{"id":54725,"date":"2025-06-28T08:00:00","date_gmt":"2025-06-28T07:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/?p=54725"},"modified":"2025-07-10T15:25:21","modified_gmt":"2025-07-10T14:25:21","slug":"from-currywurst-to-sorry-sauce-by-way-of-normandy-part-6","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/?p=54725","title":{"rendered":"From Currywurst to Sorry Sauce by Way of Normandy (Part 6)"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Sea snails sailing from Portsmouth. Photograph: Karin Mora<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Golden wedding anniversaries: so popular they make seven different cards. All are on display in my parents\u2019 living room, with one (the biggest and most golden-of-letter) sent so many times it fills the mantlepiece. Not ours. We\u2019re \u201cpersonal touch\u201d kind of people: we made our own. All Shakespeare quotes and pencil work. We even repurposed a glitzy hotel envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But this day\u2019s not about us. It\u2019s about two people who met young, married, and weathered fifty years, rain or shine. It\u2019s about how the universe conspired to make me<\/i>.<\/s> The party planning began around year 48, with invites tentatively spoken in asides over coffee and cake. Year 49 brought venue ideas. Year 50, RSVPs(*). <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

We get up in good time for Coffee on the Wall and listen to the gulls, the soft plink of the shower coming from the bathroom window behind us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExcited?\u201d asks The Mathematician, plucking a weed from the gravel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am,\u201d I reply. \u201cIt\u2019s been a while since I\u2019ve seen all my relatives.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Old family friends too; some I\u2019ve not seen since childhood. I point to another weed with my foot. The Mathematician shrugs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think it\u2019ll make a difference.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She makes a sweeping gesture. The weed-to-pristine ratio\u2019s not looking good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s where the apple tree used to be,\u201d I say, pointing to a spot in front of the garage. \u201cAnd over there\u201d \u2014 I turn to a neighbour\u2019s wall \u2014 \u201cwas a pear tree. Strange to think we had fruit trees in such a built up space.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, now there\u2019s just stone and gravel. The pansies look nice though.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They do, a riot of colour in their hanging baskets. And unlike the other potted plants here, they won\u2019t die. Ever. We\u2019re later proudly told they\u2019re made of plastic. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cock an ear. \u201cThe bathroom\u2019s free.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My uncles have formed an enclave<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

My sister picks us all up around noon so that we can travel to the venue before the party starts and fret. Dad\u2019s been watching the sky like a hawk(**) the last few days, fearing the beautiful weather will break into rainclouds \u201cToday of all days.\u201d It won\u2019t, I assure him; we brought a whole week of the good stuff. Of course, him being my father means I\u2019m his child, and I slip into the role easily by pointing out the occasional rogue cloud on the horizon and uttering ominous hmm\u2019s. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The venue is a friend\u2019s house, beautifully situated on Portsdown Hill and generously offered (other venues being prohibitively (and extortionately) expensive). They\u2019ve a large garden with a view of the city and sea, an enchanting arrangement of (real) plants and a WWII bunker in case Jerry lashes out again. A large gazebo draped in golden letters covers chairs and tables, the latter filling with food, the former later to be filled by revellers digesting the spoils from the latter. There\u2019s also a \u201cpub\u201d tent so delightful I\u2019m compelled to visit often. (To check on the staff, you understand \u2014 it\u2019s a sweltering day.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The band arrives and sets up. I help one carry gear from his car. They\u2019re quite advanced in age and, when they start playing, very advanced in ability, I realise. I suspect the Dark Arts. Happily, no one else does \u2014 this being a predominantly Christian crowd, things could turn ugly, fast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I meet the Sage of Stamshaw, known to my family since childhood. (Mine, not his or theirs.) We float rafts of stories to one another and as I part to say \u201chi\u201d to one of the other forty-nine guests, he warns me in an ominous voice that armageddon\u2019s coming. The End Times. I nod the nod of the knowing. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Mathematician and I pass each other mid-mingle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that on your plate?\u201d I say, eyeing a collection of tasty vegetarian treats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She tells me, and tells me to hurry. The omnivores are circling. I suppress a mild hunger-induced panic and stride purposefully towards the feasting tables, dancing around new faces with Oh, heys  <\/span>and Yeses. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The food\u2019s rather fine. Too fine. I look around for a place to sit down and digest. I\u2019ve a suspicion \u2026 yes, there, behind a low hedge. My uncles have formed an enclave(***). I head over to the Middle Class executive lounge and take a seat upon a log stump. How delightfully rustic!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s lovely to see them all again and there\u2019s simply not enough time to exchange every tale. We stand to watch when Mum and Dad have a dance near the band. We notice there\u2019s banoffee pie. We enter the commons.  <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

People begin to depart as evening approaches. Numbers, addresses, and invites are exchanged. The Photographer (called upon) and Vicar (a calling) give me theirs \u2014 old friends I\u2019ve only managed a few words with. (Though to be fair, The Photographer was often off stalking candids.) <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI got some invites,\u201d says The Mathematician when we hook up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMe too.\u201d I shake my head. \u201cWe\u2019d have to come here for a month, at least, to see everyone \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She purses her lips. \u201cYou can; I have to work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s a magic to being outdoors, and I\u2019m as enchanted by the whispers of the well-trod past as I am by Ember\u2019s many questions.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

It was a great success, we all agree, back at my parents. We fling ourselves merrily into bed, there to buzz with all the day\u2019s pollen. Nope, just me again. The Mathematician hits the pillow running and enters the Land of Nod before I can say, \u201cSweet dreams.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Next day\u2019s a quiet one. Ocean, Owl, and Ember take us to Finchdean in the South Downs. We wander the rolling hills under Kite-crossed skies and luxuriate in the loneliness of five. They\u2019ve made sandwiches for us all, and packed some crisps (which I can\u2019t help feel is rather quaint \u2014 reminds me of school lunches). We sit in the shade near the old St Michael and All Angels church and eat. There\u2019s a magic to being outdoors, and I\u2019m as enchanted by the whispers of the well-trod past as I am by Ember\u2019s many questions. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They take us back to theirs for dinner. They\u2019ve a lush and bustling garden; you can sit under the tree and hear it grow. Which I do, assisted by a glass of Donkey\u2019s Elbow (+) and an inquisitive pigeon. (Which, being a bird of good breeding, shows some restrain. I pass the time unshat on.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve only seen glimpses of this place on Zoom. Being here, I feel like Alice through the looking glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As Ember limbers up on the lawn for some gymnastics, I follow Ocean inside to stand idly by whilst he cooks. He and I both perform admirably, and soon we\u2019re all at table eating, then playing, then packing up, reluctantly, to go. Time\u2019s been a real slippery bugger these last few days. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another night ends, and the seven stars that shine above the city say it\u2019s done \u2014 our trip\u2019s come to an end.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Monday my parents are up before us. They\u2019ve a train and a plane to catch for some Maltese we-made-it-half-a-century magic. Good for them! I still avoid the creaking floorboards when they\u2019re gone \u2014 force of habit. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s our last day here, and there\u2019s one more person left to see: my oldest friend, The Gentle (Ginger) Giant. He comes over after work, with that grin I first saw four decades ago, though now from inside a Goliath costume. We pop to a pub on the hill(++), and The Mathematician\u2019s surprised there are bouncers outside. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs it rough here, or something?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We look about. Other than over-tuned cars and bikes speeding past us down the hill-run road, it all seems rather quiet. We get a drink and a bite, then sit outside. She stares at the heavies whilst we eat. Now, I know she\u2019s simply thinking \u201chmm,\u201d but her face has a way of putting its own spin on things. It goes a bit Peaky Blinders. The bouncers \u2014 consummate professionals \u2014 take it in their stride.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hearing The G(G)G talk is like hearing history, and we can\u2019t help opening boxes of anecdotes from way back when. It doesn\u2019t matter if they\u2019re stories we\u2019ve shared before; you don\u2019t sing Jingle Bells just once. Telling and retelling tales is sharing the past, shoring it up against time and tide. All the better with beer. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another night ends, and the seven stars that shine above the city say it\u2019s done \u2014 our trip\u2019s come to an end. It\u2019s been a week of warm embrace and welcome faces. Of talking, walking, laughing, eating, parting. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that\u2019s the thing with leaves: unlike roots, they go where the wind blows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(*) In the English manner: \u201cSo do you think you\u2019ll be able to make it, maybe?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

(**) Though hawks tend to watch the ground, looking for lunch as they are. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n

(***) Uncles, aunts, and cousins, in increasing order of schmooze-tolerance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(+) It\u2019s not Donkey\u2019s Elbow, or even ale for that matter, but it\u2019s colden and golden and mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(++) You might have noticed that a lot of the places we\u2019ve been to are at some elevation. You might be thinking we like to look down on people. You might want to take that judgemental attitude somewhere else \u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Party finally arrives, the parties arrive, and we party. Also: walking, talking, weather, and weeds.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":54724,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[213],"tags":[237,240,238,246,233,239,227],"class_list":{"0":"post-54725","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-cf","8":"tag-family","9":"tag-friendship","10":"tag-golden-wedding-anniversary","11":"tag-gwasaga","12":"tag-portsmouth","13":"tag-south-downs","14":"tag-travel"},"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/54725","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=54725"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/54725\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":54743,"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/54725\/revisions\/54743"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/54724"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=54725"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=54725"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/urbanmole.is\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=54725"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}