Wagga Wagga to Worcestershire & back again
Earlier this year I compiled a list of ‘English things’ I was hoping to do over the course of 2017. I confess I haven’t been pursuing my list with a terrible amount of vigour, but the other weekend I did tick another item off:
100: Drink traditional cider
It all happened at a little get-together called West Fest…
Last week I got a Facebook message from Australian friend Kerri, who’s currently holidaying around the U.K., about a delicious asparagus and wild garlic soup she’d eaten. Intrigued and inspired, especially by some of the images of wild garlic that are appearing on my Instagram feed, I went out in search of some the plants myself.
Adam and I played host to our first visitors from Australia late last week. Kerri and Adrian have been friends with my parents for years – the sort of people in your life you can never remember not knowing.
They’ve been in Italy, Malta and England on a lovely long holiday and made the time to spend the day in Malvern with us.
A few weeks ago during a bout of absolutely gorgeous spring weather (read more here!) Adam and I got invited to our first barbecue of the year.
It was in the nearby village of Welland, just outside of Malvern. It normally only takes us 10 minutes or so to drive to Welland from the house Adam and I live in, so instead of taking the car we decided we’d make use of the local public footpath network and walk.
After months of patiently waiting and a few false alarms, I can now accurately report the annual bluebell show has started here in Malvern.
I saw my first glimpse of bluebells en masse over the Easter long weekend when Adam and I went camping in the Cotswolds. It was a pretty magical sight – a sea of tiny purple-blue flowers under a canopy of the sweetest smelling pine trees.
The day after we arrived home, Adam and I took to the Malvern Hills to see if a similar sprouting of wildflowers had occurred. We were in luck.
“Whan the sunne shinth make hay. Whiche is to say.
Take time whan time cometh, lest time steale away.”
There’s one thing that I’ve noticed time and time again since moving to England – its residents well and truly embrace good weather. Australia on the whole can generally expect a good few months of clear, warm sunny days every year. Sometimes it’s great, sometimes it’s not (like when it leads to a drought), but that period of delicious, it’s-good-to-be-alive sort of weather is pretty much expected. In fact sometimes the poor ol’ Aussie can get a bit grumpy and peeved off if the sun doesn’t come out for a few days.
Here in the U.K. though the weather’s a little more unstable and a lovely sunrise can quickly disappear into a drizzly morning, then a cool and cloudy afternoon, before clearing again in the evening. That’s why when the sun does shine over consecutive days, people get out and enjoy it.
The weather is warmer, the days are longer and all of sudden Adam and I have the urge to garden. I’ve been picking flowers from our little patch of green for a good few weeks now. I enjoy wandering around spotting what’s coming to life and picking out what species I recognise. It feels like every time I go for a look something new has started to flower, or a plant I didn’t notice during the winter is suddenly bursting with new leaves.
While Adam appreciates having fresh flowers in the house, it’s the practical plants that get his heart racing. We picked up some pots of fresh herbs, specifically rosemary, mint and thyme, when we did the grocery shopping last week and they’re now sitting proudly at the window that’s in front of our kitchen sink.
I could tell yesterday was going to be a good day, even before I got out of bed. There was a bright glint creeping in behind the closed curtains and the birds outside were chirping their happy little songs.
The morning was cool and clear and beams of sunlight were falling in just the right places, giving the landscape outside of the windows that magical warm weather feel. Adam and I had decided a few days earlier we’d go for a lovely long walk on Sunday, and it was like Mother Nature was rewarding us for our decision.
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?!
Wattle and Ash 