted to enjoy my present.
He took a swallow from his Becks.
“Jesus, your husband is probably having the time of his life, out with the gents every night, having a pint.”
I laughed, “I hope so.”
The sweet, quiet follower was the one who looked back to wave goodbye, timidly, when we ended up on the same return ferry.
Calais wasn’t much, but it was fun to “be in France.”
(I failed miserably attempting to order lunch-déjeuner-in French.)
Journal entry. Kent.
Today was amazing.
I ate a full English breakfast (or fry-up)*** and sipped coffee in the St. Crispin Inn’s pub before getting ready for the day.
I am always a little nervous about driving the narrow roads, but I bit the bullet and took off, stopping in Sandwich for a few hours, roaming the quaint village. I found the perfect teacup in an antique store—I have a collection—and bought my third umbrella of the trip at a charity (thrift) shop, which I needed a few hours later.
Next, I drove the back roads ending up in Canterbury, where I had a quick outdoor lunch at a Prèt a Manger and walked and walked and walked. I returned to the car and decided to head north towards the sea.
I happened on Reculver, a magical cliff side Roman ruin and cliff walk.
First, I walked down to the rocky shore, and then I walked the footpath along the cliff, probably a mile or so, snapping photos, playing with the dogs being walked by their masters—more often masters being walked by their dogs—and enjoying the sun and wind.
The whole day was relaxing and perfect; there were moments I wanted to cry, it was so perfect.
I roamed the back roads back to the Inn outside of Deal, in Worth. I had a light dinner in the pub, and now I am reading and will soon sleep. Tomorrow, I take the train back, heading first to Hatfield, near St. Albans, just north of London, where I will spend the night and visit a Hatfield House—one of Britain’s twelve “Treasure Houses.” It is where Anne Finch and her husband, Heneage, lived for a short time after James II and Mary exiled to France.
I would live there if I could.
* Mary of Modena, the main character in my book, was forced to flee Britain in 1688, escaping to France, to live with her husband and children in the Chateau do Saint-Germain-en-Laye, provided by King Louis XIV.
**Frank McCourt (1930 – 2009) was an Irish-American teacher and writer. He won a Pulitzer Prize for his memoir Angela’s Ashes.
***a traditional meal that typically includes eggs, bacon, baked beans, tomatoes, sausages, and toast.
