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 one’s ready cash. “We don’t take cards,” replied the helpful attendant, a gentleman whose person was rapidly diminishing in my esteem. Therefore, I reluctantly parted with a precious ₤5 note and thus completed my rather sorry order.

To top off our McDonald’s experience, the British definition of “fast food” is apparently different than ours, as we waited a good 10-15 minutes for our food to be brought to our table. I then had to request the receipts Dad and I had been promised, which were duly printed and given to me. Gratefully, the actual eating of our dinner proved much less adventurous than its precursory endeavors, and we soon finished our meal and returned to the B&B.

Upstairs to our bedroom we tromped, eager to journal, read, and sleep. Upon reaching our room, I realized that our “heavenly” walk earlier in the evening had left a rather “earthly” object on my left shoe, the complimentary gift of an offending Jersey cow (perhaps ol’ Bess herself?). TP, soap, and water were my only co-combatants against this stubborn foe, and the sole of my leather shoe was loathe to relinquish sits newly acquired raiment. However, after a dedicated effort, off came the offending substance—to a greater or lesser degree—and I got about the business of downloading the day’s photos, surfing the web (I discovered the B&B had wireless internet access), and journaling.

After about 15 minutes of journal entry, the house’s electricity suddenly died (we could tell that the entire house was affected, as the rather lively party of folks celebrating our proprietors’ 40th wedding anniversary downstairs sounded just as surprised as Dad and I felt). I found my cell phone, used its screen light to locate my LED flashlight (thank you, Mark and Amy), and finished recording the day’s events by “torch.” So ended our very full, very enjoyable, very memorable day.

The view from our room.

Upper Mills Derby.

Gazing down the driveway.

My kind of drivin'.

Plymouth Harbor.

More Plymouth Harbor.

Yep. We're in Plymouth.

A view of the bluff.

A British Navy ship in port.

What a day for a sail!

An old fortress stands guard at the harbor's mouth.

The Star-Spangled Banner and Union Jack, both waving proudly by the Mayflower Arch and Steps.

Dad in front of the Mayflower Arch, dedicated to remembering the Pilgrims' departure from Plymouth.

Commemorative "tablet" honoring the Pilgrim Fathers. Zoom in and read it.

Lighthouse on the bluff.

Show those dogs!

A grand view of the river.

Sir Francis Drake, one-time Mayor of Plymouth (among other accomplishments).

Some things are hard to escape.

Fellow ramblers on Cotswold Way.

Agrarian living at its finest.

Gold, green, and blue.

Field of dreams.

This marker was planted squarely in a farmer's field.

Ol' Bess.

A pasture gate along Cotswold Way.

A little house down the lane.

A touch of Home, service and all.

Notice anything different about this drive-thru?

Grease, wonderful grease!

That is an impressive set of room keys.

Dad, catching up on his journal before bed.

Our room at Upper Mills Derby.

“Innocents Abroad”

For many years I have dreamed of visiting Britain’s shores, of touring her countryside, of examining her historic buildings and landmarks. Never knowing exactly how I would make such a trip, but always vaguely confident I would, I meanwhile vicariously experienced this dream through the writings of others (e.g. Dickens, Churchill, Herriott, etc.). Descriptions of castles, green pastures, ancient landmarks, and courageous men only accentuated my wanderlust, and the ghosty, idle thoughts of youth gradually transformed into a definitive travel plan. However, it was not until I read Mark Twain’s classic travel tale, Innocents Abroad, earlier this year that I was inspired to finally set my course for England. It was a course worth taking.

Just yesterday my dad and I returned from a 9-day vacation in Britain, the culmination of much planning, preparation, and patience. All credit for our itinerary goes to my dad, a long-time student of British history generally, and of Winston Churchill particularly.

Following is a mostly comprehensive list of sites, landmarks, areas, and places we visited during our stay:

• The White Cliffs of Dover
• Paineswick
• Plymouth
• The Cotswalds
• Blenheim Palace
• Hyde Park
• The Palace of Westminster (The Houses of Parliament; Big Ben)
• The Churchill Museum
• Buckingham Palace
• Westminster Abbey
• The Imperial War Museum
• The Metropolitan Tabernacle
• The Tower of London
• The Monument to the Great Fire of London
• The British Museum
• The Prince Edward Theatre
• St. Paul’s Cathedral
• The Sherlock Holmes Museum

Because I kept a fairly detailed journal during our trip, I have decided to write a series of blog posts documenting our adventures. These posts will be close adaptations of my journaled daily accounts, hopefully providing a decent overview of the places we visited and the experiences we encountered. As per usual, photos will accompany the written words.

Enjoy!

September 1-2, 2006

Dad and I departed San Antonio in my car and drove to George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston, arriving there around 5:00 p.m. 2 ½ hours later we were speeding down the runway, leaving the grand ol’ U.S. of A. for a week’s vacation in Great Britain.

The flight was uneventful, and we touched down at Gatwick Airport outside of London, England, at 10:35 a.m. the following day (London is six hours ahead of CDT). Upon deplaning we headed directly to passport control. This consisted entirely of verbally declaring our reasons for entering the country, and having our passports stamped. Customs interaction was non-existent, as by walking through the “Nothing to Declare” exit, we declared that we had nothing to declare. (Personally I was expecting a more difficult and time-consuming process, but I didn’t complain.)

We quickly collected our baggage and headed for the Enterprise car rental office, hoping to pick up the automatic vehicle I had weeks before reserved online. Regrettably, there were no automatic vehicles available when we arrived, and therefore we received a slightly larger-than-reserved car at a slightly less-than-reserved price. Dad is quite a competent manual driver, gratefully, so this inconvenience was not overly troubling. We stowed our luggage, hopped in the car, and set off for the white cliffs of Dover.

Dover, or at least the section we visited, was not overly impressive in its beauty. True, the day was rainy and grey, and therefore not the best background for an objective examination of Dover’s charms. Yet a general grittiness pervaded the city, and we were somewhat disappointed in its appearance. However, we did see the famed White Cliffs and walked down to the English Channel’s edge, reaching our hands into the lapping tide just to say we had been “in” the Channel.

From Dover we journeyed toward Hastings, but determined that the amount of light remaining in the day did not make stopping there a feasible option. Therefore, we continued on to the village of Paineswick and to Upper Mills Derby, the name of the Bed & Breakfast where we were to stay the next two nights.

Our drive to Paineswick was not uneventful, what with the left-hand stick-shift and wrong-side driving, not to mention the perilously narrow roads. However, God preserved us from having to make use of our expensive rental insurance coverage, and we arrived in Paineswick by 8:00 p.m.

Placing our luggage in our bedroom, we left the B&B to procure dinner, having not eaten since morning. At the recommendation of the B&B’s owners’ son, we drove back into the “town” section of Paineswick and ate at the Falcon Inn, a lodging and dining establishment dating back to the 1500s. I enjoyed an excellent dinner of Supreme of Chicken, served over bacon broth and accompanied by fresh, mixed vegetables. A fine first meal!

Rather tired from our travels and ready for bed, we returned to the B&B and thus ended our first day.

Setting out.

Our destination.

What lies ahead.

Here we come....

First view of Britain.

More farm land than I thought.