Rambling Woman

We had this Volkswagen camper from about 1997 to 2006. It lived in England, mostly with Stuart, a VW aficionado who kept a herd of them in a yard at or near Minehead, Somerset. It also stayed some years with John and Joan Heffernan on their beautiful property on a hill near Roadwater, also Somerset. In the video it will go up the Toll Road to the high country of Exmoor National Park. It was a 1980 VW, still had the engine in the rear, but of course it didn't have the 'je ne sais quoi' of the classic wagens of the 1960's. We couldn't take care of it as well as we should have because we'd only run it for two or three months at a time, and sometimes we'd miss whole years. It was always a bit of a panic to get it going again, and Stuart did his best to keep us happy. We went for about three years where we had a great deal of engine trouble, parking on hills or push starting quite a lot. It was worst worrying when we were on the ferry to and from France, wondering whether it would start up again on the other side. Holding our breath as we turned the key in the ignition. The problem was solved when we got a new starter (duh!) In the meantime we had broken down and been towed and repaired in places like Dumfries, Doncaster, London and Le Mans.

Eventually, we thought we'd had enough. Insurance was always a problem and to this day I'm not sure we ever had insurance, though we'd paid premiums to several companies over the years and got pieces of paper telling us we were insured. It's just that we never ever made a claim, so we didn't know whether it would be honored. Our license plate was part of the problem, even though we never quite understood why having a "Q" on the plate  would make us difficult to insure.

But the Great White served us pretty well. She was very comfortable for camping and we used her that way quite frequently. The upstairs was a perfect storage place for our musical equipment; it could be seen through the windows and I think (little) Alice was the only person to actually sleep up there. We bonded with Bimbo the first night she slept in the VW in Tom's Field near Langton Matravers, on the Dorset coast.

Natchitoches Waltz

The Natchitoches Waltz was written as a tribute to the town in Louisiana where Marsha and I were living in 1988. The idea of naming waltz (or any other dance tune) after a town comes from the Cajun tradition in Southern Louisiana. There are French cultural traditions native to the Cane River country around Natchitoches, too, but they tend to be from a different French source: a more affluent strain which came via New Orleans,  Mobile or the Caribbean, perhaps, as opposed to the farmers of Poitou and Vienne who emigrated first to the Maritime provinces of Canada and then were chased out of "Acadiana" by the English to becomes Cajuns in the bayous and prairies of South Louisiana.

Grand Opening of Conna's John Folse-backed
cafe at Ducournau Square.

I always thought, however, that applying one
state tradition to a related region was a perfectly acceptable innovation, though it would now be a great idea to do a version of the song with different instrumentation:
perhaps piano and cello, to give it that "je ne sais quoi" which is so Natchitoches. I know just the two musicians: Steve Wells and     Richard Rose.

Obviously these two are not waltzing.
Young Conna on the right.

Natchitoches Waltz is so much much associated with Conna Cloutier that it would be pointless to pretend otherwise. There was something about the song that she felt expressed the historical spirit of the town. The song doesn't belong to a particular time; it could have sprung from almost any moment of the entire history of Natchitoches. Conna asked for it to be played at almost any gathering she attended.

Winfield Stars

The following article was written in January, 1996, and was published in the West Winfield Star, upstate New York near Utica. The description of the Cajun scene in London would no longer apply this year, 2018. Excitement over all things Cajun has faded in the UK and they've moved on, though I daresay one could find remnants of Cajun England, just as there are remnants of Plantagenet England if you want to search. 

Playing Cajun with Martyn Babb in
England's West Country

Winter Letter from England. 
1-31-1996.

     Greetings from the sunny south of England. We heard on the BBC News that the "Blizzard of the Century" had swept through the northeast United States and we thought of you all. Our hosts just looked into the backyard here and remarked that the crocuses were starting to come up. We have to admit that we prefer a little English rain to a few feet of snow.

     We are staying in Dorset County on the south coast. Several years ago we came to the seaside town of Weymouth and spent a day on the Coast Path, fourteen miles over hill and dale with the sea on our right. I have a wonderful photo of an exhausted Marsha, collapsed in the garden of a pub with her worn-out feet on a table at the end of the day. [See blog "Walking the Coastal Path."]

     Weymouth is very proud of its relationship with King George III, which ought to make any American suspicious, but we love the place anyway. George used to spend his summers here, after he lost the American colonies, thereby helping to popularize the idea of going to the beach. You can probably blame him for "Baywatch" as well as the Boston Tea Party. 

     The grateful locals, who have benefitted from the influx of summer visitors, carved an enormous monument out of limestone on a hillside: the King on his horse. 

White Horse with King George III.

     During the summers Weymouth is packed with holiday makers from London and the other big cities, but at this time of year, it's oddly peaceful, empty video arcades, windswept beaches, and various holiday attractions getting their annual paint jobs. There is also the old harbor which looks like something out of a pirate movie, as do some of the bearded quayside characters. Many of them seem about to break into a sea shanty. 

     We are planning to base ourselves here for the summer, so we are laying some groundwork, meeting agents and musicians, club owners, pub owners and hoteliers, just anyone who might be interested in a couple of traveling American musicians. We have played several times in London, and have some bookings there in the next couple of weeks. Also, we have an agent for the London area, so now we are expanding towards the south coast.

     The English are very much into different kinds of music and dance. There are jazz clubs and folk clubs. There are country music clubs where people gather dressed in cowboy hats and boots and indulge in quick-draw gunfights. (Using blanks I think.)

Marsha with English cowboy.

They listen to Garth Brooks and Vince Gill sound-alikes. And there are Cajun music clubs.

     Because of our Louisiana background, we have been welcomed into the Cajun music scene with open arms. After all, we came here to promote our "Cajun Christmas" record, and we are quite familiar with the source of Cajun music in South Louisiana. Here in England you can hear bands playing Cajun waltzes and two-steps and singing in Cajun French. It's a bit strange, but there are probably more "Cajun" musicians in England than there are in Louisiana! Also, lots of interest in Cajun dancing.

     At the "Ree-lay Gumbo" Club in London, the dance floor was packed all night. Music was supplied by a band from Hemel Hempstead, just north of London, We were billed as "Special Guests — direct from Louisiana!" None of our music sounded nearly as "authentic" as the fake Cajun band, but the audience thought we were quite a treat. They danced happily on.

     The real Cajun fanatics take their holidays in Louisiana, where they seek out the legendary dance halls and music shows. There are special tours arranged for English people to sample crawfish boils and bayou cruises. We had been invited to Mardi Gras celebrations in Hemel Hempstead, but we'll have to pass because we've been booked into a Country-Western Club on the same date.

     Last night we played with some real English "folkies." At least that's what we thought they were until we were told most of the tunes were Irish. They play an assortment of accordions, concertinas and melodeons, tin whistles, flutes, fiddles and guitars. One of the high points of the evening was our rendition of a gospel song, "I'll Fly Away," with about twenty voices joining in. These people are excellent musicians, but you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone playing purely English music.

     It's the same with the food. English food has been humiliated to death over the years, but it's been replaced by the most delicious concoctions from around the world. Food from India is particularly popular here, and at least one variation, called "Balti," was probably invented in Birmingham, England's industrial center, which is home to a large ethnic Indian population. 

     While we've been writing this, the weather has changed from sunshine to showers, which is like springtime in Central New York, I guess, but since it's January, who's complaining? It's not very cold and who knows? In ten minutes the sun might return. Cheerio for now.