Welcome the stranger

My garden market mornings 

Socially it has been a whale of a week. One evening, exhausted, I tottered off to bed at 8.30 p.m, but did not actually get there till thrown out of bar. Recounting it the next day to a family member and friend got teased – about my reputation for nosiness. Mr G said I had ‘radar’ ears, listening in, trying to discover what language people nearby were talking, and, occasionally, helping out with the odd translation.

Passing three men happy with their beer I heard one talking about the number of pubs in the town where I was staying and which I had known all my life. That started a huge discussion, it was reduced from 25, to about 10, following major changes after the M25 motorway had dealt with us like Lego bricks. We were off, do you remember The Bell? Next to the farriers? I took my horses to be shod there, right in the town, in the 1950’s. All gone. This hotel, right on the river, had been a grotty pub, one opposite now a housing estate. Finished with those memories, the youngest man lived in the village where I was born. He knew the man, just died at 92, who taught me to swear when I was 7, sitting behind me at the village school in the war. So, he got his phone out, and I walked him through the village, remembering nearly all the names of villagers. We came to a two storey house left by the M25, a pal of his lived there. ‘My Uncle Jo built that house in 1930’. A few scandals, a glass of wine, he bought my book on line, hugs all round.

We indulged in what we called ‘taking people in off the street’. We’d be dining at a pavement restaurant, struck up a conversation, and, it being a lovely night, took them back home for coffee in the garden. Quite a few Americans, it was a convenient town to stay when visiting the Normandy landing beaches.

I have spent hours talking to strangers when stranded in airport lounges by strikes, weather, etc. In Paris, a man next to me was learning Greek grammar. I was  reading a French book, we struck up a conversation. After several hours something was said, and he wondered why we were talking French, we were both English. ‘But you were studying Greek, no idea what nationality you were’. He was marrying a Greek girl.

Best was Italy, absolute self starters in talking. A couple of times a major electricity breakdown would leave us with candles and olive wood fires. Discussion turned to national characteristics. It was said Italian men needed 7 women in the lives. La Mamma? A wife, maybe two. Sisters? Daughters? Mistresses? I had become adept at fending them off. They said all their Southern Italian women were petite, dark haired, dark eyed and fierce. A long legged blond from the North made a nice variation in life. Can you strike up friendships quickly? Or am I seriously nosey as charged? 

The Gardener

A Moodscope member