An hour and a half north, this highway I know so well – having travelled it countless times – brings us to a turn-off. A road never noticed, never before taken. Green. Everything is green – trees, leaves, lawns, and fields – lush with the full blush of summer. Twists and turns take us past cottages, farms, and artist’s studios waiting for someone to come in and love their wares.
A home, clearly occupied, displays a row of brightly coloured, eclectic things – bicycles, I think, and various household items painted in bold, primary colours. Each more a statement than a decoration.
Outside another property, a very old, very rusty piece of farm equipment stands sentry, its presence an indication of history as well as a welcome.
We continue driving, father than I would have thought possible without coming to the ocean, my mother remembering directions from a previous visit. Another turn and we find the road, and then the sign. We’ve arrived.
After settling in to the condo at the beach resort – owned by my mother’s friend – we go looking for the pub recommended as a place for dinner. It sounds casual, and therefore perfect.
Back down the winding road we go until suddenly it’s there. The Crow and Gate Pub. I turn into the drive and suddenly it’s as though we’ve crossed not an island but an ocean.
It’s like we’re in England.
The sign outside the pub
This sign looks like it's been here for a hundred years
A perfectly-themed lantern
The jolly old English interior
We eat pub food and sit in the garden. It’s an unexpected, but welcome, departure from what I had pictured as a beachside weekend away. Inside the line is long, full of others eagerly anticipating an evening meal. The server at the bar is enthusiastic and and friendly to all, leaving no hint as to whether her customers are well-loved locals or tourists just in for the day.
Outside the garden is full, but quiet. Small groups of people find corners to eat at tables and benches.
As the sun starts to set the birds flit around, watching. For crumbs, mostly, but anticipating nightfall too, and quiet, and sleep.
A little piece of England, just hours away. Who would have thought?
I can’t wait to go back.
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