Rainy weekend part two

I'm having an indoors day, so I might as well use the lull to write another post. So ... this weekend begins the smoking ban in indoor public places in England. Including pubs! Apparently 1 in 4 people smoke here - I can't decide whether I think that's a high percentage or not. Most people I know here don't smoke. Anyway, rest assured there will be belligerence and controversy. Though, locally, perhaps not as much controversy as this shocking ban will elicit. Has anyone ever been punting without booze involved? The whole ritual is based around Pimm's and champagne.

Since I'm otherwise studiously avoiding the news at the moment, I've been surfing the web for a little light entertainment. I checked out the new Rufus Wainwright video and nearly snorted Diet Coke out my nose about a minute in. (Another narrow escape for my laptop.) I've always gotten a kick out of purportedly macho men in the little unitards worn for athletic activities around the turn of the century. It reminds me of one of the many old books that has charmed me at the summer cottage in Quebec. (Only three weeks until I'll be there!) I present to you Frank Eugen Dalton and his magnum opus:


He apparently developed his own method, 'the Dalton method', which as you can see was a particularly masculine approach to swimming:

He used his (no doubt) long-suffering wife 'Mrs. Frank Eugen Dalton', she of the Pre-Raphaelite locks and grim smile, to represent the 'beginner'.


Among the many topics covered in the book is how to swim with your clothing on, an 'exciting feat guaranteed to be a hit at swimming exhibitions' and that 'never fails to inspire admiration and wonder in onlookers.' Has the fact escaped him that women always swam in a full set of heavy and hindering garments? (Including shoes!) Here's another little gem from the book: 'Swimming is a tonic alike for muscle and brain. The smallest child and the weakest woman can enjoy it equally with the strongest man.' The inside front cover of the book is inscribed with the name of a predecessor of the cottage's current owners, who would have been elderly at the time. I like to imagine a prim and proper Victorian woman, tired of fanning herself on the veranda on the hottest days, determined to learn how to swim ('scientifically', no less) in the lake just outside her door, the lake in which her children and grandchildren spent most of their time. It reminds me of how I, at the mature age of 25, finally got upright on waterskis while my twelve-year-old cousins (expert skiers themselves) encouraged me with a mixture of excitement and fear for my obviously fragile health.

Rainy weekend

Last weekend we decided to experience something quintessentially English - a Henley regatta. Not THE Royal Henley Regatta, as I'm told that the crowds are manic and it's hard to even get near the river. (There are 'royal enclosures' along the river - which you'll never get into as a lowly pleb - where men have to keep their jackets on regardless of how hot it is. There has only once been an announcement that jackets could come off - when it was about 38 degrees.) No, we went for the comparatively subdued women's regatta, which was nonetheless an international and well-attended event.

Here we are walking along the towpath to the race site, 2 km down the river from the town. You can see the racing lanes extending into the distance. They went as far as the eye could see. On the right are some of the pavillions. On the left are some rowers and umpire boats turning back at the end of a race.

Just like Glastonbury! Okay, maybe not. But most people had thought to wear wellies. Had we? Of course not. Hence Jeff's very fashionable rolled-up jeans, exposing the white socks and boots look that will be all the rage next season.

Because it's England and they do everything in a delightfully civilised fashion, there was an outdoor bar with loads of seating on a lovely green lawn, and Pimm's on tap (with the requisite cucumber, apple and orange slices).

Oh dear, a little bit of gentle English rain. Nothing to worry about, we've got our 'brollies!

Oh DEAR.

After the deluge, and after getting our feet thoroughly drenched (though we no longer go anywhere without rain pants and coats so the rest of us stayed dry), we walked back to town. In the photo you can see one of the grandstands for the Royal Regatta, and the lovely (and costing millions of pounds) boathouses along the Thames. Henley is clearly an affluent town, if the number of antique shops is anything to go by.

And, to close, some classic Henley attire.

It ain't the heat ...

At least I think it's the humidity that, in conjunction with the rainforest moisture levels that are our flat's natural climate, is preventing me from achieving my optimal amount of beauty sleep. Since dark circles and bloodshot eyes aren't my idea of beauty, anyway. But I am enjoying the mid-twenties temperatures and sunshine. If only the whole summer stayed like this!

Jeff's latest quixotic mission has been to attain a barbecue in a country that is lagging far behind in outdoor-grilling technology. As usual I fretted and dithered unhelpfully, and he stubbornly persisted, spending all last night assembling a rather rickety and alarmingly inexpensive model. Tonight we had barbecue chicken, roasted red, yellow and green peppers and grilled mushrooms for dinner. Spectacular! Though Jeff made the mistake of muttering about the gas line not looking quite right, which guarantees I will spend barbecue nights huddled inside, far from any windows or items likely to shatter in an explosion.
(This is a reenaction of actual events - because we forgot to take the picture while the food was cooking.)

Last week I spent a day in the lovely countryside hunting for and then measuring ancient trees for the Ancient Tree Hunt, which was good fun. There is nothing more exhilarating than a Tuesday out of the office, enjoying sunshine and fresh air, having pints in a beer garden at 4 pm and feeling wonderfully naughty. (Even though we cleared our absences with our superiors - honest!)



We've also gone on a few more weekend rambles - probably the thing I'll miss most when we leave England. Here we're in the countryside near Reading. The bridge was built by Isambard Brunel, a pretty cool guy who has left his mark all over the country in the form of bridges, railways and Paddington Station. I am embarrassed that I hadn't even heard of him before moving here. I apparently need to read more books and fewer fashion mags.


My football (soccer) 'team' has joined a 5-aside league now, so we're trekking out to Abingdon once a week, where we inevitably get clobbered. I think we'll improve though. And here's a pop quiz: which of the following did I do in tonight's soccer training?
a)step on the ball while trying to stop an opposing forward, landing flat on my back, slightly winded
b)step on the ball while trying to deke out an opposing defender, landing flat on my back, slightly winded
c)wallop my own teammate with the ball in a rather sensitive area with a grievously misplaced kick (it was a guy)
The answer is, of course, all of the above. I can't figure out whether I pose more danger to myself or my teammates. Time will tell.

Hair and Fayre

Right now my hair looks the best it will look for the next year and a half. It has fullness, body, and flips out in all the right places. This was only achieved with three different types of styling product and a professional blow-out. When I wash my hair after going to the gym tonight, it will resume the regular program of lankness and disorderliness. But at least it no longer reaches to my lower back. We have only one small bathroom mirror in our flat, so I hadn't realised just how ridiculously long it had gotten. Embarrassing, really.

Last weekend we went to the Oxfordshire County Fayre (sic). Rather, I dragged Jeff as I had a yearning for fresh air, fresh produce and wholesome rural lifestyles. It was raining horizontally, but since we have wellies, rain pants, raincoats and umbrellas, I figured it was worth a shot (we wore all of the above and didn't regret it). The weather probably cut attendance at the Fayre by half, but those who showed up rallied in support. There were camel races and horse jumping, sheep shearing, vintage tractors and modern tractors, dog trials, a craft tent and beer tent, and demonstrations of competitions local farming kids had participated in. Competitions like advanced bread-slicing, chicken de-boning, coldcut and cheese platter arrangement, floral arrangment on a theme (England's rugby team, Elvis and the Little Mermaid were popular), wiring a plug, ironing a shirt, making a farm sign, decorating pairs of wellies, and of course art and poetry. I kid you not - these were all categories and the entries were on display with judges' comments and winners' tags. I was hoping to see those 'largest vegetable' competitions you see on Midsomer Murders, but none were in evidence.

The deflating bouncy castle gives you an idea of the weather:

Anyway, out in the middle of nowhere, at this poorly-attended but spirited little Fayre, we heard it announced that the presenter of the awards for the art and poetry competition would be none other than Alex James, former bass guitarist with Blur. And lo and behold, there he was. We huddled under an umbrella with approximately eight other people, all of whom were either parents or children receiving awards, watching this surreal event unfold. In front of me was one of the heroes of my youth, in a place and manner in which I'd least have expected to encounter him.


I think we were probably the only two people at the entire Fayre who were Blur fans - the little girl in the photo just looks afraid of him. He IS rather tall. I guiltily snuck a few photos because, hey, what are the chances? But I wasn't about to approach him - I'd nothing of interest to say and I didn't want to intrude on a family outing (he had his wife and kid with him). Far from a sign that Alex's fortunes have drastically declined, his appearance here was merely an indicator of his rural lifestyle of late. I have since discovered that he's bought a farm in Oxfordshire, and is dividing his time between writing a book and a column, appearing on radio, and exploring the art of artisanal cheesemaking. Life must be pretty sweet! Oh, and hey, he wrote about this same appearance at the Fayre here ... glad he didn't notice me taking ardent fan photos.

I've just booked flights to go back to Quebec to spend a week at the cottage again this summer, and Jeff will go back to Toronto for a week. We're hoping to fit in a shorter trip somewhere in Europe between now and then - we'll see what we can get organised. Even though I get a lot of holiday, it disappears pretty quickly. I don't know how I'll ever adjust to the North American working lifestyle again. Life is just too short.