The "Little Guy's" Right to Lie

This just in --- big, bad insurance companies expect prospective members to tell the truth.

Much to the horror of doctors nationwide, Blue Cross of California (BCC) recently requested California physicians to confirm the accuracy of new BCC applicants’ “pre-existing medical conditions” claims. In letters to these primary care providers, BCC included prospective policy members' applications, asking the providers to review their patients' applications and to "identify medical omissions…that may be considered pre-existing." Any discrepancies were to be immediately reported to Blue Cross of California.

Many doctors are upset by BCC’s request, alleging that compliance would violate the privacy of doctor-patient relationships and inhibit patients from disclosing ailments to their physicians. As reported in the Los Angeles Times, doctors are "'…outraged that they [BCC] are asking doctors to violate the sacred trust of patients to rat them out for medical information that patients would expect their doctors to handle with the utmost secrecy and confidentiality.'" This according to Dr. Richard Frankenstein, president of the California Medical Assn.

At first blush, Dr. Frankenstein's statement seems reasonable. Health insurance applicants probably would be disinclined to share important medical information with their physicians if they feared that their pre-existing conditions claims would later be debunked. This fear could lead to serious diseases going undiagnosed, as patients hide their conditions in hopes of procuring health coverage for expensive operations and treatments.

Let’s explore a scenario where a patient is spared the fear of such accountability and therefore confidently falsifies his health history to a health insurance provider.

"Bob" is concerned that he needs surgery for a particular ailment, or alternatively requires an expensive long-term prescription medication. "Bob" is not presently paying for health insurance because of the significant strain it would place on his finances, and accordingly he is not covered for whatever malady he may have. "Bob" knows he requires surgery or prescription medication because he has made several visits to his doctor's office and has been told so by his physician. However, realizing his inability to personally pay for these necessary medical expenses, "Bob" applies for health insurance and purposefully does not include his ailment on the insurance provider's "pre-existing conditions" disclosure form. "Bob" is confident he can poker-face his way through any telephone or in-person screener interview, and if "Bob" is the only resource the insurance provider can tap for “Bob’s” health history, how can his application be denied?

As far as “Bob” is concerned, the above scenario represents savlation from a potential lifetime of financial ruin. He is very willing to lie a little to preserve his own skin. After all, don’t the insurance companies owe affordable healthcare to everyone? “Bob’s” health condition presents an insurmountable debt to himself, but an inurance company would count the bill as a day’s pocket change. And doesn’t everyone try to beat “the system,” especially if there are no accountability checks to prevent success? It’s almost un-American not to lie in a situation like “Bob’s,” right?

It seems that many who are presently taking issue with Blue Cross of California are fighting for the "little guy's" right to lie and get away with it. “Privacy” is the mantra, but in my experience a health insurance applicant must explicitly authorize his health history to be shared with the insurance provider when completing the application. Assuming that BCC includes such a provision in its applications, why are doctors doing battle for applicants who have lied about their pre-existing medical conditions? I can understand a doctor’s reluctance to involve himself in these situations, both for time’s sake and for the sake of his relationships with his patients. But to express outrage that an insurance company wants to verify the veracity of its applicants’ health history claims, alleging violation of privacy by the insurer, seems disingenuous.

BCC wants to protect itself from the “Bobs” who hope to leverage boldfaced deception into financial windfalls. Knowing the propensity of our culture to lie for personal gain, why should BCC rely solely upon the "good word" of a prospective member who stands to significantly benefit from lying to BCC? What bank approves someone for a loan just because the want-to-be debtor says he is worthy of the bank's trust? What self-respecting home inspector issues a certificate of occupancy merely because the homeowner says the house merits one? Similarly, why should a health insurance company be restricted to considering only the "good word" of an applicant when reviewing a health insurance application?

As reported by ABC News, Dr. Joanna Cain, director of the Center for Women’s Health at Oregon Health and Science University in Portland, said of Blue Cross of California’s recent letters:

“This so simply and succinctly exposes what health care 'insurance' in the United States is: a business.”

Very fair. For-profit health insurance companies do indeed operate as businesses, charging their members a mutually agreed-upon fee for a mutually agreed-upon service. Auto insurers also operate as businesses in like fashion. Should auto insurers pay for the repairs of previously damaged vehicles belonging to new members? If not, why not?

Why is Blue Cross of California's verification request to doctors such an issue in a free society? No one is required to apply to BCC for healthcare coverage, just as BCC should not be required to pay for the treatment of new members' pre-existing medical conditions. Such an across-the-board requirement for BCC would astronomically increase the insurance rates of current BCC members, which members have no expectation to retroactively cover the healthcare costs of new members. Just as the U.S. taxpayer ultimately pays for the numerous programs of the "benevolent" United States federal government, so do health insurance company members' premiums pay for the company's healthcare coverage costs. If coverage costs rise, so do the premiums.

The socialists are winning. Today our society believes that universal healthcare is an inherent, unalienable right, conferred upon our generation by America's visionary founding fathers within a soon-to-be-found penumbra of our ever-evolving U. S. Constitution. Accordingly, any for-profit health insurance company that does not recognize its obligation to take upon itself the physical (and financial) cares of the world is selfish, greedy, and evil. In this vein, no applicant should be denied coverage merely because he already has the problem (and financial burden) he wants to insure against, and if a health insurance company does seek to deny coverage to such an applicant it should do so based solely upon the testimony of the applicant; no third-party accountability measure are allowed.

I do not write this post in defense of health insurance companies. We live in a fallen world where most men seek their own interests at the expense of others, and I do not ascribe undue “purity of heart” to Blue Cross of California or any other health insurer. In fact, I am not commenting at all upon BCC's merits as a company. Nor am I addressing the many reasons behind rising healthcare costs, which is another issue all its own. Rather, I am questioning the "new normal" that a private, for-profit company is expected to function as a charity provider to all. Such a perspective destroys the very notion of free enterprise and belongs to the realm of socialism.

Blue Cross of California today put an end to this controversy. Public outcry from private citizens, doctors, BCC members, and politicians was loud enough to cause BCC’s termination of its years-old application verification practice, effective immediately. I am curious how new BCC applicants will now be screened for pre-existing medical conditions, but that is not my burden to bear. It is, however, the burden of current BCC members who will have to cover the cost of any and all new applicants who falsify their health histories and thereby gain access to BCC membership.

“Welcome to Blue Cross of California. What you don’t tell us won’t hurt you.”

A Warrior Has Fallen

My friend and comrade, Michael Billings, has departed this world. His soul now stands in the presence of God. We mourn and grieve as those left behind, sorrowing at the loss of this seemingly irreplaceable man. But we glorify our Sovereign Creator Who calls men according to His purpose, not ours.

At present I have not the words to write that adeqately express my deep appreciation for Michael, and for the exhortative example his life was and is to me. I hope to offer my thoughts later. For now, please read Mr. Doug Phillips' commentary on the loss of this "...Bright Shining Star in the Kingdom of God."

Announcing....

The Stubblefield Family Name Lives On

Psalm 127:3-5
Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is his reward. As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth. Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them: they shall not be ashamed, but they shall speak with the enemies in the gate.

May God be praised for bringing a new little one into this world! Last night my dear friends Mark and Amy Stubblefield welcomed Isaac William Stubblefield as their firstborn child and supreme blessing from the Lord. I rejoice with them at the news of his birth, and pray that his coming years will be attended with fruitful service in Christ's Kingdom.

Congratulations, Mark and Amy. I look forward to meeting young Isaac soon.

Visit the Stubblefield family blog for photos and updates.

The Return of “Ballantyne the Brave”

Thanks to my parents’ love for good books, from my childhood I have been an avid reader of classic literature. Dickens, Stevenson, Cooper, Dumas, Henty, Anderson, Bronte, Defoe, and many other classic authors have provided me reading pleasure and thought-provoking stories for years, and my knowledge of bygone days and far-off lands stems in large part from their respective pens.

Nobility of character and a bold performance of duty regardless of the consequences is a prevailing theme throughout these favorite authors’ tales, and from a young age I was strongly impacted by their stories. At times their protagonists struggled and sometimes failed in pursuit of various quests, but generally emerged victorious through the conflict and demonstrated principles of honor, bravery, sacrifice, and perseverance while so doing. Many of these fictitious characters became my heroes and friends, and I learned what it meant to be a man in "the best of times........[and] the worst of times." (Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities).

Regrettably, too often in my favorite classics there is a very important element either hidden or missing altogether, namely Christ. Although Christian concepts are discussed and generally esteemed in these written works, in many cases they are divorced from their Ultimate Source and achieve success and provide benefit to others only through the "borrowed fruits" principle. I have long searched for more Christian authors from this era who offered both excellent stories and a true understanding of, and submission to, their Creator. Enter Robert Michael Ballantyne, or, "Ballantyne the Brave," as his literary protégé Robert Louis Stevenson affectionately titled him in Stevenson’s introductory poem to Treasure Island. Having read several of R. M. Ballantyne’s approximately eighty books, I am thrilled to share that Vision Forum is bringing back Ballantyne to tell his stories anew, offering today’s boys and families tales of grit, determination, exploration, and spirited adventure around the globe, each written from an unabashedly Christian perspective.

Born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1825, R. M. Ballantyne was a contemporary of noted authors Rudyard Kipling, G. A. Henty, and H. Rider Haggard. Ballantyne’s timeless stories were enhanced by their reliance upon first-hand experiences and accounts, often stemming from Ballantyne’s personal worldwide travels. In each of his books, Ballantyne self-consciously communicated both a spirit of manly adventure and the duties of Christians toward God and others, emphasizing God’s sovereignty over all of life.

Today’s R. M. Ballantyne readers inherit a treasure trove of classic tales featuring 19th century history, manly adventure, and Christian character. Each Ballantyne story reveals a lost era of chivalry and self-sacrifice, replete with exciting accounts of courage, fortitude, and perseverance in realms ranging from the British Isles, to South America, to the North Pole. Readers of all ages are now heirs to Ballantyne’s literary legacy of God-honoring adventure tales, and I encourage all those reading this post to consider adding Ballantyne to their own families’ libraries.

Forthcoming Titles

• The Coral Island: A Tale of the Pacific Ocean
• The Gorilla Hunters: A Tale of the Wilds of Africa
• Hunted and Harried: A Tale of the Scottish Covenanters
• Martin Rattler: Adventures of a Boy in the Forests of Brazil
• The Giant of the North: Pokings Round the Pole
• Blue Lights, or Hot Work in the Soudan
• The Pirate City: An Algerine Tale
• Red Rooney, or The Last of the Crew
• The Young Fur-Traders: A Tale of the Far North
• Deep Down: A Tale of the Cornish Mines

Watch for Vision Forum’s release of ten R. M. Ballantyne books in the next week or so. I hope to post a personal review of Ballantyne’s most famous work, The Coral Island, on Monday.

September 6, 2006

This morning we grabbed another hotel continental breakfast and hit the pavement. After a rather circuitous route up, down, around, and through Hyde Park, Dad and I finally found our way and headed toward Buckingham Palace.

Outside the Palace we purchased a special pass that afforded us access to The Queen’s Gallery, the Royal Mews, and the State Rooms of Buckingham Palace. Our first stop was the Queen’s Gallery. The Gallery consisted of artwork, antique furniture, china, etc., and was a relatively small exhibit for the ticket cost (the price of royalty, I suppose). Our Queen’s Gallery visit was brief, and we soon moved to the Royal Mews.

The Royal Mews is where the traditional royal carriages are housed, as well as the more modern royal motor "carriages." The royal horses are also stabled here, and a still-active riding school is also located on the grounds. Each carriage---there are seven, I believe---has its own significance and use. Their ornate qualities vary, but each is highly decorated for the singular state occasions in which they take part. By far the most ornately decorated coach we saw was the Gold State Coach, in use for more than 200 years. This carriage was the vehicle of choice for transporting Queen Elizabeth II during her 1953 coronation ceremony.

Departing the Royal Mews, we exited onto the street sidewalk and walked the few hundred yards to the queue outside the State Rooms of Buckingham Palace. We soon passed through security and began the State Rooms’ tour. What a tour.

All manner of elegance and royalty emanated from within the State Rooms of Buckingham Palace. Numerous works of art masqueraded as furniture. Paintings by Rembrandt, Rubens, Benjamin West, Vermeer, and other masters hung from the walls. Intricate designs covered the ceilings, often in gilded silver.

Walking through the palace we enjoyed a pleasant Summer breezed wafting through the many open windows. I know not what measure of modern air conditioning is required in time of great heat, but on this day the fresh air ventilation more than sufficed (of course, air conditioning could have been simultaneously pumping in on the sly).

Of the three venues we toured, overall I was most impressed by Buckingham Palace. Its grandeur was all I had ever imagined and more; truly a dwelling place fit for royalty (and one which I was most pleased to visit and not inhabit).

Departing Buckingham Palace we headed toward Westminster Abbey. Visiting the Abbey gave much pause for contemplation as we observed a real-life example of form over substance. Westminster Abbey has all the ostentatious, "Christian" grandeur one could imagine (much of it crossing the line of idolatry), yet it possesses no "soul." The Abbey appears nearer linked to man than to God, and its selection of men to honor is at times blasphemous (e.g. Charles Darwin). England’s state church long ago compromised its integrity, and a step-back examination of the many vile, God-hating sovereigns and others memorialized within this supposed "house of God" makes laughable the very thought of such a title.

Some of the placards/floor stones/etc., I did enjoy seeing included Sir Isaac Newton, John and Charles Wesley, Isaac Watts, William Wilberforce, and Oliver Cromwell (Cromwell’s body remained in Westminster Abbey for only three years, at which time it was exhumed and destroyed by vengeful enemies).

After lunch our next stop was the Imperial War Museum, perhaps the most interesting and informative site we had yet visited since arriving in Britain. Although I had expected to focus on primarily World War II history within this museum, much of my perusing instead majored upon post-World War II happenings: the Soviets; Iran; Iraq; Israel; Egypt; Ireland; the U.S.; Vietnam; China; South Africa; India; etc., and their relations with the U.K. I learned quite a bit about the Cold War era, as well as non-U.S. vs. USSR international military actions during that time.

Although we spent a good three hours touring the museum, I doubt we saw more than 1/3 of its contents, this despite skipping many of the "artifacts" displays in favor of the excellent placard commentaries accompanying more interesting (to us) fare. Most of our time was spent in the museum’s basement, and about 30 minutes on the first floor. We never reached floors two or three.

Among the memorabilia housed in the Imperial War Museum were several World War II airplanes and tanks, together with old mortars, bombs, missiles, an ambulance, a piece of the old Berlin wall, and a 14-foot civilian fishing boat used to evacuate British and French soldiers from Dunkirk—the smallest civilian vessel used in that great rescue. Many, many additional historical items were to found in the museum’s halls, but doors closed at 6:00 p.m. and we sadly had to depart.

We killed time for the next hour or so, waiting for the Wednesday evening service at the London Metropolitan Tabernacle to begin. At a little after 7:00 p.m. we entered the church through its right-side glass doors and walked downstairs. There we were greeted at the doors of a large classroom, the older man who greeted us inquiring whether Dad and I were brothers. (Dad responded, "I like you!") Taking our seats, we waited for the 7:30 p.m. service to begin. By service’s start the entire room was filled, containing approximately 200-300 people.

The service commenced with a hymn, a welcome, another hymn, Scripture reading, another hymn, prayer, and an introduction of the evening’s speaker, an elderly pastor from a local Ridley Hall assembly. His message was entitled, "An Unchanging God in a Changing World." Our text was Jeremiah 47:1-28. An excellent exhortation ensued as the pastor urged us to compare our present world and daily challenges to Jeremiah’s time and the struggles he then faced. The pastor clearly stated that, though our world may minimize, excuse, and reject the very concept of sin, God never does, never did, and never will. He does not change, nor does His Law. After a week of observing gross physical immodesty and hollow declarations of "Christianity" throughout Britain, it was most encouraging to hear a different British perspective—a biblical perspective—on life and culture.

Following the service, Dad and I grabbed some light refreshments from the fellowship hall and headed for the church’s Tabernacle Bookshop. There I purchased The Five Points of Calvinism by Dabney and Dickinson, a Sprinkle Publications title which had found its way across "the pond." I look forward to a good read.

We finished making our purchases and departed for the Tube. The remainder of our evening consisted of shower, journal, reading, and bed.

September 5, 2006

After another narrow-bed night’s sleep we rose, ate our complimentary continental breakfast of cereal, toast, hot chocolate, etc., and departed the hotel on foot. One does not lack for exercise when touring London.

Our first stop was the Palace of Westminster, also known as the Houses of Parliament, where I snapped photos of Big Ben and other landmarks of interest. Following the nearby changing of the Horse Guard, Dad and I enjoyed a fascinating tour of the Houses of Parliament. Inside and out tradition reigned. From the ornate, regal House of Lords, to the understated and more practically decorated House of Commons, centuries of legislative and political debate live on. My great regret is that so many traditions inside those walls are practiced in form only, as Britain’s heritage of biblically-based common law is scorned by its modern-day heirs. Many are the Esaus of today.

Our guide was articulate and knowledgeable, providing our tour group of 20-30 members a helpful overview of each place we stopped. However, in all her commentary about historical events and characters not one mention of Oliver Cromwell was made (a regrettable fact indeed, considering his courageous application of interposition in the face of unjust and unbiblical "law, " an historical example particularly timely today). One would think that such a unique and impacting personage in British history, and a Member of Parliament to boot, might merit at least a passing remark during a tour of the Houses of Parliament. Apparently not in the estimation of our tour guide (my sense throughout our trip is that Britain would rather forget Cromwell than address the ramifications of his rule).

In the afternoon Dad and I visited the Churchill Museum and Cabinet War Rooms located underneath London’s city streets. This museum was formerly the real-life, secret underground headquarters of Winston Churchill and his cabinet during World War II, and the rooms we toured were the same rooms used 60+ years ago to strategize against and defeat the Axis powers. The exhibits about Churchill, from his childhood to his last days, were superb; anyone visiting London should most definitely include this museum in their trip itinerary.

The remainder of our day was spent walking through city parks and generally enjoying the out-of-doors. Before stopping for dinner I endeavored to access the U.S. Embassy in London, seeking to rub shoulders with a bit of America while on friendly, but foreign shores. However, as I approached the heavily guarded access gate one of the armed British personnel informed me that, due to new security measures, I was not permitted to enter the U.S. Embassy without a valid "reason." Apparently my U.S. Passport and polite request to enter did not suffice, as I was denied admittance. I was rather nonplused by a British citizen refusing me access to my own country’s embassy, but I have no reason to believe he was not following American orders in doing so. Good grief.

Dinner consisted of Subway sandwiches and Coke, and was actually quite good. Returning to our humble hotel we watched Chariots of Fire on TV, journaled, and retired to bed.

Buckingham Palace.

Approaching Big Ben.

Big Ben at the Palace of Westminster.

With Clive in India

Waiting for the changing of the Horse Guard.

The Horse Guard makes its entrance.

Places, everyone.

Circling the horses.

Facing each other (note the contrast between past and present in this photo).

Moving to the front.

Continuing the ceremony.

And so it ends.

Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector

King Richard I.

Victoria Tower at the Palace of Westminster.

Big Ben in the sun.

The Stars & Stripes abroad.

Outside the U.S. Embassy.

Sole Possession Is Sweet

Phillies move past Dodgers for wild card lead.

Phils Move into Tie for NL Wild Card Lead

Look out, world. They're coming.

Glad Tidings.....

......from my friends.

September 4, 2006

This morning we departed the B&B by 7:30 a.m., making the short drive up into Paineswick proper. There Dad and I enjoyed a delightful meander around the village, stepping back in time to a simpler, quieter era (though the steady stream of morning rush hour traffic through the middle of town brings one quickly back to today). Strolling down quiet lanes and past well-kept homes (several built recently, but with a purposefully old-style look), an abiding appreciation for the English countryside and agrarian way of life only grew in my heart. Ne’er did I dream that the culture described by Herriot in his stories of country veterinarian life would be experienced by me—but they were. Last evening and this morning were worth the entire trip.

During our walk, Dad and I enjoyed two pleasantly surprising treats: a basket of “help yourself” plums, and a basket of “help yourself” apples. Both baskets were encountered in front of residential homes along our route, and both offers were accepted by two hungry Americans. The fruit was appreciated as much for the manner in which we received it as it was for its hunger-appeasing qualities. I have yet to meet a “help yourself” fruit basket on the side of the road in the States, and probably would decline such an invitation if I did.

Returning to the B&B, we prepared for the day and went downstairs for breakfast just before 9:00 a.m. Again we were greeted with a delicious meal of fruit, yogurt, fried eggs on toast, sausage, bacon, and buttered toast. No tomatoes on our plates today, and I skipped the cereal.

Paying for our lodging and bidding our hostess, Sylvia, adieu, Dad and I set off for Warden Way in another part of the Cotswolds (we were detoured by a failed attempt to locate Sylvia’s recommended “vista” of the local Paineswick area, but finally forsook this futile venture in favor of getting on with our planned day). This portion of the Cotswold Ramble was in Upper and Lower Slaughters, and to Upper Slaughters we repaired. Parking off the main road through Upper Slaughter, we picked up Warden Way and commenced our rambling. Truth be told, although quite lovely, this guidebook-raved-about section of Cotswold Ramble couldn’t hold muster compared to last night’s excursion through the pastures and hillsides of Paineswick. However, the trail took us through Lower Slaughter, and we admired the old mill and the lovely river and old inns/homes/etc. located therein.

Eventually we returned to our car and set course for Bleinham Palace, located in Woodstock. After paying the entrance fee to access the palace and grounds, we parked the car and walked up to the visitor’s entrance. Huge golden gates stood in our path, the right gate opening inward. We entered through the gates and into an outer courtyard, making our way past the still-occupied (11h Duke of Marlborough and family) East wing of the palace, and in front of the north—and main—entrance into the palace. What a regal and imposing sight stood before us, ornate and consuming in its grandeur; the “Versailles of England” as it is known. Towers, columns, intricate architecture of all forms combined to hold sway over their audience. Shaped rather like an open horseshoe, the palace’s east and west wings stretched toward us, while its north face sat back in stately splendor to receive palace guests.

Approaching the palace’s main entrance, we passed through two massive oak doors and into the palace’s front hall. A staff member immediately greeted us and cordially set forth the basic rules and layout of the palace. From this kind lady we learned that the two huge doors behind us were constructed using oak trees grown on the estate, and that each door individually weighed one-half ton. Dad and I were both permitted to hold the 3 ½ pound key to this set of doors, and we were duly impressed. That would not be a comfortable key to carry around in one’s pocket. (One interesting note about these doors is that they can only be locked and unlocked from inside the palace.)

After admiring additional items of interest in the front hall, of which there were many (a “hooded”, high-backed chair; a brilliant, 300-year-old fresco covering the hall’s domed ceiling; a wine cooler made completely of silver; original portraits of several historical figures who had resided in the palace; etc.), we set off down the hallway to our right to examine the Winston S. Churchill exhibit presently on display.

Sir Winston Churchill was born, early and unexpectedly, at Bleinham Palace, and spent many days there as a child under the care of his grandmother. Although Blenheim Palace was never the official residence of his parents, Churchill had fond memories of time spent in its rooms and on its grounds, and the fact that he was born there has inseparably linked these two famous pieces of British history (Churchill’s father, Lord Randolph, was not the eldest son of the 7th Duke of Marlborough, and therefore Churchill never assumed possession of the family estate.)

I digress. The palace’s Churchill display was informative and interesting, although not overly extensive. What was much more intriguing was a guided tour of Blenheim Palace. Going from room to room of the palace’s publicly accessible areas, we saw ornate antique furniture; paintings; intricate wall and ceiling décor; the famous Marlborough Tapestries; antique clocks; gold leaf-gilded architecture; busts; statues; Europe’s largest, privately owned organ housed in Britain’s second-longest, privately owned room (a library), a banquet table that seats thirty-six, used once annually for the present duke’s family Christmas dinner, beautiful china, mounted game, etc., etc., etc. Our guide, a spare, stately Brit in his early 80s, was a veritable wealth of information. He provided his audience an excellent overview of Blenheim Palace’s 300-year existence, feeding us fascinating family history anecdotes. We could not have asked for more.

Our tour at an end, Dad and I exited the palace and set off on foot across a picturesque lake via a very old stone bridge, heading toward a monument erected in honor of the first Duke of Marlborough. This imposing column, supported by a wide base and featuring a statue of the duke at its top, rose high above a field directly opposite the palace’s front gate, perhaps a half-mile away. Unbeknownst to us, the field we had to cross contained all manner of animal droppings and was a veritable minefield of “patties” and “chips.” However, our pursuit of the monument outweighed the inconvenient crossing, and we had soon passed through the danger zone and reached the memorialized duke. After reading the monument’s inscriptions and peering up at the duke above, we sought for and found a less hazardous route back to the palace and made our way thence.

Taking one last look at Blenheim Palace and its impressive and far-reaching grounds, Dad and I departed the grand estate and turned our car toward London Gatwick Airport to return our rented Vauxhall. At Gatwick we purchased train tickets to London/Victoria Station, and after a 30-minute train ride we caught a cab outside the station terminal and gave the cab driver our hotel’s name and address. It was apparent that he had never been to the hotel in question, but being a resourceful British cabby, he delivered us there without mishap and correspondingly received his due fare and tip.

The entrance to our hotel was a narrow doorway off the sidewalk, sandwiched between two restaurants. Above the doorway was an illuminated sign reading “Hyde Park Hotel,” a rather unassuming announcer of the building’s name and purpose. Inside the doorway was a short flight of stairs leading to a small landing, a second flight of stairs there reversing course against the first flight and heading up and back toward the street. Once at the top of this second flight we made an immediate left and entered a small reception/front desk room where sat the front desk girl on duty. We waited for a gentleman in front of us to complete his business with the young lady, and then checked into the hotel ourselves.

The hotel had an old-fashioned guest registrar for us to sign. The registrar sat on the front desk counter, accessible to anyone who walked in the room. Dad was checking in for us, and so the girl wanted him to enter his name and address into the registrar, along with his passport number. This seemed a rather fool-hearty stipulation to both Dad and me, and Dad requested to record his passport information elsewhere, to which request the girl returned a puzzled, “Why?” Dad sensibly explained that he didn’t care to have his passport information listed for the inquiring world to see, and he was able to convince the young lady to store this data in a more secure location.

Taking key (a key, not a card) in hand, we repaired to our room. Said room was located at the top of the stairs we had recently ascended, a little to the left and directly outside the reception room. (Not necessarily the ideal spot, but, oh well.) Inserting our single key into the lock, we opened the door and stepped inside. “Cramped” is the best one-word description that comes to mind. Immediately inside the door and on our right was the bathroom. It contained the smallest sink I’ve ever seen, a toilet directly across and about two feet from the sink, and a shower stall a mere 6-8 inches past them both. The entire bathroom was no larger than 6’ deep by 5’ across. Back in the short, narrow “hallway” between the hotel room door and the room’s main “living space” we encountered the bare necessities: a 2’-2 ½’ wide “closet” atop four drawers of the same width (this unusual piece of furniture actually stood an impressive 8’-10’ high); two twin beds measuring not more than 2 ½’ across each (I could literally straddle the bed when sitting up); a 16” x 20” stand between the two beds (no drawer); a 16” deep, 5’ long “desk” along the near wall, holding a 13” color TV, a phone, and coffee/tea utensils and supplies; and a small chair tucked under the desk. Two 4’ x 8” shelves hung over the beds, one above the other, and a tri-frame showcased three drawings of lighthouses above the shelves. (Later we located an air conditioner above the doorway leading into the main living area, a pleasant surprise in London and one much used.) This portion of the hotel room was approximately 9’ x 10’ and provided little space for anything other than sleep.

Depositing our luggage, Dad and I headed downstairs to the busy street below. The sidewalk was teeming with people, foreign languages, all manner of general noise. We commenced searching for a place to eat, as we had eaten nothing since breakfast. Our first attempt was the well-known British eatery, Burger King, but there were no empty tables inside this popular dining establishment. A little Italian restaurant sufficed instead, and Dad and I both ordered margherita pizzas. The restaurant was packed, noisy, and rather dark, but the pizzas assuaged our famished states and we were quite satisfied.

Finishing our meal, we departed the restaurant and headed toward the hotel, stopping en route for a 2-litre water bottle, two 4-packs of chunky Kit-Kat bars, and a 3-prong electricity adapter for my laptop (the one I purchased in the States converted a 3-prong outlet to a 2-prong, something entirely unsuitable for my laptop---argghh, Radio Shack). Back at the hotel we picked up our key at the front desk (hotel policy required us to leave our only key there each time we departed the hotel) and returned to our room. After a shower, a photo download, and a long read of Path Between the Seas, I went to bed.

Paineswick proper.

Town life meets country living.

Don't mind if I do.

The world awaits.

Not a bad view out the ol' kitchen window.

We did.

The breakfast room.

My "Full English" breakfast.

Upper Slaughter's hotel extraordinaire.

The old mill.

Duck.

Bleinham Palace.

The half-ton palace doors.

Quite the front gate.

Blenheim Palace from across the bridge.

The Duke.

By the lake.

Next stop, London.

September 3, 2006

This morning we woke to a delightful “Full English” breakfast of yogurt, fruit, cereal, sausage, fried egg on toast, bacon, and buttered toast. Orange juice served as our liquid refreshment, and Dad and I both passed on the tomatoes.

During breakfast Dad and I conversed with a pleasant British couple from Leicester. We discussed immigration (primarily into Britain, but also into the U.S.), home schooling (fielded the age-old “what about socialization?” question, talked about benefits of home schooling and our family’s reason for doing so, the legality of home schooling in Britain and the U.S., etc.), British history, and a local Paineswick church (St. Mary’s, circa 1350). It soon became evident that this couple firmly believed in the right, even the necessity, of a government’s daily interference in the lives of its citizens. Although they spoke of high taxes as being problematic, and of the need to limit immigration into Britain, the husband explicitly stated that foreigners had the right to come into Britain and receive free provision and shelter from the government (he did say that immigrants should pay something back to the State eventually, but this feeling of their having any personal responsibility or duty of self-provision was vague in the extreme, and not well established in his own mind). ‘Twas thought-provoking to observe the influence that concentrated socialism had obtained over this middle-aged (early 40s) couple, both of whom seemed quite normal Brits in every sense.

Following breakfast Dad and I drove to Plymouth, arriving around 1:00 p.m. (Having several years ago visited Clarks Island in Plymouth, Massachusetts, the site where the Pilgrims first touched land in the New World, a high priority for me on our Britain trip was to visit Plymouth, England, site of the Pilgrims’ final port in the Old World.) There we boarded a Tamar River cruising vessel, a small harbor/river touring boat with an open bow, an enclosed middle, and a covered stern. We enjoyed motoring around the harbor and Tamar River, sighting monuments and buildings on the shore, and passing British warships and nuclear submarines in berth (we also observed a docked German warship, in town following recent joint strategic war games; how times have changed). With the sun shining, the water sparkling, and a pleasant breeze wafting over the ship, the hour-long cruise was a definite day’s highlight.

Returning to port, we disembarked and stopped for some souvenirs/gifts and ice cream. Our Plymouth ramblings then took us to a bluff above the river, providing us with lovely panoramic views of the coast. Atop this vantage point was a collection of shops, food/novelties carts, a lighthouse, a Ferris wheel, monuments, and a small dog show, with families and young people enjoying the day all around (biking, reading, impromptu soccer games, etc.). We were loathe to vacate this pleasant place, but, desirous of walking some English countryside before dark, we left Plymouth around 3:30 p.m. and drove back to the B&B.

Parking our car, we walked down the B&B’s grass and dirt driveway and onto the country lane below. A few hundred yards up the road we encountered Cotswold Way, a 105-mile national walking trail reaching from Chipping Camden to Bath. Turning onto Cotswold Way, what a fantastic view then appeared. Green, green, everywhere fresh green! We rambled through cow pastures and up hillsides, bathing in the surreal, storybook atmosphere all around us. Rolling meadows, stately trees, fences, cows, sheep, rabbits, birds, squirrels, berries, and rays of evening sunshine delighted our eyes. I was hard-pressed to place one foot in front of the other, as every step offered ten new photos to take. Truly the beauty of Britain’s countryside is very great.

A ravishing ramble we enjoyed, past stone houses, across a modern foot bridge, through tree-limb arches and wooden gates, down quaint little lanes and beside flowing brooks. We even experienced a face-to-stony-face encounter with “ol’ Bess,” a cow in whose pasture we were lawfully “trespassing.” She seemed to be contemplating both her existence and ours, arriving at an unconcerned conclusion about either one. We wished her a good evening and continued on our merry way.

Our meanderings eventually returned us to the B&B’s driveway, an appreciated blessing only vaguely planned. Hopping into our car we drove to the local McDonald’s, seeking a taste of home while on distant shores. A taste of home it was indeed, as the level of competence behind the counter nicely mirrored what one might encounter in the States.

Stepping confidently to the counter, I ordered the new McDonald’s BLT w/cheese deli sandwich. The young man taking my order politely informed me that all their deli sandwiches were unavailable, as they were completely out of rolls. I was slightly shaken by this revelation, but pressed forward with my order nonetheless, resolutely changing my request to a double-quarter-pounder w/cheese. That menu item being still in stock, I reassumed my confident disposition and brashly added a Rollo milkshake to my tab. Regrettably, the McDonald’s establishment was fresh out of the necessary Rollo ingredient. Instead, a Coke pinch-hit for the preferred dairy treat. My order now at an end, I pulled out my trusty American Express, grateful for credit cards that allow one to conserve o