Classics Calling: An English Homestay

Two weekends ago, I boarded a bus for a mandated weekend away. This sounds more like a rehab experience than a family home stay, but it was rehabilitating in its own way. I wasn't sure how to feel about it. I was nervous and slightly hesitant at the idea of staying in a stranger's home. But I'd heard good things, so I was open.

Arriving in England, I stepped down from the bus with Devon, my assigned fellow home stayer, and we were whisked away to a town called Appleby, Cambria by a friendly couple in their early 50s. On the sheet I received that held every scrap of knowledge I could glean on this couple who I would be alone with for the weekend, I was informed there would be a dog. I was excited about this dog. I was comforted by the idea of this dog. When we drove up the wife asked, "Is anyone allergic to cats?" Dubious, I responded, "I am a little bit, but I pretend I'm not so I can pet them. But I thought you had a dog?" She replied, "We did but he died."

A moment of silence for the dog.

We plopped down in the sitting room (with the cat that was very much not a dog) and before I knew it I had a glass of wine in my hand and a hot bowl of chili in my lap. It was euphoric. The night was spent watching British TV with me occasionally proclaiming that the chili was the best meal I'd had in weeks, which was all too true.

My bed was perhaps the best part of my home stay. It was big, white, and fluffy. I slept in a marshmallow and I couldn't have been happier. There was even a sink in the bedroom, which I found strange but convenient.

The next day had homemade jams, a death defying 100 mph drive through the windy English country roads (lined with sheep, no less), a football match, a delightful lemon chicken and risotto, and a little more British TV to cap off the night. I learned a few notable things that day. The first being that at the concessions at the football stadiums, they allow neither beer, nor bottle caps in the stands. Both are precautions against fights. I ordered a coke and, unsurprisingly because I was denied a bottle cap, spilt it everywhere. The second has to do with sheep. The sheep all have spray paint on them, not from some rebellious country boy making a joke, but to identify one farmer's sheep from another's. Some sheep also had another, messier paint marking. Upon inquiry, I found out that the farmer attaches a bag of dye around the rams' necks so that they can keep track of how many sheep he is...ehem...intimate with. From then on, sheep with a surplus mark made me uncomfortable.

The next day was our last and we spent it driving through their old neighborhood. I learned that if a town name ends in "by" it means that it was originally a viking village. We visited an old castle, as well, and then it was time to get to the bus. I was sad to say goodbye. We said sincere goodbyes to our hosts with promises to try to get together if we could.

I didn't know it when I left, but a respite from the city was just the medicine I needed. The English countryside was as beautiful and open and filled with sheep as I imagined. I came back from my home stay refreshed and with a new perspective. The clean country air made my mind clearer and swept away the residue cloud of homesickness that might have been hanging over me. I felt more like myself.

And now for pictures! And for those of you who skipped over the text just for the visuals: welcome, you sneaky devils.