Football on a Saturday Afternoon... in England

Not much to say today. Probably won’t be much more to say for the remainder of my trip.
Today I waited for the company responsible for my presence in Birmingham to arrive. One of the guys, the customer contact, wanted to see a football match, so we got tickets to the Birmingham City v. Wigan match today. He was giddy, it was his first match; I was not as happy, but I got a kick out of watching this reserved guy break loose a little. We parked on the street a few blocks from the stadium, and after a long, protracted search we found our match tickets.
We then went to the team store, me for a scarf and he for a shirt (American = jersey) and a few other knick-knacks for his kids. Eventually we got to the game, and sat. This time, we were four rows from the field. The problem was that we were behind the sideline area for the players, and couldn’t see one corner of the field (or the line on the opposite side). No matter.
The fans were louder on average but not as rowdy as they were in Cardiff. There were three times the seats, but only 10,000 more fans- nevertheless, the stadium felt huge by comparison to the last game. The home side- Birmingham City FC- went by the nicknames of “Brum” or “Brummies” for the city and “Blues” or “Bluenoses” for the team. This city is the Chicago of England; blue-collar origins, hardworking, but sprawling and huge. The un-official program/fanzine says it plain as day- the team knows that they can’t put butts in seats when they charge too much. “45 quid is right out for the matches with likes of (the bottom of the league), so pardon our cynicism when they magically lower the prices 30 bob.” The fans want to come, they just can’t afford it, kind of like… Chicago hockey under (the late) Bill Wirtz.
At first, the game was shaping up in a very similar fashion to my first game- the away side (Wigan Athletics, wearing gray) scored first, then the home side (BCFC, wearing blue with white fronts) scored a penalty kick. That’s about where it ended though, at we went to half time tied at 1.
I waited in line for the concession for almost 20 minutes, by which the game had restarted. The weather had turned sour, and was spitting drizzle and a cold wind was blowing. I know it could not have been good for my currently weakened health, but we toughed it out. Wigan scored again on a goal we couldn’t see, then the Blues scored twice on goals for which my soccer-playing companion had a deep appreciation. One was a header on a corner kick, but not initially; the other was a low shot that was screened and missed by all the defenders at which he said it was “magical.” He had a video camera and recorded a full chant, complete with crowd clapping and pointing.
The game ended 3-2, and we headed straight back to the hotel in the dank English autumn evening. My companion drove and I was quite impressed; he kept offering the wheel to me and I politely refused each time. By the time we got back, I started to get a chill, one of those wonderful precursors to a hot flash. But my coughing is now better (if not less painful) and I have more medicine choices- and thankfully more cough drops.
Talk tomorrow is of a trip to a castle; as a result, I’m doing everything I can to get better before tomorrow morning. Warwick Castle is allegedly a doozy and I would love to go… if I am healthy enough to do so. Meantime, I’m watching the 5 channels of television has to offer (as I have read all my reading material already).

Stormin' the Castle

Still fighting off the illness, I woke up and took my medicine, had some breakfast, and was off. This was supposed to be a short day, minimal walking, and I got on my way. I left for the train station and hopped to the town of Caerphilly.
If you’ve not ever looked at a current map of Wales, look at the town names. They’ll bend your mind. It’s a language where J, K, Z, Q don’t exist. Towns like Merthyr Tydwil and Tongwylains are the easier to say. Once you’ve noticed that, you’ll then notice that some city will say Cardiff (Caerdydd) or Swansea (Abertawe). Yes, there is an entirely different second language in Wales (Cymru), a form of Gaelic that you wouldn’t think was in use until you watch TV, and then you find the all-Welsh channel where it’s in use for everything except for subtitling or voicing over English (they did no translation of President Bush when he spoke about the California fires for example; and for you cynics out there, it was a prepared speech and he was articulate and clear).
So when I stepped out in the morning, I needed to find a town amongst the jumble of vowels and c’s, d’s, f’s, and y’s. The town was Caerphilly, and in this town is a castle, which by complete and utter coincidence is called Caerphilly Castle. The travel book said to either take the bus or the train to Caerphilly (it even listed the correct bus number); with my familiarity with the trains, I hopped on one and headed north.
The train ride was short but pretty with plenty of the deep green you observe in this part of the world, and after about 15 minutes I was in the sleepy town of Caerphilly. I got off the train and looked for a castle. Those are fairly obvious, y’know- large, stone, on a hill, slits for windows, a prominent flag near the middle, possibly the front door, which is on top of two very large towers of the gatehouse. I couldn’t see it. I had two choices of direction, and I chose wisely. This is never a guarantee for me, and I was thankful that I went the right way. After a wander through one of the one-lane business roads, I happened to arrive to the castle.
Q: When is a castle –not- on a hill?
A: When it’s in the middle of a lake.
This castle is amongst the most impressive ruins to which I have ever visited, and when I left I realized I had blown over 150 pictures on it. The travel book understated just how incredible this site is. I would recommend GoogleEarth-ing Caerphilly Castle. It’s huge, and they explain in detail why it is in it’s current outlay- the lake (only about 3 feet deep) slowed individual soldiers, and was wide enough to prevent catapults and trebuchets from even hitting the inner castle. I say inner castle because it had two outer walls, one in the middle of the lake, before you approached the keep.
Once you get to the keep (which is quite easy, as you aren’t laying siege to an inhibited fortress or anything), you see a handful of restorers working on a barely visible section. There are many little nooks and crannies, small room in the keep that are completely unoccupied, and only a small handful of museum-like exhibits. The lack of a guided tour made the experience feel like a discovery, and the lack of people made it feel like the castle was mine for the exploring.
The keep’s great hall was open; almost completely empty, it had a small table with eight chairs, a few odd nice but not authentic pieces of furniture, some two-foot crest shields surrounding the room about 15 feet off the floor, and the obligatory 8-foot wide fireplace. A sign outside the hall said that the hall was available for rental for wedding parties. Given that the floor was cobbled, I don’t see many women enjoying a wedding and/or a reception in the hall wearing heels. Nevertheless, it’s a castle, and it’s a wedding, and some women will go to any expense to get what they want- Caerphilly Castle is certainly a worthy choice.
I haven’t mentioned all of the cool little things, like the leaning tower or the display of siege engines constructed from medieval drawings that work (or did at the time of construction), and I left when I had my fill of pictures and was ready for lunch. I wanted to eat at a pub, but the pub was “busy;” okay, the girls behind the bar (formerly known as wenches) were too busy flirting with the boys to actually serve anyone. So I crossed the street and ate at Subway. Again, not by choice, but out of necessity because I needed to catch a bus to my next destination.Side note: have I noted how much the Welsh love baseball? In at least three conversations, as soon as it is established that I am American two sentiments are immediately conveyed: 1) they want to or are in the middle of trying to visit all 50 states, 2) they love baseball! They are stoked about the World Series, many people here pulling for Boston. They have stated that they believe that a Welsh baseball league would take off here, and they watch it when they can. Women play baseball here, the women I spoke with said she had very fond memories of playing it as a girl, although the whole round-bat thing is their biggest hang-up (as opposed to a cricket bat, which is flat on one side). It is a fair thing to say that the Welsh dig the long ball. I had an at-length discussion about Manny Ramirez with one Welsh gentleman, and I thank Jim Rome for giving me the intel on ManRam. I didn’t have the heart to say I just don’t like baseball any more, and that I would rather watch Welsh rugby than another Yankees-Red Sox game.
Anyway, the bus! On my way to the second castle of the day, this one in the sleepy little borough of Tongwylnais called Castle Coch. This castle was on a hill, but was not of significant military importance; in fact it was one restored/made by the Marquis of Bute who did the Cardiff Castle I visited the day before. It was a much longer walk than I was keen on taking in my condition, and owing to poor pedestrian signage, I took a long walk on an unpaved path in the forest before making it to the keep, having to scale a steep hill for about 15 feet before getting to the castle’s front door.
The castle was a keep only (no outer walls), and as it had been ‘restored,’ it was kind of garish and tacky but otherwise cool (it is a castle, after all). The coolest things in the castle were the lady’s bedroom and the history on the intended use for the land. The lady’s bedroom had mirrors on the ceiling- more than one wife said “tha’s rather saucy, innit?” The mirrors weren’t garish plates, but little bars above the chandelier used to spread light in the room. I’m certain the restorers, when they placed the bed directly under the mirrors, could be described as ‘cheeky.’
The intended use for the land was to establish a winery. The land hand the basic requirements-good drainage and a south slope- but for some reason, French winemakers weren’t keen on sending anyone to start a winery there. So the Marquis of Bute- the richest man in the world- sent someone to them, paid their entire expense for 3 years to learn about wines, selecting the grape (something like Garot Noir, which was grown in northern France at the time) and bringing the vines over to ‘have a go.’ Someone wrote about what they viewed as the Marquis’ folly stated that “it would take four people to drink a bottle of his wine- two to hold the victim down, and one more to pour it down his throat.” The actual review of the 294 bottle first year said that the wine was rather like a non-carbonated champagne varietal, light and slightly sweet. Chalk it up to luck or whatever, but that was another money maker as the Marquis’ wine sold very well. The vineyards are now gone, in favor of housing, golf clubs, and reforestation, but the legacy is there, and I will be adding that scathing wine review to my repertoire of insults.
The walk down the hill was much easier, and when I returned to the main city intersection, I passed the Tongywlnais Rugby Club (all ages, all sizes wanted!) and chuckled as I could see Fred and I having a run at that for a bit. But I needed to get back to the city, and I had no idea how. The bus only came around once an hour, and the hotel was about 5 miles away. Walking and taking the bus seemed to be chronologically equivalent, so I made a bad decision and started walking. I walked for another two miles, my legs passing the point of pain in the plateau between aching and giving up, and I managed to stumble on a train stop during the walk and rode the rest of the way home.
Once back at the hotel, I took another bath to immerse my legs in the heated water, and ordered room service and began packing. Tomorrow, I’m heading to my final stop, and eventually to the work portion of my trip. I spoke with the guy for whom I’m working, who told me he was renting a car. That ought to be an experience- it’s still messing me up that the cars are coming from the right, as traffic is on the left side of the road.

BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOO BIRDS

I’m in Wales, in the nice little capital city of Cardiff. When I said I was going to Edinburgh, people said “Cool!” But when I said I was also going to Cardiff, people said:
“Why?”
Two reasons. Castles- there’s two of them in the city. And soccer. Yes. See, one of the reasons I started to like the English Football Association was because of a semi-random site that I found whilst surfing the internet was a journal describing what it was like to route for a third-division team. That requires explanation. Third division would be roughly the equivalent of single-A baseball. The story was so compelling, the enthusiasm was so infectious, that I started to route for them in the States. As I continued to watch I noticed that they did in fact get better and better.
This is now where I make my sales pitch for promotion and relegation in the U.S. If you have heard it before, and/or don’t want to hear it again, then skip to the next paragraph. In the European soccer leagues, there are several levels like in baseball. Only when a team wins a championship in their level, they get promoted to the next level. Conversely, the team that comes in dead last in the level gets demoted (or relegated) to the level below. It gives everyone a reason to play harder- no one wants to get demoted, everyone wants to get promoted- and it makes every game at every level a little more interesting. San Francisco Giants come in last? They’re a triple-A club next year. The Des Moines Cubs win their league and prove they’re the best triple-A? Put ‘em in The Show! I don’t care if there are two clubs called the Cubs, you’ve earned your way in. Why should teams that perennially suck (Tampa Bay, Kansas City) always get to be in the top? Aren’t you even a little curious if a triple-A team is better? You could find out. It would radically change baseball, but I think for the better. What good is playing 160 games if you play over 30% of your season against four teams? “It’s tradition!” Not all traditions are good. (okay, I’m off soapbox)
First thing in the morning I went to the pharmacy. The price of OTC drugs were roughly the same, but vitamins were more expensive. I came back, had some breakfast and took the British-equivalent of TheraFlu. After that, I started to walk to Ninian Park- the home of Cardiff City’s Football Club- so that I could buy a ticket to the night game. I also bought a scarf and hat (a more-solid knit cap than the one I had on), and walked back. It was roughly a 25 minute walk to and from the park.
Once back, I went about trying to find the Cardiff Library. The tour book I have (which I should know better about trusting by this point) says that the city library has free internet. But, as usual, I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t where it said it was; unlike an internet café which could be closed, this simply was just not there. There was no building at the location on the map- the entire three blocks was razed. It pointed to a temporary library, but I couldn’t find that either, and the temporary library wasn’t on the map. Figuring I’d already walked about 4 miles, I just gave up. I decided to pay the fee to connect at the hotel (that’s why all my posts just appeared). Once I finished my internet business, I left for my sightseeing. Fortunately for me, that’s just across the street!
Castle Cardiff is a resplendent, almost ostentatious castle with a history that explains in a nutshell the existence of the city. As with many castles in Britain, it was originally a Roman fort. The Welsh were a people that lived between rocky shores and rocky inlands- usually limited habitable land means fighting. And the Welsh fought everyone that came here. The Romans didn’t really foray too far in, and eventually the Welsh respected them and traded with them. The Normans tried- they tried to conquer Wales so many times that had they not expended so much energy trying, they may still be in control of England. The English conquered by culture- and eventually by war. The English weaseled their way to the Welsh crown; one could argue that the current Prince of Wales is a weasel yet. Strangely, there’s a sign on the main street that says “Wales- the Happy Country.”
All of that history aside, the city known as Caer Dydd (translated from the gaelic Welsh to “Fort Didi,” a possible Roman praetorian) was only about 1,000 people as late as the early 1800’s. A noble from Scotland- the Marquis of Bute- was owner of the land from the mouth of the Severn and inland into Wales. The Marquis was an educated man, and he discovered his fortune under his feet… in coal. Welsh coal made that noble the richest man in the world. As a result, he had money to do eccentric things, and one of his loves was castles. So he went about restoring those on his land. The coal town of Cardiff boomed. The coal ran out, and the city began to shrink, but the city found a way to survive and now Cardiff is the capital of Wales.
Castle Cardiff is interesting, if nothing else. It could be described as a tourist trap. The parts of the castle one is allowed to tour are gaudy, and as the rooms were designed in the late 1800’s, there’s little historical significance to the living area. More interesting were the original remains of the Roman keep, which is being restored. I took pictures and visited the Welsh Regimental Museum, then went back for dinner.
Seeing as how it was game night, I wanted to be fed, but not break the bank doing it, so I committed a tourist sin and ate at McDonalds. I needed speed and certainty in my meal, and they offer that. Fed and ready, I began the trip to the park.
Ninian Park, named after the 4th child of the 3rd Marquis of Bute (who actually, instead of sounding like a simp, brought great honor to his family in the military and died leading a charge in the Battle of Ypres- that’s WWI) is about a mile outside of the city center, and I recognized I was heading the right way when the mob started growing on the same route. I eventually found the right door, and went to enter the stadium. I noticed a few fundamental differences between American sporting venues and this venue.
First fundamental difference: Entry into this stadium was through a doorway no more than 30” wide, and the ticket taker was in a highly secure booth. The turnstile was industrial, and was backed by a policeman. However, the rumors I had heard about searches were false, or at least they were at this place.
Second fundamental difference: The concessions were under the stands, but there were no windows, and the concessions weren’t even visible on a cursory look. No smoking in the stadium meant the people were drinking and surly…
Third fundamental difference: The fans are as rowdy, if not more rowdy, than American fans. Penn Staters are proud of their “Zombie Bounce.” Wisconsin has it’s 4th quarter “Jump Around.” Illinois does… whatever the hell it is they do to stimulate their brains to some form of activity. The hooligans- the top fans, for whom cheerleaders are an insult- sing. Actually, it’s more accurately described this way: They sing, in unison, the first verse of a fight song, usually pointing and taunting the opponent’s (other side’s) fans. The second verse follows on time, and they start swaying while maintaining the tempo, pitch, and clarity of the singing. Verse three they sway at quadruple time while maintaining the song. Verse four they are jumping at the quadruple tempo, waving scarves, and punctuating their zeal with a highly emotional final chorus. I watch the fans trade this back and forth, not continuously, but half the match at least. As I understand it, these fans are considered tame compared to the other leagues.
The game (match) was a considerable challenge (test) to the home team (side), the visitors (away side) were acknowledged as a quality organization (club), and the current players (lads) were struggling. The teams were the Cardiff City Blue Birds (royal blue uniforms with white and yellow) and the Wolverhampton Wanderers (also the Wolves, and they are orange and black). The action was quick right off the start.
For those of you that don’t like soccer for any variety of reasons, I would suggest you need to let go of your sports ADD. These guys beat the hell out of each other just going for the ball. Offside in soccer is actually quite easy to understand, like it is easy to understand in hockey or football. Ties are considered quite honorable everywhere in the world but the States, which only goes to reinforce the stereotype of spoiled, whiny rich dullards.
The constant motion of the game done by real pros is hypnotic, and halftime in this game came at a time that just felt right. The Wolves scored first, but the Blue Birds scored within 2 minutes to tie up and got a penalty kick 5 minutes after that, which turned the place electric. It was awesome to see and hear 14,000 lose their minds. The home side hooligans didn’t shop shaking and bouncing for a solid 5 minutes after the second goal.
Halftime was a flurry of activity that was almost carnival like. In one place on the field (pitch), there was the 6-7 year olds playing a mini-match; in another, a man and woman that had won the “you have the special program” contest were eating an Italian meal, being serenaded by four Italian men, while they ate; in another portion, they had a “Score-O” Shed wherein if you kicked the ball into the shed, you won 20 pounds and an autographed jersey (I wonder if they got the shed from Arthur “Two Sheds” Jackson (Ack! Another Month Python reference!))
The second half proved that, no matter what the sport, when you play not to lose, you inevitably lose. The home team played a tepid second half- for those of you that know or understand soccer, the midfield slowly broke down over the half- and the other team eventually put two in the net to take the lead. Of course, that’s when the home team started playing with energy. And I saw in soccer something I’d never seen except in hockey- they pulled the goalie!!! Except instead of leaving the field, he ran up into the offensive zone!!! And took a shot on net!!!
The game ended, a disappointment for the home team, and leaving the stadium was like walking into a giant smoking lounge. I eventually made it home and started typing this.

Goodbye, Scotland... Hello, Wales!

Today was a relatively short day, as I did little but travel from Edinburgh to Cardiff. A day on the train, it was peaceful and quiet. However, another event dominated my day- the heavy cold I came down with. Not a surprise, really- I was drinking whiskey in an environment that tests the mettle of the immune system. Plus, I’ve smoked more tobacco in the last 4 days than I ever have. (Before you go off the deep end, NO, I don’t smoke- but everyone here does, so I get the secondhand.)
The United Kingdom just made smoking indoors illegal, and the end result is a great number of pissed off people. See, everyone knows smoking’s bad for you, and they have campaigns where they place big labels on the cigarette packs that say, in bold letters, “Smoking will kill you,” or “Smoking is unhealthy to you and those around you.” But the British don’t care. I dare say it’s worse now, because people have to smoke outside, it’s far more noticeable how many people do so. And Britain is not California. Throw in that the Scottish grew tobacco in the lowlands (!!) during the war to save money for the military… they just don’t see a problem with it.
Anyway, the trip was fine and it was sunny the entire length. The train line came within half a mile of the North Sea at some point, and that was nice to see. Otherwise, rolling hills, stone walls separating farms (probably commissioned to be built by Lord Brickinghamstershire for his eighth 20-room cottage on the River Trickle in 1452), and the occasional city. Most of the cities that we passed here, were quite modernized, with new highrises, newly paved streets, and other civic amenities. Only one stood out as a slum, and that was Sheffield. Wow. That’s a hard, hard town. You can see the reason there’s a lot of British anger that comes from the Midlands if you see places like that. The closest comparison that I can think of is southwestern Philly, the part you see along I-95. The part where you see it and you think “It’s a good thing I’m driving 65 miles an hour through here.”
I changed trains in Bristol, which was quite easy, and I was in Cardiff at 5:30. It’s a small town, but pretty, and it has two loves that are quite easy to figure- rugby and beer. It’s not an exaggeration to say this is a rugby town. In fact, to ask anyone about their local football team will usually get a comment of “oh them, why bother, they’re not that good.” But I checked in, and got settled.
That’s when the fever hit.
I tried to wait out the fever, I hoped that I could break it in time for dinner, and I did. So I went for dinner and had the tomato soup and the turkey. I drank an entire pitcher of water and an orange juice to boot, then went to sleep. The pharmacies close early (6 PM), so I had to wait until morning to get something. Fed and hydrated, I went to sleep.

Notes and Errata

Notes and errata:
The British have a campaign for veterans here. I’m not quite sure if the yellow-ribbon campaign is the same for this. Several stores around here sell red poppy flowers “for the vets.” Apparently, the citizens are starting to realize their ex-soldiers’ pensions have been cut to save money in the national budget. They barely get paid as soldiers, and then when they’re finished in the service of the Crown, the only thing they may have when they leave is a job skill. Beyond that, they’re lucky to be average citizens. Sound familiar? Well, the Scots- the part of the UK that provided most of the soldiers for the first and second world wars- aren’t very happy about that. Wondering if people are trying something like that in America- but for the government to back it would be an admission that they’ve screwed up.
The British soldier- the ones that tried to prevent the Colonies from splitting, at least- had to buy everything they had, including their gear, weapons and ammo… and their uniforms. So they would typically wait until the battle was over, then they would get their soldiers- just so they could strip them of their gear. Think about it- how many “citizen soldiers” could afford a heavy red wool coat, a musket, etc.? They made less than prisoners of war did in some cases.
When I was at The Sheep’s Heid Inn, I remember that the soundtrack playing was the Best of Simon and Garfunkel. I found that funny, that in a pub as old as Scotland they were playing American music. Just a note.
Also, someone mentioned while there that their glass had no marks. It reminded me of an anecdote I heard, don’t remember where, where the person said that every drink was measured to get the exact volumes of alcohol, and to violate that is a crime. So, when wine is served, you get exactly 4 ounces; whiskey gets 1 ounce; beer gets ya 16 ounces.

The Queen's Own MacKamikaze Highlanders

(A Monty Python reference in the title)
Today, I’m just more tired.
I began the morning by trying to find any internet café- any at all. I went to each of the locations on the map that I hadn’t yet checked, starting on one side of the city. I got to that location, but there was nothing there. I went to the next location, and it had gone out of business. I went to a tourist info center, and they said the only close internet café was at the location I tried to find first. I was despondent, but when I got to that location- it was bright, orange, open, and ready. I had walked by that location just 24 hours earlier, and did not notice it. I felt really silly.
Now I got in there, a little flustered, but I paid for my hour- two pounds- and pulled out my list. Yes, I knew I had to make every minute count that I was online, and so I got cracking. I looked up all of the relevant information for tomorrow’s train ride, which leaves at 10 AM to points south. I also had a few other things that I wanted to look up. Satisfied, I tried to post to the blog, but the USB slot didn’t work (I type in the entries in Word and copy and paste them into the blog). Denied again, I left. I started my day and returned to the hotel.
I showered up and prepped for my new day; the start of my day was the centerpiece of the city, Edinburgh Castle. It’s quite dramatic, it’s visible from most parks in the city and sits atop a mountain of black- and I mean black- stone. Not obsidian, but deep black. It’s hardcore.
I really am not going to say much about the castle. The Scottish has a phrase over it’s coat of arms that says (roughly translated) “Offend me and I’m gonna mess you up.” It makes perfect sense if you think about the Scots. There are two statues at the main gate of the castle; one of Wallace, and one of Bruce. They don’t look anything like what you’d think; they actually looked quite like crusaders.
Little fact: Edinburgh Castle was lain siege to a total of 14 times in its history. It was never breached- the castle, in its 700 year history, had never been taken by force. It had changed hands for different reasons, but did not have a breached wall.
Little fact: The Scots thought that the English treatment of the colonies that would eventually become America was distasteful. In the Prisoner of War exhibit, you learn that the castle was used to house America’s pirates (not Continental Navy), but that so many other countries were interested in America’s separation (France, Spain, Prussia, and the Netherlands), that they had pirate ships of their own or were crewing American vessels. Also remember that John Paul Jones attacked the British Navy off the British coast. He gets mad props for his “I have not yet begun to fight,” and destroying the mast of a ship with musketfire from the Scots.
Anyway, I’ll post the pictures here soon.
I then strolled down the Royal Mile, poking my head in a place or two, and then when my legs were weary and I grew tired, I did something I have never done in all my trips to England- I had afternoon tea. I had tea at the Elephant Bar. Nothing spectacular about that, except that it just so happens to be where Harry Potter was brought into the world. It’s a very unassuming place, and I had a small pot of tea (2-3 cups) and a cookie for four pounds. Oh yeah- in that was an “Irn-Bru.” To explain in full detail would take too long, but suffice to say it’s iron soda. Yes. Iron. Swear to the Highest Holy.
(Brief interrupt: There’s a guy on the news, a elderly Scot, who attacked a younger man who was holding up a pair of elderly women as I type this. “Ah saw im, and ah run oop an poonchd im and nokd im oovar, an ee grabbd a bottl, er, aa white wyne bottl, and ee broat it oop like so, an ah blokd im, an poonchd im again…” Freakin’ classic. “Ye kenna be sceered a younguns like tha…”)
I walked home, taking pictures along the way, and crashed at the room. Tonight I was going to the Sheep’s Heid, so I wanted to leave plenty of time. I proceeded to pack my bags, then quickly realized I needed more time to concentrate on the bags. So I read the newspapers I had in my room. They say the same stuff here as they do in the States, it’s just… a little different. They have three parties here (actually, they can have more, but it’s Labour (our centrist Democrats), Tories (our Republicans and conservatives), and the Libera Democratic party (the San Francisco values far-left)). They are lamenting that they are losing seats in the parliament, and have been through four party heads in the last 18 months. Something about radical left policy not being economically feasible and, well, the pathway to communism- something that, unlike in the States, they freely admit. Say something like “You know communism failed, right?” and they’ll reply “They did it wrong.”
I left and took a cab out to the Sheep’s Heid. It’s quaint, but nothing terribly spectacular- except that it was established in 1360. Yes, it was established roughly 647 years ago. Let that twist your mind. It was in this tiny backstreet, in a tiny section of a tiny town a few miles outside of Edinburgh (the town was called Duddington). It was very unassuming, the prices were great compared to in town, the food was decent, and it was just a fabulous place; it would be even better with multiple people. It was decorated like an Appleby’s, y’know, with antiques all over the wall… except the antiques are a little older. The problem was when I finished, I had to walk back (no cabs, and I didn’t have enough cash to afford one if there was one). It was a long walk, nearly an hour, but I made it back safely. It’s really a safe city. Women walking alone everywhere, that’s a pretty good sign there’s little crime.
Anyway, I’m ready to crash. I do wish I could stay longer, and I’m very happy that I’ll get to return with Jenny, but I need to leave here and move onto the next portion of my journey. Tomorrow I have a few more pics to take, then I am to get on a train heading south… roughly 7 hours on the train, so plenty of time to sit and let my legs heal.

Edinburgh, the Royals, and Haggis

By the end of this post, you will understand that I can make the following claims:
*I’ve had whiskey with every meal I’ve eaten since I arrived!
*I voluntarily ate haggis- twice!
*I climbed three hills in one day!
When I woke up this morning, I was fully rested and relaxed. My feet weren’t cramping, my shoulders were no longer sore, and I was hungry- all great signs. I started early, going for breakfast in the hotel. The breakfast was buffet style, and was closer to an English breakfast. Can’t say I have ever been a fan of blood sausage. But included in the buffet meat selection was haggis, and I took that as a challenge- I took a portion.
I can see your faces now. A mixture of disgust, curiosity, and surprise fall over them, and in your minds, your saying “Ew… that’s nasty! You’re either brave or stupid. … and? How was it?” It’s thick and heavy, but palatable. It makes perfect sense to eat it while drinking a whiskey, though- the whiskey can cut through the thick paste.
Another reason the Scots are awesome is porridge. Now, porridge is not anything unusual- it’s just “boiled oat meal”- but it’s the options for flavoring that rocked. See, next to the tin were two pitchers- one with maple syrup, and one with whiskey. Yes. Now, I didn’t go all out with the whiskey- I only added a splash, not even an ounce- but that, plus the brown sugar and the maple syrup made a fantastic breakfast meal.
I also had a chance to read the local Sunday newspaper. British newspapers look relatively comical, using big, bold fonts, bright color pictures, and the headlines are sensational. The difference between them and the US papers is the relative balance of opinions. Most of the editorial pages don’t just assume that the entire world agrees with liberal, socialist agendas, and all seem to be introspective as to why Europe is casting off the Liberal/Socialist Democratic parties in favor of center-right leaning Nationalist parties. The second headline, under “England Loses the Rugby World Cup,” was that a prominent black police officer stated that the police need to increase search and seizures of minorities in order to reduce crime. Apparently, the muslim minority and black minority communities are demanding that something be done, and the man responded. However, there was a backlash in precisely the manner one would expect in the states: “You can’t do that! It’s not fair!” I’m sure I’ll hear more about it while I’m here.
Anyway, I finished my breakfast and set about my day. The first thing was to find an internet café. I decided not to use the internet at the hotel- it was 15 pounds per hour from the room and 8.50/hour from the business center. Instead, I decided to go to a café that was 1-3 pounds per hour. But I couldn’t find one where the maps said they were. I continued to walk but didn’t see one until I reached my first sightseeing landmark.
Calton Hill was covered in small stone memorials for various individuals- there was a Lord Nelson monument, and some to a few authors- and other than being green and pleasant, it offered a great view of the entire city. I took many pictures, and moved on.
Continuing down the street, I thought I might be able to cut through a cemetery to an adjacent street but was wrong. However, the cemetery was quite impressive. Most of the burials were of wealthy merchants that died in the 2nd half of the 19th century, with several of their descendants buried in the same plots as recently as 2003. Each gravestone read as a list: Person A died 1863, and Person B as well, and their son died in 1897, and his son died in 1922, and his daughter died in 1955. Some of the stones had grown vague with erosion, others were kept up. I took pictures and moved on.
Eventually I reached Holyrood House- the Royal Palace of Scotland. Not nearly as big as their cousins in London, it still had history and a bunch of attendants wearing plaid. I took many pictures. Very pleasant, very elegant. You know- royalty. Across the street is the new Scottish Parliament, and the building is an eyesore when compared to the rest of the town. However, all the materials used in the construction of the building were from Scotland, and you get a sense from the building’s history center that they weren’t fans of the Act of Union in 1707. Nevertheless, they have a state legislature (still run by the Queen as chief legislator and chief executive) and they’re proud of it.
From there, I looked south and this monumental crag called Holyrood Park loomed, begging me to climb it… which I did. Behind it was a peak called Arthur’s Seat- and after looking at it I decided not to climb it (I was carrying a few knick-knacks and such, and it was not only steep, but slippery. I took pictures until the batteries ran out.
It was at the top of the crag- the western wall of an ancient volcano- that I got introspective and was just thankful that I was there. Even in the wind, the cold, damp air, and the gloom, it was beautiful. Edinburgh Castle was the high building, and the rest of the town- all the Presbyterian cathedrals and spires and old government buildings-all seemed to approach it subserviently. I pressed on.
I began at Holyrood at the end of the Royal Mile and started up the street. There was a ton of wool stores, Scottish merchandise and such, and that’s when it hit me- the part of Scottish culture that is celebrated is without a doubt the male. The manly, masculine Scot. The defiant, sneering, whiskey-drinking, meat-eating, kilt-wearing, claymore swinging, God-fearing Presbyertian, blue-collar Scot. It’s everywhere. And hardly a mention of a prominent women- save Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots- and there seems to be this understanding that a Scottish woman will suffer while her valiant man fights for her. Romantic, but quaint. Think the whole Braveheart/Rob Roy world. This is their pride.
I stopped at a bagpipe store. I looked and looked, and the two gents who appeared kind of annoyed that I would ask a question, did so and I now understand a little bit better how bagpipes work. I bought a tutorial on how to play the bagpipes- it actually appears to be quite simple. We’ll see. A set of pipes costs roughly $600, so I’d like to be sure I could play it before I committed to it.
Eventually I got near the top, but was ready to get off my feet- I’d been walking for 6 hours, and I could have gone for more, but was ready to freshen up for dinner and such. I looked on my maps for internet cafes, and found a few- trying to commit them to memory.
I went for dinner at a restaurant called Stac Polly- a “modern Scottish” cuisine. The two waitstaff of the tiny restaurant were nice, one French and one American. I ordered the haggis in plum sauce appetizer and the pheasant with apple stuffing. The American waitress talked with me for a bit- originally from Maine, she spent her life traveling through Europe, currently working in Scotland. It was as if she was relieved that the few Americans around her age that she saw were comforting. Another whiskey from a rare place- Isle of Jure, aged 10 years. Not too bad, although the first sip hit like a sledgehammer. Overall, dinner was pleasant. The cheese and oatcake plate is pushed at nearly every restaurant; considering it was either that or chocolate I had the plate. The oatcakes are bland and the cheeses were strong, so if you’re into that, go for it. The cakes with very, very well with fruit; however, I was only provided a raspberry and small strawberry with five cookie-sized cakes. You live, you learn.
Afterward, I set out to find the internet cafes committed to memory. It was not to be, as I went to places I was certain they were but came up short. Turns out that I missed them all, turning away one block too soon or such. I also found the strip-club area and the beggars. The beggars were quite subdued, nowhere near as aggressive as in America. But not pervasive. I returned to the hotel and watched a little TV, read some, and went to sleep.

So why exactly are you going, anyway?

I confess- I've not been behind this trip.
Now, it's not as if I haven't known- I was the one that DEMANDED that we get this trip, that we do whatever it takes for this trip- but I am now sitting at the airport, my Crohn's in full blast and this feeling that I'm doing something wrong. I'm not doing anything wrong, I just feel that way.
We board and take off more quickly than you'd think, and soon we're out of U.S. air space. The flight is showing three movies- the newest Harry Potter flick (hadn't seen), Evan Almighty (had seen), and 1408 (hadn't seen, but didn't care so much). I figured that I could sleep through the last two movies. So I watch Harry Potter, and then I try to sleep.
It's at this point that two things happen- 1) a baby starts crying, and 2) the flight attendant's summon bell malfunctions, going off sporadically for THE REST OF THE FLIGHT. I am dead serious. No matter what they did, it just kept ringing, and not with a rhythm- the rings were random. I tried counting between the rings, and it was different virtually every time.
So when we landed at Heathrow and the sun was still down, forgive me, but I had a sense of foreboding. It was made worse by the hour-long wait to get through the UK Immigration Police, standing and carrying my carry-on baggage. Someone was denied entry, the police were quite vocal when they did it: “We’re sorry, but your visa information is wrong and we cannot allow you entry into the United Kingdom. You need to return to your home country.” It turns out that home country was China. I shuddered at that thought.
Once I did get past the immigration booth (it took me all of 30 seconds), things went relatively smooth. I found the Heathrow Express (nice but not worth $30), which took me direct and non-stop to Paddington, where I went into the Underground and transferred to King’s Cross. Mind you, I’ve got two carry-ons and a 40 lb. suitcase… I was exhausted when I got to the train terminal. I bought a one-way ticket to Edinburgh, then I went looking for Platform 9 3/4. (“Nine and three-quarters? Think your being funny, do you?”) But I was there for a real train, and I had to learn in a hurry how the system worked; kind of a baptism by fire.
I had an un-assigned ‘saver’ seat, which meant I could take any train, any unreserved seat, by any route that got me to Edinburgh. The first direct train to Edinburgh had such a mad rush of people that I wasn’t able to see an open seat, plus I wasn’t able to fit my bag in the luggage rack as it was too big. So I waited for the next train. I knew from my previous research that the train transferred in Newcastle, so I got on the next train to Newcastle. This had plenty of unreserved seating, and while I still couldn’t fit my bag in the luggage rack, I had a place to put it.
The train ride was smooth and easy, and full of English countryside. Tiny little towns, endless fields, well over 10,000 sheep, and even an occasional cow; there were ponies in increasing numbers as we got further north. Also, nuclear reactors were very close to the train, I counted at least three within a mile.
But the star view of the trip was the town of Durham. You have to dissociate the Durham in North Carolina with this Durham. –This- Durham looks like it was built along two hillsides, green and pristine. I fell in love as soon as I saw it, it looked as if something from a novel- it would be intellectually tawdry of me to such the style, say, an 18th century British novel, so I’ll leave it to your imagination.
After a few hours, I arrived in Newcastle. I don’t know what I expected, but whatever it was, the actual image made sense. The train station was busy, and I looked for the next train to Edinburgh. It was 3 hours away. But there was a bus from the train station direct to the Edinburgh Waverley station. I said, what the hey, I’m just trying to get there.
The bus ride was long, but it was eye-opening. England was the same; many references to Hadrian’s Wall in this part of the country, which I thought was much further south, and then I was in Scotland. The countryside is more depressing and dark, it’s covered in an umber-colored brush (hence, Northumberland), but the landscape became more noticeably hilly and green as we got further north. Plenty of oak and pine… by default, it’s Scotch Pine, but I don’t know if it was in fact the genus and species called Scotch Pine. And wool outlets were increasing in number.
We pulled into Edinburgh, and the first thing one noticed was not the Edinburgh Castle, but a giant hill in the east part of town. The city is very similar to any other British city, but hilly and with very dynamic buildings, and one other difference- a minimal amount of modern architecture. The bombers missed Edinburgh in WWII, so no new buildings had to be placed in the town. The result is a near seamless environment, and it’s so easy to just feel a part of it.
Once I got into town, I didn’t know where my hotel was; normally, I’d walk, but since I was lost and tired, I got a cab. It was a very short cab ride, but that’s went the dollar-pound disparity hit me. It was a 6-pound fare for about a half-mile along main, uncrowded streets. That’s $12 for a half-hour cab ride. That hurt.
I got to the hotel and checked in. The staff told me I was being upgraded for free. I had reserved a standard twin bed in a closet, the normal European room- I instead got the Cuthbert Suite (which is not named for Elisa Cuthbert, but the St. Cuthbert of Scotland). I didn’t collapse when I got to my room, but I could have. I bathed and cleaned up.
Once settled, I went about the business of starting my rental cell phone; international cell phones have sim cards, that allow you to put your number on any international phone. Kind of cool, but I had to activate it on a separate phone- this didn’t work. After getting some help from the younger staff with similar phones, I got a new sim card and my phone worked!
Dinner was okay; Scottish salmon, and whiskey to drink (there was more, but that was the highlight). It wasn’t very busy because most people were holed up in pubs to watch the Rugby World Cup final. I watched as much as I could, but fell asleep. I do want to ad the adverts, though- I saw an ad with Mr. T that had him driving a tank yelling at some male British simp to “GET SOME NUTS!”, and a gorilla drumming a Phil Collins song that ultimately had something to do with Cadbury.

In Scotland? Aye, laddie

(posted on 10/22, moved to keep order)
I'm trying to post from internet cafes here, but I can't get my files off the USB stick onto this terminal. Very untrusting, these foreigners. :) I have very long posts, but it'll have to wait. Sorry...