Driving on the left, from the right

I’ve finally sorted out the logistics and financing of getting the car fixed.  Initial proposals from Ford Lease were that the car be repaired in Maastricht.  While likely practical from the standpoint of the engine, I didn’t think that the hood latch would necessarily hold for the 6-hour drive to the Netherlands.  Second suggestion?

“We would suggest flying the car back to the Netherlands.  Ummm, can I have iron-clad assurance that I’m not paying for that? 

The third proposal was to take it to a local accident repair centre to get new replacement parts fitted (£2700).  Perfect.  ‘Good, your appointment is Monday’

A ‘Relief Vehicle’ is nowhere in the paperwork, so I went online to find a temporary replacement.  Surprisingly, a rental was only £115 for 10 days, all-in with VAT and insurance.  I locked the price and hot-footed over to the depot: a red Fiesta was being checked out when I arrived.

Oddly, so was a bill for over £400 additional payment.  Digging into the itemizations, I found over £300 in duplicate insurance, add-ons, and options. 

And if I didn’t want all of that? 

“Well, of course, then you’d owe nothing.”

These people are such, well, used-car dealers.  I signed for nothing, took the keys, confirmed condition, and headed out.

The car is, of course, set up for UK driving arrangements rather than my customary Dutch / American driver-sits-left.   And this is where it all gets tricky for me.

I am used to transposing to driving on the left side of the road, but not to driving from the right-hand side of the car. It really takes attention to keeping the right side of the car close to the starboard lane lines.  And even so, I tend to drift left. 

I also have this sense off enormous space to my left inside the car, that the vehicle is very much wider than it actually is.  It makes the vehicle difficult to park and problematic when passing.

And, of course, I’m now getting into the car from the wrong side.

Not a bad thing, of course: It encourages me to go slow, hyper-vigilant of what around me and of where my wheels are.   So far, all good: more working from home and less travel generally, but looking forward to being ‘back to normal’ by early March.

East Cliff, West Bay

‘Out to Bridport for a Friends meeting after a bit of a roller-coaster day.  As it turned out, I was two weeks early for the meeting, but on-time for a sunset beach walk along one of the best parts of the Jurassic Coast.

   

The fishermen and motorcyclists were also done for the night, congregating around the Fish ‘n Chip shacks next to the moorage.  They really get the recipe right along the docks, light and crisp.  I settled in with my paper portion to watch the storm clouds build and put the day to rest.

 

It turned out to be the perfect time to look for some good light along the village harbour, and to enjoy the changing colours of the cliffs as the tide began to come in.

  

Things British

It’s a day for doing laundry and catching up with domestic work.  With a full suite of housemates, I needed to take my laundry out to be done, seeking a launderette (nee Laundromat for the Americans).  They are a bit competitive, people jostling for machines and trying to shame people who just bring their drying and mess up everyone else’s sequence.  Fortunately, there is an attendant who keeps everything ordered and moving along.  A few pounds, a couple of hours, and I’m out.

It’s about a day at the house: I have to find the washer free in the morning, and check that the drying rack isn’t filled with towels and motorcycle gear.  Things need to sit in the airing cupboard overnight to dry, a thoroughly British closet where the hot water heaters create a warm dry space for finishing laundry.

And so it goes, every day, in so many ways, to be reminded of how things are different, are British.  It is in the (to American eyes) quaint architecture along my street, a brick facade in Parkstone, a coffee shop in Ashley Cross.

  

It’s in getting aspirin in blister packs instead of bottles, making sweet drinks out of squashes rather than syrups, and backing my car into parking spots instead of nosing it in.  I keep a bag of change in the car and go light on emotive words.  I’ve grown accustomed to having a raffle drawing after village social gatherings. Every restaurant enjoys a perfect Food Hygiene Rating. 

I understand humor that is either subtly ironic or coarsely dress-up, and can riposte when need arises.  I’ve learned answering ‘You okay?’, as a greeting instead of a concern, with a purse of the lips and ‘Yeah’ with a nod and a slight upward inflection to sow doubt.  (I prefer sowing doubt using the Yankee-style replies 1) ‘Swell, you?’, 2) Hangin’ in!, 3) ‘Never better…’, which all confuse others.)

I may be just about ready to convert my ILR to a passport (another £2000, but then done, right?).

I bought a toaster the other week, and inside was a half-off coupon for Virgin Wines.  I took a look online and found that a selection of 12 luxury red wines cost around £6 per bottle, less than it costs for plonk at Tesco.  So I placed an order, and was rewarded with a big red box a few days later.

This has turned out to be a mixed blessing.  First, my housemates are now wondering why I am having wine delivered by the case.  The box dominates a corner of my room, raising questions even if unopened.

Then there is the moral hazard of having 122 bottles of wine in the corner of the room.  After a hard day and thirsty on return from exercise, the fruity dry varietals call out to me.  There’s not the usual friction of having to go to Tesco to spend money: they are just sitting there, going bad if I don’t drink them.

Finally, there is the quality.  I think that they are better than the sharp / sweet reds that  are usually on sale, but nowhere near the buttery / heady selection offered by local wine critics.  The I discovered that Virgin is putting a #25 / mo charge on my Amex, a subscription that needs to be drained and cancelled.

I had toyed with the idea of joining The Wine Society while I was in Cambridge: it looks like good value and better bottles, so I’ll likely switch, months from now when I’ve drained the Virgin stash.

Lunch in the New Forest

Sometimes, the best discoveries come from wandering while lost.

May, early summer in the New Forest.  I had a spare hour, so took the slow road through Brockenhurst following interesting signage.  The Victorian logos indicating  The Pig were naturally appealing, leading to a country house and gardens, restaurant and lodge, that I noted for a future visit.

Fast forward five months.  I’ve decided that the restaurant is perfect for my w.wezen, but reservations are impossible (making it infinitely more desirable).  I finally nail a weekend table pour deux and make a day with it.

The restaurant prides itself  on sourcing ingredients from the garden, so the first order is a stroll through the beds and greenhouses, discovering a massage hut in the middle of the hotel’s pond.

 

  

Then it’s into the conservatory for lunch.  While the venison starter was questionable, the mains (pheasant, for me) were well prepared and tastefully presented.  The FT recently wrote that the best way to parse a wine list is to swallow pride and ask the sommelier.  I gave it a go, and he did, indeed, offer an outstanding glass alongside the meal.

On to the library for pudding (dessert), a lovely berry tart topped with a unappealingly coloured sauce.  No matter, we used the time to speculate over the connections and classes of the couples newly arriving from the car park.

A last stroll around the grounds to walk off the lunch and a slow meander back north through the woodlands. It’s all a nice, British sort of vibe: the day in the countryside, good food in the bric-à-brac surroundings, the well-labeled gardens and greenhouses.

 

And, relaxing into it, it makes for a nice autumn break in the center of the Park.

  

Disclaimer: As always, I was neither asked nor incented to visit, and the opinions and photos are my own.

Outward bound for home

I’m starting a 10-day trip to the Netherlands and the United States, a mix of business and family stops.  A lot revilves around vehicles: it’s time to trade in my lease car (3 years, 110,000 km) and time to sell my son’s jeep.  Both have a lot of memories attached, it’s a bit of a milestone each way.

It’s also my first voyage on an outbound ferry since the interrupted trip in May.  The queue’s are longer than they were then, a consequence of the migrants flowing west across Europe and the unrest in Calais all summer.  Stops to inspect the trunk (boot) and undercarriage are routine, and advice is handed out prior to boarding. 

Trucks are backed up for (literally) six miles leading into the Port of Dover. The police are running a roadblock on the M20 motorway called Operation Stack: the goal is to divert trucks (lorries) before they join the lines at the docks and the Chunnel.  From a driver’s perspective, though, it’s a pointless get-off / get-on the road detour that adds 20 minutes to the journey east.

DFDS now offers a Sea View Lounge pass for £8, comfortable chairs, newspapers, wifi, and snacks apart from the crowd that sounded like a good deal.  It’s a small space on the upper deck, the good chairs pegged early by others..  Tea, coffee, cookies (biscuits) and crackers are on offer, along with a doctor’s office selection of news.  The quiet is nice, and the worktables were good: it’s worth what you pay for it, I suppose, but it doesn’t change the ambience of the cruise.

The crossing was smooth and quick, a beautiful day for enjoying the white cliffs and the sea breezes out on deck

  

An uneventful drive across Belgium, around Brussels, through Liege, and finally down into the ‘skade.  I dropped the car along a side street, said hi to friends, and walked back in the gathering twilight. The bike tunnel was a bit spooky underneath the rail station, empty and echoing.

 

The fietsen sailed past, Bert gave me a big ‘hallo, the kerkklokken chimed then hours: was nice to finally settle in with mijn biertje en boekje,once more t’huis.

What a difference a day makes…

Balans en grenzen uit meer dan werk, I remind myself after 5 pm each night.  And so, I take evening walks after exercise, after work, most evenings.  The harbour is familiar, of course, but like any good friend it has it’s temperament.

 

Yesterday was moody, still and humid, clouds low over Brownsea Island.  The sailboats moored still, at rest.  From Evening Hill, it was a blend of greys, sky indistinguishable from water.  Paddle-boarders oared along the Spit; only the rescue craft gave colour to the beach.  A line of sailboats threaded among the red and green market buoys, hurrying home before dark.  It reminds me of evenings along Puget Sound, mist laden with mystery.

 

Today was different, quiet but contemplative.

 

Pico Laser dinghys drifted into the Parkstone Yacht Club, sails reaching for the day’s last breath of breeze.  Faint laughter drifted up from the (Members Only) Boat House, fueled by cold beer and warmed-over canapés.

  

The forest of masts glowed in the fading light, while a lone thunderhead made futile menace over houses on Sandbanks Road.