Chapter 29
Lesson 28: There’s nothing like chocolate to bind a friendship.
Reading List: Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas (not read)
Bridget Jones Tally:
pied flycatchers—1
muffins—1
wholly independent women—1
We drove up through the spellbinding Brecon Beacons, where we trekked slowly through the wind and the mountains. Robbie read
to us from The Hobbit as we envisioned ourselves in Middle-earth, which in that setting, did not require a vivid imagination.
Traveling further northward, we slept in rooms in Gladstone’s Library, getting in early one rainy afternoon and spending all
of a long and quiet evening under the canopy of vaulted beams spelunking the library’s boundless depths and uncovering hidden
nooks to retire with a few books and plunge ourselves in. It was a recharge day for tired book lovers.
These little solitary respites from the gaggle formation were welcomed for their stillness, but seemed only to prepare us for crashing back into one another at high speed, as if the hours apart had been the stretching of an elastic cord. We had become a little tour family. We shared and bickered and laughed and supported and loved like family. It could have gone another way, but it didn’t.
Whether I told them, or someone else did, they all knew my full backstory by the time we got to North Wales. But I wasn’t
sorry for it and did not pine for my privacy. I felt supported and listened to. Advice, when it was given, was done so with
care and warmth. Those ladies were a veritable cabinet of wisdom, and I was not dumb enough to ignore it. Some things I wrote
down in my notebook for fear of losing my grasp on the notion, or the memory of the way it was said. I asked questions, and
for more stories, and teased out meaning. I was thirsty for it. I was building myself again—becoming stronger by weaving their
shared wisdom into my threadbare spots.
I suppose in this way, I was organizing my recovery—making a controlled and measured effort, just as it was my nature to do.
It was a research project with practical applications that I intended to employ upon returning to real life.
With my trusty camera, I kept a second journal—a visual poem, trying to capture, as I grew to know the character of each woman
more intimately, the condensed essence of each individual, their quintessence. It would comfort me when I returned back to
DC. I also had plans to send each person a little curated collection of photos, a love letter in my own language.
Looking through my shots, I was proud of what I had amassed. Pouring myself into a creative endeavor gave my cramped mind
a good stretch and left it buzzing with excitement and new growth. As the sun set each night and rose each morning, my upset
and anxiety about meeting Isla faded. It might not have done so of its own accord, but I worked at it. I helped it along;
I tried to utilize sage advice and embody the growth I wanted to see.
It was going to be good for me, I decided. Once I met her and she became human to me and I saw how good they were together, all the rest of it would just disappear. My feelings for Robbie would morph into a stout and sturdy friendship type of love.
It was out in the gardens of the library that I chased Berrta from a safe distance—“Berrta-watching” while she bird-watched.
I had taken some beautiful photos I thought she’d like. She looked so happy out there in the chilly gray morning with her
binoculars that I wanted to join her. She gave me a wave when she saw me approach, sliding over and patting the seat on the
bench next to her.
“Look there,” she whispered, bringing her head close to mine and handing me her binoculars. I heard something chitter in the
trees and tried to locate it with Berrta’s help. This was surprisingly difficult. It took some real effort on both our parts
for me to spot it. When I finally did, I felt all the more rewarded. It sang again: a simple, lazy little song that made me
feel soothed and happy. I watched it through the binoculars, puffing its tiny little chest out and opening its beak wide.
The wind blew and shook the leaves, adding two new instruments to the morning song.
“Oh, how wonderful.” I hadn’t expected the effect such a simple encounter was having on me. “What is it?”
“That’s a male pied flycatcher. Not the rarest of sightings, sure, but quite the charming little fellow, isn’t he?”
“Oh, he is. I think I could watch him for hours, if I had a hot mug of coffee.” I handed Berrta her binoculars back and added
sincerely, “Thank you, Berrta.”
“You are most velcome.” Looking pleased, she puffed up, not unlike the little flycatcher. I lifted my camera and took a few
photos before it flew away.
“I think I’m beginning to understand why you love them so much.”
“Ahh. Then today I have already done something good.”
“You have.” I smiled, digging into my coat pocket for a hastily napkin-wrapped bundle. “Can I repay the favor with half a chocolate muffin I stole from the breakfast room?”
“Ja, bitte!”
I smiled warmly, split the muffin, and handed her the half with the bigger chocolate chips.
“Vhat are you doing out so early?” she asked, chewing.
“Taking pictures. This time of day is perfect for the light. I saw the fog from my window and didn’t want to miss out.” I
didn’t add that I was taking photos of her looking cute with her binoculars on the bench, wrapped snugly in her scarf.
“It is a good hobby, and you are good at it, I think.” She nodded confidently. “There is passion there.”
“Well, thanks, Berrta. That’s sweet of you to say.”
“I do not say things for sweet. I say things ven they are true.” She took another bite of muffin. I smiled my thanks at her
and bit into mine as well. “If you do not have a job now, perhaps can you do something vith photography?”
She was very blunt, but I found I didn’t mind—particularly from Berrta, who knew no other language, whether others wanted
to hear it or not.
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m that good. It’s just a little hobby. I have a degree in international development.”
“Ah well. You do vhat you love. But do not be afraid to reinvent yourself if you discover that you do not love it any longer.”
I tried to quiet my immediate arguments to think about what she said. “What about you, Berrta? Have you always loved birding?”
“No, no. It is a new passion. Three years now.”
“Oh, wow. Is that all? You seem so knowledgeable.”
“Yes. I am knowledgeable. It is very easy to learn vhen you like something. I try to always find something new. The internet
has everything. And also, I have been back to university three times over the years.”
“Three times! Berrta!” I laughed. “How did you have time for it all?”
“There is always time. We grow old and stale if we do not push ourselves to keep moving and learning. It is a choice. I know
vhat I choose. Ve must make time for ourselves and make room to grow.”
“That sounds like very good advice. I haven’t been in the habit of making much time for anything but working long hours and
trying to advance my career, to be honest with you.”
“Well, for some people, that is just vhat they need. For me, it was not. And I think not for you too.” She brushed some muffin
crumbs from her lap and looked at me before carrying on in her matter-of-fact tone. “I think perhaps you vould not have lost
so much if you had given more to yourself instead of to others. It is only one man and only one job, yes? There are many others
of both.”
I laughed at how easy and relaxed she was about my losing everything. “Berrta, you’re not wrong.”
“I know. Things like this, they might come and go. You must fill yourself up. Make your own self happy, and then nothing can
bring you down for long.”
It was an interesting concept. I had always felt that I controlled my own happiness by working hard toward the next achievement.
But if I failed, or that achievement was somehow beyond reach, it hurt. I punished myself for it. I had never really thought
about internalizing happiness, whatever that meant.
“Isn’t that just for Buddhists? They can just float above it all.”
She laughed. “Hmm. Buddhists, yes, but me too, and maybe you.”
“I guess I just feel like you build your own happiness outside—it’s the outside that you built that makes you happy inside , you know? If you want a husband, you have to go out and find one.”
“Yes, but sometimes you do that, and sometimes then your husband leaves you or finds someone else to sleep vith. Right? Happens a lot. No one should be responsible for your happiness but you, my girl. Happy must be built in here.” She pounded firmly on my chest with an open palm. “I will not say that ve are born alone and ve will die alone, but...” She thought for a moment. “Ve are on a book tour, yes? I vill say like this—you write your own story. If others vish to contribute to your story, that is nice. And if they do not, then it should not matter. You make your way on, vith or vithout them. And you write your story how you vant it.”
I thought about that. From another woman, it might have sounded jaded, but it didn’t feel that way coming from Berrta.
“I don’t even think I would know how to do that. Like... I’ve always wanted to travel. Always. But this is my first real
trip abroad, you know...”
“Mm-hm.” She nodded and took another bite of muffin. “This is good! Find your passions. Seek them. Try things. Learn vat makes
you happy and vat does not, and then focus on making more of the good and less of the bad. This is true independence. And.
Not only vill this make you strong”—she pointed a finger in the air—“but you vill see, it vill make you irresistible to men!”
We both laughed.
“What are you two birds up to out here in the cold?” A Scottish voice came from behind us and Berrta waggled her eyebrows
in silent punctuation. “We are just sitting down for breakfast if you’d care to join us, and then we’ll be northward bound.”
I smiled. I was excited to get back to Scotland. I couldn’t help but picture the opening credits of Outlander , the camera sweeping over the rugged Scottish mountains. That might also have brought to mind an image of a kilted Robbie
on the top of said mountain, wind in his hair, squinting heroically into the distance.
“Ja, Robbie. I am hungry. The birds are off to find their vorms, and so ve should be too.”
She stood, then smiled down at me and offered her hand to help me up.
Trust Berrta to be so efficient. She had taught me a new hobby, delivered wisdom, and made me question my reality all in the time it took to eat half of a chocolate muffin.
As Rosie’s little tires bumped us up yet another set of hills, I settled into a cozy stretch of editing the photos on my camera,
deleting duplicates and blurry shots. The ladies napped and read, and Percy scratched at his ear and made his collar jingle.
The sun streamed through the window and warmed my skin as the radio played soothing traditional music between announcements
in rolling Welsh.
There were so many photos of Robbie. Photos where the light had struck him just so, photos where his smile lit his whole face
up, candid photos where his eyes were deep and pensive. Photos I could not have stopped myself from taking.
In the moments in between—moments when the ladies took their time at a gift shop, or writing postcards, moments snatched in
line at a café as we eyed the cinnamon rolls, moments when the ladies’ conversations had turned in on themselves and left
us conveniently unobserved—something real had been blossoming. I was enjoying the sensation of having a new friend. A real
one.
Robbie and I talked often about our favorite books, movies, and bingeable series. Music was another fun thing to share and
argue about. Robbie had an old iPod, and we would split the headphones, or he would pass it over to me to listen while he
drove, keeping mental lists of the things he wanted me to listen to—sometimes an achingly beautiful macabre love song from
Hozier, and sometimes the sexy swaying jangle of West African pop or the haunting minor key acapella harmonies from Bulgaria.
He was so excited to share it all with me and to watch me listen for the first time.
The more I learned of Robbie, the more I liked. Yes, he was intelligent and quick-witted, but he was also thoughtful and caring. I noticed more how supportive and protective he was of the ladies, always looking out for them, always trying to facilitate friendships between them, and forever trying to make them smile.
He was caring with me too. He asked me sincerely how I was, and after taking some time to assess, I discovered that much of
the time, I felt like me—something I had nearly forgotten the sensation of.
It was a friendship, and I was happy for it. Yes, this closeness made me acutely aware of my growing feelings for him—no longer
just lust now, but genuine affection, longing, admiration... and a heaping serving of lust. I felt like I glowed when I
was around him—like I was a little flesh lantern, and someone had lit my candle. But now, hopefully, I was becoming strong
enough to handle these feelings and keep a level head.
Sometimes we even spoke of Isla. He grew more excited to see her as the ceilidh approached, and he made no effort to hide
it. We might be talking about films, and I would ask, “What sort of movies does Isla like?” In this way, I could ease myself
in. And when I asked about her, it always made him smile. “Oh, she’s a purist. She likes the old classics. Charade , Breakfast at Tiffany’s —absolutely anything with Audrey Hepburn.” I held back an eyeroll.
He still spoke to her every day, even though she was now in Malta. If one was unfortunate enough to overhear it, you’d find
that it usually started with Hello, gorgeous! and always ended with a heartfelt I love you and Wish you were here , which served to keep me firmly at a distance.
I certainly didn’t notice that he smelled like a cedar forest after a rain. Or get goosebumps when he looked at me with those
blue eyes that seared straight through to my soul. I hardly noticed at all when he casually put his hands on me, for some
innocuous reason or other, and I felt like I’d been tenderly electrocuted.
It was going to be fine. I was going to be fine.