Conwy Castle

As we stood in shock in the little town of Llangollen wondering what to do, the ladies all said, well let’s stay here and go shopping. As previously mentioned. I did not come to the UK to shop. I don’t even do that at home, why am I going to do that on vacation? So now I was upset. But they all disappeared anyway. So I did what I did many times on this trip, I sat and waited, and waited. I found a little deli so I ordered a bacon, Brie, tomato and basil painini. It turned out to be the most delicious sandwich I have ever had in my life. I know I am often accused of exaggeration, something I have never engaged in my whole life, but this time I really mean it. It was, and remains at the top. The day was looking a bit brighter. The girls found me just as my sandwich was ordered, so they got one too. Then we wandered Llangollen looking for Sheri. We found her in the tiny museum of local Welsh county life. She had just pushed a button that activated a robot-monk writing on a tablet and speaking Welsh through a bad speaker. She did not realize the extent to which she was bringing shame and embarrassment to us all. So we walked out and pretended not to know her.

While mourning our loss I tried to think of something other than shopping to do all day. Thankfully I knew just the thing. I had researched this trip so much that I knew an alternative manly thing to in the general area and I knew that TomTom would know how to get us there. We were now headed to Conwy castle.

Before we get to Conwy there is one stop we need to make. TomTom took us through some super-beautiful country. In fact, we went through what would be the UK’s Yosemite Valley. It didn’t have the mile-high stone faces Yosemite does but the valley was deep, filled with sheep, the cliffs were steep and really green. Photos do not come close doing it justice and I’m no poet (unless you count limericks about farting). So it will suffice to say that the journey to Conwy, should you ever make it, needs to include a journey through Snowdonia National Park.

The master builder of Conwy Castle was James of St. George. Construction was ordered by Edward I in 1283 of Conwy and of the walls surrounding the town. There are many Welsh castles and many towns with walls but what makes Conwy so amazing is the preservation of the walls and the castle to paint a complete picture of fortress cities in this era. The guidebook gives a good description.

“Anyone looking at Conwy Castle for the first time will be impressed first and foremost by the unity and compactness of so great a mass of building, with its eight almost identical towers, four on the north and four on the south, pinning it to the rock on which it stands. Especially striking is the long northern front, where the tower's equidistant spacing divides the wall surface into three exactly similar sections, each pierced by a similar pair of arrowloops, and each rising to a common battlement line.”

We were fortunate enough to get a private tour of the castle from a guide. Little did we know what an adventure this lady would lead us. She was about 20 years our elder but she had the energy of a five-year-old. It was all we could do to keep up with her. By the end of the tour she made the castle seem alive. We knew the purpose of every block, groove, slot, and hole in that giant castle. We knew which king or queen slept or pooped where, and what was real and what was legend. If you ever do this sort of thing, always find a tour guide. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself just looking at an old castle.

At the end of the tour we all parted ways. Our guide was off to lead another unsuspecting American family on the exercise event of their lives, the girls were off shopping (which is so dumb) and to high tea (which is so pansy-wussy), and I was off on an adventure of my own making. We’d meet in the castle parking lot in two hours.

I walked to the west end of the city where the giant wall meets the sea. I found the guard tower that would take me to the top of the wall. I walked to the very end of the wall where my adventure would begin. Instead of turning around on my around-the-entire-city-on-top-of-the-wall adventure, I took the opportunity to soak in the scenery. Again, it was stunning. I envied the children fishing off the end of a floating dock nearby, without a care in the world.

I quickly struck up a conversation with a couple sporting a difficult-to-understand Scottish accent and another nice couple from England. There were also a couple of pushy Japanese tourists rudely moving me out of my position so they could take a picture of what I was taking a picture of where I was standing in the middle of me taking my picture. I put my camera down and made the international “stop shoving me in the middle of taking my picture” face. I pointed out to the nice Scottish and English couple that this was not the first time I had been shoved by Japanese tourists in the middle of taking a picture.

Just then we heard those kids fishing off the end of the dock begin to scream frantically. I put down my camera and saw that the boy who had just been at the end of the dock was now struggling for life in the water. He obviously could not swim and he was trying his best to keep his head above water. We were about 50 feet above the ground, unable to do anything, except scream and point. We did this because none of the adults on shore could either see or hear what horror was happening at the end of the dock.

We kept yelling, “A child is drowning!” “Run to the end of the dock!” “Call an ambulance!” and all that panicked stuff. It quickly became evident that they could not understand what we were saying. We could also see that the boy was giving up. He quickly lost his fight and now was not moving, his face planted firmly in the water. Then one of the guys said, “We’ve got to get down there. Do you think I can jump?” Since I’ve never seen anyone survive a 50 foot fall onto cobblestones, I told him that he’d be seriously injured.” So we kept screaming and pointing.
Finally, one lone adult figured out what we were saying. He walked down the dock (I would have ran), saw the boy in the water, his lifeless body face down, he calmly handed his shopping bag to one of the other children, took off his shoes, then hopped into the water. We could tell this was the boy’s father because he could not swim either. He immediately began to struggle. Now we would be witness to two drownings.

Somehow the father made it over to the boy. Grabbing his father, they both immediately went under, disappearing under the waves. Two other men finally came running down the dock. One of them was smart enough to grab a life-ring from a nearby wall. He threw it at the struggling father and they both made it back onto the dock. The boy was unconscious but was quickly revived. Soaking wet, the father and son walked up the dock toward dry land. We could see the father hitting the son on the head and could hear him yelling at him. Unbelievably, he sat down and grabbed an ice cream cone from the hands of his wife and finished eating it. About two minutes later a police car and an ambulance arrived at the scene.

The Japanese tourists returned to the end of the wall and began to wave and yell at us in Japanese, like yelling made it easier for us to understand Japanese. I ignored them and began to walk away with the Scottish couple. My legs were shaking and the adrenaline was pooled in my feet. We talked about how stupid parents are and about how pushy Japanese tourists have become. They descended the steps in the guard tower and I began my adventure walking around the city on top of the wall.

If you have not seen my photos yet, follow this link to see pictures of Conwy castle. I’ve also got photos of the boy who is, thankfully, still alive, and pictures of my walk around Conwy. I have no pictures of the gift shops or the high tea my girls went to. It was a fast two hours but I finally met up with family in the castle parking lot. I tried to fain interest in all the lovely things they saw bout didn’t purchase. Then they asked, “how was your walk?” They didn’t believe me until they saw my photos and they remembered hearing all the sirens on the waterfront. By the way, I did not feel it was appropriate to take any photos of a drowning child and his idiot father. I guess I would make a horrible news photographer.

After loading up the car it was off the way we came. Only this time the sun was setting and the light was painting a new picture on the valley in Snowdonia. The girls were asleep in the car and so I kept on driving, wishing I was able to take a few more pictures of that beautiful valley. The day started out with the disappointment of a leaky canal, the amazement of a giant castle, the near-drowning of a little boy, and the painted sunset in Britain’s most beautiful valley. And we were less than a week into our three-week holiday. All that, and I was driving on the wrong side of the road, too.

Town Names

As we drive about the British countryside, we were highly entertained by the names of their towns. There were so many entertaining names that we decided to write them down instead of stopping and taking a photo of each one. However, one really interesting one was deserving of a photo which I hope you enjoyed. I now present to you the interesting town names of the United Kingdom.

Uppertooting, Overblow, Black Head, Probus, Pontypool, Dorking, Uckfield, Hoo, Wylie Piddle, Sharpness, Diss, Wiggaton, Dog Village, Upton Hellions, Putts Corner, Fenny Bridges, Up Exe, Neopardy, Dunchicock, Ugbrooke, Freckleton, Bootle, Smeeth, Meunt, Blubberhouses, Masham, Old Wives’ Lees, Snave, Wombwell, Cock of Aran, Boreland, Twechar, Spittal of Glenshee, Loch Snizort, Tiptoe, Mount Blow, Burpham, Spithurst, Gartcosh, Luggiebank, Undey, Meikle Earnock, Impington, Little Mell Fell, Hoar Park, Pity Me, Milton of Campsie, Bedburn, Urpish, Hooer, Needwood, Brain’s Green, Solomon’s Tump, Uley Long, Peaslake, Weesong, Kettle Sing Bottom, much Birch, Snargate, Yarsop, Whiteness Head, Newbald Wold, Horkstow, Flushdike, Sheepridge Fartown, Biggleswade, Fen Dritton, and the one worthy of a photo, Cockermouth. They must have run out of good names for their streets. We found one street called Street Lane.

I am sure they find our names just as amusing. Maybe.

Down the Drain

Mr. Wiley was a 91 year old Welsh gentleman who was filled with character and class. He was always in a suit and tie and was articulate and smart. He was a veteran of World War II and was a communications officer on a ship that was torpedoed by the Germans in the great naval battle of Jutland. As an avid reader of all things WWII, I was intrigued. I could not wait to get him talking about his life experiences. As it turned out, I would not have to wait long.

I’m not even quite sure where to start because Mr. Wiley was so energetic and talkative that it’s all a blur. He let us into the house and immediately greeted the two cats. The cats adored him. And he loved them back. He gave us a grand tour of the house and told us its history. In it’s day, it was the center of activity of the little town. It served both as a general store and the post office. As I mentioned before, it was 180 years old and had been added onto many times. Every time we turned a corner there was another cute little room. Our hosts are both educators. One is a principal and one is a professor. And by the amount of books they had we could tell they were very well read across a wide range of topics.

Mr. Wiley showed us all the antiques and told us all the interesting facts of the house. All the floors and walls were made with hand tools and old beams so every floor was uneven and everything creaked when you moved. I loved it. The house was filled with character. Sensing we were tired, Mr. Wiley left us to settle in. But somehow I could tell he was not finished with us. We would be hearing more from Mr. Wiley, a lot more.

The next morning he “tinkled” us at 8:30 am. We were exhausted and still struggling with jetlag so we let the phone ring. He tried tinkling us a couple more times and I’m sure he wondered what us lazy Americans were up to. After showering and eating breakfast, we returned his tinkle and told him we were expected for a day long boat rental in a town called Llangollen. When speaking to Mr. Wiley I pronounced the name just like it’s written. I was immediately corrected and told the correct pronunciation was “Kkkklan-goff-lynn (cough while you say it).” Then why not spell it Clangofflyn? It would be the first of many mispronunciations we would have. It wasn’t until we drove into Llangollen that I found out that Lanngollen was the shorter version of the town. The official name of the town is YSIOPFACHGARDIAUWRTHYBONTDROSYRAFONDDYFROWYYN-
LLANGOLLEN. And, believe it or not, Wales has a few towns with even longer names.

This was the day I was really looking forward to. I kept it a surprise from the ladies because they like surprises. About six months earlier, I had arranged to rent a canal boat for the day. Western England and Wales are crisscrossed with over 2,000 miles of canals. They built these canals to carry raw materials across the country. They hauled coal, slate, iron ore, and grains. Most of them fell into disrepair but recent restoration work has restored many of these canals to working order. The canals are dotted by hand operated locks and aqueducts. We would cross one of these aqueducts in our little boat at 300 feet over the farms below. I couldn’t wait.

TomTom told us we had about a half-hour drive. And she was right. We did have a bit of difficulty finding the marina because it was up the hill from the river. Then we saw the canal actually hugged the side of the hill. It was beautiful and I knew this was going to be a great day. The sky was filled with sun and white puffy clouds. We did not bring a picnic lunch with us because I had planned to stop at the little towns and pubs on the way to sustain us. The ladies could get out and shop. I would just sit on the boat and drink British ale, and smile. Today we would not have a care in the world.

We walked into the marina and up to the front desk. It was then we were informed that for the first time ever, the canal had sprung a leak and the boats were all bottomed-out. There would be no boat ride today. And there would be no boat ride for the rest of the summer because every day was fully booked. We were given a cash refund and an apology. I stood there with a lump in my throat because this was going to be my favorite day. All my hopes of this day went right down the drain. I felt like I wanted to cry.

Heading "Home"

About a 18 months ago we decided to be brave and join a home exchange website. We really wanted to go to Scandinavia, the land of our people. However, everyone willing to swap were in the wrong area of the country. One couple had a junkyard on their front lawn. But a nice couple from Wales contacted us about a year ago and asked if we would consider swapping houses with them. The advantage was that we spoke the same language. We said yes.

After months of emailing and sending maps and tourist information to each other, the day was finally here. Our adventure in the city of Bath was over and it was now time to hit the road. Before getting into the car I called Mr. Wiley, the nice gentleman who would let us into the house. He answered his phone by reciting his phone number first. That was odd and I wondered if that’s how it’s done in Wales or if that’s just the way 91-year-old men answer the phone in Wales. We figured it would be about three to four hours until we reached our destination. Mr. Wiley told me to “give him a tinkle” when we reached Llanfechain. “Just use the phone in the pub to tinkle me.” That would be easy to remember.

Elissa grabbed the navigators seat and asked how you spelled the name of the town we were headed to. TomTom anticipates what you are typing which makes things much easier for you. And it quickly found the name of our town. Off we went. Sheri and the girls instantly fell asleep.

While they were asleep we passed over a giant toll bridge with amazing scenery, and through the Brecon Beacons National Park. The park was stunning and I felt bad the ladies were missing it. But being the shoppers they all are, I knew they would value their sleep more. The terrain reminded me a lot of western Wisconsin and eastern Tennessee. It was breathtaking. And what made it all the more interesting is the number of castles we passed. About every fifteen minutes we passed a huge castle on a hill. They were everywhere. This may be hard to understand but to see beautiful scenery that you are familiar with (Wisconsin and Tennessee) punctuated by ancient castles and 1,000 year old towns is rather incredible. It’s a mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar. I did not see one red barn or one wooden house. Everything was aged stone.

As we got closer to our destination TomTom was talking to us more. The sound of her voice slowly woke up the ladies. Soon TomTom told us we were less than a mile from our destination. A year of planning was now on the doorstep. Less than 800 yards away we could not find our bearings. We were told that the house was a converted old post office across the street from the town pub and next door to the 800 year old church and graveyard. But there was nothing like that in sight. There were only farms. “You have reached your destination,” TomTom declared. There was nothing here. TomTom was wrong. But where were we?

We wandered down these narrow one-lane roads looking for anything familiar. But we found only sheep. We turned back around and drove past a farm. “Look at the sign,: Sheri said. The farm was named “Llanfechan.” The name of our town was “Llanfechain.” We were missing an “i.” What we would have given to buy a vowel. So we had our laughs and immediately left that concerned farmer’s driveway. We entered the correct name into the TomTom and she told we were two and a half hours away from our destination. But if it were not for that mix up, much of the scenery I saw would have gone unseen. Everyone who did not take a nap was upset. I loved the diversion.

Wales is a gorgeous country. It was not at all like I had imagined. It’s much more rugged and lush. The only problem I had with the scenery was the hedgerows. They line almost every road and they are about 10 feet high. This means that at times you cannot see the beautiful country you are driving through. But you catch glimpses when you go down hills or at large intersections. And there are sheep everywhere. They dot the hillsides like little snow banks. The other thing you notice are the miles and miles of mortar-less stone fences. And then you realize that over hundreds of years farmers have been adding to these fences. And many of them reach high onto the hills and mountains. What hard work that must have been.

Tine passed quickly looking at such gorgeous scenery and TomTom again let us know we were just a mile from our destination. This time we knew we were actually there. A directional sign with the name Llanfechain announced our turn into the town. We quickly identified the house, the church, and the pub. We were home. I parked the car next to the house and walked across the street into the pub. “This might be a nice place to eat,” I though to myself. Immediately upon entering I was overwhelmed with the sharp smell of pee. It was so nasty I had to breath through my mouth. We had smelled pee in pubs before, but this place won the award for biggest stink. It was then I realized that this country of drinkers had a problem with aiming, and smelling their own pee. So believe me when I say I had to giggle a little when I gave Mr. Wiley a “tinkle” to announce our presence. “542, 689, hello,” he said. I told Mr. Wiley we were here. He said he’d be right over.

By the time I was back across the street, Mr. Wiley pulled up in his Ka (a very tiny car) and we were greeted very warmly and Welshly. I will end the story here for now because Mr. Wiley was such a character he gets his own posting later on. We were now in Llanfechain, the village of the wonderful Mr. Wiley. Now he had Americans to entertain.

Don't Drink Bath Water

Rick Steves, the God of European travel, says that a day or two in Bath is a must. In fact, he recommends the minute you land in London you should head to Bath to rest and rejuvenate. Really? Skip London to see Bath? Because we love and trust Rick Steves, we listened (even though we forgot his book at home). But as previously mentioned, the shops were all old, the streets were filled with litter, the buildings smelled of pee, and the hobos were drunk and aggressive. The beautiful deep-blue stream running through Bath was muddied by the recent floods. And a big dead tree that floated down stream ruined the perfect picture I was planning on taking. But all this aside, we were going to have fun.

We found a place to park and wandered into town. We watched a few street performers and then found our way to the world-famous Pump Room. That’s the building where the Roman Baths are. Sheri really wanted to have a high tea there but since it was noon we had lunch instead. We were dressed like tourists and the Pump Room was opulent. We didn’t care. We had an amazingly delicious lunch entertained by the soothing sounds of a grand Steinway piano.

A quick note on British food. I am a foodie. I love good food and I love to cook. I know the British have a reputation for bad food. But I have read and heard that this is not entirely true. Thus far on the trip, the food was not as bad as I was prepared for. The meal we had at the Pump Room was of very high caliber but it came with a high price. And some of the pubs we frequented were in nicer areas of London, thus the good food. But the trip was young. And we had a lot more eating to do. But already I noticed the propensity for servers to ask us, “Would you like chips with that?” If you don’t know, chips to the British are big fat French fries to us. And, as you guessed, they serve them with everything. Just keep that in mind as the trip stories progress.

During your meal, you are urged to drink a glass of the famous tonic water. I’ll taste anything so I grabbed the girls and over to the fountain we went. It cost 50 pence ($1) a glass so we got three. The spring is volcanic so the water is very warm. I’m not a fan of drinking warm water but this was Roman Bath tonic water. As I took a giant gulp I could taste the prominent sulfur overtones making my gag reflex hard to contain. It was an instant reaction giving me no time to consider that sudden and violent puking may be socially unacceptable in such a nice establishment. Let the records show this was the closest I have ever come to drinking liquid fart.

You can Google the history of the Roman Bath in Bath (what a coincidence in the name, eh?) but it was discovered when folks a couple hundred years ago wanted to build something. They found a muddy spring, dug it up and found the 2,000-year-old Roman spa under the dirt and rubble. So they built the town hall around it and created their own spa. It brought them instant tourist money.

After our nice meal was over we were entertained outside by a skinny man in a pink tutu on a tall unicycle juggling knives and flames. The girls got mad at me when I said, “I did not come here to shop in places we have in the U.S. I’m going site seeing.” And I did. They shopped and I walked and looked at old stuff. But my search for the old and interesting did not yield much. It seems that they have turned Bath into a giant shopping mall. It was then a terrible realization came over me. What if every old city un Britain was like this? What if all of the ancient cities of the United Kingdom had been turned into a giant mall? There’s noting more than I hate than shopping. And there’s nothing more my wife and daughters love more than shopping. Instantly my soul started to seizure. I felt deceived by the entire country. Great Britain was a larger version of the Mall of America. I would only have to endure this until 2:00 PM. For that was when we would leave.

Sleep In Heavenly Peace

After a wet afternoon in Bath we decided to head to Bristol. It was only 20 miles away from Bath. We quickly got settled into the Bristol City Centre Marriot Hotel for a night of rest and relaxation. It was now dark and was raining peacefully. The nice folks at the front desk gave us walking directions through a serene park to the downtown eating establishments. It was a romantic stroll through the park, complete with an ancient ruined abbey in the middle, in the rain.

We found the downtown riverfront area to be very busy. There were so many college drunks really whooping it up. One even screamed very loudly about 6 inches away from my nose. Nice people here. We found a floating restaurant and had to sit in the non-floating part of it. I’m an advocate for truth in advertising. The sign should have read “Half-Floating Restaurant.” We had a great meal and ended the evening listening to distant fireworks. They were celebrating something to do with the harbor. It was too loud and I could not understand the accent to find out exactly what it was.

We took a nice stroll back to the hotel and settled in. The Marriot was nice but was definitely not a 4 star hotel. But as we were too tired to care, we got into bed and fell fast asleep. I was exhausted from my first-day driving ordeal and all the walking we were doing. With the girls in their room and Sheir and I in ours, we were soon fast asleep. Not a care in the world. Fast, fast asleep at the Bristol City Centre Marriott Hotel in Bristol, England. We were so tired and we were asleep. Very asleep.

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! It was 1:30 AM and the loudest fire alarms I have ever heard went off. As we were on the 9th floor, I was a bit concerned. But being the Americans we were, we called the front desk and asked if the alarm was real. Yes, it was real and we needed to evacuate IMMEDIATELY! We quickly put on our clothes and grabbed our rain jackets. Out into the hallways everyone poured. You cannot use the elevator in a fire so we all packed into the stairwells. There were half-naked fat people, screaming babies, drunk people urinating, wives screaming things at their half-awake husbands, and dogs barking. It was just like roaming the streets of Bath.

We were escorted out of the building and into the parking lot. It was still raining and cold. Some people were panicked and crying. Most were calm but all were wet and some were shivering. And no one knew what was happening and no one was remotely interested in telling us what was happening. We stood out there for an hour. Sheri finally went to one hotel employee holding a clipboard who needed to check our names off a list. “What’s that for?” she asked. “I have no idea,” he replied. “What’s happening?” she asked. “I have no idea,” the hotel employee answered. We felt we were in good hands. Did I mention we were at the Bristol City Centre Marriot Hotel that was not a 4 star as advertised?

This would be a good time to mention something else we observed. The British have a thing about giving people in authority day-glow yellow reflective vests. They love them here! And they are everywhere you look. They make quite the fashion statement and certainly get your attention. Even tour guides inside buildings wear them. They are not just for police, fire and ambulance folks. If you are a go-to person, you wear day-glow yellow.

We had just spent an hour outdoors in the rain in the parking lot at the Bristol City Centre Marriot Hotel from 1:30 AM until 2:30 AM without being given explanation. Then, suddenly, a man appeared with a box. He looked exhausted as though he’d been searching for the box for an hour. Out of that box he pulled day-glow yellow vests and he handed one to each hotel employee. It was then, and only then, that they told us everything was just fine and that we could now safely return to our rooms. Thank God someone found those vests. Otherwise we’d have been in that parking lot all night!

Exhausted and with a big day ahead of us we trudged back up nine flights of stairs, then tried to go to sleep. Yeah right. In the morning when we checked out they wanted to add some stupid 40 pound (80$) fee to our bill even though I was prepaid. I reminded them of our evening romp in the rain and the fact that for one hour I was not in my bed but in the parking lot. They credited my account and let me go free. What kindness. We were off for a full day of site-seeing in Bath. The rain had stopped and the sun was out.

Bath Organ

I forgot to mention something special that we did when we arrived in Bath. Just before we were about to leave, I noticed a nice lady in religious vestments standing at the now open door to Bath Abbey. Seizing the opportunity, I went right up and asked her what was happening. As it turned out, there was a pipe organ concert starting in just five minutes. I quickly grabbed the family and paid the nice lady for four tickets. My girls did not resist because they knew that that the pipe organ is my all-time favorite instrument, both for its complexity range of sounds. And it’s always been my dream to hear a pipe organ played in a real cathedral. This was my chance.

The concert lasted for 90 minutes and the famous organist even played a couple of familiar tunes. I was so moved I cried. My girls thought that was silly but I did and I freely admit it. As I was sitting in this grand space, I soaked in all the details of the Abbey. The stained glass windows were just vibrant with color. The stone and woodcarvings were incredibly detailed and all told a story. I looked to my left and both girls were asleep. To my right Sheri was nodding “yes” quite frequently. She, too, was dozing off. I didn’t care. I was in Heaven.

Immediately after the concert was finished the organist walked directly to us. “How did you enjoy it?” he asked. Looking directly at the girls he said, “You’re the youngest people here. Did you enjoy it?” They lied and said, “Yes. Very much.” We talked a bit more then decided that since we were inside, we’d take a look around. All the old people milled about and we started on our self-guided tour. Then a nice old lady came over to us and we had a lovely conversation. Just when it was getting interesting another old lady appeared and politely said, “Do you mind leaving right now, please?” In the U.S. that would have been very rude but since she had a British accent, it seemed like she was being polite.

We walked back to our car. We entered the name of our hotel into the brains of TomTom. The soothing British female accent led us to Bristol in the rain. It would be a soothing, rest-filled British evening.

Driving Day

It was now the day we would awake and begin to experience the UK outside of London. Everyone was looking forward to this day but me. In fact, I even lost a bit of sleep over the fact that I would be driving on the left side of the road from the passenger side of the car. Could I do it without having to purchase the rental company a new car?

We slept in a bit, checked out of our hotel without any problems, and piled our luggage inside a black London cab. Off to the other end of town we went clear over to Victoria Station, the most congested part of town. Did you understand what I just wrote? I was going to be learning how to drive on the wrong side of the road in the most congested part of London with no idea how to get where I was going. Yeah, you’d lose a bit of sleep, too.

Months ago I worked through a broker and rented a VW Passat. I was so happy I was that organized and that it was already paid for. But the long line of people waiting for cars they paid for and could not get at the ticket counter I was now waiting at told me that this was going to be a very frustrating process. After waiting in line for almost an hour (only 4 people were ahead of me) it was now my turn. The gentleman in front of me was now in the back room screaming at the manager because he was promised an automatic and there were none available. Fear started to set in. Because, if you think about it, driving on the wrong side, sitting on the wrong side, and shifting on the wrong side using my left hand while looking outside the window and possibly talking and thinking were going to be very, very wrong.

I tried to look as nice as I could. The gentleman picked away at his keyboard forever as he took down my information. He copied my passport and my driver’s license. Then he handed me my keys to my “upgraded vehicle” whatever that was. It turned out to be a people carrier, or a van as we like to say. Did I mention it was a manual shift? You see, I ordered what I did because it was small. That’s because I was going to be driving out in farm country where the roads are small. And, there were only four of us, not eight.

I calmly told the man that I had specifically paid for a VW Passat and that was exactly what I was promised. I held in my hand a letter from the broker saying that if I were not given what was promised I was to have them call a special number where they would yell at the people for me. I also told them that I wanted a letter from the manager clearing me from all responsibility fro wrecking their car should I get in an accident because I was given a freakin’ 8 passenger van, manual shift on the wrong side, sitting on the wrong side and that I was expected to drive on the wrong side. I would not leave until the phone call was made and the letter was in hand. Apparently my kind words worked because magically the car I wanted appeared.

Did I mention that they have never heard of elevators in the UK? Most places do not have them. This giant garage did not. And all their cars were parked on the 5th floor. So I grabbed Elissa and our rented TomTom GPS device and up we went. I was also told to inspect every square inch of the car for scratches and dents because they are really shady about sticking Americans with the bill for any little blemish. So I did. I even took pictures. The man started to get mad at me but I didn’t care. I made him sign a detailed paper in duplicate showing every little blemish. He was not my friend. But two weeks later that little paper would save me.

I hopped in the car on the driver’s side (right) and down the ramps and out of the garage we went. We stopped at the bottom to pick up Sheri, Brittney and our luggage. We waited for TomTom to get a good signal and off we went into a very congested London. I gave permission to the girls to backseat drive like their life depended on it, because it did. Over and over they screamed, “STAY LEFT!” and over and over I forgot and then obeyed. TomTom got us out of London and onto a motorway (freeway) very quickly. Finally I received a break because the motorway didn’t have any right-hand turns, the worst kind.

We were about two hours out of London when we made our first stop. It was lunchtime so we decided to heed the signs and stop at our first of many “Welcome Break” areas. We’d call it a rest area. We went into a Quickie Mart and tried to find something familiar to eat. The first thing we saw was a giant colorful display that said, “BIG NUTS…grab a bag.” We must have looked real childish standing there as a family laughing and pointing at it. “Who can we buy those for?” I asked. “Nunan!” said my girls. I presented Nunan a bag of BIG NUTS just yesterday. He was very happy.

Sheri discovered that Pepsi is almost impossible to find. She had to settle for Coke. She also discovered Orange Coke. That’s Coke with the delicious taste of orange. It tasted like crap. We stuck to bottled water. We quickly grabbed a couple of sandwiches and got back on the long road. As we dug into our respective sandwiches, the girls and I discovered the joy of European Brie. We each grabbed a Brie, tomato, and basil baguette. I cannot tell you how much better Euro Brie than plastic American Brie. The sandwich was so amazingly delicious we wanted more. The girls and I raved about it. Sheri had tunafish.

As we would soon discover, all their dairy products, especially the cheeses, tasted much better than ours. That’s because they don’t have to pasteurize their milk, killing all of the flavor producing bacteria. And, with the exception of two episodes of projectile diarrhea I do not blame on the cheese, no ill effects beset us.

TomTom had a lovely and calming affect on us all. She had the most wonderful women’s British accent and I never doubted her for a second. But Brittney did. So a couple of times I was convinced by a backseat driver that TomTom was wrong and the map was right. As it turned out, TomTom was never wrong. Soon we were in the ancient city of Bath. And it was raining.

We were here only a couple of hours, getting our bearings. For we would return the next day, fully rested and ready for the sites, sounds and smells of Bath. We discovered that Bath was a rather dirty city. There was litter everywhere and it smelled of pee. We reasoned that this was because there were many drunk and loud hobos wandering the streets. In fact, this is where we began to notice the British tradition of street urination. They will pee on anything, and they do. A lot. Look in any corner and find a puddle. You’ll also find them around the bases of statues and flowerpots. We know they weren’t dogs because we witnessed many a public urination. We learned quickly not to step in anything wet or ask directions from a man standing in a corner. Best to remain lost.

UK Photos Now Posted

I've started to post some of our trip photos. Just look on the right side of the home page for the link that says "Personal Photo Album"and you'll be taken to a magical land of British photos. To commemorate this announcement I am not including a photo with this posting, as is tradition. I will, however, misspell somthing.

Honorable Mention II

I also forgot to mention that whilst in St. Paul's, we went down into the crypt to look at the graves of famous dead people. There’s a lot of them down there. Something I noticed is that over the years, many of the effigies and marble busts have very polished noses. That’s because people rub them for luck (or something). So that’s exactly what I had in mind when I came upon the bronze bust of Lawrence of Arabia.

I quickly looked around for security cameras and tour guides. Nothing in sight other than my daughter Elissa at my side. I raised my hand to give his nose a good rubbing for good luck (of an Arabian kind). I must have startled him because for some dumb reason the bust is not attached to the shelf. That means any dumb tourist can come along and rub his nose and almost knock him off his final resting place. And that is exactly what happened.

Thank God my Ninja skills kicked into play because I barely caught that heavy statue. As I muscled his 50 lb head back into place restoring it’s balance I was imagining the headlines:

“Stupid American tourist breaks the head of beloved Lawrence of Arabia wide open on beloved funeral floor of beloved St. Paul’s Cathedral bringing shame to his country and great dishonor to all Arabia’s everywhere. We shall forever hate him Britishly.”

But I must confess that while I was thinking about that headline and wondering if I could get that huge head back on the shelf, I was also looking for a place to either run or fake a seizure and perhaps tinkle a bit just for effect and sympathy. Then the headline would have read:

“Poor American tourist has terrible seizure, falls over hitting Lawrence of Arabia’s head causing it to break on the floor then urinating his American-style shorts bringing no shame to himself whatsoever on account of the copious piddle and flailing about because no one would piss their pants on purpose that much."

After that incident we found Sheri in the Crypt Snack Shoppe (I’m not kidding). We all bought some bottled water and Sheri ate some kind of dessert cup. I told her I almost knocked Lawrence of Arabia’s head off a shelf because I rubbed his nose too hard. Elissa said, "Yeah, he did. It was really heavy." Sheri said, “That’s nice” then finished her brownie something. After 22 years of marriage, nothing I do phases her at all.

Honorable Mention

This photo taken from the spire of St. Paul's cathedral with no less than 4 Japanese tourists jammed into my armpit.

HONORABLE MENTION
I forgot to tell you that while Sheri was waiting for the girls and I to fight our way through the Japanese tourists and make our way back down the great spire of St. Paul's, she had a funny thing happen to her. As I mentioned, she was in the whispering gallery. Directly across from her (300 feet away) was a little English boy with a very cute accent. He figured out that he could whisper something to the nice American lady resting across the dome from him and she could hear it. So, like all boys love to do he thought of something very naughty to whisper. He cupped his little hands and spoke into the dome, sending his quiet words clear across the gallery to my wife's waiting ears, "Immodium AD."

Day Two: London

I awoke after a very fitful night’s sleep. Sheri slept over 12 hours. However she did wake up at 1 AM here ready to go. I only had about 4 hours of sleep. So when 8 AM arrived, and it was my turn to shower, I wondered what adventures the day would bring. It started immediately. After trying to figure out how the shower worked at our hotel, I was about to give up after 5 minutes. Then we got a call from Britt who was also wondering how to turn on the shower. I told her once I figured it out I’d call her back. I stood there freezing in my birthday suit as I fiddled with the shower contraption. I almost called the front desk, using that phone in the bathroom. About 3 minutes later I figured it out.

Now that the grooming is over (glad I skipped that part?) it was off to the Tower of London. Once again, to remind those following along, in one way it looks smaller in person than it does in the photos you remember. Nonetheless, it is an amazing place. We started with a tour from a Beefeater who just so happened to be in charge of the Tower Ravens. You’ll have to Google that. Before the tour started, I had the girls pose with one at the gate. They are a very cheeky sort, probably because they have to deal with so many rude Americans. And on that note, don’t rude Americans ever hear that they are considered loud and rude and should maybe stop or just shut their yaps?

I will skip over the highlights of most of the tour of the Tower. However, I must mention seeing the Crown Jewels in person. Being in the same room with the largest diamond in the world does not seem real. The opulence of the regalia is beyond words. The amount of gold and precious gems is just surreal. It’s funny what humans can create. And it’s even funnier what we collectively decide to value.

As we were in one of the courtyards within the Tower, our lovely California Girl daughters caught the fancy of a few of the British soldiers garrisoned at the Tower Barracks. The group staring at them out their window steadily grew. There was also one guard stationed outside which I got to smile. I told him both my daughters were not married and I was looking for an honorable British soldier with a sizable dowry to take them off my hands. This made Brittney upset but Elissa found it funny. The soldier responded with a smile and he stomped his feet twice, the international sign for, “Yes. I agree to your terms.”

After a short debate about how best to get to the Tate Modern (museum of modern art) we decided to take a real London cab for the first time. For the four of us to go halfway across downtown it only cost five pounds (ten bucks). Not bad. After ten minutes in the place, I realized my time would be better served by sitting outside in an orange lawn chair bored to death for two hours. This is what I chose to do. Thankfully, my family became bored too and decided to join me outside. The thing is, I appreciate modern art if it looks like something that took more talent to make than either I or a five-year-old could do. But come on folks, staring at a giant red canvas with a yellow stripe painted across one side, then calling truly revolutionary? Who the freak do they think they’re kidding? Not me. I’ll sit outside and look at pigeon crap on the sidewalk.

The Tate Modern anchors one end of the Milenium Bridge. The other side is anchored by St. Paul’s Cathedral. Now, it’s been my dream to just sit inside one of the great cathedrals of Europe. Mission accomplished. No photos or video allowed by the way. Again, there’s no way to describe it. But my staring and gawking was cut short by the announcement that all those wishing to climb the 43,897 steps to the top were to proceed to the back of the Nave immediately. We jumped at the chance. One third of the way up we reached what’s called the whispering galleries. Through a fluke of acoustics, you can sit on one side and hear, with perfect clarity, someone sitting on the other side whispering over 200 feet away. This is where Sheri decided to stay as the heights were getting the best of her. It was all for the good because what awaited us was quite unexpected. I liken it to a climb up Half-Dome in Yosemite.

The climbing just would not end. And many Europeans do not have the same personal hygiene Americans do. So the smell was, at times, a bit sharp. At one spot in the climb, you almost have to get on your knees to make it through the narrow passage. Any bit of claustrophobia would cripple you. And that is the exact place where the line stood still for me for five minutes. I was hunched over, unable to go forward because my girls were stopped, and unable to go backward because some nice but (pun intended) unfortunate Italian woman was stuck right behind me. She can be grateful my gastric system adjusted quickly to the English cuisine.

We finally made it to the top. It’s over 300 feet up and you get a view of all of London. But there were way too many people up there and the guide at the top insisted people could go both ways. This was a mistake because there was literally no room for two people to pass each other. A panic situation started leaving us all locked in position in 45 mph winds at the top of St. Paul’s spire for about 10 minutes. I blame the Japanese tourists because they cannot understand or read English, are used to being smashed against each other, and they do no understand directional arrows. They also pick the most inappropriate places to stop and take pictures. I finally had to take charge of the situation myself and forcefully push them toward the exit. We made it out. On the way down I got to talk to a nice man from South Carolina who informed me the stock market crashed. But I could have cared less because I was in London inside St. Paul’s Cathedral. And I was on a three week vacation.

Just as we were about to leave, we were invited to join in the Evensong service. We quickly got in line and actually got to sit in the choir in private stalls. We did this along with several other tourists. The service began and it was the most boring service I had even been a part of. Seriously. It was a spoken Evensong. That would make it an Evenspeak. The only funny thing that happened was Sheri standing confidently at a time where sitting was the appropriate thing to do. She also spoke one of the lines loudly that was to be spoken by the priest. It was really funny and provided the only bright spot in the service. Brittney fell asleep and Elissa drew gargoyles in her sketchbook. It was a real let-down. The priest even looked like he was upset and not happy to be there.

The inside of St. Paul’s is inspiring, amazing, and a feast for the eyes. It’s the youngest and largest cathedral in London. I could have stayed inside and soaked in the beauty all day. But my family wants to leave. So we do. But I leave inspired and moved beyond words. We leave and immediately outside next to the steps is parked a Picadilly Whip truck selling ice cream. The real world slaps of reality.

So now we’re tired and hungry. We begin to do what Londoners do very well; we walk. Then we walk some more. We’re soon near our hotel and decide to stop for some pub grub. And it’s here that we learned an important lesson. When at a pub, don’t sit down and expect t be waited upon. First pick out a table and look for a brass number embedded in it. Then go up to the bar and order your food. We had the best pub grub the whole trip in that place. We had bangers and mash inside a Yorkshire pudding smothered in onion gravy. It was delicious and I looked forward to all the cuisine the U.K. had to offer. After the meal the waiter came and took away our plates and then we waited for our check. We waited for over a half hour before we gave up and decided to be rude and ask for it. He quickly brought it and we were on our way.

Back at the Hilton we quickly settled in for a very restful night’s sleep. And that it was. We were exhausted and we all slept without waking up early. It was a good day.

Day One: London

I cannot tell you how excited we were to be headed to Great Britain. Our bags were packed, reservations made and double-checked, and we read everything Rick Steves had to say about this most interesting of islands. After a harrowing 16-week wait for our passports to arrive, we were finally leaving.

Our flight didn’t take off until 7:30 PM, which gave us time to be casual all day. Most of the day was spent putting the finishing touches on our house. We are house-swapping with a couple from the small town of Llanfechain in Wales.

We arrived at SFO without a hitch. Sheri sat in the back reading our Rick Steves Bible and slowly drifted off to sleep. For the first time, we would driving into the International Terminal (on purpose). Nick, Brittney’s boyfriend, dropped us off. In we went and began our half-hour wait in line to check in. Making it past that point, I was singled out for a very thorough search. The nice man wiped down everything in my 50 lb camera bag, checking for traces of explosives. My only fear was that it would detect my numerous emissions. But I was given the green light. We ate a leisurely dinner and made our way to the steel tube with the word “United” painted on the side that would be home for the next ten hours.

The flight started off well. And there seemed to be a bit more leg-room than I am accustomed to in coach. In fact, this was confirmed by my asking the question to a flight attendant. We were well prepared with special neck-pillows and eye-coverings that came in very handy. I felt sorry for everyone who came totally unprepared to sleep on an airliner. That was, until I fell asleep. I awoke a couple of times to see an amazing sunset. I then noticed we were over Hudson bay. I awoke again over Baffin Island, Greenland and then did not wake until the flight attendant handed me a British immigration card to fill out somewhere over Scotland. Before I knew it, we landed at Heathrow and our adventure really began.

For being such an acclaimed international airport, the busiest I am told, Heathrow was a dump. It looked like the old Detroit airport. I would have expected something more impressive. We made it through customs and immigration without any wait. Thankfully, they accepted us and our American dollars at the rate of two dollars for every pound.

We met our driver just as I was about to look for a phone to call him. He was a quiet, unassuming man from India. He was kind enough to point out some major sites along the way. We arrived at our hotel in downtown London in about an hour. We drove past Parliament, Westminster Abbey, and Big Ben. All of the above attractions, we decided, look much smaller in person and are very crowded by other city buildings. It was surreal to see in person sites you have seen in pictures since being a child.

Our hotel check-in went very smoothly. They even received a package for me. It was a GPS unit I rented for driving about the English countryside. More on that to come. As I really had to use the bathroom when we checked in, I sat upon the throne and began my reign as King Pewie. As I was in the process of voiding I was startled by a phone that rang right next to me. Without thinking where I was or what I was doing, I answered it with noises still emanating from some unknown place beneath me. Quickly hoping it was one of my daughters, my hopes were shattered and the embarrassment meter went off the charts when it turned out to be the woman at the front desk. I am certain she heard every explosion and knew exactly which phone I was using. “How’s the room, Mr. Peterson?” she asked. “Everything is great, thank you so much,” and I got the giggles. “Is everything to your liking?” I was not sure how answer as I was really enjoying the part of the room I was currently using.

Our hotel is situated directly across the Thames from the Tower of London. To stay awake, and to get our bearings, we walked across the London Tower Bridge to the Tower of London. We accidentally walked right past Lloyds of London at one point, something we weren’t expecting.

It’s so strange to look at sites that are 900 years old and still standing. London is a city of history and tradition. And, as we realized, America has done everything to be as opposite as can be, For example, to turn on a light switch, you flick the switch down. You also drive on the opposite side of the road. Brittney found this out when she was almost hit by a double-decker bus that screeched to a stop, missing her by only two feet. She looked the driver straight in the eye. It was our first close call.

Although they drive on the left, they keep to the right when walking on the sidewalk. That makes mo sense. They also have a lot of what we call, “obvious” signs and cryptic signs. In the obvious category is instead of “Exit” they say “Way Out.” In the cryptic category, the non-worded sign for an exit is a green background with a running man (makes sense so far) standing between a white square (what?) with a bent arrow (more, what?). They also drive lorries (trucks) that have advertising on them. And their toilets have about 3 cups of water in them. When they flush, things don’t spin around. They get deluged by a huge blast of water. More later in this missive.

To quote the great Winston Churchill, “We are two great peoples separated by a common language.” We could not get the camera out quick enough to capture the side of one lorrie that said “Menses Jubilee.” I know that has a totally different connotation in our country. And when Sheri scraped her wrist and began to bleed, she quickly found an eating establishment and said, “Can I have a napkin? I’m bleeding.” To us that makes perfect sense. But to the Brits, she said, “Can I have a maxi-pad? I’m bleeding.” So you’ll understand why she received the British look of horror.

Americans don’t look all that different than the Brits. But, as we discovered, one important clue that you’re an American is that we’re always tripping, and watching each other trip. You see, Europeans are used to uneven 1,000 year old steps, cobblestone streets, uneven embankments, and other unusualities (I just made up that word because it sounded British). So we trip on everything. There is an unusuality right outside our hotel. Just as my daughters notice the aforementioned unusuality, they speak, “Who would be dumb enough to trip over that?” I did. In fact, I got my foot completely soaked. Silly dad. But Sheri has tripped over the most things thus far. I am certain she will break something before this trip is over.

Jet lag really happens. The time difference was +8 hours. So we left on Wednesday evening and arrived Thursday afternoon. The battle was to try and stay awake. Sheri was the first to drop. Brittney was next. Elissa and I fought the good fight and she went out with me for evening walkies. The city near the Thames is beautifully lit at night. We experimented with a little evening photography and you’ll see the results on the link to the photo website here.

Another note of interest is that everyone who serves here (in stores and restaurants) is not from here, just like in California. It’s hard enough to understand a fast British accent. But a British accent from someone with a foreign origin with a British accent is even more difficult. Then try being surrounded by a bunch of loud drunks in a pub. You feel really dumb really fast. You are speaking the same language but you cannot understand each other. I had to remember that we are the ones with unusual accents here.

Our first day was over. And to top off the day, I learned something important. Guys, you’ll know what I’m talking about here. You cannot sit on the loo and do a courtesy flush without getting a big surprise. The toilets here do not release a slow stream of water causing your leavings to twirl about and gently disappear. Instead, a fire hose opens up from a secret hole under the lid and blasts your shame away instantly and decisively with 50 gallons of water completely soaking anything (like your bits and pieces) that happen to be in the neighborhood. Best to stand and not be courteous using British toilets.

Tomorrow will be grand as we begin our adventure in earnest. Toodles!

More Stories On The Way

Thanks for your patience folks! As you have probably guessed by the absence of posts lately, we are roaming the British countryside gathering stories. And we've got some good ones. But we're not back yet and internet access has been very limited. So just to whet your appetite here's a teaser. Just the other day we were riding a trolly in Blackpool when we spotted a transvestite. I quickly grabbed my camera and got a photo. Just as I took the picture a little girl next to me said to her father (with a strong Beatles accent), "Daddy, what's that?" "That's one of them transexuals," replied dad. "What's a transexual, daddy?"

For the hilarious answer that caused us to get off at the next trolly stop because we could not control our laughter, tune in later this week. I know that's mean but it's worth the wait. But just to show you I'm not making this up, I've attached the picture I took.

Enjoy and I'll start posting again soon!