Lleaving Llanfechain

The evening before we left the moon was full and the clouds were low. Sheri and I decided to have a little fun. Back when the girls were little someone told them the horrible story of Bloody Mary. As the story goes, if you stand in front of a mirror at midnight and say the words “Bloody Mary” three times, she will appear in the mirror. Ooooh scary!

So we invited our girls out to the graveyard. But even at 20 years old, it was still too freaky for them. So Sheri and I lit a candle and walked out into the center of the graveyard at midnight and waited for the church bells to ring 12 times. We then said, “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary!” and waited for Bloody Mary to appear. We figured if it would work in front of a mirror, it would certainly work in the middle of a 900-year-old Welsh cemetery at midnight. But the only thing that appeared were mosquitoes. So we went back inside and spent our last evening in a Welsh bed.

The morning sun woke us up and we packed and cleaned up after ourselves. But before we could go, we needed to get a personal tour and have tea with Mr. Wiley. When you swap houses, you need to have someone to let you in the house and show you how everything works. Mr. Wiley was that man.

Mr. Wiley is 92 years old and he’s filled with stories. And we’ve never met a more proper British gentleman. He told us several stories about how he fought in World War II. He was in the Royal Navy when his ship was torpedoed by the Germans. He was a fascinating gent to listen to. He certainly had way more interesting stories to tell than I do.

So to start the morning, we packed and then met Mr. Wiley at the gate of the church of St. Garmon. This small but beautiful church was built in the mid 1100’s and is the center point of the tiny and quiet village of Llanfechain, Wales. Please take a look at the personal photo album for some photos of the inside and out. Once inside, Mr. Wiley, who is also the church organist, favored us with an organ concert that lasted over an hour. We sang along to the tunes we knew, but mostly we listened.

When Mr. Wiley was finished, we drove a few blocks to his home. It was a very neat and proper place, filled with memorabilia. He again told us many tearful stories of the war and how life was back in the good old days. Mr. Wiley was a nurse who worked in the tuberculosis wards after the war. He was also a music teacher, thus the reason for his talent on the Wurlitzer.

We met his lovely neighbor lady and had a wonderful and proper time. They loved our American accents and had many questions about life in the States. We drank our tea, had some biscuits (cookies) and listened to Elissa play the Darth Vader theme on Mr. Wiley’s piano. Then we said a sad goodbye to Llanfechain, to Wales, and to Mr. Wiley.

We packed up the car and programmed TomTom to lead us to Cambridge, England. The girls took their Dramamine and quickly dozed off. We would be there in just a couple of hours. So we left a quaint 175-year-old house and headed to the Cambridge Holiday Inn. We had a fantastic time in Wales and would love to return someday. We loved the laid-back Welsh lifestyle and the lush countryside. So thanks all you wonderful Welshers for being so kind to a group of Californians.

On the way to England, Sheri fell asleep and I heard Brittney giggling an hour later. Britt woke up and decided it would be funny to write the words “poop” and “fart” on her mother’s arm where she could not see it. And Britt was right. It was funny. But the English folk in the Welcome Break (rest area) were not as amused as we were.

British Sports Presenter

Whilst in the British Isles my family kept noticing people staring at me and giving me “knowing” nods. Then I began to notice it. At first I immediately thought about my zipper, as most guys do. But every time I checked I was fine. This kept happening throughout the trip. It wasn’t until we were near the end of the trip that we discovered what was happening. A waiter kept giving me funny looks. He wasn’t our waiter but he kept hovering for some reason. After our meal he finally seemed to break down after he heard me talk and tell me what the kerfuffle was all about. “You look just like one of our famous sports presenters,” he said. And what do you say to that other than, “oh?” You see, he knew I wasn’t the celebrity he thought I was the minute he heard my American accent. And, if you have not figured it out already, “sports presenter” translated into American is sportscaster. I failed to get the name of the famous sports presenter, but the rest of the trip I continued to get those “knowing” nods. So I did a little research and could not find one single presenter that reminded me of me. But I did find a combination of sports presenters that may, if blended properly, be an exact image of my visage. You be the judge.

Penrhyn Castle

Penrhyn Castle is located in northern Wales and it really is not a castle at all. It was built about 150 years ago by the Pennant family who originally made their fortune in the sugar plantations in Jamacia. The family switched to slate mining and made a larger fortune. There’s a lot of controversy surrounding the family and the exploitation of slaves and Welsh slate miners. But we were not there to engage in such debates. We went because one of my co-workers, Donna, has family that were caretakers of the fake castle for years and years. We also really wanted to see a grand British country house. And because we had a connection to it, Penhryn seemed to be a good place to visit.

This would turn out to be our last jaunt in Wales as the girls were getting more and more overcome by carsickness the longer we traveled. And the complaints were increasing as well. Again, we traveled through a stunning countryside to get to Penhryn. Once there, we were overwhelmed by what rich people do with their money, and how they behave toward others. Penrhyn is now owned by the National Trust. They got it because the death duty was so great that no family member could afford to keep the castle so the government took it as payment. That’s the way governments get rich and get to keep all the nicest houses.

Penhryn has the largest private art collection of any family in the U.K. other than the Queen. The inside is stunning and there’s way too much furniture to sit on and too many rooms to make the place seem livable. Perhaps that’s because I live in a 2,000 sq. ft. house with a tiny yard, all of which could have fit into their grand ballroom. But really, who needs a house that big?

The most interesting things in the house were the items Queen Victoria used on her visit to the home. They have a one-ton bed carved from slate the queen slept on. And they showcase the water closet in which she made queen poop and queen tinkle. Since only a queen can make queen poop and queen tinkle, I was mesmerized. No samples of the royal leavings were on display.

As with every tour through an historical establishment, I was the slowest one, getting my money’s worth. At one point I heard an alarm go off probably signaling that someone went into a restricted area. In the back of my mind, I thought, “That’s probably my wife.” Then I went on with the tour.

The servant’s quarters, where Donna’s family worked for years and years, was massive and maze-like. There was a long hallway with 75 bells and placards near the ceiling. These were bells that the rich family rang whenever they needed a page turned in a book or wanted someone’s hand to sneeze in. Rich people can ring their servants for just about anything.

After a couple of hours I met my family in the café and gift shop at the end of the tour. Sheri was upset and shaken. She was looking at a painting by one of the Dutch masters. Glare from a nearby window masked the fine detail of the painting. Her eyes are not that great and so she squinted and moved closer setting off the alarm. One of the security guards yelled at her insisting that she back away.

The guard was quite upset for she was convinced my wife was going to steal that three foot by four foot painting by placing it under her shirt. Arrogant Americans do that all the time, you see. But the guard forgot that if it weren’t for arrogant Americans, Hitler would now own that painting and she would be speaking German. But I digress.

We wandered about a small portion of the 40,000 acres of the estate. The gardens were beautiful and filled with plants from around the world. One plant had the largest leaves we’ve ever seen. Take a look at our photo album for a peek. The outside of the castle is all you’ll see in photos since they did not allow photography inside the castle. So unless you Google “inside of Penhryn fake castle house,” you won’t see the inside.

We jumped in the car and headed back. The girls became sick again. When we got back to our swap-house, we decided to end our stay early and head to our new destinations. The girls didn’t want to drive six hours a day from the house to see stuff any more. The rest of our trip involved driving to a city and staying there three days. But that meant we had to leave Wales, a place in which we had fallen in love.

That evening we packed and announced to Mr. Wiley that we would be leaving early. He did not seem too pleased. He told us that before we left he wanted to play the organ for us and invite us to his home for tea. Tomorrow would be a very interesting day.

Caernarfon Castle

Another day in Wales meant another outing. And since Wales is most known for castles, we were headed to our second one, risking that the girls would hate it. But they seemed interested in Conwy Castle so we gave it a try. We pumped the girls full of Dramamine and headed to Caernarfon Castle.

To get there, we traveled through a stunning valley, stark Welsh mountains, and tiny winding roads. As a defense mechanism against projectile vomiting, the girls quickly fell asleep and missed most of the beautiful scenery. At one point, I stopped the car to get a better look, stretch my legs, and enjoy watching my wife chase sheep. She was actually trying to pet one. Sheep don’t like being massaged, like our cat, so they ran away. They seemed to lure Sheri away from the car. I waited to see if they would then all rush at her in a well-planned butting session, but the girl’s shouts of embarrassment brought Sheri back to us.

Caernarfon Castle was built by King Edward I after he conquered them in 1283. He built the castle to assert his might and because he had nothing better to do with his money. It’s built in a place where a Roman fort once stood on the banks of the River Seiont where it meets the Menai Strait. It’s a very impressive and imposing site. The parking lot we paid dearly to park in was only 30 years old and was build by Gordon the Only. He built it to dominate the tourist trade.

Each castle has its own unique traits and I won’t bore you with this one. However, what makes this castle modernly unique is that it’s the place where Prince Charles was invested as Prince of Wales. If you look at my photos of the castle, you’ll see the very spot this happened. To pacify the Welsh, King Edward, as the legend goes, told the Welsh he promised them "a prince born in Wales, who did not speak a word of English" and then delivered his infant son, Edward II (who actually spoke no language).

Just like at Conwy Castle, we found a tour guide to bring the castle to life. It was well worth the cost. Caernarfon has many more secret passages and well preserved towers than Conwy. But the inside buildings are not as well preserved, in fact, all that’s left are the foundations.

Unfortunately, nothing funny happened at Caernarfon. Sheri and the girls enjoyed the gift shop. Because it took us so long to get there, the town was mostly closed down, sparing me hours of waiting while the girls shopped and argued about shopping.

One the way back to our guest house, we found the freeway bridge out of town blocked by farmers protesting on tractors. We turned to TomTom to find a new way home. Although it was a longer route, I am certain we made it to our destination much faster than everyone else in Northern Wales. Because hunger was beaconing, we stopped at a nice Welsh restaurant. It was clean, nicely decorated, and filled with nice but very silent people. We felt silly talking to each other, especially with our American accents. So we just politely stared at each other, silently. The food sucked because it was typical British so we bought a box of fudge to help us forget what we ate. After posing with a mannequin in the parking lot, we jumped in the car and opened the box of fudge.

Here’s another one of these English-American differences. Our fudge is chocolatey, creamy, dense, and heavenly. Their fudge has no chocolate and tastes like our caramels, only more grainy. It was good but we were disappointed.

On the way back, the girls became car sick, again. Our outings began to wear them down, and us too. Again, my apologies for nothing funny or tragic happening.

The Full Scottish

You cannot speak of bad British food without mentioning haggis. It’s all the rage over here and comedians the world over mention haggis when speaking of all things horrible. It wasn’t something I was going to seek out but it did cause a little curiosity, like small pox. And without much warning, there it was. Our gracious hosts in Edinburgh, Scotland told me that if I wanted the full Scottish experience, I needed to eat some haggis and something to do with not wearing underwear but the accent was difficult to understand. As luck would have it he just happened to serve it as a breakfast option. Boy howdy!

I slept well the evening before in spite of being given this warning. In fact, I was actually looking forward to it. Our bed and breakfast host seated us at our table and asked, “Are you willing to try some haggis on the side this morning?” I bravely said, “Yes!” I knew he was just easing me into it. Sheri, on the other hand, was completely convinced that haggis was made primarily from sheep brains. Since that was the grossest thing she could think of to eat, and since the countryside was filled with sheep, and since they had to figure out some way to get rid of sheep brains after making blankets and mutton, brain just seemed like the logical main ingredient in haggis.

It arrived with my full English breakfast, on the side, and on a cute little Scottish plate. My wife decided it was a cute little Scottish plate. I determined it was only Scottish because we were in Scotland. But I digress. It came in a small mound and it looked like a pile of finely-grained dark brown hash. It was highly aromatic, being filled with spices and some kind of grain. Although the smell was delightful, I was on alert because I knew the only reason to put that much spice in something was because it tasted like crap. I was hoping my reasoning was faulty, as my wife constantly informs me it is.

I took a fork of the dark brown crumbly material and lightly placed it in my mouth. My brain was on alert to quell any gag reflex that might manifest itself. On their own, my eyes searched for an appropriate place to projectile vomit. But that never happened because I actually liked it. Spices only seemed to compliment the flavor of the haggis, not cover it up. I think haggis is made from barley and other things I refuse to Google just in case it's made from ground children. Overall, I found it delicious. Sheri was still thinking it was sheep brain so the entire day roaming around Edinburgh, she kept checking me for signs of mad cow. Those symptoms included mooing in gift shops, eating royal shrubbery, and pooping in the street. These are things I've always done without medical diagnosis.

The next morning I decided to go for the full Scottish breakfast. This included a giant plate of haggis topped off with a soft fried egg and toast. It was wonderful. And Sheri even tried a little. That day roaming the gift shops the ladies found haggis whistles. The mythical haggis could be lured out of its lair with the toot of the whistle, thus allowing for a quick dispatch and a delightful breakfast experience. Think of the haggis whistle as the American equivalent to the pillowcase when hunting for snipe at summer camp.

I felt very Scottish that day and was even tempted to purchase a kilt. But the $600 price tag for a real one made me think twice. And there was no way I was buying a set of bagpipes. The kilt didn’t even come with underwear. Don’t they get cold?

The Full English

We stayed in several Bed and Breakfasts whilst in the UK. And at every one, the breakfast was the same. It was called the Full English Breakfast. And they are quite proud of it. Of course there are many variations, but they all contain pretty much the same thing. As the picture suggests, it’s a full plate of English goodness. Let’s make our way around the plate. Sorry for the poor quality of the photo but I stole it off some website because it had most everything we ate.

At the top right you see a large sausage. At every place stayed it was called a Cumbrian sausage because they make it from Cumbrians. I think Cumbrians are actually people but I’ll be the first to admit, they taste great. Score one for cannibalism. Just below that are a couple of dark hockey puck looking things. That’s referred to as Black Pudding. When the Britts refer to anything as a pudding, it basically means stuffing. Black pudding gets its blackness from blood. So another way to say it is blood stuffing. And yes, I ate blood stuffing. I cannot say it tasted like chicken because it definitely did not. In fact, it tasted like nothing I’ve ever eaten before. It wasn’t gross. Just different. But I only ate one before my brain told me that it was leaving me if I ate anymore.

Below that is a large slab of bacon. It’s actually what we refer to as Canadian bacon. I did not see American bacon once. It was tasty but leathery. In this photo is a sad looking blob of scrambled eggs. At every one of our B&B’s the eggs were done to perfection. The first brown triangle is a hash brown. Tasty and just like ours. The second brown triangle is fried bread. It tasted like very, very greasy toast. They fry it lard, because, as I was told, butter is bad for you. Like lard bread isn’t?

Above the greasy hot lard bread is a pile of mushrooms. This, of course, is never served like this on the American plate. They are usually hidden in an omelet. But the big surprise was the beans. These weren’t even good beans, they were runny, tasteless beans from a can. Every Full English we ate was fantastic except for the beans (and my brain wants me to include the black pudding or it will make me sing Ethel Murmon show tunes). I usually asked for the beans not to be included. It just didn’t seem right to eat beans, especially gross ones, at breakfast. Before you think I missed it, the entire breakfast revolved around at least one fried tomato served piping hot. This too was odd but it served to cut the denseness of the breakfast.

Now you’re thinking, Scott must have gained 15 lbs on that trip if he ate that every morning. Well, Scott’s brain is telling his fingers to type, “No he didn’t.” In fact, I actually lost 20 lbs on this trip. You heard it right. And I ate a Full English almost every morning and still lost 20 lbs. How did I do it?

More on this later but in general, the food in the UK is not that great, just like they get a bad rap for. And I have never walked so much in my life. Most of it was up a flight of spiral stairs trying to get to the top of a castle or cathedral. Now my brain is telling me to stop before it reveals too many other secrets. Deano, I shut my brain down so you’re safe.

New Photos Posted

To see some new photos of our trip, click on the link on the top right of the page that says, "Personal Photo Album." I recently posted pictures from Cambridge and Lincoln Cathedral along with interesting and informative notes on each photo. For the best viewing, click on a photo group, then look for the button that says, "slideshow." Once you've clicked on slideshow mode, hit the pause button so you can read all the interesting and informative crap I've made up.

An American in Sainsbury's

As we settled into our house-swapping experience, we decided it would be good to do a little grocery shopping. So we hopped in the car and headed off to the nearby city of Oswestry. Brittney decided to go along with us just for fun. But it wasn’t long before she was afflicted with the bane of the trip, carsickness. As we pulled into what they call a car park (parking lot) Brittney decided to stay in the car and fight off heaving. It was a bit cool outside and she had her iPod so we left her to sleep.

Into Sainsbury’s we went. We decided to ignore the signs directing us to pay for parking. There was no way I was going to pay to park at a grocery store. No way.

The first thing you notice as an American in Sainsbury’s, is that although the store has the air of familiarity about it, nothing could be further from the truth. Their grocery carts, which they call “trolleys” have four movable wheels instead of our two movable and two fixed wheels. This causes all kinds of cart-coordination problems to the untrained, such as me. And of course, I picked the one cart that had a sticky wheel causing me even more trouble. But I quickly discovered that if I pushed the cart at an angle, I could maneuver it straight down the aisle. Mostly.

As Sheri and I began our shopping adventure we quickly discovered that this was going to be a more challenging event than we had imagined it to be. In the U.S. you can be assured that you will recognize most of the brands of items on the shelf. Sure, you may find some regional differences but for the most part, you can find your way with ease. This was not the case for us in Sainsbury’s.

Part of the problem is that coming from California, we’re used to a certain style of cooking. For example, when I return to my home state of Minnesota, the food is regionally different, therefore, what is available to me in a Minnesota SuperValue is a bit different than a California Safeway. And when I cook Californian in Minnesota, it is usually recognized as such.

I rather expected that but I was not prepared for the level of difference there would be. Usually I prepare a weekly menu based on my knowledge of locally available fresh produce and other stuff, for example, Dungeness crab when in season. But in the U.K. it seemed like nothing, with the exception of Scottish strawberries and blueberries were in season. Now, I know I may come across as a spoiled pompous Californian-American ass, and maybe I am. But I know we are spoiled in Northern California where it concerns food. But I digress.

As we wandered the aisles, Sheri and I realized that nothing was recognizable. There were no familiar brands, and some of the foods had different names than what we’re used to calling them. So it took us longer to assess our options and form a menu. To save time, we’d go our separate ways. I decided to start with the produce and then head to the dairy aisle. As I mentioned before, the produce was not the same, as most of it was brought in by ship, except the amazingly delicious berries, which were way better than any California berries I’ve had. Score one for the Queen on the berries. Score one for California on the rest of the produce.

Then it was off to the cheese monger (or cheese guy for you non-foodies). I knew I was in for a treat and I was looking for the best. So I told the man I was an American. He knew immediately why I was there. This cheese monger knew that in the U.S. we are required to pasteurize our milk before making it into cheese. Back 100 years ago when people pooped and then wiped with their bare hands and then made cheese, they got sick and died. Since the invention of toilet paper (which the Britts call “toilet rolls”) and hand soap (which the Britts call “washing up liquid”) the cheese-related deaths in Europe have declined to zero. But we germ-conscious Americans still require the pasteurizing process. But what that does is kills the good little bacteria that makes cheese flavorful. This concludes the European cheese lesson.

So my knowledgeable cheese monger knew I was an American that knew my stuff and I was in for a cheese-a-riffic experience. I asked him for his best French Brie, his best English Cheddar, best English Blue cheese, and to honor my friends, Wallace and Gromit, his best Wensleydale. He wrapped them in paper, just like I had imagined, and put them in my cart with a smile. He knew I would soon be in cheese heaven. I also went down the dairy aisle and got some real French yogurt, double cream, clotted cream, and some other stuff I can’t remember but had the word “cream” in it. And of all the goofy things, I discovered they hardly ever use butter. I could only find one brand and only hardly any of it. They all use margarine. I asked a nice lady why there was so little butter to be found. She said, “Oh, that’s really bad for you. The French use a lot of it, though.”

To make this long story shorter, Sheri and I had passed the hour mark for being in Sainsbury’s. We found entire double aisles dedicated to cookies and plain crackers on which to eat your cheese. Whole aisles of jams, preserves and marmalades, and un-chilled milk exposed to radiation stored in paper boxes with a shelf life of a year or more. And then there was the chocolate aisle. But the biggest aisles of all, and the most populated, were the frozen food aisles. It seemed that was what the bulk of British cooks made for breakfast, lunch, onesies, and dinner. People’s carts were crammed with frozen prepared foods, and “canned veg” which is similar to our mixed vegetables. But the frozen King was the enormous case of chips. It was half the length of the store.

Chips are, of course, what we American call French Fries, unless we are at war with a terrorist nation in which case we call them Freedom Fries. Their chips are four times the size of ours. They are fat and so hot they burn your mouth every time you eat them. Each potato yields about 6 British “chips” or 45 American “fries” for comparison. And every British citizen is required to eat them at every meal. So they have bags of them the size of pillows. And everywhere you go, they serve chips with whatever you order. More on that later.

Two hours later we were ready to check out. We were greeted warmly by a cheerful seated clerk. We thought this was a great idea, saving on work related stress. She scanned everything and we went to use our ATM. We had a little trouble because in Europe, they are much more advanced in the area of consumer protection. They have I.D. chips in all their cards, requiring a PIN number. We just have the old magnetic stripe. When their cards are scanned, a photo of you appears on their screen. We just get numbers. But they had a contingency for Americans and they graciously served us and gave us our groceries.

On our way back to our car, we wondered why Brittney didn’t lose patience with us, since it had been two hours. As we approached the car, we could hear a car alarm going off. I can’t stand those things. And why they need car alarms in the UK with all those security cameras everywhere is a mystery to me, anyway. But soon we realized that the alarm was coming from our car. And, Brittney was still inside. And she looked a little upset.

When I left, I forgot to give her the keys. Our rental car turned out to be a bit fancier than I realized. When we got about 20 feet away from the car, the keys sent a signal to lock the car. Brittney thought nothing of it until she moved her arm. That movement was detected by the car’s alarm system, which we did not know the car had. Fearing an intruder, the car made it impossible to unlock the doors from the inside. So for two hours, carsick Brittney was locked inside the car with the alarm going off at two-minute intervals. Just imagine how happy she was to see us. Then imagine the nice words of encouragement she had for us.

We didn’t know it at the time, but that would be our only major trip to Sainsbury’s.