“If liberty means anything at all, it means the right
to tell people what they do not want to hear.”

- George Orwell

Missouri, the birthplace of Mark Twain, is a river state. Or, more accurately, a "rivers" state. Some 120 rivers — each with its share of streams and creeks that feed it — flow, course or meander across the state. And sometimes, they rise up.

Missouri absorbed at least 10 inches of rain between Monday and Tuesday this week, especially south of St. Louis which also happens to be the area we (myself, the Mall Diva, Tiger Lilly and Ben) are visiting. When we first drove through here Wednesday, however, the skies had cleared and everything looked normal. Until, that is, we got to the place on Highway 63 between Vichy and Vienna where the road passes over the Gasconade River. At this point the road and the river were vying to see just who would pass over whom. The roadbed was still high and dry, but the fields on either side were flooded nearly to the shoulders for about half a mile. People were stopping, gawking and taking photos.

We made it the rest of the way in to my mom's house without incident or seeing serious water, but in a county that features the Meramec, Huzzah, Courtois (coat-a-way), Bourbeuse and Gasconade rivers and their tributaries such as Turkey Creek, Mill Creek and Bonne Femme (Ben liked that one) Creek, we were in the process of being surrounded. Nearer to St. Louis the rising Meramec closed Hwys. 40 and 149 and threatened Interstate 44, where sandbagging crews were busy lining the highway with sandbags in hopes of keeping this major artery open heading into the holiday weekend.

Closer to us, my brother spent the day on his cellphone, coordinating with the drivers of his four FedEx trucks, trying to keep them on the right side of the rising rivers so the trucks and drivers could sleep at home last night, even if the deliveries had to wait since most of these absolutely, positively wouldn't float. We drove down to Steelville to visit my grandmother once we heard that MODOT, which had been watching the Hwy. 19 bridge over the Meramec, was going to leave it open for the time being. Crossing the bridge over what is normally a ravine we could see the water nearly up to the deck. One one side of the road there's a local float-trip operation, and its campground and recreation area had water up to the basketball hoops and only the peaks of the green roofs over the picnic pavilions were showing.

It was kind of a strange experience. The day was beautiful, warm and sunny yet all around southern Missouri bridges and roads were closing as the waters kept rising slowly but inexorably, with the rivers yet to crest in several areas. Our own route into the area finally went under yesterday as well, leading me to map out an alternate way home for Ben and the girls, who had to head back this morning. As a bonus, this way takes them through one of their favorite little towns, Hermann, which also happens to rest beside the Missouri River. It's a very high bridge, however. I told the girls that if the bridge is closed at Hermann they should just turn-around and come back because I'll need Ben's help to build an ark.

No, I don't mean "just desserts"; I mean we drove from Scottsdale to Las Cruces, New Mexico on Thursday, and it was mostly just deserts, with a lot of rocks.

The landscape is very different here. It reminds me of how weird it all seemed when I moved from Phoenix to Minneapolis nearly 28 years ago. After living in Arizona for a year it was almost overwhelming to see so much green everywhere and all at once. It was probably a good thing that I arrived in Minnesota in June, however; if my first impression was 12 degrees with an icy wind I might have turned down the Minny job and stayed in Phoenix, and who knows what effect that would have had on my life (not to mention the lives of my wife and daughters)?

We drove the scenic route from Scottsdale, which took us through the dramatic, rocky passes around Superior and Globe. The rugged slopes converge at different angles around the highway, almost tilting your perspective and perception, especially when the horizon is blocked and the road is twisting. The Reverend Mother rode through here on Wednesday with the motorcycle gang she joined (I'll leave it to her to post that story) and said the effect was even greater on a bike than in the car. I wouldn't say it was beautiful, exactly, but it was very distinctive, unusual and fun.

The purpose of the trip was to visit the Reverend Mom's cousin and her family, but we were also looking forward to seeing New Mexico, which we've heard is beautiful. Actually, I know it's beautiful, because I've driven through the state before. Apparently the stretch we drove through today, however, is not going to make it into the brochures. Right at the state line the pavement changed to a darker, more rumbly surface and the scenery began to take on certain moonscape qualities as we drove along state highway 70 toward Demry.

It looked as if a nuclear bomb had gone off — nothing grew that was more than 3-feet tall and there were no buildings or structures for miles. In fact, if we came across a structure it was most likely dilapidated - windows missing, roof fallen in, or possibly an abandoned, sand-pitted mobile home. All it would take to complete a classic "desolate West" scene would be a bleached long-horn skull or two. Instead we saw the modern equivalent: rusted out frames of an occasional vehicle, including an old 1930s or 40s-era pickup that had been left where it died on the ranch, stripped of tires and interior and left to rust and blow away bit by bit. Given the age of the vehicle, I wondered how long it had been sitting there within sight of the highway.

Amazingly we even saw occasional small herds of cattle, including the dreaded black ninja cows conducting desert manuevers. Most were eating the desert scrub grass and foliage. Somehow, I don't think these cattle will make it to Kobe-beef status on the Bourbon Steak menu.

Even the first town we came across, Lordsburg, looked dessicated. Good Lord, Lordsburg. Literally half the businesses and buildings along the main drag were boarded up, and the windows to the lobby of the Luxury Hotel revealed metal folding chairs for furniture. One dedicated car-dealer featured about a dozen new cars and trucks aimed at the road, prices marked on the windshields in optimistic neon colors. I think the marketing theme for the dealer should be, "Leaving town? Why not do it in a BRAND NEW CAR!"

Other than that about the only maintained structures we saw until we got to Demry was a series of about two dozen billboards placed close together Burma-Shave style promoting the Continental Divide Trading Post. Each billboard promoted another rare, not-to-be-missed product; everything from snake eggs (not sure if these were pickled or not) to saddles, whips and, probably, mounted jack-a-lopes. They probably had beef jerky, too, and out here I bet it comes directly off the slaughtered local cattle without need for drying or processing.

Our travels today took us from Red Wing, Minnesota to Scottsdale, Arizona and a very nice room at the St. James Hotel to a palatial villa at the Fairmont Princess. In between I was a somewhat uncomfortable guest of Northwest Airlines, sandwiched into a middle seat (though my original seat reservation was for an aisle) while the guy in front of me reclined into my lap so far that he blocked the light from the reading lamp so that I had to hold my book up over his head in order to read. Which I was happy to do, while also summoning up the juiciest coughs I've had in days. He was unmoved.

Meanwhile a mother seated behind me read an endless series of Curious George books to her toddler daughter who showed her delight by happily kicking the back of my seat. I was also four rows from the back of the oversold flight, which meant a long wait to "de-plane". Once out into the concourse I had to take several deep breaths to re-inflate to my normal body size. Things definitely started to turn for the better when my wife and I got to the rental car counter and found that the full-sized car she reserved had been replaced with a brand new Suzuki SUV (so new it still had a paper license plate in the window). Not only that, it was in my wife's favorite electric blue color!

Still it was 9 p.m. 'zona time by the time we got to the hotel, where we found that I had been upgraded to a villa suite by the resort. Apparently my name on the contract for the conference my company is hosting made them feel especially warm and friendly. The accomodations are very nice; the bathroom "suite" alone is nearly the size of the very nice room we had had over the weekend at the St. James. In addition we have a sitting area, two large plasma-screen TVs, a private patio and a king-sized bed ideal for playing Marco Polo with the Reverend Mother.

We had to hustle, though, to get something to eat before the restaurants at the resort closed, and around 9:30 we made it to Bourbon Steak, a very, very nice place where the staff was very, very pleased to see me after tapping my villa number into the computer a the hostess stand. We were seated (in a small booth with real fur pillows!) and then our waitress approached and addressed me by name ("Mr. Night Writer"). It was late and we wanted to eat lightly, but the menu was awesome, though some of the entrees were well north of $45. I finally settled on a Kobe-beef hamburger (only $22) topped with fennel slaw and water cress while the Reverend Mother ordered a salad and crab cakes (you don't want to know how much, though Accounting might ultimately take an interest). After we ordered our waitress brought us a selection of duck-fat fried french fries (some coated in smoked paprika, another variety in a truffle seasoning, and a third, savory option that I can't remember), all with different dipping sauces, plus some fresh from the oven buttermilk foccacia bread, all compliments of the chef.

A short time later they brought our food, and it was almost too beautiful to eat. Almost, but we were really hungry (and it was all delicious). We did pause long enough, however, for the Reverend Mother to take pictures of our food and the fur pillows. I told her I thought I could get used to living like this, and she said that no, I'd probably die from a heart attack if we ate like this all the time. I reminded her, though, that if I had a heart attack while on company business my life insurance pays off triple — which would mean that she could then live like this for some time.

"Would you like some crab cake?" she asked.

Hello, Tiger Lilly here. I know, I know, it’s a big surprise since I’ve been gone a long time from the blogging world, but it really is me. Here are the things I wrote in my journal during our recent trip to England, Italy, Scotland and Ireland. But first...

When we were in Inverness, we went on a ghost tour. This guy who was supposedly a “ghost” took us all around the town center and told ghost stories. His name was Davy. Here’s one that you might enjoy that’s not really a ghost story, but is instead about the Loch Ness monster:

You know about St. Columba right? Well one time he was sent to deliver a message to some person on the other side of a river somewhere in Scotland. (This story is full of details, isn’t it? That would be because I don’t remember them all.) So he went to the river, but there was no boat or bridge. He was just about to swim across it when a village boy came running up and said to him, “If you go swimming in that river, a big nasty beast is gonna come up ‘n eat you.” So St. Columba, being the strong, brave man that he was, summoned a man to go cross the river for him, just to make sure it was safe. But sure enough, when the man got to the middle of the river, a “big, nasty beast” came up and opened its mouth. But just when it was about to eat the man, Columba drew his sword and said, “Go away, you nasty beast,” in a kind of pompous voice. So the beast ran off to Loch Ness, and that’s where Nessie came from.

Now here’s my journal that I’ve been keeping:

Tuesday, May 23, 2006. Italy.
I bought a notebook in a little souvenir shop in Vernazza, Italy, one of the 5 cities of the Cinque Terre. There were thousands of cats roaming around that city.

I found a teeny-weeny conch shell and a bunch of cool rocks on the beach in Vernazza. We have eaten an ice cream like substance every day that we’ve been in Italy. It’s called Gelato. "Gelato, Poppi!" It’s sooo good.

I had a drink in Vernazza called an Italian soda. It was super minty, and so sweet it gave me a headache.

We have been going through Cinque Terre today. It’s really pretty. We only have one more day left in Italy (today) before we go back to England and then to Scotland.

We were staying in a villa near Dicomano that was pretty nice except for the scorpions. Eeeek!!! But now we’re staying in a Bed & Breakfast in Sarzana. The view at the villa is better than the view at the Bed & Breakfast, but I like the house better than the villa, even though I don’t get my own room like I did in the villa. Instead I have to sleep in the same room as the Mall Diva. Horrors!

When we were at the villa, there was a swimming pool that I went swimming in once. I only swam once because I forgot to put on sunscreen on one part of my back, and I got second degree burns. Owee!

Wednesday, May 24, 2006. Italy-London.
Today we are flying out of Italy. :( I wish we didn’t have to go. I love Italy.

Later…
We are driving through England in a Volkswagen. It’s pouring rain. It’s taking sooo long to find our hotel. Dad is in a bad mood. Yes, Marty Andrade, he can be evil sometimes.

Saturday, May 27, 2006.
Scotland is beautiful!

I’m torn between 3 places I want to live in. 1. Minnesota. 2. Italy. 3. Scotland. They’re all so nice!

Later…
I’m sitting in the B&B room. The beds are rather hard. And Mall Diva is about to receive the “Booger Wiener of the Year” award. Her booger wiener-ness is so booger wienerful that I’m not even going to tell you what she’s doing for fear that you would run screaming into the night never to be seen again once you read what she - never mind.

Sunday, May 28, 2006. Scotland.
We went to Loch Ness today, but Nessie was nowhere in sight. Maybe she tried to eat someone and they brandished a sword at her and yelled, “Go away, you nasty beast!” so she fled to Loch Lomond…

I got a pale blue shirt that says Scotland on it. It’s really cute.

Monday, May 29, 2006. Scotland.
We went to Stirling Castle. There were 2 guys on the grounds inside the castle in medeival outfits. One guy was dulling some swords while the other guy was talking to people and answering questions. After a bit a crowd had formed and the guys walked to the middle of the yard.

“All right,” the first guy said. “Welcome, everyone. My name is Elvis Presley, and this is John Lennon.”

“Peace,” ‘John Lennon’ said.

‘Elvis’ started talking about the history of Stirling castle until he finally said, “Ok, I need a volunteer.” So I volunteered. I went under the rope that was surrounding them and walked up to them. Elvis asked me what my name was. I told him, and he said, “Well, Patience, you are about to become a knight of Scotland.” And with that he and John (who, by the way, is reeeally cute) proceeded to put a mail shirt on me. It was pretty heavy.

Then Elvis said, “Patience, you are not only going to be a knight of Scotland, you are going to be THE knight of Scotland. King Robert the Bruce, actually.” I could feel the flush creeping up my face. He then put a chain mail headpiece and a yellow-with-red-lion sash thing on me. Then he put a helmet on me. I could hardly see out of it! Then Elvis said, “Robert was highly skilled with a battle axe.” Then he gave John a huge shield and told me to watch how John blocks the battle axe. Then he started whacking the shield with a battle axe.

“Most importantly, remember to block your head and don’t move your feet,” he said. He gave me the shield. “Try and block us as we come at you. Oh and we will be using swords.”

“O.k., I’m sorry I volunteered for this already!” I said, but I don’t think they heard me. (By now my face was really, really red but you couldn't see it because it was inside the helmet.) Elvis and John each picked up a sword. I held the shield with both hands. Then they yelled and deliberately missed me as I raised the shield. And I didn’t move my feet! They both congratulated me and helped me take the armor off. I went back to where mom and dad were standing. (My face was flaming.)

John and Elvis did a swordfight. “No back stabbing,” said John. “And no fancy moves,” said Elvis. Elvis won. He and John locked swords, and Elvis kicked John. John fell to the ground and said, “I said no back stabbing!” “Yeah, but you didn’t say anything about kicks.” I like John.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006. Scotland.
I am so sick of driving! Drive, drive, drive! That’s all we do. But at least we don’t have to walk.

Later...

We’ve been in England for about 6 hours now. We had Chinese for dinner. It was so good. Very authentic, like the food I had in China last summer.

Thursday, June 1, 2006. Ireland.
At the B+B that we’re staying at are chicks and kittens! The kittens are so cute, but all they do when I walk up to them is hiss. The dogs at the B+B are always trying to get at them, so when they sniff at the door and try to get into the barn where the kittens are, the mom cat comes and bats at their noses from the other side.

I was able to hold one of the chicks. They are sooo soft and fuzzy and cute. They kind of cheep instead doing the bwuk-bwuk-bwuk thing.

Later...

We went to the beach. It was really fun. I saw a crab that was probably 3 inches long.

Friday, June 2, 2006. Quilty, Ireland.
We went to the beach again today. I was wearing my swimsuit and I went into the freezing cold Atlantic water waist high. The waves actually pushed me a couple of inches. It was really fun.

Later...

We went to a pub tonight. Mall Diva and I played pool with the bartender (whose name was Henry). I lost, Diva won. TTHHPPTT!

Sunday, June 4, 2006.
We're goin' home!!!!!

Remember, honesty means never having to say, "Please don’t flush me down the toilet!"

Ciao for now,

Tiger Lilly

We've been back from our trip for almost a week and it's time to finally close up the travelogue. Below are a collection of previously unpublished photos selected from the 899 that we took over the course of the trip. (Really, it was 899! If I'd realized that it was that number I would have taken one more just to round it off!)

We've been back from our trip for almost a week and it's time to finally close up the travelogue. Below are a collection of previously unpublished photos selected from the 899 that we took over the course of the trip. (Really, it was 899! If I'd realized that it was that number I would have taken one more just to round it off!)

I wasn't just gone to foreign lands the last three weeks; it felt like I was in a different world altogether. In those three weeks I read two newspapers, both of them English tabloids I picked up from chairs in airport waiting areas. Except for two nights in Ireland when the girls watched "X Factor" (an "American Idol" type of competition) we never turned a television on. Occasionally in pubs or restaurants I could see a big screen tv showing sports highlights that looked very ESPN-like, except that the highlights were soccer, rugby or cricket. When I was able to get internet access I spent most of the time uploading posts to my own blog and couldn't browse around to find out what people were talking about.

And yet somehow the world kept turning, despite my ignorance — and inability to comment. Despite that I did learn that the world can be a pretty friendly place. Aside from our professionally friendly (and always helpful) hosts at the various B&Bs we stayed at, I was regularly approached by others throughout the trip who struck up conversations, including the fellow in Ireland I mentioned earlier who had once lived just a few blocks from my house in South St. Paul.

During our last couple of days on the farm in Tuscany I met Leonhard who arrived with a group of Swedes for a week of sunshine. I met him when he and his wife were touring the grounds and came across me in the laundry cave. In a short time we had exchanged the details of our respective trips, other trips we'd been on and points of interest in the area. Leonhard also seemed very happy to have gotten a rather severe looking sunburn on his chest and face in just one afternoon, and found my trips back and forth the washing machine amusing. At one point he asked me why I didn't just throw the dirty clothes away and buy new ones. I told him that in America that's what we always do but when I travel I like to try and live like the common people we visit. He had a large laugh over that one.

Laundry also brought me into contact with some other nice people. It was in Carlisle, near the Scottish border where we were staying at a B&B that was more like a hotel. We had driven all day from the Cotswalds in stop and go traffic to get there and I still needed to find a laundromat or else fashion kilts from bath towels for everyone the next day. The lodge graciously allowed me to use their washing machine and dryer, which was in a little room next to its lounge. It had been a long, frustrating day and I still had a few hours of laundry to do, but this situation was significantly improved by discovering that the lounge had a very fine collection of single malt whiskeys, including a fine Isle of Jura that was more than old enough to be out that late.

After I got the first load of clothes started I treated myself to a wee dram of this golden elixir with just two small icecubes, but first I positioned myself on a comfy couch, plugged my laptop in and got it started, and then, drawing out the suspense, took that first, slow sip, letting it amble warmly over my tongue. I must have even closed my eyes because I was startled when a voice near me said, "I bet you rather enjoyed that."

Looking up I saw a couple named David and Jan beaming at me from their own comfy chairs. I admitted that, yes indeed, I had enjoyed that very much. They were from Wales and David was on his way to meet with a group of friends to play golf around Scotland, including a tee-time at St. Andrews, but at the New Course (which was just laid down in the 1800s). "Oh yes," I said, "The New Course. I hear it will be very nice when it finally grows in."

It was fun to talk to another golf enthusiast, though I told them I didn't know much about Wales outside of some Max Boyce "Live at Treorchy" rugby songs and the movie "Zulu." Turns out they also have that album and like that movie, though David can't abide the song "Men of Harlech" that the Welshmen sing during the movie. Still, it was appropriate for us to caterwaul our way through a short chorus of Boyce's "The Scottish Trip" (since that's what we all were on). This was remarkably easy for me to do because the Jura was bestowing magical properties and because David may well be the only Welshman who cannot sing. A couple of days later my family and I bumped into Jan while touring Stirling castle. We were surprised to see each other again, and she commented on it being a small world. "Well, it certainly is a small island, at any rate!" I replied.

The whole family also enjoyed a pleasant evening in the Cotswalds when we had dinner at the Lygon Arms in the town of Chipping Campden. We sat down to eat at about the same time as a family next to us which consisted of husband, wife, daughter and two in-laws. A little ways into our meal the husband struck up a conversation and our families discussed our trips. They were visiting the Cotswalds on their way to a vacation in Portugal, and I said we were on our way to Carlisle and then to Scotland. It turned out that his family was all from the Carlisle area and they gave us some good tips on where to stay. During dessert he asked if he could buy us a drink and we said we'd enjoy a coffee with our dessert, which he happily took care of. When I asked the waitress later for our check she said our entire bill had already been settled by the gentleman at the next table.

We were very surprised and appreciative, but he shrugged it off saying, "It cost a lot less to feed you than my lot, believe me." I asked if I could know his name and he said it was Edward Stobart. As we were leaving his father-in-law said we'd see that name a lot the next day, especially as we got near Carlisle. "About every third lorrie you see on the motorway will say 'Eddie Stobart' on it," he said. It turns out that Eddie Stobart, LTD is not only the U.K.'s largest independent logistics company, it has its own fan club of people who watch for the distinctively liveried trucks, with each cab named bearing a woman's name. To us, however, they were just a down-to-earth family that we enjoyed talking to about kids, movies, scenery and traffic. (And I ordered a model of one their trucks from the Stobart web-site as a souvenir.)

I also greatly enjoyed talking to our host in Italy, Francesco; the McDougals - a lovely older couple in Inverness who were right out of Brigadoon; Christopher and Vreni at Bran Mill Cottage B&B in the Cotswalds; and of course John and Maire Daly in Ireland who I mentioned in an earlier post.

All in all I'd have to say that even though I didn't have much access to the media while we traveled, I was far from being disconnected.

I wasn't just gone to foreign lands the last three weeks; it felt like I was in a different world altogether. In those three weeks I read two newspapers, both of them English tabloids I picked up from chairs in airport waiting areas. Except for two nights in Ireland when the girls watched "X Factor" (an "American Idol" type of competition) we never turned a television on. Occasionally in pubs or restaurants I could see a big screen tv showing sports highlights that looked very ESPN-like, except that the highlights were soccer, rugby or cricket. When I was able to get internet access I spent most of the time uploading posts to my own blog and couldn't browse around to find out what people were talking about.

And yet somehow the world kept turning, despite my ignorance — and inability to comment. Despite that I did learn that the world can be a pretty friendly place. Aside from our professionally friendly (and always helpful) hosts at the various B&Bs we stayed at, I was regularly approached by others throughout the trip who struck up conversations, including the fellow in Ireland I mentioned earlier who had once lived just a few blocks from my house in South St. Paul.

During our last couple of days on the farm in Tuscany I met Leonhard who arrived with a group of Swedes for a week of sunshine. I met him when he and his wife were touring the grounds and came across me in the laundry cave. In a short time we had exchanged the details of our respective trips, other trips we'd been on and points of interest in the area. Leonhard also seemed very happy to have gotten a rather severe looking sunburn on his chest and face in just one afternoon, and found my trips back and forth the washing machine amusing. At one point he asked me why I didn't just throw the dirty clothes away and buy new ones. I told him that in America that's what we always do but when I travel I like to try and live like the common people we visit. He had a large laugh over that one.

Laundry also brought me into contact with some other nice people. It was in Carlisle, near the Scottish border where we were staying at a B&B that was more like a hotel. We had driven all day from the Cotswalds in stop and go traffic to get there and I still needed to find a laundromat or else fashion kilts from bath towels for everyone the next day. The lodge graciously allowed me to use their washing machine and dryer, which was in a little room next to its lounge. It had been a long, frustrating day and I still had a few hours of laundry to do, but this situation was significantly improved by discovering that the lounge had a very fine collection of single malt whiskeys, including a fine Isle of Jura that was more than old enough to be out that late.

After I got the first load of clothes started I treated myself to a wee dram of this golden elixir with just two small icecubes, but first I positioned myself on a comfy couch, plugged my laptop in and got it started, and then, drawing out the suspense, took that first, slow sip, letting it amble warmly over my tongue. I must have even closed my eyes because I was startled when a voice near me said, "I bet you rather enjoyed that."

Looking up I saw a couple named David and Jan beaming at me from their own comfy chairs. I admitted that, yes indeed, I had enjoyed that very much. They were from Wales and David was on his way to meet with a group of friends to play golf around Scotland, including a tee-time at St. Andrews, but at the New Course (which was just laid down in the 1800s). "Oh yes," I said, "The New Course. I hear it will be very nice when it finally grows in."

It was fun to talk to another golf enthusiast, though I told them I didn't know much about Wales outside of some Max Boyce "Live at Treorchy" rugby songs and the movie "Zulu." Turns out they also have that album and like that movie, though David can't abide the song "Men of Harlech" that the Welshmen sing during the movie. Still, it was appropriate for us to caterwaul our way through a short chorus of Boyce's "The Scottish Trip" (since that's what we all were on). This was remarkably easy for me to do because the Jura was bestowing magical properties and because David may well be the only Welshman who cannot sing. A couple of days later my family and I bumped into Jan while touring Stirling castle. We were surprised to see each other again, and she commented on it being a small world. "Well, it certainly is a small island, at any rate!" I replied.

The whole family also enjoyed a pleasant evening in the Cotswalds when we had dinner at the Lygon Arms in the town of Chipping Campden. We sat down to eat at about the same time as a family next to us which consisted of husband, wife, daughter and two in-laws. A little ways into our meal the husband struck up a conversation and our families discussed our trips. They were visiting the Cotswalds on their way to a vacation in Portugal, and I said we were on our way to Carlisle and then to Scotland. It turned out that his family was all from the Carlisle area and they gave us some good tips on where to stay. During dessert he asked if he could buy us a drink and we said we'd enjoy a coffee with our dessert, which he happily took care of. When I asked the waitress later for our check she said our entire bill had already been settled by the gentleman at the next table.

We were very surprised and appreciative, but he shrugged it off saying, "It cost a lot less to feed you than my lot, believe me." I asked if I could know his name and he said it was Edward Stobart. As we were leaving his father-in-law said we'd see that name a lot the next day, especially as we got near Carlisle. "About every third lorrie you see on the motorway will say 'Eddie Stobart' on it," he said. It turns out that Eddie Stobart, LTD is not only the U.K.'s largest independent logistics company, it has its own fan club of people who watch for the distinctively liveried trucks, with each cab named bearing a woman's name. To us, however, they were just a down-to-earth family that we enjoyed talking to about kids, movies, scenery and traffic. (And I ordered a model of one their trucks from the Stobart web-site as a souvenir.)

I also greatly enjoyed talking to our host in Italy, Francesco; the McDougals - a lovely older couple in Inverness who were right out of Brigadoon; Christopher and Vreni at Bran Mill Cottage B&B in the Cotswalds; and of course John and Maire Daly in Ireland who I mentioned in an earlier post.

All in all I'd have to say that even though I didn't have much access to the media while we traveled, I was far from being disconnected.

Cathy in the Wright is always on the lookout for dead things, and likes to post pictures of these carcasses when she finds them. Here, just for her and anyone else with the stomach for it is a photo of something we found washed up on the rocks on the beach in Quilty, Ireland.




It smelled worse than Marmite.

Yes, that's right, we went to the beach! It was hot!

Peace out!

Most of the places we’ve stayed in the last three weeks have been Bed & Breakfasts. As a result, we developed some strong feelings about breakfast as the trip progressed.

The first place we stayed in London offered cold cereal, juice, yogurt, toast, cheese, tea or coffee and a selection of cold lunchmeats. After three days of that we went to Italy where we were on our own for breakfast for the first few days near Dicomano in Tuscany. No problem, we’d just head into the little village to get our morning dose of cappuccino and something to eat. In Italy, however, breakfast is typically small and usually consists of just croissants (often called brioche) or small sweet rolls. This is a nice change, but by the end of the week we were really craving something more substantial; we wanted to sink our teeth into some serious protein and starch.

This desire was soon met when we returned to England and were introduced to the “Full English breakfast”: eggs, back bacon, sausage, beans, mushrooms, half a fried tomato, toast and – yum – Marmite. (I can’t imagine anyone liking Marmite, but somebody must because they seem to make an awful lot of it, and awful is the right word.)

This was great for the first week or so. Then we discovered that the “Full Scottish Breakfast” and “Full Irish Breakfast” offered at our later stays were very, very much like the “Full English breakfast.” It was enough to make you logy just thinking about it. At one place in Bo' Ness, Scotland our hostess made the mistake of asking us the night before what we’d like for breakfast. Immediately the girls piped up:

“Pancakes!”
“French Toast!”
“Anything but bacon and eggs!”

The poor woman had no idea what French Toast was, and seemed dubious at the recipe that was offered, but thought she could handle pancakes. The next morning that was what we got, and they were a refreshing change, especially served with “Lyle’s Golden Syrup.” I don’t know just what this syrup comes from, but it’s not maple trees. Still it was sweet, sticky and tasted good, if a bit fruity.

The breakfasts also usually came with a selection of cold cereals, which is a pretty common way for us to start our day at home. In Ireland, however, my wife and the Mall Diva discovered a new cereal: Wheatabix. They love this and don’t think they’ve ever seen it in the states. They both surreptiously slipped sealed individual packages of these dense, palm-sized wheat bricks into their bags this morning at our last “Full English Breakfast” before departing.

Tomorrow: bagels!

Everywhere we went in Italy, England, Scotland and Ireland the pubs and taverns had Stella Artois signs on the walls and the beer on tap or in bottles. Other propaganda was also prominent and in one place the waiters even wore Stella shirts.

I know that Keegan's also flogs this brew regularly and I can't understand the pervasiveness of what, to me, is a pretty mediocre beer. It's as if Stella Artois has become the "bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel" of our time.

Why is this?

When I visit an historic site I like to imagine the people who might have occupied the very place I'm occupying, but in a different time. What would that person have seen? If there was supernatural gift I could have I’d love to have the ability to stand in a particular place and have time reverse itself before my eyes like a clock rapidly rewinding so that I could be an invisible visitor watching what took place at that spot hundreds, even thousands of years ago.

Whether I was standing in a room in the Bloody Tower of London, or next to a Neolithic open portal tomb in the Burren of Ireland it would be endlessly fascinating to me to watch things unfold. When we stood in the gateway of the old fortezza above Sarzana, Italy I thought of the people who must have come and gone into the fortification at the time when it was the center of economic and defensive activity for the area; messengers, peddlers, lords and beggars, all coming, going, living and dying. What if I could stand on Stirling Bridge in 1297 and watch William Wallace rout the English, or take in market day in little Dicomano – 500 years ago. Even just walking through a field in the English Cotswalds, watching the shepherds earn their bread and cheese could be interesting, or maybe venturing to the point at Loch Ness where St. Columba reportedly saw the legendary monster and commanded it to return to the depths.

Somehow this seems possible when you're in Europe, where so much time and history is layered so densely in waves you almost can hear the voices and smell the ghosts around you.


How many walked or rode through this narrow entryway into the Sarzana Fortezza? What business brought them there?

Friday morning. We flew into Shannon airport from London Wednesday afternoon on Ryanair, which had offered airfare for ₤1.90 per person one way. We actually paid more to check our luggage than we did for the whole family's airfare, and the airport taxes were even higher, but we still managed the round trip for about ₤124.

We're staying at Clonmore Lodge, a Bed & Breakfast and working cattle farm owned by John and Maire Daly. It's on the Atlantic coast of Ireland outside the small town of Quilty in County Clare. In addition to his farming and hosting, John is a local historian and caretaker of the cemetary on his property. Clonmore has been in his family since 1903, but the first reference to the property in the Annals of Ireland cites it as the place that received the wounded from a nearby battle in 1641. Also on the grounds are the ruins of a Catholic church that was built in 1091.

It's a friendly place: already my wife has been drooled on and the Mall Diva has been pawed — by the farm's three dogs. When we arrived Wednesday evening one of the first things that John took the girls on a tour of his barns to see the baby chicks and baby kittens that had been in residence only a little longer than us. Thursday morning began with John taking us on a tour of the church ruins and the cemetary as he described the histories of many of the families buried there, the customs of the time and many other useful details (did you know, for instance, that Guiness is the Protestant stout, while Murphy's was the Catholic stout?). A lot of the stories described the long history of persecutions and reprisals between Catholic and Protestants that has shaped this area, as well as the entire country. There is generally peaceful co-existence today, offering hope that while sectarian differences may be ever-present, they don't have to be eternally hateful.

There's also a little pub near the lodge that used to be the local village general store - and the place where our host's father was born. The pub doesn't open until 9:30 p.m. and I dropped in to sample a Guiness in its native habitat. The pub is about the size of my living room, with a snooker table, a couple of small booths and half a dozen bar stools. It was also equipped with a handful of locals, one of whom clearly had a Texas accent. In a room that size you're not going to be able to sit back and observe things unnoticed, and I was soon involved in conversation with the group. The Texan introduced himself and asked where I was from. I said Minnesota, and he said he was from San Antonio, Texas. I said I was born in Texas. He asked if I, being from Minnesota, knew of the little Twin Cities suburb of South St. Paul. I said I actually lived in South St. Paul. It turns out he used to work for a St. Paul company and lived in South St. Paul, on Dwayne St., just blocks from where I live! He had later met and married a woman from Quilty and moved here, ready to greet me on my arrival.'Tis a small world, indeed.

Thursday was also a "nice" day by Irish standards for the area: sunny and with temperatures well up into the 50's - Fahrenheit, that is. As a result, a number of people were at the beach, many in swimsuits. The Reverend Mother, however, had on just about every layer of clothing she brought with her, and even commandeered some of mine. We also visited the Cliffs of Moher which are nearby. These are impressive formations, somewhat reminiscent of the Palisades on the Minnesota North Shore, but are much more extensive. Though several hundred feet above the ocean, the updrafts from the cliffs carry sea spray up and into your face when you stand near the edge of the cliffs.

Our trip is nearly over. Today we'll tour The Burren, a large area of land containing prehistoric artifacts and ruins such as ring-forts and dolmens from the earliest days of Ireland's history. Tomorrow we'll tour some more of the countryside before returning to Shannon for our flight back to London, and finally, leave for home on Sunday. I have more stories to tell of our adventures in the Cotswalds, Scotland and travels through England, and more than 600 digital photos to sort through. I'll try to post some of these shorter remembrances and other photos over the next couple of days.


Home is that-a-way: A sunset look at the Atlantic from our rooms at Clonmore.


Irish farms are a great place to meet chicks.


Our host and tour guide, John Daly, explains the significance of the various symbols on the grave and tomb markers in the cemetary, and how to tell if the deceased was Protestant or Catholic. Many of the stones have scaled or worn badly, but there was one with a date in the 1600's and another where the deceased had left "this transitory life" in 1777.


The Cliffs of Insanity - I mean, Moher. There's a paved path and fence that people are supposed to stay on and behind, but just about everyone ignores it. You might see more details in a future edition of "The Darwin Awards".


A cow's eye view: the locals always know where to find the best views.

After an overnight in Carlisle we set out for Scotland on Saturday morning, crossing the border by following the A7 Historic Route to Edinburgh. Shortly thereafter we stopped at a wayside to read a plaque and let the girls skip stones across a fast-flowing stream. We wound our way toward Edinburgh, watching sheep dogs work their flocks into shape and admiring the scenery. We only gave the city itself a few glances as we crossed the Forth Road Bridge over the Firth of Forth because we were headed to St. Andrews and, ultimately, a bed in Inverness that night.

I’d been to St. Andrews before, on a cold blustery day 30 years ago and had virtually had the town to myself. I had walked the 17th and 18th holes of the Old Course and visited the ruins of the old town’s castle and original cathedral. I had stood on a cliff overlooking the North Sea has the waves pounded the rocks below and the wind chapped my face before I returned to my senses and realized I had been standing there for 40 minutes, hypnotized. This day, however, was a “soft” day, sunny, cool and, of course, windy. The occasional shower blew over us as we parked at the Old Course and walked up the 18th hole, and then turned toward the castle and the sea to retrace the steps I had made so long ago, this time able to show the sights to my children.

We left St. Andrews at 6 p.m. and made for Inverness, climbing and turning through the Highlands where the low clouds coddled the tops of the hills and the rain came more steadily. Finally we descended into the valley to Inverness, the sky still light at 9 p.m., making the greens of the hills and the grays of the town appear even richer in the gloaming.

Over the next couple of days we would visit Loch Ness (where one canny Scot, a bagpiper, had positioned himself in full regalia at one of the most scenic overlooks to play his pipes and pose for pictures - and accept tips), Urquhart Castle, and enjoy the rugged beauty of Inverness before venturing south again to Stirling Castle, built by another Stewart – James V, for his queen, Mary Guise. Nice place.

Our last night in Inverness the whole family went on a “haunted” ghost tour of the old part of the city. It was an interesting and often funny diversion and the tour concluded with the group at a pub for our promised free drink included in the package. It turned out that a couple of big names in Scottish folk music were going to be playing at the pub that night, and our host offered the group half-price cover charges if any wanted to stay for the performance. The Mall Diva and I decided to hang around, and it was a very good show.

It ended about 10:45 and we walked out into the streets; streets that still looked as if it were merely twilight and not nigh onto midnight. That’s part and parcel of being this far north, but it was still an unusual experience. Rather than heading directly back to our lodgings, I made the Diva come with me a short distance to where we could overlook the Caledonian Canal as it bisects the city.

It was a special sight. The water of the canal was inky black and glistening with a gelatinous texture, while the stone buildings flanking the canal were shades of gray with small bursts of yellow light from the lights by their doors. Overhead the sky was still a light gray behind almost black clouds, except for a smear of purple-blue behind the finger-nail sliver of moon.

It was evocative and more memorable in the same way that some black and white photos are more powerful than full color.

I thought driving in Italy would be the biggest challenge because of the reputation of Italian drivers and due to the language barrier, but in fact we picked it pretty well. We were greatly encouraged by the time we returned to England and picked up our rental car. Sure, there was that whole driving on the wrong side thingy but we figured we could get used to that quickly and, if we ever got lost, we could easily ask for directions.

The truth is, I hate driving in England, and it’s not because I still find myself walking to the wrong side of the car. In Italy, as I’ve already described, everything was wide open and you pursued your course without worrying too much about the other guy yet somehow it worked and everyone got where they were going; kind of like capitalism in a way. Driving in England is a perfect model for socialism where the goal is to make everyone equally miserable. There are more rules, more signs forbidding you from turning here or entering there, and everywhere there are signs noting that your speed and driving behavior are being recorded by police cameras. Much like the red-light cameras that have been tested in Minneapolis, “invisible” police may be taking your photo, noting your license plate and sending you a fine via the mail. It will be interesting to see if we’ve been tagged when we get home. Additionally, you are also informed that your license plate is being filmed when you buy gasoline, or “petrol.” The reason, it is explained, is to stop drive off thefts, but it makes you wonder about the whole “Big Brother” thing – cameras are watching you drive, watching you fill up – there is certainly a suggestive potential to this degree of monitoring that has to make you a little uneasy (of course, they can find out almost the same thing by tracking your credit card usage). To top it off, the nanny state mentality is further reinforced by signs regularly along the motorways urging drivers to take a break and rest so they can be fresh and avoid accidents. These were quaint the first couple of times I saw them, but they are everywhere and it long ago became annoying.

If they were really serious about avoiding accidents, then why don’t they get out there and cut the tree branches away from their roundabout signs? I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been trying to find a place, or trying to follow the arrows to be sure we get off on the right exit, only to have half the word of our destination covered up by foliage. Again, this happens all too often to be amusing. Is the brush-cutting union on strike?

The biggest frustration, however, is how long it takes to get anywhere. All of our trips so far have taken at least 50% longer than we expected looking at the mileage and the type of road we were going to be traveling on. The most bizarre example was a few days ago when we were trying to drive from the Cotswalds in the west to Carlisle, which is near the Scottish border. We had three lane motorway all the way, first the M5 and then the M6. The speed limit on the motorway is 70 mph, but this is largely theoretical. I have never been on a three lane highway before where you frequently come to a complete stop. And not just every now and then; repeatedly about every two miles we’d be forced to slow down for the “queues” as other roads fed into the motorway, backing things up to a standstill. Sheer torture, as the hours slip by and the miles don’t. And if you’re hungry or need gas or even just a toilet, good luck; you can’t expect to find these services at just about any highway exit ramp (especially exits for towns) like you can in the States. Your only chance for these things (and to have a reasonable chance of being able to get back on your original motorway) is to exit at a turn-off listed as having “Services.” Trouble is, because these are so few and far between, they’re always jammed with other motorists, queuing up for gas for the bathroom, for crisps and finally, maddeningly, to get back onto the motorway. I swear, the English would stand in line at an orgy.

So why are all these people on the road, anyway? Doesn’t England have a great public transportation system? How about all those trains? When I was here in ’79 I got around quite easily by train and it opened my eyes that maybe a pubic transportation system like this could be efficient. Now, however, the roads are crowded because no one can afford to take the trains, and no one has the time to trust the bus service. Some economists can probably give you a better explanation than I for the cost of the train service, but there’s no way we could have afforded to move my whole family around by train, even with the high prices for gasoline.

Finally, let me say this: the language “advantage” compared to driving in, say, Italy, is overrated. Just as we often found ourselves in sight of where we wanted to go but unable to get there because of the traffic signs and signals, we have also concluded that just because you know a language doesn’t mean you can understand it.

As we checked out of our lodgings at Fattoria il Lago, my new good friend Francesco and I were talking about the number of languages he has had to learn how to get by in while running an agriturism business, and of our common failure in each of us having once tried to learn to learn German in our lives. Francesco told me, “You should learn to speak Italian, John, it is the most beautiful of the languages.”

I told him, “Francesco, I can speak Italian,” and to demonstrate I started waving my hands and arms in the air. He laughed and said, “You do speak Italian!”

One of our guidebooks said that you can get by easily in Europe speaking only English because most of the people you encounter speak it at least somewhat and love the opportunity to practice. According to Francesco, however, this isn’t the case in Italy where the schools don’t promote languages other than the native tongue. He said in the big cities you can run into more Italians who speak English, and with people heavily involved in tourism. This has pretty much been my experience as we found few people in rural Dicomano and in other places who spoke English. Nevertheless, we were able to get along pretty well.

For one thing, we picked up new words quickly, and it is also a big advantage that Italian is based on Latin so that we could frequently figure things out by recognizing Latin roots for words and, applying a little context. There is some satisfaction in making yourself understood in another country; you feel very cosmopolitan and begin to think you can survive anywhere. Of course, drop me in the middle of Poland, where the only word I know is kielbasa, and it would be a different story.

Internet access has been problematic, and time has been short. Everything seems to take much longer to accomplish than you expect (even adjusting for experience), especially when traveling as a family.

Oh well, lots to tell but no time right now as someone else is looking over my shoulder and wants to use this terminal in 7 minutes. I have more updates on our trips to the Cinque Terre, the Cotswalds, and most recently, bonny Scotland. We're in Inverness now, and heading south for Falkirk today. Hoping for better luck finding access for there is much to show and tell.

Nessie remains elusive, but we have lots of other photos and anecdotes of our travels, including taking a tour with a ghost last night and taking in an excellent Celtic music duo. More soon!

We survived our week of renting a car and driving in Italy. Italian drivers don’t seem any worse than the ones I’ve encountered in Minnesota and they don’t drive any faster and crazier than the drivers I’ve experienced in and around Atlanta.

Italians do drive a bit more aggressively in that they’ll fit their cars into any space big enough to hold them, and since most of the cars are, in fact, about the size of a golf cart they can get these into some pretty small places. Give an Italian an inch and he’ll park in it. Show the slightest hesitation and you can expect three or four cars to jump in front of you. The funny thing is, this doesn’t bother me the way it would at home. If someone crowded me on Hennepin Avenue or Robert St. it would be downright rude and it might draw a rude response. Here that’s just the way everybody does it – and the weird thing is that there isn’t any road rage. Not only that, we saw just one accident (a minor one) in the time we were here. Maybe if your expectation is for others to follow proper driving etiquette at all times you are more apt to be offended when that expectation isn’t met. If the prevailing “etiquette” is that everyone is going to take (or make) the most direct path to their destination it somehow works out. In a way it’s kind of like walking in a crowd. When we’re walking we move diagonally, sidestep, shuffle and adjust course or “change lanes” often, scarcely giving a thought to those behind or even beside you. That’s how Italian driving works. I know it sounds counter-intuitive for an orderly system, but the thing is, it works. About the only rule is: don’t get in the way.

Yes, this is a real car. They're everywhere over here. So, which of the two in this picture is cuter?

Don’t clog the left lane on the autostrada, and if someone flashes his lights behind you, you move over (you definitely don’t flip him off or go even slower). The great thing is, this works in your favor as well when you need to get around someone.

A big advantage in driving in Italy is that they drive on the same side of the road as we do. The disadvantage is in not knowing the language. The road signs and other basics are pretty simple, but it is disconcerting when you see signs that have your destination on them, followed by a lot of other words that you don’t understand. I mean, it must be something important to know, or else they wouldn’t have put the sign up – but what does it mean?

Does it say, “Closed for resurfacing 12 kilometers ahead” or “No passing on Tuesdays” or, maybe, “You just think you’re on the A12”?

Oh well, Italy wasn’t nearly as scary as we thought it would be. Now it’s on to a car rental in England, where the language is at least the same (or close), but they drive on the other side of the road.

The Mall Diva hogged the laptop tonight so she could write her post and I’ve used a lot of my time to download, edit and format some photos from the past few days so that they’ll be more blog-friendly. I’ve got some more thoughts on Italy, the Cinque Terre and my impressions (not so favorable) of Florence and Pisa, but those will have to wait. We’re leaving Italy on the 24th to return to England and I’m hoping I’ll find internet access at the airport in Torino while we wait for our flight. I should have better internet access while in England and hope to post more regularly once we get there. In the meantime, here are some photos from the past few days.


More to come as soon as I can get reliable access to the Internet.

Tuesday. Hello everyone! Today is our last day in Italy, and it is the only one that has been rainy. It’s been so warm and sunny I’ve even gotten a tan, which you will never see because tomorrow we’re leaving for Scotland, and then Ireland, where we won’t be in the sun much and my tan will promptly fade.

I’ve got some bad news and some good news. The bad news is that the sweater I brought along and a jacket of Tiger Lilly’s got jacked when we were in Firenze (Florence). I was extremely P.O.’d. (Someone left a back window on the car half open, and the extra clothing on the back shelf, and someone else came along and snatched them). The good news is that so far I’ve bought a shirt and two (count ‘em, two!) pairs of shoes. They are pretty sweet, yo, but they won’t keep me warm in Scotland, so I am sad.

Here I am bargaining with a street vendor in Florence. He wanted 40 euros for a plastic purse! I didn’t get ripped off here, but meanwhile someone was stealing my favorite sweater! (By the way, those are my new shoes in the big bag. Aren’t they cute?)

Yesterday and today we checked out the Cinque Terre (the Five Lands), which are actually just five little towns that are all connected along the coast. They are all super cute with windy roads and buildings pretty much leaning on each other and laundry hanging out of the windows to dry. All of the buildings were very neat and tidy considering how many - and how compacted - they were. Pink houses are really popular over here, and my mom says she wants one.

Some cool people hanging out in Riomaggiore, one of the five lands.

Some steps (and laundry) in Riomaggiore.

No high heels? What’s up with that? You can walk between the five lands, though some of it’s a tough hike. We just walked the easy, 30-minute part (the Via Dell’Amore) between Manorola and Riomaggiore.

Oh! My dad just reminded me! I have to tell you what I ate the other day in a ristorante just outside Barberino: a mussel. I kid you not. My dad will even tell you. It was small and wrinkly and orange. Its insides were brownish, though. My dad plopped it on my plate and said ‘here, try this; it’s good’. You have got to be kidding me. I looked at it, and the more I looked at it, the less I felt like putting it in my mouth. Finally, before I knew it, I had picked it up and shoved it in my mouth, much to my surprise. You know, it’s not really the taste of things that gets to me as much as the texture. The mussel was slimy, and not at all bouncy like calamari (which I like) is. It wasn’t a good slimy like Jell-o, either. It was more of a “what-the-heck-am-I-eating” slimy. It tasted like crab, though, which I also like. Try some today!

And then two days ago we were eating at another restaurant and ordered a dish of mixed roasted meats. My dad starts slicing some of the meat and holds out a chunk of something mysterious and asks me if I want it. It looks a little shady, but hey, when in Rome…or Dicomano, you know…

Anyway, I take a bite and start chewing. It’s all grainy, and I can’t think of what it tastes like. My dad has also taken a bite when my mom asks a fateful question: “Is that organ meat?”

I stop chewing and look fearfully at my father. He nods. I throw up. Just kidding! I only almost throw up. Instead I spit it out a