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.

Buxton and exploring "public footpaths"

We went to Buxton today: a little driving practice for me, an opportunity to buy food for our cottage as well. The cottage has a small refrigerator: half-size we would say in North America. The main house has the same small fridge, but Aprille says, "This country has definitely decided to go for big fridges." A shame. Small ones are so aesthetic.

In Buxton, the consistent building colour from the local stone is compelling. The town looks so nice. Aprille says it's because nothing happens around here without approval of the planning commission: first the parish council, then the regional council, and finally (and most restrictively) the Peak Park. I wish we had more of that in Canada. Why give people the freedom to make ugly things? We told her about our house being sided in vinyl. She was appalled.

It was a Sunday, so lots of people out in the park, sweet shop closed, groceries at Waitrose's. This was a wonderful rich stimulating experience. Nothing quite so elemental as food, and when the food is in all new packages, sometimes with new names (Salad cream? Single cream?) it's like a wonderland.

I found that in Buxton we had a cell signal, and I was able to start trying to figure out how to put credit on the phone.

Driving was better today. After a good night's sleep (awake only from 3 to 5 a.m.) I felt refreshed.

Back at the grange, we went for a walk where the map showed a public footpath: out the driveway, along the road to the right, then along a fence line to someone else's farmyard. Thence, across his fields, and back to Boosley Grange from the back. This is quite legal.

The footpaths date from way back when, and the Park is essentially founded on them. They are the continuation of public rights on what were traditionally ways farming families would visit one another. So if you own a farm here and a public footpath comes through it, you are required to let people come through. Consequently you see little signs within farms like "Private: no footpath" meaning that you've taken a wrong turn around the barn.

But it was eerie "trespassing," (as I thought of it) through this guy's farm. Aprille said she'd herself never walked through here. I suppose that when a Walker, a recreationist from Away, passes through, he's a tourist; but when your neighbour walks through on the public footpath, it's your neighbour walking through your farm, which is quite a different thing.

Galen wanted us all to play Risk, but after dinner in the warm cottage, jet lagged as we still are, we could stay awake for only one turn.

Learning to drive again

The first thing I had to do with my Vauxhall Insignia at Manchester Airport was to pilot it down seven or eight levels of a car park (the Enterprise operation at Manchester airport being on the ROOF of the parking garage). On no sleep. It was almost fun, like a training exercise to get me familiar with my car: descending down twisty little ramps. But I have to say that from the word go, my front left bumper was terra incognita. I really had to sympathize with Mark's hitting a parked car in Nova Scotia with a rented camper. My neural structure for driving, honed over 35 years of driving on the right, has no pathways for projecting my car-body-self out in space forward and left. I wasn't sure where that corner of the car was in space. Somehow I didn't hit the walls of the car park, but it didn't feel like *I* had been in control.

When we pulled out of the airport, the stay-left thing was surprisingly easy. You know those things at Science Museums where you copy a shape with a pencil while being able to see your hand only in a mirror? Or you look through glasses that turn your visual image upside down? It feels impossibly clumsy, yet you know that if you did it every day your neurons would adapt. It would eventually feel normal, and you could perform again. That's how this felt.

We left the airport and headed along back roads towards Macclesfield, Aprille leading. It was a good beginner version of the real thing: I just followed her. Roundabouts were fine. Kate sat in the passenger seat (on the left!) and verbalized what I should be doing.

However--I don't know about you--but for me there's a specific feeling of discomfort with tasks that are neural training. You know: you can only take it for so long, and that would be under ideal conditions. In our car, things began to fall apart fast, and ideal conditions were, just really, gone. The roads were narrow, with no shoulder. Oncoming traffic was fast. If I had to pass a parked car or a pedestrian in my lane it was a nightmare of not knowing if I would hit or not. Sometimes my wheels would nick the curb unexpectedly, or flowers sticking out from hedges would rat-a-tat-tat along the side of the car. Will, who had been airsick all morning, began to throw up in the back seat. Any collision looked like death. It was no longer fun!

The width of the road lanes here is like a cruel joke.

In the moments before the fatal accident that never happened, there were these road signs I kept seeing out of the corner of my eye that said "Slow Down Now!" I don't know what they were really for, but they were very comforting. It was the message I wanted to hear. It was the message I wanted everyone to hear.

A short section through Macclesfield where the roads were slightly wider was a relief. We saw the rail station. There was a traffic light. Life seemed almost normal. (Note to self: remember to ask what it means when both the red and orange traffic lights are on.) But now we got into the Peak Park, and the roads didn't even make a pretense of being two lanes.

Near the hamlet of Flash (highest post office in England!) my desire to continue was overwhelmed by my need to stop and get out of the simulator. I pulled over in a gravelly lay-by near a farm house. Aprille came back. We got out. Kate persuaded me to eat a bit, because it was already 2:00 and I hadn't eastern since breakfast. The wind was lovely, The ladscape was lovely. The sun was shining. I relaxed a bit. I saw a chaffinch and a jackdaw, birds I had never seen before.

We finished the drive. As we drive along I actually heard sheep bleating, like an errant sound bite from a Thomas The Tank Engine episode.

I am little nervous to get back in the car. I think I will be double-checking my kids' seat belts before we drive. I hate our big ugly town car. I think I can learn this, but it will take days. Walking is looking really good.