
# Walkers' Adventures in Great Britain

May 8 – June 19, 2015

# Chapter 1: SFO to Heathrow

"Yikes. A BART Service Advisory, posted 5 minutes ago!" I exclaimed. "Major delays from Bay Fair Station, disabled equipment on the track! We routinely ride BART to the SFO International Terminal, taking 55 minutes. Because our obliging neighbors are out of town, we had already arranged a taxi from home to the Bay Fair BART station, pickup in a half hour. Now John called the taxi back.

"We need to change our destination to San Francisco Airport," he requested. The price is $79 plus $5 for the bridge toll. "Okay," he agreed. It is far too late to make any other arrangements. The cab is a handsome black town-car, not an ordinary beat-up taxi. The driver brought us swiftly to the terminal, stopping outside the Virgin Atlantic entry door. In fact, we were there so fast, the ticket counter would not open for another ten minutes.

The new luggage is a big success. The four swivel wheels fully support the bag and the carry-on luggage and roll very well on the smooth floors at home and in the airport. The old luggage had become quite shabby. Last week, I put those two bags outside at the sidewalk, with a big sign "FREE" and they were taken away immediately, to my satisfaction.

Soon the counters opened for business. The high price for the Virgin Atlantic "Upper Class" brings us a very short wait, then a friendly and courteous check-in.

We met our goal for luggage weight, under 20 kilos each by the airline's scale. While the airline's weight allowance is much higher, we will have a 20-kilo limit imposed by the luggage transfer service for the three bicycle tours in the future, plus we'll be lugging the bags ourselves quite often. Older buildings do not have lifts. It was very much in our interests to pack as lightly as possible. Because 20 kilos is 44 pounds, we're satisfied that we'll have everything we want. Or if not, well, they have shops in the U.K.

Immediately we went to the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse. The lounge is a very attractive, large room, with a bar, stylish furniture, attentive waitstaff. While many business class lounges have a buffet, here we order beverages and food from a menu. Neither of us is hungry, and it is too early for alcohol, so we order green tea. John orders the cheese plate and praises the tasty cheese and chutney.

The lounge is outside security, which concerned me a bit. The club manager reassured me that he will check the security gate ahead of time and announce reminders when it is time to go. "You have priority access at security," he pointed out, "so there really is nothing to worry about." He showed us around, pointed out the shower and restrooms, explained the service.

We read today's "San Francisco Chronicle" and yesterday's "Daily Telegraph" from London. Checking email with the lounge's wi-fi reveals that an e-book I had on hold is now available, "A Spool of Blue Thread" by Anne Tyler. I had it on hold both as a physical book and as an e-book, and the e-book came available first. I downloaded the book to my Kindle Paperwhite reader, my favorite e-reading device, and then canceled the hold on the physical book.

I also have the e-book version of "Spider Woman's Daughter," by Anne Hillerman, daughter of Tony Hillerman. She has continued Tony's Navajo Mystery series featuring the characters Jim Chee, Bernadette Manuelito and Joe Leaphorn. We've both read all of Tony's books and I thought it was over when the author passed away. Anne writes a sentimental but readable story and continues the series very well.

"Orphan Train" by Christina Baker Kline and "The Cuckoo's Calling" by Robert Galbraith are less to my taste but I'm not ready to return them yet.

I put everything else in my library hold queue on "freeze" which means that I will keep the same position in the queue until I unfreeze. Thus it won't be my turn until I can go to the library to collect them. Except I missed one, darn it, about Alan Turing solving the Enigma machine. We saw the movie lately, but I found it unsatisfactory and wanted to read the book. Unfortunately, I waited a day too long to establish the freeze and discovered my copy was already in transit to the library. Darn. I canceled it, can't bring a physical book away for six weeks. I've put it back on hold and freeze for later.

A woman failed to mind her backpack as she sat down at the next table, knocking over my water glass, so we had to snatch my electronics and John's crossword puzzle out of harm's way. The waitstaff were there instantly, mopping up the spill. She apologized profusely. Luckily, no water got where it didn't belong.

Boarded the airplane, settled into the narrow but comfortable pods. Departure at 17:30. The first couple hours are bouncy, until the plane is past the Rocky Mountains. Once the moving map shows Montana, the air becomes less turbulent and doesn't threaten to spill beverages.

John brought along a good supply of crossword puzzles.

The airplane has a bar for the Upper Class passengers, not just serving drinks from a cart. In fact, there is no cart at all. The flight attendants open the pod's large table, set it with linen and tableware, and serve the dinner. I had pre-ordered the low-sodium meal, which I forgot about until the flight attendant asked my preference.

"The low-sodium is chicken and rice," she informed me.

"I would like the beef instead," I replied. "Is that okay?"

"Certainly," she answered.

When we're ready to retire, the flight attendant touches a button and the seat back tilts forward, forward, forward until it's flat on its face and its backside becomes the mattress of a narrow flat bed. She spreads pad and comforter over it, organizing the seat belt on top. They offer a caftan to change into, but nobody takes advantage. The amenities bag has useful items: a toothbrush and paste, eye cover, socks, pen, lotion, etc.

John never before has been able to achieve sleep on an airplane. With the lay-flat he is just able to go under for short periods but has learned to at least recline in meditative languor. Because our "night" isn't exactly an earthly local night, the shades are down and the flight attendants pop by to close any that are inadvertently open. John opens to see the night. There are constellations but not enough of the sky can be seen to know which they are. Because of a combination of our northerly great circle, the season of long days, and our thirty thousand or so feet of altitude, the Boreal horizon is never dark. It glows with a gradient that fades into deep-blue then black. At the base of the glow is a mottled narrow zone resembling a layer of cloud, red with sunset. At some time John notices a thin glow rather like mist but with structure. The glow increases a little and it is the Aurora – distinctive by its uncloudlike vertical towers, shafting toward space. For half-an-hour the Aurora glows faintly. Then it is gone.

It's possible to doze for long periods, if not sleep deeply. Then more food.

The plane landed at 11:30 am, somewhat late as we had to circle Heathrow for twenty minutes or so, but nothing serious. Immigration features a priority lane, short wait, then nothing to declare for customs and we cross the UK border. We're rolling.

# Chapter 2: Canterbury

We follow the signs for the Underground station. I purchased Oyster cards for visitors a few weeks ago, paying a few pounds extra to have them mailed home. Thus we did not have to wait in a ticket line for tube tickets, and we get the discount price per ride. The Oyster cards work like Clipper cards at home, tag in at the first station and tag out at the last station.

It's a 55 minute tube ride into London. The car fills up until mid-town, then begins to empty back out. When the seats our luggage blocked were needed, we shifted the bags into the entry area; on its side each is perfectly stable and safe. Happily, the Picadilly line goes directly from the airport to St Pancras station. Had we taken the Heathrow Express, it would have been 15 minutes travel but it doesn't go to the correct train station, so there would have been time lost in changing to the tube for a few more stops. Overall it made perfect sense to take the tube all the way and it's lots cheaper.

Once at St Pancras, we found a kiosk to print the train tickets to Canterbury that I purchased online six or eight weeks ago. About half the train tickets are of the sort that require the kiosk, where we key in the reference number for the purchase and insert the credit card that I used to buy them. They have magnetic stripes on the back, so home printed e-tickets don't work. It's not hard, once you read the kiosk menu to figure it out.

I had to register with six different train companies in England to obtain all the necessary tickets for the trip. There is a central website to select the source and destination for a journey, which then transfers to a different website to make the purchase. Once on the website, I can get a discount by using a railcard.

The British railway companies offer discount prices with various cards. The Senior Card costs £30 (each) and the Two Together card costs £30 for both of us. The 30 percent discount from the cards recoups the cost by the many train journeys on our itinerary. The Two Together card required submission of two photographs. Happily I still had the passport-type photos that we took for our Cambodian visa late last year, very suitable for the purpose. The website required a UK address to mail the card. Back before Christmas, I emailed a tour operator, Compass Holidays, from whom we are chartering a bicycle tour. She graciously agreed to let me send the railcard to her business address, and would forward the card, together with the tour materials, as a parcel to our home address, with the cost of postage added to my final invoice.

Turns out that the Royal Mail had some issues with the tour company's address. Of all things, the railcard was returned to the issuer as undeliverable. Yes, of course I copied the address correctly. And reconfirmed. "We get mail here every day." In the end I used Skype to call the card issuer's help desk to get it all straightened out. Darn good thing I started early!

We had the parcel, card, tour materials and all, although the last arrival, only ten days before departure, made me a little nervous. Never mind, it's all solved now. The conductor does indeed need to see the card to verify that we're entitled to the discount fare, so it's a pleasure to me to flourish their purple card with both our pictures on it.

Once in St Pancras main terminal, we examined the departure boards for our train. A sort of train ambassador hurried over to be of assistance. She had a badge to let us know she works there. Thus we knew to go to the correct platform.

The Canterbury train departed a half-hour or so later. I was pleased that the planning worked out so easily, since there were so many factors that could have delayed us: late arrival, long lines, tube delays, etc. but we had no troubles at all. The 14:12 departure was easy. It's a high-speed train, less than one hour trip. The train is quiet and comfortable.

Once settled in the journey, I realized to my chagrin that I had forgotten to obtain printed directions from the Canterbury West train station to the Millers Arms hotel. I had assured myself it was a short walk when I booked there, but now we do not know exactly where to go. At the first station stop there was local wi-fi. We both connected but couldn't work Google Maps quickly enough to get directions before the train departed and wi-fi closed. Thus I interrupted the chat of two young men across the aisle, who were simultaneously talking and pecking on their phones.

"Do you have Google maps?" I asked. "I need directions to this hotel," and showed the booking page from my trip notebook. They examined the page and recognized the place but couldn't say exactly.

"We don't have reception right now," they pointed out. "We're in a tunnel. In a few minutes we'll be able to look it up."

Soon they read out a sequence of lefts and rights which I wrote down. "It'll be easy," we agreed.

Once alighted at the Canterbury West station, we verified the directions on a map posted on the station wall and marched out. The luggage rolls less well on cobblestones, and tends to veer and careen.

We paused at an intersection to compare the street signs to the written turns. A woman just behind us stopped to ask "Do you need directions?"

"Yes, I'm looking for the Millers Arms."

"It's just across this street and down," she assured me. Then of all things, she seized my luggage and rolled along with us, talking all the way, and walked us to the inn door. How kind people are here. She is a steward at the Cathedral and told me the time for church services tomorrow.

The Millers Arms is a well-known pub with small but functional accommodation upstairs. We quickly settled in, took a refreshing shower and went for a walk, with a map obtained from the hostess.

Our room faces the little swift-flowing Stour river that drove the biggest of the six old mills in the area. The Riverwalk follows the river into town. This mill site is a popular place to walk dogs and drink beer. The swift falling water of the mill-race makes quite a bit of noise, roaring outside our window, cracked open against the room's warmth.

On our first river walk into town we cross paths with another outgoing helpful Brit, a chatty lady, who provides lengthy directions to various shops and sights of town and recommends the bus to Chilham "because Canterbury is so small." We talk with her for ten minutes before continuing the stroll.

The grocery store, Sainsbury's, is nearby. I had forgotten to transfer the English money brought from home into our wallets, except for £5 that I had handed John at the train station earlier. We didn't really need anything, but bought a £4 bottle of wine anyhow. To our surprise there was no "plus tax" for the purchase.

So here we are in England. Closed captioning devices attached to Brits would be helpful. At home, we watch Downton Abbey and British murder mysteries on television with closed captioning. Our pub's hostess is friendly and attentive and earnest, but her high-pitched voice and the pub's music turn her words into static. The one-on-one interactions with the gracious, helpful people encountered earlier today were all a little hard for my admittedly deaf ears to follow. They ask if we are Canadian and are astonished to hear that we just arrived from San Francisco.

We ate early dinner at the pub: fish and chips and salad and two locally brewed glasses of ale for £30. Then upstairs for a lie-down until 8:30 pm, couldn't stay awake any longer.

Despite fatigue, we did not sleep very well. The smokers and pub visitors made a certain amount of noise and also sodium street lights outside the open window over-brighten the room. Shutting the window helped but did not fix it and the room became a bit warm for comfort. The pub closed at midnight, with banging and scraping as they brought in the chairs and little tables from the sidewalk. Then we opened the window again, to cool off the room. Because of the Riverside Walk and the popularity of of the Mill Race just 10 feet below and across the street from our window, there is a constant stream of people and groups having good times without awareness of people trying to sleep just by. At one point the room was suddenly filled with cigarette as a smoker dawdled below. At two am there was another surge of home-goers. All and all we liked the Millers Arms and its people and its really convenient location but would think hard about which of its rooms could work for our best needs.

Still tired at 7:30 am, we prepare for the day. The room rate includes a full English breakfast: scrambled eggs, what at home we would call Canadian bacon, a large sausage, baked beans, a potato pancake, mushrooms, grilled tomato, toast and coffee and orange juice. We ate slowly but couldn't finish the big plate of food. Then rest and journalize.

The order of the day is take it easy, just get used to the eight time zones and relax and enjoy where we are and get ready for more significant activities in the coming weeks.

At 10:30 am, we stroll out for The Cathedral and Metropolitical Church of Christ, as the brochure informs us. The Sung Eucharist is at 11 am in the Quire portion of this very large cathedral. Tours (at £10 each) are suspended during services. We sometimes attend services while we're traveling, to see a big church as its architects intended it. The choir (quire) is a large group of men and boys, while other posts are held by older men and women. The big spaces of the cathedral echo the sermon, on the topic of love, and prayers, but amplify the singing voices wonderfully. The spoken words are in colloquial English, but sometimes the choir sings in Latin. We are invited for communion, or blessing, but decline. No photos during services, of course.

Among the many engraved and chiseled memorials in the church is a stone commemorating the Fire Watchers, men to went to the cathedral roof during bombing raids in World War II, throwing incendiary bombs off the roof to the ground where they could be extinguished, thus saving the cathedral from destruction. What a call of duty!

The town shops are open and busy. Buskers sing at different street corners, people occupy the cafes. We walk around until we begin to get tired, and a tiny bit peckish. The West Cornwall Pasty Company sounds like a good idea. John selects the Steak and Stilton pasty and I choose the Raging Bull, which is a little bit spicy. We were first going to eat them immediately, but their dishwasher is broken, so they are not serving today. Instead we have an in-room picnic. As it turns out, I don't much like Stilton cheese. But the other was tasty.

We visited the Tourist Information office in the late afternoon, collecting brochures for an excursion tomorrow for sightseeing by bus from Canterbury. Then some work on the internet to research our options. Eventually we decided on a bus ride to Dover Castle, atop the famous White Cliffs of Dover.

Dinner is long over at the Millers Arms; unfortunately we missed their special Sunday beef roast served as a big afternoon meal that supplants evening dinner. Instead we walked out to another pub for other roasts: lamb for John and pork for me. Both featured Yorkshire pudding (some kind of baked cup-shaped bread thing) and seasonal fresh vegetables. Veggies have been scarce in this country. Even John ate steamed broccoli with minimal grousing.

# Chapter 3: Excursion to Dover Castle

Bus 15 and bus 89 both go to Dover from the Canterbury bus station. None of the websites are clear about exactly how to get from a bus stop in downtown Dover up to the castle. The key word is UP. The fortification has been located atop a very high and steep hill since 1180. While the bus timetables have several stops in downtown Dover, it would be at least a mile's strenuous hike from there to the castle.

Bus 89 was first in its stall, so we inquired. "Can we get to Dover Castle with you?" I asked the bus driver.

"No, luv, you want bus 15. It stops right in front of the castle. Catch it in five minutes right over there." The 89 driver waves John to come back twice, once to say "tell the driver you want to go to Dover Castle" and then "Ask for the Family Explorer fare. That saves you money over two Dover returns, and you can ride any Stagecoach bus anywhere all day." I posted a review on Trip Advisor to explain to other visitors how it works.

We invested in a membership in the English Heritage association. A Joint Senior plan at £63 works for us. The castle's entry fee (£16.10 each) is already half the membership price. There are many other attractions in their directory that we plan to visit during our stay in England. It won't be long before we recoup the price entirely. Also, we will be able to drop in on some places that we might not enter because we don't have enough time or energy to justify the entry fee.

The castle itself dates from Henry II in 1180. We spent time in the Great Tower and in the medieval defense tunnels. Lots of stairs, not only modern but also medieval spiral stone stairs, uneven footing, dim lighting. My iPod's flashlight function was useful to help me keep my footing in the tunnels. We were both wearing sturdy shoes, thank goodness.

By now we were much in need of a sit-down and lunch and cuppa coffee. John alertly spotted a tea pot left on a picnic table in the lawn so we were quickly able to trace that clue backwards to the café that supplied it. We shared a sausage roll and a chicken sandwich and enjoyed the strong, black coffee.

Revived, we walked around the castle fortification, admired the view of the English Channel and took photos. We did not see much of the famed White Cliffs. That view belongs mostly to those arriving from France on a boat.

In fact, many of today's fellow tourists were school boys and girls speaking French. Not only French but also Spanish and German teen laughter and selfie portraits. Huh. My school field trips were nowhere near as impressive. Good job, little dudes. 

# Chapter 4: Stratford-Upon-Avon, Devoted to the Bard

We are admittedly tired of the Millers Arms: the overheated room, the eternal roar from the river, occasional noise from passersby and the cold shower. The people are very nice and the food is good. Neither of us is sleeping well yet.

We're at Canterbury West train station earlier than necessary to catch the 9:52 am train back to London. We learned an expensive lesson a few years ago: don't become complacent about how long it will take us to get to a train when we have non-changeable and non-refundable tickets.

Upon arrival in London's St Pancras station, we must make our way to Marylebone station for the outbound train for Stratford-Upon-Avon. The London Tube Planner app says to take any of three lines to Baker Street station, then change to the Bakerloo line to go to Marylebone. Quite straightforward, but there is a big hole in our local knowledge: the older, deeper stations, like Baker Street, do not have lifts or escalators. It's probably a good bit easier to do as Google Maps recommends, and walk part of the way along the street, for those burdened with luggage. Wheelchairs? Fuggedaboutit. Hardly any of the tube stations are equipped for wheelchairs. As it was, several very kind men and one young Asian woman helped me with the heavy lifting. Up one staircase, across a hallway, then down another staircase, another hallway, then up again. Sheesh.

Once at Marylebone, we have most of an hour in hand until the train, useful for an early lunch. Then a two-hour train up to Stratford-Upon-Avon. The Chiltern company's seats are not very comfortable but I managed a nap.

Just to top off the experience, the train finishes on the farthest away platform. Their lift is being rebuilt, partitioned off by scaffolding. So it's again up the stairs, across a walkway above the train tracks, and down the other side to street level.

"Turn right," the Google directions say, as we exit the train station. I object vociferously. The street sign shows the town center as a left turn from where we are now. John will say later that the station's construction work changed the configuration of the exit. Fine. We turned left.

Soon enough we make our way to the Mercure Shakespeare hotel, conveniently located near the town center. The hostess obliges us a very quiet, comfortable room on the top floor, at the end of the hall, and there is a lift. We crash for a couple hour's lie-down.

Refreshed, we do a light unpack and head out for ale and dinner at Rick Steves' recommended pub, the Old Thatch Tavern. Rick is our travel guru. We have downloaded his guidebooks and refer to them in considerable detail in many countries. John has just shown Rick's write-up on this tavern to the waitress, who has carried John's tablet away to show the bartender too.

The hostess offered us sample glasses of several of their local ales. As in the other pubs, all the ales taste exactly alike to me. They are not very carbonated, cool but not cold, mild flavor, different colors. I don't drink much beer at home, but local ale is quite acceptable. It's about £3.50 a pint, which is 500 ml. I order The Fuller's London Pride and John has the Seafarers. We settle at a table to journalize until dinner.

We have several questions about the menu. "What is the difference between Cottage Pie and the Pie of the Day? Are the seasonal vegetables fresh or frozen?" I was vegetable hungry and when appetite became satisfied finished the (fresh not frozen) broccoli and carrots and left some of the cottage pie.

The night's sleep is blessedly deep and quiet. We are greatly refreshed.

We walked out to a nice little café that served breakfast. The hotel charges a perfectly absurd £15 per person. Instead we ordered nice cheese omelets and granary toast for half that amount.

"Can you direct me to the Tourist Information?" I asked the waitress. That opened a discussion with the entire staff and two local patrons about where they moved it last year. One of the customers finished breakfast and left, then returned to tell us more.

"I asked a taxi driver," she said. "It's down by the bridge" and added detailed turns. Yet another example of how kind people are here.

Once at the TI we purchased tickets for the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus. Rick Steves recommends it for its lively commentary and convenient transport to some of the farther-away sightseeing. The TI staff also pointed out to us where we will catch the National Express bus tomorrow for departure.

The Ho-Ho bus stops at all the important places: Shakespeare's birthplace, Hall's Croft, Anne Hathaway's collage and Mary Arden's Farm. Our first hop-off is at stop 4, a half block from our hotel, because we forgot hats, sunglasses and sun lotion. The bus comes every half hour, so we had a few minutes for more photography of the very old buildings in the neighborhood.

I peeked into a butcher shop. "Do you have faggots?" I asked. I had been totally astonished to see such a word in last night's dinner menu. The staff there had explained, but I wanted to see.

The butcher obliged, showing me a package of four meatballs, about the size of billiard balls, described as spicy flavored minced lamb. "I know what the word means in America," he added. Everybody in the shop got a laugh over my shocked expression.

Later, I looked up recipes on the internet. The meatballs are more often made of pork shoulder with pig's liver ground in. The lamb version has lamb breast, lamb liver, lamb heart and bacon all ground together.

Our English Heritage membership entitles us to a two-for-one combination ticket to all five of the Shakespeare-oriented properties. That saves us £21 in admission fees already.

The Ho-Ho bus commentary is indeed entertaining and occasionally gross as they describe just how dirty life in Tudor times was.

The name Stratford-Upon-Avon is parsed for us. "Strat" is a street, plus "ford" meaning a crossing, over the river Avon.

Soon we are at Mary Arden's Farm. Mary Arden, Shakespeare's mother, grew up on this farm. John Shakespeare's father rented a farm from her papa Arden, so the children met at the quarterly rent day. Eventually John and Mary married and moved to Stratford-Upon-Avon where John made a good living as a glover. They had eight children. William was the third.

Today the farm is a demonstration of old farming practices. We watched a blacksmith and petted the horse but of most interest was the falconry demonstration. The falconer flew owls. First a barn owl, then an eagle owl. While the barn owl was never used for hunting (they eat mice) the big and impressive eagle owl could be trained to hunt rabbits and pigeons. Ordinary people, he explained, were not allowed to have falcons, but owls were okay. His eagle owl is a self-willed and disobedient girl. Rewards were bites of flesh, but she really became excited at a treat that still had some fur and a tail attached. Nevertheless she refused to come when called.

We had a light lunch at the farm's shop: herb pottage and knob. In the USA, that would be soup with a bread roll, which was decorated with a knob-shaped flourish on top.

The bus ride took us along some pretty meadows with views of distant hills. The commentary said these meadows were a thick oak forest, Ardenwood, in Shakespeare's time. All the oak trees were cut down, mostly to build ships. Thousands and thousands of trees, all gone.

The next stop is at Anne Hathaway's cottage. Anne was Shakespeare's wife and the cottage was in the Hathaway family for 13 generations. The cottage is explained by docents. The garden is lovely.

A group of French teenage students have a worksheet to fill out, in English, answering questions to show they are paying attention. One of them later shyly asks for help: what is the symbolism of the split in Shakespeare's statue? Well goodness, son, we haven't the slightest idea. Didn't even see a statue with or without a split.

Back on the Ho-Ho bus, we proceed to Shakespeare's birthplace. The exhibition opens with a multimedia show of different actors, including Homer Simpson, pronouncing famous lines. It's badly focused and I quickly lost patience with it.

The house has period furnishings.

After Shakespeare retired from London and returned to Stratford-Upon-Avon, he bought a big house called New Place where he lived the rest of his life. That house was torn down by a spiteful churchman a couple hundred years later, who resented visitors intruding on him.

We were to go see Shakespeare's grave, but were out of energy and quite saturated with history. Instead we had tea and scones and clotted cream, thus spoiling our dinner.

After a siesta, we walked out to Sainsbury's grocery store to obtain some light supper of fruit and vegetables and a selection of local ale for a room picnic.

We ate most of the fruit for breakfast, together with the instant Nescafe supplied by the hotel.

The weather has changed: cold, rain, wind. We prepare our rain gear for the day.

What we should have done yesterday afternoon: walk down to the bus station to lay eyes on the stop, to assure ourselves where to catch the National Express to Cheltenham. Since we didn't do that, we left way too much extra time for that short walk and for once did not get lost.

The National Express bus stop has a mostly intact shelter, offering protection from the wind and rain, and a rudimentary seat while we waited. We were the only customers here today.

Exactly on time at 10 am, the bus pulled in. A few passengers alighted. Luggage under the bus. Then an hour's drive in the rain to Cheltenham.

Once at the Royal Well bus station, we suited up against the continuing rain to walk to The Abbey, our B&B. We had directions, it was only a half mile. The walk would have gone smoothly, except for a mix-up early on when we asked a passer-by whether St George's Road is to the left or right. He indicated to the right. However, that was St George's Place, not Road, and the correct answer was left. Thus we had some extra walking in the rain, but by-and-by circled around to the B&B.

We are now under the wing of Compass Tours. Months ago, I carefully vetted the list of hotels for the three bicycle tours, reading reviews on Booking and Trip Advisor, requesting changes and refining the list to our needs. The Abbey is very nice, on a quiet side street, near the town center. We're still a bit early for the room to be ready, but no matter, we leave the luggage in the lobby and go to lunch.

The Moon Under the Water is an unusual restaurant with an extensive and varied menu, but my attention focused on the short list of traditional pub food. There. I've now maxed out on fish and chips. I don't actually like the greasy fish batter and fork the fish out from inside.

We walked around the pedestrianized town center, strolled the bottom layer of a multistory shopping mall, very modern and shiny, then back to the B&B for a nap. Now it is time to make ready for tomorrow's bicycle tour.

The bicycle tour in the Cotswolds has been tailored from their standard itinerary to mesh with our interests and abilities. We have rented electric bicycles. The daily mileage is well within our abilities, but the famous Cotswolds hills and narrow country lanes still niggle at our insecurities. Will their e-bikes be as capable as ours at home? Will these English lanes be like Crow Canyon Road or Niles Canyon Road back home? These are narrow, hilly country roads with poor visibility that I consider unsuitable for us to bicycle, although other people ride them routinely.

We rummage our luggage to separate the bicycle gear for tomorrow. The weather forecast is quite positive for the rain to end and sun to shine. Nevertheless, we routinely pack our rain gear on all European bike tours, which seems to have some magical properties to ward off bad weather.

John discovered that he neglected to pack socks for bicycling. Quickly he strides back down to the pedestrian mall to purchase a four-pack of thick socks. "I'll clean out my sock drawer when we get home," he assures me, because the drawer is quite full already. It's a good catch to discover this oversight when it can be easily fixed. All okay.

# Chapter 5: Bicycle in the Cotswolds

The crew from Compass Holidays comes to The Abbey promptly at 9:15 am to collect us. We have separated the bike gear and packed the luggage and carried everything downstairs to the parlor.

The weather cleared to brilliant sunshine. The air is cool, under 60 degrees, but with leggings and warm jackets we are fine.

The first leg is a welcome transport out of town up the very steep Hamm Hill. At the crest is a convenient pullout and a flat section of road for them to bring out the bikes and prepare them for us.

The electric bikes are FreeGo brand. They have the step-through frame that we prefer nowadays, a 40-mile capacity battery and a throttle to help with liftoff on an upward slope.

They wait with us while we get a bit accustomed, which always takes timid Marilyn longer than bold John, and then leave to deliver the luggage to our destination B&B in Moreton-in-Marsh. It will be another hour's riding before I'm at all comfortable and willing to use the throttle, to poor John's bewilderment. Eventually I relax into it and do better.

Today's ride should be less than 20 miles, since we had the initial lift. But. The written directions are hard to follow. Soon we are off course. Even locals are baffled when we stop to ask for help. The road map is not detailed. The signage at intersections points to towns not on the map at all. John's GPS course, that he made at home from the written directions, is erratic.

Or maybe, as the day wore on, I began to think that his GPS route was not erratic, we were off course often, missing (invisible) turns.

The Cotswolds hills are quite steep by our standards. The FreeGo bikes do not have the torque to pull our weight up some of them (although we don't know why not) and we have to walk to the top sometimes.

We finally found the correct track at mile 15. Now we had a solid bearing on the Discovery Animal Park, where we could get lunch and rest. We hadn't the spare energy to see the park's iron-age breed pigs and hairy coos, but at another time we would have gone in.

We were able to stay on course for the rest of the day, and made faster progress to the destination. Thank goodness. The final approach into Moreton-in-Marsh is a highway unsuitable for bicycles, but there is a rudimentary sidewalk to get us out of the traffic, with broken asphalt and potholes. The town itself was one big traffic jam at the High Street. We threaded our way between the two roundabouts then with relief turned onto the London Road to Treetops B&B.

Mileage for the day: 29 miles. Doesn't sound like much, but it was a hard ride.

The B&B is set well back from the noisy road. It was a pleasure to hear the traffic noise diminish as we crunched along the gravel lane. Our accommodation is in a separate building, above a workshop, up a flight of stairs. The room is bigger than those we've occupied before, but the usable space is diminished by the steep sloping roof on both sides. The kitchenette has a microwave and a refrigerator.

After a short rest, we walk back to High Street to a grocery store. It was a pleasure to be able to buy 100 grams of English cheddar and Cheshire and goat cheese, all locally made. Some cherry tomatoes, a gala apple, a sweet pepper, cookies, crackers, more than we'll be able to consume tonight, plus a liberal supply of local ale, on special at 2 bottles for £3. A bottle here is 500 ml. We are in residence for two nights, so there is time to do it all justice.

An email from the National Express Bus Company alerts us to the threat of a nation-wide railway strike on May 25. This is a BIG problem, we have travel plans for the day. I looked into the matter further on the internet. The 24-hour strike is to begin at 5 pm on Monday, May 25. We SHOULD be finished with our train rides by mid-afternoon. Will that be good enough? Don't know. Will next week's negotiations fix the problem? Don't know. A strike will impact millions of Brits who use trains to get to work all over the country. What do we do next? For now, wait and see. It is true that the National Express bus company has service between Cardiff and Keswick, but 10 hours in duration, we're not ready to jump.

The room is full of flying insects. John, tender-hearted as he is, catches and releases a half dozen, but there are many more. He wants to work a crossword puzzle after I've gone to bed, but they flock so strongly to his reading light that he gave up. Maybe he should be like the Pied Piper and lead all the moths outside.

We recharged the bicycle batteries, which took perhaps five hours. I downloaded a FreeGo user manual to get some pointers about how to get up hills more effectively. It says we need to ride 10 kph (about 6 US miles an hour). We'll work on that. There are more hills to come.

The morning reveals a sparrow fixated by pecking against a window. At first, we think he is hunting insects, rather than fighting his reflection. But he is exceedingly persistent and seldom gets an insect. He would be welcome to those moths inside.

We've decided to concentrate today's energy on the charming village of Chipping Campden. The route is easy to do, only seven miles away. There is a steep downhill that worried us for its implications on the ride back. We tried to put that thought aside for the time being.

Once on Sheep Street we made our way to the Tourist Information office, looking for a place to lock up the bicycles for a few hours. The ladies of the TI graciously okay our use of a roof drain to U-bolt the bikes securely.

Now we were free to follow Rick Steves' town walk, which I had downloaded to my iPod. He strolled with us along the High Street, pointing out memorials and architecture, which we greatly enjoyed.

Rick's restaurant suggestion, the Eight Bells, was a disappointment. The sandwiches were overpriced at £8 each and the fillings were skimpy and gloppy. I'm not sure why it's labeled a gastropub. Already we've been in much better pubs elsewhere. I've alerted the public with a review on Trip Advisor.

We had to be satisfied with a walk around the outside of the beautiful old church, as there was a concert singing within. I would have liked to slip in for a little listen, but the door was posted not to enter except during applause. It would have been rude, fer sure.

Now we girded for the ride back to Moreton-in-Marsh, up that blasted hill. Except for that steep bit, it's a lovely ride, past thatched roofs and manor houses and wheat fields and horse pasture. Many bike clubs are doing their Saturday ride along bike route 442, which we followed most of the way.

Even in first gear and full power assist, the e-bike couldn't make it to the top of the grade. Our Kalkhoff e-bikes at home would climb a tree in third gear. I've never had mine in first gear. Never mind, a huff-and-puff hike and we're at the crest. The FreeGo bikes do walk more obediently than the Kalkhoff bikes do, which is something.

Once that bit was behind us, it was an easy and scenic road back to town.

We stopped at the grocery store for more ale for this evening, plus a few more tomatoes and a local green apple, which might be too sour for best pleasure. It is said to be a cooking apple. Maybe I'll rig up something with the sugar to "bake" in the microwave. We have a little cheese left and the pasty and other goodies we over-purchased yesterday. Eat it or leave it now.

Mileage for the day. 15 miles.

The morning sparrow must have been seeing his reflection, because he is elsewhere this afternoon. The green apple is excellent eating, no sugar or cooking needed.

The following morning, the sparrow returns to peck on the glass, again in sunshine. John takes pity on the little bird and puts a pillow in the window to block the reflection. We see the bird in the tree, so he's around, but not banging his poor little head on the glass.

We pack up, leave the luggage in the reception hall, and pedal out after breakfast.

Today's hills are (mostly) more moderate than previous days. The sunshine lights up the dark green wheat fields and the brilliant yellow rape seed, which makes canola oil.

Our spirits are high as we pedal along. John watches his GPS carefully, so off-course alerts are minimal and quickly remedied.

John built all the GPS courses at home, following the map which Compass Holidays marked with highlighters. That's one reason that I requested we receive the tour package ahead of time. He is apprehensive that his route may have errors, so sometimes his confidence is shaky.

We are entirely dissatisfied with Compass Holiday's map and written directions. They are often in conflict with one another, with key intersections omitted altogether. At one point we were comparing the map and the GPS and the written directions, to find that an entire loop from the description had not been marked on the map. Once John spotted that error, our decisions fell into place, at least for that segment of the ride.

The approach to Stow-on-the-Wold is uphill. It's the highest village in the Cotswolds, still only 800 feet. A crew of road riders in jerseys speed past us. One comments "I hate this bloody hill."

Another spots the electric bike. "That makes it easier," he remarks.

"Not yet," I reply, puffing. "I'm in first gear and struggling! He pumps past with a wave and a grin.

As before, the lowest gear and full power is insufficient to pull the entire hill, so the last quarter mile or so is a hike.

At noon, we are catching our breath at the crest, big hill accomplished. It's high time for lunch and rest, then Rick Steves' guided walk around the old wool-trade village, downloaded to our iPods.

We walk around the town square, examining menus and inquiring about availability. The Queen's Head has a special Sunday roast dinner, but are booked up. The Stow Lodge is also booked right now, but we can wait for a table and rest awhile. The barkeep walks us through the car park to a place that we can lock the bikes to a roof drain, out of everybody's way. We're not dressed as nicely as I would like for the Lodge, but they do not reject us. I had their roast beef and Yorkshire pudding Sunday lunch for £11 and John had fish and chips for £9. We avoid drinking alcohol, we have too much more riding to do, tap water is fine.

The restaurant was overheated, so the weather after lunch seemed much colder than before.

Rick's guided walk was short but yielded one impressive sight: a pair of yew trees frame an ancient door into the church. Tolkien is thought to be inspired by that doorway as the entry to Moria in "Lord of the Rings". We can see the resemblance. Tolkien lived in Oxford, but traveled in the Cotswolds often, to visit his brother.

Back in the saddle, we make our way out of town, crossing a busy road with great caution and then cutting back into the country lanes. We stop at every intersection for map check. It's not that much farther to our destination, but we have no extra energy for accidental detours and our bike batteries are becoming depleted, too. I reluctantly climb yet another hill.

Several cars are parked at the crest; many people are walking on the footpath. John pulls over. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"We're going to do what everybody else is doing; take in the view," he replied.

"Oh. Right." I had lost sight of the primary reason for being here. The view is splendid. The lambs are especially cute: twins nurse with tails wagging, others illustrate the word "gamboling" in the green grass. We're not in California any more!

We are so amused by the lambs that a passer-by wants to know what was happening. He thought it must be more important than sheep.

Downhill towards Upper and Lower Slaughter, which are said to be charming but we kinda rolled through without sightseeing. Rick assures us that "slaughter" does not refer to lamb chops but to "sloe" that makes gin. Okay. At last, we are in Bourton-on-Water.

Total mileage: 29 miles.

Our B&B is Holly House in Bourton-on-Water. The hostess, named Jayne, is very surprised to see the bicycles. "They didn't tell us about the bikes. They usually book walkers with us." We've gathered that many people really do hike these routes.

"We're Walkers," John assures her cheerfully. "We need to put the bikes under cover tonight. Rain is forecast for tomorrow."

Jayne is distressed. "They didn't tell us," she repeats. "If you give me about a half hour we can figure out what to do."

"Okay, we want to go to the grocery store before it closes." The Co-Op around the corner closes at 4 pm on Sunday, it is 3:15 pm now. "We'll do a little shopping."

We ride back to the Co-Op, lock up, and purchase ale and cheese and fruit for an in-room picnic, having had such a very large lunch already. We brought along the crackers and snacks from yesterday, making plenty.

When we return, David, the host, has organized some space in their tool shed to stow the bikes, to our relief. Problem solved.

The bike batteries are down to one light. We take them upstairs to charge overnight. David has already brought our luggage upstairs, bless him.

The room is comfortable and quiet, thanks to double windows that completely remove both the street noise and the dogs barking. Later, we will notice that other guests, who are only chatting, are quite audible, but that isn't so bad.

Hurrah, the B&B offers guest laundry, £5 a load. In fact, we have two loads. It's very satisfying to be able to get it done. This evening we sort the laundry out for washing tomorrow. We are in residence for two nights.

The new day's rain is forecast to be day-long. Compass Holidays has provided us with a suggested loop ride around the area, but we are entirely satisfied to just relax and rest.

David is the cook. His Eggs Florentine features home-made hollandaise and fresh, not cooked, spinach.

We meet and chat with some of the other guests about the weather and upcoming railway strike. The other guests check out and depart by 10 am, but we linger at the breakfast table, journalizing.

At 11 am, the first of today's guests rings the doorbell. I waited for Jayne or David, but they are elsewhere in the house. At the third bing-bong, I answer the door and explain, then run upstairs. Jayne is at the top of the house doing the rooms. She hurries downstairs, all apologies to everybody. The guests leave their luggage and go back out sightseeing.

Okay, time to stretch the legs with a walk around Bourton-on-Water. We wear jackets and rain tops and borrow umbrellas, get the little map for the town and walk out to Birdland.

Immediately on closing the front door, we have an issue whether to turn right or left. I had talked with Jayne and another lady working at the B&B and both of them said turn right and go down the footpath. John insisted on left. A man walking home from the Co-Op crossed the street to help.

John turned the moment humorous when he had to acknowledge "she's right and I'm wrong, look what you've done!"

A few minutes later, we were on Bourton-on-Water's High Street. We strolled quite slowly, taking pictures of spring flowers, the river, the dainty bridges and the New Old Inn. Tiny children are all kitted out in red rain boots and pink cheeks and chuckling as their mothers help them feed the ducks.

We paid £16, the senior price at Birdland, and it turns out to be a good value for us. For whatever reason, we'd rather see a bird park than an arboretum or a motor car museum.

Here are penguins and flamingos and rheas and hornbills and the most remarkable pheasants and guinea fowl we've ever seen. Not English, but southeast Asian in origin, these creatures look like science fiction creations. The park is far more extensive than we expected. The aviaries are large enough for the birds to fly, protected enough from the weather and very clean. Many of the birds are so happy that they are nesting and breeding.

When the rain pelts down, we wait awhile under shelter, then it eases off so we resume walking through the park. By the time we've visited all the aviary alleys, the sky is blue and billowy clouds decorate the horizon. The hornbills stretch out their wings to dry, like cormorants. The cassowary never will come out of his hut.

The rheas provide a very Jurassic stare, their beaks lined with green mulch from grazing the lawn in their pen.

We chose a tea room on High Street for lunch. It is a pretty little shop, very English in menu and presentation. John had steak and kidney pie. Despite my earlier resolution to be done with fish and chips, I wasn't. Their breading was much better than batter. John saved the leftover chips from both plates in a paper napkin to take away.

Departing the tea room, we crossed the little river to feed the ducks. Actually, it wasn't necessary to go find the ducks, just make a little tossing gesture and they flock straight over. The mallards had a fine feeding frenzy with the fries. Is it wrong to feed the birds junk food? Well, probably. But no one duck had more than a bite. The (many) leftover fries were spread around a big population.

Upon arrival at the B&B, Jayne presented us with an armful of clean, folded clothing. Very welcome and worth the price.

We've been dissatisfied with the bicycle routes and directions. Now we take matters into our own hands. Thank goodness for the B&B's excellent wi-fi connection. First, we consult Google maps for a bicycle-friendly route from here to Ivy House in Cirencester, tomorrow's destination. Then John leans into Garmin Connect to build a route, which he downloads to the Edge 800.

We feel it is important to be efficient tomorrow, as the weather will be unsettled, maybe even thunderstorms in the afternoon. The route differs somewhat from what Compass Holidays has laid out, which has some extra travel for sightseeing purposes. I feel much more confident in John's GPS than in the written directions provided and now that he has practice with building these routes, we feel they are accurate for us to follow.

David had already brought our bicycles from the tool shed to the gate when we were ready to ride out about 9:30 am.

John leads us out along his newly built route, up hill and down dale. I'm struggling more than he is, and walk hills that he declares are easily pedaled in low gear. In most ways, it's a mental barrier at least as much as a physical one. If I'm breathing very hard I think I'm in trouble. That's called a self-fulfilling prophecy.

When we finally achieve the plateau, the vistas are simply splendid. The sun is in and out, cloudy and brilliant, illuminating the sheep meadows and crops. We notice that the road is quite wet, puddles in the potholes, it rained here just a few minutes ago but the sky is blue now. Around the horizon, black clouds and two separate squalls, pouring down rain a few miles away. This part of the ride is best of all, relatively level, weather permits a very enjoyable ride.

John makes only one navigational mishap, when he disbelieves his GPS, which indicates a turn down a nondescript road. We roll downhill, to a dead end at a farm field. "Sorry about that," was all he could say, as we trudged back uphill to the turn. Well, that sort of thing happens, once is enough, and the rest of the day's navigation is well executed.

We're on the approach to Cirencester when a sprinkle turns into a squall. No village here, just some kind of closed business without any shelter to stand under. We put on rain tops and rain pants, then just stand in the downpour until it passes, fairly similar to the farm animals.

It would have been more convenient to have been another quarter mile along, where the big roadside trees provided more shelter and the roadway was barely wet.

A few minutes riding under bright blue sky allowed us to put away our dried-off rain gear in the panniers. John's saddle was wet. He has brought his own saddle cover from home and it absorbed enough rain to be annoying. Next time, stow it in the pannier or put a plastic bag on it.

We paused at a turnout to let traffic go past, and chatted with a group of four hard-bodies who declared "we love the hills". Good for them. I've about had my fill of hills.

We achieve End of Route on the GPS, right next to our B&B, Ivy House. It's only noon, we've made good time.

Total mileage for the day: 18 miles.

The important attraction in Cirencester is the Roman Museum. As Wikipedia confirms, the English place-name Chester, and the suffixes -chester, -caster and -cester, are commonly indications that the place is the site of a Roman castra, meaning a military camp or fort, but it can also apply to the site of a pre-historic fort. This community was second only to Londinium, with archaeology finds unearthed in very modern excavation.

The museum is very well organized, presenting pre-history through many eons. They display large, elegant mosaics, originally laid down as floors in Roman soldiers' homes. Timelines on the walls show just how old these places are. We only regretted that we had to go see about some other matters and were obliged to stop with the Anglo-Saxons, who came later than the Romans.

The other matters pertained to planning for the next day. Questions included: what will the weather be? Can we take a shorter route than the sightseeing tour provided? What is the elevation profile of both routes? Fortunately, the B&B has excellent wi-fi, so we were able to research these issues deeply.

John is strongly inclined to ride tomorrow. He points out that the elevation change, 400 feet over nine miles, compares favorably with our familiar Iron Horse Trail at home, which rises 200 feet over five miles, that we ride with no problem. However, I'm not sure but what the online profile diagram smooths over the bumps, up a short-steep then rocket down, which is harder for me. But I do agree it is do-able.

On the other hand, I've pretty much topped up my appetite for hill riding. The weather forecast promises showers tomorrow. After discussion, we agree to let today be the last riding day of this tour.

I phoned and left a message, followed up with an email, requesting that they pick up the bicycles as well as the luggage tomorrow morning. We will take the bus to Cheltenham, very easy. The arrangement is quickly confirmed. All okay.

We put the planning aside to go Marks and Spenser for a light grocery and ale shop. Borrowing an umbrella, because it has rained several times during the afternoon, we walk a couple of blocks to the town center. The skies open up with a hail storm. Little white ice rocks pile up on the sidewalk and parked cars, fierce wind blows the storm sideways. We take that as a sign that our decision is confirmed by heaven.

Next morning, the brilliant sun prying my eyes open pressed my mind very close to change. It's a glorious morning, looks like a great day for a bike ride.

Additional discussion, then confirmation of decision. After the excellent breakfast, we prepare the bicycles to return to their owners. John wrote a note to ourselves in the middle of the night: don't forget the mounts for Foretrex and Edge 800. Such notes are conducive to sleep. We unfasten the mounts for our two GPS devices, as well as John's saddle cover and this-and-that, put the battery chargers, locks and tool kits into the panniers to return.

The B&B hosts know that the luggage and bikes will be picked up later today.

We walk away feeling very lightly burdened.

It's a couple of blocks over to the church of St John the Baptist in the center of town. An organist is practicing for a concert, filling the big spaces with mellow notes.

I asked the docent a question: what is a relict? I've seen tombstones, and plaques within this church, with deceased names and ages and dates. Here lies George Williams, departed this world in 1790, age 56 and his wife Mary, died 1762 age 35 and his relict, Susanna died 1810 age 62. The docent confirms that the relict is the second wife who outlived the husband.

We boarded the bus to Cheltenham, a trip of about 35 minutes, on roads numbered in a series beginning with A. The roads labeled M look larger and faster. The bus fills the entire lane, shoulder to center line. It's a double-decker, so willow tree branches sweep across the roof. The doorway lowers very nicely to the curb for passengers to step aboard easily.

Once in Cheltenham, we finalized a decision to change buses for a side trip to Gloucester. The number 94 occupies the next bus stop every 20 minutes, so we've barely decided when the bus pulls in. Thirty minutes later we are in the big city.

Of primary interest here is the cathedral. Their stained glass windows are especially brilliant. We bought one photo pass for £3, didn't really need two, so John could take pictures of the stained glass. He's become adept at stopping down the camera to enrich the color of stone and glass.

The hallway to the cloister was a movie location in one of the Harry Potter movies, where Harry and Hermione see a troll. It looks very much the place for a troll to occupy.

We walk down to the docks, on the shipping channel. There's nothing much going on there today, but preparations for the Bank Holiday next Monday have begun. Workmen are erecting covered stalls for vendors. Banners announce tall ships for the weekend. Some low boats that look like they carry tourists are tied up, not in business today.

We're ready to catch the return bus to Cheltenham. We're in the same B&B, The Abbey, from which we began our Cotswolds tour, so we have no trouble finding it again.

Although the time is nearly 4 pm, our luggage has not arrived. I'm a bit worried. Were we forgotten? I called Ivy House, "did the luggage get picked up?"

"Yes," was the reply, "but I don't know what time they came." I'm reassured, we've not been overlooked.

At 5 pm, the owner of Compass Holidays calls us to bring us up to date. The luggage crew had to deliver some bags to Bath, where they became entangled in dreadful traffic that put them very late.

We were in Bath six years ago, when we had dreadful traffic because the sewer system was dug up. Haven't they fixed that yet? Or is this some new intrusion? What a terrible nuisance for the residents and visitors. Bath is not one of our destinations this trip, as we are emphasizing places we did not visit before.

The luggage finally comes at 7:30 pm, poor fellows, what a long difficult day for them.

We went to dinner at the Moon Under the Water, where we ate last week. It's a fun place, comfortable and not-too-full with cronies in small groups enjoying themselves.

It's a great way to finish up our Cotswolds experience.

# Chapter 6: Wales

Taxi to the Cheltenham train station, two miles away, then catch the CrossCountry Trains service to Cardiff Central. The price is only £4.25 each, cheaper than yesterday's bus fare. Our train crosses into Cymru, the Welsh name for Wales.

All signs now have two languages: Welsh first and then English. The journey of one and a quarter hours brings us to an entirely different landscape and architecture.

I asked the train's ticket collector his opinion about the upcoming rail strike. He says none of his company's trains will operate on Monday. Nobody knows anything until later in the week, quite possibly the day before the problems begin.

The word "canceled" is American spelling and "cancelled" is the British spelling and both versions mean trouble for us.

Somebody left a newspaper aboard, with the headline "Trains cancelled days ahead of national strike. Virgin axes West Coast services even if action is called off."

A helpful Arriva Wales employee offers more positive advice, that Virgin means southbound service is canceled. "You're going to Penrith, that's northbound, you'll be fine."

We walk up the delightful pedestrianized street of Cardiff to the Hilton, feeling more cheerful about the strike situation. It's still early for check-in, but the room is ready for us so we can drop the luggage off upstairs and head out for first dose of sightseeing.

The Cardiff Castle is across the street. Our room has a splendid view down into its grounds. I chivvy poor John to hurry up, we only have this afternoon to see the castle and the museum. We scarf up a quick lunch at Burger King (what a dreadful choice, won't do that again even when hurried).

The castle is a fun expedition through time, with a complicated history that began with or before the Romans, continuing with the Normans and to succeeding ruling dynasties.

As it stands before us now, it is an artifact of imaginative restorations during the personal ownership by the rich and interested Bute family. Excessively wealthy with profits from their coal interests, generation after generation reconstructed and re-reconstructed according to contemporary understanding of how it would have been under the Romans and Normans. So, if it isn't exactly ancient history in stone, still it is a creditable stab at being one. We purchase the audio tour, worthwhile. I showed our English Heritage membership but it is without honor at this Welsh history site.

We climbed the motte and bailey, toured the Great Hall, admired Capability Brown's perspicuity of design.

The row of red bricks is the top of the Roman wall. The discovery of the ancient wall was sensational in 1888, when the third Marquess of Bute's workmen dug it up.

Back at the Hilton, we go to the Executive Lounge for a cup of tea and a pastry. The television is set to the news channel. Across the bottom of the screen streams the message. "National railway strike action is cancelled."

Oh, good news. That's a huge relief. At some point, I'll check to make sure Virgin Trains will back off the saber rattling reported in the newspaper.

With the sugar and caffeine circulating, I require that we go back out to find the starting point for tomorrow's tour. It's very close, go through the tunnel under the very busy street and we pop up in front of the Cardiff Museum, facing the City Lawn as their email directed. Okay, that will be easy.

The museum is free, so we pop in for a look at their Impressionist art collection. Of more interest, as it turns out, is the natural history exhibit. It's noisy with dinosaur roars and vivid with floods of volcanic activity. We don't really take in much, but it's a kick. Regretfully, the museum closes before our tours end in the afternoon, so we won't be able to come back.

I do think that Hilton ought not to charge for internet in this day and age. We'll try to restrict ourselves to the free wi-fi in the reception area and the lounge. We can get free wi-fi at coffee shops nearby too. Paying £15 a day is ridiculous. I'm only a "blue member" of Hilton's rewards system, a "gold member" would get free internet. Bah.

Up we go to the lounge, for free wine and free food and internet. I google the news on the rail strike to find that the last disquieting point is resolved. Virgin trains tweeted: "As a result of planned industrial action being cancelled, the original timetabled services have been reinstated for 25th & 26th May."

With that weight off our minds, we can turn our full attention to touring here in Wales. I've booked three tours with Where When Wales, which gets rave reviews on Trip Advisor. They promise a comfortable Mercedes mini-coach, 15 clients max, and the guides are highly praised for their commentary.

The Executive Lounge continental breakfast is exceptionally well-provisioned, with scrambled eggs and English-style bacon and baked beans kept hot, toast and fruit and salmon and other tasty items chilled.

We arrived at the Where When Wales meeting point to be greeted by Jan, owner and tour guide, and John, owner and bus driver. Our John will go by "Jake" during the tour. Today's 14 guests are mostly American plus three Canadians and one Australian. The tours depart at 9 am and return at 5:30 pm.

The last couple arrive in a mad dash, at the stroke of nine. Off we go, on the Wye Valley Tour.

First stop on the tour is Caerleon, where we tour the partly reconstructed Roman Fortress Bath and the Roman Legionary Museum.

Jan does a very good commentary, spoken quite audibly, and answers questions well.

The museum has, amongst its exhibits, gemstones that were lost from jewelry when the Romans bathed, excavated millenia later from the drains.

Second stop is Chepstow, a village on the Wye River, with a bridge to England. The tour group is encouraged to walk over the bridge, which is closed to cars due to repair work underway.

Lunch at the Three Tuns is quite nice, a roasted vegetable tart with goat cheese and fresh salad.

Then Jan took us into Chepstow Castle for a tour. I showed our English Heritage card and received half off admission, £3.50 saved.

The Chepstow castle's doors were hung in the main castle gate from 1190 to 1962, making them the oldest castle doors in Europe.

Third stop is Tintern Abbey, the well-known ruins that inspired some of Turner's paintings and various poets. Wordsworth's "Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey" sounds pertinent but does not, in fact, mention the abbey. On the other hand, Allan Ginsburg dropped acid there and composed an entirely relevant poem.

The overall effect of the abbey's destruction, ordered by Henry VIII, is pitiful. The lead roof was melted down, the stones thrown around. In later centuries, the stone walls have been reinforced and stabilized.

Again, the English Heritage card was rewarded with half off admission, another £3.50 saved.

On the way back to Cardiff, Jan describes the many film stars and sports players from Cardiff, a recital we will hear more than once. We're dropped off in front of the Hilton at 5:30 pm, as promised.

Our second tour day, the Wales Border Explorer, has fewer customers. Nine were expected, but five minutes before departure, one couple had not arrived. Jan phoned to check on them. Fortunately, they connected at once. "Are you joining us today?" she asked. "Where? You're still on the train? No, the tour begins at 9, not 9:30. It's stated clearly on the confirmation email. I'm terribly sorry but we can't wait that long. Everybody else is on the bus. I'll call you later, to discuss a refund or reschedule." So the seven of us left on time.

Jan did get in touch with them later and rescheduled for a different day's tour.

The Big Pit National Coal Museum. The tour descends 300+ feet to genuine coal mine tunnels. The docents are former coal miners, with experience not only in this mine but also others around Wales. The well-known conflict between Margaret Thatcher and the mining communities, when she ordered the mines closed for economic reasons, is still treated as a tragic loss of a cherished way of life.

As we waited for the tour to begin, I reminded Jan about the privations described in "How Green Was My Valley." At that moment, one of the miners entered the room in time to overhear. "That movie was a (expletive)" he declared, in a pronounced Welsh accent, and added colorful details about why the portrayal was inaccurate.

Actually, I'd meant the book, not the movie. He was obliged to agree that the hardships were correctly described.

After that, I held my tongue in front of the miners, but truly, they cling to a tradition that featured cave-ins, explosions, lung disease, mistreatment of children and horses as well as men and women, poor wages and filthy conditions. While they praise the valiant and stalwart miners, and cherish their mates with whom they shared privations and danger, the mines closing is for the best. Anyhow, that's what I think.

The tour itself begins with guests handing over everything with a battery: cameras, phones, wristwatches, which are stowed in a locker for safekeeping. We received a plastic hard-hat with a head lamp and a non-sparking battery on a belt to power the light. The tunnels are checked regularly for methane gas, which still seeps out from the exposed coal seams. We're told that one day last week, the tours were delayed because of a problem with the ventilation system.

The lift lets a cageful of people down slowly. The depth, at 300 feet, is considered shallow for a coal mine, so it took only a minute to arrive.

The hard hats saved everybody's head several times from the low tunnels, where we had to crouch. We saw equipment, stalls for the pit ponies, heard descriptions of the work of people and animals. Nationalization of the mines in the 1950's resulted in significant benefits. First, the workers were paid with money, not with tokens to be spent in the company store. Second, all workers, horses too, had a two-week vacation every year. For the horses, it was the only time they ever saw daylight between age 4 when they were taken down and age 10 when they were retired. Of course, the humans didn't see that much daylight either, with the very long work shift.

The experience was intense and deeply interesting.

Blaenavon: The Iron Works and WWI exhibition. A short distance down the road, we stopped for an unscheduled visit to the iron works of the Industrial Revolution.

John climbed up to the iron work's ruins.

At the same time, a reenactment and exhibition pertaining to World War I was on the grounds.

The poster emphasizes the contribution of inventors to improving steel-making by removing phosphorus from the iron.

It was good of Jan and David to be flexible for the extra half-hour's experience.

Brecon Beacons National Park. Scenery and sheep. That's about it. The yellow gorse bushes are in full bloom. They have long, sharp spines that groom the ragged sheep, sometimes pulling tufts of wool off.

Crickhowell. Lunch at The Bear pub, which was okay, not special. I tried their Shepherd's Pie, but I would have made it differently, less of a slurry.

More entertaining was an ice cream cone and stroll around the little town to the village green to watch a cricket match. Spectators sat in lawn chairs in the shade of grand oak trees. We viewed the bowling, the batting, and one play where the team gathered round a player and hugged and yelled with pleasure over his great catch of a fly ball. Unfortunately, we had no background to know just what that meant, but we understood it to be special.

Tretower Manor House and Castle Ruins. The structure is very unusual because the fortified manor house was developed from a castle. The castle ruins are unusual in that the tower is round, not square, which Jan assures us is much more difficult to design and construct.

The windows, with genuine old glass, were built in different periods.

While the difference in age was not apparent from the inside, when we saw them from the outside we could easily tell that one was 14th century and the other 17th century. I showed the English Heritage card and received free admission, very nice, that's £7 saved.

Upon setting us down in front of the Hilton, Jan announced pointedly that tomorrow's bus is full. We take the hint carefully. We'll show up early to get a good seat.

Heeding Jan's words, we made sure to arrive 20 minutes ahead of time. I popped on the bus first and grabbed the double seat behind the driver for today's Gower Peninsula tour. The other passengers, all new to us, came along on time. The last one to arrive wanted time for a cigarette, which was not granted, and later complained about the seat being too small. She felt that she was owed a better experience, having paid the same price as everybody else. "What a temper," John remarked, quite audibly. A good-natured, small lady agreed to exchange seats, which was gracious of her.

Swansea. The National Waterfront Museum is great fun, if you like old machines. John got a big kick out of the interactive exhibits.

He also spent £5 on a new toy, five shiny, colorful little super magnets, roughly oval with two flat sides. The power of the magnets does seem magical. They must, at all costs, be kept well separated from credit cards and computers and babies' mouths.

Dylan Thomas is a favorite son of Swansea, with a statue in the park.

Langland Walk. We are let off at in the pretty beach-side town of Langland. Our tour driver, John, leads the group to the beginning of a pretty coastal cliff stroll overlooking Swansea Bay. The guests are invited to walk along the cliff to the next headland, or return to the bus to drive around, but on no account are we to turn around in the middle and go back to Langland because the bus is moving. It's happened before, it seems. "How far is the walk?" I ask. "Two miles?"

"Oh, no, maybe a half mile," he answers. Immediately, we all set off. Well, it turns out he "underestimated" the distance. "If I tell people how long a walk is, they won't go," he admitted later. The signpost at the end (not at the start) reveals the walk is really 1 ¼ miles.

The distance was no problem for anybody, as far as I know, children and dogs and grandparents strolling or galloping both directions. There are some ups and downs to stretch the legs.

Rhossili Bay. The lunch stop offers very few choices, none of them appealing. The weather is too cold and windy to buy a sandwich to eat outside and the indoor restaurants are packed. The Worm's Head has what should have been a nice roast lamb Sunday lunch, but the crowding and noise level are so unpleasant that the appeal is completely spoiled. I could eat only a little of the lunch, then just wanted to get out of there.

The view of the bay from the promontory improved as the fog lifted and the sun came out. The sun always lifts the spirits and improves the mood. Every Sunday is doubtless busy there, but this is a Bank Holiday as well as a Half Term school week off, with more visitors than usual, or so Jan declares.

The walk to land's end is level and smooth.

Sheep graze here, cropping the grass very short and leaving their droppings underfoot. The thorns of the gorse bushes pluck handfuls of their wool. We gather up a few examples to look at closely. The Welsh sheep produce very coarse wool, suitable only for carpeting. Apparently nobody bothers to sheer them at all, letting the wool just sort of rot off. I tried to spin it into thread, but it simply unraveled again. Doubtless there is more to spinning than I know. We are told that the money is in lamb meat, not wool, nowadays, but local lamb costs more at the market than New Zealand lamb, as it does back home too.

Arthur's Stone. The Welsh countryside features many mystery stones. This one is credited to be the stone from which he drew the sword, Excalibur. There is a slot on the edge of the massive rock. Animals grazing here include sheep and cows and horses.

Back at the Hilton, we went to the Executive Lounge to graze the buffet and drink their wine, as on previous evenings.

We talked about the experience. Was three full-day tours in a row the best idea? For future reference, two days would have been perfect, with the third day reserved for local sightseeing. I'll post a positive review for Where When Wales on Trip Advisor. We both declare that the tours were well run and delivered exactly what the website promised.

Back downstairs in the room, we were getting ready for bed when the hotel phone rang. John picked up as quickly as he could, but got a dial tone. He rang the front desk for an explanation, then was interrupted: "a handbag left at the bar. Thank you. I'll be right down." They urged him to allow them to bring the man-purse up to the room, but he preferred to get dressed again and go fetch it himself. He's not yet fully trained on the management of his man-bag. Indeed, the hostess chased after him to return it the night before last, catching him at the elevator. He reported a laugh all around at the reception desk, everything was intact. Lucky John!

# Chapter 7: England's Lake District

Rick Steves' travel guide to Great Britain prefers in the strongest terms the northern Lake District over the southern Lake District. Accordingly, we are booked at the Sunnyside Guest House in Keswick (pronounced KES-ick), a town Rick praises as central to the northern region's sightseeing.

We left Cardiff for a three legged transfer to Keswick: first by train on Arriva Wales, a comfortable three-hour journey back to England, with time and a table for journalizing. A half-hour layover in Crewe, then we boarded Virgin Trains for the next leg to Penrith. I'm annoyed that the Virgin website did not allow for seat reservations. Many of the seats are indeed reserved. On the other hand, we were able to stow the luggage and have adequate seats, albeit without window views and with a fold-down, barely usable table. It's only an hour's trip, we're okay, no worries. The train is very nearly on time.

The last leg of today's trip is by Stagecoach bus, as Keswick has no railway connections at all. Today being a public holiday, the buses depart every two hours (usually one hour) and there is no saying whether there will be room on the bus for us and our bulky suitcases. We've devised a backup plan, in case the bus is full: throw money at the problem and order a taxi. Estimates on Trip Advisor run about £40. I feel optimistic that the inbound bus will be okay, with visitors more likely to be heading home than to the Lake District. On the other hand, the train is fairly full, especially the next car which is so full of middle-schoolers that they occupy even the luggage area.

The Penrith bus stop is just in front of the train station. The Penrith bus station, the end of the X5 route, is a half mile away, at the town center. There are perhaps 20 people, all with luggage, waiting for the bus. Along comes the X5, about 15 minutes before schedule. This is the inbound bus, letting people off at the train station, then proceeding to the downtown bus station. We two hop aboard, while all the others wait for the return of the X5. The driver charges us £2.70 for the leg into town. We have the entire bottom deck of the two-decker bus to position the luggage and ourselves. Then the driver brings us back outbound, for £6.50, towards Keswick. At the train station, everybody else manages to get aboard too, with luggage mostly going in the wheelchair and baby stroller reserved space. Luckily for all, neither of those special needs were required this trip. We are quite satisfied with our maneuver, with the assurance of good seats for the rest of the trip.

A half hour later, we're in central Keswick. We hike along the pedestrianized shopping district up to the Sunnyside Guest House, on a quiet side street. Sean O'Farrell, the proprietor, meets us and helps bring the luggage up all the way to the top of the house, three steep flights of stairs. The room is pleasant and big enough, with a day bed, useful to hold the open suitcases.

We walk back out downtown, amid hordes of tourists. The shops strongly support the hiking culture. The view from the town shows us the very high hills, famous for centuries for hiking. Trekking poles, special outdoor wear and hiking boots are for sale. The afternoon air is warmer than Wales, shirt-sleeves, sunny. That's the last few hours of warmth.

We examined the menus of the many restaurants, cafes and pubs around the central district. There are many contenders, with reasonable prices. In the end, we chose the Oddfellow's Arms, which features eight-inch Yorkshire pudding filled with steak and ale stew (for me) and Cumberland sausage and vegetables (for John) and two pints of local Cumberland ale.

It's the custom here to order food and drink from the bar. Usually each table has an identifying number for the server to bring the order to you, although this one does not, they sort things out somehow. I just pointed "over there." The drinks are prepared immediately at the bar, to take back to the table oneself.

"Do you have internet here?" I asked the barkeep.

"Yes, the password is grgbeer," she replied.

"Pardon?" I admit I'm fairly deaf.

"Grgbeer," she said again, then turned away to hand the order in to the kitchen and draw the draft ale.

"What did she say?" I asked the next patron in line. "What beer?"

"Native speakers have the same problem," he replied, but did not venture any explanation. The accent here in Cumbria is even more pronounced than in Wales.

The barkeep was amused at my dismay and wrote the word out: goodbeer. Okay. Got it.

The food was very tasty and very reasonable in price, only £15 for dinner and ale.

Replete, we left the pub to stroll back to the middle of town, in front of the Moot Hall. Moot here means meeting. Makes sense.

A group of people in costume are making ready for an entertainment. Morris dancers! We're thrilled.

The group has eight women dancing in folk costumes, wearing wooden-soled clogs with bells attached.

Three musicians play accordion, saxophone or recorder, and a "lager" pole, which has bottle caps attached all over to jangle percussion. All the passers-by stop to watch and applaud and to drop coins in their buckets for this year's designated charity, something about mountain rescues. The music is jolly and contagious, so the smallest children are soon prancing around in gay imitation.

Three different folk dances are presented, each one complex and rhythmic.

Now they invite the crowd to join in. We both hasten to enter the lines, tiny children upward through party girls to us old folks. The Morris Dancers very quickly demonstrated the simple steps and then the music started. Soon the whole crowd was spinning and swaying and cavorting, laughing.

"You make people happy," John told the dancers. He was the only man daring enough to join the dance.

The next day's activity is sightseeing by public bus. Bus route 77A begins in the Keswick bus station, down by the grocery store, then heads very high into the surrounding mountains. We purchased day tickets, so we can hop on and hop off as required, and ride any of the buses we want in different directions.

The 77A travels up a high mountain, through a pass, then back down the mountain to Keswick. We grabbed the 9:30 am bus, timed to get us to the Honister Slate Mine in time for the 10:30 am tour. There were fewer passengers at that hour too. The mine is about half-way around the scenic loop.

Slate was formed here from volcanic ash rather than organic sedimentary deposits, so the chemistry and green color are unusual. They sell slate pieces engraved with house names or addresses, very attractive and practical, and slate knickknacks such as vases and drawer pulls. I'm tempted, but we don't buy anything, having sworn off souvenirs years ago.

Their slate makes roofs that are said to last 300 years before they are eroded by weather. I suppose there is enough history recorded to back that claim up in England, which there would not be back home. Unsurprisingly, the demand for slate petered out years ago, with 300 years between roofing jobs, so the mine closed.

The old slate mine has been re-imagined as a tourist adventure site, when a young man of great imagination bought the property. He used the old mining structures to make climbing adventures with people dangling over the precipice on cables.

We opt for the tamest of the tours, a 50-minute excursion into the mine shaft.

The underground tour is much safer than a coal mine, since slate does not emit methane gas, so we can bring cameras.

Not that the images tell much of a story, just indistinct heaps of rock. They left some of the rejected slate underground and heaped more up in the hills across from the mine.

Underground is white-breath cold and wet underfoot from ceiling drips.

The tour finished just in time for us to catch the 77A and ride down to Lake Buttermere for lunch. The bus is significantly more crowded now, at mid-day, than earlier.

The little cafe is way over-pressured today, so there was a long wait at the bar to place our order: two jacket potatoes, one with chili and the other with cheese. "I'm so sorry, we've had a terrible run on jacket potatoes, they're all gone."

I dropped out of line to consult with John whether a panini would be okay with him. I totally should have waved for him to come over and let just one person go ahead of me. As it was, I had another 15 minute line to wait in. I also bought a white Kendal Mint Cake, because Rick Steves mentioned them as a favorite local treat.

Kendal Mint Cakes are made of white or brown sugar, flavored with peppermint. They actually nibble quite nicely, breaking off a bite now and again, and the paper wrapping is sturdy. This cake lived in my jacket pocket and provided sugar energy over two days.

Many people take the walk on offer here in Buttermere, easy-going and not steep. We walk part-way along, timing the turn-around to catch the next 77A bus.

The bus promises to be very crowded. The longest line was across the driveway from the bus stop pole, with people asserting that the bus stop was for people getting off, then the bus driver turns around and they get on. They queued up very neatly.

With a married-people's glance at one another, I joined the long queue and John and three others stayed beside the bus stop. In a few minutes, the bus pulled in and stopped in front of the bus stop, let a few out, and those waiting at the pole (John among them) jumped aboard first. The queue was filled with chagrin and disintegrated into a mad dash.

One old guy ahead of me reproached the bus driver, who smiled and shrugged and said, "this is the bus stop."

John held a seat for me and 20 others had to stand all the way back to Keswick.

Upon arrival back at Keswick bus station, I already had looked up the bus connection to go to Wordsworth's Dove Cottage. John shrugged with resignation. We rode bus 555 to the designated stop, still on our Explorer Bus Pass. William and his sister Dorothy bought the cottage because they loved the region, after a walking tour here. Their friend Samuel Coleridge visited often.

We had time and energy to see the museum and the special exhibition about the Napoleonic war (the poets were political) but did not take the cottage tour itself. That's a bit of a loss, since the cottage is where William and his wife had their family.

The return bus 555 was due about half-past 5 pm, a half hour's wait. We strolled around, John complaining that "you walk more slowly than anybody" away from the bus stop.

Suddenly, bus 555 whips around the corner towards us. We wave our hats and jog back to the stop. The driver waits for us to get aboard.

"You took us by surprise," I said. "We weren't looking for you for another half hour."

"I'm 38 minutes late," he replied. We caught last hour's bus. Weren't we lucky. Goodness knows how long it was before the buses were back on schedule.

We allocated the first activity of the following day to a boat ride around Derwentwater. The launch area is a short walk from the town center.

They rent pretty wooden rowboats too.

The very first cruise of the day is a special one-stop to take trekkers to Hawse End, the start of a renowned walk up Catbells, said to be a non-technical walk of less than 4 miles, with 500 meters ascent.

We were on the second launch, which stops at several places around the lake. With John's binoculars, we could make out the tiny figures of climbers from the first boat making their steadfast way up. The walk looks a lot more strenuous than what's described online.

The Pencil Museum is much more interesting than it sounds. The industry began here because of a rich deposit of graphite, which was very valuable both in writing implements and other uses such as a lining or coating for cannon-ball molds. The pencil-making technology is more complicated than I expected. Who would have thought each pencil has two coats of paint and one of lacquer? Or how the pigment gets into colored pencils. I haven't valued them enough.

Of deepest interest was the story of the secret manufacture during World War II of pencils that held concealed maps of escape routes from Germany and a tiny compass, for the use of airmen and soldiers trapped behind German lines. Pencils were standard items aboard military airplanes, for navigation purposes, so nobody would suspect. The operation was so secret that it occurred to me to wonder whether any of the soldiers it was intended to help even knew about it.

According to the exhibit, they don't know if anybody was ever assisted by the hidden map or compass. And all this took place decades before miniaturization became ordinary.

For lunch, we ate at the pretty Wild Strawberry Cafe, where I at last had the jacket potato I desired, with shredded cheddar on top. Good.

The final sightseeing target was the Castlerigg Stone Circle. I reproached myself for poor planning. Had we done this excursion earlier in the day, and visited the Pencil Museum later, we would have minimized the drenching rain, which was forecast to begin in mid-afternoon.

First we went to the Tourist Information for a detailed map of the walk. It's a 4 mile loop, but we could trim it by riding bus 555 uphill. The map was 95 pence, and proved invaluable.

The first drops fell just after we paid for the bus ticket to Castlerigg. Once we alighted (at the wrong stop, too early, extra half mile) the rain fell steadily. It's a 15-minute walk from the correct bus stop to the stone circle, with a climb over a stile to add to the experience.

The stile is made of rocks set as foot-holds in the wall, which the nimble-footed step lively over. One could also walk to the end of the lane and go through a civilized gate.

On the other hand, the rain suppressed other visitors, so we had the site to ourselves for a few minutes, allowing us to photograph wet rocks without tourists in view.

The stone circle is older than Stonehenge, organized with an unusual north-south orientation, and would have been inspirational except for the downpour.

John pointed out that the next bus 555 would be a solid hour from now. "We can walk home faster," he urged. "And it's downhill."

He was right, although I agreed reluctantly. Might as well be making progress instead of standing at the bus stop. And downhill is persuasive. And we had a map.

The map by now was very wet, to be handled delicately so it did not disintegrate. We checked our position at key moments. It was not in the game plan to take unexpected detours.

In due time, without even getting lost, we arrived back at the guest house. "Now you can say you've walked in the Lake District," John declared, with a high-five.

# Chapter 8: Edinburgh

Thursday began earlier than usual, as we needed to catch an early X5 bus back to Penrith to meet the train. Our host, Sean, rose early, packed a nice lunch for us in lieu of breakfast, and drove us down to the bus station in good time to get the bus. That was a very welcome assistance.

A few hours later, we're in a new landscape and language, the big city of Edinburgh (pronounced burrow not burg).

Our stay here is in an Executive Apartment in a modern building in Old Town, near the university. It's a bit too long a walk from the train station with luggage, so we planned to take a city bus. As requested, I called the general manager, whose name is Marc, to say we would be at the building in a half hour, where he would meet us. Turns out that time estimate was optimistic.

I had made a PDF print of Google map's directions from Waverley Train Station to the apartment, downloaded to my iPod for reference. "Go east on Princes Street," was the first statement. John turned around so I could see the little compass he has attached to his daypack. "Which way is east?"

I waited until the compass stopped spinning. "That way," I answered, pointing in what turned out to be the exact wrong way. Maybe his magnetic personality, or his magnetic toy, interfered with the compass.

Usually I buy city maps from Amazon well ahead of time, but I was lackadaisical this trip so we had nothing to show us where to go and didn't even know where to find the Tourist Information to obtain a street map. Eventually we walked up to a map that the city obligingly posted on a street corner for hapless tourists. Reverse course.

Okay, then the rest of the directions started to make more sense. We missed the bus I had been aiming at and had a bit of a wait until the next one. The showers came off and on, not a steady downpour. The bus stop has a rain shelter and we had our raincoats on.

Once aboard the bus, we were carefully counting the five stops to our destination. Then the bus turned a corner and...CRUNCH. Collided with a car.

Fender bender, nobody was injured, but the plastic bumper of the bus was cracked. After sitting for a while blocking the whole street, the bus driver pulled ahead to the Museum bus stop to exchange details with the car's owner. Everybody was upset: both drivers and all the passengers.

I called Marc again and explained the situation, which included a crowd-sourced description of where we were. He said, "you're only five minutes walk away" and then rattled off a sequence of directions to cut down to a pedestrianized street to our address. We made the first couple of turns correctly, then I ran out of memory. Two young mothers were strollering along, chatting.

"Where is Simpson Loan?" we asked. Not "lane" but "loan" is the name of the street. "There was something about a McDonalds."

"Simpson Loan is right there," she replied immediately, "but there is no McDonalds on this side of town."

John, alert to details, noticed her cup of coffee. "Maybe it was a Starbucks," he said.

Well, there you go. Starbucks was the correct answer. We finally found the doorway, where Marc waited to let us in.

Although it was only noon, the apartment was ready for us. It's on the eighth floor, there is a lift, the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows is of the famous Arthur's Seat extinct volcano, visible above the other buildings. None of the other apartments (except the ninth floor penthouse) has that view. We have a modern, well-equipped kitchen and a fancy bathroom and a bedroom and hurrah, a washing machine with a dryer.

Marc provided an overview of the facilities, then left. We rested and unpacked, then went grocery shopping at the store in the next building.

After lunch (microwaved cottage pie and fresh, packaged salad) we felt ready for light sightseeing, with special emphasis on finding a city map. John has brought the Garmin Nuvi to help with navigation. The Nuvi works well for vehicles, but it does not have a setting for walking. That means it pays attention to one-way streets, irrelevant for pedestrians, and ignores pathways and pedestrianized streets. Still, we set it for the Tourist Information, located way back up at the train station, and set out.

We also asked people for recommendations and stopped along the way at likely-looking stores. The bookstore? No. The Post Office? No. The News Agent? No. Finally, a liquor and cigarette store? Yes. A perfect little folding map, with the city center big enough to read. Two pounds. Done.

With the necessary map in my purse, we changed modes to sightseeing. And look, there is the Elephant House cafe, where J.K. Rowling occupied a table with baby Jessica while writing Harry Potter. Yes, I required a picture.

We also walked past the little statue of Greyfriar Bobby, a Skye Terrier of great sentimental attachment since the 19th century.

Tour groups surround and photograph the statue and rub the nose shiny for luck.

It was too late in the day for much, but we could spend 45 minutes in the National Museum of Scotland, which has free entry, before closing. The museum was just at hand, so we popped in.

Soon we asked a docent where the Scottish history section was to be found. He showed us on their map, five floors, starting with geology on the bottom floor and rising through historic times. We spent the remaining minutes until closing time in the plate tectonics and shifting continents. Then we walked back in the now-familiar intermittent showers.

Upon arriving back at the apartment, we were hanging up our jackets, when I glanced over John's shoulder out the window. "Oh," I gasped.

"What?" he said and turned around, then "Oh." We both grabbed our cameras and hurried to open the big window in the living room.

A full rainbow arched over the city, the right side anchored on Arthur's Seat, fueled by the showers.

We had sliced apple and bell pepper and little tomatoes to munch with our local ale, then cooked a favorite travel meal, diced chicken breast tossed with noodles and steamed broccoli, all of it dressed with fresh pesto sauce.

The first load of laundry is washed and dried and hung.

The bedroom has a couple of problems. The bed is too small and there is a noisy ventilation system overhead, probably pertaining to the water heater in the closet. I try not to think about the advisability of venting a gas heater into a crawl space.

First order of business on Friday morning: visit the famous Edinburgh Castle.

We arrive five minutes before opening time and the ticket line is already very long. A few people had the foresight to purchase tickets beforehand. They are in a separate, short queue. Members of the Historic Scotland Association (free admission) and our English Heritage pass can also wait in the short queue. We go to the Information Desk to purchase our tickets. Our English Heritage pass is good for half off the admission price, saving £13.20, as well as saving lots of time NOT waiting in the regular ticket line.

We rented the audio guide for touring, which proved to be a good value for explanations and commentary.

John wisely suggested that we head straight up to the highest point of the castle and see the most important exhibits at once, before the crowds surged there.

The highlights are the Stone of Destiny and the Honours (Crown, Sword and Scepter) of Scotland.

I am amazed that the Stone of Destiny really is a trimmed block of sandstone, with a rope handle, which Scottish kings used for coronations. The stone is said to have come from Scone, Scotland. Sir Terry Pratchett wrote a sequence of satirical novels about Discworld, a parallel universe, in which the dwarfs kept a precious relic, the Scone of Stone. I thought Sir Terry made that up.

By mid-day, the entire place is densely packed with tourists, we've walked through historic rooms, viewed and listened to history, and it's time to go back downhill to the apartment for lunch and a rest.

Across the esplanade, at the front the castle, workers are erecting a very large, complicated structure. John inquired what it's about. "The Military Tattoo," is the reply. They put up bleachers and control rooms for lighting not only the big Military Tattoo festival in August, but also some music festivals in June and July. I'm both attracted to and alarmed by the size and ambition of Edinburgh's summer festivals.

After lunch, which is leftovers from dinner, we walk through the university, into a predominately Muslim neighborhood, to a Lidl grocery store to buy things for dinner. In the three blocks between here and there, the sky darkened, then a few drops, then a downpour with hail. We waited awhile under a doorway to a car park, where we were out of the rain, until it began to pass by. By the time we were finished at the grocery store, the sun was out again.

A little more rest, then energy bubbles up to walk back up to the castle, the starting point of Rick Steves' audio guide, which narrates the walk of the Royal Mile. We've downloaded the audio guide to our iPods and make sure we have our good ear buds with us, then off we go again.

The Royal Mile is a downhill walk, all the way to Holyroodhouse and the base of Arthur's Seat.

At the conclusion of the audio tour, we're faced with the problem of how to get back to the apartment without walking uphill any more than necessary. We plotted a course with the dandy little pocket map.

This second mile is through an entirely different Old Town neighborhood, with bars and tattoo parlors and seedier residents. In due time and only one steep bit, we're home. We're tired.

The sky darkened again and threw ice cubes of hail on the neighborhood, but we were inside and needed only to marvel at the strange weather they have here; we're used to just having climate, not a sky that changes every five minutes.

Next morning, we knew that we over-walked yesterday. My toe is sore where I stubbed it on the sofa leg and we're both weary. On the other hand, the day is brilliantly sunny, no rain in the forecast all day. That does lift the spirits.

An entire hour went to internetting our way out of Edinburgh tomorrow. Marc alerted us to the big Marathon Festival on Sunday, which closes streets and disrupts bus services. Thirty thousand runners are expected. Thirty. Thousand. Runners.

The bus company we need to take us out of town (the train service is canceled due to track maintenance on our route) has the worst website. We cannot find the answer to such a basic question as "Where is the bus stop for bus X38?" I called customer service, and talked with a Scotsman whose accent was very hard to understand. What I wrote down from that call made no sense at all on Google maps.

"Would you call him back?" I asked John. And John finally understood that we were to go to stop PQ ("peter queen") but not, as I heard, PC ("peter cream") and goodness knows what he meant me to hear when I wrote down "sunset street" because there is no such place.

We resolved to check bus stop PQ in person. It's on the way to New Town, where we want to sightsee.

We walked back up to Waverley station, found stop PQ, where we saw that we could wait just a few minutes to talk with the bus driver himself. "No, this won't be the stop tomorrow," he declared. "This street is closed because of the marathon. I'll be at St Andrew's Square, but I don't know exactly where." That's excellent information, but we STILL don't know how to catch that bus.

After walking around St Andrew's Square, which has a statue of historical interest, and obtaining a general opinion that tomorrow's bus would probably be around here somewhere, we shelved the bus issue for the time being. My foot is too sore, and we're both too weary, to do another walking tour through New Town. Maybe a Hop-On-Hop-Off bus?

Three Ho-Ho tour companies leave from the Tourist Information, and have the same price and route. There we stand, in the center of Edinburgh, assaulted by noise: a busker in full Scottish national costume plays his bagpipes for tips, some damn car alarm has been shrieking for the 40 minutes or so we've been in the area, and the crowd waiting for the Ho-Ho will fill four buses. No exaggeration.

"I'm having second thoughts about this," I shouted in John's ear. He agreed readily to just bag the tour bus and go back to the apartment.

Nap. That helps. Lunch. That helps.

Okay, time to rethink the bus thing. As they point out on airplanes, the nearest exit may be behind you. According to the timetable, the next stop away from the city center is a place called Haymarket. Google maps suggests that we can catch city bus 2 to Haymarket readily. Now we have a glimmer of a new plan. We'll go away from the marathon and have hardly any walking with the luggage to catch bus 2. We back up the plan by finding the exact bus stop. It's a go.

With relief, we cross the street to visit the Scottish Museum for a half hour, checking out the oldest history, still in the lowest level. The displays are very dimly lighted, it's hard to see the objects and hard to read the text. But it is an interesting museum.

Then home again. Although the website says the bus requires exact change, another question it won't answer: what is the bus fare to our destination? I called customer service again, and had to overcome the static of the cell phone line, asking the woman to repeat until I understood the prices: £3 for the city bus to Haymarket, then £11 to Stirling, then £10.40 to Callander. I walked down to the grocery store to get change for the bus fare, and put those amounts aside for tomorrow.

We've enjoyed the space and comfort with the apartment, but I want to rearrange the furniture. The sofa should be along the opposite wall, so the view is of the mountain, not the tattered roof of a building waiting to be renovated in the ambitious Quarter Mile project. That would mean moving the television and wi-fi router, but it's the right thing to do. Four dinette chairs just take up space, two are plenty. Then add an armchair, so two people can be comfortably seated in the living room. The bed is way too small and should be replaced with either twin beds or a king bed. The kitchen is reasonably well-equipped, except only one drinking glass is left. We reported that to Marc, who intended to bring more glasses, but that didn't happen.

John pointed out that we've spent far more time and energy managing Edinburgh than we have enjoying it. This is a big, difficult city. I am appalled by the impact of the different summer festivals, music, art, literature, occupying June, July and August, that attract visitors well past saturation.

# Chapter 9: Scotland's Lowlands

Yesterday's detailed, if tedious, planning resulted in a well-executed three-bus travel day. The weather was mostly fair. The scenery through the bus window was green, flowery, pleasant to the eye. The bus driver is so kind as to pull over immediately in front of Abbotsford Lodge, in Callandar, our guest house for the next three nights, saving us a walk with the luggage back from the downtown bus stop. The owner, Fraser, welcomed us, explained the room was not yet ready. No worries, we haven't had lunch yet.

The purpose of traveling to Callander is to begin a week's bike riding, supported by Hooked on Cycling, in the Scottish lake district. I had an email from them saying they would bring the bikes this afternoon. Fraser, who has a long sequence of bicycle bookings from them, says they usually turn up around 5 pm.

We left the luggage and walked unencumbered downtown to the Waverley Hotel. We ordered a starter serving of Scottish treats: haggis, black pudding, neaps and tatties, with a ladle of pepper sauce over all. It's all good. Then steak and ale pie and a big hamburger. With such a large, late lunch, we stop at the Co-Op to buy snacky things for dinner.

We are still in the Scottish Lowlands, as geography is reckoned here. No gnarly hills at present.

Upon arriving back at the Lodge, Fraser says the bicycles are in the back yard. We are not best pleased that we've missed the delivery. Fraser shows us the ignition key and how to remove the battery. "They said don't touch the buttons on the computer," he reported. Expletive that. The buttons control the power levels and understanding the symbols is key to getting control. We're pushing the forbidden buttons.

The bicycles are too small. Raising the seat is not enough. My knees are bumping my bosom. The handlebars require an uncomfortable crouch. I expected step-through frames, not the leg-over-bar frames. No panniers either. Cannot fit rain gear or picnic into the handlebar bag or back frame bag.

We walked across the street to a residential area to make a start on fitting ourselves out. After a few spins around the block, raising the seat, determining that the handlebars won't raise, and cursing the terribly uncomfortable saddle, we are being dampened by a shower and give up.

It's important to negotiate our way out of this situation. "What do we want?" I asked John. We agree, we want different bicycles. These do not fit and do not meet our needs. Do they have different bicycles? Dubious.

We decide to send an email with the details of our concerns. Tomorrow, Monday, will be a rain-out. The weather app predicts a deluge, so we were planning a layover day anyhow. Happily, we are three days in residence here, with pleasant, not-too-long loop rides laid out for us. We've been wanting a rest day, and weather permits it. We have sent the email to Hooked on Cycling to define what we want, and talked about the weather, so we await their answer.

Hooked on Cycling pointed out, with indignation, that they had especially organized a meeting for yesterday at 2 pm for turnover. I checked my email trail and, to my deepest shame, they were right. I dropped the ball, blew the appointment.

However, meeting or no, we both are having a lot of trouble with the cycling plan. We seized a non-rainy half-hour to ride a bit more; it always takes me a long time to get used to a new bicycle, but to no avail, this saddle is incurably uncomfortable, the bicycles don't fit either one of us and they have no alternative bikes for us anyhow.

The weather is abysmal. Day-long cold rain, fresh snow visible on the hills, it's June going on January here. We very nearly bicker about whether the rain is worse or the wind is worse. The distinction is not important, this storm system features both. Will the weather be better tomorrow? Well, no. It won't. Rain and wind and cold are in the forecast for the rest of the week.

After much discussion of possibilities, rejecting the unsatisfactory bicycles and awful weather, and lots of internet time looking up this-and-that, a new plan emerges. We'll bag the bicycle tour altogether and go to Glasgow instead.

Being pinned down in Abbotsford Lodge is no fun and their wi-fi is a royal pain. The guest house bedroom is very tiny. I sent away the tea tray and the artificial flowers and the decorative bowl of wood thingies, to gain enough space to charge electronics and unpack about 1/8 of each suitcase. The parlor is available for us, but the wi-fi is so spotty around the house that I have to choose a chair according to the number of bars, and even then risk dropping the connection. The chair with the best signal is in a very dark room. The chair in the only parlor room with windows for daylight has no wi-fi. Fraser says they disconnected the chandelier in the dark room because "everybody turned the lights on and just left them on, so we had them disconnected." How very...frugal.

I finally had to ask John to hold a little lamp so I could see the keyboard. That's how difficult it was.

By 4 pm, we had reservations for the next three nights at Riverview Apartments in Glasgow.

I composed an email to Hooked on Cycling, leading with acknowledgment and apology for my mistake about the appointment. I told them the bicycles do not work for us and we've changed our plans. We are leaving the bicycles here, to collect at their convenience, and will not require luggage transfer service. I also said that we would be using some of the accommodations we've already paid for, no need to cancel any of them. I don't expect to get any money back for any part of our non-experience. John told Fraser we would be leaving in the morning, right after breakfast, but he should charge Hooked on Cycling for that night's stay, we've already paid for it.

At 9:57 am, we are standing in the pouring rain for bus 59 back to Stirling. I've lost my putative rain hat, probably left it where we ate lunch yesterday, but it's not much of a loss since it wasn't waterproof anyhow. John has given me his umbrella and raised his hood against the downpour.

The bus arrives. Bus fare is £10.40, as we remember from coming in a few days ago. We had discussed stopping to sightsee in Stirling, for the castle and the Wallace monument. The bus station has lockers to leave the luggage a few hours. But in the end, we just walked over to the train station and bought a couple of tickets to Glasgow. With the Two Together railcard, the price is the same as the bus fare, £10 for seniors, down from £16 without the railcard.

The trains go through quite frequently. At the moment we purchased the tickets, a train was at platform 9 for two more minutes. However, getting to platform 9 involved lots of stairs. Instead, we opted for a lift up to a walkway and another lift down to platform 7, where another train left in 20 minutes. Much better.

About 45 minutes later, we're in the Queen Street train station. We stopped at a little shop to buy a little pocket map of central Glasgow. The proprietor advised us how to find the subway.

I have a rule of thumb that a half-mile walk with luggage is acceptable, but this walk is 7/10 miles, so we trimmed it with their cute little subway, nicknamed "Clockwork Orange." That turned out to be a semi-savings, as the subway involved a flight of stairs. I wish we had been more restrained in our luggage weight.

We found our building, where the housekeeper was still at work cleaning the apartment, number 4 on the 12th floor. She knew we would be dropping off the luggage. Then we went out to lunch until our meeting with the hotel's manager at 2 pm, for turnover.

Nearby is a modern, glassy indoor shopping mall, with a food court. I ordered a chicken salad sandwich, together with a beverage called Irn Bru, a Scottish treat, and as Rick Steves says, pronounced "Iron Brew". It's orange soda, plenty of sugar, said to be more bitter in the diet version. It was okay. I also have a bar of Scottish Tablet saved up for later. That's candy. John was pleased to find DiMaggios, where you can opt for half a pizza accompanied by mac 'n cheese.

We have not as yet done anything with that other special Scottish treat, visiting distilleries, to learn about Scottish Whisky, spelled without the e.

Since we had a bit of time in hand before meeting Gerry, we shopped for a rain hat. Sporting goods store? No. General department store? No. What a strange mindset, so many summer frocks for sale in defiance of the weather's reality.

I walked into a fashion store so intensively feminine that I saw two men bounce back from the entry as though it had a force field. Even progressive John waited outside.

The salesladies had only sun hats, but recommended the Pound Store. That's like a Dollar Store at home.

I brought out my little pocket map. "We're not from around here," I said.

"I guessed that, with your accent and your tan," she giggled, and carefully showed me where the store is. "Here on Guile Street," she said. "Do you know Guile Street?"

I sorted through the few streets that I have in memory, but no Guile. She pointed to it on the map, where it's spelled Argyle Street.

The Pound Store had umbrellas but not hats. Then an unusually extensive sporting goods store appeared on this shopping street. "Rain hats? Fourth floor." The custom here is to number the street-level floor as zero. Up many escalators. And there I find a reasonably good hat. It has no ventilation holes, does have an elastic string under the chin and a broad brim. Is the material waterproof? Well, it makes no claims there. But for £15, it's a go. It'll at least deflect the rain awhile.

Back to the apartment, where Gerry waited in the lobby. The two-bedroom apartment is very large, with a commanding view of the River Clyde, even better than the view from the Edinburgh apartment. John is a little embarrassed to be towering over the Gothic church. The kitchen is very well laid out, and the housekeeper hasn't removed the unused oils etc. from prior tenants; the things you need but can't use up. Usually there's only four varieties of salt in a rental kitchen, but here we have bottles of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, salad dressing and marmalade, soy sauce and paper towels from previous guests, a generous amount of coffee and tea, and a welcome basket with cereal and milk and orange juice. Oh, well done.

Out to the Tesco in the mall for a grocery shop. Then out again for a walk along the bank of the River Clyde. The Glasgow skies are still dark and threatening, and the wind tosses the trees and disturbs the river's flow, but the weather is now energizing rather than discouraging.

We moved the dinette out of an alcove to the big window, to view the river while we journalize and eat. The wind bouncing off the taller buildings here beside the Clyde create a heaven of sea-gull joy. John declares, "Don't tell me those crowds of soarers banking, rising and sliding down to a great swoop, are not having fun."

It's an expensive change of plans, with lost money on a tour we don't want to continue, but a great recovery. We're quite pleased with Glasgow.

We awake to a bright morning, welcome sunshine bathing the east-facing windows, looks like a great day. Still cold, but bright.

The Hop-On-Hop-Off bus stop #8 is a couple of blocks away. We board around 10 am and pay for a two-day ticket. City Sightseeing gives 10% off when you show a receipt from any prior city. As it happens, I had saved the receipt from Stratford-Upon-Avon. The discount covered the cost of the second day's incremental price.

The buses alternate between a live guide, providing commentary in Scottish accented English and a recorded commentary in different languages plus two flavors of English, Scottish and British-accented. No USA, I checked the chart. Our first bus, all the way around the two-hour circuit, was live narration. The bus takes us past all the highlighted museums and into the West End neighborhood, a loop of about two hours.

Of particular interest is the statue of the Duke of Wellington, with a traffic cone on his head. What began as a prank, or at least a humorous statement, back in the 1980's is now protected by public opinion.

By the end of the circuit, back at stop #8, we're ready to hop off and get some lunch. We went to Tesco to purchase a few items, including two refrigerated (but not frozen) packaged meals: a cottage pie and an Indian curry, to heat and share. On long vacations the chance to break from the round of hotels and inns and B&B's is golden.

A very brief rest, then back out to catch the Ho-Ho for the Riverside Museum. The museum was named the 2013 European Museum of the Year, and for good reason: it's wonderfully designed to engage the attention.

The focus is on transportation: vintage cars, enormous locomotives, streetcars, bicycles, ship models and very early gliders. Many of the exhibits are interactive. I thought it would be used up quickly, but no, every display had something engaging to describe.

Just behind the museum, tied up in the river, is the barque Glenlee, a Clyde-built Tall Ship. Glasgow's shipbuilding industry, on the River Clyde, was amazing. The ship is enormous, very interesting to walk around. I clanged the bell and John hooted the foghorn but we were not allowed to climb the masts. The ship is free to visit, but we made a £4 donation. It's a real three-masted sailing ship, with a published history of four circumnavigations, now restored as an exhibit.

The museum occupied us all afternoon. Then back on the Ho-Ho bus. This bus had the recorded audio and I must say, it was easier to understand than the live announcers. We decided to walk from stop #1, just a short stroll down the pedestrianized shopping street to the apartment. Feet are tired.

The handle fell off the bathroom door. There must be quite a story behind that, something violent, badly repaired by just shoving the parts back together. John rigged up a wire-tie to hold the handle together well enough to open and close the door. We've notified management by email about that problem and the clothes dryer blowing only cold air. They promise to see to the problems, but considering several other maintenance issues, we don't expect it in our tenure. No matter, we're fine.

Thursday, we selected the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum for the focus of the day.

The museum is free, a block from the Ho-Ho bus stop, and full of thoughtfully organized exhibits. They have a liberal photography policy, too.

The top floor has art exhibits from Holland, France and Scotland. We spent the most time with the Scottish works, featuring not only big landscapes but also classical portraits of Scottish men in kilts. Special galleries focus on the Scottish Colourists, 20th century artists, and the Glasgow Boys, 19th century artists. We spent about two hours there, reading the unusually detailed descriptions of the art works.

The museum's artistic centerpiece is Salvador Dali's Christ of St John of the Cross, very nicely displayed in its own room, and well lighted.

At 1 pm, we engage with a recital, played live on the huge 1901 pipe organ.

We had a good view of the organist manipulating the stops, plus there were monitors showing his feet working the pedals and hands on the keyboards. It's a bit difficult to characterize the music. It was not religious, not classical; it was fast paced, even some pop flavor. I nearly can name a Spanish flamenco piece that I recognized. About 15 minutes was enough for us.

The museum echos voices, as well as resounding the pipe organ, provoking small children to shriek for the pleasure of it. A little of that goes a very long way.

The late afternoon finds us back at the apartment, feet tired. Somehow, walking around a museum, even one furnished with frequent benches and sofas, does become fatiguing.

It was a good time, we're really glad we've come to Glasgow.

# Chapter 10: Scotland's Highlands

Inbhir Nis, as it's named in Gaelic, is a 3.5 hour train ride from Glasgow. The train called at several now-familiar towns, including Stirling (never did see that castle) and Pitlochry (where we would have spent two days had we been on the bicycle tour) and Perth. A train stop doesn't count as a visit any more than changing airplanes does.

We had considered closely taking the train to Pitlochry for a day or two, but it's not as interesting a place in case of rain, featuring hill walks rather than indoor attractions. Thus we extended our Inverness stay a couple of days and have plans for tours, not scheduled so tightly as we did in Wales.

The route through to the Highlands includes climbing over some passes still decorated with snow fields. John started up his Garmin GPS partway through the trip, to record the elevations. Scotland's hills, while impressive, are not very high, as mountains go. They are ancient and much eroded by glaciers. The highest place the train went was 1,542 feet of elevation. It's a little hard to say how high the hills above the train tracks that we could see were. Probably they are neither Munros (height above 3,000 feet) nor Grahams (2,500 – 3,000 feet) as hills are cataloged here.

The weather in Inverness in early afternoon is lovely, sunshine and breezy.

The walk that Google Maps recommended from the train station to the guest house involves climbing a flight of stairs, called the Market Brae, to change elevations within the town. With the luggage, we decided to walk around the stairs, which was a wise move. The street that goes around still has some climbing to do too. We could have taken a £5 taxi, but really we needed the exercise.

Once at the front door of Pitfaranne Guest House, we are a little concerned to find that nobody is home. Nobody answers the doorbell, nobody answers the telephone, nobody answers the mobile phone. We are not expected until 4 pm. Dot. End of discussion.

We walked around to the side of the guest house, which has some outdoor chairs, take note of the covered smoking area in case those dark clouds over there come this way, and settle down. It's pleasant in the sun, we already ate picnic lunch on the train, we don't require anything at the moment. Mellow out in the sunshine, California style. We enjoy the nimble aerobatics of the swifts. We don't have many swifts in the Bay Area so they really catch the eye; much faster than swallows and with almost rudimentary legs that just allow them to cling to a safe cliff side.

A party of four Swedish tourists, also carrying booking.com confirmation papers, turns up too. They did not notice the 4 pm check-in time either. They park their rental car, with some difficulty as the spaces are very confined, and we chat. They are a married couple, past first youth, and wife's mom and dad. As do nearly all Europeans, they have good English. Sweden switched to right-side driving years ago, so the left-side driving, in the wind and rain, on the narrow roads, has been hard for them. They decided to walk down to the town to get something to eat.

"They are so Swedish," John remarked, "it's like being in an Ingmar Bergman movie." He visited Sweden in the middle of the last century, I've not been as yet.

At 3:30 pm, Pearl returns from her two appointments, for which she turned off her mobile phone, and quickly took care to set us up in the apartment.

The apartment is a small two-story building, with one wall adjoining the main guest house. Downstairs is the little living room and usable kitchen and okay bathroom, upstairs is the sleeping room, no plumbing up there. It's snug, but livable.

Once we've been shown around and given the keys, we went down the Market Brae stairs (I counted 59 steps in six stages) to the center of town, to grocery shop. The Marks & Spenser store has an extensive food section, lovely. We purchased £45 of basic items, also including some haggis, American-style bacon, local dinner sausages, local lager, salad makings, fresh ravioli and fresh pesto sauce, and Scottish porridge.

Pearl was embarrassed about the lack of kitchen utensils and blamed "the girls, I told them and told them," as has been a refrain since the beginning of time. She and John together transferred from the main house utensils which were lacking.

We didn't want to carry the suitcases upstairs, so we brought just the least we can get started with upstairs and stowed the cases in a closet in the living room. Pearl had turned the radiators on to warm up the room, but it was quickly too hot, so we shut down the heat and opened a window.

Mamma Swede confessed with an air of embarrassment that they ate lunch at McDonalds (a famous Scottish restaurant that became popular in the USA), but they plan to do a good dinner later. They are in two rooms within the main guest house.

The breakfast room smells terribly of cigarettes, which is against the law here. I'm glad we're doing our own cooking, I wouldn't like to eat there.

We met the Wow Scotland tour bus at 8:30 Saturday morning, for a day trip to the Isle of Skye for sightseeing. The bus seats 29 passengers, but not all seats were sold out.

The first surprise was to be handed a laminated menu to pre-select lunch and dinner, so the meals would be ready for grab-and-go. It was then we discovered the tour is 12 hours long. Oh, my. Twelve hours. We should have read the details more closely, shouldn't we!

But Skye is an important sightseeing destination and the morning sun encourages us. Off we go. The tour guide, whose name is Sandy, entertains us with history and story-telling. Those Scots and Vikings seem to have been every bit as warlike and murderous as movies depict.

Karen, our driver, does a very fine job moving that big bus around smaller and smaller roads. She will receive two rounds of applause at the end of the day.

The clients are mostly from the USA, a young couple from Spain and two parties from India. Everybody had the good sense to bring warm clothing and rain gear and umbrellas.

The Spanish couple have an unfamiliar accent, European compared to Mexican. If I pay enough attention to their conversation, I understand the words, but the meaning is submerged. Not that my Spanish extends much farther than "Hola, cómo estás" but I think they're talking about getting married. Sometimes the conversation is rather heated, and their voices interfere with the tour guide's.

This tour first must bring us across the width of the mainland, from Inverness, in the east, to Kyle of Lochalsh, in the west. After about one hour's driving we pause a ten-minute break for selfies and bathroom. Now the sun is covered by gray clouds and the first rain starts. The scenery has become more and more interesting as we are among the high fells.

We cross from Easter Ross (Ros an Ear in Scots Gaelic) to Wester Ross (Scottish Gaelic: Taobh Siar Rois). I can see where George R.R. Martin derived aspects of "Game of Thrones".

The second 1.5 hour leg brings us to the Skye bridge to cross over to the island. It's raining harder. The hills that we're to admire are covered in gray mist.

"Skye is called the Misty Island," the tour guide points out. "The rain adds to the mystery."

The packed lunches were handed in from the little deli just before the Skye Bridge, then eaten on the bus at 11:30 am. Drink was not included so we step into the deli and purchase water and Irn Bru. There were no picnic tables at the stop even if the weather were suitable to eat outside.

They provided a card with pictures of the 11 points of interest that we'll see today, plus a picture of a sheep. We're good on sheep, thanks anyhow. They do indeed deliver all the sights advertised, on schedule.

The scenery from the bus window is exceptionally engaging. Sandy pointed out a crannog; anciently the people drove pilings into the loch bottom and filled in the circle to form man-made islands in the lakes. The crannogs were used for protection against man and beast and for burial of big men. Once we were just quick enough to glimpse two red deer, grazing some distance from the road. The deer are important emblems in Scotland, together with the unicorn. I saw a few rabbits and a stirring of greenery as a pine martin retreated from the road. The rain did keep the famous no-see-ums, called midges here, away.

We took a half-hour break at the Slighachan Hotel, with a wood fire. It rained something awful. Nevertheless, two men on road bicycles, with serious panniers for self-contained luggage, were ready to ride onward. The effect was rather spoiled by their cigarette break, smoking in a doorway, but still I admired their perseverance.

Several of the tour group took a wee dram to ward off the wind, rain and chill, but we did not want to dull the experience. The whole Scotch Whisky thing is lost on me, anyhow.

The Red and the Black Cuillin Mountains were high rounded bluffs, blurry with rain.

The Old Man of Storr, which is a pinnacle formed from a giant's private parts, was stubbornly veiled with mist for our photo stop. It just started to emerge as the bus pulled away, but the only photo is a blurry bit that John shot out the bus window. I refuse to take pictures out a window.

Rivers became torrents from the rain.

We crossed the Trotternish Peninsula from Staffin to Uig then across The Quiraing, a high rough of steep slopes and dramatic cliffs. Here our driver earned a special cheer for mastery of the hairpins requiring back-and-fill to get the bus around.

We often saw patches of snow on the slopes not far above us. Sandy says that the MacIntyre Clan were granted these lands by the Campbell Clan for an annual rent of one snowball at midsummer's day. No problem with that rent this year.

The rain was lighter at Kilt Rock, a high cliff over the sea where an ancient lava flow formed into hexagonal columns as it cooled and shrank. We could see the stone formation resembling folds in a kilt, and a waterfall. There were many lesser and greater waterfalls along the road, as the hills leak rain a lot. This stop has a dinosaur exhibit, because dinosaur tracks are in fossilized mud.

One of the sights, called Faerie Glen, comes with a story attached about a fiddler beguiled to a fairy clan's party, to emerge from the magic hill next morning, a hundred years later.

The rain and tourist pressure has brought the somewhat steep path to a sorry state, very slippery mud littered with rocks. I didn't want to become muddy, so I went in another direction, knowing that John would bring back photos of any fairies or magic stones.

At least two humans, John included, slipped and fell, muddying trousers but otherwise unhurt. I saw some sheep. It rained.

Dinner, hot curry chicken packed in boxes, was transferred to the bus at a pullout on the highway at 5:30 pm. A few minutes later, the bus stopped again to distribute the food under the shield of umbrellas. Had the weather been fine we would have picnic'd out, overlooking Eilean Donan Castle. We ate in the bus while driving through the downpour.

We stopped very briefly at the Castle. They hosted a wedding at that hour, poor darlings, drenched. I hopped out of the coach, shielded by Sandy's umbrella, to document the moment with a photo. We have mixed feelings, the original castle is long-since destroyed; this is a 20th century replica, albeit intended to be historically accurate.

One highlight, especially because it was highlighted by actual shafts of light through the clouds, was a pasture with six of the shaggy hairy coos, a breed of Highland cattle well adapted to the weather with their thick water-repellent coats.

They came to the fence immediately when we rattled a plastic box filled with cow treats. I was allowed to feed a cow, but made too bold by touching its forelock. The cow made a small, quick gesture and whacked my wrist with a horn. No damage, all okay, just a rebuke for impertinence. Sandy did say to be wary. They are wonderfully cute cows.

Our return loop across the mainland followed a more southerly road, through a glen famous for waterfalls, especially following rainy weather. We had enough lowering mist that the falls were mostly veiled from us. This route allowed us to approach Inverness from the south, along Loch Ness. Sandy told us the monster story, of course, about the rivals who set up competing exhibits, The Original Loch Ness Monster Exhibition and the Official Loch Ness Monster Exhibition, fighting with law suits, both still in business today, but both were renamed by court order.

One of the best photographic opportunities of the day was Urquhart Castle, a ruin on Loch Ness, because the weather was much improved, as we closed in on Inverness.

The bus pulled up in Inverness at the promised 8:45 pm. It's still broad daylight and will be for another hour or more. Everybody is tired.

"I've now added the Scottish Highlands to my personal list of destinations featuring rain," I remarked to John. "Together with Milford Sound and the monsoon in Cambodia." We recall a poem posted in a museum in South Island, New Zealand:

It rained and rained and rained

The average fall was well maintained.

And when the tracks were simple bogs

It started raining cats and dogs.

After a drought of half an hour

We had a most refreshing shower.

And then most curious thing of all

A gentle rain began to fall.

Next day but one was fairly dry

Save for one deluge from the sky

Which wetted the party to the skin

And then at last the Rain set in!

(Anon)

We made no plans at all for Sunday, which worked out just fine. The morning began with a hot shower for me and, 20 minutes later, stone cold for John. It evolved that something about the boiler needed fixing. Pearl offered her own apartment for John's shower, which he declined. She summoned a repair person, who makes Sunday house calls, to arrive later in the day.

Then she burst back in, with a new proposal. "Why don't you move to the house, free of charge?" she said. "Twin beds, quiet room, full cooked Scottish breakfast. There's just been so many problems, I feel very bad. I want my guests to be happy."

So we took her up on it. I washed a small load of clothes in cold water while we gathered up stuff and walked it next door. Pearl provided a clothes drying rack, but first I hung things up on the outside clothesline. Of course it started sprinkling. "I was unduly optimistic about the weather forecast," I said to John as we set up the clothes rack in the bedroom.

Pearl put the ice cream bars in her freezer for us to eat later and will undertake the cooking of the haggis and bacon that we purchased for our breakfast tomorrow, saving her money too. So we will pay her for two nights and the next three are free. That makes it right. Well, beyond right, it's generous.

We walked downtown for a bite of lunch and to get some cash from the ATM and to amuse ourselves in general. We attempted Rick Steves' self-guided walk, but it wasn't working very well, partially due to landmarks moved or masked with scaffolding, and then it started sprinkling, so we gave up and went back to lie around. Naps ensued.

Back out in the now-clearing early evening for a leg-stretch and chase-away-the-cobwebs walk around town, across the Ness River and back to the castle, now a courthouse, for the view and a photo of Flora McDonald's statue.

The weather is definitely improving. Pearl hung her wash outside and won the sprinkle battle.

The April 16, 1746 battle at Culloden between the Jacobites and the Hanovers was pivotal to the American revolution, although none of them would have know that. Had Bonnie Prince Charlie not made crucial errors of judgment, had not fought that battle how and where he did, then he quite likely could have convinced the French to send money and arms; he would have won the British crown, continued his alliance with the French, would not tax the colonies into rebellion (as did George II to pay for his war with France), and neither the American nor the French revolutions would have happened. Scotland would have been an independent country ever since.

An engaging science fiction writer, Diana Gabaldon, published a series of novels in her Outlander series. The two central characters, Claire and Jamie Fraser, were involved with the battle of Culloden. Then Claire escaped through the magical portal at the nearby Clava Cairns, leaving Jamie behind (until the next novel). Clava Cairns is about 1.5 miles from the battlefield park. There's a whole Outlander-inspired tour out of Inverness to see such places; fans enjoy it very much. But Gabaldon's books did not turn history to a different path. Charles Stuart still lost the battle, lost the war, escaped capture due to the heroic sacrifices of many men and women, then wandered in exile until he died.

The interpretive center invokes the issues from both the Hanover and the Jacobite point of view, before, during and after the battle. They point out that the armies were not Scot vs English nor Catholic vs Protestant; Highland regiments fought for the government and vice versa. They present a nuanced description of official documents and individual people. Recreated witnesses, historical individuals, speak of the events. It's effective, when audible.

The centerpiece of the memorial is a video of the battle itself, with enactors depicting the key events, filmed at the battleground. It really puts us into the middle of the gunfire. The visitors stand in the middle of a large room, with video projected on all four sides, opposing armies on different walls.

The audio tour of the battlefield walks with us around the moor, with commentary invoked by GPS signals. The beep that announced a new description always caught me by surprise and made me jump. The park's grounds are not as extensive as the actual battle lines, which were miles long, but big enough for the purpose.

Now I know what a moor looks like.

I've always wondered, after reading old novels like "Wuthering Heights" and "Hound of the Baskervilles" and the newer "Johnathan Strange and Mr Norrell." At the time of the battle, the land was boggy, very hard to move in. Fighting here, rather than a nearby location better suited to the Jacobite guerrilla tactics, was one of the choices that Charles Stuart made despite his advisers counsel. He should have listened.

In later centuries the land was drained for farming, but the Scottish Trust is allowing the moor to go back to its natural boggy state, so there is standing water in pools and welling up from the ground.

The moor is generally flat with a bit of roll covered by tussocky grass and yellow gorse bushes. The Jacobite left flank suffered from rising ground and more water sodden footing, which together with exhaustion from an all-night forced march, contributed to disarray and defeat.

Markers and cairns commemorate the sites of mass burials. The government soldiers bayoneted the wounded Jacobites, so between 1,500 and 2,000 died as a result of the battle. That's not such a big body count as other wars provoked.

The British government spent additional months and years stamping out future rebellions, by banishing Highland clothing and the Gaelic language and the entire clan culture, as much as possible.

The mass grave markers were funded and positioned about 100 years after the battle. The audio narrative says oral tradition was strong enough to be accurate. Archaeologists in 1995 confirmed various aspects.

Sandy, our guide on the Isle of Skye trip, says that the 2014 referendum on Scottish independence won't be the final vote on the subject.

We're in the guest house, with the last dab of Brie and English Leicester Red cheese and an English green apple named Bramley, and veggies and local ale and foreign wine while we journalize and organize pictures. Pearl knocks on the door to take our breakfast orders. "Full Scottish breakfast" we request. Then, "is that cigarette smoke?"

Her expression closes up. "Some of the boys smoke." I wondered whether the boys are her sons. She's mentioned "boys" before. I've smelled the disagreeable odor of cigarettes in the breakfast room, despite her leaving the door open to air the room out, in the towels dried in the breakfast room on rainy days, and now in the hallway too. I'm sorry for them all.

The Tuesday morning sunshine is most welcome. At last, the weather is moderating. I sat in the patio with a cup of tea while Pearl hung the sheets on the clothesline. I asked if the boys she mentioned once or twice were her sons.

"No, the boys work for me," she answered, but did not define what the work is. She does have two sons, plus two grandchildren. I did not bring up the smoking thing.

About 11 am, we set out for the day's activities. First, we visited the free Inverness Museum. It covers some of the same geology and social history we've seen in other museums, but does it quite well.

We decided to walk down to Tomnahurich Bridge to catch the Jacobite Tour's Discovery Cruise that I booked months ago. It's about 1.5 miles, we needed the exercise. With hindsight, we should have walked a slightly longer route immediately beside the River Ness itself, for better views.

Lunch at an indifferent local restaurant, then over to the boat dock for a 1:50 pm departure. The boat is already well filled. With the day so warm and sunny we are in competition for outside seats. It all works out okay, we start with a bench at the stern but then go to the upper deck for an outward facing seat on a life jacket locker. It's easy to roam around for pictures.

The boat ride is quite pleasant at the beginning. Clouds hide the warm sun, the wind blows cold. And colder. Soon people are back in jackets, zipped up to the neck, and the upper deck begins to empty out as people go down into the enclosed salon. No rain, thank goodness.

We are in the Caledonian Canal, a segment of a 60-mile-long canal, built to allow ships to go coast to coast along the lochs of the Great Glen without going through the North Sea above Scotland. Good idea, but strangely, when completed in 1813, without commercial value. Several explanations were given: "Ships got bigger and steam made the cheaper North Sea route less problematic" or "The end of the Napoleonic Wars made it unnecessary."

Today, walkers and bicyclists enjoy the flat, well-maintained tow path track beside the canal, as far as the next lock. We speculated happily about a nice few-day bike tour along the canal.

There are other bicyclists interested too, from the internet chat that I looked up later, but the easy-going tow path is limited to the man-made canal segments. Along the lochs, there are other bike paths, with "amazing views" which is code for "big hills".

At the lock, where the boat tied up while the three feet of rise happened, lots more people got aboard, so that the pleasantly-loaded boat became more crowded. Seats had to be defended. But the cold, cold wind blew all the extra people down into the salon.

We arrived at Urquhart Castle at 3:25 pm, dot on time. Our tour passes remind us that the bus back to Inverness departs at 4:25 pm, allowing us the stated one hour to tour the old ruin.

Now the cold wind abated, the warm sun reasserted itself, jackets off.

The castle was built, destroyed, rebuilt and destroyed more times than I could keep count, since the 13th century. We roamed around, photographed the ruins and the views, climbed up the tower. We didn't keep back enough minutes for the visitor center's offerings.

We followed the bus driver uphill to the bus parking. There were two colors of plastic tickets. The purple tickets were allowed on board first, then us yellow tickets. There were exactly enough seats for everybody. Good planning. The driver gave us a pleasant surprise when he asked who wanted to get off the bus at the Tomnahurich Bridge to pick up cars, and who wanted to stay aboard until downtown Inverness. Oh, good news, we get a lift all the way back to town. Lots of others took advantage too. We surmise that purple tickets were on a round-trip bus ride. It all worked out perfectly for us.

# Chapter 11: Hadrian's Wall Bike Ride

Unaccustomed sunshine inserts itself between the blinds to awaken us in plenty of time to pack before breakfast. It's a lovely day, at last. People declare the sunny weather is as unusual as the rainy days were. All the weather here is unusual.

We regain the gravity-energy we had to give up when we arrived in Inverness, pushing the suitcases downhill again to the train station. The first leg of the trip, on ScotRail, is 3.5 hours back to Edinburgh Waverley. The second leg is shorter, about 1.5 hours, down to Carlisle, England.

The next several days are organized in cooperation with Trailbreaks Biking Holidays. I've been working with Peter and Christine, the owners, since last Christmas to tailor the tour to our requirements. They have been quite responsive and energetic, so I'm feeling optimistic about the arrangements.

I generally keep my documentation very carefully up-to-date, but this time I forgot to change a detail. Trailbreaks had first reserved a hotel for us right next to the railway station, but I didn't like the hotel reviews on Trip Advisor, so I requested a different place to stay. Trailbreaks did exactly what I asked for, and sent me a new itinerary, but I didn't put the updated version into the all-important trip notebook. Hence I was shocked when the hotel clerk announced, "that reservation was canceled."

I looked again. "Oh, we were meant to be at Fern Lee Guest House," I discovered. The hotel clerk helpfully called them, confirmed, and gave us a map with directions for the longish walk to the guest house.

I called Ian, who will pick us up tomorrow, to reconfirm where we were to be found.

Then we spent a busy hour switching modes, bringing out bicycle gear, separating what we'll bring on the bikes from what will travel with the luggage.

The tour materials warned that we should bring food for tomorrow as we are riding way out in the country, no pubs or restaurants. That turned out easy; our guest house hostess, Debbie, packed sandwiches, crisps, apples, water, fruit cake for £5 each. That worked out very well.

Ian arrived at 9:15 am Thursday morning. We were ready to go. The electric bikes, both of the Giant brand but different models, were mounted on a Thule carrier on the back of the van, luggage was loaded in the middle.

It's a 45-minute drive from Carlisle to Silloth, which is the starting point of the trip. Ian pulled in at the port, facing the sea. This ride is coast-to-coast.

Ian unloaded the bikes, helped to adjust the handlebars and seats, showed us how to remove the battery for charging.

It's a perfect day for a bike ride. Warm, sunny weather and a flat coastal ride in prospect, only 22 miles long.

Trailbreaks sent us GPS routes for each segment, which are carefully loaded onto John's Garmin Edge 800.

The first ride, after Ian drove away, was up the seaside promenade about 1.5 miles. Upon realizing that we weren't going to connect to our proper bike route, we rode back, without regret for the excursion, such a lovely ride along the waterfront.

The Edge 800 does not like such detours. It quickly warned "off course" and then gave up on us. The cure is to turn it off and then start the course again. Once it catches the route, it stops sulking and co-operates.

We're following bike route 72, which is wonderfully well marked with small red and white stickers. Every time we came to an intersection or decision point, there was a sticker with the route number pointing the way.

We are very much enjoying ourselves.

We ate most of Debbie's picnic lunch on a bench beside an old church, shady and cool, quite pleased with the ride, the day, the surroundings.

A few miles later, we're beside the estuary of the Solway Firth. It's almost entirely dry at this hour. The tide can change very quickly so there is a warning sign not to wade or swim. Down to the estuary the land is mostly pasture for sheep and cattle. We stopped at a bench for a rest, as we do every five or so miles, for a little water break. Another couple, riding in the other direction, were feeding a horse handfuls of grass pulled up from the verge. The friendly, gentle horse, with an intelligent eye, was pitifully thin. The pasture, although extensive, was over-grazed, nothing to sustain the big animal.

The other two people rode away, leaving us the bench to rest on and the horse to converse with.

The horse lipped a bit of gorse and cut his eyes towards us. "You eat that?" I asked.

"He's showing us what he wants," John understood.

"Do you mind if I give him my lunch apple?" I asked John.

"Of course not. Don't give him the whole apple at once. Bite off chunks."

It isn't right, at home, to feed other people's horses, you might give them some disease, but here I felt so sorry for the poor skinny horse, such an expressive eye, that I bit off pieces of the apple, placed each chunk on my palm, and offered it over. The horse was dainty and gentle, very well mannered. The apple was consumed, appreciated. I showed empty palms, and the horse understood.

Within another hour or so, we were at the Shore Gate House, at Bowness on Solway. Theresa came out to greet us. She is a warm, enthusiastic, welcoming woman with a Cumbrian accent, drawn-out vowels.

We were tired when we arrived, but felt better after a shower and rest, then went to the Kings Arms pub for dinner. The pub was not successful for us, way too noisy, with other American tourists loudest of all. Nevertheless, the chicken and leek pie was good.

Friday dawns another fine morning for a bike ride. I wore a jacket for about two miles, then packed it away for the rest of the day. Later the leggings came off too, just shorts and short-sleeved shirt and sunscreen needed.

We followed bike route 72, in general. One big decision point came at a roundabout leading towards Carlisle. Route 72 pointed in two directions. They had an obviously new, protected bike and pedestrian road parallel to the big highway. The GPS indicated the old route. We went with the GPS, reluctantly on my part. The old route included fast-moving car traffic for a mile or so, then into the neighborhood, then down to an industrial park, then through a hard-to-notice wicket into a footpath. The wicket does have a route 72 sticker. The path is very narrow and rough, with branches grown long enough to whack the head and face.

"Are you sure this is the GPS course?" I asked. "This is ridiculous." Actually, I used a stronger word.

"It's on course," John replied. "This is beautiful." I'm not so sure.

In fact, the route is well described by a note printed on the map, which I pointed out last night. "Narrow footpath and steps. Laden cyclists may wish to follow alternative route via Newtown Road, then traffic-free route by Bridge Street." Well, gosh, we are here. Narrow footpath. Yep. Steps. Yep. How in the world did this route become designated as part of the National Cycle Path. Beggars belief. John thought that the supplied GPS course would lead around the step problem, but no.

The surrounding, densely overgrown, marsh allowed no alternative, it was either carry the heavy bikes up the stairs or go back to the industrial park and take the road-ride into town.

Ten minutes later, we were back at the industrial park. Newtown Road featured, of course, heavy traffic. I thought about the route from way back at that roundabout, but that's too far to retreat. Onward.

We had intended to leave the designated course at 15 miles anyway, to visit Carlisle Castle. And here it is. Our English Heritage pass provides free entry, worth £10.80 towards our membership total. We ate the sandwiches that our hostess Teresa packed for us this morning, at a shady picnic table within the castle keep. That worked well.

Our energy levels are more depleted than our bike batteries, but after a bit of a rest we were okay to look at the exhibits and to climb the stairs to do the rampart walk.

Then out through beautiful park gardens near the River Eden to rejoin the course. The day is actually hot.

By mid-afternoon, we've turned down to Great Corby, quite near our destination of Wetheral. But the map is not detailed, and the GPS keeps saying "off course" as we searched for the crossing to the hotel. Up this street? No. Down that street? No.

Then a kindly voice from above remarks, "a bit hot today for that." It's the manager of the railroad bridge, leaning out his brick tower window.

"Yes, it is. Can you tell me how to find the Crown Hotel?" I asked.

"Go through that gate, along the footpath, then across the viaduct," he replied. He chuckled as I related these instructions to John, who was just coming back from another unfruitful excursion to find the GPS course. The gate opens to a narrow path just beside the train track, well fenced.

The Wetheral Viaduct, properly called the Corby Bridge, is a treat in itself. It's a railroad bridge finished in 1834, with a separate pedestrian bridge alongside the train tracks. I'm just as glad that no trains went by while we were there. Although it was perfectly safe, it would be unnerving to have a moving train so very close.

The view from the viaduct, of the River Eden, is splendid.

Once across, we found ourselves in the train station, staring at an up-across-and-down platform bridge to get to the town side. More stairs. Ain't happening. We continued along the footpath, ducking the low-hanging branches, when we met a woman hurrying down to the station.

"Can we find the Crown Hotel this way?" She was clearly rushing to catch a train, but paused to help.

"No luv, go over the platform steps." John started to explain why we couldn't do that. She amended, "Then go around by the road. I'm late for my train!" At the end of the footpath, a road, left on the road, then left again and we've wound around to the hotel. I sure hope we didn't make her miss her train!

The Crown Hotel is quite nice. Last night, Teresa described it as posh and sighed over the splendor of dining in the conservatory.

But we went into town to eat and found (with some help) the Wheatsheaf. It provided a pleasant pub dinner amongst a local and convivial crowd of people and dogs. It was fun.

Saturday morning, we are definitely in Hadrian's Wall territory.

The Roman wall was originally eight to ten feet wide and fifteen feet tall. It was 80 Roman miles long.

We visited the first of the English Heritage sights along this part of the route, Lanercost Priory. Our membership gets us free entry, thus adding £7 to balance the account towards the membership price.

The ruins are Roman in the sense that the priory made use of building stones salvaged from Hadrian's Wall. The abbey was founded in 1165, so the Romans had been gone for most of a millennium. It just makes good sense to salvage the square, well-worked stones lying around since time out of mind.

We're seeing statues along the way in honor of Edward I who battled with Robert the Bruce, an England vs Scotland conflict in the 13th century. Edward was killed in the village of Burgh in Sands where we saw his statue. The priory had a complicated relationship with both national heroes.

Even after the dissolution of the abbeys, people continued to bury loved ones in the priory. One of the most touching tombs: a terra-cotta sculpture of a baby girl, aged three months, who died in 1883, so tenderly rendered.

I began to find the hills increasingly taxing. I'm huffing and puffing, John continues to chirp how easy the bike climbs. We're on the approach to Banks East Turret, a segment of Hadrian's Wall, when I'm well out of breath. It's a moderate climb, with much more severe elevation changes in the immediate future.

"Let's swap bikes," John suggests. Now we both find out what the other one was talking about. His bike, which has a motor that drives the chain, pedals very easily. My bike, which has the motor in the front wheel's hub, is far more difficult to push uphill.

We pull aside at Banks Turret, to discuss the matter. We're in a situation here. The foothills are becoming higher, but we're hundreds of feet below the summit. The one bike is good at hill climbing, the other bike is poor. Just swapping would get us somewhat further along, since John is admittedly stronger than I am, but ultimately, we've got to change something. It's clear we're not going to be up to the hills on this toughest part of the Wall Trail, not with either bike.

The first choice: change the under-performing bike. That isn't going to work, we already know there are no bikes to change to.

We decide we need to call for help. That's part of what we pay for, in this sort of ride. The part we both regret is bailing too soon. We could have pushed the next hill and gone on to Birdoswald, a notable Roman sight, just another three miles, and then called for help after we toured there.

But now, we called Peter, the owner of Trailbreaks, and explained the situation. He organized the immediate rescue effort, sending Gary down to pick us up. We began to talk about alternatives for tomorrow.

Gary arrived in his big van at the Banks Turret in about 45 minutes. He loaded the bikes aboard and dropped us off at the Centre of Britain guest house in Haltwhistle, for £20, well spent.

I began to hatch a plan. Our first objective, in this segment of the trip, is to visit Roman ruins. We had supposed that we would bumble along from one to the next on our bikes, but now we know that riding the next 25 miles is in the difficult category.

In the center of the plan is the AD122 bus. It's a tourist bus (named for the year that Emperor Hadrian ordered the wall to be built) that runs back and forth between Haltwhistle and Hexham, in the summer months. That bus stops at all the major sights.

After some discussion and refining, here is the plan: leave the bikes at the Centre of Britain, locked in their undercroft. Then buy day passes on AD122, sightsee until mid-afternoon. Return on the AD122 to Haltwhistle, pick up the bikes, ride down to the station, throw the bikes on the train, and ride 30 minutes to Corbridge, our stay for that night.

Bingo, a perfect solution. We can see everything we wanted (except Birdoswald, which isn't on AD122's itinerary) and avoid the steep hills and avoid the scary narrow roads and high-speed vehicles. In fact, we would advise anyone who wants to do the Hadrian tour to do it this way.

At breakfast the table beside ours has eight young hard-guy riders who are going to push all the way to Tynemouth today. Now how much Roman history is going to be in their experience? Well, history isn't their objective, so we call blessings on them and depart.

The bus fare is £18 for two seniors, day passes for allowing us to ride all around. We await the first bus at 9:08 am.

First hop: Vindolanda. The bus arrives a full half-hour before opening time, but this is such an important museum and archaeology layout that we gave it first priority. We pass the wait time with photography and chat with other early birds, who include a tour bus of Asian visitors.

The most important find, a top treasure at the British Museum, is the Vindolanda writing tablets. People used thin sheets of wood, about the size and shape of postcards, to write, in ink, personal and official messages.

Of particular interest is a warmly written invitation to a birthday party. The note was composed by Claudia Severa. The body was written by a household scribe, with a personal noted appended to the end by Claudia herself. Thus we understand that Roman women could read and write. The translation has a few places where the words must be guessed. The translation is on the internet, presented by the Centre for the Study of Ancient Documents, The British Museum and other copyright holders.

"Claudia Severa to her Lepidina greetings. On 11 September, sister, for the day of the celebration of my birthday, I give you a warm invitation to make sure that you come to us, to make the day more enjoyable for me by your arrival, if you are present (?). Give my greetings to your Cerialis. My Aelius and my little son send him (?) their greetings. (2nd hand) I shall expect you, sister. Farewell, sister, my dearest soul, as I hope to prosper, and hail. (Back, 1st hand) To Sulpicia Lepidina, wife of Cerialis, from Severa."

The script is entirely unlike the carved Roman letters on monuments. People lost, or threw away, the little tablets into the anaerobic bog, where they were preserved for so many years.

In addition, thousands of items, such as money, shoes, jewelry, combs, weapons were found in the bog, beautifully preserved.

The fort itself is partly excavated. Archaeology is a muddy affair.

We visited about an hour and a half, then caught the bus again.

Second stop: Chesters Roman Fort. We gazed at lots of stone objects excavated from the area, including many millstones, fragments of altars and decorative pediments.

We lunched on potato and leek soup and a tuna sandwich at the tea room, then caught the next hour's bus.

Third stop: Housestead Fort. It's a half-mile climb uphill to the fort and museum. We have to press our climb to make the next hour's bus connection.

We could have spent two hours in the very interesting visitor's center and walking around the ruins, but we're ready to move the agenda. We want to make sure of our train to Corbridge.

The savings on the English Heritage pass: £10.50 + £10.40 + £12 means we're well past the price of the membership.

We bused back to Haltwhistle. We have a half-hour to catch the next train. We scurried to prep the bikes and are down to the station well within time. However, the ticket machine won't work for us. First, it only offers a list of popular destinations, and Corbridge isn't on that list, plus the credit card machine only takes chip-and-pin cards, which we don't have. The USA has a lot to catch up on. Turns out it's okay to buy the tickets from the conductor, priced way less than the bus tickets at £6.80 for both of us.

We secure the bikes in the allocated spaces in the first coach, then alight at Corbridge to find our way to tonight's inn. After some hunting and fishing, we arrive at the Wheatsheaf Hotel. It's an old building, with a somewhat surly owner, who seems to be having a bad evening. I'm sorry we missed his Sunday carvery, it's probably quite nice.

Lifting the curtain Monday morning reveals a glorious blue sky. What a great day for a bike ride! We are past the steep part, terrain ahead is well within the abilities of the bikes that we have, it's a go. The distance is at least 30 miles. That is, the GPS route predicts 30 miles, but we generally have excursions, both planned and unplanned, that add distance to the predicted route.

The bicycles, whatever their deficits for hill climbing, exhibit better battery range than expected. We were told 25-30 miles, but our other rides finished that distance with half a charge still on the meter. We'll travel today without range anxiety. That's very good news.

We soon doff our fleeces in the lovely sunshine. We're riding along the River Tyne now, downhill or flat, admiring the green crops and pasture, the tree-lined river, swifts and swallows. Our well-beloved route 72 pretty much follows the river all the way to Tynemouth.

A turn in the road, we are to cross the Tyne over a bridge. Alarm! The bridge is closed. Being rebuilt. Gasp. What now?

A second look, they left the pedestrian bridge intact. Relief. We can cross.

At mid-day, we're in a pretty park, with the very convenient Hedley's Riverside Coffee Shop, to purchase lunch. We decide to take it over to a picnic table within a small meadow in the park, and very much enjoy ourselves.

Along we go, until John's GPS says "off course." We should have made a turn already. "But we're still on route 72," I pointed out.

"We agreed that we'd follow the GPS," John replied.

"It's erratic sometimes."

"Okay," he agreed, reluctantly. A mile or so later, route 72 just disappears. The signposts have the emblem painted over. Now what?

We pulled over to look at the map. Two men on bikes pulled over. "Do you need help?" We explained the situation.

"Well, you should be back there. But we're going in that direction, we'll see you to the intersection." They are faster riders, and have to slow down to let us catch up as we zoomed through what they called a dodgy neighborhood. A mile or so later, they pointed out the route, gave additional detailed information, and sped away, our thanks ringing in their ears. Everywhere in Britain we have found such amiable helpfulness. If a brief look of puzzlement passes over your face, people passing by will interrupt their day to inquire if you need help. We're back on track.

In due time, we're at the big city of Newcastle Upon Tyne. Happily, it isn't necessary to go downtown, we just follow their big, wide, handsome Quayside promenade, stopping often for photos of the splendid buildings and bridges.

One item of interest about Newcastle: the New Castle was built in the year 1080, on the site of a Roman fort and settlement from a millennium before.

Also Newcastle Brown is now a local ale.

We're getting tired and we aren't anywhere near the end of the trip. Once we left the Quayside, and started some climbing, a graffitied park bench offered itself for a rest and water break. Another couple pulled up, asking about the electric bikes. A long discussion ensued. "Would you like to try John's bike?" They each rode a little ways back and forth and exclaimed at the power. It was very pleasant and friendly.

Refreshed, we pressed on to a place that we thought maybe would be Tynemouth. But it wasn't. It was South Shields.

A gigantic vehicle carrier ship, "City of Amsterdam", left port like a moving building.

All our indicators tell us we have another five miles to go. The gray clouds are sprinkling on us. Jackets back on, the wind is cold. We're slogging now, riding along the quay watching the North Sea roll into the Tyne River.

"Course Completed," says the GPS. We're at Land's End. The bike trip is finished. And the only way forward is up a steep hill to a city street.

Now, where is the guest house? The address is on Front Street of Tynemouth. I rode over to a parking lot to ask directions. "Front Street? Up there." Way up on the cliff's face is the town of Tynemouth. Way up.

John dismounted. "Ride my bike up," he insisted. He put it in first gear, but that spins so rapidly that I can't catch my balance. In third gear, at last, I have what I need and soar up that last hill. Wow, a good bike does help. John is strong enough to ride my inferior bike up that last hill.

Peter asked us for a bit of technical review of the bikes. John found one for Marilyn's Twist Lite; it was generally admiring but ended with this:

If you stand up on the pedals you're putting a lot more pressure on them and the motor responds in turn; you can really fly up the climbs out of the saddle. But most people considering a bike like this won't be doing that, and the power curve really needs to be tweaked to give more assistance for lower pedal inputs at slower speeds.

Amen, brother.

Very shortly later, we're settling into the Number 61 Guest House. We put the bikes in their back garden, and began to change, restoring Trailbreaks gear and dismounting our gear. The hostess, Helen, has already phoned Ian to report our arrival, so he can come pick up his property.

We rested and changed clothes then walked out to see the immediate bit of town. "Do you want to go into the old priory? We have another half hour until they close and it's free with our English Heritage card."

"No, I've had enough."

Strolling back to the B&B, we find Ian and Jeff, the B&B host, loading the bikes onto Ian's bike carrier. "I wonder where I can find the battery keys?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. What a mistake. Here they are." I had the keys clipped carefully to my purse so as not to lose them.

"All's well that ends well," Jeff declared. Ian is more taciturn and just accepted the keys without comment. He asked offhandedly about the hills, and John filled him in on the details.

We're happy with the trip. We saw quite a lot of Roman history, experienced good weather, mostly happy rides, and solved some problems in our favor. In a strange way we are grateful that the hills were above our grade level.

It's all good.

# Chapter 12: York

The day begins badly, we overslept. We packed quickly, hurried through breakfast and asked directions to the Metro, a suburban railroad that links us to Newcastle. The Metro station is just a short walk, no problem.

A kind woman, another passenger in the station, explained the route to us and helped us to buy the tickets. She was the key to getting us to Newcastle Central Station on time. I couldn't even find the train fare, looking first under "T" for train and "S" for station, but it was under "C" for Central. The route is a bit unusual. To go directly to Central Station, we would have to climb up-across-and-down to the other platform. From the current platform, we needed to change trains at Monument station, which is modern with escalators and lifts. Who would have known all that? Thank goodness the kind woman was there to explain.

We arrived at Central Station with a whole hour in hand, time enough for coffee and email at the Costa coffee shop, which has good free wi-fi.

The train trip is a bit over one hour long. Then we had a longish walk into York itself.

We entered the town walls through Mickelgate. I bought a folding map of the city center from the stationers, which helped.

I asked a man walking past, "Can you direct us to Ousegate?" pronouncing the word like "house". He looked puzzled. I spelled the word. "Oh, you mean Ooze-gate," he smiled.

The Blue Bicycle is a restaurant, not open until dinner time. They also manage the Blue Rooms apartments where we will stay. Happily, a phone call summoned a woman from some interior office who unlocked the restaurant door so we could leave the luggage. "Come back at 2:30, there will be somebody there to help you check in." That works fine.

A nice lunch at a tea room, then a mild walk around town, as we're still both tired from yesterday.

The Shambles is a short shopping street, of ancient ancestry.

The buildings lean over, more from settling foundations than design. It's a good place to purchase ice cream cones.

York has a special name for small streets, too narrow for vehicles, that are public rights of way. Rick Steves alerted us to watch for them. The streets, called Snickelways, would maybe be called alleys back home.

We walked further to look at the castle ruins, Clifford's Tower, a bailey on top of an unusually high motte.

Rick Steves says it's not worth the price of admission. Though our English Heritage pass would get us in for free, neither of us wants to climb all the way up there.

Soon it's 2:30 pm. The proprietor is at the restaurant to greet us warmly. The apartment is ready. He walked us around the corner, perhaps half a block, then down an old brick alley named Franklins Yard and to the entry door giving on a number of apartments. To my relief the outer door does lock.

The one-bedroom apartment, up a flight of stairs, is gorgeous. The décor is very modern, with a dozen thoughtful touches. The refrigerator is full of food, all the makings for a full English breakfast plus cereal and milk, lots of coffee and tea, a big fruit basket, and a bottle of Champagne. Later, they drop off a loaf of bread, still warm. On the sideboard is about 1/3 of a bottle of scotch and 1/3 of a bottle of gin, plus mixers and soft drinks and fruit juice in the refrigerator.

It feels very good to stretch out on the sofa and the big arm chair, to have a table for eating and computing, a big bedroom, a very big bathroom. And to top it off, a view of the Ouse River from the kitchen window. I gathered from the website that they have an even bigger apartment, with an even better view, but this one is very comfortable, we're quite pleased.

There is a music store that shares the alley, from whence guitar chords and cigarette smoke and snatches of folk songs emit. But that is temporary and not a problem once we closed the double-paned living room window on that side. The other side has the view and the pleasant afternoon air and no car traffic or other noise at all.

"Evensong is at 5:15 at the York Minster, and the church bells ring at 4:45. I'd really like to go," I said. John agreed.

The York Minster is in strong competition with Canterbury Cathedral for most splendid in the kingdom. Their 35 bells are pulled by strong men. We didn't listen long to the ringing, it was conventional "come to church" rather than change ringing, but joined the surprisingly big crowd waiting for the quire to open for evensong.

The pipe organ plays hymns as the congregation enters and sits down in the strange carved seats.

The boy's choir sings the psalms today, their pure sopranos very pleasing. What an awesome experience for those boys, some very little, some nearly too grown for this group. The service lasts about 30 minutes. To my total embarrassment, I forgot to turn off my cell phone outside. It started making its "low battery" chirp. I can't turn it off now, it makes a dreadful farewell racket that I can't find a way to change. I stuffed it under a cushion to muffle the once-a-minute chirp. John said it was barely audible. And oh, what if a call had come in, what a dreadful thing that would have been.

We strolled back by way of Marks and Spenser, for grocery shopping, although we needed very little, between leftovers brought with us and the well-stocked apartment. "We can eat those sausages for dinner. Let's get some fresh ravioli and a sauce too. And some green vegetables." The store offers a number of selections of mixed fresh veggies, the right amount for a couple days and lots of choices for fresh pasta and fresh sauces.

As it evolves, we drank the Champagne, ate goat cheese on Carr's crackers, together with the generous portions of tomato and mushroom provided for breakfast, and a pear from the fruit basket. I fried up only one of the sausages and three or four of the raviolis to share, that was plenty.

The 35 bells of York Minster have practice on Tuesday evenings. The windows were open, the music reached our ears attenuated by distance and buildings but still pleasantly audible.

We are in slow-moving mode next morning. We ate half the provided breakfast, which is still a big meal, with bacon, sausage, egg, toast, and a grapefruit. They provide instant coffee in single serve wrappers, but of more interest is the coffee in the canister, meant to be brewed in the little press coffee maker. We call that a French press at home.

We consulted Rick Steves' guidebook for what to see here. He provides a self-guided walk and recommends against the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus as having little value.

It's time to go for a walk, together with our little fold-out map and iPods focused on Rick's walk. York, within its city walls, is a very compact place, so nothing is particularly far away.

Down by the Museum Gardens, we photographed the ruins of St Mary's Abbey, torn down by Henry VIII during the Dissolution. Then we paid £15 to enter the Yorkshire Museum, drawn in particular by a new exhibition called Richard III: Man or Myth. The exhibit is disappointing, not worth the money. The "myth" part is a movie performance of Shakespeare's Richard III. The "man" part has historic documents about Richard's life and something of his leadership of the city of York.

I had expected more description about finding Richard's skeleton in 2013, but there is the barest mention. After two years of analysis, his remains are interred now at Leicester Cathedral, but the Richard III Society talks about moving him to York Minster. The controversy is not finished.

The museum displayed silver jewelry and ingots from a 10th century Viking hoard dug up just a few years ago. The silver necklace looked perfectly modern all shined up as it was.

They also had a medieval warrior's helmet in such perfect condition, it looked like a replica. The owner's name was Oshere. The sign says the name is inscribed on the nose guard, but it looks to me like it's on the band across the top of the head. The helmet was found buried in a wood-lined pit which must have offered unusual protection from the elements.

At noon, the clouds are sprinkling a light shower on us. Now back to the apartment for lunch and tea and to let the sprinkles pass on by.

Out again, to walk along the ramparts of the town wall and visit the museum of the Richard III Society. Walking the high wall we look down into urban gardens, in brilliant colors. How well these English can garden!

The Richard III Society's museum is located in the gate house of Monk Bar, dating from the early 14th century. The displays document the last of the Plantagenet line and the beginning of the Tudors with details on some of the battles, particularly Towton, where 28,000 died, far more than Culloden would kill several centuries later.

The newest exhibit is in a prison cell within the gatehouse, a tiny round room. At first I thought it was a storage room, but upon squeezing in, watched a video. Here they narrate the excitement of the discovery of Richard's remains. While the popular press makes it sound like a spectacular accident, in fact it was a ten-year project to locate the grave site under the car park. Richard was killed in the Battle of Bosworth and his naked body displayed several days until being dumped into the grave without even a coffin. He didn't murder his nephews. That's enemy propaganda written by the victors in the long and vicious War of the Roses. Quite likely somebody did, but Richard wasn't involved.

York has a peculiar street named Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate. Later, I looked it up on Wikipedia, which reports:

The origin of the name is unclear. "Gate" derives from the Norse word "gatta" meaning street. A plaque erected in the street states that it derives from a phrase Whitnourwhatnourgate meaning "What a street!", but most modern sources translate the phrase as "Neither one thing nor the other". The city's whipping post and stocks were here in the middle ages, which may have influenced the change to the modern spelling and has certainly provided an alternative folk etymology.

# Chapter 13: London

The suitcases rolled with difficulty over the myriad cobblestones and bricks of York's streets, back to the train station.

We're soon aboard the 10:03 am to London King's Cross, in First Class. It's a fast train, about 2.5 hours. The staff tell us that the speed is between 90 and 125 mph.

Neither of us felt like breakfast before now, but a mid-morning meal service aboard the train provided me with porridge and tea and bacon roll and coffee for John, served at the seat by two or three attentive staff. The train has free wi-fi and free newspapers, with a crossword puzzle for John. He works at it but these British puzzles' different hinting rules and foreign topical references are impenetrable to him.

From King's Cross it's easy to get on the Picadilly tube line, using our Oyster cards, for the half-hour trip to the Kensington district.

The Gloucester Road tube station features, alas, one flight of stairs up from the Picadilly line, then escalators. It's only a short walk to the Ashburn Hotel on Cromwell Road. We stayed here back in 2009, so we were upgraded to a big room with a king bed. That was nice. The room was ready, so we could move in early. I especially like the double-paned windows, which block out the road noise very effectively.

After a brief rest, we set out for one afternoon of London sightseeing. Rick Steves likes the London Hop-On-Hop-Off bus, so we walked down a block to pick up one of the routes. I asked the driver about a discount, promised by City Sightseeing for booking previous Ho-Ho buses. "Ride with me to Picadilly Circus," he replied. "They'll give you the discount there." That's the route's starting point.

The traffic is very congested. The bus only moved a few lengths with each change of lights. It's unbelievably tedious.

"I'm rethinking this plan," I murmured to John. "Let's get off at Picadilly."

"And not buy the tickets? Didn't we promise the bus driver?"

"I sincerely intended to ride the bus, but this traffic is no fun at all. Why pay £60 for a bad experience?" John agreed. The London Ho-Ho is the most expensive we've encountered. The traffic is dreadful. How do people live with it?

Picadilly is indeed a circus of tourists. We stared at the statue of Eros, gaped at the gigantic advertising sign, the bagpiper busking on the sidewalk, the seller of soap bubbles, then strolled down a few blocks to Trafalgar Square. The famous column honoring Admiral Lord Nelson is encroached by a big music concert this weekend. The whole fountain is fenced off with sound trucks setting up.

We were directed by the Admiral's gaze to stroll down Whitehall towards the river.

The traffic congestion continues, whichever street we choose.

Number 10 Downing Street is well fenced with lots of security, as one would expect. The Tower of Big Ben and the Parliament building and the London Eye were bathed in the afternoon light just right for pictures.

With difficulty, because of the tourists and the cars, we could cross the street and look at the Thames.

"Okay, that's enough," we agreed, and boarded the Tube at the Westminster stop, down to the Circle Line, off at Gloucester Road.

Then a nap. We're both fighting off head colds, had a poor night's sleep. That's enough London for us. Such country mice we must seem!

# Chapter 14: Heathrow to SFO

A half-hour ride on the Tube and we're in Terminal 3. Our Oyster cards still have a few pounds left. The Virgin Atlantic Upper Class fare is, of course, quite high, but there are perks. We were whisked away from the regular check-in counter, together with a few other passengers, to a special drive-up counter where high rollers in limos are dropped off. There weren't any other customers at that moment, so we were seen to in a jiffy. Then we were ushered through a special fast-lane for security, very quick, but still thorough.

Before we'd finished buckling ourselves back together, we were walking through the shopping concourse. Heathrow is quite a big airport; this is Terminal 3 out of 5, with a 20-minute walk down to the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse. The old remark was that Heathrow is a construction site with an airport attached.

Then we were in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse for a couple hours of easy-chairs and tea. They actually furnish lots of food and every kind of beverage, but tea is what we want for now. The continental breakfast at the hotel was plenty until the big on-board meals commence.

We're seated in the uppermost part of the plane, seats 1A and 1B, with the three flight officers just beyond the security door. Champagne upon being seated, then a French red wine for tipple. John is having scotch.

A section of Economy Class is up here too, six across, a narrow aisle between.

I browsed through the movie selections and found myself surprised that these are not first-run titles. When I picked one, "Mr Turner", I was expected to sit through about ten minutes of commercials, and then the audio didn't come up right. As I was only marginally interested, I turned the set off.

John enjoyed taking pictures out the larger portholes. It's daylight the entire trip.

"What's up?" John asked as I squirmed in my seat pod.

"I'm bored," I confessed. He laughed at me. But it's true.

John has the knowing of what buttons to push to make the seat into a lie-flat bed. I pulled the mattress pad and duvet out of the bed roll and settled myself into a horizontal position for napping. That used another hour or so.

I need a haircut.

Are we there yet?

Eventually, we're there, riding BART around San Francisco Bay. "A long time ago," I pointed out, "we were on the London Tube. And it's still today."

# Chapter 15: Thoughts and Notes for Next Time

Most important: bring less stuff. While we congratulated ourselves at holding down the luggage weight at the beginning of the trip, the suitcases were still far too heavy. Next time, the weight limit is whatever I can carry, by myself, up two flights of stairs.

We both packed far too many extra clothes. "But what does that weigh?" John asks, which is a good question. No single object weighs much, but all those objects added together are too heavy.

Next, build in a few more layover days. That is, a day with no required activities, to hang out and rest. I think we've both caught cold from the stress of too many activities crammed together. As it was, inclement weather provided us with a few layover days.

Staying occasionally in a self-catered one-bedroom apartment is really fine. These are more expensive than a tiny bedroom in a B&B, but they do provide a welcome sense of space, of flexibility, of comfort, and a washing machine. Also, the apartment provides a very comfortable base for hanging out and resting, particularly when located in the historical (not the business) district. Then we can go out for a couple of hours and come back to rest up again.

# Chapter 16: Reflections on Public Transit

Most Americans think they have to rent a car. We're comfortable with trains and subways and buses, which are far better adapted to public use in the UK and Europe than their US counterparts. The internet tells everything we need to know about schedules and fares. The Two Together railroad card saved lots of money, both on advance purchase tickets (frequently very cheap) and buying from the conductor.

The most frequent negative comments about hotels pertain to car parking.

Another positive point, we met many more local people on public transit, and most of all when touring on bicycles. In a car, you're isolated except at scenic pullouts, where you're in competition for parking and viewing spots. Left-side driving is very stressful to adapt to, and just when you get comfortable you're most likely to swerve into the wrong lane, with disastrous consequences. Even on the bikes, mostly in country lanes, we had a learning curve about staying on the correct side of the road.

Sometimes city intersections are painted with "Look Left" and "Look Right" to warn hapless tourists not to walk in front of oncoming traffic.

# Chapter 17: About This Book

We like to travel. We both keep extensive journals as we go, to supplement the photos we take. Our journals are written separately, so we can record our own thoughts and feelings and memories. John often prefers pencil in a paper notebook, but Marilyn writes on the Netbook, using Apache Open Office software, version 4.

For photography, we choose from several cameras. John uses the GoPro Hero 3+ and Marilyn uses the GoPro Hero Silver. He likes to wear the GoPro mounted on his bicycle helmet. The GoPro cameras excel at wide-angle action video and have become our preferred cameras for underwater photography. For normal photos, we have his-and-hers Canon SX230s.

This electronic book was compiled from Marilyn's journal, with John's outstanding and patient editing assistance. Both of us contributed images.

The final Open Office document was converted to an e-Pub using calibre software version 2.31, created by Kovid Goyal.

Best regards,

Marilyn and John Walker

