Tuesday evening we were invited, along with Cathy and Rob, to a party thrown by two of their friends in the village. Because there was still quite a bit of ice on the roads, we drove to a nearby turnout and parked, since the house was nestled at the bottom of a hill and we weren’t sure we’d be able to get back out. Never having spent any time in the winter in England, we weren’t fully cognizant of the fact that the Gulf Stream softens the weather there considerably. And historically. England got some snow last winter, but before that, the last snow of any significance was thirty-some-odd years ago.

 

Consequently, England has practically no snowplows to speak of. No one has snow tires or chains or cables. People don’t even really have the knack of walking on the snow and ice, as it turns out. The main strategy for dealing with it is to throw what is called “grit,” a mixture of sand and salt, onto the snow, to both melt the snow and provide some traction. But days of snow were starting to eat into the country’s supplies so that most of the grit was being saved for major arteries. Very little was being deposited on secondary and tertiary roads, the roads that run to and through small villages.

 

It stands to reason, then, that the amount of de-icing equipment at the airports is extremely modest. Hence the cancellations and delays.

 

At any rate, enough of the ice had melted that we could drive pretty close. We walked the rest of the way, joined by some other party-goers. The people in Cathy and Rob’s circles and village—although, our experience the entire time we were in England is that this was true of just about everyone we met—were friendly and inclusive, interested in where we had come from as well as our stories. The wine flowed freely and the lady of the house circulated with trays of scrumptious appetizers (my hands-down favorite: miniature Beef Wellingtons with cranberry sauce). We met all kinds of interesting people from all walks of life—interior designers, dentistry professors, financiers, artists, lawyers, and entrepreneurs. And at the end of the party, we got to meet the hosts’ new Springer spaniel puppy, a silky, wiggling, tumbling ball of happy excitement.

 

So, that was fun!

 

 

 

The atmosphere is relaxed and friendly—regulars mingle with strangers and the proprietors are on the premises, sometimes doing the cooking themselves and always making sure that everything is running smoothly. If you were lonely or alone, all you would have to do is pop into a local village pub and you would have some new friends in a heartbeat, at least for the time you were there. We loved hearing the story about a pair of widowers in the village whom Cathy and Rob knew. One man had lost his wife a few years’ previous when a quite elderly gent (who had served in the First World War! And had the extravagant, crisply waxed mustache to prove it!) lost his beloved wife of years and years. The more seasoned widower took the recently widowed man under his wing, and got him coming to the pub regularly for a pint and a meal, keeping him from getting isolated in his house and grief. Eventually they became devoted friends and started attending soccer matches together.

 

I wish we had pubs here in the United States. A bar is not the same thing at all. And neither is a restaurant. Some coffee houses come close in terms of being a place where you can hang out, but they’re not the same thing, either. I think, unfortunately, America’s Puritan background and convoluted relationship to alcohol might preclude such a thing from evolving here. But you never know. In my utopian village, certainly, pubs play a prominent role.

 

Well, so we met up with three other couples at the pub where I got to order an exotic dish, game pie, made with pheasant, quail, venison, and rabbit! Actually, I couldn’t tell which was which, but it was very delicious all the same, with a dark, savory sauce. We engaged in the British Christmas ritual involving what they call “crackers,” which were laid out on the table at each diner’s place. They look a bit like a rolled-up diploma wrapped in colorful gift wrap, tied on two ends with slender ribbon to form fan-shaped paper tassels, with a flat piece of ribbon sticking out from the center of each tassel. Each person grasps the ribbon protruding from one end of their cracker as well as a ribbon from the cracker held by the person sitting next to you, and gives a yank. There’s a loud bang! And then little prizes pop out, like a deck of miniature playing cards or a dressmaker’s tape measure, along with a joke printed on a slip of paper. We ate dessert (hoping someone would order the Spotted Dick) and then walked home through the village.

 

 

But this isn’t the end of the party circuit! More was in store! I’ll save some for the next post, though, where, among other things, we delve into the appellative wonders of bottled British ales.

 

 

Also, a flock of friendly village sheep who appeared to enjoy posing for the camera; and a vine that was everywhere, carrying seed heads that looked like puffs of angel hair and caught the low-angled winter sun in a dazzling blaze.