Observations from the Mothership: Day 11

The Day I Explored Cardiff

This morning before wandering the streets of Cardiff, I took the time to consume another delicious "full English" breakfast in the hotel restaurant while sitting at a table overlooking the drizzly, rainy city streets.  I figured going out in the gloom today was only fair considering that Great Britain is supposed to be notorious for rainy weather and yet in the ten days I've been here, I've encountered rain only once when I was in Edinburgh and for only an hour and even that wasn't much more than a misty drizzle.  I've been supremely fortunate with the weather thus far, enjoying temperate and frequently sunny days in the upper 50s and low 60s.  What more could a pale girl ask?

Minus the fried tomatoes and mushrooms.  Yum!

After breakfast I once again checked out and stowed my belongings in the luggage lockup like the travel boss I've become.  The desk clerks were very helpful, both with my bags and with giving me a map and directions for how to access most of Cardiff on foot.  They also didn't laugh at me last night when I accidentally locked myself out of my room while putting my dinner tray in the hallway and had to come down to the lobby in my pajama pants and bare feet for a replacement key card.  Yay for consummate professionals!

I was interested in touring the city on one of the local "hop on, hop off" sightseeing buses because I've found them to be a quick and efficient way to get around as well as a good way to learn a lot about the city I'm visiting,   However, I also wanted to see the Doctor Who Experience (yes, I know, I'm a giant geek...it's been mentioned)  but the tickets already appeared to be sold out online and I hadn't pre-booked because I was trying to leave my time in Wales flexible in case I found some genealogy trail I needed to run to ground.  I knew I ran the risk of screwing myself over by not prebooking, but I figured since there's never enough time to see everything I want anyway I could just pick and choose activities as time and availability allowed.  As a result, I eschewed the bus for the moment and instead walked down to the bay in an attempt to get Doctor Who tickets at the door before they were all gone.

The walk was supposed to take 10 minutes but probably took more like 30 by the time I actually reached the Doctor Who Experience on the other side of Cardiff Bay; no doubt it would have been shorter had I not ended up going the long way around after getting faulty directions from some construction workers on the street.  Still, the rain had stopped before I left the hotel and it was turning into a beautiful day so the walk, while long, was pleasant.  En route I passed the dramatic Millennium Centre for arts and music, sheathed in the slate for which Wales is renowned.  Near the Centre I watched as a parade of festively-dressed people marched down a distant sidewalk for some inexplicable reason. I also walked by a very amusing street sign for the Doctor Who Experience which featured no words but which sported a Dalek and and arrow pointing the way to the site.  I strolled by the Pierhead Building on Cardiff Bay; it boasts its own clock tower affectionately known as "Baby Big Ben" or "Big Ben of Wales."  Standing next to this building were two entertainers (or so I assumed) on stilts who looked a bit like Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy, or possibly like some of Tolkien's Ents.  As they were largely just hanging around doing nothing, I've no idea why they were there but they were certainly unique.  Clearly it's all go in Cardiff on a Saturday.

"This way to the Long John Silver's salt shakers..."

Pierhead Building

Your guess is as good as mine.

Getting tickets to the Doctor Who Experience proved no problem after all; I purchased my ticket and was able to walk pretty much straight into the next viewing.  I smirked at a girl in front of me as the line moved because her shirt was emblazoned with a pseudo-Disney logo reading "Dismal and Bemusement Park."  All throughout the lobby were several props from the television show; we passed additional props and costumes displayed just outside the entrance to the exhibition as we threaded through the line barriers.  In order to avoid spoilers for future visitors we were not allowed to take photos during the "experience" part of the exhibition, which proved to be a terribly cheesy and trumped-up "action-adventure" clearly geared towards children.  Once through our dubious adventure we were funneled into a far more interesting museum of props and costumes and such from the many years Doctor Who has been on television.  My favorites were the oldest items from when the show started over 50 years ago, including a model of the original TARDIS set and the mock-up of the first TARDIS interior which was used in the movie "An Adventure in Time and Space" about how Doctor Who came into existence.  They even had the soundboard of the grand piano used to create the original theme song. Meanwhile, some of the early monster/alien costumes just made me laugh; they looked so ineptly constructed when examined in person.

Mockup of the original sets.

Original TARDIS console replica

Other notable displays included Jon Pertwee's yellow roadster "Bessie," a mockup of Tom Baker's Tardis interior, complete with a coat rack draped in one of his later, more purpley giant scarves, and several TARDISes, including one used in the filming of the 50th anniversary special "The Day of the Doctor."  I also got to see K-9, who is perhaps one of my favorite characters of the entire show and who was significantly larger than I expected.  After examining the mostly older set pieces downstairs, I moved upstairs to explore the remaining displays, most of which consisted of assorted costumes--including the clothing of each and every Doctor incarnation to date.  While I wish there had been less emphasis on items from the current Doctor's and previous Doctor's eras (understandable given the relative accessibility of such items) as opposed to a more equitable representation of all the Doctor's incarnations, I really appreciated the ability to look at all the costumes up close and with a seamstress' eye.  As with most theater costuming for the stage, the assorted clothing I viewed looked much better on film and in motion than it did on stationary stands.  In addition to thinking that the current companion Jenna Coleman must be impossibly tiny based on the size of her costumes ("Impossible Girl" indeed), my overwhelming opinion as I strolled through all the displays (especially the women's clothing) was that I could have easily made any of them myself (and probably done better). Clearly the BBC needs to put me on staff immediately.  Are you there, BBC?  It's me, Ginger...

Man's best electronic friend

Clara Oswald's and Robin Hood's costumes from "Robot of Sherwood"

As is often the case with tourist sites, I could only exit the main exhibition hall after being funneled through a gift shop, presumably in the hope that I would spend a bucket of money on souvenirs.  Much of the stuff on offer was typical touristy schlock, but there were a few good things including some collectibles I either couldn't justify expense-wise or couldn't risk damaging in my overstuffed suitcase on the way home.  So I settled for a couple of less breakable shirts, including a royal blue zip-up hoodie printed with "I.M. Foreman, Scrap Yard" in an homage to the very first episode.  I also sprung for the rather disappointing "Merchandise Pack," which included a certificate identifying me as an "official companion," a fancy souvenir ticket, a booklet about the exhibition (which was decent), and a t-shirt--though they were out of the sizes I wanted and so took my address to mail me one when they were back in stock.  I was most excited about the souvenir Tardis key included in the pack, thinking it would look like the ones used in the show.  It didn't.  Instead it was a perfectly normal and boring key stamped with "Doctor Who Experience."  Sigh...so lame.

Is that really the best you can do, Doctor Who Experience?  Really??

In spite of the kitschiness here and there, I really enjoyed the exhibition.  It's good to let one's inner geek out for fresh air every once in a while...keeps them from getting cranky (or too pasty).  Upon exiting the gift shop I came out in the main lobby next to a life-sized Dalek made of over 157,000 Cobi bricks (a Lego lookalike).  There was also a little cafe in the lobby whose menu, not surprisingly, had appropriately-themed item names (as did the wifi password); they even had small packages of Jelly Babies for sale (4th Doctor not included!).  I purchased a banana for a snack and a couple bottles of water to stash in my backpack. In an unusual stroke of luck for me, one of the sightseeing buses pulled to a stop nearby just as I was leaving the exhibition hall.  I was able to purchase a ticket directly from the driver and hop aboard, climbing to the top of the double-decker bus where I took a seat and plugged in my earphones.  The audio commentary on these buses always makes me smile; I'm convinced the narrators smirk their way through the entire script; they are my people.  The bus drove past the Millenium Centre, but this time the audio track explained the history and gave me a clue what was written on the front.  For those interested, it's two lines of poetry by Welsh poet Gwyneth Lewis: Creu Gwir fel gwydr o ffwrnais awen ("Creating truth like glass from the furnace of inspiration") in Welsh and "In These Stones Horizons Sing" in English.  The words are made up of windows and are apparently lit up at night.  I'd like to have seen that.  I also learned from the audio that Lloyd George, Welshman and former British Prime Minister, was supposedly quite the womanizer.  As we made our way through town I saw several lovely old buildings, including a historic Norwegian (Lutheran) church and the Millennium Stadium, home to the Wales National Rugby Union team.  I gather that Rugby is big in Wales.

Millennium Centre

Millennium Stadium

One of the stops was at Cardiff Castle and rather than finishing the bus tour just then I jumped off to make sure I had adequate time to see the castle and its environs. What's cool about Cardiff Castle is that it has building elements spanning centuries.  A Roman fort was built on the site around the 3rd century; some of the original wall was recently excavated and is now on display.  Then, in the late 11th century at the probable behest of William the Conquerer, the Norman invaders built a bailey castle over the ruins of the Roman fort.  Additional repairs and buildings were added over subsequent centuries, making Cardiff Castle an unusual conglomeration of building styles.  Cooler still (at least to me), the castle was held by the de Clare family for a century or two; in fact, the Black Tower still standing there was commissioned by one Gilbert de Clare, who was one of the 25 Magna Carta barons and, coincidentally, one of my ancestors.  This closed the circle on a weird serendipity for me...first I saw Magna Carta in Salisbury Cathedral during its 800th anniversary year and then I was able to go touch a tower built by one of its protectors who came from my own family line.  Funny how seemingly unrelated events end up tying together like that.  I'm not gonna lie; it left me a little breathless.  Even without that little connection the castle has quite an interesting history, having featured prominently in the War of the Roses and been held at different times by both the Nevilles and the Tudors.

11th Century Keep at Cardiff Castle.

The Black Tower, built by Gilbert de Clare, aka Grandpa

On my way up to the keep I saw a small gate house with a stockade nearby.  Across the grounds stood a medieval trebuchet all silent and poised as though performing active sentry duty.  I walked past the remains of another defensive wall which once connected the Keep to the Black Tower.  I hiked up myriad stairs to reach the top of the medieval keep, where I was treated to some stunning views of Cardiff.  I wish I'd thought to take a selfie of myself up there or asked another visitor to snap a photo for me, but I was so entranced by the landscape that I completely forgot.  The castle keep was built very similarly to the one I saw in Arundel with Alan, the memory of which made me smile.  I didn't run into any scary toddlers jumping out of niches at this keep, though. As I looked down from the 77 foot high parapet and across the moat, I could see a wedding party leaving the Georgian house on the grounds to line up so the newlywed couple could run the traditional rice-throwing gauntlet.

View of Cardiff from the castle keep.

Because why wouldn't you get married at a castle if you could?

Once back down on solid ground I returned my audio guide to the gift shop and purchased a couple small souvenirs, then left the castle grounds and went across the street to do some proper shopping at a place recommended by Phil, one of the guys I'd met at Whooverville.  I almost bought one of the beautifully-carved Welsh love spoons (they're a big deal in Wales), but they were incredibly expensive so I regretfully passed them by.  I did finally get my Welsh dragon necklace, though, and even purchased earrings to match.  Afterwards I headed back across the street to the bus stop where I discovered to my chagrin that I had missed the last pickup of the day--just as I had in Edinburgh.  Darn those fall hours!!  So I only got half my bus tour.  But that's okay; I was more than happy to exchange the reduced off-season running hours for the beautiful weather and fewer tourists in town.  With bus transport no longer an option, I started hoofing it to a nearby mall to see about purchasing a second small suitcase so I could get all my swag home on the plane.  Unfortunately, all the shops were either closed or closing by the time I got there.  Still, I got to do some serious people-watching as I walked along the busy arcade, observing first a small child dribbling melted ice cream while eating a cone, then several buskers playing drums, and finally some Asian girls wearing what looked like some anime cosplay outfits.

I had just stopped near the end of a street off the arcade and to figure out where to go next when a young girl stopped me to ask for directions to the train station.  I found this supremely amusing and ironic since I likewise had no clue where I was going, but apparently I looked safe and/or reliable and she stood looking up at me with wide-eyed innocence and trust. I sighed and pulled out my map from the hotel, pointing out the way for her as best I could.  Then I found a taxi parked on the street and gave the name of my hotel.  Once again the driver grumbled and muttered that I should just walk.  What is the deal with Cardiff taxis anyway?  I realize I'm not providing large fares, but surely making some money is better than sitting there making none?   I climbed into the cab and, because my feet were hurting again, I insisted he drive me anyway.  The driver grimaced but put the car in gear, hurtling down the road at high speed as if in a hurry to get rid of me.  He probably was, wanting to go off in search of more lucrative plunder. After retrieving my luggage from lockup, I sat for a while in the lobby till my feet felt better, then got up and walked the five minutes to the train station.

Originally I'd planned to spend two nights in Cardiff, but ultimately decided I was over schlepping all my crap to a different hotel every night and thought that a nice, quiet afternoon in London before getting up early to fly home sounded delightful.  The train ride back to London proved to be a colorful one; first we were delayed while the train in front of us had mechanical problems.  Then the door to my carriage, which was immediately behind me, decided it didn't want to stay closed when anyone walked through it, so for over an hour I was treated to the loud bangs and rattles of the carriage junction slamming into the tracks while a cool wind kept whooshing in through the door.  I tried fixing it once or twice to no avail.  Eventually the door sorted itself out, but it took over an hour to do so.  Next a guy on his phone walked through the carriage and out into the junction to talk loudly about sports to whomever was on the other end.  He said he'd given up on football (or maybe it was rugby) and was doing handball now...I think that's what he said, anyway.  His conversation then became extremely animated and heavily peppered with the word "fuck."  You would have sworn he had just stepped out of a British sports movie...it was that comical.  He finally disembarked right before we arrived at Paddington station. The couple sitting next to me, who were probably in their late 50s and who were very nattily dressed, muttered to each other that you could still hear the guy even after he'd gotten off the train...which you could.  And for probably another 300 yards before he finally went out of earshot.  The couple looked at each other and I started smirking, so they looked at me and we all exchanged knowing glances.  You've got to love the British...they are so understated and yet so much meaning can be conveyed in just one such eloquent glance.  I couldn't help asking myself "Why do I not live here yet???"  You know, because I'm so understated myself and all.

A couple of stops later the train arrived at Paddington. I purchased a ticket for the Heathrow Express, having cannily reserved a hotel room within walking distance of the airport so I could avoid any rush hour transportation delays before my plane's very early departure Monday morning.  As I was walking to the platform I was accosted by some man looking for money to get home "because his bank card was empty," etc., etc.  It sounded like the same old scam as at home; someone asks for money and if you offer to call someone or offer some other form of tangible aid and it's all "No, no, I just need X amount of money!"  I felt bad about turning him down but he was quite persistent which made it a little easier.  I had to wait a while for the train to show up and then to get moving, presumably because it was quite late at night, but finally the train zipped along towards Heathrow.  A transfer and a 10-minute walk later, I checked into the Heathrow Hilton where I was given a free upgrade to a "King Executive Room" with complimentary breakfast and internet.  Who knew keeping hotel loyalty cards you rarely use could come in so handy?  Plus the room came with "amenities," by which I mean "mini bar with exorbitantly overpriced snacks and sodas."  Personally I was far more excited by the free internet since most hotels over here charge for that unless you are a loyalty member.  I made myself comfortable and then climbed into the bed where I promptly fell asleep halfway through posting on Facebook, phone still in hand.  I found it under me the next morning.  Yup...that's how I roll.

Welsh Kilt Count:  8

Observations from the Mothership: Day 11

The Day I Explored Cardiff

This morning before wandering the streets of Cardiff, I took the time to consume another delicious "full English" breakfast in the hotel restaurant while sitting at a table overlooking the drizzly, rainy city streets.  I figured going out in the gloom today was only fair considering that Great Britain is supposed to be notorious for rainy weather and yet in the ten days I've been here, I've encountered rain only once when I was in Edinburgh and for only an hour and even that wasn't much more than a misty drizzle.  I've been supremely fortunate with the weather thus far, enjoying temperate and frequently sunny days in the upper 50s and low 60s.  What more could a pale girl ask?

Minus the fried tomatoes and mushrooms.  Yum!

After breakfast I once again checked out and stowed my belongings in the luggage lockup like the travel boss I've become.  The desk clerks were very helpful, both with my bags and with giving me a map and directions for how to access most of Cardiff on foot.  They also didn't laugh at me last night when I accidentally locked myself out of my room while putting my dinner tray in the hallway and had to come down to the lobby in my pajama pants and bare feet for a replacement key card.  Yay for consummate professionals!

I was interested in touring the city on one of the local "hop on, hop off" sightseeing buses because I've found them to be a quick and efficient way to get around as well as a good way to learn a lot about the city I'm visiting,   However, I also wanted to see the Doctor Who Experience (yes, I know, I'm a giant geek...it's been mentioned)  but the tickets already appeared to be sold out online and I hadn't pre-booked because I was trying to leave my time in Wales flexible in case I found some genealogy trail I needed to run to ground.  I knew I ran the risk of screwing myself over by not prebooking, but I figured since there's never enough time to see everything I want anyway I could just pick and choose activities as time and availability allowed.  As a result, I eschewed the bus for the moment and instead walked down to the bay in an attempt to get Doctor Who tickets at the door before they were all gone.

The walk was supposed to take 10 minutes but probably took more like 30 by the time I actually reached the Doctor Who Experience on the other side of Cardiff Bay; no doubt it would have been shorter had I not ended up going the long way around after getting faulty directions from some construction workers on the street.  Still, the rain had stopped before I left the hotel and it was turning into a beautiful day so the walk, while long, was pleasant.  En route I passed the dramatic Millennium Centre for arts and music, sheathed in the slate for which Wales is renowned.  Near the Centre I watched as a parade of festively-dressed people marched down a distant sidewalk for some inexplicable reason. I also walked by a very amusing street sign for the Doctor Who Experience which featured no words but which sported a Dalek and and arrow pointing the way to the site.  I strolled by the Pierhead Building on Cardiff Bay; it boasts its own clock tower affectionately known as "Baby Big Ben" or "Big Ben of Wales."  Standing next to this building were two entertainers (or so I assumed) on stilts who looked a bit like Groot from Guardians of the Galaxy, or possibly like some of Tolkien's Ents.  As they were largely just hanging around doing nothing, I've no idea why they were there but they were certainly unique.  Clearly it's all go in Cardiff on a Saturday.

"This way to the Long John Silver's salt shakers..."

Pierhead Building

Your guess is as good as mine.

Getting tickets to the Doctor Who Experience proved no problem after all; I purchased my ticket and was able to walk pretty much straight into the next viewing.  I smirked at a girl in front of me as the line moved because her shirt was emblazoned with a pseudo-Disney logo reading "Dismal and Bemusement Park."  All throughout the lobby were several props from the television show; we passed additional props and costumes displayed just outside the entrance to the exhibition as we threaded through the line barriers.  In order to avoid spoilers for future visitors we were not allowed to take photos during the "experience" part of the exhibition, which proved to be a terribly cheesy and trumped-up "action-adventure" clearly geared towards children.  Once through our dubious adventure we were funneled into a far more interesting museum of props and costumes and such from the many years Doctor Who has been on television.  My favorites were the oldest items from when the show started over 50 years ago, including a model of the original TARDIS set and the mock-up of the first TARDIS interior which was used in the movie "An Adventure in Time and Space" about how Doctor Who came into existence.  They even had the soundboard of the grand piano used to create the original theme song. Meanwhile, some of the early monster/alien costumes just made me laugh; they looked so ineptly constructed when examined in person.

Mockup of the original sets.

Original TARDIS console replica

Other notable displays included Jon Pertwee's yellow roadster "Bessie," a mockup of Tom Baker's Tardis interior, complete with a coat rack draped in one of his later, more purpley giant scarves, and several TARDISes, including one used in the filming of the 50th anniversary special "The Day of the Doctor."  I also got to see K-9, who is perhaps one of my favorite characters of the entire show and who was significantly larger than I expected.  After examining the mostly older set pieces downstairs, I moved upstairs to explore the remaining displays, most of which consisted of assorted costumes--including the clothing of each and every Doctor incarnation to date.  While I wish there had been less emphasis on items from the current Doctor's and previous Doctor's eras (understandable given the relative accessibility of such items) as opposed to a more equitable representation of all the Doctor's incarnations, I really appreciated the ability to look at all the costumes up close and with a seamstress' eye.  As with most theater costuming for the stage, the assorted clothing I viewed looked much better on film and in motion than it did on stationary stands.  In addition to thinking that the current companion Jenna Coleman must be impossibly tiny based on the size of her costumes ("Impossible Girl" indeed), my overwhelming opinion as I strolled through all the displays (especially the women's clothing) was that I could have easily made any of them myself (and probably done better). Clearly the BBC needs to put me on staff immediately.  Are you there, BBC?  It's me, Ginger...

Man's best electronic friend

Clara Oswald's and Robin Hood's costumes from "Robot of Sherwood"

As is often the case with tourist sites, I could only exit the main exhibition hall after being funneled through a gift shop, presumably in the hope that I would spend a bucket of money on souvenirs.  Much of the stuff on offer was typical touristy schlock, but there were a few good things including some collectibles I either couldn't justify expense-wise or couldn't risk damaging in my overstuffed suitcase on the way home.  So I settled for a couple of less breakable shirts, including a royal blue zip-up hoodie printed with "I.M. Foreman, Scrap Yard" in an homage to the very first episode.  I also sprung for the rather disappointing "Merchandise Pack," which included a certificate identifying me as an "official companion," a fancy souvenir ticket, a booklet about the exhibition (which was decent), and a t-shirt--though they were out of the sizes I wanted and so took my address to mail me one when they were back in stock.  I was most excited about the souvenir Tardis key included in the pack, thinking it would look like the ones used in the show.  It didn't.  Instead it was a perfectly normal and boring key stamped with "Doctor Who Experience."  Sigh...so lame.

Is that really the best you can do, Doctor Who Experience?  Really??

In spite of the kitschiness here and there, I really enjoyed the exhibition.  It's good to let one's inner geek out for fresh air every once in a while...keeps them from getting cranky (or too pasty).  Upon exiting the gift shop I came out in the main lobby next to a life-sized Dalek made of over 157,000 Cobi bricks (a Lego lookalike).  There was also a little cafe in the lobby whose menu, not surprisingly, had appropriately-themed item names (as did the wifi password); they even had small packages of Jelly Babies for sale (4th Doctor not included!).  I purchased a banana for a snack and a couple bottles of water to stash in my backpack. In an unusual stroke of luck for me, one of the sightseeing buses pulled to a stop nearby just as I was leaving the exhibition hall.  I was able to purchase a ticket directly from the driver and hop aboard, climbing to the top of the double-decker bus where I took a seat and plugged in my earphones.  The audio commentary on these buses always makes me smile; I'm convinced the narrators smirk their way through the entire script; they are my people.  The bus drove past the Millenium Centre, but this time the audio track explained the history and gave me a clue what was written on the front.  For those interested, it's two lines of poetry by Welsh poet Gwyneth Lewis: Creu Gwir fel gwydr o ffwrnais awen ("Creating truth like glass from the furnace of inspiration") in Welsh and "In These Stones Horizons Sing" in English.  The words are made up of windows and are apparently lit up at night.  I'd like to have seen that.  I also learned from the audio that Lloyd George, Welshman and former British Prime Minister, was supposedly quite the womanizer.  As we made our way through town I saw several lovely old buildings, including a historic Norwegian (Lutheran) church and the Millennium Stadium, home to the Wales National Rugby Union team.  I gather that Rugby is big in Wales.

Millennium Centre

Millennium Stadium

One of the stops was at Cardiff Castle and rather than finishing the bus tour just then I jumped off to make sure I had adequate time to see the castle and its environs. What's cool about Cardiff Castle is that it has building elements spanning centuries.  A Roman fort was built on the site around the 3rd century; some of the original wall was recently excavated and is now on display.  Then, in the late 11th century at the probable behest of William the Conquerer, the Norman invaders built a bailey castle over the ruins of the Roman fort.  Additional repairs and buildings were added over subsequent centuries, making Cardiff Castle an unusual conglomeration of building styles.  Cooler still (at least to me), the castle was held by the de Clare family for a century or two; in fact, the Black Tower still standing there was commissioned by one Gilbert de Clare, who was one of the 25 Magna Carta barons and, coincidentally, one of my ancestors.  This closed the circle on a weird serendipity for me...first I saw Magna Carta in Salisbury Cathedral during its 800th anniversary year and then I was able to go touch a tower built by one of its protectors who came from my own family line.  Funny how seemingly unrelated events end up tying together like that.  I'm not gonna lie; it left me a little breathless.  Even without that little connection the castle has quite an interesting history, having featured prominently in the War of the Roses and been held at different times by both the Nevilles and the Tudors.

11th Century Keep at Cardiff Castle.

The Black Tower, built by Gilbert de Clare, aka Grandpa

On my way up to the keep I saw a small gate house with a stockade nearby.  Across the grounds stood a medieval trebuchet all silent and poised as though performing active sentry duty.  I walked past the remains of another defensive wall which once connected the Keep to the Black Tower.  I hiked up myriad stairs to reach the top of the medieval keep, where I was treated to some stunning views of Cardiff.  I wish I'd thought to take a selfie of myself up there or asked another visitor to snap a photo for me, but I was so entranced by the landscape that I completely forgot.  The castle keep was built very similarly to the one I saw in Arundel with Alan, the memory of which made me smile.  I didn't run into any scary toddlers jumping out of niches at this keep, though. As I looked down from the 77 foot high parapet and across the moat, I could see a wedding party leaving the Georgian house on the grounds to line up so the newlywed couple could run the traditional rice-throwing gauntlet.

View of Cardiff from the castle keep.

Because why wouldn't you get married at a castle if you could?

Once back down on solid ground I returned my audio guide to the gift shop and purchased a couple small souvenirs, then left the castle grounds and went across the street to do some proper shopping at a place recommended by Phil, one of the guys I'd met at Whooverville.  I almost bought one of the beautifully-carved Welsh love spoons (they're a big deal in Wales), but they were incredibly expensive so I regretfully passed them by.  I did finally get my Welsh dragon necklace, though, and even purchased earrings to match.  Afterwards I headed back across the street to the bus stop where I discovered to my chagrin that I had missed the last pickup of the day--just as I had in Edinburgh.  Darn those fall hours!!  So I only got half my bus tour.  But that's okay; I was more than happy to exchange the reduced off-season running hours for the beautiful weather and fewer tourists in town.  With bus transport no longer an option, I started hoofing it to a nearby mall to see about purchasing a second small suitcase so I could get all my swag home on the plane.  Unfortunately, all the shops were either closed or closing by the time I got there.  Still, I got to do some serious people-watching as I walked along the busy arcade, observing first a small child dribbling melted ice cream while eating a cone, then several buskers playing drums, and finally some Asian girls wearing what looked like some anime cosplay outfits.

I had just stopped near the end of a street off the arcade and to figure out where to go next when a young girl stopped me to ask for directions to the train station.  I found this supremely amusing and ironic since I likewise had no clue where I was going, but apparently I looked safe and/or reliable and she stood looking up at me with wide-eyed innocence and trust. I sighed and pulled out my map from the hotel, pointing out the way for her as best I could.  Then I found a taxi parked on the street and gave the name of my hotel.  Once again the driver grumbled and muttered that I should just walk.  What is the deal with Cardiff taxis anyway?  I realize I'm not providing large fares, but surely making some money is better than sitting there making none?   I climbed into the cab and, because my feet were hurting again, I insisted he drive me anyway.  The driver grimaced but put the car in gear, hurtling down the road at high speed as if in a hurry to get rid of me.  He probably was, wanting to go off in search of more lucrative plunder. After retrieving my luggage from lockup, I sat for a while in the lobby till my feet felt better, then got up and walked the five minutes to the train station.

Originally I'd planned to spend two nights in Cardiff, but ultimately decided I was over schlepping all my crap to a different hotel every night and thought that a nice, quiet afternoon in London before getting up early to fly home sounded delightful.  The train ride back to London proved to be a colorful one; first we were delayed while the train in front of us had mechanical problems.  Then the door to my carriage, which was immediately behind me, decided it didn't want to stay closed when anyone walked through it, so for over an hour I was treated to the loud bangs and rattles of the carriage junction slamming into the tracks while a cool wind kept whooshing in through the door.  I tried fixing it once or twice to no avail.  Eventually the door sorted itself out, but it took over an hour to do so.  Next a guy on his phone walked through the carriage and out into the junction to talk loudly about sports to whomever was on the other end.  He said he'd given up on football (or maybe it was rugby) and was doing handball now...I think that's what he said, anyway.  His conversation then became extremely animated and heavily peppered with the word "fuck."  You would have sworn he had just stepped out of a British sports movie...it was that comical.  He finally disembarked right before we arrived at Paddington station. The couple sitting next to me, who were probably in their late 50s and who were very nattily dressed, muttered to each other that you could still hear the guy even after he'd gotten off the train...which you could.  And for probably another 300 yards before he finally went out of earshot.  The couple looked at each other and I started smirking, so they looked at me and we all exchanged knowing glances.  You've got to love the British...they are so understated and yet so much meaning can be conveyed in just one such eloquent glance.  I couldn't help asking myself "Why do I not live here yet???"  You know, because I'm so understated myself and all.

A couple of stops later the train arrived at Paddington. I purchased a ticket for the Heathrow Express, having cannily reserved a hotel room within walking distance of the airport so I could avoid any rush hour transportation delays before my plane's very early departure Monday morning.  As I was walking to the platform I was accosted by some man looking for money to get home "because his bank card was empty," etc., etc.  It sounded like the same old scam as at home; someone asks for money and if you offer to call someone or offer some other form of tangible aid and it's all "No, no, I just need X amount of money!"  I felt bad about turning him down but he was quite persistent which made it a little easier.  I had to wait a while for the train to show up and then to get moving, presumably because it was quite late at night, but finally the train zipped along towards Heathrow.  A transfer and a 10-minute walk later, I checked into the Heathrow Hilton where I was given a free upgrade to a "King Executive Room" with complimentary breakfast and internet.  Who knew keeping hotel loyalty cards you rarely use could come in so handy?  Plus the room came with "amenities," by which I mean "mini bar with exorbitantly overpriced snacks and sodas."  Personally I was far more excited by the free internet since most hotels over here charge for that unless you are a loyalty member.  I made myself comfortable and then climbed into the bed where I promptly fell asleep halfway through posting on Facebook, phone still in hand.  I found it under me the next morning.  Yup...that's how I roll.

Welsh Kilt Count:  8

Observations from the Mothership: Day 6

The Day I Cavorted with Druids

After getting a late start back to London from Littlehampton after a lovely day with Alan and his family, I finally arrived and checked into my hotel around 12:30 am.  I decided it was far too late for a nap at that point because I knew in my current state I'd never manage to rouse myself in time to make my 4 am pick up for the Stonehenge and Salisbury tour.  Besides, I can sleep when I'm dead, right?  Instead I killed some time taking a shower and knocking back a Coke (yay, caffeine!) then checking my messages since I've discovered that wi-fi on the railways is spotty at best when it's available at all.  Makes blogging a good bit more difficult, I have to say--all those hours in transit would be the perfect time to write but, alas, I've also yet to locate and key in the code for Microsoft office on my laptop so no internet and no word processing.  Sigh.

After a fresh change of clothes I headed off a little early towards Baker St (yes, that Baker St, Sherlock Holmes fans) for my 4 am pick up in front of the local McDonald's, which was cruelly closed and thus unable to provide either caffeine or sustenance for my poor, sleep-deprived body.  After standing around for 10-15 minutes on the deserted street a short, plucky woman cannoned up to me and asked if I was there for the tour.  When I said I was, she visibly relaxed, presumably relieved to be in the correct place and not standing there alone in the wee hours.  Her name was Sari and she stood a good few inches shorter than me, her frizzy grey-brown hair peeping out from under her bucket hat.  She seemed full of energy even for the obscenely early hour and we hit it off right away.

Elementary, my dear Watson.

Shortly after meeting Sari our tour bus arrived; we pretty much had our pick of seats since we were one of the earliest stops.  On board we met Salvo, a small little man of indeterminate ethnicity who looked more like a jockey trying to ride a 747 than a bus driver and our tour guide "Stacey with an E," a quintessential London woman with light cocoa skin and a full head of ample curls pulled back into a pony tail; she was wearing big hoop earrings and a stylish wool poncho.  Stacey with an E was absolutely gorgeous and could easily have passed for a model. Friendly and perky, she welcomed Sari and I onto the bus and we took seats next to each other.  Once all passengers for the tour had been collected, Stacey with an E went over some announcements and then we all promptly proceeded to pass out.  It took me a while to doze off; I guess when you've been operating on little more than caffeine and adrenaline for several days, it's possible to be too tired to relax.  By the time I finally started to sleep, I was struck by the dull quiet of the other passengers on board.  Driving around in the dark like that made it seem like we were all aboard a zombie bus to Stonehenge, perhaps to offer up bits of ourselves in sacrifice to any resident druids.

I don't know how long I slept, but eventually Stacey with an E woke us all up for some final instructions as we neared the car park at Stonehenge.  Leaving the bus and our jockey driver Salvo behind, we traipsed down a hill from the parking lot towards the Visitor Center where everyone could make a pit stop before heading to the site. I was particularly fascinated by the toilet flushes, which had a weird, hollow echo, almost as if they were calling back to the Neolithic era--a bawoosh from eons past, if you will.  It was kind of creepy in the early morning hours, actually.  Who knew that druids had flush toilets back in the day?

After everyone had a chance to use the facilities, we all gathered down in front of the gift shop for yet more instruction and to await a shuttle bus which would take us within a few yards of the henge.  I was shivering so hard my teeth were actually chattering.  It was a little chilly at the bus given the early hour, but for some reason out in front of the gift shop it was fricking freezing.  Fortunately the shuttle was minutely warmer, and I climbed aboard behind an older woman with an impossibly tight butt for someone her age...I'll admit it; I was totally jealous.    Clearly she's been getting her money's worth out of those Jane Fonda videos.

We arrived at Stonehenge proper around 6:30 am and had the place entirely to ourselves for an hour, during which Stacey with an E imparted more information about the site and helped us to take our obligatory photos.  The only caveat was that we could not touch the stones directly, something I flagrantly defied when I later backed up to take a photo and tripped over a partially hidden ground stone.  Whoops!  (I'm such a rebel.)

Stonehenge, just after daybreak.

I was surprised by how close some of the roped-off walks came to the circle--I'd always thought they were much farther away--and also by the size of the circle itself.  Compared to the professional and/or panoramic photos one usually sees of Stonehenge, it seemed much smaller than I had anticipated.  I was also intrigued by the reactions to the site of the various members of our group.  Mostly people were just taking photos everywhere: there were the two European girls clearly doing the Instagram sorts of photos by every stone, an Asian couple who likewise snapped a photo every few paces while managing to look supremely apathetic in nearly every shot, there was Goth Selfie-Stick guy walking around in circles holding a camera/video over his head like a boom mike without the slightest clue if any shot was ever even in frame, and then there were the Americans with cameras as big as my first apartment.  Beyond these were a couple of other completely unrelated women who marked much of their time standing in the shafts of light coming through the stones from the sunrise.  One seemed to be muttering prayers while the other appeared to be absorbing the light as though taking it into her very being.  It was absolutely fascinating observing the different effects the circle had on each person.

As for myself, I enjoyed the experience on a more visceral level: the thick, misty fog blanketing the neighboring fields gave the stone circle an eerie, otherworldly appearance; the deeply dew-saturated grass around the circle soaked through my shoes, making them as cool and damp as I imagine the stones themselves must have felt in the early morning mist; and the break of dawn glinting through and bending around the stones in rays of orange flame seemed to burn right through me.  It was quite sublime.

I wandered the stones along with everyone else, taking my photos and spending an inordinate amount of time waiting for my fellow travelers to move out of frame.  I even got someone to take some pictures of me pretending to touch the stones like Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser of Outlander fame in the hopes of falling through time and into the arms of a dashing young kilted Scotsman.  (Didn't work, by the way.)  As I wandered around, I happened upon a small medallion tucked away in a tuft of grass.  It had a picture of St. George slaying the dragon and looked like it had fallen off a necklace or perhaps a keyring.  I pocketed it so Stacey with an E could ask anyone had lost it once everyone returned to the bus.  I also swiped a small pebble from the nearby walkway for a friend who'd asked me for a stone from Stonehenge when the Heritage Site cops weren't looking, the pathway being the best I could really do.  Aside from being a protected site, there simply weren't any stones around the henge itself given that the entire area is covered in grass and the stones themselves have long since eroded nearly smooth.  Hopefully a path pebble will be close enough to suit her, though, and not get me extradited.

St. George slaying the druid dragon.

After our private hour at the circle was up, we returned to the shuttle bus and rode back down to the Visitor Center where another group was getting ready to go up to the stones for their own special access tour. To me that seemed a waste; if you're going to get up ridiculously early to hang out right next to Stonehenge anyway, why do the one after sunrise?  Still, I suppose it's better than being kept behind the barriers, though at least then it would be easier to get good photos without everyone walking unintentionally photobombing them.  Everyone was sad to leave without purchasing any souvenirs, but sadly the gift shop didn't open for another 90 minutes. We did get to walk around a display of Neolithic huts near the Visitor Center, however; I especially enjoyed the clearly Neolithic padlocks chaining all the hut doors shut.

Those locks probably came from Druid Depot, right?

Eventually we all piled back onto the bus and headed off to Salisbury to get a little breakfast before touring the town and the cathedral.  I ended up having breakfast with Sari, who turned out to be from near Perth, Australia.  We waited in line to order our food, listening to the cashier constantly spouting "Fantastic!"  after virtually every statement he made to anyone, not unlike Christopher Eccleston as Doctor Who.  While waiting for our food, I quickly discovered Sari and I had a fair bit in common. Both of us had just purchased Fitbit Charges that we were still trying to figure out, both of us were on our third trips to Europe, and both of us really enjoy attending the theater.  In fact, Sari had just scored a last-minute canceled ticket to see Benedict Cumberbatch in Hamlet at the Barbican that evening.  I was totally jealous, but didn't begrudge her since I get to see a play at the Globe tomorrow.  I hope she enjoyed the show; I wonder how it was.  I also learned that both of us have done some genealogy research and come to the conclusion that walking where our ancestors walked and just experiencing their worlds is at least as important as finding out all the historical facts about them; as a result we refused to punish ourselves for not having the time to find out every fact on our too-short trips.  I was proud of us for being so realistic with our time and resources...clearly we rock at adulting.

Sari and I spent the next 15 minutes finishing our breakfasts and complaining about how rude and disrespectful other nationalities can be to a host country.  I'm looking at you here, the half of the United States who thinks that the world revolves around you and/or that the sun shines out your nether regions--those of you who routinely think everyone in every other country of the world should serve the food you like and on your schedule or speak English just because you showed up, even though you fully expect anyone stepping on our shores to speak perfect English or to get out of the country because "'Murica!," which is just code for us being a bunch of big, fat hypocrites. Sari complained of fellow Aussies as well; I guess there's just gotta be some in every crowd.  She mentioned once overhearing an American complaining that the French refuse to speak English to us because they're snotty and stuck up, as opposed to because we are demanding, entitled assholes.  As far as I'm concerned, why even bother going to another country if you're not going to try to absorb and appreciate the local culture, people, and food?  What's the point?  But I digress.

After breakfast Sari and I walked over to the cathedral to meet Stacey with an E and retrieve our tickets; Stacey with an E also offered to take our pictures in front of the cathedral as she'd done at Stonehenge.  Sari and I walked into the cathedral together but she stopped to look at something and said she'd catch up with me.  We lost track of each other completely after that, and I didn't see her again till we got back to the bus.

I love you, Stacey with an E, but don't quit your day job for photography.

Not surprisingly, I spent most of my time at the cathedral gawking at the architecture.  Other people fangirl over celebrities; I lust after books and medieval architecture like some sort of Master Builder groupie.  At least I didn't throw my linen shift at any of the buildings like a complete tramp.  A girl has to have at least a few standards.  Really, though, the cathedral was stunning.  Perhaps what I love most about such European buildings, though, isn't even the design as much as the scale.  So many of these buildings are simply enormous, towering overhead like a giant's erector set.  But then I suppose that's rather the point, really, at least for the cathedrals which are built both as a love letter to the God who will be worshipped in them as well as a reminder to mankind how small we are in comparison to the Almighty.  Or so I'm guessing.  The artistry in the soaring stone walls and vaults or the woodwork is absolutely glorious, particularly when one considers how many months/years/decades most of these edifices took to be built.  How cool would it be to live in a place where there was a medieval castle across the street?  I imagine the novelty would wear off quickly for someone local, but personally, I'd love it.

Salisbury Cathedral...wouldn't you hate to be the one responsible for dusting those vaults?

In spite of all Salisbury Cathedral's extraordinary beauty or notable claims such as having the tallest spire in the UK and supposedly having the oldest working clock in the world (dating from the late 1300s), I think I might have preferred the cathedral in Arundel, which I found very striking as well.  The detailing there was perhaps less grandiose, but I still found it very elegant.

After touring the main cathedral, I wandered over to the chapter house to view Salisbury's copy of the Magna Carta, one of four still in existence.  Apparently it's the best copy as well because the scribe was more educated and making the copy from an original for himself (you could even see where the ribbon marks from where the seal had been) as opposed to hack scribes working from copies. The calligraphy was quite lovely; it was a beautiful document, I have to say, and in a much clearer script than the one I saw in the British Library several years ago.  We weren't allowed to take photos of it, though, because of the age and delicacy of the document.  Seeing Magna Carta was a big deal for me, not because this year mark's the document's 800th anniversary, but because at least two of the 25 Magna Carta Barons appointed to ensure the king's compliance with the document are my distant relatives.  And that's just cool.

Salisbury Cathedral Chapter House, where Magna Carta was displayed.

Outside the Magna Carta display.

Afterwards, I walked back through town towards the car park where the bus was waiting, where Stacey with an E cheerily said hi, then demanded to see all the swag I'd purchased at the gift shop.  While we were chatting, I asked if there was any chance of us making a quick stop back at the Stonehenge gift shop.    She pondered the question, saying "Let me think on it" several times.  About that time Sari climbed back on board and we started chatting so it slipped my mind.  Once everyone was back inside, though, Stacey with an E informed us that she'd been making inquiries with her boss and had gotten permission for a brief stop if everyone wanted it.  Apparently most of the passengers did (I was sitting in front so couldn't see), because several people started clapping in approval.  And so we got an extra half hour to hit the gift shop and/or exhibition at Stonehenge on the way back to London, thus validating once again my favorite motto "Don't ask, don't get!"  Yes, I know it's supposed to be "nothing ventured, nothing gained," but I like mine better.  While on the bus Stacey with an E also asked if anyone had lost the medallion I found, but no one claimed it so now I have an bonus souvenir directly from the grounds of Stonehenge.  Score!

The River Avon, running through Salisbury.

On the way back to the gift shop, Sari and I were walking beside a guy from Arizona who has managed to rip the leg of his cargo shorts a little more each time he steps off the bus because he keeps catching it on the railing.  So I asked him if he was trying to emulate a naked druid.  He just laughed and then said he'd deliberately emailed some friends earlier that he was on his way to see the droids at Stonehenge just to make them twitch.  Sounds like my kind of guy.

I enjoyed the drive back to London, what with the being awake and there being daylight enough to see where we were going.  As usual, I found much of the signage along the way particularly amusing, such as the shop on the way out of Salisbury called Stonehenge Carvery, which just makes it sound like Wiltshire has something hinky going on up at the stones.  We also passed something called The Dental Lounge.  I don't know about you, but I have never found dentistry very lounge-worthy.  It's the one thing that makes me twitch every time I go.  Next we passed the Three Kings Pub and were told by Stacey with an E that the three kings referenced were Henry VIII, Charles I, and Elvis.  Because why not?  There was a shop in Knightsbridge for big and tall men called "High and Mighty," which made me wonder once again why big men's shops are always so illustrious and grand-sounding while stores for big women invariably sound more like "Fat and Schlumpy."  You know, like Dress BARN, or how everything is "plus-sized" for the inexcusably non-skinny, as in "Oh, crap, we have to add more fabric..."

Bag O'Nails...mmmmm, tasty!

As we drove through afternoon traffic we also passed a Lamborghini shop and a store with the Michelin Man rendered above its doors in stained glass, making him look disconcertingly like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.  We likewise passed a 35' tall sculpture of a disembodied horse head pointing nose down. Lastly, as we were passing Wellington Place, Stacey with an E told us all about how the statue of David had to be turned around so his rear was facing the street because he had been causing traffic accidents previously...as well he might.

Who ya' gonna call?

I returned tired but happy after a long but rewarding day to find the door to my hotel room slightly ajar, much to my consternation.  I cautiously pushed it open to find a maid in my room messing about with the bathroom.  She backed away, apologizing and mumbling largely gibberish punctuated by the occasional "Okay?"  I've no idea where she left her cart.  I nodded, seeing nothing out of place, and she nervously backed out the door, bucket in hand.  Once she was gone I decided to avail myself of the much-needed facilities, only to have the outer door suddenly open while I was sitting there mid-pee.  Startled, I hurriedly pushed the bathroom door shut with my foot while watching through the door crack as the maid come back into my room unannounced with a handful of towels and more "okays" and mumbles and apologies.  Needless to say, I bolted the door after that to prevent further ill-timed incursions.

I spent the rest of the evening catching up on the messages of the day and treating myself to a room service dinner before crashing in exhaustion on the bed after my all-nighter.  Totally worth it, though.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 6

The Day I Cavorted with Druids

After getting a late start back to London from Littlehampton after a lovely day with Alan and his family, I finally arrived and checked into my hotel around 12:30 am.  I decided it was far too late for a nap at that point because I knew in my current state I'd never manage to rouse myself in time to make my 4 am pick up for the Stonehenge and Salisbury tour.  Besides, I can sleep when I'm dead, right?  Instead I killed some time taking a shower and knocking back a Coke (yay, caffeine!) then checking my messages since I've discovered that wi-fi on the railways is spotty at best when it's available at all.  Makes blogging a good bit more difficult, I have to say--all those hours in transit would be the perfect time to write but, alas, I've also yet to locate and key in the code for Microsoft office on my laptop so no internet and no word processing.  Sigh.

After a fresh change of clothes I headed off a little early towards Baker St (yes, that Baker St, Sherlock Holmes fans) for my 4 am pick up in front of the local McDonald's, which was cruelly closed and thus unable to provide either caffeine or sustenance for my poor, sleep-deprived body.  After standing around for 10-15 minutes on the deserted street a short, plucky woman cannoned up to me and asked if I was there for the tour.  When I said I was, she visibly relaxed, presumably relieved to be in the correct place and not standing there alone in the wee hours.  Her name was Sari and she stood a good few inches shorter than me, her frizzy grey-brown hair peeping out from under her bucket hat.  She seemed full of energy even for the obscenely early hour and we hit it off right away.

Elementary, my dear Watson.

Shortly after meeting Sari our tour bus arrived; we pretty much had our pick of seats since we were one of the earliest stops.  On board we met Salvo, a small little man of indeterminate ethnicity who looked more like a jockey trying to ride a 747 than a bus driver and our tour guide "Stacey with an E," a quintessential London woman with light cocoa skin and a full head of ample curls pulled back into a pony tail; she was wearing big hoop earrings and a stylish wool poncho.  Stacey with an E was absolutely gorgeous and could easily have passed for a model. Friendly and perky, she welcomed Sari and I onto the bus and we took seats next to each other.  Once all passengers for the tour had been collected, Stacey with an E went over some announcements and then we all promptly proceeded to pass out.  It took me a while to doze off; I guess when you've been operating on little more than caffeine and adrenaline for several days, it's possible to be too tired to relax.  By the time I finally started to sleep, I was struck by the dull quiet of the other passengers on board.  Driving around in the dark like that made it seem like we were all aboard a zombie bus to Stonehenge, perhaps to offer up bits of ourselves in sacrifice to any resident druids.

I don't know how long I slept, but eventually Stacey with an E woke us all up for some final instructions as we neared the car park at Stonehenge.  Leaving the bus and our jockey driver Salvo behind, we traipsed down a hill from the parking lot towards the Visitor Center where everyone could make a pit stop before heading to the site. I was particularly fascinated by the toilet flushes, which had a weird, hollow echo, almost as if they were calling back to the Neolithic era--a bawoosh from eons past, if you will.  It was kind of creepy in the early morning hours, actually.  Who knew that druids had flush toilets back in the day?

After everyone had a chance to use the facilities, we all gathered down in front of the gift shop for yet more instruction and to await a shuttle bus which would take us within a few yards of the henge.  I was shivering so hard my teeth were actually chattering.  It was a little chilly at the bus given the early hour, but for some reason out in front of the gift shop it was fricking freezing.  Fortunately the shuttle was minutely warmer, and I climbed aboard behind an older woman with an impossibly tight butt for someone her age...I'll admit it; I was totally jealous.    Clearly she's been getting her money's worth out of those Jane Fonda videos.

We arrived at Stonehenge proper around 6:30 am and had the place entirely to ourselves for an hour, during which Stacey with an E imparted more information about the site and helped us to take our obligatory photos.  The only caveat was that we could not touch the stones directly, something I flagrantly defied when I later backed up to take a photo and tripped over a partially hidden ground stone.  Whoops!  (I'm such a rebel.)

Stonehenge, just after daybreak.

I was surprised by how close some of the roped-off walks came to the circle--I'd always thought they were much farther away--and also by the size of the circle itself.  Compared to the professional and/or panoramic photos one usually sees of Stonehenge, it seemed much smaller than I had anticipated.  I was also intrigued by the reactions to the site of the various members of our group.  Mostly people were just taking photos everywhere: there were the two European girls clearly doing the Instagram sorts of photos by every stone, an Asian couple who likewise snapped a photo every few paces while managing to look supremely apathetic in nearly every shot, there was Goth Selfie-Stick guy walking around in circles holding a camera/video over his head like a boom mike without the slightest clue if any shot was ever even in frame, and then there were the Americans with cameras as big as my first apartment.  Beyond these were a couple of other completely unrelated women who marked much of their time standing in the shafts of light coming through the stones from the sunrise.  One seemed to be muttering prayers while the other appeared to be absorbing the light as though taking it into her very being.  It was absolutely fascinating observing the different effects the circle had on each person.

As for myself, I enjoyed the experience on a more visceral level: the thick, misty fog blanketing the neighboring fields gave the stone circle an eerie, otherworldly appearance; the deeply dew-saturated grass around the circle soaked through my shoes, making them as cool and damp as I imagine the stones themselves must have felt in the early morning mist; and the break of dawn glinting through and bending around the stones in rays of orange flame seemed to burn right through me.  It was quite sublime.

I wandered the stones along with everyone else, taking my photos and spending an inordinate amount of time waiting for my fellow travelers to move out of frame.  I even got someone to take some pictures of me pretending to touch the stones like Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser of Outlander fame in the hopes of falling through time and into the arms of a dashing young kilted Scotsman.  (Didn't work, by the way.)  As I wandered around, I happened upon a small medallion tucked away in a tuft of grass.  It had a picture of St. George slaying the dragon and looked like it had fallen off a necklace or perhaps a keyring.  I pocketed it so Stacey with an E could ask anyone had lost it once everyone returned to the bus.  I also swiped a small pebble from the nearby walkway for a friend who'd asked me for a stone from Stonehenge when the Heritage Site cops weren't looking, the pathway being the best I could really do.  Aside from being a protected site, there simply weren't any stones around the henge itself given that the entire area is covered in grass and the stones themselves have long since eroded nearly smooth.  Hopefully a path pebble will be close enough to suit her, though, and not get me extradited.

St. George slaying the druid dragon.

After our private hour at the circle was up, we returned to the shuttle bus and rode back down to the Visitor Center where another group was getting ready to go up to the stones for their own special access tour. To me that seemed a waste; if you're going to get up ridiculously early to hang out right next to Stonehenge anyway, why do the one after sunrise?  Still, I suppose it's better than being kept behind the barriers, though at least then it would be easier to get good photos without everyone walking unintentionally photobombing them.  Everyone was sad to leave without purchasing any souvenirs, but sadly the gift shop didn't open for another 90 minutes. We did get to walk around a display of Neolithic huts near the Visitor Center, however; I especially enjoyed the clearly Neolithic padlocks chaining all the hut doors shut.

Those locks probably came from Druid Depot, right?

Eventually we all piled back onto the bus and headed off to Salisbury to get a little breakfast before touring the town and the cathedral.  I ended up having breakfast with Sari, who turned out to be from near Perth, Australia.  We waited in line to order our food, listening to the cashier constantly spouting "Fantastic!"  after virtually every statement he made to anyone, not unlike Christopher Eccleston as Doctor Who.  While waiting for our food, I quickly discovered Sari and I had a fair bit in common. Both of us had just purchased Fitbit Charges that we were still trying to figure out, both of us were on our third trips to Europe, and both of us really enjoy attending the theater.  In fact, Sari had just scored a last-minute canceled ticket to see Benedict Cumberbatch in Hamlet at the Barbican that evening.  I was totally jealous, but didn't begrudge her since I get to see a play at the Globe tomorrow.  I hope she enjoyed the show; I wonder how it was.  I also learned that both of us have done some genealogy research and come to the conclusion that walking where our ancestors walked and just experiencing their worlds is at least as important as finding out all the historical facts about them; as a result we refused to punish ourselves for not having the time to find out every fact on our too-short trips.  I was proud of us for being so realistic with our time and resources...clearly we rock at adulting.

Sari and I spent the next 15 minutes finishing our breakfasts and complaining about how rude and disrespectful other nationalities can be to a host country.  I'm looking at you here, the half of the United States who thinks that the world revolves around you and/or that the sun shines out your nether regions--those of you who routinely think everyone in every other country of the world should serve the food you like and on your schedule or speak English just because you showed up, even though you fully expect anyone stepping on our shores to speak perfect English or to get out of the country because "'Murica!," which is just code for us being a bunch of big, fat hypocrites. Sari complained of fellow Aussies as well; I guess there's just gotta be some in every crowd.  She mentioned once overhearing an American complaining that the French refuse to speak English to us because they're snotty and stuck up, as opposed to because we are demanding, entitled assholes.  As far as I'm concerned, why even bother going to another country if you're not going to try to absorb and appreciate the local culture, people, and food?  What's the point?  But I digress.

After breakfast Sari and I walked over to the cathedral to meet Stacey with an E and retrieve our tickets; Stacey with an E also offered to take our pictures in front of the cathedral as she'd done at Stonehenge.  Sari and I walked into the cathedral together but she stopped to look at something and said she'd catch up with me.  We lost track of each other completely after that, and I didn't see her again till we got back to the bus.

I love you, Stacey with an E, but don't quit your day job for photography.

Not surprisingly, I spent most of my time at the cathedral gawking at the architecture.  Other people fangirl over celebrities; I lust after books and medieval architecture like some sort of Master Builder groupie.  At least I didn't throw my linen shift at any of the buildings like a complete tramp.  A girl has to have at least a few standards.  Really, though, the cathedral was stunning.  Perhaps what I love most about such European buildings, though, isn't even the design as much as the scale.  So many of these buildings are simply enormous, towering overhead like a giant's erector set.  But then I suppose that's rather the point, really, at least for the cathedrals which are built both as a love letter to the God who will be worshipped in them as well as a reminder to mankind how small we are in comparison to the Almighty.  Or so I'm guessing.  The artistry in the soaring stone walls and vaults or the woodwork is absolutely glorious, particularly when one considers how many months/years/decades most of these edifices took to be built.  How cool would it be to live in a place where there was a medieval castle across the street?  I imagine the novelty would wear off quickly for someone local, but personally, I'd love it.

Salisbury Cathedral...wouldn't you hate to be the one responsible for dusting those vaults?

In spite of all Salisbury Cathedral's extraordinary beauty or notable claims such as having the tallest spire in the UK and supposedly having the oldest working clock in the world (dating from the late 1300s), I think I might have preferred the cathedral in Arundel, which I found very striking as well.  The detailing there was perhaps less grandiose, but I still found it very elegant.

After touring the main cathedral, I wandered over to the chapter house to view Salisbury's copy of the Magna Carta, one of four still in existence.  Apparently it's the best copy as well because the scribe was more educated and making the copy from an original for himself (you could even see where the ribbon marks from where the seal had been) as opposed to hack scribes working from copies. The calligraphy was quite lovely; it was a beautiful document, I have to say, and in a much clearer script than the one I saw in the British Library several years ago.  We weren't allowed to take photos of it, though, because of the age and delicacy of the document.  Seeing Magna Carta was a big deal for me, not because this year mark's the document's 800th anniversary, but because at least two of the 25 Magna Carta Barons appointed to ensure the king's compliance with the document are my distant relatives.  And that's just cool.

Salisbury Cathedral Chapter House, where Magna Carta was displayed.

Outside the Magna Carta display.

Afterwards, I walked back through town towards the car park where the bus was waiting, where Stacey with an E cheerily said hi, then demanded to see all the swag I'd purchased at the gift shop.  While we were chatting, I asked if there was any chance of us making a quick stop back at the Stonehenge gift shop.    She pondered the question, saying "Let me think on it" several times.  About that time Sari climbed back on board and we started chatting so it slipped my mind.  Once everyone was back inside, though, Stacey with an E informed us that she'd been making inquiries with her boss and had gotten permission for a brief stop if everyone wanted it.  Apparently most of the passengers did (I was sitting in front so couldn't see), because several people started clapping in approval.  And so we got an extra half hour to hit the gift shop and/or exhibition at Stonehenge on the way back to London, thus validating once again my favorite motto "Don't ask, don't get!"  Yes, I know it's supposed to be "nothing ventured, nothing gained," but I like mine better.  While on the bus Stacey with an E also asked if anyone had lost the medallion I found, but no one claimed it so now I have an bonus souvenir directly from the grounds of Stonehenge.  Score!

The River Avon, running through Salisbury.

On the way back to the gift shop, Sari and I were walking beside a guy from Arizona who has managed to rip the leg of his cargo shorts a little more each time he steps off the bus because he keeps catching it on the railing.  So I asked him if he was trying to emulate a naked druid.  He just laughed and then said he'd deliberately emailed some friends earlier that he was on his way to see the droids at Stonehenge just to make them twitch.  Sounds like my kind of guy.

I enjoyed the drive back to London, what with the being awake and there being daylight enough to see where we were going.  As usual, I found much of the signage along the way particularly amusing, such as the shop on the way out of Salisbury called Stonehenge Carvery, which just makes it sound like Wiltshire has something hinky going on up at the stones.  We also passed something called The Dental Lounge.  I don't know about you, but I have never found dentistry very lounge-worthy.  It's the one thing that makes me twitch every time I go.  Next we passed the Three Kings Pub and were told by Stacey with an E that the three kings referenced were Henry VIII, Charles I, and Elvis.  Because why not?  There was a shop in Knightsbridge for big and tall men called "High and Mighty," which made me wonder once again why big men's shops are always so illustrious and grand-sounding while stores for big women invariably sound more like "Fat and Schlumpy."  You know, like Dress BARN, or how everything is "plus-sized" for the inexcusably non-skinny, as in "Oh, crap, we have to add more fabric..."

Bag O'Nails...mmmmm, tasty!

As we drove through afternoon traffic we also passed a Lamborghini shop and a store with the Michelin Man rendered above its doors in stained glass, making him look disconcertingly like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.  We likewise passed a 35' tall sculpture of a disembodied horse head pointing nose down. Lastly, as we were passing Wellington Place, Stacey with an E told us all about how the statue of David had to be turned around so his rear was facing the street because he had been causing traffic accidents previously...as well he might.

Who ya' gonna call?

I returned tired but happy after a long but rewarding day to find the door to my hotel room slightly ajar, much to my consternation.  I cautiously pushed it open to find a maid in my room messing about with the bathroom.  She backed away, apologizing and mumbling largely gibberish punctuated by the occasional "Okay?"  I've no idea where she left her cart.  I nodded, seeing nothing out of place, and she nervously backed out the door, bucket in hand.  Once she was gone I decided to avail myself of the much-needed facilities, only to have the outer door suddenly open while I was sitting there mid-pee.  Startled, I hurriedly pushed the bathroom door shut with my foot while watching through the door crack as the maid come back into my room unannounced with a handful of towels and more "okays" and mumbles and apologies.  Needless to say, I bolted the door after that to prevent further ill-timed incursions.

I spent the rest of the evening catching up on the messages of the day and treating myself to a room service dinner before crashing in exhaustion on the bed after my all-nighter.  Totally worth it, though.