BritTrip: The Return

24-03-08

We volunteered to fly tomorrow instead -- a day in London & $800 each! -- but were not selected. Ah well. Work tomorrow, then.

I failed in my quest for English toffees, and Jesse in his for clotted cream. We're resigned: the English produce their best things for export. We'll just buy at home.
. . .
Two Americans on our seatback screens: the Cohens' Texas, and American Gangster's Jersey. Depressed, resigned, armed vs. determined, fighting, and armed.

I feel Europe still on me, like dust and soot, dreaming Old World dreams of this amazing opportunity. All is possible here. The very best and the very worst.

Violence. Drugs. Cash. Cops. Shooting dogs.

It's illicit opportunity, but is there a place for good guys here? Or are all the old men dying and done? It's the danger and the promise of "making it big."

[personal resolutions follow]

BritTrip: Day 8

23-03-08

George Hotel 44(0) 870 609 6129
High Street, Crawley

11:40 Leeds -> London Kings Cross
15:04 London Victoria -> Crawley

Crawley -> London 15:51, 16:17, 16:51, 17:17, 17:51
London -> Crawley 20:04, 20:34, 21:04, 21:34, 22:04

Pubs: Rat & Parrot (91 High Street); Jubilee Oak; Old Punch Bowl
. . .
Great to have free Wifi on the train for the few hours into London. Such contrast with last week's arrival: relaxed, unhurried, and able to adjust the trip midway.

No snow accumulating. Does that mean no delays?
. . .
Ale --> piss. Cleansing the body? Just one (before dinner) and I'm at least 2 sheets to the wind. After an ale and the Sunday Times, we dine at the Brewery Shades. Small Brit life, in Crawley (a Stone Age settlement that developed slowly until Queen Elizabeth II named it a "new town"... and Gatwick moved in nearby.)

BritTrip: Day 7

22-03-08

Some Lessons from Our Travels

- eat readily available food (i.e. don't hunt for what's not there)
- consume immoveables (e.g. art; architecture)
- don't search; order online
- stay there a week or less, or a month or more
- plan for rain
- don't travel on a major holiday
- it's okay to keep 2-3 days fluid, but expect to spend some hours in the hotel planning the next move
- give yourself enough time to cross the damn train station

Things To Do in Mpls

- South Asian food
- Go to Macy's for English toffee
- Go online for a heat and cute sweater vest

. . .

Snow, hail, and the realization we've been in England too long. these all met us in Liverpool. It's not that we don't appreciate the Brits... we just leave with greater confidence in our own country.

We are North Americans

...And we're back. The UK was good times, but also a great reminder that Adam and are "North American scum," through and through. This place has better food for lower prices. The beer is darker and more complex. The men are meatier and more likely to get photographed in positions like this:

Ah, just look at that bootie -- doesn't it inspire pride in our youth? Even when they fail ("It's hard to swallow when you work so hard on something for so long") you just know they will try again.

Easter Sunday, March 23
Crawley, West Sussex

Well, being in Britain on Easter Sunday does have one point in its favor: I finally have time to catch up on watching Strongbad podcasts. Also, I can get started on my own travel blog, which up until now I have left to be written by Adam alone.

Here's an entry written in the Dales on Thursday:

Malham, North Yorkshire, March 20, 2008

I came out of the bathroom to find Adam lying in bed typing in his diary, and I realized that I too wanted to be the sort of person who writes for fun. How else could one ever write regularly?

Up until today, Adam and I visited only urban areas in Yorkshire – these are safer, according to the odd logic of the urban traveler. But only in the rural parts can you get a shot like this:

Here, the Malham scenery is framed by a dark, dank, abandoned barn. The barn sort of reflects our mindset when we first arrived in this part of the county. After a mostly disappointing evening in Manchester, we spent the better part of the early part of the day fighting off the gnawing feeling that our trip to North Yorkshire was a terrible mistake because we could never bike to the village of Malham under the current weather conditions. When we left our train in the village of Settle, this feeling had become a certainty: wind lashed a light, cold rain against our face, and the narrow stone walkways of the village seemed to offer little solace. Our situation was never so bad as it seemed at the time, however. A few phone calls and one taxi ride later, we had confirmed our reservation in Malham. With our confidence restored, we took a walk around the village despite the inclement weather. There is a way in which the brusque winds, roiling the clouds over the Pennines, made the area even more interesting. We decided to attack one of the dales – softly rolling hills covered with mushy grass, moss and home to sheep, rabbit, and low stone walls. The bracing air had given us a new dose of pep; we scaled the hill easily. I took a snapshot of Adam as he faced the village from a new stand point, and even though I didn’t get him in focus, his brightened mood is visible in all of his features.

BritTrip: Day 6

21-03-08

All is bright today.

Our "full English" [breakfast] at 8:30 prepared us for a ramble over hill & dale. If quantity of photos is any measure of pleasure, this was a winner: 85. Spontaneous sighs erupted from me. The hills, the sun, those chewing sheep, and the water carving relentlessly thru limestone all conspired in a portrait of English harmony. We smiled back at other ramblers and watched with pleasure as they climbed. I found peace. (even after I soaked my foot)

Judging Gorsdale Scar & Janet's Foss to be the best of Malham, we recalled our cab from Settle. A crisp, orchard-y cider made the wait charming. Then a short wander thru Settle, and we now roll north to tea in "Kirkby Stephen."

In other news, the Brit tabloids warn of a white Easter, with all manner of delays and snarls and transit mayhem. I suspect they exaggerate, but we're prepared for an extra night here nevertheless. Our clothes will dearly need a wash, but so what? It reminds me of our A'dam trip. These sparse north British pines remind me of home.

...

No tea in Kirkby Stephen. The station is 1.5 mi from the town so -- thanks to a late train -- we put that snowed-upon village behind us. :)

BritTrip: Day 5

20-03-08

DREAR

We've entered Malham, at long, wet, £10.80 last.

...

The dales are offline. So this entry -- written with a belly full of rich English beef stew & sticky toffee pudding (with vanilla ice cream!) will be posted after the fact.

An uninspiring trip to a sauna, a meager breakfast of toast, a constant pissing of drizzle, (and a brief & justified outburst from Jesse) hurt my impression of Manchester and darkened my mood. Though we made our connecting our train to Settle, I flirted with depression for most of the day. Settle was a tiny nightmare. Train -> waiting station -> other waiting station (1st one closed) -> town center -> rail station (is the bike shop there?) -> tourist info center -> phone booth -> Lion's Gate Inn (to ask for another taxi #) -> phone booth -> another phone booth (other wouldn't accept our money) -> cab -> Malham village. All in the constant drizzle, buffeted by winds and severe doubts about our fortune.

But in Malham, the storm cleared (at least internally). A dozen ravens careened overhead as we departed the taxi. An ironically good sign, I suspected. We settled without problem into the spacious room 5 (3 beds to choose from!) and I watched Jesse at the window. Watching him there -- and then watching the swooping birds myself -- filled me with purpose. The English *always endure. They don't holiday when everything's perfect; they *bike through the dales in the worst of weather (I know! Our cab passed them!) With Jesse in the lead, we set out for a ramble.

Solitary, together in the rising dales, we chatted comfortably and laughed off the winds that still whizzed past. The rain ceased, and we were happy. Peeking over old stone walls topped with rusted barbed wire, we found sheep and lambs to tease. Horses appeared by a barn, first curious then bashful. A quail (or a grouse?) ran away from Jesse. Our path of brick-and-clay-and-stone flooded over in parts, and we traipsed across rocks, speaking of the past and our argument and when we first farted in each other's presence. It was natural and we embraced, earnestly.

Next, we climbed a mountain. Not a very large one, but a daunting dale that Jesse was keen to ascend. We began with spry steps and, when we found more fence and wire, we made a hop and officially trespassed. It was worth it. Ancient limestone crags and fleeting bunnies awaited, as did The Winds. The Winds were alive up there, alive with raw aggression. They screamed in our ears, nudging and jostling as to defend their grassy tower. But we did not relent! Many minutes and many photos later, we reached the summit. The Winds taught lessons up there; the ravens rose with the gales, flying in spiraling swarms to defray the opposition, or else singly in weaving waves. The Winds were indifferent. The wise negotiate a path that neither collides nor avoids, but deflects that opposition to provide upward lift. The Winds bring rain. The Winds blow the rain away.