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.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, May 24, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
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!
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!
Friday, May 21, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
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*.
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*.
Monday, May 17, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
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.
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.
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