Dispatch #10In Which We Are Largely Idle, Except For a Bicycle Ride & Some Christmas Shopping
For the first time since we arrived, we had a pretty uneventful week. We spent most of the time in anticipation of our kids, Andrew and Elise, arriving on Sunday to celebrate Thanksgiving with us. A number of our students—and those from Missouri and New York—have family coming, too, so we’re looking forward to Thursday’s feast. The International Studies Department, as it has since the program began, is hosting the dinner, and we are all anxious to seeing how the Brits serve up an American meal. (There is no canned pumpkin in the country, but, luckily, a number of us asked our guests to pack a can, so we should have enough for a few pies.)

This is also the time when our students are preparing papers to be submitted to their instructors, and though it was suggested to them that they begin early, a good number let the time slip away and are now looking at long, sleepless nights. The British students in my class face an even more daunting task this term. They each have six classes and, as a result, must submit six major papers on the same day. This is the first term that first-year (freshmen) students like mine will have their grades decided entirely on the merit of papers rather than their writing plus a final exam. I am not sure I’m entirely sold on this pedagogy—especially given that the U.S. system incorporates a good deal of assessment during a semester rather than checking for understanding once at the end. But I’m trying to learn from the experience as much as possible and not be too skeptical; it could be that the papers I’ll receive in a week will be wonderful and profound and be a reasonable measure of the students’ accomplishments.

With the submission—and subsequent grading—of these final papers, it has occurred to both Beth and to me that our time here is growing short. We have, in fact, less than a month before we bid Canterbury adieu and board a plane for Illinois. Rather than lapse into nostalgia at this point, though, we are trying to use these last four weeks to do new things as well as to revisit some of the things we did and enjoyed. It was with that in mind that we decided to take another bicycle ride through the countryside, hoping that, this time, we would be better oriented to the landscape and could read the map more effectively than we did on our last outing. Chances were pretty good that we would not repeat our mistakes because Beth had already toured the country lanes a couple of times with guests, and, too, we have, over time, gotten a better sense of our surroundings.

So, on a cool and sunny Tuesday afternoon, we set out for the town of Bridge, a place I wanted to visit because they have an equestrian shop, and I thought I might be able to get Christmas presents for my “horsey” friends there. Rather than strike out in the wrong direction—which is what happened before—we went in the right direction, along city streets and, finally, onto a public byway. As we rode, it was clear that late autumn has settled in and that winter can’t be far behind. Farm fields are now plowed and bare, trees are nearly leafless, and the countryside, in general, has a washed-out quality we had not seen back in September. The hills had not changed, however, and we alternated for a couple of miles between lung-burning climbs and wild descents. The pathways are paved and in pretty good shape, but with the bright sunlight flashing through the trees as we flew downhill, it was hard to see the few potholes and buckled spots that threatened to unseat us. Luckily, neither of us took a spill, and we cruised into Bridge, found the shop, did a little shopping and then took to the bikes again.

Because it was such a perfect day, we decided to take a more roundabout way back to Canterbury. The first leg was a re-tracing of the route from Canterbury to Bridge, which took us through the little village of Patrixbourne. We stopped and took pictures of the church and of some of the cottages. Beth said that she couldn’t see moving to England to live in a city, but that she could easily settle in Patrixbourne. I had to agree. There is a peacefulness to the place and—to use a word I don’t much like but can find no other suitable replacement—a quaintness that seem to promise a life to match. But judging from the cars parked next to the homes (Mercedes, Jaguar, Porsche), the quaint and peaceful life is not cheap, so we pedaled on, knowing that we would not be spending our golden years in a vine-covered cottage here.

From Patrixbourne, we went toward Stodmarsh, a town we have visited two or three times, and then turned north to Fordwich, England’s Smallest Town. Along the way, we saw a sign for a farm shop and decided it might be fun to stop for some locally grown fruits and/or vegetables—one of the great treats of living in Kent County—but when we turned into the drive, we discovered the farm shop was part of Hewlett’s Wild Animal Farm, a kind of second-rate Busch Gardens (I guess; we only read the sign) that features gorillas (again guessing from the sign) and, presumably, other non-native wildlife. After tooling through the parking lot and discovering that the farm shop was closed and that there was no way we might glimpse a British primate in its natural habitat because of high wooden walls, we continued on to Fordwich.

As advertised, Fordwich is a tiny place, with two pubs and a church and a town hall. We stopped in at one of the pubs, The Fordwich Arms, where there was a fire going in the fireplace and a few of the regulars stood at the bar reading the newspaper and, occasionally commenting on the state of the world. We found a table next to the fire and had a pint of bitters. We don’t make a habit of mid-afternoon pub stops, but it’s easy to see why this is such a strong element in British culture. Some people, obviously, come to drink and can down three or four pints in short order, but most of the people do what we did, which is to nurse an ale for an hour or more and spend the time talking. Stopping for lunch is often a good idea, too, because some of the “pub grub” is among the best food we’ve had here. The sun was starting to get a little low in the sky by the time we finished our drinks—it’s setting now before 4 p.m.—so we hightailed it back to Canterbury.

Saturday was the only other day we did anything out of the ordinary. We had seen, in the free weekly paper, an advertisement for a Christmas Fair at the local leisure center—which is like a YMCA—and decided to go see if there were any gifts we might pick up. Sue, a secretary in the American Studies office, thought that it might include vendors from the continent because they were charging an admission fee, which made it sound even more likely that we would enjoy wandering around the stalls.

It did not take more than a few steps into the area where the vendors were set up to know that our hopes were going to be dashed. Rather than looking at Bavarian cuckoo clocks and Belgian lace and French whatever, we had, instead, wandered into a very American feeling flea market. There were old paperbacks and videotapes, clothes, knock-off Louis Vuitton bags and cheap jewelry. A few stands did feature handmade things, but it was mainly crocheted monkeys, soap and candles, a few wooden bowls. The only thing we found to buy were jars of marmalade and jams. We left with our Christmas spirit a little rattled, but not enough that it stopped us from heading to High Street, where we turned into shopping dervishes and got just presents for nearly everyone on our list. The major requirements were that the gift had to be flat or lightweight or, preferably, both. As we started for home, we heard someone talking over a loudspeaker on Palace Street, so we went to investigate where the local radio station was doing a remote broadcast and found out that the city’s Christmas lights were going to be lit that evening at 5 p.m..

So, at the appointed hour, that’s where we were, standing in the midst of happy Brits—some dressed up in odd, non-Christmas outfits (pirates, for example) and many armed with some kind of Star Wars light sabers (my second reference to this piece of American pop culture in two weeks!). When the lights finally went on, it was a bit anti-climactic—maybe we’re too used to American extravagance when it comes to Christmas decorations—but the crowd was genuinely charged with the spirit of the season, and many headed off in the direction of department stores and other shops singing along with the music blaring from the loudspeakers. We weren’t singing—or doing anymore shopping—but the cold night air and the families and the lights all served to remind us that Christmas is very nearly here.

First, though, is Thanksgiving. I’ll let you know how that goes in the next dispatch.