The Journal of our Adventures

When we broke the news to family and friends that we were moving to the UK, everyone (and I mean EVERYONE!!) commented on the dreary weather. We have been here for near four months and since spring has sprung there has been nothing but sunshine and clear skies.

We went to the Good Friday service  at St Mary’s church in Warwick. The tall hollow aisles resonated with the voices of the amazing church choir. Their harmonies blended beautifully with solemnity of the occasion and seemed to fill the many empty seats with awe inspiring worship. The sad truth is that I doubt that there was an empty seat in the pubs that ooze out of every corner of the town. After a moving service, the few that had congregated slumbered out of the medieval church and headed home. We took a walk in the cobbled streets but found the delinquency of their inhabitants to be out of place for our mood. We got home to tea and hot cross buns.

This morning Dan went for a row on the Avon and had another encounter with a swan but there was a homeless man to distract the swan with some food so the attack wasn’t as brutal. I took the car went to shop for sandals, I needed to get ones to match the summer dress Dan bought me. We then met up at the market. We stumbled across St George’s parade. It was nice to cheer those who had made an effort along. These Brits take their history and traditions seriously, its exciting to be part of it. We did our weekly shop at the market, the couple at the deli counter now give us a small discount and the chap who runs the cheese counter, who looks a bit like Colin Firth, has the best cheeses we’ve ever had, our favourite this month is the Wensleydale with cranberries.

We had our lunch in the garden with the sun beaming down on us. We even cracked into our stash of home made biltong which is undoubtedly the best we’ve ever had. It was one of those days were all you want to do open all the windows in the house, curl up on the bed with a book and let the cool spring breeze squeeze in between the crocheted holes of your blanket.

I was in a very exciting part of my book, one of those ones were you know it has to be a happy ending but you have no idea how the author will get you there but I was distracted. I felt like something was missing. I sat up and realised that the room was a little darker. Then I heard the faint rumbling of thunder. It began to crack my porcelain complacency and pulled me outside were I stood in the midst of the fragrant wind and marvelled at the tower of clouds that blocked the sun. The thunder was louder and more determined, it seemed to be a drum beat that called me home. I was catapulted to the dry, dusty, thirsty highveld; the giant drops of rain hitting cement driveways; the smell of the evaporating raindrops on the hot tar, the abrupt streams that flowed down the roads and the explosive bolts of lightning that shook you to the bone in a matter of milliseconds. I yearned for those hot summer days that melted in the afternoon showers. I yearned for tea on the patio as we watched the heavens open. I looked up saw the clouds move away, the thunder stopped and sun came out again. The brief suspicion of rain broke through my disguise and exposed what I’ve convinced myself has been expertly concealed.

I miss my home.

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