AFPF Travelogue

YORK

At London's King's Cross and Victoria, I suppose I expected a station right 
out of Sherlock Holmes.  Progress and a vast population have conspired to 
make those stations more like Grand Central than the busy, yet antiquated 
stations I imagined.  Not so in York.  Here can be found a station with 
genuine character.  Upon arriving, we spent a few minutes taking in the 
sights.  

As time, trains, and B&B's wait for no man, we made our way to the TI 
(tourist information) room.  We had taken a chance and not booked any rooms 
in advance, a decision we didn't regret except for one very long evening 
later in our journey.  This time we were fortunate, a room was booked through 
TI and we took a cab to St. Mary's Hotel.  The room was adequate and the 
price was right, £45.  Even though we had now been on the go for twenty-four 
hours, we decided to see some sights before collapsing.

Of the many churches we saw in England, the Minster impressed us the most. I 
believe it is the largest cathedral in England, filled with stained glass, 
statues, shields, alcoves, and a wide Gothic nave built in 1291.  Recent 
excavations have shown it to be built on top of the ruins of the former 
cathedral which, in turn, was built over Viking and Roman ruins.  We viewed 
the evidence of its history after paying a nominal charge to enter the crypt. 
(While admission to the cathedral itself and most churches in England is 
free, some gouge the tourist.  For instance, we found the £4 admission 
charged by St. Paul's, excessive.)           

In the crypt, we could see cobblestones where Romans had walked.  Information 
plaques scattered throughout the crypt informed us of the various dates that 
"so and so walked/lived/worshiped here."  I can't recall all the details nor 
do I want to, because just knowing at that moment that I was part of history 
was inspiring enough. Many of our younger generation might describe the 
Minster as "awesome."  They would be correct.

We visited our first pub.  In a 'free house' the owner is free to serve 
whatever alcohol he wishes.  Not knowing this at the time we stopped in at 
the Tetley House, an 'unfree house', if you will.  I think pubs like these 
may be owned by chains and usually serve their own products, but would 
appreciate being set straight by any pub goers.  At any rate, I ordered my 
first, and last (for all time) lager.  It was quite dreadful and I quickly 
realized the reason the Puritans had fled to America was to drink Budweiser 
beer.    

We walked along the Shambles, an ancient street now consisting of shops.  It 
was a Friday afternoon and the crowd was thin so we enjoyed our stroll.  We 
ducked into a couple of alleyways and found more shops off the street.  
Starting to tire, we found another pub where we had soup and tea for dinner.  
In the north we found tea to be served with both brown and white sugar, but 
in the south, usually only white sugar. I prefer the brown, but do try both.

Exhaustion has finally set in and we head back to the B&B.  Sleep comes 
quickly, but isn't sustained. My thin blood, accustomed to the heat of the 
Las Vegas desert, is greatly taken aback by the shock to its system and 
retaliates by waking me up every hour.  Trying to make amends I throw on an 
additional shirt or sweater each time I awake.  By 0400 it is impossible to 
sleep (anyway, who needs Margaret complaining that "every time I woke up I 
made noise and woke her up") and I arise in a sweat due to the additional 
clothes.  I'm sweating and freezing at the same time and knowing that within 
the next hour I will catch pneumonia and ruin the whole trip, thereby causing 
Margaret to yell at me even more.  Aha.  Luckily we've brought the hair dryer 
and an adaptor plug as England's electric is different than ours - something 
about 110 and 220.  I plug in the dryer and am fascinated as it glows hotter 
than I've ever seen a hair dryer.  I think the heat was something akin to the 
lava on Mt. Vesuvius.  I'll tell you, I was transfixed.  Naturally, fate 
conspired against me and the dryer went "poof" after 
two-and-one-half-seconds.  The only thing left to do was to take all the 
towels in the bathroom and try to dry myself off.  My head was the worst, 
dripping more than Niagara Falls.  

After exsiccating myself, I figured I'd better leave the premises and let 
Margaret get a couple of uninterrupted hours of sleep.  I got dressed, but 
forgot to put on my money belt.  Do you wanna hear how stupid I am?  Would 
you go out in a strange city at 0500 with all your money, even if it were 
cleverly hidden in a money belt?  Of course not.  But even if you did, you 
would probably remember to put on the money belt before you put on your 
pants.  

I removed my pants, a process to be repeated every day but one, and put on 
the money belt and then my pants.  It wasn't until the last day in England 
when I finally realized I could slip the money belt over my head and tuck it 
into my pants if I forgot it initially. Of course, on the last day I had very 
little money and didn't need the money belt, which is beside the point so 
just ignore it.  Maybe now you can understand why I have a difficult time 
understanding a computer.

I actually left the B&B at 0445 and was immediately struck by the sound of 
birds.  There must be more birds here than at the Bronx Zoo!  It was 
beautiful and peaceful.  I had no idea what kind of birds they were but 
wondered if some weren't nightengales. I, accompanied by my new friends, 
walked a block to the River Ouse which runs right through York.  At that time 
of morning, the river was mine alone.  I walked, taking in the sights and 
finally saw a lone bike rider on the other side, perhaps 200 feet away.  I 
went into the main part of town and found the village green - a small park 
with a monument in the center.  I don't remember if the inscription said "For 
the lads who gave so much..." or "For the men and women who sacrificed...WW1 
1914-1918  WWII 1939-1945."  The war memorials I saw tended to use both 
wordings, but I think 'lads' is more appropriate as we tend nowdays to make 
boys, 'men' and girls, 'women' long before they truly are.  Most of those who 
gave their lives were lads, or certainly, young men.  Whenever we fight a 
war, it's the best who die first.  No matter the semantics, the monuments to 
their sacrifice were in every hamlet, village, town, and city we visited.  It 
was a reminder of how much England had sacrificed and it also made me wonder 
how much different America would be today had not England made that 
sacrifice.  

Across from the park was a strand of trees.  I wish I knew more about trees 
and could tell you they were oak, or aspen, or pine.  About the only thing I 
know is that they weren't palm.  They were majestic.  I wondered how long 
they had been standing there.   

I was still cold and wanted a nice cup of 7-11 coffee (cream and sugar, 
please) and a McDonald's Sausage McMuffin, but sadly, they were not to be 
found.  Nor was anything else. (Nobody in England gets up before seven except 
Keith and a solitary bicycle rider.)  Using my canny wit, and remembering the 
snack machines at the railway station, I headed to same for sustenance.  I 
arrive at the station at 0525 and find the machine selling hot tomato soup 
for 40p (100 p or pence in £1).  While I've brought all my paper money I have 
not brought all my change, having only a £1 coin and 10p.  (Try to pay 
attention here, this gets complicated!)

I can't very well have my tomato soup without the Independent newspaper, can 
I?  The tomato soup, as I said, cost 40p and the paper costs 70p.  No 
problem.  I have 110p.  I insert my £1 coin and get my soup.  I get my 
change, which, if you've been studying as instructed, should be 60p.  But no, 
the machine cheats me and gives me only 50p.  So I have 60p for a 70p 
newspaper.

Two employees of the newsstand are busy making arrangements for the 0600 
opening and they've put a bin outside where people can pick up their paper 
and insert the coins into the metal bin.  I suppose I could put my 60p in the 
bin and no one will know, but remembering the Tower of London I figure it's 
not worth the risk. They tell me TI opens at 0545 and that they will give me 
change.  I spend the next ten minutes watching rail passengers and drinking 
my delicious, if overpriced, soup.  I am the first one into TI and get five 
£1 coins for my £5 note.  Of course I should have asked for four £1 tokens 
and change for the other as I was still stuck with the choice of paying too 
little or too much.  I drop my £1 coin into the bin, take my paper, and 
wonder if the two employees are saying, "that bum, putting only 10p in the 
bin!"  I've paid 25% extra on the soup and 42% extra on the paper, and 
they're complaining.  Ingrates.

After walking some more I returned to the B&B at seven and Margaret is almost 
awake.  I make some extra noise to help her get fully awake and I think she 
yells at me but I don't care because I'm warm and informed.  We have some 
coffee in the room (all B&B's leave a tray with tea bags, instant coffee, hot 
chocolate, pot, sugar, and some biscuits in the room) and head down for our 
0800 breakfast.  We're served a full Yorkshire breakfast of orange juice, 
cereal, eggs, bacon, (thick, not like American bacon) sausage, black pudding, 
mushrooms, tomato, toast, and coffee. 

Our bus to Middlesbrough (and Win) leaves at 1015 so we leave the B&B at 0930 
for the half mile walk to the bus station.  We walk along the River Ouse 
draging our six bags and when we make it to the steps leading to the bridge, 
a young lady helps Margaret up the stairs with her cases. 

"Don't worry about me, I'll make it somehow."  

York is a lovely town.  I wish we had more time here. 

NORTH YORK MOORS

We took a National Express coach (bus) for the fifty mile ride north from 
York to Middlesbrough.  It was comfortable and on time, as were all the 
coaches and trains.  Snacks were available for purchase.  It's not a bad way 
to see the country but to smaller towns coaches run on infrequent schedules 
and you would need ample time to see England that way. The prices are 
downright cheap when compared to train travel.  The coach made one quick stop 
in the James Herriot town of Thirsk.  As it was a market day we watched 
shoppers sample the wares.   The day was cool but sunny, welcome after 
yesterday's clouds.

Middlesbrough is a fairly large city and Win had planned to me us inside the 
coach station, but as the National Express part of the terminal was being 
renovated the driver left us outside the station.  What to do?  Will Win find 
us if we wait here or should we go inside?  After minutes of wrestling with 
this complex question, we decide to go inside and look for Win. 

I can't tell you with any authority that Win was a spy at one time, but I 
certainly suspect she was.  She had told me we would recognize her "wearing a 
white chiffon sash!"  Not the stuff Philby's are made of, you say?  Oh yeah, 
what about the multi-colored balloons she carried around at Castle Howard?  I 
must tell you, even though it was daylight I approached our meeting with 
extreme trepidation.  
I'm from New York where one learns that if you're going to spend two nights 
in a strange woman's house you had better make sure she has her spying days 
behind her.  

After a couple of minutes we found her.  We knew her from the white sash and 
she knew us because we were the only fools with six bags and two coats.  We 
dropped the bags at her house and took a quick look at her garden.  This is 
the garden that Win had previously described as, "Oh my, my garden is in 
dreadful shape with weeds all over the place and no flowers at all.  It is 
simply the blight of the neighborhood!"  All misinformation.  The stuff of 
which spies are made.

Her garden was alluring. Flowers everywhere, yellows, reds, purples, whites 
and blues in the front, and in the back, a rock garden, bird bath, and more 
flowers.  In the alcove at least forty more plants in containers waiting for 
their day in the sun.  I had a cigarette and looked around, wishing I could 
grow just some of these flowers in Las Vegas.  

We were off to Whitby, on the North Sea thirty miles to the east.  Due to a 
bad neck, I haven't driven in years and Margaret was to be our driver when we 
rented a car so she sat in the front left seat where she could observe Win's 
'driving on the wrong side of the road.'  Obviously, Margaret didn't pay 
attention because she turned out to be a dreadful driver, but that's a later 
story.  (Note: In the event Margaret ever gets her greedy little paws on this 
manuscript, I should inform you she has, in 33 years of driving, never 
received a ticket nor been in an accident here in the good ole U.S.A.  
However, you can't always tell a book by its cover.)

Whitby is a fishing village and the one time home of Captain Cook who sailed 
the oceans.  We had our first view of the North York Moors which, 
un-Brontelike, didn't seem windswept at all.  I suppose it was the time of 
year.  Late fall, winter, and early spring must be desolate times for the 
Moors, but in late spring they were beautiful.  Sheep were plentiful, fenced 
in for this part of the ride, and the rolling hills, while mostly a lush 
green, sometimes turned to fields of bright yellow rapeweed or a dull brown.  

We put the car in a parking lot where you 'pay and display.'  This means you 
buy a ticket for the anticipated length of your stay and you place the ticket 
on the windshield.  Win recommended 'Trencher's' restaurant for lunch and it 
was quite good.  Our fish and chips were excellent and so plentiful that 
neither Margaret nor I could finish them.  Margaret, the coward, used catsup 
on her chips. I, on the other hand, bravely doused my chips with vinegar and 
enjoyed them so much I asked for vinegar yesterday at Burger King, whereupon 
they threw me out of the restaurant. (Some learned habits may be hard to 
break.)   Stuffed, it was now time to sightsee.  We walked over the bridge 
which crosses the inlet and investigated some of the narrow streets filled 
with stores selling postcards, seagulls, lighthouses, and just about anything 
else a tourist might want to buy and headed over to the stairs - 199, I 
think, which lead up the hill to the church.  With the hill and church in the 
background it seemed like an excellent photo opportunity.  We climbed up four 
of the stairs, leaving the other one hundred and ninety-five unconquered, and 
Margaret snapped Win's and my picture, and Win took Margaret's and mine.  I 
think I didn't take Win's and Margaret's because I was tired from all the 
exertion.  

The bells of the church in Whitby seem to ring constantly.  As a visitor I 
found this refreshing but wondered if I lived there would I not want a little 
more peace and quiet.  Margaret chastised me for even thinking any such thing 
and reminded me that in Las Vegas we never hear church bells.  Turns out she 
was right because I've missed them ever since returning.  
    
Returning to the car, we found we had overstayed our 'pay and display' ticket 
by a few minutes.  Luckily, we had not been fined for our transgression.  If 
anyone had asked for a few more pence I would have instructed them to get 
them from the paper guy in York.  

We detoured and stopped in the town of Grosmont on the way home.  Win wanted 
to show us the steam railroad which runs through the town.  I'm glad she did 
because in addition to seeing the train and its Pullman cars, we witnessed 
our first, and only, game of cricket.  It was bewildering.  I had no idea 
what the players were doing but I have them on videotape so I'll study it and 
get back to you when I've figured it out.  I do know that one fellow must 
have done something truly awful because, with a look of disgust, he took his 
bat and headed back to the clubhouse, never to return.  Of course, he might 
just have had to go potty - I suppose I'll never know.  As if steam trains 
and cricket alone wouldn't have made for a delightful stop, we found another 
treasure, our first look at one of the rivers which seem to be everywhere in 
England.  The River Esk runs through town and I spent some time photographing 
it and wondering, out loud, how my grandson, Andrew, might traverse the rocks 
in an attempt to reach the other side.  

We drove back to Win's and our dinner from a Chinese take-away ended a 
perfect day.

I awoke at five on Sunday morning and tiptoeing outside had my first smoke.  
Once again I had the birds for company so I wasn't lonesome.  Not fifty feet 
from Win's front door lies a walking path one can take into town.  I ventured 
over and checked out the inevitable steam, flowers, and flower beds awaiting 
the arrival of roses.  I wondered if the people who live here appreciate the 
beauty or do they take it for granted.  Whatever, it was soon time for 
breakfast.

Win fed us the standard English breakfast of 'eat all this and you won't have 
to eat until next Wednesday' and we made ready for our day at Castle Howard.  
Heading south for the forty mile trip we found some of the windswept moors I 
had anticipated the day before.  Here the sheep meandered at will with no 
fences to contain them.  A colored marking on their backs identified them if 
they wandered too far.  We drove across the top of the moors, a dale visable 
on each side.  Win would identify which dale was which.  Arriving in the 
valley village of Hutton-le-Hole, a place described in at least one guide 
book as a 'perfect English village' we stopped for coffee and pasties.  I 
wandered across the street to inspect the war memorial and film the sheep who 
roam freely.  I found an interesting sign which advises those who fail to 
clean up after their dogs will be hung, no, just fined fifty of so pounds.  I 
found the sign interesting because one can't walk five feet without stepping 
in sheep poop.  (Khooby, don't ever ride you bicycle here!)  Reading the 
guide books can give you great expectations but there is nothing like having 
a personal guide to show you the ropes. Hutton-le-Hole is nice, but it is no 
Grosmont.

We headed off to Castle Howard and the expected meet with some of the 
newsgroup members.  Not seeing anyone, Win advised Margaret and myself to 
start looking around.  Win stayed by the car, attaching multi-colored 
balloons to herself (spies sure can be visible when they want.)  Margaret and 
I entered the courtyard of the stately house, reminded that 'Brideshead 
Revisited' had been filmed here.  Just looking at a house (castle?) like this 
made me wish my mother had married a count or a duke instead of an engineer.  
Someday I'm going to have to have a talk with the old girl.  I could live 
very well, thank you, in a house with 1,000 acres.  Setting my remorse aside 
for a second, I grabbed Margaret and we wandered back to find that Ruth had 
arrived with her daughter and grandson.  Margaret remarked later that Ruth 
could be from the States if it weren't for her accent.  Ruth reminded 
Margaret of some people she knew back east.  Those who know Margaret know her 
heart is back east so, Ruth, if you're wondering, that's a pretty good 
compliment coming from Margaret.

Sadly, John and Bunty couldn't attend the meet.  I hope that some day soon 
they will get the opportunity to meet Win and Ruth.  From reading the words 
of all, I know they would enjoy the company.

We returned to Castle Howard.  Ruth's daughter pushed Ruth in her wheelchair 
as Ruth pushed the baby stroller.  It was quite the procession.  As the house 
wasn't equipped to handle wheelchairs, Win, having seen the house previously, 
kept Ruth, daughter, and baby company, while we explored.  If it were mine 
I'd probably throw out all the Chippendale furniture as it looks okay but I 
need to sit on something more substantial.   I'd also toss the china and 
porcelain.  It's all over the place and takes up room better used for a pool 
table, pool, or maybe, some video poker games.  The statues outside would 
also have to go, or at least be replaced by a different gender.  I found it 
shocking and more than a little outrageous that every statue was of a naked 
man.  Fortunately, I never caught Margaret staring fondly at any of them.

I'd keep the fountains, the peacocks, and the hedges, trimmed to perfection.  
I'd keep the rose garden, while not yet in bloom it contained numerous other 
flowers to delight both Margaret and myself.  I'd keep the lake and hire 
Seadancer to navigate my yacht.  But mostly, I wouldn't touch a tree.  The 
trees at Castle Howard were the most magnificent we found on our trip.  I 
have never, nor most probably will ever again see trees as majestic, as 
perfect, as those found that day.  

Win took a different route back, some of the way on a road not much wider 
than the width of a car.  When two cars meet they both drive into the hedges 
on either side of the road.  It's a good thing we didn't have roads like this 
in Brooklyn because Brooklyn drivers would shoot you before they'd risk 
scratching their car.  Win only scared us once.  When approaching a short 
bridge only wide enough for one car and with no visibility of the other side, 
she announced, "I hope no one's coming."  We concur!  

Back in Guisborough we visited what remains of the priory.  Win said the town 
wanted to restore the priory and they had applied for a grant to do so.  I 
advised Win the easiest way to get money was for the town to 'discover' 
someone famous had left something there.  A manuscript?  Had Dickens actually 
written 'The Pickwick Papers' in Guisborough and not Bath?  Did not Henry 
VIII have a mistress who lived in that building...right over there?  Win, way 
too honest if you ask me,  nixed my idea, but if the grant is denied don't be 
surprised when some famous person is found to have ties to Guisborough.  I'll 
expect a cut of the tourism receipts.

We washed our clothes that night and had the remainder of our Chinese 
take-away from the night before.  We divided a bottle of Win's French wine 
among the three of us and, fairly stuffed, met Win's son #1 (Win's words, 
clearly influenced by the Chinese take-away) and son #3.  Son # 3 showed Win 
how to download a message for Margaret on Win's computer.  It was a birthday 
greeting from Joy and a thoughtful end to another terrific day.

Having spent two great days with Win in the lovely North York Moors, it was 
time to move on.  We made ready for our 1000 bus back to York.  Lorry 
drivers, not having heard of our plans, picked today to protest high 
registration fees and tied up all the roads into Middlesbrough.  Would we 
make our bus or would we forever wander the Moors?  Win, having put up with 
us long enough, did her best imitation of Gene Hackman in 'The French 
Connection' car chase and stepped on it.  We made the bus with time to spare. 
 Win dropped us at the terminal, parked her car and came back to see us off.  

Win wasn't the first person we met in England but she was the first one we 
spent any time with.  As we boarded the bus Margaret and I both had tears in 
our eyes.

You may consider us sentimental but we are not stupid.  We cleverly left a 
pillow by 'mistake' at Win's house.  Since I can not sleep without that 
pillow I guess Win will just have to bring it over.  Entrust it to the Royal 
Mail?  I don't think so! 

YORKSHIRE DALES

Our bus retraced the route we had taken on Saturday and stopped once again in 
Thirsk. Too bad there wasn't time to see this pretty town.  The bus dropped 
us in York where we hailed a passing cab to take us to the Avis office.  Our 
car was supposed to be a Rover but all they had available was a Nissan.  
Which was fine by us because we had no idea what a Rover was anyway.  Our 
Nissan was a beautiful mettalic blue and only had about 7,000 miles on it.  
As Margaret was a little more than apprehensive - closer to petrified - about 
driving, I thought of asking the Avis manager for an older car, one which he 
wouldn't mind losing, but I didn't want to show Margaret I had less faith in 
here than she did.  

Skipton lies 50 miles due west and we planned to spend the night there after 
a stop in Harrogate.  We were able to find our way out of York without 
incident and down the road apiece we found our first........roundabout. You 
remember roundabouts from the movie 'European Vacation.'   Chevy Chase and 
family on the roundabout for 10 hours..."Look kids, Big Ben, Parliament!"  

The English know what traffic lights are so why not use them all over?  The 
reason is simple, two hundred years later they are still holding a grudge 
against us Americans for winning the war.  Imagine a roundabout if you will - 
use your computer screen.  You enter from the bottom of the screen (remember 
you're on the left side of the road with the steering wheel on the right.)  
Let's make it easy and imagine you were originally traveling north and you 
want to head east.  A typical roundabout has four exits but we found one in 
Leeds with eight!  The first exit would head west, the second, continue 
north, the third, east (that's the one we want!) and the fourth, south, 
putting you back in the opposite direction from whence you came.  If you were 
so inclined you could choose none of the exits and circle until you ran out 
of gas or died of boredom.  As you approach the roundabout you must look to 
your RIGHT - sorry to shout, but that's what I had to do to Margaret about 
twenty times as she obliviously entered roundabouts without looking - 
"RIGHT."  If no one is coming from your ??? - way to go!, you enter the 
roundabout as quickly as possible because now you have the advantage. It's 
almost a shame to exit a roundabout once you've entered, because once you 
gain the right of way
it is a feeling of great power.  Our exchange on the first roundabout went 
sometime like this:

"Okay, look to the right."  "LOOK TO THE RIGHT!"

"I did!" (She didn't.)

"Okay, now stay on the right."      

"Okay."

"Now fade to the left"  "No, don't get off!"

"Okay."

"This is it, get off here."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"I'm sweating."

"Tell me about it!"

Entering Harrogate, we came upon a traffic light.  "Yippee," we cheered.  We 
parked in a short-term parking area and bought a 'pay and display' ticket.  
The lot was connected to a shopping mall and we window shopped for a few 
minutes. Out on the street we saw a familiar store, Woolworths.  We bought 
some post cards.  Looking for a pub we found Betty's Tea Room which has a few 
locations in Yorkshire.  We had mushroom soup, spinach and cheese quiche with 
tea served in a silver set.  The food was delicious and the prices 
reasonable.  Sustained, we headed back to the car planning to visit the Pump 
and Assembly Rooms.  Margaret was resonably confortable with left turns but 
right turns were an enigma and arrival at the Pump Room must have entailed 
some right turns (or, perhaps the even-more-dreaded roundabouts) and we never 
made it.  Instead we found outselves on the road to Skipton.  Had we been 
looking for this road we never would have found it.  

I can't overemphasize the adventure of driving in England.  The Pump Rooms 
were only the first of many things we were to miss because we couldn't find 
them, or in some cases, couldn't find the entire town.  Once, we entered a 
town three times from different angles and before we found what we were 
looking for, discovered ourselves on the road out of town.   

I was eager to get my first glimpse of the Yorkshire Dales, mainly because I 
found the Moors so enticing and I wanted to proclaim the Moors lovlier.  But, 
alas, I can not.  The small parts of each that we eventually saw were both 
beautiful.  Actually, they are very similar.  Both contain the rolling hills 
of perhaps five hundred to nine hundred feet, numerous sheep, and hikers who 
traverse them.  The Moors are more colorful, with the green fields 
interspersed with yellow and brown.  The Dales seemed to contain more water, 
and certainly, more rock.  It is that rock from which their fences were made; 
the fences which crisscross the Dales.  Every property, as far as the eye 
could see was bordered by five-foot-high-stone fences.  Margaret and I 
wondered what it would have been like to be the 'fence person' on an estate 
or farm.  Imagine getting up every morning to build another five feet of 
fence.  You thought your job was boring.  

We drove into Skipton at 1600 on Monday afternoon.  A farmer's market was in 
process and we had the good fortune to find a parking space.  We pulled in 
and then checked the sign. It said, "Waiting limited to 2 hours Return 
prohibited within 1 hour."  What the heck does that mean?   We parked anyway. 
 Some of the road signs in England gave us a good laugh.  In Guisborough 
(Win's town) we saw this, "Humped Pelican Crossing."  And I think the elderly 
should file a lawsuit because the picture of a man and a woman on this sign 
in Stratford, "Elderly People Crossing" showed the couple bent over at a 30 
degree angle and using canes. 

It was time to attend our first English farmer's market.  Margaret bought 
some prunes.  Of course, almost as soon as she bought them she no longer 
needed them so we ended up carrying our bag of prunes around England, finally 
leaving them in Wells.  I bought a 'lucky pig' - a plastic pig with a 5-pence 
piece inside.  The day after arriving home we ran to the casino and I placed 
my lucky pig on top of the machine. Next time I'm going to show him a piece 
of bacon before we go.  I wanted to buy a piece of cheese at the cheese 
stand.  I was in heaven, it was like a supermarket of cheese!  But the pieces 
were too large so at another booth I bought a Cadbury's instead.  Some of the 
stalls were occupied by fellows selling T-shirts and music cassettes.  I 
think I'd seen those guys before, at the Aqueduct Flea Market in New York.  

Many of the B&B's in town were located on the same street which we found 
after only one wrong turn!  Some had already posted their "sorry, no vacancy" 
signs and the others weren't very inspiring.  We decided to look elsewhere.  
After driving right out of town and making a U-turn at a roundabout we saw a 
sign, "Tarn House" with an arrow pointing up a hill.  As the asphalt turned 
to gravel we wondered what we had gotten ourselves into.  We soon saw a 
lovely Victorian country house with a garden, a wide expanse of grass, and a 
beautiful, if perhaps a bit distant, view of the Dales.  We knew a place this 
nice would be pricey but we decided to check anyway.  The proprietor showed 
us the newly refurbished rooms - a double and a twin were available.  On the 
spot, we decided to stay two nights.

"How much for two nights," I asked.

"Eighty pounds, with a Continental breakfast."

With glee barely contained, I gushed, "We'll take it."

"Which, the double or the twin?"

I answered, "The twin, that way I won't knock her around."

He was polite in not laughing out loud, containing his amusement in a flicker 
of a smile.  What I had meant, was that I am sometimes a restless sleeper and 
interrupt Margaret's sleep with.....Oh, it doesn't matter and, anyway, it was 
to late to explain my comment.  We unpacked and headed down to the lounge for 
a drink.

We saw a phone on the wall and decided to call my son who had left 
instructions to call as soon as we arrived in England.  We had told him we 
weren't going to do that, instead he should watch the news to see if a plane 
had fallen into the sea.  Are we not terrible parents?  Hey, he had Win's 
number so if he needed to reach us...The phone in the lounge did not permit 
an operator call but it did allow us a local call to Stephen.  Small world it 
is.  Stephen said he knew Tarn House well and often came for drinks here with 
his wife, Marjorie.  We made plans to meet the 
following morning.  

I ordered a Bailey's and Margaret finally found Chivas Regal.  We took out 
our road map, thinking if we wrote everything down we might find our way 
around more easily. Ha!  Two people at the next table inquired about our 
hometown and we spent the next two hours telling them about it.  Bill and 
Doreen were a lot of fun.  Bill has driven a lorry to Scotland five nights a 
week for the last 20 years.  They both are looking forward to Bill's 
retirement this July.  He'll have two pensions, the other coming from the 
Royal Navy.  They discussed possible locations for their retirement home; 
Bill mentioned Ireland, Doreen quickly nixed that idea.  Bill tried to buy 
every drink and I had to knock him out of the way to pay my fair share.  
Margaret only had the one because she can't drink and eat.  She can do either 
alone but as her stomach forbids the combination, she is a cheap date, (the 
reason I've kept her all these years.)  We had so much fun with Bill and 
Doreen we made plans to meet the following evening.

The last serving for dinner was approaching, so we hastened to the dining 
room and ordered lasagna.  As our table candle flickered, we allowed as how 
the Tarn House was a steal.  In retrospect, at £40 a night, it may have been 
the best deal of our vacation.  At £60, it would be money well spent. 

I was up at five on Tuesday morning.  You may see a pattern here because 
Margaret believes when you're on vacation you shouldn't have to get up before 
seven.  I am sure you find that notion ridiculous, but I let her sleep 
anyway, not out of courtesy you understand, simply in the interest of 
self-preservation.

I made a cup of coffee in the room and carried it downstairs to the bar.  I 
sat at a table with a view of the Dales.  It looked like it might be a sunny 
day.  On the lawn a pheasant, or was it a grouse, went strolling by.  I'm 
glad I'm not a gun person because I would have been tempted to have it for 
dinner.  The owner of Tarn House must have been in the Royal Navy because the 
walls are filled with paintings of ships and the sea, torpedo shells, models 
of ships, everything nautical.  I was fascinated with a print of the 
'Titanic' which detailed many of the provisions on board; naming just a few:

40,000 eggs
15,000 bottles of wine
1,000 oyster forks
20 lifeboats

The affect is more startling if you read the entire list, but you get the 
point.

A maid/waitress drove up in her car at 0600.  I gave her a fright when she 
walked into the bar because, as she said "I didn't expect to see anybody."   
She was a quick forgiver, bringing me the morning paper and putting up a pot 
of coffee.  Lazybones finally arrived and we headed for breakfast.  Margaret 
stuck with the Continental breakfast but I, the spendthrift, went for the 
full Yorkshire breakfast for an additional £5.

Stephen and Marjorie arrived promptly at nine and Stephen offered to drive.  
Margaret broke into a jig and said, "Well, if you insist."  We agreed to let 
him be our guide.  

First, we went to Bolton Abbey.  It's funny, I had seen a description of 
Bolton Abbey in a guidebook but it didn't sound too impressive so we were 
going to skip it.  What a mistake that would have been!  The Abbey is as 
serene a place as I've  been.  A seemingly always present river ran next to 
the Abbey, stones placed allowing a brave traveler to cross (Margaret made it 
five stones across, slipped and soaked her leg.)  Sheep and ducks wandered 
about on this beautiful sunny day and Marjorie told us Henry VIII had ordered 
all the abbeys destroyed in some sort of religious snit.  Those are my words, 
she told the story much better.  For those who would like to see the Abbey, 
Stephen has some lovely pictures I'm sure he will share.

We continued on to Burnsall where we stopped to look at the, you'll never 
guess, river.  Then to Linton which Stephen said had won the 'best small 
village' in England award, or was it Yorkshire, a few years back.  I would 
have found my 'perfect English village' but there was renovation in progress 
down by the river.  Torn up earth forced me to continue my quest.  We were 
going to stop in the church but a sign on the door advised, "Please, no food 
or drinks."  To which was added, "And no boots with sheep poop!"  So I 
checked my walking boots and found...  Well, after cleaning my boots we 
stopped at the village pub where a couple of people ordered the prawn salad 
while I tried the chili and a cidered ale of some sort.  It must need an 
acquired taste to appreciate because I quickly ordered a rum n coke to cool 
off my very hot chili.

Then Steven took us up to Grassington and finally Arncliffe.  Once again the 
guide books have it wrong: Grassington with the big writeup and Arncliffe 
unmentioned.  Arncliffe is a tiny valley village surrounded on two sides 
by...yep, cliffs.  We found an artist, busy at work tracing the cliffs who 
told us there weren't any street lights in Arncliffe and how "you can really 
see the stars at night."   The schoolhouse was, at most, two classrooms.  
School was already out for the day or we could have taken a look.  We visited 
the church, bordered by the ever present stream.  I don't mean to put down 
Grassington.  It's a nice town but Arncliffe was one of those treasures one 
would never find without a native to show him around.

Stephen decided to take the 'scary' road back and we found ourselves perched 
on the edge of a dale.  The steep drop off to the left wasn't more than a few 
hundred feet but Margaret finally stopped talking to Marjorie and was quiet 
for a few minutes.  I'm pretty sure she was praying.  I know I was.  We 
headed down (thank You) and encountered a gate.  The gate was right in the 
middle of the road and we had to open, and then shut it after we passed 
through.  To keep in the sheep!  Up another small hill and up ahead there is 
a road narrow enough for only one car.  As luck would have it, there is a car 
coming from the opposite direction, but fortunately there is an area to pull 
in while the other car passes.  So we pull in and wait.  But the other car 
has disappeared!  Finally, we go and naturally meet the other car smack in 
the middle of this one-lane road.  We back up, the other car passes and, once 
again, all is right with the world.  

It reminded me of being a pedestrian in New York City.  I would walk down the 
street, see someone in my path, move to the right, but he moves to the left.  
Then, when our timing was really down pat, he'd move to the right and I to 
the left, thereby once again facing each other.  This happened more often 
than you might think and I was tempted on some occasions to offer, "One more 
dance and then I really have to go to lunch."  If this ever happens to you in 
New York City, whatever you do don't give the guy the finger!  I only mention 
that because in England that's exactly what you do on the roads.  Whenever 
Stephen pulled over, the driver of the passing car would give a one-finger 
salute as a way of saying thank you.  It's a little wag of the index finger 
and I asked Margaret to pay attention because I didn't want to be punched in 
the nose at some later date.  Although her finger wagging wasn't up to par, 
no one took issue, perhaps feeling pity for the terror in her eyes as she 
later made her way merrily around England.

We saw a group of a hundred hikers walking along the edge of a cliff just 
outside Malham.  Stephen showed us the cottage where he and Marjorie lived 
when first married.  Just out in front of the house, he explained, his 
footprint was still visible from a wet-cement day long ago.  Majorie invited 
us back to their house for tea, coffee and biscuits and I got my first peek 
at a water garden in England which impressed me greatly, but I later found 
his no match for the Oxford Botannical Gardens water garden.  Steven, get to 
work!

We said our goodbye's and thanked Marjorie and Steven for a wonderful day.  
We had run out of friendly guides and hereafter would have to find our own 
way around.  We were grateful for having seen some of Yorkshire as the 
natives do. 

Back to Tarn House for an 1800 drinking bout with Bill and Doreen.  Margaret 
had one and I had three, no four, because we had to even out the "my turn."   
A cat entertained us, jumping from one empty barstool to another.  I found it 
interesting that we found four very friendly cats in northern England and 
only one in southern England.  The people, on the other hand, were friendly 
all over so it wasn't a matter of training.  Probably just a matter of space, 
fewer cats in the north and thus, less stress.  Without doubt, I will ponder 
this enigma the next time I bend an elbow, but I had no time to think much 
about cats at Tarn House because the classic car meeting was about to 
commence.

The meeting itself took place in the restaurant so we ate dinner at a table 
in the bar.  The attendees had all brought one of their cars and parked them 
on the lawn outside.  I was hoping for 'My Little GTO' so I could perform a 
song and dance but there wasn't a one!   Only Austin, Alvis, Langando, MG, 
Mwtanke, Rover, Jaguar, Mercedes, Rolls Royce, Zodiac, and a Mustang to name 
a few.  Bill and I took our drinks outside and inspected the cars; I 
pretending to know what I was looking at, and Bill reliving his experiences 
and rewards from owning a couple of similar automobiles.  To me, a car has 
always been something to take you from point A to point B.  Looking at these 
cars made me reevaluate that rather foolish opinion.  

We had met some classy people in Yorkshire and it seemed fitting we spend our 
last night here with some classy cars.

ON THE ROAD

Wednesday morning was cloudy and cool but it didn't matter because we were 
only going to visit Skipton Castle and drive 150 miles to Warwick.  

I came downstairs but didn't scare the maid/waitress today.  Oh darn!  Had my 
coffee and paper in the lounge and looked out the window for yesterday's 
pheasant but he didn't show up.  Probably shot dead by some madman.  There I 
go, letting my pessimism get the best of me.  Maybe the cat got him.  I 
walked over to the bar and inspected the taps: John Smith's and Treakston's 
bitter, Mcewan's lager.  I quickly ordered more coffee.   

The war in Serbia was often front page news but I found it curious people 
didn't talk much, at all for that matter, about the war.  Same as in the 
States, everybody just wants it to go away.  Me too, I turned the page and 
found...

"The chairman of the Yorkshire Dales National Park Authority was arrested 
today in connection with alleged expense fraud..."

Yes, we were in the Dales the day before, but as Steven is my witness, I had 
no contact with this fellow so don't go trying to besmirch my reputation with 
any loose talk!  I can state catagorically, I have never met Mr. Heseltine.  

We both opted for the Continental breakfast and settled our bill with the 
credit card, ain't credit a marvelous thing!  The proprietor and the cook 
both saw Margaret  going into a frenzy over reaching the M (turnpike) road 
thirty-five miles away, so they wrote out the directions, received a blank 
stare in return, and proceeded to explain the directions, road by road by 
road.  "No problem," said I.  "When we see the windmill we make a right."

"Left!"  

"No problem."

We headed off for the five minute ride to Skipton Castle.  We parked the car 
and having some time before the castle opened, we made one of those great 
unexpected turns one sometimes makes when wandering about.  We thought we'd 
take a look at the Skipton Canal and sit on the bench overlooking same, but 
found ourselves at the beginning of a nature walk.  We meandered about 1 1/2 
miles into the woods seeing only two other people and two dogs.  One fellow 
was teaching his dog to retrieve in a small pool; we wondered aloud if Rocky 
could do that.  Nah, it's taken him all this time to learn, "sit."  We passed 
a brook with a small cascade, listened to the birds, and looked for the deer 
one fellow said inhabited the woods.  We didn't find any deer but found some 
foot prints of a rather large animal.  We sat by a lake mesmorized by the 
ducks and geese.  Margaret said she was glad we came here in May, before the 
hoards of tourists (damn tourists!) overran the place. I allowed as to how 
easy it would be for a mugger to kill us, steal our money, and throw us in 
the lake.  So we headed back to the castle and were happy when we saw some 
tourists.

Skipton Castle is perfect.  Not too big, not too small, just right.  Nine 
hundred years old with a yew tree, three hundred and forty years old, in the 
courtyard.  Someone told us Robin Hood used to make his bows from a yew tree. 
 Margaret was fascinated with the castle kitchen while I found the dungeon 
most appealing.  I thought of a few people I'd like to throw into the 
dungeon...  The Lord's day room was pretty neat, but keep in mind that there 
weren't any large picture windows because, in those days, if you stood by a 
large picture window someone was bound to send a flaming arrow into your back 
(using a bow made of yew, not Hugh, yew.)

The narrow slit in the wall of the Norman fighting rooms was more often the 
only outside light one could expect.  Margaret perched herself next to the 
slit and saw thirty-five school children in the courtyard below.  She picked 
out three unsuspecting boys and started finger shooting at them, "Bang, 
bang," shades of Hopalong Cassidy, and they returned fire!   It was a battle 
royale.  One of the teachers was trying to get the kids in a straight line 
but didn't realize there was sniper fire.  One of the kids mentioned the 
attack and the teacher looked up disapprovingly.  I can't take Margaret 
anywhere!

We visited the gift shop in the castle.  My son had wanted some soldiers to 
add to the fort he had built his daughter.  They didn't have any of the good 
ones but we were able to purchase some suitable imitations.  (We later found 
the lead soldiers priced two for £15.)  Alyssa will have to make do with the 
imitations.  We heard some Bach playing in the gift shop.  It was the only 
time in a store/pub/restaurant/hotel/attraction that we heard classical 
music.  What's this world coming to?

Before we headed out a quick visit to the church and some pasties were in 
order.  We ate our food as we sat on the church bench and took a last look at 
the market in Skipton.  

Finding the M1 was easy.  Somewhat nerve wrecking, as we first drove over the 
wrong dale and had to backtrack, (Margaret giving her newly acquired finger 
salute to three cars) and then driving through a bunch of smaller towns and 
their terrifying roundabouts.  But our directions were correct, and soon 
after negotiating a eight-exited roundabout we found an M road which took us 
to the M1.  Margaret liked the M roads because there weren't any roundabouts. 
 She knew there weren't any because she had asked Doreen the night before, 
thereby eliciting a fit of laughter. (Try imagining the New Jersey Turnpike 
with roundabouts!)  One time I caught Margaret doing 82!!  We were still the 
slowest car on the road but we did pass most of the lorries.  I found some 
classical music on a BBC radio station and ignored her reckless driving.  We 
stopped in a rest area where we had a Burger King quarter-pounder with 
cheese, civilization at last.  We left the M1 for another M road which goes 
to Manchester, but exited that at precisely the right time to head for 
Warwick.

And that is all the good news for the day.

Instead of Warwick, we found ourselves on a road to Stratford.  No problem, 
we'll just stay in Stratford.  Unbeknownest to us there was an agricultural 
convention taking place so all the rooms in the area were booked.  We entered 
Stratford three different times because every time we almost reached the end 
of town, we did, and had to leave town, make a u-turn, and come back.  Even 
with three chances we couldn't find a room so we headed north to Warwick, 
which is where we were supposed to be in the first place.  Once in Warwick we 
found, quite by accident, the Tudor House Inn which was recommended in 
Fodor's.  It looked old and I like hotels which look old but look a 'good 
old' if you know what I mean.  We went inside, quite willing to take any 
room, old or not.  "Sorry, no vacancies."  It was 2030 and we were quickly 
losing daylight.  We tried two more towns, same story, finally reaching the 
town of Rugby.  I went into a nice looking inn and noticed the proprietor 
decked out in a smashing shirt and tie.  This guy exuded class and no doubt 
had a prestigious background, Sandhill, Eaton, Oxford.  Whatever, I was quite 
impressed and would have asked him about his schooling and about his town, 
(is this where rugby was invented?) but there wasn't time.  

"Do you have a room?"

"No, now go away you foolish man!"  Okay, he had too much class to say any 
such thing and he did try to be helpful.  Up the road apiece, he explained, 
was a brand new hotel with ninety rooms, and, as it had only been opened a 
month, couldn't possibly be booked.  He gave us explicit directions, if we 
could master three more roundabouts we would be there.  We entered the first 
roundabout, hestitated briefly, decided, and picked the right door!  Onward 
to the second roundabout; once again, success.  We were one roundabout away 
from a warm bed  in a brand new hotel (brand new is good too) when God looked 
down and remembered the egg I threw at Mr. Martin's house when I was in 
fourth grade.  As we entered the roundabout we could see the hotel, it was 
that close!  The roundabout had three exits and the first veered off to the 
left so it couldn't be that one, but it could be either of the next two.  
"Which one?" I pleaded.  

"The second," said a determined Margaret.

"No, take the third."

Thirty-three years ago Margaret promised to obey me.  Until that moment, she 
had never done so, and will never do so again.  I'm not complaining because 
on a two possibility scale I'm wrong 99 out of 100.  When there are three or 
more choices I've never been right.  She took my advice and the third exit 
led us directly onto the M1 northbound.  As we passed the hotel and looked 
longingly and lovingly upward, Margaret ruined the moment with an, "Oh s***!" 
 I'm pretty sure she didn't talk to me until we reached the service area at 
2215.  We were destined to spend the evening sitting in the car on the M1.  
We went inside and bought some perfectly horrible Kentucky Fried Chicken and 
some perfectly horrible coffee to keep it company.  

See why men don't want to ask directions?   What's the use?   

THE COTSWOLDS

Look at the good side, we only had to pay £5 to sleep on the M1 (if you stay 
more than two hours you must get a permit for £5.)  We didn't sleep much, I 
for 1 1/2 hours and Margaret not at all.  She was supposed to sleep but kept 
an eye for desperados.  That's what she said anyway but I think she might 
have been trying to 
make me feel bad.  We had decided to skip both Warwick and Stratford because 
those towns were responsible for us sleeping on the M1.  We'll show them!  
Instead, we opted to drive directly to the Cotswolds and the town of 
Bourton-on-the-Water.  We also decided to travel only in the morning and to 
check in at a B&B early each day.  I agreed to these conditions because 
Margaret said she would kill me if I did not.

As we had learned, planning to get to a town and getting to the town were two 
different things so we went into the service area at 0400 and mapped out our 
plan.  First though, we had to reverse our direction on the M1.  There were 
three fellows drinking coffee so I asked them how we could head the other 
way.  Good thing I asked because the next exit wouldn't allow us to reenter 
going south so we had to go another twenty miles in order to turn around and 
come back.  All in all we had given back 60 of the 150 miles we had traveled 
yesterday.  We filled up the gas tank as it was half empty and half a tank of 
gas cost $32 U.S.  I'd complain but I'm too damn tired.

Up north we go to the second exit and, yes, back on the M1 southbound.  
Progress. Thirty minutes later we pass the brand new hotel where we should 
right now be sleeping if it weren't for Margaret's poor decision making 
capabilities. Margaret disagreed and succinctly accused me of being a 
"jackass."  Off the M1 and onto an 'A' road and then a 'B' (smaller) road, 
followed by one more 'A' road and by 0700 we are in the village of Lower 
Slaughter.  We'd been looking for coffee for over an hour but coffee in rural 
England at 0600 is a long shot.  The Washbourne Court Hotel stands at the 
entrance to Lower Slaughter.  We drove into the courtyard and saw a sign, 
"Morning Coffee."  Does this mean they will serve us coffee in the morning?  
No harm in asking.  Affirmative, they will, there's joy in Mudville again.  
The French waitress, oo la la, brings us coffee and biscuits.  If I knew at 
the time that coffee for two cost £7, I would have asked if she were 
included.  Maybe it's 
better I didn't.  

As we sat in the lounge drinking our coffee we admired the hotel.  Outside 
the grounds were immaculate, the grass flanking the River Eye cut to 
perfection.  Horses grazed nearby and Margaret, seeing two of them laying 
down, exclaimed, "Horses don't do that!"  

"Tell them, not me!"

Our sitting room was only one of four.  All four were arranged so you could 
see through the rooms without necessarily going into them.  I'm not usually 
impressed with interior decorating but the arrangement of the rooms was 
fabulous. The price in one of our guidebooks listed the hotel as £90-£150.  
Steep, but for something this nice it would be worth it.  They did have 
vacancies but my book was incorrect, the rates were from £190-£250.   

Bourton-on-the-Water is only five minutes from Lower Slaughter and we arrived 
there at 0730.  It looked like it was to be a sunny day and the temperature 
had warmed up so we strolled the town before most people awoke and before the 
tour buses arrived.  We found an open gas station and stocked up on a 
newspaper, orange juice, and some egg salad with watercress sandwiches.  We 
walked down by the river which runs directly through the middle of town, sat 
on a bench and ate our sandwiches.  It was a lovely morning and we took 
advantage of the solitude with a few photo opportunities.  Me by the big 
tree, then Margaret by the big tree, me by the water and Margaret by the 
water, you get the picture.  Personally, I wouldn't have put us in so many 
photos because if I wanted us in pictures I could have snapped them outside 
our front door. I think Margaret was afraid she would forget she had been in 
England if she weren't in 567 pictures.  A Japanese lady asked us to take her 
picture by the river.  She was traveling alone, she explained.  I took her 
picture and asked her to reciprocate.  She did, and that photograph is one of 
only five with Margaret and I together.  The lady thanked us profusely and we 
went our separate ways.  When I looked at that picture the other day I 
thought about the Japanese lady.  Why was she traveling alone?  Where was she 
from and what had she seen in England?  Did she drive or take a bus?  Maybe I 
should have asked her.  Maybe not.

In a nearby garbage can a crafty bird was in the process of retrieving food.  
He would fly onto the lid, look around, and when he felt secure would hop 
into the bin.  Thirty seconds went by and he reemerged holding paper with 
food attached.  He dropped it on the pavement, hopped down and had breakfast. 

While meandering we found the Dial House Hotel which dates from 1698 and has 
a one acre walled garden and beautiful rooms.  £129 included breakfast and 
dinner; even though we were busting our budget we decided to stay two nights. 
 Although it was still early they let us unpack and shower in our private 
bathroom (most hotels and B&B's we stayed at had a bathroom in the room - 
ensuite, but this was the one room in Dial House that did not.)  No matter, 
we had a room in a nice hotel so we made plans for the day.

Bourton is a terrific family town.  Being young at heart, we started off at 
the 'Dragonfly Maze.'  It wasn't the kind of maze where you could get totally 
lost for a few hours, but it was fun.  Next, we headed over to 'Birdland' to 
see the swans, parrots, and a hundred other varieties.  Our favorite were the 
penguins.  Some lined up four in a row, their backs facing us, and tanned.  
Or got warm.  I really don't know what they were doing but if another penguin 
intruded on their turf they would flap their flippers and give him the 
penguin, "Get lost, buster!"  Other penguins were swimming; we never realized 
what good swimmers they are.  A baby was frolicking in the water, turning 
upside down and providing some good shots for the video camera.  Just in case 
my lucky pig and sheep turned out to be unlucky, I picked up what looked to 
be swan feathers.  I think I'll wear one in my hair on the next visit to the 
casino.     

On to the model railway exhibit and the perfume factory where Margaret got a 
free squirt of some scent. "Smells nice," I exclaimed.  I've found that 
Margaret likes compliments so I freely use "Looks nice," and "You haven't 
gained THAT much weight," often.    

Contented, Margaret suggested an alfresco lunch by the river and then back to 
the hotel for, croquet.  The best part about croquet isn't the outdoors, the 
competition, or winning the game, but rather, smashing the daylights out of 
the opponents ball after you've hit it.  While that may sound violent to a 
gentle reader I think you should give me credit because where I grew up in 
Brooklyn croquet mallets were usually used as deadly weapons or for breaking 
and entering.  

Having chosen the 1900 seating for dinner, we arrived promptly and were asked 
to wait in the lounge while our table was prepared.  We did so and ventured 
the opinion, between ourselves, that in Fawlty Towers one didn't have to wait 
in the lounge before dinner.  To disorient us further the waiter brought us 
the menu in the lounge and we ordered our appetizer, entree, and 
dess.....oops, you order that later, said the waiter.  Properly educated (and 
not-so-slightly rebuffed) we sipped our drinks until the waiter came and 
announced, "Your table is ready!"  Having waited so long for our table to be 
ready we inspected the table to see what improvements had been made.  We 
found one spoon had been removed.  

Dinner was really yummy.  I think it was gourmet food but having grown up in 
Brooklyn my usual standard of reference is the old-time diners.  Something I 
ate contained feta cheese and you can't get fancier than that, now can you?  
By the time we were ready for dessert we were stuffed and just ordered 
coffee.  The waiter asked if we would have it in the lounge but his question 
sounded more like a command so we said, "Of course!"  

Now that we knew the drill, we were ready for dinner tomorrow.  We didn't 
want to leave the waiter with the impression that all Americans are idiots.  
Only some.  We went outside and walked off the feta cheese and the other 
tasty morsels and then retired for the evening.

You can't go to England and not see Stratford, now can you?  Of course not!  
We reconsidered our previous decision and left the hotel early so that, this 
time, we might find our way around Stratford.  Leaving early forced us to 
miss the free hotel breakfast but having already spent £2,462,347 another £5 
wouldn't matter.  

It was a cloudy, cold, and windy day.  We were almost to Stratford when we 
missed a roundabout exit, went seven miles out of the way, and entered the 
town from one of the three ways we had entered two days before.  Didn't 
matter, we were there.  Trying to find a parking lot we instead found the 
Holy Trinity Church where William Shakespeare is buried.  We donated £2 to 
take a look around and found the knocker on the inner door even more 
interesting than Shakespeare's resting place.  The knocker is a 13th century 
sanctuary ring and any fugitive who reached it would be granted protection 
for 37 days.  I briefly considered robbing the church and then seeking asylum 
but figured they might commit me to one instead of granting my request.  I 
didn't tell Margaret of my evil plan so we left the church to find parking; 
she, no doubt, still believing me to be as pure as the driven snow.    

We made a left turn into what we thought was a parking lot but was a mini 
shopping mall.  I had a bright idea.  If we bought something in the store and 
put it on the dashboard we could then walk the few blocks to town and not 
worry about the car anymore.  So we walked into Curry's, a furniture store, 
and were tempted by the £1,875 dining room hutch, but the car wasn't big 
enough and we were £1,500 short.  Luckily, HomeBase was next door.  A 
throw-away camera for £5.99 wasn't a bad deal considering we saved £3 or £4 
on the parking!

Our financial triumph was shortlived because when I went to the trunk to get 
my coat, I discovered Margaret had left it at the hotel.  Possessing enough 
luggage to travel to the Himalayas, I found myself freezing and in need of a 
sweater.  As it was the 'end of season' I got a good deal on a sweater I 
didn't need. 

Across the street from our breakfast tearoom was the house where Shakespeare 
was born.  Now that we had the beginning and end of the story, we took a bus 
tour to find out more.  We thought £8 was steep but the guide had a great 
sense of humor and made the trip interesting and enjoyable. The bus had an 
open upper deck that no one was foolish enough to use, the huddled masses 
sitting in the enclosed downstairs.  We saw the usual sights: Mary Arden's 
house, the Shakespeare theaters, Anne Hathaway's house, and, my favorite, 
Croft Gardens.  The gardens are in the middle of town and are free!  As most 
attractions in Stratford are overpriced, they were a welcomed, and pretty, 
respite.  We had a drink in the Dirty Duck Pub, a hangout for actors.  On the 
walls were perhaps a hundred autographed pictures; not recognizing any of the 
faces I realized my knowledge of the theater was somewhat less than of 
gourmet food.  

We walked along the Avon and fed some ducks.  One of the best things in 
Stratford 
are the statues, based on Shakespearian characters.  I think we photographed 
them all.  We stopped by a lock, read a sign on how locks worked and left 
without a clue.  I can tell you that a canal boat from Stratford to London, a 
distance of approximately one hundred miles, would take four days.  Our time 
in Stratford was brief yet we enjoyed it and were glad we came.

Half expecting to see the car towed away, we were happy to see it parked in 
the same spot.  I told Margaret if we made just one left turn (and lefts are 
easy) we would be headed back toward Bourton. She did and ten miles later 
discoved we were going north instead of south.  We had once again reached 
Warwick where we had initially planned to visit Warwick Castle but not 
finding lodging had cancelled those plans in a huff, never to return to 
Warwick.  With one of the towers of the castle looming above us we briefly 
reconsidered our decision, but we were steadfast and returned to Bourton.  

Anyway, Warwick was the first town to chastise Margaret for unbecoming 
conduct.  Two days before, she had driven up a one-way street and the four 
cars facing us had protested.  One fellow raised his two arms in 
exasperation, as if saying, 
"What's this?"  Another had given a quick toot on the horn, (possibly the 
only horn we heard in England!) and a third had given us the finger; no, not 
that finger, the straight finger pointing behind us while mouthing, "One 
way!"  Even though the good citizens of Warwick had been civil in their 
protests, I think Margaret held a grudge so we left.

The second time she got in trouble was in a petrol station.  Everybody knows 
you can't smoke while refueling the car, but Margaret thought it was okay if 
she was in the car with the windows closed.  Then she heard:

"Put out the cigarette, you stupid woman!"  It's not what the man said but I 
think it's what he meant.  

As you can plainly see, Margaret is a constant source of embarrasment for 
poor, always well behaved, and always proper, me.  I think I already 
mentioned her arrival at dinner at 1900 and her untimely ordering of dessert. 
 It's a wonder I don't drink more!

On our way back to Bourton we again stopped in the idyllic Lower Slaughter 
for a closer look.  We had finally found our perfect English village!   It 
has a narrow stream, ducks, geese, immaculate cottages, sheep, horses, cows, 
and even a
working water wheel.  Bourton, however, has stores, so we returned and 
shopped a little.  We added some trinkets to our collection of postcards, 
glass fish, thimbles, lamb soap, bookmarks, chocolate from Betty's Tea Room, 
toy soldiers, miniature buses and telephones, black swan feathers, small 
wooden lighthouse, lucky pig and sheep, placemats and trays, ceramic dogs, 
and one silver seashell.  As our bags were full when we arrived we wondered 
if we would have room for everything and visited the nearest post office 
(Royal Mail) to see how much a small package to the States would cost.  £40!  
I don't think so.  We decided to squeeze everything in (except the chocolate, 
which we ate.)  We had sometimes inadvertently left items during our travels, 
a pillow in the Moors, a broken hairdryer in the Dales, a sweater in the 
Cotswolds, and prunes in Wells.  With any luck, I might get to leave Margaret 
in London.

After our shopping we had tea and hot apple pie with cream.  The tea room had 
a beautiful collection of teapots covering the ceiling and walls. It was a 
reminder that if you can do just one thing and do it right, you are doing 
okay.

At 1900 we were prepared for dinner.  Tonight we would impress the waiter!  
Off to the lounge we went, ordered a drink and waited for our menu.  The 
waiter came, bid us 'good evening' and took our order.  I mentioned we would 
be having dessert this evening but was careful not to order it at the time.  
Things were progressing splendidly.

We were seated, accepted our napkins, and made it throught the first course 
without spilling any food on the floor or ourselves.  I was tempted to order 
a bottle of wine just to show the waiter how civilized we were - that we 
could indeed, cope.  We negotiated the main course with aplomb. Our 
conversation was muffled, our laughter, reserved.  We didn't burn ourselves 
on the candle.  We were, in a word, magnificent!

That's when the roof fell in.  It started innocently enough when the waitress 
brought us the dessert menu.  We each ordered dessert and coffee.  Then she 
asked the question which, I am sure, the waiter put her up to. 

"Would you like it in the lounge?"

"Yes please."  

As we had done the night before, we retired to the lounge and waited there 
quite a while when the waiter comes in and asks, "Aren't you coming in for 
dessert?"

Then it hits us, we are supposed to have dessert in the dining room and 
COFFEE in the lounge.  Margaret thinks quickly and says, "Of course, we were 
just having a cigarettte."

But the damage is already done.  He's got us again and we must return to the 
dining room with heads bowed, not willing to face the other diners who must 
be thinking, "What crude people these Americans are!"  To make matters worse 
dessert takes forever and we have nothing to do, not even drink coffee 
because we will have that in the lounge.  Margaret figures the delay is 
caused because the chef must remake our custom made dessert.  I know better, 
"We're being punished," I tell her.

With that, Margaret laughs out loud in this subdued and very proper 
restaurant and any semblence of dignity we had left, evaporates.  Having 
nothing better to do we kept making quips and at one point she was laughing 
so hard tears were rolling down her cheeks.  Finally, just to get rid of us, 
the waiter brought us our dessert.  Then, and only then, were we permitted to 
go into the lounge for our coffee.  

Fish, out of our familiar polluted waters, is what we were.

BATH/WELLS/OXFORD

I slept very well on Thursday and Friday nights, most probably because of the 
white goose feather pillows my head enjoyed.  If you want a good night's 
sleep, get a couple, sized 48 x 74 cm.  The weather on Saturday, 22 May was 
beautiful.  Although we had vowed to leave early when driving any distance, 
Margaret refused to give up two free breakfasts in a row.  She said I could 
pull out her toenails but she wasn't budging.  

Our trip to Bath was around sixty miles on good 'A' roads so we didn't 
foresee any problems.  We did find four small potholes.  This is worthy of 
note because they were the only potholes during our entire trip.  The roads 
in England are well kept, and even in the Moors which experience a nasty 
winter, the roads were in wonderful shape. 

On a two-lane road we got stuck behind a big red truck for ten minutes but we 
were in no hurry. A long straight-away finally beckoned and Margaret got up 
the nerve to pass him.  At the next roundabout we took the wrong exit but 
recovered with a fairly quick u-turn and continued our journey on the A429 - 
once again, behind the big red truck.  

Arriving in Bath at 1015, we found all the B&B's booked due to a music 
festival which had commenced three days earlier.  We decided to stay eighteen 
miles away in Wells unless we found something in between.  Five miles from 
Bath a sign for a farmhouse B&B beckoned.  Why not give it a shot?  We turned 
onto a barely paved, one car wide road with eight foot hedgerows on both 
sides obstructing any view.  We pulled in by the barn where a 
twenty-five-year-old young man was playing with a mangy dog.  The boy had a 
flower in his hair.  Although reluctant to stay here, we didn't want to just 
leave as that didn't seem polite.  Inside another young man, a deadringer for 
the young Norman Bates, sat at a table.  

"Do you have a room?" Margaret asked.

"I'll check."

We were both thinking, "Please God, let them be booked."

"We're booked for tonight."

"Oh darn!"

The car started!  Which is good because if it didn't start the two young men 
would have fallen upon us like jackels, ripped out our hearts, and buried the 
car and us in the field.  You think us paranoid?  Not at all, we have proof 
of their intentions!  In a place supposedly booked for the evening there were 
no cars.  Coincidence?  So says you.  

On to Wells where the only room in town isn't a room at all, but a flat with 
two bedrooms, sitting room, kitchen and bathroom.  We inform Beryl, the owner 
of 'Beryl', a gothic styled manor home, that we'll take it for two nights and 
she promply takes £10 off the £85 per night fee.  We have thirteen acres to 
roam, complete with sheep, vegetable garden, flower garden, pond, pool, and 
at least one famous ex-guest, Manuel of Fawlty Towers fame.  

After unloading the car we headed into town to see one of the prettiest 
cathedrals in England, according to the guide books.  The Cathedral Church of 
St. Andrew is alluring.  It is also huge, at 415 feet the length of 11/3 
American football fields!  Next door to St. Andrew's is the Bishop's Palace, 
surrounded by a moat and possessing the best view of St. Andrew's.  Visitors 
may gawk at the surroundings for an entrance fee of £3.  Technically, the 
town of Wells is a city because of the cathedral.  With only 15,000 residents 
it is the smallest city in England.  I can't tell you the parameters used to 
differentiate the difference between hamlets, villages, and towns, but I know 
a city when I see one.    

We walked to the bus station to see if we could take a bus to Bath on Sunday. 
 Departures were timely on other days but on Sunday the only bus left Wells 
at 1400 and returned at 1700.  Margaret would have to drive again.  

A visit to the village market and two stores supplied us with dinner. 
Cherries, olives, a hunk of chedder cheese, (the town of Chedder is fifteen 
miles from Wells) pizza bread, jam donuts, and two cokes made for an 
interesting meal.  After dinner we took a walk in the garden, found a cat who 
wanted nothing to do with us, took some pictures and headed off to bed.  The 
place was so big that Margaret was scared and made me promise to stay awake 
until she fell asleep.  I promised, unaware that Beryl had been thoughtful 
enough to supply me with white goose feather pillows.  As soon as my head hit 
the pillow I never had a chance.

"Jackass!"

How would you like to hear that, first thing on a Sunday morning?  

"What did I do," I protested.

"You fell asleep before I did!"

Ashamed, but well rested, all I could offer was, "Sorry."

By the time we reached Bath, 18 miles away, Margaret had forgiven me.  We 
found 'The Circus,'  a set of three perfectly symmetrical buildings which 
form a circle. Designed by John Wood, 'The Circus' was the inspiration for 
the saying, "You can't see the forest for the trees."  See, initially the 
buildings were clearly visible until someone planted a tree in the park which 
lies in the middle of  'The Circus'.  As the tree grew.....you 'couldn't see 
the Wood (creation) for the tree' which later became the current adage.  At 
least that is what we were told.

We found a parking (pay and dispay) lot by 0730!  The weather had once again 
turned cold but at least I had brought my coat and didn't need to buy another 
sweater.  We got fleeced at breakfast in a cafe across from The Roman Baths.  
Here, a sign announced breakfast (eggs, toast, sausage, bacon and mushrooms) 
for £1.99.  Without looking at the menu we also ordered coffee.  £2.75 for 
one coffee ($4.50 U.S.)!   We've been had!  The price for coffee in the 
famous 'Pump Room,' just across the street, was only £2.25.  We loitered 
awhile in the cafe and then visited the Abbey, another magnificent church.  
Margaret, yet again, got into trouble because she failed to read the sign on 
the wall which said, and I paraphase,

"We love to have visitors but please, please, please, do not enter the church 
during services unless you are planning to attend the service."   

Evicted from church, we had some time to have a closer look at the 
architecture of the Abbey.  Perhaps fifty feet above the entrance are statues 
of the Twelve Apostles and off to both sides ladders almost the entire height 
of the church.  Attached to the ladders are statues of men and women climbing 
the steps in an attempt to reach heaven, I suspect.  If you appreciate 
architecture, you must visit Bath.

We were among the first to enter The Roman Baths Museum.  £6.70 is a cheap 
price to experience history.  As I looked down into the murky water I 
wondered if the other visitors were thinking my thoughts.  I doubt it because 
I was wondering if the women bathers in these baths 2,000 years ago wore 
bikinis or did they skinny dip?  Evidently I had experienced too much history 
and my brain, on overload, had rebelled by thinking perverted thoughts.  

Because of the weather the bus companies lowered their prices for the city 
tour of Bath.  The usual fare of £7 was reduced to £4 and, this time, we were 
brave and sat on the upper, unshielded deck.  Our guide wasn't as interesting 
as the guide in Stratford, perhaps because he was freezing, but the tour was 
fun anyway.  Afterwards, we walked along the River Avon, a different River 
Avon from the one in Stratford, but pretty nonetheless.  If it had been a 
nicer day we probably would have rented bicycles and rode along the river.  
We sat for awhile, fed tea biscuits to some interesting looking birds, and, 
as it was only 1300, wondered what to do with the rest of the day.  

Chedder hadn't been mentioned in any of the guidebooks I'd read, but it was 
only twenty miles away and my favorite cheese has always been chedder, so 
what better reason to go?  With a little help from the weather our side trip 
turned out to be most enjoyable.  I think the temperature rose one degree for 
each mile driven, and by the time we reached a pull-off just outside of town 
it was a beautiful day.  The town is located in the Mendid Hills slightly 
southeast of Bristol.  The hills are loaded with goats and we encountered 
three of them as we climbed up a short way.  After our stop we figured we'd 
head to town but a mile down the road a nature walk beckoned.  We had walked 
a couple of miles into the woods when down the path comes a sheep.  He walked 
by and I called him in my best sheep imitation, "Baaaaa!"  He started to come 
over but thought better of it and proceeded on his way.  A couple of minutes 
later two dogs appeared out of nowhere and just as promptly, disappeared.  We 
were given the option of a more difficult trail, built with steps up a hill 
or the flat wide trail we were on.  We took the high road, but not for long 
because after thirty or so steps we were both winded.  Lamenting our poor 
physical condition, we sat down and had a cigarette.  A few minutes later we 
were back in the car and gawking at the spectacular views of the gorge on the 
outskirts of Chedder.        

I was brave during lunch and ordered a ploughman's at the pub.  This 
consisted of a hunk of bread, a huge slice of cheese, vegetables, and 
something purple.  As the name suggests it must be for the ploughman who 
worked hard all morning and needed a substantial lunch.  Either that, or, his 
wife refused to cook so he came to the pub and ordered his favorite foods 
which, in time, took his occupational name instead of Jack's favorite foods.  
If you can figure out that conundrum maybe you can tell me what the purple 
stuff was.  

In town, we saw cheese being made, formed and packaged, candles made, and 
lace woven by a woman with nimble fingers.  We visited the little lake in 
town and the small waterfall.  On the way back to Wells I wondered how many 
Chedder's we had missed because they weren't recommended.  England is such a 
lovely country you could probably throw out all the guidebooks and just 
wander around, each day experiencing a completely new adventure.    

We left Wells early on a cloudy Monday morning for the eighty mile drive to 
Oxford.  As we were due to return the rental car in Oxford this was our last 
hurrah on the road.  We got our money's worth, covering the eighty miles in 3 
1/2 hours.  This was due, partially, to the twenty roundabouts we encountered 
before reaching the M4 motorway, and upon reaching the M4, to taking the road 
toward Bristol instead of Oxford.  It wasn't my fault this time.  We had 
almost found the M4 when on the very last roundabout the first exit was 
marked "M4".  So I advised Margaret to take it. Is it my fault the sign man 
was too lazy to write, "M4 - west" and another exit marked, "M4 - east"?   
Funny thing was, we had only ended up at this particular entrance because we 
wanted to avoid going through Bath once again. So we had taken another road, 
which should be renamed 'roundabout alley,' and ended up driving the wrong 
way on the M4, back to the exit where we would have gotten on if we had gone 
through Bath.  Of course, had we gone through Bath we would have been at this 
same spot 1 1/2 hours sooner but who cares because, as I said before, (in 
case you fell asleep for a second just now) we were returning the car today 
and will never have to go roundabout again!  

Did you know that in addition to the regular size roundabouts there are also 
mini roundabouts?  Occasionally, in the middle of a town a slightly elevated 
circle lies, unsuspectingly, in the middle of an intersection.  Motorists go 
around this circle (watching for vehicles from the RIGHT, unless said 
vehicles have a 'give way' sign) and proceed on their way.  The concept is 
unfathomable and I tell you all this neither for education (for readers who 
drive on the correct side of the road) nor in the hope you will rebel and 
demand an end to a ludicrous, antiquated, and yes, slightly immoral system 
(for readers who drive on the wrong side.)  Rather, I warn you of roundabouts 
for your own protection.  If you ever come to our house and mention 
roundabout, Margaret will probably hurt you.  Yesterday she hung up on our 
daughter who innocently said, "I'll be round about three."  

Oxford was in a state of disrepair, roads torn up all over the place.  It 
seems the city planners are attempting to keep most cars out of the city, 
(hoping they will opt for park and ride) and thus, are rearranging roads.  
Traffic was at a standstill.  This was good for us because the slower one 
goes the less trouble he gets into.  Hardly moving, and having no idea what 
B&B we were looking for, we found one and, for once, weren't able to pass it 
by.  We checked in and it looked decent enough so we paid in advance for two 
days.  Naturally, no one ever asked us to pay in advance but I like to do so 
because then when I am robbed at least I have a room and the robber is 
somewhat cheated out of his ill gotten booty.  Secondly, I got a discount one 
time and I think it's because I paid in advance.  Or it might have been 
because the proprietor was scared of me.  Whatever works.  

£75 and no white goose feather pillows!  The nerve of some people.  It's okay 
though, because, having no idea where the Avis office was we had the good 
fortune to choose a B&B...........are you ready for this,...one-half block 
from our hotel!  We needed only two lefts and a right to be home free.  The 
congested traffic made it easy as English drivers are courteous and let us 
in.  We made it.  Eight days and 947 roundabouts later we returned the car, 
scratchless.  Showing no gratitude whatsoever, the Avis people weren't 
impressed and tried to pad our bill by £50.  After negotiations, we left 
triumphant, having paid, by my calculations, only £20 extra.   

The day had turned out to be reasonably nice so we took the bus tour of 
Oxford.  Our guide told us about many of the thirty-nine colleges which 
comprise Oxford. After she reminded us that President Clinton had attended 
college here, I didn't listen as much because I was thinking intelligence 
without honesty counts for little in my book.  

You can't believe all the bicycles in Oxford.  Everybody seems to ride them. 
Professors in dresses and suits, students, a mother pulling her two kids 
behind her, professionals and the retired, all bravely riding with seeming 
abandon in a very busy city.  We only saw one accident during our entire trip 
- a pedestrian had been struck by a motorist in Stratford.  

We hopped off the bus to take a tour of the Oxford Botanical Gardens, the 
oldest in England.  I think admission was £2.50; whatever the price well 
worth the visit.  Along with the flowers, hedges, pond, and the peace, there 
was an herb garden which detailed the uses for a myriad of herbs.  The 
gardens are beautiful and educational.  We had lunch at a Pizza Hut which was 
a nice change of pace.  We walked to the bus and train stations because we 
would soon need transportation to London and Blenheim Palace.  At the train 
station we purchased a 'cheap daily ticket' for the 57 mile ride to London 
for £12.90 which we would use on Wednesday.  The price is reduced if you 
depart after 0900.  At the bus station we learned a bus leaves Oxford for the 
eight mile trip to Blenheim every forty minutes.  Had we wanted, a bus left 
for Stratford four times a day.  All the buses we saw, throughout England, 
were well-kept, inside and out.  They are comfortable and timely.  

Informationally fortified, we went off to find a laundermat.  We had washed 
clothes at Win's and at our hotel in Bourton where the maid did them for us.  
This would be the first time we would have to put coins in a machine.  Note: 
when you go to England bring A LOT of coins for laundry!  It cost £2 for a 
wash and around £1.50 to dry!  Short of change I twice visited the nearby 
news agent where, having to buy something, I purchased a paper on the first 
visit and a pack of Dunhill's on the second.  The cheapest cigarettes we 
found were £3.15, while Dunhill's were £4. 

We were up early on Tuesday morning.  We watched the BBC news which has less 
fluff than U.S. broadcasts but still finds it necessary to have two people (a 
pretty man and woman, hanging on each other's every word) do the reporting.  
I miss Walter Cronkite.  We had a delicious full English breakfast while we 
looked out the window at the Oxford Canal.  I had been tempted to try punting 
yesterday but figured I would fall in the water and mess my hair.  

This was to be the first of four perfectly gorgeous days.  Our short bus ride 
took us through Oxford, the northern part reminding me of Forest Hills in New 
York, and out to Blenheim Palace by 0830.  The Palace opened at 0900 so we 
walked around the pretty town of Woodstock, just outside the gates.  

As I recalled Bill Bryson's story of ignoring the fee imposed at Blenheim 
Palace for walking the grounds, because part of the land is a public footpath 
and therefore no charges can be levied, I was tempted to try the same thing 
but my intrepid courage soon left me and I cowardly parted with £8.50 for the 
day's activities.  It's a cheap price!  With the possible exception of Tarn 
House at £40, Blenheim Palace was the best deal we experienced.  We spent the 
entire day and still didn't get to see everything.  

The Palace itself didn't open until 1000 so we walked over to the Pleasure 
Gardens (fun stuff) and visited the Butterfly House, and for £1 additional, a 
nine-hole putting green (I beat Margaret 21-25), giant chess and checker 
board (I beat Margaret at checkers - she was too cowardly for chess), and the 
Marlborough Maze (where I failed to lose her.)  We were slick; there's an 
overpass in the middle of the maze so we waited and watched until someone 
found the way out, compared our notes, and, presto, fairly ran through the 
last half.  

A train took us back to the main house (about one mile - everything is at 
least a mile away because Blenheim is 2,100 acres!)  A few buses had already 
arrived so the house was getting crowded.  Before you take a tour of the 
house you visit a room with photographs and stories about Winston Churchhill 
(he was born here in 1874.)  It's all very interesting but there's not much 
here that one can't find in a local library and I was tempted to say as much, 
"Why don't you silly people get the book instead of standing here trying to 
read this great man's life story for the next three hours." I was nice and 
hushed myself, grabbed Margaret's hand and we took the tour of the fabulous 
palace.  I counted twenty paintings in one room alone!  I found a display of 
toy soldiers.  I should say an army of toy soldiers.  They were in a case 
with six layers, perhaps 300 soldiers to a layer.  I don't have the words to 
describe the ornate lavishness of this place.  It drips wealth from every 
piece of furniture, painting and statue.  Reminded of how very poor I am, I 
must go outside for a breath of fresh air.  

Recovered, but still a bit envious, I and the wife (what, I couldn't have 
married a Princess!) took a look at the Terrace Gardens with some naked 
statues (there you go, wealth creates perverts!), and the Italian Gardens, 
visible, but not open to the public (creates snobs, too.)  

Still not tired, we walked a mile and a half to the Cascades, man-made we 
find out later, but still lovely, and another mile back to the motor launch 
which gives us a nice view of the Palace and environs. The 'motor launch' 
wasn't much of a boat and I'm thinking of writing my Congressperson to 
protest.  I'd write the Duke but I doubt he would pay me any heed.  Row boats 
are available for rental but close at 1500 and we miss them after walking 
another mile.  We had a surprisingly good lunch outside the Terrace Gardens, 
the mesmerizing fountains providing tranquility.  I suggested we walk to the 
Column of Victory and asked Margaret how far it appeared to be?

"Twelve miles."

"Come on, we can do it!" (For Pete's sake, it was only a mile and a half.)

Reluctantly, she came along and gave me a piece of her mind every time she 
stepped in sheep poop.  

Exhausted, we walked another two miles to the bus stop.  As we waited we 
compared Castle Howard and Blenheim Palace.  Blenheim is more opulent inside 
and out, but Castle Howard has the better garden and her trees are beyond 
comparison.  You must see both.

In Oxford we found a restaurant named 'Fatty Arbuckles', one of a chain 
featuring  American items such as shakes, apple pie, fries, and Budweiser 
beer.  The beer and fries were terrific, but Margaret got a stomach ache from 
the hamburger.  My hamburger was 'off' so I didn't eat the whole thing.  
Margaret, hating to leave food, ate hers and the remainder of mine.  I warned 
her, you know.

LONDON AND HOME

I wish we had our car back!

We had made arrangements to stay in a B&B in Kenley, a suburb of London for 
Wednesday through Friday nights.  Here's what we did to reach Kenley from 
Oxford (after our delicious full English breakfast.)

1/  walked 1/2 mile to the train station with our Himalayan luggage.
2/  took a crowded train from Oxford to Paddington Station
3/  as the queue for taxis was lengthy, hopped on a free hotel bus which took 
us  halfway to Victoria Station
4/  took a taxi for the remaing half
5/  train from Victoria Station to East Croydon
6/  take subway (underpass) to different platform for train to Kenley
7/  owner of B&B picks us up in his car - it's a good thing because he lives 
on top of steep hill

Why did we stay in Kenley you ask?  Because Margaret's friend at work had 
stayed there last year and said "it's only a 15-minute train ride from 
London."  Actually it's 40 minutes and it's two trains and, further, we 
didn't expect a mini Mt. Everest, even though we had packed accordingly.  
Truth to tell, the place was nice, if a bit far, and only £40 a night.  We 
unpacked and made ready for a few hours in London.  

When we planned the trip it was Margaret's idea to visit London.  I wasn't 
really excited about going because I'd grown up in New York City (we both 
had) and figured it was pretty much the same.  I'd heard stories about the 
crime, the noise, the rudeness, and the dirt.  Maybe it was because we were 
on vacation or maybe it was the beautiful weather but, whatever the reason, I 
am glad we didn't miss London.  It is spectacular and far more beautiful than 
New York City.  I've now seen just some of the best parts of London but I've 
seen all of the best in New York and believe me, there is no comparison.  

As we had limited time the first day we centered our activities around 
Victoria Station.  We walked over to Buckingham Palace and spent some time in 
awe.  We photographed the lions adorning a fountain across from the Palace.  
We sipped a soda in St. James Park and shared a cookie with some geese.  I 
saw Big Ben for the first time in person and said, "Wow."  It matters not 
that you've seen it a thousand times on film, being there is something very 
special.  We took a ride (£5.50) down the Thames, the boat stopped at the 
Tower of London but it was too late to visit today. The best view of the 
Palace of Westminster (Houses of Parliament) is from the far side of the 
Westminster Bridge, so we walked across. The aquarium sits in a regal 
building just off the bridge but it was closed and the £8 fee seemed 
excessive. Westminster Abbey costs £2.50 and I don't think it has the dignity 
of The Minster in York but it does possess some glorious architecture and 
some pretty well known people are buried there: Newton, Cromwell, and Darwin 
among others, and one poor fellow, his inscription reading, "dastardly 
murdered in 1712."  

We stopped at the handsome and crowded 'Albert,' an old pub. We had a bowl of 
 terrific mushroom soup, enjoyed the atmosphere, and watched to see if anyone 
played one of the gambling games available in most pubs. They didn't.  We had 
spent exactly £4.20 gambling during our time in England.  £4 on the lottery 
(darn, we lost) and 20 pence on a gambling game in the pub in Chedder (foiled 
again!)  Our train from Victoria left us in East Croydon but the train to 
Kenley was delayed and the entire trip took an hour. 

There were other guests, whom we hadn't yet met, staying in the B&B.  The 
proprietor had referred to them as "The Germans."  Margaret and I, from 
watching 'Fawlty Towers' had planned to never mention the war.  As we 
departed the train station in Kenley two people had preceded us and were 
already walking up the hill.  As we rapidly closed our distance we wondered 
if they thought we were going to mug them.  We stopped and rested and let 
them gain some ground.  

Margaret asked, "Do you think those are the Germans?"

"Nah."

"They must be, residents wouldn't be stupid enough to walk up this hill!"

She was correct.  They were the Germans.  Neither couple mentioned the war.

Some things never change.  Thursday morning I was up early as Margaret slept. 
 I had a cigarette outside, made some entries in my journal and read 
yesterday's 'Guardian'.  Ogling the topless statues at Blenheim had aroused 
my salacious interests and I would have preferred 'The Sun' but Margaret's 
father told me a long time ago papers of that ilk were forbidden.  His words 
might have been, "wandering eyes get lost."  I got the message and that is 
why I am sitting on this steep hill in England reading the 'Guardian.'  

Before we left Las Vegas I had been experiencing frequent headaches but for 
the last ten days I had felt great.  The salubrious air, no doubt.  Today 
promised to be 74F which is what, 23C or thereabouts?  Margaret finally 
arose, snuck downstairs and peered over my shoulder to see if I had taken her 
father's advice.  I showed her my paper, "It's only 'The Guardian' my dear."  
We talked about last night's football game which Manchester had won in an 
unbelievable finish.  They had also won the previous week beating Newcastle.  
I gained some newfound respect for football players while watching the game.  
They really are in much better shape than our American football players.  
Cricket was in the news too, the English team losing to the Sri Lanka team.  
Say it ain't so! 

We sit awhile on the stoop wishing for a cup of coffee.  Breakfast is not to 
be served until 0830 and coffee is not available in the room - what kind of 
B&B is this?  I suppose I could walk to the village but chances are nothing 
would be open.  If something were open the coffee might not be so good, but 
even if it were open and the coffee was good, two walks up that hill in one 
day would surely kill me.  So, due to pessimism, coffee was off until 0830.  

The good thing about reading a report such as this is that time flies.

At 0830 we had coffee (wasn't that quick?) and breakfast, but not the full 
English breakfast I have come to expect.  We're not allowed to board the 
train before 0930 because we had purchased the cheap 3-day rail pass which, 
for £4.50 per person, per day, allows us to take all the trains, buses, and 
tubes we want subject to the time limitation.  Instead of going to Victoria 
Station we opt for the London Bridge Station which leaves us about two miles 
from the Tower of London.  We walked along the Thames and across Tower 
Bridge, the prettiest bridge we've ever seen.  Oddly enough, the new London 
Bridge seems out of place compared to the other bridges that cross the 
Thames. The old London Bridge now spans Lake Havasu, Arizona.  

Admission to the Tower of London was £10.50 but we still might have gone had 
I not read the small print on the sign.  It said the White Castle was in 
renovation and the gadgets used for torture couldn't be seen.  We both agreed 
without the torture, it's not worth the price.  A little like our marriage.  
Anyway, I wasn't willing to bet £21.00 that I could steal the Crown Jewels.  
In retrospect, I don't regret the decision because Margaret ran over to a 
Yeoman Warden (or is it Waters?) as I snapped her photo.  So who needs inside?

We took a bus over to St. Paul's where my cheap side took over and I refused 
to pay £4 for admission.  Westminster Abbey was only £2.50 and the Minster 
was free, although we did donate £4 there.  It just stikes me as slightly 
obscene when a church charges money to enter (and yes, I know we could have 
gone for evensong but I don't believe in taking advantage of them just 
because I think they are taking advantage of me.)  We took pictures of the 
exterior, the dome, and of St. Paul, and found another bus going to the 
British Museum.  We ate delicious fish and chips in the Museum Pub, one block 
from the museum.  

No surprise here, the British Museum is magnificent.  If you have a month to 
spare you can pretty much learn the story of our civilization.  The requested 
admission charge of £2 was happily contributed.  Margaret said she thought 
they concentrated too much on Greek and Roman history.  While I think she has 
a point, the museum is grand.  In two hours we saw only a few of the 94 rooms 
- my favorites:

1/  A huge gold colored cash register manufactured in 1901 by the National    
   
     Cash Register Company of Cleveland, Ohio.
2/  'The Story of Money' - starting around 1400 B.C. and culminating with the 
         
     newest gadgets.  Included were three casino chips, one from a Las Vegas  
  
     casino where we occasionally play.  Had that chip passed through my hands
     before it fell into theirs?    
3/  Grandfather clocks, many of which chimed on the hour.  

Making full use of our transportation pass, we hopped on a bus to Regents 
Park.  We were greeted with flower gardens, a fountain, ducks and geese (so 
many varities of both!), black and white swans, sunbathers, including a girl 
in a bikini providing exotic entertainment, "How scandalous," I noted.  

Proving that we could get lost by foot as well as by car, it took us twenty 
minutes to find the row boats, situated nearby.  Margaret doesn't get along 
with bodies of water larger than a bathtub so I rented a boat for thirty 
minutes and figured I could make it down the lake, around the small island, 
and back within the alloted time. My first few stokes were tentative and a 
bit awkwark but I pretended I was once again off the coast of Maine and the 
co-ordination required soon came back and I returned, triumphant, in 
seventeen minutes!  

"Seventeen minutes is a new record," I boasted to the boat attendant.

"It may be," he said with a smile.

Diplomacy; works for me.  His comment earned him a £1 gratuity.  

As we progress in life and lose our tonsils, teeth, and sex drive, it's good 
to find something we can still do.  I was in a lovely country with the woman 
I love and, for a few minutes, I had rediscoved my youth.  

It had been a busy and rewarding day.  We headed back to Victoria Station and 
took an 1814 train to Kenley.   Although I had read in the paper the trains 
were often late, that certainly was not our experience.  Trains, with only 
one exception, were on time to the minute.  And, I had discovered the best 
speaking voices in the world!  Those would be the voices of the train 
announcers - the Pavoratti's and Callas's of the rail.  Their mellifluous 
tones advising the train leaving at 1617 on platform 15 would call at 

Cirencester, Marlborough, and Harrogate.  Actually, there is no train which 
goes to all three of those towns, I only wanted to make a point.  Which is, 
if an American were going to any one of them he wouldn't understand the 
announcer because the English unaccountably drop some of the letters in 
certain town names, those being three.  If you've made plans to stay there, 
cancel them; instead stay in the properly pronounced towns of London, Bath, 
and York.  

In Kenley (properly pronounced) we dined at an Italian restaurant.  Margaret 
had a large salad and I, a most interesting lasagna, but I did enjoy a bottle 
of Budweiser lager from Czechoslovakia.  I wondered if the lasagna came with 
it.  I didn't ask.  

Back at the B&B the proprietor asked us if we needed anything.  Margaret had 
brought a soda back from town and asked for some ice.  There wasn't any ice 
in the fridge and the proprietor informed Margaret he would make some, then 
added, "I'll knock you up when the ice cubes are ready."

Excuse me!  Margaret told me that if he knocked her up she'd knock him down!

Our last full day in England was again sunny and warm.  As we walked down the 
hill for our train we wondered if the proprietor would give us a lift to the 
station tomorrow.  If not, we might have to ride out suitcases down the hill. 
 I asked Margaret where she thought we would end up?

"Dunkirk."  

If you ever want to see a bunch of pigeons, go to Trafalgar Square (the 
fountains, statues, and monument aren't bad either!)  Just off the square 
lies the simple yet beautiful church of St Martin-In-The-Fields.  Over the 
years I'd enjoyed music performed under that name and I was thrilled to sit 
in the church and listen to a choir practice.  We stayed for almost an hour 
in awe of the wonderful and, to us, flawless voices of the choir.  The choral 
director thought differently because she kept stopping them to make 
improvements.  Outside the church a sign announced a concert tonight at 1930 
by the London Sinfonia, scheduled to play pieces by Bach, Vivaldi, and 
Pachebel.  There was nothing I could think of that would end a perfect 
vacation more than hearing Pachelbel's Canon in St Martin-In-The-Fields, but 
it was not to be because, as you will see later, we simply ran out of steam.  

In the northeast corner of Hyde Park lies 'Speaker's Corner.'   Here, people 
may talk about events of the day or whatever else is on their mind.  It was 
still early so the only people in 'Speaker's Corner' were Margaret and 
myself.  Seizing the moment, I gave an impromptu speech, complete with finger 
wagging on the evils of gambling.  My speech only lasted 45 seconds because 
Margaret soon tired of my oratory and started to walk away.  No matter, I 
sauntered onward, head held high, knowing in my heart that my brief, yet 
brilliant speech had won the approval from those above; Henry Clay, Mr. 
Smith, and Cicero himself.   

We transversed Hyde Park, encountering a road race and a duck with her six 
newborn ducklings in training.  A drake stood by, on the lookout.  Margaret 
also was on the lookout and spotted a questionable fellow, a little too near 
for our comfort so we escaped to the nearest refreshment stand.  I ordered a 
coke with ice.  

"Sorry, we don't have ice."  

What's with the lack of ice in this country?

At the 'Serpentine,' a lake in Hyde Park, row and paddle boats were available 
for hire.  I was tempted, but after you've set a world's record, what's the 
point?

Kennsington Park is a little smaller than Hyde Park (the two adjoining parks 
approximately the size of Central Park in N.Y.), but it is the more beautiful 
of the two.  We approached from the south and soon discovered the grandest 
monument we'd seen yet, the Albert Memorial.  It was followed by 'Flower 
Row'; flowers, over-hanging trees and sufficient benches to rest and enjoy 
the view.  We looked for some royal type people at Kennsington Palace, saw 
only a gardener, and left in a huff.  

We lunched at the 'Rat & Mouse Pub.'  Excellent fish and chips with a 
Budweiser gave us enough energy to walk over to the Natural History Museum.  
With little fanfare, I will simply tell you that if you are an animal lover 
you will probably find this the best museum ever.  It is vastly superior to 
The Museum of Natural History in Manhattan.  

Our feet were so tired we took them off and carried them in our hands.  We 
visited Harrods where everyone was so busy shopping they hardly noticed.  
What a store!  We couldn't afford anything but we had fun trying.  Margaret 
checked out a little leather purse, £55.  I was smitten with the toy soldiers 
and offered my first-born daughter in payment but the well-dressed clerk 
turned up his nose.  Rejection in hand, I was determined to buy something, 
anything.  I found two decks of playing cards for £10 and had my wallet out 
when, bam, Margaret hit me over the head with her (cheap) pocketbook and 
advised, "Come to your senses, man!"  So I did, and we left.     

We were too tired to wait for our prepaid bus to take us back to Victoria 
Station so we hopped in a taxi.  

Our trip home the next day was uneventful.  We weren't even worried as we 
flew over Greenland, because if we crashed at least we could finally get some 
ice.  

It was a wonderful vacation.  We were exhausted and couldn't wait to see the 
familiar sights of home.  That said, if we had the resources we would have 
stayed another month.  As pretty as southern England is, we found Yorkshire, 
both the Moors and the Dales the most scenic part of our journey.  Besides, 
Yorkshire is where we met Win, Ruth, Stephen, Marjorie, Bill, and Doreen.  
While the beauty of the small part of England we saw was stunning, it was the 
people who made us feel welcome.

I'll forever remember this trip.  From the war memorial on a serene morning 
in York to the majesty of the trees in Castle Howard; from early morning 
walks in Skipton, Bourton, Wells, and Guisborough to the crowded streets of 
London and a fabulous view of Parliament at sunset; from the morning birdsong 
and the history and the rivers and the churches and the greenness of it all 
to that dreadful night spent on the M1.  When you can look back at the worst 
moment of your vacation and say, "That wasn't so bad," chances are you 
probably had a great time.  So we did, and so, with God's help, we shall 
return.  

I suppose I could have found a better driver, but Margaret has been pretty 
good company for the past 33 years.  To be accompanied by an enchanting and 
beautiful woman in a country as lovely as England...a fellow could do worse.

k