My husband Dan and I were blessed with nearly a three-year stay in Langtoft, a little village in the
shires of England. This letter first appeared in the “Grapevine,” a local publication, upon our
departure.
My dear friends, it’s time to say good-bye. Oh my, how we'll miss our lovely little Langtoft -- the warm-
hearted friendships, the essence of village life, St. Michael and All Angels, our pub mates, and the
skyscapes and open beauty of the Fens we've called home these past few years.
I'd like to think that this "letting go" will be like the blush of a flower that quietly fades in autumn and
miraculously comes back in the spring. But if there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that you can't go back,
because "back" isn't there anymore. Even so, Dan and I will hold the blossoms of this village in our hearts
forever.
Over the years, I've also learned that when it comes to change, we either grow or we break. I must admit
that I cried for weeks prior to our England move. It seemed so far from home and those we love. But it never
occurred to me that leaving England would bring such aching sadness as once again we leave "home" and
say good-bye to those we've grown to love. Dan warned me from the start that our time here would change
us forever. And it has. If "home" is where the heart is, we've surely taken up dual residency. So this move
will not be easy.
In a sense, I was reborn here in England. While Dan worked hard to keep a roof overhead and the "wind
beneath my wings," I've had the pure luxury of being a wide-eyed child again. And no rock of adventure was
left unturned as I traveled the countryside! But it didn't take me long to realize that there's no place in this
country quite as lovely as Langtoft. Here, I've been blessed with the precious time to let my senses ripen. I'll
never forget the gentle rains that have kissed my skin, the first time I heard the old British folk song, In An
English Country Garden," the intoxicating scent of lavender, the awesome spire of our medieval church, or
my first scrumptious taste of sticky toffee pudding! In these final days, I find myself wanting to memorize
every aspect of the village, right down to the simple music of pigeons cooing on a quiet afternoon.
When I think of my life in England, I'll miss the leisurely days of cream teas and Pimms in the garden with
friends, the endless glories and historical relics, the bits and bobs at street markets, and the peaceful
seaside in winter. I'll miss the simple things like flapjacks, footpaths, bangers and mash, and straw baskets;
endless summer days, the Fens in an early morning haze, the sun shining on golden bales of hay, toasted
teacakes, broad beans, and the blazing fields of rapeseed. I'll miss the snowdrops, poppies, primrose,
daffodils, lavender, bluebell afternoons and wisteria blooming on stone cottages; the village shop, docile
dogs, swans, moderate temps, wild ivy, mince pies, spires in the distance, the trains, and the way our
garden glistens in the rain. I'll miss the sheep dotting the countryside like cotton tufts, the pub culture, buses,
fresh-cut flowers, roundabouts and being called "luv." I'll miss thatched roofs, red phone boxes, shortbread,
popping letters in the post, bendy roads, dry-stone fences, and your wit, traditions and sense of humor.
But most of all, dear friends, I'll miss you.
All along, I've known our life here would some day end. So to alleviate painful good-byes, I had planned to
maintain a measure of detachment. Well, that lasted until the very first day we arrived into your warm
embrace. You've always made us feel at home. Now, as the shadow lengthens on our time here, our only
hope is that we've given something of ourselves back to you.
Today, as I say good-bye, I wish I could "let go" with more dignity. But as I think of each of you, the tears
flow free. So forgive me dear friends if I shut my eyes when it's time to leave the village -- it's only to keep
you in.
God bless you until we meet again.
September 2003
shires of England. This letter first appeared in the “Grapevine,” a local publication, upon our
departure.
My dear friends, it’s time to say good-bye. Oh my, how we'll miss our lovely little Langtoft -- the warm-
hearted friendships, the essence of village life, St. Michael and All Angels, our pub mates, and the
skyscapes and open beauty of the Fens we've called home these past few years.
I'd like to think that this "letting go" will be like the blush of a flower that quietly fades in autumn and
miraculously comes back in the spring. But if there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that you can't go back,
because "back" isn't there anymore. Even so, Dan and I will hold the blossoms of this village in our hearts
forever.
Over the years, I've also learned that when it comes to change, we either grow or we break. I must admit
that I cried for weeks prior to our England move. It seemed so far from home and those we love. But it never
occurred to me that leaving England would bring such aching sadness as once again we leave "home" and
say good-bye to those we've grown to love. Dan warned me from the start that our time here would change
us forever. And it has. If "home" is where the heart is, we've surely taken up dual residency. So this move
will not be easy.
In a sense, I was reborn here in England. While Dan worked hard to keep a roof overhead and the "wind
beneath my wings," I've had the pure luxury of being a wide-eyed child again. And no rock of adventure was
left unturned as I traveled the countryside! But it didn't take me long to realize that there's no place in this
country quite as lovely as Langtoft. Here, I've been blessed with the precious time to let my senses ripen. I'll
never forget the gentle rains that have kissed my skin, the first time I heard the old British folk song, In An
English Country Garden," the intoxicating scent of lavender, the awesome spire of our medieval church, or
my first scrumptious taste of sticky toffee pudding! In these final days, I find myself wanting to memorize
every aspect of the village, right down to the simple music of pigeons cooing on a quiet afternoon.
When I think of my life in England, I'll miss the leisurely days of cream teas and Pimms in the garden with
friends, the endless glories and historical relics, the bits and bobs at street markets, and the peaceful
seaside in winter. I'll miss the simple things like flapjacks, footpaths, bangers and mash, and straw baskets;
endless summer days, the Fens in an early morning haze, the sun shining on golden bales of hay, toasted
teacakes, broad beans, and the blazing fields of rapeseed. I'll miss the snowdrops, poppies, primrose,
daffodils, lavender, bluebell afternoons and wisteria blooming on stone cottages; the village shop, docile
dogs, swans, moderate temps, wild ivy, mince pies, spires in the distance, the trains, and the way our
garden glistens in the rain. I'll miss the sheep dotting the countryside like cotton tufts, the pub culture, buses,
fresh-cut flowers, roundabouts and being called "luv." I'll miss thatched roofs, red phone boxes, shortbread,
popping letters in the post, bendy roads, dry-stone fences, and your wit, traditions and sense of humor.
But most of all, dear friends, I'll miss you.
All along, I've known our life here would some day end. So to alleviate painful good-byes, I had planned to
maintain a measure of detachment. Well, that lasted until the very first day we arrived into your warm
embrace. You've always made us feel at home. Now, as the shadow lengthens on our time here, our only
hope is that we've given something of ourselves back to you.
Today, as I say good-bye, I wish I could "let go" with more dignity. But as I think of each of you, the tears
flow free. So forgive me dear friends if I shut my eyes when it's time to leave the village -- it's only to keep
you in.
God bless you until we meet again.
September 2003
| The Letting Go |
Village cottage
| Rapeseed Field in the Fens |
St. Michael's Church
| Village shop |
Village sign pointing the way home
| Story & Photos Copyright 2007(c) C. Martino All rights reserved |
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