What I didn’t mention in my previous post, was that the day I arrived in England, my cousin’s hot water heater went kaput. She was mortified. I was not at all concerned. What did I care about taking a shower/bath? I had a comfy bed, and chocolate in the fridge.
Slightly scruffy, but happy, day #4 I set off on my journey to Portsmouth. I was pretty excited, as this was the first venture of my great expedition to travel for the next six weeks. I bade farewell to Kate and dragged my bags up the platform steps at the train station. At the top, and once I could breath again, I made my way to the correct platform for my train, without having a myocardial infarction (that’s a posh word for a heart attack).
I was buzzing. I hadn’t been to Portsmouth since I’d been a girl, about three hundred years ago, and it’s a cool town. It is a port city in the county of Hampshire, about 70 miles west of London, with a population of about 200,000 (I know that ‘cos I looked it up). It’s history goes back to Roman times, and Portsmouth has been a significant naval port for centuries and is considered the home of the Royal Navy. I guess the name kind of gives it away right?
Anyway, I arrived in Portsmouth after consuming crisps, a chocolate bar and a considerable amount of Fruit gums (which should have their own food group)… I headed from the station to the ferry, which luckily for me was in the same place. My destination was the Isle of Wight, a small island off the southern coast of England where my Auntie Doreen happens to live, and about a 30 minute commute on the ferry. Once I had dragged my case up yet another flight of poxy stairs, I was on the upper deck of the ferry, with an amazing view all around.
In one direction was a magnificent ship, Britain’s first iron-hulled warship called the HMS Warrior – built in 1851, and right behind the ship, an impressive modern structure called the Spinnaker Tower, situated at Gunwharf Quay.
I looked around in delight, snapping pictures like a crazy woman, all the while balancing a heavy backpack on my weary shoulders and clutching my suitcase between my knees like a large nylon contraceptive device.
It was then that I noticed the guy standing next to me, all greasy hair oil and gold chains. Crikey, I thought, he really whiffs a bit, and I took a step away (with my case between my knees) but strangely enough I realised that his pong followed me. And then it suddenly became abundantly clear…..the unpleasant aroma I detected was actually emanating from yours truly! Apparently a transatlantic trip, two days of sightseeing and eating fish and chips, today’s journey and no shower was beginning to have an effect on my normally pleasant body odour. I was mortified and embarrassed….The importance of getting a hotel straight away was now urgent! I desperately needed to take a shower and burn my clothes. I hadn’t booked a place, so I just hung on to the hope that at this time of year there would be plenty of places available, and that no one else was planning to go to Auntie Doreen’s.
The ferry docked in the town of Ryde, Isle of Wight just as I was really getting into the trip (I think I am secretly a sailor) and I was spewed out of the doors with everyone else onto a wooden jetty that looked really old and a bit dicey. There were a few cars there to pick up people, but I followed a thin line of folk that were walking away towards what looked like the shore and the town. With some dismay, I realised that the distance from the ferry to the shoreline was quite a long way – at least half a mile (the pic is at the halfway point). I was tired, smelly, and my suitcase and backpack felt heavier than the last cake I baked. Oh well, I wanted to get in better shape, so I needed to stop whining and get on with it.
As I trekked along the way, it became clear to me that only three of four other people were walking the same direction as I was, and the majority of passengers had disappeared. Where had they all gone? Had another ferry come by and picked them up? Oh well, not my problem. I lumbered along, stopping once to take off my jacket as it was getting quite quite warm, and put down my pack to take a breather. It was really pretty here, and I felt so good being back in the land of my past. I pulled out my phone and googled Ryde Pier to find out how old the structure actually was. Turns out it was built in 1813 – wow….must use a lot of linseed oil to keep it going I bet. I took a few photos while I had the phone out, and then I set off again, still feeling every bit of my 57 years My attention was all focused upon my destination at the end of the pier until I heard what sounded like an engine running off to my left. I casually glanced in that direction and saw a small train that appeared to have come from where the ferry was moored, headed towards the shore. If I looked very hard, I could make out another jetty, a smaller, thinner version of the one I was on, specifically built to run a small train. Bugger, I had turned the wrong way and missed the damned ride. I laughed at my poor judgement, scaring the couple that were walking behind me who had probably pegged me for a homeless person due to my unpleasant body aroma and bad hair.
After what seemed like miles, I finally got to the end of the pier and my eyes hungrily sought out a place to stay. There were loads of hotels dotted along the main road running parallel to the water, (which we call ‘the front’) as Ryde is a tourist town. I just needed somewhere with a shower, within my budget, where I could get a good full English breakfast. And there it was, the house from Mary Poppins…..it even had a flag on the top where you could fire a cannon! (if you had one of course)
I was on it like a duck on a dune bug (that’s bumpkinese right there) – and within 30 minutes I was unpacked and BATHED!
Now for some jolly old grub. My feet instinctively led me to a fish and chip shop, and moments later I set off, chips in hand on my first stroll through Rye.
You know, I owe a lot to the good ole USA, a place I have made my home for thirty-six years. I love the standard of living, the vast, amazing country with every possible wonder of Nature that you can find on one body of land. I love steaks and burgers, and even those odd types from places like Lake Charles, Louisiana that one ends up marrying… But I adore being a Brit. From our multitude of accents, to our long and varied history. A little country that grew into a huge Empire – winning and subsequently losing the rule of many countries, yet leaving an indelible stamp of Britishness wherever we trod (except the ability to make a decent cuppa in the colonies)… From our insatiable love affair with chocolate, to our obsession with fish and chips and a bloody good meat pie (don’t get me started on the bangers). I love the dry, chiselled sense of humour that spews from it’s natives, be they rich, poor, educated or not. There’s some kind of genetic recipe that seems to be just part of a Brit’s general make-up. There’s such clever sarcasm, interwoven with a good dose of silly, that just makes me proud. And then there is fashion….
In America – (now bear in mind I have to generalize and base my opinion purely on my experience where I live) – people in the USA are encouraged to dress/look/act a certain way. They are encouraged to have perfect teeth, smile like one of the Osmond family in EVERY damn photo, and, if female, be thin, if male, have muscles. In the UK you will not witness this phenomenon.
Individualism is not encouraged, it is expected. I found myself walking around the small town of Rye on the Isle of Wight, feeling like I’d been transported to a planet full of people you see at the airport, cross-bred with people you see on those awful Walmart snaps on Facebook. It was entirely fascinating, and I couldn’t stop staring at everyone. There were older folk, dressed conservatively, with old fashioned hairstyles dyed with purples and pinks. There were no rules as far as which colours to wear together, or how little one wanted to wear. And that was just the men……I felt boring, I felt predictable, I felt foreign. But it was just so wonderful! So NOT cookie-cutter – honestly, a person could get away with wearing anything here…not just shorts and black socks with sandals, ANYTHING!
The shops were so neat. Eclectic, junky, traditional and cheap. The book stores smelled like paper and stationary, and every shop had a door bell that dinged when you walked in (heaven). Each bakery was worth a stop, just to gaze in admiration at the variety of pastries just aching to get into my mouth. With the ancient church bells ringing, and a view of the sea from the high street, I felt as though I was finally back with my old herd, and hanging with a bunch of oddly dressed characters from a Jane Austin Punk story.
After taking too many photos, my feet ached, and I headed back down the to the front for a spot of dinner. Sausage and chips (that would be fries) was what I ordered, a coke (which came with no ice) and a view of the sea, and I was good to go. With a full belly, I waddled back to my Mary Poppins hotel, climbed the old staircase and happily fell into bed.
After a wonderful night’s kip (that means sleep) I was up with the birds and the first into the dining room. I had three cups of good HOT tea, and a delicious English breakfast, resplendent with eggs with orange yolks and flavour, and toast that tasted like bread. I checked out of the hotel and dragged my luggage over to the bus station, where I hopped on a double-decker and headed to the Needles. Okay, I didn’t hop, I slowly stepped onto the damn bus and took the first seat available as I felt old.
The Needles is the name for a row of three chalk stacks that rise about 100 feet out of the sea on the western side of the island. Interestingly, there had been four of them, but the fourth, aptly named ‘Lot’s wife’ collapsed in a storm back in the 1700’s. Apparently, that particular stack (Lot’s Mrs) was the one most needle-shaped, hence the origin name of the group. Although Mrs Lot went for a burton (that means something bad happened) I think it decidedly British to have retained the original name, even though the remaining ‘needles’ look more like sewing machines. Oh, there’s only two in this picture, the red one is a lighthouse.. 🙂
I had got to The Needles early, but luckily for me the ice-cream shop was open, and so I nabbed one for the bus ride to my Auntie Doreen’s. It was quite difficult getting on the damned bus with a suitcase, backpack, purse and an ice-cream, but by god I did it!
The bus arrived at the busy little station in Newport an hour later. I dragged those bloody bags off the bus, and stood like a tired statue, my eyes peeled as I looked around for my cousin Graham who was supposed to meet me there. I hadn’t seen him since I’d was around thirteen…..surely we’d remember each other? After all, we were family! He walked right past me. Apparently I had changed more significantly than him. It took him a minute to realise that the scruffy, homeless woman was calling his name as he passed by, but finally he came back and I quickly introduced myself. He looked astonished and a little scared. Graham was not at all like his mother.
Auntie Doreen was married to my dad’s only brother Maurice, who worked his entire career for Her Majesty’s Royal Mail – as do both of his sons. Sadly, Maurice is gone, but his legendary cheeky wink and handsome face is never forgotten (nor some of his exploits with the postal van). Auntie Doreen lives in a house that we would call a double-wide, right next to the river Medina near Newport. You can almost spit in the river from her front porch. It’s quite lovely there, and across the river from her place is where they hold the annual Isle of Wight Music Festival. She loves it, and says the loud music doesn’t bother her as some of the bands are quite good.
Doreen’s front room has a massive bay window that looks out in that direction, and it is oddly filled with possibly one hundred solar bobble-headed items, which make you a bit dizzy to look at. As I noticed this, I imagined them all bobbing in unison to the music on the night of the big music festival. Auntie Doreen is 85 with the mind of a forty-year old and the personality of a teacher that you really don’t want to piss off. She’s as London as Bow Bells, and as I sat among the moving heads, admiring her knitting, her embroidery, and listened to her recounting the past, I felt my heart fill with love. Her place was chockablock with memories, bobble heads and photos of her loved ones, and it was really nice to connect with my cousin Graham, who is almost the exact same age as me, but I outweigh him by quite a bit.
We went back into Newport and ate lunch at Doreen’s fave spot. She proudly introduced me as her niece from America…..then we had a little walk around and headed back to the house for another cuppa. In an awkward show of cousinly affection, Graham gave me several bars of chocolate (I was quite moved) and then they drove me back to the ferry, all the way down the pier (thank god) to the ship.
We hugged (I could have snapped Graham) and I dragged my heavy bags out of the boot (trunk) and walked onto the boat. This time I was too tired to fight the stairs to the upper deck, so instead I stayed on the main deck and grabbed a seat. I rested my head back and sighed. It was Saturday, and I’d left Gump on Tuesday. I’d been to Dallas, Chicago, Kingston, Portsmouth, Ryde and Newport already….I could feel all the little grey cells in my brain doing a happy dance because finally I was back home. After all these years I was doing something I had wanted to do for a very long time, seeing people and places that were a huge part of my heritage. The foundation of my life that had made me become me.
Portsmouth lay dead ahead. My next stop was a little village called Stubbington, Hampshire. I was to stay the night with my cousin Steve and his family. He was going to meet me at the port and there had been a promise of a curry dinner. I popped another fruit gum into my mouth and gazed through the porthole at the beautiful choppy ocean, and I just took the moment to soak it all in….would I get a Vindaloo or a chicken Korma…………………….