It’s simply extraordinary the assumptions some people make. Because of my extensive travels interviewing people all over the world, some people assume I am multi-lingual. And the answer is no, not even a little. Not only am I at the mercy of a translator whether I’m in China, Chile, or Tibet, but I frequently struggle with the English language, and I assure you that can be awkward.
I was nothing short of captivated during my interview with Maria Benjamin of Lake District Tweed in England. The more I learned the more questions I asked and, eventually, I wondered if my barrage of queries wasn’t getting a bit tiresome. Thankfully, even if they were, Benjamin was professional and kept pace with my nattering in lockstep. As for her elocution, I didn’t miss a word which I suspect, in part, is the result of having a Canadian mother, a Pakistani father, and very good schooling.
After several hours in the farm’s gift shop, the soap-making room, and then a prolonged visit with her rare-breed turkey chicks, we adjourned to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Now, to be completely honest, I wasn’t really in need of a cup of tea, but she had mentioned her two dogs were inside the house and so the easiest way for me to meet them was under the guise of being “polite” and saying “yes” to a cup of tea.
The moment the front door creaked open, Dolly and Kenny (yes, some English are crazy about country music) scrambled up from their naps and ran to greet us—not just Benjamin but us! None of this shy, tail-between-the-legs, “I’m so scared of strangers I think I need to roll on my back and pee” type of greeting. This was full-on tail thwumping and hugging mixed with squeals of delight. And might I also add—no jumping.
Although I hold myself to the utmost journalistic integrity (punctuation, not so much), I realized from that moment onward I was incapable of writing anything derogatory about Benjamin and her business. Not only was I captivated by these magnificent beasts but thankfully, there was also nothing derogatory to write.
I took a seat at the kitchen table and in a proper farmhouse kitchen at that with whizmos and gadgets of every description scattered about the week’s mail, a loaf of bread fresh out of the oven, baskets for the farmer’s market, a fancy blue espresso machine (nearly as enticing as the dogs), and a selection of spices that would make any cook blush with pride.
The dogs continued thwumping at my side for another few minutes until returning to their naps became more inviting and then Olive (the cat), assumed “her spot” on my lap.
Frankly, I don’t remember what kind of tea I wound up drinking but when Benjamin offered me milk, which she keeps on the counter because non-pasteurized milk doesn’t require refrigeration I declined because I drink my tea black. But… “Might I have just a small glass of milk as is? I love raw milk.” And it’s true, I do, and I rarely have the opportunity to drink it.
Benjamin’s partner, John Atkinson, turned-up within the hour. It was lunchtime and I haven’t met a farmer yet willing to miss a meal. Atkinson, like Kenny (the dog), is tall and lean. Unlike Kenny, he didn’t smother me with kisses and began making his lunch instead.
At first glance, it looked like he was preparing six slices of toast, a dozen fried eggs, and three stacks of bacon that would make the average human code on the spot. In reality, I suspect it was only eight eggs and not the full dozen. Nonetheless, I watched in awe. It has been quite a few years since I kept company with a man possessing a hearty appetite, putting my “I think I’ll just have some Triscuits and cheese for dinner” mentality to shame. I could also hear my mother’s voice swirling inside my head, “Linda, stop staring!”
Atkinson joined us at the table with his platter and unlike Benjamin who has about 15 years of farm experience, Aktinson’s farming DNA goes back 600 years. I was primed to visit his encyclopedic knowledge of the Lake District until I realized after the first few sentences, I wasn’t able to understand much more than 50 percent of what he said. Every now and then I would hear “sheep” or “fence” and I thought, “okay, got that part,” but the rest just sounded like some long Mongolian vocalization exercise.
Periodically, Benjamin would jump in with a few words to enhance or deny Atkinson’s and those I could understand just fine. But after a few minutes, I stopped taking notes because I had a half-page of question marks. I turned to Pam Pollock, Secretary of the Herdwick Breeders Association, who was there as my driver—not my translator—and asked if she could understand Atkinson?
“Some” she said. I knew she was being polite—not honest.
I wanted to say, “How about none? Does ‘none’ sound right to you?”
Eventually I came clean and admitted that unlike when I watch a British crime show (and I watch a lot of them), I often reach for the remote control and turn on “subtitles.”
Sadly, my remote was back at home.
I was embarrassed by my inability to wade through his accent, but I also didn’t want to risk getting the information wrong. Thankfully, Atkinson wasn’t the least bit offended and quickly explained that when he arrived at “uni” (you all need to learn how to talk Brit), his fellow classmates couldn’t understand his accent either.
It was a moment of quiet redemption.
I knew that when I wrote the second part of the story about the Lake District using much of the information I had gathered from Atkinson, I was going to have to triple-down on my fact checking. Hence, that article is still a work in progress.
Meanwhile, in the world of yin and yang, the travails of English translation didn’t end there. Several days later I boarded Island Sky, a lovely expedition ship with just 90 passengers, in Aberdeen, Scotland. With the exception of my nearly all-American Wild Fibers Group (one couple from New Zealand, another from Canada) the majority of passengers are British. For the next 12 days, we are treated to some of the most spectacular landings in the Scottish Isles and the Faroe Islands. We wander about the abandoned houses on St Kilda and gaze out on Mugga Flucka (the impossible lighthouse) built by the Stevenson brothers—as in Robert Louis Stevenson—off the island of Unst.
For much of the trip, the Wild Fibers Group is partaking in the regularly scheduled activities whether it’s staring at cliff faces rife with bird poo (for some on the ship, this is a highpoint), or scrambling about ruins that I can never remember if they’re ten thousand years or ten million years old. (This is what I mean about checking my facts.)
In any case, the Wild Fibers and the non-Wild Fibers folk always blend seamlessly and for those occasions when we have a slightly different agenda, the expedition leader always announces “… and for the Wild Fibers group, you will be following Linda to xyz (fill in the blank).
I’ve been leading this tour for three years and occasionally another passenger on the ship might I ask, “So what exactly are you doing?”
“We’re chasing sheep!” I smile, and the questioning stops.
On day nine of the tour, we arrive in Vestmanna, a small village in the Faroe Islands. It is overcast, cold, rainy and windy. The only reason anyone even ventures off the ship is because it’s the Faroes and how can you not be curious? I have had some difficulty confirming our plans at Dúvugarðar in Saksun, an ancient village everyone will be visiting, but only we “sheep-chasers” will privately meet with the farmer.
The Wild Fibers Group has scattered off the ship onto the buses and I’m concerned that everyone understands the plan. To be honest, a large part of my job is simply making sure that we’re all on the same page—or should I say bus?
I dashed on to the first bus and quickly scanned the seated passengers, at first glance I didn’t see any of my people but just to be sure I called out, “If anyone is in the Wild Fibers Group, please wait outside the bus when we get to Saksun.”
Most people momentarily picked up their head as I started to speak and then went about their business when they realized the message didn’t pertain to them except for one woman sitting in the very front.
“Excuse me, what is your group doing?” She asked most politely.
“We’re just going to meet with someone at Saksun. I want to be sure none of my group runs off to the museum before we have a talk.”
“Oh. I see.” There was a brief pause followed by, “And what is the name of your group?”
“Wild Fibers.”
“Oh, I thought you were the ‘High Fivers.’”
I wasn’t fast enough to catch the surprise on my face.
“High Fivers?”
“Yes, that’s what I thought your group was called.”
At last, the shoe is on the other foot and frankly, I’m relieved. For 20 years I have received a myriad of reactions when I mention “Wild Fibers.” Some people assume I’m some sort of digestive expert in the vein of Euell Gibbons touting the benefits of chickpeas and Brussels sprouts for better bowel health. Others imagine my “fibers” are an offshoot of some MIT lab study in fiber optics. Occasionally, when someone responds by saying, “You mean wool” I find myself feeling a bit giddy.
“High Fivers” is one for the record books, but I am now left with a question I hadn’t previously considered. Do Brits turn on sub-titles when they’re watching American TV shows?
I honestly don’t know.
Thank you for this colorful free post to share with everyone. Wishing you better and better with each passing day! ✨
Love your writing and wool (although I've now live in Florida and no longer knit or crochet BUT still embroider. Wishing you a speedy and full recovery from your health issues!'
Karen Davis