I made a trip to Buckland, about an hour and a half from London proper, to visit a friend of mine named Andrew whom I met at Harvard summer school. He lives in a house with a NAME- imagine that! I always thought that houses that had names were mansions atop grand hillsides, not family homes of my friends. In this case, this two century old white brick home's name is Bratton Hill. Sounds imposing, doesn't it?

 

Anyways, the house itself is lovely, and so is its garden, full of fruit trees, roses, and perfect tomatoes- all taken care of thrice a week by their gardener whom I saw sporting a collared shirt and khaki shorts when he came to garden yesterday. My mother would be so jealous of the tomatoes and enormous fig tree in the garden. In fact, I had one of the best meals ever today for lunch- toasted french bread with mayonnaise, sliced avocado sprinkled with French sea salt, and a handful of sun warmed handpicked tomatoes. Unbelievable.

 

The blackberry bushes that grow wild around here also reminded me of mom. She would be roaming the grounds all day with a blackberry-picking bucket that I'd imagine would resemble her special blueberry-picking one- a simple pail with a string attached for easy neck-hanging. In fact, in her honor, I woke up early this morning while Andrew and his brother soundly slept and went for a little blackberry picking expedition. When I returned, I made a pie crust out of random things that I found in the house- granola, biscuits, and amaretti cookies, which eventually became a blackberry pie augmented by a few prune plums I picked off a tree and a handful of apricots. It looked fabulous, and the filling tasted fabulous, but I think the crust could have used a bit of work.

 

Yesterday Andrew took me for a walk around his 'neighborhood'. I put that in quotation marks because there isn't much more than other fancy homes and fields. We bushwacked along the fields and up a hill overlooking the area. Every few feet I picked some juicy blackberries to eat. One fateful time, as I reached over to pick a particulary scrumptious looking one, I felt a sharp sting and jumped backwards. Apparently, stinging nettles had attacked my poor hand and nose. The stings swelled up like little mosquito bites and I quickly learned my lesson not to go sticking my hands into that foul plant.

 

I was supposed to go into London this afternoon, but unfortunately the trains were down because of a fire at one of the station- caused by a cigarette, I think. So much for the British rail system. Instead, Andrew and I walked around the town of Redhill and walked all the way back to Reigate, near where he lives. There we stopped at the Safeway and bought food for dinner. I made my grandma's counting spareribs for his family and we all sat outide by candlelight and enjoyed the meal. I took a picture because the table setting and the entire environment reminded me of some home style magazine. Unreal.