Searching for a flight

Today I spent several hours trying to find the perfect flight(s). What we would really like to do is fly from Reno to Athens, Greece. Then, after the cruise is over, we'd like to take a short hop over to Rome (about a two-hour flight). Once we've spent a couple of weeks in Italy, we'd like to fly from Rome back to Reno. However, the airline companies seem to be conspiring to keep the perfect flights out of our grasp. I fear we're going to have to make some compromises in order to pull off our objective.

Tackling the nuts and bolts

This morning I emailed "Brightroam," the company who provided the phone that we took so successfully to England, Wales, and Scotland. All you do is get the correct sim card for wherever you're planning on traveling, then buy some minutes before you go. They give you a USA phone number to bounce USA calls to them. You also have a European phone number, if I remember right. On our trip to Italy in 2006 we found ourselves at an extreme disadvantage not having any way to communicate with anyone. The phone is a real must-have. I also contacted the cruise company to see if they had any tips on what to bring and not bring, and if there was any place I could go and read feedback on other cruises. Still to do is making sure our GPS works in Italy.

Booking the Tour to Greece

Well, this morning I took a deep breath and called the Archaeological Institue of America Tour company and booked our tour to the Greek Islands. Lucky I did. In our preferred price range, all but one of the cabins were already booked. So, we're committed now and we must begin to plan this vacation in ernest. My intent is to fly to Athens a couple of days ahead of when we must board the ship so we can see the city. Then, after the cruise is over, we want to fly to Rome, rent a car, and spend a couple of weeks in beautiful Italy and Sicily.

Planning for 2010 fall trip begins

Well, I just spent the entire morning surfing the internet, looking for ideas for our trip to Greece in September. As I already knew, having lived in Greece for six months of my life back in the 1970s, you must see the Greek islands by boat. Since I don't have a yacht at my disposal, I came to the conclusion that we must book a cruise. But Concetta and I have never been in favor of the typical cruise vacation: too many people, too much regimentation, too much food, just too much of everything. So,we decided on a cruise with the Archeological Institute of America. Their cruise seems to fit our needs exactly. They have a small ship and they visit more interesting places than the standard cruise ships visit. I still have to call in our reservation as you can't register on line. But I'm getting excited now. The planning -- and the fun -- begins at this point.

New Web Site

Please check out out new web site at tomdavis.me The web site will allow you access to the edited blog material arranged in a "top to bottom" chronology, which should make it easier to read. Also, I have provided a link to my memoirs material which you might find interesting. You'll be able to see from the home page on the web site that tomdavis.me will serve as your portal to the Davis family in the future, though this blog will be used on actual trips and vacations.

Thanks.

Tom.

Headed for San Diego

This weekend, October 18th and 19th, Concetta and are heading for San Diego. Yes, I know what you're thinking. I just got back from L.A. where I attended my 40th class reunion. Still, I'm always ready for adventure, so Saturday I found myself back behind the wheel for yet another eight-hour drive to the southland. Fortunately Concetta and I have a stock of Hammond Innes adventure novels on tape that I have been saving for just such an event.

The purpose of our trip is to rendezvous with Concetta's sisters, Paula and Phyllis who are flying out from Ohio. We're going to be staying with Concetta's aunt Mary in San Diego as well as spending time with one of her favorite cousins, Angie Campanella. Actually, the trip dovetailed (don't you just love that word?) rather nicely with something I've been wanting to do for many years: attend the Pasadena Heritage Society's annual craftsman home tour in Pasadena, Altadena, Sierra Madre and other nearby L.A. County towns which just happened to be taking place this very same weekend.

I just love the craftsman style of construction that was in its heyday around the turn of the last century. It's all river rock, handmade tile, and satiny hardwood floors. Instead of the current trend of having houses look bright and sparkling like hospital operating rooms, craftsman bungalows tend to be dark and oaken and full of leather furniture. They have huge fireplaces and shingled exteriors and cut glass windows. Yes, I love them. And there is no better place to see this lovely work than Pasadena.

In fact, Charley Seims and I always spend countless hours exploring the various Pasadena and Altadena neighborhoods when we come for our annual hike in the nearby San Gabriel Mountains each November hoping to find a craftsman we hadn't seen before. It was Charley who turned me on to craftsman architecture in the first place.

Let me tell you, this event is VERY popular with the faithful! As you can tell from the photo of the line ahead of us at our second stop this morning (see pix 2), dozens, if not hundreds, of people turn out for the opportunity to get a glance inside some of these near 100-year-old treasures (though no cameras are allowed). Last night we had tickets to attend a cocktail party and tour of the Barnes house overlooking the Arroyo Seco, and today we actually did tours of six different houses. Let me tell you, by the time it was "ale time," this afternoon, we were dragging. Still, it was loads and loads of fun, and we even picked up an idea or two.

Tomorrow morning we're going to take our time leaving Pasadena as we plan to visit the Huntington Library and art museum before we head on down to San Diego. Hopefully, our trusty GPS will navigate us there without difficulty. It was a great help finding the tour houses today. So, until I find another hot connection for the ol' laptop here, I'll say...

ciao, tutti.

On the plane tomorrow

Well, here we are, hanging out at the Edinburgh McDonalds, drinking too much coffee and listening to too much bubblegum music just so we can have the Internet. This morning I asked the clerk at Borthwick Castle where we're staying for the pass code to their wireless network and she just rolled her eyes and said, "what's that?" Word of advice when you choose B&Bs on your next trip, be very specific when you ask them if they have the Internet. The answer they give may mean just about anything. If they have wireless, ask them if it requires a password or pass code. If they don't know what that means, better find a different place. They're just not advanced enough to have a handle on it yet. I was just saying to Concetta, that I will never again say a derogatory thing about McDonalds. They may have a lot of faults, but they do have good coffee and the internet is free. Yes!

So, we're winding down our trip beneath the golden arches. Tomorrow about mid-day we should be winging our way over the north Atlantic towards JFK airport in New York. We have new reading books, a great set of headphones, and, with any luck, we won't be seated next to the screaming baby.

England, Scotland, and Wales have been a grand adventure, even counting the rain, which for some reason has just stopped outside our window and the sun is out. They will probably declare a holiday here in Edinburgh.

If we had this to do over, we'd probably be just a bit more careful about lining up B&Bs, however, on the whole, they were great. Some, like the Dene Guest House in Hexham were very fine. Others, like the Rhymney House were a little more rustic. Don't get me wrong, everyone at every place we stayed couldn't do enough for us. The innkeepers always went way out of their way to make sure our every desire was met if possible. Two guest houses, the Rhymney House in southeastern Wales and The Pingles north of London even consented to do our laundry, which was crucial. To them I say, thanks so very much.

In the end we certainly saw all the castles, museums, and Roman forts that a person would ever want to see in one lifetime. We literally haunted the bronze and iron age archaeological sites, stately manor homes, and any garden we could find. We saw so many things that it will inevitably be melded together over time. I think the blog goes a long way from letting that happen. Overall, we wouldn't have missed a single one. It was a grand experience that we can't wait to repeat in a different part of the world, maybe Italy and Greece next time.

We'll try and get online at the airport if possible. But if not, this will be our last blog entry for now. To all those who have faithfully followed our various exploits, especially to those who wrote such kind comments via email, we say thanks for coming along on our grand adventure. Until later, we'll say...

ciao, tutti.

Spending the night in a 15th century castle

Tonight we’re doing something special to commemorate our 31st anniversary: we’re spending the night – two, actually – in the “Sinclair Room” of the 15th century Scottish castle, the Borthwick. We just checked in and were shown our room just 74 steps up a stone spiral staircase, or about eighty feet above ground level. Naturally, I decided right away NOT to carry the luggage up, but chose instead the ever necessary toothbrush and a pair of socks. Right now we’re sitting in the great hall with its barrel-vaulted ceiling soaring two stories overhead, a roaring fire just a few feet away in a stone fireplace big enough to roast a whole cow, and the lilting strains of classical music emanating from some unseen chamber behind us. Another couple here celebrating their 25th anniversary is keeping us company. Interestingly enough, though we reserved the Sinclair room back in March, this couple are of the Sinclair family themselves and tried to get the room when they registered only to find it taken. In case you’re wondering, I offered to trade rooms but the husband declined. Their room, he said, is, after all, is a couple of dozen spiral steps closer to the ground floor than ours. LOL.

Outside the warmth of our cozy castle, it’s raining again. Big surprise there. I don’t know if it’s been raining in Scotland continuously since we left, but I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s a wonder the country doesn’t look like the Florida everglades. Still, the drive out from Hartlepool today was absolutely spectacular. So much greenery. So many picturesque stone cottages, barns, and boundary fences, that I found it difficult to keep my eyes on the road. Scotland (and, to be fair, much of northern Wales) is definitely the most beautiful place on planet earth we’ve ever seen

Since we spent much of the day on the road, we didn’t take many photos. However, we did stop in Durham to visit the 11th century cathedral there (see photo 2), something which our Hartlepool hosts had enthusiastically recommended. Our hosts, Gillian and Stephen also asked us to stop, while we were in Durham, and check out their old house. Thanks to the magic of GPS, that should have been easy enough. However, when the GPS said, now arriving at (postal code) XXXXXX, we were motoring by the back fence of a housing tract. Perplexed as to why the little machine would mislead us so thoroughly, we set about cruising the subdivision looking for the address Stephen had written down for us. When we finally gave up (we had been looking for a house number that was actually a highway route number we found out later) we were just about to put in the coordinate for the Durham cathedral when a woman approached the car window and motioned for us to roll it down. The following is typical of the friendly folks we found at every town and village throughout the UK:

“Can I help you find something,” the woman said.

“Oh, well, we were just looking for a house here,” Concetta said.

“Do you know the number?” she asked

I pointed to the notebook page that contained the highway number that we thought was a house number. “One-seven-seven,” I said.

She looked perplexed. “Whose house is it?”

“Well,” I said, really starting to feel a little silly, “it was the folks whose guest house we stayed in down in Hartlepool.”

“Yes,” Concetta said, “and they just asked us to come by and see their old house.”

“Was his name Stephen,” she asked. “Gillian and Stephen?”

“That’s them,” Concetta and I chorused together.”

“Well, I know them very well,” the woman said. “My name’s Lorraine. We’re friends. They lived just around the corner there.”

And that’s how the Davis’ luck usually runs. Right out of the blue pops up a messenger from my guardian angel to make sure I don’t make too many mistakes. After our chat, Lorraine showed us just where Stephen and Gillian’s house was and we dutifully took a picture to email them. We gave Lorraine a cheerful “toot” on the horn as we sailed past her a few moments later on our way to Durham. Another friend made by strangers in a strange land.

On the road today between Hartlepool and Edinburgh I finally got to do something I’ve been wanting to do for the entire trip: take a picture of the hay rolls. Unlike the usual rectangular baled hay that you see in the fields in America, what you see most often here in the United Kingdom is hay rolls. From a distance they look much like playthings carelessly tossed aside by some colossal child, or maybe pieces of ancient, honey-colored Greek columns scattered in the wake of the invading barbarians. So far, I’ve just never come upon them when I think they look particularly photogenic – until today. Today I managed to capture a field with the sun and shadows just right. The effect was positively stunning. What do you think?

Oops, I just looked up from the laptop and another couple has wandered in. They turn out to be Americans, natives of the mid-west but now retired residents of Hawaii. These two people were actually married here at the castle many years ago and have been coming back here every year for the past twenty years, not necessarily on their anniversary, but just to keep the connection alive. A lively discussion soon ensues about World War II, the economy, and all the places the three couples been that might warrant consideration by the others. Pretty interesting. You can tell these new arrivals have been here a lot because they got the ground floor suite next to the great room and don’t have any spiral stairs to navigate with their luggage. I’m jealous.

The first couple, Gordon and Joana, hale from Oxford. He’s in sales, I think, and she’s in counseling. Both are very interesting folks. The wife, Joana (pronouced like the guy who got swallowed by the whale) is a huge fan of archaeology, so you can probably guess what Concetta and she talked about. As it turns out, Joana was born in the same town of Corbridge, Northumberland, where Concetta and I visited early in our trip. My ancestor, Paul Brown, lived there for a time and fathered several children there. Joana is so enthusiastic about archaeology, that she actually has volunteered at the Vindolanda site that Concetta and I explored during our stay in Hexham. What an Incredible set of coincidences! If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were probably CIA operatives sent to gain our confidence and lure us into spying for them. So, if you don’t hear from us in a timely fashion, it’s because we’ve gone off to Istanbul to smuggle out a microchip or something.

The internet here is password protected but the night manager hasn’t a clue what the password is. So, I can only post this in the morning when the day manager arrives. For those of you who read the blog with your morning coffee, I hope I get it to you in time. I’m off to read my book now, so until tomorrow, I’ll say...

Ciao, tutti.

We travel back to Napoleon's time for the day

I know you’ve heard us say it before, but today was just about the best day we’ve had in the United Kingdom. This morning, after a wonderful breakfast at the Rothbury Guest House in seaside Hartlepool, we set our course for the “Hartlepool Marine Experience” just minutes away down the quay. Oh, man, what a great place! We were there all day and I didn’t want to leave.

The Marine Experience is in a setting much like what we experienced in Beamish up in Northumberland in the first few days of our vacation. Like Beamish, the Marine Experience has constructed a complete village setting with shops of all descriptions, strolling musicians, and opportunities to talk to docents in period costume. But the best thing we found here was the H.M.S. Trincomalee, a 30-gun frigate built in 1817 of Indian teak and Europe’s oldest warship afloat.

I was just absolutely awestruck with the quality of restoration on the Trincolmalee. Plus, the restorers have provided the highest quality nautical interpretive interior mockups that I have ever seen, bar none. Everything from canons to crew hammocks complete with crew were done to perfection. As you can see from the photos, the captain was in his cabin, the table was set for the officers, and, though not pictured, the cook was roasting meat on the spit for dinner.

Concetta and I made use of the audio units that tell you all about the ship at the touch of a button. We wandered from stem to stern and back again on all three decks and every conceivable detail was explained in easily understandable language. We learned that a “little nipper” was the name given to the ship’s boy who kept the frayed ends of the halyards and lines trimmed. We learned that even today we refer to the toilet as the “head” because these deep-water sailors used a space next to the figure head at the head end of the boat as their latrine. And we learned that the purser was actually referred to as the “Pusser,” which explains why the grog served to British sailors up until fairly recently was called, “Pusser’s Rum.”

The first thing we did when we arrived was attend a presentation given on the “press gangs.” The British Navy was never able to attract enough volunteers to fill its many ships of the line, so they had to get creative. Gangs of British sailors would go out into the community whenever they were in port and “press” chaps into coming along with them for a life at sea. Often, they’d single out lone travelers coming home from a night of drinking who weren’t quite as quick on their feet as they might have been. These chaps would get a blackjack on the back of the head and would wake the next day to find themselves out at sea. Many never saw their homes and families again.

Our next adventure involved a walk-through, narrated tour through the various decks of a fighting ship which came complete with appropriately-dressed manikins, sound effects, and mood lighting. We learned all about life – and death – on board one of His Majesty’s warships as a French frigate closed for battle with our warship.

After all this Hollywood canon fire and hand-to-hand fighting, we decided it was time for tea. We had already learned that a discussion of tea in Britain and a full-fledged afternoon tea was being given in the next building so off we went to participate. As it turned out, we were the only ones to do so, which meant the young lady doing the talk and demonstration had us all to herself. She was charming and told us everything we ever wanted to know about tea and how it became the national drink in the UK. At one time, she told us, British were actually coffee drinkers and only started drinking tea in the 1600s when Portugese traders brought some to the island. Because it was so expensive, the rich people thought it had to be something they should have and viola, when the rich folks did it, everyone wanted to do it.

Part of the reason tea was so expensive is because the British government put a tariff of 190% on the product. This meant, of course, that the poor people just began to smuggle it. The more it was smuggled, the more was available for everyone to drink. Soon, tea was everywhere and had become the post popular drink in Britain.

After the tea drinking, we headed out onto the wharf area to visit the various shops. They had a chandler’s shop, a naval gunsmith’s, a swordsmith, a printer (I liked that one), a naval tailor, a ship’s architect, an instrument maker’s shop, and the Admiral’s house. Each one of these shops or homes was intricately decorated and “staffed” with appropriately-dressed manikins to give you an exact representation of how things would have looked in the late 1700s, early 1800s. I was just blown away by the attention to detail.

As our last activity of the day, we stayed to watch the 68th Durham Light Infantry Display Team, a red-coat re-inactment group, dazzle us with their close-order drill and weapons handling. This group is the premier Georgian-period drill team and performs abroad as much as they do at home. I was so enthralled with their uniforms and expertise with their replica “Brown Bess” muskets, that I kept getting too close to the column as they wheeled, kneeled and fired their weapons. Oh, well, at least they weren’t using live ammunition – I least I don’t think they were.

Tomorrow we’re off to Scotland for our last two days adventure before our flight home. Our final days of vacation are growing woefully short, but there’s still more fun to come. Stay tuned.

Ciao, tutti.

Wooden horses, smiths, and missing ancestral homes

Today we decided to try and track down the Davis family home, or where it had been in 1861. That is, in fact, why we came to the Middlesbrough area in the first place. Naturally, I had visions of being able to walk right up to the door and look in the window. After all, 147 years is not THAT long ago. And even if the house was a little run down, I thought, I still wanted to savor the craftsmanship of the wonderful brick and stonework, marvel at he intricacies of the wrought iron fencing that surely would still front the sidewalk, and run my fingers over the ancient woodwork of the front door seeking to form a bond with my family long gone.

With those thoughts in mind, we set off after breakfast to find #7 Station Street, Middlesbrough. We’re staying in Hartlepool(see photo 1), of course, which is the closest I could find a suitable B&B back in March, so we had about a thirty-minute drive to reach our sought-after address. I had been smart this morning and looked up the actual postal code for #7 Station Street, so we didn't think a thing about it as the little GPS machine took us up and down and around the industrial section of the city. Finally, we turned onto Station Street and I strained my eyes ahead to try and see the sturdy old residences of all those long-ago iron workers. But only modern buildings met my gaze. Then, as we passed a dilapidated steel warehouse displaying the sign, “Car Washing and Detailing from 3 pounds,” the GPS suddenly announced, “now arriving at (postal code) TS11SR on left.”

Naturally I jerked to a stop and looked with dismay at the garish steel warehouse only a dozen feet from my driver-side window. Oh, no, I thought. This can’t be. I scanned the building for an actual address, but found none. “Okay,” I said to Concetta, “I have to go inside and find out what the address is here just to be sure. I got out, took a couple of pictures of the structure, then went in search of an employee of the business who might provide me with the desired information."

“Naw, this is number 29, I think,” the car wash jockey said. I breathed a sigh of relief. I turned to leave, but then turned back. “How soon could you do a wash,” I asked.

“Now,” the jockey said. “Just pull it in.”

Our Mini Cooper had suffered much in the last three weeks. For the first ten days of our trip, we had nothing but rain, mud puddles, and flooded highways to contend with. The poor little car looked like it had competed in a south American road rally and lost. “I’ll be right back,” I told him.

Back at the car, I told Concetta we were going to set off on foot to locate number 7 as I was leaving the car for a bath, which is what we did – for about three minutes. That’s how long it took to get to the end of the block, which turned out to be occupied by a couple of other warehouses. They were a bit more upscale than the car wash, but warehouses nonetheless. I stopped a delivery chap about to carry a package into the endmost warehouse, an auto parts store. “You don’t happen to know the address here, do you?” I asked.

“Number one, I believe,” he said. He looked at the package he was holding. “Yes, that’s it. Number one.”

I turned and looked back at the row of warehouses. “But,” I said, “I was expecting to see houses here.”

“Oh, there were houses here some time back. They’ve been gone a while, though.”

“Did the iron workers live here?” I asked him.

“Yes, that’s it. Iron workers. This was all iron workers in here.”

So, there you have it. The houses are gone. And there must have been a bunch of them if you figure that between the car wash at #29 and the auto parts store at #1 there couldn’t have been more than two hundred lineal feet of frontage, those houses must have been small and crammed in together like so many proverbial sardines in a can.

Thus thwarted, it was on to the next adventure. I have furnished the photo of the warehouses just in case you’re longing to see what I saw (see photo 2) but they’re a far cry from the Victorian row houses I hoped for.

Our next stop was what was billed as a hands-on museum in the community of Stockton-on-Tee (see photo 3). Concetta and I love those types of museums where docents are actually performing the tasks in the fashion of our ancestors. This museum turned out to be wonderful in many, many respects, but the highlight of our trip there involved the blacksmithing demonstration and the woodworking demonstration.

When we reached the blacksmithing operation we were astounded to see how very, very realistic the old blacksmith shop looked. There were just thousands of smithing tools hanging from every rafter, piled on every workbench, and standing in every corner. Across the shop, a cheery fire glowed in the hearth. Underfoot, a dirt floor.

Then, while we watched, a worker grabbed a red-hot piece of iron out of the forge and put it on the stand where the power hammer commenced to deal it one blow after another, only pausing when the smithy took his foot off the pedal. A power hammer is set up to deliver blows to the iron automatically so the smithy doesn’t have to do it by hand. In the early days of blacksmithing, power hammers were operated by water power and later by steam. I didn’t ask what his more modern hammer was using for power, but it was probably electric or something. Once the pounding ceased, both smithys came over and explained the process to us and told us a little about their lives and about how they came to be blacksmiths. It was just fascinating. I found it especially interesting because one of my Welsh ancestors, great great grandfather, Thomas Rhydderch, was a master blacksmith in Wales in the 1840s or so.

The other demonstration that captured our imagination was the wood shop where they turned out hand-made rocking horses (see photos 5 & 6). Now THIS required some real talent. As you can see by the intermediate horse construction and the finished product, these craftsmen are serious artists. While I spent a good half hour talking to Robert (see photo 7), the wood shop mentor and instructor, about horse construction woods and techniques, Concetta and an even more informative talk with the student holding the unfinished horse. This woman is only one of three women making horses. They got started because the woman’s niece was originally making a rocking horse for her grandmother who had told the niece that she had always wanted one and had never been able to have one. Touched by the grandmother’s talk of the longed-for horse, the niece began taking classes from this same Robert, the wood shop teacher, and actually began constructing a horse for the grandmother. Unfortunately, the grandmother didn’t live to see the horse completed. But ever since these three women, the two sisters and the niece, have been perfecting their rocking horse skills.

And here’s the really interesting part: all three women intend to use their rocking horses, once completed, as time capsules. Into these horses they intend to put copies of the family genealogy, and other family records, photographs, and stories for some future descendant to discover. Now that’s a story!

After the museum experience, we wandered down to the sea in search of the “Smuggler’s Museum” which sounded interesting in the guidebook. However, once there, we discovered that the museum was “closed for the foreseeable future.” No doubt the proprietors of the museum had been putting too much of their smuggling expertise into actual practice. But to reward ourselves for finding the location on the beach in Saltburn (see photo 8), we went into the pub next door and had a bite to eat and a flaggon of ale, as it were. Yes, I’m really getting to like that John Smith ale. I’m just going to track that brew down when I get back home.

After our lunch break, thinking me might be able to cram just one more activity into our day, we next headed for the harbor back in Hartlepool where I had earlier seen a stately three-masted sailing vessel gracing the quay (see photo 9 - sort of). Once there, they told us we’d be better off coming back tomorrow as we only had an hour to partake of the nautical diversions available on and around the sailing vessel and it actually took more like three hours. That sounded good to us. We spent a few minutes in the Hartlepool museum located nearby and then came back for a cup of tea, a biscuit, and tales of the Hartlepool area courtesy of our host, Steven. All in all, a very interesting and rewarding day. And that’s about it. So for now, I’ll say,

ciao, tutti.

Just one of those days. . .

Today was a day unlike any other we’ve experienced in the UK. It seemed to start reasonably enough. Though we awoke to find a thick blanket of fog shrouding the fields surrounding Thurlby, we had no trouble packing the car and setting out after breakfast. I had decided not to use the GPS but to navigate the old fashioned way, by map atlas. My plan was to stay off the major expressways and keep to the secondary roads in hopes of stumbling across some singular point of interest that might give us a reason to pull over and stretch our legs. But as the miles ticked away, no such point of interest presented itself. Originally, when I laid out the trip, I had decided on something like 150 miles for this leg, so I didn’t think we’d be on the road too long. I turned out to be wrong.

For some reason the route I chose just sort of meandered around and trended in a direction somewhat easterly of where I really wanted to go. Still, like I said, the scenery was great so we decided to just go with it. Still, by the time we reached the toll bridge over the Humber River, I decided I better get serious and plot the real route to our destination. That’s when I found out how circuitous a route I had been driving. But never mind, we’d just have to keep moving and we’d make it in plenty of time.

That’s when I took a wrong turn and ended up on a limited-access expressway headed the exact opposite of the way I intended. Mile after mile I could find no way to reverse direction. Finally, when a roadside sign announced that we were headed toward the city of York, I said to Concetta, “Okay, we can deal with this. There’s a road that goes directly from York to Hartlepool, our ultimate destination.”

“That sounds okay,” Concetta said. “We still have plenty of time.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I think there’s a Viking archaeological dig going on in York. We can stop and see it and still make Hartlepool before dinner time.” Archaeology is Concetta’s favorite subject for those of you who don't know.

“That will be wonderful,” she said.

A short time later we actually reached the outskirts of York and one of the UK’s ubiquitous roadside brown signs announced not only the Viking site, but the world’s largest railroad museum, as well as an antique airplane museum.

“Wow,” I said. “Did you see that sign? There’s tons of stuff here to do.”

“Let’s have tea first,” she said. “Then we can decide which to do first.”

Though we were still a little under 60 miles from Hartlepool, we thought there'd be a couple of hours to fool around with. A few minutes later we found a restaurant and parked the car. Once our tea was ordered, I told Concetta that I better call our B&B and give them a hint of when to expect us. The hostess, Jill, answered on the third ring.

“Hi,” I said. “This is Tom Davis. We’re staying with you tonight and I just thought I ring and let you know we’re in York and should see you by late afternoon."

“Tom Davis?” She said. “But you didn’t confirm. You didn’t answer my emails.”

“What emails,” I said. “I have my computer with me. You haven’t sent me any emails. I confirmed with you before I left the US. I shouldn't need to re-confirm.”

“But I've let the room,” she said. “I’ve been emailing you for some time and you haven’t answered back.”

I realized, of course, that she must have forgotten that I gave her both my home and work email and she must have been emailing my work address. Of course, that was no excuse for her since she had not only both emails but my cell phone number as well. She could have called if nothing else. I decided to get tough. “I’m afraid that’s not my problem,” I told her. I made these arrangements in March and confirmed with you in August. You’ll just have to move these latecomers into some other room.”

“But I can’t,” she said, sounding distraught. "The person is handicapped."

Oh fine, I thought, put that guilt trip on me now. There was more to the conversation, but it involved me getting a trifle hot under the collar.

Finally, Jill said, “Well, you'll just have to come here and we'll work something out.”

So, as you might guess, up in smoke went the fun things we planned in York. We couldn’t hang around if we were going to have to scrounge up a different place to stay once we got there and, as I anticipated, not be able to come to some mutually agreeable solution to our (their) problem. Needless to say, the hour-long ride to Hartlepool was a bit tense. All the while we were scouting for roadside signs for B&Bs and/or hotels we might return to if needed.

Well, to make a long story short(ish), once we arrived, though we intended to go nose to nose with the innkeepers if necessary, the couple turned out to be simply charming and had worked out a deal where we could stay in a nearby (and more expensive) B&B for the night while storing our stuff at their place in the interim. They gave us a suitcase to pack what we needed for the night, let us put our car in their private parking lot, and told us we could eat breakfast at either B&B as we chose, come back and use the internet that night if we desired, and generally make ourselves at home. What could we say? We liked them immediately and we felt relieved that everyone would live to fight another day.

And there was one more bonus. Jill pointed out a restaurant where we might get good food just down the waterfront (this is a beachside B&B) from their place. Concetta and I ordered the seafood pie, which turned out to be one of the best meals we’ve had in the UK since we arrived. Wow! Not only that, but this place had “John Smith” ale, which we had discovered in Scotland and was, in our opinion, much better than any of the English ales we had encountered the whole rest of the trip. So, our favorite food, our favorite ale (cold, too!), and a darn nice setting right on the waterfront. Sometimes life just has a way of rewarding you when you have the good sense to make lemonade out of your lemons.

P.S. Just in case I had to do battle with these folks, I got out my Roman battle gear and put it on. As you can see below, thank goodness I didn't need it.


Amen.

Ciao

Tutti.

We discover the day has a "theme"

Today’s adventure ended up having a theme, though we didn’t exactly plan it that way. It just evolved by accident. The day began with our trying to track down a window company of all things. Ever since we arrived at our Thurlby B&B, I’ve been really impressed with the windows here. To say they are light years better than then ones in our house in Nevada is decidedly an understatement. They’re heavy-duty aluminum and extremely sturdy, much more than anything I’ve ever seen in the US. So, I asked our hostess if she knew where the distributor was and, incredibly, she was able to furnish us with an address and, most importantly, a postal code. The little GPS machine just loves postal codes. Long story short, we drove and drove and drove and finally found the place and the chap there gave me a business card so I could pull up the factory on the internet and see if they sell in North America.

But that had nothing to do with the day’s theme. No, the theme came about because after the window place we found ourselves in a part of England that for which we really didn’t have brochures. So, we just asked the window guy where he would recommend we visit. Soon we were back on the road, headed toward the window guy’s suggested destination. But once there, we found a museum which, except for a small room near the front entrance, was not really open for business. However, a very nice employee at this museum recommended yet another destination, so off we went to follow her suggestion.

But that also had nothing to do with the theme. No, the theme came about because we happened to pick up a brochure at the aforementioned museum that described a museum in the nearby town of Peterborough that was having a special display on “Crime and Punishment” throughout history. Now that sounded interesting, we thought; something totally different than we had been seeing. So off we went in search of the town of Peterborough, often through a maze of expressway on-ramps and off-ramps and an absolute myriad of roundabouts. But finally we found said town and even managed to find a suitable parking garage for the Mini, though I believe I sort of drove up the down ramps in getting to the next level. Still, we made it.

The most interesting thing about the crime exhibit was the little piece they did on Agatha Christie. The exhibit, of course, had all the torture devices and weird weaponry you’d ever want to see, all which came complete with the horrified screams and moanings of victims resounding in the background as you strolled. But it was Agatha that drew my attention. Imagine being the most published author ever! Imagine having your play run continuously for over 50 years! My god, I haven’t even been able to sell my first book yet. I better get busy!

The rest of the Peterborough Museum was just as interesting. The displays ran the gamut from archaeology to Victorian streetscapes, from geology to paintings by local artists, from Roman items to sea creatures from 150 million years ago . But here again, the theme resurfaced. We started reading about Mary Queen of Scots (see photo 3) and how her last days were spent at Fotheringhay Castle located just a short distance away.

“How short?” I asked a museum staff member.

“Well,” she said, “It’s just down the road near Oundly.”

Now Oundly is exactly the town where we'd just been while hunting up the window company. Still, now that the theme of the day had asserted itself, I wasn’t about to argue.

“Okay,” I said to Concetta. “We need to go back.”

And that’s just what we did. More on-ramps and off-ramps and two dozen roundabouts and we were rolling into the tiny village (40 households) of Fotheringhay. Wow, what a great little village. All the stone cottages are neat as a pin and you have nothing but beautiful vistas beyond. I immediately got out the camera and started shooting. An old English canal runs right by the village and I had fun shooting the canal boats. Later, when we went in search of the castle site where Queen Mary lost her head, we met a really nice canal boat owner who paused from his work and talked to us for half an hour (see photo 6 for the canal boat guy. Photos 4 and 5 are of the castle in its heyday and now).

But at first, when we just weren’t certain where to look for the castle, a very nice lady out walking her grandson in a pram offered to not just tell us where the castle used to stand, but actually take us there. By the end of the walk we were having a fine old chat and I thought she’d ask to adopt us or something. Just kidding there. But everywhere we go in the UK, the residents always seem to love going out of their way to help us.

When we finally found the castle site, all that was left was a high mound of earth where the original castle “keep” stood, and one lone rock clump that is the only piece of building material left over after they tore the castle down and hauled the stones off to do a church or something in good ol’ Oundly. Concetta said she stood at the very top of that castle keep mound and tried to visualize what Mary might have seen from her cell window on that morning before they came for her. I don’t wonder but that the rivers and farms and forests look much the same as they did all those years ago.

To round out the evening, and to stick to the theme as close as possible, we decided to eat at the Sherlock Holmes-themed restaurant near the B&B here called the “Baskervilles,” reminiscent of the infamous hound. I had the Bangers and Mash and Concetta had the Fish and Chips.

So, there you are, another day in the life. I just hope I haven’t had so much ale that I go to sleep seeing Mary Queen of Scotts -- whose axeman took three strokes to cut through her neck even after she’d paid him to make his aim true -- hovering over the bed in the dark. It’s said that he grabbed her hair to display her head to the witnesses and her head separated from her wig bounced off the paving stones. Yuck!

Ciao, tutti