Travel To Devon

We were up pretty early, like 6 a.m., to finish packing and cleaning. Beautiful sunny day again. Galen and Will watched Zingzillas, a bizarre kids' morning show on the telly, and we were walking out the door just before 8:30, a bright sunny day.

Drove along the now-familiar route through the white buildings of Rottingdean and Saltdean, gulls in the air, and found the Enterpirse car rental place, hidden in a temporary building under the railway viaduct in Brighton. They decided that my indiscretion, the one where I had accidentally rammed a giant flowerpot at our cottage while trying to find out whether the car had a front parking sensor, would cost me £50. Ah well. It was a pretty deep scratch. The guy who drove us to the railway station had moved recently from Poland. He said he'd just been working in Scotland, but that he couldn't understand anything anyone said there. Kate's response: "We have to go there!"

We bought pasties in the station, and Will immediately pounced on the Chicken Tikka Savoury Slice. Kate had coffee! Boarded the 10:19 for London Victoria, The first car we stepped into was just a commuter-type coach and had no luggage racks, and we had three big bags and four knapsacks to stow. We headed into other cars, at Kate's insistence, and found the ideal: a luggage rack and seats right next to them. Settled in for a fast and comfortable ride to Clapham Junction.

There we had to wrestle the bags up and down stairs to another platform, but there was planety of time. Kate bought more pasties, because Will was consuming them as fast as he could lay his hands on them. It's his new love, the chicken pasty. Watched the multi-coloured trains of Southern and Southwest come and go.

The 11:27 to Exter was pretty full, and again not really designed to accommodate people with large bags. We squeezed on board with some trepidation. After searching, Kate and the boys lodged in an air-conditioned car, at the very front of the train, in a set of four seats with a table. Luggage racks throughout the train were full though, so I sat with the two big bags in the cycle storage rack, one car back, for about the first half hour. Then the conductor befriended me, and convinced me that no one was going to run off with our bags. "I've worked 20 years on this railway," he said, "and only seen one bag go missing. And that was because the lady forgot where she put it." But to make matters better, he offered to lock our bags behind a set of sliding doors near the driver's compartment. Another trainman also befriended us and gave us pens branded with "RMT"--which turns out to be the railway workers union. So we had a very comfortable ride to Exeter, about three hours, passing through Salisbury.

At Exeter we did not have to change platforms at all, but the train to Barnstaple was a pitiful affair of two dinky cars that looked like they belonged more in a subway--and it was already full when it pulled in! We rode the whole way standing in the doorwell, squeezed between our bags and other people in a similar situation. When the doors would open we would all shift around to make room, and then create a channel for those getting off. But it was a pretty ride through countryside, up a little river for half and hour, and down another pretty little river that eventually became the River Taw, and led us to Barnstaple. We got off at that little station and smiled, for our train journey was over.

Enterprise sent a taxi to pick us up: a class operation. From our short ride through it, Barnstaple looks like a pretty town with a core of old buildings. We were furnished with a car, but unfortunately it's another Vauxhall Insignia; "free upgrade" is always a bad sign.

We drove out to Appledore and noted that Roads Are Wider In Devon. There are little shoulders, and even gratis lay-by's on the A39, as if road designers thought they would be a good idea AND were able to find land to put them on. Here it's as if there's a littel more land than in Sussex.

Appledore is a village on a hillside. At first glance, all the houses are painted white or pastels: pink, yellow, grey, blue. But when you look more closely, each has also a "waterline" along the bottom, as on a boat, where a dark colour has been painted from the pavement of the street up about 30 cm. They might use a deep blue for a pastel blue house, or deep orange for a pale yellow house. The colour is usually repeated in the trim of the door and windows. On streets that go steeply uphill, the waterline is actually a triangle, thick at the downhill end, thin at the uphill end, so as you look up the street the housefronts appear to be set on a series of triangles rising like steps.

We're in a white home, with black waterline and trim, just one segment of a long row of connected houses on "New Street," which is a narrow alleyway that curves up across a hill over the harbour. Our parking is off a nameless alley, about 30' higher in elevation, that parallels New Street. So when we say we have to descend down our garden to get to the back door, we're going down about two floors! Our parking space is tiny, and our car has already acquired the nickname of The Whale.

The cottage is a cute two-storey place where Galen and Will have a small whitewashed bedroom right next to our small whitewashed bedroom. Our window looks out front and their looks out the back into the garden. There is one great window in our bedroom through which you can see out over the roofs of town, and across the estuary to Instow, the village on the far side.

We walked down into Appledore and discovered that "The Quay" is the street along the waterfront, that there is no water there at low tide, because on this estuary (the Torridge River estuary) at low tide there are extensive mud flats and not much water. We found that all other streets of Appledore are tiny and steep, and that there are little shops along the one called Market Street. We ate dinner in the yard of the Shipgate Hotel, a pub on the Quay, and perused "Johns of Appledore," the general store and post office, open to 9:00, the place where you can get all sorts of groceries and what-have-you. We observed a massive queue at Sylvester's Fish & Chips, so it's either pretty special or well-marketed.

We also found the Appledore Visual Arts Festival will be going on here for two more days. ("4 days, 70 + events, one small riverside village, one big festival") There are films screenings, talks, walks and gallery shows, musicians in the streets, and basically the town is looking its best for this. There is a Best Dressed Doorknocker competition.

Portsmouth Historic Dockyard

In a way, a day of mishaps.

We set out at 8:15 for the Newhaven Town railway station, just two roundabouts away. A crystal clear, sunny, blue day: not a cloud in the sky, the promise of very warm temperatures indeed. We all wore shorts.

Now, Mark had warned us not to try to travel from the Newhaven station: "There's not really any parking," he'd said. Either we didn't believe him or we forgot, but in any case when we got there, although we could drive around it, there was no parking. We'd never seen a station with no parking; but the next station we went to topped that: it didn't exist. We drove a few blocks looking for Newhaven Harbour Station, and although there was a clear chain of signs to follow there, there was no station. Frustrated, and unable to find parking near Newhaven Town station, we decided to drive to Brighton & take the train from there. (The 9:04 from Newhaven was to take us anyway to a 10:30 from Brighton anyway.)

Thirty minutes later we were pulling into the car park at Brighton Station, having followed signage only (no maps!). I got a bit frazzled because the ticket machine refused three of my credit cards and a debit card, and there was a horrendous line for the ticket window. Kate came to my rescue with her credit card, which had a cleaner magnetic stripe, and for £30 we were all four of us on the 9:33 to Havant; change for Portsmouth Harbour.

At first all we were able to find were seats together facing backwards. But it was a very pleasant journey, stopping every few minutes at a different station. At Havant we got out and the train to Portsmouth came along on the same track a few minutes later. It was really crowded, and we had to stand for the three stops to Portsmouth Harbour. Which is an exciting station: right on the water, ferries to Gosport leaving from the side, the HMS Warrior moored just across from it.

We walked first to the Co-op across the street to buy three big padded envelopes, and mail our accumulated booty of the week home. They had what we needed, but it was awkward stuffing and addressing in the tiny shop.

The Portsmouth Historic Dockyard is right next to the rail station, but before we got there Will said he was hungry (it was 11:30), and poor Galen, who had woke up with a sore throat and was now beginning to resemble the walking dead, also needed something. It was frustrating, but just short of the dockyard entrance we stopped at a pub called the Ship & Castle. Actually it was very nice inside: a kids menu, roomy, and almost empty. Kate and I split a salad, and Galen and Will split some chicken nuggets, and I had a ginger beer because that's what you do in pubs. It gave us all a good rest. But let's face it: we have reached exhaustion.

(I got to try salad cream, It's not bad: I take back the aspersions I was casting on it. I also got to try Brown Sauce. It was bad.)

Now we entered the historic dockyard and found it was £55 for the family: to see the Warrior, the Victory, the Mary Rose Museum (minus the hull of the Mary Rose, which has been removed for refurbishment), Action Stations (a kind of recruitment festival put on by Royal Navy for kids, except you pay them to participate), and a Harbour Tour. We got over the sticker shock by reasoning we'd come all this way (across the Atlantic, as well as from Newhaven). Nonetheless the Portsmouth Historic Dockyard was in the end perhaps the only museum we've been a little disappointed in.

We went to see the Victory first, becaue that was at the top of Galen's list (and he looked like he might expire any minute). It was very magnificent, very dark, massive, and very crowded with other visitors. However, a great moment: at the spot marked on the deck by a brass plaque where Nelson fell, shot by a French sniper, Galen asks me to turn on the video camera, and he very dramatically collapses on the deck with a loud THUMP! You'd have thought a dead body had been dropped on the deck. People turned around and gasped. I was killing myself inside, but I kept a steady hand on the camera. Oddly we were not thrown out for our irreverence on the holy site.

We visited Action Stations next, drawn by the lure of "simulators,", but it was really just a big warehouse full of science-museum crap: some of it quite good, it must be said, but nothing that you would see only in Portsmouth. Will was so excited that he walked into a pillar. Poor guy! Good black eye coming up tomorrow.

(It appears that in England spreading excitement about the military comes without the nefarious overtones it would carry in the USA. Small island, must be defended, actual threats out there--that sort of thing. Indeed, even weapons contractors seemed to have a free hand to present and explain their stuff in this exhibit, something that in the US would raise eyebrows and invite cynical commentary.)

Galen was now pretty exhausted (and did he have a fever?) and it was hot and sunny, so we decided to peruse a couple of gift shops and sit down for the Harbour Tour. The gift shops (there are at least three in the dockyard, along with three restaurants, further contributing to the Disneyland-like impression that you have, in the end, really just been lured here to be parted from your cash) were nice, but ultimate just more stuff.

But the Harbour Tour for 3:00 p.m. was now full! So instead we went out on the wharf next to the Warrior, a steel wind & sail warship from 1860. Will and I explored the Warrior while Galen and Kate sat on a bench and watched the fantastic & varied water traffic in the harbour. Ferries going to the Isle of Wight, to Gosport, to the Channel islands, to Brittany, and of course all sizes of military craft. Inside the Warrior (which was vast and far more comfortable than the Victory, and never took put in an actual naval engagement) Will encountered a station for making a paddle-wheel boat from cardboard, paper clips and a rubber band. (Another half-term bonus!) He made one and it was really fun. Just his thing.

Also kept encountering a group of children speaking what might have been Ukrainian, and wearing hats that said "Chernobyl Children's Lifeline."

Tottled to the railway station to catch the 4:29 Southern train to Brighton. Nice ride home. Had forward-facing seats and decent air. Galen seemed to be sleeping on his tray table. At one station I saw a confident Oxfam ad out the window that I'd like to see in Canada: Climate Change is killing people--"Let's sort it here and now." Also saw two great examples of the British use of a plural verb with a collective noun: "When England win, you win!" and "We are an agency that become excitable when..."

Drove home, still not a cloud in the sky. Beautiful blue sea on our right hand. We decided as we approached home to fill the car with petrol, as we have to return it tomorrow morning, so we pulled into the Sainsbury's near our cottage. Guessed correctly on which side the fuel cap was! Filled up with unleaded ("the green one"), and the price, for those of you interested in the price of fuel, was about what we would pay in Canada per litre if you simply substitute the £ for a $. (This is a recurring impression we have: that prices here are the same numbers they would be in Canada, but with a £ instead of a $.)

I go in to pay, and while I'm in there Will comes running in and says, "Dad, I need the key! The car alarm is going off!" With me and the magic key away from it, the car had decided it was in danger, and when Will, who had helped me fuel up, bumped the door on the outside, it slammed on all the door locks (locking Galen and Kate inside) and began honking the horn! Not very snazzy behaviour from an otherwise snazzy car. They were great and kept their heads: they sent Will to get the key from me. It was the best mishap of the day.

Home, dinner of mac and cheese to use up the pasta, Galen lay on the couch and watched British Talent on the telly, which was an education for both him and Will.

Tomorrow we leave to return our car, and take the train: Brighton--Clapham Junction--Exeter--Barnstaple. Not sure when we will be back in Internet land again.

Pevensey Bay, Bodiam Casle, Battle Abbey

Sausages from Middle Farm for breakfast. The day dawned bright and blue and still: promising to be hot. We were intending to drive to Bodiam Castle by the high road, the A 27, but as we pulled out of our driveway, Kate suggested we go along the coast road, through Eastbourne and Bexham, and maybe stop on the beach at Pevensey Bay. It was nice, slow driving. Eastbourne felt like a seaside resort (is it the clear light and gulls wheeling over those yucca-like trees?). Pevensey Bay was several streets of houses parallelling the beach, much like a resort town at the [New] Jersey shore--except everything is built of yellow brick, many of the houses have tile roofs, and the flags flying are either English or the Union Jack. But like its New Jersey counterpart, Pevensey Bay allows access to the beach at the end of each cross street. You emerge at the top of the cobbled high tide zone, with a broad view up and down the coast (all the way to the large unattractive buildings of Hastings far to the east in the haze) and then descend into the sand zone.

Tide was out, the waves were tiny, and people were walking their dogs along the water's edge. (Kate said the dogs were very happy.) The beach was cut every forty yards or so by beefy fences that ran from the upper cobble zone down almost to the water's present location. They looked like erosion control structures: a series of posts, connected by a beam the size of a railway tie. Mostly they were half buried in sand, and gave the beach the look of having lanes or compartments.

We hung out there for a while, Galen and Will wading in as far as their rolled-up pants would allow, and then a bit farther. There was some digging in the sand and the attempt to dam a rivulet that was draining a shallow pool behind the first ride in the sand. Kate and I mostly stood there and absorbed the scene, and looked for boats at sea. A huge cross-like structure was visible on the horizon, like an oil rig but unfamiliar.

Soon we departed for Bodiam Castle, driving up through Pevensey, skirting Hstings and going inland. Bodiam castle is not on a main road: we followed signs into tiny roads that twisted and tured between hedges, where the white dashed line disappeared most of the time, and oncoming traffic would pause so you could both figure out what to do. Suddenly, in the midst of this twisting maze--right after passing "Bodiam Manner School" which looked very posh indeed--there we were at a gate for the castle, with a small sign "National Trust," and we were pulling into a large field with a few cars in it, to park.

But there were more cars pouring in every minute, and by the time I came back from the toilets (always "toilets" in England, never "washrooms" or bathrooms"), the field was half full and cars were still streaming in. It seemed all of England was here for some special event, although it was probably just a beautiful day during Half Term. Families with children were streaming up to the Castle, which, as you can read in a more than one guidebook, is the classic castle, the one children draw: a moat, round towers at the corners, toothed battlements above, its exterior in almost perfect shape.

We picnicked on the grass by the car, and then walked up. The first view of the moat was a little breathtaking--you come over a rise and its right there--quickly followed by Will's discovery of giant carp swimming in it. Around the castle front a man was just about to fire a melon from a trebuchet, explaining in a loud voice to the crowd seated on the sunny lawn how it worked. We got there just in time to see the mechanism tripped and the melon describe an arc out over and into the moat. (He had wisely not aimed at the castle.) We don't know if a carp got hit. It was a Half Term bonus, and the entire show, repleat with a demonstration of how to put on armour, would be repeated hourly.

At the ticket office I asked if our English Heritage membership was worth a discount. "No, you pay double!," laughed the man. English Heritage and National Trust are competitors, I realized, each striving to own all the castles and historic sites in England.

Will and Galen led us up and down every steep spiral staircase in this castle, although of course I'd have gone up and down them if they hadn't. We often on the heels of other visitors, people were everywhere. In one room I looked up the flue of the fireplace to see a man on the parapet several floors above looking down into the chimney. The most magical room in the castle was the well, wher a small circular pool of green water filled the middle of the room, and the sky was visible high above us through the top of the tower.

The boys were wilting, so we went out for an ice cream (the National Trust sells all sorts of special posh-type ice creams) and to watch the demonstration in full. The two men leading it took a volunteer form teh audience, a 16-year old boy, and dressed him in armour, explaiing that at the batle of Agincourt, some of the commanders were 16. They told us about long bows and other nasty weapons, and then fired the trebuchet again. It was pretty fun.

Now we turned the car for home, and went to Battle, which is the town around the battlefield of the Battle of Hastings, and Battle Abbey, built by William the Conqueror after he won the battle. All the shoips of course have Battle in their name: Battle Chemist, Battle Hair styling, Battle Tearoom. Galen pointed out that in World War II, all those shops would have had to cover up or paint over the word 'Battle' on their signs, because you were not allowed to show a town name in public--the better to confuse invaders.

This site was English Heritage, and they were selling ginger wine and special shortbreads to counter the National Trust's ice creams. We watched the short film explaining the context of the battle,walked the beaitful ground of the abbey and along the battle field edge, explored some ruined parts of hte abbey and delighted in the large groups of French high schoolers around us.

Headed home, took a wrong turn at Hailsham, and therefore the back road to Lewes instead of the A27. Detoured into Kingston to find the house Kate's family lived in in 1974. Unfortuately we got completely lost in a maze of twisty narrow roads, and when we got to the A27 felt we were lucky to have made it out. A later look at the map revealed we should have turned left at a small lane called The Avenue.

Home for dinner.

The Weald and Downland Open Air Museum

Yesterday I forgot to mention that we made pancakes for breakfast. It was a triumphant moment because in Sainsbury's Kate and Will had been unable to find baking powder, coming home with only baking soda. I tinkered with the recipe, adding some yoghurt to provide acidity for the baking soda to react with and the results were very good. We may have to make "yoghurt pancakes" at home.

Repeated pancakes again this morning, and then set out in our trusty car ("ZedDog, the Sled Dog", named for his licence plate, ZDG). We were bound for Singleton. This is a village north of Chichester where there is a highly-acclaimed living history centre of old buildings and practices: The Weald and Downland Open Air Museum. (The Weald is the high, sandstone part of north Sussex; the Downland is the chalk hills that run through the south part of the county.)

It was raining, and Chichester is about 30 miles to the west, so we expected it to take some time. But after we passed Lewes the A27 became a four-lane divided highway, and we fairly whizzed along. Driving gets easier and easier: I think I may have got into 6th gear today. Today's excitement was when a car was merging into the highway from the left (picture that: coming in on an on-ramp from the left), he and I both slowed to almost a dead stop, unable to figure out who had right-of-way. I think I did, and confused him by not asserting it. In North American the guiding principle in the highway merge is that the incoming traffic does not have right-of-way, but isn't supposed to have to stop either. You're supposed to negotiate something with them to get them on without inconveniencing yourself too much. Here, the principle seems to be that the incoming traffic has no rights and you can ignore it. That's a little hard for me.

Drive past Arundel Castle, which looked stunning, and we wished we could stop. Noticed that most every lay-by has a food truck parked in it: how civilized! Also we got lost in Chichester, which is nothing to be embarrassed about. Kate was brilliant and got us back on the right route, the A286 north.

It was nice to get out of the car after 90 minutes, into the forest-and-field world of the museum. Right off we found out that there was a scavenger hunt going on. Will was given a little bag and a list of ten things he had to find: something blue, something shiny, something manmade, an interesting leaf, a bit of litter, a piece of chalk, a flower, a feather, a piece of flint, something prickly. Will loved this! As we wandered in and out of Tudor buildings he was reminding us to look for this or that, and in short order he had it all.

Meanwhile, we also found out it was Half Term, which is a week off from school here, so almost every building had some sort of special craft activity going on in it. Galen in turn made a walnut-shell boat, some blackletter stitching, a candle, a brass rubbing, and a bit of rag rug. Half term did not mean the place was crowded though.

We explored along paths through the buildings, which are set in small groups, with trees between them. Some parts of the area are worked as a farm would have been in Tudor times. We saw many half-timber buildings that were built in the fifteenth century (note the blackened walls from the open fire) and then improved in the seventeenth century (invention of the chimney). Lots of roof tiles hung with wooden pegs (which Will and Galen got to practice doing), lots of mortise and tenon joints with pegs. There are animal enclosures for sheep and donkeys, and interpretive signs that explain some of what's going on. Still better are the people working there, who will take the time to explain to you what they're doing. One lady had us washing wooden dishes fifteenth-century style, and we also scrubbed her table with salt to scour it.

It was still raining lightly. Some of the museum people remarked on our keen raingear. It's just, well, raingear. But looking around us we realized that no one else really had serous raingear on. Then we realized that to the English this wasn't even probably proper rain. They were wearing, like, windbreakers.

Ate our picnic lunch beside the duck pond which sported both very cute ducklings, and enormous carp. Which for some reason did not eat the ducklings. Saw a genuine rook perched on a roof. Kate says they have a very sassy attitude that comes from being afraid they're inferior to ravens.

Visited the waterwheel mill, where they still grind a ton of flour a day, watched the immense wooden gear wheels turning, and ate some of their biscuits. Also learned that the chalk-and-flint hills here provided just the right combination of building materials. The chalk can be baked into quicklime, and thence made into cement. So the hills give you everything you need to build the house, and then you go to the adjacent clay valleys to make pottery tiles for the roof.

Departed there around 4:00, and took back roads to avoid Chichester. (Saw a black headed gull on an overpass.) Fetched into Lewes at around 5:00, and parked on South Street for the Bag O' Books bookstore. It's a tiny bookstore on a street corner, but it was even better inside than it had looked through the window on Sunday. Bought a large pile of books. Walked up the high street to a cash machine--Lewes felt different from Sunday: quiet in the rain, but with more eateries than I had noticed the first time. Food is everywhere here. Got fish and chips at South Street Fish Bar; noticed that on their menu was "saveloy," so asked what that was. It turned out to be a bright red hot-dog sort of thing. Hmm. Passed on that. Anybody know if these are good to eat? I may have to try one; some things in life you just can't learn about by reading.

Took it all home--it seems such a quick drive now down to Newhaven. There's a sign on the route that tells you that you're entering "Tarring Nevile," and we always enjoy seeing that.

Bluebell Railway

Drove up to Sheffield Park, north of Lewes, today, to the Bluebell railway. This is a functioning steam railway, operated on a line that was abandoned by the national rail system in the 70's. They have so many engines and cars that they actually operate a scheduled service among the three stations along their line. You buy a ticket good for the whole day, and can ride anything running.

It was a quiet and cool, overcast day, and the drive was one of pleasant winding roads with thick greenery everywhere. Galen remarked that "It looks like Gran's cottage here," meaning southern Ontario. Indeed, the forest here, deciduous, does look a lot like eastern North America. Somehow without mosquitos.

We got to the Bluebell parking lot at about 10:15, and before we had left the car heard the distinctive peep of a steam engine. The boys were so excited they could hardly sit still. When we stepped onto the platform and saw a steam engine (forgive me, I can't tell the design) being coupled to the train and whuffing out huge clouds of steam, they were practically jumping up and down.

We were standing in a station with two platforms, and an overhead bridge that crossed over the tracks. We crossed over to the other platform and found a seat in an actual compartmented carriage like I remember from forty years ago. That's the kind where there's a passageway, and off it a series of little rooms, each with three seats facing three, overhead racks, and a window that drops down so you can really lean out of it. (With a sign under it that says "Do not lean out hte window" of course.) We felt very lucky to get this compartment, since there were only a couple on this train, and we were travelling 3rd class.

Our steam engine began pulling us, and at a nice slow pace we rode 15 minutes up the line to the next station at Horsted Keynes. Out the window (let's face it, one of us had his head leaning out pretty much all the time) we saw lovely countryside: fields, rows of trees, the occasional farm, walking paths. It was ridiculously beautiful. Kate and I reflected on why Britain is able to build new things while preserving the look and feel of its old buildings and its agricultural land, whereas in North America we give people the freedom to do whatever they want on their land, and they build ugly things.

A conductor came into our compartment, but instead of telling us to pull our heads in, gave us the story of how they are trying to exhume the buried line on the east Grmstead, and could we spare a tenner (that's £10) to help pay for dirt removal. We were touched and chipped in. Rode 15 more minutes to Kingscote: same kind of scenery. Turned around and rode back to Horsted Keynes, then back to Kingscote on another train, then back to Horsted Keynes, and finally back to Sheffield Park. Whew! By this time the landscape was becoming familiar.

Will wanted more. But the rest of us were bushed, so we passed through the gift shop and decamped.

On the way home we detoured to "Middle Farm," a large farm shop just east of Lewes. It's right on the side of the A27, and as we pulled off there was a sign saying "Camping Show in progress." Sure enough there was a mass of tents pitched in a field next to the farm, next to the overflow parking. These tents were enormous! Each one was larger than a car. I think this is a new craze here: giant tents.

Middle Farm was very busy, but we did find a place to park, and went into the store. In its many connected low-ceilinged rooms was a rich sampling of what is available within 100 miles of here. Local cheeses (I could not resist some Duddleswell) and meats (pork sausages), produce, fruit juices (pear-ginger! cox apple!).

In the barn out back, where harder rock and roll was playing, there was mead, and ginger wine, and assorted local beers. But the main feature of the room was a series of small barrels, about 30 cm high, arrayed around the room, each with a different fermented cider in it. ("Herefordshire such-and-such", and so on.) Will, who is always a keen observer of what's really going on, pointed out to me that little plastic cups lay in a tray on the counter, and I could taste any of these that I wanted. That sounded great, so took a cup and tapped a little out of a barrel. I guess it was about 14 proof--more or less the strength of wine. (I should have read the handwritten label pasted on the barrel.) I think I sprayed it out by mistake. Kind of bad form.

Back in Newhaven we dropped Kate and Will at Sainsbury's to shop for food, while Galen and I went up to the Fort to buy something he'd seen in the gift shop there on Saturday: a replica set of the papers an RAF man would have had during the war. We managed to get there and back all by ourselves: we didn't hit anything! (Everyday after driving, I sit down and say to myself, "Good work: you didn't hit anything.") Then we picked up Kate and Will at the end. Dinner. Too tired to go for another walk. Rain supposed to come tonight.

Lewes

A fine day, light wind, "sunny breaks," warm. We set out for Lewes, the nearby town where Kate lived for a year when she was 16, and where our friends Mark and Melissa lived before they emigrated to Canada.

It is going to be difficult not to use the word quaint here. From the south you come into town through a tunnel and enter a delightful hodge-podge of old buildings on winding, stone streets that go up and down hills. There are twisting alleyways that lead, via steps, to tucked-away homes with names ("The Lodge," "The Round House"). In the centre of town is a ruined Norman Castle. There is a narrow street named Rotten Row and an alley named Pipe Passage. The human-sized river Ouse runs through the east end of the town; before the arched stone bridge over it was built, the town on the other side, sited under a massive chalk cliff, was named Cliffe.

We arrived at 9:30 on a Sunday morning. Most shops were closed, but they began to open as we walked along the High Street. Near the river, the High Street became a pedestrian mall, which just doubled the charming factor. Things slowly began to get going. On the bridge we could see a plywood castle wall and men and women in old-time costume were waylaying passers-by. It turned out to be Cliffe Independence Day, and we were taken hostage by the Cliffe Bonfire Society, who were raising money, presumably, for their annual bonfire. We heard a local resident react with indignation: "Pay money to walk in the high street?") The entire high street through Cliffe was a carnival, complete with roasting meats and merry-go-round.

We explored down South Street, and found to our consternation that the highly-recommended South Street Fish and Chips was closed for the day. Obviously we would have to return. Fed the boys on sausages from the Bonfire Society brigands and headed up to the Castle.

This was an excellent castle. There's a barbican tower you walk through (indeed a street goes through it), and we could climb the the towers and look out over the town. The spiral stairs were tight twists running up through stone tubes. From the top of the highest tower we looked down, and far below us at the base of the wall we could see a red fox curled up in a tiny circle in the ivy, sleeping away the day in his safe place within the castle precinct.

After we left the castle we walked again down through the mayhem of the Cliffe Independence Day and headed up a tiny street on a public footpath to the Downs. The street became a stairway, ascending steeply thorugh leafy forest and then we emerged out onto, well, not the Downs, but in fact a golf course. Bit of a disappointment, but since it was a public footpath we just played through and kept ascending. Eventually climbed a stile, escaped the fairways and got to roam in sheep meadows. Around us the hills were largely bare of trees, meadow after meadow separated by fences, and on this Bank Holiday Sunday we could other knots of walkers in all directions. There was a long view out over the Ouse valley to other Downs, and south to Newhaven. I wish we could have continued along the ridge to the final hill, Mount Caburn, where there was an ancient hillfort, but we were all feeling run down after driving ourselves hard for many days, so we let ourselves be content with returning by a different path that avoided the golf course. Coming down along the tops of the cliff Kate spotted a kestrel.

We had promised the boys ice cream to get them up the Downs, and so stopped to shop at Waitrose before leaving Lewes. Galen and I waited outside and watched people. After a while we noticed the store had closed (4:00) and the manager was letting people out but not in. Shortly, Kate and Will emerged and said they had no ice cream because at 4:00 there had been an announcement in the store to finish your shopping and check out immediately! The boys were graceful about accepting a delay in the ice cream.

Drove home and put our feet up. Not really. Kate busily made macaroni and cheese for dinner and Morgan unpacked and cleaned up.

Birling Gap and Newhaven Fort

Will has a little aromatherpay anti-nausea wristband we got him at a Holland & Barrett in London. It's got a pungent little ginger-scented sachet in it that he can smell when he feels a bit queasy. ("Where's my sniffer?" he says as he gets on the train.) He wore it on Friday's trip to Brighton, and as we drove to Newhaven, and again today.

First thing this morning we put a load of laundry in the little washer in our low-ceilinged kitchen, a little-front loader that's under the counter near the door. It's remarkably comforting, Kate said, to have the laundry machine in the kitchen. It's right there with you, washing away, instead of far away in some other room. We were thinking we'd hang the clothes out on the laundry line in the cottage's garden before we left. Kate set it for "Eco-wash" and "Energy Saver" and oddly enough almost two hours later we were still watching it go round, our knapsacks all packed, and wondering when we'd get out of here. Yes, we were trapped by a washing machine. Finally it ended,and despite the occasional spit of rain from the grey sky, I hung out the clothes.

First stop, Birling Gap: a place where the chalk cliffs get low enough that you can get down to the beach. It's not necessarily a world-famous place, but our friends Mark and Melissa had said it was special, and we needed a beach day after a week in the city. It only took us about 20 minutes to drive there, turning off the winding, narrow, no-shoulder, "main" road (an "A" road), in a small village called East Dean. You haven't really lived until you've been driving along a narrow trench of a road, a hedge on your left and the white line on your right, and suddenly ahead you see a double-decker bus coming towards you in the other lane.

Just be thankful you have a white line!

At Birling Gap we parked in a yard between two forlorn, lonely buildings by the sea, and a small, three-storey, unlovely steel stair led us out over the beach and down to it. It was spitting rain. Between the ocean before us, and the white cliffs towering over the sea in either direction along the shore, there was the beach: black. We descended the stairs and found the beach underfoot to be nearly 100% flint nodules: rounded and fractured lumps of flint, just as they have fallen out of the eroding cliffs. It was the largest pile of flint I had ever seen. Going closer to the cliffs, I discovered how a white cliff produces a black beach: the flint nodules are embedded in the chalk, like grapefruit-sized bubbles, although only along certain strata. From afar the cliffs look pure white; but near you see the lumps of flint that, after sections of the cliffs collapse and the soft chalk turns quickly to powder, are the only things that remain to make up a beach. They fracture in lovely conchoidal faces, revealing creamy grey with purple, blue and orange tints. It is a flint-knappers dream.

It was a clattery, slip-slidey sort of walk along this beach, and as at Brighton the waves rattled the cobbles as they receded. We found a small cave. We could hardly take a step without finding flints broken into beautiful shapes at our feet, glowing because they were wet with light rain. (Unfortunately a sign at the top clearly said we could take no rocks home with us.) There were slipper shells at every step: hardy little single-sided shells with a partition inside; their small ends fold around like the top of a little hood. There were also unfamiliar spearpoint-shaped, white, oval clamshells--although it didn't seem like they could ever have opened. Our seashore nature guidebook revealed them to be cuttlefish bones.

We found an overhang where some of the rocks were dry, and ate our lunch, unsure whether the cliff was likely to collapse on our heads in 5 minutes or five million years. Later we read the cliffs erode an average of a metre per year, so indeed we were temping fate by sitting under one.

It was apparent the tide was coming in, so we made our way back to the stair, and set out for a cliff-top walk east towards a lighthouse. The tops of the cliffs are not flat, but roll gently up to crests and down to troughs as you proceed along the coast. We ascended out of the Gap on a trail across the green carpet of grass that tops them. There was lots of wind off the sea and no fence.

It was a delightful, rolling, close-to-the-sky kind of walk. I saw swifts flying, and Kate botanized up the wildflowers. Gorse bushes and wildflowers grew everywhere that the treadway was not worn. Rabbit droppings were everywhere: so thick on the ground that there are either monster hordes of rabbits here in the night, or the droppings take years to decay. Perhaps both.

After we got to the lighthouse (the track running on clearly ahead of us down into another gap and then up to Beachy Head) we saw a line of rain coming from the west, covering and concealing first distant Newhaven, then in middle distance the mouth of the Cuckmere River, and finally hitting us as we returned to the car. Horizontal rain. Kate, a lover of Weather, was in her glory.

Bought chips at an outdoor wagon for the boys and took shelter within the public house "The Birling Gap" as they ate them. We shared the room with perhaps thirty other refugee walkers. They were a well-equiped lot, with nordic walking poles, nice rain gear and attractive packs. Oddly, for what was essentially a walk along an immense rolling lawn, most were wearing full leather hiking boots.

Before driving off we sat in the car and used its the manual to get straight about how to use the lights and windshield wipers. Clever car: it has a setting that wipes away the rain faster as you accelerate.

We had read that Newhaven had a local museum, so we drove there, but it was closed. So we headed up to the Newhaven Fort: a WWII fortification in the headland between the town and the open sea. No ruin, this was a fully active military installation sixty years ago, and, unlike fortifications that Canada and the US had on the west coast, had not been allowed to deteriorate. The rain had stopped, and the boys were amped as they crossed a bridge over a moat into this fortress in a hilltop. Just behind the crest of the hill everything had been hollowed out and brick walls built, with rooms dug into the hill on all sides. Ramps led up from a courtyard to the gun emplacements, where the wind was howling! The guns themselves were fixed in place, with all the small bits of the firing mechanisms removed, but a boy could still stand behind one and pretend he was firing it out to sea. Galen and Will explored every tunnel and staircase, went down in the magazines and all over the earthworks. Looking down on Newhaven we had a fine view of the Swinging Bridge opening on the Ouse river; a ship came out and dropped his pilot outside the breakwater. Whitecaps everywhere.

After leaving the Fort, we passed a cricket game in a park on the way back into town. We pulled in and watched for a bit. We saw a guy bowling and a batter by the wickets. We don't really know what was happening. Will was quite interested. We need to find someone who can explain the rules to us.

Last stop was a long, perfect, curving, orange beach we had spotted from the fort: on the east side of the mouth of the river. We drive over to Seaford and walked out from there. This beach was all orange: few flints, lots of rusty rocks. The waves were hitting the beach with such force that tiny pebbles would jump straight up out of the wave.

Returned home to find the laundry very wet. Hung it about the cottage and made dinner. Turned on the storage heaters, which would give us heat 12 hours later.

Down to Sussex

Today we packed up and checked out of the wonderful London youth hostel.We would highly recommend it. Not only is the location great, but even little details were good: the shower, for example, was a real gusher, and always hot.

We walked, at about 9:00, up to St. Paul's and hailed a cab. We got a white cab, covered as many London cabs are with an advertisement: this one for Qatari airlines. But Will was disappointed that we did not get to ride in a black cab.

For our first London cab ride it was pretty unremarkable. Kate and I rode backwards on the jump seats (which have acquired seat belts since I was a kid) and Will and Galen rode in the forward-facing seats. It seemed a reversal from how it was supposed to happen. Sometimes traffic was fast and sometimes slow, but pretty soon we were at Victoria Station and paying £14.

We had two portals before us into Victoria Station (doors is too small a word to describe their size), with literally crowds of people coming and going through them. Choosing the left-hand one, we walked into a vast space roofed with scaffolding around ancient steel beams. People were everywhere: it was far more busy than the proverbial Grand Central Station in New York City. There was a constant flow in all directions the entire time we were there; trains were arriving and departing literally every few minutes, and the public address system almost never stopped making announcements. The floor of the hall is covered in shops and therefore everywhere you look (except straight up) there is advertising. It is the Islamic souk in its Western incarnation: flowers, fish & chips, books, newsagent, and colour, colour, colour. Each shop is its own building within the building. In the middle of the main hall (for we had initially walked into what was merely the east wing of the building) a woman was singing with a sound system (to raise money to fight cancer), yet amid all the action it seemed an almost futile gesture. There was a huge electronic board across the south end of the hall in which all the departing trains in the next half-hour were listed in orange letters, giving destinations and platform

Kate and the boys went to ground in a small corner next to a shop just like all the others ("Nero Coffee") while I joined a long open-air queue (anything not actually within one of the inner buildings feeling therefore outside) for the ticket windows. When I finally reached an agent, he told me through thick glass that seems, no matter how good the microphone, to make it just that much harder to communicate, that there was no 10:21 slow train to Brighton, and suggested the 10:06 express. But I had a schedule that told me there was a 10:21 slow train, and after our nauseating experience with the train from Manchester, I wanted it. He finally confessed that trains for Brighton did leave every 15 minutes. Sure enough, just after ten a train to Brighton at 10:21 was posted on the long electronic board: platform 15.

Now one of the strange things about England is that sometimes unexpectedly you find yourself in a rubbish-bin-free zone, and Victoria station is one of these. Galen had just finished an apple core, and I a rice pudding, and we therefore had some things to throw away. We sent Kate off to find a rubbish bin; she was unsuccessful. Instead of leaving these things on the floor we stubbornly set off for our platform, carrying our bags and holding the rubbish in our free fingers. Now the vast hall gave way to the actual trainsheds, but by the time we had reached the barriers where a man confirms that you have a ticket, we still had seen no rubbish barrel or bin. I asked the guy who checked our tickets, and heroically, after shaking his head, as if embarrassed himself by the lack of an obvious conveneince, and said he'd look after my rubbish himself. A prince among men.

The British have raised to a high art, by the way, the apology for things not going right. It is, interestingly, a component of almost all conversations; a departure point for humour, a necessary part of getting-to-know-you.

The train was very modern (touch-sensitive buttons beside the doors open them so you can board the train) and painted in white and green: "Southern." We found a group of 3 seats facing 3, with a little table; Will and I sat facing forward because we're the one's who get motion sickness; Kate and Galen have iron stomaches and sat facing back. The slow train (it was one) was fun: stopping at Gatwick and East Croydon, and a host of little stops as we came into Brighton. It rarely got going too fast, and when it did it didn't last too long.

And Brighton was a breath of fresh air. Even as we stepped off the train it was cooler, fresher. A strong breeze blowing from the southwest chilled and thrilled us. The station was all blue-and-white painted girders overhead: very airy and spacious, yet small enough that we did not feel lost in a spacedock. We phoned Enterprise; they picked us up; we got our car; we drove down to the seashore in the middle of downtown and parked.

The endless horizon of the sea is compelling after the big city. It was a clear blue day, and there was the sea, catching our eyes down every street until we were standing on the promenade ourselves, having crossed the last crosswalk and walked to the edge of the ramp that leads down to the sand. A few sailboats were offshore, and lots of people were below us on the ochre beach. I had not known this, but Brighton beach is not white, and it is not sand: it is a yellowy-brown colour, which is the colour of the cobbles and pebbles of which it is made. The waves breaking on it make a lovely clattering, rattling sound as millions of pebbles rustle against one another. We walked along it, the boys wading in and screaming at the cold. There were lots of people on the beach, sunbathing, lying about, eating, but we were the only ones actually interacting with the water. The whole promenade is lined with shops and restaurants tucked into the seawall, well above high tide but below the level of the street: fish & chips, oysters, scallops, fresh shell fish, post cards, sassy bumper stickers, clothing, art galleries: everything you might hope to sell or buy in what is England's iconic seaside resort. The hotels and apartment buildings fronting the sea are all creamy white and uniformly four or five stories tall, and the air smells superb. Galen and Will looked for France, but there was nothing out there but endless blue sea. It was sunny and we squinted in that special way you squint at the shore when it's windy, and Kate and I wished we could just hang out all day there, drinking a beer or a coffee, watching people and sampling seafood. At the public washrooms we paid 20p to an attendant, who seemed to be from Russia, and the facilities were very clean.

Drove on down to Newhaven, about 30 minutes along a winding beachy sort of highway. Two lanes, passing through beach community after beach community. Palm-type trees planted here and there, as if to suggest that this was somehow the Mediterranean; crests of beach grass, the shore rising up in the occasional white cliff. Everything built of yellowy brick, the road of course without any shoulder whatsoever. Many pedestrian crossings, but once out of Brighton things moved along rapidly, and soon we were descending into Newhaven and crossing the Ouse, a remarkably small river, the Swinging Bridge no longer than 20 metres perhaps, and wondering how the ferry from Dieppe could get in here. Through two roundabouts and we seemed to be skirting a vast green area filled with sea grass; suddenly Foxhole Farm was on our left, and we were driving up a small lane with the wind beating at our backs-- and we were here. Walls made of flint stones cemented together in mortar. Low ceilings.

We really liked our space age car, a black Renault Megane. It is narrow, and does three great tricks. Its key is a black plastic card, about the size of a playing card, with a few recessed buttons on it. You don't actually have to insert this key into the slot in the dash board in order to push the "Start/stop" button; it just has to be in the car. If you walk away from the car with the key in your pocket, it will beep at you, like "Hey you forgot to lock me!" When you reverse, and you're backing into a parking space with a wall or curb behind you, a beeping sound begins at perhaps a metre from the wall, and increases in frequency as you approach it, going to a solid tone when you're about 15 cm away. It'sradar or something. When you lock it, the side mirrors fold flat against the car. We feel cool in it.

Delighted to be here, we only did one more thing: we went and shopped at the giant Sainsbury's "superstore" (only two roundabouts away). Inside, we could have been in any vast supermarket in North America--except that the food packaging was all different. Which is surprisingly exciting: as if when we're eating raisin bran we're eating something we've never had before, because it;s called Sultana Bran. Dates from Tunisia; peaches from South Africa; cheddar cheese from ... Canada? Good lord. Bought all we might need, came home, ate and went to bed.

Greenwich: We Visit The Eastern Hemispehere

We were off at 9:15 this morning, a morning cold and overcast enough that we all wore our rashminas. Under that sky of grey in this very serious district of The City, just after the hour when people are at their offices, Toshiba or British Telecom, when they've just begun the first phone conference of the day, they look out their windows to see a the last stragglers in suits heading into the building, and this quartet of bright, mango-coloured foreigners, like hand-coloured figures in a black and white postcard. "Well, you won't lose each other!" laughs a policewoman on a white horse heading up to St. Paul's.

The Millennium Bridge is nearly deserted, and of course the Tate Modern is still closed, big barriers down over the portals where so many people were coming and going on that first sunny day we were here. We had wanted to visit its bookshop, but now we revise our plan, and decide to walk down river on the south bank to the HMS Belfast, which we can see about a kilometre away, and which should open at 10:30: we can buy Galen a new folding tube map to replace the one he has lost.

The Thames river walk is a wide paved pedestrian way with office buildings along the right hand, and on the left hand a stone benching and balustrade over a 5 metre drop down to the water. It leads along the Thames until you get to Southwark bridge, where oddly there is no pedestrian underpass: with no one else around in the morning light, you climb stone stairs to street level, run across it in front of a bus and without a crosswalk, and descend stairs the other side. Soon the whole riverwalk thing breaks down, and you resort to the nearest tiny street to the river, walking through small, one-of-a-kind, stone-paved alleys to discover the replica of the Golden Hinde moored in front of you in a tiny water-alley of its own, and a crowd of students at its gangplank attending to a performer briefing them on how to come aboard ("And don't fall overboard because we will not come back for you! I shall find it very funny but you shall not!"). Through back alleys past Southwark Cathedral (a man in a first-floor office here, smiling and pointing at us), and through a dark street-tunnel under the approach to London Bridge. Now we're in the busy street outside London Dungeon, the whole area feeling like it is below ground because of the mass of London Bridge above it. Turn into Hay's Galleria, and out onto the river walk again. The HMS Belfast is just opening, a crowd of French high schoolers running and playing on the pavement as they wait...

Conveniently, just up river is the London Bridge City Pier, a floating pier connected by a sloping covered footway down from the river walk, with an enclosed and heated ticket office/waiting room built on it from glass and steel. It is not unlike an Underground stop on the river: an electric sign announces the minutes to the arrival of the next river service, and where it's going.

The Thames Clipper ("Cyclone Clipper" was our ship) pulls up a few minutes later and we step on board, into a big room of plush chairs arranged in rows facing forward, like an oversized airliner. The clipper accelerates away from the wharf and we either grab a handhold or are pushed back into our seats. It's a big, overpowered catamaran, and as we slice down river we pass other, slower tourist boats--and call in rapid succession at places like Tower Bridge and Canary Wharf. Building after building slips by, as if we're on the Grand Canal in Venice. In no time we're stepping off at Greenwich and thinking that was the funnest way to travel anywhere around London.

We walk up through Greenwich streets past a big scaffolding that is presumably the Cutty Sark under renovation. To get to the National Maritime Museum we pass through the very stately campus of the Old Royal Naval College, a largely deserted yet palatial collection of white-columned buildings set around green lawns. On one lawn they were setting up a "Beer and Jazz festival," a reminder that the upcoming weekend would be a Bank Holiday. The museum is in yet another stately white palace, free, as are most government museums here.

Dodging school groups (each school has its own uniform, and I have to say they look quite smart) we see many things: an actual note left behind by the men of the Franklyn Expedition; a giant ship simulator where five big video screens fill my view so effectively I could feel the deck rolling under my feet (Galen docked a ferry in Sydney harbour, while Will piloted a lifeboat to rescue a swimmer near a burning oil tanker); the hands-on Morse Code stations (Morgan and Kate telegraph to Galen L-U-N-C-H T-I-M-E); and a full-scale replica of the James Caird, in which Shackleton and men sailed to South Georgia.

Behind the museum, and on a hilltop in a tree-filled park, the Observatory. A small brick building with little ornament, hardly suggestive of its monumental function as the definitive location of longitude 0. In the company of many other pilgrims (the sun is now out and it's turning into a beautiful late-Spring day) we ascend along paved paths to it, and pay our respects at the line laid in steel running across the building's courtyard. Judging by the other people who want thier pictures taken straddling it (as we do) this is clearly a place of interest to more than the map-makers of the world. A willingly gullible tourist for things like this, I buy a fridge magnet in the small gift shop, that reads "Prime Meridian Of The World." I set my watch by the Observatory's clock.

We walk down out of the leafy park and into the streets of Greenwich again. There are so many good looking restaurants and book stores here we could spend a week in Greenwich alone. But we hurry on to the DLR: the Docklands Light Rail, a new branch of the Underground that Galen's eager to travel. Although the actual experience is pretty much like riding the Underground: down long escalators, many turns through tunnels, reading signs, and then the train. Rocking and bumping along, it emerges above ground through the Canary Wharf area (a zone of skyscrapers, which are otherwise rare in London. Do they have bedrock here,or is there another reason?) and we ride it to "Bank" and thence home to St. Paul's.

But we have one more mission for the day: our accumulated treasure form London needs to be mailed home, because our packs have no room for booty. We set out again on foot over the Millennium Bridge, crowded with happy afternoon sightsee-ers, and make our way through Tate Modern (no good art supplies in the bookstore) through back streets to Blackfriars, a noisy and crowded, can't-hear-yourself-think, watch-out-for-that-bus avenue, headed south away from the river. It's approaching five, and I'm worried the post office will close soon. After a few minutes of speed-walking however, it's in sight. They sell a wonderful red box for international shipping that's just right for us: brilliant. I get in the queue to pay for sending it.

At this point I notice that the post office clock says it's only 4:30. That's a bit strange. I mean, didn't I just set my watch at the Greenwich Observatory? Hmm. After paying (and the man behind the thick glass window helpfully coaches me in removing a little weight from the box and adding it to the envelope we're also sending, to reduce to overall price), I check with Kate. Her watch says 4:30 too. The boys collapse in fits of laughter at Dad's unreliable timekeeping. There was plenty of time! It was, in fact, a lucky mistake.

Dinner in the hostel's cafeteria.

RAF Museum, British Library

May 26: RAF Museum

Left the hostel around 10, stopping at our favourite water tap near St. Paul's to fill our water bottles. Another cool, overcast day, just right for travellers. Galen took us on the Underground out to Henden, a fairly long way, to where the stations are above ground!

On the way Galen was trying to write a list on a piece of paper, and the girl sitting across from him offered her notebook for him to write on. It was nice to speak to a stranger; she said she wanted to go to Canada some day, which seems to be a common sentiment here.

Noted a couple good pieces of language use on the tube. "Alight at Collindale for RAF Musuem," and "Improvement works may affect your journey, particularly on weekends."

Walked over to the RAF Museum, which is four big buildings filled with planes. In a way it's all so familiar to us by now (after years of going to air museums) but there were many new things here. A complete collection British planes, for one thing, plus history of British operations during the Cold War, which we never see in North American museums. A British take on air traffic control, and air pioneers like Amy Johnson and Mr. Chichester. We watched a short promo film for the RAF and Kate wanted to sign up right away.

Ate a lunch we'd brought with us at one of their picnic tables. Will bought a "Victorian lemonade;" later we read on the label "Does not contain more than 0.5% alcohol by volume." He liked it.

The hands-on stuff for kids at this museum was excellent: some of the clearest demonstrations of flight principles I've ever seen.

It was a relief to be out of the downtown core for a few hours. Left the museum with a patch and a new pack of playing cards that has a different aircraft on each card.

On the way into London I got off at Kings Cross so I could go to the Magnificent Maps special exhibit at the British Library. On the way out of the station I discovered my Oyster card would not get me out: the little lights went red when I swiped it, instead of green. Turned out that in order to travel with a London travelcard to Zone 4 of the Underground, as we'd just done, I had to add £1.30 to my card. So I figured out the machines that let you add pay-as-you-go money. Kate had to do the same when she and the boys arrived at St. Paul's.

The maps exhibit was thrilling: eight rooms of huge wall maps from 1400's to the 1700's. I stayed in there until closing time at 6:00, and boy did my feet hurt. Learned that all the rivers on the east coast of North America at one time had Spanish names, saw some measurement units I'd never seen before ('verges' ?), and picked up the Italian names for eight winds (Levante, Greco, Scirocco...). A great premise for a journey would be to take one of these old maps and go to the same place today and see what you found.

I took the #45 bus back from Kings Cross to Ludgate Circus and walked up to St. Paul's, where I found Kate and the boys in Pizza Express. I knew to check there because I tried phoning her and there was no answer, which meant she was in a noisy place. I myself grabbed some things to eat out of Marks & Spencer, and we went home to our familiar and cozy hostel.

A Tale of Two Musuems

A much cooler day today: delicious cool fresh air and partly cloudy all day, even a bit of a breeze. It felt like we were at the beach. The high was maybe 18.

We split up for breakfast, Kate and the boys going to the hostel's cafeteria while I went to two bakeries across the street from the hostel, L'Express and deGustubus.

Then into the Underground with Galen our navigator, and off to the Victoria and Albert Museum. He took us first east, to Bank, because he wanted to check out the walk through the long tunnel to Monument. Thence west to South Kensington station, and the museum. Neither boy was too keen about this outing, so we set a tone of exploring at random, and getting sidetracked by anything interesting we saw. In fact we found some good nude statues, some Islamic art (my favourite), Grace Kelly's dresses (for Kate), the courtyard (to eat a snack), the gold and silver and mosaic (wow--snuffboxes!), funky modern design (found our stupid, loud Dyson vacuum cleaner in the collection), jewelry (because it was on the way back to the front door) and mediaeval and renaissance (also on the way out of the museum).

Next Galen's plan called for us to ride the #14 bus to Cambridge Circus. We shared the back of the bus on the top floor with an Italian family. We'd left our maps behind so we didn't know where Cambridge Circus was, but when we go to Totenham Court Road we knew we'd gone too far and so got off. Walked down Charing Cross (looking for the Leaky Cauldron, but not finding it). Boys were hungry and when we happened up on a Subway they pounced on it.

Kate and I got a chicken schwarma from a stand, but we could find nowhere to sit down and eat. We walked and walked, and finally in the Seven Dials district, a warren of tiny streets filled with shops and zooming vehicles, we found a picnic table in front a a sushi stall. The chicken schwarma was looking pretty gross now, with its big globs of garlic mayonnaise, so we dumped it, and bought some noodles instead. Which Will ate.

I now went for my long-awaited visit to Stanfords Maps, and London mecca for map-people, while Kate and the boys searched for food for her. While perusing the Central Asia section in the basement I overheard the lively conversations in the next aisle (Africa) of American students going to Uganda and eagerly buying maps. They were from Middlebury and reminded me of my NOLS students.

We walked up to the British Museum ("another museum for Dad") and went to see Egyptian things. Yet we got sidetracked by the "A History of the World in 100 Objects" theme, which led us through the ancient Britain rooms looking for specific objects. Quite interesting, but the boys were in museum meltdown, so we fetched up at the gift shop. They had terrific resources for home-educators and we bought some build-it-yourself buildings: a roman villa, a roman fort and a viking settlement. Plus a graphic novel of the Illiad and The Oddesey for Galen.

Our final transport goal for the day: ride the #8 to Bond St and then catch a specific #15 bus, a heritage Routemaster--the old, original London double decker bus--home. This was for Will who had seen these busses go by and desperately wanted to ride one. They only run occasionally on the #9 and #15 routes. Alas, we waited and waited in a bus shelter on Regent St., but as rush hour waxed around us we saw many #15's, but they were all the "new" buses. After 45 minutes Will acceded we could wait no longer, and we got on one.

Arrived home tired! Wireless internet broken in the hostel, so no post.

Big Bus Tour

Our most grueling day yet. It was hot, perhaps as hot as 30 according to the BBC (although the Met Office said only 24), and relentlessly sunny, just like it *always* seems to be here in England. We decided today was our day for going around London on a hop-on, hop-off bus tour, with one of these companies that operates a fleet of buses driving a circuit route past the tourist sights. They are double-decker buses with the top roof cut away: a definite plus for Will. You also get unlimited rides on big open-topped tourist boats that ply the Thames between Tower Bridge (on the east) and Westminster (on the west).

So off we went, waiting at St Paul's at about 9:30 for the first bus, dressed in shorts and t-shirts and sun hats, carrying four bottles of water and ready for a grueling, touristy day at the must-see sights. The shortcoming of these tours is that you can wind up waiting a good while at a bus stop for your bus, which makes the whole hop-on, hop-off thing less efficient than they advertise.

Down by the Bank of London, past the Monument to the great fire, across London Bridge, and east to a tourist trap called the London Dungeon. We got off here so we could go see the HMS Belfast, a WWII cruiser tied up in the river. Galen was already hungry, so we detoured into a riverside building in search of a snack and happened into a beautiful courtyard in what was once a ship berth. Between two long buildings they've paved over the water, and in the centre was a fantastical sculpture of a cartoony ship ("The Navigators") which began, as we approached, to spill water, and things on it began to turn. We watched it for a while, found Galen a cinnamon bun, and proceeded on.

HMS Belfast was the complete ship tour. It was too much for us really, but excellently done. All over the ship are manikins in the process of doing various sailor jobs. After exploring the extensive below-decks warren, we emerged on deck, climbed to the bridge, and disembarked.

Stopped at a cafe under Tower Bridge, split a sandwich and filled our water bottles. Walked across the river and along the front of the Tower Of London and got the boys an ice cream each. The ice cream trucks are omnipresent in London, and the ice cream is always expensive, like £3 for a cone.

There's a public dock just outside the Tower precinct, so threading our way through large tour groups, we found a boat ready to depart for Westminster. A big group of French high schoolers joined us in the back of the top deck.

Lovely boat ride up the river past various sights--with a commentator. At Westminster (exactly one o'clock as we get off, Big Ben tolling) the side-walks it was packed with people, and we walked in thick crowds to Westminster Abbey, which sadly had been open only until 12:30. We rested in the shade and drank cold water. It was blisteringly hot.

Walked down to St James to catch another one of our busses, but again had to wait. More student groups from France passing us on the street.

Now the bus took us us through Victoria and Belgravia, and over to Green Park. The commentator was quite entertaining, but her replacement at Green Park was an excellently funny guy who made Kate forget about the heat. He had the British wit down, and took us by Marble Arch, through Grosvenor and Berkeley Squares and dropped us at Regent Street. Galen particularly cracked up at his characterisation of Prince Phillip as both hunter and head of the WWF: because he secretly wants to shoot pandas.

Popped into Hamley's toy store to see the largest Airfix, Hornby and Scalextric collections we'd ever seen, but whew, it was a loud and bright in there. Came out and took refuge in Carnaby St (accent on the second syllable), a nice walking area (with expensive, if not over-the-top, tastes), where the boys got a lemonade and Kate and shared a Posh Snog. Which is a frozen yoghurt.

Re-ascended the bus tour one last time to go through Piccadilly, Trafalgar Square (Canada House, gleaming with big banners proclaiming Canada Day coming, and Inuit Art you should see) Westminster Bridge, Waterloo Bridge, The Strand, and back up to St Paul's. 4:45. We were touristed out.

We've been living without a towel since we arrived in London, which is all right: you put your clothes on wet after each shower. But now I got a backpacker's towel at an outdoor store next to St. Pauls' ("Blacks") We too can now dry our hands after washing them.

Everyone showered to wash off the hot day, and for dinner we did something we've never done before: Will and I ate at one restaurant, and Kate and Galen at another. Will and Morgan went to Yo!, a sushi place that Will has been dying to go to since he saw that little dishes drive past your seat on conveyor belts. We actually call this restaurant The Zooming Dish. Will made me have sushi, while he plucked spicy chicken and fruit plates from the conveyor. Galen and Kate went to Ye Old London, a pub just down Ludgate Road, where they had fish & chips.

Everyone's hoping for a cooler day tomorrow.

Imperial War Museum

Just returned from a full day at the Imperial War Museum. Good God.

For the boys, endless things to learn about trenches, rationing and submarines. Children being evacuated during World War II. Aircraft. Tanks. Guns.

For me, I got to see an actual Enigma machine.

But the highlight was a handwritten letter, in a glass case, from Patrick Leigh Fermor (one of the great travel writers) to the Cairo operations office. It was written when he was an SOE operative on Crete, and about to kidnap a German General.

(SOE is the Special Operations Executive, and British undercover mayhem force in WWII.)

Prominently advertised at the Museum was a new book by Jane
Fernley-Wittingstall (Hugh's sister?) called "The Ministry of Food:
Thrifty Wartime Ways to Feed Your Family Today." The first two recipes were Rabbit Pie and Nettle Soup.

We got there by taking a couple double-decker busses: the 15 west for a couple blocks, then the 63 south over Blackfriars Bridge and down to Lambeth Road. Will was thrilled. Of course we rode on top. He's going to need a fix of this each day. It is a pleasure to have a transit pass.

Galen navigated us home through the Underground quite handily. Kate holds us back by the wall as the train comes in. We're all quite safe. With my underarm wallet holster on I feel like a secret operative too.

Shopped in Marks and Spencer for dinner foods, which we ate back at the hostel. Then went for a walk. St Paul's doors were open for the evening service, so we wandered in and listened at the back of its vast space for a few minutes. Then we wandered north a few blocks and found a piece of the original (Roman) Wall of the City of London--just off a street called London Wall by chance.

Everyone's beat. We have Museum Feet.

Into London

We made successfully to London today, but whew, what a trip! The train from Macclesfield hurtled along like a rocket. I think it was the fastest train I've ever been on; might have been doing 90 mph. We were in a very hot car (air conditioning broken I think) and the combination of the speed and the rocking motion and the heat made me and Will feel quite ill. Kate was bathing Will's forehead continuously with a cold washcloth, and I was doing the same. It was pleasant enough when we'd slow down (e.g., in Milton Keynes) but then we'd accelerate again and yikes!

We roared right through Tring Station!

At the Macclesfield Station I enjoyed hearing the platform announcer refer to coach H as "Coach Haitch." That's supposed to be a North-east dialect thing.

Finally we pulled into Euston and recovered almost right away. We have to figure out for future trips how the reserved seat thing works vis a vis our rail passes.

Everything else went very well. We bought 7-day London travel passes right there in the station, and got a bite to eat, Then we successfully negotiated the Underground--with the one problem that our great rolling luggage had to negotiate quite a few sets of stairs. Kate was heroic.

We popped out above ground on a flawless blue-sky day here at St. Paul's and found our hostel a few blocks away. It's in a maze of tiny streets between the cathedral and the river.

The first thing we did was walk over the Millennium Bridge and watch river traffic. Mucked about in the Tate Modern (not where any art was though), bought Galen a hot dog and Will an ice cream, and peered in at The Globe. We found a pizza place for dinner; our neighbourhood is packed with small restaurants, so it looks like we have lots of choices.

We're already doubly appreciating the space and quiet of Staffordshire!

Flash

Flash is the highest village in England, or at least the highest post office (and the highest pub). It's near a place I've been wanting to see, the old packhorse bridge at Three Shires Meet: that's where Cheshire, Derbyshire and Stafforshire come together. Back up a valley near Flash (at what passes for a high altitude in this area), it was reputed to be an old-time hang-out for smugglers, for here they could easily slip into another county if the constable showed up.

We spent most of the morning cleaning the cottage and packing up, but then after lunch jumped in Aprille's Land Rover and went over to Flash. We parked in the village and set out on the footpath up to Wolf Edge. We were trekking through the heather uplands finally. On the way down the far side the boys spooked some red grouse. We walked through the farms at Knotbury (one cottage had duck eggs out for sale: leave a pound and take a half dozen eggs)., and down the old packhorse route to Three Shires Meet.

It was a magical place: the rock was all pink sandstone, and the first pines we'd seen were growing there: it felt like Colorado. It would be a great place to stay at all day. Will threw a rock in the Pannier's Pool below the bridge, and a ring ouzel flew out. Galen had his picture taken in each of the three shires.

We returned to Flash by going south around Turn Edge, and ascending through fields. In one field there were alpaca, who looked like something out of Dr. Seuss: giant clean sheep with long legs. The final ascent to Flash was steep, and we earned our dinner.

Aprille made us a special treat: Aga-cooked Baked Alaska! Wow.

Arbor Low and Bakwell

Arbor Low is a bronze age stone circle inside a henge (a bank and ditch) near here. Aprille had never seen it, and so we drove over together. I made the left turn at Warslow correctly this time, which felt good.

To get into Arbor Low, which is on private land, you park and walk up a lane through a farmyard. Aprille said this farmer was really on top of things: the sheep were already shorn. There were lots of cows as well, and they were grazing right through the 6000 year old site. It's all pasture now, although presumably it was forested here when built.

Arbor Low would be something like Stonehenge except in medieval times the local residents came and pushed each stone carefully over, perhaps to weaken the pagan energy. The bank and ditch are unchanged however, and it was irresistible for us to make a circuit on top of the bank. Galen and Will pretended to be warriors and kept shooting their (imaginary) bows at each other.

We walked over to adjacent Gib Hill, a neolithic barrow with a bronze age barrow atop it. From our point of view though, just a small hill. Kate really enjoyed the dramas of the sheep field: ewe and lamb separated; ewe and lamb reunited! The lambs were ridiculously cute. It might be a bit more difficult to eat one now.

Aprille set off for home, and we continued on to Bakewell on winding back roads. In the town we parked on the far side of the River Wye, and crossed over on a footbridge: it was a festive scene of ducks and geese on the river surface being fed by the many people on the river bank eating lunch. We sat down and ate our picnic lunch too. Will threw in a few bread chunks to the ducks but before the ducks could get them they were gobbled up by enormous trout waiting just below the surface. I've never seen so many trout.

Many little stops in Bakewell, which is a beautiful town of stone: Holland & Barretts to buy a jar of the tasty but disappointingly named 'No-Caf,' for Kate; Post Office to mail a letter for Galen; Toy Store to look at Airfix models and jigsaw puzzles; Bakewell Tart Shop to buy the obligatory Bakewell Tart (smallest possible); Bookstore for a tree guide and maps for Morgan, a wildflower guide (grouped by flower colour) for Kate, and a Roald Dahl book for Galen; the sweetshop for candy; Millets outdoor store to browse.

In the Post Office I noticed the clerks behind bullet-proof glass, just as they were in Longnor. Aprille says there have been attacks on post office workers by disgruntled people. Weird.

We walked up to the Parish Church to explore its dark and cool interior. Galen walked the Stations of the Cross and read what was written at each one. There was Norman stonework all along the back wall. Will tested and tried every door. The boys are as intrigued by a church as a castle.

In the graveyard outside a sign read "Old House Museum: turn right at lych gate." We didn't know what the lych gate was (it is the gateway covered with a roof found at the traditional entrance to a British churchyard, for those of you know like to know) but Will said we must go to this museum. We followed the path up and around to an old house, built in 1570's and added on it in bits over the years. It turned out to be a brilliant museum of both the house (we got to see a real wattle-and-daub wall) and Bakewell's history. (The town name has nothing to do with Baking, and everything to do with a Well.) They even had a dress-up room where you could try on clothes from former eras. It turns out that Galen and Will both look good in a cap.

By now it was about 3:00 and the boys were agitating for fish and chips, so we bought an order and carried it back to the river to divide between us. Then our Pay and Display parking ran out and we set off for home, via Monyash. Kate took over driving at Longnor and did a brilliant job! She is much more natural to this than I am.

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.

Rest Day, With Walk

Lazy morning. Will slept in. Slept almost 12 hours in fact. Galen was lost in the land of Risk: playing Risk, thinking about Risk, talking about Risk. I went for a run, out the driveway and south on the road (fun area: there's a FOREST, a real rarity in these parts, with blueberry plants growing on its edge; a farm with donkeys; a driveway that said Out Of Bounds For All Military Vehicles). So we got going at about 11. Warm and windless: for me it was our first t-shirt day!

Our first task was to help Aprille assemble, for the first time, her new tent. It is a big, three-room affair which she will be taking to a bluegrass festival in Wales later this summer. Its size makes it a bit daunting to put up, but we managed, figured out all the details, and then packed it up again. And fit it back into its original bag, which, if you've put up a lot of tents, is really the mark of good work.

After lunch, we set out for an authentic Peak Park ramble with Aprille and Molly. Our goal was to go from Boosley Grange to Bridge End, a farm next to a bridge over a tributary to the river Manifold (named for its many folds), and return; outbound via Smedley Stych, return via Halhill (these are both farms). Really all you're doing in this peak district walking, around here at least, is walking through people's farms and long-used public footpaths.

It's a bit odd. If the original intent and use of these paths was for farm families to visit one another, the current use as recreational walking is very different. Instead of knowing the way, we read maps, but unlike a trail system there's often no trace on the ground of which way the footpath goes. The confirmation that you're on the right track is the stile with the "Peak Park" tag on it you come upon in the next fence or hedgerow.

This walk was about 4.5 km, and on it we walked mostly through grassy fields with cows or sheep in them. The boys were dragging and we kept them fed with sweets. Will's feet were hot. There was the occasional tree or hedge, but mostly it was ground blasted by livestock. The tributary of the Manifold, at the bottom of our circuit, flowing as it would into the richly-sung trout stream of Izaac Walton, looked and smelled suspiciously like the collective agricultural runoff of the area, and Will refused to dip his feet into it. (Perhaps it comes cleaner after disappearing into limestone further downstream, and then resurfacing.) Good birding however: lapwing, common buzzard, willow warbler, skylark, and something with a reedy, buzzy complex song that might have been a robin, but got away before we could identify it. The skylark shot from the ground and flew around and around us, rising, singing without stop. Skylarking.

Molly was unable to negotiate stiles, so I would lift thirty quivering pounds of whippet over each. The dog is all eagerness, but is not too smart about barbed wire. We saw a rabbit, and she was passionate about chasing it, but Aprille was firm. In one field we were challenged by some cows who seemed to have had too much coffee, but they ran off when Aprille and Molly turned directly towards them.

Although this area is packed with sheep, Aprille says their wool is thrown away. It brings less than it costs to shear it. Instead, these are lamb operations. Who's eating all this lamb?

Back at the cottage we rustled up some dinner and called it an early night. I read up on Arbor Low (a stone circle), how the Peak Park's romantic and desolate moor landscape of heather is in fact the wholly unnatural, engineered creation of generations of human effort; and a village called Chapel-en-le-Frith which is pronounced (yes, you guessed it) *chapel-en-le-frith*.

Castle and Cave

We set out in the morning for Castleton, a village that hosts four or more limestone caverns, and a ruined Norman castle called Peveril. Driving there was, well, almost pleasant. We went through Buxton and on north to Winnat's Pass, and at times I had flashes of the car being like an extension of my body: I could feel where it was going. I could be almost... casual.

We parked at the Visitors' Centre in Castleton, and followed a school group up the streets to the Peveril Castle office. This was our first encounter with English Heritage, a group that operates quite a few historic sites in England. It is once of these organizations we've heard offer you good discounts if you're a member, like the Royal Bird Preservation Society, or the National Trust. We joined up because for £77,because it will admit the whole family free to this and future EH sites, and admissions typically run more than £10 for a family. I think if we visit five or six sites it'll have paid for itself.

But what was so interesting about Peveril was how well it was done. The little visitors' centre was beautifully done; the castle itself was scrupulously kept; the girl runing the front desk was so very pleasant and nice and friendly. It strikes me that when we talk about the difference between Canada and the UK, when we talk about the UK being smarter and more classy, what we really mean is that people aim to do things well here. They take a personal interest in you; they act in a friendly manner (i.e., they act like they're you're friend). In North America there is, what: a fear that being friendly would not be professional?

After lunch at a pub, we went to see one of the caverns. (Note to self: at next pub we can order two meals to feed four people.) I convinced everyone that we should see Speedwell Cavern because you tour it by boat, which seemed rather bizarre and unique to me. What it turned out to be was, in essence, an abandoned mine, where they dug a tunnel and filled it with water to float ore out in boats. So, a bit of a disappointment. Hardly anything to see.

However the boat ride through the tunnel was an eye-opener. It was one of those rare experiences where you get to see something before the Safety Committee reviews it. First they pass out hard hats, and you think, "Well, that adds to the effect." But no: in fact we hit our head so many times on the low ceiling, the hard hats were essential. For more thoughts on their safety practices from the Time Before Safety see my other blog entry here.

Back in Buxton we stopped at a candy shop and an Airfix model shop. I hung out on the street and topped up the cell phones and activated the voice mail. I noticed that the recorded woman's voice said for me to hit the "hash mark" (#) instead of calling it, as I would, the "pound sign." Obviously here the "pound sign is £.

Incidentally, what is going on with "Top up now?" Everywhere I go I see little signs in windows inviting me to "top up now", meaning to add money to my pay-as-you-go mobile (aka cell phone). Is this the dominant way of paying for mobiles here? At home we might see pay-and-talk options advertised as bus stations and youth hostels, but most people have a flat fee monthly, because it's cheaper than paying as you talk. But in England perhaps it's cheaper to pay as you go.

I began a list today of funny things the British live with. It's a very progressive country, but it is, well--is "hampered" the right word?--by some odd cultural baggage. In other words, these are the things you would use to complete the sentence, "It looks great to live here, but one thing you would have to put up with is..."

First thing on my list is something called "Salad Cream." Heinz sells one version, which would lead you to suppose, and correctly so, that it's in the condiment section of the market. It looks like a kind of runny white mayonnaise. Must try some, so can confirm that it is as dreadful as it looks.

Everywhere we go, by the way, I see English flags. Not the Union Jack, but a red cross on a white field: like the Swedish flag, but red on white. It's the cross of St. George; it's the English component of the Union Jack, whose blue cross, the cross of St.Andrew, is the Scottish component. Why do people want to fly this English flag? There seems to be something to find out here.

Made bread with Aprille, which we had with some of her superb roasted tomato soup for dinner. More Risk in the evening. We make it two turns tonight before falling asleep.