I’m writing this month’s column on my birthday in the UK in the shire of Derby (pronounced like “Barbie,” not like the hats worn by Laurel and Hardy) in Ashbourne Civil parish in a village called Kniveton in an AirBnB called “Upper Bank House.” I only mention this because for the past 30 years—other than the Covid “coffee break” of 2020 and 2021—I’ve celebrated my birthday in my adopted country rather than back in the states.
The tone of each natal anniversary has varied. For several years, I was serenaded during the Keswick Jazz Festival by 400 jolly Brits in sold-out shows at the Theatre by the Lake (the lake not actually being a lake; there are ironically no lakes in the Lake District of England—the large bodies of water are referred to as just that: “waters.” So TBTL is on the shores of Derwentwater). One year, I forgot it was my birthday until my pal Jim Fryer, while quaffing strong cider with me in Cornwall around 4 pm, happened to ask how old I was. I started saying “29” and then realized that had been my age the day before. Having been rudely awakened to how old I’d become, I guzzled my pint and three more just in case life ended at 30. This year, I’m enjoying a quiet day with walks, a beautiful haddock-and-egg
