They say the summers are getting warmer. Maybe so. But the real mystery is why I am less able to tolerate even normal August temperatures.
My brother and I used to put up hay during steamy Iowa summers. Before and after unloading a lowboy we would drink well water from long plastic hoses. We both probably have a couple Pepsi bottles worth of microplastic particles in our brains, an idea which suddenly makes me thirsty.
I digress. My point is, ninety-five degrees did not get in the way of our haying for eight hours at a time. That same temperature now makes me reluctant to risk the thirty yards to our swimming pool. This is why Denise and I welcomed the opportunity to swap houses with some very nice English friends.
They own a lovely home in Harpenden, a town about 25 miles from central London. In August the English like to travel from their homes, where the high temperature typically is a comfortable seventy-five degrees, so they can swelter in oppressively hot climates. This is not new. In the 1930’s Noel Coward wrote a song about the phenomenon.
Again I digress. I should have been telling you about Harpenden.
The first thing you notice about Harpenden is that the name is difficult to remember. According to the town’s directory, Harpenden combines the Old English words “herepath” (military road) and “denu” (valley), meaning “the military road through the valley.” The name apparently was transformed from Herepathdenu when, over the centuries, residents realized that was even harder to remember than Harpenden.
The next thing you notice is Harpenden’s refined quaintness. Not quite so Disneyesque as, say, Aspen, but it is in that ballpark. The businesses have tidy cute facades. The pedestrian-friendly streets are pristine. Folks on those streets appear prosperous. Almost exclusively, they are white. Simple standalone houses may start at 1.3 million pounds (about $1.8M).
Of course Harpenden does not represent England any more than Aspen represents the United States. We spent a few hours in nearby Luton, which was the first train stop when traveling from our temporary home to London. As we walked from the Luton train station to a shopping mall we were struck by the number of immigrants (e.g., women in hijabs and niqabs) and people of color. People panhandled on unkempt streets. While sitting in the mall, doing crosswords as Denise shopped, I saw two incidents of obnoxious people, obviously on drugs or mentally disturbed, being escorted to the door.
I know what you are thinking. Half of you are thinking, “See, that is what happens when immigration is out of control.” The rest of you are thinking, “Dan, you racist bastard!” All of you should cool your jets. I am merely reporting what I saw. And what I saw was that all the panhandlers, and all the apparently mentally disturbed people, were white, and spoke with an accent revealing their English heritage.
Once again, I have digressed. I was talking about Harpenden. I would love to show you pictures of the town. It really is quite lovely. But for some reason the only picture I took was of The Old Cock Inn.
It is not unusual for an English inn or pub to be called the “Cock” something or other. Sometimes, just “The Cock.”
In medieval and Tudor England the rooster was a symbol of watchfulness and courage (it crows at dawn, aggressively fights intruders). The English cock therefore was a popular totem centuries before it became a rude vulgarism. Except maybe for South Carolinians, Americans don’t usually see businesses with “cock” in the name. On the other hand, we have many men called “Dick,” and a great many more who could be.
In the near future I will tell you more about England. I will tell you about the English countryside and museums and Arundel Castle and London. I will try to limit the digressions and juvenile comments about suggestive names. Honestly, I do not know why I do those things.
I think I will blame the microplastics.