England South West

The Rev. John Berriman, minister and inventor

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.  Perhaps the good Reverend John Berriman will forgive me for my long silence about his heavenly invention, Reverend Berriman’s Heavenly Unorthodox Beverages.

The Rev. Berriman is, as it happens, a Pentecostal minister, formerly of St. Ives, now of Launceston, the ancient capital of Cornwall and only about 20 minutes from where I live. I met the Rev. Berriman, and Mrs. Berriman, also a Pentecostal minister, on my recent trip to Cyprus. They were taking a break prior to ramping up both a new church and a new business, the purveying of some very spicy drinks.

Rev. Berriman didn’t intend a career change, and in fact, he hasn’t made one. His divine inspiration was simply the result of his hobby, cooking. He had long made his own cola drinks, and was mulling how to use his bumper crop of home-grown chilli peppers when the idea of tossing the fiery things into the cola crossed his mind. Divine inspiration? Maybe. Divine taste? Many people across the southwest of England think so.

Reverend Berriman's Heavenly Unorthodox Beverages

Rev. Berriman doesn’t intend to get rich from his soft drinks. He intends to use the proceeds to support a variety of alcohol and drug rehab projects across Cornwall. Not that the Revs. Berriman are teetotallers; in a quick conversation on the airport transport bus, he noted that alcohol is all right in moderation.

Still, while many would think his Cola with a hint of Chilli would be a fine and trendy base for a nouveau Cuba Libre, it is fine on its own, or in a recipe found on the company website, the Holy Cola Float.

To make one, you’ll need:

• Reverend Berriman’s Cola with hint of Chilli
• A scoop of soft vanilla ice cream (Cornish ideally!)

To create:

1. Fill a milkshake glass with Reverend Berriman’s Cola with hint of chilli

2. Add a scoop (or two!) of soft vanilla vanilla ice cream

3. Finish with a straw and a slice of rock n’ roll

He doesn’t mention what particular rock n’ roll songs might go best with it, but I’d hazard a guess that something Beatles would do. Or maybe some Jerry and the Pacemakers. Or you could catch Not the Beatles, a tribute band currently based in Cornwall, and doubtless buy one of their CDs at the door.  (A quick Wiki search revealed that virtually all famous British rockers came from northerly places, Liverpool, Manchester, and so on.)

If you’d like to try some chilli-infused cola for yourself, the line (including a low-cal version, and also a chilli spiced sparkling apple drink) can be found at a number of stores around the southwest.  Find a listing here.

In a single half hour, a 1000-year-old church, a hang glider, a white sand beach, and the changeable sky over vibrant green fields seemed to say, “Yes, this is the order that comes from chaos; this is the peace that is possible on a spring day in Cornwall; times like this are why we live, to reach contentment informed by the wonders of an ancient built environment and the excitement of air that has traversed an ocean to bring the scent of wild garlic on roadside banks to one’s attention.”

In fact, when we found all this, we were simply taking a drive along the coast road after shopping at a magnificent Waitrose outside Plymouth. We had snagged their own Caesar dressing that we had come for, plus smoked chicken breast, Toulouse sausage…and yes, it is a foodie wonderland. It was a foodie wonderland to the tune of about 100 pounds sterling, but well worth it. Or at least, I hope it will be when the first of the stuff is done at 7pm, the cassoulet.

We had missed the first turn to the coast road and took the second. Shortly, we rounded a turn, and I noticed a sign above a lych gate: “Help us save our roof,” it said.

Lych gate, St. Germanus Church

Behind it, so strikingly different from the square-turreted Norman churches that dot the southwest, was the almost 1000-year-old church. It was stark, plain, seemingly growing out of the land as if it had always been there…and in a manner of speaking, it always had.

Having recently been dazzled by the gilded glory of the Greek Orthodox Church at Kykkos Monastery in Cyprus, I should have been disappointed by the dark interior of that church on Rame Head, the Church of St. Germanus. To this day, the church has no electricity and no running water. I think that they must have added a fireplace to the sacristy/vesting room, as there was a brick chimney atop a wing of the church that I had not explored and noticed only as we left. I’m certain the church is mighty cold in winter, but it does, apparently, hold a carol service there at Christmastime.

The seating is only 300 years old; before that, if it is like continental churches, the congregants stood, possibly for hours, as services were long. People walked long distances to get there, though, so at least they felt they were getting their money’s worth.

The tower holds only one bell, the remaining one of four. But one can stand at the end of the bell rope, look up, and imagine the bell and its mates

Tower, St. Germanus Church

calling medieval parishioners from the nearby town of St. Germans to services. In England, most churches still call people to service with a peal of bells.

The Church of St. Germanus is amazingly peaceful. The dimness is soothing, with light entering through just a few narrow windows, mainly plain glass but one of magnificent stained glass.

The walls are plain, undecorated with artists’ interpretations of scripture; one can connect with one’s own spirituality, whatever that might be. The Church of England is, in any case, more accepting of variations in belief, I have found, than most churches. Actually, had I been an ancient Druid, I believe I would also have been comfortable in the space, perhaps because of the primitive construction, perhaps because most early churches were built on pagan sacred sites and the aura of connection to a world beyond our ken carries on.

An aside: My husband’s two cousins are sons of an Anglican priest. Years ago, one of them got hold of a pendulum and wanted to see what it would do in a church. He chose the church at Glastonbury, famous for Druid connections and also as the place Joseph of Arimathea is supposed to have taken the young Joshua of Nazareth to study. His cousin held the pendulum over the altar in the main chapel, and it swung wildly. He held it over the altar in the lady chapel, and it swung wildly…in the opposite direction. The brothers never told their father what they had done (they were both in their 30s in any case), but they concluded that there is indeed some evidence of the numinous that transcends time, space and ordinary experience.

Stained glass window, St. Germanus Church

Eventually, we drove on, hugging the coast above Whitsand Bay, where there are, naturally white (whit) sands. It was a long way down. But it was also a long way up. Over it, a hang glider slid through the air toward the cliffs, and away from the cliffs. We wondered where, and how, he might land. There were some open fields near the church, some with horses. But how, one wonders, would one get there? Plopping into the darkening water, as late afternoon shifted into early evening, wouldn’t seem to be a happy ending. But then, not ever having done hang gliding, I hadn’t a clue as to how the things were operated.

Hang glider over Rame Head, Cornwall

The sky was changing again, clouding up all over, presaging the heavy rains of today, and promised for the week. But it’s nice to have the rain. It fills the aquifer under the moor so the ponies and sheep can drink, and so, selfishly, our little dog can swim in her favorite stream which had shrunk to nothing after almost two months of scanty rain. And sun is promised for Friday, which means a trip to Widemouth Bay, its lovely dog-friendly rock pools, and maybe a drink and a meal at the Bay View Inn, offering a grand view of the breakers, surfers and wide skies that are so enticing a part of southwest England.

A view toward the sea from Rame Head

Turkish Delight!

Just now, as I finished off the last lemon Turkish Delight in the cupboard, I realized what Turkish Delight really is, and what it is not.

It is not the sweet that Edmund asks of the White Witch to do her bidding in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.

It is not the candy bar (produced by Fry’s and Terry’s and probably others) in the UK that is covered with chocolate and consumed on trips by at least two recent arrivals in the UK from the States. (On our first trip here together after we married, Simon and I discovered a mutual love of Turkish Delight that was almost bound to become a linchpin of our married life. That and sausages. All sorts and varieties of sausages…on which more in another post.)

It is certainly not the icky stuff we bought in Cyprus (called Cypriot Delight there in a PC sort of way) that tasted of chemicals and cigarette smoke, the latter mainly from being sold in cardboard cellophaned boxes that sat on grocery shelves for months being saturated with nicotine from the ever-present cigarettes.

It is portable jello, pure and simple. It’s a bit thicker than jello, to be sure―a bit more sticky-viscous and less wobbly. But we used to have to make jello for hundreds when, as a college student, I worked in food service for extra money. We made it extra stiff so it could be cut into cubes with knives and tossed by hand (no plastic gloves in those days!) into dessert dishes and held under lights the length of the dinner hour, 4:45 to 7. I’ve always been pretty sure that adding some cornstarch to the mix and tossing the resulting cubes in some powdered sugar would have made a nice Turkish Delight approximation.

Indeed, a recipe from Waitrose, my favorite supermarket chain, says you can make your own pretty much that way with those ingredients and a few more.  From the Waitrose website:

Turkish Delight

• 675g caster sugar
• 1 lemon, juice
• 100g cornflour
• 30g powdered gelatine
• 25g icing sugar
• 2-3 tbsp rose water
• 20g shelled pistachio n

They give directions, all of which would be meaningless or worse to Americans and probably Canadians.  So, at some expense (not really; the conversion sites are readily available on the Internet), I’ve translated the UK recipe for those to whom mls and grams are about as everyday meaningful as E=mc².

Here’s the translation into American English, with directions:

Ingredients

• 3 c. (scant) granulated sugar
• Juice of one lemon
• 7 TBSP cornstarch, the last spoonful well rounded *
• 2 rounded TBSP plain gelatin
• 1¾ TBSP powdered sugar
• 2-3 TBPS rosewater
• 1½ TBSP shelled pistachio nuts, chopped

Method

• Measure the granulated sugar into a stainless steel saucepan along with 1¼ cups water and a splash more, and the lemon juice.
• Mix 5½ TBPS cornstarch with 7/8 c. water (scant) until smooth and stir into sugar mixture.
• Sprinkle gelatin over this and slowly bring to the boil over medium heat; simmer briskly for 20 min.
• Stir in the rosewater, the greater amount if you like things highly flavored.
• Meanwhile, line an 8½ by 10½ inch tin with plastic wrap, not the non-clingy kind, the old kind. (If you can’t find a pan those exact dimensions in the US or Canada, and you probably can’t, get as close as you can, perhaps a 9 by 11. Your cubes will be a bit more shallow, but might firm up more quickly.)
• Sift the remaining cornstarch and the powdered sugar together and dust the base and the sides of the lined tin with 2 TBPS of the mixture.
• Remove saucepan from heat and set aside for 10 min. to cool. Then stir in the rosewater and set in a cool place (not the fridge) for at least 12 hours.
• When fully set, remove from pan by pulling up as evenly as possible on excess plastic wrap. Cut into cubes with kitchens shears and, after placing cubes on a plate, dust with remaining cornstarch and powdered sugar mixture, and roll pieces gently to coat.

Eat immediately, or store in an airtight tin for up to a month.

Forget the tin. There will be about 35 pieces, which I figure Simon and I could polish off in two days, max.

But what the heck? It’s just jello, a sweet with hardly any calories! And this stuff is all natural and doesn’t even have preservatives or texture enhancers or anything nasty. (Or as they say in the UK, jelly.  What’s jelly called? They don’t have jelly, just preserves and jam.)

But wait: what about those pistachios? Forget about the pistachios. They merely add an unwanted texture to what is otherwise the perfect comfort sweet.

Instead:

Melt some butter in a saucepan, add the pistachios and cook a couple of minutes. Toss with some cooked spaghetti, more butter, ground pepper, salt and grated Parmesan. Eat that and a green salad. Then have some Turkish Delight.

***

While homemade Turkish Delight without chocolate is traditional, it would be way too fragile to vend this way in bars over a Spar store counter. Chocolate coating makes it possible to have Turkish Delight anywhere candy bars are sold.

Turkish Delight is not sold in America. I don’t know why, except perhaps that most Americans would think it weird to eat candy flavored with rose petals. I think most who chance upon it here think it’s some sort of weird raspberry bar, as the commercial bars are much more highly colored than home-made or health food store varieties.

* Conversions are not exact since measuring cups don’t come with infinite gradations. So I’ve fudged a bit for approximation. Should work. I do it all the time when cooking here from local recipes.

Sources:

In the US, you can order Cadbury’s and Fry’s Turkish Delight bars from www.BritishCornerShop.com.

You may be able to get Turkish Delight bars from For the Love of Chocolate, a superb retailer in the trendy Carytown section of Richmond, VA. My Dublin-born friend Noeleen and I went there several years ago, and she stocked up on Turkish Delight and Aero, two favorites from her youth. The store can be found at 3136 West Cary Street, Richmond, VA 23221, phone 804-359-5645.

Often, when I walk through the portals to Tavistock’s Pannier Market, there is an Irish group playing music for coins tossed into a fiddle case. Yesterday, there was a single musician, toodling Irish tunes on a tin whistle, squatting down as shoppers moved through the dark archway twenty feet deep to the sunny concourse that circles the market building. It reminded me that Devon and Cornwall are very Celtic.

Looking at my Torquay-born husband is, in fact, like looking at a map of southwest England and the east of Ireland, the Pale, where the Anglo-Irish held swale. He has brown hair, bright blue eyes, and wild dark eyebrows over a Norman French nose. Think of the actor Milo O’Shea, only more handsome, and that’s Simon.

This shameless flattery of my husband is merely a way to get from here to there, from southwest England to Ireland, to Florida, to two kisses that will live in the infamy of my former life, and now, I guess, in electronic print.  For I kissed…actually kissed…Kevin Conneff.  Twice.

Conneff is the bohdran player/singer with the famous Irish traditional group, The Chieftains. I have seen them play live probably at least 20 times. Once was in Florida, where I lived then with husband number two (watch this space for the Auntie Mame story), and we had been invited to the Green Room after the concert by one of its promoters, who was a friend. While Husband 2 went in to speak with Paddy Maloney, founder of The Chieftains, I was caught in the doorway with Kevin Conneff.  Conneff is tall, blonde and was always one of my heart-throbs. I can’t think what we spoke about, but on his way out of the room, Husband 2 said, “Well, are you going to kiss him?”  I didn’t hesitate for a second. I did it.  I suspect Conneff turned red, as any chaste Irishman would. I fled, as any first-time American groupie might.

After the concert, we went with friends to a Fort Lauderdale watering hole, now of blessed memory, called The Harp and Shamrock. Lo and behold, as we left and passed by the bar, there were Kevin Conneff and Chieftain Matt Molloy, knocking back a pint or two.

A voice, not in my head but in my left ear, said, “You’ve got another chance.”

Matt Molloy turned red that time; I saw him. I fled again. But I’d do it again, even though my current husband would turn red no matter who else did.

I’d do it even though I’m not a young thing as I was back then. But neither is Kevin Conneff. And you know what? He’s still got it.

Indeed, The Chieftains still have it, despite the death way back in 2002 of Derek Bell, their keyboardist and a fine, happy man. They have recently brought the music of Mexico and Ireland together.  And I found this video of them with Ziggy Marley from several years back.

I wish they’d come to southwest England to prove the connections between the lone tin whistler at the Pannier Market and the world of Celtic music. If they did, I promise I wouldn’t kiss Kevin Conneff again.

And I lie like a rug.

I’m waiting anxiously for our shipment of household goods to arrive. We didn’t have them shipped immediately; our flat in Devon was fully equipped with furnishings and household goods that were my husband’s father’s. The flat is a bit heavy on religious artwork, since Ronald Tiley was a deacon in the Anglican Church. It also contains some French Impressionist prints, left by Mary Tiley, Simon’s mother, and hung in his widower’s apartment by Ronald. The flat has now, and has always had, a certain welcoming presence that I think one might attribute to love, a love that transcended death. Indeed, the feeling in the flat is one of the reasons I wanted to move into it, rather than buying a house that might have better suited the needs of dog, cat and two adults working at home.

But that’s getting really serious, and this column is meant to be about missing several things that appear to be essential to spoiled American ex-pats. One of the things I miss, trivial though it might be, is our extensive and once-rotating collection of cocktail napkins.

Here, when one can get them, cocktail napkins are very pretty, all flower prints produced by Caspari and sold in National Trust shops. But not a one of them has a rude statement on it. Sensing my desperation for a giggle with my nightly gin, my friend Mary Ann recently sent me the “It’s always 5 o’clock somewhere” napkin from the states. We have only two left, so I went back to the flowered ones last night. I’ll save those two for when we really, really need a dose of American smart-mouth.  (We had some mildly dirty ones, too, in the states. My stepdaughter always took as her task, when visiting for dinner, choosing the appropriate napkin for each guest. I miss that.)

Anyway, someday our ship will come in, literally, with the napkins and my Cutco knives. And pictures. We did bring with us a couple of little ones, my Henry Bright drawing of a young boy at the seaside that I bought at Noortman & Brod in NYC years ago; that’s sort of a homecoming, as Bright was a British artist. And a tapestry of a bowl of fruit, a lobster and a glass of wine I gave Simon for his birthday a few years ago. Hanging on it is a plaster bat that my cousin gave me about a year later. Naturally, we decided it was a fruit bat, so that made the tapestry a perfect place to hang it. And we brought the Green Man plaque we had purchased at Chester Cathedral, taken to Maryland, and have now repatriated.

And of course, Bridget.

Bridget is a pewter fairy Simon and I and stepdaughter Julia bought at Medieval Times outside DC a few years ago. We had, you see, a fairy tree in the yard. It was a huge corkscrew willow my husband had planted when Julia was a baby, and it looked exactly as if it should have a fairy living in it. So we got one, put her in a lovely outdoor lantern that we rainproofed and set in the tree, and kept her supplied with baubles a fairy might like ― pretty “jewels” all the time, and decorations for each holiday.

Here in England, she sits on our mantelpiece and, until last week, was surrounded with red Christmas garland. She was NOT happy. I think that’s why our shipment was delayed, first by the prospect of volcanic ash keeping planes out of the UK, and then by the first company we hired going out of business, and now price quotes from the new shipping company getting lost in email. And Bridget’s displeasure at our callous disregard of her needs.

With any luck, though, our fairy is happier now. She has a new set of “jewels,” a necklace I bought at SuperDrug in town last week. It seemed a bit drab, so I added three decorations that came on desserts in Cyprus. Perfect! Bridget is now happy.  I’m feeling empowered to ask her to light a fire under that shipping company, and damp down the fire under the volcano.

I need:

• Our cocktail napkins; there must be 300, which means we can use them until our next trip to the states and then buy more
• My Cutco knives, although I left the amazing scissors on my car’s hood last year and they are GONE
• Our books
• Our pictures―watercolors, oils, prints and photographs, and not a religious scene among them *

I’m also eager for the red lacquer box-on-legs that served as the smaller coffee table in our big American living room; here it will serve as THE coffee table in our smaller English “lounge.”  I’m eager for our Pier One wood and filigree CD cabinet so we can get the CDs out of the antique chest that’s been part of Simon’s life since he was born. I’m eager for the dining chairs with seats big enough for American bums to replace the local set we bought here five years ago. (Jay Leno is right, though; Europeans do seem to be getting larger, possibly as they begin to watch telly more and use more convenience foods.)

That doesn’t seem like much of a list. We could go on quite well without shipping any of it, really. But that’s not the point. Adoring England doesn’t mean forgetting what was good about America. All the objects we are missing will fit in one small shipping container, and the people–and my beloved horse Major Yeats, retired on a friend’s farm in Virginia–remain in our hearts.

* I’m OK with a modicum of religious images. I will probably leave the angel, part of an Annunciation painting, over the fireplace partly because the frame is spectacular, and partly because I think the flat needs some of Ronald Tiley still within. I expect his photo of Mary Tiley, which I’m sure he set where it was to look at as he sat reading in the evening, will remain in place as well. Simon’s parents shared one of those great loves, I think, that neither time nor condition can sunder.

BOOK ABOUT BRIGID, the Saint:

Visit Hutman Productions for a new book about the lore of Brigid, the saint instead of the fairy…but it’s the same name with different spellings:

http://mysite.verizon.net/cbladey/bripub.html

Once upon a time, a married couple was walking through the Barbican, the medieval port section of Plymouth, England, when they grew tired and fancied a cup of tea coffee. (The woman didn’t like tea; indeed, she knew she wasn’t well if she actually did want a cup of tea. The man didn’t care for it, either, despite being a Brit born and bred.)

Shortly, the couple came to a many-panelled window they had passed before. “Isn’t this the place we had lunch when we last came here?” the woman asked.

It was.  The restaurant behind the windows was called the Tudor Rose Tea Rooms.

They entered, and were directed by a young woman–since it was a lovely spring day, as lovely as the woman herself who seemed much akin to the storied Queen of the May–to the tables in the back garden. Shortly, a very pleasant older woman entered the garden bower and asked if the couple had seen the juvenile seagull that had gotten trapped and wasn’t quite strong enough yet to fly back out.  The young-as-springtime woman and the woman of a certain age were keeping him safe from evil trolls and feeding him while he grew to adult gullhood.

“Oh, there he is,” the man exclaimed, upsetting the tea coffee cups, but getting a fine photo of the feathered fellow.

This is the juvenile bird.

It has been two years since then. The juvenile bird is now probably an avian greybeard, and the man and woman don’t expect they’d recognize him now. For that matter, they don’t expect he would recognize them. They, too, have aged, although ever so slightly. One would hardly notice. Really.

After the man and woman met the juvenile bird, several months passed. Then they went journeying to the far south of England, farther even than Plymouth. Farther than almost anything except Land’s End, the westernmost point in the storied nation. Except for the Scilly Isles (pronounced silly). But that’s another tale.

Anyway, the man and woman went one day to Lamorna, there to visit a potter and her husband, who was a writer and painter. And to see their fine work, and to have delicious cakes and tea coffee with them as it was Christmastide and their shop and studios were closed to visitors. The man and woman had a dispensation, however, because they were on a magical journey. Today, others–on magical journeys or just a Sunday drive–can also visit the place, called The Old Well Studio.

The man and woman also saw a holy well.

But they didn’t see Hubert. Hubert must be a magical bird. Hubert has only recently arrived, tapping on Mim Nash’s office window. Mim is the woman, the potter. John Nash is her husband, the artist/writer.

This is Hubert.

(Photo copyright Mim Nash)

Hubert has been knocking on Mim’s window quite frequently. But she does have a favour to ask: If you are Hubert and you are reading this, please clean your beak before knocking. You are much more likely to get a good reception that way.

If you are not Hubert and you are reading this, why not spend some time in Lamorna, Cornwall, and see if you can help Mim out. Bring a soft cloth. Clean off Hubert’s beak. Pass by Plymouth first and stop at the Tudor Rose for tea coffee. You probably won’t see the juvenile seagull. But you’ll have a good time, anyway.

As it turns out, I could not duplicate, nor really in any way experience, the sights and sounds and tastes and smells and feelings of Lawrence Durrell, author of Bitter Lemons…the single book I have ever read that sent me on a voyage of discovery.

Durrell, for the three years the India-born British writer stayed in Cyprus, lived in Kyrenia, now in the no-man’s-land of northern Cyprus, grabbed at gunpoint by Turkey in 1974. Indeed, our travel advisor’s description of the 37.5 percent of Cyprus now claimed by Turkey almost made me cry. It is impoverished, while the Greek portion is booming. Famagusta, an ancient historic city, is now of blessed memory, a Turkish ghost town. Taken by force, the inhabitants fled, especially the Greeks, often biding their time and hiding their treasures for years before being able to cross the line into the republic that is an independent Cyprus.

Driving up into the Troodos Mountains, through which the dividing Green Line runs, was nerve-wracking for more than the rocks the mountains had spit onto the rain-slick roads. The ubiquitous transformation of Turkish coffee and Turkish delight into Cyprus coffee and Cyprus delight (why not Cypriot, to mimic the original usage?) was disheartening. It was like knowing one was in St. Petersburg, Russia, but having to call it Leningrad, USSR, during those bad days of the Cold War when unseen eyes would be upon one, waiting to ship one off to a Siberian gulag for defaming the Communist overlords. It was unsettling, the more so to me because I had cared deeply about seeing Cyprus, with all its wonderful edge-of-Asia-Minor/edge-of-the-Med magnificence, for more than forty years. I was dismayed that so much of it was lost to civilized commerce; cross into “Turkey” on an EU passport, stay after five pm, and one might not be allowed back into Cyprus. I couldn’t risk it on the first trip.

***

The summer after my senior year of college, I was working and waiting for my husband to finish his M.A.  After four years of reading the great works of the English language―Chaucer in Middle High English (I still love it), Shakespeare, the Romantic poets, 20^th century American dramatists, Ernest Hemingway―and having not yet discovered the joys of truly light reading, such as Agatha Christie, I cast about for something entertaining to read. In the college bookstore, in the small section of paperbacks that had nothing to do with anyone’s coursework, I found Bitter Lemons by Lawrence Durrell.  I had always loved lemons; as a child, I ate them as other kids ate oranges. Plus, the cover picture was really cool, sort of modern lemons with wobbly black outlines. At least, in 1968 it was cool.

I loved that book. I loved Durrell’s description of Cypriots sitting under branching trees in mismatched chairs eating local foods and drinking village wine. I loved his description of the beach, and the mountains. I was entranced by the idea that the island had an uneasy amalgamation of those with Greek or Turkish ancestry as residents, and that the once-almighty British government was preparing to cut the island loose to find its own way, encouraged most by Greek partisans. I lost the original copy somewhere on my journey to 2003; I found a used copy on the Internet, ordered it, reread it, and got fired up all over again. That book didn’t come with us to England, but is―thankfully―in transit as of yesterday, along with lots of its kith and kin.

I did have a book about Cyprus to read before the trip, though.  My restaurateur friend, Suzanne Oldfield (Steps Restaurant; see April  26th post), on hearing of our upcoming trip, loaned me a book she had just read, Small Wars by Sophie Jones. Like Durrell, Jones is a Brit, and she writes about the same time period, the “emergency” that began in 1956, as the British began to tinker with the Pandora’s box that was, and still is, Cyprus. But I haven’t read it yet. Jones has written fiction; Durrell wrote the truth as he saw it. A brief glance at the Jones book tells me that either women are more cruel, or Durrell truly did love Cyprus, and Jones does not. But I do her an injustice; I will read the book anon. I could not touch it, not even open a single page, until after I had seen my longed-for island for myself.

I have seen it now. Some of it. I have seen some beaches, the mountains, the Green Line. I have eaten its food, met its restaurateurs and hoteliers, its Vietnamese hotel staff seeking a better life, its Bulgarian waiters with an amazing facility for languages peaking in an Irish brogue or French-accented English or prime Brit and studying accounting.

I have eaten mosfilo, not enough mosfilo; it’s delicious and unique. I have eaten souvlaki, far too much souvlaki. Chicken, lamb or pork, souvlaki is all pretty much alike. I have eaten halloumi, and loved that which was made from milk of goats that fed on the wild thyme on the mountainsides. Feta I have never liked, so I didn’t eat it. Nor olives: I love the oil, but not the fruit itself. Lemons….well, one cannot have too many lemons, nor the big, sweet juicy oranges either.

I have, at last, been swimming in the Mediterranean…. I have seen olive trees growing wild, with fruit ready to be picked by reaching out the car window…. A front-porch table with a bowl full of lemons…. Geraniums growing in bushes three feet tall and three feet wide, geraniums in all the colours we know―the pinks, salmons, reds, whites―and an amazing purple. The mating dance of a tiny bird….Two ubiquitous Cypriot cats in a restaurant patio making more cats….A man with a moustache that makes Hercule Poirot’s moustache look like the moustache of a man afflicted with minimal hair growth….A totally gorgeous young woman with raven hair and green eyes eating bread and tomatoes in a taverna….Several old women dressed all in black in the blistering sun, walking to town or back with heavy bags, up hills steep enough to stop a goat….

I don’t know a single thing about Cyprus. I have not gauged the Cypriots, as I gauged the Irish on first meeting, or the Parisians. Or Bahamians, or Canadians. There remains about Cyprus and the Cypriots something very un-European, very un-British, despite virtually everyone being at least minimally bilingual in Greek and English.

I think the British did the Cypriots a favour by being there, something I would not say about America or Ireland. I haven’t yet put my finger on it, not totally.

Perhaps I shall, as I explore Cyprus in retrospect, through my eyes and ears and the camera of my British husband in a few upcoming posts.

To be truthful, Cyprus has fine internet service, and I’m on it right now, obviously. I don’t find it at all difficult to sit on a breezy balcony with a view of the Mediterranean drinking Cypriot coffee.

A trip up to Kykkos Monastery in the high mountains yesterday–two hours over rock-strewn switchbacks, including lack of tarmac in spots and slippery mud, was a bit less enjoyable…although the monastery was incredible.  Passing very close to the dividing line between Greek Cyprus and Turkish Cyprus was spine-tingling, and very sad, really.

I have wanted to visit Cyprus since I was in college and read Bitter Lemons by Lawrence Durrell, right before the British left and handed it over to the never very placid Greek/Turk communities. It muddled along, until 1974 when Turkey invaded….but that’s another story, and one I will tell at the end of this week or beginning of next.

I view it as a three-layer cake: American expat from England visits formerly British Cyprus.

Anyway, the husband person got lots of lovely shots of truly Cypriot stuff, and I’ll be back with it all on May 7.  Until then, before I throw this teensy keyboard off the balcony,

Yamas (which is Cypriot for Cheers!)

Do not, whatever you do, order a martini in southwest England. You may at first be confused when the server asks if you want it with lemonade. (I had this concoction once, which was a sweet white vermouth with a mixer that is more akin to Schweppes Bitter Lemon than anything an American would call lemonade.) To all such questions, just say no. But then explain that you are probably using an Americanism, and what you really want is some gin or vodka, shaken vigorously over ice after a dash of the driest possible Martini has been added. Ask for it to be served either over ice with a slice of lemon (or an olive), or in a cocktail glass.

Regarding the cocktail glass: DO NOT stand on ceremony. Accept a champagne flute, or a fishbowl if need be. Being willing to instruct and able to accommodate is about the only way you’ll ever get what Americans call a martini in southwest England…at least now that The Waterfront restaurant is gone.

In case you’re wondering, Martini is a brand of white vermouth, but usually it is a relatively sweet vermouth, as slung about in southwest England, although there is a dry form. It’s still not as dry as what Americans think of as dry vermouth, but it will do unless, like me, you’d just as soon have unadorned Bombay Sapphire or Hendricks (very hard to come by), shaken over ice until very cold and adorned with a bit of lemon.

***

Following are tales of three southwest England martinis:

The Barbican, a medieval section of Plymouth near the waterfront and the Hoe

The Waterfront

The day after we moved to Devon, we had to do two things: Buy a car and return the rental van to Enterprise in Plymouth. Not just in Plymouth, but in the Barbican, a maze of tiny medieval streets. For walking, it’s charming. For driving, not so much.

First, buying the car. My husband has an old friend who owns a big car repair shop. As it happens, one of his customers had just bought a brand new second car and wanted to sell her old Ford Escort. It met the specs. It was four on the floor, air-conditioned (one needs it approximately twice in an average summer), grey (so no fade), and in tip-top shape despite suffering advanced age. Plus it was cheap. In fact, we paid as much for the insurance as we did for the car. Best of all, we could just run downtown, buy the insurance, bring the papers and the money back to Paul, and drive off.

That’s what we did. Simon drove the rental van, as only his name was on the contract, and I followed in the new old car. There are good roads between our house and Plymouth, mainly. The drive of about 22 miles generally takes about 30 minutes. There are, of course, roundabouts or what Americans call traffic circles. Lots of  them. Two layer. Some with traffic lights, some without. By the time we got underway on a really lovely Friday afternoon―sweater weather in the end of November―rush hour had begun. I followed Simon as best I could. I ground the gears a couple of times; I had junked my standard transmission junker a couple of years earlier, and had been driving a big automatic Land Rover in the States.  On big roads. This was none of the above.

By the time we got to the Barbican, I was frazzled. And then there was the problem of finding a parking space. Finally, we did, and Simon honked and sped off, while I parked. Shortly, he returned. Not there, he told me, but around the corner. Oh. OK.  I had to back up…a lot.  But I got it round the corner, locked it and went to Enterprise, where I am now certain I set down and left forever the spiral notebook containing the entire packing list of our possessions still to be shipped from the states.

We were very hungry and decided to find a restaurant on the sea front for a late lunch. We found The Waterfront. It presented another parking problem, beginning with a steep turn from the main road around the Hoe (the place where Sir Francis Drake played bowls while waiting for the Spanish Armada to heave into view), and ending in a relatively nice private car park requiring documentation from the restaurant.

It quickly became clear we were a tad underdressed. It was an elegant restaurant. The owner didn’t hesitate to seat us, however, and he took our drinks order immediately. He came back to the table with a big, lovely, clear, frigid, lemon-zested very large martini in an oversized glass. He set it down before me and said, “You looked like you needed this. I’ll be right back with your husband’s G&T.” I LOVE England. So sensible. So kind. Unfortunately, the recession seems to have killed off The Waterfront. I am highly disappointed. In addition to the martini, I had luscious local mussels.

Sigh.

Widemouth Bay on a sunny, breezy April afternoon

The Bay View Inn, Widemouth Bay

First, it’s not wide mouth; it’s pronounced widmith.  OK.  Once you’ve got that, then you walk into the bar to order, and they bring your food to inside or, weather permitting, outside tables. We have lunch there quite often, but only a month or so ago did I notice a martini shaker and martini glasses. I asked the bartender if she could make a martini. She said she could if I would tell her how.

The masterful martini-slinging of The Waterfront is far from the norm in Devon and Cornwall. But being willing to have a go is quite common. So, we told her how to make a martini. The bartender was pleased with her new knowledge, but wondered how many people would come in and order one. I wonder, too. Drinking pints is much more common, or a glass of wine, or whiskey neat, or the ubiquitous British Gin and Tonic. Gin and Tonic was such a standard, frequent and common drink in my house before I became a martini aficionado that I simply called the thing Vitamin G. We still refer to the major ingredient as Vitamin G.

Bay View Inn

Marina Drive, Widemouth Bay
Bude EX23 0AW
01288 361 273

St. Eustachius Church tower, Tavistock, with Dartmoor in the background at dusk

Steps Restaurant, Tavistock

This restaurant is on the main street in Tavistock and is, as the name implies, up a flight of steps. Thirteen to be precise. At the top, Suzanne Oldfield awaits to serve you; in the kitchen, her husband, Adrian, awaits to cook good English food in the very best way. If I never had another potato, Adrian Oldfield’s sautéed potatoes would do very nicely, thank you. My recent dinner of poached salmon was sublime. The cottage pie is exquisite. For dessert, the crème brulee is wonderful. In fact, I’ve never had a bad meal there, nor has anyone who has visited us and been taken there; they always ask to go back.

The wine is good as well. Suzanne’s list is reasonably priced, but well-chosen and served at the proper temperature.

The cocktails are created by Suzanne herself. My husband’s G and T is easy. My martini is more demanding, as I think I’m her only customer who orders one. Nonetheless, she happily shakes the gin over ice, pours it into a champagne trumpet with a slice of lemon peel, and serves it up. Fine with me, especially as the crab-meat stuffed mushrooms arrive right behind it. One always knows, because one can hear Adrian  furiously ringing the bell to carry through to the front dining room if need be, and Suzanne hurrying back to gather the plates.

Steps

75 West Street
Tavistock PL19 8AJ
Phone: 01822 614 280

Take one rescued mutt from Baltimore. Love it.  At great expense and a good deal of trouble, move that dog to Devon, England. Take it to run on Dartmoor.

Find the best places to park among those provided by a thoughtful government. Preferably find one with a stream, like this one.

Take the aforementioned dog to play in the stream, jumping across it or plunging into it, as the spirit moves her, as one climbs up the local tor, or mountain. (Really, they are big hills, but nonetheless, they are tors.)

Allow the dog to sniff in the reeds, roll on the short, sheep-cropped grass and bark at the bubbles made by two dozen little waterfalls.

Let dog get really, really wet, then dry it off and head home.

Dog sleeps the sleep of angels.

You?  You are rewarded by knowing you have just made one small, cute creature as happy as it is possible for a living thing to be.