Worlds Not Mine

“When I travel, I move into worlds that aren’t mine.” Arundhati Roy

The Lantern House in Abington, England, is really a compound of handsome red brick cottages stitched together and interconnected by mysterious doors, and bordered by grand gardens of foliage, trees, blooming yellow dahlias and sweeping green velour lawns.  

I am instantly displaced.

The owner, Sue, is tending the garden with loppers in her hand.  She is fearless. A chipper whirs behind a high wall. Tree limbs await execution. Sue tells me that rabbits nibble on the plantings and moles poke up through the earth though to my eye the landscape is lush and manicured.  

Our friend, Jane, has brought us here where she occupies one of the cottages. Sailor Boy has gone for a stroll while I try to sleep off wicked jet lag. Now I set off a path in the same direction. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes, and I’m watchful of not tumbling down Alice’s rabbit hole.

I ponder Arundhati Roy’s words.  The tranquility of the English countryside charms me. Will I layer on new skin? Will their ways permeate my bones?

We shall see.  

There will be Cambridge via the footpath from Grantchester (yes, the same Grantchester of Masterpiece Mystery); the glory of Kings College; a visit to Magdalene College where our friend, Mark Schatz, studied for a year; the beauty of Clare College’s gardens; punting on the Thames; a gin and tonic in the RAF bar, The Eagle; The Play That Goes Wrong at the Cambridge Arts Theater.    

There will be London by motorcar and the Tube; the Queen’s State Rooms of Buckingham Palace; and Our Ladies of Perpetual Succour, at the Duke of York’s Theater, an all female Scottish bawdy play in which I will understand not a word other than the one you can guess.

There will be vodka tonics served every night crafted by yours truly with Fever Tree Pink Tonic, Icelandic Vodka and lime served in the garden.  They will be sausage and chips, prune jam, and ginger ice cream.  I will listen to Sue and Jane, medical school chums and doctors, talk as if they’ve got marbles in their mouths and end every statement with a question. And the rabbits? They will run amok. You can count on it.  

Cheerio!

Christie

P.S.  Next stop Porto, Portugal.