You see, I’m trying to expose the Clan to camping in nature herself.  Unfortunately, you can’t get the same results, awe, and respect for nature when you’re stuck in some lot with tents all around you, the shitters next door, and paddle boats to rent on the lake.  The true-to-nature camping is called “wild camping”… and in Britain, it’s illegal.  There are ways around it… and some of the National Parks “acknowledge that it can be common place in their park and discourage it.”  A statement like that read between the lines?  “You can do it and we don’t mind, as long as you’re smart about it and leave no trace.”

I’m amazed on how much research goes into planning for a trip like this.  Unless you do this sort of thing professionally (or truly, without kids), you can’t just go gallivanting off into some unknown destination hoping to find what you’re looking for.  It takes a map, checking distances, ensuring there are good water sources enroute, etc… and with kids, extra planning is involved to ensure that anything short of the destination will lead to a good camping experience… because once the kids call “uncle,” there’s no point in continuing on; everyone quickly becomes miserable and you’ll instead convert them into abhorring hiking and camping.

To cut our teeth on real  wild camping, I chose the Lake District, which gives the same amazing Scottish views without the added driving.  That being said, it still took us 4 hours to drive there.  I checked the weather before departing the house: 40°F lows, 55°F highs, mostly cloudy with patches of sun (considered a “good day” in England) with bouts of rain here and there embedded in the cloud.  So you say there might be sun… good enough for me!  Besides, this country is an island; weather changes pretty rapidly on islands (for better and worse!).  Sure, it might be sunny then rain, but the opposite occurs pretty quickly too.

The Journey:

The hike started off in high spirits: the sun was out (albeit with a lot of surrounding clouds), we’d just got gassed-up at the Pub (left) where we parked our car, and we were off to explore the 2¾-mile trek I planned through Mother Nature.  The first 2 miles were relatively flat as we made our way through the Langdale Valley.  The landscape was beautiful; exactly what your mind would drudge up whilst thinking of the natural landscape of England:

Shortly after mile 2 began the ascent to the high ground.  Both the kids were doing better than I expected!  Brenden was tirelessly blazing the trail ahead of me (I was actually having to put some effort into keeping up with him… but I also had 40+ pounds of extra gear on my back), while Marissa was happily making a game of it with Pam while carefully negotiating the rocks all on her own.  Like the last hike, we even took time to stop and ponder nature’s wonders: tadpoles in a puddle (not pictured), a good look at sheep shit, an even better look at a slug sliming its way along sheep shit, and then Brenden: “Dad, why do sheep have hairy penises sticking out of their butts?”

Everything was going swimmingly.  Then, about 75% up the mountain, it started to drizzle…  then drizzle started turning into rain, and then rain started turning into a downpour accompanied with 45-mph wind gusts.  All of us had water-repellent jackets accept for Brenden, which we never got around to buying one for him (after he lost the last one a few weeks ago); he was triple-layered to compensate.  He continued to blaze ahead having fun.  At this point though, I knew the clock was running because he would soon be soaked to the bone and I would have to get him dry and warm.

The Storm:

As soon as we got to the summit, I started looking around for some place to shelter, while keeping Brenden huddled between me and the sideways rain pelting me.  By the time he started noticing he was cold, Pam and Marissa rounded the summit.  Marissa was truly (and rightfully) pissed, and Pam was doing all she could to soothe her and keep her going.  A place to put the tent down was slim pickings where we were, so we pressed on.  And the it started sleeting…

That was it.  Brenden joined Marissa in desperate cries for mercy, and I could see that fearful look in Pam’s eye.  Unlike the last time where we let the kids pick out a spot to lay the tent, this spot kinda picked us.  I had to find a place and now!  All of us were waterlogged to our knees (and that was the best case)… I scampered frantically to find a spot that wouldn’t get flooded, while the kids howled in agony as Pam tried to keep them from the inexorable cold wetness.

An aside: you don’t understand.  Here we are at the top of a mountain (hey, 1600 feet is a ways up according to the English standard) and the ground everywhere is seriously like walking on a waterlogged sponge.  I’m not in a bog or a swamp… I’m on the top of a mountain for crying out loud!!  How can the ground be like a swamp?!

I found the driest ground I could and laid the tent footprint.  The sleet pelted everything.  I’ve never set up a tent so fast.  Within a mere minute, I had Pam and the kids inside as I was placing the tarp and securing it into place.  Twice I almost lost the tarp as the wind ripped out the ground stakes and the thing went flying like a kite straining my grip.  As I continued trying to make the tent impregnable, I yelled for Pam to strip everyone down out of their clothes and get them into the sleeping bags.  She did so, and I grabbed some water containers to collect some drinking water from the nearby swelling mountain stream; once I got into the tent, I didn’t plan on leaving it to get stupid things like water…

Thoroughly soaked to the bone, I stripped down to envelop myself in the nest that Pam had made. All of us were pretty cold. The kids were starting to dry out and warm when I arrived, but Pam was still cold and I looked like I had just taken a shower with my clothes on. We had brought some home-dehydrated dinner with us, but we didn’t bother unpacking the hiking stove, we didn’t bother unpacking our entertainment, we didn’t bother unpacking anything but the bare necessities. Now we were just concentrating on keeping warm and dry.

As the kids started to trail off, I stayed awake in awe, like I would during a violent thunderstorm.  The rain was just beating relentlessly against the tent.  There were times that the wind would blow so hard that half the walls of the tent would temporarily collapse on top of us.  It was those times I looked over at Pam and saw the panicked fight-or-flight look in her eyes.  “We’ll be OK” I told her, knowing deep-down that the tent would continue to shield us from the rain and wind.  We were in the tent, after all, acting as anchors to prevent it from blowing away; the worst that could happen was a pole snapping (which I wouldn’t have been surprised had one snapped, but none of them did).

Throughout the night, it sounded like our tent was getting sandblasted with peas, along with the wall collapsing on my face.  At some point I got warm and dry enough to sneak a peek through the tent flap, just to ensure myself that it was only rain.

That’s about the only picture of the carnage I took; I was afraid of ruining the Canon 7D camera that I had painstakingly brought along with me.

The Aftermath.

I eventually got to sleep, but was awoken by Pam’s fidgeting about 5 times throughout the night.  Only during the drive back did I realize just how worried Pam had been… about the cold, about the tent collapsing, about the weather sticking around (there’s no way we could descend that mountain with rain and 45-mph wind gusts!)…

Regardless.  At around 7am, I was greeted with this as I woke up and started rousing the Clan:

As Pam packed up her nest, I put my soaked clothes back on and went outside, assessing the swamp (and sheep) that we were now surrounded by:

A swamp!  On top of a mountain!  Unbelievable.

Reverse of when we arrived, I went to get some water for all of us to drink as Pam packed up the comfortable nest she had once made.

When she was done, I broke down our waterlogged tent and strapped it to my back.  It was still cloudy, but the wind was calm and it wasn’t raining.  Time to climb down while the going’s good!  We rounded the hill at the summit to start our descent back to our starting point, and there the sun finally decided to show herself.

On the descent, we had to stop and take off our layers so as not to overheat.  It figures.

Adventures.

You could say this was a miserable experience.  But what makes an adventure, I ask?  I think it’s all the elements combined into this camping trip.  Surely adventures aren’t packed full of only triumphs… if that were the case, every movie we watched would be filled with complete boredom.  Could you imagine Lord of the Rings in this light?  Frodo would put the ring in his pocket and the movie would be over!  Adventures come from a roller coaster of hopeless lows and glorious highs.  Moreover, it takes winning and losing to learn.

Things of note?

1. I really need to outfit us in rain gear.  Especially the kids.  It’s ok to roll the dice with the weather provided you’re prepared for the worst.  I could’ve prepared us better.  Waterproof shoes (not galoshes) are still key.
2. Trust the equipment.  I ensured we were equipped with a good tent and sleeping bags.  They completely made the difference.  That tent got the ever-living shit beat out of it, yet it held together without a leak.  Awesome.  If anyone wants to know, it’s a tent from Big Agnes.
3. I think outside families looking in would probably think we’re insane…

The best part?  The kids are rearing to do it again!  Now I just have to convince Pam…

You see, throughout my life I’ve always achieved better than 20/20 results in both near and far vision. In the optometrist’s defense, I speak with a bias: all the optometrists I’ve dealt with typically have pilots as their primary customer.  Pilots generally have good eyesight, so you just know these optometrists are dying for work (like a chimney sweep in Florida).  Yet rather than patting me on the back for my good eyesight and releasing me into the wild for another year, optometrists are like “not so fast… let me run a few more tests, just in case you need glasses…” (I don’t).

Regardless of any protests I can muster, they poke and prod my eyes with these air blasts, dump stinging solution into my eyes forcing me to wear welder’s goggles to see anything, and then commence with this trivial game of “which one looks better, A or B?”  Well, I have a news flash: they both look equally as shitty because I can’t see, damn it!

And then the kicker: “I think you might benefit from a pair of glasses.” I don’t think I’ll benefit from a pair of glasses, I tell them.  ”Well, let me order you a pair anyway, just in case.”  You’re wasting your money because I’m not going to wear them, I say.  ”Go ahead and pick out a frame that you like” as they point me to their frame wall, diverting any attention from the guards they’re posting by the exit on the opposite wall.  I reluctantly pick a frame (eenie, meenie, minee, moe seems to help my decision process), and am finally released (along with the few belongings I came in with) at the front of the building.

And this happens almost every year.  I honestly have like 4 pairs of glasses floating around that I’ve never actually worn…

Until yesterday.

My morning ritual (when time allows) is to brew a coffee and read the news off the internet in the quiet of my office. Yesterday morning I just felt like I was struggling to focus the words on the monitor. It just took more concentration than normal. Perhaps it was because I still had sleep in my eyes and they were still “booting up” for the day to come. I rubbed them a few times and realized I had one of two ways this could go: 1) make the screen print something huge or 2) reach into the office cabinet and grab a pair of glasses from the Jenga tower I built with all the pairs I was coerced into bringing home with me.

I chose option 2 and, because of that fleeting concession, probably just became every optometrist’s wet dream. You can see I’m thrilled about it. I think this is the first tremor of their prophecies coming true.  Granted, my eyes only act like this once in a blue moon and I won’t be caught dead in these for at least another 5 years, but it’s just another sign of the inevitable.  I’m not looking forward to the hearing aids that I’m sure are still well down the road, but at least I don’t get those shoved down my throat on a yearly basis!

Want to know what’s going through the heads of a herd of cows being rounded up?  Run a distance race.

Today I ran my first race in over 16 years: a 10k.  Really though, let’s call it a sanctioned run; I wasn’t in it to eyeball the competition and devise strategies to overtake people.  I know, I know, I hate the whole “everyone wins” attitude that prevails nowadays… “you didn’t lose Johnny, you got 10th place out of 10!”  But realistically, I know the shape I’m in and winning for today was to just complete the damn thing in under an hour without opening the doors to injury.

The experience?

Apprehensive.  Over 1,000 people were in this race!  I didn’t feel ready.  Unlike every movie-made-famous athlete I’ve watched, I didn’t get a montage prior to running this race.  I feel cheated.  But seriously, I didn’t necessarily feel ready… ready in the sense that I could run with a time that I’d be proud of.

Calming.  Once the starting horn went off, it was soothing to just keep up with everyone and watch the scenery.  I even found myself contemplating problems and cooking up ideas, almost like you do in the shower.

Humbling.  Nothing puts your own self-image back into its place faster than getting passed by some 60 year old.  Or keeping pace with someone that has twice your weight to lug around.  Or having some dude dressed up like Scooby Doo fly by you like you were walking.

Fun.  On the flip side of humbling (above), no one cares about self-images.  No one judges you.  I certainly didn’t judge everyone else.  I think everyone is just genuinely happy to run: it encourages you, while they also seem encouraged by you (that you’re making the effort to run too)… it’s almost like a win-win for all.  I didn’t get that sense of super-competition I used to feel in races from high school.

Challenging.  On mile 4, I thought it would be a great idea to take a picture of Pam and me running together.  So whilst running, I fumbled my iPhone 5 out of the key-pouch in my shorts and attempted to frame up my digital masterpiece… without dropping my uncased iPhone.  After massive amounts of concentration and coordination with minimal results, I fumbled around my key-pouch to put my unprotected iPhone back in my shorts… for like half a mile… I’m sure everyone thought I was playing with myself or something.  It never made it back in, so I was stuck holding it with a white-knuckled grip for the rest of the race.  At least I didn’t drop it… that would’ve been a $600 race!  I don’t know how Gaza made it look so easy and graceful during the Hash Run we had in Italy.

Rewarding.  I had kinda written off running because of past injuries.  Yeah, so my time is nothing to brag about at ~56 minutes; I was middle of the pack and decided to stick with Pam to help her with her goal of 9:30 min/mile pace.  I’m proud of her: she ended up with not much over 9:00 minute miles.

Truthfully, I probably could’ve quickened my pace to maybe 8:30 per mile (max), but that wasn’t my goal (as stated above).  I’d like to continue to build upon this race, and I can’t do that very well injured.

What’s next?  Pam’s signed us up in July for some fun-run in London where we negotiate a gauntlet of spray paint for 5 kilometers.  Then the big one: a half-marathon with Robin Hood and his band of Merry Men through Sherwood Forest in September.  Perhaps there’s a full marathon for me in the future, but it’s one thing at a time for now.

She shows it too.  You can tell in her stature.  She spends more time sleeping.  She has a harder time getting up from a laying position.  Every once in a while, I catch her back legs giving out on her a little bit.  Truth be told, I’m dreading the day I have to do something about it.

But then she catches me off guard too.  Like when I come home from work: she probably saves up every ounce of energy to mob me at the door and, on rare occasions, she’ll still jump up on me like she did as a pup… then her back legs realize they can’t handle it and she hops back down on all fours before they collapse.

And then comes the big surprise.  I let her outside every morning.  She usually spends 15 minutes rooting around the acreage, excreting here or there, before she yelps to come back inside.

This morning marks the second time this has happened in about two weeks… Only instead of me getting to the door and being like “what the hell?“, the kids came into the computer room screaming about Morgan and something going to heaven:

Yep.  That’s a rabbit in her mouth.  One of the many that matriculate at our great yard.  This one I think was mid-aged since it’s of decent size and already had a battle scar in its ear (it was torn in two).  The one she got two weeks ago was probably a 3-4 month old youngster.

It amazes me though.  Here I have this dog that’s the equivalent of 100 years old.  Yet she still has the get-up and spunk to best a rabbit in its prime.  I’m just thankful she doesn’t have dementia and mistake our indoor cat for a rabbit.

I hope when I’m 100 (I’ll even accept 80), that I can go and run a track race and do almost as good as I did in my prime.

Here’s to hopeful wishing.  In the meantime, anyone up for some Game Meat Stew?

With the tragedies came a wake up call: life is short, so maximize the quality of it.  Trade in the TV, the browsing of the internet, and the boozing… trade all that in for an active appreciation of nature (which nature herself is truly life incarnate).  In those moments of sad reflection earlier this year, I vowed to make that trade.  Trust me, I’m weary of not following through (talk and daydreaming are easy), but the impact of this particular wake-up call gave me the converted determination to see this one through.  Just to be sure, I put down my solemn oaths to paper to solidify their execution.

Oath #1: be more adventurous through nature (Live like Luc, right?).  The checkpoint: take the family on a multi-day hiking/camping trip by year’s end.

Let’s see, Pam and I have been camping maybe a total of 3 times in our 10 years of marriage… with that eye-watering frequency, multi-day hiking/camping isn’t something that I can obviously just dive right into (especially with young kids).  So we’ve been taking baby steps.  The first step, accomplished the week we moved into our house, was backyard camping (if you want to call it that): cooking dinner in the kitchen, eating it outside, roasting marshmallows around the patio firepit, and spending the night in a tent.  Sure, it wasn’t exactly roughing it, but you have to keep it fun for the kids so you can raise them up to appreciate nature adventuring too.  Two weeks later we did the same, but this time we cooked dinner and breakfast outside on the camping stove without relying on the house amenities.

This weekend was the next step toward that checkpoint.

Living on a farm (that we don’t have to maintain) has its advantages:  we have acres upon acres of property that we’re allowed to camp on.  So we loaded all our gear into backpacks and began walking.  Brenden carried the sleeping pads and his blanket, Marissa humped in some granola bars and dried foods, and Pam and I hauled the rest.  We hiked about a mile from the house and found a good spot near a small woods and a stream.  We hiked at a kid’s pace (stopping a lot to look at snails, slugs, plants, rabbit shit and other wonders of nature) and let the kids point the way to the “perfect” campground.

It had been raining the day prior and was still drizzly and cloudy, so it was quite muddy.  But hey, you can’t control the weather and we’re in England for crying out loud!  It’s supposed to be overcast and wet a lot.  Besides, if we waited for the perfect day to camp, we’d probably be waiting for a few months.  Once we arrived at the spot and got the kids’ proud approval, I unpacked and set up the tent.  The kids helped Pam gather some firewood and got a fire going.  As you can see in the photo below, I use “the kids helped” in the loosest of manner: a kid’s attention span yielded maybe 3-4 twigs for the fire… good enough for the age.  Ha, I should say “Pam got a fire going” in the loosest of manner as well… Pam lighting a fire is akin to trying to grow a garden without using water – it doesn’t come easily in either circumstance.  I do have to give Pam credit though, she got a good one going after about 30 minutes and store-bought fire starter (it’s a start, right?).

As I said, there was a stream next to us where I got our water from.  We tried out a few store-bought dried meals, but they weren’t all that tasty.  I might have to start making my own MREs with a dehydrator or something.  We did bring the marshmallows which, as always, is a huge hit with the kids.  But after his second marshmallow, I was surprised when Brenden said “one more marshmallow and then I’m going to bed.”  So go to bed they did, and Pam and I followed shortly thereafter.

Like the weather, another thing you have to tolerate whilst camping in Jolly Olde England is the fact that the sun rises at like 4:30 in the morning!  Unless I’ve been up for more than 24 hours (and even then…), light always rouses me from my sleep.  So from 4:30 until about 7:30, my sleep came in bouts of 20-30 minutes.  The kids awoke about 30 minutes after I got Pam stirring.  Once up, Pam made a breakfast of pancakes and hot chocolate while I broke down the camp back into our packs.

And now for the mile-long trek back to the house.

Take aways for next time?

• Buy waterproof shoes.  The kids had galoshes, but Pam’s and my shoes were soaked to the point where you can hear the water squish from your socks with every step.  Thank goodness for the campfire we made… until the next morning when our socks were standing up by themselves.
• Make your own meals rather than relying on store-bought crap.

Oath #2 to follow in 2 weeks…

The centrifuge and I just seem to keep crossing paths.  Amongst my peers, I’d be willing to bet that there aren’t too many that have done the 9G profile not once, not twice, but thrice times.  During my first time through the centrifuge in 2003, I had the fight-or-flight experience: 9 Gs would hit and you would throw everything you had at it, with zero reserves, and just hang on and pray that it ended before you ended.  I wrote about my second time in 2009 here; though it went much better than the first, it still sucked.

Yesterday brought me back to my old friend a third time.  This time to the oldest centrifuge in the world, listed as a historically-protected building, built in 1955 (the English version of Marty McFly would be proud).  Seriously, take a look at the original G meter (left); who made this thing?  Art Deco? Acme?  The gauge just screams “1940s”!  In fact, if you look closely at the center of the spinning arms in the video below, you’ll see Dr. Evil sitting there trying to extract the American secrets out of me! (at least, that’s what it looks like to me… very 1960′s “Bond”ish…)  Everything digital that you see in the video was a retrofit.

(Video: Watch this video on the post page)

By the way, that whimpering noise at the beginning is air leaking out of my mask (just to set the record straight).

All of this old technology was in contrast to the gear I was wearing this time to help me out pulling Gs.  I was pretty nervous going into this, but the Brit’s G-suit is superior to the one I wore previously.  Whereas before it was a life-and-death struggle and me barely holding on with zero reserves left, this time I still had more to give, even at 9 Gs sustained!  Though it was still a workout, I had reserves in case I needed more!  I’d be willing to bet I had the capacity for 11 or 12 Gs until the point of barely-holding-on struggle.  Regardless, it still wasn’t fun.  Ask Pam; instead of the “Geezles” I have these big bruises on my lower back and arse.

Pleasure.

To reward myself on making it a third time (hopefully, that time was the charm…), I took a pilgrimage to Mecca.  I detoured about two hours (roundtrip) out of my way while homebound to experience a bliss that I haven’t felt in 3 years.  Bubbling over with anticipation, I arrived in Wimbledon, rounded the corner and there it was in full glory with light shining down…

That’s right: Chipotle.

I remember going through withdrawal when I moved from the US.

Just last year, I heard a rumor that Chipotle had come to London.  Once I moved to the Queen’s country, I investigated the rumors; they were true!  Sure, 1 hour one-way might be a little out of the way, but not when you consider the 3-4 hours it takes from our house.  So I ordered a chicken burrito… oh, the choices…

After demolishing that bad boy, I bought 2 more to bring home for dinner.   Life is good.

I think I attribute it to the sheer vastness of America: ~315 million people spread over almost 8 million square miles – that’s almost 40 people per square mile!  With numbers like that, what’s the raw statistical chance that you will meet anyone of fame?

Then again, Italy (where I lived for 3 years) potentially shoots down this hypothesis.  They have 60 million people spread just over 116 thousand square miles – that’s about 518 people per square mile.  That many people stacked on top of each other should allow meeting someone at least a little bit famous!  But alas, I don’t speak Italian, which rules out a lot of potential encounters… unless you’re really trying hard to meet the cast of Jersey Shore (which I care not to do).

And now we live in Great Britain.  They have 63 million people covering 94 thousand square miles, making it jam-packed with 670 people per square mile.  Where they hide them all, I couldn’t guess.  Where we live (in the Wolds sticks of Lincolnshire), a town with even one traffic-circle (these are “European” for traffic lights) is a rare find!  They must all hole up in London.  Anyway, we’ve only lived here for what, one month now?  And I’ve already stumbled into two well-known names.  This triples my lifetime count of famous people!

David Bellamy.  At the cottages we were staying at in Tetford, the owners asked us if we were going to be around to have dinner with some guests that were coming from out of town.  ”Sure, why not,” I said, “what’s the deal though?”  Well, their friend David Bellamy and his wife were coming to visit and I had to reserve my fish and chips in case the place got packed… easily done… “But who is David Bellamy?” I asked.  They were astonished.  Apparently, he’s England’s founding father of nature and conservation.  In England, his personality is like the American equivalent of Dick Clark, but on an environmentalist platform.  Everyone knows who he is… (not Americans, apparently).  I liked him even better after I met him and found out that he thinks man-induced global warming is full of shit (my view: take every person on Earth and have them pee in the ocean… I don’t think it’s really gonna do all that much.  Sure, we contribute a small percentage, but it’s not caused by us).  Anyway, the fish and chips were excellent too.

Prince William, himself.  You know, the guy that’s all over American newspapers with Kate Middleton and their baby to-be?  I was training in Wales where, for my job, they throw me into the ocean and I have to demonstrate survival techniques prior to being picked up by the “Coast Guard.”  Since I get a free chopper ride at the end of it, I have to go to a safety/orientation brief for the rescue helo.  I stepped into the Squadron’s bar (properly called the “Tea Room” I’m sure) for the brief and did a double-take: he was there in a flight suit just shooting the shit.  He put out his hand and was like “hi, I’m Will“… I looked at his nametag just to be sure, and sure enough, it said “Will Wales.”  A 2-3 minute conversation ensued until we got the word that the daring ocean rescue was cancelled (due to winds) and would be rescheduled the following day.  I think the good prince was actually going to be the pilot of the rescue helo for that day!  In fact, I almost titled this post “Rescued by a Prince“, but that just assumes too much for me… like being a fair maiden and shit… (we’ll have none of that).  Anyway, I eventually did get thrown into the cold ocean, and was eventually pulled out by a rescue helo from his squadron.  Who was flying it?  I’ll never know.  

On a very serious note though, I had my buddy Gaza on my mind throughout the entire day of water training… because it’s exactly what he went through for 3 cold days (instead of the measly hour I was exposed)… it was humbling.

Boy did we get lucky… through a mutual friend, we were introduced to (more or less) a mansion. The renting of it was looking good, until I recalled that I didn’t bring up the pets… so I did… and the reaction wasn’t encouraging. I think I realized that after about the 15th time he said “Oh dear” on the phone after I told him.

The good news: I convinced them to at least see the animals before any decisions were made. They met them and we got the green light to the house! You see, this house has been in his family (he grew up here) for at least two generations, so there’s a lot of sentimental value caught up in giving it over to us to rent.

Regardless: Snaketon Abbey is open, and we’re now accepting applications for maids, butlers, cooks and visitors. Click on any picture to get the full-up, un-cropped version.

Yes, that tree/vine you see going up the front is actually a pear tree that yields the fruit in the summer…

Here’s the first floor highlights (this is not our furniture):

The office (left) and dining room (right)

 
Pam’s place of employment (pending cook and butler applications):

… though you can’t see it, this kitchen has two sets of counters, each with a sink! That area off in the distant (above) is the “informal” dining area – it’s bigger than a garage and has a huge skylight. And of course, Pam’s favorite feature: a working Aga.

This cast-iron monster was commonplace in the 1920s. You shove it full of coal and keep it continuously lit. It warms the entire kitchen and dining area, while acting as an oven and stove when you need it.

Moving on with the main floor. Continue on and you have not one, but two(!!!), living rooms. The owners recommend that the smaller one get turned to a kid’s play area, while the adults claim the larger one. Both have fireplaces.

 
Again, I stress this in not our furniture… but the carpet and curtains will remain. Hey, I’m not even about to complain about them (even though they’re not to our liking): we were just given a Lamborghini for a Volvo-style price… I don’t care about the color of the interior. .. Oh yeah, and off the “kids” living room, there’s a “Florida Room” (the Brits call it a Conservatory) attached to it.

The second floor highlights:

A bedroom is a bedroom is a bedroom, so I’ll spare a lot of pictures… because there are 6(!) of them. So here’s the Master Bedroom:

There’s two rooms the size of large bathrooms off the bedrooms; I was told they were *cough* his and her dressing rooms. And then there are 5 more bedrooms… The guest/kids bathroom at left, the master bathroom at right:

 
Note the bidet (the “extra” toilet that shoots water up your arse)… These things are all the rage in the Snakeye family. We actually got accustomed to using them the three years we were in Italy.

And finally the outside:

The future location of Snakeye Woodworks (my hand tool woodshop) in the detached 3-car garage.

Obviously, I’m going to buy some cheap plywood 8’ by 4’ panels to put down as flooring, install some lighting, a space heater, etc…

The back patio with a working water fountain:

A greenhouse for vegetables to brave the colder English climate:

This house is actually on a working farm that the owners are continuing to operate. But aside from the fields and farm equipment beyond the yard, the actual house yard is a pretty good size. The rental contract has us paying for the weekly yard maintenance and hedge trimming (so don’t bother applying for “gardener” position, it’s already filled).

And lastly, a view from walking in from the tennis court (yes, I said tennis court), along with the climate-controlled gazebo overseeing the tennis court for a spot of tea:

 
I was inclined to turn this place down (“sorry, I just can’t rent this from you…”) due to the 2-mile distance to the nearest pub… and the contract didn’t have a Rolls Royce thrown in with the deal… just unsat.

In the end, I’m left in disbelief on the deal that we got… and on how the hell I’m gonna fill this place with furniture.

The Prime Meridian

Right. People are obsessed by this kind of stuff. Just look at Key West’s Southernmost Continental US Point. So the Prime Meridian? I have to include it. If you visit, it’ll be no more than a 30 minute’s drive. Where we’re staying now? It’s a 30 second walk. Yep. The Prime Meridian… the Greenwich Standard Line… it runs straight through this area (at right is a local butcher named after the phenomenon that passes through its property).  For those that don’t know too much about the Prime Meridian:

It’s quite like the Equator, in that it creates a stake of navigation, but stands up rather than lays down across the globe. Unlike the Equator (which is the “belt” of Earth, determined by her pattern around the Sun), the Prime Meridian’s placement was dictated by might and the North and South Poles… the strongest country in the world (back in 1600s and 1700s) happened to be England: proving her worth by conquering India, the Americas, and many other lands. Therefore, England became the self-proclaimed “zeroing point” for all navigation. Of course, it helped that enlightened Englishmen like Edmund Halley (founder of Halley’s Comet) and Thomas Godfrey (inventor of the octant) had a play in setting up the longitudinal standard.
 

Lord Tennyson’s Birthplace & Favourite Pub

Who the hell is Lord Tennyson? If I rack my memory enough, there’s a thin veil of recollection that dates back to High School. But I can only seem to remember him from stuff I despised: like reciting literature and the such. If I studied it in High School, he must’ve been one of the Greats along the lines of Shakespeare and Emerson and Thoreau and Poe (other people who were probably great minds of their time with which I hated learning about from glorified books).

Here’s the cool thing: the great Lord Tennyson was actually just a man… like you, like me.

He was born in jolly olde England (in Somersby, less than 10 miles from us) in 1809, a time between the American Revolution and the American Civil War. Also in that year, Napoleon was going ape-shit conquering all of Europe, and Thomas Paine, who penned the great American pamphlet Common Sense (which helped sway the American public toward independence), had just kicked the bucket. Tennyson was shy and, like all aspiring artists, had quite the rocky start… until his poetry caught the attention of Queen Victoria, who made him the Wordsmith of his day. Just think: in modern times, he’d be writing official Hallmark cards for the government!

Prior to the recognition of his genius, Tennyson would come to the quaint village of Tetford for fellowship and a pint at the White Hart Inn. Why do I admire Tennyson? Because even after his fame, he never forgot his roots… he continued to visit Tetford’s White Hart Inn. In fact, it’s recounted that he sat in this very chair (where the arrow points below), by this very fire place, catching up with old friends (you see, Somersby is only 2 miles from this watering hole):

I’ve rambled on long enough about Tennyson… but you may know a few bits and pieces of his mind. Pieces like:

‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers

and the ultimate getting-slapped-in-the-face pick up line:

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you… I could walk through my garden forever

I’m sure in his day and age, his pick up line probably worked. Visit his garden nearest us, or visit his grave in Westminster Abbey of London.
 

Resting Place of John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

Every pilot should have at least heard of this guy… but for you non-aviators, here’s Paul Harvey’s the rest of the story:

John Magee was born an American to parents living in China as Christian missionaries.  His dad was American and his “mum” was a Brit.  He grew up with the love of poetry and excelled in school: abroad and in the US.  He got a full ride to Yale… yet on the eve of his enrollment in 1939, he decided to follow his heart… his morals… and enlisted in the ranks of the Canadian Military against Hitler.  You see, the United States didn’t take a side in the Second World War until late 1941, when the Japanese sacked Pearl Harbor; prior to that, young Americans were forced to enlist in the Canadian Military to help the War Effort.

After Initial Training in Canada and Wales (the Wild West of Britain), young P/O Magee went on to fly the mighty Spitfire at RAF Digby… about 10 miles from where we are.  In early September 1941, Magee got to test out the latest and greatest Spitfire MkV.  And test he did: he flew it all the way up to 30,000 feet (that’s about 5 miles above the Earth… the modern F-16 doesn’t even like it much that high).  And there, 5 miles above land and ocean, John was inspired: he’d touched the face of God.  He mentally noted the beginnings of a poem and, after landing, scribbled down as much as he could to commemorate his experience.  Anxiously, he wrote about the experience (and accompanying poem scribbles) to his parents.  On the flip-side of the the letter he scribbled “High Flight.”  Mail probably took at least a month for transit.

The blitz on Pearl Harbor occurred 3 months later, and the US officially entered the War on December 7th of 1941.  Three days after that… just three days… John was flying a practice mission 400 feet above the British marshes and collided with another plane.  The last eyewitness account was that of a farmer: he saw Magee’s crippled Spitfire losing altitude over his farm… and the 19 year old pilot had pulled the canopy open and jumped out… but at an altitude too low for the parachute to deploy properly.  John Gillespie Magee, Jr. (as well as the other pilot he collided with) died upon impact with the ground. He’s buried 10 miles from us, in the sleepy village of Scopwick.

But he left his parents, who shared with us, his first two true loves: his poetry… of flying.  Not only is this poem memorized by every pilot I know, but Ronald Reagan even quoted the poem, in its entirety, to commemorate the lives of the great astronauts of the Challenger… it goes something like this:

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, – and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air….

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Birthplace of King Henry IV

Everyone knows Braveheart, right? The terrible Edward the Longshanks and his offensive against the noble Scotts in the late 1200′s? And then, in Braveheart, you remember the gay prince… the one who’s mate was thrown out the window? The one who wedded that hot French broad, Isabella (but she seemed to be more infatuated with Braveheart)? Well, needless to say, Mr. Gibson’s retelling isn’t exactly historically accurate: Isabella was only 9 years old (living in France) when William Wallace was executed. But it makes great entertainment, and with it you have the foundation of Henry IV’s lineage.

So that gay guy… Edward II, or Edward of Caernarfon, was Edward the Longshanks’ (gay) son. Edward II’s queen was, in fact, that hot broad Isabella who eventually conspired against him with another guy (Roger Mortimer) and had Edward II of Caernarfon murdered. Isabella and Edward II’s first son, Edward III, found out about this treachery when he was in his late teens and had Mortimer hung in 1330… he was quite pissed at his mother. Edward III’s long reign would be handed off to his first male child: the Black Prince of Wales… but unfortunately the Black Prince died just one year prior to his father.

The kingdom and throne then passed to the Black Prince’s first son (Edward III’s grandson), Richard II. Unfortunately for Richard II, he was left to deal with the political crisis of the Black Death… to give you an idea: all the laborers died along with some of the nobility. Realize the nobility survives on the harvest the workers reap: no peasants = poor starving nobility that may even have to labor the fields themselves. The peasants, in their smart fashion, figured this out and demanded higher wages. Nobility then passed laws preventing higher wages. Rebellion ensued… for a long, long time.

Enter Edward III’s next surviving son (his 3rd son at this point [the 2nd one had already died of natural causes]): John of Gaunt, who was uncle to the current king Richard II with a son of the same age. Mr. Gaunt’s son, Henry IV, was born in the stronghold of Lincolnshire: Olde Bolingbroke Castle (built in the 1200s).

In it’s hayday, Olde Bolingbroke was surrounded entirely by a natural lake of swamp and water, right up to the stoneworks! By the 1500s, the castle began falling into disrepair. During the English Civil War in the 1600s, the castle was used by the King’s forces as a fortification. Parliamentary forces laid siege, won, and ripped down the towers and walls into the lake. The reason you see grass in the modern day photo is due to the rubble of the castle raising the land around it.

Now back to Henry IV in the late 1300s. Gaunt urged his son to take the crown: on premise that Richard II was doing quite the shitty job (with the Black Plague and all) and also presented an argument, which everyone bought hook, line and sinker, that Henry IV’s line to the throne was more pure than Richard’s.

So Henry IV, at age 33, seized the Throne and held his cousin Richard prisoner until he starved to death. Henry IV didn’t succeed where Richard failed: he dealt with the same rebellions. Henry IV eventually died of leprosy at the age of 45 (12 years of kingship). After his death, his son and grandson seized the Throne for 50 years… until Richard II’s progeny cried “bullshit” and started the War of Roses (which, in turn, brought about the Tudor dynasty).