Where horses young and old are sold.
Where farmers come to spend their gold.
Where men are fools and women are bold
and many a wicked tale is told.
High on the freezing Cotswold.
Okay, so it's not quite as intriguing as "It was a dark and stormy night" as regaled by Snoopy-aficionado Phil for yesterday's blog account, but doesn't this age-old couplet make you want to go to Stow-on-the-Wold on a dark, foggy autumn evening?
I am going to save for another day telling you about Stow-on-the-Wold in detail. Today, we took only a short trip there for lunch and a walk around this beautiful small market town. We're planning to head back tomorrow to do a walk between this town and Bourton-on-the-Water. Both are as absolutely charming and memorable as their names imply.And besides, Phil is much better at writing about the relevant history and travel details (complete with links).
Instead, 'm going to take a line out of this poem -- "and women are bold" -- and tell a tale about some women we encountered today while in The Bell pub in Stow.
Here is an arguably politically incorrect question for you: Why do women's voices raise at least two octaves and 50 decibels when they meet up in groups of four or more for lunch in an otherwise quiet pub?
I have been denounced for this very thing myself when out with my friends. Once on a train with my former work sisters (shout out to the PAO ladies...miss you!), we were accused (yes, accused I say!) of talking and laughing loudly for the four-hour journey from Toronto to Ottawa. We were flabbergasted to be told off, and were absolutely certain we had in fact been whispering for the entire journey. Laughing, yes, but discreetly. We had most certainly maintained decorum at all times as we always did ... and do. We were fairly certain that the woman who complained to us after four hours was really just having a bad day and needed someone to take it out on after four hours of passive-aggressive sighing and eye rolling. We left the train feeling good in the knowledge that we had helped our fellow man in some small way.
Our encounter with the bold women of Stow today had no similar charitable outcome, although I will admit that my ability to post about this may be viewed by some as my own passive-aggressive way of dealing with the situation. That view would, of course, be incorrect. In fact, by knowing I could write about it to you, rest assured I have avoided yet another "wicked" tale coming out of Stow-on-the-Wold.
Let me set the scene: We enter a lovely pub and select a table for two. Around us, several tables are already occupied by groups of a more-aged persuasion who dine for supper at lunchtime. Two women are at a table for four next to us; they are chatting amicably and at the same quiet level as is permeating the rest of The Bell pub. Suddenly, just as I am raising a delicious spoonful of Mushroom and Chestnut soup to my lips (aside: it was as delicious as it sounds), a loud screech let out from the table next to me. I swear the resulting shock waves reverberated through the bowl set before me, with the sloshing waves of soup barely able to contain themselves to the bowl.
What followed was apparently a joyous albeit raucous unexpected reunion of two other women who had just entered the pub with those already seated next to us. We tried not to listen in, but you know how impossible that can be when someone is actually yelling rather than simply talking, and the use of expletives grows throughout the course of their conversation. We waited for the excitement to abate. It did not.
So, we did what anyone in our situation would do: we viewed it as a cultural experience. There is money in the Cotwolds; as the Hamptons are to New Yorkers, so too are the Cotswolds to Londoners. By choosing to listen rather than complain, I learned a few things. For example, everyone MUST learn to ride a horse because it is "after all, a basic needed skill set." And Bobby got into Eton, "of course."
I also learned that if you listen closely to a group of four women talking at a high-pitched, fevered pace, you will actually discover something truly remarkable: after a few minutes, it is in fact just one woman who continues talking fast and loud and often. It is that one person who can't have a silent thought. She is talking about 90 per cent of the total time. Even when the others are talking, she can barely contain herself, a series of "yes! "okay!" "I know!" "look at the design on this napkin!" "Don't order the crayfish" "Look at my stomach: If I squeeze my skin here, my stomach fat actually 1/4 of an inch thick," etc. spewing forth.
If you ever-so-discreetly glance over, you'll see that, in an effort to get the woman with verbal diarrhea to stop, at least one of the other women is not making eye contact with her, or anyone. The others, when they do get a chance to speak, are actually whispering in a feeble attempt to bring the sound level down. It's a fascinating concoction of body language and missed social cues that is mesmerizing.
In the end, I remind myself that they were having great fun, and that is wonderful to observe...and I got a chance to do one of my favourite things...people watch (and gather characters for all the novels still in my head).
Here's lookin' at you!
No comments:
Post a Comment