Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey - Wordsworth

Pretty, yes? This is an artist's rendition of Tintern Abbey in the centuries after it was left to ruin, when people were first rediscovering it. It had such a sense of romance-- the ivy sprwaling over the entirety of the ruins was particularly attractive, but in restoration the decision was made to remove it. Sad.

I'm not going to re-post the entire poem--it is lengty and I know that 99% of my friends who check this page will not read it-- but if you want to read William Wordsworth's poem written while reflecting on (or as most historians say, after he had passed through) Tintern Abbey, check out this link for the text in its entirety!

http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/2343.html

Better yet, find a book! Poems read better from the pages of a book.

Conspicuous consumption be damned-- books are forever.

Dylan Thomas' Boathouse - Laugharne, Wales

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

--Dylan Thomas

"Who is Ted Yannick?"

Wales!

We left the hostel in Dublin at 6 am to make the 2 hr trek to Rosslare to the ferry. Lotssss of time to make it for 9am, yes?

No. Not.

The ferry didn't have an address--it just said Rosslare. So, we figured it would be like Cairnryan in Scotland-- we would simply show up to the town and it would be the only thing around. We got to Rosslare at 8:10am for a 9am departure (had to be on the boat by 8:45), and there was no ferry to be seen. We drove around until we found someone walking their dog as we asked him where it was.

"ah, yous want Rosslare harbour, you do.It's back around the roundabout, first exit, about 15 minutes."

Uhh...damn. We raced back on the wrong side of the road (it was 8am...who's to care) and got to the ferry terminal at 8:30. I ran in, with one hobbled foot, and got us a ticket on the boat to Wales... we boarded at 8:42am. We weren't the lone stragglers though--there were two others cars as well.

The ferry to Wales is over 3 hrs long. It wasn't particularly busy, but did seem to be filled with a disproportionally large number of irritating people. Particularly loud, obnoxious people. Kathleen and I sat and ate our English breakfast on the boat, then went to find a place to nap/read. I curled up on a long bench and slept for the entire trip--apparently Kathleen wasn't so lucky. It was very cold-- I'm pretty sure the wind from the Irish Sea was coming through the crap insulation at every window.

After our freezing trip, we got in to Wales and found our first field of Welsh sheep! I really wanted to stop and ask a farmer if I could go meet his sheep, but KDu seemed humiliated by this option. I would happily have gone to play at a farm... alas.

On our way to Cardiff (we decided to skip Swansea because we were running out of time) we saw the signs for Dylan Thomas' Boathouse. I had resigned myself to skipping this, but since we were so close... why not? We got off the beaten track and headed to Laugharne...aka middle of nowhere.

Dylan Thomas is most famous for "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night!", but he wrote many other wonderful works for fiction and verse. I've always loved poetry and have a vast repetoire of random quotations contained in my memory, so I was very excited to see the place where Thomas wrote and lived (it's apprently haunted, but I saw no ghosts. This time.)

We had to scale a cliff in the rain to get to the cabin, but we did make it. It is very simply and nestled on a literal cliff overlooking the water. A few hundred feet away is the remains of Llansteffan Castle. A beautiful area, to be certain, and it only lost a small fraction of its majesty due to the crap weather.

We drove straight to Cardiff after this, and checked into a wodnerful hostel. They had the best parking/breakfast situation of any we had visited, so I liked them the best (I will later do a post about places to stay when you visit all these fabulous places!). Cardiff has a reputation for being "hard". It was an industrial town, and people were thought to be kind of unhappy and mean. We met some lively people... but driving around the city everyone has an angry expression and seems a bit unhappy to be there. We only spent a day walking around, but that was the general expereince.

Wales has so much to see! It isn't marketed as being a hotspot, but there are castles and beautiful scenes at every turn. We saw Cardiff Castle (can't miss its massive walls) but we didn't have time to go in and do it properly-and it was too expensive to just pay to go thru the gate and leave. Most importantly, we found a place that sold YARN, my mother's only requested item from the trip. I got us some more wonderful Indian food (korma!) and we went shopping on the Queen's Arcade. Kdu really wanted to see Roald Dahl Plas, so we headed over to Millennium Center to see it... except that if you didn't know it was there, you would have no idea it was dedicated to him. There is a statue of Ivor Novello close by, and just a plaque to Dahl. We were confused.

After a night in Cardiff, we were on our last day. Sadly. We were to hit Tintern and Stonehenge this day, but we knew the chances were slim. We left Cardiff for the 45 min trip to Tintern--another literary heritage site that I insisted on visiting. Kathleen hates Wordsworth, so it meant less to her. But, regardless of personal interest in the Wordsworth poem, the site of Tintern Abbey is increible to see. It was founded in 1131 by Cistercian monks, and was only the second foundation in Britain. Cistercian monks (or "White Monks") who lived at Tintern followed the Rule of St Benedict-- the Carta Caritatis (Charter of Love) laid out their basic principles, namely: Obedience , Poverty, Chastity, Silence, Prayer, and Work . The remote location was ideal for the Cistercians, whose desire was to follow a strict life of prayer and self-sufficiency with as little contact as possible with the outside world. They chose well--calling it remote is an understatement.

The present-day remains of Tintern are a mixture of building sites covering a 400-year period between 1136 and 1536. In the reign of King Henry VIII traditional monastic life in England and Wales was brought to an abrupt end by his policy of establishing total control over the church, partly to take advantage of the considerable wealth of the monasteries (and to get a divorce and chop off Anne Boleyn's head...). On September 3, 1536 Abbot Wyche surrendered Tintern Abbey to the King's visitors and ended a way of life which had lasted 400 years. The Abbey sat in ruins for 200 years,... and the rest you can read on Wikipedia. Point = I LOVED it. We also got some fun presents for people here-- in particular, cards and bookmarks made of sheep poo. Apparently, only 50% of the contents of a sheep's stomach is digested--the other 50% is usable fiber... so it is now made into paper products.

We took off for Stonehenge, just north of Salisbury, England. Unfortunaetly, it gets dark quite early in England and we didn't have time to get there. We didn't know if it could be seen from the road, but we thought we should try.

Lesson: Stonehenge cannot be seen from the road. At night, at least. (Or ever, I think).

The parking lot is even barricaded, so you can't even stop to take a picture. We pulled over and got a picture of darkness....somewhere out there is Stonehenge. Alas, next time!

At this point we were tragically late to meet my friend Elise, who we stayed with in Oxford. We got in around 8:30 and headed out for food-- but it was Friday night and super busy everywhere, so we ended up getting wine and pasta at a Sainsburys and cooking in the basement kitchenette of her dorm house. This turned out to be far better, as we ate, drank, swore and gossiped with abandon.

Dear Elise-- I adore you and we must find a way to traverse the world and see each other more often! xo

6am came too early--we hopped in the car and headed off towards Heathrow. It was only an hr and a bit away, but we anticipated something would go wrong. The "something" turned out to be that the GPS was not programmed with the right address for the car rental return. It took us an hr of visiting each terminal and driving around in circles before finally found the return depot. I was a little harsh with the attendants...but they didn't care. They already had my credit card. And here it ends--we checked in (with the nicest AirCanada lady ever...who let me have my massively overweight bag of clothes checked for free!), went through security relatively unscathed (KDu got felt up), and we sat at our gate until they let us board the plane. It was only half full, so we each got our own section of seats, and I curled up and slept the entire way back. I was really cold, so the nice space waitress got me a Dasani bottle filled with boiling water-- a water bottle. She said she was going through menopause and was having hot flashes, and even she was cold...so I must be. It was pretty nice. She also brought me extra flax chips, my favourite airline snack.

It was a wonderful trip... and now we are back. I don't know what is next (Italy, maybe?), but I know I will escape again soon to another fabulous destination.

Oh, and are you wondering about Ted Yannick?

We were driving past Southhampton and I exclaimed "Oh, that's where Titanic is from!" Kathleen, half deaf, misheard (for the 10th time on the trip) and looked at me, puzzled, saying "Who is Ted Yannick?"

Probably only funny if you were there. But, funny, I promise.

xoxo

C

Dubh Linn -- "Black Lake"

As some of you may recall, we were in Bruges earlier in the trip. If you don't recall, you haven't been paying attention or drugs have rueened your mindtank - either way, I can't be bothered to recap such things for you. The point is, upon our arrival in Ireland (and long ass car ride due to us programming the GPS to avoid toll roads; while the countryside was lovely, we probably could have done with about 3 hours less of it), we checked into our hostel and unpacked. After supper at Dublin's oldest pub (The Brazen Head - fill in your own filthy jokes here), we decided to watch a movie. "Oh," said we, "let's watch In Bruges,

because it is awesome and we were recently in Bruges!" Excellent plan devised, we went down to the front desk to rent our movie. In order to do so, I had to hand over my passport (this will come up later). When we went downstairs to actually view the video recording, we met a very nice man named Paddy Kelly (niiiiiice), who runs a tour here. We decided to sign up for his tour once the movie was over. After figuring out the dvd player, we started watching the hilarious story of two assassins chilling out in Bruges. We were about an hour in when we heard a peculiar sound. That sound was, apparently, the call of the drunken English hooligan, aka Drinking Game Charlie and his gang of miscreants. Needless to say, they raised such a clatter that we were forced to abandon our movie. Titboxes. So, despite having actually been to Bruges, and taking the initiative to rent the movie In Bruges, C has yet to see it. Oh, the humanity.

C awoke much earlier this morning than I did. Much, much earlier. And walked around in

the rain. I'll let her fill in her harrowing ordeal trying to put the car park. If it were a Harry Potter story, it'd be 'Harry Potter and the Wide Vauxhall'. This is true. Basically, I was tired as hell last night, and we drove into Dublin at 4pm (read: rush hour) so I eventually gave up on finding parking and parked on the street. It was free until 8am, so I figured I'd just move the car to a car park in the morning. That was a great plan.

I awoke at 5:30am and decided I should go down and move the car before rush hour. I really didn't want to navigate with a pile of cars, so 5:30am was definitely the time to try it out. I went down to the front desk and a rather crotchety young man was working. He demanded a 20 Euro deposit for the key, and 8 Euro for the night. Fine enough-- I gave him my credit card. Well, this proved inadequate. He put a 20 Euro hold on my card, but demanded cash for the 8 Euro. I had none. Whatever, I said I would go to a bank machine after I moved the car-- but he wanted it by 8am. Ugh. Ok, fiiiine. I'll do whatever inefficient douche thing your require, dick, just give me the FOB for the parking garage. Finally, I got it in my hot little hand and was out the door.

It was raining. Pathetic fallacy, I believe. I walked a few blocks to the car, stopping at the gas station to try and get cash out. Alas, their ATM was on a time delay and refused to let me have

my monies 'til 8am-- too late. So, I decided to move the car and deal with the ATM later. I drove to the street where the parking was supposed to be, but I couldn't find a park. I noticed one, but there were big metal doors closing the entrance and I didn't know what to do. So I drove around a few more times trying to see if I had the wrong place. Luckily, I saw a woman go in--she got out of her car and there was a tiny little fob reader outside the door--she clicked her key, and went in. I decided to try the same. It did work, but the metal door kept swinging back and forth

like it was possessed. I was afraid it was going to hit the car, so I let it close and re-opened it again. After zipping into the car park in an open opportunity, I realized I had to get up to level 8.

I can't even navigate a car park in Canada-- the only accident I have ever had was scratching the side of a car (not mine...even worse) on a pole in a damn parking garage. So, I was in some fear. I made it up the first one, but when I got to level two there was a car parked opposite the UP ramp. I couldnt get enough space for clearance to turn my long-ass car around to get up the ramp. I tried a few times, to no avail, and eventually just went up the DOWN ramp. I was very glad it was 530am at this point. I eventually made it up all 8 stories unscathed, but I am not looking forward to coming down tomorrow.

As for the 8 euros, I walked around in the rain until I found an ATM and took out enough for the day. By the time I got back to the hostel, it was 7:00am. It took me 1.5 hrs to move the damn car. Perhaps a lame story.... but try to picture the expletives coming out of my mouth as I tried to get up the whore ramps and you should appreciate and be amused by the situation.

We tried to go to the Jameson Factory, but we didn't have enough time to get there and get to Kathleen's tattoo appointment. So we walked over to the Jervis shopping complex and while she was being needled, I went shopping. I have zero monies for such things, so I went to Penneys (aka Primark in the UK) and bought some comfy 8Euro boots for walking around. Then, it was off to meet Kathleen and take a Dublin Tour! Now, while Cane was shopping, I was, as

mentioned, getting a tattoo. Nothing really spectacular there, except that, when I went to show the nice tattoo man my passport as valid id to prove I was of age to be tattooed, I noticed something odd about it. The picture on the passport I held in my paw was, strangely, of a girl

with shoulder length hair named Bailey. She is from Kitchener and was born in November of 1984.

All of this would normally be fascinating for me, but it was not at the time. Nosireeee. Basically, panic closed its cold claw around my heart and I could not think of anything other than

'where in the GEE DEE EFFING ESS is my passport?' (that one's for you, mom). The answer: remember back up there when I....okay, I will continue this story in a minute, but I have to

comment on the fact that the French dudes behind us are listening to the Ketchup Song. And singing. It is hard to concentrate. Okay, anyway, my passport was at the hostel....in the movie jacket...and not with me. Luckily, I had my birth certificate on me, so I got my tattoo, but holy Jesus, if I hadn't checked it this afternoon, I'd be at Heathrow in a couple of days SOL.

The Dublin Tour. All epic win. We started with with Irish Museum, which contains the remains of an entire Viking village that was excavated in the middle of Dublin. Sounds lame, but it very interesting. There are very uniquely preserved human remains, and the equivalent to Irish crown jewels (The Brooch of Tara). We also hit the art museum, which

has a surprisingly vast collection for such a small country. We also saw Dublin Castle, (Edinburgh's retarded cousin castle) which was far less impressive than other castles. We also saw Trinity College and the incredible collection at Chester Beatty's Library. We also hit city hall and Christ Church Cathedral, which contains the excavated ruins of a monastery from a few thousand years ago. It was a great afternoon, about 4 hrs long. We missed going to the Guinness

Storehouse because we were walking around, but we saw enough to make it worth our while! We also learned a few fun facts... My favourite?

1) This may be an urban legend, as some say, but our genius guide (an Irish historian and teacher) swears that the etymology of the word FUCK can be found in the time of Henry VIII. He told us that Henry started taxing prostitution to fund his new church, and legal prostitutes had to have a parchment with a royal seal on it--the seal said FUCK--Fornication Under Consent of the King. Hence, the term. Some swear by the truth of this, and some say it is total bs...but either way, its a good story.  UPDATE--this is definitely untrue.  Oh well.

2) In North America, the hand gesture for "Fuck You" is the middle finger-- in the UK it is the first two fingers flipped off at someone--a backwards "peace" sign. This comes from medieval times. Archers use these fingers to shoot, and when they were captured the opposing army would cut their first two fingers off so they could no longer shoot. If they ran fast enough to get away, they would turn back and flip their first two fingers off to the other badasses, as a sort of "screw you".

3) We also learned where "pale" comes from, in reference to being afraid. This one isn't naughty, so you can skip it if you're only reading for our sexual and vulgar references. In viking times,

there was a community within a walled city, and outside there was a wicker barrier around the

city called a pale. If someone within the walls screwed up and was thrown out of the city, and had to live "beyond the pale". This came to be synonymous with feat because if there was an attack, those living beyond the pale were too far to get back to the safety of the city. Hence, they were scared as hell and "pale".

The more you know.

Tomorrow, we are off to Rosslare to catch the ferry to Wales! The final hours of our journey are approaching...and we are considering jumping off the ship to avoid returning.

xoxo C

NNB, K

Haste Ye Back!

I’m sitting on the ferry now, tea in hand, heading to Larne!

We woke up at 6am to catch the 730 ferry… but we were pretty tired and decided to sleep in and catch the 1030 one. The ferry is kind of expensive, but since it hauls our car over I suppose it’s fair—and most of the traffic consists of large trucks and commercial vehicles, so they could clearly make more money

by filling the ship with those rather than poor civilians. We drove through, bought our ticket, and pulled up to two police, or security, officers. The nice old man asked me to “hold the car and lift yer bonnet”. …What? I looked blankly at him for about 15 seconds before I realized-- “pop the hood??” Yes. That was it. So I found the thing that pops the hood and then I had to get out and open it because they aren’t permitted to. Now, I can’t even open the hood on my car in Canada, so this was a challenge. I kind of stared blankly at it and the nice make helped me open it, with the provision that if he broke something it was still my fault. They were checking for a bomb, or explosive device. Then a woman came and asked if she could pat me down. Sure, go to town…not as if I don’t enjoy it. But, here’s what I don’t get—if I had a bomb, wouldn’t I put it in the “boot” (truck) or on the other passenger (Kathleen)? It just didn’t seem like a very logical

security check. Terrorists don’t even have to be smart to survive that, just a bit lucky. This is a big beef I have with security in general—I understand that you have to do it, but if you’re going to irritate people with searches, at least make them necessary. I wouldn’t mind had they searched the car for stuff—I mean, we are headed to Northern Ireland… it seems smart to check. But, DO A GOOD JOB. That is all.

It’s a cool, damp day, so the views aren’t tremendous yet, but I love being on a boat so I don’t really mind. I don’t know what to expect in Ireland—other than pure awesome. We don’t have a lot of plans, other than Guinness and Jamieson tours (I’m hoping to get certified as a Whiskey taster) and a tattoo appointment for KDu, so we will probably just sightsee and meet people. I have a friend I haven’t seen since high school living in Dublin, so we will meet her and do dinner with some real Irish!

I have found some of the street signs here, particularly in Scotland, a bit strange. I took photos of some of my favourites, including “Elderly people”, where the elderly are hunchbacks and the woman is leaning on the hobbled man, and “Haste ye back!” which appears a lot in Scotland and I can only assume means come back soon. But, I don’t really know. The third is what we have affectionately named “peenie hydrants”….as they look like fire hydrants, with…peens. After seeing a lot of these with the “peen” on different sides, we realized it is a hidden

driveway sign.

We are having a stellar time! A few days in Eire, then back through to Wales and Oxford before hitting Heathrow to fly home. I’m considering hiding out as an illegal alien, but I suppose I have to come back and make some monies for the next excursion!

xoxo

C.

"Don't you know? Scotland is its OWN COUNTRY."

Scotland!

I’ve wanted to come to Scotland forever and was super excited to head up here! We got back to St. Pancras station from Paris and did a quick stop at Sara’s for our extra luggage, before heading to Heathrow to pick up our car! Now, I’ve never driven any of the times I’ve been here…I gave UK driving laws a quick 5 minute lesson and we headed out. It’s now been 4 days and so far I’ve only been on the wrong side of the road once

and had one minor “overtaking” issue. Roundabouts are my nemesis, but I’ve done pretty well

driving across this nation!

We headed out from London on the way to Edinburgh. Stupidly, we left in the afternoon on the M6 north and were caught in HOURS of traffic. A 7 hrs 20 trip became almost 11 hrs. We missed our dinner reservation and Lisa, a friend we were meeting for the weekend, was stuck alone in the bar. Fortunately, she emerged unscathed and only slightly poorer (until I arrived and we got a bottle of Mumm’s.) Edinburgh is a beautiful city, and nowhere near as busy and crazy as

London is.

Our day in Edinburgh was spent visiting sights—we went to Edinburgh Castle, Mary King’s Close, City of the Dead ghostwalk/poltergeist tour, and hit some pubs—the one where JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter, and one that had amazing treacle tart. We also went to The Witchery, one of the best restaurants in the city, for an 11pm reservation on a Saturday night. Sadly, this meant we missed the legendary bar scene of Edinburgh, but we had a great meal, champagne, wine, dessert etc, and walked back to the hotel—we weren’t carried, nor did we pay someone to haul us back. We did a bit of shopping on the Royal Mile... I made the mistake of asking a guy why the pound looks different from the English one. WHOA. One of those nationalistic things you do not say. For the record, I know what countries comprise Britain (and the UK, for that matter) but I didn't know I would get weird Scottish money when I took cash out at the bank machine! And I was told that the money in Scotland wouldn't be accepted outside of the country, despite that it is valued the same as the English pound. Anyway, I ruffled the feathers of the shop owner, who replied. "Scotland is it's OWN COUNTRY, don't you know?" He then went on to admonish the English and I learned that while their money is valued the same, no one else will take it simple because they are, essentially, jackasses.

Sunday came and we sadly had to leave Lisa (who was likely happy to have her own room) and head onwards. We went to Perth to visit family, and what was supposed to be dinner on the way through turned into dinner, 5 pints, and a sleepover. We had a great time visiting, and it was nice to be in someone’s home instead of in a hostel or hotel. It was very cozy, and we had breakfast made for us! A true luxury of home and ode to Scot hospitality. I even got schooled in Burns poems—the Selkirk Grace and Address to a Haggis are as good, or better, than the gamed red, red rose one. As an aside, we also saw the Burns Bachelors Club tonight—he was a famous romantic and womanizer!

We left the family today and were heading over to catch a ferry to Ireland and head to Galway to visit some more friends. We stopped in Stirling to see William Wallace’s monument, but it was shortly after 4 and we could only get a pic from afar- likely not a bad thing, since we didn’t really want to climb the 300 steps. We also FINALLY stopped at a Little Chef! These are a big chain in the UK and we know of them because of a food network show Heston Blumenthal hostel where he revamped the chain. It was a series, and it aired again over the holidays in a marathon. We were determined to visit a LC, but we hadn’t seen any until today! We even typed it into a GPS in southern England and the GPS took us to the middle of no where suburbia and said we had arrived at the destination. We had almost given up hope! The food was good, and Kathleen tried Fish and Chips—she has now had fish, blood pudding, haggis and steak pie. She covered her bases. Ive had chicken and vegetarian lasagna.

We tried to catch the ferry on time… but we hadn’t actually pre booked or organized anything here since the day preceding was sort of up in the air. What did this mean? It means we didn’t catch the ferry and are now in the sketchiest hotel imaginable in a town I can’t pronounce. We are near Cairnryan, and are getting the 730am ferry to Larne and heading on to Dublin. Sadly, we will miss Galway and an amazing friend who is in school there, but we will eventually get to Eire! We got to the ferry port town and stopped asking for rooms in multiple places—even the dodgiest were all full! There was a nice place that wanted WAY too much money…so we drove down the road until we found a hovel and I went in to ask. The reception is actually a bar, where 5 or 6 men were sitting around watching TV and drinking. The barman is the hotel operator, and he told me he had one room left for 50 pounds if I wanted it. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Do you take Visa?”

Nick the Barman: “No, cash only.”

Me: “ok, I will go get some! No problem.”

Nick: “Great, and I need you to fill out a form for health and safety reasons…just basic information, name etc.”

*30 second pause and rummage*

Nick: “Eh, fook it, I can’t find me pen. Don’t really need health and safety.”

This was a reassuring start. The room itself is actually very nice, and we get continental breakfast, decent TV and internet. Another lesson in “don’t judge a book by its cover.”

So, its 12:30 and I am trying to sleep…can’t make my mind shut off. It’s a problem I have that is usually cured with pills, but alas I don’t have any here with me. We leave in a few hours for the next leg of the journey—can’t wait!

Though one sad thing about leaving Scotland—I never did find out what belongs under that kilt.

xoxo Cane

In Search of Perfection (with Heston).

We are sitting in a Little Chef right now, just outside of Perth, Scotland. We literally drove 3 miles past it and then swung back around. One of the goals of the trip was to dine in a Heston Blumenthal approved Little Chef, but previous attempts to find one have ended in disaster. Thankfully, we are now living the dream. William Wallace's castle or Little Chef? Clear champion: Little Chef.

Because of the metric system?

Well, it's been awhile since we blogged for realsies, and I am a fan of being complete and thorough (everyone who knows me can stop laughing now), so I'm going to go back and recap Paris now, then Scotland - although might not get to Scotland today. I'm about to go eat a delicious breakfast, prepared by Cane's uncle Bruce (a true Scot, yo) (NB from Cane: Bruce is actually of no relation, but I call him uncle Bruce anyway.).

Apologies for the preceding paragraph, it's a bit spastic - I'd delete it, but then I'd have to start again. Mehnyway, Paris. So we departed from our hostel in Bruges at around 5:45 in the a.m. to catch our train into gay Paree. It was a rather uneventful trip - the train was a bit crowded, but Cane was able to sleep and I was able to pass the time listening to my ipod and looking out the window, so it worked out nicely for everyone. When we arrived in the city, we made our way

to our super-close-to-the-train-station hotel, where we dropped off our bags and left for breakfast (we couldn't check in until around 2 in the afternoon). We had som

e tasty omlettes and croissants and formulated our plan of attack for the day. We also managed to reapply some makeup, which we pooled from our pockets and bags (always prepared!)...we were ready to see the most fashionable city in the world. Okay, truthfully, we still looked like scrubs, but there was nothing to be done about it.

First stop: the Louvre. We didn't go in, because, really, what's the point of spending, like, an hour in the Louvre? We saw the pyramids outside - the exterior of that building is beeeyuuutiful. Also, it is effing HUGE. Like, what the hell. Next, we took the Metro to Notre Dame cathedral, home of Hugo's hunchback. The interior was really nice (obvs), but the real highlight was the completely ghetto Christmas tree out front. It was Charlie Brown quality, with the most hilarious balls (insert your own joke here).

The Eiffel Tower was our next stop. Out in front of the Tower there were dozens of people attempting to sell you mini Eiffel statues or draw you as a caricature. Holy Jesus, they are annoying and as tenacious as vultures. I was ready to choke a bitch. Once we got to the middle level of the Tower (the top was under construction), we admired the view and took our pictures.

It was, unfortunately, a bit hazy up there, so the pics weren't the best, but it was a pretty astounding view nonetheless. There were a bunch of children there, so once again I had to be

restrained from stabbity revenge. We made our way down to the base of the Tower, ran through the packs of vultures, and hopped on the Metro to go back to the hotel. We had originally hoped to go to Versailles at this point, but it would have taken too long, so we went to McDonald's for lunch. "Why McDonald's?", you might wonder; the answer, obviously, is that I wanted to order a Royale with cheese (a la Pulp Fiction). I should also mention that I have never eaten a Quarter-Pounder in my whole life - verdict: it wasn't bad, and was definitely worth it for the PF reference. After stuffing our faces, we took a fast food induced

nap.

When we woke up (late as per), it was dark. We decided to Montmartre, then to the Arc de

Triumphe, then to a restaurant on the Champs d'Elyse, and then back to the Eiffel Tower to watch it sparkle. Montmatre was notable for the Moulin Rouge (shout out to Mepa!) as well as the Sexodrome, and the McDonald's next to the dirty cinema. In short, Cane was in heaven - she was finally home! We only spent about half an hour on Montmatre before heading down to the Champs d'Elyse for a bite. The Arc de Triumphe is on the Champs, so it was two birds with one stone. We ended up in a little Italian resto called Vesuvius, where we had a three course meal (highlight: goat cheese salad starter mmmmm). We took a bit longer than we thought to eat, so we missed the first 'sparkling' of the Tower, so we kinda wandered around a bit, then hopped the Metro again (sweet, sweet day passes - Cane's, hilariously, stopped working about halfway

through the day, so she had to keep getting it 'reset' by the transit people. Finally, she got them to replace it, but that was right before our last ride, so a bit useless).

What to say about the Eiffel Tower's light show? Well, it was spectacular. We ran through mud and nearly killed ourselves, but it was worth it. Cane was so excited! It was a real highlight of the trip.

Well, I think that is about it for Paris. I will note that I didn't speak any French (it never really came up, as people heard us speaking English and so addressed us in our preferred language), and that Paris is less French than Quebec. So, make of that what you will.

Stay tuned for further updates from the UK! We're heading out to Dublin this afternoon - there's no real plan, but I'm sure that we'll see some pretty sweet sights.

Nanoo nanoo, bitches!

KDu

Half way!

Hi all!

Again, lame update. It is very late, but I wanted to let you know we are safe! Edinburgh was amazing and we hopped in the car this afternoon to head to Perth, to visit some of my family. We had a glorious dinner and a few pints, and decided to sleep over. We are here for the night, and off to Ireland tomorrow, after seeing William Wallace's memorial. Ireland for a few days, Wales for two, then home! Why must time travel so quickly?

xoxo C.

Address To A Haggis

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!

-- Robert Burns

Status: Alive.

Hi!
We have made it to Edinburgh, via Paris, London and a long ass drive to Scotland! We have had an amazing few days exploring cities, castles,... shopping venues... but have had very limited internet access! Just wanted to let you know all is very, very well and we will get back to a lively and entertaining (by our standards) blog soon!
xoxo C.

Funny Story...

We are on the Thalys high speed train from Bruges to Paris! There is internet! And it works!! So far, superior to ViaRail in every way.

We just had the most AMAZING Belgian waffles for breakfast....and they were from a vending machine. I don't know what those Belgians do to their food, but clearly they breathe awesome on everything.

Also, we just had a realization... last night, we couldn't eat all the Indian we ordered, so we brought home the extra saag paneer to use as tostitos dip (shhhh, it's delicious). Unfortunately, it was a little leaky-- my camera bag now smells like saag. No biggie...except that this morning in a rush of exhaustion we put the saag into a paper bag and threw it into our luggage. So, there is a chance that everything we are wearing today in Paris will smell of saag. A high chance.

-C.

Bruges reminded me of something too...

Nothing as pansy as a poem.

"If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me but I didn't, so it doesn't." -- Colin Farrell as Ray, In Bruges (2008)

KDu.

The Calf-Path.

Bruges reminded me of something-- a favourite poem of mine from my youth.

We were driving in from the train station, and I was struck by how narrow the cobbled streets are. It wouldnt be such an issue, but vehicles do drive on them, and sometimes it is a bit perilous trying to get through. I commented to the cab driver that it was dangerous and difficult to navigate, and he laughed and said, "yes, but the roads were made for horses". With that, I give you a Sam Walter Foss gem.

And yes, for this brief moment in time I feel very smart to have recollected this poem and made a real-life reference with it!!

The Calf-Path

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail, as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.

The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bellwether sheep
Pursued the trail o’er vale and steep,
And drew the flock behind him, too,
As good bellwethers always do.

And from that day, o’er hill and glade,
Through those old woods a path was made,
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged and turned and bent about,
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because ’twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed — do not laugh —
The first migrations of that calf,
And through this winding wood-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane,
That bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet.
The road became a village street,
And this, before men were aware,
A city’s crowded thoroughfare,
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed that zigzag calf about,
And o’er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.
A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They follow still his crooked way,
And lose one hundred years a day,
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.

A moral lesson this might teach
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind
Along the calf-paths of the mind,
And work away from sun to sun
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.

They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move;
But how the wise old wood-gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah, many things this tale might teach —
But I am not ordained to preach.

-Sam Walter Foss

In Bruges. With many Colin Farrell references...

Bruges is kind of amazing. I am so glad we came here, though it was a random stop on the trip. We started today with yet another insanely early train trip-- this time, we walked from the hostel to the train station. We got there at about 5am, and had to figure out where to go. This was a bit challenging, since one has to know the direction of a city to figure out which ultimate destination would be on the way. I just asked security people until someone pointed me to Platform 15A. 2 hrs on this train to Antwerp, then a switch for the train to Bruges, and we were off!

This hostel is fabulous. We got a cab from the train station to the hostel, which wasnt really necessary in retrospect, but we were tired and cold. We stayed at Lybeers Travellers Hostel, which I would totally recommend to anyone. The staff are very animated and friendly, the beds are cozy (we ended up with our own room!), bathrooms clean...there is a TV, guitar, piano, sheets etc. I am not much of a hostel person, but this one is a gem.

We checked in around 10 am and had some time to kill before our rooms would be ready. We

watched an episode of Family Matters on TV (which inst even syndicated in North America anymore, is it?) and half of a later-season ER (later-season in that it was garbage), before heading out to a cute little Belgian cafe for waffles and crepes. We also have hot chocolate-- unlike any other. It was literal chocolate heated up with milk and the most incredible chocolate

experience of life.

We did a little walking tour of Bruges before checking back with the hostel- there is a church here that is famous for having the Michaelangelo statue of Madonna and Child, so we went to see that. The statue is lovely, and is one of the only works to ever leave Italy in Michaelangelo's lifetime, but the entire church is filled with renaissance Christian-themed paintings. Absolutely beautiful. I would post everything if there was space, but it is definitely something to see if you ever get the chance to visit Bruges.

The architecture here makes the entire town look like a maze of doll or gingerbread houses. It is gorgeous. And unlike Amsterdam, it is easy to navigate and not obscenely cold. I was having ankle issues in our last city and had to take a little break to rest it, but I'm good now (after a tube of bengay, an ankle wrap, and 24 hrs) and was ready to hit the road running today.

We came back and checked into out room, which we ere pleasantly surprised to find belonged solely to us. We decided it was shower time, as we hadn't been clean in 3 days. The showers are either frigid or scalding, so it took awhile to find a temperature that didn't burn the skin off, but it was the highlight of the day-- my mother always told me it was amazing what soap and water could do, and she was right. Normally a shower wouldn't make the travel blog, but in this instance, as in most with long trips and a lot of travel, the times you get to shower are immortalized as highlights of the entire trip.

We had a short nap and headed out for supper. I hunted down the best Indian restaurant in town, to continue our theme. For real, the food here is SO good. Kathleen hasn't had a lot of Indian, so I order all my fav's. Tonight was veggie pakoras, saag paneer, chicken korma, rice and garlic naan. Basically, amazing. The restaurant itself was a hole in the wall with no signage, but that was never a deterrent. I've eaten IN India-- at least this place had doors.

After this, we really just walked around. There was supposed to be a walking tour that would have gone through the history, but it was cancelled due to "adverse" weather conditions. There was no snow and the cobbles were a bit slippery, but that was it. I am sure some parts of Europe have been hard-hit by snow, but I have yet to see any real accumulation.

We went to the Markt in the center of town, most famous for the massive tower in the middle. You can climb the 366 steps in the daytime for 6Euro, but we didn't get around to that. Apparently the views are amazing.

Walking around here reminded me of being in an old WWII movie-- this town looks like something straight from a film. It is very old and authentic looking, and seems like something that would have been destroyed in the war. Being Belgium, it was clearly occupied, so I did a little research and found out the following.

A few kilometers away is a town called Moerbrugge. It was here that in 1944 the 10th Canadian Infantry Brigade was tasked with building a bridge from one side of a canal to the other--clearly, their side was friendly and they were trying to get in to take the area from the Germans. There were not enough infantry, and the 10th Canadian was backed up only by the 15th Field Regiment, the South Alberta Regiment and the New Brunswick Rangers (YEAAA!!). There is a long story about how all the companies worked to get supplies across the canal until the bridge was built, and in the end we got the crossing done and the South Alberta Regiment crossed the bridge to re-connect with the C Company, who had been on their own until the other units could traverse the water. Appx. 150 German prisoners of war were sent back across the new bridge, with around 700 German casualties.

And now you know the rest of the story.

xoxo

C.

Eff Amsterdam right in the A

The day starts with an early morning departure from Sara's (or the Hylton, as I've taken to calling it in my head) - I'm talking 3:30 in the a.m. here, people. Upon our arrival at the Liverpool Street Station, we discover that it is locked. We also discover that it is freezing. It is early and it is freezing, and the station does not appear to open for another half an hour. Brilliant. We make small talk with a Brit on his way to somewhere that I can't recall and then finally get let into the station (which is also freezing). We make our way over to the automatic ticket machine, but find that they are busted; this is not good, because our train leaves at 4:10 and we are rapidly running out of time.

Trying all of the other kiosks proved fruitless, and Candace was forced to go and get help from the information desk, which gave us handwritten tickets (which were never actually colle

cted from us, so I suppose we could have saved some change there). The nice lady also informed us that the 4:10 bus had been cancelled and we would have to take the 4:40. Annoying, but not too bad, since it was about 4:15 at the time, so we probably would have missed the first train anyway. Candace decides to go up to the McD's and get some breakfast, while I guard the stuff. After about 10 mins, I start to get antsy because the train has pulled into the station...I guess this look translated to approximately 'omg', because the security guard came over and asked me if I was alright. We chatted until Candace came back with her Chicken nuggets, breakfast not being available until 6am.

Following an uneventful train ride, we make it to the hostel with minimal problems, except that we were on very little sleep (I got about 2 hours or so). We arrived at the hostel, and I immediately didn't like the cut of its gib. Too loud, too many people,

just not my scene. Candace and I, we are the Don Cherry of travellers - we like our fellow travellers to be white Canadians only (juuuust kiiiidding). Ah well, whatever. We checked in (quite the lengthy process, I might add), then decided to go out to the Van Gogh museum, which was across town. After eating more McD's, and sampling their version of mayo for fry-dipping (a weird melange of mustard, relish, and mayo), we went to the museum. Boring. Holy crap - badly laid out and not enough historical information about the man himself; although, that might have just been because part of it was closed off for construction. We left the museum and began to make our way to the National Monument so that we could meet up with a free walking tour of the city. Unfortch, Candace's ankle was in agony, so she headed back to the hostel while I went on the tour.

The tour itself was great, lots of good information and places to see (public urinals, whaaaat?). I saw The Dutch East India

Company (now a part of a university), the skinniest house in Amsterdam, the hidden Church, an former women's prison, the street on which Rembrandt lived (and which was home to many of the Jewish people who were killed during WWII), a whole other bunch of old buildings and churches with an intense amount of information behind them. However, it was cold as Hel (a Norse version of hell that is blindingly cold rather than unbearably hot). Like, by the end of the 3+ hours, I was freezing to the point where I thought I would never get warm again. The tour ended, and I unfurled my map to make my way home efficiently. 30 minutes later, I actually get back to the hostel (having become lost on no less than 3 occasions). Turns out that Amsterdam is a series of unmarked roadways and winding streets that end and begin with no real rhyme or reason. Additionally, the map off of which I was working did not include all the streets, which would have been a helpful tidbit to know.

Back at the hostel, Candace's ankle is feeling much better, so we decide to leave for Anne Frank House. At this point, it's about 6 pm and we have half an hour to find the place. 'No problem' thinks I, since I had been there on the tour. Alas, we showed up at 6:35 and were denied admittance, as, although the museum closes at 7, the last party is allowed in at 6:30. Dude at the desk saw us waving and kind of flicked his fingers in the universal gesture for 'Go away, useless peasants'. So that sucked. It was basically the one thing I really wanted to do in Amsterdam, and this jackass is gonna be THAT GUY. Le sigh.

On the plus side, we found this wicked cool Indian restaurant on the way back to the hostel and had some delish chicken korma. It was soooo goooooood. Almost made up for the freezing agony of the rest of the day. We wander back out into the cold to find a coffeeshop, and end up in the 420 cafe with a few other patrons. We purchase and consume our supplies, then it's back out into the cold to finally get back to the hostel.

Once we get to the hostel, we find that my favourite kind of music, techno, is being pumped at rather loud levels throughout the bar area and, subsequently, the rest of the building. No worries, it's expected. We go back to our room and find Kirk (note: might not be his real name, I can't remember if it was Kurt or Kirk, and I'm going with the more Star Trek-y of the two) there, another traveller from Canada whom we had met previously in the day (who? whom? whatever). We chatted for a bit until I decided that I was going to die if I didn't go to sleep omgrightnow, so I did. I slept pretty well actually, although the procedure to leave the hostel was a bit awkward since it was so early. We had to skulk out of there like rapists in the night.

So, that was Amsterdam. It was cold, it was long, it was disappointing, but it was totally worth the trip. Even though all the houses look the same and the people there are sort of dicks, I'm glad I got to see it. Maybe next time we'll stay in a hotel, though. And skip the art and go right to the Holocaust. And try to keep my blog in the same tense all the way through. Lessons learned, people, lessons learned.

Nanoo nanoo, bitches!

KDu

p.s. Candace is asleep right now - I envy her the ability to fall asleep like 5 minutes after laying down her head. It is a skill I admire in her only slightly more than her ability to turn every statement into some sort of dirty joke. She is one classy lady.

Amster-damn.

SO, so tired.

Lovely city. Needs to be a bit warmer, but has the best Indian food I've had in a long time and a pile of cute bicycles!

Will talk soon. Must sleep a few hrs before the train to Bruges!!

xoxo c.

Gordon Ramsay and Anne Boleyn-- a perfect day!

We actually hauled ourselves out of bed at a reasonable hour today! We got up, had some breakfast (pizza) and went out. We were initially going to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, but we decided we wanted the time to see the Tower of London (mostly, we didnt get out of the flat in time to get to Buckingham for 11am).

Thus, we started at the Tower of London and did a tour with a lovely Scottish woman, who ran through the history (essentially, listed some of the unlucky souls who lost their heads at the location.

The Crown Jewels are held in the Tower, and are always an amazing sight. I was there 10 yrs

ago, but didn't remember a lot of the stories. I just watched the first 3 seasons of The Tudors over the holidays (yes, I know it is garbage) with my mother, so I was very interested in the true version of the Boleyn story. We were also luck in that there was a Henry VIII exhibition on that closes next week-- Henry VIII: Dressed to Kill. It was a massive exhibition of all his armour and weapons etc. Pretty impressive. One thing I

remembered from my first experience in London was the pride and Henry VIII-- this is clearly displayed in his armour, which contains a rather generous cod piece. By rather generous, I mean hilariously large.

We grabbed a few shots of the Tower Bridge, before grabbing a cab to Mayfair. We were headed to Maze, Gordon Ramsay's restaurant in Grosvenor Square. AMAZING. The best food ever. We had great service and a fabulous meal, made even better by the inherent love both

Kathleen and

I share for G-Ram. She got his bernaise (sp?) sauce simply because he has raved about it so.

We wandered around to hit Paddington Station so KDu could buy a bear-- I did it on one of my trips here and lovingly display said bear in my house. It was slightly off the beaten track, but we grabbed a bear and headed back to Baker St.

I hadn't seen Baker St. since my first visit in 2000. It was more of a drive-by in those days, so when we got off and KDu asked me which way we were going, I simply said "well, let's

count." Made sense. So we walked along until we saw 221b. That said, we didnt need to count much as there was a Sherlock Holmes museum and a nice guard dressed in oldskool London Police-wear to greet us at the door. His name was Josh. Josh offered us a Holmes cap for our obligatory photos, but we decided communal scabies hats could be something we didn't do in London (plus, I don't think it would have fit over my mane.)

We hopped on a train to Westminster to check out the Abbey and Whitehall (Parliament). Took a few more shots of Big Ben. We knew Westminster Abbey would be closed, but it was important for KDu to see it! We walked around the area for a bit and met a large group of Spanish tourists, before hopping the train back to the Piccadilly line.

Next up was going to be Harrods (its their annual sale!!) but we were running out of time. We

met Sara at 7:30pm at Eros in Piccadilly and headed over to the Gielgud Theatre for Avenue Q. I've wanted to see this musical for a long time, and enjoyed it quite a lot. I particularly enjoyed

the little snack portion of Haggen Daaz that I consumed at the interval-- it seems a strange theatre food, but it is always available and quite popular at intermissions.

We are catching a flight to Amsterdam at 7am, but we have to get to Stanstead Airport to do it, which means leaving here at 330am to catch a 410 am train at Liverpool Station, putting us into Stanstead at about 5am. EastJey are notoriously hardcore about baggage (ie cheap) so we

wanted to make sure we had lots of time! It's going to be a bit tiring, but we have a plan of action. Going to see Anne Frank house and the Van Gogh museum, maybe walk around a bit, then NAP before a fabulous night in the city. Our train to Bruges, Belgium also departs insanely early the next day, so I forsee another one of these nights coming up-- one

where I stay up waiting to catch the next bit of transportation!

xoxo <-- I like this sign off. It stays.

C.