Hay-on-Wye take 2

– or why you should always take a book with you, even when you go to the Town of Books.

Stupidly, we waited for the rain to die down.

Stupidly, we pottered about in the morning, instead of leaving as soon as we could.

So, stupidly, we found ourselves in the midst of the non-stop pouring rain – and the mayhem that it caused.

Stupidly, I hadn’t taken my camera with me, so all I can provide here is a couple of pictures that I got off Yahoo.com – so sorry... We had already been to Hay-on-Wye (see this post), it was going to be grey and rainy, we were going to be busy looking around bookshops all weekend, so no, I didn’t take my camera. Damn I regretted it!

Some scenes were quite spectacular: going through the deep puddles, water splashing by the sides of the car and soaking the windscreen in a huge curtain of water; a Mini going for it in what looked like a river but then its engine drowning and dying in a volute of white smoke in the cold 10 p.m. air...

Others quite amusing: Monsieur l’Anglais setting a trend by getting off the car and standing on the verge of the road to relieve himself; me NOT setting a trend at all by trying to hide between the driver’s door, the central reservation and Monsieur l’Anglais holding the huge golf umbrella, and NOT managing to relieve myself, so petrified was I, despite the ‘It’s OK, nobody’s looking’, the ‘I’m siiiiiinging in the rain, la la, la la la!’ and the ‘Come on, chérie, everyone’s going to think that you’re having a crap!’ (now that really helped, of course!!...NOT!)

And yet others quite miserable: abandoned cars, flooded cars, sorry drenched drivers walking by, on a mission – but which one? The closest town or shop was miles away, we were in the middle of the A40, about 15 miles away from Gloucester!

But we were lucky. Very lucky. At least we weren’t on the M5 or the M50. Those who were slept in their cars that night of 20th July 2007, a day to be remembered. Instead, we were on the glorious A40. We spent a very romantic 12 and a half hours in our little MG, sometimes a bit worried, sometimes laughing our heads off, sometimes annoyed, sometimes happy because I had taken a book with me (‘just in case’, as I always do – though Monsieur l’Anglais hadn’t wanted to listen to me and was bored stiff a lot of the time!), sometimes surprised that we had already been waiting on the same spot of tarmac for more than four hours, sometimes alarmed at the realisation that perhaps we would not make it to Hay-on-Wye for our anniversary...

But we did make it, and we were in a warm bed in a warm room at 1.45 a.m., 15 minutes after arriving at our little B&B in the centre of town. What a relief!

By 8.55 the next morning, we were up and ready for breakfast (they stopped serving at 9). We had only had a few nuts, a few dried apricots and a little water between 1 p.m. the previous day and 9 a.m. that day! Thank you Me, always ready for the unforeseeable – at least we hadn’t starved!

And then by 10 a.m., we were pushing the door of the first of the 20-odd bookshops we were to visit that day and the next.

Unfortunately, the bad weather continued, so we didn’t even get to go back to The Spot Where Monsieur l’Anglais Proposed. Getting to that spot would have meant going through mud and probably impassable paths, where the rain had lodged itself... I was gutted.

It was an interesting adventure. We will always remember our first anniversary. A rainy anniversary. Ah – a bit like our wedding...

No, I wouldn’t recommend planning anything around 20-22 July in future. It seems to always rain... We won’t any more. We’ll celebrate our anniversary a bit later from now on!

But here’s the remarkable collection of books we managed to buy and bring back from the Town of Books! (Recognise the kitchen counter?!)

Serendipity

So at least I look like I could have children.

Well, that’s something!

I’m starting to find the monthly disappointments a bit boring. I’m starting to get impatient... But never mind. At least we’re making the most of our ‘no-children’ life. DIY, gardening, going out for dinner on a whim, reading, writing, watching Desperate Housewives till late without worrying about being woken up at 6 a.m. the next morning. Yay!

I went to the gym last night. I nearly didn’t go because it had been raining like mad and because it was getting late, but in the end I went because I had worked for 7 hours proofreading some French revision cards, trying to finish the project (and failing miserably), and my whole body was starting to ache: neck, back, arms, fingers. It was time for a good walk uphill on the treadmill and a vigorous work-out on the so-called transporter.

If I had decided not to go to the gym
and if I had decided to do 10 minutes on the transporter rather than 15 minutes (I nearly stopped at 10 minutes, but then thought ‘Come on, you can do another 5 minutes!’)
and if I hadn’t realised that it was 7 p.m., when the Legs, bums and tums class finishes and all the girls rush to the changing rooms to put their decent clothes back on and hurry home to their Friday-night TV/film/meal
and so if I hadn’t rushed, myself, to be in the changing rooms before the LB&T girls’ invasion
and if I had taken that little bit longer to tie my shoelaces...
well...
I wouldn’t have met this lovely French woman who was coming out of the LB&T class.

Let’s take this further.
I wouldn’t have heard her speak French and would have been none the wiser when I saw her in front of me just about to go out the door. (I probably wouldn’t even have noticed her!)
I wouldn’t have had time to think ‘Wouldn’t it be cool to have another French woman in my circle of friends? Or at least someone to go to the gym with?’
I wouldn’t have had time to think ‘Shall I? Shan’t I?’

She was walking quite fast ahead of me. I only had three seconds before it was too late to approach her. I thought ‘What the hell? Why not?’ and then the words spilled out of my mouth:

‘Bonjour, je vous ai entendu parler français, vous êtes française?’

And this maybe was the start of a great friendship. Only time will tell.

Yes, she replied, she is French. In the couple of hundred metres that separated the gym from the car park where, presumably, she had parked her car (I can just walk to the gym, I don’t need a car), we learnt where we both lived, that we were both married, that our husbands were English. She told me that she had just moved from a town 20 minutes away, I told her that I have been in this country for nearly 12 years.

‘My children go to the international school in C.... [10 miles away]. That’s why we moved.’

Indeed, they’re now a lot closer to the school than they were before.

And it so happens that that school is in the same town where Monsieur l’Anglais is going to start his new job next month.

You see? You see the link? SERENDIPITY.

If I had been lazy, I wouldn’t have met this woman! I love serendipity. I love understanding the reasons behind this or that. I love creating my own life, too, and this is a perfect example of life creation, because it was all under my control: If I had stayed at home, if I hadn’t pushed myself a little on the transporter, if I hadn’t looked at the wall clock at the gym... and then of course, if I hadn’t had the guts to talk to the woman who had just spoken in French to another French lady...

When we were about to part ways, French Woman said:

‘Do you have children?’

It always stuns me when people I don’t know ask me that, because I still think of myself as 20 years old and therefore as looking very young, innocent and sooooo unlikely to have children already! Yet I am 30 years old, I’ve been married for nearly a year (can you believe it!?) and we’ve been trying for a baby for a few months, so it’s completely plausible that I could have children. I shouldn’t be so shocked.

‘No, not yet!’ my answer came.

Maybe French Woman and I will be great friends.
Maybe our children will go to school together.
Maybe her husband works where my husband is going to work.

The possibilities that serendipity opens up!

Mariage pluvieux, mariage heureux

Thank God for French sayings – they can turn anything into something great or even greater. ‘Rainy wedding, happy wedding.’ I guess it works in English too.

Yes, it rained. On 21 and 23 July, the sky was cloudless and only the moderate coolness of our house was comfortable. On 22 July, the heavens opened and Berkshire got more rain that day than in the whole month of May – at least it felt that way.

I was getting ready at the venue, in the stunning, huge, nicely decorated room where my parents were going to spend the night, and I was looking out the window feeling like somehow the Universe didn’t think I deserved a nice, hot, sunny day for my wedding. And I couldn’t help asking ‘Why?!’. At the same time, I knew there was nothing I could do, so instead of lamenting over the dark grey landscape, I smiled at the camera and just prayed that the rain would stop for the post-wedding photograph session that we so wanted to do outdoors. We had a Plan B, but I only wanted to follow Plan A.

Going down the stairs after the official legal interview with the registrar, my legs started to wobble and my breath to shorten. Half-way down, I could feel tears forming in my throat. Had somebody not asked me a mundane question about I don’t even remember what, I would have exploded. But that ordinary question saved me, and the emotion flew away as quickly as it had come over me.

Behind the closed doors of the reception room (a beautiful library, which symbolises our passion for books), waiting for the music to start, my breath was getting shallower and shallower. ‘I cannot cry. I must not cry,’ I repeated to myself. The first few bars of the music; the doors open; the photographer just there, asking us to stay still for the first picture of the most memorable day of my life; and off we go, slowly, in time with the music (a march by Handel), my father holding my arm and taking me to my husband-to-be.

Going down the aisle, the same feeling of near-explosion overwhelms me once again. I try to breathe normally, but I can’t. ‘I must not cry.’ So I breathe out for as long as possible, after each tiny intake of air, and I smile. I smile to the people who are looking at me so intently, who are smiling at me, who are opening their mouths (in shock? amazement? surprise? – I’m not sure, and I’ll never know), and I walk towards my soon-to-be husband, who is looking absolutely gorgeous in his morning suit and top hat.

We haven’t seen each other since 9.30pm yesterday, and it now feels like I haven’t seen him for weeks. He says, ‘You look beautiful.’ I know I won’t cry now. I have him by my side, and that is enough to centre me and get most of my self-control back.

The ceremony unfolds smoothly. Every now and again, I turn around to look at the people who are all witnessing our wedding. Then I realise that so and so is here, and that my soon-to-be mother-in-law looks stunning in her hat and black-and-white outfit, that my soon-to-be father-in-law’s suit is perfect, that my two witnesses are both here, that our readers are also present. They all made it! It feels like a sweet little miracle. It’s all coming together nicely.

Apart from the rain.

But soon, half an hour after the ceremony is over, the heavens close and in their stead appears the first ray of sunshine. Hurray! My wish has been fulfilled! We all rush outside and start taking the group photographs.

And for our own private photo session with the photographer and his wife/assistant, the sun is truly shining, the sky is blue save for a few white clouds that are still lingering, and Mr and Mrs Y can’t stop smiling.

Tomorrow, we’re getting the result of the photographer’s hard work. We can’t wait!

Rain or shine?

A sky like today (if you’re not in Oxfordshire, just to let you know, it’s GRIM: it’s grey and it rains a fair bit, enough to fill our water butts!) reminds me what it could actually be like on our wedding day. Horror! I try not to think about the kind of weather it might be that day, but sometimes, it’s impossible not to wonder. The wedding is now less than four weeks away (I just can’t believe it!) and every now and again, I want to stop somebody in the street and ask them: ‘Do you know what the weather will be like on 22nd July?’. Sometimes it feels like the words really will come out of my mouth. Sometimes I feel that somebody will know for sure. But of course, until the day before, nobody will know, really.

When I remember what the weather was like on 26th July last year, when we first saw the venue, I shiver. It was grey, not very warm, and even if it wasn’t raining, I really hope it won’t be that bad on 22nd July this year...

In a few weeks’ time, I’ll be Mrs Y, after being Miss X for nearly 30 years... It will feel strange for a while, but at the same time I can’t wait to change my name. It’s been such a hard name to carry, all these years. Mind you, Y is just as difficult to understand and spell. But it will define me in a different way: I'll be French, with a weird Corsican first name, married to an Englishman, with a funny, always-have-to-spell-it last name...