Observations from the Mothership: Day 9

The Day I Came Home to Wales

As is becoming par for the course on this trip, I got a later start in the morning than I intended.  Who knew that walking several miles every day could so wipe a person out?  All I can say is I damn well better have lost some weight by the time I get home after all this walking.

Anyway, I slogged back to the rail station in the morning and hopped the next train going to Aberystwyth.  As always, I very much enjoyed watching the countryside passing by outside my window.  I have also really been enjoying listening to the accents change as I travel from place to place; it's almost like listening to one of those YouTube videos in which someone demonstrates all of the possible dialects of a given country, only live and in person.

Wales!  Out my train window!!

I arrived in Aberystwyth around 3 pm and took a taxi to my "self-catered guest house," which basically just means "bed and breakfast" minus the breakfast. There was a communal kitchen (and laundry!) for guests to use, but no meals were provided.  I checked into my room, which was at the top of two flights of stairs, and schlepped my carry-on up the very narrow staircase.  Frankly, it's a wonder I didn't trip and kill myself given my natural Clouseau-like coordination.  And what exactly is the deal with all the tiny British stairways?  Is it a nationwide plot to prevent people from accumulating too much junk since they can't get any of it up the stairs?  Inquiring minds want to know.

When my host had showed me all the amenities, she left me alone to enjoy the peace and comfort of a room which included a big, soft, plush bed and a comfy chair placed under a skylight.  After making myself at home, I took a nice long, steamy, refreshing shower; next I sat down and used a pair of tweezers to drain all the blisters on my feet and toes, thus relieving the pressure so I could approximate walking like a sober person once again.  After dressing and gingerly tying the foot prisons back onto my feet, I went down to the bayside to enjoy the view.  Aberystwyth (which means "mouth of the river Ystwyth") is situated midway down the west coast of Wales on Cardigan Bay, just off the Irish Sea.  The seafront was a mere 5 minutes walk from my guest house.  I wanted to go down to the shore and walk in the water like I had in the English Chanel but was afraid to get sand in my freshly-pierced blisters so instead I opted for a walk along the Promenade as the sun was setting.  The view was absolutely gorgeous; it took my breath away.  Off to the right you could just make out the electric cliff railway atop Constitution Hill, while on the left you could see the piers and several restaurants and guest houses down the Promenade.

Cardigan Bay at sunset.

See what happens when you walk two marathons in 9 days while wearing new shoes?

I stayed for quite some time, enjoying the cool breeze off the bay and watching the gulls sweep down as they called overhead.  There were some kids fishing off one of the piers and a couple surfing in the waves.  I saw an older couple holding hands while sitting on a bench overlooking the beach; they looked so sweet together and I couldn't help thinking what a lovely place this would be to retire.

Surfers on Cardigan Bay

After an hour or so I limped back to my guest house, Maes-Y-Môr, and sat in the kitchen searching on my phone for a good place to have dinner.  While there, some guy wandered in, presumably another guest, looked at me and asked, "All right, then?"  I nodded and replied in kind, but couldn't help thinking the whole time of Ron Weasley asking that of Harry Potter at the end of the first movie and smirking just a little.  We had a brief chat in which he gave me several suggestions for good local places to eat, then he was off.  I found directions for one of the places he'd suggested, an Italian place, and headed off in that direction.  When I got there I was told they wouldn't have a table for an hour, so I left my name and just wandered up and down the streets in the dusky evening light, entranced by the flowers everywhere, the old buildings and the quaint, cozy feel of the place.  My feet were killing me, but I kept walking around enjoying the sights because the town was just so lovely.  I felt like I'd come home.

Planter of flowers near the restaurant.

Eventually I arrived back at the restaurant and though a few minutes early was shown in.  I thought it was weird to be eating Italian food my first night in Wales, but as I was tired and didn't really know what constitutes traditional Welsh food, I figured what the hell.  I ordered chicken fettucine (which wasn't bad, though the chicken was overdone), a salad, and some cheesy garlic bread that turned out to be a pizza and therefore way more than I had planned on eating.  On the plus side, it was extremely thin--almost like a cheesy garlic crȇpe--and I ate over half of it.  Best of all, I was seated at a table facing directly opposite the open door so I got to watch people walking past while enjoying the brisk breeze coming in down the stairs and see the flowers just outside the restaurant.

Mmmmmmm...pizza crȇpe....

After dinner I stopped at a small convenience store and purchased a couple bottles of water and a couple cinnamon-roll-ish pastries for breakfast, then walked back to my room where I proofed and corrected my most recent blog post before falling asleep in the chair while in the middle of proofing the previous post.  I woke around two am, closed the laptop and crawled into the super-cushy, cozy, comfy bed and thoroughly passed out, sleeping the peaceful, all-encompassing sleep of the dead.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 9

The Day I Came Home to Wales

As is becoming par for the course on this trip, I got a later start in the morning than I intended.  Who knew that walking several miles every day could so wipe a person out?  All I can say is I damn well better have lost some weight by the time I get home after all this walking.

Anyway, I slogged back to the rail station in the morning and hopped the next train going to Aberystwyth.  As always, I very much enjoyed watching the countryside passing by outside my window.  I have also really been enjoying listening to the accents change as I travel from place to place; it's almost like listening to one of those YouTube videos in which someone demonstrates all of the possible dialects of a given country, only live and in person.

Wales!  Out my train window!!

I arrived in Aberystwyth around 3 pm and took a taxi to my "self-catered guest house," which basically just means "bed and breakfast" minus the breakfast. There was a communal kitchen (and laundry!) for guests to use, but no meals were provided.  I checked into my room, which was at the top of two flights of stairs, and schlepped my carry-on up the very narrow staircase.  Frankly, it's a wonder I didn't trip and kill myself given my natural Clouseau-like coordination.  And what exactly is the deal with all the tiny British stairways?  Is it a nationwide plot to prevent people from accumulating too much junk since they can't get any of it up the stairs?  Inquiring minds want to know.

When my host had showed me all the amenities, she left me alone to enjoy the peace and comfort of a room which included a big, soft, plush bed and a comfy chair placed under a skylight.  After making myself at home, I took a nice long, steamy, refreshing shower; next I sat down and used a pair of tweezers to drain all the blisters on my feet and toes, thus relieving the pressure so I could approximate walking like a sober person once again.  After dressing and gingerly tying the foot prisons back onto my feet, I went down to the bayside to enjoy the view.  Aberystwyth (which means "mouth of the river Ystwyth") is situated midway down the west coast of Wales on Cardigan Bay, just off the Irish Sea.  The seafront was a mere 5 minutes walk from my guest house.  I wanted to go down to the shore and walk in the water like I had in the English Chanel but was afraid to get sand in my freshly-pierced blisters so instead I opted for a walk along the Promenade as the sun was setting.  The view was absolutely gorgeous; it took my breath away.  Off to the right you could just make out the electric cliff railway atop Constitution Hill, while on the left you could see the piers and several restaurants and guest houses down the Promenade.

Cardigan Bay at sunset.

See what happens when you walk two marathons in 9 days while wearing new shoes?

I stayed for quite some time, enjoying the cool breeze off the bay and watching the gulls sweep down as they called overhead.  There were some kids fishing off one of the piers and a couple surfing in the waves.  I saw an older couple holding hands while sitting on a bench overlooking the beach; they looked so sweet together and I couldn't help thinking what a lovely place this would be to retire.

Surfers on Cardigan Bay

After an hour or so I limped back to my guest house, Maes-Y-Môr, and sat in the kitchen searching on my phone for a good place to have dinner.  While there, some guy wandered in, presumably another guest, looked at me and asked, "All right, then?"  I nodded and replied in kind, but couldn't help thinking the whole time of Ron Weasley asking that of Harry Potter at the end of the first movie and smirking just a little.  We had a brief chat in which he gave me several suggestions for good local places to eat, then he was off.  I found directions for one of the places he'd suggested, an Italian place, and headed off in that direction.  When I got there I was told they wouldn't have a table for an hour, so I left my name and just wandered up and down the streets in the dusky evening light, entranced by the flowers everywhere, the old buildings and the quaint, cozy feel of the place.  My feet were killing me, but I kept walking around enjoying the sights because the town was just so lovely.  I felt like I'd come home.

Planter of flowers near the restaurant.

Eventually I arrived back at the restaurant and though a few minutes early was shown in.  I thought it was weird to be eating Italian food my first night in Wales, but as I was tired and didn't really know what constitutes traditional Welsh food, I figured what the hell.  I ordered chicken fettucine (which wasn't bad, though the chicken was overdone), a salad, and some cheesy garlic bread that turned out to be a pizza and therefore way more than I had planned on eating.  On the plus side, it was extremely thin--almost like a cheesy garlic crȇpe--and I ate over half of it.  Best of all, I was seated at a table facing directly opposite the open door so I got to watch people walking past while enjoying the brisk breeze coming in down the stairs and see the flowers just outside the restaurant.

Mmmmmmm...pizza crȇpe....

After dinner I stopped at a small convenience store and purchased a couple bottles of water and a couple cinnamon-roll-ish pastries for breakfast, then walked back to my room where I proofed and corrected my most recent blog post before falling asleep in the chair while in the middle of proofing the previous post.  I woke around two am, closed the laptop and crawled into the super-cushy, cozy, comfy bed and thoroughly passed out, sleeping the peaceful, all-encompassing sleep of the dead.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 8

The Day I Went to the National Archives

Today I slept in a bit because I stayed up late yesterday to catch up on some of my blogging after yesterday's busy day with Alan.  Then I became rather irked at myself for a lack of professionalism in once again not proofreading what I'd written before posting it because of my haste to get it out.  Impatience and I are the best of bedfellows, it seems.

After making the necessary corrections, I checked out of my room, stowed my luggage in the hotel office (a move I've gotten ridiculously good at), and grabbed a quick breakfast at the upstairs restaurant before taking the lengthy Tube journey to Kew Gardens, home of the National Archives.  And, in case you were wondering, "Kew" autocorrects to "Jew" on my phone, which has a warped sense of propriety.  It also autocorrects "assholes" to "sad holes," which is perhaps a little more accurate.

The National Archives at Kew in Surrey

National Archives

The trip out to Kew was longer than I'd anticipated, taking nearly an hour if you don't include the time it took me to hobble from the station to the Archives.  Kew Gardens was a lovely little town, though.  Once inside the National Archives I was directed to a room full of lockers and required to stow all my belongings except my research materials, a pencil, and electronic devices like my phone or laptop.  That's all we were allowed to take upstairs.  So off I trotted (if by "trotted" you mean "drug my feet along the floor like a wounded zombie") towards the first point of entry into the archives.  There I was given further instructions as to how to start my searching and shipped off to yet another staff member to help hunt down the origins of one ancestor who was sent to the colonies as a convicted felon.

My attempts to pin down Felonious Gramps proved elusive, although I did make more progress at Kew than I had in Edinburgh.  With the aid of a staff member I was able to find a book listing all the prisoners transported by ship to the colonies, including Felonious Gramps, who took ship from Surrey.  While wandering the stacks I also found a few other relevant books to peruse and took them back to my little desk at the end of the shelving unit; it wasn't until this moment that I'd realized just exactly how much I've missed the smell of stacks full of musty old books reeking of history and academia.  Almost makes me want to go back for my doctorate...or perhaps become a librarian.

Felonious Gramps, I found you!!!

I didn't lust after this set at all...nope.

I also tried to locate a document which had been photographed and posted on Ancestry.com as having come from the Archives at Kew and which detailed Felonious Gramps' actual felony (stealing money); unfortunately the photo failed to list any sort of reference with which one could locate the document.  I ended up talking with a woman from the London Family History Centre which, near as I can gather, is an offshoot of the giant archives maintained by the Mormon church and housed within the Archives.  She gave me some good suggestions for other websites to check and for how to look more when I got back home, pointing out that I could order microfilms from London and have them sent to a local archive for review.  Good to know.  We still couldn't pin down Gramps without a reference, so she sent me off to yet another staff member who was more knowledgeable in such types of documents.

By the time he was done waiting on a previous client, it was nearly closing time for the archives, much to my disappointment.  He looked up the photo and informed me that it wasn't a court document but a tax record of the trial and pointed out where the relevant book should be.  I all but ran to the stack indicated, and was hurriedly scanning the shelves for the reference in question when a security guard came to kick me out.  It was a little like a scene from a movie with me screaming "Nooooooooo!!!!!" just as I was reaching out to grab the book I needed while it fell/faded from view/whatever.  So close!!!

Archives 2, Ginger 0

I went back downstairs to the locker room to consolidate my belongings and head off back towards the train station.  Originally I'd hoped to make a quick run up to Harrow after visiting the Archives to a place called the Bra Stop since they have a reputation for excellent bras.  I figured if I could get properly fitted (something like 80% of women wear the incorrect size, I'm told) then I could always order online later.  But the train to Kew took much longer than I'd anticipated and there was no way to get there before the shop closed.  Alas, I guess I'll just have to make do with my shoddy American undergarments and try again the next time I'm overseas.

Once back in London, I was in the process of crossing the street at Hammersmith to change Tube lines when I was accosted by a small, slender Irish guy with a longish ginger ZZ Top beard who hailed me by saying, "Hellooooo, fellow redhead!!!"  He then got all chatty and asked me where I was from.  I told him New Jersey and he replied that he'd been hoping to hear an Irish accent, but that he'd forgive me.  How very generous of him.  The man then wanted to know all about whether I lived locally or was just visiting; I listened politely with one eyebrow cocked the entire time at his audacity.  I couldn't help wondering if the man was somehow involved in the Ginger Day UK scheduled for Saturday and trying to get me involved. Regardless, he was clearly after something other than my strawberry hair or my sparkling personality.  Eventually he got around to the point; seems he was stumping for some children's charity but informed me that "since you don't live in the UK you can't really help."  Now I don't know about you, but I would think that any given charity would be more than happy to accept money or aid from whomever they could, regardless of nationality.  Can a charity really be choosy about who contributes?  This seems contradictory, but maybe that's just me.  He smiled, shook my hand again, and wished me well on my trip, apparently content with his little moment of ginger solidarity in spite of the fact that I was flagrantly un-Irish of speech, red hair not withstanding.  I have to say, that's the first time I've ever been flagged down just for being a member of the club. Oh, London, you crazy city!

On the way back to the hotel to collect my bags I got to watch a couple making out across from me on the Tube.  I also noticed that men here are much less egregious about manspreading than they are on trains and subways at home.  Way to go, British men!  Thank you for not being selfish prats!!

When my bags were in tow I headed off to the station at Euston where I watched as my train to Aberystwyth closed up all the doors and started pulling out just as I was running down the platform.  Because that's how I roll...slowly and inefficiently, apparently. After muttering several artistic and unladylike swears under my breath I slogged back up to the main part of the station to find an alternate train to Aberystwyth, which is significantly more difficult when you can't get good wifi on your phone to plot routes on Britrail.com.  I did figure out I would have to change trains in Birmingham regardless, so I found the next train heading there and hopped aboard thinking that I could just grab another train to Aberystwyth once there since they left fairly regularly from that station.

It's cute how I thought that.  For the most part, I did really well with the trains, but it soon became clear yet again just what a novice I really was when I got to Birmingham only to discover that I'd gone to the wrong station.  Turns out there are two stations in Birmingham and that they are each some distance apart.  I failed to double-check my original travel notes and so ended up at the incorrect station, thus missing the last train to Aberystwyth for that evening.  Nor could I find any buses headed that way.  I even asked about backtracking to the correct Birmingham station but was informed that by the time I got there, the last train to Aberystwyth would also have already left.  So I was stuck.  Fortunately I am resourceful, so I found a place to stay in town and called the guest house in Wales to tell them I was delayed.  It seems there is an advantage to being an ignorant American; it means I'm not afraid to ask for help when I get stuck and it means locals are more likely to be friendly and obliging when I do, even though you can almost hear them thinking, "Ah, bless...the poor idiotic dear."  Can't say it's entirely unjustified.

Tomorrow--Wales!!!

Observations from the Mothership: Day 8

The Day I Went to the National Archives

Today I slept in a bit because I stayed up late yesterday to catch up on some of my blogging after yesterday's busy day with Alan.  Then I became rather irked at myself for a lack of professionalism in once again not proofreading what I'd written before posting it because of my haste to get it out.  Impatience and I are the best of bedfellows, it seems.

After making the necessary corrections, I checked out of my room, stowed my luggage in the hotel office (a move I've gotten ridiculously good at), and grabbed a quick breakfast at the upstairs restaurant before taking the lengthy Tube journey to Kew Gardens, home of the National Archives.  And, in case you were wondering, "Kew" autocorrects to "Jew" on my phone, which has a warped sense of propriety.  It also autocorrects "assholes" to "sad holes," which is perhaps a little more accurate.

The National Archives at Kew in Surrey

National Archives

The trip out to Kew was longer than I'd anticipated, taking nearly an hour if you don't include the time it took me to hobble from the station to the Archives.  Kew Gardens was a lovely little town, though.  Once inside the National Archives I was directed to a room full of lockers and required to stow all my belongings except my research materials, a pencil, and electronic devices like my phone or laptop.  That's all we were allowed to take upstairs.  So off I trotted (if by "trotted" you mean "drug my feet along the floor like a wounded zombie") towards the first point of entry into the archives.  There I was given further instructions as to how to start my searching and shipped off to yet another staff member to help hunt down the origins of one ancestor who was sent to the colonies as a convicted felon.

My attempts to pin down Felonious Gramps proved elusive, although I did make more progress at Kew than I had in Edinburgh.  With the aid of a staff member I was able to find a book listing all the prisoners transported by ship to the colonies, including Felonious Gramps, who took ship from Surrey.  While wandering the stacks I also found a few other relevant books to peruse and took them back to my little desk at the end of the shelving unit; it wasn't until this moment that I'd realized just exactly how much I've missed the smell of stacks full of musty old books reeking of history and academia.  Almost makes me want to go back for my doctorate...or perhaps become a librarian.

Felonious Gramps, I found you!!!

I didn't lust after this set at all...nope.

I also tried to locate a document which had been photographed and posted on Ancestry.com as having come from the Archives at Kew and which detailed Felonious Gramps' actual felony (stealing money); unfortunately the photo failed to list any sort of reference with which one could locate the document.  I ended up talking with a woman from the London Family History Centre which, near as I can gather, is an offshoot of the giant archives maintained by the Mormon church and housed within the Archives.  She gave me some good suggestions for other websites to check and for how to look more when I got back home, pointing out that I could order microfilms from London and have them sent to a local archive for review.  Good to know.  We still couldn't pin down Gramps without a reference, so she sent me off to yet another staff member who was more knowledgeable in such types of documents.

By the time he was done waiting on a previous client, it was nearly closing time for the archives, much to my disappointment.  He looked up the photo and informed me that it wasn't a court document but a tax record of the trial and pointed out where the relevant book should be.  I all but ran to the stack indicated, and was hurriedly scanning the shelves for the reference in question when a security guard came to kick me out.  It was a little like a scene from a movie with me screaming "Nooooooooo!!!!!" just as I was reaching out to grab the book I needed while it fell/faded from view/whatever.  So close!!!

Archives 2, Ginger 0

I went back downstairs to the locker room to consolidate my belongings and head off back towards the train station.  Originally I'd hoped to make a quick run up to Harrow after visiting the Archives to a place called the Bra Stop since they have a reputation for excellent bras.  I figured if I could get properly fitted (something like 80% of women wear the incorrect size, I'm told) then I could always order online later.  But the train to Kew took much longer than I'd anticipated and there was no way to get there before the shop closed.  Alas, I guess I'll just have to make do with my shoddy American undergarments and try again the next time I'm overseas.

Once back in London, I was in the process of crossing the street at Hammersmith to change Tube lines when I was accosted by a small, slender Irish guy with a longish ginger ZZ Top beard who hailed me by saying, "Hellooooo, fellow redhead!!!"  He then got all chatty and asked me where I was from.  I told him New Jersey and he replied that he'd been hoping to hear an Irish accent, but that he'd forgive me.  How very generous of him.  The man then wanted to know all about whether I lived locally or was just visiting; I listened politely with one eyebrow cocked the entire time at his audacity.  I couldn't help wondering if the man was somehow involved in the Ginger Day UK scheduled for Saturday and trying to get me involved. Regardless, he was clearly after something other than my strawberry hair or my sparkling personality.  Eventually he got around to the point; seems he was stumping for some children's charity but informed me that "since you don't live in the UK you can't really help."  Now I don't know about you, but I would think that any given charity would be more than happy to accept money or aid from whomever they could, regardless of nationality.  Can a charity really be choosy about who contributes?  This seems contradictory, but maybe that's just me.  He smiled, shook my hand again, and wished me well on my trip, apparently content with his little moment of ginger solidarity in spite of the fact that I was flagrantly un-Irish of speech, red hair not withstanding.  I have to say, that's the first time I've ever been flagged down just for being a member of the club. Oh, London, you crazy city!

On the way back to the hotel to collect my bags I got to watch a couple making out across from me on the Tube.  I also noticed that men here are much less egregious about manspreading than they are on trains and subways at home.  Way to go, British men!  Thank you for not being selfish prats!!

When my bags were in tow I headed off to the station at Euston where I watched as my train to Aberystwyth closed up all the doors and started pulling out just as I was running down the platform.  Because that's how I roll...slowly and inefficiently, apparently. After muttering several artistic and unladylike swears under my breath I slogged back up to the main part of the station to find an alternate train to Aberystwyth, which is significantly more difficult when you can't get good wifi on your phone to plot routes on Britrail.com.  I did figure out I would have to change trains in Birmingham regardless, so I found the next train heading there and hopped aboard thinking that I could just grab another train to Aberystwyth once there since they left fairly regularly from that station.

It's cute how I thought that.  For the most part, I did really well with the trains, but it soon became clear yet again just what a novice I really was when I got to Birmingham only to discover that I'd gone to the wrong station.  Turns out there are two stations in Birmingham and that they are each some distance apart.  I failed to double-check my original travel notes and so ended up at the incorrect station, thus missing the last train to Aberystwyth for that evening.  Nor could I find any buses headed that way.  I even asked about backtracking to the correct Birmingham station but was informed that by the time I got there, the last train to Aberystwyth would also have already left.  So I was stuck.  Fortunately I am resourceful, so I found a place to stay in town and called the guest house in Wales to tell them I was delayed.  It seems there is an advantage to being an ignorant American; it means I'm not afraid to ask for help when I get stuck and it means locals are more likely to be friendly and obliging when I do, even though you can almost hear them thinking, "Ah, bless...the poor idiotic dear."  Can't say it's entirely unjustified.

Tomorrow--Wales!!!

Observations from the Mothership: Day 7

The Day I Went to the Globe and Traipsed Around London

Nothing is more likely to make the average English major squee like a demented fan girl than a chance to go see a Shakespearian play at the reconstructed Globe Theatre in London, and I'm no different.  I mean, c'mon--it's Shakespeare.  Aside from being classic literature, I just like the guy.  He was a witty wise-ass well before his time, and I have mad respect for that.  Besides, his manipulations of the English language help me to justify making up words whenever I want because if it was good enough for Billy Shakes, then it's good enough for me.  Or so I tell myself, at any rate.    

Shakespeare's Globe

After a long, refreshing sleep to make up for the previous day's all-nighter, I threw on some slacks and a blouse, grabbed muffin and a banana on my way out of the hotel, and headed off to the British Library to meet my friend Alan who had graciously taken off work to squire me to the Globe for the matinee so I wouldn't have to go see the show alone.  I suppose it didn't hurt that Alan himself had never yet been to the Globe, and I took a perverse glee in being the American Yank who got to introduce a native Brit to the iconic theatre.

Once at the British Library, I sat in the open courtyard to enjoy the morning, indulging in some people watching while waiting for Alan.  Halfway through my banana he showed up and we set off towards the nearest Tube station.  This turned out to be a bit of a comedy of errors (see what I did there?) considering neither of us really knew entirely where we were going.  We both knew the Globe was on the south bank of the Thames, but I hadn't really bothered looking up the best route for us because I naively assumed that any Englishman would know how to get there, in spite of the fact that the Englishman in question didn't actually live in London and had never been there.  I know, I know...stupid American, right?  Anyway, after a few quality minutes with the magic of GPS, Alan figured it out and we took the Tube to the Blackfriar's stop.  So naturally I had to grill him as to what made one set of friars "black" as opposed to Benedictine or whatever, thinking perhaps they were originally Jesuits.

We unintentionally ended up taking the long way around to the theatre but eventually arrived at the Globe complex and picked up our tickets at the box office, after which we went next door to the very Elizabethan-sounding Black Swan restaurant and pub for lunch.   Once upstairs, an amusing man from with a vaguely Slavic accent came over to take our orders.  I love listening to the varying dialects in this country; they do diversity so much better than we do at home.  But I digress.  Alan and I ordered the same meal on the show menu, except for the starters; he got soup and I tried a terrine, mostly out of sheer curiosity.  I've never had terrine before, and was only vaguely familiar with the term because of a BBC comedy starring Lenny Henry called Chef.  But, I figured, "when in Rome..." so I tried it.

The terrine turned out to be a sort of pulled and then pressed pork with the general consistency and texture of a chicken or tuna salad, except obviously tasting of pork.  It was better than I expected, and I ate the whole thing while joking with Alan that I'd basically just come over to England and ordered Spam.  We them spent the next several minutes giggling over the requisite "spam, spam, spam" jokes, these aided by the micro-greens on my plate which clearly constituted a small shrubbery.  I'm pretty sure Billy Shakes would also have appreciated the silliness of Monty Python had they been around in his time.

We finished the rest of the delicious meal with gusto, enjoying conversation and the lovely view of the Thames and St. Paul's...as well as several giant construction cranes spanning the river.  Alan and I paid our bill and headed next door to the Globe, getting there with just enough time to grab our seats before the play started, much to the understated annoyance of other patrons seated on our row over whom we had to climb.  Americans would have been cussing us out, but the two nice older British ladies we dislodged just grimaced and dealt with it, making me wonder for perhaps the thousandth time this week why I don't live here already.  Alan and I settled in on our hard wooden bench in the middle gallery and listened to the usual admonitions to turn off cell phones and refrain from photography during the show, then the performance of Much Ado About Nothing began.

The Globe's stage.

The production was excellent; well-acted by the cast, particularly the acrobatic Benedick, it was also significantly enhanced by music both sung and performed by the cast members at several appropriately-placed intervals during the show.  The interaction between the cast and the groundlings was also very amusing, not the least when several became doused with water meant for Beatrice.  Because the Globe is essentially an open-air theatre, however, there were occasional distractions such as airplanes flying anachronistically overhead.  For the most part such distractions were quick and largely ignorable by both cast and audience, but at one point a couple of Blackhawk helicopters flew directly (and loudly) overhead; I confess to being very impressed by how smoothly the actors currently on stage were able to incorporate the disruption seamlessly into their performance--no mean feat with iambic pentameter, which tends to defy ad-libbing.

At intermission the stalls emptied as everyone rushed off to use the facilities; upon returning both Alan and I noticed and commented on the uneven distribution of pigeons perched across the roof covering the stage. Clearly British pigeons have no appreciation for symmetry; I can only assume this is why so many of them got eaten during the Elizabethan period.  We continued chatting about the action thus far until the interval was over and the performance begain again.

By the last act of the play the sun had dropped to just above the roof of the upper gallery, glaring viciously into everyone's eyes on our side of the theater and causing some 50 hands to shoot up in the air and shade eyes in sun-drenched and weirdly military-looking salutes.  When it became clear that the sun was not going to disappear behind the clouds for any length of time, the ushers took pity on us and began passing out paper visors to everyone in our section; they were surprisingly effective, but we all looked like we were wearing little white turbine fans on our heads.  Très chic.

"Heyyyyyy, sexy laaaaadyyyyyy..."

Alan really seemed to enjoy the show (as did I), and I had almost as much fun watching him as I did watching the show itself, for he spent most of the play leaning forward, eyes alight with the magic of the performance.  Afterwards we perused the gift shop, where we both purchased facsimile copies of one of Shakespeare's first folios like the good little book nerds we are.  Alan then walked me to St. Paul's so I could ogle the architecture up close; we took a selfie there for our friend Katie since the area by the Globe was far too packed with people to get a good one there.  Alan pointed out the Tower Bridge and the Shard as we walked, as well as several other things; I think he secretly delighted in watching me ooh and ah over everything and answering all my questions about the history of the buildings and other things along the way.  For my part, I very much enjoyed the beautiful day and my witty companion, never mind geeking out over all the art and architecture and history surrounding me and filling my soul.

The Shard in London.

The dome of St. Paul's.

After St. Paul's, Alan walked me down to Parliament and Big Ben, which I believe has now been renamed for Queen Elizabeth II.  Not that it will ever be anything but Big Ben to me, mind you.  Parliament turned out to be much farther down than originally anticipated but was well worth the hike; the walk alongside the Thames alone was lovely, in spite of my nearly being assaulted by an errant skateboard at one point.  Personally, I found the near-miss amusing because it was the most threatened I'd felt the entire trip, in spite of all my friends back home freaking the hell out because I had gone overseas alone (which isn't exactly a flattering endorsement of my abilities), as though that somehow guaranteed I'd be mugged or molested on every street corner.  Perhaps it was foolish of me to go alone; I don't know.  I just think it's more important to take chances and actually go out and live on occasion...at least it is for me.  Better to die doing something you love than live holed up in your house and alone and afraid.

Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament

After making it to Parliament, we next walked around to the front of Westminster Abbey which was sadly closed.  I didn't feel too badly, though, since I had been able to go inside it on my previous visit to London.  I was fascinated to see a giant statue of Abraham Lincoln in the square opposite the Abbey (at least I think that's where it was); I could have understood it being Benjamin Franklin, European playboy extraordinaire, but Lincoln??  I found the statue very unexpected.  Turns out there's another monument to Lincoln somewhere in Edinburgh; who knew Honest Abe was so popular over here?

Honest Abe, just chillin' in the middle of London.

Alan was very patient with my constant stopping for photos and indulgent of my endless (and frequently non-sequiturish) questions about the city, the buildings, etc.--basically whatever happened to pop into my mind at any given moment--answering each and every one to the best of his ability.  By this point my feet were starting to feel as if they were on fire, so I suggested stopping somewhere for some tea.  We found a nearby Starbucks and ordered, my "medium tea" arriving moments later in a bucket-sized mug.  We stayed in Starbucks chatting till they kicked us out for closing time.

A big teddy bear of a man and very professorial, Alan is both kindly-natured and clever, with a sneaky sly wit that frequently had me bursting out with laughter throughout the day.  I spent several very enjoyable hours with him both before and after the play at the Globe, during which we covered an astonishingly wide variety of topics.  After tea we both walked to Victoria station for our respective trips home.  I saw Alan off on his train before heading over to take the Tube back to my hotel.  Just before he left Alan told me that I was "exactly like he thought I'd be."  I pointed out this could either be really good or really bad depending exactly what he'd previously thought of me, but Alan just giggled in response.  I'm choosing to take that as a compliment regardless.

"I said, 'MIND THE GAP!!!'"

When I arrived back in my hotel room, my feet felt as though I'd been standing in hot coals for hours.  I suppose that's not surprising considering the 8-some miles I'd just walked, never mind the literal marathon I've walked over here thus far.  As a result, the blisters on my toes have now begun forming blisters of their own, forming a colony of subcutaneous contagion spreading across the top of my feet.  Pretty soon they'll start looking like the feet of a prima ballerina who's been dancing en pointe for 20 years.  Not that I would change a thing, though--this trip has easily been worth every searing step and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 7

The Day I Went to the Globe and Traipsed Around London

Nothing is more likely to make the average English major squee like a demented fan girl than a chance to go see a Shakespearian play at the reconstructed Globe Theatre in London, and I'm no different.  I mean, c'mon--it's Shakespeare.  Aside from being classic literature, I just like the guy.  He was a witty wise-ass well before his time, and I have mad respect for that.  Besides, his manipulations of the English language help me to justify making up words whenever I want because if it was good enough for Billy Shakes, then it's good enough for me.  Or so I tell myself, at any rate.    

Shakespeare's Globe

After a long, refreshing sleep to make up for the previous day's all-nighter, I threw on some slacks and a blouse, grabbed muffin and a banana on my way out of the hotel, and headed off to the British Library to meet my friend Alan who had graciously taken off work to squire me to the Globe for the matinee so I wouldn't have to go see the show alone.  I suppose it didn't hurt that Alan himself had never yet been to the Globe, and I took a perverse glee in being the American Yank who got to introduce a native Brit to the iconic theatre.

Once at the British Library, I sat in the open courtyard to enjoy the morning, indulging in some people watching while waiting for Alan.  Halfway through my banana he showed up and we set off towards the nearest Tube station.  This turned out to be a bit of a comedy of errors (see what I did there?) considering neither of us really knew entirely where we were going.  We both knew the Globe was on the south bank of the Thames, but I hadn't really bothered looking up the best route for us because I naively assumed that any Englishman would know how to get there, in spite of the fact that the Englishman in question didn't actually live in London and had never been there.  I know, I know...stupid American, right?  Anyway, after a few quality minutes with the magic of GPS, Alan figured it out and we took the Tube to the Blackfriar's stop.  So naturally I had to grill him as to what made one set of friars "black" as opposed to Benedictine or whatever, thinking perhaps they were originally Jesuits.

We unintentionally ended up taking the long way around to the theatre but eventually arrived at the Globe complex and picked up our tickets at the box office, after which we went next door to the very Elizabethan-sounding Black Swan restaurant and pub for lunch.   Once upstairs, an amusing man from with a vaguely Slavic accent came over to take our orders.  I love listening to the varying dialects in this country; they do diversity so much better than we do at home.  But I digress.  Alan and I ordered the same meal on the show menu, except for the starters; he got soup and I tried a terrine, mostly out of sheer curiosity.  I've never had terrine before, and was only vaguely familiar with the term because of a BBC comedy starring Lenny Henry called Chef.  But, I figured, "when in Rome..." so I tried it.

The terrine turned out to be a sort of pulled and then pressed pork with the general consistency and texture of a chicken or tuna salad, except obviously tasting of pork.  It was better than I expected, and I ate the whole thing while joking with Alan that I'd basically just come over to England and ordered Spam.  We them spent the next several minutes giggling over the requisite "spam, spam, spam" jokes, these aided by the micro-greens on my plate which clearly constituted a small shrubbery.  I'm pretty sure Billy Shakes would also have appreciated the silliness of Monty Python had they been around in his time.

We finished the rest of the delicious meal with gusto, enjoying conversation and the lovely view of the Thames and St. Paul's...as well as several giant construction cranes spanning the river.  Alan and I paid our bill and headed next door to the Globe, getting there with just enough time to grab our seats before the play started, much to the understated annoyance of other patrons seated on our row over whom we had to climb.  Americans would have been cussing us out, but the two nice older British ladies we dislodged just grimaced and dealt with it, making me wonder for perhaps the thousandth time this week why I don't live here already.  Alan and I settled in on our hard wooden bench in the middle gallery and listened to the usual admonitions to turn off cell phones and refrain from photography during the show, then the performance of Much Ado About Nothing began.

The Globe's stage.

The production was excellent; well-acted by the cast, particularly the acrobatic Benedick, it was also significantly enhanced by music both sung and performed by the cast members at several appropriately-placed intervals during the show.  The interaction between the cast and the groundlings was also very amusing, not the least when several became doused with water meant for Beatrice.  Because the Globe is essentially an open-air theatre, however, there were occasional distractions such as airplanes flying anachronistically overhead.  For the most part such distractions were quick and largely ignorable by both cast and audience, but at one point a couple of Blackhawk helicopters flew directly (and loudly) overhead; I confess to being very impressed by how smoothly the actors currently on stage were able to incorporate the disruption seamlessly into their performance--no mean feat with iambic pentameter, which tends to defy ad-libbing.

At intermission the stalls emptied as everyone rushed off to use the facilities; upon returning both Alan and I noticed and commented on the uneven distribution of pigeons perched across the roof covering the stage. Clearly British pigeons have no appreciation for symmetry; I can only assume this is why so many of them got eaten during the Elizabethan period.  We continued chatting about the action thus far until the interval was over and the performance begain again.

By the last act of the play the sun had dropped to just above the roof of the upper gallery, glaring viciously into everyone's eyes on our side of the theater and causing some 50 hands to shoot up in the air and shade eyes in sun-drenched and weirdly military-looking salutes.  When it became clear that the sun was not going to disappear behind the clouds for any length of time, the ushers took pity on us and began passing out paper visors to everyone in our section; they were surprisingly effective, but we all looked like we were wearing little white turbine fans on our heads.  Très chic.

"Heyyyyyy, sexy laaaaadyyyyyy..."

Alan really seemed to enjoy the show (as did I), and I had almost as much fun watching him as I did watching the show itself, for he spent most of the play leaning forward, eyes alight with the magic of the performance.  Afterwards we perused the gift shop, where we both purchased facsimile copies of one of Shakespeare's first folios like the good little book nerds we are.  Alan then walked me to St. Paul's so I could ogle the architecture up close; we took a selfie there for our friend Katie since the area by the Globe was far too packed with people to get a good one there.  Alan pointed out the Tower Bridge and the Shard as we walked, as well as several other things; I think he secretly delighted in watching me ooh and ah over everything and answering all my questions about the history of the buildings and other things along the way.  For my part, I very much enjoyed the beautiful day and my witty companion, never mind geeking out over all the art and architecture and history surrounding me and filling my soul.

The Shard in London.

The dome of St. Paul's.

After St. Paul's, Alan walked me down to Parliament and Big Ben, which I believe has now been renamed for Queen Elizabeth II.  Not that it will ever be anything but Big Ben to me, mind you.  Parliament turned out to be much farther down than originally anticipated but was well worth the hike; the walk alongside the Thames alone was lovely, in spite of my nearly being assaulted by an errant skateboard at one point.  Personally, I found the near-miss amusing because it was the most threatened I'd felt the entire trip, in spite of all my friends back home freaking the hell out because I had gone overseas alone (which isn't exactly a flattering endorsement of my abilities), as though that somehow guaranteed I'd be mugged or molested on every street corner.  Perhaps it was foolish of me to go alone; I don't know.  I just think it's more important to take chances and actually go out and live on occasion...at least it is for me.  Better to die doing something you love than live holed up in your house and alone and afraid.

Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament

After making it to Parliament, we next walked around to the front of Westminster Abbey which was sadly closed.  I didn't feel too badly, though, since I had been able to go inside it on my previous visit to London.  I was fascinated to see a giant statue of Abraham Lincoln in the square opposite the Abbey (at least I think that's where it was); I could have understood it being Benjamin Franklin, European playboy extraordinaire, but Lincoln??  I found the statue very unexpected.  Turns out there's another monument to Lincoln somewhere in Edinburgh; who knew Honest Abe was so popular over here?

Honest Abe, just chillin' in the middle of London.

Alan was very patient with my constant stopping for photos and indulgent of my endless (and frequently non-sequiturish) questions about the city, the buildings, etc.--basically whatever happened to pop into my mind at any given moment--answering each and every one to the best of his ability.  By this point my feet were starting to feel as if they were on fire, so I suggested stopping somewhere for some tea.  We found a nearby Starbucks and ordered, my "medium tea" arriving moments later in a bucket-sized mug.  We stayed in Starbucks chatting till they kicked us out for closing time.

A big teddy bear of a man and very professorial, Alan is both kindly-natured and clever, with a sneaky sly wit that frequently had me bursting out with laughter throughout the day.  I spent several very enjoyable hours with him both before and after the play at the Globe, during which we covered an astonishingly wide variety of topics.  After tea we both walked to Victoria station for our respective trips home.  I saw Alan off on his train before heading over to take the Tube back to my hotel.  Just before he left Alan told me that I was "exactly like he thought I'd be."  I pointed out this could either be really good or really bad depending exactly what he'd previously thought of me, but Alan just giggled in response.  I'm choosing to take that as a compliment regardless.

"I said, 'MIND THE GAP!!!'"

When I arrived back in my hotel room, my feet felt as though I'd been standing in hot coals for hours.  I suppose that's not surprising considering the 8-some miles I'd just walked, never mind the literal marathon I've walked over here thus far.  As a result, the blisters on my toes have now begun forming blisters of their own, forming a colony of subcutaneous contagion spreading across the top of my feet.  Pretty soon they'll start looking like the feet of a prima ballerina who's been dancing en pointe for 20 years.  Not that I would change a thing, though--this trip has easily been worth every searing step and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

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.