Wagga Wagga to Worcestershire & back again
I had the privlege of attending my first English wedding at the weekend. Adam’s mum got remarried and it so lovely to be a part of the celebrations.
Whenever I think about an English wedding, it’s always Four Weddings and Funeral that comes to mind. Historic stone churches, top hats and tails and a young Hugh Grant. This wedding was a little different. There was no church, no men in fancy hats (but there were a few ladies in fabulous fascinators!) and no Hugh. It was refreshingly real.
I can remember quite a few years ago getting totally engrossed in the Facebook photo album of a university acquaintance who was living and working in London. There were dozens of pictures of holidays abroad in exotic European locations and I admit, I was a little envious.
Years later and a post a move to the U.K. myself, I’m beginning to understand how she was doing it: there are relatively small distances you have to travel to reach Europe and a highly competitive budget airline industry. It totally makes sense, if you’re smart with your money you can travel, and travel often.
Oh what a difference a week can make. Last week Adam and I were sipping sangria under sunny blue skies in Gibraltar. Over the weekend we’ve watched flurries of snow showers from our kitchen window, whilst warming our hands on big mugs of coffee.
It still seems a bit magical to me that you can wake up one morning and have one type of weather, jump on a plane or train or in a car, and suddenly be in a place completely opposite to where you were. It’s why I guess so many people get wanderlust.
If you’re looking for somewhere sunny, with amazing views and a mix of English, Spanish and north African cultures, Gibraltar could be the place for you.
Adam and I have just returned from a three day, two night stay in the British Overseas Territory. We went on a whim swayed by cheap flights and a few people did raise their eyebrows at our plans. Gibraltar, at the tip of the Iberian Peninsula, has a bit of a reputation as being a jaded 1970s family resort destination. Sure it’s still full of English tourists, but if you dig a little deeper and take the time to learn a little about this city and its incredible history, you’ll probably be pleasantly surprised.
It’s been grey and drizzly over the last few weeks but on Saturday the sun finally came out and stuck around all day! It was the perfect way to start a long weekend. Adam and I are currently in Gibraltar (more on that later this week!), but is there anything better than a bright, cool winter’s day? The clouds, haze and woodsmoke from cosy fireplaces gets swept away to reveal a landscape in muted but rich colour.
A couple of weeks ago Adam and I sat aside a few days in February for a mini-break. Our first getaway in the Lake District (read about it here and here) seemed a distant memory and we were itching to go exploring again.
Due to only having three days spare we decided a city break was the best option. We found super cheap flights to Gibraltar (£35 return!) and booked an Airbnb apartment right in the city centre.
Adam celebrated a birthday over weekend so we’ve spent the last few days stretching out festivities, instead of trying to cram it all into one 24 hour period.
As I wrote out a soppy card for him last week, I began to think about how interesting it’s been seeing Adam back in his ‘native territory’ over the last few months. Most people who travel (including Adam) will happily tell you the experience is life changing. The person you were when you left isn’t always the same as when you return.
When you move to a new place it takes time to settle in. You don’t instantly know where the best place is to do grocery shopping or buy a nice coffee, but after a little while you start to find your way around. Things that previously seemed challenging or that made you second-glance or stare in awe, suddenly become normal.
When I worked as a journalist in south-western New South Wales one of my favourite things to do while driving long, straight roads for hours at a time was to look out for the names of farms. The name seemed to the give the property a personality and I liked the concept of the land almost becoming a member of the family.
What I’ve found in England and particularly Malvern, is that names aren’t just reserved for farms. Many suburban houses have names, often dating back centuries. Houses are sometimes named after the family that originally lived in the home or the surrounding landscape. I also love that mail is addressed to the house name. It isn’t 16 Smith Street, rather ‘Valley View Cottage’, 16 Smith Street. Perhaps it’s the daydreamer in me, but I just think that’s utterly delightful.
There are so many different types of name plaques too: painted ceramic slabs adorning house fronts, wrought iron signs on gates, wooden plaques, sandstone etchings or sometimes the name’s just simply painted on the side of the house.
I’ve always wanted to live in a house that has a name. The house Adam and I are living in does – so it’s a bit of a dream come true! Our downstairs neighbours even have a beautifully painted watercolour of the original house before it was split into three separate apartments.
I’ve been lucky enough to do a bit of travel, but I must admit I’ve never really noticed en masse houses with names anywhere except the U.K. Does your house have a name? What is it, and do you know the story behind it?!
I will always love fresh flowers in the house. There’s an element of simplicity and sophistication that blooms seem to capture. Like when someone compliments your outfit and you reply ‘Oh, this old thing?!’. Flowers are grown-up and pretty, without really trying. They just are.
House plants though, I’ve never really had an affinity for. To me, they remind me of Australian suburbia circa 1994. Palms and Calla lilies in sturdy rectangular cane planter boxes, on beige linoleum floors quietly wilting in the summer heat. Meant to look all tropical and fresh, but instead looking droopy, brown and dry. Or even better, the fabric, plastic variety of house plant that sort of look reals from afar but when you get close up is covered in dust and spiderwebs. Yuck!
After a couple of mega Pinteresting sessions though, I’m slowly starting to reconsider the humble house plant. I’ve been quietly lusting over images of kitchens and sitting rooms, neutrally decorated in whites, greys and navy with hints of greenery. Tendrils of leaves, tumbling oh-so-perfectly from cute pots sat on open shelving surrounded by pretty mugs and copper saucepans.
I bought by accident a house plant the other week. Adam was making a lamb dish that needed mint leaves. There were no small packets of fresh mint leaves available, so I picked up a mint plant instead. We’d had a relatively successful herb garden when we lived in Wagga Wagga and had talked about doing something similar in England but due to the season hadn’t bothered with it yet. I found a little bowl and sat it in front of the window near our kitchen sink.
Over the weekend while visiting Adam’s grandparents, I clumsily knocked over a house plant making a lovely mess of soil on the cream carpet. While cleaning it all up, I noticed the plant had a few ‘extra bits’ of greenery in its pot. I learnt it was a spider plant and Granny told me every house should have one. She sent me home with one of the ‘extra bits’, which I’ve since learnt are called spiderettes (!), and told me to put it in some water until its roots grow.
The spider plant is now living beside the mint. They look ever so nice, sitting in our yellow kitchen. Instead of being outdated and naff, they almost feel like company when you’re standing at the sink washing dishes. Also, on cold drizzly days when the fog doesn’t lift I like the little reminder of the outdoors, indoors.
I won’t say I’m a convert when it comes to house plants… but for now the two in our home are staying! Do you have house plants? What can you recommend? – Suggestions on what does well in grey English weather would be appreciated!
Wattle and Ash 