What's The Big Issue?

Believe it or not, it's a rare occurrence to walk the streets of London and hear a quiet, slightly mournful "please" as I pass by someone. The city has its usual collection of street vendors and beggars looking for a handout, but on this particularly chilly late Monday afternoon the voice, a plea, was somehow different to my ear. I was heading home, walking toward Islington as I do at the end of the work day, and for a change on the opposite side of the street; I often follow the bus route, thinking that if I'm ready to hop the 341 I can simply flag it down, but this day I was determined to get a bit of exercise having missed a tennis game and wound up crossing the road.

I did see the vendor, pitching The Big Issue, and I probably even gave him a small smile; it's the gregarious American in me. It was just after I'd passed him that I heard him say "please" in a way that quite simply made me pause; it was a bit tired, a bit sad, slightly pleading. I took three more steps forward and then turned around, and our eyes met. Retracing my steps back toward him I asked how much--I'd never bought The Big Issue, a magazine sold by homeless (or recently homed but still struggling) people to earn income--and when he said £2.50 I realised immediately that I didn't have enough change. (I don't carry a lot of cash because I don't need much during the week and Tim is usually the recipient of my "junk change" that accumulates so I don't put holes in my pockets.) 

I pulled a fistful of coins from my coat pocket, and as I scanned them to quickly add up in my head what was there, it was clearly more copper than silver--it wasn't going to make £2.50. I apologised and started to walk away, but he asked to see how much I had, looked at the array of coins in my outstretched hand, and insisted I take his last copy. I demurred, but again he insisted and stuck out his hand, and so I glumly turned my palm and dumped all of its contents into his cupped hand. As I handed over the change I was at least relieved to see that there was a one pound coin, a 50 pence piece, and two 20 p coins--so I wasn't horribly shortchanging him. I declined the copy of the issue he was handing me, but as I walked away he followed me and insisted I take it--in fact he tucked it under my arm and thanked me for supporting The Big Issue, and then smiled and walked back to his pitch.

For blocks after as I walked toward Angel station I felt a little guilty--I had no idea how much the issue was, and admittedly was a bit surprised that it cost £2.50--I later read that half goes towards the issue, and the other half is kept by the vendor as income. I remembered too that I had a crumpled five-pound note in the other pocket, and could have easily given him that--but too late. I think I had just helped him; or had I? He was happy to have my jumble of coins and a smile; it was me who was feeling a bit shamed.

On my next trip down Grays Inn Road I will seek him out and buy another issue, this time with more than enough change in my pocket. And, having read The Big Issue when I got home, I rather enjoyed it. There was an interview with Tori Amos, one of my favourite musicians, in a previous issue that I saw on the online site, and there were a few articles worth my time in this week's edition. It is the most widely circulated street paper in the world (so says Wikipedia). In fact, I think I'll do my best to buy it more regularly, and possibly from the same vendor. And why not? Don't we all like the familiarity of a smiling face that greets us when we shop? I suspect I'm guaranteed a generous smile for my £2.50.

And that, my dear friends, is the big issue. 

Just Another Manic Sunday

I can't say for certain, but I think that this past Sunday, still September, has been the earliest that we've used the fireplace in our London sitting room. The day was windy, wet, and chilly, but it had its charms.

We started the first Sunday of the autumnal equinox on the Isle of Wight, awakening to the sound of rain; alas, I'd lost my 20 p bet with Tim that it wouldn't rain until the afternoon. No matter; we were prepared for a less than brilliant day weather-wise, and expected it to be a lazy Sunday--whiling away the morning over coffee and conversation, having a leisurely breakfast, and then finding a cosy space to watch the boats go by that were braving the inclement weather.

I'd just purchased a coffee percolator and was anticipating its first use. I've always felt that my Farberware stainless steel pot back in America made a delicious cup of coffee, and while this was not Farberware it was a percolator from a well-known company with excellent reviews and a discount on price that sealed the deal for me to give it a go. And while the coffee press has been more than adequate taste-wise (as long as I remind Tim to give it a stir and let it sit for a few minutes, LOL), I often feel like a second cup or we have guests, and then the  cafetiere's capacity is just about two large mugs with a bit left over and that quickly cools. Tim offered to give the percolator its first use, and after a few instructions (fill with cold water, use the measure), he gamely prepped and plugged it in.

So what did I think when Tim presented me with a steaming, perked cup? Well, there was, I must admit, a bit of disappointment--no aroma, no full-flavoured sip. It was only when I went to the kitchen and, with some relief, discovered why--if only Tim had not used decaffeinated coffee, I'm sure it would have been outstanding rather than just, well, good for decaf! Next time. 

The morning slowly progressed to the breakfast table, where another treat awaited me--having tasted a rather uninspired piece of Edam cheese the night before after dinner, I suggested Tim use it in an omelet in the morning; it would be better melted with eggs than eaten on its own, where it had a slightly processed texture. Now, in three years this was to be Tim's first time making an omelet for me, though as you might expect he was sheer grace under pressure. I only made one suggestion, which was to grate the cheese; it simply melts better and can be more easily spread across the entire omelet--I'm one of those people who likes a bit of cheese from end to end! While he cooked, I moved to my duties of setting the table and slicing bread for toast.I have to say I was smiling as I observed the care Tim took to get the omelet right, gently cursing the nonstick pan when the egg held on a bit too long, and giving it a proper turn or two so it was adequately cooked through and ever so gently browned. And how did the morning's second anticipation culminate? Well, there was no disappointment this time--not only did my omelet look perfect, it was delicious. 

The rest of the morning was spent idly watching sailboats come in and out of the harbour, struggling against 30 mph gusts and the occasional driving rain while we perched on the window seat with hot tea, a monocular, and Tim's phone to check the conditions at the Bramble bank where you can pick up wind conditions online.

Oh, there were the odd other activities--gathering the laundry scattered on various warmed radiators throughout the house, doing the morning's dishes, flipping the pages of a magazine. 

We'd decided to brave the elements and walk up to a sandwich shoppe called Tiffins on the high street--we'd conceded that the weather would prevent us from doing anything out of doors, including the annual ploughing festival (much to Tim's disappointment), but I wanted to eat something before we headed back to London and Tim wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Tiffins is not far, but when we arrived we were both soaked from the thighs down owing to waterproof but short jackets that did nothing to keep the windswept rain from pelting our trousers! A baguette stuffed with avocado and salmon for me, Coronation chicken (chicken, curry, and mayo) for Tim, with hot tea and a window seat to watch the other brave souls on the high street kept us busy for the next hour. A quick change to dry gear and we were off to the ferry to head back to London.

Circle back and I'm sitting in front of that lovely, warm fire in the sitting room. 

Sometimes a simple, quiet day is just perfect.

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.

I {HEART} HRH

I have had numerous wonderful experiences in my four years living in England, and one that will rank right up there no matter how many years go by is standing inches away from the Queen. Yes, that one, Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II. So close I could have reached out to touch her. So close that I suddenly transformed from fifty-something adult to giddy girl, gawping at her, waving my two-quid Union Jack on a plastic holder.

HRH was coming to Cowes to dedicate the new RNLI lifeboat station, adjacent to the Island Sailing Club, and to unveil a plaque along the Parade to commemorate her Diamond Jubilee visit. There was to be a parade of sail from Gurnard, just west of Cowes, where she would glide by on the Solent on board the 246-foot super yacht Leander, a whacking great vessel that just says majesty. (It was loaned to HRH by Sir Donald Gosling, former owner of National Car Parks aka NCP.) As the yacht passed the Royal Yacht Squadron, a 21-gun salute from the polished cannons sitting at waterside would begin. The royal party—Prince Philip was with HRH—would then walk up Trinity Landing, greet some of the local important people, and then head east on the Parade to dedicate the plaque, listen to local children sing, launch the lifeboat, and finally pick up a launch at the Cowes Yacht Haven to head back to London.

The plans were announced several months ago, and I decided as a part-time resident of Cowes that I should be there. I blocked the date on my work calendar. My friend Kim, a full-time resident of Cowes, had the itinerary at hand and we spoke on Tuesday evening to set our plan: queuing up on the Parade at 7 am, almost three hours ahead of the Queen’s arrival, to be assured of a good position to see her.

When we arrived there were already several people lined up against the barrier, and we decided to stand near the plaque as we knew the Queen would stop there to unveil it. A lovely family with two little girls had decamped with a blanket, folding chairs, folding prams and assorted bags of food, toys, and other distractions for the wait. We came alongside them, figuring that we could sidle up to the barrier when the Queen arrived, get a photo, and be happy.

It all came together perfectly—and on time. We saw Leander approaching, and then heard the 21-gun salute; the distance from the Squadron to where we were standing is not far; in fact from where we were standing we could certainly see the RYS castle.

I must say, the anticipation was palpable—by the time the hour was approaching for the Queen’s arrival the crowd was several deep, wondering what colour she’d be wearing, and how the Duke would be dressed, and who else would be accompanying them. As she stepped on the launch we caught a glimpse of the Queen’s apricot outfit. The crowd was cheering. I was feeling a bit, well, thrilled.

We could see her walk up the landing, and stop to greet the IoW VIPs who were lined up to curtsy or shake hands. The Duke was looking dapper in a lovely grey suit. Then, suddenly, they were in front of us, and Kim and I were able to move a bit closer to the barrier to snap a photo. One of the little girls next to us, called Grace, handed the Queen a posy, and she smiled and accepted it. I was still gawping, though I did manage to point my camera phone and click—and inadvertently took a 2-second video which you can watch, here (hopefully it works):

Kim managed a few photos with her camera, thankfully, and I recovered and took some, too.

We watched as HRH tugged the sash just a few feet in front of us to pull the red curtain open and reveal the plaque. Applause, more flag waving, and a bit of woo-hooing ensued. When the royal party moved away from us to hear the children sing, Kim and I made an attempt to follow through the throngs, but by the time we approached the area the song had been sung and the Queen and the Duke moved into the shade of the RNLI station, where speeches were being given. Fortunately there was a big screen mounted just outside the RNLI, and we were able to see and hear what was going on.

It was hot, and we were in tight quarters with people all around us, but it didn’t matter—it was fantastic. Kim and I kept exclaiming how really thrilled we were to have been so close, and to just be there to be a part of the Diamond Jubilee celebration. When it was over we walked the short distance back to Harbour House and I made us coffee—it was just after 11 am and a long time since breakfast, but not quite lunch time—more time to “debrief” and also just catch up a bit with our lives. We decided to head out and see if we could watch Leander leave, and we did catch a glimpse of the yacht heading back toward Southampton.

When my friend Sarah saw my photos she said “You’re so American.” I suppose my enthusiasm for something so British is not so British—but not everyone is reserved here, and some are even royalists! I do suppose that I was a bit more effusive in my enthusiasm than some—though judging from the crowd around me, we were all quite enthralled with the Queen’s visit. How lucky am I? Earlier this year I was dining with the Duke at a bar yacht club dinner, courtesy of Tim, and now this chance to see HRH close up. She reminds me of my grandmother. She is amazing for 86. She is always regal, ever personable, and, simply, elegant.

You might guess, then, what my favourite part of the Olympics opening ceremony was , , , the Queen's  perfect delivery of the line “Good evening, Mr Bond.”

What’s not to love?

Ten Things I Learned While Sailing

I recently spent a week on a sail boat—my first adventure off terra firma for more than just a few hours. I learned some things about sailing, and about myself, in what was a wonderful week of food, friends, and floating between Turkish ports. If you’d like to see some photos, please go here.   

Scopoderm works. Having had a bout with seasickness, I was concerned about being unwell and potentially ruining my holiday as well that of the rest of the “crew.” I visited my GP and requested the patch, worn for 72 hours behind the ear, and while not a guarantee I understood it to be a fairly reliable way to keep the queasiness at bay. And, it worked a treat! I never even took off the original patch, and I now have two in reserve for my next sail. (I sense Tim plotting a cruise in the Solent!)

Sleeping in the forepeak triangle is very different than a square bed. Tim and I don’t usually compete for space, but I did find myself wanting just a tad more space for my toes and not wanting to be too pushy! It was also quite warm in Turkey, and we had a windscoop to bring in the breezes through our overhead hatch—when there were breezes! Most nights were lovely, frankly. Kelly found herself often sleeping on deck; the midges were thankfully few and far between, and it was lovely in more ways than one—the sky, full of stars; the gentle breezes; the open air. I once or twice thought to join her! Spending appreciable hours on a boat takes some getting used to—the swaying, the loo pumping (giving new meaning to the acronym SOS), the closer-than-usual quarters—yet in the end it was all manageable: small considerations for what was a perfectly lovely, enjoyable week on the sea.

I can tie a fender on. Fenders, those foamy bumpers used to protect boats from colliding with the quay or another vessel, require a particular type of knot to keep them firmly tied on the lifelines or stanchions. Given that I wouldn’t be much help with other sailor-ly tasks, this was a good one for me to learn. One afternoon while motoring between destinations Tim had a lesson for all of us on how to form knots to tie on fenders, to make a square knot, and to make a bowline knot, useful for putting around a cleat when tying up a boat. I liked the mnemonic for learning the latter—the rabbit goes down the hole, around the tree, and back in the hole . . . or something like that! I think we all enjoyed the lesson, trying to get it right, with the more competitive sailors trying to tie knots the fastest or with eyes closed. I was just happy to get the fender knot correct! I did have a few other small duties as part of the crew—the occasional winching, turning the refrigerator on or off depending on whether we were motoring or sailing, shouting out instructions from the cockpit to the foredeck, and using the windlass to let the anchor up or down. I was glad to be helpful, steering clear of the more important duties—navigating, steering, and tacking, which the others, particularly Taron, Neil and Simon, did quite ably.

The combination of eight knots and a slight bit of heeling is exhilarating. We weren’t always able to sail—the wind in Turkey is fickle, and when we could find it, we took advantage. On one fantastic afternoon we found ourselves heeling (tilting sideways) several degrees while moving swiftly across the sea. We were watching the instrument panel to see how fast we were going, hoping to see the speed increase. I usually get a bit nervous when the boat heels a bit, though in this 44-foot yacht the lean wasn’t as much as I’ve experienced on Tim’s Contessa, where the rails are often in the water. I think as hard as Tim tried, it just wasn’t going to happen on the Moody! I can see why Tim enjoys sailing so much—when it’s good, it’s thrilling.

You don’t need a fancy kitchen to make fabulous food. I can honestly say that every place we ate was quite good—I’m a fan of Turkish meze, grilled fish and kebabs, so I was certainly in my comfort zone in all of the little places we moored each night for dinner. Most of the places we ate were marina-side, al fresco restaurants that didn’t have well-equipped kitchens (though they usually had decent toilets). My favourite “restaurant” was the shack-for-a-kitchen several yards down the beach from the tables on the water side. The owner came up to us as we moored, shouted us the menu (a list of six or so entrees) and told us to arrive at 8:30 pm. We were served meze first—the same for most places we ate—often aubergine salad, borek (fried phyllo dough usually filled with cheese), chopped salad, and fresh bread.  Entrees were often lamb, fish, or chicken, grilled or in a casserole. Turkish wine or beer always accompanied the meal, and was sometimes followed by Turkish coffee—made strong of boiled coffee beans and sweetened with sugar—or the more traditional filter coffee. We had to laugh one evening when, after dinner, a goat found its way into the “kitchen” and began licking the bowls clean.

Nothing beats a swim off the boat into the Med. It’s warm. It’s clear. It’s salty and buoyant. What’s not to like? Just about every day we found a place to anchor or moor and jump ship, literally. I was a bit less daring—mostly because I wanted to wear my sunglasses in the water to keep the glare down and protect my eyes from the sun—and often found my way into the water down the ladder at the back of the boat. Most everyone else—certainly the gents—jumped or dived over the side. It was wonderful—after a few hours of sailing and absorbing the heat of the day, it was so refreshing to swim in the sea, bring down one’s body temperature, and float. While everyone enjoyed Coldwater Bay, where cold springs bring water from the Taurus Mountains, I actually preferred the warmer waters of the other areas we visited.

I love Village bread. On certain days when we were moored in small marinas, a small power boat would zoom up in the morning carrying fresh, warm bread in large rounds that was doughy and delicious—sometimes with herbs or olives, always delicious. That was often breakfast, with a spread of butter, or a slice of cheese, with coffee that we made on board, and occasionally with fruit from the same boat. Simple and simply good. Oh, and, the same transport often brought ice cream  in the afternoon to visiting yachts as well!

Dolphins can make just about anyone smile. One day Tim spotted dolphins frolicking at our bow, and we were all thrilled—cameras snapping, oohing and ahhing while we waited for the next splash, a glimpse of fin, a small leap out of the water. We could easily see them, just below the surface, enjoying the energy the boat was making pushing through the water to aid their swimming.

I like Texas Hold ‘em. When you’re on a boat in small marinas where there’s nothing more than a small outdoor restaurant, you need to make your own entertainment in the evening. We played a few different games—Hit or Miss, where you pen a list of items based on a question, like types of automobiles, and then rolling the die for Hit or Miss you guess what everyone has—or doesn’t have—on their list. We also played Oh Hell, similar to Hearts. There was Trivial Pursuit, where it was a battle of the sexes (and very close at that)—I was chided for helping the boys by hinting at the answer to Tim; I’m not terribly competitive and he didn’t really need my help. Of all the games we played, my favourite was Texas Hold ‘em. One of the crew, Simon, is a regular poker player and taught me and Tim how to play. It took me a few rounds to understand the strategy, and at the end of the evening I found that I rather enjoyed it. I won’t be playing online poker any time soon—I wasn’t that good—but it reminded me of how much I enjoy a good game of cards. Growing up there was a lot of card playing in the household; weekly gin rummy nights had friends and neighbours around our kitchen table, and even later on just games of Rummy 500 with my mom and whoever of my siblings was around helped pass the time.

Tim is a wonderful sailor. When Taron and Neil asked Tim to skipper the boat, he didn’t hesitate; Tim loves to sail and the chance to do so in the warm Mediterranean on a lovely 44-foot yacht . . . well, no brainer. I was very proud of him—he handled the boat beautifully, taught us all a little bit about sailing, and graciously took on whatever role required—sometimes navigator, sometimes consultant, occasional taskmaster. When on the last day the engine starter failed and we needed to wait several hours for a repair, he offered to stay on the boat while we toured Gocek, showered, and relaxed. When he deftly reversed the boat into its snug mooring on B pontoon, I smiled. O Captain! My Captain!

Over the Moon

Have I ever shared with you my passion for reading?  I don’t watch much television—the set in London is rarely turned on by me, and when it is it’s to use the radio channels to tune in to classical music. There is no TV at Number 12; when there’s not a sailing event Tim and I will spend time reading, playing Scrabble, or watching the sailboats go by, and if there’s something we want to watch, the convivial atmosphere of one of the local pubs suits us. Reading is a way for me to pass the time in a relaxing way, or to learn about something new, or occasionally get lost in another century. Sometimes it’s all three rolled up in one delightful afternoon curled up on the sofa. Sure, I’ll indulge Tim and join him for an old black and white film now and again, but given the choice I’m more likely to find a book and sit near and ask the sound be not too loud!

It’s wonderful when you can take something you truly enjoy and share it with others, and as much as reading feels like self-indulgence, I’ve found a truly gratifying way to read that I suspect many of you have also enjoyed—reading with a child.

I have just finished my second year of reading with Joy. He is a bundle of energy with a big, beautiful smile who always greets me warmly and then dashes off for the current book we’re reading and our log that captures what page we’re up to and comments about the sessions.

I should correct myself before I get too far on to say that it’s Joy who does all the reading—I listen, occasionally helping him sound out a word or asking him to slow down at a full stop (translation: English for the punctuation period). We were partnered last year as part of the volunteer reading scheme for Camden Council in London. The Edith Neville primary school, near Kings Cross, has had a long-standing relationship with my company to have volunteers partner with children who need to improve their reading skills. I signed up for the scheme after an email requesting volunteers landed in my Inbox—frankly it was something I was interested in pursuing, having had a stint in the US with the Literacy Volunteers of America for several years, but I was concerned that taking on a similar role here might prove difficult, what with the differences in pronunciation of words, spelling differences, and even my accent, which could be deemed “disruptive.”

This was different—it wasn’t adult literacy, it was simply reading with a child under 13, with the goal to improve his confidence and skill. I had a bit of training, and of course there was the necessary CRB (a criminal background check) before being able to start. In due course I was approved and was ready to meet my partner, who turned out to be Joy.

My American accent was a bit of a draw rather than a hindrance—when I spoke it was different in an intriguing way, and the kids—usually the girls—would ask me where I was from and generally giggle when I talked. And if Joy was absent for a reading session, the hands would fly up when the teacher asked who’d like to read with me.

Joy is an eleven-year-old Bangladeshi who has a large family with siblings of various ages from 16 years to 16 months; I suspect it’s a busy household which is why the half hour each Thursday is special to him. We often start off with a little chat about what’s happened since our last meeting, especially if there was a school outing or a short break where he had some time with his family, and then we’d dive into the current book. 

We’ve had a few interesting reads this year—Not Yeti, which is about a boy whose parents are kidnapped and his search, with the help of Yetis, to find them; Zeus on the Loose, a rather funny book about a boy who creates a paper temple only to have Zeus show up to occupy it; a book about frogs; and even a brief history of Tutankhamun.

I always let Joy choose the book, and then will take a quick look through it to see if it presents the right challenge for his reading ability. We then find the quietest spot possible in a primary school (you’re not allowed to go behind closed doors) and settle in. Joy is easily distracted, as most boys his age are, so I am always looking for a place a bit farther away than the rest of the readers—there are at least a half dozen of us vying for space on Thursdays—and we often have a little glass-enclosed alcove to ourselves where Joy can focus without his classmates stopping by and listening, which they will do if at all possible!

I was prompted to write this post because I had a note from the school’s administrator in response to a letter I sent to Joy via her; the last official reading week is the one coming, and I’ll not be able to attend. While I had a chance to chat with Joy and tell him that and to wish him a happy summer, I felt like I wanted to put something in writing for him to let him know how much I really enjoyed our reading sessions together. It was a simply-worded single sheet where I embedded a few pieces of clip art, expressing how well Joy had done this year, really improving his skills at sounding out words, and how much I’m looking forward to being his reading partner as he starts Year 6 in September—his last year at Edith Neville, so our last year together. Amy sent me a note back later that afternoon to thank me, and to say how Joy was “over the moon” with the letter—he’d spent his entire lunch hour showing it to all of his classmates.

That, my dear friends, is priceless.

I will probably save Amy’s email and read it dozens of times because it has made me feel over the moon. I am already anticipating our reunion in September. In fact one of my fondest memories over the last two years is returning after the summer of 2011. When Joy saw me he immediately ran over and gave me a huge hug. We’re not allowed to touch the children in any way, though we are allowed to return a gesture, and believe me, I did. My colleagues standing nearby waiting for their reading partners all looked on and smiled, and afterwards they remarked how sweet it was that he showed such happiness in seeing me.

File this post under why we do the things we do; it often comes down to the love of something, doesn’t it? Like reading. With Joy.