By George! It's Time for Some Action!

Seen any dragons lately? I thought not. And you probably won’t, thanks in no small way to St. George. Back at the end of the third century, George made a name for himself by ridding a town in what is now Libya of its evil dragon and thus saving the beautiful princess from sacrifice. He upset some people along the way, though and was ultimately beheaded and his noggin paraded all the way to Rome. For his troubles, though, he was made patron Saint of England, the English equivalent to Ireland’s St. Patrick.

It’s all pretty heroic stuff, but do we English laud George like the Irish with St. Patrick? Will we get plastered and dye our rivers red? No, no, no. We English are far more civilized than our Celtic brethren. We celebrate the savior of fair maidens by…doing bugger all. It’s true. You won’t see many flags bearing the red cross of St. George except on the pubs as a means to drum up more business. There won’t be any fiesta where everyone with a cell of English blood gathers to drink tea and eat bangers and mash. Most Americans have never heard of St. George and while most people in England acknowledge the day, there will be no weeklong festivities.

While St. Paddy’s Day in Dublin lasted for five days this year and a reported 13 million pints of Guinness were consumed around the world, the BBC last year reported that “another St. George’s passed with a smattering of minor events and muted celebrations.” It’s enough to make old George turn in his headless grave.

But change is in the air and a campaign has been launched to raise St. George to a suitable level of esteem for a dragon slayer. (If there’s one thing we Brits do well, it’s campaign. If things get far enough along, there may even be a strike, something only the French do better than us.) The Royal Society of St. George want we English to celebrate our patron saint. They want to make St. George’s Day a national holiday in England and even though, I won’t stand to benefit this, another day off might mean my brother gets to finish remodeling his dining room.

So, join me please in my own campaign to celebrate the life of the most famous dragon slayer before Harry Potter came along. Even if there is no English blood coursing through your veins, be English for a day. Pluck a red rose from your neighbor’s garden and wear it in your lapel; make yourself a nice cup of tea; watch Benny Hill; when someone offers you something, don’t say, “Yes,” say “Oooh, if it’s no trouble”; complain about the weather and be sure to spend too long outdoors and get yourself a nice English sunburn.

Whatever you choose, let’s work together to give George his due. Now, join me if you will for a rousing rendition of Jerusalem before I head out to straighten my flag.

“And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England’s mountains green?...”

A New Lease on Life

I’ve been feeling a bit down in the dumps lately. I’ve got myself into one of those of doctor cycles where you go to have them look at one thing and they find something else, then the treatment for first ailment aggravates the second or creates a third new set of symptoms requiring a new specialist and a new course of treatment. Before I knew it I had so many potions and lotions I felt like a walking pharmacy. In the end, I ditched them all and the doctors and let my body figure out how to heal itself.

What I need now is a distraction from all this ill health—something to take my mind off things and give me something to work towards. Jose finally came up with the solution—a walking holiday in the U.K.. We have plans to visit my mother in the summer to celebrate her 75th birthday, but beyond a family dinner, no further arrangements have been made. “What if we did a long distance walk?” said Jose. “We’ve been talking about it for years and it might be just the thing.”

I thought about it. I thought about the books we’ve pored over, dreaming about doing the Coast-to-Coast walk from St. Bees in the Lake District to Robin Hood’s Bay on the east coast. It’s a walk of at least two weeks, so probably beyond our current capabilities and available vacation time. Plus, I’m not sure if my mother would be up for it and as the primary purpose of the trip is to spend time with her, we can hardly go without her. If she could survive the grueling trip pedaling herself and her belongings up and down the hills and valleys of Ireland, she can certainly manage seven or eight days of hiking and so can we.

I scanned my books for ideas. The Lake District is my favorite part of the country, but during August it will be packed with tour buses and hordes of old ladies slurping melting ice creams. The same applies to the Cotswolds. We eliminated the Coast-to-Coast for time reasons and similarly the Cleveland Way on the east coast. Finally we settled on the Dales Way. The book said six days; we figure we could add a couple of rest days and stretch it out to eight or nine.

The walk begins in Ilkley and travels through the heart of the Yorkshire Dales, ending in Bowness-in-Windermere in the Lake District. On the way, it passes by Bolton Priory, a 12th century monastery all but destroyed under Henry VIII’s regime, goes through Wharfedale and Dentdale, passes by the three peaks of Whernside, Ingleborough and Pen-y-ghent and stops off in the picturesque villages of Grassington, Kettlewell and Dent. It’s a route through rugged countryside of limestone gorges and wide green valleys dotted with farmhouses and laced with dry stone walls. There are slow meandering rivers to walk by and spry babbling streams to hop. There are the classic feats of Victorian engineering of the Ribblehead and Dent railway viaducts and the vast blue expanse of Lake Windermere to cheer you home. This is James Herriot country, the inspiration for Turner and Wordsworth. It’s a place where the air is clear and crisp and often the only sounds you can hear are the distant bleating of sheep and the steady crunch of your hiking boots on limestone. If ever there was a place to restore one’s spirit, reconnect with nature and tax the old muscles as well, The Yorkshire Dales is it. What’s more a trip like this requires training--weekend hikes in the Santa Monica Mountains, maybe even a practice weekend in the Sequoias. Most of all, it requires planning, which means hours on the phone with my Mum, discussing equipment, accommodations and itineraries. Already I’ve pulled out my guidebook and a pencil and dusted off my hiking boots. I’m off to conquer the Dales Way and it’s given me a new lease on life.

A Birthday to Remember

April is my favorite month. When I opened my door to get the newspaper last Sunday, I was greeted by a humming bird, hovering over my jasmine and a squirrel, skipping across my lawn. Spring had sprung—I could feel it in the air.

April is also my birthday month. (I’m an Aries—like you needed me to tell you that!) Even though I resent how quickly the years are beginning to stack up, I still love my birthday and have no qualms whatsoever about being the center of attention for a day—or a week. My husband refuses to acknowledge his birthday. Me? Send cards, send flowers, eat cake. If not on my birthday, then when?

This month I will celebrate my 37th birthday. In my dim and distant memory I have a recollection of a book or a movie about a woman named Gillian and what happened when she turned 37. I don’t remember the details; I just recall it wasn’t much of a happy ending. Still, I’m not going to allow that to ruin a perfectly good birthday. Odds of me being diagnosed with some terrible disease between now and next week are pretty slim, especially if I avoid contact with doctors, which I fully intend to do.

Birthday are fun. Periodically my birthday falls on Easter, which, when I was young meant it was during the Easter break so I wasn’t tied to an after-school party or worse, a party held on the weekend and not on my birthday. This was especially tricky as my best friend was one day older than me so our birthday parties sometimes coincided. I’ve had sunny birthdays and birthdays with snow. I’ve even had a birthday when I was too sick and to go out for pizza with my friend. This year I plan to have a good birthday, spent with a good husband and good friends.

My eighth birthday was a good birthday. Even though my friend from America, Michelle refused to eat anything and Jane Eaton won all the games and took all the prizes, we had beanies and weenies to eat and my Mum found a cake shaped like Dougal, my favorite character from my favorite cartoon, Magic Roundabout. My brother, 13 years my senior and so barely involved in my life, arrived home from work just as my party was coming to a close. Back then, he was renowned for his cheapness, especially with his annoying kid sister. Note the time I washed his car and he refused to pay me even 50 pence (about a dollar) until my Dad badgered him into it. But this birthday, he brought me a gift. Not just any gift. He gave me The Complete Adventures of Paddington Bear, illustrated and in hardback.

It had all the stories, beginning with the Browns finding Paddington at the train station illustrated with thick glossy inserts of hand-drawn pencil sketches of the bear from Darkest Peru up to his antics. It was a beautiful book. It still sits on the bookcase in my living room here. One day I’ll read it to my children, but it will have to be handled with the greatest of care. It was a small gesture by my brother, but it has stuck with me for almost 30 years. It wasn’t the only gift he ever gave me, but it’s the one that stands out the most.

I don’t know if he realizes how much that book meant to me. He has five children of his own now, so he’s far too busy to read this blog and find out. He’ll turn 50 this year. It will be the perfect opportunity to send the rudest, most insulting card possible to poke fun at him. Our middle brother will have begun his quest already and it would be un-sisterly of me to let the opportunity pass. But I’d like to give him something that would mean as much to him as his gift did to me. He’s 6,000 miles away now so I see him for one or two days each year. I couldn’t begin to guess what such a gift might be.

Mad As Hell Club

Got something you're mad about? Of course you do. And you're not the only one. The Mad As Hell Club publishes essays, art, cartoons, and photographs presenting ideas they feel deeply about, along with some possible solutions to the problems that confront us. You're bound to find someone there who's just as mad as you. If not, you can always check out my essay, Forgetting Where We Came From.

If they published that, they must be mad!