An English Afternoon
I often daydream. From the seat of a blue chair in my living room, I gaze over the skyline of an American city and think of an English countryside. I mix memories with made-up details to fill the gaps of adventures I’ve not yet had. Adventures I dream to pass the time.
On my afternoons in England, the sky is a flat plain of grey and the breeze is crisp and cold. This is the grey made legend all these years. A grey that doesn’t threaten rain, but holds back the sun. “Perhaps another time,” it says. This is the grey of Earls and cups of tea, of English afternoons.
To walk in the English countryside, I imagine, is to experience peace. To take a deep breath of clear, frigid air in the middle of a field with only grass and stones to surround you, I imagine, is bliss. And so this is what I do. In a thick, wool sweater, with a scarf around my neck and Wellie boots on my feet, I breathe in all the air my lungs can hold. It’s painful how deeply I breathe, how I fill spaces that haven’t stretched in years. The more I take in, the longer I can stay. If my exhale signals the progression of time, I’ll hold this breath forever.
When I finally release, as we all must do because even now it remains true that we are still merely human, I take a step forward. Meadows surround me. Their grass is the green of winter, dry, faded, and golden. Here, in this vast open plain there are no limits. There is only room to walk, to skip, to play. I look out at the distance with my eyes and only hope to explore just as far with my feet before they tire.
And so I walk. I walk in my Wellie’s across grassy fields, miles and miles across. I pass crumbling stone walls next to crumbling stone cottages. I pass churches and towns, hundreds of years old, their ancient hearts beating against the pulse of modern times. I wander streets and look up at thatched roofs, through windows divided into diamonds. Cobblestones cover roadways and a small wooden sign hangs from the doorway of a local pub.
The door is heavy and oak and resists my push. With the weight of my body it slowly creaks ajar. Inside, below the faded wooden sign and through the stubborn wooden door, the lights are dim. Votives line a mahogany wainscot brim and strong beams run the length of the ceiling. A bar stands at the back, aged yet gleaming in the soft glow. A fire crackles in the corner. Warmth wraps around the bodies sitting on chairs gathered at solid wood tables. Mugs fill with beer and glasses with deep red wine.
I claim an empty stool at the center of the bar. The barkeep asks what I’ll be having today while I unravel my scarf from around my neck. A short time later, a plate arrives, covered in freshly golden, freshly fried fish and chips. The blue trim on the white porcelain compliments the green mushy peas.
These colors, this warmth, that taste, swirl together into the most perfect palette of pleasure. In this moment, at the end of my walk under the grey sky, across the open field, down the cobblestone roads and through the oak doors, nothing else exists. I breathe in, then, with eyes closed, savoring every last drop of my adventure across the sea, I exhale.