I am channelling my inner Spice Girl this morning as I try to answer THE question posed to me most often. From folks on both shores of this great creek running through our respective yards, I am asked repeatedly, "what do you REALLY think about England", as if I am somehow holding out on state secrets or water cooler gossip. It is kind of a loaded question, too. Am I supposed to REALLY tell my peeps on the home planet that I don't actually like it here as a way to prove my loyalty and devotion to all things American? Do the folks here secretly wish I hate it enough to spare them the awkwardness of saying Yankee go home?
Ever since I was a child, I loved all things English. It started with an early love of Julie Andrews. Julie was making it big with Sound of Music and Mary Poppins just as I burst on the scene. One might say we grew up together. I adored her. I wanted to be her. I came to believe all English women carried an immense tapestry bag, soothed all things with sugar, could scale tall mountains and pull a fast one on the bad guys, and dance all night while singing like an angel. She was my kind of super hero.
Winnie the Pooh was also a great influence. I played along with Pooh and Christopher Robin in the hundred acre wood. I, too, had a thoughtful spot where I would think, think, think along with Pooh. I longed to live the English countryside as described by Milne. The Secret Garden continued my fascination with all things English as I grew beyond the Pooh stories. Every day after lunch, my sixth grade teacher would read aloud The Secret Garden. Mrs,. Lorentzson was herself English, and made the story authentic and magical. I could picture the gloaming of the misty moors, and see the brilliant colours of the roses once the garden had sprung back to life. My adoration of England was now complete.
Imagining a place is much different than living there. One does not often get to live in a magical thatched cottage or find themselves sent to the manor house to live with a previously undiscovered yet immensely wealthy Uncle. And while Downton Abbey is indeed entertaining, it hardly represents modern England. And truth be told, the England of my dreams is more like The Vicar of Dibley.
Our town does look a bit like it fell out of a story book. We do have some thatched cottages and original Tudor buildings. Hundreds of cute fluffy sheep dot our landscape. Elegant white swans glide across the river and small irrigation canals. Occasionally the town leaders will dress in their regalia and wigs and fur lined ceremonial robes. Being that it is Christmas, one might even catch a glimpse of a small coterie of singers in velvet gowns and waistcoats looking as if they stepped out of A Christmas Carol and onto the High Street. Church bells mark each hour with pealing joy. An ancient wooden windmill stands guard over the River Tillingham.
Folks here appreciate the history of this beautiful place. They also encourage progress and celebrate technological advances. It is wonderful to shop in a tiny little wood-beamed nook crammed with jars and tins. It is also nice to venture to Tesco or Waitross where choices are plentiful and diverse. People are friendly and eager to help. We are often asked if we live here or are just visiting. Once we reply that we live here, we are inundated with suggestions, and advice and warmth and welcome.
There are four churches here; The Church of England, a Methodist chapel, a Catholic church and a Baptist Church. The majority attend The Church of England, although many times the churches join together for community services. Rye boasts many cafes and restaurants, at least five pubs, numerous antique shops and two shops devoted entirely to candy. We have a butcher, two green grocers and moderately sized grocery store. Cars are plentiful, but parking is not. We have full service banks, and love that they know us by name.
They know us by our names. That small seemingly insignificant bit overwhelms me. I have not felt like an outsider here. It is patently obvious once I open my mouth that I am not from these parts, but our neighbours have been incredibly welcoming and seem honoured that we picked this place to make our home. And once we have eaten at a restaurant, or shopped in a store, or worshipped in the church or had a pint or a cuppa once, they remember us. We feel very much a part of this magically ordinary place we now call home. Turns out, just like on the home planet, England is full of lovely, kind people who work, attend school, grocery shop, worry about their children, and put on their knickers one leg at a time. Just like us.
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