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Published: September 13th 2006
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You don’t appreciate what an ancient country England is until you head to the countryside, where you can stop measuring time in terms of centuries and start counting the millennia. Lenny leads us on a tour of sites that pre-date the Romans - massive burial mounds, cryptic stone circles, memorials to men who never even made it into the history books. In Avebury we visit a stone circle that - as locals take pains to note - was already gathering dust by the time some Neolithic stoner dreamed up Stonehenge. There are sheep nuzzling the rocks and little kids running rampant over the site. Lenny’s getting riled up again; she suspects it’s a matter of time before someone ropes the place off and charges admission. It sounds like as good a money-making scheme as any, and I admit that if I could figure out the tax implications of setting up a toll booth abroad, I’d probably be first in line to cash in.
There’s an antiques shop beside the ruins. The owner - a tall, dignified gent with white hair swept behind his ears - greets us at the door. He’s wearing a polyester shirt and brown trousers and thick
woolen socks on his shoeless feet. He rocks back and forth on his heels, making small talk with Lenny about the weather. They share hopes for an Indian summer, recalling Septembers and Octobers past. It’s a muggy afternoon, and he says - with a twinkle in his eye - that he might go outside to do a rain dance on the stones. Quick as a cloud-break the old guy loosens up, tugging at his shirt sleeves and beginning, “You know, the thing about Avebury…”
Apparently, there are plenty of things about Avebury we didn’t know. This guy’s a regular fount of local wisdom, from who uncovered the first of the ancient stones to the color of the vicar’s drawers. He makes small gestures with his hands, like an old-time huckster selling snake oil, rattling off facts about the town. He pauses now and then to suck in a great mouthful of air. It’s a recital he’s probably given 10,000 times in his life, and he makes scrupulous use of the store - now drawing our attention to a picture on the wall, now to a landmark out the window.
It’s a virtuoso performance, though not enough to
convince Lenny to plunk down 40 quid on a pair of second-hand earrings. As we’re leaving his wife bursts through the door; from the look of things, she has a profitable side-racket leading tours around town. A bunch of lanky, disinterested Brazilians wander in behind her. One points a camcorder at the teapots and cutlery and faded carpeting. A pretty young girl is holding up a bracelet, turning it to catch the light.
In Swindon we pop in on Greg’s younger brother, who’s just bought his own flat. Terry meets us out in the hall and warns about fresh paint; he has Greg’s ruddy face and greets me with a casual, “Alright, mate?” His friends are inside helping him paint. Dan, a bald, brawny biker with tattoo work and a goatee, sits cross-legged on a folding chair. He’s drinking a cup of tea and commenting on the red elements in the living-room scheme. Gayle - a busty blonde in a Hustler tank-top - is pulling a leather jumpsuit over her shapely legs. Her motorcycle is out front; she has to go walk a neighbor’s dogs.
Terry shows us around. He has ideas for the flat, but so
far hasn’t gotten much further than a pile of very expensive gadgets. He points proudly to the windows. “I’ve added me own touches, like with the curtains,” he says.
“It makes it your own, doesn’t it?” says Dan, dabbing at the wall.
Outside the brothers discuss improvements to Greg’s van. Terry looks it over with the eye of a master craftsman. He knocks about behind the wheel and asks technical questions. Even with the paint from the new flat fresh on his shirt, there’s a touch of envy in his voice. Greg is beaming all the way to Eton.
We’re in time to see the boys from the famous school breaking up after the day’s classes. In their long flapping coats and smart, buttoned-up shirts, they seem to defy the commonly held belief that Victorian England died with Victoria. Their faces are flush with self-congratulation; you wouldn’t imagine pre-teens looking so downright jaunty. Years ago they might’ve had a cush appointment in the British Raj to look forward to; today, groomed for cameo spots on ITV’s “Young, Posh and Loaded,” the future looks every bit as brilliant.
The light over the city, spun
from gold thread, lends these fresh faces a royal air. Tramping back to the car, I can’t help but feel a bit scrubby. We stop to watch a somber old couple feeding ducks on the Thames. A pack of belligerent swans looks like it’s trying to pick a fight. On the way back to London we get stuck in rush-hour traffic, and we’ve finished off the last of the biscuits as we get to Peckham Rye.
Lenny’s in a frenzy as I pack the next morning: the photographer is coming by in an hour to snap pictures for the estate agent, and the place looks more or less how we left it four days ago. We Hoover and mop and stuff stray duvets into the cabinets; Greg gets down on his knees to scrub the tub. I try to find a balance between being helpful and being in the way, but mostly I’m a miserable failure. Lenny shoos me out the door as she heads for the shower, and I decide to seek out one last culinary adventure before leaving England behind.
I don’t have to go very far. Around the corner from Lenny’s is a rough little shop with greasy tiles and large, terrible vats behind the counter. For the better part of a week, Lenny and Greg have impressed upon me the need - in the name of scrupulous research - to try a jellied eel. I’m suspicious from the start. Apart from the fact that they say it with impish grins, it’s common knowledge that the word “jellied” has as much a place in the cooking lexicon as “palsied” or “reamed.” It doesn’t help matters when the women behind the counter both wrinkle their noses at my request.
Fortunately, they’re fresh out of the suckers: as damning an indictment of English eating habits as any. I settle on the traditional pie and mash, raising the stakes with a generous dollop of “liquor.” Improbably described to me as being “like pasta sauce,” it has the look, taste and texture of Sunday brunch at Abu Ghraib. It’s when I’m liberally pouring vinegar over the pie that I realize I’ve been in England far too long. At Lenny’s place there are drawn-out and tearful goodbyes. We make promises to reunite within six-months’ time - in London or Lisbon, in Paris or Prague - and it’s not until I’m tramping down the carpet at Stansted that it sinks in: I’m on my way to Spain.
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