arriving in Cornwall

I wake up (or rather arise, since I am quite awake for a good bit of the night) to rain. Yesterday, I had carried a hotel umbrella against the occasional drizzle. I can't do that today and I have a twenty minute walk to the train station. Well now, it is what adventures are made of.

Breakfast is at the hotel. It's called "continental," but whatever continent it hails from is not one familiar to me: everything a hungry lumberjack would need is on that continental table and I help myself to juices, fruits, granola, yogurt, bread, salmon and an egg. I had toyed with pre-paying for the more expensive "cooked" breakfast, to last me the day. Ha! Frugality is (finally) rewarded!






Goodbye, lovely hotel with the TV in the bathtub!






And look! The rain has stopped! The world belongs to the hardy and willing!

I walk rather briskly again. I've purchased tickets for today's travel online, but I have to pick them up at the station. I need time for it. Not many photos for you from this walk then. Just two: one showing that not all cabs here are black and the other -- well it's a hat store display and if I had put it up with the question "can you tell where I am?" I'm sure anyone would have guessed England.












And now I'm at Paddington Station. Here's my train.





It's nearly a five hour ride to the tip of Cornwall (a total of 305 miles to where I'm going) -- the train is  high speed until it reaches this southwestern county and then it becomes a local. But my seat is luxuriously comfortable and I have a computer plug and a table and a conductor who tells me that before June, the entire train will have free WiFi. It's spotty now. I must have reacted to that with a pout (not that I need WiFi) because he assures me that the scenery will be quite pretty and I should not ignore it. Though honesty gets the better of him, because he feels compelled to add that this will be the case only once we pass Reading.

In the meanwhile, the cart comes with the warm beverages and snacks. I listen to the passengers putting in their requests. Tea, room for milk, again and again. One asks for biscuits, another for fruitcake. I have never before heard anyone willingly ask for fruitcake. Yes, I am in England.

I so love train travel.

I have time for the paper. I learn in the Times that there is a national discussion taking place on whether the new requirement that students memorize up to 15 poems by heart for their GCSE English literature exams (16 year olds take these) is a good idea (you wont be able to bring in an anthology for the requisite analysis -- you must remember the poems to write about them). Jane Weir, whose poem "Poppies" is on the exam syllabus is saying no: memorize poems you like, not because you have to! But Seamus Heaney (the Irish poet who received the '95 Nobel Prize in literature) is in support: it's the beginning of a cultural ear!

You can read "Poppies" here. It was commissioned for The Guardian, as part of a response to the escalating conflict in Afghanistan and the Iraq. Weir commented in an interview that, ‘I wrote the piece from a woman's perspective, which is quite rare, as most poets who write about war have been men. As the mother of two teenage boys, I tried to put across how I might feel if they were fighting in a war zone.’ It's not a short poem. I should think it would be hard to memorize.

In other news, you might be interested to know that between now and the national elections (picking the P.M.) on May 7th, the British can cast a vote for a national bird. Polls indicate that the robin is a favorite. However, David Lindo, the guy who leads the National Bird Campaign (his claim: the Americans have the eagle, the French have the rooster, it's time for Britain to have a bird!), thinks the hen harrier, which is on the verge of extinction could come in from the back. He himself is hoping for the blackbird, whose song evokes "lazy, hazy sunny days." Other birds on the short list are (derived from a previous vote): barn owl, kingfisher, blue tit, wren, puffin, mute swan and red kite. Personally I'd go for the puffin, with the blue tit -- in its lovely blue and yellow -- being my close second. You can inspect the birds and read the Guardian's version of this story here.

Too, there is a campaign to eradicate the gray squirrel in Britain, an unwelcome American intruder who, it is said, "belongs in the oak and hickory forests of North America," not here. That's a gory story. I'll leave it to your imagination how such a campaign, in a country where there are four or five million American grays (and only 100,000 reds left) might proceed.

And so the train rolls into Cornwall.






In St. Erth, I change for the little train to St Ives.






St Ives.

As I was walking to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives. 
Each wife had seven sacks,
Each sack had seven cats,
Each cat had seven kits:
Kits, cars, sacks, wives,
How many were going to St. Ives?

Am I the only one who remembers this nursery riddle?

But the question remains: which St. Ives does it refer to? Because there are a number of towns with that name in England! Half the nation believes it's about the St. Ives in Cornwall. This once was (and to an extent still is) a fishing village and so the reference to cats is understood. On the other hand, the St. Ives in Huntingdonshire is a huge market town and so that, too, makes it a fit.

As to how many were going to St. Ives? Well, who knows? At least one, possibly a hell of a lot more, depending on where everyone else was heading.

St. Ives: population 11,200. Named "best UK seaside town" in the last several years. It is on the Celtic Sea coast of the western and southern most tip of England. If you walk due west from it, you'll reach in about 25 miles Land's End and then you really are at the land's end.

I am at the Mountain Warehouse (a British sporting attire store), buying a thin fleece pullover to go under my fleece jacket. My hosts suggested it. On sale for twelve pounds. I took one walk on the coastal path and decided enough is enough. The sea wind is gusty and even if I only use it this one day, I know that it packs well and is a good thing to stick in my suitcase in these shoulder travel times. A much better idea than taking a warmer jacket. I say to the clerk (who looks like he'd rather be surfing) -- St Ives looks to be doing well!  I'm impressed that on the main shopping street, the shops, bakeries, eateries are all open. No closed and shuttered storefronts here. Fresh coats of paint on buildings.

The salesclerk shrugs. The people who come here are doing well. We locals, we're struggling. The season is two months long. By the end of winter, we don't have any money.

But I think there must be some variation to this. My (newly opened two years ago) guest house is fully booked. The place where I eat dinner is full as well and the waitress tells me that from Easter onwards, they wont have a quiet night.

Still, the clerk has a point: St. Ives is just a tiny bit upscale. I'm told it's a favorite for Londoners and Germans. You don't put a local branch of the Tate Museum (yes, here since 1993) in a hole in the wall. (The Tate, aside from its two London galleries, has this St Ives one and another regional gallery in Liverpool.) And St. Ives is not cheap: I had wanted to spend a week here, but after looking at the prices, I cut it to four days. I should note that the bed and breakfast -- the Trevose Guest House, is so worth it! It's beautiful!

And here's another thing that's absolutely stunning: the scenery. Oh, the views!  I catch a glimpse on the little train -- a ten minute coastal link, running back and forth between St Erth and St Ives. I take photos, but then erase them all because I know I'll have better ones once I'm out and walking.


From the St. Ives train station (if you can call it that) it's just a four minute hop over to the Guest House. It's rather conventional on the street side...






But inside, you really catch your breath: it's all about blue and white here and the spaces are light and airy.











I come at a time of a flurry of activity: the owners, Angela and Ollie, are off for their first ever parent teacher conference (they have a four year old girl; I ask them later how it went -- brilliant! the teacher says she's brilliant! Ollie grins, understanding fully well that she may not be the only one in class with that designation). Their assistant at the guest house checks us in. I say "us" because just at this moment, a couple from Alabama drive up. They are on a fiftieth wedding anniversary trip and they seem despondent. She trips on a step and her mood never improves after that. She admits that they had a few frustrating words as they couldn't find the guest house and yes, it's a long drive from London.

Me, I am in no hurry, so I let the inn keepers attend to the unhappy celebrators first. I sip an offered tea in the breakfast room and look around.






Everything about this place appeals to me. It still smells fresh, as if I am in its opening moment.

Eventually I am shown to my room -- which I picked because it was the cheapest, but also the most perfect for me. As they explain - it is the only room in the house where you can lie in bed and look out on the sea.






The view:






And now it is 4 p.m. and I am outfitted with my additional layer and I am raring to go. No ambitious hike for today: just a walk east (meaning back toward St Erth) along the coast.

I leave the town, noting that others aren't so put off by the still mid forties temps (they're coming in from a day of surfing).






Well, let me walk briskly. Ah, but that extra layer is good! The feeling of cold is completely gone, despite the wind. And I am in England and the English are perhaps the best in Europe at marking walking trails. They are such keen and spirited walkers! I pick up the coastal trail.

The views are tremendous every which way you look.






I walk down to the water's edge. A stream runs into the sea here, creating sand formations of different tones and hues. Colorful bath houses line the edge.






Along the trail itself, I come across the spring blooms -- some in the wild, some cultivated by the locals.






It is an exhilarating walk! Even if today I'm still under gray skies -- I have no complaints!






What I do have is a raging appetite. Again, breakfast seems far in the past. I let the guest house hosts pick the restaurants for me. My criteria are simple: fresh and honest food, not too expensive or stuffy. For tonight, they send me to the Sea Food Cafe.






Here, you pick your catch from their day's selection and they prepare it for you as you want it. The sea bass, grilled, with a Mediterranean sauce (their description) of red peppers and garlic. And a large salad. Oh, and a few local scallops to start me off. (No need for dessert. I'll save that for France.) I am in sea food heaven.






Later, as I lie in bed and listen to the noise of the sea gulls, I think about what it must feel like to live in England but really far from London. Berwick upon Tweed (last June's trip for me), on the Scottish border, is arguably further at 338 miles (St Ives, as I noted, is 305), but it is close to any number of larger cities. Cornwall has the feel of a more remote destination. At the St Erth station, I made my way to the tiny waiting room, because even the fifteen minute wait outside for the train was too cold for me. A young woman was there as well.
I stand by the radiator here when it gets too cold outside: it's the best spot to wait for the train, she tells me.
She looks to be around forty. I ask her if she is from here.
Yes, I live right by St Ives. That is, I moved away for a number of years, but then I came back. Now I can't imagine living anywhere else.

I get it. Even after only one late afternoon and evening here, I understand why she wont ever leave.

London

Twenty-two hours in London: how to spend them? Sleep: they must include sleep. But of course, there is the issue of adjusting to the time change, though not so much as is typically the case on trips to Europe: the UK runs an hour behind the rest of the continent and, too, daylight savings time comes here in two weeks, so I'm actually just five hours ahead of home (as opposed to the usual European seven).

Twenty-two hours. In a city like Paris, the night seamlessly blends into the day: it's really true that that city never sleeps. London is different. Especially now, in March and on a Sunday. It hasn't the pulse of a night city -- at least not here, not in Marylebone -- my neighborhood this time around. (And if you think you know how to pronounce that, well then, let me tell you, you're one better than me, because I have heard a million different versions, though the most enduring is some very quick rendition of Mar-lee-bone. The name comes from the days when the aristocracy spoke French and so it's actually a French name of "St Mary a le bourne" -- St. Mary being a local church, and le bourne being French for a stream that once ran through here.)

Twenty-two hours on March 15, 2015. That's Mothering Day in the U.K.: it falls on the fourth Sunday of Lent and has been, over time conflated with what we would call Mother's Day. A nice bit of history on this British holiday is provided in the Independent here, where you can also see the Google doodle honoring this day. (A funnier one minute clip depicting a parody on how Prince Charles celebrates his mother-the-queen's day can be viewed in the Daily Mirror here -- burnt toast and all. The British have a unique sense of humor.)

Let me run through my London twenty-two hours. You've read about my arrival at the hotel. Let's take it from there.

I do leave my room. It's warm, it's snug, but I have this itch, you see, the one that has made me endure the hours of travel to be here, far from home: it's the itch to explore.

I am very close to Oxford Street -- which is sort of like taking one of our great big malls and spilling it out onto a street (and it is, as a result, under high alert right now, since it has been threatened, but you wouldn't know it for the crowds here on this cold day). If I'm to buy an extra thick sweater, this would be a good place to search for it. I have a light sweater, I have a fleece jacket, but it's not enough for a damp mid 45F. People are wearing their winter coats and I can't blame them.

I go into one of the stores and I look at racks of discarded winter sweaters and I then I just turn my back on all of it. I can't do it: I have maybe a day more of cold weather. I can't give in to a season that I consider over and done with. I tell myself to walk briskly to ward off the cold. And I do. For three hours, I walk very briskly.

But where to?

So much traffic! Because London is under a "lorry control scheme" (basically no trucks are allowed on weekends), you'd think there would be less of a traffic issue here, but no. London also imposes a congestion charge on cars in the city, but only on weekdays. In effect, cars here have free reign on weekends and of course, there are plenty of buses and cabs. To my eye, there are far more buses and cabs moving around here than just about in any other European city.






So I take to the park. Hyde Park. (And I walk briskly!)

It's quieter here and of course, there are fewer people on a day like this. I enjoy that for a few minutes and I especially appreciate the daffodils.





Yes, makes you recall the poem by William Wordsworth, doesn't it?

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils...

Recalling these flowers later, warmed the soul of Wordsworth, but it doesn't warm the flesh and bone, I can assure you. Still, they are lovely flowers and since they come on the cooler days of spring, I always think of them as being unusually resilient.

At Piccadilly Street, I leave the park. I want to be tempted by a cafe. I haven't eaten anything since the half a yogurt I downed on the plane (I never like the inflight breakfasts -- they are an insult to my images of this exalted meal). But London isn't Paris and every street does not boast a cafe. I go in toward Shepherd Market -- a set of blocks that has a higher number of eateries. I peer inside the one obvious cafe with a very local looking clientele...





I go inside. I am accosted by the waitress. What would you like? Are you wanting something to eat? Oh, I recognize that accent. Polish, I'm sure of it. She follows me as if I required supervision and as I appear to hesitate, she continues the questions -- what..? what...? I finally ask about the heavy looking cakes -- do you make these yourselves? She seems visibly put off by the question and I know that no matter what the answer, I don't want to be here.

Rejecting that cafe, I think I should look for another. I walk further down Piccadilly. Nothing tempts me. But as I pass the Royal Academy of Arts, I notice the banners for the current exhibit:  Rubens and his Legacy. Maybe I should poke in?





I ask -- how much is the entrance fee?
Thirty pounds.
That's a lot! 
Are you a senior?
What do you call a senior?
Over 60.
Yes!
Then it's twenty five. Less if you just want the Rubens.

It's not that I wouldn't spend that money on an exhibit that I would enjoy, but I don't even especially like Rubens and the other exhibit is of an American artist (Richard Diebenkorn) and that just seems so wrong for my one afternoon in London!

But they surely have a cafe...

Well no, it's a cafeteria. And though it has a bit of a British cast to it...





...the whole large cafeteria space seems lonely in its crowdedness. I know, I'm fussy today! I leave.

Up Piccadilly once more, all the way to Piccadilly Circus which I remember as being such a disappointment the first time I saw it -- I expected dazzling lights. I expected a vast space. I don't know -- I expected more than a congested roundabout, with one statue of what is thought to be Eros in the center. Or rather centre. These days I just smile at these old expectations. London is what it is. Enjoying it requires discarding expectations.






And I walk on, turning right onto Regent, all the way down to the Mall, which borders St James Park and is known to many of us as the wide boulevard that leads all processions to Buckingham Palace. If you're a royal wedding watcher, you would have seen it many a time on TV. The street is blissfully free of cars. I don't know why. Maybe to give strollers some peace from the noise of traffic. Maybe for security reasons. I exhale. And I really love St James! Yes, those daffodils, for one thing...






They're really beautiful here! For a minute, I forget about everything else -- the hunger, noise, cold -- all of it. The British know how to do flowers well, even in these first days of spring!






(I'll throw in a quick look at a London favorite -- Big Ben.)






And in spots, there are other emerging flowers too. The English daisy is already visible. Here's a rather impressionistic rendition of a clump of this so English a flower!






And, too, I see the English primrose is up and running. The primrose here is a near evergreen and it grows wild in forests. This one is a variation on the traditionally yellow flower.






And there's another thing that the British really appreciate: birds. As I approach the pond, two gentlemen with huge cameras are eying this guy:





What is it? I ask. It looks like our heron, but it's all hunched into itself.
It's a gray heron, but a young one. 
Oh, it's quite pretty!
It's aggressive in the pond! 
Well, it looks gentle now!

The two chaps help me identify another funny looking guy: a coot, with feet that look like they should be webbed, only they're not.





(You can read about these two birds at site of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds: here's the coot and the gray heron.)

The park has squirrels too and I watch as a couple feeds one. (Two things to note: the squirrel seems to be across between the Polish orange one and the American gray. And secondly, in the background, you see Buckingham Palace.)






Alright. I'm out of the park...






...and turning toward my hotel neighborhood. I give up on the cafe. Or at least on a breakfast-lunch-predinner snack. It's actually time for me to go for my evening meal.


Marlybone  (my neighborhood) is getting to be a bit trendy. I can tell, not only because the New York Times once said so, but also because walking along Marylebone High Street...





... I come across all the standard French left bank upscale shops and boutiques. But it also has a relaxed and quiet demeanor. It's not stuffy like, say, Knightsbridge (from what I remember of it). 

I've booked a dinner at Fischer's on the High Street itself-- a cafe-restaurant that serves what can be described as Mittel-European food. It's not that I'm in love with central European fare, but the description of this place appealed to me: informal, a cross between a cafe and a restaurant, open all day. The menu looked good and it would not exhaust my budget for the trip.

The crowd is lively -- possibly there are mother types being celebrated with big glasses of hot chocolate with whipped cream, like at this table...





Most people, like me, are eating a full meal now. And I enjoy mine tremendously! (Hunger will do that to you.)

I'll just post my appetizer -- three thin slices of rye, one with chopped sardine and beetroot, one with smoked salmon and goat curd (their terminology; it seemed like regular goat cheese to me and I'm from Wisconsin, home of the curd!), and one with artichoke.





The meal is entirely successful, though it doesn't do what I had hoped it might -- it does not warm me up after a day of chilling myself inside and out.

Only one thing can do that: back at the hotel, I pour myself a nice steamy tub of water and I do what I have never done in my life: I climb in and turn on the TV, which amazingly in this hotel room is placed right inside the bath-shower combo and I watch BBC news.

Honestly, I nearly fell asleep in that hot tub.

A warm quilt, a cozy, quiet room -- perfect conditions for a good night's sleep? Well, almost perfect. I do the usual first night in Europe thing: I sleep some, then wake up in the middle of the night and there's nothing to be done but accept the fact that sleep wont come back quickly or easily. So I take out my computer and write this post.

arrival

People have strong feelings about London. British people, old timers, new arrivals, visitors.

Except for me. I just tend to avoid it. Yes, I must sometimes pass through it (witness the two pass through trips recorded on Ocean), but most of my trips to the UK have entirely omitted this great big city from my consideration.

The reason for it? Well, you could say that I like other parts of the UK much better, so why waste a day here? And, London is so damn expensive! But, too, I think for me, London is a bit of a fairy tale. I passed through it as a kid (and promptly forgot it) but I really opened my eyes to it when my own children were very small, especially when my older girl was very small -- just turning three -- and she and I (pregnant with the second girl) had many wonderful weeks making day trips to the big city to see the museums while her dad worked in the libraries up in East Anglia (Cambridge). I walked that little girl to pieces then! Up and down, in and out of the Tube, in and out of museums, accompanied by wonderful kid books explaining everything from modern art at the Tate to the mummies in the British Museum.

So why touch a golden memory? Why go back at all?

Well, as always, I hate to form these rock solid opinions and not give cities a chance. When my younger daughter told me she wanted to visit Berlin with me a few years ago, I balked, but she, having the stamina to stick to her desires while I wilt and falter, insisted that we put Berlin on our travel map and I am so glad we went! (Even as I still don't regard that city as a chipper place to explore. Forgive me. My history is what it is. Perhaps I remember too well a visit to East Berlin when there still was an East and a West Berlin.)

When I planned this March trip to Europe, I was, of course, looking for decent weather. This is tricky: you can hit glorious skies in many parts of Europe now, but some hold a greater likelihood of rain -- day in, day out rain, the kind that drips down your collar and chills you inside and out -- it's best to avoid it. I picked two regions that hold the promise of a lesser likelihood of rain and the first is right here in England (yes, I'm serious!) and the second? Well, that's next week's story (and a rather predictable one, so don't go making wild guesses -- it's south and it's in France).

I could have gone straight to my English destination today, but London tempted me just a tiny bit. For a Sunday afternoon. Why not? (Even though it took me forever to find a hotel I might actually enjoy rather than just tolerate, given my budget.)

So after a terribly ordinary and very late flight from Detroit to London, I hopped on a train to Paddington Station in city center (or should I affect the British and write centre) and from there, walked, marveling how when you alight from the airport train in Paris, you immediately know you're in Paris and when you alight from the airport train in London, you immediately know you're in London.






 My hotel is a mere twenty minute walk from Paddington and I have two comments on that short trudge: first of all, I was delighted to see that England already has this to offer:






But secondly, the good weather I am slated to have (according to the weather maps) does not begin until Tuesday. It is in the mid forties now and the skies are pouty and bleak and I am cold. 

Never mind. As I check in to my small (but expensive for me, though okay with a prepaid special rate) hotel, which is very close to the Marble Arch, hence its name -- the Arch, not to be confused with the Marble Arch hotel next door, where I first went, to be greeted with blank stares! -- I am served a warm cup of peppery ginger tea and immediately I am reminded how the British solve many of life's crises with a cup of tea.

The hotel room is small, but warm and cozy...






... and the views are, well, very U.K.! Note, too, that it has started to drizzle and my optimism told me to leave the umbrella at home, as the forecast only spoke of a drizzly day today and tomorrow.






Oh, I shall go out, I must go out, I want to go out -- eventually. But Hyde Park -- a mere two blocks away, is at the moment uninviting and I just made myself a cup of coffee and opened my laptop.

Maybe later, when the drizzle gives a pause. For now, I'm enjoying my first hours in England from the warm quiet of my hotel room.

departure

A crazy night of wakefulness: it's a test, that's what it is! Does she have the stamina to take an overnight flight after having far too few sleep hour from the previous night under her belt? Does she? and more importantly, can she still enjoy the one and only day she has given herself in London on so little sleep?

These are the suspense questions I leave for you and for myself for today and tomorrow.

There's more: how the heck did I manage to book a connection with an eight hour layover in Detroit? Here I have an easy answer. I'm using up Ed's miles on this trip and beggars can't be fussy: this is the best I could do for myself.

And now the upside, because believe me, there is always an upside (please know that whenever I say this, I am excepting days of poor health: there aren't many upsides to poor health). I surely have time to post!

Up early, with plenty of time to pack my tiny case. And it remains half empty.  I have a lot of train travel ahead and light packing makes this a fun way to keep moving.

We eat breakfast. Leisurely, in the sun room. A bigger one for Ed as it's our last meal together for a while. I'm thinking -- I must make it grand and memorable! It is. Both. (I did ask him if he wanted a haircut before I left; he balked. Honestly -- I was glad: I love his hair as it expands wildly in all directions.)






The cheepers come to say goodbye (or so I project onto them). They hang out forever on the front mat. I'm glad they like it, but its usefulness as a doormat will diminish if they keep leaving for us souvenirs of their visit there.  But who can fuss today! It's sunny, warm, they're in their happy spring mode.






And then it is time to go. One tiny detour -- to return a sweater my daughter left at the farmhouse. And to peek. Just peek in on a girl who herself seems to be catching up on sleep. Be good to your family, and to yourself, little one!






And I'm off. I'm leaving Wisconsin at her most glorious moment: the snow is gone, the hope of spring is palpable.






(By contrast, Michigan, across the great lake, has yet to rid itself of all snow.)


I am in transit. Waiting for that last flight scheduled to leave this airport tonight. My flight. To London.

Friday

Having adult daughters puts me on a wonderful path of discovery, as each each day I learn something new (and wonderful) about each girl. One beautiful characteristic of my older daughter is that she wants as much of family for her young child as is possible, given the constraints of time and distance. Snowdrop has just two grandmas, but for my daughter, that is not a "just." It is a "hey!" I'm sure if Snowdrop had a hundred grandmas, my girl would be equally excited to welcome each to her home and make each feel like she is important. Because to her (and to her husband), each one is hugely important. The more family, the better!

Today, Snowdrop's other grandma, known to you, Ocean readers as grandma Charlotte, a frequent commenter on this blog, flew in to spend a good bit of time with Snowdrop.

It is also true that grandma Charlotte flew in just a little before I am to fly out, so that the young parents could benefit from her help in the weeks I am away. She is that thoughtful. Snowdrop is a very lucky girl.

Because it is my last full day here, I am in a complete kerfuffle as to what should  happen when. There are not enough hours in the day and so you must forgive me for the brevity of my story here. I have a huge check list of all that must be done before I depart. Let me run through the day with it in mind, because it surely is a guidepost to my activities throughout the day.

Breakfast? Yes, of course. Hurried, but yes. Check.






Feed cheepers who are en masse at the  farmhouse door. Check.





Go grocery shopping. I know it's weird to have that on the list on the day before I leave, but I have a dinner party at the farmhouse tonight and besides, Ed needs some foods stored in the fridge. Surely he can't do without the cheese curds and bananas that I pick up for him and certainly he'll benefit from tonight's dinner leftovers. Check.

Then onto Snowdrop's home. Her mommy needs to get the house somewhat in order for the guest from Buffalo (that's you, grandma Charlotte!), so I babysit a little. Snowdrop is just waking up when I get there...






... and then the three of us -- my daughter, Snowdrop and I go for that long walk around the lake (1.5 hours).


 
("let's go, mommy and grandma!")


It's glorious outside! Mid sixties! A beautiful, sunny day! Check.



(mommy's sleeves are rolled up)





(even as the ice fishermen are still out on the lake)


Oh, but time's running out! And I need to give Lily a wash! Of course I do! I can't leave that car all encrusted in salt for 2.5 weeks! And I forgot to buy some Dijon mustard! How can I sizzle mustard chicken thighs for dinner without the principle ingredient? Back to the grocery store. Check.

Late afternoon. Back at the farmette. Ed shows me the wood carving that he did for his friend on his mini CNC milling machine. I must take a picture! Check.






And we had planned on moving the cheepers' coop today from the barn to the outdoors! That's a big project. I roll up my sleeves and shovel a winter's worth of soiled wood shavings out of the coop. And we move it! Check.











Print boarding pass, fold laundry, water plants -- check!

And I cook -- to the chicken thighs and drumsticks, I add a celery root puree and we have a beautiful family meal and I tidy up -- check check check!

Throughout, Snowdrop is a little uncertain. The routines seem different. The sounds, the movements, the dinner hour here, at the farmhouse. Her mom extends a reassuring hand.






She'll be okay. She has a great mommy and daddy.






I take her for one last glance at her favorite red elephant in the mobile above her farmhouse crib...







...I feed her and hand her over to a loving grandma Charlotte, who helps Snowdrop master her newest skill -- finding her own fist and thumb to suck.






I say goodbye to Snowdrop. She has many pairs of loving hands to care for her. Knowing that, makes me very very happy.

(Even as I miss her intensely! Check.)