What You Thought You Saw

  We didn't want to leave it, I mean who would want to leave York? but we were pretty excited about that bullet train. It wasn't officially a bullet, but it sure did go fast. We made not one stop for an hour and 50 minutes, and each time another train met us , the sound of its  strength gave us chills. I can't forget it.

I was excited about getting to London for many reasons, chief among them the fun things we would see and do for five days. But there was another reason for wanting to be here. The apartment we would stay in.

The apartment was found on a social media source for booking cottages, hotels, and Airbnb's. The accompanying photos were beautiful, and I couldn't wait to show it to my traveling companions. This did finally happen and we did finally turn the door key of our darling apartment. But as the door swung wide, we saw a place that did not resemble the photos!

What would I do? Where would we sleep tonight? 

I am too tired to delve, now. But in next to no time, you will hear it all!

In the meantime, 

See you along the way!

My Wonderful Young People

     Maneuvering in and around vast cities and small villages within the world of trains, taxis, buses and Ubers is no joke, and it isn't for the faint hearted either. One must have one's wits about them. We have done this, and although it has taken an occasional toll, we've had a blast. From St Ives (cottages) to Oxford (Airbnb), to Grassington (adorable hotel), York (Airbnb), and tomorrow to London (Airbnb), we have traveled, unpacked, stayed, walked, eaten, visited people, gone to church, then re-packed and dragged bags back to railroad stations, only to go and do it all again. We have two bag drags left (to London and to LHR) but I'd rather not think about that right now.

The Cathedral looming behind us (York Minster) is only one of the reasons we think it has been worth it all. What do you think of it? Is it not the most massive man-made structure whose entire goal is to know God and make Him known? To that purpose it was built between 1220 to 1472, and here it still stands. When I saw it, I stopped being able to talk for a little. How can you even talk with that standing in your background?

As to being inconvenienced by the small struggle of getting to it, if you want to see the great things in this life sometimes you do have to be inconvenienced. The trick is being inconvenienced gracefully.

I've experienced this with my wonderful traveling companions. Each and every new dwelling has presented us with questions the tour guide (me) didn't know existed. There were some mishaps in retrieving keys from the key safes we used. One key safe was placed at street level again which meant that someone had to lay down or crouch down and roll in a set of four numbers that finally produced the keys that would fit an apartment down the street and round the corner! The fact that it was really hot in each of our apartments (teeny windows that hardly opened) didn't help. 

But no one said anything like, well if only you would have read the instructions more carefully... Nope. It was all grace.

The endless energy of our two wonderful young persons has kept us going, and laughing, and finding new and exciting things to look at. The York Minster, where they found they could tramp 250 steps to the top of the Tower while grandma and gramps descended to the basement museum (splendid!), and Clifford's Tower presented them with a chance to race each other to the top, gazing with awe and wonder at the panoramic scenery below. Then there was the ancient city wall to stroll and explore until they were finally gently requested to vacate the premises.

There is more, which you will hear tomorrow as we board a very fast train and make our zippy way to London. I have heard that London is a magical place. I have also heard it is a mess. Perhaps I should assume the best about it until it provides me with proof to the contrary. 

I can hear people saying sleepy good nights down the hall, and I love you, and sleep well. No one is playing ABBA tunes down the street, so although I would enjoy Dancing Queen again,  perhaps sleep will be as swift and sweet as the soft rains outside my window.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

Mother-of-Hudson

The Doggie in the Street

 

As I write, a man is below my window training his dog. This is unusual because we are in the middle of the city of York, and there are people. 

"Sit", "Stay", and "Heel" seem to be on the menu for this evening, and I am mesmerized by their teamwork. Clearly the dog wants to do what his master wants him to do, but there are so many interesting sights and smells to entice the doggy's interest that he can hardly be blamed for his missteps. He doesn't really want to "Stay".

Being in the middle of the city of York stuns me. It has a wall. It is Medieval. It has - and never forget this, readers mine - A CATHEDRAL!.

This last thing is almost so overwhelming that there are not enough words to describe it. I was there with my sister in 1990 when it was freezing cold and the sun went down shortly after 3:00. We didn't really have any money (we never did in those days), so we did everything on a short shoestring. We wanted cups of tea. We knew we had pounds and pence enough for a pot. But the purchase of sandwiches was a step too far.

So, we carried our concealed sandwiches (contraband?) in bags from home to the upper floor of the tea shop, and ordered. It came. We pulled out a sandwich, and at the moment I took a bite - a waitress approached.

"Madam," she said, pointing to a sign. "There can be no food brought onto the premises."

Besides being caught with a mouthful of tuna that was against the rules, I felt miffed at such a silly rule. But the lady was so firm with us that we meekly re-bagged our lunch, and abandoned our tea. We had to! She didn't trust us not to eat the tuna. That lovely pot of tea was a hard thing to leave behind. It lives still on in my mind.

Today in York, it is't freezing cold and we have enough pounds and pence to order and eat a lovely lunch at Betty's Cafe Tea Rooms. But the Cathedral sits just 800 feet from our rooms, and is as distracting as it ever was. Tomorrow we get to attend a service there, followed by a tour that will teach us all about its origins and ministry. I can hardly wait.

As well, our windows are open and through them is the unforgettable music of ABBA being pumped out and down the street. "Dancing Queen" is on now, and I like it very much. The man and his dog have moved along. My husband, daughter, and grandson are heading to bed, in anticipation of the grand things they and I will see and hear, tomorrow. 

Something I feel certain about is the central theme of York Minster. A bit like the obedience of that little doggie in the street below. 

Doing what the Master says.

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

The Drover's Arms for Pud

 

We walked the river today at the edge of the village that gave us James Herriot, again. Our walk was stunning, mostly, with sheep, cows, giant bunny rabbits, bulls, and ducks poking along behind us. We didn't even balk at the bulls because their great eyes were busy elsewhere. 

We had meant to go out early when it was still cool. But there were things to do because somebody wonderful had gotten on a plane and flown over the Pond! Mother-of-Hudson had, in a flurry of preparation and sleeplessness, organized the family, the laundry, the food, the animals, the cleaning, the activity level while she was away (this was a huge proportion of her planning because one small boy has so much of it), and her own considerable packing. 

Everything had to be timed right, because once the plane had landed, there would be delayed trains (disappointing) and taxis to call (embarrassing) with all the changes, and then in desperation not to miss her next train, Mother-of-Hudson almost leapt out of one train and into another with only seconds to spare. 

 While Hudson and I walked and she rode on trains, we saw all sorts of interesting people. There were a group of ladies from India following a tour guide with a clipboard, a group of young teenage boys who argued amongst themselves about following directions. Apparently they were meant to find their own way from Grassington to the village of Hebdon, and it wasn't going very well. Their arguing was heated and did not indicate love and laughter, and peace ever after. So we went quietly past, and their words faded into oblivion.

Their arguing wasn't the only thing heated. WE were heated.

"I don't know if we are going to make it," said the grandmother, who was hot.

There was concern from the face of the soon-to-be man. He thought his grandmother was a brick because she could do many things not everyone's else's grandma could. We kept walking until he said the Old School House Tea Room was up ahead, and wouldn't it be nice to have something like that? Particularly tea. And why not call an Uber while we ate? It seemed a smashing idea because I was hot. So I ordered up an Uber. Then the phone died. Then we called my husband. Then the young teenaged boys from the trail began to populate the space around us. Then their teacher asked where in the world they had been for such ages. Then a bus came. Then we got on it. Then the ladies from India showed up and smiled and said thank you to their tour guide. Then we went to our hotel and did nothing but sit until Mother-of-Hudson pulled up in her taxi. 

And it was her birthday, so we went to the Drover's Arms Pub (where the tv show was filmed) and celebrated it! Sitting outside and eating Sticky Toffee Pudding at the end was the final and most wonderful part of a long, hot day. Together at last.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Her Son's Wife is Beautiful

Every time I enter the city of Oxford, I know already what I'm going to eat for breakfast. My friend once spoke to me in glowing terms about the most wonderful Cinnamon Buns on the planet. And she told me that her son and his wife lived ABOVE THE CINNAMON BUNS! Yes, actually they did. The buns smelled so beautifully all day that her son's wife was driven distracted and declared that they had to move to a different house so she wouldn't have to smell them, because whenever she smelled them, she ATE them. 

I understand her son's wife's pain. Her son's wife is beautiful, though, so I feel that if she can smell and eat heavenly buns on a daily basis, so can I. 

I said all this just now because I've walked down to Gail's Bakery every day and gotten some. Not only cinnamon buns. There are bunches of delights within the walls of Gail's, and we sampled quite a few. You see the blueberry muffin, the croissant, and the very best of them all, the cinnamon bun. Along with the bun, I order an Americano with an 'extra shot', with cold milk on the side. It is the perfect way to start a day in Oxford, or in London, or any place that has a Gail's. 

Now that we are out of Oxford, I shall have to resort to some other type of goody to eat in the morning, because there are NO Gail's Bakeries in Grassington. We are now in Grassington because we want to see the places where they filmed the latest All Creatures Great and Small show for people who loved James Herriot and his animals.

I am lucky because in the 1980s I got to meet the real James Herriot in his very own Veterinary surgery. Probably 150 Americans crammed themselves into the surgery, each one clutching one or more of James Herriot's books for him to sign. I'll never forget his kindness in signing his name over and over until his hand cramped, or the time after it when I went back again. Tomorrow we will hike around the area and learn about filming the show. Filming shows always adds excitement to the villages that get put onto television. Such a thrill it gave me to see the pub where Tristan drank about a gazillion pints when he shouldn't have, because it made him feel sick when he had to take the Veterinary license tests which he generally failed. There was no end of a dustup over that one.

I've got to go to sleep NOW. We spent the day dragging hot bags around Oxford, and then sat in a hot train shoulder to shoulder with strangers, finally finding ourselves in a wonderful little hotel smack dab in the middle of Grassington.

Please don't expect me to edit this, dear Readers. (It won't help because I can't even see the words anymore).

the Thames near Oxford

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

The Humble Type

 

St Michael's Mount

We are in Oxford now, and it is hot. The temp started to rise yesterday somewhere around Reading, just as the train's air conditioning went south. The idea of a First Class ticket had been ignored when mentioned, but we are now its biggest devotees. That whole section of the train was wonderfully cool. We noticed this while walking to the first class toilet that looks like a throne. You have to be careful or it might open while you are resting there. 

As the atmosphere in our train car began to ripen, my two traveling companions kept their cool. They were reliable, dependable, and funny when things tried to get the better of us. Together they discussed and dreamed of the future, even though this world is just a tad bit nutty right now. 

Kindness is a gift, and it is being given to me every day by these two. Yesterday we climbed high above the waters off Marazion to the great Mount, at last reaching the Castle. We visited the statue of St Michael himself as he offered Lucifer the hand of Mercy. 

One young visitor asked, "Did Lucifer accept?"

"Ah... no," replied the Docent. "He didn't." And although we knew this, it reminded us again of the great tragedy that has wreaked havoc upon us ever since. And yet... are we not ourselves offered the hand of Mercy, every moment of every day? So when someone asks if we accept the offer, I hope and trust that the answer has been a firm 'yes!'

We learned from another Docent that the Mount is jointly owned by The National Trust and the St Aubyn family. The family continue to live on the island (there is a basement!), and manage the visitor experience. The National Trust is responsible for the conservation and upkeep of the property, and so it's a win-win. There was never enough money to keep that magnificent place from crumbling, until in came the National Trust - everyone sharing and receiving something of what they had wanted. (although some might say living in a basement isn't all it's cracked up to be).

At the bottom of the Mount, we were getting ready to leave before the tide came in. A workman saw us and said, "Be sure and look inside the milk house! A lot of cows used to live here, grazing and chewing their cud." Then he added, "The milk house has wonderful acoustics, too. Have a listen to those."

We went in.

"How do we have a listen to the acoustics?" I asked. Then the sound of a deep baritone voice echoed around us in the most beautiful tones. Surprised, I looked around and saw that it was the voice of Hudson, singing and echoing. It sounded like a group of Benedictine Monks! Pretty soon, people began to filter in to the milk house (they had heard Hudson from clear up in the church!), looking for the wonderful voice. They searched and searched, but because Hudson is the humble type, they never discovered the source! 

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

A Last Hurrah

St Michaels Mount

 Have you ever been to a British organ concert inside a gorgeous 1100AD church that has no straight lines left in it because it is so old? What a rare treat for the SconeLady and so many others. We attended the first one of the summer season at St Ia, and if you can go to any of the other ones, you should! In the US, sometimes a person can get to feeing that there are no more organs or organists left on the planet. But it's not true! They abound in England, and in particular to me, in Cornwall. 

This first concert was performed by Jeffrey Williams, the Musical Director at St Ia. And he really pulled out all the stops! Or at least most of them, and all to a purpose. His footwork was splendid too, giving his songs the richness they deserved. When we played organ at our church in the 1960's, and did footwork, we wore our socks; but this organist had on professional looking shoes that had special soles to help him get from one foot note to another, without slippage. It was grand!

 The organist's wife was in on it too, standing peacefully by and turning the pages whenever he needed her to. One observer said (and I agreed with him) that the church had certainly gotten two for the price of one. We sat on straight-up wooden pews, each pew with its own hand-made crocheted kneeler and shelf (very handy). Someone announced that we should put all our phones into Airplane Mode, and being the obedient creatures we are, we complied. This did not appear to have helped, though, because some phones made phone noises anyway (not mine).

As a sort of last Hurrah in leaving darling St Ives, we trooped across the street to MooMaid, ordered, and walked outside onto the street. 

One of us said, "But what about the seagulls?" and the other said, "Hmmm?" and kept walking. 

"No, really," the first one asked. 

Wham! from behind my right shoulder a seagull rested its claws, opened its beak, and snatched away the lovely Belgian Chocolate cone I had only had a few bites of. I screamed.

A man sitting at an outdoor table laughed much louder than I thought he should. It's awful being embarrassed in front of about a gazillion strangers who hear you screaming and then laugh at you. 

All of a sudden I had a foul taste in my mouth. 

Whaat? Did something disgusting get in there? Yes! In typical disgusted fashion I used my fingers to get whatever it was OUT. Which didn't work.  

And do you want to know what happened next? 

A SEAGULL (perhaps the same one) hovered just above my left eyebrow, and pooped on my head and eye. It was probably my ice cream cone he had digested and then come back for the Deposit! 

Don't you think it's about time something was done about these flying poop machines? I do.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Confirming The Obvious

 

Apparently I slept, but of course my husband did not. With multiple delays (and at least one notification that said his flight was delayed overnight!) someone needed to be be in their right mind, and as usual, it was you-know-who. 

At some point a photo appeared of Hudson on a plane, smiling. Of course! Even inside a delayed airplane with no indication of when or how the flight would go, he looked fine and in control. Troubleshooting in a center seat while others on their phones were doing the same. 

Then Airplane Mode descended, and the silence was long. It included walking in the drizzle and the occasional message that, since the plane had been late, so would be the train. I knew this feeling. The great Domino effect, one slip leading to the next. But somewhere on Fore Street my phone buzzed and Hudson's name showed up on my watch face! I felt instantly that Customs, Declarations, Heathrow Express and the Great Western Railway had all been achieved - without me! And Airplane Mode would be mercifully OFF for the next two weeks. 

I shouted his name, surrounded by noisy gas line men and drills. Hudson heard the half-yell and said,"Grandma! Don't worry, it's OK. I'm alive!"

Alive. Now how did he know to say that? It was lovely, obvious, and comfortingly important; just what a grandmother needed to hear. The perfect confirmation.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Hawaiian Air Points

 

Note the Hawaiian Leis packed with dollars 

Someone nice is coming over here! Of course, there is much more to him than just niceness, but the word fits him well. The perpetual smile, the work ethic at 17, the all around goodness and pride in cap and gown. We have a long history of successes with this one, and it's all been FUN TO WATCH! 

This is the boy (man any day now) who made us grandparents. When he was born in Hawaii, the SconeLady began a habit of criss-crossing the Pacific, to-ing and fro-ing more times than gramps could count. But the dollars flew and the Hawaiian Air points grew, until the baby became a toddler and came back home. Now he will come to us on a British plane, so off I go on my little errands for things he might like. What will he like? Shall we make him a British dinner 'in', or maybe a visit to the Thai food place? 

I once made a list of '17 things to do in St Ives' which has been helpful to other visitors. But with planes, trains, cabs, dragging bags, and jet lag, we don't want to wear the poor thing out. I think instead we will simply turn up at the train station, find that boy (man any day now) and hug him. The rest will take care of itself.

My errands today took me around the local shops and streets. First I went to the little building where the ACE Cab company sits and rules the destinations of many. For some reason, every time I go in there, or even just phone them and they can't see me, I get nervous. Even something as simple as "can you pick us at 6:30pm and take us to such-and-such a place?" either I can't understand them, or they can't understand me. Maybe it has to do with last year when my plane was 4 hours late, then my train was 3 hours late, and then the Cab was forever late because the man didn't believe me when I said I had booked a ride with them. Let's just leave it at that. No one came. 

After the Cab company man (who turned out to be nice), I stepped down High Street and met the massive noises of enormous digging machines that are trying to dig down to the gas pipe in front of the Guildhall. What a racket! They are doing this all over the town. Not only are the men digging and peering down into the hole to discover where the gas pipes are, but they aim to fix them and then put them back together to (hopefully) be ready for summer hols. Well. I hate to have to break it the town, but those guys won't be finishing with all that racket anytime soon. I'd sit down if I were you.

Turning away from High Street, I came upon just the thing our graduate will love. A Moomaid Ice Cream sign! I had momentarily forgotten the fact that our cottage is just across the street from them, and INSTANTLY ACCESSIBLE. So that just about takes care of what he will like, and what he will want to do.

I think the digging men have temporarily packed up, so I walk home in peace. The fresh news here is that our graduate is now at the airport being told multiple times that his flight is being delayed. Whaat? A repeat? And it's bedtime, which means I won't hear the outcome for hours!

Coming to the conclusion that there is absolutely nothing I can do about any of these things, we settle in and wait. For the time being, Airplane Mode rules.

But it feels like miles to go before I sleep.

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

To Be A Pilgrim

 

I was surprised a few days ago when I suddenly had a burst of energy that made me want to join the folks at Marvel Comics. I felt I could, if I wanted, to run, or fly, or stretch myself into odd and effective shapes, helping the human race to survive. Someone like Scarlett Johansson! She clearly does not need my help, but I felt she might like it if she only knew.

I'm thankful for this small energetic blessing because my husband and I did something difficult today; something I needed all that energy for. We walked St Michael's Way. Can you believe it? 11 miles. Such a walk had been in our minds and hearts for years, probably 7 years, and yesterday we decided now was the time. We ran our eyes over the Apple Maps info as best we could (not always perfect), went to the Library, and bought their little booklet. It wasn't perfect either. But we headed out anyway, each carrying a Cornish pasty and a couple of chocolate Hazelnut flutes.

This walk is linked to the Santiago de Compastela, in Spain, and is a sort of sister to it. Pilgrims have walked this path for their own reasons, centered upon giving their lives to Jesus, to repent, and devote themselves to Him. Here in Cornwall many people have walked the 10 miles between Carbis Bay/Knill's Monument and Marazion. In Spain the trek is much much longer, and requires more from its Pilgrims. 

John Bunyon (1628-1688) wrote his famous poem, 'To Be A Pilgrim', that has inspired me along many of my walks. I did not know that it appeared in the second part of The Pilgrim's Progress, until yesterday. 

He who would valiant be,

'Gainst all disaster;

let him in constancy,

follow the Master.

There’s no discouragement

shall make him once relent

his first avowed intent

to be a pilgrim.

Whoso beset him round

with dismal stories,

do but themselves confound;

his strength the more is.

No foes shall stay his might,

though he with giants fight,

he will make good his right

to be a pilgrim.

It is a hymn now, a famous one sung by choirs and individuals in good times and in hard. Yesterday had its moments - rocky paths, steep climbs, mud up to the ankles (ew) cows galore, and...bulls.

Once in a while we would spill out into a lovely great pasture, literally filled to the brim with cows. Which is actually encouraging, because England seems to be doing quite well in the areas of milk and hamburgers. They were chewing, mostly; their cud. Whatever that is. And then I would hear my husband say, "Bull". 

"Oh dear.." I would mutter, glancing around for the offending creature. And there one would be. "Don't run," was the best advice ever. But they were much more interested in their 'cud' than they were in us, and we were left to step the Pilgrim's path, finally climbing an enormous stile to escape.

We had done this once before, I think 7 years before, and we remembered stopping for our lunch pasties upon a wooden stile. So we walked until we found it again. My goodness, did those pasties ever taste GOOD! And the Hazelnut flutes! The last word in Hazelnut flutes. 

We were just finishing our flutes when along came a man and woman who were also on the Pilgrim's path. We chatted a little minute, and off they went again. 

You know that Pilgrims have a habit of helping each other out, right? These two kept appearing along our way, being helpful with information when we (I) had lost the way. It turned out that my husband had been right, and I, not. Haha! There were good reasons for both ways. When our helpful couple came along, they knew and confirmed HIS was correct. Of course - he is a navigator and has a sense for these things.

Before the journey's end, the woman came back and handed us an OS map she thought might help us if we needed it. Then at the journey's end, they appeared again and shared bus information that wasn't quite so welcome BECAUSE THERE ARE NO BUSES FROM MARAZION TO PENZANCE ANYMORE. We had walked too far already, and must turn around to Long Rock for a bus. More miles, again! Being a Pilgrim sometimes means backtracking, just when you least want to.

But we did backtrack and came upon The Mexico Inn, a pub that served us an enormous Coke. That Coke was about the best thing since sliced bread, dear Readers! I had been drinking water along the way, but THIS? This was Ambrosia. We drank it, and then crossed the street to the bus stop. The bus lumbered forward, and we climbed aboard. The jolly greeting of our British driver perked us up a little, and I think we (I) might have fallen asleep, weary but thankful; thankful for miles, for repentance, for pasties, for St Michael's Mount off in the distance, and for John Bunyan's words that encourage us all, to Follow the Master.

Since, Lord, thou dost defend

us with thy spirit:

we know we at the end

shall life inherit.

Then fancies flee away,

I’ll fear not what men say,

I’ll labour night and day

to be a pilgrim.

John Bunyan (1628-1688)

See you along the Way!

the SconeLady

 

A Uniquely Winning Way

 The most notable difference about yesterday was the absence of the Vicar. There was a Vicar, don't get me wrong. It was just a different Vicar. Ours was on Sabbatical somewhere in England (no one was saying just where), and would be there for three months. Thus, the different Vicar.

I have enjoyed worshiping here for many years when in Cornwall, and have appreciated all their Vicars. Anytime a Vicar has announced they would be leaving, which happened several times over the years, I was saddened. They'd each had their uniquely winning way in presenting the Gospel.

The Vicar yesterday was very nice, humorous, and kind to the American visitor who popped up in the choir room. As the Warden helped him adjust his cassock, the Vicar said people often mistake him for the actor Rowan Atkinson. Right away I thought of Mr Bean, who is the main character in the Mr Bean shows. His shows are funny, I must admit (just think of one, and I'll bet you laugh.). I determined to find a Mr Bean movie soon and see whether or not he looked like the Vicar.

The morning service turned out to be lovely, and the Vicar turned out to be interesting and funny, a good but rare combination. The Musical Director's wife once again helped me with where I should walk, bow, stand, sit, and sing, because I did not really know. There were a few mistakes I probably made, but thankfully didn't actually embarrass anybody. 

We could not stay for tea and biscuits because we would be going up to The Badger for their Sunday carvery, and had to arrive at the stroke of Noon. 

The Carvery was again the best in western Cornwall, and the only mistake I made there was to pick up a Yorkshire Pudding with my fingers, when the rule was that you do NOT EVER pick up a Yorkshire Pudding piece with your fingers,

"DON'T pick up that Pud, Miss," said the chef. He was very busy and didn't have time to correct rude Americans in Lelant. 

I was so embarrassed! and offered to give the offending Pudding to my husband! but the chef brushed off this effort and called out, "Next?"

Rosamunde Pilcher probably NEVER picked Yorkshire Puddings up like that, having to apologize embarrassingly in front of a bunch of customers at the Badger Inn in her own home town. But the Carvery was so superb that I lost myself in its deliciousness and forgot the chef.

Here is a picture of it for my dear Readers (notice the two Yorkshire Puddings)"

See you along the way!

the Scone Lady 

((I would have been able to speak about the Vicar's sermon -Pentecost-, but our hearing aids were back at the cottage and we couldn't hear it))

Charlie Bucket

 

Charlie Bucket was a little boy who lived in poverty with his parents and grandparents (who went to bed and never came back out). I thought about Charlie today because of a Cadbury Milk bar. The Cadbury Milk bar grabbed my attention at the Norway Store, in our quest for something unrelated to chocolate. That is how such things happen, you know, with people and chocolate bars. They are walking along minding their own business, when a chocolate bar catches them.

I turned and picked one up, suddenly remembering the character Augustus Gloop (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory). He is naughty, falls into a chocolate river and is sucked up a pipe. I didn't like the pipe sucking part, but I very much liked the chocolate river part. That is what a Cadbury Milk Bar feels like when you take a bite and let it sit in your mouth. A lovely, soft chocolate river. 

The Cadbury's Milk Bar now resides in the refrigerator where it can be accessed at a moment's notice.

We once lived in England when the US Air Force sent us to where my darling could serve during the Cold War. This opened up the wonders of England to us, finally answering the question, "Will wonders never cease?" The answer is 'no', because they never have. 

It was such lovely fun. We could have all the Cadbury products we wanted, and still get Hershey Bars at the Commissary. A perfect score!

Family members came to visit us there, so we got to go to all sorts of fun places, such as the Tower of London, Shakespeare's birthplace, Stonehenge, Bath (which nearly froze us to death in December), and Scotland. 

We made a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings for friend Rosie and her Ted, their four children, and our next door neighbor, cooking a wild turkey instead of an American Butterball from the Commissary. The only trouble was that our neighbor died the next day! 

We got to live in a house that had a swimming pool and have no end of friends to come over and splash. 

We learned to love all sorts of British foods, chief among them the taste and texture of a Scone with  jam and cream on it. 

The children got to go to a British school and be taught by the Headmistress how to 'Eat British' and get English accents. The only negative was that when the children came home from school each day, they had to re-learn how to 'Eat American', becoming so confused that they sometimes forgot and ATE AMERICAN at school, and BRITISH at home (there was no end of a dustup over that).

And as you know, dear Readers, it was all of this that finally created the SconeLady. She simply had to get back and see it all again. There are Cadbury Milk Bars at home in our little British Emporium, the proprietor sounding just like they do over the Pond. But there is nothing like being there, hearing it all, tasting it all, and walking it all. 

Remembering Charlie Bucket makes me want to go get the book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and read it again. I know he wins the Golden Ticket, and that his grandpa jumped out of his bed and escorted Charlie to the factory, and that (spoiler alert) Charlie wonderfully inherited the factory. But I've never actually been in the town near Mr. Dahl's Repton School, where there were chocolate spies stealing chocolate secrets left and right. That would be fun!

Roald Dahl always found things children would enjoy reading about, turning them into life-long readers. I certainly am one, and that is a gift that keeps right on giving,

See you along the way!

the SconeLady

Life in England circa 1984

Are You Allowed To Sleep in a Library?

 

Marching your husband up to Knill's Monument

We are sitting in the Library's upstairs section where people can browse through books and watch the tourists wandering by below. You can even go to sleep, as long as you don't actually  lie down. This is what one of us is doing (while sitting straight up in the chair) because the next cottage keeps not being ready. He thinks (and I agree with him) that all this waiting is a load of codswaddle.

Nevertheless, changeover days must be tolerated because they usually end with an open door and a nice cup of tea. 

The tourists below this window are going in and out of one of my favorite shops here. It is called Colenso and has almost everything you need for a successful holiday. I have visited this shop many times looking for a flat iron ('hair straightener' in British), clothes pins for making pour-over dark Columbian coffee of a morning, an electric coffee grinder, and a bunch of other things I did not know I needed. The proprietor is happy to see his customers, and booms out at them, "I have exactly what you need!" no matter what it is you say you need. 

From where I am sitting, he has brooms, mops, coffee machines, other small appliances, chicken pots large and small, platters for roast chickens, paint, kitchenware, electrical and hardware items, ironmongery (what's that?) and tools. The proprietor is a local man whom the local people come to see on a regular basis. They call him 'John', and he also calls their names and their babies' names. He is the perfect Local.

If you go out of his shop and turn left, you will come to the Cinema. The Cinema is very important because it is where Rosamunde Pilcher used to go see films as a girl. AND, it is showing the new Tom Cruise movie RIGHT NOW. I know very little about this movie except that he is in it, and that lots of crazy things are going to start happening. There should be a nice looking young lady in the near vicinity, and a team of friends who know how to set up those crazy things right along with Tom. Am I right?

We will go to this movie some time soon, after purchasing/eating a double Chinese dinner, which, if we are too full to finish, the chances are high that it will come back home in my bag.

The SconeLady has not seen this film yet, so kindly hang on to your spoilers. The filmmakers are bad enough with well placed spoilers on the Internet. Just today I saw a parachute with Tom Cruise hanging on to it, explode. I really do think it exploded, and wasn't special effects. This is because I saw Benji Dunn helping to hold the parachute and pour an explosive liquid inside of it. Next thing you know there is the explosion! with Tom Cruise rocketing terribly quickly to the earth. To me that qualifies as a big spoiler.

The cottage company never did tell us it was time to enter our cottage, so I made a command decision. We grabbed our bags and went. Sometimes you just can't wait any longer, especially if you think all this waiting is a load of codswaddle.

Breakfast at the Porthminster Beach Cafe