Driving in Devon

I have driven in a lot of countries. Right hand, left hand, no hands…I have driven on roads in Africa that had potholes the size of a small car, and on roads in India that are built for two lanes but have five lanes of cars and one lane of cows. I am a brave driver and thought I had seen it all.

But Devon?

Oh my – nothing really prepared me for driving on roads barely bigger than the width of one car – despite traffic going in both directions!  That in and of itself is not so bad. The problem is that you cannot see beyond each curve in the road (and there are a lot of curves) because both sides of the skinny country road have hedges, hundreds of years old and about eight feet high. So, it is kind of like driving in a tunnel. A one-way skinny tunnel – except that around every corner you practically run head on into another car coming in the opposite direction.

Now you would think with roads such as these that people would drive slowly. Not so much…

So, for me, a typical drive into town goes something like this: I am driving slowly, very slowly down the centre of the road. One of my side mirrors is folded in because it keeps scraping on the hedge even though I am in the centre of the road. I start down a long, steep hill with a corner at the bottom when suddenly a large garbage truck appears. Screech. He comes to a stop. Screech. I come to a stop.

Pause.

Said truck driver hand motions me to pull over into the “pull out,” that is about 20 feet in front of me, so he can get by. I shake my head no. He wonders why, and I yell, as though he can hear me, “Can you not see that that pull out is not pavement, but rather 8 inches deep of mud? I am not driving into that! I am not a freaking tractor - I will never get out! The mud in this county pulls the boots right off my feet! You drive into the mud!!!”

We are staring each other down. He is much bigger than me, so finally I put the car in reverse and back up. Up, up, up the very steep mud slicken skinny freaking road. Not a few feet. Not a few meters. A bloody kilometer!! And as I back up around one of many corners, another car comes to a screeching halt behind me. So now two of us are backing up, and all I can do is sigh and say, “How do you people live like this?” 

The truck passes and waves, and I head back down the hill.

This goes on all day! So, what should be a 10-minute drive into town becomes a hair-raising half an hour of hell.

Once I got to town today I decided I deserved a scone - with devonshire cream and strawberry jam - you know, for being such a brave driver, but first I needed to park. Parking in Devon is almost as bad as driving. Cars are parked pointing both directions on both sides of the road. It is the most bizarre thing, and it just feels wrong – so - just because I can, I park on the wrong side of the road, in the right direction. (As if driving on the left-hand side of the street isn’t confusing enough!)

As I walked down the main street of Honiton – the closest town to Buckerell, I noticed not one, not two, not three, not four, but five barber shops in less than three blocks, yet, for the life of me, I could not find any freaking scones! (That’s not actually true, I did find and buy some scones because the ones I made were, in comparison, quite terrible, and having navigated the roads and the parking...I definately deserved scones).

Besides the weird roads and parking, one must add the traffic circles and the signage to the Devon driving delights. There are A LOT of traffic circles – and while some of them look like the kind of traffic circles most North Americans would be familiar with, you know, a large circle with some sort of centre area you drive around, some of the "circles" here are just downright confusing, and when you add to that driving on the opposite side of the road than what I am used to, it can be a bit quite hairy. Also scone worthy...

And what the hell is a “weak bridge?” This does not inspire confidence to cross said bridge.

And then there are the passing lane signals painted on the pavement. At least I think that is what they are. It is a curved arrow painted over the centre line of the larger highways (and by highway I mean the roads that actually fit two cars). The arrow is coming over the line, so it looks like it is directing cars coming towards you to drive into you, and I found myself asking, does this mean I should swerve over when a car is coming straight at me, or does it mean beware of cars swerving into your lane???

All of this is to say that while I usually enjoy a nice drive in the countryside to see all the scenery, driving in Devon has made me just want to stay home, and you guessed it, eat scones, because while Devon may fail at roads, they definately win at thick, gooey, cream that is nothing short of heavenly.

So why the obsession with scones, you ask?

It is possible it has something to do with dry January. I am giving my liver a break and so when my nerves are frayed from driving, I have substituted something equally good at calming the nerves...

And without long daily drives in the country, there is absolutely nothing to do in Buckerell. I have visited all the surrounding towns in the first five days here, and in Buckerell, it takes me exactly 3 minutes to walk from one end of town to the other, and I absolutely cannot walk on the roads out of town because then the fast driving cars on the skinny road tunnels would just run over me.

Needless to say, I am a little bored at times, so today while buying scones, I also bought some water colour paint and paper. I have never done it before, but thought it might be a productive way to keep my hands out of the coddled cream. 

I decided to try to paint this photo I took this morning on my walk. (O.K., so his legs are a bit too long and at the wrong angle - give me a break, it was my very first time!)

Maybe I should stick to photography.

A Pet Sitter’s Worst Nightmare

Yesterday was one of those days. At the time, it was very traumatizing for me but it will likely become one of those funny stories to tell at a party. Believe me though, yesterday I was not laughing.

The dog I am looking after is a rescue dog from Romania and is, to say the least, a bit neurotic, or OCD. Maintaining her routine is incredibly important, otherwise she gets quite anxious (much like my x-husband)!

Katie dog’s day begins at 8am when I make up her food and take her and the food outside where she eats. I assume this is because that is all she has ever known. Anyway, she will only eat outside, and only if I stand there and watch her. If I try to walk away, she stops eating and follows me.

No problem, except yesterday there was a wicked storm with torrential rain coming down sideways. When I opened the front door to head out – we both hesitated. It was nasty out! Oh well. We both ran out the door, which I left open because I had not yet put on my coat, and after putting down Katie’s food I intended on running back in to put it on. Just as I turned a huge gust of wind blew the door shut with a loud thud!

Now this door is a big solid door with a lock that is automatic, so when the door closes it is locked. So, there I stood, mouth agape, half dressed in the pelting rain, saying, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”  My phone and my keys were in my coat, and my coat was in the house, and Katie and I were already soaked to the bone!

I tried not to panic and decided there must be a key hidden somewhere, so I began lifting every plant pot in the yard hoping to find a key beneath it. I checked the shed, the windowsills, under the mats. No key. The wind was howling, and Katie was looking concerned.

As the cold rain ran down my face, so did the warm tears.

What was I going to do? Without my phone I had no way to call the homeowners, hell, I didn’t even know their last name so even if I borrowed a phone I really did not know how to get hold of them.

I left Katie in the yard – much to her chagrin, and I went to the neighbour’s house – their gate was locked. I went to the other neighbour’s house – not home. House by house I knocked on doors, but it was 8am on a Sunday morning and no one was opening the door to a half crazed soaking wet, partially dressed crying woman!

I saw a lady walking down the street and I ran towards her, but she crossed the road and swiftly ran away. More tears.

 I decided I would have to walk to the store and try to borrow a phone to call a locksmith…but would he believe me that it was a house I was supposed to be in? I had no identification. I did look suspicious…

As I was running towards the store, I saw down a side street a young couple bundled up walking their three dogs. Ah, dogs…surely dog people would be nice and have pity on me. I ran towards them and said, “Hi. My name is Corrie. I am from Canada.” And then I burst into tears.

(Now normally I am not a crybaby, but I had just received bad news about my own pet back home, and so emotions were a little raw). I did managed to get my story out, and by good fortune this young couple were familiar with Katie and they said, don’t worry, we will help you.

They took me home and we called several locksmiths – no answer at any, but we left messages and then they loaned me a leash to go get poor Katie, who by now looked like she had jumped in a lake. So did I actually. I asked Maria, the young lady whose kitchen floor I was dripping copious amounts of water onto, if I could squeeze out my wool touque in her sink, and I swear at least a cup of water came out of it. I didn’t ask if I could squeeze out my pants, though I sure wanted too!

When the locksmith finally arrived, he took one look at the lock and said, “That lock is the most expensive lock in the world. You cannot pick that lock.”

More tears.

The guy took pity on me and said, I have one thing I can try – and thus began a half hour of fighting with a special tool and a mirror and some wires with a rubber thing on the end. It took me to hold the mirror inside the teeny tiny mailslot, him to work the big tool inside the teeny tiny mailslot, and his partner to pull the cables taught, but after a while I heard a loud click, and the door popped open.

And that's when the floodgates opened. I grabbed the locksmith around the neck and literally sobbed into his ear. I couldn’t let go. I just cried and cried and mumbled “thank you, thank you, God bless you, thank you.” The woman he was with smiled the warmest smile and threw her arms around me and the three of us stood there on the doorstep in the pouring rain just hugging!! Then he said to me, “It’s Sunday, I am going to have to charge you double.”

“Sir, you can have my first born – I am just so very grateful!”

Meanwhile, back in Oliver where I live, the real pet sitter’s nightmare is unfolding as the young lady looking after my cats is traumatized because my young cat Ember - who has now spent more time of his young life with her than with me - is dying – and she knows depending on how his bloodwork looks on Thursday I may decide to pull the plug on the little guy.

Ember was diagnosed with stage 4 Acute Renal Failure – and it does not look good for him. I can only imagine how terrible my house sitter feels. She does not know what the cat got into – but it got into something on her watch, and I am sure she feels more terrible than I do. And now, she has been given the exhausting task of his care, giving him IV fluids, and medication, and watching the little guy suffer. She has been a trooper, and is trying to stay hopeful – telling me she is sure he will pull through, but I have read all I can about this, and I am not so sure. Even if Ember survives, he will likely face a rough life of chronic kidney disease, recurring UTIs and possible blindness. I am not sure I want that for him, so I am shoring up my emotional strength.

Pet and house sitting has been a great experience, and I have come to realize what a great responsibility it is - one that should not be taken lightly, and after today I will be much more careful. I have vowed to not take a single step out of a house without being fully dressed, coat on, with a phone and keys in my pocket. And I will not take lightly my responsibility to keep an eye on the lovely animals I care for.

And next winter, I think I will stay home and care for my own animals.

Portsmouth and cold toes

One might think coming from Canada to a country like England would not be much of a culture difference, but things are certainly different here. Compared to Canada, most of the homes here are old – dating back hundreds of years – and heating them is a challenge. The house I am staying in, for instance, was built in the mid 1800’s. It is in original condition: tall ceilings with ornate crown moldings, large brass and crystal chandeliers, and five, yes, 5 flights of stairs! My bedroom is at the top, and the kitchen is at the bottom, in the basement.

Basement kitchens are not unusual – built so that the heat from the kitchen rises. There is no central forced air heat – just radiators that are programmed to be 17C for a couple of hours in the morning, and a couple of hours in the early evening. Other than that, the water is kept at 9C. That means it is pretty damn cold here!

The beds have electric blankets, as do the couches. My feet are freezing. My fingers are cold. And my nose has not thawed out since I arrived.

Ah, my arrival. Now there is a funny story….

I arrived at Heathrow airport on January 1. My plan was to buy a local SIM card, rent a car, and drive to my housesit just over an hour away. It turned out that the SIM card shops were all closed because it was January 1. (I had hand written down the instructions on how to get to where I was going because if I have learned anything from my many travels, it is that things never go as planned and you should always be prepared for a worst-case scenario).

There was a storm going on, and the cold wind was pelting sideways so I was super glad that I had decided to rent a car instead of taking public transport. I got my car rented, looked at my instructions, and headed out – driving on the left side of the road (turned out to be the easiest part of this day) and immediately into a traffic jam of epic proportions. So there I sat, less than a half kilometer from the airport, for what seemed like hours, though was probably closer to 30 minutes.

Then, just down the road where I was to turn south, the road was closed due to construction, so I was forced to continue driving east. The “detour” took me more than an hour out of my way, through windy roads that would have been pretty had they not been completely covered in inches of water from the storm!

As I approached Porstmouth it became obviously clear that my handwritten instructions were inaccurate, so before I knew it I was miles past Porstmouth on a road that seemed to have no exits! I eventually turned around and only by miracle did I find my way to the address I had.

The roads here are skinny, two way, but only big enough for one small car, and the street was lined with parked cars. There was nowhere to park. I drove around, starting to panic, as I had to pee like a racehorse and could barely think straight as a result. Eventually I ended up stopping in the middle of the road in front of the house and ran through the rain to the large gate that surrounded the house. In the process, my glasses fell off and broke.

The gate was locked and there was no bell or intercom. I had no phone to call the people to tell them I had arrived and was standing in the pelting rain, blind, peeing my pants.

I digress…

Another thing I found different here is the AGA – an expensive piece of kitchen equipment. It is a huge stove type thing that uses conduction and convection to move heat around the cast iron parts of the cooker. Temperatures will differ depending on where you place your food in the oven. It looks much like the old-fashioned cast-iron stoves that were heated by wood.

The AGA never shuts down. It runs 24/7 and its cast iron body emits heat to help heat the house. 

The two big chrome circles on top are lids. One covers a hot burner, able to bring a pot to boil very quickly, and a warm burner for well, keeping things warm. (I was tempted to sit on it!) I was told this was a good place to dry my jeans.

Another weird thing…. most people do not have clothes dryers. Electricity is so expensive, not only do people live in a refrigerator, they have to somehow dry clothes in it! 

It is entirely possible I will spend the next 8 weeks in damp clothes wrapped in an electric blanket. Sigh.

On a positive note, the city of Portsmouth is beautiful, and I have enjoyed walking about (I think it is warmer outside than in the house), taking in its charm. There are many green spaces, a wonderful waterfront, historic sites, and lots of pedestrian streets with quaint shops.

Today I am meeting up with a local woman who is taking me on a driving tour and then we will go for lunch (fish and chips I suppose), and tomorrow I am headed to the New Forest, established in 1079 by William the Conqueror, as a royal hunting ground, where I will not hunt boars or deer, but rather mushrooms.

I figure if I am going to be cold, I might as well be outdoors looking for mushrooms!