By way of explanation, I have been back in the UK admiring No. 1 Son's graduation and his work to which, unashamedly, there is a link on this blog. Coming back to the familiar always makes life here stand out in contrast. For one thing, I notice that even though Luxembourg is a busy city, it is by no means as hectic as London or as frantic as Bournemouth. I am becoming quite the provincial cousin. Highlights of the recent visit also included visits to friends and family in the South and no less than four sea encounters. Dearly Beloved is quite jealous and so we are currently plotting a trip to Edinburgh in August and to the French Mediterranean in September to top up our wave count.
But before that took place, I was time travelling: to the 1970's and to the Middle Ages.
Back to the 1970's then with the Anglican Church Fete, held in the ground of the beautiful home where I once had Easter Lunch. Why the '70's? For no better reason than it just felt like it - atmosphere and weather mainly -with great British resolve, we battled the elements of the wettest windiest weekend this season, even though we feared for our our lives as tents broke free from their mooriongs and flapped angrily past into the apple trees.Once safely contained, they continued to wreak their vengeance on us in a way I thought to be particularly cunning and spiteful. As the rainwater collected in the canopies, they conspired with freak gusts of wind to discharge their load over the edge and onto to the produce, the tables and onto this particular stallholder. When the sun broke through it was hot and the field of damp grass, gazebos and cagoules steamed mystically lending an ethereal air to this event.
The format of the Church fete has changed very little from my recollections of the old days with the home produce stall besieged by guilty faced dieters and sticky fingered children. The Bottle tombola was soon cleared of all its stock, not long after a five year old boy won the 10 year old brandy with the first, and his only, ticket. "Take it to Mummy", urged the stallholder, "I am sure she'll need it, over there on the plant stand."
Tea was served, regrettably similar to the weak lukewarm offerings I recall from the seventies. But I adjusted my time traveller's waterproofs and reckoned it was all to do with weather disturbance caused by my time distorting travel. But the distortion may have ben caused by my own intake of mind changing substances as a dear, kind and beautiful friend took one look at my worried confused frown and said :"Oh dear! You need a cremant" and within minutes I was restored.
There were sack races and egg and spoon races, Dad's races and Mum's races. There was a dog show with judges so it was all serious stuff. Though I did spot the chaplains' dog, newly washed,brushed, and tartan ribboned, rolling ecstatically in the muddy puddle created by the petulant gazebo. And he won second place, so the standard to be reached was much tempered by the circumstnaces. It is very bedraggling, time travel.
After all my scathing comments in previous blogs about "brocante" it, of course, fell to Dearly Beloved and me to run the White Elephant (which, as all the translators here will tell you, is 70's speak for "Brocante"). Much had been given of which little was expected. Half a barn's ( and 8000 steps') worth of boxes of "stuff" was transported from barn to field, displayed, haggled over, wrapped in wet newspaper, and then the remaining 90% was transported back again. Some nice pieces of Villeroy and Boch, a wet and dry cleaner and pretty cups and saucers were probably the better items on sale along with a set of KLM Dutch houses and got snapped up. And the obligatory foot spa? We sold it!!!
Soon to come: a day in the Middle Ages...
