I am in Shropshire - on the border between England and Wales. Nothing seems to change much here, provided you look no further than the hills and the lanes. Politics and economics are another matter - topics we are carefully avoiding as it leads to Trump, and I have to apologise and admit that he is the antithesis of everything that made me want to live in America back in the ‘70’s.
Gardening is a safe and universal topic - and can be done every month of the year here,
despite endless rain, where a dry day is one when it only rains intermittently. Mud is the result.
It took me a long time to understand Mainers’ problem with mud season, since it is a year-long challenge in England. But there are compensations: wall to wall - or hedge to hedge -
snowdrops in weather-proof sheets of white, and wild garlic leaves that will become garlic
pesto for supper. We have planted potatoes in tubs and forked over a bed of heavy, wet soil for the broad beans - nice sturdy plants that are ready to move out from a window sill. The digging project is done in the company of robins - easily the best bird in the world. They supervise earth moving projects in the hope you will turn up worms for them.
The Shropshire hills are amazing. A.E. Houseman’s ‘Blue Remembered Hills.” They are
dotted around between farmland and villages, some looking like dinosaurs that fell asleep and might wake up and fly around like the Punka tree in the “Tales of Happy Common”, a wonderful old book from my childhood. They make for excellent walks. Public footpaths over them tend to pass by or end at a pub in the country where dogs and muddy walkers can get a sit-down lunch.
I have never adapted well to the American view that you can’t walk across farmland. England is criss-crossed by ancient established rights-of-way for walkers across private land, and styles are built into fence lines here to make it possible for walkers to cross fences without letting livestock out of their proper fields (See photo). If you pick the right hill, you can find strange mounds at the top - the remnants of earthwork battlements of Iron Age hill forts. On a damp, windy day - when it is harder to stay warm at 40 degrees than on a sunny 20-below day in Maine - we (me, niece and great-nephew) hike up to the top of Nordy Bank - one of best.
The great-nephew is ten. His hyper-active imagination is paired with the ability to
patiently walk my brother through the awfulness of setting up a new iPad. He is also a budding mystery writer. He spontaneously generates complex plots and story lines that are as good as anything out there in the crime-o-sphere. I am looking forward to being the great aunt of a successful writer.
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