Tag: spring

The Elusive Poetry of a Misty English Evening

The sky is white-grey in a way I’ve never seen before, except in movies.  It mingles with the silence of this farm in a blanket that feels warm, embracing, romantic, especially as the birds are not yet asleep; and their high-pitched calls to each other embellish this scene like golden-threaded embroidery.

I’m in England again.

I could sit and stare for hours at this line of trees along the path to the road, especially in this light:  They and the birds and the tiny black bugs stand out in fragile, muted silhouette against the empty canvas of the sky; a living tableaux, displayed perfectly by the thick, black window frames.

I step back for a moment, in my mind, and realize that the architect must have planned this out, must have known these vast days and nights would be made more picturesque by four panes framed like this.  He must be humble, to create such a thing that lends one not to appreciate the window, but the beauty beyond….

And my eye is drawn back to the white sky outside and that line of trees that barely move in this quiet spring rain.

I am a fool to think that anyone else can live like this; and I have been told often enough by friends, lovers, enemies that I am different, that I see and live the world differently; and I always protest.  But the reality comes now, as I sit inside a tiny renovated barn at a table that is not mine and behold a scene that could only belong to me in happenstance, an accidental gift from a man who profoundly cares for me – and whom I can barely even consider in this moment because of the profound feeling of wonder I have for nothing more than those unmoving, dark, spindly lines on that infinite grey-white backdrop inside obsidian frames…!

I could suggest that others come to England and behold the beauty of the rolling hills from which, in mornings, mists arise and hover with sweet-scented grace beyond the city of London – mists and hills and scents that inspired poets and authors and painters to create what sedentary city-people the world over can only faintly imagine.  Those things, only hours beyond London’s borders, are accessible to all, if one leaves the city early enough and drives down the well-kept expressways or through tight country lanes that curve in their own ambling ways through multitudinous old villages – where “old” does not even begin to connote what we Americans understand of the word; where thatched roofs atop buildings of centuries-old-brick are yet commonplace antiquities to residents and wondrous novelties to those youthful, pridefully-modern eyes that come, and look, and see.

I could beg of travelers to make friends of locals, as I have and do, and spend time in out-of-the-way towns and villages and shires that hold nothing apparent, which even the English beyond this area ridicule, that I visit for the sake of love and friendship and a quiet kind of adventure that I love dearly.  I fancy that I forage for adventure here – even though I see it all around me in the lingering sunrises and sunsets that last for hours, in the rich, upturned soil beyond the nearby fence, in the stream beyond this barn and the horses and their riders meandering by; in the owner of this farm whose friendship I’ve already earned with nothing more than my honest openness, quick smile, and a genuine interest in his work, his land, his barn.

I could suggest that friends and loved-ones let their hearts take them where they may – even walking barefoot into stinging nettles on chilly days and through soothing, soft, black clods of not-quite-mud; along horse-trod paths where long, silken grasses grow just beyond the reach of nearby thoroughbreds that one mustn’t touch.  I could suggest that those who read this befriend and ingratiate themselves to someone with whom they mysteriously connect, and offer everything beautiful they have to give, that they may find what their heart yearns for….

Except that I’m told, over-and-over, that I am different; that no one does this.

And, I guess, it’s true.

Because:  who will make themselves so vulnerable, so exposed, so fragile as to not know what will happen from day to day?  Who will let themselves live in a moment so completely that every moment before and after threatens to crush one’s mind with power and complexity and fullness that comes in nearly-certain waves of uncertainty?

I know very few.

So:  I can write and tell of these beauties I see.  I can tell true tales of love, of a white sky opening, finally, with the faintest hint of blue to let the clouds beyond display themselves for a moment before fading altogether, this evening, into a single sheet of translucent grey-blue.

But I cannot suggest that anyone attempt to live or duplicate this life… for it is, and it remains, uniquely mine.

Romanced by the Motherland

It’s not supposed to be this sunny in England, this often.  Even today, the weather report on my phone promises mostly clouds and a 50% chance of rain in six minutes… and, while I see the clouds steadily marching in, the sun persists.

It’s not warm, by any stretch of the imagination. The wind blows in strong, cool gusts that tease the fronds of grass along the fence-line in the exact way I tease my love’s hair, brushing it again-and-again the wrong way, just to watch it fall back into place.

And the rain finally comes, half-an-hour late, streaming in insistent beats from a now-grey-white sky, as if to tell me it will do as it wants and the sun may not have my full attention; as if to tell me that even the sky happily indulges my Englishman’s and my playful tales of his power to bring the elusive, illustrious rains for my pleasure; of my power to bring the sun to this usually-cloudy land after captivating Helios’ affections while in Greece until a week ago.

It rains in sideways-streams as my darling drives down the long, gravel path from the road, past the horses and the dark, upturned soil just beyond the beautiful barn reno that he — that we live in.

It’s somewhat stunning to realize that I’m living here as much as he, and sometimes living here more, since he drives off to work in the mornings and home in the evenings, while I actually live here all day when he’s gone.

I wandered away from the house for the first time since I arrived at this lovely country home a couple hours north of London and incidentally met the landlord as I walked along the horse-path next to a pretty little stream bordering the property.  The silver-haired man drove up in his red car with three dogs inside, stopped beside me and stepped out of the wrong side of the car to gently-but-firmly ask who I was.  I smiled, as I always do, and explained that I’m staying at the loft with his tenant; I saw his clear and lively blue eyes shine back at me as his own smile broke across a beautiful, weathered face.

We got on immediately. He teased me in a way that I believed was earnest (for a moment) about my “awful color” – the bronzed skin that I brought back from Greece that contrasts starkly with that of this Englishman, whose pale skin betrays the normally-cloudy-and-cool conditions that keep most residents well-covered.  While in London a month ago, I stood out because of my wild, merry eyes and quick smile; I now stand out even more starkly with the mark of the sun god on my skin and gold-streaked hair.

We chatted for a while as his daughter’s black-and-white springer spaniel ran to the chase the ducks and fowl near the stream, impressing me with a confident, gently-firm manner he must have learned over many years and with many animals.  Every moment I spent with this farmer made me like him more.  My mind delighted in his wit and charm as we chatted; and he explained to me that the people in his village would be more likely to converse with me than those folks I might meet in London.

I’ve since been queried harshly by other Englanders on social media as to why I would spend time in Bedfordshire – which seems a silly question to me, as here is where my heart finds itself well-cared-for and extremely happy and restful on this quiet farm with a man I fell in love with years ago.  Adventure is dictated by one’s nature, I think; and I had plenty of adventures in Greece that would fit many people’s definition of the word; while here, on an out-of-the-way horse farm within walking distance of a small village, I find the kind I most enjoy: Discovering myself, taking long walks and making strong connections with random strangers, and falling in love.

I haven’t yet found that the citizens of Clifton are very chatty; but I’ve only walked around the town twice and only once spoke to locals at the butcher’s while picking up a bit of fresh produce.  While it is obvious that my American accent is quite a novelty here, I do best when I’m with my Englishman:  People catch some part of our lighthearted banter and, seeing a curious look in their eyes, I include him or her in our conversation.  Perhaps if I was to take some time in a pub….

Whatever the case, I was tickled by the landlord, that gentleman-farmer who stood before me in red coveralls, obviously as charmed by my wildly-American, childish openness as I was charmed by his display of English breeding that flirts ever-so-gently with impropriety without ever crossing the line.

And I am charmed by this land, by the gorgeous cobalt clouds laden now with rain, highlighted by the hidden sun.  I love this quiet life where, once-upon-a-time, artists like Jane Austin and Vincent Van Gogh were inspired to create their individual masterpieces of love; where the active mind can rest and find itself joyful in the tiniest of things: In flickering blades of grass and gentle horses and proud-but-nervous pheasants.

And, though I love the city of London, I would rather inspire Americans to come to the countryside, where our childishness is cherished, where our naivety finds a welcome home – if we are open and honest; where our busy and hard-working souls can find respite in the arms of our motherland — one that knows us, in paradoxical truth, better and as distantly as any mother may.