It’s time for Whimsy On A Wednesday where I arrive back in style with a journey into country life

It must be a good few months since I’ve been in the blogosphere but that’s because I’ve been moving on up, moving on out, time to break free, nothing can stop me…

Marmalade Adventures

Moving house is just…ugh. Let me tell you, it whacks all the whimsy out of you for weeks. What a bloody ordeal. I have very nearly packed up my knapsack and set off tramping like a nomad. Who needs a house anyway? But this is my usual go-to – if I don’t like it, I sod off. But then I remembered how much I like comfy beds, hot showers, and Netflix. 

I got rid of a load of stuff before I moved only to find that wasn’t enough. I went into a minor panic followed by denial and then utter rage until I finally learned to let go. I made the charity shops Christmases all come at once when I deposited half the contents of my house on them. Then the energy shifted and things began to work. The flow flowed and my rancid inners became less acidic. Slowly, over these last weeks, I have started to find my groove with the move.

Barking Right Up My Street

It’s taken me a while to get my head around moving into a village. People in villages still have pitchforks and if you cough at one end of the street by the time you reach the other end everyone is talking about you having pneumonia. Not a fan of that kind of thing. I like to keep myself to myself. 

I met the neighbours. One of them had a garden party. Their garden is exquisite. They are quiet people.

The other side is very pleasant but not in your face. I like that. Let’s be on waving terms and the occasional nod. How terribly British. Then, up the drive at the side of my wall live some ex-lawyers, who came to say hello. My wolfit, Tex, smelt that danger, launched himself at the old bricks and told them quite clearly that HE is the law. What a way to introduce yourself.

A few days later, because I dared to leave the abode to have a look around, my largest wolfit decided, for the first time in his life, to try and come and find me. He jumped the gate and began loping up and down the main village street. Within minutes I’d made it to the village FB page where posts of a werewolf on the loose were being reported. Like I said, I don’t go into things gently. Whoever didn’t know me before certainly do now and that might explain why they cross the road – It’s her! – big dogs, big truck, big gob!

Needless to say, I’ve had a few fence quotes to heighten my wall.  These are the sorts of snags one tends to find in a new dwelling.

Activity Schedule

I like the essence of the village. It’s very floral, having won awards for being the best dressed and it’s very well organised. There’s a beautiful old church (and a parish council) a stream (that leaks) a village hall (and idiots) farms (farmers making gun noises)  bats, horses, a private gym, an art club, tennis courts, a book exchange, a manor, a hall, a tiny shop /post office, and most importantly, two winning pubs. (I saved the best ‘till last)

Naturally, I have painstakingly taken one for the team and sampled the pub breakfast, lunch, dinner, pub quiz and sticky 13’s. I can report with honesty that it’s rather good.  I already have a loyalty card for the pub closest to me which gives me a 10% discount on all purchases. Nice. 

The next event I will be attending will be the Summer Fair. For some reason, I think I saw a “Western theme” mentioned on the poster as I passed it. If that is the case, I think I might make it to the FB page again when I roll up in my Texan get-up. I’d like to take bets at this point on how long you think it will be before I get ousted and run out of the village. It’s only a matter of time before they rumble my piratey ways and ship me off to the seaside. 

Let Me See Your Wares!

Villages throughout England have this thing every year called “Open Gardens” People who are very green-fingered undo their back gate and let the great unwashed in. Their backyards are tromped around as neighbours covet their gorgeous flora and perfectly manicured lawns.

I went to one a few weeks ago in the neighbouring village. 

Each garden will make you realise that the two hanging baskets and trough you proudly put outside your house are utter twee, common-as-muck rubbish and you need to get a land designer, darling. 

Some people can make chaos look like a dream.

Obviously, all these gardens offer tea in china cups, scones, Prosecco and raspberry lemonade. All for a cost, of course, to support a local charity.

Naturally, there’s always a Pimm’s tent raking in a killing because you can’t go to a British fair without necking a Pimm’s and lemonade and saying loudly, “God, I needed that!”  This is probably the only time you have a Pimms and lemonade and you then vow to get some in for your summer barbecues. Naturally, you promptly forget to do this because you’ve had too many Pimm’s and too much sun and only remember again when you attend the next village fete. 

These events also have something else going on like acrobats, dog trainers, or tractors. This one had classic cars coming out of the garages which you could look at on someone’s vast estate whilst picking at a nearby dairy-farm ice cream with a wooden spoon.

You wander around making noises like, “Hmmm,” or “Oooh!” and people don’t know if you’re referring to the cars or the delicious naughty treat. Nobody cares, like I said, it’s way past Pimm’s ‘o’clock. 

After several hours, a burnt forehead from a sunny day, flushed cheeks, and a significant number of steps clocked up on your Fitbit you turn to your posse and say, “Well we definitely walked that off!”  You wander back to your own, non-classic car with aching feet wondering how some of these people make this much money, and then drive home with a pair of arses in your face.

Village life. Will I make it?