Card Evenings in the Garden ...

I have played card games over the years but, like jokes, I usually forget how they go and never play them again. 

I'm determined it will be different this time ...  It turns out I love playing cards with friends.

Cathy, James and Alex have, patiently, spent these long summer evenings teaching me how to play different card games. Doggy Whist, let's not mention Irish Snap, and then Hearts.  Hearts ... probably because it was the game that seemed to click best with me and, while I trail behind, the deficit isn't too shocking.

It occurs to me as I stop here, look up and around me, that I should go get my camera and photograph the place where I come to read and write on these Surrey mornings.  I'm out in their beautiful English garden - a fish pond chuckling, birds singing and usually Jenny, their King Cavalier, is here next to me. 

But the card games ... I didn't realise how much psychology there is.  Analysis and tactics. Plain dumb luck, and instinct.  Who bluffs best, and let's not forget ... who cheats most outrageously.  But best of all, the laughter. 

Yesterday I posted a 'card game story' over on Facebook:

Much hilarity ... once we all stopped screaming/roaring!!! Playing cards, outside in the garden in Surrey tonight. Cathy warned me not to put my wine glass on the ground ... SLUGS, you see. I thought she was kidding. Worse still, she thought she was kidding.

I picked up my glass about 5 minutes later and SCREAMED which made the others wonder but then they joined in the screaming too - in the most hilarious way.

We were all making the most incredible noise as they realised I had picked up my wine glass, by its narrow stem, and my fingers had closed round a SLUG. A big fat slimy slug!!! I'm still giggling ... I think the ongoing laughter is about James roar which was not unlike that moment, in the movie Home Alone, when the main character came face-to-face with the TarantuIa and roared.

I probably won't sleep tonight, for laughter. We're lucky that the neighbours didn't call the police.

Then last night, our game was threatened by Flying Ants.  Apparently they're set to kick off, again, and you don't want to be involved.  Not all all.

I have packed my suitcase and realised it was way over the limit.  So I left it open on my bedroom floor ... hoping things would magically change.  I repacked yesterday.  It's lighter but I might have to leave the tripod behind.  Mmmm, and so today is the day of suitcase reckoning.  Let's see how it goes.

Days Like These ...

I thought I would work backwards, through these days and the people I've met ... writing of the people who have sweetened these days of transition.

An old school friend of mine had written to say he and his wife would be in London and they wondered if I could meet up for dinner.  And I did but getting home late from London, along the unlit country road, held less appeal.

No problem for them ... Paul and Lisa said they'd come my way.  And it was on. 

I've known him since I was 14 ... back in those days when we'd tie up the house phones, talking with each other for hours. Arguing about/discussing religion and all sorts of other things too.  He was the practical doubting one.  I was the other one.

But he was a best friend.  We never dated but I did get to ride on the back of his motorbike, and Dave's too.  And my very first memorable taste of being a photographer came from those days, when I took my then wickedly ineffectual little camera down to the Brick & Sand quarry and attempted to capture them dirt-bike riding. 

Paul has been a good friend through the years, out there but less present after he moved to Australia.   Although it makes me smile when I realise that not much has changed with us ... we still argue like cat and dog but we no longer mind.  He's a conservative, I'm not ... we get that the other can't help themselves.

These days have been so full, of packing and moving and worrying, that Monday was upon me before I had had time to think much about it.  And so it was that ... after a series of miscommunications that played out as Retrospectively Amusing, I found them and had the loveliest evening hearing their stories, telling them mine ... occasionally veering off into why it was Paul's fault that our plans to meet went so wrong for a while there.

For them, this trip had been about wandering through Europe.  Paul is a paraponter, Lisa a surfer ... although boardless this time.  They surprised me with news that they'd impulsively popped over the border, from their then base in Switzerland, and spent some time in Genoa!! 

We exchanged stories of that city I love.  It made me smile, as Clare ... the Australian friend I caught up with the next day, had also spent time in Genoa, with her family.  They had all seen why I love the city so much. 

And that's how it played out ... by chance. It's been a week that found me exchanging stories with Australians, and Australian-based Kiwis ... with much-loved old friends from school, and from my days lived in Istanbul, about the things they had loved in Genoa.

There are photographs of them both, someplace on my website but it's early morning in England, and I'm out in the garden writing again.  It's beautiful out here but conscious that today is another mad-busy day and I need to go dive into it. 

Jenny, the King Cavalier spaniel, is dozing under my chair and here I am, so full of stories I'm wanting to tell but knowing I need to get going, now that breakfast is done.

I hope life is beautiful in your world xx

Posts From This Beautiful Garden in Surrey.

I'm sitting on a big old wrought iron chair, on the edge of the beautiful English garden that belongs to a woman who has been an incredibly good friend to me. I finished the novel I had been using to get me through these tricky days of transition and so came outside with my laptop and coffee.  Jenny, the King Cavalier spaniel, is keeping me company.

Like me, I suspect she's enjoying the early morning cool. Yesterday Surrey hit 36 celsius and no one was ready. It was the worst day to move house but it was done. Accidentally ... as you do.

The days have tumbled by lately, with an impetus similar to a mountain stream falling down a mountainside, if I try to describe it. Days so full of good people that I'm not sure I can write of everyone. But perhaps if I work backwards, starting yesterday. Perhaps if I write a series, before I leave for Italy next week …

Yesterday and my Australian friend, Clare living in London, arrived to take away and store as many of my books as she could. I have a habit of losing the best of my books when I divorce and move countries. Just twice but I'm a woman who loves the idea of living a lifetime with her collection of books. The Universe clearly has other plans.

Clare also provided transport for a load of my possessions. We took them to Cathy's, where I have some space in her garage for those things I wouldn't mind keeping, if I can work out a way.

Evening fell and I realised I had left the place I've been living these last 7 months.

Last night was spent out here in the garden, with Cathy, James and Alexandra.. A BBQ dinner, and them patiently teaching me how to play cards. I was so quietly deeply happy to be there, on the edge of this truly special family.

It has almost been a year since I left Belgium. Marriage over and without a country, I wanted to stay close to my daughter and Miss 12. Kim suggested I arrive in her world and set about making it happen … as it turns out, I was quite incapable, in some ways. More devastated than I realised, and far more broken than I knew.

It's been a year of deep change but I like who I'm becoming. I'll leave England so much stronger than I've been, in years … in every way.

And stronger because of the friends I've always had, but also because of the new friends I've made. For me, I see how it has been all about people. Friends, and strangers, who have picked me up, dusted me off, and been incredibly kind. Generous. Understanding. And welcoming too.

I woke this morning, in a beautiful bedroom and, for the first time in a long time, I felt peace-filled. Sitting out here this morning, I felt safe enough to cry … and had to smile. I've been so busy moving forward, surviving, that there hasn't been too much time for self-pity.  It would have crippled me some.

Today, the first time I've felt normal in a long time, and I wanted to cry. I had to mock myself a little … ' Di, you need life to be a struggle so you can stay strong?'

I didn't cry. I think I'll just weave that recognition of struggle in with all the rest and keep going forward because forward movement is surely the best thing.

It turns out, I have too much luggage for Italy. I, the queen of 'take only what you can carry up and down stairs' in those train stations, wants to take too much to Genova.

My other 'rule' is based on being able to walk away from possessions.  Clearly I have tried to keep too much this time and so today needs to be about stripping away the excess, again. I'm in the right place. I know people in Oxfam, and there's a refuse tip here. It's time to go back to bare bones. I thought I had but no, not quite.

As mentioned before ... have lost 16kgs in England, or 30 pounds … which sounds so much better :-) None of the clothes I bought with me from Belgium survived that weight loss. I was so fortunate to arrive in a place where quality secondhand clothing cost so very little.  Today, I may have purchased an exquisite, truly exquisite, Laura Ashley skirt for 7 pounds. 

Really!

Silk is the new Di ... it's amusing me.  I don't know who would recognise me from those other lives I've lived.  Not Christine and Peter Kirker, from those airforce days when I favoured the long baggy jersey, with jeans, look.  Not my Belgian friends, some who worked so hard on getting me out of that habit of dressing in black ... Marcie:-)  Not my Turkish friends, who mentioned my hippy taste ...

But I'm loving it all.  Dresses, beautiful colours, and silk ... and so very inexpensive despite labels like Monsoon and Zara now appearing there in my ... suitcase.

But suddenly it's tonight.  I stopped writing here earlier, to repack and reorder those boxes stored in the garage.  Then went wandering with Cathy, zapping about the countryside in her daughter's Mini ... dropping stuff off at the dump, leaving other stuff with Oxfam, eating lunch somewhere in Surrey staring with E.

And it's tonight ... there's a massive pavlova sitting here in the kitchen.  My best ever ... perhaps.  There's a glass of wine in front of me.  Fish is frying, salads are ready.  We're feasting outside again. 

I'll leave you with a photograph of Jenny, my lovely breakfast buddy ...

The Victoria Pub, Oxshott ... a new favourite place out in the world.

Walking into The Victoria Pub feels feels like arriving some place familiar … even for this New Zealander, more than 11,000 miles from home.

Just opened, after massive renovations, The Vic is a pub that manages to be both upmarket and cosy. Elegant but warm and welcoming too.  I can honestly write that it has been worth the wait.  Even better, pub manager, Jonny O'Connor and the White Brasserie group, seem intent on making the place special.

Initially, I had imagined the raw oyster and champagne opening event would price it out of my range but no, they cater to a wide range of clientele. From fine-dining through to a beer at the bar. They also host massively enjoyable quiz evenings on Sundays. Live music sometimes. And then there's a large outdoor garden for summer dining.

The brick and wood interior manages to be both homely and classy. It's a physical space that makes you want to visit often, and then stay a few hours, every time. When I asked Jonny (photograph below) about his noticeably warm and friendly staff he explained, they're chosen for their personality and then further trained to make customers feel truly welcome.

Talking with Jonny, one quickly realises that no detail has been left to chance. Open and friendly, he's a man on a mission. He made me smile when he mentioned his desire to model his passion for his work on Eastenders character, Peggy Mitchell, one-time landlady of that other Vic.

The wine list is impressive, with something for every palate and pocket. The food has been divine - every single time. Nothing is ordinary, not even the olives. The details speak volumes about The Vic's focus on customer satisfaction.

There's space for the casual regulars out at the bar, that area often buzzing with conversation and laughter. They're a friendly mob, here in Oxshott, and The Vic is fast becoming one of the beating hearts located in this tiny village.

I have now competed in two of the Sunday night quizzes, enjoying the fact that the European Football champs were there in the background.  And exploring the wine list has been rewarding.  Even better, I'm usually there in the midst of good people and much laughter.

As I write this, sitting in a quiet corner of the bar on a sunny afternoon, I realise the bar is as cosy as a living room.  There's the rug on the the wooden floor, over near the fire, and the armchairs are arranged in small groups that invite quiet conversations. The bar staff are sharing stories of rescue dogs with a couple who used to live in the village.  I'm enjoying the ebb and flow of the conversation, the genuine interest ...  even the music.

Jonny and the White Brasserie have begun well, building a beautifully strong foundation in these opening weeks. The Victoria, of Oxshott, is already a special space.  One that welcomes you in as you step through the door.

You should visit, see for yourself...

The Victoria, High St, Oxshott, KT22 0JR

Telephone: 01372 841900

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100011090958078&fref=ts

Twitter: https://twitter.com/VictoriaOxshott

The Hardest Thing About Traveling

This is why once you’ve traveled for the first time all you want to do is leave again. They call it the travel bug, but really it’s the effort to return to a place where you are surrounded by people who speak the same language as you. Not English or Spanish or Mandarin or Portuguese, but that language where others know what it’s like to leave, change, grow, experience, learn, then go home again and feel more lost in your hometown then you did in the most foreign place you visited.

This is the hardest part about traveling, and it’s the very reason why we all run away again.

Kellie Donnelley.

I wanted to store this piece that talks of the hardest part of traveling.  I need to think about it. 

Travel changes a person or, perhaps, in my case, it turned me into someone I recognised.  I was always curious, I love meeting new people, learning how they live, hearing their stories ... out here in the world I wander, I get to meet others like me. 

I read this quote this morning, and thought ... really?

Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.

Simone Weil

I always give my attention.  I am curious, and genuinely interested in people.  Is this so special?

Then I remembered the phenomena of talking with political folk out at social events back in Belgium.  Their attention was on their phones, on checking out who else was in the room, and back to whoever they were talking with, and off again, round the room.

I felt like I was swimming with sharks, in some ways.  They were hunting.  Their attention was everywhere and nowhere.

But this sense of dislocation Kellie writes of ... I posted her piece over on Facebook and watched as various friends shared or liked it. 

Yes.  They all knew that feeling.

I haven't returned home, for longer than 5 weeks.  It is something I think about ... how that return would be.  Would a dog, and a beach or a lake somewhere close by ... old friends, and new, be enough. 

I don't know but anyway, I have located this article in a place where I can return to it when needed.

I Met This Man While At The Wedding In Norway ... this poet, this writer

We met after the wedding, as he photographed a particular gate there at the church.  He told me the story of the place where he and his wife were married, and how the gate reminded him of it.

I mentioned that he reminded me of someone. 

He suggested James Joyce. 

I said, 'Maybe', as I rummaged round in my memory for images of Joyce.

It turns out, everyone else said he was Elton John ... 20 years ago.  I didn't really look at Elton then but perhaps.  There is a story about a carriage full of people on the Tube, or a train, thinking precisely that about him.

You can decide.

But perhaps he is simply one of those people who allow you to feel like you've known him a long time, and you respond to that.

On the day after the wedding, I wandered over to his website, and found this poem.  I love it.

An extract, from Out of Shape Sonnet:

This is one of those tuneless songs of hope
A father scatters out into the universe
Because he wants the best for his child;
Independence,
Success of the non-material kind,
And, above all, happiness,
Happiness of the forever kind.

And then, Ren had a copy of his book, Bee Bones.  You can buy a signed copy over here.

I read enough, between processing the wedding photographs, to know I'll find my own copy now that I'm back in the UK.  I reached that point where the father and son have just begun their journey ...

His book, Dead Men, was nominated for the Guardian First Book Award.  It's another to hunt down, sooner or later.

A review:
Washington Independent Review of Books, 18 June 2012
Who said literary works tend to be boring? This debut novel by Richard Pierce proves a poetically written narrative can also be riveting and engrossing.
This is not a lengthy novel and the author uses every word, sentence and verbal image to craft and layer his themes. This is a love story, a historical novel, a polar expedition and a ghostly tale. From an initial improbability, page after page draws the reader in.  As the author’s first effort at full-length fiction, it is a notable success. I highly recommend this novel.

Arthur Kerns.

You can read more on his website.

I met this man, and his wife, at the wedding and they are, so very kindly, allowing me to use the photographs I took of them.  

Richard Pierce was born in Doncaster in 1960.
 
He was educated in Germany, and at the University of Cambridge.

He now lives in Suffolk with Marianne and their four children.

Richard is a novelist, poet and painter, and administers two charities

He has a Youtube channel, and an Amazon author's page too, if you would like to know more.