The Souks of Sheffield

The last three weekends have been jammed with touring and each location had its own unique qualities that reminded me why I truly love travelling throughout this country.

We drove just outside of Cambridge and on the advice of one of Rick's coworkers did the park and ride into the centre of town. Travel and parking would be tricky and taking the bus gave us a chance to both see the town without stressing about where to park and how the heck to get back out of the town once we were heading back home. The British signage is poor at best and if you don't live here you don't deserve to know where you are going is what Rick and I chant whenever we get twisted around and the signs are sorely lacking to guide us along the way.

So in Cambridge there are a lot of people that bike and it reminded me quite a bit of Amsterdam in that regard. You certainly had to watch where you were going when you were crossing the street as bikers zoom pass you and they are not always easy to spot or hear so it would be simple to get blindsided. The shops were mostly upscale and the streets narrow and cobble stone laden (Rick has to watch he doesn’t twist an ankle) and we did some Christmas shopping in a market.

Of course, Cambridge is known for its university and when we stopped for lunch, I struck up a conversation with a young lad sitting at the table next to us. When he went to the loo and left his plate of onion rings, I told Rick it would be so much fun to take them and when he returned start eating them and see how he would react. It turned out that he was from Brazil and taking his PhD in physics at the uni. What a bright and engaging boy he was. He actually offered to share his onion rings with us after I confessed what we joked about doing with them.

The best fun we had in a while was getting together for a weekend at the end of November in Sheffield with our good friends Susanne and Steve Holland and Jill and Arthur Armstrong. These are the folks we met in Morocco and we all hit it off so well that we have kept in touch since December 2010 and had a previous reunion in Nottingham in February 2011.

Sheffield didn’t disappoint as we left our hotel room and had a night out on the town, despite the fact that it was pouring rain and quite cold. We hopped on a tram (actually crammed onto one), and when the trolley jolted at each stop we wobbled and fell into each other and giggled like a bunch of school kids. We asked a fellow passenger where the best place was to eat and he recommended a Chinese food all you can eat restaurant and we thanked him and King Arthur and Ricky lead the way along the wet streets.

Well, we didn’t find the “all you can eat” place but we did find another fabulous Chinese restaurant that appeared to be popular with the local Chinese community. And feast we did. The food was more than all six of us could handle and it was incredibly fresh and delightful.

The next morning we did a tour of downtown Sheffield which I would describe as historically modern (now that’s an oxymoron) and we came across a market that Rick claimed took months for him to plan. And what to our wondering eyes did appear but a section of tents with vendors selling their wares..... from Morocco! I was so pumped to find a cosmetic and spice stall so I could buy my favourite beauty item of argan oil.

We stopped for a latte in the Sleigh Bar (with a shot of Bailey’s, of course) to warm up our fingers and toes and I just had to sit in Santa’s sack to get my picture taken. With our bellies warmer, we carried on and did some window shopping and just generally enjoyed each other’s company and conversation.

We are already planning our next adventure together and options that were discussed, after too much Chinese food and fizzy drinks, were Benidorm (Rick and I so enjoyed our trip there in April 2011 and having a group go would be that much more memorable) or a Riad in Morocco (no five star hotel outside of Marrekech we want to be in the heart of the action next time). I know, however, that where ever this crew goes, that laughter, good food, and great stories will be high on the agenda.

I Wanna Ride the Pony.

Last weekend we had great fun checking out Old Harlow and Churchgate and found a house that was for sale that we loved. When we came home and looked it up on-line and almost gagged on our cheap UK wine (how we miss being clobbered by the LCBO back in Canada– not!) when we saw the listed price of 399,000 pounds! Good grief, Charlie Brown, why are houses so expensive here? And secondly, how do the average Brits afford to buy a place? I do find that rather disappointing in that we (okay well mostly me) would like to own again. I often struggle with the whole rent versus own dilemma but after Ricky spent 12 years working endlessly on our place in Douro, I know he is not eager to take on another “do it yourselfer” anytime soon.

When I stopped in Churchgate to ask the local butcher if I could take a picture of his shop, he asked where we were from (gosh people are so friendly here too by the way). When I explained that we were Canadians, he asked if we were associated with the Memorial University of Newfoundland’s campus in Harlow. I had heard that there was a Canadian connection but wasn’t sure until we chatted with him. His girls were adorable with their ratty hair and unmatched outfits. They stared at us while we chatted with their father and the oldest reminded me of a young ratty-haired Molly in her cropped Hello Kitty t-shirt and black patent shoes. She’d be embarrassed by her lack of style and disheveled hair now, no doubt!

After touring the little village, we just had to wet our whistles in the local pub. I felt like a celebrity as we sat and sipped on our tea, as the locals got into a staring match. The couple sitting behind us at another table gawked when we ordered our drinks; another at the bar examined us when we chatted with the bartender. The young lad behind the bar had to mind his head on the beams in the low ceiling and they had to stoop when they came through the door from the kitchen. He didn’t ogle at us and we had a good discussion about the dangers of his job and how Rick and I, obviously due to our small stature, would be ideal as barkeeps in there. I think he found our discussion, about work related injuries, amusing.

Then on Sunday, we got out on our bikes (mine incidentally was sorely lacking in the gear changing and brakes department and we rode for over an hour before I finally got cranky about my bike. Rick didn’t realize it was not up to snuff and was wondering what all the whining was about – Gee go figure) and hit the nearby trails and stopped to pat the ponies in the fields along the way. We both commented on how much happier we are living here in Harlow compared to Dartford. I think it is our close proximity to the countryside and the area being more open and green.

The other wonderful surprise for us is the fall colours in the trees and the collection of fallen leaves that we just didn’t get in Kent. As Canadians, we get the most spectacular colours in the fall and being in England last time lead me to believe that we would not experience that again. So when the trees here started turning and they don’t go bright red like in Ontario but the yellows are brilliant I was so friggen happy. I wanted to scoop up the leaves, toss them over my head, and jump in a pile like a freckle-faced 10 year old fool. It is funny how simple things like that can bring you such joy.

When we had biked to the point that I had to stop and walk instead of ride, given its condition, Rick could hear the pub on our street calling us and we made our way home. But no bike ride is complete without some sort of injury and I greeted the hedge down the street with my face and the seat of my bike greeted my woo hoo with the same eagerness that my mouth expressed loudly my sheer displeasure with the tumble that I was sure it would be some time before I could venture out and do this again. As I hobbled the remainder of the way back home, Rick waiting with a look of “what is the problem now” written on his face, I knew the next drink was not going to be tea. And before I talk about the pub next I tell you when Rick took my bike out for a spin while I sat inside with a bag of frozen peas on my well “you know” he told me he didn’t realize how rough it really was and apologized for not sorting this when he first did the maintenance when we bought them. And like the good man that he is, he got right to straightening out the kinks but I still was not feeling the love on the concept of jumping back on that horse just yet to try out the improvements. I’ll save that for next weekend’s touring.

So the pub that is 88 steps from our house is just a peach. There are three sections to the pub and each would cater to whatever type of atmosphere appeals to you (pool table, loud music, and boisterous drinkers in one end and the restaurant serving 2 for one meals in the other). We like the Snug which is in the centre. It is quiet and cozy with a fireplace and leather chairs and dark wooden beams on a low ceiling (just like the pub in Churchgate). Book your parties here, the chalkboard sign says, and Rick thinks he would like to celebrate his 60th. I think he just wanted to be able to have a nap in there. I’ll keep that in mind, I tell him. I’ve got some serious work to do then, my friends. We chatted once again with a female bartender and she asked where we were from. Funny how your nationality comes up on a regular basis here and at home we hardly give it any notice. I don’t mind to be honest. It gives you an ice breaker and an opener when speaking to a stranger. I like that. I like even more that we can explore new places again too even if it means I’ll be choosing padded seats for a while.

Mind the Gap

Standing on the Tube platform, oddly, I am reminded of a scene from the children’s movie, “James and the Giant Peach”. James is lying on a beach with his mom and dad having a lovely time and looking up at the clouds. But suddenly, the wind picks up and a dark cloud with the image of a rhino is charging through the sky and James’ parents are taken by the storm leaving him behind. And like the charging rhino in the movie, the carriage approaches with the same force. One moment there is a remarkable stillness as I wait along with the throng of other commuters and the next a distance rumble tells me it is on its way. A wind builds and my scarf dances and a light shines out of the tunnel. The train bursts into view so violently that I wonder if it will stop. But it halts; people collect and wait anxiously for the doors to open. Will I get a seat? We all scurry into its belly perhaps ignorant of its strength and volatility. Mind the doors, please. Move right down into the carriage and use all available space. Mind the doors. Mind the closing doors. And allow ourselves to get swept along as it travels to its next stop.

The past two weeks, I have felt a bit like James. The HR job, that I was so pleased to have secured, turned into a major disappointment. The woman, who was assigned to be my manager, took great pleasure in picking apart everything I did, expected me to automatically know where to find things and what I needed to do to accomplish my tasks, and instead of being grateful for my assistance was generally irritable and impatient with me. The icing on the cake was when she asked me to update some information on applicants in their spreadsheet and when I simply asked when I pointed to the various documents in the directory which one I should be using her response was “why is this here?” and “what is that doing there?” and “you forgot to add the details on this” while she took over my computer and banged up and down on the cursor arrows going over “my” mistakes. Hold the phone, Aunt Sponge, I just asked which spreadsheet I should be using.

The daily travels to London, as well, were long, hot, and taxing. The trains from Harlow are excellent in that we are on the Stansted Airport express route which means that they run often and fast to London but the challenge was the additional journey once I got off the train and entered the world of Tube travel. As Canadians, we are accustomed to our space. We live in a large and spacious country and we live, for the most part, in large and spacious homes. There is something , for me anyway, that is not quite right about being so close to a stranger that you can tell what they had for lunch. People sneeze and they cough into the carriage without covering their faces. Their oversized purses and hard covered briefcases often jab you in the back, butt, or the shin depending on how you are pinned in the Tube next to them. And when you think that there simply can’t be any more room for another passenger, the train stops and several slink in and join the band of smoked oysters in this underground can. It gets particularly hot, stuffy, and smelly in there as well and I learned to remove my outside coat before my train arrives. There have been times that I have had to put my scarf around my nose and mouth as someone next to me smelt so awful, it made me nauseous.

Getting a seat is also a luxury and people will toss their manners, if they had any to begin with, out the window and have no hesitate beating you to a place to sit down. I have been bumped, knocked, and at one point when I was actually removing my pack and clearly assuming the seated position, challenged for a seat. Now I can’t say that all travellers are this rude as there have actually been two instances where a man, a very kind one in my opinion, has offered his seat to me. Chivalry is nonexistent in the commuting world. And it is not that I am expecting that a man gives up his seat for a lady but gosh darn it does he have to practically leap and stumble over folks feet in order to get to a place before me? Then there are the unexpected and ever present delays that occur and you just never know how long it is really going to take you to get from point A to B on any given day. Sometimes it’s a slower train ahead that stalls the process, or someone’s bag has become stuck in the closing doors, or for reasons I just can’t wrap my head around no matter how unhappy or unsettled I may have felt in my life, decide to throw themselves in front of the train and experience what I imagine to be an excruciating death on the tracks.

So when the doors opened on Friday after I had done my final stint with Sponge (I’d had enough earlier in the week and gave my notice) and a gush of recycled air from the platform blew on my face, I felt as though I was leaving a bizarre world where anything can happen behind. But the Tube gets in your head. It can make you hard and put you in survival mode, of sorts. I know for me it heightened my need to create my space when I am out in the public and however convenient public transportation may be here, I’d like to avoid that raging rhino and walk as much as possible to get me where I need to go. Because I’ll mind those doors, mind the closing doors alright. No problems.

A Soft Place to Land

I’ve learned that as quickly as you have dismantled your life around you, you can rebuild it again. I’ve also learned how important making a home comfortable is to me. Purging our place in Douro was gratifying to a point but once it became an empty shell, I didn’t want to live there anymore. It felt hollow and cold and the fact that I was there by myself made my urge to move on even greater. It is true that a house is just a house and that it is the people, the love, the joy, and the trials and tribulations that make it home. For me, home has to be a soft place to land and as quirky as our place is in Harlow it has been a good landing so far. I am happy to have been able to move on. Quirky Manor is a three bedroom mid terrace house that was probably built in the 50’s. The walls are solid and it is difficult to hang pictures. The good news is this means that unlike our place in Dartford we can’t hear the neighbours sneeze. There is also lots of space for storage which is unusual for many British houses. I guess the good part about that is that it discourages you from being an over consumer. I think of all the things we had in Douro and in the end did we really need them? Probably not. But having adequate storage to put linens, dishes, and clothing is certainly a bonus here.

The bathroom arrangement is interesting in that there is a toilet and sink in one room and right next to it another separate room with a sink, a tub and shower. Both are quite tiny and neither have matching flooring. In fact, the one with the toilet has a sink that is so petite Rick’s hands barely fit it in when he washes them. We also tend to spill water on the floor as a result. A small mat on the floor will remedy that. There is no place to store cosmetics and shampoos so we finally found a three tiered free standing storage units that we can tuck under the pedestal sink. The Brits are very inventive when it comes to making the best use of space and it has been fun being creative with ways to do just that with our kooky water closets.

The furniture in the lounge has posed a challenge. They are rather large and surprisingly comfortable black faux leather and resemble a psychiatrist’s furniture. And interestingly enough, our landlord is just that! Things were tickyboo until we bought our tellie (an awesome 40” Sharp flat screen at a terrific price in Sainsbury which is our local grocery store) and had to put it on a stand and then scratch our heads and stand back and say gee how do we position all this now so we can actually see the screen? Well with some creative thinking and some shifting around, I think we have it figured out. Now when we watch the news I feel like I am looking up the announcer’s nostrils. I have never had such an excellent picture and it almost makes me feel boogly-eyed watching it. We are still on the hunt for a proper entertainment unit but for now the arrangement we have seems to be working just fine. Now next to the ultra modern living room furniture we have this interesting Victorian dining room furniture which has taken some getting used to. The table is round and at first glance looks like it is covered in glass but in actual fact has a plastic top (so you have to be careful putting hot dishes on the surface). The wine coloured plush chairs are comfortable enough but the style is just so formal that we chuckle whenever we sit down for a meal. We feel somewhat regal when we dine. It certainly is not the type of set we would spend our money on but they are functional and will provide for great conversation when we have guests over. I’ll tell them my Aunt Betty and Uncle Phil were cleaning out Windsor Castle and asked if I could take it off their hands. The kitchen has a lovely window that looks out onto the back garden. I like to stand at the sink and eat my breakfast as the morning sun spills into the room. There is also a little breezeway between the kitchen and the patio with doors that have big window panes and I love to open this up and let the fresh air in. There certainly are more cupboards in this kitchen compared to our last British home and I have ample space to do my food preparation. Our landlord put in a new hob and I am enjoying cooking with gas which provides a quicker and more even heat. The house is so quiet and aside from the ticking clock (gee this reminds me of Douro) the fridge every once in a while makes this funny noise that actually sounds like someone quietly farting. It would freak me out a bit when I first moved here when I would get up in the night to get a drink. The wall clock would be making its rhythmical tick and all of a sudden “perffff” and I swear to god I thought there was someone else in the room.

I’ve taken some pictures of Quirky Manor so you can see things like the tiny bathroom sink, oh yes and the interesting ventilation system in the window for when you have a shower (you pull the strings to open and then close it again), Aunt Betty and Uncle Phil’s dining set, the back yard which Rick has only just recently raked and turned up a tube of toothpaste, an ashtray, and three spoons and a fork along with the dead leaves, and has since mowed, evened out with new top soil and reseeded with grass seed. I have also taken some shots of the pub which is only 88 steps (Rick counted them out when we went for a pint last Saturday night), the houses in our area (one which caught my eye when I was out for a run on Sunday morning – such a contrast with the pink house and the autumn coloured vine and wispy tree in the yard), the hall runner which we picked up at North Weald market, and our dealio on the round coffee table from a nearby “blow your mind away with the prices and selection” charity shop.