an english holiday

I had a wonderful holiday in England, but with a bit of a rough start. On the eve of my departure, I slept en ville at James’s apartment because his place is close to the train station and I was scheduled to leave Bordeaux at 06h27. We made a family-style dinner of pâtes bolognaise with Valeria, Esther and Mathilde and afterwards James and I met our friend Benjamin in the English bar across the street, the Frog et Rosbif before finishing the night off back at the apartment with Christmas carols and sleepy banter.

The following morning, James walked me to the tram, which I took to the gare, and my train left on time without incident. I arrived in Biarritz, from where I was to fly to London Luton via Ryanair. (The train ride to Biarritz often pays for itself in Ryanair savings—my flight only cost me 13,50 euros.) I took a cab from the Biarritz train station to the airport—another 7 euros. After checking in and settling into an uncomfortable seat next to the gate, minutes before takeoff we were told that our flight had been cancelled due to fog. The passengers for my flight were to be bussed to Pau, where our flight had been redirected. Unbelievable! I had just taken the train through Pau on my way to Biarritz, and the trip is considerably longer by bus. It took us about two hours, in addition to a forty minute wait for the bus, before we made it to the Pau airport. Of course it wasn’t foggy in Pau, and by that time it probably was also sunny in Biarritz.

I called Joëlle, my hostess, to warm her of my tardiness and took a place in line to board. I regretted stowing my coat and scarf in my luggage as I watched the other passengers step out onto the tarmac and board the plane by a rolling staircase. (I’ve secretly always wanted to do this.) When it was my turn to go outside, I was equally pleased and disappointed to find the air temperate, warm even! Where was the winter I knew? Next to the airport, palm trees were growing. Palm trees! At Christmas! Between my redirected flight and the lack of proper Christmas weather (i.e., snow), I was having trouble getting in the spirit.

We arrived in London about two hours late and I had no chance of making my originally scheduled train from Paddington Station to Chippenham. I wasn’t even sure how to get from Luton, a northern suburb of London, to Paddington. Fortunately I met Chris, a 24-year-old from Bristol, who was headed my way and also wasn’t sure of the route. Together we were able to decode the complicated London Underground, changing at Luton Parkway Station and King’s Cross.

At Paddington I tried to convince a customer service agent that it was not my fault I had missed my first train, but even though she was sympathetic, she couldn’t give me a new ticket for free. Instead I had to buy a new ticket for £57,50, and the kind customer service woman told me that I should be able to get a refund on one of the tickets later on.

Jacque, a Californian from DEFLE, and Joëlle met me at the station at Chippenham and we drove to Hullavington House, Joëlle’s home. I met her parents, Bob and Magali (who is française) and her sister Ellie. The girls played cards—a Danish game whose name escapes me but which resembles a sort of “group” solitaire, oxymoronic though it may be. Then we ate dinner, chili con carne, before calling it a night.

On Christmas Eve, Joëlle, Jacque and I drove into Castle Combe, a nearby town used frequently for filming because of its old world charm. “Throw some dirt on the ground, and it looks pretty much as it did 400 years ago,” Joëlle told us, and she was right. The town had a familiar air to it—that of a fairy tale. The originally Dr. Dolittle may be among the most famous films shot there, but Stardust is probably the most recent.

Next we drove to Lacock [LAE-cock], also home to a famous film ser—Harry Potter! The cloisters there are the setting for many scenes passed between classes at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, because of the holiday, the cloisters were closed and we (and by “we” I mean “I”) looked longingly through the locked gates and a pasture of grazing sheep at a large stone building, behind which one finds the cloisters. Bad luck.

Next was a reenactment of the nativity scene in the village of Hullavington, where the Virgin Mary rode through the streets on a donkey and finished at the conveniently named Star Inn, the local pub. After the play we shared hot mulled wine and steaming mince pies.

We ate dinner at home but not before Bob treated us to an aperitif: a pint at his favorite pub. English pubs are not like bars. Cozy and not unlike a large living room, they exude a homey sort of warmth and serve as a gathering place for people of all ages. A Christmas tree stood in one corner, adorned with ornaments made by the local children.

After dinner, we changed our clothes and drove into Chippenham. Jacque and I were both surprised to learn that in England, Christmas Eve is not the quiet family affair as we have come to know it but instead a night on the town, catching up with old friends. We met several of Joëlle’s former classmates and shared a couple of drinks before returning home and going to sleep.

On Christmas morning we rose at nine to make American pancakes.

Time out! No, we did not open our presents first thing. Elle and Joëlle’s stockings were waiting outside their bedroom doors and they opened those tiny gifts, but we had a leisurely breakfast in our pajamas and didn’t even start getting dressed until at least 10h30.

Clean and fed (and only slightly impatient—I was reminded of David Sedaris’s criticism that some European cultures care more about food and family than “things of real value”), we sat before a lit fire in the living room and took turns opening packages. I had black gloves from Jacque, a daily calendar with photos of Britain and an amusing novel about fitting into French culture from the Greens, and a necklace and eye shadow powder form Joëlle and Ellie. The Green family’s guests that day, Alan and Michelle, even brought me a box of pink champagne truffles for my birthday. (When I said that I was unfamiliar with the mark, Hotel Chocolat, Joëlle told me that it’s very expensive.)

We passed the afternoon playing Pub Quiz, a sort of simple DVD version of Trivial Pursuit, men verses women. Magali was busy in the kitchen and so we were four young women against two well-seasoned, male pub-goers, but we won anyway by a rather impressive margin. Alan and Michelle left and we sat down to Christmas lunch in the dining room.

Lunch started with crackers. Not the kind that you eat—the kind that you pull apart with the help of your neighbor to reveal jokes, a tiny gift, and a tissue paper crown, just like Bridget Jones’s! We donned our crowns, marveled at the tiny surprises (mine was a set of magic poker cards) and told our jokes.

The meal was astounding. Our plates were heaped so high with food that Magali repeated again and again that we weren’t obligated to finish it all, but we did anyway. There were steamed peas and carrots, roast chicken, crispy roasted potatoes and parsnips, pigs in blankets (sausages wrapped in bacon) and Yorkshire pudding (bowl-shaped pastries filled with a brothy sauce). The wine flowed abundantly and we were all rather flushed by the end of the meal. Joëlle, Jacqueline and I took the two dogs, Paddy and Bessie, for a walk through the town, still wearing our paper crowns and laughing animatedly in the street. (There is only one street in Hullavington. It is aptly called “The Street.”)

When we came home, rosy-cheeked, there was figgy pudding in white, creamy and potent brandy sauce, and by the time we had finished we were glued to the couch by the weight of our stomachs for the rest of the night, watching reruns of Blackadder with Rowan Atkinson and a Christmas special of the British sitcom The Royle Family. There was a brand new episode of Wallace and Gromit on, “A Matter of Loaf and Death,” and soon afterward we all made our way upstairs to our respective beds and promptly passed out.

I woke up the next morning, my 21st birthday, to breakfast with the girls. Joëlle denied me any presents until dinnertime. We went into Chippenham where Joëlle showed us a couple of her preferred shops and we profited from Boxing Day sales. In the afternoon we napped and then Joëlle helped Magalie with dinner while Bob drove Jacque and I into Marlesbury, one of the oldest towns in England whose roads date to the Romans in the first century A.D. It was bitter cold and we were glad to return hope to an appetizer of cake, topped by sixteen lit candles. Everyone sang, I made a wish, and then three of Joëlle’s friends, Flossie, Joey and her boyfriend, Brad, came over for an Indian feast. There were four dishes, including a spicy chicken korma and a daal, and samosas and pupadam aplenty. I had my first legal sip of alcohol—a bit of bubbly—and we finished the night with another game of Pub Quiz.

Joëlle and Ellie gave me a really cute, hardbound journal and a black satin clutch, and Jacque gave me a beautiful gold necklace. Mama sent a small gift from the States: dainty little gold, dangly earrings with “the color” beads and another really cute journal.

Jacqueline was already gone when I woke up on the 27th. Joëlle and I passed a quiet morning at home until the early afternoon, when she left to pick up her boyfriend, Dave, from the train station. With Dave we took the dogs for a walk in the countryside, donning Wellingtons à l’anglaise. In the evening, the whole family plus Dave and me walked to a neighbor’s home for a potluck and games. Jamie Cullum grew up in the house, which is a converted barn and really charming. We ate chili and potatoes and vegetable curry and played the same card game from the first night, along with the UK edition of Cranium (I had a definite disadvantage in the trivia department) and Sing Star, a PlayStation 3 karaoke competition game. It was so much fun. Dave beat Ellie at the Kaiser Chief’s “Ruby,” and Joëlle and I were closely tied in Abba’s “S.O.S.”

We left after midnight and I said goodbye to everyone before packing my things and going to sleep. I had to wake up early the next morning to catch a bus to London, and my trip to Bordeaux was timely and without incident.

Observations: England is everything I’ve built it up to be. I lot of Wiltshire towns probably have real Hogwarts students living in them, I told myself while cursing my Mugglehood repeatedly.

No, but seriously, the English countryside is charming even in its gray dampness. There is something inherently festive about the stone cottages and gray-green fields. Everyone I met, including bus drivers and Londoners, was welcoming and only too excited to learn that it was my first time in England and wished me a wonderful stay,