Meditations of a Bald, Fat Guy

BETWS-Y-COED, THE REMATCH

Thursday, April 20, Robin and I decided to return to Betws-Y-Coed. Our first visit didn’t really last all that long, and we wanted to see more of what this quaint hamlet had to offer. It did not disappoint. But before we get to it, I need to introduce you to Ranger. Ranger is the stuffed snow leopard you may have seen in a few of our photos. There is a reason a grown-arse man is carrying around a toy.

Here’s the cheeky little blighter keeping an eye on me while I was driving to Milwaukee.

Ranger became a thing when my daughters were young, On occasion I would take a trip away from home, and daddy’s little girls would miss him. I bought Ranger on one of my trips, and began taking pictures of Ranger on his adventures with me. When I got home, I could show them all the wonderful things Ranger did with daddy while he was away. The girls really liked it. So did my co-workers who thought it was awesome that a big, strapping lad like myself was carrying around this toy and creating memories for his daughters. At one point, I met Tom Arnold, the actor, at a school safety conference in Denver, CO. He was really cool and ended up taking a picture while holding Ranger. I will have to find that picture, it’s pretty cool. He’s also had his picture taken with Senators Lugar and Coats, two Indiana Senators.

Ranger and I went down to Georgia, we were looking for a soul to steal…

Now a days, I send pictures back to my two grandsons Roman and Stevie. Roman is 7 and Stevie is 4. Stevie especially gets a kick out of the pictures, so Robin and I made sure to pack him along. We don’t take him everywhere. Every now and then Robin will say, “We ain’t takin’ Ranger.” And that’s that. But, we send enough for our grandsons to know that Meemaw and Peepaw are thinking of them.

Ranger is relaxing with a bit of Stella.

So there’s Ranger. Now that we have that sorted, we were about to explore Betws-Y-Coed. There were some wonderful shops there. We spent a leisurely morning wandering through the shops, starting with the Information Center. There we bought a few small gifts, and took a virtual reality tour of the summit at Yr Wyddfa. When we left there, we had ourselves lunch at a tea room just outside of the Information Center.

Ranger is caught on film filching some of our delicious carrot cake.

From there we walked around a beautiful square that had a dead ringer for Forrest Gump running laps around the park. Barefoot! I was in such awe at the likeness I failed to get a picture, The look I got from Robin when I got out my phone squashed that, because that pesky vanilla scent was back. Damn! I had to settle for a picture of of Ranger on a giant chicken.

“It’s a chicken, I tell you! A GIANT CHICKEN”
(An ode to Chicken-Boo, of Animaniacs fame.)

One of the things to see in Betws-y-Coed is the Pont-Y-Pair bridge. It was built in the 1500s to allow packhorses to cross the Afon Llugwy. It was later widened to allow stagecoaches to cross it. It is a very picturesque bridge. I took a picture of Robin with it in the background, but I didn’t get a very good angle of it.

Robin with Pont-Y-Pair bridge in the background. Betws-Y-Coed is really a postcard kind of village!

I found a blog called thirdeyetraveller.com that had a wonderful picture. I’ll include it here for reference. It really is a beautiful bridge.

A picture of Pont-y-Pair from thirdeyetraveller.com

A bit west of Betws-Y-Coed is Swallow Falls, one of many beautiful waterfalls in Snowdonia National Park. Robin and I decided to give it a look. Actually, Robin said, “What now?” and I said, “Let’s go to Swallow Falls!” Robin was like, “OK!” and off we went. That was pretty much how our days went in Northern Wales. Some of our conversations were a bit longer, but not while we were out and about.

Robin and I parked a quarter of a mile from the falls and walked down the hill toward them. All of a sudden, I heard an exclamation from Robin, who was behind me. She had stepped on a pine cone, and had fallen. Gravity is a harsh mistress, and she fell hard. Fortunately, she turned as she fell, so she fell to her side. As it was, she skinned her knee and scraped her hand a bit. Me and a passing cyclist helped her up, brushed her off, with the cyclist offering Robin some of his water, which she politely refused. We continued on our way. I was making sure there were no more pine cones in her area.

We walked down some steps to a main landing. Robin decided discretion was the better part of valor and found a seat. She told me to go on and take a look, so off I went. There were some stairs leading up and I started there, Those stairs led up to the upper falls, and it was gorgeous.

Ranger and I went back to the landing. Robin was chatting with an elderly couple with a dog. That’s her. Leave her alone, and she’ll find someone to talk to, and a dog to pet. At least she was sitting down. Can’t step on pine cones that way. The lower part of the falls started right near there. I took those in for a bit, made some small talk with the elderly couple, and had a word with the dog, who was cool.

Ranger, making friends, influencing others. Is it just me, or does the dog seem unimpressed?

There were stairs down. I looked at Robin, then at the stairs. Then back at Robin. Then the stairs again. Nope. Going down the stairs would be easy, Coming back up, nope. Now I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. I gazed at the awesome wonder of Swallow Falls from the landing, then Robin and I slowly climbed up the main stairs, and made our way back to the car, avoiding any pine cones looking to make trouble. You have to be careful of pine cones. They form gangs.

The view of the lower falls from the mid-landing vantage point.

The steps I would have needed to come back up if I’d gone down for a closer look. Nope.

From there, we took a ride through some gorgeous Welsh countryside toward Castell Harlech, on the west coast of Wales. This castle is one one of four that make up a World Heritage Site. Castyll Beaumaris, Caernarfon, Conwy and Harlech. The song “Men of Harlech”, as featured in the movie Zulu with the actor Michael Caine’s first starring role. The song sung by Rick Rescorla in the stairwells of one of the Twin Towers as he helped the employees of Morgan Stanley evacuate, only to lose his life after he went up to bring more down, and the tower fell. It’s a great song.

As we drove, I reflected on how well I had adjusted to driving in the UK. Robin was only occasionally giving me a half-hearted “Curb!”. The number of her sighs and gasps had also dropped, exponentially, so that’s how I knew I was doing better. That and no one was honking at me anymore.

We arrived in Harlech, whose roads are even more narrow than in other parts of Wales, which I thought impossible. The castle was impressive. It certainly had a nice view of the sea, and the valley leading to the sea.

Men of Harlech! Cease your dreaming, can’t you see their spear points gleaming….

A view of the valley from the battlements.

I traveled 4,000+ miles to find the best view of an historic castle and the best view was the one I had with me all along.
The castle looked nice too.

Ranger enjoys a cold one after storming the castle. It was a sparkling lemonade, non-alcoholic.

Y Ddau Frenin – The Two Kings, from a tale in the Mabinogion.
It boils down to “War is Hell”.

We had dinner at the George and Dragon, but I will save that tale for the next blog.

A DAY OF REST(?)

Wednesday morning, April 19, I woke up feeling like crap. The Skyrizi I had just started can lower my ability to fight upper respiratory infections, and I was struggling with a cold. When I woke up, I felt that my energy levels were really low, and we would struggle with doing the things I wanted to do. I asked Robin if she was fine with taking it easy that day. She said, “Duh!” So that was our plan for the day. Hang out in Conwy, take it easy, rest up. That was my plan. Yup. Plan on taking it easy. Rest up, hang out, recover from our whirlwind vacay thus far. It was a great plan.

Man, I apparently suck at following plans.

We went downstairs, looking to get some breakfast. We saw the the church located behind us, St. Mary’s and All Saints Church, was open. This church has been in operation since the 1200s. It is the oldest building in Conwy, so we found it of interest and went inside. It was beautiful!

A view into St. Mary’s Nave from the door facing east.

Stained glass of the angel at the Tomb of Jesus.

As we were leaving the church, Robin looked at me and said, “We should attend service here on Sunday.” I looked at her. She looked back at me. Clouds above her began to darken, and plant life in the church yard began to wilt. “Okay,” I said. Immediately the skies lightened and the plants sprang back to life. I have to have a serious discussion with Robin about her deadly microclimates.

We go down a short alley north of the church and walk east down High Street. We stopped and grabbed a coffee and some breakfast. One of the things I love about the Welsh is they make their mochas with chocolate milk. No shit! It makes the mocha transcend to Nectar of the Gods. I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast. All I know is, I had a Welsh mocha, and all of a sudden, I felt better!

Robin is wondering why I am taking a picture of her lovely self. Do you see that crooked thing by the tip of her cane? It used to be straight. My wife’s moods can alter reality, like watching Inception.

From the cafe, we walked east toward the river. We decided it was time to visit the Smallest House in Great Britain. As we did, we passed by a slate board for the Liverpool Arms, a pub on the riverfront. On it it described a ghost story that said the appearance of a ghost at the pub meant that someone was going to die. They say the appearance is accompanied by the scent of vanilla in the air. I showed it to Robin, then I had the temerity to observe that the appearance of a ghost meant that someone had already died. She looked at me for a moment, and I noticed, a scent of vanilla in the air. This was very noticeable, as it happened all of a sudden, and I don’t have a sense of smell. I surmised that my observation did not meet with my wife’s approval. I steeled myself, muttered, “I love your new fragrance.” And walked past her, leading us to the Smallest House in Great Britain.

Robin has apparently added this scent to her micro-climate.

The Smallest House in Great Britain is as advertised. It is a tiny, tiny house. A woman in traditional Welsh outfit was posted outside, and she let us know how many pounds we needed to pay to enter the diminutive domicile. Let’s just say the number of pounds we paid was more than the square footage of the house. We went in the door. The first floor was a small bench, a small table, a small fireplace, and a small ladder leading up to the second floor. Behind the ladder was a water spigot.

The lady at the door was not a tall woman, so you can see how big the door was, and how big the house was.

Needless to say, I was unable to stand erect in the house. I sent a picture to my daughter Jessica, who’s takeaway from the whole picture was, “Why was there a brain corral on the table in the living room?” I confessed I didn’t know, but that since we were in the Smallest House in Great Britain, what was on the table was irrelevant to the visit. Robin likes to call me Grumpy Cat, and it’s times like these that make me grumpy. I tried to get up the ladder to get a picture of the upstairs bedroom, but I couldn’t fit. It would take a gastric bypass surgery and a year or two of half calories to get me slimmed down to the point where I could fit up that ladder. I stuck my phone up there and tried to take pictures blind.

Robin is being entertained by the witty repartee of the brain coral.

The Welsh curator told me that closing the trapdoor provided more floor space upstairs. I felt myself getting grumpy again, because the the two square feet of the trapdoor wasn’t adding significant floor space to the upstairs. But hey, she had a job to do. She told us the last occupant of the house was a 6’3” fisherman. I’m 6’1”. I was still wrapping my mind around that fact when she hit me with another one. At one point, the house had a family of six living in it. She goes, “They all had to share one bed.” My right eye went dark as an aneurysm blew up in my brain. Why anyone would think there was room for more than one bed upstairs literally blew my mind. Perhaps that extra floor space from closing the trap door would have room for another bed or two…Apparently, the occupants of the house would go to a bathroom shared by 100 people living on the riverfront. <Sigh>. People in the US have no idea.

After prying ourselves out of the house. Robin looked at me and said, “What would you like to do now?” Remember back in the first paragraph, when I mentioned the plan? Here’s where I bored a hole in it, packed it with as much dynamite I could get, and blew the hell out of it. “Let’s walk the castle walls!” Look, if you are going to blow the hell out of your plans, don’t just do it a little bit. Sell the house, auction off your worldly possessions, and get as much explosives as you can to make it a spectacular fail. My wife has MS and can struggle walking, especially on uneven surfaces. I have poly-neuropathy in my legs, so I also struggle walking on uneven surfaces. Add to that the fact that I was not feeling well. Yup. Time to walk the castle walls. If you don’t reach the conclusion by the end of this that I’m a moron, then you aren’t paying attention.

Here is the most level surface we walked on. This was on the wall running down to the river on the north side of the town, and was our starting point.

Robin and I found some steps up to the wall, and from there, our walk was uphill. Literally. In most places, the battlements were sloped toward the inside of the walls. The walls followed the hill up away from the river. That meant most of our walk was literally uphill. That meant, for our whole walk up the north wall, there were dark clouds swirling overhead, and an overwhelming smell of vanilla. The back of my neck tingled, the hairs on my body was standing straight up, and I did not dare turn around, because I was sure I would be turned into a pillar of salt. In several places, I had to really focus to make sure I didn’t go pitching over the railing. How anyone ever thought this battlement was safe to traverse was beyond me, and more than once, I thought longingly about the plans I had blown up, and wished I had used much less explosives.

Photographic evidence that Robin can smile. It was at this point that the smell of vanilla became overwhelming. Someone was going to die, and I think I knew who it was going to be.

Here’s a good shot of the slope of the wall.

This guy was laughing at me. Apparently vanilla has the same effects on seagulls as nitrous oxide has on us.

Here’s an excellent shot from the west side that shows how high the wall got, and shows the castle across the town to the east.

We still had higher to go! That railing came up to about my knees.
I was NOT a fan!

A shot from the west wall that shows the beauty of the mountains beyond the town.

A shot from the south wall that shows the hill to the south of the town. The Afon Conwy is in the background.

Robin is no longer smiling. Looking at this picture, I am ashamed to have caused this distress in someone I love. She is, by her nature, a very forgiving person, but I should not have put her through this.

She is back to smiling here, but this walk did take its toll on her, and me.
That vanilla smell, though…

She does love me, and has forgiven me. Or I am assuming she has, because I have not become a sweet smelling ghost at the Liverpool Arms. Yet.

We made it down off of the wall, had to walk a bit around the outside of the wall, came through a tunnel under the railroad tracks and came back into the town on the south side of the castle. From there it was a short walk back to our condo. We decided on a place called Watson’s Bistro for dinner. Fed and refreshed from our travels, we headed back to the condo for the night.

Me, with the smile on your face that you can only have when you KNOW you’ve avoided death, and now face the prospect of good food and an adult beverage.

After all that, will someone explain to me, please, how a man who has not smelled a thing in his life knows what vanilla smells like? That’s just creepy. And scary. And scarily creepy. I await your explanations.

THE BEAR WENT OVER THE MOUNTAIN…

After Robin and I left the Fairy Glen, we went into Betws-Y-Coed. We parked in a car park across from a hotel and walked a short distance into the town. We stopped in an art gallery and did some shopping. We started a conversation with the proprietor, and he told us the best way to get to Llanberis. We needed to get there to catch the Snowden Mountain Railway up Yr Wyddfa, (pronounced ‘Ur Weethva’), the tallest mountain in Wales. His directions actually helped out, as Siri’s path to the railroad actually took up the mountain to catch the train at the summit. Go home, Siri, you’re drunk! He also told us that the drive to Llanberis was going to be spectacular. He was not wrong!

We got back to the car and started the drive to Llanberis, just a short 12 miles away. But first, we stopped off at the Ugly House, a tea room set in a building that was hundreds of years old. We got ourselves a snack and headed on our way.

I was beginning to get a bit more comfortable driving, but the beginning of this trip seemed to be a bit claustrophobic as there were walls right up on the road. Robin was a bit uptight, although the “Curb!” yell was happening less and less. Baby steps.

We came around a bend and the valley unfolded before us. It was everything the art gallery man said and more! One of the things that Robin and I said frequently that day was, “Pictures cannot do this justice. Cameras can capture quite a bit, but cameras cannot capture majesty. A picture can record what we saw as the valley unfolded before us with that huge mountain up ahead. What the cameras can never catch is the feeling evoked by the vastness we saw. Awe, wonder, a feeling of being small in the presence of something vast. A visceral, electric shock that goes through you at the majesty that God has formed over millions of years. There hasn’t been a media yet that can capture that.

One of the views from our drive to Llanberis.

The sides of Nant Peris, just east of Yr Wyddfa. You can see the signs of decades of slate mining.

Here I want to take a moment to address the weather. Robin and I could not have asked for better weather for our trip, especially for the UK. People, including native Brits, told us how often it rains here, yet I can’t remember a day that rain interfered with our vacation activities. As you can see in the picture above, the weather as we headed to Yr Wyddfa was perfect. To be fair, when we got to Llanberis, we found that weather was altering our train ride. This time of year, the train doesn’t go all the way up to the summit. It doesn’t begin to do that until mid-June. So from the beginning of April until then, it runs about 3/4 of the way up. On that day, 60+mph winds were forcing the train to stop about 200 yards short of its normal stop. We had the option of a refund, but as we had no better time to go, we decided to go up anyway. I’m so glad we did!

Allllllll Abbboooooooooarddd!
The silver-haired gent to the right was in our car, a former University of Liverpool student.

Robin and I were sharing our section of the train with a former college student who looked like a professor, and a young woman who had grown up in Llanberis. He had hiked the mountains for almost 50 years, and this was the first time he was riding the Snowden Mountain Railway. The young lady spent her time running (Yes, I said running!) up and down the mountains. It made for some interesting conversations as we made our way up the mountain.

The scenery was gorgeous. We passed by a couple of beautiful waterfalls, and abandoned buildings from the slate mining communities that dotted landscape of that section of the mountains. There were sheep everywhere, and at once point our train had to stop and toot the whistle at some sheep on the track. The pace of the train made it easy to take in the scenery, including hikers that were hoofing it to the summit. They waved at us, we waved at them, the sheep chewed their cud at us, it was all good.

A couple of hikers on the Llanberis Path.

During the ride up, the former University of Liverpool student engaged us in a little chit chat. Somehow or another we arrived at a point in out conversation when he said, “Perhaps you folks should consider changing your Consititution,” making reference to the Second Amendment. I’m a red-blooded American, and wasn’t about to let that one slide. In a college-like way I provided some information that countered his somewhat naive approach to our violence problem. When compared to other countries around the world, the US is rather far down the list on gun violence. Even further so in school violence. The places with the most gun violence in the US are places that have the most stringent gun laws. If you looked at per capita violent crime, I’d wager that London’s crime rates are similar to, if not worse than, New York City’s, and I am no fan of NYC. In short, it’s not a gun problem, it’s a people problem. At that, I let it go. Don’t know if I accomplished anything but teaching him not to mention the Second Amendment to an American veteran again. Unless he’s back in a university setting.

We reached a place up the tracks called Rocky Pass. There the train stopped. Given the high profile of the train, I’m glad they did. I didn’t fancy rolling down the mountainside in a metal and glass tube. That wouldn’t end well for anyone, and would certainly put Robin out something awful, which would make my day bad. It would put the sheep out as well, and in Wales, we can’t be having that shit!

If you look down there you can see little specks on the road. Those are cars!

Robin really liked this shot. The wild, bold line of Yr Wyddfa contrasts with the more muted Nant Peris in the background.

After 10 minutes or so, the train backed its way down the mountain and pulled back into the station. The passengers disembarked, and Robin and I grabbed some ice cream from a stand near the station. From there we drive a quarter of a mile to nearby Castell Dolbadarn. It is the tower of the ruins of a Welsh castle. While not as mighty in stature as Castyll Conwy, Beaumaris, Harlech or Caernarfon, it was still pretty impressive that that much castle was left after such a long time. Robin stayed near the gate at the base of the hill. Her knees were hurting and she didn’t make it to the castle.

Castell Dolbadarn , from the base of the hill, by the gate.

Robin has her phone on me, waiting for me to bounce down the hill.
It could happen.

From Dolbadarn, Robin and I drove into Llanberis, found The Lonely Tree and the Blade of the Giants. The Lonely Tree is an Instagram thing that I had discovered, possibly the most photographed tree in the world. Both the tree and the Blade of the Giants were on the banks of Llyn (Lake) Padarn. The whole valley was beautiful.

The Lonely Tree. Castell Dolbadarn is framed by the two main branches.
It’s a Welsh thing. We’re poets and artists!

The Blade of the Giants, with Castell Dolbadarn in the background.
Welsh are warriors!

With that, we travelled back to Conwy, and had dinner at a pub called the George & Dragon. Robin had Singapore Noodles with Chicken, and I had a bacon cheeseburger with chips. A fitting end to the day!

Amend the Constitution. Cheeky!

The Fairy Glen-A Final Resting Place

I woke up early Tuesday morning on 18 April. Restless, I guess. Today I was giving Wales some of my Maw and Paw. Our plan was to go to Betws-Y-Coed and The Fairy Glen, then drive up to Llanberis and take a train up Yr Wyddfa (Snowden Mountain).

Paw died in December, 2018. Maw died in January, 2020. They were cremated, and Robin and I have their ashes. Maw and Paw told us they wanted their ashes scattered at various points around the world, wherever we thought they might like. Robin had scattered some of their ashes in Hawaii, at a secluded waterfall looking out over the Pacific Ocean. We had planned on scattering some at Clingman’s Dome in the Smokey Mountains, but the dutiful son forget to bring the ashes. This time, the dutiful son got it right, and so a small tube containing Maw and Paw’s ashes was ready for worldwide distribution.

I went out on the patio that faces St. Mary’s with my coffee and some toast. The sun was just coming up in the east, as it often does, and my seagull buddies were there hoping for a treat. Well, hope springs eternal, or so they say. As it turns out, he got a morsel, cuz I’m a sucker for a hard-luck story, and having him tell me his hard-luck story was either an impressive display of God-given, miraculous talent, or a sign I need to have a CT-scan of my brain, because something is going on. I’m leaning toward the first.

The talker is on the left. The one on the right has to be his wife, because she rolled her eyes, said, “Rubbish!” and walked off. He and I are definitely kindred spirits!

After a bit, Robin got up and we were able to hit the road to Betws-Y-Coed, a small hamlet deep in the Snowdonia National Park. It is located at the confluence of Afon Conwy (Conwy River) and Afon Llugwy (Llugwy River). It is a delightful little town which is an artist’s community, as well as an outfitting post and a beginning point for climbers heading up into the mountains. Here’s where I get to pause dramatically, lean forward and darkly mutter, “Some ne’er to return!” At which point Robin will roll her eyes, say, “Rubbish!” and walk off.

I will say that Apple Maps has been very helpful for most of the trip, although even the Welsh roads have, every now and then, proved to bee to confusing for even Siri. But in this instance, the directions landed us at a small car park outside of a farm south of Betws-Y-Coed. We locked up the car and began walking a path following a sign that helpfully pointed the way, and met the farmer’s wife. The entrance fee was Ł1 each, plus Ł1 for parking. I had a pocketful of change, but only Ł2. We had read that the farmer that’s owns the farm was rude. FOr a while hikers were not allowed back to the Fairy Glen, and since it’s private property, he gets to do that. However, the woman we spoke to was pleasant, if a bit reserved. After all, we were two adult strangers carrying a stuffed snow leopard (More on that later!), so I could understand her reservations. In any event, she accepted the Ł2 and wished us a safe walk.

You can see the stuffed snow leopard in Robin’s left hand. We met the Farm Lady at the end of the hedgerow to the left. I have my doubts about Robin. She’s a grown woman, carrying around a toy animal. Something ain’t right!

Near the beginning of the walk, the path split in two. A sign pointing left said “Fairy Glen”, a sign pointing to the right said, “River Walk”. I had never seen a walking river, so we headed to the right to see this Welsh marvel in the land of the Giants. We had read earlier that the left path was a bit easier, but it did have some ups and downs, so we thought a bit longer but more level path was in order. Silly Americans.

Here is the Fairy Glen path. We decided against it because I didn’t like the way the sheep was looking at us.

The river walk, disappointingly, was just a walk alongside a river, in this case the Afon Conwy. It was beautiful, peaceful, and easily managed by two slightly overweight, slightly disabled and slightly old people. The sound of running and falling water (Probably because it was drunk…) was constantly in the background. The whole thing was very relaxing.

Photographic evidence of a river walking.

Here we see the mighty snow leopard, way outside of its natural habitat, preparing to pounce on two slightly overweight, slightly disabled, slightly old people foolishly wandering in the woods looking for a walking river. Oh, and
that’s Afon Conwy in the background.

We finally ended up above the Fairy Glen. The path was above the gorge, and a fence indicated the end of the property line of the farmer. Robin found herself a nice spot to sit, and she said, “I’ll be here when you get back.” I took over possession of Ranger, the stuffed snow leopard, and followed some slate steps down into the gorge. It was a task that required some concentration on my part, mainly because I’m slightly overweight, slightly disabled and slightly old, but mainly because I can’t feel anything in my legs from the knees down.

A look down into the gorge. After a quick prayer to the hiking gods that Gravity, who is a harsh mistress, would look the other way for a few minutes…

I got to the bottom of the gorge intact, and still in possession of both my parent’s ashes and Ranger. I paused atop a large rock in the gorge, feeling a sense of…something. Because I’m slightly overweight, slightly disabled and slightly old, I made sure the feeling wasn’t my aortic aneurysm giving up the ghost after the climb down, and I started to look for a suitable place to scatter the ashes. Upstream was the Fairy Glen. It is a gorgeous location. The river flows down between two very close cliff walls. It looks other-worldly, and certainly felt other-worldly. Now, it’s a given that the story of the Fairy Glen was spun up to separate superstitious Victorian English people from their pounds. Kinda like what happened to two slightly overweight, slightly disabled and slightly old Americans.

The concept of Fairies is English. The Welsh have the Tylwyth Teg, and they don’t involve little people with gossamer wings. That’s just crazy. The Tylwyth Teg involves little people without wings. Like normal folktales. A lot of Tylwyth Teg stories involve water as a doorway between earth and the realm of the Fae. That makes sense, and would explain the feeling I had as I stared into an entrance to the world of Fae. Gossamer wings. Pffft! Crazy talk.

Seriously though, there was a very strange sense of something there. It might have been some feelings I brought with me, but I had a very strong sense of rightness when I thought of Maw and Paw’s ashes being scattered here. I thought both would have definitely approved. They both would have appreciated the hike here, and the seclusion offered by this place. The sound of the water burbling over the rocks gave the place a very peaceful feeling. On a large rock that jutted into the river, I found a small alcove with what looked to be rose quartz through it. This was it. It felt right.

The place I chose to place my parent’s ashes.

Then I hit a small snag. The tube was stoppered with a plastic cap that is designed to be snug and secured, so icky ashes don’t get out and get all over stuff you don’t want it to get on. Normally I would use a pocket knife to pry it open, but since both TSA and the UK are not fine with pocket knives, I did not have one handy. My fingernails are typically short and blunt, so I had a bit of a sticky wicket, as they say here.

Between a key and my blunt fingertips, I finally got it sorted and got the ashes onto the little alcove I had found. I said a couple of prayers, one a Christian one, one a prayer to the old gods. To both I asked that my parent’s ashes be accepted, and to let my parents know we would be re-united again, possibly very soon if Gravity woke up to the golden opportunity I would give her on my way back up from the gorge. I spent a few moments reflecting on how much I missed them, then slowly made my way back up to the top.

One tiny slip, and I would find that portal to the Tylwyth Teg!

As I got there, I saw a small Robin flit to a tree next to where my Robin was sitting. I had a sudden, strong sensation of Maw. It certainly could have been her saying of letting me know my prayers had been heard. Robin told me that she was taking pictures of a bumblebee, which reminded her of Paw. Seems like we were both getting messages. They were good messages, so that was quite all right.

A very Tylwyth Teg design I found on a dead tree on my way back up from the gorge. It was being guarded by a dangerous looking snow leopard.

Robin and I made our way back, getting to the “Fairy Glen” path. Even knowing the disapproval we would get from the sheep, we decided the shorter path was the way to go. It was a beautiful day, and even the sheep were in a better mood. We made our way back to our car without incident, and headed into Betws-Y-Coed.

The Fairy Glen path through the farm. Lovely views.

One of the wooly denizens of the farm, enjoying the sunshine, ignoring the two American interlopers.

A CASTLE IN CONWY

I woke up early on Monday morning, April 17. I made myself a couple slices of toasted Welsh bread and a cup of coffee and went out onto our patio. There I was joined by a seagull and a raven. It seemed the Raven was a harbinger of the Old World gods, and he got a piece of my toast as a peace offering. The hills around the town, and the mountains in the distance were covered in what the Welsh call Dragon’s Breath, a fog. It was a beautiful, still morning.

For our first full day in Wales, Robin and I decided that we would keep it local and checkout what was available in Conwy. It had the benefit that Robin and I didn’t have to drive anywhere. No “CURB!” today.

Our condo is called Castle View Townhome. The patio overlooks St. Mary’s Church, which is the oldest building in the town. It is still a working church. Robin and I hope to make it back from Manchester on April 23 to attend service there. It is a beautiful building! The townhome sits atop a hospice gift shop, and doesn’t have a front door. The hospice gift shop faces High Street, that runs along the north of the town, parallel to the north wall.

The view from our patio. St. Mary’s Church is in the foreground. Castell Conwy is in the background.

The Castell Conwy (Conwy Castle) Visitor’s Center was on the south side of the castle wall, on Rose Hill Street. Robin and I started our browsing there. There were a lot of great items there, all with a Welsh theme. I bought myself a Welsh Rugby jersey. Robin, ever thinking about others, got a good start on the gift buying.

Rose Hill Street runs along the south castle wall and curves north just west of the Visitor Center. It runs along the west castle wall, intersects High Street, then exits out through a gate in the wall. Robin and I continued north on Rose Hill Street, checking out bakeries, coffee shops, and other gift shops. We turned right and continued east along High Street.

Our first stop at a Point of Interest was Plas Mawr, an Elizabethan town home built in 1576. It is preserved and curated by Cadw (To keep), the Welsh government agency that preserves historical artifacts and properties. We bought a 3-day Adventurer pack that would give us free entrance to two Cadw sites a day for three days within a week.

Cadw certainly have done an excellent job with this property! It was in great shape and Robin and I learned a lot about life at that time through an audio guided tour. The biggest takeaway for me was that people in the 1500s were tiny! Robin didn’t have too much trouble because, well, she’s short. But big, lumbering me with metal rods in his neck had a bit of difficulty. But, we managed. It is easy to see that, for that time, this was a luxurious mansion.

The lintel of the door was as high as my head. If you look down, you’ll see the top of the doorway was at my shoulder height.

Since time was at a premium, we crossed the town to Castell Conwy and used our Cadw pass. The castle is impressive, with eight towers. We climbed the stairs in a tower by the gatehouse, and walked along the battlements. You could easily see why the English King Edward chose this site for the castle. It commands the Afon Conwy (Conwy River), the Aber Conwy (Conwy Estuary), and the Morfa Conwy (Conwy Marsh). We spent an hour or so at the castle. There was more to look at, but Robin and I were both using canes, we’re old and overweight. Sue us. I will rely on the reliable Welsh legal “blood from a turnip” defense.

The entrance to Castell Cony is at the northwest corner of the castle

Inside the castle, looking east toward the river, and the Great Hall.

Looking south from the southeast tower at Afon Conwy. Note the sand bars, as this was taken at low tide. Also note the railroad tracks and the castle holding the tunnels. These, of course, are modern additions.

A jail cell in the Prison Tower. Prisoners were dropped about 12 feet into their cell. Food and water, when they were given, were lowered to the prisoner, or just dropped in.

Looking east from the castle. The auto bridge connecting the castle to the town of Conwy is on the left. In the middle is a pedestrian suspension bridge, and a railroad bridge is on the right.

Robin and I ended the day with a bit more shopping, and a filling meal of fish and chips. A fitting end to a great day.

An English/Welsh mainstay, fish and chips.

WELCOME TO WALES

Sunday morning Robin and I got up and got a cab to Euston Station to catch the train to Manchester’s Piccadilly Station. We got to the station a bit early, so we grabbed a bite to eat and waited for the train. In this case train meant train in the classic sense. We wouldn’t be going underground.

We ran into a snag when we boarded. We were bringing our suitcases, and the train didn’t have a lot of space for large suitcases. I put a large suitcase in my seat and sat across from Robin. A fellow had a ticket for the seat I was in, but he was nice enough to seat in another open seat.

The train ride itself was uneventful. The English countryside was pretty. Robin and I talked a bit, read a bit. There was a third person at our table, but she slept most of the trip. My suitcase didn’t say much, because, well, it’s kind of boring and doesn’t have a mouth.

We arrived at Manchester Piccadilly Station, and got a cab to take us to the Enterprise car rental place. We got ourselves a Citroën SUV, and then, the fun began!

Yes, UK cars have their steering wheels on the right sides of their cars. Yes, UK cars drive on the left side of the road. Yes, it is possible for an American driver who’s never driven a UK car to drive a UK car. But I’m not sure it’s possible for an American driver to ENJOY driving said UK vehicle on said UK roads, while driving a French-made vehicle that wants to quit at the first sign of trouble, and having one Robin Satterly as a passenger.

Robin started out well enough, but her love and support evaporated quickly under the onslaught of the sheer terror and anxiety that is me driving a new vehicle in a completely different system. One thing that American roads have over UK roads is that they are wider. UK roads are as narrow as #@&!, and they don’t have shoulders. This only increased Robin’s anxiety.

She started out reminding me to get to the left, and when the left side of the SUV was getting close to the curb. Within minutes, under the constant onslaught of driving, her supportive sentences became curt, tense one-word commands. “LEFT!” “CURB!” “CURB!” I woke up that night in a cold sweat after a nightmare in which she could only speak the word, “CURB!” Do you have any idea how hard it is to communicate with someone with a one-word vocabulary? Robin woke up from her sleep in a cold sweat after a nightmare in which I didn’t understand what ‘left’ and ‘curb’ meant.

Once I got onto the highway, there was a bit of respite, although we did learn that Siri has a bit of an issue with UK roads as well, as she sent us the wrong way when we were trying to find a particular shop. So we got that sorted and continued on our way to Wales. One of the things we noticed along the highway were these warning signs that said, “Badgers”. I thought maybe it meant something in British vernacular, but it turns out that there are enough actual freaking badgers that suicidally run into the road that they need to put up warning signs. They’re big enough, 25lbs, that if a car hits them, they can do a lot of damage.

We got to Conwy, and it took us three tries to get the right road. I wasn’t sure if it was because every road in Conwy appeared to be one-way, or Robin’s incessant “CURB!”, but we finally figured it out and pulled into the parking place at the rear of the condo in which we were staying. Robin spent some time throwing up Hail Marys to the heavens. I rolled my eyes because despite the number of curbs I hit, the tires were in great shape, we were alive and well, and no badgers were hurt.

To get into the condo, I got the key out of the lockbox, and then found out that the lock would only work if we did something with the door handle, turned the key the right way, entered the correct 50-digit cheat code into a controller we didn’t, and sacrificed a badger to the local, ancient pagan Welsh god Booji. We go that sorted and got into the condo. After I lugged all the suitcases up the kajillion stairs to the door to the condo, Robin made the executive decision that we we leave them on the first floor of the condo, and not have me lug them up any more stairs. I gave that plan a double thumbs up, and we set out to find a place to get some dinner.

We settled on a nearby place called the Erskine Arms. The food was good, the beer was good. And the woman I tried my Welsh on didn’t speak any Welsh. Her son, however, was a big Manchester United supporter, and he came over and we talked football for a bit.

We went back to the condo, sacrificed another badger to Booji, and got into the condo to get some sleep.

We were finally in Wales! Now I needed something to get badger blood out of my clothes.

OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!

Saturday morning found us waking up a bit later, as we didn’t have a plane to catch for the first time in five days. We shambled to the hotel’s restaurant like zombies from the Walking Dead. I’m just glad that Rick Grimes didn’t pop up to shoot us in the head with his trusty .357 Magnum. We discovered that the hotel served a breakfast buffet. Robin and I like choices, and the hotel served hot coffee, so for a short while life was good.

Our plan for the day was to visit the Tower of London, possibly the London Eye, and to meet with Dylan Gwinn. I had met with Dylan online while working on a project for Safe Havens International. He was always very nice, professional, and had a wealth of knowledge on safety. He is a former police officer and had been stabbed several times. I was very much hoping I could meet him in person. Through social media messaging, we arranged a meet at a pub called the Harp on London’s West End for Saturday night.

Over breakfast, we planned out our path to the Tower. This involved another foray into the Tube, London’s subway system. At least this time we wouldn’t have luggage with us. Once we had our transportation plan in place, it was time sent out.

The Tower of London is located on the Thames River adjacent to London Bridge. I was wanting to see the Tower itself, see the Beefeaters, the Guards of the Tower, and check out the dungeons and torture devices, possibly similar to what I used as a middle school Assistant Principal. Robin just wanted to see the Crown Jewels, probably to get me to work some more so she could get similar, if not more expensive, jewelry. Given that one of the diamonds was over 500 carats (That is NOT a typo!), she may have a long wait.

The Great Star of Africa
which measures 530.4 carats,
currently in the
Queen’s Royal Scepter.

The Tower of London was fascinating. We joined in a part of a guided tour, led by one of the Yeoman Warders, also known as Beefeaters. All Yeoman Warders are prior service, military parlance for those who have served in the military. They also had to have attained the rank of Sergeant Major in their military branch. They also go through a thorough vetting process. The Yeoman Warder we were with was funny and informative. Always a good characteristic in a tour guide.

We started out in the western moat, then moved into the interior. We saw the Traitor’s Gate, the river entrance to the Tower. We saw the rookery where the Ravens are kept. We saw the White Tower, in the middle of the castle. At the beginning, Robin and I were given wristbands, The Warder who gave us the bands said that we could use them to go to the front of the line, especially at the Crown Jewels. Robin thought they said “except for the Crown Jewels”. Keeping in mind the near-death experience I had in Manchester, I wasn’t going to argue the point, so we got into the long line. The line actually moved fairly quickly, so 20-25 minutes later, we finally entered the building.

One thing we noticed outside were two Fusiliers in dress uniforms posted with loaded assault rifles. It’s kind of hard to protect the Crown Jewels with unloaded rifles, but that’s a discussion for another time. While we were in line, they had a Changing of the Guard, just at a lesser scale than seen at Buckingham Palace.

When we got to the head of the line, the Warder there saw our wristbands, and informed us we could have come straight to the head of the line. Robin was suitably mortified, but the weather was nice, and the line moved quickly, so no worries. I tried to avoid an elaborate “I told you so”. Since I am still alive to post this blog, I must have been successful. For those of you who might think I fear my wife, you would be right. Like the Lord Almighty, she can be benevolent and kind, but her Wrath is terrible. I think,l privately, that we should unleash her against the Chinese. I’m just saying,

Many of the Crown Jewels were gone, as they were being prepped for the upcoming coronation of King Charles III. What they had there was stunning. As a full-blooded American, I’m not keen on monarchies, but the scepters, orbs and crowns were fascinating and beautiful. The approximate net worth of the Crown Jewels is $4 billion, although they are technically priceless. They are not insured, so they have never been officially appraised.

After seeing the Crown Jewels, we took a short break to get some refreshment, then took a walk through the Royal Fusilier Museum. These men are studs, even by American standards. The number of Victoria Crosses awarded to member so this unit are truly embody the best of British manhood. If you are reading this and are asking about women, gender-binary, gender-neutral or unicorns, please know that when they are awarded the Victoria Cross, they will truly embody the best of British _____. That’s kind of how that works.

The Museum of the Royal Fusilier Regiment, London, UK

From the Tower, we walked along the Thames for a bit, did a little shopping in the Tower of London Gift Shop, and then hopped a bus to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Our daughter Carole had visited years ago, and had purchased a small, stuffed pigeon from their Mary Poppins Collection. Apparently there was a scene in the movie featuring Julie Andrews on the steps of the Cathedral feeding some pigeons. She had lost it, and asked Robin to see if they still sold them, and if so, purchase a replacement for her. Well now, Robin had a mission.

We got off the bus, stopped at a visitor center across the street from the Cathedral, and a woman there told us there was a gift shop under the Cathedral that may have what we were looking for. Robin, energized by the prospect of being able to make her youngest child happy skipped across the road to find the gift shop. Well, figuratively speaking, she skipped. We actually sort of ambled and limped our way along.

A view of St. Paul’s Cathedral, from the east,

We got down to the gift shop, located in the basement of the Cathedral, and looked around. Success! My daughter’s trip was five or so years ago, but they were still selling those stuffed pigeons! Operation Stuffed Pigeon was a rousing success. I swear to you, in the basement of the Cathedral, sunlight appeared over Robin and shone down upon her, and an angelic choir sang hosannas. I am beginning to wonder what the hell is going on above my wife’s head that all these weather patterns keep appearing. At least I don’t have to waste time wondering what she’s thinking.

The objective of Operation Stuffed Pigeon

Our next step was to go meet Dylan. We got onto the right bus, and a few minutes later we were back in the West End, where we watched the play. The Harp was about a block away, then we got a text from Dylan that the Harp might be a bit full, and asked if we could meet down the street at a Pret Manger. No worries, we altered course and enter the Pret Manger, a kind fast food/convenience store and met Dylan.

Meeting Dylan was like the rest of trip to the UK thus far. It met and exceeded our expectations. We talked with Dylan for awhile. He showed us pictures of his adorable son, and we showed him pictures of our adorable (if somewhat impish) grandsons. We talked shop a bit and even had a moment when a person carrying a weapon entered the store. I had my back to the door, which was somewhat unusual, but I trusted Dylan to watch my back. I saw him tense as he alerted to the threat, then I tensed when he walked into my line of vision. He was showing several clear signs that he was carrying a hidden weapon, but did not seem to be set on causing any trouble, at least not there. All Robin knew was that all of a sudden the two men she was with were tense, She has learned a little about weapons detection from me, but she is not often in a position to practice what she learned.

We had a wonderful chat with Dylan, then he was off to be with his wife and son, and Robin and I looked for a place to eat. We settled on an Italian place called Bella Italia and ordered a pizza. It was a meat pizza that included a drizzle of honey. You read that right. Honey. It was delicious! We then headed back to the hotel. Next stop, Conwy, Wales!

Meatballs, pulled chicken and pepperoni, drizzled with honey. Mmmmm!

Hooligans and High Tea, Part II

Friday morning, Robin and I got up, packed up, checked out, and had a taxi called for us. The taxi driver arrived a bit late, as his company sent him to the wrong hotel. He was in a foul mood, and was surly for the ride. It’s not like it put US out or anything. The driver barely helped us with out bags and didn’t talk through the ride. Worked for us, as we hadn’t any coffee yet.

We got to Manchester Airport and get ourselves checked in. We got some coffee and a bite to eat. And found our gate. For the first time for either of us, there was no desk at the gate. There wasn’t any seats either, which for two slightly(😂) overweight, slightly ambulatory people, was asking a lot.

The flight was running late. When we finally boarded, we had to walk on the tarmac and loaded onto the plane from the door in the tail. Again, a big ask for us old folk, but I managed better than our President did. We boarded and got to our seats.

An hour later we were back in London. The driver that had taken us to the airport, Ben, was waiting for us. The difference between Ben and the Surly Taxi Driver was light night and day. Ben was very conscientious and guided us through the airport to where he parked. He drove us back to the airport and was chatting with us about our trip, and helped us get our bags out at the hotel. Guess which driver got tipped?

We got back into our hotel room and crashed for a couple of hours. We decided to do a high tea at Kensington Palace. Having dragged Robin through Manchester to watch the bloody Red Devils, I was placing myself at her disposal for the rest of our time in London. So off to Kensington Palace we went!

We traveled on an honest-to-goodness double-decker bus and got off near the palace. There is a green area just west of Hyde Park, and we walked through that to get to the palace.

Robin finally feels like the Queen she is.

The Kensington Pavilion was next to the palace, and that’s where we went in. I instantly felt out of place. Everything was clean, everyone was well-behaved, prim and proper. These are traits I do not possess. But my Queen wanted a tea, so my Queen was getting a tea! I punched a hole in my Man Card, pulled up my Drill Sergeant panties and pulled the chair out for my Queen, and sat down to tea.

A high tea comes with a small pot of tea, of course. We both got Earl Grey. The tea tray came with three tiers. Tier 1 was four sandwiches. One was watercress, another was smoked salmon, another was coronation chicken, and the last one was egg and mayo. The smoked salmon sandwich had some caviar on the top.

Tier 2 was almond-orange scones with strawberry preserves and clotted cream. Robin explained to this unwashed grunt that clotted cream was like a super-creamy butter. I asked her why they didn’t just call it super creamy butter. Her look was a remembrance of the horrible spell from the day before, and I had enough rest to know the danger signs, so I let it be. Truth be told it was pretty good, no matter what you call it. Clotted cream is shorter than super creamy butter-like substance, so clotted cream it is. All I know is the scones were covered in powdered sugar, and I was wearing a dark blue sweater vest. Yes, a sweater vest. I was trying to clean up well for my Queen, OK? And I’m sure you can imagine what happened to a grunt wearing a dark sweater vest eating a hoighty-toighty dessert covered in powered sugar. That’s right. I looked like a man who woke up after a night with Hunter Biden and cocaine all over my sweater vest. Not that I would ever hang out with Hunter Biden. I don’t do prostitutes, or drugs.

The third tier was some decadent, super-fancy desserts. The first one I tried was a lemon custard covered with white chocolate. It had some gold filigree on it, as well as a white chocolate shirt sticking out of the top. But Steve, you might ask, why is there a shirt sticking out of the dessert? I might answer with any number of sarcastic retorts along the lines of, “I’m a former grunt in a swanky place next to a freaking royal palace in a large city in a foreign country. Why would I know why they’re putting freaking shirts in their freakingly good desserts?” The truth is, the palace was celebrating fashion in the palace suing a Crown to Couture theme, so the bloody British patisseries put freaking shirts in their freakingly good desserts. That’s why!

The second was raspberry mousse covered in a crumble mixture on a shortbread cookie. base. It had a candy crown on top of it. If you ask me why, I will refer you back to the paragraph above. We were right next door to a royal palace. THAT one made sense to me.

The third was the fanciest one of all. It was a hazelnut mousse covered in chocolate, resting on a chocolate cookie base. It was covered in gold filigree, and topped with a candy button. Two paragraphs up if you are as slow as me.

What I found surprising was, well, quite a few things actually, I got full. Four finger sandwiches, two scones and three small desserts. Plus I was able to engage in some scintillating conversation with my Queen. ALWAYS a plus. In case you don’t know, my wife is smarter than I am, is better looking than I am, and can carry her side of the conversation better than anyone I know. I tease her that I love listening to her “feckless meanderings”, but truth be told, I like the sound of her voice, and I usually learn something, in between my bouts of ADHD, which gets worse, the older I get.

Afterwards we went through the nearby garden that was dedicated to Princess Diana. It was early spring, so there were some flowers, but I’ll bet it’s really beautiful later in the spring. We then caught a bus back to the hotel to get ready for our night out. We had tickets to see The Play That Goes Wrong on the West End.

Statue of Princess Diana in the Royal Kensington Garden.

We took a cab to the Duchess Theater. And got in line. All of the posters and billboards telling us about the play were hilarious, so we anticipated a night of light-hearted entertainment. When we got inside, we were pleased to see that the theater was cozy, only allowing a hundred people or so. The play was hilarious. The Brits do have a penchant for comedy. The audience was laughing out loud through most of the play. It won a Tony on Broadway, and I could surely see why.

After the play, we crossed the street to a restaurant call Fishmongers, had some excellent seafood, then caught a cab back to the hotel. After a whirlwind week, we were looking forward to our first day of no flying.

And I was one day closer to being in Northern Wales.

Hooligans and High Tea

April 13 was the reason for our trip here, to see Manchester United play in Old Trafford, the Mecca of soccer. Robin and I flew into London on Wednesday and checked into our room at the Hilton London Olympiad. Thursday morning we took a cab to London Heathrow Airport, and went through their version of TSA to board a flight for Manchester.

An hour later, we touched down in Manchester, and sat down at a bistro to have some breakfast and plan our next steps. We decided to take a tram into Manchester. Robin explained the difference between a tram and a train; A tram is a light train that goes above ground, a train can go underground. So we headed to the station, found the tram to Old Trafford, and away we went.

As we got onto the tram, I noticed a very large man slumped over in his seat. I hoped he was asleep, as Robin and I took our seats. After awhile I pointed him out to Robin. “I think he’s dead,” I told her. Robin, ever the tender-hearted, said, “No, I think he’s just sleeping.” At that time, like a whale breaching front the ocean, he sat up with a groan, took a couple of breaths, and slumped back down again. I looked at Robin and said, “Well, I guess he’s alive.”

We reached our stop at Trafford Hall, and began walking to Old Trafford and Hotel Football, our destination. It was a nice walk, with only a slight rain. At the first glimpse of Old Trafford, We stopped to take a picture.

We continued on toward our goal. At one point, an argument occurred, as will happen along married couples, from time to time. My hat got blown off by the wind, and Robin and a stranger went to retrieve it. We were both very tired from jet lag, so our tempers were a bit short. I put the hat back on, and Robin said, “Maybe you should carry it.” I replied, “No, I’m good.” She began to say something else and I barked at her, and not in the man’s-best-friend kinda of way. The air began to swirl around Robin, clouds formed dark and close around her, lightning flashed, and all plants and animals with 30 feet died. Deep in my sleep befuddled brain, I sensed that, perhaps, I had erred. I did what I normally do in such dire circumstances, I whistled past the graveyard. I’ve whistled past more than my fair share of graveyards. Have you heard of the game where if a guy does something wrong, he can lose points with the woman? This guy can blow through a lot of points…

A bit later we ended up at Hotel Football and went to the bar to wait for the cafe was open so we could get some lunch. We sat at an open table, and drinks everywhere froze. All the men in the bar suddenly found very interesting things in their menus, and tiny little sympathy storms spun up over all the women. I knew I was in real trouble. To forestall the groveling and begging that was to come, I called the credit card company. Earlier I had received a fraud alert, which I had called and gotten cleared. We had indicated online that were were traveling, and that info had not gotten to the goblins in charge of the fraud department. Apparently they had cast a spell of account freezing, again, prompting the call.

This time around, and it for all the world sounded like the goblin I had spoken to first, the phone system took me through the same steps as before. All was going well until she asked if there was another phone number they could use to send a 2-step verification text to. I gave her my number, and the goblin replied, “Nope.” I gave her my wife’s number, and she said, “That number won’t work as we’ve used it before, and it appears to have Voldamort’s Death Curse on it, so we can’t use it.” I asked what other options I had, and the goblin replied, “We can send you a letter, which you should receive in 5-7 business days.”

After a long pause in which I imagined life in prison for the thoughts I was having I said, with as much civility as I could muster, said, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard today. I’ve told you folks, once online, once this very morning, and at the beginning of this phone call that my wife and I are overseas, so obviously I won’t be able to receive the letter in 5-7 business days, even if I were inclined to subsist on begging and panhandling to get by until I didn’t receive the letter in 5-7 business days. How about you be a fine goblin and let me speak to the Head Goblin?”

After a slightly miffed, “She’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling you,” she got the Head Goblin. After recounting everything that had gone on before, and the thickly veiled reference to leading a band of Crusaders in storming their headquarters, the Head Goblin restored my account and “put a note” in my file about the transactions occurring overseas. I went back to Robin and explained all that had happened. She found favor with the outcome, and the subsequent bowing and scraping and gushing apologies. The storm clouds dissipated, life was restored, and all the drinks thawed out. Conversations returned to the bar, the men look relieved and the woman looked pleased. We moved to the cafe and had lunch.

We checked into the hotel at 3:00pm, got ourselves situated, took a short nap, and headed over to Old Trafford to check out what was going on prior to the match. Robin took a picture of me in front of an iconic statue. The three legends are George Best, Denis Law and Bobby Charlton, who won the European Championships three times.

As you can see in the photo, I’ve got a wide, shit-eating grin that pretty much started the moment I saw Old Trafford, waned under the dark magic of Robin’s Wrath, and returned when we showed up on the pavilion in front of the stadium. From there, we went to our hospitality place, Victoria Warehouse. There we watched Manchester United TV (MUTV), had free drinks, free food, and met two young men from the States. With an hour left until the match, we left for the stadium.

Our next visit was to the Manchester United MegaStore, located in the front of the stadium. I got an updated team jersey and a light jacket, and some gifts for the grandsons. After nipping over to the hotel for an emergency restroom run (DAMN you, Crohn’s!), we headed back over to the stadium for the match.

There were people everywhere. Masses of people. The attendance ended up being 72,850. Reminded me of the time I went to the IU v Ohio State football game in Ohio State. That was a huge crowd as well.

Robin was in front of me as we walked up the stairs to the the seating area. I could hear the crowds but as I stepped out of the tunnel, the sound hit me like a physical hug. It was…indescribable! Pictures or videos cannot do it justice. The match, my dreams, my imagination all became real in that moment. If I were a woman, I would have wept. As it was, a stray, onion-cutting ninja caused a tear to leak out of one of my manly eyes. Another one trickled out of my left eye when I realized our tickets were five rows up from the pitch! Old Trafford is referred to as the Theater of Dreams.

It absolutely lived up to its moniker!

The iconic Stratford End. Look at all those people!

Manchester United scored four times during the match. Unfortunately, Towle of them were scored for the other team. After 80 minutes out of 90, Crohn’s came calling when we were up 2-0. I had just been telling Robin we needed more goals. As I got to the end of the row, Our defender had the ball go off of him and into goal. I was muttering under my breath as I rushed to the restroom. The muttering continued as I climbed back up the stairs, and blossomed into outright profanity as I saw that the other team had another goal. I wasn’t going to climb back over everyone to get to my seat for what little time remained, so I found an empty seat pitch-side and motioned to Robin so she knew where I was. It was there that I found out the we had scored another own goal. That is how the match ended. We head to Sevilla on April 20 for a winner-takes-all chance to make it to the Europa League Final Four.

After the match, Robin and I headed back to our hotel and crashed. The title above promises a High Tea, but I will Save that for my next blog!

Jolly Olde England-The Dream

This blog started up the air. I’m in the air over the Atlantic for the first time. I can’t sleep. That will make the next day a long day, but it will be a good day. I am with the love of my life, my best friend. We’re on a trip of a lifetime, and God is good.

Having never been in a country overseas, I’m not sure what to expect. The British and Americans are very similar, but also very different, I’ll want to see everything, taste everything (anything edible, of course). There will be times I won’t understand what’s being said, and times I won’t be understood. That’s ok. I’ll learn and adapt, along with my gorgeous, smoking hot wife.

We’ll have some time to look around, see some sights before checking in. It’ll be fun. And I get to be my wife’s arm candy!

But in the REAL World…

Meanwhile, on the actual ground…Robin and I ended up in a fight for our lives. Figuratively, not literally. We de-planed in London’s Heathrow Airport, and immediately faced our first challenge. How would our hero and heroine get from Heathrow Airport to our Hotel in Kensington? If you thought that there would be sufficient signage to point weary travelers the correct way, you would be mistaken. Between the two of us, the smoking hot babe and the ugly grunt, we had three college degrees and a qualifying IQ for MENSA, and we didn’t have a clue. Nor did the erstwhile signage provide any.

After stopping to ask for directions from people who wore the uniform but clearly thought that speaking English in a country named…wait for it…ENGLAND, was optional, we ended up at a kiosk area to order our tickets. One of the train lines we thought we’d use was closed due to a train not working(Who thought you needed a working train to have a working train line?), so we were left trying to figure out a Plan B. The way things were going, Plan A wouldn’t have worked anyway. Perhaps we should have offered up a sacrificial plan, and Plan B would have been the one we wanted to do.

We’ll stick a pin in that.

We decided on taking the Heathrow Express to a station called Paddington, where a cute bear in a raincoat would hand us the tickets for the rest of the trans we’d need. After a gentle discussion between us that caused three SAS troopers to faint, Robin and I decided that we would wait until we got to the bear’s station to determine what to do next.

So the easiest part of the day came, the purchase of the tickets. With those clutched in our sweaty mitts we walked down enough tunnels to have us come out in Paris, but actually ended up being at the station where we would board the train. Don’t block the doors and mind the gap.

Paddington Station

We made it to Paddington Station and had a pow wow with a cute bear in a raincoat. We went to a kiosk to buy our next tickets, and couldn’t get the kiosk to recognize our next destination. Now we’re back to our academic qualifications, which the computer ignored and calmly waited for us to make sense. Robin, holder of said MENSA credential, figured out what we were doing wrong, and we were able to purchase our next tickets on the Direct Line (An absolute lie!) to Kensington Olympia, near our hotel in the London Hilton Olympia. The Direct Line had a couple of branches, and you could be above ground to below ground, so of course it’s a direct line.

As we walked our way to the boarding area, we ran afoul of our first big culture shock. Apparently the Brits don’t hold their handicapped people with the same aplomb as we Americans do. Robin has MS, I have severe peripheral neuropathy in my lower legs, we both have canes, and there was no handicap access to the station we needed to get to. Now, I can still get around pretty good. I had just completed a 6-week stint in Milwaukee, sans cane, so I was able to carry my two suitcases, briefcase and C-PAP machine up the stairs. I got to the top and thought, “Well, shit! If I leave my bags here to go get Robin’s bags, I’ll bet my bags will be gone when I get back up top!”

Fortunately, some enterprising and caring British took pity on the woebegone look on Robin’s face as she searched for a way to blame me, and they got her bags up top the top. My thanks was met with “Cheers!” And “No worries!” And they were off. Immediately prior to that I had our only negative reaction with a Londoner, when I stopped to see if there was a lift to the station. He kind of brushed by me, and in a very passive aggressive manner told me there were better places to stop. I, like any good-hearted American, said, “Bless your heart!” And texted his picture to the NSA along with the key words #Jan6, #Trumpwasrobbed and #Transthekids. If you want to do passive-aggressive, I can do passive-aggressive, more passively and more aggressively.

The Not-So-Direct Line

Anyway, so there we were, at the West Brompton station on the not-so-direct Direct Line. We needed to get across the tracks to the other side to catch the next part of the Direct Line (See? I told you!). Guess what was missing in being able to get up the stairs to the bridge across the tracks? That’s right, a lift. Once again some compassionate Londoners saw Robin’s near tearful face and her “My President has Dementia” song and took pity and helped her with her bags. We got over the bridge, got onto a lift that some very Cockney-accented person explained was now working, even though the alarm was going off, got off on the ground level, followed the directions on the London Tube app, and promptly got onto the wrong train headed in the opposite direction on the, yes, you guessed it, the Direct Line. We got off at the next station, got on a Direct Line back in the right direction and did the rigamarole all over again, although this time it took multiple pictures of dogs in horrible living conditions to get some nice Londoners to help us out. By now the Londoners were probably thinking we were two of those “special” Americans they had heard about.

We finally reached Kensington Olympia Station, four hours after our first foray into the London Tube station, and my smoking hot wife had not sold me to the Ukrainian Defense Forces, and I hadn’t sold her to a cute little bear in a raincoat,

We made it to our hotel at 12:00noon. We were exhausted, frustrated, and dehydrated and I couldn’t seem to get rid of a cute bear in a raincoat who would not stop talking about train schedules. We were able to check our bags in, which was a huge relief to both of us, and went to the hotel’s restaurant to have lunch. Robin only had lemonade, whilst I had a Dirty Burger with fries, both of which were delicious,

Robin and I then took a a stroll along Kensington High Street, bought som pastries and some breakfast for tomorrow morning, and headed back to the hotel. We checked in, got settled in, made some preparations for our flight to Manchester for the Manchester United soccer match with Sevilla, ordered in room service, and are going to bed early because we’ll have to get up at 3:30am to get our cab to the airport at 4:30am.

It will be match-Day Bay-Bay!