A good friend of ours is planning another trip to the UK. She’s a confirmed Anglophile, and all things British are just better – from scones (properly pronounced “scuhn”, so it really should have an unlaut) and clotted cream to the trappings of a proper high tea. Indeed, everything in Britain is better.
If the universe were completely as it should be (and Publishers Clearing House had delivered a big check to me), every trip our friend takes should be an idyllic sojourn. It rightly should be a joyful mixture of “Downton Abbey” and “Sense and Sensibility”, with just a dash of Hyacinth Bucket. To protect her privacy, I have invented a name and a title: “Lady Peacock”, because she heavily favors shades of the color blue, and her devotion to impressive wardrobe plumage. Her residence too has a name, “Teale Cottage”, because, well, teal accents explode throughout, and every domicile, in true British fashion, should have a name. At some point, should I live long enough, I’ll write down the “Teale Cottage Stories” if for no other reason than that they (and she) are just too compelling to be left untold.
Back to Lady Peacock’s travels. We knew for a while that Lady P was planning another trip. It had the typical warning signs – popping up in every conversation. Every topic of conversation swerves unerringly to England. She remarked the other day when she stopped by that she hoped this trip will meet all of her expectations. After unsuccessfully stifling a sound somewhere between a snort of disbelief and glottal stop of amusement, I asked when had anything, ever, met her expectations? The answer is, it hasn’t, doesn’t, and won’t. She tends to embed her vision into every event like a fossil in stone, so reality cannot ever quite measure up to the plan in her mind. This trip will be no exception. Hotels have let her down – they’re not clean enough, the bed linens are wrinkled, the views are all wrong, the pillows not fluffy enough, up and down the stairs. You get the picture. Any lodging establishment into which she’s booked should really have options ready when she checks in because the first room she sees is seldom where she ends up.
The first major excursion a couple of years ago took her to London. One should understand that, when Lady Peacock’s life story is written, it will be titled, “The Art of Overthinking”. She agonizes about every detail of her trips, mostly because flexibility is just not in her DNA. The mere thought of unstructured time causes severe anxiety. You may have met people like that – they can be spontaneous as long as they have time to plan it in advance. Every moment of every day is planned, analyzed, re-planned, revised, reviewed and endlessly discussed. Of course all this over-planning and anticipation sets her up for disappointment before she’s even kissed the ground at Heathrow. Lady P obsesses about “seeing everything”, which is coupled with her nature, which is to move at the speed of cooling lava. In London, the National Gallery had the impertinence to allow others in while she was there. Families and, get this, children blocked her path at every turn. Therefore, she’s had to make return visits so she could properly see each and every item, read every sign, plaque, and marker.
On her second trip, Lady Peacock ventured up north to York and across the border into Scotland. She noted that some of these British and Scottish cities are “very dirty”. Who knew that many cities in the UK, with factories that have been belching coal-fired smog into the atmosphere since the Industrial Revolution, would not have had a chance to freshen up before her arrival. They haven’t really had a chance, or seen a need, to properly “scrub and tidy up”. Again on this trip, several hotels didn’t measure up, and because of her complaints to the travel company, her tour company has dropped one or two from their itineraries. Surprisingly, they haven’t dropped Lady Peacock. Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh was closed to visitors because Princess Anne was in residence. How dare the Princess move in during Lady Peacock’s visit? Another disappointment. Another missed opportunity. Another emotional scar. Lady Peacock, on this same trip, planned to visit lavender fields on her way to the Cotswolds. She knew in advance that the lavender tours would not be fully operating at the time she’d be there. (You’re probably asking right now, “Really?? Who goes to Britain to see lavender growing? And further, who pays see lavender growing?” Well, one person does.) The big disappointment was that she’d been promised, despite the field closures, that the gift shop would be open so she could purchase any number of lavender-inspired items. Well, guess what? The shop was closed and she had to travel miles to purchase her stuff. I pointed out the obvious, that she could buy most anything lavender here in New England because it grows here too. But, “it wasn’t the same.” Translation – it wasn’t British.
After her second trip, and which has become a travel pattern, we enter the post-trip phase, which comes with demands for refunds. Excuse me? Say, what, you ask? The city of Bath, for example, didn’t fulfill expectations, largely because a) she had to buy her own map and b) there wasn’t enough time. (Reader hint – see National Gallery above.) Similarly, Stonehenge was not at all satisfying because the walk from the parking lot was too long and, wait for it . . . .there was insufficient time for her to read all of the historic markers. Again, that excursion fare came back. If memory serves, one or two hotels also had to forfeit their charges for generally not meeting Lady Peacock’s exacting standards. In a note of particular amusement, Lady Peacock complained to her travel company that she’d overheard her tour leader telling a hotel clerk, after she’d made yet another complaint, that “she complains about everything.” He probably should have waited to comment until she’d left the lobby. We’ve known Lady Peacock a long time. She’s sent back more restaurant orders than Donald Trump has eaten cheeseburgers. And she’s logged more returns on purchases to the extent that retail inventories across the region are hopelessly confused. She’s returned everything from clothing to major appliances, and that includes flowers that bloomed in the wrong color and candles that didn’t burn evenly.
So, Lady Peacock is off to her latest assault on the United Kingdom in a few months. She’s planned it for August to coincide with her birthday, and which is also prime vacation time in England. There will be beaucoup visitors to clog streets, museums, visitor sites, and generally get in her way. This tour will take her across the southern tier of England, beginning with the White Cliffs of Dover, down to the rocky (and they will be when she gets there) shores of Cornwall. She asked, with an expression not unlike Heathcliff looking over Wuthering Heights, if I’d ever seen the white cliffs, which I have. They’re cliffs, and they’re a chalky white. For those of us living near the White Mountains, it’s not particularly the stuff of dreams, but we all hope they meet her expectations. We’ll hear about it endlessly if they don’t. “I thought they’d be whiter.” Perhaps a cleaning company can give them the once-over before her visit – the toothpaste people should be able to come up with something suitable. Her circle of friends will be treated to a slide show of several thousand carefully chosen pictures. They’re carefully chosen because Lady Peacock is the main feature in the vast majority of them, and she’ll delete all in which “I don’t like the way I look”. Never mind how Stonehenge or Buckingham Palace looks, if a breeze happens to blow her hair the wrong way, well . . . . . She’s staying early on in a room overlooking Canterbury Cathedral. I’m sure the Archbishop will be delighted – first a royal wedding in May and then a state visit from Lady Peacock. All of us that know her hope for the best – that she’ll return satisfied, that everything she has seen and touched has turned to pure gold. Deep in our hearts, we know it won’t. At the very least, she’ll be able to mount disappointment that the trip is over. Lady Peacock will look off into space and utter those three words that sum her up, “I just wish . . . . .”, a prelude to what should have been but wasn’t. Lady Peacock somehow manages to find a sow’s ear in every silk purse. This latest trip could be a joyful, enriching experience full of happy memories. But somehow, I’m thinking . . . . . ..no.
I'm Thinking...No! 