East Anglian Spring: Randy Pheasants; The Locals I: Prince Albert

Spring is well nigh upon us. The winter fat yields no ground without a contest. The lawn suddenly shows itself in need of mowing. Pheasant roosters in the potato field across the street move like fat red bed bugs across a taut green sheet.

These two characters were squaring off in a field in Wentworth, a speck of a ville about six miles down the A142. Surging hormones no doubt piqued their combative urges. Down the street, a trio of big cockbirds were chasing a skinny little hen into a thicket of sticker bushes. English ponies in their blankets standing nearby took note but seemed otherwise little concerned. The proliferation of pheasants in this country is remarkable. The same bird was once pretty common in Pennsylvania, but you just don't see that many of them anymore.

Today was market day in Ely. Market days fall twice a week, Thursday and Saturday. It's a small market square, at the top of the high street. You can find practically anything down there, from folk and rock CDs to hardware to produce to ostrich meat. Market days are pretty lively in the UK. King's Lynn, not far from here, reportedly has a market day to beat the rest. It's reachable by bike, but that's a daylong ride best accomplished in the summer.

Meet Me at Prince Albert

Folks constantly inquire of me, "What are the pubs like in the UK?" and "How do you like that warm beer?" and my favorite, "What'll I need in terms of bail money on a night out?"

Warm beer is actually pretty good, if it's the right beer. I've taken a liking to Adnan ales, London Pride especially. Greene King brews in nearby Bury St. Edmunds; its Old Speckled Hen is hands down my favorite UK ale thus far, although there's plenty to choose from. Lager is still the popular drink here, from what I can tell. Kronenburg, Carling, Stella Artois are what you find tapped locally, even Budweiser sometimes. Which I don't understand.

Several pubs in the area shuttered now that were doing a lively trade when we first arrived. This report from July appears to be holding true. The recession is taking its toll, along with higher taxes, but the larger, I believe, and harder to measure effect is the change in lifestyle. Folks just stay home a lot more, apparently, and there's a definite fitness sensibility in the UK. Nonetheless, try finding a seat at the bar on Friday night.

The Brits refer to their neighborhood tippling spot as their "local." Ely has several pubs within walking distance of our home that stand as the local as far as I'm concerned.

Let's have a look at them, one by one. I'll start with the Prince Albert on Silver Street. Imagine your grandmother's living room married that basement rec room in your buddy's parent's house back in high school. Their child would be the Prince Albert. Quirky is the overused word that's applied to anything English, but it was probably born right here. The Albert has the requisite low ceiling; stacks of reading material, mostly paperback novels and travel magazines; itty bitty pub tables; funky green slick carpet; a warren of nooks and crannies; and an assortment of local color. The bartender is either a short, curmudgeonly guy about 50 or a winsome twenty-something female, never anyone in between.

The place is never open when you expect it should be, say 5 or 6 on a Friday evening. But if I wanted a pint at 12:30 p.m. on a Thursday, you bet! The inevitable house cat ambles from place to place and there's a backyard beer garden, which is essentially a garden and a couple of wooden picnic tables. It smells a bit musty, but if we're pub crawling anytime in Ely, this is a must stop.

Cross Cultural Communication in Action

The wife reports from down range that she's not been beyond the wire at all, being consumed with the inevitable staff work and endless writing of reports. Part of what she does involves putting word out via local radio, the primary method of communication there. Hence, this nugget of cultural interchange:

 "I sat down and really chatted with my radio DJ's today. They're interesting characters. All young and not bad looking for Afghan guys. Two are married---one's a dad---one engaged and one single. They all wanted to know if I was married, how old I was and if I had children. You know how it is, if you're a woman of any kind of age and don't have
kids, you're a failure in this society. Once I said I didn't have kids, they really had nothing left. I didn't bother talking about the cat. I've been told it's really not cool to discuss pets with this culture. They don't get it and think it's exceedingly odd to form attachments to animals, I guess. Pet spas would blow their minds, I'm sure."

Not even mentioning the layabout husband back home.

'Til next time.