Sunny with a few Cloudy Patches

I got off to a late start this morning – having had such a warm sunny day in Salisbury yesterday I was feeling a bit dehydrated and headachey and lay in bed longer than I should have done; decided my toes needed the rest so I didn’t run and started thinking about the trip home and began repacking for the 40th time. GAWD how I am tired of putting things in this bag.

I am tired of travelling and looking forward to being home.  I miss C.  I think I have found my trip duration limit; I think it was about a week ago.

I caught a morning train to Brighton – a reasonably short and straightforward trip. – I had listed the times of departure and the station I needed to change at, but having left later than I had planned on doing, all my times were a bit, well, useless.  So I ask the ticket seller at the station when the next train went and where I needed to change trains. He answered as if it was obvious where I was to change trains and I thought to myself – I’m a tourist, we make the obvious complicated.

Having successfully changed trains and gotten to Brighton with ease, I wandered down to the Information Centre (there was a map posted near the train station, so it was easy to find), got a map and headed to the ocean.

Since the road I chose to go down spat me out right at Brighton Pier, I walked the pier before heading for the beach.

Brighton on a semi-sunny Monday morning in early June is not all that busy; a few stalwart sunbathers and a smattering of beachcombers were all that were about.  I wandered along the beach looking at all the pretty rocks for a couple of hours.  Feeling my  pockets were beginning to weigh me down (I was doing what I always do on beaches - happily collecting rocks) I thought it probably time to see something other than the rocky beach of Brighton.

So I walked in the other direction along the “boardwalk”, passing back past the Pier and past the eyesore that is the West Pier – a tangled and rusted pile of metal beams slowly rusting just off shore – in its day, I imagine, it was as grand as the Brighton Pier (why they didn’t just remove it, I don’t know).  I wandered along for another hour before deciding I should also see something of the town, so I ventured into the heart of the “Cultural Centre” of Brighton to have a look about.

When I was happy with seeing all there was to see in the immediate area, I stood in a park and studied my map – at which point a man materialized at me elbow and asked if I was lost, to which I replied, “No, I’m just trying to decide what to see next.” He preceded to, for the next few minutes, offer me suggestions as to what I could  do while wondering why anyone would want to visit Brighton in the first place “Once you’ve seen this area and the beach, and had a wander around the shops, there’s not much to it.”  Silently, I had to agree with him – which is why I was consulting my map in the first place.

The morning had started out sunny but by 2PM it had clouded over and just going and hanging out on the beach was not as appealing as it might have been.  So I decided I would check out the two churches in search of more photos for my “Faces of the UK “ photo book concept I have been operating under since Oxford.

So I wandered past two churches, conveniently located in opposite directions from each other. Being uninspired by both and weary of the walking I headed back to the train station to make my way – sans schedule to Horley. 

The “Helpful” ticket seller at Horley station when I asked what times the trains ran to get me home said between Brighton and Gatwick Airport they run every 30 minutes and a train to get you from Gatwick to Horley run every 20 minutes from Gatwick – ok, so I’ll just find the first train to Gatwick then get off and hang about for the first train to Horley – simple.

The trick to finding the train you want is knowing where the train you want is ultimately going.  My problem, is 99.9% of the time, I have no idea where the terminus for the train I want is, so I have to ask a helpful train station worker on the platform for help – the trick is being able to find one.

Upon arriving at Gatwick Station, I was unable to locate anyone and just happened to glance over at the display at the next platform to see it listed Horley as one of its call stations.  I sprinted up the stairs, over the overpass and down the stairs just before doors closed and the train pulled away – I felt so Local!

Getting back to the B&B by 4PM I partook in my favourite travel past time, REPACKING! I  nibbled on Bourbon Creams and contemplated dinner – which ended up being back at El Gourmet for the same thing that I had Saturday night, minus the extra leftover olives – though he did send me away with the leftover olives that I didn’t eat while I waited for my main course.

I then returned to my room – unceremoniously and sadly binning the leftover olives on the way wishing there was some way I could bring them home for Cf to sample – to return to my favourite past time for the second to last time – tomorrow morning’s being the final repack. I’m almost home.

The Luck of the Irish

I think I now know where the phrase - “The Luck of the Irish” comes from.  It’s not from leprechauns or rainbows (though any remotely souvenir-related shop is chock a block with the former and since, allegedly, it rains a lot in Ireland one imagines that the latter are fairly prevalent too).

No, the evidence of the Irish Luck stems from one place – the roads in the Republic of Ireland!

There are several types of roads in Ireland – there are the motorways, which the locals must think is the Autobahn, since the speed limit is more like a vain suggestion than a actual limit.  The only two limits on the speed of Irish drivers seem to be 1. their car and 2. their courage (the latter they seem to have in spades – or should that be shamrocks!).

But getting back to the roads, a step down from the motorway is the dual carriageway (highway without the swish on and off ramps, turning across the highway is necessary in places). A step down from these are the one lane, each direction with a bit of a paved shoulder, a step down from that is one lane each way, no shoulder.  There there is the there-is-possibly-one-lane-in-each-direction-but-no-lane-markings-so-you-take-your-chances roads, followed by the there-is-no-way-in-hell-that-this-can-fit-two-cars-I-will-cringe-here-in-the-shrubs-until-you-all-go-away roads.  Followed by something even narrower still – yes, I drove it, I know it exists.

The real marvel of these ever-diminishing widths of roads is the seemingly unrelated LACK of decreasing speed limit!  The posted limit (and bear in mind, posted means it is only a suggested limit) drop from 120Kph on the Motorway, to 110 on the dual carriageway but on the lesser roads you are allowed (but certainly I was FAR from able) to do, wait for it, 100Kph!

No offence, but the Irish must be mental!  As I approached the towns, the speed limit would “drop” to a sedate 50Kph and some times I would have had to SPEED UP to do that!

But the Irish don’t seem at all phased by the narrowness of the roads and hurtle down the roads at top speeds sending terrified tourists they encounter (virtually head on, I might add) diving (or driving) into the bushes and rock walls to avoid car collision damage and imminent death. 

So if you manage to (as someone in Bath, England so succinctly put it - “grow a pair and just do it” – or as I prefer to refer to it as – managing to find the intestinal fortitude to deal with driving in Ireland the other challenge you will need a lot of Irish Luck for is navigating.

Now I had a map and a really good navigator (she was the best and I’d take her anywhere) but still we managed to miss turns.  Invariably, we would head towards a place following signs for our destination and my navigator would say, “there should be a turn in the town” and we assumed, since there had been ample signage for our destination leading up to the town we needed to turn in, there would be an equally useful sign where we needed to turn – alas, we would assume incorrectly.

It seems that the only people who can successfully  find there way anywhere in Ireland are people who have lived there, or ones that have gotten lost getting to their destination on a previous adventure.  Apparently Ireland doesn’t really want tourists at their tourist attractions, since two of the most famous ones that we managed to have time for (the Rock of Cashel and Bru na Boinne) were signed for most of the way and then – sorry, you’re on your own.

Rules of the  road, much like the speed limits, seem to be more like suggestions than actual rules.  Or maybe I should say that the Irish interpretation of a solid white line in the middle of the road is different than what I would interpret it as.  Crossing a solid white line, in Ireland, seems more like a means to and end than a violation of any driving laws.

Having ranted on about the crazy Irish (sorry, I meant to say Lucky Irish) drivers I must also say, that though they seem rather aggressive and “overly enthusiastic” they are willing to partake in a little give and take and will often acknowledge/thank you for getting out of their way – this is done by lifting a hand off the steering wheel in a bit of a wave/hand spasm or, if passing in the same direction, a flick of the hazard lights after they speed past.

Sometimes they will even give way – this is signaled by flashing headlights at the oncoming vehicle as if to say – “I’ll wait here, you come ahead.” Something I managed to pull off a  couple of times myself – I felt so “local”.

In my opinion, to get you safely along the roads in Ireland, you need, in equal parts; courage; patience, and the luck of the Irish.  Maybe this is why Roman Catholicism is so prevalent in Ireland – it helps to firmly believe in a Higher Power to get you safely on your way – “Praise be to God”.

Apologies...

For anyone who might be wanting to follow me in print on my blog while I travel about the UK I am sorry that my blog posts are sporadic and sparce.

I will post for most days (possibly posting out of order but they will be in order eventually as I will be back-dating some in order to have some sensible chronology at the end of it all.

In writing this blog post, I flatter myself that there is someone actually following my blog!

:o)

Cheers!

Good Fences

From time to time I am reminded of how fortunate I am to live where I live – today was no exception. 

The weather was less than spectacular for our day out in Belfast – grey and threatening – but we headed out on a bus tour  to see the city.  Part of the tour took us past the part of the city that is demarcated by something called a “Peace Wall” – which ultimately separates a Catholic neighbourhood from a Protestant one.  Calling it a Peace Wall seems to be a bit of an euphemism since it is a very tall fence with razor wire on top, it spanned the length of several city blocks (each street has a large gate that can be closed in times of “disruptions”) seems anything but peaceful.

“The Troubles” – another interesting Irish euphemism – is the name given to the animosity and violence that used to take place between the Catholics and Protestants in Belfast (and other parts of Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland).  The “Peace Wall(s)” were built to help decrease the chance of violence between the Catholics and Protestants by keeping the two groups separate.

“These new buildings were built in the ‘70s after several bombs went off leveling the buildings that had been there,” the tour guide was saying.  Belfast is a city shaped by bombs and violence.

This stark reality is shockingly obvious by the tall metal fences capped by sharp spikes and abandoned fields of rubble and the skeletons of buildings traced in city blocks.

Ten years or so beyond the “Troubles”, Belfast is a city slowly finding it’s balance; as evidenced by  The Troubles Tourism and the current building site of a Titanic themed hotel near the site where the Titanic was built. 

Beyond  the razor wire there is a ray of hope.

Sunshine on Leith

Ok, Technically, I was not in Leith (though we did wander along the Water of Leith), but for the sake of the Scottish allusion (and a little poetic license) I went with this blog post title.

Yesterday and today found us in Edinburgh, and the car hasn’t moved since we arrived on the evening of the 19th.

Part of the fun (read: challenge) of pre-booking accommodations without a really good map of your destination is that you find yourself a block from your accommodations, in a busy city on a series of one way streets all seemingly leading you further and further away from your intended target and being forced to ask a cabbie for directions. 

This is what happened in Edinburgh.  The cabbie thought about how best to direct us, started to explain, stopped, thought, started again, stopped, “Och, that’ll be too complicated, give us 4 pounds and follow us there.” 

“Follow that Cab!”  I thought to myself and we headed off – we turned left, went under a road,  turned right, up to a round-about went three-quarters of the way around it, right at the next road and then right again at the next road and half way down this road was our destination (a little further down this road was the overpass that we went under after our first turn) – did you follow any of that?  I didn’t – I just followed the cab!

So as result of our navigational challenges to get to our accommodations, coupled with the fact that we were within walking distance of everything we hoped to see, we left the car where it was for the duration of our time in Edinburgh and did the rest of our exploration by foot or by bus.

Our first destination was the impressive Edinburgh Castle – impressive partially due to it’s size, but also due to the fact that it is built on top of a rather large “hill” of rock – I imagine it was a rather imposing sight, back in the day.  As we arrived (having taken,  quite by accident, the scenic route – since it is built on the top of a large slab of rock there are limited approaches to the entrance – funny that) they had blocked off the area in front of the main entrance about 500m from the gates and a marching band (in full Scottish dress) marched out followed by a group of “soldiers” and for the next five minutes or so we were treated to the changing of the guard.

We wandered around the castle (the entry was part of our Historic Scotland passport) for a couple of hours and then I parted company with my travelling companions to wander about half-lost for the remainder of the day.

To my credit, I had downloaded a couple of walking tours before I left for my trip, however, they didn’t come with maps (though they were supposed to) so I got a bit frustrated since I had to stand in one spot for several minutes with the very knowledgeable voice on my MP3 player told me more information than I could ever hope to remember about Site A, before giving me quick and a bit vague directions to Site B (which most likely, would have been easy to find with the non-existent map that was allegedly supposed to be provided in my download). 

So after awhile of going in fits and starts down High Street also known as the Royal Mile (the main street down from the Castle which has, heading off at right angles from it, tiny narrow alleyways which slope away from the main road in a series of narrow cobbled allies or stairs, some of which I’d wander down and back up as my narrator told me more things to not remember) following Tour 1 – I found myself at Hollyrood Palace (where the Queen and other royalty stay while in Edinburgh).

Lying behind me and to my left was Edinburgh and my next Walking Tour, to my right Salisbury Crags, so I did the obvious thing, I turned right and went for a two hour walk on the Salisbury Crags.

I was, partially, in search of Arthur’s Seat.  But the tourist map I did have didn’t get me that far away from the shops and “main attractions” of Edinburgh, so when I should have tended to the left, I went right and away from my intended destination but quite enjoyed the quiet and almost-solitude of the high steep hills that end (on the Edinburg side) in cliffs.

After a nice wander and a light lunch of Oatcakes and cheese on the go (I resisted the urge to lie down in the grass and just enjoy the very warm and sunny day), I felt sufficiently fortified to head back into the City.

Having listened to all the tracks of Walking Tour 2  as I wandered around the Crags.  I decided to wander back up the other side of river via the main shopping street, Princes Street (which parallels the Royal Mile and is lined with all the main shops on one side and by a park and the river on the other side.

I popped in and out of shops a few shops in search of the perfect Scottish jewelry souvenir  – jostled with the crowds on the sidewalks as I made my way back in the general direction of the Castle and my way back to the furnished apartment that was our accommodations for the three nights.

Passing, on the way, a pair of unsuspecting policemen who I managed to talk into posing with Tigger for his blog. 

Me; “may I ask a favour of you?”

Cop1, wearily; “Okaay?”

“Would you mind posing for a picture with Tigger?”

Cop1: “With Tigger?” 

Me: “He’s been to New Zealand and Peru, and he has his own blog” 

Cop1"; “So he’s famous then.” 

“Sure!” I say. 

Cop1, to Cop2 (who had, until this point just stood silently and looked disapprovingly at me – personally, I think it is a skill they teach to cops); “What ‘ya, think?” 

Cop2, rolling his eyes: “Fine but you have to hold him.”

Me all giddy: “I know it’s a bit daft, but I appreciate it!” I quickly snap the picture before they change their mind, retrieve Tigger and begin to walk past them.

Cop1: “So what’s the address of his blog”

I told them, and practically skipped away down the path. Grinning like a goon the whole way back to the apartment.

Today, having had no success yesterday finding my jewelry, we decided to make our first stop the Castle gift shop.  Having learned our lesson and found a more direct route to the Castle we were on the other side of the main gates to see the changing of the guard.  Standing in the perfect place, slightly to the right of the main gate I watched and as it finished I watched the soldiers march towards the Castle gate, then through the Castle gate – then the one in charge ordered “Left Wheel” and they all turned towards me and I had to scurry backwards to avoid being run over.

Opting to stay with my parents for the day, we wandered through shops (still in search of various souvenirs) before getting fed up and heading for the New Town area.  An area of narrow streets (mostly pedestrian only)  lined with shops.

After tiring of the shops we headed towards an area of Edinburgh known as Dean Village – along the Water of Leith before tiring of walking altogether and headed back to a park called the West Princess Street Gardens where we sat for a hour or so enjoying the wonderfully sunny and warm weather (I had originally thought of calling the post – Sunburned in Scotland, but changed my mind) and enjoying a 99 Flake before heading  back to our accommodations to prepare for our night out with friends of my Mum.

Overcompensating

In order to make up for yesterday’s disappointment, we set off on our way to Edinburgh via five castles. Not that we’d set out to visit five castles, we set out to visit a couple that were on our route but when we arrived at the first,  five minutes before it was due to open & the only car in the parking lot (save the staff-person’s), the helpful woman in the gift shop / ticket office suggested we get a Historic Scotland pass which allowed us to see as many Historic Scotland sites as we could fit in three days of looking spread across five calendar days.

So after having a look at  our first castle, Balvenie Castle, we consulted the map, found our next castle and headed off.

Now castles in Scotland (and England, for that  matter) are grouped into one of two types; castles that are still in use (by some Earl, or Duke, or Lord of some sort) and may resemble what the romantic view of what a castle is, or may simply be a very large “manor house” fully decked out with historic furniture, tapestries and the like – in these fine edifices, you can look, but can’t touch or take pictures; the other type of castle is what my Uncle would describe as “piles of rocks”.

Our castle criteria was simply this – how many piles of rock are on our immediate path and how many can we see before we need to be in Edinburgh.

The answer was, four more; Huntly, Kildrummy, Glenbuchat & Braemar – though technically Braemar wasn’t a ruin, and we only could see it from the road since it was closed today (we only stopped because we drove right past it – I should get a bumper sticker that says “I break for Castles”. 

Also, to be technical, the Glenbuchat castle isn’t on our Historic Scotland map and was free to go and see (the very chatty attendant at Kildrummy  Castle suggested it and gave us directions on how to get to it).

The thing I like the most about old castles is marveling at their construction and imagining what they looked like in their prime.  “What does this half-wall represent?” “I guess this hole here was for, umm, drainage.”  I looked down a lot of “drainage” holes today – and was certainly left with a greater appreciation of our modern conveniences (running water, plumbing, central heating, just to name a few). 

I think that’s one thing I really like about travelling it helps broaden your horizons and allows you to better appreciate what you have.

Loch Mess

Today is the biggest, most frustrating, completely miserable , heartbreaking disappointment of my entire trip!  Maybe that’s too excessive, let me rephrase it…

Today is the biggest, most frustrating, completely miserable , heartbreaking disappointment of my entire trip, thus far.

My plans for this part of Scotland included: seeing a distillery, hiking in the area and seeing and spending time at Loch Ness and exploring Urquhart Castle and possibly another castle or two.

One out of four isn’t good.

I will take partial blame for my total disappointment.

1. I guess I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up quite so much.

2. I should have mentioned in no uncertain term and with as much politeness as I can muster what I wanted to do while in the area.

3. I should have not acquiesced when my Aunt and Uncle suggested (well, more like insisted) I see someone about my toe – it is getting better and it will just take time and limping in order to sort it out. 

But failing to do any of the above led to today’s waist of time – I know I am being harsh, I know, in the grand scheme of things it isn’t that critical, or that dismal, but still it was disappointing.

Since I had acquiesced, my Uncle managed to make an appointment  for me to see his Chiropodist over her lunch hour at 1PM which cut our day in half an limited, a bit, what we did for the day.

Our morning was spent in a town called Findhorn – a place recommended by my Uncle as “quite interesting” – as it arose in the 60’s as a commune and still remains more or less a communal town today, filled with a variety of odd buildings made out of odd materials owned by people from all walks of life and from all financial levels.  By the end of our visit we were all rather nonplussed by the appeal and headed back to the B&B.

One thing you don’t want a medical professional to do when they see whatever part of your anatomy they specialize in is to 1. Seem shocked/surprised, 2. Cringe, or 3. Say something like “Och, that is bad”.   I think the Chiropodist did all three when she saw my toe.

Patched up and sent away with a second set of  bandages my Uncle and I got back to the B&B , picked up the others and headed out to Loch Ness.  Our plan was to go down the east  side of the lake (the one less travelled and therefore the nicer drive, given less traffic and tourists)  see the lake (and I thought Urquhart Castle all via another castle).

As we sped along with my Uncle at the wheel his explained, if we go via Cawdor Castle we won’t get home until rather late – so we all agreed to forgo the castle.

As we sped along down the east side of Loch Ness I wondered, are we going to stop anywhere and actually look at the lake?  Since you can’t actually see the lake from the road due to the trees (had it been earlier in the year, my Uncle explained, there would have been less foliage and you could see more of the lake). 

We did stop at one point along the Loch (at my request) and hopped out to snap a few pictures, before piling back in again and heading off for what turned out to be our second and (to my UTTER DISAPOINTMENT) last stop at Fort Agustus. Fort Agustus lies at the bottom i.e. southern tip (more or less) of Loch Ness and has a series of locks that allow boats to pass from the lower Loch Ness to the higher river.

Wandering about for a bit and then finding the ice cream shop closed, we piled back in the car for my much anticipated trip up the “touristy” side of the Loch and Urquhart Castle.

As we neared the turn off to Urquhart Castle I hear my Uncle say – that’s Urquhart Castle;  it costs a fortune to look around and it’s a lot to pay to see a pile of rocks.  And with that, the turnoff to the Castle blew past and I sat dumbstruck as my chance to see Urqart Castle disappeared in the rear view mirror.

Fighting to maintain my composure in the honoured position in the front passenger seat – I mumbled (whilst trying not to burst into tears) – is there no access down to the Loch? “Not really” was the answer I remember – possibly not those exact words, but that was the certainly the impression I was left with.  And my  disappointment was complete, absolute and unequivocal and I spent the rest of the ride trying not to burst into tears.

This is Loch Ness and the pile of rocks on the far shore is Urquhart Castle and THIS is as close as I got to them.

The Scenic Route

When you are travelling around by car, spending only one night or two in any one location there is an interesting balance that needs to be struck between getting to your next destination and seeing all of what you want to see.  To see everything is impossible, so you need to pick the top 5 (for example) – once you have picked them,  you must decide how long you have to spend at each of these five spots based on how much diving you need to do - (based only in part on who far you need to go, and in part on how challenging the roads you need to travel are).

So after our day in Skye we had to head to Dyke/Forres several hours drive east to our next nocturnal destination. On our selected route (since there are some more direct and less scenic routes or less direct and more scenic routes in inverse proportions) took us past Plocton (somewhere I wanted to go because I had read somewhere that it was the town where a British show called “Hamish Macbeth” was shot). It was very scenic – the town, not the show – right on the coast, with a little harbour leading out to Loch Carron (Loch seems to mean both lake and inlet in Scotland).

Next we had to decide, do we go east, on the more direct road to our destination or do we go north/west the more scenic route and visit Inverewe Gardens.  We chose to visit the gardens, not so much we chose, as I was driving and turned that way on purpose because I knew my mum wanted to go to them, schedule  be damned. Inverewe Gardens is one of the largest gardens in Scotland and it brushes up against Loch Ewe (this being a lake).

After a gourmet lunch of oatcakes and cheese we were faced with a choice – take the North Coast road along Loch Ewe (more scenic but possibly a bit shorter in distance, based on where we were, or backtrack along the way we had come and back out onto the more direct route.

Since six of one equals a half-dozen of the other, we decided on the more scenic route and by chance (ok, not really by chance since I knew it was there and I wanted to stop) we stopped (albeit briefly) at Corrieshhalloch Gorge, to click a few photos before driving the rest of the way to Dyke.

In Dyke we are staying at The Old Kirk Bed and Breakfast (a shameless plug for my Aunt & Uncle’s B&B, I’ll admit it) a very nice (Four Star) converted church, with three spectacular rooms and a fabulous  lounge – complete with stained glass window.  Not to mention the fabulous staff (my Uncle is one of the friendliest people you will ever hope to meet). [This ends my honest, yet rather shameless plug].

Dyke (which is really a very tiny village, Forres being the closest town) is situated on what is referred to in Scotland as “The Whisky Trail” a driving route that will take you past most (if not all) of Scotland’s Whisky distilleries, some of which offer tours than generally end in a tasting.  For those less alcoholicly inclined, there is also a lot of really nice hikes and walks in the area and it’s not really that far away from Inverness and Loch Ness.

Today we got up reasonably early and headed out for a run before breakfast, my old war wound (my badly blistered toe) was really painful and the “short run past the castle” took a wrong turn and became a 5 mile run/limp making us late for breakfast.

We stopped in Forres briefly to have a quick look around and snap a few photos before heading out to locate (and tour) the Glenlivet Distillery.

We managed to take the long route – driver wasn’t listening to navigator and saw a sign for Glenlivet Estate (or some such thing) and headed down along the scenic route to the distillery (I was neither driver nor navigator in this part of the narration).

The distillery itself is is near the little river of Livet and in a glen (hence the name).  We had a interesting tour and tasting and I learned the difference between Irish and Scotch Whisky (and why, in the tour guide’s opinion, Scotch Whisky is better – and since I don’t drink it, I will have to take his word for it).

After the tour and a quick bite to eat we headed towards Kingston a small town on the coast.  After a few missed turns we made it in time for a leisurely walk along the “beach” (very rocky) and a look at old WWII fortifications, looking and limping all the way (as my toe was really sore).

We made it safely (and efficiently) back to The Old Kirk in time for dinner out at The Old Mill with my Aunt and Uncle.

Solo Al Paca

Alone with a pack (“solo al paca” which is what I thought of when I saw this store-front), traveling by train and on foot is so much different than travelling with others in a car.

Travelling with other people is both a blessing and a curse.  The blessing come from having someone to help you find your way, share the accommodations expense and having someone to talk to and share the experience with.  The curse (which might be too strong a descriptor) comes from having share the space and be tidy when before I could allow my well packed (read: rather full) backpack to jettison its contents all over the floor.  The other “shared” experience is the shared disappointment with having missed something, or the shared frustration of getting lost.

I am the first to admit that my navigational style tends towards employing, in equal parts; map reading skills, using landmarks, luck and sheer determination.  When on my own I can stride of confidently in the wrong direction in the hopes that I will find my true destination around the next corner. 

This approach doesn’t work well when you are travelling with others, I have no issue with getting myself lost – I only have myself to blame and myself to disappoint. 

Getting a group lost, or wandering aimlessly as part of a group is less desirable. So the approach that I had employed when wandering about different cities in England is less desirable when wandering about with a fellow travelers – feeling responsible for someone else’s aimless wandering is not a fun feeling.  

This Solo Alpaca will have to learn the ways of the group, consult a map more often, try not to wander off without adequate directions and most of all enjoy all the shared experiences this trip has to offer (and try to minimize the shared disappointments/frustrations). Not to mention try to find ways to prevent her bag from exploding its contents all over the floor of each B&B room.

Skye High

We could see the rain long before it reached us, like grey sheets advancing towards us.  With what could very well have been gale-force winds we hiked along the craggy path, looking for some shelter from the coming rain.

I now understand what the UK weather forecasters describe as “short sharp showers”.

We were hiking on the Isle of Skye somewhere called The Quiraing – a rocky windswept “mountainous” region of the island where, essentially, only sheep call home.

We’d find shelter, huddling on the leeside of a rock, wait for the rain to pass, then hike on.

The views were spectacular and though a little wet and windswept, we had an enjoyable hike.

The rest of the day was spent touring around the island which as a wide selection of scenery and narrow winding roads.  Very pretty place, in good weather.

That’s my new slogan: “Scotland; it’s beautiful, in the sunshine.”

Changing Gears

One thing I am rather glad about is that I no longer have to travel on a train with my rather large backpack.  It is also one thing I’m a bit sad about.

Travelling by train allowed me to have some time to write up my day’s events, collect my thoughts, and look forward to things to come; even though I had to wrestle the back pack on and off every time, find a place to stow it, etc., etc., etc…

Yesterday I met up with my parents in Glasgow.  We rented a car and then set out towards Oban.

After a couple of minor directional challenges, we were on our way with me at the wheel.

We stopped first at Luss to get some air and some sparkling water to settle our stomachs (we were all a wee bit jet-lagged, me just from lack of sleep, the others from arriving off a plane and having to be functional when it was the wee small hours where they’re from).  After a brief walk and a few pictures of Loch Lomond we were off again.

Our next stop was Inveraray where we had a quick bite to eat and visited the Castle there – which was more of a museum in a Duke’s country house (in which you could not take pictures).

Then on to Oban for our night’s stay.  We wandered about the town a bit (with a light rain falling) and then found a place for dinner before returning back to the B&B for the night.

The next morning we went for a walk and came across an old castle (only part of the tower remains) and wandered around it a bit before heading back for a horrendous breakfast of cold meats and packaged croissants – not terribly appealing.

We headed out (our next destination the Isle of Skye) stopping at Port Appin (well down a single track road) for a walk out to a point with an interesting rock formation before heading on down the road.

A  short while later we stopped briefly to take pictures of Castle Stalker.  Our next stop was at Glencoe for a bite to eat and then we stopped once more at Eilean Donan Castle for a wander about and some more photos.

Since there is a bridge linking the Isle of Skye to the mainland there was no need to wait for a ferry and we drove straight to our B&B outside the town of Portree (the main town on Skye).

Portree itself is a quaint little town – fishing village come tourist attraction on the east coast of the Isle of Skye.  Its laid-back nature and pretty little buildings make it a nice resting point for the next two nights.

Calm, Cool and Discombobulated

I once wrote in an email to C that “without an audience there is little drama”;  so, while faced with stress and obstacles on my travels I have been able (in true British fashion) to Keep Calm and Carry On.

When I was really tired and not knowing where I was going, I would take a deep breath and tell myself that getting worked up wouldn’t help anything.  Like yesterday, upon arriving at the train station at Birmingham International Airport and not knowing which way to go – I wandered about aimlessly in the station looking for someone to offer guidance.  Finding no one, I then started flowing signs to the hotels – which really consisted of one sign pointing in one direction and then once I headed in that direction I found no more signs and only the train shuttle (more like a horizontal elevator, if that makes sense) that ran between the airport terminals and the train station.  Not knowing if that is what I wanted to do, I instead wandered out of the train station and found a cabbie – who promptly and helpfully told me, I should go back into the station and take the shuttle to the airport and the hotels are right there - “Can’t miss it”.

And he was right.  Once in the terminal I wanted to check where I was leaving from in the morning – more wandering aimlessly, with large pack on back and small one attached to the front (I think I am 3 inches shorter now due to compression) , I asked someone where I needed to go.  I found the Flybe desk, found out what I needed to know and then set out across the parking lot to my hotel for the night.  All the while telling myself, I can do this, I can do this.

I was so proud of myself for adopting the approach “Keep Calm and Carry On”  - I was doing so well – until this morning.

Today, arriving at the airport with plenty of time for my flight – I walk up to the check-in desk, knowing exactly where I was going, pop my bag on the scale and look up to find the check-in clerk on the phone - “Is there a problem?” I think. After a minute, he hangs up  the phone and says to me the words that damn near stopped my heart - “This ticket was for yesterday’s flight”

No, OH GAWD NO!

“What?”, I say, thinking I must have misheard him, that it was some strange perverse joke that he was pulling; but alas no, as his response was still “This ticket was for yesterday.”

“But I need to be on today’s flight, I need to be in Glasgow at 8:30, I’m meeting people.  Oh my gawd, no.”  I heard a voice in my head say (I am not going to cry).  To which, my only response was to shed a few tears, try an concentrate on what the check-in guy was telling me and wrestle my big backpack off the scale and stagger across the room in search of a ticket agent to buy a ticket for today’s flight.

Standing in line at the ticket counter, the voice telling me not to cry was voted down and crying commenced.  Then panic set in – was I supposed to be in Glasgow yesterday?  AM I a day late!  My parents (my “travelling companions”) didn’t have any contact information for me, they couldn’t get a hold of me if they needed to – Oh GAWD AM I A DAY LATE!?!

Getting to the counter, I tried to regain some composure (I wonder how often they get distraught travellers like me?) and thrust my confirmation of a flight well missed at her and said I need this same flight today! “Let’s see what we can do.” was her cheery response, to which I impressed upon her it had to be the 7AM flight as I HAD to meet people off an international flight at half-eight (that’s how they say eight-thirty here).  Her response being “It will be costly” – yes, I thought, costly indeed – I am truly paying for my mistake.

Poorer, probably none the wiser, and only marginally more composed, I lined up for the security screening  and checked the car rental – yes, picking up the car today – OK, I AM supposed to be meeting them TODAY – only the flight was booked incorrectly – thank GAWD. “Crap, that was an expensive mistake”, the voice in my head said – and I could not  agree more!

Exhausted in Oxford

I am not sure if it’s due to a lack of proper sleep or a lack of proper nutrition (or both) but as I began walking around Oxford I realized I was giddy.

Internally (gosh, I hope it was internally) I was saying “Whee, I’m in Oxford!” and had to suppress a little giggle.  - I hadn’t expected Oxford to have that effect on me – I know really very little about it (other than what most people know); it’s one of the two main university towns in Brittan, big rivalry between it and Cambridge, VERY prestigious, and many TV shows (Morse, Lewis, to name a couple) and some Movies (Hogwart’s Library and Main Hall are both housed in buildings in Oxford). So being giddy took me by surprise.

If I was going to be giddy at any point on the trip I would have thought it would be at Stonehenge or at the Giant’s Causeway – but Oxford?

Maybe it was the lack of sleep & food.

I’d like to think I have a good sense of direction – I’d like to think that, but I’m starting to think that I might not. Since my first order of business (after getting off the bus back from the ‘burbs where my B&B is located) was to find the tourist information centre and get a decent map of Oxford and some suggestions as to what I should look do while here.  I had a semi-diagrammatical map (which I got from the City Tour Bus kiosk at the train station – along with great instructions on where my B&B was, how to get there and which bus to take).  I don’t think the map is to blame for me taking twice as long as I should have to get to the Information Centre.  I think the real problem lies in my failure to read them properly and/or frequently enough.

EVENTUALLY, I found the TI Centre – discovered, as I had suspected, my map was as good as any tourist map they had, bought a little brochure on the attractions in Oxford (which included which Colleges are open to the public and when (along with a map of central Oxford) and lists of museums and other things of interest in Oxford.

So armed with maps and information, I turned on my MP3 player and started to walk,  setting out on my first of three walking tours of Oxford (a series of MP3 files and a PDF maps which I had downloaded before leaving home).  After having missed a turn and having to back track for five minutes I grudgingly took out the walking tour map and set out again.

Oxford, the University, is comprised of several Colleges (the oldest of which was founded in he 1300s) – each having their own series of buildings set around a central courtyards and closed off with large gates, some colleges open up part of their grounds to the general public (this seemed to be mid to late afternoon).  Although comprised of many Colleges, set all over the City of Oxford, it is still all one University.

I did two of the three tours and then thought I had better try to deal with my computer issues (which had been weighing heavily on me – since the laptop had been in my day pack all day) so I set off on what turned out to be about an hours walk (round trip) to a PC store situated in the ‘Burbs of Oxford.  They poked at it, wandered off with it, came back with it, proved it worked, didn’t tell me in any amount of detail what they did – though I asked, and then sent me on my way – free of  charge, so I can’t complain.

Back in the core of Oxford, with energy flagging after having spent the previous four hours  walking I splurged on the City Bus Tour and rode about on the upper level of a double-decker bus – getting a view, with commentary,  of Oxford.

After a brief detour to Sainsbury’s (a local grocery store) to pick up some dinner fixings (as I have found it more expedient and thrifty to eat dinner in my room, theoretically allowing me more time to blog, I walked back to my B&B.  I should have known better (don’t you love it when you read a sentence that starts off that way), having had developed a pain in my small right toe but thinking “meh, it’s just a little blister” I walked the 20 minute walk to the B&B on an ever increasingly sore toe and arrived back at the B&B and immediately removed the Band-Aid on the toe (since I had blistered and lanced and covered it in a Band-Aid a few days earlier) to discover a giant blister on the bottom and inner side of my small right toe that more than doubled the side of the toe!!!  I dealt with it the only way I knew how – ewwww, OUCH, ‘nuff said.

Today I wandered all over again, and did a tour of the Bodleian Library (the set of Hogwart’s Library).  Though I was rather pissed off when I discovered that I wasn’t allowed to take pictures in the library.  They can shoot a movie there, but I can’t take one stinking picture!?!?!

An evening train to Birmingham for a very brief overnight stay in preparation of my 7AM flight to Glasgow to meet up with my first pair of travelling companions for my 9 days in Scotland.

Have Tech, Will Travel

… Even without tech, I will travel – or more precisely, with tech that doesn’t work and is little more than ballast in my backpack – dammit, I WILL TRAVEL.

I know I’m just grouchy, but having both a dead phone (of my own fault) and a little lap top – brought especially so that I could connect with people “back home” by connecting to the internet on a regular basis – that steadfastly refuses to connect to the internet, even on an irregular basis, I think I am entitled to be a bit miffed. Actually, I’m more than a bit miffed – I’m pissed off!

So here I am, typing away, unsure if/when I will ever get this posted.

I spent half an hour trying to get my phone charged at a little kisok and trying too to convince myself that I need to buy a phone charger that I’ll not be able to use outside the UK – and failing to convince myself – but getting my phone back with less than 20% charge – (and wanting to use my phone for an alarm clock and as an emergency phone) I WILL have to buy one in Oxford tomorrow. The whole phone incident reminds me of my New Zealand trip when I spent time during several days popping in and out of camera shops looking for somewhere that sold the battery than my camera used so that I had two batteries (NEVER travel with only ONE camera battery – you will be sorry).

In NZ I also winged and complained about the slowness of the internet – slow or not at least it worked. But now here, in the UK, I sit staking up posts and worrying that my fans (all three of them – oh how I flatter myself) will loose interest before I can even generate any interest

Hopefully Oxford will solve all my problems, fingers crossed.

Oh, yes, today I spent an obscene amount of time in Shrewsbury in a damn shop looking at phone accessories, I got lost in the town twice, went a wrong direction a couple of times and also took a side-trip out to Ironbridge and The Iron Bridge. Due to the timetables, I had 5 minutes or 2 hours and 5 minutes there – I opted for the longer time. Ironbridge is a little village that’s main claim to fame is the iron bridge built over a gorge – I believe it is the oldest iron bridge in the UK – but don’t quote me on that.

The village was pretty and quiet (the day was overcast, so few people were out and about). I wandered up and down the main street a couple of times, toyed with going into a museum and opted instead to wander along a grassy path beside the river.

It was a nice relaxing afternoon to help offset the stress of my technical difficulties.

Sunny Sunday, Sort Of.

In retrospect, if I knew a month ago what I know now, I would have planned my trip differently. As I spent half the day on the train (including passing by tomorrow’s stop today) and realized how little time I have in Chester today.

Travelling with a large backpack on the train has its drawbacks – it takes up a lot of space – and its benefits – it takes up a lot of space – a whole seat’s worth to be exact; so when I feel like being anti-social and not have to sit next to anyone on the train – it’s perfect – my sole neighbour is my ever-increasingly heavy backpack.

Arriving at Chester without a map or a clue as to how to get to my B&B, I managed to get there with the aid of a miserably diagrammatical map posted in the train station and some overly detailed directions from a passer by who I stopped on the street once I got discouraged when I ran out of St. Anne’s Street before finding #2 (the road ran out at about #50) – apparently having a large round about cutting though a street is no reason to change names – just miss about 30 numbers and you’re golden.

Chester, as it turns out, is a walled city, strewn with buildings from the 13th to the 21st Centuries.  The pretty Dee River flows along one side of the wall and a canal with locks along another.  Quite picturesque – I would loved to have run along the canal bank tomorrow, if only I had time.

I wandered the full way around the top of the walls (where there is a walkway that had been built along the top of  wall possibly many of hundreds of years ago)  circumscribing the downtown core of Chester and was partway through my second lap when I was struck by the need to find the tourist information centre and find a map of Chester and the even stronger need to find a toilet (I do hope that Questing for Toilets doesn’t become a topic of this trip).

I found the information centre and and was about to burst through the door to ask about the nearest toilet, when a woman outside the centre asked: “Are you here for the city tour?”  To which I replied, “I can be; when does it leave and where’s the nearest toilet?”  Having ascertained; five minutes and just around the corner, respectively – I said I would join the tour and promptly disappeared around the corner.

The tour did the “Hidden Chester” so it talked about the cells they had below one of the sets of gates that were so cramped that you couldn’t stand up in them, we wandered along one side of the wall to the Water Tower (which used to be at the river’s edge, but then the river moved).  In the tower next to it was a Camera Obscura which is a set of mirrors placed in such a way that you can see what is in the area around you (like a periscope) and it is projected onto a white table in the centre of the room – very neat!

We wandered about being told bits of history (which I promptly forgot) and just generally enjoying the city.  Tour over I wandered about a bit more and then headed back to my B&B to try to get on the internet – being still unsuccessful – which is becoming a reoccurring theme on this trip.

So here I sit writing another post-dated blog that I have not been able to post due to my computer’s inability to successfully connect to a secure WiFi.

I will most likely need to seek professional help when I get to Oxford (professional help for my computer woes not for my failed mental state as a result of my technical difficulties.

And now, to top it all off , my phone has died and the data cord that I brought to charge it from my computer doesn’t actually charge my phone – I’m sure I checked that it did – but alas no.

So those of you keeping track – as of 2300hrs 9 May I am completely cut off from “Home”

I have never felt more alone.

Crippled in Cardiff

The train trip from Bath to Cardiff was uneventful except for the rowdy women heading to Cardiff for a Hen Party (Bachelorette) – apparently, Cardiff is a great place for Hen/Stag parties or partying in general – provided it involves lots of alcohol (not that I have firsthand knowledge of this – the taxi driver was telling me how Cardiff becomes Party Central on Friday and Saturday nights).

I took a taxi from the train station as my B&B was a little far from the city centre – having  opted for lower price over great location – but I loved the location!  One block from a beautiful and large park flanking either side of the river for kilometres – perfect for my morning run this morning! Though I was a little dubious of my ability to run, since my calves were so tight I could barely walk properly. – I set off and managed a 45 minute run before breakfast.

By 9:15 AM I was wandering back along thee paths I had run on only 2 hours earlier – heading towards downtown Cardiff – more specifically, Cardiff Castle. The day hadn’t brightened since my run – opting instead to remain grey, cool and windy.

As I strolled through the reasonably quite park, my pace quickened – my  eyes darting around furtively – I wasn’t worried about my safety – I was regretting my the second pot of tea I had at breakfast this morning and realizing the one important thing my newly-found-wonderful-park was missing is toilet facilities.

Making it to the Castle (in what was probably record time for a tourist on foot) I practically threw my money at the admissions attendant – almost bowled over the usher at the front gate who stopped me to check my ticket and give me instructions – and I almost shoulder checked the attendant at the audio guide table – which was directly between me and relief.

The needs of nature taken care of – I wandered blithely back to Mr. Audio Guide, picked up my audio player and headed out to explore the Castle and grounds.  Having opted for the deluxe tour at 11AM, I met the guide and the rest of the group for a behind-the-scenes look at the castle – in which I was a little disappointed, although it did take us to two or three rooms that the general public couldn’t see, there was still many more rooms and interesting hallways that were still off limits and that we caught glimpses of and that intrigued me.

After wandering around the castle and grounds for an hour or two, I headed into Cardiff city centre – a series of  shop-lined streets and arcades (covered alleyways lined with shops).

At the risk of offending anyone who might be fond of Cardiff, I found little of real interest (save the park and the Castle grounds).  To me, Cardiff seems like a city attempting to regenerate itself – but it has a big disadvantage in that the popular city centre and the somewhat scenic bay area are not adjacent to each other – creating two areas of potential interest separated by lots of run-down buildings.

I wandered along the waterfront – truthfully looking for “Torchwood” sights – the main one being the “main entrance” along the wharf.  Which is actually part of the sea wall (which may or may not have had a door in it) now fronted with a chain link fence adorned with “Save Ianto” / “I love Ianto” and other such fan-fare for “Torchwood” – gee, and me without my favourite picture of Captain Jack.

Having exhausted the bay area interests (and having unbeknownst to me, exhausted myself in the process) I started making my way back towards the park – thinking I might just find a nice bench somewhere and sit and write – alas the skies opened up and rain came down, dampening my already flagging spirits. In less than five minutes the rain had ended but the winds picked up again (it had been cloudy and windy all day) and I was feeling cold and tired by the time I entered the park, so I just walked back to the B&B

The sun made a brief appearance while I was writing this (around 1800hrs) but I have had enough of Cardiff and walking and will not venture out again tonight!

Bath and Beyond

If you have never been to Stonehenge and you’ve built it up to be some mystical place, you will, I’m sorry to say, most likely be a bit disappointed.

Having said that – I was not expecting some mystical place - I had been forewarned. So though I wasn’t expecting anything magical – I was still surprised that my reaction was one of indifference – as I left the Stonehenge enclosure – they have it fenced off so that they can charge admission – with the feeling of “Meh, I guess I can check that off my list of things to do/see in my lifetime list.” That’s basically what it felt like – a box on my life list being checked off.

I had signed up for a mini-coach tour that was to take me to Stonehenge, Avebury, Lacock and yet another quaint English Village in the area before taking me (and the 14 other passengers) back to Bath. I have mixed feelings about having done the tour – on the one hand I am glad I wasn’t doing the driving, on the other hand, it went to two places I didn’t really care to see and it didn’t go to one place I really wanted to see.

The problem is, there was no one tour that went to the three places I wanted to go – Stonehenge, Avebury & Old Sacrum – so short of hiring a car and touring all three myself I had to compromise – which is something that happens fairly often in travelling – Compromise and Settling.

Not that either compromise or settling is a bad thing, per se, it is just something you have to accept – without unlimited time and unlimited budget you can’t see everything. People who are unwilling to compromise, I think, would be unhappy travelers.

So I was happy, in the end, with my compromise – I saw two of the three places I wanted to see and with no effort on my part to see them. And though the day was grey, it never actually rained, so it was still nice.

After my late arrival on the 5th, due to flight delays, I managed to easily find my B&B and then quickly reorganize a little and head out to do one of the two walking tours I downloaded from the Visit Britain website. Since the Stonehenge tour returned to Bath around 1630hrs, I had time to do the other walking tour yesterday. Which left me with a good idea of the general layout of Bath and almost the entire day today to explore it. I also discovered on my first day in Bath the fact that virtually all of Bath (save the pubs and restaurants) close up shop by 1700hrs. So I had yet to venture inside any buildings (including the Tourist Information Office), so I chose to climb the Bath Abbey Clock Tower and explore the Roman Baths.

The clock tower tour involves climbing about 212 steps – roughly 120 taking you to the room where the bell ringers do their thing (and the mechanical instruments to ring the bells two other ways reside) – plus this level is where the clock face is – having been moved down from higher up on the clock to make it easier to read and for safety reasons(making the tower less top-heavy). Another 60 or so steps and we arrived in the room where the bells are hung (there are ten of them) – conveniently, we were there at half past the hour so we got to see the bells in action (and hear them – ouch). After the final 30 or so steps and we were rewarded with vistas of Bath and the surrounding seven hills.

The Roman Baths were interesting. As with Stonehenge, upon paying my fee I was presented with an audio guide – into which you type specified numbers and out of which sound pours forth imparting various bits of information on what you are looking at. After wandering around, listening, and taking pictures for 90 minutes it was around 1530hrs and I still had the rest of the afternoon to kill as I had checked out of my B&B and was waiting for the 1830 train to Cardiff.

It was as late as 1530 because I had spent (wasted) the morning attempting to use the B&B WiFi and going on a free guided city tour – which I thought might be different than the ones I had downloaded, but by about 40minutes into it, after getting rained on and wishing I was wearing warmer clothes and finding that he wasn’t sharing much more than I had already heard, I was wishing I hadn’t joined.

The Universe intervened about 20 minutes later in the form of what I can only imagine was a very large and well-fed bird relieving itself on my head! Forcing me to run away from the tour, mortified & annoyed in search of a bathroom where I could rinse my head under the hot tap and try not to scald my scalp in the process!

I spent the rest of the morning wandering, semi-aimlessly, running my hand through my hair checking for signs of shit awaiting my Tower tour and 1300hrs.

After the crowds wandering about the Roman Baths I felt I needed some space and decided I would return again to the Kennet & Avon Canal I had seen yesterday (during my second walking tour). So I crossed the Avon River and headed up along side the Canal. I wandered along for about two hours – stopping to watch a couple of Canal Boats navigate the locks before heading back to the B&B to collect my things and head to the train station for my trip to Cardiff.

Premium Does Not Equal Posh

Top of my  list of things to note about my flight to the UK is – as the title suggests – Premium does not equal Posh.

Having said that, mind you, Premium does equal “better than coach” – marginally.

Besides the size of the foot room - “foot” being the accurate measurement of it – and possibly the meal (though I’d hate to think that Coach got something less than the meager meal we did) Premium Class was nothing to write home about – and yet, I just have.

Probably the best part of the flight, besides the chocolate bar I got in my dinner packet – how can it be dinner when it happens at both midnight and/or 0700hrs simultaneously – depending on which time zone you’re trying to follow.

Anyway, besides the chocolate, the best part of the flight was the octogenarian I was sitting next to.  He started off our flight telling me funny stories from his past living in Canada (which threw me a bit due to the fact that he looked rather British and sounded the same).  He talked of the explosives he would accompany on a plane flown by the founder of the now-defunct WardAir.  Then he talked about his family’s trip on the train from Toronto to Calgary three days before New Year’s Eve in the 1960’s and how his wife told the Conductor she wanted to go for a walk outside the train, and when the Conductor obliged her, he laughed when she returned mere minutes later and the Conductor said - “She’s not from around here is she?”

Then my flight-mate brought out the book he was reading – I had noticed it before (as it had a man in uniform on the cover & I’m always on the lookout for war-related books to mention to C).  It was “Monty” by Nigel Hamilton and my travel-neighbour ruefully stated that “This book is about my old boss”.  He then told me a story about his time in Africa and how they all had to eat dried meat which gave them all diarrhea and how a group of NCOs all went into the latrine at the same time and the latrine seat broke and the fell in. 

He also told me a story about how the British soldiers at one point in time were all given large green envelopes, this happened when he was stationed in Italy, and the envelopes could contain anything that the soldiers wanted to send home and the sensors would not touch them – anything in there was sent as is.  He told a long and winding story about a tank driver and how when the stopped to do some repairs someone accidently bled the brake lines and the tank rumbled down an embankment and ran over a jeep.  Luckily, the jeep was empty and then the jeep driver returned, he asked if anyone assembled around the wreckage had a green envelope as he’d like to send his jeep back to his wife.

This entry could also be called: “To Sleep or Not to Sleep” or “The First Red Skyline is Dusk; the Second, Dawn” and, most annoyingly - “Hurry Up & Wait”

Mother Nature had seen fit to create the worst May 4th weather imaginable to the City and blanketed – nay, shellacked it with heavy wet snow that she applied in a vigorous sideways fashion.   Being a bit concerned about the road conditions C and I decided to leave early for the airport.  Arriving three hours prior to the flight to discover that the flight was delayed 1.5hrs – leaving us at least four hours to kill.  US – because C opted to stay with me because abandoning me to my fate was, apparently, not an option.

The  check-in counter woman, as if sensing C’s resolve (or my reluctance to leave him behind) managed to procure a special pass that allowed C to accompany me, past security.  After a detour back to the car to divest C of his myriad of Swiss Army knives, First Aid scissors and anything else we thought might get him in trouble with Security.

Once past Security, and with “Tim’s” in hand C & I sat down for a game of Scrabble – which C had suggested we bring (I think it must be a Scouting – Be Prepared kind of thing).  We managed to play an entire game before heading over to the gate to wait some more.

The flight boarded 30 minutes after it was scheduled to depart and after another half  hour waiting in our seats we finally pulled away from the gate a full 2.5hrs behind schedule – my only happiness being I got to spend all but the final 30 minutes with C (does that sound sappy?) and I was happy too in the knowledge that I was wise not to have pre-booked my train from Gatwick to Bath.

About an hour into the flight the sky became an interesting mix of layered red & orange over top of grey – dusk was upon us.  Two hours later the sky was once  again the colour layers – dawn.  It was tomorrow – at 11:30 at night!

Then I was faced with the dilemma – it was midnight behind me – but ahead of me, in the UK, it was 7AM – should I sleep? or should I stay up to somehow better acclimate myself to the time change?

By 8AM (1Am) I still hadn’t decided though useful thought was/is beginning to wane – and maybe just a couple of hours of sleep would be nice…

So I will arrive, 3 hours late and sleep deprived – will I get to Bath without issue? 

Only time will tell.

Like Taking Coals to Newcastle

Prior to every significant trip (i.e. international trip) , I ferret out my template “Items to Take” List and modify it to suit my needs (which included replacing “sunscreen” with “small umbrella” for my upcoming UK Trip). This list then grows and evolves and I read and reread – think and rethink what I want to take and balance that against what I can fit in.

I was reading though my list of things to take on my upcoming UK trip and nestled between "Pillow" and "Clothesline" in my Misc Gear section was "Tea Bags". Then a thought occurred to me…

Can I take teabags to the UK?

I know legally there isn’t any issue with doing so; unlike going to New Zealand where they are really strict on what you bring in – as evidenced by the thorough going over (by a very cute, but very dedicated and focused beagle) our carry-on luggage got as we waited at the luggage carousel for our main bags (which, I imagine, were getting a thorough sniffing by another committed canine before being sent out to us).

So I’m not worried about being fingered by a dog at the airport (can you be fingered by something that lack fingers?) but I am worried that if anyone discovered my Ziploc bag full of teabags that I would be kicked out of the UK for offending their Commonwealth Culture.

For after all, what is more British than a nice hot strong cup of tea? It ranks right up there with rainy weather, red double-decker busses and red phone boxes as part of the ubiquitous UK. – Though I am fairly certain that the red phone box has gone the way of the blue Police Box (well, excepting one exceptional blue Police Box) and the dodo (and yes, there were never any dodo’s in the UK, except maybe in Parliament) – oh how I digress; my point being that in my mind’s eye – nothing is more linked to England (and the rest of the UK) than tea.

So if I can’t get a good cup of tea in the UK, where can I? I needed my own tea bags in Peru (I think it was almost an insult to drink tea in Peru instead of coffee) where the tea tasted like someone bought 5 year-old tea bags from some discount market and then boiled the crap out of it! But London is not Lima.

Though I don’t consider myself a tea snob, I do like what I like and, since I don’t drink coffee, a good cup (or three) of tea in the morning is essential.

So I sit here pondering my list and my assumptions. Since most of my impressions of the UK are based on firstly, vague memories of being there when I was a kid and touring about visiting distant relatives and being inundated with cups of tea and cakes (which consisted of both cookies, squares and mini sandwiches) of which I consumed far too much T&C that I ended up needing some TLC.

Secondly my impressions are based on British TV shows – “Rebus” & “Hamish Macbeth” for Scotland; “Dalziel & Pascoe” & “Heartbeat” for Yorkshire; “MI5” for London; “Midsomer Murders” & “Inspector Lynley” for the villages & countryside I hope see in the region around Bath and Chester; “Inspector Morse” & “Lewis” for Oxford and of course “Torchwood” for Cardiff – I think I can be forgiven if my assumptions are a bit skewed (heck, if I TRULY based my expectations on these TV shows, I would anticipate murder & mayhem – not to mention aliens – around every corner).

Though having watched all these shows over the years I have a better comprehension of the accents and a greater love for the countryside (as idyllic as the shows may portray it – according to “Heartbeat” it rarely rains in Yorkshire).

I am looking forward to my UK trip; I am ready to see the real UK and to forge some new memories.

I may take a Ziploc bag full of teabags, just in case, but I will also take an empty Ziploc bag or two in the hopes that I discover a UK tea that I enjoy and bring it back with me.

Hmm, maybe I’d better have another look at my “Items to Take” list – I think I need to leave room for new discoveries!

Which, really, is always a good idea!