The Marvelous (English) Midlands

The land of the legendry Robin Hood not far away, the north central midlands stretches as a sleepy child, verdant finery appearing with some reticence this year. I’ve dodged showers the weather as fickle as the season cool in shade barely warmed by sun breaks.




The Dove Dale is relatively narrow as it wends its way into the hills. Tumbles of rock in cascade decorate the hillside at interval, spring wildflowers sway in the breeze. Rain clouds at temporary bay, the sky is painted with artists oil masterwork, a symphony of whites grays and lavenders scudding across the sky.

Grass nibbled short by sheep, the areas in perimeter to the river manicured as if a team of gardeners attend it.




Litchfield’s grand cathedral looks menacing as an approaching marauder, stonework set in relief by years of tarnish.




The interior mirrors the grandeur King’s College Chapel of Cambridge; just as beautiful though much more accessible.




The people of England take the beauty of their hundreds of years of architectural heritage in stride much as we yanks do our heart stopping natural vistas.

The Duke of Devonshire will host Tudor days over the long bank holiday weekend. Riding field set with various equestrienne jumps and the appearance of tents tell the tale. Sweeping gardens with gravity persuaded fountainery lead through gardens to the massive house.




One idyllic if somewhat melancholy statuary woman walks across the lawn.


Narrow winding streets of Bakewell tempt the stroller to partake in their namesake tart. Sweet almond paste moistens the confection classically named after the village; other varieties tempt multiple indulgence.




This area is dotted with old millworks along its many rivers; the power of water having been harnessed for centuries to produce many goods dispersed via the network of canals that crisscrosses the tranquil countryside.




Best enjoyed visually, I leave you with some of the sights of this bucolic area of England….

Arrival in UK - An Enchanting Spring

Two hours delayed, the 777 touched down at Heathrow, familiar squeal of rubber on runway adding the full stop to our ten hours in the air. Back in the UK, I drew in my first lungful of stale terminal air hoping against hope it might contain a waft of slightly burnt coffee mixed with taxi diesel. Over a year since my last visit, I felt as a child separated from her mother never quite knowing whether to recoil or rejoice at the reunion. In my usual state of jet lagged surrealism, I made my way to baggage reclaim, onto the tube and wound through the streets from the Piccadilly Line’s Russell Square station to my usual roost on Gower Street. The B&B mistress Mrs. Reese had her cheery welcome, nearly two year old granddaughter clinging to her hand. She was an infant last I saw her, now a merry little toddler obviously the apple of her gran’s eye.

One pint and a steak lunch at my favorite local (pub) Marlborough Arms had done nothing but further my anesthetization. Collapsing onto the pink tufted bedspread in my cozy little room, I fought the urge to sleep checking e-mails and listening to the repetitive onslaught of traffic below as cabs and busses rushed past metered by traffic lights at the end of the block. Waking in a jerk, I realized I’d missed the opportunity to go out to dinner with my web mistresses sister; my assistant surely having a grand time of it with her at the Thai restaurant. Just down the way. Tomorrow,I mumbled allowing the undertow of sleep to pull me into its embrace once more.

After a proper English breakfast of eggs, grilled tomato, bacon and toast I did my usual tour of the west end snapping photos of Trafalgar Square, Whitehall, the Thames and Covet Garden as I soaked in the ambience of my favorite city in the world.










There is a life about this place that exists nowhere else in the world. It is the crossroads of the western world. Along any given city block you might expect to hear languages from around the world spoken by tourists and residents alike.

Five o’clock rolled around, my second chance to dine with Kathryn not to be missed. We ate overlooking one of the narrow side streets just off of Tottenham Court Road. Late spring ushers in lengthy days and the sunlight remained well past nine as we made our way back to her flat in the cloisters of an old church. Two flat mates and four bottles of wine later, we’d laughed our way through hours of conversation. She is fortunate enough to room with men of substance; one a solicitor (lawyer), the other a financial analyst.




Both young and brilliant, they were the perfect mix of entertaining wit and cultural knowledge one might hope for when visiting a foreign country.

Each return to Britain is like an infusion of culture and place reminding me why I am drawn to write about these people and their beautiful island. I traveled to the heart of England by bus and rental car, arriving at my Scotsman’s lovely cottage. He made a wonderful salmon dinner as we caught up on each other’s lives over the past year. The worldwide recession and family setbacks have effected us both, yet the unbreakable ties of shared history and love of this place reinforces what is most important. Checking into a lovely rural country club set on acres or apple green grass and trees in new leaf, we listened to the rain against the window and cooked a chicken dinner this evening. He and my traveling partner are watching telly in the living room of the condo we share as I tap away on the keyboard and look forward to what this week shall bring---opportunity to explore a part of England I have not before and the joy of sharing it with two men I adore.