Summer in Europe

The fields were full of poppies, blood-red against the wheat, slowly bronzing in the sun. Pale winged butterflies danced across the sky, full of puffy clouds, unthreatening, for now at least. Hardly anything stirred, a heaviness lay in the air, like everything was too much effort. A breeze rustled the reeds, a duck slipped into the water, the only action of the afternoon. Everywhere still, everywhere resting, summer slipping slowly away on that breeze, dying like the day was.

I swear there’s no where quite like Europe in the summer- especially when the sun shines. I know its not summer yet but it will be here soon, and as usual it is much anticipated. A certain frenzied state falls upon normally peaceful countries, as sun-deprived folk pull out the BBQs, pack their cars and head to the beach, whether its 30 degrees or barely 13 with a chance of showers. We have to make the most of it, you see.

We used to come back to England every summer when we lived in Malaysia. I remember the excitement; we’d get to stay up late to take a night flight to Heathrow, dressed head to toe in pink. Dad would be waiting for us; he’d drive us home to Burlingham drive, that sturdy little house, doll-like, cosy, always welcoming. I’d have a hot drink of yellow milk, and crawl into that familiar bed, waking up barely three hours later with jet-lag. I’d pass the time reading my favourite books on the shelves next to me then hurry downstairs, full of the innocent joy of a whole summer ahead.

I’d spend most of the summer mucking about in the garden with Maya- playing dragon ball (our unique name for kick-ball), going on bike rides with dad, visiting Redwings to see our adopted pony Sampson, drawing elaborate pictures with chalk on the driveway. We’d go to Lowestoft, Great Yarmouth required forward planning, Norwich was basically a trip to the other side of the world. We’d beg trucks to turn off the A12 and go through a long list of what dad swapped at Swaffham. The garden would smell of lavender, from the potions we made for our sick animals in our imaginary vets practice. I remember watching the Red arrows from our garden as they performed in the seafront airshow, and how we’d sit on the fence near the holly bush till mum insisted we come in for dinner.

At some point in our holiday we would visit Holland for a week. We’d take the overnight ferry and get hideously excited about staying in that tiny cabin with bunkbeds, and having fresh orange juice for breakfast. We would visit Opa, eat fat fries and rent bikes for the week. It would inevitably rain. We’d peddle on bravely, black storm clouds brewing as we passed canals and curious cows, and smarter cyclists wearing full water-proof gear. It would rain so hard we would have to pull over, shelter under trees, dad telling us to run on the spot to keep warm. Mum would be laughing, our teeth would be chattering, but we wouldn’t have had it any other way. I don’t think it would have been the same if it had been sunny.

When we moved to Belgium, summer got hotter. Continental European summers can reach the 30s, as we discovered. Our first summer, we installed a trampoline. We would spend lazy days lying on it, licking lollies whilst the grass grew long and green all around. Next summer we put up a badminton net, and would spend non-windy days playing there. There would be a barbecue almost every evening. If it rained, the show would go on, dad would be sacrificed to do the grilling, we’d shelter inside and eat the results of his bravery.

One sultry August day, Prune came home, and changed our summers (and life) for forever. We’d go on long walks on balmy Belgian afternoons, past fields of chubby cows. Prune would run free through the fields, chasing birds, young, free, full of life and energy. The ground would be cracked and dry, until some omweer cooled things down. Prune came along on our yearly pilgrimage to England. We took the Eurotunnel now, so that we could all crowd around the Audi’s boot and keep her company. We always stopped in the same rest station as soon as we got to Kent, dad would inevitably buy the Times and then we’d head up the familiar route, past the bluebell woods and the sheep-filled fields of Suffolk, stuck behind AGVs on the A12. We’d stay in Broadlands; Prune would sniff in the marshes, chase some ducks, we’d argue over which boat had the best name and which one we’d buy if we had the money. Old friends were visited, shoes were bought, Countdown was watched. A week would pass by, full of simple pleasures, of well-known haunts and fond memories.

Summer, just like the old days.

 

When we went to India, we could hardly wait to get back to Europe for the summer. I remember being almost as excited as back in Malaysia. We would be hyper in the airport, giggle on the plane and land in Brussels in the morning, that familiar tingling excitement of five weeks of summer ahead. The final time we arrived in Belgium, Prune and dad came to the airport. Prune snarled, dad hugged us and the colours seemed to pop; everything was bright blue and green, summer was in full swing. We moved back to England that year. It was a hot summer; the sky azure, the beach packed. We frequented summer fêtes, bought ice-cream, cheered Holland on in the World Cup and waited for the heat to fade.

The following summer never quite warmed up, nor did it stop raining. Suzi joined Prune, and on our wet walks on Ruggs Lane, we’d find something to laugh about anyway. We harvested our own apples and strawberries and dodged the showers. It wasn’t the same as before in England, and it wasn’t just the weather. Last summer, I learned that things change. At some point, you have to let go of the past. In moving to England I had hoped to recreate those idyllic days of summer I remembered from those years ago, and was disappointed when that didn’t happen. I realised finally that was then and this is now; even though things are different they are still special, and that those memories aren’t going anywhere. It was time to make new ones.

So we lived it up last summer; did a festival and concert, enjoyed the sunshine and time with the dogs. Whatever this summer brings, I know some things won’t change. Whether its rainy or warm, full of new experiences or familiar ones, we’ll have a good one.

Here’s to summer, with family.

If you want more summery stories you can catch up on last year’s adventures in England. And I’ll have a story on our week in France soon too!