I have always thought myself a city girl , being brought up in a seaside town that was less than one hour by train from London, with all the amenities of a big city. I rarely lived further than four minutes walk from the local shops, five minutes from public transport.
Whereas many of the students at my exclusive private girls school would retreat to their family farm for a weekend, I use to enjoy pounding the pavements of the shopping centre, browsing the fashion boutiques that sprung up in the sixties, or hanging out in a coffee bar as a sport.
As the archetypal wandering Jew I have moved around in my life but apart from 1 year in the 1980’s where I lived & worked ,with my ex husband, in a community for adults with special needs,isolated in the middle of a country village, my residences have always been in a city or at least a very large town.
My attempt at learning to drive failed, largely because there was never really the need , especially in the city where public transport was adequate ,and in some cases preferable .
My wardrobe was geared towards British city life incorporating the slightly more colourful side of orthodox ladies conservative style .
My head covering was wigs with the occasional hat for wet days, and you never saw me go out of my door without a full make-up, or at the very least my eye make-up and a manicure.
Five years ago I came to Bat Ayin to be the Em Bayit ( Dorm Mom) of an small women's anglo Midreshet . It was apparent that the first thing I had to do was change my shoes, I invested in comfortable and practical Neots, the Israeli non glamorous but very hard wearing staple.
http://www.tevanaot.co.il/classic a must for the rocky terrain , secondly I adopted the layered Bat Ayin mode of dressing, trousers for warmpth under skirts, a bo ho chic that comes from shopping in the Bat Ayin Store http://
www.taliadesign.co.il/en/bat-ayin/ or the gemach shop. Layers to combat the heat of the day and the chill of the evening in the Judean hills. My stylish wig was soon replaced by colourful coordinating head scarves woven into a crown of Jewish feminine pride worn high on my head.
Against all odds .it was not just my exterior appearance that changed, but my lifestyle and attitude of mind too. As the Judean hills wore away at this truly British persona I became more at one with my surroundings; I have always prided myself with being adaptable and flexible, however at 56 as I was then, to uproot and move to a rickety drafty caravan, at the bottom of a dirt track , deal with regular power cuts, slow internet, spasmodic postal service, an inadequate bus service (and when I arrived no local supermarket ( that came after 3 years)) not to mention the snakes and scorpions took some testament of faith and staying power.
This city girl would soon be found digging up a pumpkin for lunch, killing scorpions with in blink of an eye & climbing up the long steep hill to hitch-hike out of the yeshuve much before most self respecting folk in "blighty" had had their early morning cup of English breakfast tea .
Living in a yeshuve and working as an Em bayit brings one closer to nature for sure, but more importantly it it is a giant leap of faith, when feeding ten hungry young women and nine unexpected guests with no local supermarket and the village shop is shut, you learn to rely on the garden and store cupboard.
When a bride to be announced five days before her wedding she hadn't got a dress, one relies memory ( who in the yeshuve is her size and height and might still have their dress) & on the kindness of others to lend and share.
One soon begins to realise that there is no such thing as luck or coincidence , but as the tremps ( hitch hikes ) are offered to exactly the destination you wish to travel to, when exactly the amount of money you need to pay a bill is arrives out of nowhere, when the gemach has a delivery of just your size good as new sweaters as the seasons change ,when everything you need ( not everything you actually desire) actually falls into place you see the hand of Hashem in your daily life on a practical everyday basis.
I live in a small very modest two room prefabricated bungalow, one step up from a caravan .it is compact and all my worldly goods fit on a kind of organized fashion , with exception to my books that bulge from every shelve. My home would fit into an average US living room ! I can cook & entertain guests , I have solar panned hot water, air conditioning, heat, all the water from my home is recycled to feed the garden outside.
From my window I can see the Judean hills, I walk across the garden and can pick wild herbs and garlic ,and in season grapes cherries figs olives and pomegranates .. The “garden” or outside area is home to generations of one family of cats,that come and go , the latest members try regularly to become my domestic pet, and have been named Chupzah, and Chupchik accordingly.
My neighbour keeps chickens who amble around avoiding their paddock mate, a rather large very hormonal pregnant bouncing goat named Pizza. My cat who is very spoilt by yeshuve standards , sports a red collar and answers to Beckham struts around outside chasing mice napping in the sun , preferring freedom to the life of his pampered city counterparts.
My daily life is not what my parents possibly had mapped out for me in their minds. I am sure they would have preferred me to be the provincial middle class housewife married to a successful financially staple husband.
However as challenging as my life is living up my mountain I have after a time of resistance become a country girl, by my door are my outside garden shoes ,I prefer to take a leisurely stroll a down a country lane taking photographs rather than sitting in a smoky bar for entertainment, I would tend to make do and mend than give in to needs, or desires sparked by consumerism.
Nowadays I find the hustle and bustle of the city exhausting, the smell overwhelming and the traffic deafening.
When I do go to the city I do what I must, then beat a hasty retreat to my little home in the country, where I can put my still manicured & varnished nails ,( there are some things this erstwhile city girl will not give up) around a steaming mug of PG tips ,sit in the garden and reflect on a poem that I learnt in my city school over half a century ago
“The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,--
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.” by Dorothy Frances Gurney
