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.