No, sorry, not an actual love affair in England or with an
Englishman, but as I write historical romances set in England (with forays into
Scotland), you have to expect a romance-style title.
I visited England in the 1970s—twice. Everything I knew about England came from reading English novels—and 99% of it
was true. The only thing that had changed was that it was no longer possible to
stash one’s baggage in the Left Luggage office at the train station. Because of
bombs, you know.
The taxis were still the old, black ones you see in movies
from the 1940s.
London’s tube stations had wonderful posters on the walls,
and one of the tube stations we used had escalators with sides and treads of
varnished wood—and they were fast! Like something out of a Harry Potter book.
The last one was replaced several years ago.
Fish and chips were not generic: they came in different
varieties: plaice and chips, sole and chips, haddock and chips, etc., and all of them
delicious.
Using an English pay phone required manual dexterity and
split-second timing.
The medieval kitchen at Arundel Castle gave me new insight into what it meant to prepare a
medieval meal.
In the British Museum cafeteria, the tea was hot and strong and
the cups were lined up, all of them with milk in them, before the tea was
poured.
Ladies like Miss Marple actually existed (presumably minus
the crime-solving) aboard the Flying Scotsman, where we shared a compartment
(just like in the old movies) with three white-haired Scots ladies in tweed
suits who were going home after a shopping trip. They were amused to see us
gaping at the old towers that seem to be sprinkled all over the Borders.
The cheese sandwiches on Brit Rail were identical to
American cheese sandwiches, but it was possible to buy shortbread, which made up
for it.
And I loved every minute of all of it … well, no, not the
severe head cold I suffered toward the end of the trip. Though it did reveal
that if you asked for cough syrup at the apothecary, what you got was a brown
liquid that tasted like mare sweat. I couldn’t drink it but it worked anyway. It
scared my body into cutting back on both coughing and phlegm, lest I attempt
another dose.
I’m sure much has changed, some of it for the better (the
phones, maybe?). But I’m glad I
experienced England while it still resembled the England of Dorothy Sayers,
Marjory Allingham, Agatha Christie, John Dickson Carr, Manning Coles and
others; it gave me an even greater appreciation of the English mystery novel.
