Things you just should not expect

1. progress on reading The Origin of Species after coming back from the pub at 11 pm.
2. any goodwill when you name your pub quiz team “Harvard” and place last in every round.

England, etc.

What do you know, summer is half over and I’ve now been in England for two weeks. I still do not have an umbrella and all my rain gear smells like sheep. As I am no longer at the farm (current location: The Queen’s College, Oxford), this is no longer acceptable. Laundry room doesn’t open on weekends.

When I first got to England, I was struck, strangely enough, by the comforting familiarity of it all. After a week on the continent, it was amazing to understand all the road signs again. And the names of the places too seemed so familiar: Exeter, Bridgewater, Brighton — the same names of places in New England. And the groceries stayed open past 5 pm! Even the cultural differences that popped up during my stay in Ilfracombe I attributed mostly to my Chinese-American upbringing rather than differences between the English and Americans. I regret that most of my time in England will probably be spent roving in the large packs of my fellow American classmates, but I do hope to take in more of the British culture and understand a little with more nuance this place across the Atlantic.

Yesterday, I was in Bath. I did not take a bath but after two weeks of only baths, no showers, a shower was very very welcome. The essence of sheep that permeates my hair has faded to a faint bottom note. Bath was a lovely city, and slowly I am beginning to realize that I do rather prefer the smaller cites tucked outside of vast metropolises. The tour through the old Roman Baths was sweaty and humid, packed full of prepubescent Iberians on summer camp. A glass of free spa water was promised to all visitors, which I greeted at the end of the tour with relish. Alas, the water was lukewarm and tasted of dirty pipes. Despite my thirst, I took one sip and had to walk away. I’m convinced this is all a practical joke on the tourists.

Reverse chronological order seems to have it, so I’ll tell you about where I was before Bath: Ilfracombe, a seaside town popular in the holidays. If I’m not too off, I’d say it’s like a Cape Cod of England. As a member of WWOOF, I worked on a sheep farm for about 9 days. The countryside was beautiful and the beach nearby was made of broken pieces of slate, perfect for skipping stones. I want to say it was a relaxing, reflective time but it wasn’t; I suffered from horrible hayfever and a mysterious chronic sore throat. One day, my eyeballs (yes eyeballs) swelled up and started spilling out, jelly-like, from my sockets. When you’re healthy, it’s slippingly easy to forget how much pain and discomfort can cloud over your mind. But these issues aside, I quite enjoyed my experience. I wouldn’t say I am very much of an animal person, but I’ve found myself missing all the dogs, cats, goats, ducks, and lambs that populated the farm. There was one lamb in particular (637), who would come up to you instead of running away like other lambs and wag its tail when you scratched its head, like a puppy dog. It’s strange not having furry creatures around every corner.

Abattoir

seems quite a sophisticated word, much kinder than its synonyms. “Three lambs are booked for the abattoir on Tuesday” (oh yes, they’re going to frolic and be pampered!) sounds much better than “I’m sending three lambs to the slaughterhouse tomorrow.” Unless, I suppose, you know French, and the meaning of abattre.

Four lambs have died in the week I’ve been at the farm. These four died of illness (pas abattu) and do not overlap with the three lambs sent to the abattoir today. There is a fifth lamb, small and frail, who I’m afraid will not make it through the night. She refuses to drink any milk and sits around crunching her teeth.