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| Gone to Englande |
11/3 Thursday
I left Phoenix on my 2011 UK adventure on the early morning of November 3rd. Dave took me to the airport and we stopped at the Big Apple restaurant and had breakfast on the way. I got through to the gate with no problem and was quite a bit early so I tried to relax. On boarding, I got a window seat right at the front of the plane (first row) – and followed the plane’s progress as we flew out of Arizona and across the Malpais lands of western New Mexico.
I saw something I had never seen before – the sun was just right so that I could see the shadow of the jet’s contrail moving on the ground beneath us. The contrail! How cool was that? From 39,000 feet no less. Anyway, the flight was in clear skies until about eastern Kansas and then clouds obscured the ground the remaining way. I have always wanted to see the Chicago-area under clear skies but to this date (in recent years anyway) have not been able to – it is always cloudy. We landed in Boston and Southwest uses the same terminal as Icelandair, so I grabbed my bags from the conveyor and then humped them over to Icelandair’s check in and got rid of them once again until Heathrow.
After about a three hour wait in Boston, I got onboard Icelandair’s 757 “TF-FIO” for the long haul to Reykjavik. The most memorable thing about the next few hours was the sore rump I got on the uncomfortable seats. I had window seats and along with being crammed into the row against the window, there wasn’t a lot of leg room either. I got up at one point to use the restroom and while I was gone, someone lifted my blanket and pillow; I never saw them again. Nice folks, whoever they were. It was odd – I couldn’t see that my seat-row mates had them, it must have been someone else.
Anyway, at Reykjavik, after getting off the plane, we had to walk outside the secure area and then go back through security once again to catch our connecting flight. This is because Iceland is a member of the EU and they don’t “recognize” American security procedures as legitimate. I thought this to be a kind of “Euro-Arrogance.” On my return two weeks later, I watched carefully as I went through this vaunted Euro-Security which apparently is thought to be better than ours and saw exactly zero difference. They do it exactly the way we do. So.
My flights were OK, overall, but nothing special and the uncomfortable seats made the latter parts of each flight a misery for me. I have encountered this type of seat before – it has a frame part (a bar) under the mid-section of the seating area, that my rear sits perfectly centered upon – and there is no way to squirm on it to get it positioned differently – and no way to get off of it. So after a time, I was in pain. Going through Reykjavik (to save money), my flights were longer than they needed to be – 5,970 air miles rather than the 5,240 for a direct flight – so I think even for a couple hundred dollars more, next time it will be the more direct flight and I'll save the extra 1.35 hours for something more interesting… maybe Continental if British Airways isn’t offering anything reasonably-priced (which they often don’t). I found Icelandair’s service to be efficient and reasonable, if a bit Nordic-ly cold. The best was a male flight attendant on a return flight whose dry sense of humor had everyone on the plane smiling. Efficient, professional and reasonable is what you want in a flight crew anyway though, isn’t it? Above all else?
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| TF-FIO |
Another thing, the plane I was on from Boston to Reykjavik was the one plane in Icelandair’s fleet I didn’t want to draw… TF-FIO. This 757 was involved in an unusual manuveur and attitude incident several years ago while landing in Norway – and it was returned to service after “inspection.” While the stresses on the airframe were "excessive," and at the time determined to exceed Boeing's design limitations, no damage was found and the aircraft was returned to service with the precaution of a few parts replaced. Aircraft with such histories have gone on (in the past) to star in “falling apart in the air” dramas. I’d rather not participate in any adventures like that. I worry too much about things like that, I guess, but I am naturally suspicious and the concern in the back of my mind (in cases like this) is always "did the bean-counters over-ride legitimate safety concerns."
The flight from Iceland to London was a bit shorter – but I had placed my snack sack into the checked bag so had nothing to eat. Icelandair has no complimentary food, not even pretzels. We went directly south across the North Atlantic and then east across Ireland and the Irish Sea, coming across onto England just south of Liverpool and approached London over the West Midlands. Just before landing we got put in a short holding pattern, then landed at Heathrow with nothing unusual to talk about.
After getting through the Immigration and Customs queue and grabbing my two bags, I headed over to the Central Bus Station and got a National Express coach straight to Birmingham. The coach was comfortable and lightly loaded (more comfortable than the planes, actually) – we got held up about forty-five minutes in heavy traffic because of an accident on the motorway and then arrived in Birmingham at the Digbeth Coach Station where Chris was waiting. He got us a cab back to his place and I spent the rest of the evening having fish ‘n chips from Marco’s and talking to Minette and Chris. Since the Atlantic flight is over-night and you lose seven hours from Phoenix, it was now Friday evening, 11/4/2011… I went upstairs to bed and slept soundly until about 5:30 or 6:00 Saturday morning.
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| Chris and Minette live here. |
Thanks to my friends Chris Richards and Minette Innerarity for their hospitality – they provided me with most excellent room and board and a “base” at their home in Birmingham that allowed me to easily head out for visits to all different areas of the British Isles without having to carry my whole kit with me – I could travel light. Chris also helped me find my way around his neighborhood and around Birmingham, and he met me at the train station each time I arrived. My only regret was that they could not travel with me more than they did – they necessarily have other priorities at the moment - like getting prepared for their WEDDING.
11/5 Saturday
Chris’ father Peter came to get us on Saturday morning – he gave us all a ride to the airport to pick up a rental car. Thanks Peter! The rental car was a nice one – about the size of a Lexus four-door. We headed off south toward Binsted in search of Field Marshal Montgomery’s last resting place. About fifty miles out of town, I remembered that’s NOT what we had planned for the day… we had decided to go toward Wales instead! This fact had totally slipped my mind in all the excitement… and in the end we never did get to Wales. Oh well, next time.
It was a pleasant drive and I started to get nominally used to driving on the left. Chris does not own a car and hadn’t driven for many years, so I had to do all the driving (oh, too bad, huh?) The place I most often got messed up (over the entire time, actually) was sometimes while exiting from a parking lot or from a side-road, I would pull up to make a right-hand turn but would approach it from the wrong side of the road (the right side) since that is the position I am so used to here at home. I got a few dirty looks for this transgression. I thought about printing a sign for the rear window – “Crazy American tourist – please be kind.” I think I did pretty well, all things considered – only got honked at a few times.
We stopped at a travel plaza (which is the same thing there as it is here) and had lunch at the inside food court. I had a pasty and a couple of pastries (one of which I saved for later) – Minette and Chris had McDonald’s cheeseburgers. We also got KFC chicken intended for a picnic lunch but which mostly became supper. The travel plaza was on the outskirts of London and from that vicinity we headed south and west past Heathrow and Farnborough to Binsted. This is in Surrey.
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| Montgomery's Grave |
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| Field Marshal Montgomery |
Monty is buried in a churchyard in Binsted – he had lived out his last few years in that area and his grave is a simple, unassuming one, quite unlike the ostentatious affairs of some of his apparently more flamboyant contemporaries. George Patton comes to mind – he always claimed Monty was a prima donna (although to be fair, Patton's death was rather sudden and he may not have planned his own marker and grave. His wife and the Army likely handled those things). Anyway, this has made me want to read a bit more about this British soldier. He was not a rich man – he didn’t use his fame to amass any great fortune. His stone was scattered with autumn leaves – and I wish I had had a small broom to brush it off. We spent a few moments in the church and while there, I looked through a book someone had placed there with photos taken during his military career. We then headed off toward Blenheim and Bladon where we intended to visit the grave of Sir Winston Churchill as well. This was my “famous heroes' graves” day. Winnie and Monty were both giants of their age.
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| Sir Winston lies here. |
We arrived at the church at Bladon right at nightfall – and closing time. However, the curator or caretaker who was there to close up saw us coming and told us we were free to look around and visit “as long as we wished.” She waited for us. What a surprise that she would be willing to do that. I had been led to expect not to be very welcomed by the locals, who it has been reported resent the crowds of “tourists” coming to see Churchill’s last resting place. We didn’t find that to be true at all.
After our visit and it now being dark, I found it a bit difficult to find my way along the narrow local roads and missed a turn or two – but it got easier as we got onto the motorway (the M40). I got sleepy early (probably from the stress of driving all day in a strange environment and a bit of left-over jet-lag) and went to bed anticipating a nice day in the local Birmingham area on Sunday.
11/6 Sunday
On Sunday, we slept in a bit (although for me I was still up very early) and after a nice breakfast prepared by Chris and Minette, Chris and I took a walk down the hill. He showed me where the train station was (Hamstead Sta.) and the local groceries, post office and convenience/package store… then in the afternoon, Chris’ parents came by and we all went to “Sunday tea” at a popular pub ("The Coach and Horses") north of Birmingham in the village of Abbot's Bromley. I did not realize just exactly what “Sunday Tea” was… it’s Sunday DINNER!
The menu included roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, vegetables, etc. I had roasted pork with Yorkshire pudding, potatoes, vegetables, soup, and after that big breakfast I’d already had, you could have wheeled me out of there on a cart. I also tried a glass of bitter, but mostly had water with my meal. I found the bitter to be drinkable – but I do not care for beer of any kind with food. So Chris finished most of it after the food arrived. Everyone else had dessert but I resisted, being quite a bit over-full at the time. This irritated Minette no-end as she had intended to share the pleasures of Treacle Sponge with me… and she shot me dirty looks the remainder of the day. Really, she did.
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| Birmingham City Hall |
In the evening, Chris and I took the rental car back to the Birmingham airport, and then caught the trains back to Great Barr. Along the way, he pointed out the businesses and buildings of note and the local scenery. Chris knows everything about his town, having lived there all his life. I also discovered that he knows everyone who lives in Birmingham, and maybe even some of the ones who have moved away...
11/7 Monday
On Monday morning, I had to get up very early to catch a commuter train into Birmingham. The main railway station in Birmingham is the New Street Station, and from there, you can easily get connections to anywhere in the UK or even Europe I suspect. This day, I was headed for Scotland. So I hiked down the hill to Hamstead Station, had the clerk validate my 8-day rail pass, and caught the first train to New Street Station. You never have to wait more than a half hour for one. At New Street Station, I got on a Virgin train to London – a fast streamlined one called a Pendalino. I had a bit of a wait so I sat in a café and had coffee and a bacon roll (English bacon on a crusty roll - very tasty). The ride to London was a bit more than an hour – it was a very fast train and the country-side was hard to see. I got a headache (and a bit nauseous) from trying to look past the blur outside the window to see it; I soon discovered the trick is to look out the opposite window.
Arriving at Euston Station, I needed to get to King’s Cross, about ⅓ mile away or a shade more. I thought of jumping on a bus, but decided in the end just to hoof it. So I walked down through the city on Euston Road (it’s a straight shot), dragging my duffel, to King’s Cross in plenty of time to have to sit there and wait for the next train which left for Inverness at noon. I had reserved seats on these two trains – not normally required but I did it for the peace of mind, since my room in Inverness was “non-refundable.” There is an extra cost for reserving seats if you are traveling on a rail pass, but if you don’t reserve, you run a risk of having to stand part of the way (although maybe not a great risk). Unlike most transport here in the states, in the UK a ticket gets you on the train, but does not guarantee a seat. So if you have to get there on a specific train, it is best to buy (or make) a reservation for a specific seat unless you know for sure the train will be lightly loaded.
I was on this train all afternoon – it traveled up the east coast through Edinburgh and from there on it was dark up through the Highlands. We arrived on time at Inverness at a little past 8:00 pm. I walked the short distance to the hotel, the Inverness Encore, and had supper at the hotel restaurant. The food was good, but expensive, a lasagna and I also had soup, but I regretted not walking out to one of the restaurants I had seen along the street on the walk over; they looked like they might have been fun places, a couple of them.
One thing, soup in England or Scotland is not normally ever “chunky” like we make them here and not as hearty; they always seem to be pureed. I was not impressed by British soup – bland and tasteless, mostly, compared to the way we prepare them here. I like herbs and spices.
I did not hit the town at all (although I had planned to) – I needed to get on my way early for the Highlands in the morning.
I had a tough time with the lighting in my room – it took me awhile to figure out you had to leave your room-key-card in the interior lock in order to get the lights to stay on. I’d turn them on, try to do something and about 30 seconds into it they’d all turn off and leave me fumbling in the dark. I finally figured it out. The people in Europe seem to be much more environmentally conscious – and conservation-minded -- than we Americans -- in many ways. Maybe some of their ideas will catch on over here someday.
11/08 Tuesday
On Tuesday morning after breakfast (at the hotel), I caught a cab to the Thistle Hotel a couple miles away, and picked up my four-door speck of a rental car from Alamo. It was a nice little Vauxhall (Opel) Corsa and just exactly the right size for skinny little Highland roads. The on-ramp (rotary) for the A9 was right around the corner (or was it left), and I was quickly on my way north. It was rush-hour traffic but mostly headed the other way – into Inverness. There was a pretty good-sized patch of fog in the low ground and over the water (Moray Firth) but with a few miles I left that behind and thoroughly enjoyed driving along and being in Scotland once again!
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| Me Auto |
I stopped at Tain and filled up the gas tank – it had not been full when I picked the car up – and then went to the Glenmorangie Distillery to see if I could get a tour. At the gas station, I couldn’t figure out how to get the bonnet open – never did in fact. We were trying to figure out whether the car was diesel or gasoline – the clerk came out to help me figure it out after she watched my confusion for a while. She finally said definitively that it was gasoline – using the model of the car as the evidence. She seemed to know that if it was diesel, it would have been some other set of letters… SE versus DX, etc.
I drove around the corner to the Glenmorangie Distillery, and presented myself for the tour. It cost about £2.50 or so, and included a sample at the end, plus a £2.50 reduction in the price of the product should you choose to purchase some. But of course it did.
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| Eva Fleming |
My host and guide was a lovely woman named Eva (Fleming) and we started right at the beginning. She explained what grains are used and why (malted barley), and showed me the actual product being prepared in large vats. First it is germinated, then fermented (with water added) and then finally distilled in a two-step process. I make it sound so simple… After distilling, in eight tall, beautiful burnished copper stills that extend way down beneath the floor, it is then placed into casks for the aging. The youngest saleable vintage (for Glenmorangie) is ten years in the barrel – and Eva said the optimum is thirty years. The longer it is aged though, the smaller the volume that remains (evaporation takes a toll as the casks breathe), and the more the whisky that’s left costs. Hey, good things take time and cost money!
After the tour, I chose to have a sample of the Nectar D’Or, a spirit that is aged fifteen years before it is sold. I bought a bottle of this for gift giving at home and also got a smaller “sampler” bottle for Chris (since he had said Irish whisky was his personal preference). Later, I got him a bottle of one of his favorite Irish whiskys as well. By the time I came home, I was beginning to become accustomed to whisky. I also discovered a beer that I am a bit fond of… (Mackeson’s Stout).
Finally, after an hour or two, I took my leave of the Men of Tain and the historic Glenmorangie distillery. I headed west up into the Highlands on the A837 then a side-road for a short distance to get up onto higher ground I had read about that had great views overlooking Dornoch Firth. I took a few photos and then drove back down to the A837 and on west toward Ledmore.
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| A837 |
The road followed an agricultural valley along a river and was very narrow -- mostly single-lane with pull-outs for passing. Driving these roads, you must keep a watch ahead quite far so you do not get caught in the middle between turn-outs head-on with another vehicle – where one of you would have to back up! It’s a bit nerve-wracking, but the flip side is there really wasn’t much traffic. I’d pass another vehicle only occasionally.
I was headed toward the northwest corner of Scotland and then around the north shore to Thürso, where I would stay at the Ferry Inn in Scrabster for the next two nights. I was hoping to get all this done in daylight, but that was a pipe dream… (get it? Scotland? Pipes?) The roads are just too slow-going.
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| A bustle-less lunch |
I stopped for lunch on Loch Borralan near Ledmore. The place was possibly a motel and restaurant combination, and was fairly lacking in bustle… but I went in anyway looking for an adventure if nothing else and finding no one there, hallo’d the back room. The proprietor came out and I inquired about lunch. He said “yeah, he could probably do that…” This was not looking promising, but I stuck it out. Some things were not available on the menu, but that didn’t surprise me, given the wayward location and time of year. I ordered soup (a tomato and squash puree if I remember correctly) and a pizza.
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| Scottish Pizza |
I took a couple of photos while I waited and drank two Diet Cokes. Of the soups I had in the British Isles on this trip this was probably the best one, with a lot of sunny tomato and vegetable flavor. Then the pizza arrived – it was a variety of meats including pepperoni and it was garnished with an abundance of [arugula?] leaves. I had never seen leaves on a pizza before. The crust was a toasty-thin affair… the pizza was so good I ate the whole thing where normally I’d have eaten only about half. It was delicious! I think this place might be a motel run by a frustrated chef… The pizza was so pretty I took pictures of it.
Up the road a way, I came to Loch Assynt. On its shores is the ruin of Ardvreck Castle, and of Calda House. As a preface, my family are McKinney’s. I am not certain which Scot clan with which we were affiliated or from which we are descended. I have reason to believe we were Mackinnon’s because some of my ancestors came from Skye and that is Mackinnon country, but it is also possible, according to some experts, we were Mackenzie’s. If that is true, I was looking at a castle taken by my family through violence several hundred years ago. Ardvreck was built by the Macleod’s – but taken by Clan Mackenzie a long time ago. It is a ruin now. After the Mackenzie’s took it (early 18th Century), they lived in a manor house built nearby (Calda House) because a Mackenzie matron thought the castle too austere – but both were destroyed within a few short years by fire and/or lightning. Divine wrath perhaps, for the violence and murders visited there?
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| Ardvreck Castle |
Today, the ruins of both on the shores of that rather forbidding-looking loch give a mysterious air to the view – like the feeling a traveler might have on seeing the distant lights of a town twinkling off in the distance, but ever elusive, never getting any closer. It is a windswept, cold-looking place that could easily be the setting for a romance novel. Ghosts are said to be occasionally seen walking among the ruins of Ardvreck Castle. I thought it was a sublimely beautiful place (but I saw no ethereal spirits).
I was fast-approaching the coast on the northwest corner of Scotland. It started getting dark about 4:30 pm and I got some great sunset photos of a rugged coastline bay near Scourie.
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| Scourie |
In Scourie, I stopped to get some cash and some postcard stamps but failed on both accounts. The friendly clerk told me there was an ATM in Durness, about twenty-five miles away. I got some cash there, got a drink in the little store, and headed on east in the dark on those now scary narrow roads - toward Thürso (and Scrabster). It seemed like it took a long time – but I finally got to Scrabster and my room at the Ferry Inn.
The hotel is right on the working harbor – a place where cranes operate alongside jackhammers all night long. It was a family-run affair, I think, and my room was two floors up and at the rear – facing a hill upon which sheep milled about each day at dawn munching on what was left of the summer’s grass. There is a pub and a restaurant adjoining the hotel.
The staff was so accommodating and friendly that I was allowed to use their washer and dryer to do up my clothes – even though this took quite a little time and that meant they couldn’t lock up their private quarters until I had finished. Personally, I think they went way beyond the call of duty. I really liked this little hotel and even though I saw reviews that said it was noisy because of the harbor, I heard nothing after I went to sleep and slept soundly there both nights. I would definitely stay at the Ferry Inn again.
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| Scrabster |
I had a steak dinner in the next-door restaurant and after the laundry was done, went to bed. I had planned to take the ferry the next day out to the Orkney Islands but because my day circling around on the back roads had stretched into the evening, I had to make a choice to see John O’Groats and Wick, or take the ferry to Stromness and see Scapa Flow; I couldn’t do both. I decided that the little road trip was the more interesting option – although I really wanted to see historic Scapa Flow. Maybe on another trip…
11/09 Wednesday
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| Northlink Ferry "Hamnavoe" |
On Wednesday morning then, I had breakfast at the hotel and then walked around the ferry terminal to watch the ship depart and get a photo or two of the lighthouse on the end of the point. Then, I got into the car, got some gas and a candy bar or two and drove through Thürso and out toward Dunnet Head and John O’Groats. I stopped at a little post office in Castletown and talked with the clerk while I wrote my postcards and stamped them…
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| The REAL John O'Groats |
I drove out toward Dunnet Head, which is actually what John O’Groats claims to be and isn’t – the northern-most point of the mainland British Isles. The drive out to the headland is a little bit out of the way but not much – maybe 5 or 10 miles at most. The wind at Dunnet Head blows fearfully – and the view is spectacular. There is a lighthouse there and some old WWII military buildings placed there to keep a watch for German submarines and such. Later on, I will also go to Land’s End at the other end of England – and in doing so I will have traveled the length and breadth of the British Isles. Some walk it; I rode trains and drove automobiles. I only walked the last ten or twenty yards at either end; this makes altogether more sense to me than walking the 800 bloody miles.
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| Canisbay Church |
Next stop was a church yard near Mey (Canisbay Church). The Queen Mother Elizabeth attended there when she was in residence at the Castle of Mey nearby. I was most interested in the graveyard – I looked for John O’Groats’ marker but did not find it (he IS supposed to be in there). I also tried to visit inside for a few moments but found the door locked, not surprisingly in this day of vandalism and disrespect.
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| Scottish Sheep |
After looking around in the boggy church yard for a time, I went on east toward John O’Groats. There, I found an abundance of touristy businesses and I got some postcards and a souvenir for Mom and then drove south toward Wick. I stopped along the way and took photos of the stormy sea and of farms and sheep.
In Wick, I did a little shopping – bought myself some jeans and a sweater among other small items. I walked around the town and took some street-scene photos and had a quick lunch in the car sitting in the Tesco parking lot – I had leftover steak on a roll from the night before; I had some roasted chicken legs and some crisps… and a banana, and a carton of milk... and some cookies. Pretty good lunch! I then headed back to Thürso for the night. During the first parts of the day it had been a little misty and a lot rainy, but late in the afternoon, it cleared and the sun shone gloriously until it too quickly went down. The days are short in this part of the world in the fall.
Once back to Scrabster, I had time to walk around the harbor-side to a place on a bridge where I could see the approach of the day's last ferry and I stood there and watched it arrive and dock. By then, it was too dark for pictures. I watched a young guy play with his dog on the beach below me, a very-smart-fetching kind of a dog...
Then I walked back to the hotel and had dinner in the pub (fish ‘n chips) and got myself ready for bed and an early departure. I had to be back in Inverness for my train to Birmingham by 10:00 am. If I could have figured out how to do it (without huge expense), I would definitely have stayed another day in Thürso and taken the ferry out to the Orkneys.
11/10 Thursday
My vacation is going so fast! It is hard to believe the Scotland part of it is mostly over, but it is always that way. I got on the way long before daylight on Thursday – it is three hours at least back to Inverness and I do not want to screw things up by being late and missing my train. I watched the sun come up over the North Sea as it got light and arrived back in Inverness in plenty of time, even though I was surrounded by rush hour traffic the last twenty-five or thirty miles and had to stop to fill the tank along the way. I got turned around by the GPS and got onto the wrong road right at the end – had to go around in several different directions but finally got onto the right road and back to the Thistle where I dropped off the now very dirty little car. Caught a cab back to the train station and on the train, was headed back toward Edinburgh in the blink of an eye, sort of.
In Inverness, “we” discovered a problem, with the too-observant help of the train ticket-seller. I went to the ticket window to see if I could get a seat reservation for the trains to Birmingham. It was too late for the Highlands route, but Edinburgh to Birmingham was still possible. But when I showed him my rail pass – he pointed out that it was no good for Scotland at all – it was an England-only rail pass. I had meant to buy an all-UK pass – so this was quite an unpleasant surprise. The good news was that there was a “senior sale” going on -- £19 for a r/t ticket anywhere in Scotland you wanted to go and with a regular ticket, the seat reservation is included at no additional cost. So it worked out. Once I was back across the border in England, then my eight-day rail pass was valid again. I have a suspicion that ticket agent was a Scottish nationalist.
It was a pretty ride down through the Highlands – through Aviemore, Pitlochrie, Blair, Perth, etc. I was drowsy though and nodded off once or twice. I’d missed this country-side on the ride up because it had been dark – too bad I was drowsy going the other direction in daylight! I had an hour to wait at Edinburgh, forgot and left my snack-sack in a lavatory, then caught my train south toward Birmingham. I really wanted to see the Lake District but it got dark again by the time we approached that. As a late afternoon train, this one picked up a constant change of commuters as it moved south, especially around Liverpool. I got off at New Street Station in Birmingham, caught a train back to Hamstead where Chris met me at trackside and we walked back up the hill to dinner. We had a short visit and then it was up to bed – it's another train day tomorrow.
Today's Lesson No. 446... When planning travels around a country where there are plenty of things to see, make sure to plan the rides for daylight hours.
11/11 Friday
I’m getting to be such a pro at riding British trains. Today, we’re headed to Penzance at the very southwestern tip of Cornwall. The train ran down through Bristol, Taunton, Exeter and Plymouth. I had printed out the history of these cities and spent time reading about them as we approached and passed through them. At Exeter, I was supposed to catch a second train for the remainder of the journey but find upon arrival it was cancelled (at Exeter, anyway). But they are starting it at the next station along the line – and I must wait for the next edition of the train I was just on to get there. The train to Penzance will wait for us there, we are told.
This is all true – but I find to my horror that the train to Penzance is a little puddle jumper kind of a train – one like you’d see on the Chicago EL perhaps, like three or four little trolley cars hitched together? I’m not even sure there’s a loo on this thing and it is very, very crowded. Ouch. I have to spend the next three to four hours on it! What happened to that graceful British streamlined long distance Super Voyager or the Pendolino? Ah, well… I settle in and in the end, it wasn’t so bad. Not very fast, but steady like the little engine that could. And there was, in fact, a loo…
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| The Penrose Guest House |
We arrived in Penzance on time and I walked from the train station to the bus plaza (across the street) and got myself a day pass on the city bus system. From there, I walked to my lodging – the Penrose Guest House; it was only about a block away. After a quick check-in, I marched back to the buses and caught one out to Land’s End. I was hoping to do quite a bit in Penzance – but the bus schedule thwarted my expansive plans. The fifteen-mile or so route to Land’s End only ran about once every three hours. Once there, it stopped for about five minutes and then returned. So if I wanted photos at Land’s End, I either have to accomplish it in five minutes or I have to wait for the next bus – in three hours or so. I decided on the latter – it really was, after all, the only choice. But this process, then, took the whole afternoon and that was all the time I had.
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| The view from the bus. |
One of the thrills of riding a coach to Land’s End was just how, exactly, was this very large full-sized motorcoach, a double-decker in fact, going to fit on the narrow city streets with other traffic? It felt like we were constantly about to scrape the sides off of buildings, or rip off the branches of low hanging trees as we passed by -- not to mention the damage we might inflict on any passing autos. I sat on the top deck, right behind the front windscreen and marveled at our progress, in a state of constant amazement. Penzance is simply not a bus kind of town – but they do it every single day.
The ride out takes about an hour – once there I took a lot of photos – heck, I HAD THREE HOURS. I had lunch in the restaurant which was about the only thing that was open; this was 11/11 – a holiday in Great Britain just like it is here in the USA. I wandered around and took photos. Lots of photos; I had time.
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| The restaurant (and hotel) at Land's End |
The restaurant had a poster in the window with a fat, juicy hamburger pictured on it. It looked very good, and I was going to have one of those. But…their supplier hadn’t shown up lately and they were out of some stuff – they had no chicken, and they had no hamburger. So I had… fish ‘n chips. Again. Now it was very good, and the restaurant manager/server Gitte took care of things in a very professional and efficient manner, but I really was jones’n for a burger, ya know? Gitte was from Denmark, and I have to say, she looked just how you’d expect a woman from Denmark to look. She was also very sweet. It was altogether very nice. Then I went outside and took some more pictures.
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| Bob and Pole |
Both Land’s End and John O’Groats are iconic tourist destinations. Both have a signpost, beside which you can take a photo to prove to the world that you have really been there. The trouble is, both of these signposts are “privately owned,” and the owners of said poles want you to purchase their exorbitantly priced “professional” snapshots. They jealously guard their sign-post rights. Now, at John O’Groats, they actually remove the sign from its posthole when they aren’t there (in between tourist buses, in other words). But at Land’s End, the guy leaves it there, unguarded. I had taken a couple of zoomed shots of the pole at Land’s End when I thought the proprietor was looking the other way – but later in the day, when he went home, several people took unscrupulous advantage of his absence to get their shots standing by it in its abandoned state. I myself, got a nice person to take my photo by that forbidden pole. Go ahead, sue me.
The return bus arrived a bit late – late enough that I was starting to worry about whether it had been cancelled. But he finally showed up and I rode back to Penzance in the dark – thinking all the way about what I would have for supper when I got there. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t all that hungry, having eaten that late lunch at Land’s End. But if you don’t get it while it’s hot, all the eating establishments might close up on you in a smaller city, you know? I decided on carry-out Chinese – sweet and sour pork. It was pretty good – but I didn’t care for the fried rice I ordered – it was mostly just flavored rice -- it had no vegetables or egg in it that were visible at all – I don’t think there were any. Anyway, I congratulated the bus driver on his skills as I got off – I just can’t see how it is possible to pass other vehicles without hitting them on those skinny little roads – but they seem to manage it in brilliant fashion and he didn’t hit nothin' as far as I could tell.
The Penrose Guest House has DVDs you can borrow – I took both Pirates of Penzance (the Kristy McNichol version) and a second one – but I cannot remember what it was and I didn’t watch it at all in the end. I didn’t finish Pirates either – it wasn’t that good (being a spoof) and I ran out of steam and went to sleep. Not even Kristy McNichol’s inspired mugging could keep me awake.
11/12 Saturday
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| Marc's breakfast |
In the morning, I had arranged for breakfast at 7:30 – and I went out before-hand and got some early-morning photos of the trains and the bay, and the harbor and lighthouse, etc. I had a “full English breakfast.” Marc, owner of the Penrose Guest House along with his wife, Anne, is also the head breakfast-preparer and he did a splendid job preparing mine. Anne might also have been involved with it, but if she was, I did not see her; perhaps she is not a morning person. Anyway, I had asked for extra bacon (instead of any sausage) and the usual toast, an egg, potatoes, beans, and mushrooms. There was fruit, juice and water. It was an excellent breakfast and along with the very nice accommodations and honest, friendly service, I highly recommend the Penrose Guest House – it is one of the nicest places I have ever stayed.
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| Bob's train to Birmingham |
After breakfast, I walked around to the train station – my train back to Birmingham was a direct one (no changes), and it was another fast-mover, not a little rinky-dink trolley! It went on from Birmingham to Edinburgh and Glasgow (after I got off), all by early evening. It still took until early afternoon to get all the way to Birmingham and upon arrival, I caught the local train back to Hamstead, and Chris and I walked back up the hill to his home, stopping at the convenience market along the way.
11/13 Sunday
This was my last full day in England – Chris and I had a quick breakfast with Minette, then we walked across the canal bridge to Walsall Road (about a block) and caught a bus for downtown. We intended to see the Remembrance Day memorial (and parade) and walk around the town so he could show me the sights and sites. We spent most all of the morning doing this – one of the highlights of the whole trip. I rather think many people have no realization of what a beautiful city Birmingham is. One thing that was a surprise -- it is a canal city -- like Venice. I’ll bet Birmingham is cleaner and prettier though – this was reminiscent of Pittsburgh – an industrial city that in the post-industrial age has cleaned itself up into a place of great beauty.
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| Honoring our vets |
We saw shopping areas, the waterways and boats, and the Remembrance Day parade. We waited on a candy shop to open – and she opened at 10:00 and then she went to lunch at 11:00. So we waited (again) for her to come back from lunch. She didn’t get all my purchases bagged properly either – I discovered that part of my fudge order was not accounted for when we arrived back at the house. I don’t know whether I was charged for it or not, but I sure didn’t get it one way or the other! A person should never mess with my chocolate order.
In the afternoon, I made beef stew and cookies for Minette and Chris. We had a nice dinner, and Chris and I had a touch of whisky and I drank what was left of a Mackeson’s Stout, most of which I had poured into the stew. I slept like a baby on my last night in England. A warm, groggy baby.
11/14 Monday
I flip-flopped on how I would get back to London the entire time I was there. I had a return ticket on the National Express coach pre-paid, but I also still had a valid rail pass. I finally decided the coach would be the most convenient mode since it was direct. My main worry had been getting to Heathrow on time if there had been any traffic problems but in the end I decided to risk the possibility of traffic-delays on the bus.
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| The way to the coach station. |
On Sunday, in downtown Birmingham, Chris showed me how to get from the rail station to the coach station on foot – it was a short walk – maybe a half-mile or so. So I took the train to New Street Station on Monday morning and walked the short distance to the coach station and got on the 210 coach to Heathrow. No worries, mate!
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| The terribly ugly A380 at LHR |
As we drove into the airport, I saw an A380 or two parked on the field – the first I had ever seen; I think it was one of Emirates’ or maybe Singapore Airlines (can’t remember now). I still think they are ugly. Awesome, but ugly. And I still prefer Boeing any day of the week.
I had quite a wait in the airport there – I was deliberately early so if there had been a delay along the way, I would have had less to worry about. So I sat in the terminal until they posted my flight’s gate number. Icelandair tends to board their planes all at once – but you never know if they are going to do that (or board by rows) until they do it. One thing I made sure of though – no more sitting in window seats. There isn’t anything much to see on a long transatlantic flight anyway (that's not really true, one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen was the Greenland coast from 35,000 feet back in 2003) and since I have to get up to use the facilities quite often, I don’t want to have to climb over people to get out. So I had my seat changed to aisle.
I don’t remember much about the flights home – I remember my seat-row mates put the shade down most of the way. I ask you, why sit at a damned window seat if you are going to keep the shade down most of the way? I don’t get it. So I couldn’t see anything even if there had been something to see. I think I watched a movie – I bought earphones in Scotland so I could. And I listened to my little tiny music player.
The plane change at Keflavik went much smoother – this time no re-routing through security twice – and then the longer flight to Boston. In Boston and off the plane, Immigration/Border was quick and friendly and Customs didn’t really stop me – just waved me through. I called the hotel shuttle van and was at the Rodeway Inn/Airport in no time. I walked to a nearby Italian restaurant (Maggio’s) and had some delicious ravioli and a nice salad [I'd recommend Maggio's, but I understand that the owners are retiring and closing the restaurant as of 12/31/2011].
I’ve never been impressed much by Rodeway Inns – but the Rodeway Airport in Boston (in Revere, actually) was extremely nice. In retrospect, I had really good fortune with the accommodations I chose for this entire journey – they were all very nice places. You never really know, do you, unless you’ve been there before? It’s always a crap-shoot. My room in Boston was fairly large and appointed very nicely with “luxury” linens, and the staff was friendly and accommodating.
11/15 Tuesday
I didn’t rent a car in Boston – there is such good public transportation there and I was trying to economize as much as I could. So I arose early and walked down the highway to breakfast at an IHOP about a half-mile or so away. Afterwards, I had the hotel’s shuttle van drop me at the airport’s train station where I bought a “Charlie-Card” good for all-day and took the MTA downtown.
Those of you who are familiar with folk music from the early 1960s may grasp the humor involved – “Charlie” was the infamous miscreant who had not the extra nickel after a fare-increase and “couldn’t get off of [the] train” in the Kingston Trio’s song “MTA.” I did get off the train right in the middle of downtown Boston, since, unlike Charlie, I did have a valid, all-day “Charlie-Card!” It took a few moments to get myself oriented and then I struck off down the street in search of the famous red stripe of the Freedom Trail. I was planning to walk the entire length of it (which I did).
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| King's Chapel |
The first thing I came to on the way to Boston Common was King’s Chapel, the very first Church of England built in Boston. It is gorgeous inside, although not as ornate as a Catholic Church might be, but elegant in a simple and straightforward way. I thought it was beautiful. Unlike churches of today, the pews in this church are boxes, with benches and sometimes chairs inside. As a congregant here, you bought a box and that’s where you always worshiped. If you were a person who was not affluent enough to “own” a box, you had a place to stand on the balcony which was situated around the edges on each side and rear (or perhaps sit, I am not certain as I did not go up there to see if there were benches). The pipe organ was also up on the balcony at the rear.
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| Burying Ground |
I spent about twenty minutes looking around the King’s Chapel Burying Ground, the oldest cemetery in Boston and right next to the church. For me, the grave of most interest was that of William Dawes, the patriot who rode with Paul Revere in April of 1775 – and getting almost none of the credit for doing so. I got a book about this at the library on my return home and I shall find out more about it. [Now, having read the book, there are probably reasons why history remembers Paul Revere more than it does William Dawes. But Dawes is still worthy of remembrance].
From there, I walked the rest of the short distance to Boston Common, which was “roped off” on this day because Occupy Boston demonstrators might show up there. What are we so afraid of, especially in this town where the idea of “We the People” had much of its origins? It is always the radicals among us that get us to stop and think – and that is a good thing. Now here’s a lesson from wise old Uncle Bob – the way our public life and law-making should function is that we listen to what the radicals among us have to say and we ponder it, but we don’t ever let them run the show; we just let them help us think; they function as our conscience. We then make our decisions and plot our course in moderation, down a middle path. We should never let the radicals run things, or push us too far in any one direction, no matter which side of the political spectrum they are on, because the radicals are almost never thinking pragmatically about the big picture – and we always have to consider the big picture to keep a healthy balance. Part of our problem today is that we’ve let the radicals run the kitchen too many times and that’s nearly always a bad idea. I’m just sayin.’
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| Boston Massacre Victims |
So I walked around the Common, which seemed smaller than I thought it would be, and then walked around in the Old Granary Burial Ground where Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, Crispus Attucks and the other victims of the Boston Massacre were buried... and James Otis. Many probably don’t remember James Otis, but he was the originator of much of the “taxation without representation” oratory that is such a part of what we remember when we think about our Revolution. I know I didn’t remember him – but now I shall read about him and learn a little more.
One more thing about Boston – like every American of my generation I learned about the Revolution as a kid – and the stories and events of that time are so second nature to me that I have never bothered to study them in more depth as an adult. But walking there and seeing the names and the actual places was more awesome than I can relate. I came away with a desire to read once again about those events that precipitated the founding of the United States - and the real stories are even better than the legends. Because these stories are so second nature to me, I never thought much about how little I really know and understand about those times and those people.
Here's a challenge for you: I mentioned Crispus Attucks as one of the dead in the Boston Massacre. Do you know what is ironic about his particular part in the events of that day? Look it up.
I stopped in a Burger King right near Boston Common – and before eating, tried to use the restroom. It was locked, with a great big sign posted that only customers could use it. How nice. What if I had been an elderly person with a bowel problem – they’d prefer (I guess) that such a person should have an accident right there rather than let some undeserving soul use the restroom without profit for them. That’s just mean. Needless to say I did not give them any of my trade – there are better places to eat than Burger King anyway.
My next stop was the King’s Chapel (again) – for a lunch-time music program. Silly me, I thought it would be a program featuring that beautiful pipe organ – but not today. Instead, two very talented flutists did a thirty-minute program with some shorter pieces, both new and old (one was by Telemann). I loved the old and loathed the new – modern classical music is so uninspired and… dissonant; I don’t care for any of it that I have ever heard – I find it almost uniformly drab and ugly. But the baroque portions of the program were pretty and the musicianship was excellent. It was a nice break in the walking to sit there and listen to it in restful tranquility and church-calm.
Around the corner, I saw the old South Meeting House and then the old State House. One night long ago, a bunch of local “Indians” met at the South Meeting House, then marched down to the harbor wharves and tossed a bunch of English tea into the harbor. The Loyalists (and the King) considered that evening’s entertainment offensive, I don’t know why.
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| John Hancock |
I still needed to use the restroom and the NPS visitor’s center being closed that day, I bought a “tour” ticket for the Old State House just across the street just so I could use the bathroom. I had not planned to take the time to actually see the interior – but as long as I was there with the ticket in-hand, why wouldn’t I? There were some exhibits in the different rooms and the story of the Boston Massacre which took place right outside. I suspect the lovely track lighting I saw there was not original. This is where I photographed the clothing and personal items that had belonged to that narcissistic peacock John Hancock. Oh, he was such a dandy, that one. And I bought some postcards…
I walked around the outside of Faneuil Hall (closed for a private affair) – and then finally stopped for lunch. A fellow shuttle bus passenger had recommended the Old Union Oyster House if I happened to walk that way and there I was. So I went in for the most expensive lunch I have ever had. And it wasn’t that great, really… but anyway, this is the oldest continually operating restaurant in the country – opening in 1834 I think.
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| The Olde Union Oyster House and $27 lunch. |
I sat at the bar where Daniel Webster used to eat a lunch of oysters and had… fishcakes! They were served with Boston baked beans and cornbread. I didn’t eat it all – left one fishcake untouched and some of the beans. Not that it wasn’t good – just not my style so much – and I got full quickly. I was also surprised that there was no free refill on soft drinks – each Diet Coke (fountain) cost me separately. So lunch ended up at $27 plus tip – but hey, it was historical and the barmen were great. All the while they’re kibitzing with the counter denizens, they are preparing your particular order – and constantly, endlessly, shucking oysters. Well, walking along then…
I was now headed north toward Paul Revere’s house and the old North Church. Specifically, I was planning to cross the Charles River on the Charlestown Bridge and view the church from the same place where he watched when they hung the lanterns in the church tower and he set off on his midnight ride with the news of the impending march – you do remember, right?
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| Paul Revere slept here. |
First though, I wound through this now-ethnic-Italian neighborhood in the North End, past all the delicious-smelling restaurants (oh, how I love great Italian food…) and to Mr. Revere’s house, which is now one of the oldest still standing in Boston. There was a charge to get in – but my real interest was the exterior – and photos. So I contented myself with getting a couple of shots and then walked on toward the church.
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| The Old North Church |
The Old North Church is now surrounded by concrete jungle – which was a surprise to me, don’t know why though. But you cannot get a good, clear view of it as a single entity; it is so closely hemmed-in by other edifices. It was another building with a fee for entry, so I walked on, just getting a couple of photos.
I stopped at my third colonial graveyard in Boston, Copp’s Hill, and looked around for a few moments. Then it was the jaunt across the Charlestown Bridge to see the USS Constitution and the Bunker Hill (Breed’s Hill) battlefield and monument.
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| Old Ironsides |
I was disappointed to find the ship closed to the public that day – didn’t they know I was coming? But I could walk around it on the pier. I stepped out to the edge along the Charles and looked across at the steeple tower of the Old North Church, thinking about what that same view must have been like 237 years ago. Then I toured the adjacent more-modern Fletcher-class (WWII) destroyer that was open. It was self-guided and the ship was mostly unattended. I know naval vessels well-enough I don’t really need a guide anyway – I could almost act as one. Not quite, but almost.
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| Bunker Hill |
My final destination for the day was the Bunker Hill monument on the top of Breed's Hill, several blocks away. I trudged up Soley Street surrounded by townhouses and apartments, thinking how the poor Redcoats had to make the same march, in the open, with nothing to hide behind and in the face of a withering fire from the rebels (remember, in our own minds, we weren’t Americans yet; we were still subjects of the English crown and everybody except Sam Adams thought of ourselves that way).
The Regulars had arisen in the dawn to find the rebels entrenched on top of that hill, commanding the Charles River with several small artillery pieces (and threatening the British fleet anchored in that river). The patriots had moved into position under cover of night – they had been up there on that hill digging trenches all night -- and the British Army could not safely tolerate that.
So they landed troops on the Charles River banks and marched up and over-ran the patriots' position. It wasn't really that simple of course; the rebels held them off several times. Finally, the “Americans” simply melted back when they could no longer hold the position. But it took all day for the British to do it and the Americans “sold” the hill at a tremendous cost – several hundred English soldiers died and many more were wounded. It took quite some time for the British Army to regroup to a healthy or effective strength. We lost, but it was a “satisfactory” loss. This was the very first pitched battle of the American Revolution and I stood on that ground. For an American, even more than two-hundred years later (perhaps even more so because it was two-hundred years later), that is heady stuff.
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| Boston in the evening. |
Alas, it was now dark and my legs were tired – and I headed back down the hill, across the river and to the nearest subway station near the (NBA) basketball park. I took one train to another station down the line, then transferred to the Blue Line which I took northeast to its end at “Wonderland.” There, the wonderful and helpful hotel shuttle driver picked me up and delivered me back to the hotel. I had him take me back to the IHOP about an hour later for a light supper, and from which I walked back to the hotel. All in all, I had walked about 6 or 7 miles in Boston that day. I got my bags ready for morning and the flight home, then went to sleep.
11/16 Wednesday
I caught the 7:00 AM shuttle to the airport, checked in and watched other flights take-off as I waited for my flight to board. I’ve given up on window seats – and I had a nice couple in the other two seats in my row – it was cloudy so there wasn’t much to see (from my aisle seat) until we were over western Kansas. The flight went more northerly than usual, across southeastern Colorado and down across Pagosa Springs (instead of across the panhandle direct toward Las Vegas, NM and Santa Fe). My first indication of this was looking down and seeing too many snow-capped mountains for it to be the Sangre de Cristos (the Sangre de Cristos are a rather narrow range). I didn’t recognize much for sure until we were over the Grants/Gallup area and I-40 (I looked up the flight path on Flightaware later). The worst thing about it was that we faced the jetstream’s headwinds all the way – so it was a long six-hour flight.
Upon landing in Phoenix, I grabbed my bags and rode public transport home – caught the airport terminal bus to the Light Rail Park‘n Ride at 44th and Washington and then the #44 bus to PV Mall, and the #138 bus home from there. It was pretty seamless – and inexpensive, only $3.50 for the whole trip on a one-day pass and it only took a little more than an hour. I think this is the way I will do it in future – instead of inconveniencing my friends for rides! But I think I still owe Dave for gas…
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