My Most Recent LOL Moment

Sometimes you can’t help but laugh out loud . . . and count yourself lucky at the same time.

Over a year ago Tim and I purchased aging but working “banana” bikes from one of our dear Cowes neighbours, Ray Bulman, for the princely sum of £50 for two, including the locks. The bikes are fine for local travel, but mine is the really old-style version: in order to stop, you pedal backwards. You DO remember those, yes? In fact my first bike was one of those. I can still remember riding up and down Lexington Avenue, and on warm summer days when it was still light out taking the round trip from Lexington Avenue, turning right on Kennedy Boulevard to Oxford Avenue and heading down that narrow street that didn’t get much traffic, then another right and a fast pedal on the not-so-safe Bergen Avenue before heading right down Lexington Avenue again. We’d lived on Lexington Avenue for years and most of the people who lived there with us, including the less savoury characters, knew us as the kids on the corner and let us be as we zipped by. (Well, all of us except my sister Debbie, not one to exactly “zip,” but I’ll save that for another time.)

Not mine, but very similar!

I had been looking to upgrade those bikes, mostly because I do love to cycle and the Isle has wonderful paths but you need a sturdy bike with good tyres and gears to handle the terrain. Previously we’d hired bikes from the local shop when we wanted to do more than just go up and down the seafront. I had been eyeing an ad in the Evening Standard for folding bikes, but they could only be delivered to the UK mainland and not the IoW; not a show-stopper, but a bit of a faff. Then there was an ad in the local IoW paper for two like-new folding bikes in Cowes for what was a reasonable sum. Tim contacted the seller and we arranged to meet, and at the appointed time we walked over to Fellowes Road to inspect them.

Forgiving the one tyre (it’s spelled that way here) that kept going flat, and the one hand brake that needed adjusting (which the seller promptly had a neighbour take care of), the two bikes were in good nick, and after a trial ride we decided to take them, the single broken reflector that could easily be glued back tucked into my pocket.

Stay with me, the laugh is coming . .  .

Thrilled with my purchase, we took the short cycle ride back to our place.

Pause. Yes, you read correctly that we had a flat tyre when first inspecting the bikes. The sellers didn’t have a pump, so Tim was going to walk back to our house to get our pump while I lingered on the sidewalk with Ellie (the seller) and her beau and chatted about her studies in veterinary nursing at uni. Not more than two minutes later Tim reappeared, a pump in hand that was not ours—in fact there was no way he could have been to our house and back that quickly. It turns out that he coincidentally saw someone on the next road with a pump in hand and asked if he could borrow it. Without hesitation the stranger handed it over, no questions asked. How can you not love the IoW?

New folding bikes now in our possession, next to consider was what to do with the old bikes. We offered them up to Ellie as she had a friend who recently had her bike stolen along with her colleague’s. They are members of the RNLI team who need to get to rescue quickly—their one-minute bike ride had suddenly turned into a four-minute sprint, and while that doesn’t sound like a lot of difference, trust me, it is a world of difference when you need to be rescued in The Solent.  We gave our address, Ellie had my mobile, and we waited until the next day, Sunday, to offload them in case we heard from Ellie’s friend Heather.

We did not. Tim remembered a charity shop not far away, and it was nearing lunch time, so we decided to make it an outing—we often have a cheap and cheerful lunch on Sundays after a long walk, and usually in a place with a view, to absorb every bit of the time we spend being near the seafront.

Right. To the shop, then.

Tim’s second question (after enquiring about where we’d have lunch): where’s the car key? The key is always placed in the same drawer in the house so that regardless of who needs it we always know where it is. The key, alas, is not in its place.

I remind Tim that when we were unloading the car the previous day of boat-related goods now that Coh Karek was in the water I needed to have an urgent break, and left the key for him to lock up—Maggie (aka The Blue Peugeot that Could) can be fidgety when you press the Lock button on the key, and will simply demand you open one of the doors and lock her the old-fashioned way. She’s just that kind of girl.

Having relived that moment, the thought occurred to me to look out the window of the kitchen, where the top of Maggie can easily be seen.

Sitting on top of the car roof. In plain sight. One entire day later. The key to the car.

Cue laughter. I do love the Isle of Wight.

Our parking area is a public walkway. Dozens of people stroll just to the left of our front door through a small alley to cut across to the high street, or simply because they live in the mews or nearby. Our next door neighbour has a bright motion light that flashes on whenever someone passes in the evenings. The key, naturally, would have been in plain sight at night as well as during the day. No one bothered. Okay, she’s old, but c’mon, she’s still “wheels”! Heck, neighbours did have their bikes nicked recently; why not Maggie? Truth be told with her fiddly locking nature we have more often left the car unlocked for days while we were working in London, so I suppose I should not have been surprised that the key was perched untouched for 24 hours on the rooftop.

The story concludes: we managed to get the two banana bikes into Maggie and headed to East Cowes – usually a quick ride over the chain ferry that spans the River Medina, but currently out of service while being refurbished.  A lovely day, we happily took the longer journey, found the charity shop open, and were delighted that they were willing to take the bikes off our hands. We also offloaded some old cushions, in good shape but collecting dust in the utility room where the folding bikes now take up less room than the previous bikes and await adventures across this beautiful island.

The view from the Folly Inn.

Lunch, by the way, was at The Folly, a well-known pub in nearby Whippingham where Saturday night it’s the place to be if you want to hop onto a table and dance to disco. Really. I’ve not. Been. Yet.

I suspect that may be another LOL moment.

In Praise of the Independent Shops

Yes, I go to Sainsbury’s or The Cooperative supermarket when the loo roll (aka toilet paper) and kitchen towel (aka paper towels) run low, as those are the only places locally in Cowes to restock. But let me need to buy dinner, and you’ll only find me at the supermarket when my local butcher or fish monger is closed; I am a born-again fan of the butcher, and all local shops for that matter.

I say born again because some of my earliest memories of shopping go back to visiting Mike the butcher on the Boulevard in Jersey City, where it was the occasional treat to get fresh mince (chop meat for the Americans) or a fresh bit of rolled meat for Sunday dinner. It was, I recall, not often that my mother or grandmother would go there—quality notwithstanding, buying from the butcher cost more than from the supermarket. Heading just across the boulevard to Mike’s—we lived within view of his store—was more out of necessity when other options didn’t exist—the local A&P was a bit of a walk and there wasn’t always transportation to the PathMark or ShopRite on Route 440, too far to go on foot.

If you were chosen to walk over to the butcher—it was never all of us, usually just one or two—you were almost always treated to a slice of bologna while you waited. I never really liked bologna from any other place but Mike’s, and wouldn’t seek it out today, but there was something about that fresh, slightly thicker slice of Thumann’s that made it worth the trip. Our neighbours Helen and Barbara would sometimes ask if we wanted to walk over, when my sisters or brothers and I were playing something or other on the sidewalk—wiffle ball, badminton, or jump rope.  Off we’d go, hoping Mike would find the time to put the bologna on the slicer and pass one across the counter.

The experience of visiting the butcher is a bit different now—not that I wouldn’t turn down a slice if the gentleman at Hamilton’s offered me, LOL. I first pause in the shop window first, under the striped awning, to think about what I want. In many cases I already know it’ll be steak or lamb, but I still like taking a look; it’s mostly because I want to see if they have what I want on offer. The butchers are friendly, like Mike was, and I am occasionally asked something about America as my accent gives me away. There are lovely other things in the shop—local cheeses, jars of condiments and local relishes, local produce. I rarely turn down a small package of Isle of Wight tomatoes sitting on the counter as they are superb or the roasted garlic bulbs perched in a basket.

As with most things, simple preparation best suits—an onion sliced and sautéed in olive oil before the steaks are grilled, the pan piping hot; a bit of garlic infused into the lamb before roasting in the oven. And each time, Tim and I will look across the table at each other and find some superlative to describe that first bite. Think delicious. No, think amazing.

The same holds true for the local fish shop—such a pretty array of choices, often locally sourced, that taste far better than anything supermarket bought. I am most pleased when there is samphire in a silver bucket on ice in their window; it is a plant that looks like miniature cacti and tastes of the sea, fresh and salty. Granted, some of the larger supermarkets in London have delightful fish counters, but here on the IoW I’m more inclined to have pasta or vegetables on those evenings when I arrive after the shops on the high street have long shut, and then start planning the dinners at home with Tim by what looks good under the awning or on ice across the road the next day.

The high street in Cowes boasts quite a few independent shops, in fact, including a health food store, a vegetable shop, a food hamper that has an interesting array of different items from wasabi to unusual sweet and savoury biscuits, and a fantastic wine shop that will sell you small tastes of numerous bottles. It’s where I know I can buy my newest favourite, torrontes, a fresh, vibrant white from Argentina.  And I’m excited to read in the local paper that there will be a monthly market on the high street on Sundays this summer, with stalls crammed with local produce and crafts. I will want to make sure that the market coincides with the weekends I find myself here, walking along the sea front and daydreaming about a fantastic dinner at home.

Tim and I seem to manage in the small Cowes kitchen. Our duties are often the same as when we are in London: I prepare the salad, set the table, and assist with the preparation. I make suggestions, but usually let Tim handle the pots and pans. He peels the potatoes and the garlic. I know the right place in my palm to press and then gentle do the same to the steak to be sure it’s medium. I pour the wine (though we often choose together what it will be) and keep the water glasses filled. I usually load the dishwasher, though Tim often volunteers (and in London I often let him have at it).

We don’t always eat in, and have our local favourites—the Cowes Tandoori shop that sits between two others on the high street that serves delicious food and of the three has the best service, hands down. The two waitstaff will wave to Tim and me when we pass along the high street, in fact; I find that charming. We less often go to the Thai place, though we always enjoy it—the women there are quite amusing with their abrupt manner of service yet they treat us well and the food is superb. Naturally we find our way to the pubs now and again. Always popular is the Island Sailing Club where the bartender is friendly (and has forgiven me for “ruining” his dark and stormy by, gasp, stirring it) and the food is always good, plentiful, and inexpensive. The club wins for having the best view this side of Cowes, situated directly on the waterfront, and it’s a wonderful place to bring newcomers to the Isle or meet our friends, most of whom are also members.

And before you think that I am a snob who pooh-poohs the supermarket, I will say that our local Cooperative carries a brilliant stash of local produce and other locally-sourced items from the Garlic Farm and the bakery, etc, which I keep in mind when I shop.

I am glad that all of these shops can peacefully coexist on the high street, and am grateful that I can pick and choose where to shop, helping to keep the independent ones thriving. We’ve even got into the habit of doing the same in London, frequenting the grocery on Green Lanes that usually has everything we need but the main course.  We go there often enough to be treated with a warm hello and a hearty thank you. The supermarket isn’t far, but it doesn’t have any of the warmth. You can’t smell the fresh Turkish bread just out of the oven at Tesco, but you can around the corner on Green Lanes. And that reminds me of home, living in Harrison steps away from Pechter’s Bakery where the neighbourhood smelled like fresh-baked bread for a few hours each morning.

Catch you on the high street. I’ll be the one peering in the window, a bit lost in a daydream of some sort, likely about my next delicious meal..