What a funny world. Thursday morning I was rooting around in my beloved Traverse City garden, and Friday Joe and I were whizzing through the English countryside toward our cottage. Roads gleamed in misty rain; rabbits darted brainlessly in front of our taxi, oddly golden in the Friday evening light.
This 10-day return trip was necessary. The insurance claim wants settling. We'll visit David (my late mother's cherished husband), now happily snug in a lovely countryside care home nearby. Elderly, he's felt much safer there, surrounded by devoted caregivers. Finally, we'll simply enjoy the cottage I'd spent the first four months of 2009 renovating after a Christmas flood nearly destroyed it.
Dilbert, the rat man, had coincidently just arrived to do his regular inspection. Cheerful, confident there'd be not a trace of the buck-toothed bad guys, he made his careful rounds while colorfully narrating to Joe how I'd battled those monsters ... I preened, and fluffed my fur, modestly. (Of course, you'd be right to mutter into your sleeve that only an idiot would wait three weeks to call for help, instead choosing to shoot, poison and try to intimidate Rattus rattus. Outnumbered and surrounded, I'd finally grasped the extent of the problem, and prudently practiced "strategic retreat" while Dilbert the Terminator did it right.)
Copious English rain has encouraged thistles in Helen's Wood to shoot up 8 feet, but the cottage area is lovely, thanks to our caretaker's efforts. Exuberant nasturtiums tumble over the main walk's stone walls, while the raised garden hosts gorgeous red-hot pokers, lush sedums and honey-gold daylilies.
Sunday the nearby one-day annual Herefordshire Country Fair beckoned. We motored down wafer-narrow, centuries-old hedge-lined lanes, until long car lines in the middle of nowhere indicated we'd arrived. (Two cars traveling the opposite way made endless autos "hedge-hug"; curious sheep enjoyed the steel ballet as the hapless motorists only just! squeezed past. Baa!)
Families, accompanied by their dogs (long, hairy lurchers, eager beagles, enigmatic Australian ridgebacks, keen Jack Russell terriers and devoted black-and-white border collies) wandered the vast field, now filled with fascinating craft booths, food tents, sheepdog competitions and kiddy-rides. Often paired on loose double leashes, the canine multitudes never misbehaved.
Beautiful ponies, with immaculately togged children aboard, waited their turns to competitively jump small fences; microphoned announcers blared scores and encouraged applause.
Corralled baby llamas munched food, donkeys brayed, rescued greyhounds hoped for adoption, leashed falcons squawked, and a helicopter bearing parents and saucer-eyed children roared off; each thrilling ride lasting seven minutes.
I gasped! Perched jauntily atop a hay bale a pair of narrow-heeled, electric green Wellington boots gleamed! I'd never seen anything like them. They beckoned; I swooned. Just 15 pounds, and -- oh, joy, they fit! SOLD. Cramming soiled sneakers into my backpack I "wellied" gleefully down the muddy, manured midway, impossible to ignore. Joe couldn't stop laughing; I grinned till my cheeks ached.
Strollered infants bumped along, waving colorful, handcrafted toys. Balloons bobbled, and "doggied" adults jovially exchanged local gossip. One tent housed bored, rescued owls; a giant red sign -- STOLEN TOOL COMPANY -- trumpeted somebody's business. A salmon fisherman demonstrating technique in the tumbling river bisecting the fair had devotees watching every move from a roped off, respectful distance.
One guy sold hot dogs -- in Britain? Fascinated, we bought one, heaped it with ketchup and slithery cooked onions, gobbled it down, and licked our fingers. Yum!
Contented, we finally staggered home. Farm-made ice cream smudges and bits of straw and earth decorated rumpled trousers and sleeves. Perfumed evening air soothed two tired country mice into sleep ...
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information.
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