Oh to be in England now that spring is here!

I consider myself pretty well travelled, having happily ambled about the world a good deal of my life: across the street, across the city, across the country, across the ocean, across the world. But I don’t remember ever having been so present to feelings of having visited another world entirely as I was on a recent trip to England to rejuvenate a friendship with a long lost companion of my youth.

Barely a year ago, I received an e-mail out of the blue, generated from one of those dreadful high school class reunion websites that lurk on the Internet, seductively offering one the chance to engage in the banally voyeuristic pleasure of seeing what your former classmates are busy creating an impression about having accomplished. I don’t know what on earth led me to register – perhaps an exceedingly rare moment of boredom, since I haven’t spoken to a single person related to my pre-university scholastic career since I escaped the torment of public education lo those many years ago. Still, I shouldn’t be so petty considering the miracle it generated for me.

.

The e-mail was from a vivacious and lovely girl that I had known for only a few short years in the early 70s as Julie Stephenson, now the more grown up and more distinctly English sounding Julia Annandale (that's us, circa 1972, already sporting lampshades at parties). Julia had done a bit of sleuthing and located my e-mail address in order to see if perhaps I remembered her, but what she probably had no idea of when she wrote was there wasn't any way I'd forgotten her - she was a tenured member of that special class of acquaintances with whom a link so strong is forged that it can never be completely dissolved. I was overjoyed to receive her message and the reintroduction led to an instantaneous resumption of our friendship.

What we quickly discovered in the flurry of e-mails that followed was that after enjoying our brief intersection well over 35 years ago (Julia’s father was a British employee of Shell Oil who had in 1971 taken a two year assignment in the tropical hell hole of Houston, Texas where I lived) our lives had taken radically different paths and lay in almost diametric opposition. When we compared notes, we managed to discover several items we had in common (we both recently celebrated our 25th wedding anniversaries, for example) but for the most part, our lives are dramatically different in almost every respect. And yet even though we have little in common, we have each other in common, and that's what seems to have lasted so well after all these years.

.

I recently decided the time had come to go and visit Julia and experience what her life was like firsthand. I wrote to see if she’d be willing to tolerate my company for a week at her home in the tiny village of Greywell, about 40 miles southwest of London. She responded enthusiastically, assuring me that she’d be delighted to have me come and warning me that I might find her existence a bit tedious considering the colorful life I seemed to lead.

.

I arrived at London’s Heathrow airport on the morning of Monday, March 2 and emerged from the cattle holding pen of international arrivals to see Julia waiting for me at the exit. What a miracle it seemed to have reached this apogee in a circle formed by the intersection of two arcs, both of them crossing at age 11 and then again at age 48 - very like a diagram of geometry illustrating how a circle can continue and diverge at the same time. A strong sense of disbelief that had been building from the time we first renewed our friendship culminated in that moment as we embraced each other gratefully. I experienced a sense of release that gracefully gave way to feeling completely at ease.

.

As we departed the airport and headed toward her home, Julia asked if I wouldn’t mind stopping to take tea with her parents, Donald and Joy, at their home near Ascot. My memories of Donald and Joy were glowing and warm, full of affection and admiration, so I was delighted to hear we’d be stopping for a visit.

.

When we arrived, the sensation that the intervening years had melted away, leaving all of us merely in somewhat different costumes, continued unabated. Donald had retained a clear and sparkling eye, a wry chuckle and a marvelous ability to discourse intelligently on history and politics. Joy was every bit as elegant and gracious and kind as I remembered her, yet somehow made even more distinguished by the glorious cloud of silver candy floss fetchingly arrayed about her head in sumptuous waves. I was ushered into the parlor (where I had last sat in the early summer of 1973), and was greeted by a merry fire which added a warm glow to the lovely tea service which had been laid out in preparation for our arrival. How delightful to begin my visit with one of my favorite indulgences – afternoon tea! We whiled away a very pleasant hour or so sipping tea from delicate porcelain cups and filling in random pixels in an effort to articulate a portrait of where our lives had carried us, who we’d become. I got to enjoy the wonderful sort of love we experience when we get to refamiliarize ourselves with cherished acquaintances. Julia and I took our leave as the afternoon light began to slant and headed toward her home, The Malt House.

.

I’ve always found it exceedingly quaint to name one’s home, and it makes me wonder what the name of my odd domicile might should be. How about the Lay-uhr of Pank Hay-uhr?!? Hmmmm! Even sounds vaguely Celtic!

.

As we turned off the motorway and began down the narrow country lanes leading toward her home, Julia pointed out the local attractions, peppering her sentences with descriptors such as “Cromwell” and “King John”. My love of history was thoroughly engaged as we passed through this realm so rich in story and beauty.

.

When we arrived at the Malt House, I was taken aback. Julia had sent a few pictures of her home with her e-mails, and while I could tell her place was lovely and quaint, I was in no way prepared me for the immensity or age of it. The Malt House can be traced back to at least the era of Cromwell (that’s the 1650s for those of you less than enamored with English history) with historians being able to document that in addition to the house having been used to process hops, it had also been used for a time as a court of law for trying Cavalier prisoners rounded up by our victorious Puritan forefathers, shortly after the execution of Charles I. It never fails to boggle my mind to live in such proximity to history, probably because America seems like such a recent and juvenile nation. When we talk about something being really old in the U.S., it’s often no more than one or two hundred years old at the most. Living in a house built in the 17th century or earlier seems amazing to me. I was dazzled by the enormous fireplaces, low slung hand hewn timbers of the ceiling, ancient brickwork and masonry. We stepped out the heavy oaken door at the front of the house so Julia could show me the new lambs grazing in the pasture across the road and there to my amazement grew an enormous wisteria vine which Julia said had been estimated to be at least 400 years old. I found that staggering since I can generally manage to kill a houseplant in under a week without even trying.
.

I was soon introduced to the charming animal inhabitants of The Malt House - two affable and well behaved dogs, Pegs and Monty, (who would become gratifying partners in an enjoyable week long game of fetch in the garden) and Julia's adorable new kitten Marmite, named after the curious salty spread that Brits so eagerly apply to their toast. I felt certain after meeting Marmite that I’d be leaving with hands that resembled those of a seasoned blackberry picker as I clearly have no natural resistance to the unmitigated joy of playing with a kitten.

.

Sitting down to another lovely cup of tea at the kitchen table, Julia and I began a discourse that continued most of the time we were together for the next week. Both of us eagerly took turns filling in stories and opinions that helped formed the warp and weft of a tapestry that each of us had spent 48 years in the making

.
It wasn’t long before Julia’s husband Charles arrived home from his job in London and as soon as we met, the intuition I'd had that the two of us would get along swimmingly was immediately confirmed. Charles has a wry and pervasive wit, and it's obvious from the outset that he’s one of those bodies of still water that runs inconceivably deep. Wine corks were soon extracted and dinner set steaming on the table, allowing us to relax and converse animatedly without distraction. After a few glasses of wine, the length of my day began to show a bit and I was soon off to bed. After changing into my distinctly Jane Eyre styled nightie, I burrowed ecstatically beneath the snow white duvet that topped my bed, flouting the cold air which came as part of my authentic 17th century lodgings package. Julia had been kind enough to install the distinctly 21st century convenience of an electric heating pad under the sheets, so my little nest was warm and cozy. There in my bower above the kitchen, I could hear the whistling of the wind outside my windows as I drifted off into a deep and contented slumber.