Cotswolds

Now that the Cotswold landscape has turned the same bleached wheat and pale green of the stone houses, I assumed the flora and fauna surprises of the spring and early summer had passed. The oil of rapeseed that smeared the landscape violent yellow in May has long since faded and is being plucked from the ground. Giant swiss rolls of hay sit patiently in a field alongside a displaced flock of seagulls.

But amongst the grand dame’s decline into fall there are still small pleasures. On jogs this weekend along the back lanes I stopped to admire a Venetian glass ornament masquerading as a kind of thistle: a sparkly crystal ball crowned by a smaller fuschia bulb. Another splash of hot pink came in cones of spikes and flowers at the end of tall stalked shrubs. I do not know their names, but I’ve already asked for a book of flowers and birds for Christmas, the latter because the birds have finally discovered the feeder husband has filled with monkey nuts in the back garden.

Since I only come to the Cotswolds on weekends, the changes in the landscape from week to week appear more pronounced to me, like a grandparent who only gets to see her grandchild infrequently and therefore notices subtle differences a parent might not. Or closer to home, like a mother who only sees her transatlantic daughter once or twice a year and therefore immediately notices and comments upon any weight gain in the interval passed (said mother having already cleared the facelift milestone, a weight watchers devotee, and driver of a red Lexus convertible – once a Californian, always a Californian).

These changes are most pronounced in spring. After snow drops, daffodils, and tulips (rather pedestrian Hyde Park fare I now say with haughty hindsight), the fun kicks in. The mature elegance of horse chestnuts is upstaged by the cottony bluster of May blossom lining the roads. Fields polka dotted with poppy reds cheered me up just as I was mourning the receding tidal wave of oil of rapeseed yellow. Then in June the green that defines green all around.

Here in the Cotswolds are the seasons not populated in my previous lives in swamp or desert, South Florida and L.A. landscapes differentiated only by palm tree variety (coconut, royal, date) and humidity levels. And not just seasons, but an entire landscape from my childhood storybook-fuelled imagination. Eeyore’s thistles were absent amongst hibiscus and limes, but here line the country lanes. Bulbous, furry bumble bees inform my long past dance recital to “Flight of the Bumble Bee” – apparently what I knew as a bee is reviled as a wasp in England. Wind blows in the willows along the River Leach, and last week I found Hansel and Gretel in the scallop-edged stone houses of the Lake District. Even the train station from where I leave London for the Cotswolds on a Friday evening is the namesake of a storied bear.

Looking back on it, my experience at that English wedding in France eight years ago was my first lesson in the power of the enigma in British society. Confronted with a mass of Jimmy Choos discarded and languishing poolside, I felt as inadequate as my outlet mall dress. And yet there was an interest in me that was disproportionate to my to dazzling personality and clothing budget. It was fuelled undoubtedly by the polite upbringing of the guests, but also by the fact that I was from L.A.

Husband had benefited from this in reverse as a Brit in L.A., not least in nabbing me. I admit to the “every Englishman is Hugh Grant” perception I had back when we first met. Imagine my surprise when I arrived in England and learned that Liverpudlians are best known for, well, stealing things (The Beatles aside). There was also an education to be had in the great North / South divide in England. It’s the reverse of the San Fran / L.A. thing, with the South self-proclaiming their cultural and economic superiority.

In the Cotswolds, my American-ness has been a benefit to both husband and me. Despite the rap the states have taken on the global stage, it’s rare enough for an American to take up residence in the Cotswolds that it generates friendly curiosity. Husband in other circumstances could have been a walking target in our rural idyll—a scouse, urban lamb amongst the posh, country lions. Twelve years in L.A. and an American wife threw him a lifeline, even if he still subject to occasional good natured chiding.

Our friend, B., confirms the foreign spouse halo-effect has been active for generations now. He was raised in a Liverpool pub by a single mother and achieved fame as a cartoonist. His success afforded him access to a new, privileged social circle who didn’t know quite what to make of him. The toffs knew what to make of an artist—in fact the word toff once denoted a generous benefactor. But a cartoonist? B. credits his Neapolitan wife for providing the touch of foreign mystique required to throw a social set stifled by their own class pre-conceptions into accepting disarray.

As B. found, the beauty of being an outsider (or by association in husband’s case) in the Cotswolds has been the distancing effect from the rigors of British social strata definition. There is, however, an art to maintaining the enigma, especially when there are so many traps to fall into: where you drink, what paper you take, football or rugby (cricket is assumed).

The venue in which you choose to drink in our Cotswold town says a lot about you, and I’ve therefore decided the best policy is to drink in them all. While I favour the wine bar, I can also choose from a biker friendly, half-timbered pub; a traditional if occasionally tourist pub; an upscale coaching inn; or a concrete block establishment grandly known as the sports and social club, which is convenient when taking in a summer cricket match on the adjoining field.

Papers are trickier. They’re collected from the local bakery, so your selection is subject to public exposure. This is Telegraph and Times country although the bakery stocks a few token Guardians. Thankfully my choice, the FT Weekend, is ideologically vague. It has a whiff of city banker about it, and no one needs to know that I buy it for the Life and Arts section.

On the matter of football (soccer) vs rugby, I’ll start with a saying R. the barman taught me not long after we first moved in: “Rugby is a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen whereas soccer is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans.” I probably don’t need to say the Cotswolds are in the rugby camp. Husband is, however, from Liverpool, home of a legendary football team, and my loyalty remains with the hooligans.

I spent this morning watching husband whip himself into a froth triggered by the fact that he has left his pants (trousers) at home in London. This means he can’t wear his Bermuda shorts walking as he intended to do because then he won’t have anything to wear out to dinner for the rest of the weekend. This means he is now wandering around our beautiful stone cottage stamping his feet and sighing in his best rendition of a 7-year old girl’s temper tantrum bemoaning his lack of appropriate rambling gear.

“I forgot my pants, the weekend is ruined,” he announces. I decide to sit down. This is going to take awhile.

After the better part of an hour, husband has arrived at the rational solution of repurposing his running gear into walking gear. He is now dressed in an orange sweat wicking tank top, black running shorts, hiking boots, gaiters, and backpack. He looks like a gay pumpkin. I of course assure him that he looks absolutely fine, and we are shortly trekking out the back of our cottage.