my holiday in the UK - the full report
Ξ July 10th, 2007 | → 1 Comments | ∇ profound, main events |
Wow… This was easily the most worthwhile, eventful trip of my now almost thirty year life. But as I have a tendency to revel a bit in the immediate exuberance of any wholly new experience in my life, I’ve taken a couple of weeks upon my return to the States to reflect on my trip, in an attempt to present a more mellow and hopefully balanced account of my recent journey to the United Kingdom. This is probably also a most relevant spot to point out that this fairly new blog of mine was intended first for my own amusement, then for the potential, though never expressly guaranteed, entertainment of my close friends and family… For this is, as advertised, the “full report”, not some boiled down, Cliff Notes version… since as these same close friends and family would surely attest, I’ve never been very effective or successful at telling the ’short version’ of any story… As well, I’ve written more about some things and less about others, not based on their importance or interest to me at the time or thereafter, but basically without any sort of rhyme or reason, just whatever seemed to inspire detail or lack thereof at the moment that I happened to be regurgitating that piece of the story… except that I did (try to) make a point out of more so chatting up the events that I didn’t do so well at corroborating with photographs.
In preparation for this adventure, I equipped myself with the extremely competent, though not the quality of the standalone camera that I probably should have brought along, Sony Ericsson W810i camera phone with which most of the pictures contained herein were taken (along with, thankfully, a handful of equally worthwhile photos also snapped up by the undeniably more capable Casio Exilim EX-Z60 cameras piloted by Nigel and Varrie, to whom you’ll be introduced, momentarily), and I’ve decided that the least cumbersome way of sharing the 800+ plus pictures (which, lucky for all of us, I weeded down from the original 1000+ I returned with) is to link them throughout the blog on an approximately every or every other day basis. So as I conclude talking about the events of the days, I’ll present a link that shares the photos chronicling the events just described. Now, if you’re a ‘I just prefer the pictures’ type of chap, and don’t want to enjoy this tale like the cheap bottle of wine it may appear to you ‘picture-only types’ to be, you can go directly to the photos by clicking here (but rest assured that you’ll only be short-changing yourself, as making it through to the conclusion of this story may well provide the type of elation and satisfaction most commonly known to those types who complete a marathon or reach the summit of some far off mountain). So… without further ado… here’s “my holiday in the UK - the full report”…
I’d never before ventured much beyond the US border, with only a handful of very limited, almost momentary excursions just over the borders of Canada and Mexico, and this was my first journey ‘abroad’. My girlfriend, Varrie, and her delightful British parents, Gillian and Nigel, were kind enough to welcome me to visit them this summer and almost immediately upon their invitation and my reassurance that they ‘knew what they were getting themselves into’, I had booked my airline ticket for my ten-day-UK-holiday. Though I’d hoped to find a reasonable fare on a direct flight from Atlanta to Manchester, England, I quickly settled upon a much cheaper-than-any-other-available-flight $735 round-trip ticket with U.S. Airways which involved a layover in Philadelphia in both directions.
My mother was kind enough to pick me up from my office on Friday afternoon, provide me with an experience-based UK-prep-talk, and deliver me promptly to the usually less-than-delightful Atlanta airport where I was most fortunate to be able to bleed off some of the extra two and a half hours of contingency time with which I’d provided myself, as I chanced upon my good friends Lee and Melanie (who were venturing out on their own weekend excursion to Las Vegas) and we enjoyed some food and drinks and always lively conversation in one of the finer dining establishments known to the catagorically-un-Zagat-rated Concourse A.
In addition to the typical ‘crap shoot’ which is successfully finding my luggage in a timely fashion upon my deplaning, I was also concerned that with my change of planes in Philadelphia, I’d be increasing my chances of lost luggage, so I packed both a checked bag with the bulk of my gear containing uncheckable liquids and heavier artillery including my UK electrical converter, as well as a carry-on bag with enough clothes and supplies to last me for a few days if need be. As it turned out, the flight from Atlanta to Philadelphia was an hour and a half long, and in Philadelphia, though I’d worried about having only an hour to get off of one plane and on to a separate international flight, I would have made it with plenty of time to spare, but my rushing around was unnecessary as the flight was delayed for two hours, so my initial anxiety was doubly for not. Boarding the second leg of my flight plan a couple of hours behind schedule meant that my just over seven hour trip from Philadelphia landed me in Manchester at about 10:30am, Saturday morning (6/16). This second leg also proved uneventful, save a sore bum from not once getting up to move around and stretch a bit (lesson learned).
Given my aforementioned almost complete inexperience with international travel, I wasn’t at all sure what to expect with the customs procedure as I exited the plane in Manchester, but after only about five minutes waiting for my luggage, and only a few brief words with a genuine British customs official, I quickly found Varrie waiting for me, we attended to some quick, physical, oh-how-I-missed-you PDA, and were on our way…
Now aside from my dear Varrie needing my help to get us out of the car park, my initial impressions of this previously foreign land wasn’t that everyone was driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, or that, while I was sitting in what I had always known as the driver’s seat, Varrie was actually the captain of our ship, but rather that our ’ship’, like so many of the other crafts out and about on the busy motorways, were of odd resemblance, but not quite like anything previously encountered by this experienced valet. In fact, with the exception of only a few BMW’s, Benz’s, and VW’s, most every car was something different than I’d ever seen. Varrie was driving her mother’s car, a Peugeot, 206cc, hard-top convertible coupe, and I noticed many other such British or European-specific makes including Renault, Fiat, MG and others even less familiar. But even more noteworthy were the Fords and Nissans, and other auto makers that do sell to the U.S. market with completely different models than they manufacture for the States… weird… and also quite intriguing.
It took about half an hour to arrive to Gillian and Nigel’s home in Warrington, a city between Manchester and Liverpool, and it was at this point that I remembered what I’d been warned about for the weeks preceding my trip… about the family’s none-too-friendly (to foreign men, at least) red Siamese cat, confusingly named, Cookie. It had been previously explained to me that while occasionally unfriendly felines were quite commonplace the world over, this particular cat had a renowned reputation for attacking men… not hissing or scratching or biting them when approached, but specifically seeking them out and pouncing down on them with a frenzied combination of all three approaches… from across the room, if need be. Given my experience with animals, I wasn’t exactly alarmed at this prospect, but I wasn’t quite looking forward to our initial encounter either… And so, with my love for and trust in Varrie, I was unwittingly offered up as a sacrificial mid-morning pin cushion when Varrie suggested that I attempt to offer Cookie my American olive branch by feeding him. I suppose it only seemed like a good idea, because I didn’t have enough time to stop and think about it. As I crouched down next to Cookie and began spooning out his food, he looked up at me and waited all of three or four seconds before making an unhappy groaning sound and lunging forcefully at me. Varrie jumped over to remove his flailing body from my arm, but not before I had a few nice puncture wounds to proudly commemorate my having been introduced to this new nation and home for all of less than an hour. And of course, with this type of initial omen, I now had just a bit of trepidation for what this UK holiday had in store for me… and I really never could have imagined that this would be the singular less-than-perfect moment of my trip, as it quickly proceeded to be one incredible moment after another (which began almost immediately with my first of many ‘full English breakfasts’ to soothe my pain as well as the much appreciated befriending of the household’s other resident pet, a truly lovely, and polar opposite to Cookie, 11 years young Staffordshire Terrier, named Fudge).
Many people had warned me about the jet lag that I might experience on my travel from West to East, but it really only lasted about a day and it wasn’t too severe, just a bit of lethargy, which Varrie was insistent that I mustn’t encourage with the immediate and prolonged mid-day sleep that I so insistently longed for, with the explanation that it might disrupt my ‘body clock’s’ adjustment to this new time zone. So after my whining to the contrary was to little avail, I stole a quick nap of less than an hour and headed out to our first event, which though it may have been billed otherwise, was nothing short of Varrie’s thinly-veiled attempt to show off her new American trophy (I mean, what else was she to do, really?). Three of her longtime friends, Hannah, Pam, and Emily met us at Varrie’s home and we headed over to the flat of four-month pregnant Emma and Barry to enjoy some finger foods and meet-and-greet exchanges where I met even more friends (including Paula and Hayley) and enjoyed being paraded around. A couple hours and many laughs later, Varrie and I headed back home to get some much needed rest.
After thoroughly enjoying an opportunity to sleep in for a bit, Varrie and I awoke late in the morning on Sunday to what became our typical breakfast bowls full of English Special K (which only difference from the American version seemed to be the accent with which one stated the name), and soon thereafter joined Gillian, Nigel, Fudge, and Cookie (who had by now been adorned with a body harness and leash for my protection) for a cup of tea in their meticulously landscaped and uniquely English backyard followed by a walk around the neighborhood and nearby park. The weather was really comfortable with partly cloudy skies and a (to my Atlanta conditioned body) cool 65 degree temperature. This was my first real exposure to the areas surrounding their home, and everything I encountered on this trip out seemed to follow the increasingly evident theme of ’smaller and more concise’… roads, cars, homes… the likely result of so many more people crammed into such a smaller space than an approximately equivalent (on other demographic criteria) neighborhood would be here in the States. Much like here in the Southern U.S., everything on our walk seemed especially lush and green, and much unlike here, I soon noticed that most passersby were not inclined to meet us with eye contact and/or say hello. No one was unfriendly in any measure, I was just met with the realization that ‘Southern hospitality’ is thus noteworthy for a reason.
CLICK HERE FOR PICTURES FROM DAYS 1 & 2 - Saturday (6/16) and Sunday (6/17): Warrington
On Monday we were again fortunate to be able to awake at a comfortable time, and when we did finally get moving, we were joined by Varrie’s ex-boyfriend and all-around very cool bloke, Scott (who was visiting for the day from his now home on the Spanish coast), and invited to visit a Church where Nigel’s father, Leslie, gave us special, behind-the-scenes access to the large church bells through which we climbed, on our way to the spectacular views of the surrounding areas provided by our rooftop perch. Upon our descent, I also had a chance to poke my head inside the adjacent pub, the Pack Horse, which Nigel formerly operated, and hear a bit more about the pub businesses that Gillian and Nigel had been involved with throughout the past years.
Nigel, Varrie, Scott, and I then made our way into downtown Manchester for a walk about and I got my first view of somewhat-big-city England. What began earlier in the weekend at the Manchester airport, only continued in the city itself, and throughout the remainder of the trip (save Scotland), as it was slightly more than annoying that it seemed I was perpetually searching for a trash can that I could never find. It was explained to me that because of the bombings of the last few years, they had all been removed, as they’d proven themselves uniquely suited to hiding bombs. Because of this, I swallowed roughly thirty pieces of tropical fruit flavored Trident gum and continuously marveled at how clean the streets were without anywhere to dispose of just such hand-held refuse. I also noticed a common sight throughout the streets, posters plastered just about everywhere, warning Manchester’s many indoor-dwelling smokers, that any indoor venue (pub, restaurant, anywhere really) in England, for the first time in it’s long, storied history, would “…go smoke free July 1st’. I ogled my nearby indoor smokers and took a moment to breathe in this historically special moment in time.
Proportions weren’t as small as they had been in the suburban setting of Warrington, but this city was notably different than any medium to large size city in the States might be… In fact, as I think back upon my experiences there, I might venture to guess that Manchester is basically the equivalent of the Atlanta of England (making this guess based solely on it’s perceived size and stature). Whereas Atlanta seems to me to be a bit haphazardly designed and laid out, with all different types and shapes and sizes of streets and buildings, Manchester reeked of uniformity and consistency, which instantly made it a winner for me and my virgo-driven, symmetry-loving ways. The one exception to this apparent continuity was a newly erected forty-something-story Hilton hotel that stood out as the lone building taller than about five stories in the entire city. And again, Manchester was clean… streets, restaurants, bathrooms, pretty much everything… We stopped for a pub lunch and soon Scott was en route to the train station to make his flight back home. Soon thereafter, Nigel, Varrie, and I explored an old library and made our way to meet up with Gillian, who was finishing up her workday as a catering manager at the Manchester office of the Royal Scotland Bank (RBS).
Next, the four of us headed out for something none of us had before done… visit the Belle Vue Speedway and watch dirt bikes race! It’s really the kind of thing that you’ve got to experience as opposed to have described to you, should you be the type to enjoy a regional-bike-racing-kind-of-experience in the first place, but suffice to say that drinking and, at times, cheering spectators watch closely as motorcycles race around a dirt oval (again, much more fun to experience than to read about). Varrie and Gillian surprised Nigel and I with our very own “Belle Vue Aces’ shirts and we all headed back home to enjoy an evening cup of tea, teamed up with Magnum ice cream bars, and what I soon came to realize was the national addiction of Big Brother watching (though Nigel seemed immune and quite incredulous to this latter vice).
CLICK HERE FOR PICTURES FROM DAY 3 - Monday (6/18): Manchester
With the arrival of Tuesday morning, Varrie and I began to venture out by ourselves, as Nigel delivered us the Manchester train station where we boarded a train to London. I can’t really remember ever having ridden a long-distance train like this before and it seemed quite clean and comfortable, and Varrie and I were able to listen to my trusty iPod and catch up on a bit of sleep during the three hour trip into London. After arriving at the Houston London train station, we then moved over to the integrated local subway system (locally referred to as the ‘tube’) to deliver us to the Victoria station which provided a short walk to the bed-and-breakfast that Varrie had booked for us, The Winchester. We found our accommodations here to be most suitable… clean, comfortable, concise, with a uniquely English feel to just about everything. After relaxing for a bit, we stepped out about the town, and I quickly found London to be very much like most of the major international cities I’ve experienced… big, busy, chaotic… but again, everything seemed very clean despite still not being able to locate a trash bin, and I begrudgingly continued to fill my gut with over-chewed Trident. It was here I began to feel the weight of the disappointing exchange rate that cut each of my dollars down to fifty pence. I also enjoyed the opportunity, much as I had in Manchester the day prior, to count on finding a familiar cup of Starbucks coffee just about anywhere we went, as much as we find in the States, there’s a Starbucks on just about every other corner. We visited Buckingham Palace before hopping the ‘tube’ (unfortunately in the midst of rush hour pandemonium) over to visit Varrie’s friends, Maggie and Bede, and their six-month-old son, Georgie. While we had only planned to stay at Maggie and Bede’s flat visiting for a couple of hours, we ended up having such a splendid time eating and drinking and sharing funny stories (including our shared love and fear of all that is Fuddruckers) that we left under the dark of night and made our way back to the ‘tube’ and home for the night to our hotel.
Varrie’s bed in Warrington was so uber-soft that my back had been complaining in a major way, so the extra rigid mattress afforded by The Winchester meant that now Varrie’s back didn’t feel so swell and that I spent a little extra time allowing my own back to recuperate while we awoke at a comfortable hour, opting not to arrive early enough for our included breakfast downstairs. We instead checked ourselves out of the hotel and quickly made our way to a local breakfast eatery where I did get my full English breakfast and we next made our way back to Buckingham Palace to witness the legendary, ‘Changing of the Guards’. With what appeared to be every available tourist in attendance, this would-be spectacle seemed a bit underwhelming, but as I continued to take countless pictures with my new camera phone, we strolled on to St. James Park and sat down with a map to chart out our day’s projected foot travels. We decided to stick to the River Thames and walk our way past Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, the House of Parliament, Palace of Westminster, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and to the Tower of London and London Bridge, where we opted not to try to steal the Crown Jewels and instead decided that our legs had had enough as we made our way back to the ‘tube’ which brought us to our departing train station, which ultimately brought us back to Manchester, where the most trusty and helpful Nigel was waiting to pick us up and bring us back to Warrington at almost 1am Wednesday night.
CLICK HERE FOR PICTURES FROM DAYS 4 & 5 - Tuesday (6/19) and Wednesday (6/20): London
A last minute booking and a bit of a meandering journey brought Varrie and me our first Thursday adventure… a ‘ropes’ course in the trees of Delmar Forest provided by a company called Go Ape. This experience wasn’t camera or phone friendly, so much to my disappointment, I was unable to take pictures of what proved to be one of the most exciting events of this trip. This experience was doubly worthwhile, as it took place in uniquely English looking-and-feeling forest with included British’y’ lake… everything was a bit dark and dank and damp… right out of a movie… albeit a British movie. So here’s the setup… this company has sites all over the UK, and for fifty bucks (or rather twenty five pounds, if you’ve been taking good notes), you get some brief training, along with a body harness containing various carabineers and a slider that connects onto a zip line. They then set you loose to climb up their ‘obstacle courses’ that they’ve built up in the trees and climb and swing and zip-line your way around the forest. I’d recommend this type of experience to anyone really, as it was an absolute blast… and at the aforementioned price of admission, this three hour experience was probably the best bargain of the entire trip abroad.
After getting back to the Warrington homestead, Varrie and I cleaned up, made ourselves arguably presentable, and again teamed up with good ‘ole Nigel to make our way back into downtown Manchester to meet Gillian as she once again finished up her workday and the four of us headed out to a new, posh restaurant / night club / casino called Manchester 235 (which, I imagine, much to the delight of all who’ve kept up so far, didn’t appear to be too camera friendly either). As a new marketing ploy, Thursday night’s ‘deal’ here is that whatever amount of money is spent on dinner is then returned as full value in chips to be used in the on-site casino. Already feeling both grateful and just a bit guilty for all of the ‘treating’ that Gillian, Nigel, and Varrie had provided throughout my trip, I wasn’t about to have my dinner bought for me and also use some of the chips Varrie was attempting to share with me, so I made my way to the ATM where I winced as the exchange rate once again wielded it’s ugly dollar-to-pound-conversion head. I joined the waiting threesome at the roulette table where I lost my first forty pounds in record time. My second trip to the ATM allowed me to return with another sixty pounds, only this time, I wasn’t as hasty to throw it all out on the table. I decided to sit in wait for a bit, and before long, our group had made it’s way to a blackjack table downstairs.
The real eventfulness of the evening seemed to begin at this point when we all sat down at one particular two-pound-minimum-bet blackjack table. Nigel didn’t stay long as the ’siren song’ of another nearby roulette table seemed to quickly steal him away. My first disappointment was losing my initially helpful blackjack dealer and finding that all the others refused to play my hand for me. Every other place I’ve gambled, I’ve relied on the help of the dealers to tell me exactly what I, as a player, given all of the other cards and situations currently in play at that moment, should do. Nobody knows the game better than a dealer and they typically are more than willing (upon my request) to tell me what the odds dictate would be the most appropriate decision for me to make. Subsequent dealers soon explained that it was the ‘house policy’ to not help the players, which seemed like rubbish to me, but I was fortunate to have Gillian playing on one side of me and Varrie on the other. Gillian provided the expertise to tell me exactly what I should do next, and Varrie provided the love and emotional support to effectively ‘roll’ with both the wins and the losses.
As I played for a while and stayed approximately even with respect to my amount of remaining chips, I kept looking up to notice Nigel and the roulette table nearby. Though Nigel didn’t appear to be enjoying too much luck, I was watching the screen of recent numbers that had come up on that particular roulette wheel and I began scheming to myself that if, say five black numbers had hit in succession, and that none of the other roulette screens in view (there was at least one other close by) showed a streak of one-colored numbers that long for like the last twenty or so spins, well then, that wheel was bound (i.e. ‘due’) to produce a red number next… and sure enough it did! So though somewhere in my head I knew this new logic was fundamentally flawed, as the odds are fresh and new on every spin and unaffected by what happens on any prior or future spin, I waited until the next streak situation that met my newly formed criteria occurred, then I quickly leapt into action.
I’m not sure if it was red or black first, but my stomach was in knots as I put all the chips in my possession, probably twenty five or thirty pounds on a color that I thought was ‘due’. I won. I returned to the blackjack table to play a few more hands with Varrie and Gillian, and as soon as another such number and color situation presented itself on the nearby roulette screens, I hopped up and repeated the feat… twice more! As I clutched my overflowing chips close to my chest, I returned one last time to the blackjack table, only to watch Gillian somewhat mistakenly wager twenty five pounds on a single hand and win! So, even though Nigel may have been the only member of the group not to leave with more money than which they’d arrived, we all had a grand time, and as we headed back to the car park, I began to recount my own night’s balance sheet… I did withdrawal a total of 100 pounds from the ATM, but I walked out with 130, which felt even better upon winding it’s way through my internal conversion tool and remembering it amounted to 260 dollars. We all headed home to repeat our nightcap of tea, ice cream, and Big Brother, and it was at this time that I had a moment to realize how far Cookie and I had come since our unpleasant (for me at least; I’ve been told he enjoys ‘the kill’) introduction, as he was now clearly tolerating my presence, which as I was consoled, was both a significant achievement, as well as what likely represented the ultimate ‘best case scenario’ for our future relationship. And similarly, Fudge and I, who started out as near ‘best mates’ from the get go, had furthered our relationship as well, and I now felt as though I might try to fit Fudge into my luggage and attempt to smuggle him home with me.
NO PICTURES ALLOWED FOR DAY 6 - Thursday (6/21): Manchester
Friday morning began early, as Varrie and I loaded up the car with luggage and set out on a course towards Scotland. Our first stop was to see the Wallace Monument: to gaze upon the tower erected to commemorate the life and achievement of William Wallace, the savior of the Scots and the man better known to most wanker Americans (myself unfortunately included) as portrayed by Mel Gibson in the often parodied film, Braveheart. Following an exhaustive map and directions provided by the now-proving-himself-to-be-nearly-indispensable, Nigel, Varrie and I drove north into Scotland into a city called Stirling, where we did, in fact, find the Wallace monument… Mel Gibson / Braveheart stone statue and all! There was a sign that guaranteed we’d get to see Wallace’s actual fourteenth century sword if we’d each offer up six pounds fifty and climb to the top of the tower, but we opted to simply climb the hill that brought us to the base of the monument and spend our thirteen pounds elsewhere.
We were now back in the car and on our way to visit Varrie’s uncle, Gillian’s brother, Dave, at his home in the town where they grew up, called Clakmannan. Clackmannan offered a splendid view of how I’d imagined small-town Scotland to appear… the roads, the homes, the old stuff… everywhere. Dave and his Chihuahua, Pedro escorted us around town where we observed an old clock tower with stories and lore abound, as well as the tower of an old castle that sat upon a grassy hill, and provided marvelous views of the surrounding farmland and refineries in the distance. We were only able to stay and visit with Dave for a couple of hours because we were attempting to meet up with Gillian and Nigel, who had left after us earlier in the day and planned on somehow finding us along the way northward to caravan together towards St. Andrews.
Much as I may have mocked the idea that, as Varrie and I seemed to have haphazardly and with no lack of divine intervention found our way through the confusing countryside roads thus far, we could manage to stop at an intersection and have Gillian and Nigel, speeding along in their Renault Clio, find exactly where we were waiting, only a quick phone call and a few minutes passed before they raced by us, honking their horn, as if to celebrate this miraculous occurrence. With only about an hour more of drive time and a quick bathroom break, we all arrived at a pub in St. Andrews, where Gillian’s best friend, Jane, was busy celebrating a friend’s ‘hen party’ (UK speak for ‘bachelorette party’). We settled in for a meal alongside this group of excited women, and I enjoyed yet another round of fish and chips.
As the party moved over to an ocean-front pub nearby, Jane invited Varrie and I to stay the night at a flat owned by her company, the Ladies’ Golf Union, which looked out on the sea and afforded us not only some welcomed privacy, but a good deal more space to spread out and relax than we’d had thus far in our trip. Getting settled in so late that night didn’t leave us much time to enjoy all that it offered us, as it seemed that just as we’d shut our eyes for the night, Saturday morning was suddenly upon us.
CLICK HERE FOR PICTURES FROM DAY 7 - Friday (6/22): Stirling, Clackmannan, & St. Andrews
Saturday morning began in a frenzy, as we gathered our belongings back together to join Gillian and Nigel where they’d slept the night, for breakfast with Jane, her husband, Andy, and their two sons, Conner and Max, at their home just minutes away.
After getting a chance to meet and talk with everyone and enjoy more delicious food (which I really never stopped doing throughout the trip), the entire group, except for Conner who went to spend the day with his proposed future bride-to-be, headed out to Fife, where we found the Elie Chain Walk along the Fife Coastal Path, which basically amounted to a series of chains moored into the side of a series of rocky, cliffy, embankments set masterfully at the ocean’s edge. Making a point to arrive during low tide, we were able to enjoy the experience without the aid of wetsuits or the surf lapping at our heals, and though certain points required a bit of determination to traverse the more slippery spots, everyone survived none worse for the wear and enjoyed what seems to me to be the type of thrill that could only exist in just such a unique geographic setting. Once we’d moved beyond the chains, the path brought us to the tops of the cliffs, where we found gun turrets, formerly used to fend off approaching bad guys in the Second World War. Another Scottish pub provided me with what seemed to be my umpteenth helping of fish and chips (which I really couldn’t have been happier about) and we made our way back to Jane’s and Andy’s to freshen up for dinner. We would well have just been uneventfully on our way out to this next eating event when Varrie discovered that she couldn’t find a ring (originally given to her by her Grandmother) that she’d been wearing earlier in the day. After searching the cars and house, only Gillian’s sleuth-worthy cleverness produced a photograph from one of our cameras that provided at least some temporary solace as it showed that the ring was not on Varrie’s hand during our handy work through the Elie chain walk earlier in the day. Renewed faith that it had not slipped off on our arduous outing provided Varrie with a second-wind of searching power and she soon managed to uncover the ring somewhere in a jacket of mine that had laid atop a spot we’d been stashing our gear throughout the day (technically, it was reported that she somehow found the ring in the pocket of my jacket, but that makes this whole search and fret fiasco sound as if I had some culpability in the matter, which is my problem with just these type of ‘vicious rumors’ in the first place).
After dinner, I was reminded that (if you’re like me, and believe that ‘when in Scotland, do as the Scottish do’) I really needed to try the unofficial national specialty, the one and only deep-fried Mars bar. The entire group walked to a nearby shop, and Varrie and I left with two deep-fried Mars bars and one deep-fried Snickers bar (just for comparison’s sake). Varrie and I both shared the first bar, while Nigel enjoyed another, and I saved the remaining Snickers bar for a late-night treat. We then stopped briefly as Jane checked in on her mother who lives nearby, and Varrie, Gillian and I were treated to one of the most laugh-out-loud-until we’re simultaneously gasping and crying moments we’d had so far.
Nigel (seemingly never too shy to unwittingly offer himself up as our court jester) took a moment to stretch his legs outside of the car that we were waiting for Jane in, and began this series of events by tossing his last bite of deep-fried Mars bar over his shoulder (in my own estimation, as a result of his already having settled upon the fact that it was pointless even looking for a trash can anywhere on this landmass). Seconds later, a genuinely surprised Nigel quickly darted out of the way as this same gooey, chocolatey piece of Scottish pride came raining back down on him, as he looked momentarily annoyed at himself for somehow not having chucked it anywhere but straight up. He then proceeded to take all of ten steps forward and plant his foot solidly in a nice fresh pile of Scottish dog crap, which made his early look of annoyance turn to something more closely resembling pity for himself and the misfortune the last thirty seconds of his life had brought him. Moments later, Nigel was feverishly raking his shoe through a pile of nearby grass and dipping it in a muddy puddle, until a point when after doing his best to balance while he leaned over to view the bottom of his shoe for the tenth or so time, he’d decided that his cleanup was complete.
Now, at least at this point, Varrie, and Gillian, and I were all enjoying the comedy of errors playing out at Nigel’s expense in the movie-screen-like windshield in front of us, but we’re still able to speak and react and each offer of our own, ‘gee, isn’t Nigel hilarious’ commentary, but as Nigel’s sour look turned to a gaze of relative satisfaction, we watched closely as Nigel looked up at us (completely unaware of the amusement he’d already provided) and began to walk back towards the car. About the same ten steps away from the car, Nigel never hesitated as he promptly returned the same shoe back into the same pile of dog crap, and if that moment wasn’t worthwhile enough, the look on poor Nigel’s face as he glanced down to face the cruel reality of the moment was almost too special for words. A riotous explosion of laughter interspersed with periodic snorts erupted in the car as the three of us were treated to one of life’s random moments that brought us sore ribs and lasting amusement, as a dejected, and none-too-amused Nigel repeated his same tedious process of doing his futile best to scrape most of the crap off of his shoe.
As we returned back to Jane & Andy’s house for the evening, Conner returned home and Gillian and Nigel loaded themselves up and began the journey back home for Sunday obligations back in Warrington. We said our goodbyes and headed inside to make short work of my remaining deep-fried Snickers bar. After Max and Conner went to bed, Jane, Andy, Varrie, and I stayed up through nightfall, as our meandering conversation eventually (and much to Jane’s bemusement) turned towards Andy’s stories from his almost ten-year-ago motorcycle trek through the near entirety of the Australian outback. Jane soon made her own way towards bed, but Varrie and I sat up, mesmerized, as Andy regaled us with accounts from the harshest of environments, featuring aborigines, near-fatal bar brawls, river crossings, the ravenous crocodiles that sought to disrupt these crossings, and a host of sordid, international characters more than worthy of featured characters in the movie version of their adventures. Varrie and I then headed towards a twin size bed that tested our love, as well as our skills at managing the feat (and feet) of falling asleep while situated in a ‘top to tail’ position.
CLICK HERE FOR PICTURES FROM DAY 8 - Saturday (6/23): St. Andrews & Fife
I awoke on Sunday morning to a bit of an achy back and the slightly unsettling sight of Varrie’s feet inches from my face, but after saying our warm goodbyes, we again loaded up the car and followed Nigel’s once again flawless directions towards our day’s itinerary of exploring the English ‘Lake District’. Since we skipped breakfast in an effort to get on the road quickly, our never quiet stomachs made a quick breakfast stop an absolute necessity, and we ended up finding an organic grocery store / cafe in the Scottish countryside, called the Pillars of Hercules which suited us wonderfully. Though we’d originally planned to find our way to a town called Windermere, when our drive took us from the familiar pastures and farmland into rolling hills which eventually gave way to some of the most breathtaking lakeside views imaginable, we agreed to expeditiously select local lodging. Choosing the next ‘vacancy available’ sign we passed, Varrie went in to check prices, and we’d soon found the perfect place to spend our time… at the Beech House, in Glenridding, set in the Eden valley on Lake Ullswater. The scenery couldn’t have been any more beautiful or romantic and after we’d found dinner in an adjacent restaurant, we headed out to explore the lake and surrounding area. We spent plenty of time skipping rocks across the smooth surface of the lake, and as the last bit of that day’s rain finally dissipated, we ventured down the road to find a local church, school, and more amazing scenery. We continued our walk until it was nearly dark, and returned to our room to enjoy a most restful night of lakeside sleep.
CLICK HERE FOR PICTURES FROM DAY 9 - Sunday (6/24): Glenridding
Another situation that seemed to be rather commonplace when being driven about the UK by Varrie was peering across the dashboard to realize that we were nearly out of gas. As we got to within about an hour of being back home in Warrington, I pleaded, once again, for her to stop for gas rather than ‘chance it’ again. As we left the petrol station, I was annoyed to find out that she’d decided the prices at that station were too high and that she’d only put a ‘fiver’ in (five pounds, that is, and as petrol was just under a pound a liter, that amounted to just over a gallon of gas), we soon figured out that the pump hadn’t dispensed any petrol at all! After mounting my appeal once again, we stopped for gas and a DVD at the local ASDA (which is owned by and represents the UK version of Wal-Mart), and soon returned back to the Warrington homestead.
Arriving in at a reasonable afternoon hour, we enjoyed a goodbye visit from Andrea next door, and had plenty of time to kick back and relax and curl up watching a movie together in bed before Gillian returned home from work and we all (Nigel included) headed out for our last meal together, at an Italian restaurant that Varrie had worked for once-upon-a-time, now called Soprano’s. We took pictures, shared debates on the alleged exploitation of boxers, and reflected back upon my time in the UK, all the while sharing many of our familiar laughs together. I pretended to excuse myself to find the bathroom, but instead paid the bill, which represented my singular opportunity to ‘treat’ the group, since Varrie, Gillian, and Nigel had all been unbelievably accommodating and generous with all that they bought me and provided me during my stay. But, of course, Gillian felt momentarily outwitted when she realized the bill had already been paid, because these are just the kind of people that never wanted me, as their guest, to be paying for anything!
After returning home, we all took more pictures, including action shots with Fudge and Cookie, and I packed my bags for my scheduled departure the following morning. It didn’t take long before Tuesday morning had arrived, and as I raced to get my bags out to the car, I realized that I hadn’t taken enough pictures of the inside of their lovely home, so I rushed in to snap up a few more, only to observe poor Nigel tending to a leak in some internal pipe that was sending water out into the downstairs ceiling and onto the floor. I said my final goodbyes, and Varrie and I were en route to the Manchester airport. With an 11am departure time, I shared a tearful farewell and lost sight a waving Varrie as I passed through security. I snapped my final picture of the trip, a cache of odd gambling devices (that looked more like video games) which I’d noticed were to be found just about everywhere this trip took me, and I used some of my last few pounds to purchase requested British tabloids for a friend back home and before long, I was headed back across the ‘pond’. I really didn’t too much mind the over seven hour return flight, but the six hour layover once back in Philadelphia made for a bit of a long day. Toiling about the airport, I returned all of my Stateside calls and read and shopped and milled about until my flight home eventually got me back into Atlanta at about midnight. Thankful that a cab was even still available on a Tuesday night at my local Marta station, I finally got back into my own bed at about 2am, and gathered up a few hours of sleep before my first day back at work on Wednesday.
CLICK HERE FOR PICTURES FROM DAYS 10 & 11 - Monday (6/25) & Tuesday (6/26): York & Warrington
Several themes seemed to develop during this trip. Luckily, Varrie and I both happen to find ourselves to be in a perpetual state of hunger, and our everyday situations fit us well, as we were able to secure a steady stream of delicious eats throughout our travels. Since I make a point out of using any vacation of mine as an excuse to deviate from my typically health-conscious ways, I also made an issue out of finding, purchasing, and quickly consuming as many cookies as this great foreign land had to offer. Gillian did her own part to enable my addiction by smuggling home cookies from work, and it seemed that wherever I was to be found, it could be counted upon that one might also find a well-stashed cookie… or two… or three or four…
Another ‘question’ that occurred to both Varrie and me before this trip had arrived was how well (or not) we might do to be spending this much time ‘living out of each others’ pockets’. It seemed that before the first moment we reconsidered the issue enough even to mention, we were already four or five days into the trip. Thereafter, things just got easier and easier and somehow more comfortable. It turns out we’re rather well suited to be traveling together, as Varrie’s ‘fly by the seat of her pants’ holiday (and… possibly… occasionally other days as well) mentality balanced out surprisingly well with my obsessive compulsive tendencies toward certain plans and routes and all things organized. Varrie did a truly marvelous job of never taking me too seriously or letting me get too far away from my next meal… or cookie.
So now that I’m home, I definitely look at my life here in the U.S. with a newly-cultured and expanded perspective of the larger world that lies, as of yet to me, largely undiscovered. I’m a bit of a homebody and never previously felt the burning desire to explore other countries, so I’ve decided that the UK offers a wonderful opportunity to take an incremental, but easily managed step out towards other cultures, without any major likelihood of a trip-spoiling instance of culture shock. I may have even formerly feared the unfamiliar social settings that other countries are sure to provide, and this trip to the UK was a great chance to be reminded of how rewarding it can be to step outside of my comfort zone. And were I to be counseling a friend as to how to try to really ‘do’ it right, I’d probably also recommend staying with your lovely (relatively) new girlfriend and her ridiculously sweet and funny parents, all of whom actually live in the land you’re visiting, know their way around (more or less), and insist on accommodating your every whim; this might take quite a bit of thoughtfulness and preparation (mixed with equal parts good fortune) to create this type of scenario, but it really did make all the difference…
AY
