As I hiked the Jurassic Coast, tall grasses swayed and every breeze swept me toward Boscastle. A little harbor town nestled between the hills, Boscastle is cut in half by an inlet, so white bridges span the water every 200 yards. Crossing a bridge, I wondered if this was my chance to connect with the people of England. I had heard of a weekly sing-along at the Wellington Hotel. So I had packed along my guitar, waiting for when I could finally sing with the locals. Once I reached the pub, I saw people of all ages passing around triangle sandwiches. Jack, the owner of our B&B, was there. He was an oil painter; his B&B was yacht-themed, and his Scottish terrier Ollie kept him company. Earlier at the B&B, while sitting in the retro, vinyl-cluttered lounge area, I listened to Jack’s playlist of classic rock. I moved towards the back and watched as a beautiful sun-worn woman began each song. Cheryl’s voice was rich and deep, pleasantly gravelly when she struck the low notes. She had kind, wrinkled eyes, reminded me of soft, oiled leather. I began to feel nervous. I was terrified of performing, but I had carried my guitar so far. I had practiced “The Autumn Leaves” and now I was here, so I had to join in. With a deep breath, I grabbed my guitar and walked over. I sat next to Jack, who encouraged me to start a song. I trembled as I began the Nat King Cole classic, “The falling leaves, drift by my window. The autumn leaves of red and gold.” My hands shook as I sang, “I see your lips, the summer kisses, the sunburned hands I used to hold.” On “hold” I forgot the chord, but Jack came to my aid, strumming the chord as Cheryl joined in singing, “Since you went away the days grow long. And soon I’ll hear Old Winter’s song.” I joined back in along with all the other British voices: “But I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall.” My inadequate playing had become a communal effort. At the end of my song, I was officially initiated. Cheryl handed me a triangle cucumber sandwich and said, “You’re one of us now. That means you get a sandwich.” It tasted like sweet, cucumber relief.
At the end of the night, as I put away my guitar in the back corner, Cheryl came up to me. Her soft hands encased both of my cheeks as she looked me in my eyes and kissed my forehead. She said I was lovely and would always have a place in Boscastle. And as Jack and I walked across the bridge carrying our guitars, I realized that I had found a place to belong in England.