Language and the great outdoors, with a Sunday roast for good measure

This weekend, I was introduced to a few of the pleasures of country life. A walk through the village of Stow on the Wold evokes adjectives that are the reserve of guide books: quaint, authentic, charming. With my typical American crassness, I insisted that everything was "so cute!" Doorways and arches of long ago collude to give me a sense that I am almost not quite vertically challenged... those sweet, malnourished English of the past!

I met a lovely old school-friend of my uncle's, whose name, Bob, reminded me of my favorite Jonah Winter poem as all men named Bob do, which provided me with a private (and difficult to explain) chuckle. After a pub lunch of chicken and mushroom pie, we embarked on a failed mission to visit a Jacobean house, during which time I was ruthlessly mocked for saying Juh-cobe-ian instead of Jack-oh-bian... argh the damn English think they own the bloody language...

Rather than visit the house, which mission was aborted for boring bureaucratic reasons, we trekked half-way across the countryside through a field of giant cows. Yes, yes, of course I was terrified. Having been chased by a crazed cow at the age of ten and recently read a book on natural selection, I was not eager to put myself at risk of a stampede. I mean, at least walk around the things! But, despite the frequent piercing looks from the cows around us, all went well (An aside that combines English propriety over the language with cows: I mentioned a "calf" I admired with no success and only bewildered looks until, having repeated myself three times, I said, "baby cow?" "Ohhhhh, a 'caw-f'. What the hell is a 'cah-f'?" Sigh. Further ruthless mockery ensued).

Finally, after tramping along what felt like an endlessly uphill public footpath, we arrived at a quietly spectacular Iron-age settlement (well, the much grown-over, tree-covered outline of its fortifications). It looked, in the 21st century, like a circular secret paddock complete with friendly horse, and had an air of being haunted by the prehistoric past.

Sunday, a roast (both lamb AND chicken!) was accompanied by three kinds of green vegetables and "roasties" (has anyone else ever noticed that the English like to cutesfy everything via shortening and long E addition? barbi for barbecue? telly for tv? reccie for reconnaissance? ok, that's a less good example but the principle holds. And they think they're so dignified...). "Lunch" went from 12:30 to 8! After the main meal came apple pie and custard followed by tea followed by brief stroll around the village followed by clotted cream and scones and more tea... Ye gods.

Below is a link to the Jonah Winter poem and a few photos from the weekend. Pay particular attention to my uncle's pants (that's trousers, not underwear) -- yes, they are indeed tucked in to his socks! Also of note is a photo of a painting we saw in a gallery window. Soft porn for English aristocrats, perhaps?



Sestina: Bob (http://rawyouth.blogspot.com/2005/03/sestina-bob.html)