There is a surprising lack of pictures (& video) of the last half of our week in England. I’m unsure of why, but I’m trying to not look into it too much. It’s bothering me now, because the collection feels too random, there’s pieces missing and now, months later and my memory becoming hazy, I feel that the last week is nothing but a string of random moments tied together. There’s very little I can do about it – I really only have three major stories, plus this…. Randomness.

I like collecting, what I call, ‘old junk’. Nothing gets me wild and excited like a child when seeing things from back in the days – 60s and 70s especially. I think I’m just very much in tune with my previous-life-me. It can be anything, really; spoons, boxes (boxes, especially boxes), cards, lamps, furniture, wallpaper, magazines, matchboxes (boxes especially), shoes, clothes, flower pots, curtains, bowls and plates, ‘electronics’. It’s just my thing. When I started ‘collecting’ old junk for my hopefully-soon-to-come own place, I remember looking at my box of things and thinking I must have gone mad. I had a few teaspoons, a cup, three old postcards, some old frames, an ashtray and a flower pot. It must have looked completely random. But slowly, as more things added, it become something. It is still something random, but I think that’s because it’s out of context. Right now, it’s old stuff in a box. When my own place comes, it will be part of my home.

 

The drive to Marchamley.

Mar’chum-ley. Mar-CHAM-ley. MAR-cham’ley. Mar-chum-LEE.

We have yet to figure out how to pronounce Marchamley, having gone through a variety of possible ways to say the town’s name. We have yet to have found someone to tell us how it’s pronounced. It could very well be the case that even the inhabitants of Marchamley don’t even know it themselves. I happen to know that loads of Brits don’t actually know how to pronounce Derby, and usually end up pronouncing it as Darby. I suppose it will be one of those mysterious things no one will ever really have an answer to.

Market Drayton – the only ‘documented’ trip to town.

The following three pictures are literally the only pictures I have of the trips we have done to several towns and villages nearby. It’s poorly documented as well, as I’m fairly certain the first picture is from another town, but I can’t really remember.

The last stop – Burgess Hill + finally finding comfort.

It is not the case that we had not had (any) comfort. The townhouse we rented in Jedburgh was big (three stories) and with plenty room for both of us and two dogs. I think it’s that when arriving in Burgess Hill, we found a certain feeling that we had both been looking for. We are not, technically, English, but if we had been, we would have been southerners. That feeling of belonging here, combined with returning to Brighton (+ taking a two-day break from driving!) has ensured that I think back of Burgess Hill very fondly. And no, the fact that we had brilliant weather has nothing to do with that (that’s a lie…)