UK Trip Part Deux

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In July of 2005, Sue and I visited dear old Blighty again.  The timing was a little tricky, having to work around the times that various family members took off on their holidays.

And so it was that we spent two and a half weeks at the end of July in and around Wrexham.  This time it was sans kids — we left Craig at home minding the house and animals.

When we left the States, the weather was typically hot and humid for the time of year.  It is not the kind of weather I associate with the UK and I was expecting some relief in that department.  Big surprise, however; the heat and humidity were almost the same as that which we thought we had left behind!  Furthermore, it stayed that way for about a week.  It  just goes to show how wrong you can be sometimes.

Sometime during the first few days, we went to the Boathouse in Ellesmere and partook of tea and toasted teacakes like real Brits are supposed to do.  We sat outside in the sun just like we did the previous year and it was all very pleasant.

Then we went to their shop and bought something called a farmer's pie to take back to Mum and Dad's for dinner one day.  When we arrived at their apartment, we found out that Mum was in the hospital!  Another big surprise.  Like they say: "If it not one thing, it's your mother".

It was déjà vu all over again.  Last year when we visited, Dad went into hospital.  Now it was Mum's turn and we spent many hours at the Maelor Hospital.  This is a most disconcerting trend. 

The Maelor is an excellent hospital but the place is like a zoo and is not somewhere you would want to go on a regular basis.  As reliably predicted by Sod's Law, Mum did not leave the hospital until after we returned to the States.

There was a woman in the same ward as her who said some interesting things.  She thought I was someone called Ewan and kept asking me questions like "Where are you working, Ewan?"

"I work in America."  I said.

"Ooooo, you do have some strange ideas Ewan" she said in a strong Welsh accent.

Then she turned to Sue and said "Will Ewan be spending the night with you?"

"Er, yes" Sue replied hesitatingly.

"I didn't ask you that!" the woman responded indignantly.

And so it went.

We never did eat that pie.

Sue and I went into exile in the USA in 1982.  Several years before that, my cousin Rosemary emigrated to New Zealand and we had not seen each other in 25 years.

Such global disbursement kind of limits family get-togethers.  What then are the chances that we should meet up again on a coach full of old-aged pensioners going on a daytrip to Bakewell in Derbyshire?

I would not give such an eventuality a high degree of probability but the hand of fate moves in mysterious ways and that is exactly what happened.

We arrived there by different paths.  Mum says to me on the phone "I'm going on a trip to Bakewell, would you and Sue like to come?"  I thought that sounded like a good idea because I had never been there and I had heard that that's where the tarts come from and I might get to see some of them.

Of course Mum didn't go on the trip because she was in hospital but the trip had been paid for so we went anyway.  That's how we ended up on the bus feeling decidedly out of place among the OAPs and being introduced to everyone as the young couple from America!  That was strange; we have lived in the UK longer than we had lived in America but I must admit that I did like the "young" bit.

Rosemary found her way onto the bus through a friend of her's and that is how we came to be sitting across the aisle from each other at the back of a bus full of what Rosemary calls "wrinklies", heading towards Bakewell.  Oops!  I forgot not to look fat on that photo.

We stopped off at the Cat & Fiddle Inn along the way.  Unfortunately, the Cat & Fiddle folks were not expecting us and were none too happy at our arrival.

There was much gesticulating between our tour guide and the management of the hostelry.  I don't know the proprietor's name so I will just call him Joe.

Joe was pointing to the bus and shaking his head.  Our guy was also pointing to the bus and making other hand-wavy type gestures.  Eventually, they reached some kind of an agreement and we were given the OK to descend on the unsuspecting establishment.

I went to the the counter for a couple of coffees for me and Sue and was put to shame by little old ladies ordering beer, whiskey, brandy and all sorts of other good stuff.  I didn't know that it was OK to drink alcohol at that time of the morning.  Just goes to show how much I know.

This picture of cousins reunited was taken at the Cat & Fiddle.

The Cat & Fiddle is an interesting place; allegedly it is the highest licensed house in England, being 1690 feet above sea level.  It also lends its name to the road that you have to travel on to get there.  The Cat & Fiddle Road is now known as the most dangerous highway in Britain!

It used to be only the second most dangerous road but the other one had some stuff done to it to make it safer and now this one is number one.  Joe seems to take great pride in this elevation in status and has been interviewed by the BBC, ITV and various assorted newspapers on the subject.

Why are there so many people killed on this road?  Joe has a theory — "They are all dickheads!" he says matter-of-factly, "Their brains don't go any further than their bumpers."

I guess that just about sums it up and it also sounds to me like a perfect description of Massachusetts drivers.

As we were leaving to board the bus, a piercing scream was heard, emanating from somewhere within.  It was the scream of a man.

A regular gave a knowing smile and said that a woman must have walked into the men's toilets.  Apparently this was a regular occurrence and the aforementioned shriek was a well known and well rehearsed routine.

Sure enough, a little old biddy emerged from the men's room, profusely apologizing. "I am terribly sorry" she said.

Joe said to our guy, "Next time, give us a call first."

Next stop, Bakewell, where the tarts awaited.

Of course, it started raining and we had to seek shelter during the frequent showers.

      These locals didn't seem to mind the weather one bit.

I was a little disappointed on the tart front and didn't see too many of them. This place looked promising but I didn't find any tarts inside — they only had some cakes and stuff.

Here are some other photos of Bakewell:

Naturally, the sun came out just as we were about to leave and we took these photos minutes before getting on the bus to go home:

These are photos of The Plassey, where we went for lunch one day.  There were a few changes from last year and it had even grown a folly:

We went on a couple of day trips out towards the west coast of Wales, first with Peter and Christine and then with Sheila and Vernon.  Some of the places we visited were Bala, Porthmadog, Fairborne, Tywyn, Aberdovey and a number of places in between whose names I never knew.

The weather was very wild and windy on the first trip and reminded me of the rain-type nor'easters we get over here.

Sue took that last photo and I think it is kind of cool.  We were luckier with the weather on the second trip.

Following that little paddle, Sue forgot to roll down her jeans and walked around with them at half-mast.

  A sorry state of affairs if you ask me.

  Maybe I could have found some tarts in this place.

We went back to Erddig to see the Cup and Saucer because we didn't make it there last year.  I wanted to see it again because I used to play there as a kid — in the days when you were not supposed to go there.  Now it is a signposted tourist attraction with informational displays.

One thing I noticed that was not so much in evidence in my day was the amount of poop all over the place!

There was cow poop, horse poop, dog poop, rabbit poop (I didn't know I knew so much about poop) and who knows what other kind of poop there was.  There were masses of the stuff everywhere on the path leading to the Cwpan a Soser (I just love that Welsh translation).

Some of the best things about Britain are the pubs and the beer.  Here are a few of the pubs at which we imbibed this time around.

Lunch in Aberdovey with Sheila and Vernon.

Two Grove Park survivors and would-be songwriters.  Me with Dave the poet at the Cunliffe Arms.

The Buck with Deb, Pete and their friends.

Someone bought a round of drinks and Sue asked for brandy and dry ginger.  The bartender, a young man with a strong accent that was not immediately identifiable as the Australian that it was, asked "Do you want arse?"

I wondered if there was an extra charge for that.

"Sorry, what did you say?" replied Sue.

"Do you want arse in your dreenk?" he reiterated.

Blank looks.

"He's asking if you want ice in your drink" an anonymous voice volunteered.  That, of course, became the source of much hilarity, especially after a few more dreenks.  Naturally, each time Sue had a drink we would ask her if she wanted arse in it.

           Looking a little stuffed, with Deb, Pete and Vicky at the new and improved Alyn.  The new menu was good too.

  We dodged into this place in Bakewell for some lunch.  I had to have a pint of bitter as well just to keep up with the wrinklies.

Lunch and a pint at the Swan in Tarporley.  See next section.

During the course of her genealogy pursuit on the Internet, Sue made friends with someone who was also called Sue and into genealogy.  This gets kind of confusing to me so you will have to use your skill and judgment and best guesses to figure out which Sue is who.

They had talked over the Internet numerous times, even using webcams and stuff, but had never met in person.  Seeing as we were going to be going over there, they arranged a rendezvous in Tarporley, which is where some of Sue's ancestors originated.  So me, two Sues and Sue's friend Christina met up there just a few days before we returned to the States.

Me, Sue, Sue, Christina.  Wait a minute — who took that photo?

We all went in search of stiffs that might have been Sue's ancestors.

Sue found one.

Then we went to the neighboring town of Eaton, from which some of Sue's ancestors were thought to originate.  What a pretty place that was with thatched cottages and perfectly manicured country gardens.  Who knew that place was there?

We had no luck with the cemetery search but Sue did find a Lightfoot Lane that may be part of her heritage (Lightfoot is her maiden name).

    Car boot sale at Bryn-y-Grog (what a great name).

Library guy.

       Time to say goodbye to Peter and Christine, who had a last drag on a fag outside their house.  You just can't say stuff like that over here.

Deb and Pete's place where we aboded during our stay.

Princess Diana's butler's flower shop.  In the doorway, you can see the reflection of Pete's car.

The Wibbly-Wobbly-Way.

Larchwood Road.  One of the places we lived as kids.

Wrexham's cop shop.  Even uglier today than when it was first built.

Some things that baffle me are the attempts to get people to slow down when they are driving.

After living over here for so long and then witnessing all those British cars whizzing along at high speed down very narrow roads, it does seem to me that people generally do drive very fast over there.

However, some of the solutions to the problem strike me as bizarre at best and idiotic at worst.  Take, for example, the speed bumps, which are called humps over there.  They are also called "sleeping policemen" and "calmers" (read on).

      Look carefully at this photo and you can see that they place the humps about 100 yards apart and sometimes only about 50 yards apart.  The cars look like they are on an obstacle course, going up and down and up and down.  I watched a long line of cars undulating along a street one day and was reminded of that caterpillar ride you see at the fair.

Sometimes they even have double humps!

The steps that are taken to slow down traffic are known collectively as "traffic calming".  What a beautifully bureaucratic piece of gobbledygook that is.

   The speed bumps are bad enough but for all-out insanity, the mind-boggling idiocy of the obstacles shown in these photos takes some beating.

When I first saw these things, I was aghast that people would actually build obstacles jutting out into the middle of the road where people could crash into them.  Yes, I know, if they slow down and stop they won't crash into them.  If they do manage to crash into them, it must be their fault and it serves them right, I guess, for driving too fast.

I have likened going back to Wrexham to visiting a parallel universe so perhaps a word of explanation is in order.

I used to know Wrexham very well but not anymore.  Now, I get lost driving around.

I have witnessed its evolution as a series of snapshots and observed changes that may elude those caught up in the everyday flux.  That traffic calming lunacy did not exist when I lived there but that was only one of the many changes that have occurred over the years.

Wrexham is at once familiar and unfamiliar.  It is recognizable and yet unrecognizable at the same time.  The place is the same — only different.

It is one of the strangest experiences; you really have to leave a place for twenty-odd years to fully appreciate it and, being a longtime science fiction fan, it reminds me of stories I have read about parallel universes.

And that is why I view Wrexham as a parallel universe.