During Memorial Day weekend at the end of May Mike, Mattie and I travelled northwards from San Antonio to visit Enchanted Rock State Park, in the middle of the Hill Country. It rained during the morning – as it has done a lot lately – and on our approach we could hardly see anything of the surrounding hills. ‘It reminds me of North Wales,’ I said to Mike, looking up at the clouds – ‘and I never thought anything in south Texas would remind me of North Wales!’ We decided to have lunch first, after which hopefully the weather might have improved. We popped into a little barbecue joint called Cranky Franks, just outside the German town of Fredericksburg. Mike and Mattie chose brisket and I chose the pork ribs; both were delicious and they were combined with the usual sides of coleslaw, potato salad, gherkins, jalapeno peppers, pinto beans and – much to Mattie’s delight – chocolate or vanilla pudding for dessert. Just as we left the little ramshackle building and headed towards Enchanted Rock the sun came out, and later the sight of this huge pink rounded rock formation was stunning. We now enjoyed perfect weather for the ascent, about 700 yards up a steep granite hillside dotted with yellow-blossoming prickly pear cactus, sprinklings of rusty pink and bright yellow wildflowers, and tiny flowering sedum. My only complaint was that I forgot the camera; the panoramic views of the Hill Country were just lovely and there was not a building in sight. I can’t wait to go back and do the four-mile hike that skirts the bottom of the Rock. Back in the car, we followed some empty winding roads in the direction of Johnson City and were thrilled by the sight of a roadrunner that crossed our path. The roadside verges and stony fields were completely covered with wildflowers of all colours, a particular delight as our last trip to the Hill Country, in April, specifically to view the wildflowers, had proved disappointing. The recent rains no doubt have been the reason for the late emergence of these gorgeous but short-lived blooms.

In Johnson City, named after the family of Lyndon Johnson (the former president’s wife, Lady Bird, was responsible for establishing Enchanted Rock as a State Park) we enjoyed a glass of local white wine before heading back to San Antonio. This week marks the end of Mattie’s first school year and Mike and I are so pleased that she has made such a seamless transition from her junior school in England to her middle school here; the school has proved to be a very good one and thankfully Mattie has found her niche. I was surprised, on first arriving here, to find so many private Christian and Catholic schools in existence, which sprang up in the mid-1960s when Lyndon Johnson signed into law the Civil Rights Act, thereby ending legal segregation. For me, the greatest shame of the abundance of private schools is that it splits up the children in our neighbourhoods, but in this part of the U.S. it seems to be an accepted fact.

It is Fiesta week here and according to the San Antonio Express, more than 3 million people have come to the city to celebrate.

The first Fiesta parade was held in the late 1800s, to honour the heroes of the Alamo and the Battle of San Jacinto; groups of women decorated horse-drawn carriages which they paraded in front of the Alamo whilst pelting each other with flower blossoms. The (later) Battle of San Jacinto spelled the defeat of the Mexican army, freeing Texas to become a sovereign country. It remained so for ten years, before joining the United States. One is reminded of this brief period of independence by recent bizarre calls to secede from local Republicans, unhappy at the presidential election result.

The opening day of Fiesta still takes place before the Alamo and Mattie recalled that last year we had only been in the US a week or so at the time. When I look back to those somewhat disorienting early days of our emigration, I remember Mike and I filling in forms and taking Mattie to get jabs before she started her new school, as well as searching for a new home. This year, things have been a lot less frenetic during Fiesta week and Mattie and I attended a ‘Night in Old San Antonio’, held at La Villita, a small historic village situated on the riverwalk in downtown San Antonio. La Villita was once home to native Americans, Spanish colonialists and then Mexicans and this annual event highlights the impact of various cultures on San Antonio and Texas.

The little Czech town of West that was partially destroyed last week because of an explosion at a fertiliser plant was already well known in Texas for its bakeries, and particularly kolaches – Czech pastries filled with fruit, meat or sometimes vegetables. Mike reminded me that on Mattie’s and my first visit to Texas back in 2005, we stopped at one of these bakeries, ‘The Czech Stop’, and I recall Mike buying several fruit kolaches for us at the time. I was pleased, on glimpsing a local newspaper in Starbucks the other day, that ‘The Czech Stop’ had not been damaged in the explosion; in fact it remained open throughout the night serving pastries and acting as a shelter. (Articles like these would have been on the front page of national newspapers if not for the other horrific event last week, in Boston.)

Apart from the word ‘kolache’ the Czech language has had little impact here, unlike Spanish – San Antonio is fully a bilingual town. Though it struck me the other day that Mattie and I have more than one language to learn now: I had asked for an ice lolly in a shop downtown, only to receive a blank look from the Hispanic lady on the opposite side of the counter. So I pointed to the fridge. ‘Ah, you want a paleta,’ she grinned at me. ‘What do Americans call them?’ I then asked. ‘Popsicles,’ she smiled.

Mattie speaks another language of sorts, too, at school. I recently gleaned that one doesn’t say, ‘What’s Up?’ now, but simply ‘Sup?’ ‘So what do you say back?’ I asked her. ‘I just toss my head and point upwards,’ she grinned. Once, when she announced a high mark in some school tests, I, in the spirit of things, announced, ‘I think that deserves a High Five!’ But Mattie looked at me over her glasses and said, ‘Mum, I think we need to talk about limits.’

I recently received an envelope with a Canadian postmark from a childhood friend, Sian, with whom I last had contact more than 40 years ago. Sian’s Mum, who is still in touch with mine, had mentioned to Sian my book Dear Mummy, Welcome, which caused her to write.

I used to assume that if my family had stayed in Wales, I would never have travelled, would have married early and had children. From Sian’s letter I found out that she did indeed marry early, she and her husband moved to western Canada soon after and she never had children. Following a divorce and a very happy second marriage, Sian wrote, her life, far from civilisation, is very different to the one she had envisaged, yet she loves it. Mike mentioned that when he, Mattie and I made our road trip from Texas to Montana in 2007, we were only a short distance from Alberta and might have visited her had we known she was there. Perhaps that chance will come again.

Sian wrote, ‘I remember my friend Beth across the road. How I envied her, her dark skin and dark hair, so very pretty.’ Funny, I envied Sian her fair hair and curls, and her pink bedroom full of things that I would have loved to own! Sian recounted memories of our childhood. ‘Playing cricket in the street or hide-and-seek, time spent in garden sheds and in dens at the back of our gardens where we spent countless hours, listening to stories of Winnie the Pooh at school…’ She enjoyed identifying family members in the book, too, recalling how my younger brother David would go round to their house to visit their Dad ‘who had him convinced he was an astronaut, his hard hat being his helmet…It was a sad time when you moved to Wolverhampton. You were missed.’ For me, looking back, that time resembled something from an Enid Blyton book.

I was just nine in 1966 when my father’s new job took us from Wales to England. Years later, during the adoption process, I recalled that move as a significant loss. Yet only after reading Sian’s letter did I realise that for both our families that idyllic childhood froze the same year: Sian’s father (most likely everyone’s favourite Dad in the neighbourhood) died just before we left, her mother re-married and she had to adjust to living with a new step dad and step siblings in quite a different part of the city. I told Mattie about Sian’s letter and she asked me to read it to her over tea. I have to admit to shedding a few tears.

Mattie, Mike and I took another trip down memory lane last week, on the eighth anniversary of Mattie’s Adoption Day. This was only the second time that the three of us were all together for this special day. After giving Mattie cards and gifts in the morning (a metronome from Mike and books and hair accessories from me), we had lunch on the patio at Paesano’s Italian restaurant. Mattie chose her favourite Chicken Alfredo followed by chocolate pudding. During the meal, I reminded Mattie that on that first adoption day we almost missed the court hearing when a court clerk had waylaid us by mistake. ‘Typical’ grinned Mike. He had been back home awaiting the return of all the family members for celebratory eats and drinks. ‘I remember that cousin Mei ate some food from the table as soon as she arrived back and you told her off,’ said Mattie gravely and I smiled at the thought that Mattie, who liked to be the little boss back then, no doubt enjoyed that particular event. Later in the afternoon of her eighth anniversary, Mattie and I went to see a film and then do some shopping, during which she bought me a little gift. ‘It’s your adoption day, too,’ she smiled at me.

Spring, it seems, has sprung! Outside Mattie’s school, the grape-like blossom of the mountain laurel fills the air with its bubble-gum fragrance; and last week I had my first sighting of wildflowers: clumps of rust-and-gold Indian Blanket, and bluebonnets, beside the cycling path along the San Antonio River, south of downtown. Further north, at the Botanical Garden, the pomegranate trees now bear tiny green leaves – though it will not be until July or August that they will bear their luscious fruit. During my last visit to the Garden, I noted that the great white egret had disappeared. I first spotted it in the autumn when it was contentedly ensconced on an orangey-rust branch of a cedar tree, haughtily gazing down upon a gaggle of geese at the lake edge; later in winter, when the cedar had shed its leaves, it was poised on an upturned log in the middle of the lake. Now, only turtles occupy that log and I imagine the egret flew further south, to the Gulf coast, during a cold front. When Mike, Mattie and I made a day trip to the coast last weekend, I noted the odd splash of pink phlox here and there on the roadside and Mike pointed out that the mesquite trees were beginning to sprout leaves. The old timers, he said, used to say that spring had arrived when the mesquite trees became green. As we approached the coast, the mesquites became greener, finally giving way to dark alluvial farming fields, punctuated with the occasional oil jack. The large oil refinery near Corpus Christi is always, for me, the sign that our journey is almost over.
Instead of staying at Corpus, this time we took the small car ferry a short distance over the ocean to Port Aransas, situated on a long spit. Last time we did this, dolphins ducked in and around the ferry. This time I imagine the water was too cold for them. It was for me, too: though I got as far as putting on my swimsuit, in the end I only had a paddle. After lunch, and a long walk along the beach looking for shells, we spent a while watching cormorants and teal at a small bird preserve. There was an alligator, too, lurking somewhere in the waters though during our visit it failed to reveal itself. Mattie spent most of her time looking through a large telescope – a peregrine falcon was perched on a telegraph wire in the near distance – and I was reminded of our very first trip to the West Country back in the UK when Mattie, then only four, loved to look out at the sea through telescopes. Then, Mike had to lift her up to do so. Now, eight years later, she is of course tall enough to manage herself.
We drove back to San Antonio in the early evening. The sun hung low in the sky like a large burnt-orange ball until just before seven it disappeared from view. Only the odd electric light now dotted the countryside until, finally, the bright lights of the city appeared. During the journey, Mattie had kept wanting to hear one of my Nanci Griffith albums. I mentioned the Texas singer/songwriter in my book, Dear Mummy, Welcome and it was back in 1997 when by chance I first heard Griffith, at the Royal Albert Hall, singing about Texas bluebonnets. Funny to think that all these years later, Mattie has become such a big fan of hers.

Last Saturday our former workman, Jorge, came to finish off some odds and ends. He was last here in the summer, and I think both Mike and I felt rather nostalgic seeing him again. ‘Wow!’ Jorge said, on entering our house, and I recalled that in those days the place had been a mess. Since then, our Saltillo tiles have been restored to their original peachy-brown, the walls have been ‘re-plastered’ and painted white, the fireplace in the main reception area tiled in creamy-beige Mexican stone, and the garage converted into a rather handsome family room.
Mike and Jorge worked all morning long, and during a lunch break of sandwiches and beer, Mattie remarked how much it seemed like the old days – ‘except that Nico [Jorge’s workmate] isn’t here!’ I am not sure whether Jorge is in the US legally, but I do know that his son, who was born here, is. Over lunch, Jorge announced proudly that his son will go to university this year to study engineering. Though Jorge has not had the chance to do more with his own life, he is one of many poor Mexicans in the US doing all they can for their children.
The following morning Mike, Mattie and I set off for an area south of Downtown San Antonio, for Sunday breakfast at Mirador, a charming old Mexican restaurant decorated with Diego Rivera prints. Afterwards, we drove round some of the Spanish Missions, built by Indians in the 1700s. There are five of them: the Alamo in the centre of San Antonio; the remaining four in gently sloping fields to the south. Around each, there is an unexpected air of tranquillity.
Monday was Martin Luther King Day, a public holiday that coincided aptly with Barack Obama’s inauguration. I quickly finished preparing the pizza we were to eat for lunch then settled down with Mike and Mattie to watch the ceremony. The main thing I took from Barack’s speech was his emphasis on equality for immigrants and minorities – and I thought of the likes of Jorge. The highlight, for me, of the whole ceremony was the recital, by an American of Cuban descent, of a poem entitled ‘One Today’. I felt the poem was an anthem to America and found it quite emotional, especially his reference to the ‘impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain the empty desks of twenty children marked absent today, and forever.’
Judging by the hats and coats, it was obviously colder in Washington that San Antonio, where we are currently enjoying temperatures in the early 70s and the sky is a ski weather-blue. During my walk in the park a couple of weeks ago, I saw thirty or so black vultures sitting on the low branches of a couple of leafless trees by the creek; against a cloudless blue sky the sight was truly one to behold. I had never before seen vultures in such close proximity and with their short hooked beaks, black plumage and wrinkly skin they reminded me of feathery versions of Fagin. I am not sure whether they migrated here for the winter but it struck me that many of us in the US are migratory birds of some sort!

A few days ago our container of furniture arrived. I felt a little emotional as the first box was carried off the truck: not only have our paintings, crockery and clothes made a long journey but I feel as though the pair of us has as well.

The arrival of the container also signified something else: the renovation (at least the inside) of our house is finally about done. Luis, our electrician, has put up the last of the light units and ceiling fans, and our painter, José, has touched up the remaining bits of internal paintwork. We are now able to arrange the newly arrived furniture where we please, place books on freshly painted shelves and knick-knacks in appropriate places. There were some unexpected stowaways in the boxes: a piece of sash rope from my bedroom window in Sussex; the handle to the grill pan that should have remained on its hook on the kitchen wall, and a carefully wrapped container of slug pellets (a neighbour has confirmed that we do get the occasional slug here when it rains!). At one point during the unwrapping Mike called me over and said, ‘What on earth’s this?’ I looked down at a piece of paper covered in what looked like tiny black eggs. ‘An insect must have got in there,’ I replied, with a shudder. Mattie then approached and exclaimed, ‘They’re not eggs, they’re poppy seeds!’ Mike gave the paper a shake and, sure enough, hundreds, if not thousands, of seeds fell back into the box. Gathering them up, I spotted the poppy seed heads that once had filled a vase in my old study – never dreaming that they would have been wrapped up, too. I have not seen mention of poppies in any of the books or magazine articles I have read about Texas wildflowers, but as San Antonio lies on a limestone escarpment I imagine they should do rather well. We shall see. Funny to think that something of my old garden might be replicated here. Remarkably, the seed heads, along with every other item in the container, suffered no damage at all.

‘It’s just like home!’ Mattie said that night when she got into her Victorian iron bed. In many respects, Mattie’s bedroom and adjoining ‘study’ do now have a feel of her old bedroom and adjoining playroom. Mattie and I loved that house – ‘I could walk around it blindfold and know exactly where everything was’, she recently told me. And seeing all our things here in Texas brought back many memories, perhaps made a little more poignant at Christmas-time when one thinks of family and friends left behind.

Many of the houses in our new neighbourhood have beautifully decorated front gardens – live-oak tree trunks covered in tiny blue lights, candy-stick edged lawns, twinkling leafy wreaths on front doors… What I find touching are the tiny houses owned by ‘poor folks’ as they’re called here, where they have hung up little ornaments, scraps of tinsel and hand-painted signs wishing all a ‘Merry Christmas’.

Christmas for me began last night when a cold front arrived and Mike lit a fire in the grate for the first time. The three of us sat in front of it, chatting, and Mattie then recited a story she had read at school and played Jingle Bells on her flute. Reflected in the glass of our patio doors were the mauve, red and green lights of our Christmas tree, and it occurred to me that this was our first Christmas together when we could truly call ourselves a family.

Perhaps appropriately, the start of Thanksgiving week was marked by the next stage in our emigration process. Early on Tuesday morning Mike drove Mattie and me to a nondescript building in the north of San Antonio to have our fingerprints and yet more photos taken (our fifth set of photos so far, I think, since Mike initiated the process two years ago.) So, all being well, at some point in the next few months I hope to receive my ‘green card’. Even then it may still be a year or so before our emigration process is officially over, but at least I will be able to work, if I wish, and Mattie and I will be allowed to leave the US – currently we would not be allowed re-entry if we did so.
The next day Mike, Mattie and I set off excitedly to spend a few days in Galveston on the south Texas coast, about 50 miles south of Houston. Galveston is actually an island, and like so many seaside towns it sports that mixture of history, decaying elegance and gaudiness. ‘It feels as though there are a lot of ghosts here,’ I remarked to Mike, and indeed a hurricane decimated much of the town in 1900, killing several thousand of the islanders. Without means of burial, the bodies were dumped in the sea – only to litter the beach the next day when the tide carried them back in. Fearing an outbreak of disease due to the sultry weather, survivors were forced to burn the bodies in funeral pyres where they lay.
Before the hurricane Galveston had been the main port of Texas – and the most important shipping and financial centre west of Wall Street. This was mainly due to the cotton trade, most of which was exported to the mills of northern England. A contributing factor was that Galveston was the principal port of entry for hundreds of thousands of immigrants arriving from all over the world. Luckily, the town still sports a large number of beautiful Victorian gothic-style buildings once constructed for banks, merchants and as private residences, though many of these have been turned into museums, restaurants and curio shops over the years. I would have loved to step back in time to experience the town as the bustling major commercial centre it once was – complete with opera house, ballrooms, pleasure piers and coffee and peanut butter processing plants.
We ate our Thanksgiving meal in a charming century-old restaurant called Gaido’s on the seafront. The grilled shrimp dusted in light cornmeal, the ‘blackened’ scallops and the pecan pie for dessert were exceptionally good. Mattie, having a penchant for turkey and ham, instead chose the buffet, occasionally dropping on Mike’s and my plate a fried oyster. During the meal Mike looked at us at and said with a smile, ‘Well, it’s our first Thanksgiving together.’ It did indeed seem like we had passed another milestone in our story. Perhaps my sweetest memory is when earlier that same day Mattie had come up to me and said ‘I’m thankful for you, Mum’.

On Halloween, our neighbourhood was pretty busy with lots of mums, dads and children in fancy dress going from house to house for candy. I was in fact surprised by how many there were because our neighbourhood is not exactly flush with kids. Then I found out that many of these ‘Halloweeners’ were in fact Mexican families from poorer districts who had come by. I found this quite touching: it was sweet to see the glow on the children’s faces as they were given a treat.
When I and Mattie returned from ‘trick or treating’ later that evening, Mike announced that the candy bowl he had been dishing out to children was empty. We therefore ‘encouraged’ Mattie to put half of her loot into it for late evening callers; she grumbled a little but did so and it was gone in 15 minutes.
At my Spanish class the following evening, our teacher brought yet more goodies left over from a Halloween party she had attended. Each time we asked a question, or gave a response, in perfect Spanish we were offered the candy bowl! I like our teacher, Rosalinda, very much. In her early sixties, this tiny Mexican woman has a big booming voice and a very engaging personality. During the classes she often relates an amusing anecdote about her (much younger) American husband, and to me the pair (he comes in at the end of the evening) make a good double act. A few weeks ago, Rosalinda revealed that her ambition, when she shortly retires, is to babysit for her first grandchild. The problem: her only daughter (who lives in San Antonio) is forty and has just completed her final IVF treatment. Rosalinda asked us to pray for good news. If it is not, I have it in mind to give her daughter a copy of my book, Dear Mummy, Welcome. Who knows – out of bad news might come good.
That is the way I have viewed the recent hurricane disaster that has hit New York and surrounding areas. In a long and extremely divisive election campaign we have finally seen Republicans – in the form of New Jersey Governor Christie, and New York Mayor Bloomberg – come together with Democrats: in recent days, Christie has praised Obama effusively for his handling of the crisis; and Bloomberg, believing Obama to be a better option than Romney to tackle climate change and women’s rights – has endorsed him for the next term. One can only hope that this last-minute coming together will not only convince undecided voters next Tuesday, but that it will endure throughout the following four years.

2 October was National Night Out in the US, its aim to promote neighbourhood spirit and police/community partnerships. The head of our own San Antonio neighbourhood had planned a get-together at Mamacita’s restaurant, a short drive away. It is a popular Tex-Mex eating spot, though I am surely not the only person who finds the life-size Davy Crockett figure, playing a fiddle on an overhead stage set, bizarre to say the least!
The highlight of this fun evening was the appearance of our own San Antonio Mayor, Julian Castro, who, as well as wishing our neighbourhood well, urged us to vote for his proposed 1/8% increase in city sales tax for improved early school teaching. A popular, highly articulate Democrat in this mainly Republican state, Castro literally sprung onto the national stage this autumn when Barack Obama invited him to make the keynote speech at the national Democratic Convention in Colorado.
Mattie was particularly thrilled to see Castro at our gathering, and at the end of his short speech raced to get his autograph and photo.‘I know your brother!’ she excitedly exclaimed.‘Do you, how come?’ he asked, with a big smile, and Mattie replied that he had visited her elementary school to talk about careers. Castro and his identical twin lawyer brother (who is aiming for Congress this year) come from a poor, single parent family, but worked their way through the San Antonio school system to gain scholarships to Stanford and Harvard. ‘Where are you from?’ Castro then asked Mattie. ‘From England,’ she beamed, and he informed us that David Cameron had invited him and a team of businessmen to the UK in November. I then told the Mayor how much we had enjoyed his keynote Convention speech, at which point Mike turned round, with a grin, and announced: ‘You do realize I’m the only one of the three of us allowed to vote?!’
The 38 year-old Hispanic mayor is of a far more diminutive stature than one would have guessed from his Convention appearance, but this is compensated with a big, rich voice and plenty of enthusiasm. On Saturday evening, Mike pointed out to me the former mayor of San Antonio; Henry Cisneros was standing in front of us in the ticket queue at a local cinema. Much taller than Castro, the chisel-featured Hispanic had once also been the darling of the Democrats, working his way up to Clinton’s Cabinet. An extra-marital affair, Mike said, put an end to his career; and I remarked, quietly of course, how many high-flying political careers finished that way.
The former mayor sat on the opposite aisle to us during Ben Affleck’s ‘Argo’, a film about the CIA attempt to free six of the US Embassy hostages in Tehran. Not a particularly good film, in our opinion, though its timing was apt, given the recent attack on the US Consulate in Benghazi. One had a certain sense of déja-vue.

The other day I noticed an Asian supermarket as I was driving home. Curious as to what they might sell, I decided to stop and take a look. Inside was a treasure trove of goodies: apricot jam from Armenia, small bottles of Egyptian mango juice, Turkish delight and other sweetmeats from Istanbul, fresh goat meat, jasmine teabags from Iran … to mention but a few – and not forgetting a wonderful array of flours, grains and spices.
Asians represent just 2.3 percent of the city of San Antonio’s 1.3 residents, although more live in outlying areas. Many of them come from India, Turkey, China and Bangladesh. Amongst other things at the supermarket, I bought some freshly made wholewheat pitta breads and gave one to Mattie when she arrived home from school. I grilled the pitta first and then filled it with cheddar and tomato. It reminded me how, back home, Mattie’s Aunty Molly often used to make these as a snack. Funny, the things that remind one of home! I thought the same thing on Saturday night: I was listening to the radio and someone requested Bach’s Goldberg Variations. I had bought the CD not long before emigrating and remember discussing it with my friend, Wei Ping. Suddenly, it was as though Wei Ping were actually there with me. I remembered her exact words. If someone had asked me, before emigrating, what might recall England I would never have suggested pitta bread and Bach!
Earlier on the same Saturday, Mike and I had watched a program about John Lennon and his fight with the Nixon government, back in the 70s, when he lived in the US. I had forgotten about how much a protest figure, and bastion for peace, Lennon had been. Not surprisingly, he had a long battle with the Nixon government and immigration services about his right to abode in the US. This was finally settled only after Nixon resigned. During the program we saw a copy of Lennon’s passport and I discovered his middle name was Winston.
This evening, I am about to start Spanish lessons at the Winston Churchill High School, not far from our house. With Hispanics making up about 60% of the San Antonio population one hears Spanish almost everywhere – in restaurants, the post office, on the bus. I asked one of our Mexican workmen whether it feels like home here and he said it was indeed like living in a little Mexico. Mike and I passed by Churchill school today. It has a large Union Jack on the building. I recalled that the Asian supermarket also sells Bird’s custard powder, Brooke Bond tea and mint sauce! One comes to realize what a truly cosmopolitan city San Antonio is.

It seems that autumn is upon us. Last Monday, when Mattie and I opened the front door to walk to school, she yelled out, ‘It’s freezing!’ and rushed for her hoodie. In fact, it was probably only in the late 60s, but having been used to morning temperatures well into the 80s throughout the last 2 months, it did feel pretty cool.
The first signs of autumn occurred a couple of weeks ago, when large flurries of seeds from our Texas ash began to fall onto the back garden and pool. At times, the seeds resemble large, golden-brown snowflakes, and there have been veritable drifts of them on the patio, causing much exasperation from Mike who has been extracting them from the pool filter.
Fall in San Antonio is lovely. Mike noted this week that the light is different: the sky is a deeper, clearer blue and everything seems to enjoy a golden tinge. With the lower temperatures, we are not so reliant on air conditioning, keeping our patio doors open for most of the day, which means that I now can hear those noisy cicadas, and chattering squirrels, from the kitchen. There are more butterflies around now. In our garden I spotted the beautifully-marked orange Monarch butterfly, millions of which will fly through Texas to northern Mexico over the next couple of months. And along the creek, situated a short drive from our house, are other varieties, some with large flapping wings of pale apricot; others are lemon or shimmering black and midnight blue.
Several pathways run in and about the creek. Slightly undulating and stony in places, these pathways enjoy dappled shade from mesquite, live oak, persimmon and juniper trees. All of San Antonio’s creeks are stone dry except when there is a rainfall and then they rapidly fill up. We are lucky here to have avoided the drought that has affected much of the US. During my walk along the creek this morning, I came across a pond sheltered by a high bluff, and startled a bright-red crested cardinal, as well as a family of five white-tailed deer that cocked their heads at me through the tall grasses before running away. I stayed a while to observe the bright-orange and scarlet dragonflies hovering over the pond – Texas has the largest variety of dragonflies in the US, as well as the largest bird population in the world, many of which use the state as a stopover whilst migrating north or south. I have to brush up on my knowledge of south Texas birds, though during my walk I did recognize a humming bird hovering above the scarlet blossom of a scarlet Turk’s Cap shrub; white-winged doves; a mocking bird; and a flurry of lemon-yellow breasted warblers. But the pair of larger, clay-coloured birds sporting burnt-orange stripes on their wings will have to await a check on the internet for me to find out what they were.
Earlier in the summer, I was thrilled to see a large red-shouldered hawk sitting nonchalantly on a rock before me. At that time of year, the vegetation is more colourful, with wildflowers in abundance. Even now there still remains the odd splash of shocking-pink mallow blossom, and clumps of Texas lavender which look particularly lovely set against golden daisies and the prickly pear cactus, now bearing its maroon-coloured fruit. What I particularly love at this time of year are the grasses; the most common variety in this particular creek sports beige-coloured seeds which dangle daintily in the breeze, reminding me of tiny Christmas trees.

A beautiful wooden plate, finely painted in the German naïve style, lay for weeks gathering dust in the charity shop where I used to work back in the UK. I pondered whether to buy it, but Mattie and I were in the middle of the emigration process and I could not imagine how something so German would fit into a south Texas home. In the end, I decided the plate was too lovely to be taken back to the charity storehouse, along with all the other unsold items, and my plate now lounges somewhere in my container in Houston.
During a recent trip to the Hill Country, I learned that most of the 19th century pioneers who settled in this region between Austin and San Antonio, hailed from central and northern Germany. Mike, Mattie and I were travelling along a remote, undulating road and I spotted a row of mailboxes. I looked around but could hardly see the houses tucked far back from the roadside, hidden by trees. A little later and another set of mailboxes appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. The mailboxes are exactly the same as the one at the bottom of our front garden, which Mattie likes to empty every day. That letter from Mum, or a parcel for Mattie, are always a treat. How different it would have been for those early German settlers; and as we continued our drive I wondered how they felt having to leave their homeland knowing they would never return, and building a home and community from scratch in a region that was not only extremely isolated but rife with warring Comanche Indians.
The Sunday before Mattie and I left for the US, the vicar at our local church spoke about the importance of roots. ‘You’re losing your roots,’ he announced to me after the service. ‘I can build new roots,’ I replied, and he agreed. But does one ever lose one’s roots? In comparison to those early Germans, Mattie and I were lucky: we left the UK knowing we would see family and friends within the year and could call home whenever we wished. I brought a clutch of favourite photos, too. Photography had barely been invented when the Germans arrived in the Hill Country. They had been told they were coming to good farming land and instead found themselves on shallow, rocky soil, sandwiched between high plains and desert. But they buckled down and set to, building orderly, efficient farms, and churches, houses and shops that would not look out of place in an elegant Duesseldorf suburb today. The German language is still prevalent: ‘Willkommen’ is written on the sign that greets you at Fredericksburg; in Boerne, the main street is called ‘Hauptstrasse’, and shops have German names. For better or worse, German cuisine has penetrated the Tex-Mex menu via the Wurst. And the hand organ, which has a surprisingly melodic and haunting sound, is played by south Texas rock bands and Mexican Mariachi bands alike. Though when I saw a poster advertising an Oompah band, I decided that was one to miss …

One early evening last week, Mike and I went again to ‘Sol Luna’, the restaurant we visited with Mattie the day we got married. The patio of ‘Sol Luna’ is always beautifully shaded, assisted by large hanging baskets of lush green foliage. At this hour, the restaurant was heaving and a happy din of chatter rang around. A smiling waiter brought us blue corn tortilla chips and delicious salsas made from serrano and chiplote chiles. Mike and I ordered the same dishes that we had eaten on our marriage day – small tacos filled with bean, cabbage and avocado; enchiladas stuffed with lobster, red snapper and shrimp. Mike drank his favourite Dos Equis beer and I a Margarita, of which Mike had a sip. ‘It has too much tequila in it,’ he remarked. ‘It’s still good,’ I smiled, though I noticed that after just a couple more sips I found it difficult to enunciate my words and my voice sounded very loud in my ears.
The best Margaritas in San Antonio are actually made by Mike. They have just the right amount of tequila and they are neither too sweet nor too sharp. He occasionally makes them when we are having a barbecue. Mike got his well-thumbed recipe from an acquaintance in Austin. I’m usually the one who hand-squeezes the juice from the limes; Mattie used to do this until she became bored by the procedure. Mexican limes are much sweeter than other limes but if the finished result is still a little sharp, we add a few drops of agave nectar to our drinks, which Mike pours into recycled Mexican glasses that have a band of navy blue around the rim. I like a little salt on the rim of my glass.
Whilst the chicken is grilling, Mike and I sit down with our drinks and pass the time of day with Mattie. It is a nice way to wind down after a day making the inevitable trips to Lowe’s – the DIY store up the road – and overseeing our workmen, Jorge and Nico. Last Saturday, we invited Jorge and Nico to have a drink with us before they left for home. These Mexican men are two of the nicest people you could meet. Jorge hails from a town called Musquit, close to the border. He is quite tall and handsome, wears a small beard and a baseball cap turned backwards, and speaks excellent, heavily accented English. Jorge goes to church with his wife early each Sunday morning, is sensitive, well read and learns German in his spare time. He also has a small terrier whom he dotes on and even equips with small boots during rainy weather. I like to think Jorge would be a poet in another life.
Nico has one of those faces I think Robert Capa would have liked to photograph. It is a timeless face. His skin is dark and sun-roasted, he has big white teeth, a perpetual smile and always wears a straw cowboy hat. Nico hardly speaks English even though he has lived in San Antonio for many years, so Jorge translates for him; Nico’s six grown-up children are all perfectly fluent. Nico’s smile is broadest at the end of a working day, when Mike offers him a beer. He was thrilled with an old sixties wine cabinet we were about to throw away. He said he would store his tequila in it. Tequila, Nico grins, is his religion.
When the two later left, Mike said he feared we would likely lose touch with them once their work on our house is done. It struck me that neither Jorge nor Nico has much money; they live very simply on the Mexican (poor) side of town – and yet they always seem pretty happy and contented with their lot. The same goes for the other Mexican workers who pass through our house – the tiler, the plumber, the glass and mirror man … What a good antidote these Mexicans are to our over-commercialised western world.