Drinks in an 1100 Year Old Pub

In my travels while living abroad for the past 45 years, I’ve perched in fine French cafes, “gemütlich” German bars, and inviting tavernas across Europe, but, England’s oldest pub, The Porch Inn, has been, by far, the most intriguing watering hole I’ve tested.

Situated on the Roman Fosse Way, at the intersection of several historic roads, The Porch Inn is on the ancient market square of Stow-on-the Wold, the gateway to the Cotswolds, UK’s most beautiful countryside.
Timbers of The Porch Inn have been carbon dated to the tenth century. In 947 AD, on orders of Aethelmar, the Saxon Duke of Cornwall, it was built to serve as a hospice accommodating pilgrims, and run by the Knights Hospitallers.

When I ducked into the stone building dating back hundreds of years I was enchanted. The Porch’s low slung, wood beams, stones walls, warm hearths, and antique decor created a bewitching atmosphere that make an ideal writer’s lair.
Once inside, we stood at the main bar to order drinks as is customary in British pubs.Then we climbed the stairs to settle in The Snug of the Governor’s Room(Snug is a British term for a small, comfortable place, sheltered from cold weather.)

While lounging on a stuffed couch in front of a stone fireplace, I noticed the historical artifacts. Bookshelves with tomes lined one wall, leather chairs surrounded low tables laden with board games and antiques, a Roneotype copier filled one corner, and a WWII era lightbulb radio rests in the other one.
As if time stood still, each of the rooms created an illusion of yesteryear, With my imagination, I could become lost in my muse for hours, tucked in a nook, hibernating away from England ’s damp, dreary winters .

The Porch’s original features, including steep, crooked staircases, open fires, oak beams, and long-forgotten underground passageways, would be worth a detour on any European tour.
The pub’s history is a macabre contrast, a dichotomy of good and evil. A safe haven for pilgrims in one century and a center for blood sports in another, the building eventually became a hotel, The Royalist
In medieval times, this part of Stow on Wold would have been renowned for popular blood sports — dog fighting, badger baiting and cock fighting. During earlier building alterations, a three foot deep pit, used for fights, was found under what is now the restaurant.

The inn’s long, and at times, sordid history, only adds to its mystery.

From the moment I ducked through the front door, I was cast under a spell from witches of the past. In the dining room, I studied the witch symbols scratched on the 16th Century fireplace that once warded off evil spirits.

We all agreed that we should return one day to sample the cuisine in The Porch’s award-winning restaurant. Simple, robust meals are served from the finest British fare sourced from local producers.
Even better, we could stay a spell by booking one of the 13 available quest rooms. I could fall asleep in the past century and wake up to the contemporary comforts of present-day like a full English breakfast including honey straight from the hive and a morning newspaper.
Unfortunately, we had to leave, as we had dinner reservations farther down the road, deeper in the Cotswolds. As if in a trance,I stumbled outside, spellbound. This pub, a paradise for creative souls, will lure me back soon.

Normandy 1944-2024: Eighty Years Later The Memory Lives On

I climbed into the steel reinforced bunkers overlooking the Normandy landing beaches on Pointe du Hoc eighty years after the Rangers overtook the strategic German lookout 90 feet above the English Channel. I pictured a 19-year-old American boy jumping out of a PT boat into icy waters, with nothing more than a gauze bandage for comfort on a stormy dawn illuminated by gunfire.

I imagined him staggering across the dunes, dodging bullets and booby traps, clawing at the red cliffs, crawling through the hedge rows, groping for life in a foreign land, shooting at the shadows that could be his own comrades. He was an American soldier killing boys/men, who would have been his friends in another time and generation.

Here rests in honor glory a comrade in arms known but to God

I am of another time and generation — an American with a French-Normand spouse and German friends. Though I’ve been to Normandy hundreds of times, I visited the Normandy American Cemetery (outside St. Laurent) just once.

Only when standing on the hallowed grounds, where Americans lay under a blanket of emerald earth, marked by 9,386 white crosses, could I truly understand the enormity of their great and tragic endeavor on June 6, 1944.

On a rainy day, Normandy’s landscape offers a bleak reminder of her sad past, but on sunny ones the murky coastline, black sea, and gray fields are transformed into a tapestry of colors. Orange cliffs drop off into purple waters. Inland reddish-brown Norman cows and pink apple blossoms dot verdant hills under powder blue skies. Soft light white washes half-timbered houses and solid stone farm houses that remain as they were centuries ago.

The beauty and tranquility of Normandy today could drive a full-grown man to tears. And I, who am too young to have understood the impact of World War II, get a lump in my throat every time I return to the dairyland of northwestern France on one of those pinch-me-I-am-dreaming days of sunshine.

my husband's village on Normandy shores

Decades ago, on one of those sunny days, I pedaled my bike past red poppy fields and green valleys where newborn calves and lambs romped. I devoured veal “à la Normande,” Camembert cheese and berries in cream. Somewhere between the first and last course, I fell in love with a Norman.

Now the sacrifices of the men of the great war, their silent testimonials of white crosses that cover the rich green hills above the beaches Utah, Gold, Juno, Sword and Omaha have taken on special meaning for me.

They are my countrymen laid to rest in my adopted country. In a sense they saved my family.

freedom for the next generation

Every time, we used to visit Dieppe, (France) to see my grandfather-in-law, he’d greet me at the gate chanting the Star Spangled Banner.

“Ah, ma petite Pat,” he’d say recounting the highlight of his career as a trumpeter in the Garde Republicaine “I’ll never forget riding Lustucru (his horse) across the courtyard. The Allies landed in Normandy on June 6, but didn’t make it to Paris until the end of August. We waited for four long years…never quit believing they’d make it.”

He’d stop and pull a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wipe his eyes, before continuing, “Never forget how I blew the trumpet that day to welcome the Americans — greatest day of my life.”

The old heart does not forget. Now even though my generation never knew the horrors of war, my young heart will remember. When I stood in front of a sea of stark, white marble crosses, I felt overwhelmed by a debt that can never be repaid.

Suddenly I knew the unknown soldier — he was my father, my brother, my countryman, who died so nobly and unknowing, so that today I might live in freedom and peace in a land whose magnificence offers its own thanks to the skies.

Rest in peace my comrades-in-arms. You have not died in vain. I wish my words could transcend time so you could know. Because of you Normandy today, like the true Normans, remains proud and gracious.

A Très British Outing – Ze Pub

When my son married a beautiful British-Irish-Ukrainian woman, we were given an insiders peek into UK life, which begins and ends at the local pub. Going to the pub for a pint is as much a part of British life as a coca cola and Friday night football is to an American.

Dating back thousands of years to 43 AD when the Romans invaded the British Isles, the public house has been a cultural part of UK life for centuries. From the Roman drinking houses, called ‘tabernae’ to the Medieval ale houses offering lodging for travelers, to the ever popular pubs of today, the pub always served as the center of village life. Going to the pub remains a favorite British pastime.

Part of the adventure is getting there. A Saturday walk to the pub is as commonplace as a family heading to church on Sunday in the US.

Our fun multiplied when Larissa’s mom, her sister, brother-in-law, two nephews and their goodnatured labradoodle, Guinness, joined us for a walk across the British countryside.

We donned those quintessential British boots, aka wellies, and started walking through the fields right outside the door of their rental home known as the “barn.” The old chicken coop remodeled into an eclectic, modern, light-filled home had so many windows that it makes me feel like I on a farm for vacation.

“Don’t the farmers mind us trespassing on their land.” I asked Larissa as we tromped through the fields where sheep grazed.

“In the UK, the public has the right away,” she explained. “It is known as Public Bridle Way.”

“I don’t see any signs allowing us to hike on their property,” I said.

“It’s invisible!” she explained. “But you just know.”

“You have to be local enough to know or not know where it is acceptable,” Nic added.

Even without specifically labeled trails, the local farmers are accustomed to foot traffic.

Part of our hike included climbing over wooden stiles crossing the fences and hedgerow between the fields.

“A phone app indicates where it is okay to go,” said Larissa. “But it’s mostly common sense. You wouldn’t walk through field of donkeys or free range horses. It’s at your own risk if you try to cross a field of buffalo.”

Surprisingly, not only cattle, sheep and horses graze in Nic and Larissa’s neighborhood, but buffalo - African buffalo - also roam.

Walking in wellies on uneven terrain, included lumbering over six stiles like an obstacle course, I felt worn out by the time we made it to the pub.

The pub, an old brick home, divided into rooms, included a room where dogs were welcome guests. Guinness sat at attention, while the adults talked. Instead of ordering the usual hot drinks, after our hike, we were so thirsty, we opted for cokes, beer, and the local cider. The little boys sat politely at the table enjoying snacks.

Surprisingly, Guinness didn’t bother the other dogs tucked in at nearby tables while their owners sipped away the afternoon enjoying board games. At the table next to us, a couple played Jenga while their Irish hound stood guard. Near the pub entryway, a table of brawny locals spun tales as long as their beards.

One of the greatest features of pub life is that there is never any pressure to hurry up or to order another round. For the price of a drink, we could linger all day surrounded by charming English atmosphere.

Trying to Tackle “New” Sport Snowshoeing

If you can walk, you can snowshoe. Sure! Snowshoeing in the Swiss Mountains makes me feel like Donald Duck waddling on the side of an iceberg in webbed feet.

Forget CrossFit, yoga, and aerobics. The ultimate work out is snowshoeing. Each step forward feels like lifting a ton.

Though snowshoeing was invented in 6000BC, it was a brand new sport for me. In the old days, people made their own snowshoes - wooden-framed, rawhide-latticed wooden rackets with leather straps. I thought snowshoeing would be as simple as strapping a tennis racket to your shoe and heading out the door.

But today one needs a master’s degree to decipher how to affix the tubular aluminum-framed, neoprene-decked, state-of-the-art snowshoe to one’s foot. The “shoes,” designed for maximize efficiency, take me half a day to strap on. To prepare for my little snow “walk,” I balance on one leg while struggling to manipulate my other foot into the contraption.

Modern snowshoes have two styles of binding: fixed-rotation or"limited-rotation" and full-rotation or "pivot" bindings. In fixed-rotation, the bindings attach to the snowshoe with an elastic strap, bringing the tail of the snowshoe up with each step. In theory, the snowshoe moves with the foot and the tail does not drag, until you want to change direction.

Unlike Nike’s Air Jordans, Adidas’ The Kobe, and New Balance’s Coco Gauff CG1 tennis shoes, contemporary footwear has been designed to permit one to turn on a dime accommodating the mind-blowing moves of acrobatic athletes playing modern day ball games.

Alas, the snowshoe allows only one directional forward movement. To turn right or left or at a 180 degree angle requires the dexterity of an elite gymnast.

With my feet locked in waffle irons, turning becomes preposterous.

My body jerks one direction, while my feet remained locked in place. Even with the aid of trekking poles to help with balance, am I the only one who wiped out snowshoeing?

Walking skills may easily transfer to straightforward snowshoe travel, but this doesn’t apply when turning around. To change direction, I need enough space to walk in a semicircle. On a steep slope or in the close quarters of a forest, this is inconceivable!

My ever patient hubby, an avid skier, encourages me to execute a "kick turn" similar to the one employed on skis.

“Lift one foot high enough to keep the snowshoe in the air while planting the other,” he explains, “ then put your foot at a right angle to the other, stick it in the snow and quickly repeat the action with the other foot.”

Et voila!

With one foot pointing north and the other aimed south, my legs tangle, pitch me off balance and sling me into a snowbank.

I renamed the maneuver - “ze face plant”

After trudging along for hours, my legs shake and my back throbs. My arms tremble from clinging to toothpicks that are supposed to prevent me from toppling down the mountainside.

Fortunately in Switzerland, the view at the summit makes every painful step worthwhile.

I can’t wait to give it another go.

 

 

 

 

 

Farewell Tribute to My Friend Frannie

Back in Switzerland, still mourning my dad’s death, I weep for the loss of my friend Frannie. If I could attend Fran’s funeral service today, I would stand up and say what we all know, “Every family, every team, every community needs a Frannie. Her life was a gift to mankind.”

Frannie with her long wing span and big hands enfolded us all in her arms. Tall and graceful with a charismatic smile, Fran could have been a runway model, instead she bestowed inner beauty, strolling the streets of Sterling spreading her love. During her career as a social worker in her home town, she saved lives.

Born on May 17, 1960 the daughter of Jessie and Barbara (Hereford) Smith, Frances “Fran” Marie Smith-Riney, died September 13, 2022. She left behind 2 daughters, a son, 2 foster sons, 2 stepsons, 1 step daughter, 18 grandchildren, several nieces and nephews, one sister, three brothers and hundreds of friends, who would swear they were somehow related too.

“Fran skipped into 4th grade with an engaging grin, head held high, taller and darker than any of the other children,” one of her classmates recounted. “It’s as if she was saying even back then `C’mon, we’re in this together, let’s laugh and party and learn to get along.”

She was a catalyst uniting people from every race, ethnicity and walk of life.
Whether planning a reunion for her 1978 high school class, a 40th anniversary celebration for her 1st state championship basketball team, or a Herford - Smith family gathering that included all of Wallace Street too, Fran connected everybody.

Three years my junior, I considered her my little sister, but she ended up more often looking after me. As center on my basketball team her freshman years, she cleared the lane, so I could drive the baseline at Sterling High School and Illinois State University. Though I moved to Europe; she settled in Sterling, so I saw her when I visited my folks.

Frannie was family.

The Smith and McKinzie households were intricately intertwined at a time in US history when blacks and whites lived on opposite sides of the train track in small town America. Through education, friendship and teamwork, we built bridges in our community and broke barriers.

My dad coached and taught Frannie and her older brothers at SHS; her brother, Phil, coached me. Together we started the first girls basketball camp in northern Illinois. Over time it was hard to distinguish where one lesson ended and another began, but together we shattered gender and racial stereotypes.

In 1977, my little sister, Karen, and Frannie made Illinois history becoming the 1st high school girls state basketball champions, coached by my dad and her brother.

A month ago, Phil, like a second son, spoke at a my father’s Memorial Service sharing stories about his former teacher, coach, colleague, mentor and friend for nearly 60 years.

“I am sorry I cannot be there attend Papa Mac’s Celebration of Life,” Fran texted us at that time from her hospital bed, “but he knew I loved him and he loved me, so we're all good.”

No words can capture what Frannie meant to so many. To me, she was a loyal little sister, an everlasting friend, a basketball buddy, a part of my history, a piece of my heart.

I loved you Frannie; you loved me.

So we’re all good too.

But I will always miss your hugs.

Happy Father’s Day to Title IX Dads Who Helped Us Make History

Happy Father’s Day to Title IX Dads Who Helped Us Make History

“What was it like making history becoming the first athletic scholarship recipient at Illinois State University during the groundbreaking implementation of Title IX?” asked journalists from my alma mater.

“You can’t know you are making history,”I said, “while it’s being made.”

It felt like another day. No one noticed back then.

Fifty years ago, no one could fathom the impact the passage of Title IX made in opening doors. This June 23, we celebrate the profound changes this amendment provided by mandating equal opportunity for women in education and sport. We applaud the sacrifices of those who came before us.

We wouldn’t be here with out our dads, too. Many fathers of that era have passed on, but they were there when we needed them. They taught us how to throw balls, catch passes and get up after being knocked down at a time in society when girls were supposed to sit and cheer, not play on the field and fight back.

My dad shaped my life. When I see him, I remind him again of his impact.

“Dad, remember all those hours we spent at the gym, all the baskets you rebounded for me.”

Dad, easily distracted in old age, suddenly focused, raised his right hand, cocked his wrist and he repeated the litany I grew up with. “Elbow in, ball in fingertips, follow through. Bend knees. Remember your power comes from your legs…”

“You made me a great ball player,” I said. “We thought we were shooting hoops, but we were making history. You taught me how to shoot a lay up, fake and drive, and swish a jump shot; I was ahead of other girls of my time.”

I became a prolific shooter, the first female athletic scholarship recipient at Illinois State University, a draftee into the first women’s professional basketball league, and one of first Americans to star overseas on European teams.

“It started with you, Dad. Believing in me. A girl!”

“I bet I taught you how to play all the ball games,” Dad said and chuckled.

“Yep, you showed me how to throw a football, pitch a softball, spike a volleyball. You broke the rules and taught me all the things girls weren’t supposed to be doing back in the 60s and 70s. Because you did, I never doubted that I had the right to be there in the gym like the boys.”

“As a coach at Sterling High School, you also provided opportunities for the next generation of female athletes including your youngest daughter. You guided her Golden Girls basketball team to the first Illinois High School Association (IHSA) state championship in 1977.”

“When I could no longer play,” I reminded him, “I became a good coach, just like you. I coached daughters and sons of world leaders who went on to fight for social justice in their homelands as civil rights lawyers, international diplomats, and medical practitioners. One of those girls I coached was your granddaughter, who became the first doctor in our family, a pediatrician.”

A half of century is a long time. Attitudes change slower than laws. For decades, many women, coaches, and administrators fought for equal funding - equipment, uniforms, gym space - and a place at the table.

We have a ways to go, but we are getting closer. It began with dads, like you, who believed that little girls could, should and would play ball one day.

Happy Father’s Day, Title IX Dad.

Thanks for the game