Tewkesbury: "Is that mint?"

With a lazy day yesterday, we were set to soak up the sun today. We decided to try one of the walks we'd picked up some time ago at the tourist information centre in Tewkesbury: almost nine kilometres, from Tewkesbury to Deerhurst and back, mostly along the River Severn.

After a bit of browsing in Bookworm -- where I found a few more Ward Lock Red Guides -- we started to make our way back to the car, which was parked near the Abbey and the start of our walk. The impressive exterior of the Royal Hop Pole caught my eye, however, and, much to my surprise, Tea was amenable to my mutterings about historical buildings and our only ever visiting Tewkesbury during their winter ale festival (in 2010 and again in 2011). My sort of hike, I thought, moments later, a pint of Grand Prix in hand.

In all honesty, it really is a beautiful hotel. As is the Bell Hotel, further down the road. We'd made it that far when we decided our substantial breakfast of sausages and eggs had been a few too many hours ago. An amazing pork roast later -- with a pint of Greene King's lovely St Edmunds to wash it down, in my case -- we finally felt fit for our challenge.

As we made our way down to the river, the view of the Malvern Hills stopped us short: such colours, and sheep dotting the landscape to near the horizon. It really was a beautiful day, and it was great to see so many people out enjoying it: whenever we passed picnic tables, they bore their namesake. Other families spread out on blankets near the path. (Never to the point of crowding, of course, with that rural British sense of space you'll always find, outside the hubs of London, Brum, etc. anyway.)

We picked out a solitary swing in the distance, as we left the paved road behind at the Cheltenham College Boat House. Tea had to stop for a few minutes, of course. Swinging idly, she pointed at some plants nearby. "Is that mint?" A new fan of real mint tea, I eagerly descended upon it, ready to rub it vigorously to release that wonderful scent. Far too late to alter my course, I hear, "Or is it poison ivy?" The next instant is a bit of a blur, as I yelped, staggering backward and staring at my hand in horror, certain that full needles fashioned of some fibrous matter to rival steel would now be bristling from my fingertips.

I'd imagine I had some sort of run in with stinging nettles in my childhood. You'd never know it, though, the way I wailed, and later snivelled, about my burning, then tingling, extremities. (It's with thoughts of you, dear reader, that I persevere with that pain even now, typing this missive.)

Once we'd reached Odda's Chapel, the guide's author struggled for notable landmarks. Or, rather, we struggled to find them amongst the various pens and fields of a nearby farm. With the sun dipping, we decided to retrace our steps; those views were definitely worth a second look, and the light was even better at that hour.

You can find more pictures from the day in our Tewkesbury to Deerhurst album.

Athens: touring amidst protests

The Parthenon

It's amazing what a difference a few hours make: we were off the ship and on the metro early enough to have pictures of the Parthenon with no one else in them. A few hours later -- after 10 a.m., say -- the wait was hours, and the place, a madhouse. By then, however, we'd enjoyed a snack -- more baklava and another pastry, called kadaifi on the menu -- and taking in the Temple of Zeus.

There was some sort of protest going on outside the President's residence, which, unfortunately, closed the nearby national gardens, so we skipped ahead on our itinerary and, as luck would have it, happened upon the changing of the guard outside the palace. Our luck continued as we found a covered patio moments before the skies opened, raining down buckets. And just as we were finishing up our fantastic Greek salads, the sun broke through again. (Oh, I tried ouzo for the first time as well -- very similar to sambuca, which I love.)

The Odeon

The Erechtheum

If you're as confused by all buildings as I was, check out the site plan on the Acropolis' Wikipedia page -- I could've used it a bit sooner!

Hadrian's Arch -- the Acropolis in the distance

We decided to catch the metro back to the ship at that point, and it's a good thing we did: the combination of the port authority jamming all the cruise passengers into a single line -- one of the cruise lines was registering hundreds of passengers who were about to begin their cruise, no less -- and a massive failure of the body scanners had us waiting for an hour to board the ship. And the worst part was that no one could tell us anything: Royal Caribbean personnel didn't even appear until half an hour had passed. With everyone pushing and squeezing closer and closer together, no air conditioning, no water, many languages, military dogs barking savagely... Well, honestly, you felt the anxiety approaching riot levels.

However, the worst moment for me was when a Greek soldier near the defunct body scanners pointed at me from behind their barricade, shouting, "Hey! You! Stop!"

The Temple of Zeus

I'd been filming (and photographing) all this, since no one from Royal Caribbean was around (at least, initially), and I figured they wouldn't believe me without some sort of evidence. (Some of the staff don't speak English very well, so it can really help things along if you have something to point at.) As the soldier hopped the barricade and approached me, I had visions of him taking my camera and smashing it, or simply confiscating it. Instead, he stopped beside me, pointed at the camera, and said, "Delete it!", watching and repeating the instruction as I deleted each video and photo in succession, back to a picture of Nancy and Stephen that I'd clearly taken on the docks. Then he simply nodded and walked back to their line. The adrenaline didn't hit me for a few minutes, but when it did, I was shaking for some time.

Tuesday, June 29, 2:30 p.m.: Epilogue

Stephen has an interesting theory about yesterday -- courtesy of his dad's speculations prior to our sailing. The chances of all three scanners failing simultaneously are astronomically small -- Stephen managed to find someone in the industry who claimed they're never interconnected -- so it's likely that at least one of the machines was working correctly, and they simply claimed that all of them were broken.

Why? Well, Greek government employees have been protesting government cuts to their wages (and benefits, possibly -- I'm not up on the details) for some time now, and the fact that the cruise line that was registering people seemed to cater to locals means that we could have been caught up in an attempt by the government employees -- both port authority workers and the army -- to gum up the works just enough to garner public support for negotiations regarding those cuts (even if only to get Greece back to normal from the layman's point of view).

I like the theory. Especially when you consider that all the scanners started working again simultaneously. Oh well, time to catch a few rays. Tomorrow we're in Naples (and possibly Pompeii).

Have a look at my Athens album for more pictures of the Parthenon and the Temple of Zeus:

2010 06 - Athens

Up next: Naples (our last port of call), Sorrento and Capri.

Santorini: oh, my poor a••!

After two days at sea, we tendered to Firá, on the Greek island of Santorini in the southern Aegean Sea.

I thought we would walk the 600 steps to Firá proper, but we quickly reassessed that once we realized that we'd have to share those steps with many, many laden donkeys (to say nothing of their s••t). The smell was so bad at one point that both Tea and Stephen were near retching.

I was surprisingly terse on this point in my journal, so let me elaborate: seeing Stephen in such a state had Tea bent double with laughter, which is never a good thing when you're nauseous. In Stephen's defence, as he stood about, contemplating the finer points of the awful smell I guess, a donkey started backing up toward him, relieving itself as it went. I don't know how he didn't end up covered in it, but that was definitely his lowest moment, shall we say.

They don't smell much better once you're riding them, incidentally, and you're trading the possibility of getting bumped off the steep steps or crushed against the rock wall for being thrown off said steps by mounting them, but, hey, every adventure needs the fear of bodily harm, right?

One final point in this aside: that donkey is a lot bigger than it looks. Honestly! I'm at least a foot off the ground in that picture!

Firá, from the other side of town

Firá, from the ship

The whitewash of Firá reminded me of our trip to southern Spain. We took a cab to a nearby black beach, played in the sun, and laid out on a proper bed -- four poster, with shade and room for us all, for only €10 -- fantastic! And the Greek salad they brought out to us on said bed was so good: covered in peppery olive oil that I was sopping up with the fresh bread, tomatoes like I've never tasted... A few hours later, we took the local bus back to Firá, and a cable car down to the tender. (We'd had enough fear for one day by then.)

I'm glad we bought pictures of the donkey ride, 'cause I don't think Tea or I would believe we did it in even a few months' time otherwise.

Nancy and Stephen enjoying the shade

Up next: Kuşadası, Turkey

Rome: all excursions lead there too, it seems

Our third stop (in a row!) was Civitavecchia, and while the train ride to Rome wasn't quite as far as the one from Liverno to Florence, we still felt we needed an early start. Stephen was off the boat like a shot, grabbing the first cab, and in no time we were waiting at the station for an early commuter train to Rome.

The desolate platform (with bleary-eyed locals slowly arriving over the twenty or so minutes we waited) save for one other party from the ship -- two ladies who'd been to Rome at least twice before, and had arranged a private tour this time -- contributed to this feeling that we were on The Amazing Race; particularly when we got talking with the ladies, and were comparing the detail and quality of our maps. [We kept running into them in places that were pretty far-flung from the ship as the cruise continued; they were forever "the Amazing Race couple" in our minds, and I'll be referring to them often in the coming posts. --JJ]

There was some confusion about which stop we needed for the Vatican, but before long we were standing outside Saint Peter's Square, a little deflated at the line before us. It seemed that everyone had these yellow cards -- issued by their tour guides, which was the first time that our policy of avoiding excursions gave me pause (unnecessarily, as it turned out) -- and the terribly winding snake ending at metal detectors. Luckily, just as despair threatened to overwhelm us, an American reporter (I believe), who'd been to the Vatican many, many times, noticed our plight, and pointed to an area well off to the side of all the lines and confusion. You can just walk right into the Square! I still don't know what those people were waiting for (possibly guiding tours of the museums), but that American truly saved our bacon that day, because the line inside Saint Peter's Square, for the Basilica and the Sistine Chapel, was still very short at that hour.

The basilica was truly astounding; so much so that I almost lost my hat! I dropped it, gaping about, and were it not for a kind stranger pointing out the fact, who knows when I would've noticed it. [This is where pictures are sorely needed; soon! --JJ]

We decided to save the Sistine Chapel for our next visit, since we hadn't purchased tickets in advance and, therefore, faced a long line (and no getting around this one) by the time we'd finished in St. Peter's Basilica. Plus, time was a tickin'! On to the Spanish Steps!

On the way, we passed the impressive Castel Sant'Angelo and stopped for a snack to fortify us against the heat: what looked like fantastic pizza for Tea, Nancy and Stephen, and some candied fruit for me. (Yes, I would come to regret this.) The Steps were teeming with folks, like so many crows, and we joined in, snacking on roasted chestnuts, of all things.

Up next was Trevi Fountain; one minute you're walking through these narrow streets, then there are some statues beside you, and, presto! an enormous fountain. The pictures don't do it justice, in my opinion, because you don't feel how close and intimate it all is -- especially with all those people; so many people, and every one determined to get that picture, but in that good way that makes you feel truly alive and part of something bigger.

The Coliseum was next on our agenda, but we got turned about at Il Vittoriano, and ended up at the Theatre of Marcellus, which, I maintain, can look like the Coliseum from a distance when you're hot and tired. (O.K., maybe not, but we were really hot 'n' tired at this point -- walking Rome does that to you, incidentally; you've been warned!)

As we tried to snake our way around the Roman Forum, I lagged behind to snap a picture. As I ran to catch up, approaching a side street, in one of those last second glances, I noticed a scooter pull out from the line of cars beside me and put its signal on; I stopped up so quick that he did too, and the van behind him couldn't stop in time. The van driver was immediately out and checking on the scooter driver, who seemed to be O.K. I waited around for some time, but they ignored me, save to give me a look that would wither the healthiest May blooms when I attempted to say, "Mi dispiace."

Convinced that I wasn't needed, and certainly not wanted, I joined the group again, who, upon hearing the crash, were convinced I was done for. Then, suddenly, my head popped up amongst the parked cars. (I'd never been on the ground; their view had just been temporarily obstructed.) The best part was that we ended up backtracking around the forum anyway, and I got to take tons of pictures, all of which were better than that one that almost cost me dearly.

In the end, we made it to the Coliseum, but were so tired that we decided the outside was impressive enough. We paused for a breath, caught a cab to the train station, and were back on the ship with plenty of time to spare. What we didn't know was that the very next train to Civitavecchia (or the track itself, possibly) experienced catastrophic problems; we learned that many, many cruisers were stranded on the tracks for hours, missed the ship, and had to fly to our next stop, Santorini! [And our luck didn't end there! --JJ]

Up next: After two days at sea, beautiful Santorini, Greece -- yes, really, this time; somehow I forgot Rome, O.K.? -- with pictures... and donkeys!

The united, but disparate, kingdom

We'd anticipated some adjustments with living over here, and failed to grasp a whole bunch more (as regular readers will no doubt know), but one of the stranger ones -- for me, anyway -- is the causes for celebration (or lack thereof). Those of you who remember my confusion over the silent passing of Robbie Burns' Day -- Burns Night here -- probably assumed I'd get the point, and, oh, I don't know, expect very little of Saint Patrick's Day. Well, I'm a bit thick like that, I guess, 'cause I get up today, throw on my green, and express genuine surprise when the day passes unmarked, on the radio, at work, etc.

Now, I'm sure there'll be plenty of celebrations this evening, but you have to understand that the town is in the grips of the event of the year right now: the Cheltenham Festival. Many, many Irish visitors make the trip over for the week, which usually coincidences with Saint Patrick's Day, apparently -- so many, that I've heard it said that some pubs can sell enough champagne and Guinness this week to pay their operating costs for the rest of the year. But the pints raised to Ireland's patron saint outside that contingent are few and far between, I've been told. Again, why does this surprise me?

I guess I'm still wrestling with just how significant the Scottish, Irish and Welsh roots are to the way I grew up in Newfoundland and Maritimes. As I said on that occasion this year, Robbie Burns' Day wasn't celebrated when I was growing up, but it was a grand occasion amongst my circle of friends back in Ottawa, thanks to Joe's pride in his Scottish heritage (and his love of whisky, it must be said). Even with this shining discrepancy in my past, though, it's slow to sink in.

In my defence, a friend was saying today that even the day set aside to celebrate England's patron saint, Saint George, isn't enthusiastically observed. (That remains to be seen, of course, next month.) It's a provincial holiday in Newfoundland and Labrador, something I'd completely forgotten about until reading a bit for this post. (Someone from back home'll probably comment now, wondering how I could forget the Saint George's Day parades or something. :-P ) Apparently, Saint David's Day, for the patron saint of Wales, is even a bigger deal here -- although not by much.

Well, that's what's been kickin' around the old noggin' today, as I watch our quiet little town turned upside down in pursuit of the Gold Cup and other laurels.

PS: To those offended by my sweeping generalities and blatant inaccuracies regarding your kingdom, did you really expect better from a colonist? ;-)

A rose by any other name...

We've talked a lot about the tastes of home that we're missing, but something that's becoming increasingly apparent is the number of things that are actually available, under different names. So, a short post this lazy Sunday morning, of our discoveries to date -- and locals, and aficionados of all things British, please weigh in with comments to help us out:

• Eggplant = aubergine: we haven't found pickled eggplant yet, a favourite in our antipasti trays, but we're more hopeful now than we had been.
• Turnip = swede (among other names, like neeps, of course): the interesting thing here is that they call really small swedes, turnips. What we'd normally buy is a swede.
• Corn starch = cornflour: took a while to hunt that one down, as their grocery store aisles aren't always organized as you'd expect either.
• Canola oil = rapeseed oil: well, not really, according to the Canola Council of Canada, but it's pretty close.
  

  Canola is not rapeseed. It looks the same on the outside but it’s very different on the inside where it matters. In the late 1960s, plant scientists used traditional plant breeding methods to get rid of rapeseed’s undesirable qualities – erucic acid and glucosinolates. That means canola oil and meal are different from rapeseed oil and meal.

• Dish soap = wash-up liquid: not a taste we were missing, obviously, :-) but pretty darn confusing, nonetheless.

Well, that's it for now. I'll comment on others as we find them; feel free to do the same, as I said.

Lost in the Cotswolds

It was a beautiful day today: sunny and 5 °C. We got a bit of a late start, but had a good breakfast, a quick grocery shop, and then we were on the road to our chosen destination for the day: Brimpsfield. The walk we had picked out would take us from there to the village of Caudle Green and back.

We weren't long in Brimpsfield before the charm of village living became apparent: the village hall that promised free parking could've been mistaken for anyone's house, and pigs, chickens and a horse shared a field across the road from it. So peaceful. And, down at the T-junction that was the 'busy' spot in the village, the ubiquitous war memorial with a fresh poppy wreath, surrounded by little wooden crosses.

The map in our guide book was decidedly lacking on landmarks, but well-versed in the language of stiles and berms now, we started out with confidence. It wasn't long, however, before we started scratching our heads and doubling back on some of our choices. Still, we felt we were heading true, keeping the water -- the one landmark of any consequence -- on the appropriate side of us at all times. And the scenery was incredible, as usual; this was one of my favourite walks -- at that point, anyway.

As we approached what we thought was the halfway point, we had some difficulty finding Caudle Green. I'd heard it's nice, but after a bit of looking, we decided to take a shortcut and start heading back. (The walk provided for this option, so there was no case for alarm -- yet.) As we approached a village from below, feeling very smug about how good we felt, this close to the end of the walk, doubt began to creep into Tea's mind. I assured her that we'd recognize something once we'd crested the hill, and make our way to the village hall by road.

Well, striking out a bit ahead of Tea, not only did I fail to recognize anything in the picturesque village that greeted me, I also spied a bus stop. In disbelief, I was still staring at the large block letters of CAUDLE GREEN when Tea joined me. While fairly confidently following the map to what we believed was the walk's conclusion, we'd managed to land at the halfway point! Now, coming to the realization of how badly disoriented we were, combined with the setting sun, gave me more than a moment of concern, to be honest. Still, this post's title is a bit of hyperbole on my part; we knew where we were; it was just a way's from where we wanted to be -- a mile 'n' a half, to be precise.

Still, we struck out on the road for Brimpsfield with all haste -- no more tricky footpaths for me! -- GPS software running on the Blackberry, and got back to the car within a half-hour or so. The moral of the story: we need to get an earlier start, so setbacks can be dealt with in the light of day. Oh well, no harm, no foul, and lots of fun again -- I think it's clear how much we're both enjoying this when we can still laugh about things in the heightened moments, shall we say. And we can sure as heck laugh about them now.

What's wrong with a simple push mower?

So it was a beautiful Saturday morning here, dispelling any excuse I might've had for not taking the mower to our shaggy patch of grass out back. I'd heard James mention a lawn mower in one of his many disjointed spiels, and while I'd taken a peek in the shed -- seeing nothing that really qualified as a mower, mind (yes, wait for it) -- this was my first serious trip back there.


What can I say?Tea was busy cleaning up our little gazebo as I came around the corner, confused expression on my face, and a bizarre orange contraption in my hands (see right). It reminds me of an enormous orange bowler hat with a handle shoved in the side of it. (Nerd moment: or those tanks from The Phantom Menace, on second thought. Have no fear, Gungans, this sucker may tousle your floppy ears at worst.) My furtive attempts at pushing it didn't result in much -- certainly no hovering, that's for sure, but I'm getting ahead of myself again -- except turning the lawn under it into what could only be described as a giant green cowlick. I didn't realize I'd actually said, "What's wrong with a simple push mower?" aloud until Tea busted out laughing, telling me that that absolutely had to be the title of this post.

In theory, and according to Flymo's site -- as in flying mower, presumably -- this thing is supposed to get enough air under it so that it simply hovers across the lawn, cutting as it goes. Tea found some pictures that implied our model was one-handed -- leaving the other free for your cocktail, no doubt -- but, as I said to her at the time, mark my words, this thing'll give me a hernia before we're ready to head home; it simply would not move! And if you did happen to get it moving forward -- a herculean effort involving both hands and a bent back -- any backward motion to catch a spot you missed resulted in the whole orange bit coming up. This happened three, maybe four, times before I heard a big crack -- I'm used to those now, of course, dear readers -- which was part of the blade flying off as it hit the ground (see right). Luckily, it just snapped back on.

Eventually I had the lawn in a somewhat-consistent state of overlapping circles, and started thinking about how I might trim the edges. Trim is the operative word, I reflected, as I realized that what I'd taken for tree shears of some sort -- "That's odd; they don't have any trees to prune." -- were actually large garden scissors for clipping the bits that our garden vacuum missed. Honestly, I don't think I could've felt more out of place there if you'd told me I was tending a Martian garden. But the grass wasn't going to cut itself, so back to the grind I went.

Here's some shots of our somewhat-cleaned-up patio area:

More lessons

Our air shipment arrived this afternoon. The movers were very friendly -- noticing a pattern yet? -- and the six boxes were out of their truck in no time. Tea's very happy to have her iMac back, as I'm sure you can imagine.

Then it was off to the bank to try to resolve a snag we've run into. We deposited a cheque from our Canadian account into our UK Barclays account early in the week; the latter is tied to what they call a standing order, and it's how our rent will be paid. (Incidentally, we filed that order with our letting agent, not our landlord -- this really is a different world.) About mid-week we got some mail from Barclays saying that the negotiation we'd submitted -- that's what they call the process for depositing foreign currency -- could take up to six weeks to clear! Suddenly bouncing our second month's rent payment was a very real possibility!

A coworker suggested that we might have better luck at a larger Barclays branch. This rang true for us, as the chap who helped us at the smaller branch, while very nice -- which was really odd, by the way, as most of the Barclays folks we've dealt with act as though they're doing us a favour by letting us bank there -- behaved as though he hardly ever did these negotiations. So, once the movers left, it was off to the larger Barclays branch to deposit another large cheque. (No, to answer that question that's hanging in the air now, we most definitely cannot keep doing this, if this attempt also fails.)

I guess now is as good a time as any to qualify my earlier gushing about this country's progressive use of the 'net: banking is well behind here. You have to deal with a cashier -- they don't call them tellers, which I actually prefer (although ATM is horrid) -- for just about everything: most of the bank machines (which they call cash points here) that I've seen literally say "Money Out" on them; you can only withdraw funds from them or check your balance... even top up your mobile minutes, if you'd like. The one "Money In" machine I saw in this branch required paper deposit slips; there was no place for your bank card.

And in case you thought that the "up to six weeks" was an anomaly -- which, of course, we are sort of hoping it is -- one of our claims was recently reimbursed in pounds (the details of why aren't important) and when we deposited that cheque -- from a Barclays account, mind -- into our Barclays account today, we were told that it will probably take three business days to clear. It's the same bloody bank! You just have to shake your head. Oh well, here's hopin' that the Canadian cheque we deposited today clears well before the first one.

As the title of this post implies, the 'learning opportunities' abound. :-) I'll continue with the appliances: our super snazzy dryer has a water reservoir. We didn't really give this much thought, and Tea's busy doing the second or third load of laundry the other night when the dryer starts to beep. As she did with the microwave and the induction cook-top, she immediately reached for the manual. Shortly afterwards, I hear her exclaim, to the tune of yet more beeping, "It's full of water! What more could it want?" :-) Oddly enough, the beeping stopped once we emptied the reservoir. :-) It's strange: the dryer doesn't vent to the outside, which is great for making a nice hot room (just off the kitchen) for getting the wrinkles out of hanging clothes.

Not to be outdone, I committed the stupidest act in memory -- forget recent -- this afternoon. Unsatisfied with almost melting Tea's hairdryer, which was actually quite scary, truth be told -- "Sure; it'll be fine. It says 250 VAC on the side." Ah, no, that bright red glow out the back of it is a bad, bad sign -- yes folks, unsatisfied with that darling moment, I plugged my newly-arrived shuttle (i.e., computer) in before flipping the little red switch on the back of the power supply from 150 to 230, at which point I could've sworn I was shot. The black streak out the back of it on the pearly white desk, and the accompanying burnt metal smell cued me to what actually happened: best case, I fried my power supply; worst, and most likely, case, I fried the power supply, the motherboard, and everything attached to it. Bravo, Jae, bravo indeed.

The shame I feel now, recalling it, can only be topped by that which I feel when recalling how I reacted to said event: to say that I behaved like an enraged orangutan, jumping around screaming a blue streak at the top of my lungs -- all the windows wide open; "Hi neighbours!" -- is to do a horrible disservice to ape-kind everywhere. A shameful, shameful display, to say the very least.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring! :-)

Update: Thursday, August 27: against all reason, my power supply sacrificed itself for the good of the motherboard. :-) I've just replaced the power supply, and I'm back in business, only $50 lighter (and very happy).