Local Flavour

There is nothing like attending a local event that reminds you how life can be very different from your own--and not in a bad way, just dissimilar. The Chale Show on the Isle of Wight has been been taking place for over 80 years, and boasts the Island's biggest horticultural display. I have done my share of local "events" having spent 12 years living in the very rural area of southern New Jersey before moving to London; there was even a rodeo, and the well-attended annual chili cook-off along with festivals for the peach harvest including a contest for Little Miss Peach; one year I was tempted to enter Mirepoix! 

I had never, though, seen a collie herd ducks. I'd certainly never seen so many prize hens! I've had more than a few tractors amble down the road behind my southern New Jersey home, where the corn and peaches were piled high in wooden crates being brought to the nearest distribution center.New Jersey is the Garden State, after all!

No, this was definitely the first time I'd experienced vintage steam engines and vintage tractors, an array of floral displays in different creative vases--a Heinz beans can or a teapot--and the largest imaginable cabbage, leek, and turnip, all in one place.

I'm not making fun--it was an interesting and eclectic mix of tents and events. There was in fact a posh wine tent where at the end of the day Tim and I were offered tastings of unusual wines from small houses across the globe. My favourite was a red blend from Romania, served slightly chilled with a wonderful fruit-forward taste and lovely, soft finish.

And yes, I was a bit surprised at the winning entries on display, like the four potatoes, one variety, that one first prize--displayed on a plain white paper plate, there is no doubt something that caught the judges' keen eyes that mine failed to recognise.

We wandered into the Chale Show having spent some part of the afternoon meandering in nearby Wroxall to walk through Appuldurcombe House, a national heritage site. While exploring the ruins of the 16th century house, we also found ourselves walking the grounds looking for--and alas, not finding--red squirrels, which the ticket person told us were nesting in nearby trees. The red squirrel is the only native squirrel species on the Isle, but somewhere along the line, perhaps unknowingly, the American grey squirrel was introduced and the numbers have dwindled. While they get along, the grey variety breeds a disease that will kill the red but not the grey squirrel, and red squirrels also don't breed as often. I have yet to see a red squirrel but for photographs.

 The afternoon continued with a visit to the local owl and falconry centre, where Tim and I were treated to low-flying owls (one of which grazed Tim's ear as it flew toward its post behind him), a beautiful American bald eagle called Cherokee, a peregrine falcon, and some buzzards, all flying, swooping for food, and showing off to the small crowd's delight at the command of the falconer, who was really quite knowledgeable, funny, and clearly in love with his job. It was clear why.

I must say it was a wonderful afternoon, with lovely warm sun, clear blue skies, and no place to be but wherever we wound up--which is how we wound up in Chale! The following Sunday we took another short car journey to Newchurch to take in the Garlic Festival, only to find a lot of the same craft tents, music, and, posh wine booth! I'll admit I was slightly disappointed in the number of food stalls hawking garlic goods--I was hoping to try garlic everything, but had to settle for some butter, a few chutneys, and assorted other odd bits and bobs. I went there hungry and left there the same way, and didn't even spot the garlic ice cream stand.

And the next IoW adventure? Well, it may be a small island, yet there are a lot of places we've yet to visit on the Isle of Wight . . . and Maggie, our faithful sputtering Peugeot, seems up for the challenge as long as we don't mind the occasional burst when she finds the right gear between 40 and 50 mph. It still makes us laugh. It's the little things.

Sports and Social

I didn’t try very hard to get tickets to the Olympics—all my friends and colleagues had stories of frustration and disappointment with the online site, and I thought it would be quite enough to be in the host city and experience the vibe—though I secretly did want to get a glimpse in the Olympic park.

 As luck would have it, Tim was offered tickets by his friend David, a fellow sailor who is currently working in America but had successfully obtained tickets to the sailing event in Weymouth. OK, it ain’t Stratford, home of the Olympic stadium, but I was still going to be a part of the action. Having not been to Weymouth, it had an added attraction, though I couldn’t imagine how much actual sailing we’d see from the mound called the Nothe (for £35 per ticket, or $55).

There were surprises all around that day. We got to see quite a bit of marvellous sailing—from our vantage point on the grassy hill all the 49ers and Lasers had to pass nearby to round a mark several times. Tim and I also chose a spot on the Nothe that had an excellent view of the big screen so that we could keep track of how “Big Ben” Ainsle was doing in his Finn race, which was just in sight but too far in the distance to distinguish which boat was his. (Footnote: this was the day Ben was “angry” and moved into gold medal contention, even if it was just a heat!)

The racing was exciting—there was good wind for the small sail boats, and the one-man Lasers and two-man 49ers were fast and raced close to each other, particularly as they rounded the marks. Tim, ever the vexillologist, could spot the countries easily by their flags prominently displayed on the sail. I needed help—with the monocular for vision and also with flag interpretation; fortunately for me the sail also held the abbreviation of the country of origin in large letters.

 We whooped when USA and GBR passed the mark nearest us, getting most of the crowd joining in for Team GB and the occasional smattering of applause from another American (I counted two in addition to me) when the US sails rounded the buoy.

It was brilliant, truly wonderful afternoon, and I must say the area where the event was held was well planned—good food, plenty of facilities, and big screens under huge tents for those who needed to get out of the sun but still wanted to see the action. Girls with ice creams in refrigerated boxes strapped to them and boys with cider and beer in large canvas bags roamed the grassy hill as best as they could find footing, though most people seemed to head up to the bar for plastic pitchers of Pimms to bring back to their blankets. Security was not onerous—everyone’s bags were checked, and the young man who checked our tickets got a chuckle at Tim and me wearing competing country logos—I assured him no fighting would break out!

At the end of the sailing races we took a stroll to the Fort, which I must say was a bit old-fashioned—the plastic model tanks were of 99-cent quality, and the posed mannequins were all a bit, well, 1960s. (I suspect there’s not a lot of effort or money available to go toward upkeep, and I’m probably being overly critical.) We also took a walk along the harbour—I wanted to spend a little more time in Weymouth, and because it was such a lovely day I fancied finding a spot outdoors to have a quaff and enjoy just being there. We literally had to walk all the way down the main street, the last pub on the strip, to find a place to sit outdoors despite there being several spots along the route—the town was heaving!

I would like to return to Weymouth when it’s a bit less crowded and wander through some of the shops and side streets; it seemed lovely in the short period of time we spent there, worthy of a second look. I had to laugh when I remember that our journey from the train station to the ticketed area site for the sailing—about 25 minutes—was set out for us, both on maps that were distributed and with the Games Makers volunteers directing our path—through the high street passing the local shops rather than the most direct route along the Esplanade. Fair enough; it was likely a very good two weeks for Weymouth, and they did well to host us.

Back in London and trying to see as much as I could on the Beeb (aka the BBC), I have to admit it was incredibly exciting to watch! Mo Farah, Usain Bolt, Jessica Ennis, Michael Phelps, Ryan Lochte, etc. I may not be a fan of television, but I have always been a sports fan, and I likely watched more television in the last two weeks than I have in the past year! Since there’s no TV at the IoW house Tim and I had to find a good viewing position at one of the pubs on the High Street—mainly the Pier View but also The Fountain. It was quite fun to watch with a crowd of others, some of whom picked up my American accent and made comments about athletes (Phelps is incredible) or commentators who particularly impressed them. (Michael Johnson was one of the BBC commentators, and he was quite good.)

One of the laugh-out-loud pub moments was just after the Americans won gold for basketball (and I was, coincidentally, proudly wearing my USA tee) it was followed by . . . rhythmic gymnastics. Brightly-painted girls in sparkly, equally bright garb pranced with hoops and ribbons on the gymnastics floor. I’ll admit, it did seem a bit incongruous. There were some athletic moves, to be sure, but the mostly-male crowd at the pub questioned aloud the validity of the “sport” as an Olympic event—and spent a good part of the beginning laughing before simply dismissing it and returning to their sailing talk. It’s not a new event—rhythmic gymnastics has been part of the Olympics since 1984 when the games were held in Los Angeles. I haven’t quite decided myself if it belongs in the same arena as the pentathlon . . . but the same can be said for other Olympic events. I had a friend at lunch today say that she could not believe that golf would be added in four years, and, what is beach volley ball all about? I just smiled at her—everyone is entitled to his/her opinion!

Now that the main event of the Olympics is over, it’s all gone a bit quiet in London, as public transport is  crowded, workers head back to the office, and everything returns to normal.  Everyone is still talking about it, though, and the newspapers have pages and pages of articles and photographs. It was huge for London, a real boost to its reputation, even if the city didn’t make the list of the top ten cities in the world to live. (Somehow Canada and Australia had six of ten cities between them . . . perhaps my next move!)

With the “main event” over, I am still looking forward to a trip to the Olympic park—my friend Kelly has offered me a ticket to see one of the swimming events at the Paralympics in early September. So, I get my wish after all to stroll through the park where champions roamed. I think that will be one of those days I cherish for a very long time. In four years, I sure have amassed a lot of those days. Lucky me.