Driving On Our Own To Trams

We were up and off by 9:45 today. Last night was our first night of complete sleep! This morning, after breakfast (picture Morgan bustling from the kitchen to the living room carrying food for the boys, who are playing Derbyshire Monopoly) We packed whatever food we had left as a snack, and set off for the National Tramway Museum, at Crich Tramway Village. It was out first trip without Aprille, so we ourselves had to do all the navigating to the village of Crich, on the far side of Matlock. About an hour's drive. Overcast skies, a bit of wind, the occasionally spitting rain. Here we go.

The only mishap was when I turned left on the B 5053 at Warmslow, and as I was explaining to Kate why it was not the B 5054 (as the map seemed to indicate) I lapsed in my attention momentarily and gravitated unconsciously into the righthand lane. I had a moment of mystification when I saw a truck headed straight for us. "Oh shit!" I said, and swerved back into my lane. Pant pant. Breathe. I'm sure the other driver wondered who the idiot was.

We agreed I was henceforth not allowed to try to glance at the map while driving.

Otherwise we travelled without incident. Will now helpfully chants "Left! Left!" from the back seat whenever I am making a turn. There was the usual dance of going down the wrong road and turning around. It is remarkable how most of the roads here have no shoulders, nowhere you can pull off. We did find a pull-out in the forest west of Cromford so that we could stop and let Will's stomach settle. Oddly, the pull-out had a number of bird feeders set out, so there was a birding bonus. We saw a Great Tit, close relative of the Blue Tit who had obligingly perched on our windowsill this morning. (Think, colourful chickadees.)

At the tramway village we were given an old copper penny for each adult and a ha'penny for each child: these were our tram fare for the first tram that happened by, on which the conductor gave us day tickets. They have a line that runs from a village up into the countryside and back. We first rode on a double-decker, open-topped tram from Sheffield, and later on a single floor tram from Oporto, Portugal, whose interior was full of lovely woodwork. On each ride the conductors tell you about the history of their particular car. On the way up you pass by an operating stone quarry, so momentarily there's a wonderous vehicle-and-machine overload for kids. In between rides we toured the sheds in which they had some 60 other trams, all lovingly restored. The power of tram enthusiasts. We had lunch and bought some interesting old-fashioned candy.

It stayed grey overhead, but never rained a bit. Kate says her weather magic (which typically brings us the endless sunshine she hates) is having a standoff against the mighty English weather, and the result is mixed cloud.

We left the bird and flower guides at home (what birds are you going to see at a tram museum?), but foolishly so! We saw something really weird that was black and white. I managed to get a photo of it. We saw a heron fly over head, but which heron? And the forest floor on the Woodland Walk was covered with a beautiful plant that perhaps was wild garlic, but we couldn't be sure. Alas, never leave guides at home.

I listened to people around me talking and marvelled at the local accent, which I guess is the accent of Birmingham, Manchester and Sheffield (the three nearest cities). There was many adults there without kids, presumably retirees or simply tram enthusiasts with time on their hands. Some came in a tour bus. Some were our tram conductors and drivers. When they say "That was funded..." I hear "That was foonded..." Their vowels are fronted. And there's almost a glottal stop in some words. Must learn more about this.

Kate and I pondered, at the old fashioned candy shop, why the abbreviation for the old pence was "d" (and sometimes even "D"), as in '5s 6d' for "five shillings, sixpence." We also wondered if people would understand a written phrase like '5 £'s of apples'. At one end of the tram line a sign yielded a gem:

Danger: Uncharted minshafts. Please stay on the footpath.

It was a very slow-paced place, and we left around 3:00. Drove up to Matlock on the A6 (I'm comfortable on the "A" roads--they are actually a little wider than standard, and the twists and dips have been smoothed a bit) and spotted a Sainsbury's grocery store. I got a standing ovation for the quick, yet clean, left turn I pulled to get into the parking lot. Will was feeling queasy again, so we hung out outside the store hoping a train would come by on the adjacent tracks, while Kate and Galen bought us a couple more days' food. Will and I also surveyed the small (to us, miniature) cars in the parking lot that we'd rather own: Renaults, Fiats, a Mercedes Benz, Citroens, a Ford, a Vauxhall, a Suzuki...

We must have missed the turn for Longnor because soon we were in Bakewell, and found it a very appealing town where out our windows we caught glimpses of sweet shops, bakeries, a toy store and a bookstore. There was much clamour that we should return here. We found the turn for Monyash (I had to pull the classic stunt of going around the roundabout twice while reading the signs; fortunately you have right-of-way once you're in the roundabout and you can just keep going around until you decide to quit), and drove home that way, coming through Longnor and feeling great pleasure at knowing the way home after a certain point.

I have to say I am getting comfortable with the absurd scenario played out daily all over the area: a narrow road in a village, both lanes barely the width of a car, and people have parked up the side of the street! You and the oncoming traffic are left with 1.2 lanes between you. And yet somehow it works out.

Aprille made us dinner, and we baked her second loaf of no-knead bread. The "Roasting Oven" of the Aga stove seems a little too cool to get the crispy crust I expect: both our loaves so far have come out a bit soft and damp. Also perhaps the pre-heating of the cooking pot is robbing the Aga of too much heat at a crucial time? Still, Aprille has been bitten by the bug of making bread. She bought some malt flour today (what is that?) to try next.

Taking a photo of the mystery bird paid off and I was able to identify it as a Pied Wagtail. The heron had to be a grey heron: it's the only species of heron here.