Category: Britain

Right, so not much to say here. The ferry was late to the dock by an hour and a half because the other ferry was busy loading the damned motorbikes for bloody TT, and I missed the lasted train from Liverpool to Carlisle. I met a chap on the ferry over though, Chris, who was in the same state as me. He and I were originally just going to split a taxi over to Lime Street station, but after the ferry was so late, both of us had missed our trains and were up a creek. He took a taxi with me to the coach bus station, paid for it, and took me to a nearby pub and bought me a beer as well. Even though we were both in a sorry state of things (me having to pay 6 pound to get to Manchester instead of just taking the train for free with my pass) he was a jolly fine fellow who chatted with a guard on my behalf and got me the best route and fixed me up right.

Trip was alright, except I couldn’t sleep so that I wouldn’t miss my bus. Met a fellow named Roger on the first bus up who also took pity on me and stayed with me at the train station in Manchester (ironically, like Chris, he was leaving the Isle of Man for the TT races because he didn’t like them). Then just one last taxicab from the depot here in Carlisle to my Travel Inn (where they almost lost my reservation apparently, and it was the capper to an…amazing night.

Bloody hell. Need sleep. Don’t know why I’m bothering to write this but I don’t think I’ll remember it in the morning I’m so knackered.

What a day at the Isle of Man! Once again I’ve been flooded with kind hospitality from my New Zealander host, Christine, and her dear aunt Ann. After finally arriving at the Isle of Man at 16:00 and being despondent at the thought of being able to see any of the sights on the island, I was able to get into the free (always a good sign) tour at the Isle of Man Museum, only a few blocks away from the ferry drop off. My first thoughts of the island was that it was trying to be some kind of tropical 19^th century pleasure hideaway; all the buildings on the dock line are large, ornate, pastel coloured, and seem to have about 5-6 floors. The yucca trees sway gracefully about them in the currently-chilly May breezes, and seagulls dash about wailing at the tourists.

The museum was unfortunately only open for one more hour, but I tried to learn as much as I could about Manx culture and history in that brief time; racing through the rooms and photographing every exhibit (and more importantly, every sign explaining what the exhibits were so I could read them later) – the place was almost deserted of course, everyone having gone to watch the TT races or avoiding the island altogether. However, long before I got to see everything I wanted, the place closed up and I was back out on the street.

Auntie Ann greeted me at the door when I arrived and showed me around the place. Currently being remodelled for the past few months, the place looks stunning, in cream carpeting and red panelled walls. I was in love with the sitting room, which has ornate frescos on the ceiling where the light fixture attaches. As dinner wasn’t for another few hours, I took the time to go back to the docks and get my ticket leave extended from 8:00 to 17:30 and to change my destination from the essentially-deserted Heysham to a return to trip to Liverpool, where I could catch a train from.

By the time I came back, Christine had arrived with her simply adorable golden retriever Riley, as well as a couple friends, Jane and Phil. I liked them all right away, and we went downstairs and had some champagne and snacks before dinner. Riley is still only a little older than puppy age, but is simply enormous – he loves to jump up on people and several times his long plume-like tail knocked over our empty champagne glasses. Phil is a Liverpudlian himself, and after listening to a couple of them the previous night at the hostel and being able to place it, I realized that I now could recognise both Somerset and Liverpool accents. I’m getting better at this! (although some might tell me that you’d need to be deaf not to recognize Scouse.)

Dinner was delicious and contained more never-before-seen English treats like parsnips and Yorkshire puddings (which are not puddings at all, Yanks). Afterwards, Christine continued to extend amazing hospitality to me like Nathalie and her family, helping me get things lined up for my troublesome night in Carlisle (which is now tomorrow – I hope it goes alright.) We finally got things all set up pretty well though; although I am going to be arriving at my fabulously expensive hotel at “Travel Inn” at about half past midnight.

I’d best get myself to bed now; I do indeed now intend to continue with my semi-original plan of renting a bike tomorrow and biking to Peel Castle, and then hopefully to south Mann to see the Manx at the Santon farm.

So I’m sitting in the waiting lounge for the Steam Ferry company that’s supposed to be taking me and several hundred motorbike riders (and their bikes too) over to the island at 10:30, and they’ve just informed us that due to a late start from the Isle (probably because of some bikers coming back or whatever) they’ve been delayed by an hour and a half. So it looks like pretty much any chance of cycling round the island is pretty much shot now, due that we probably won’t be arriving until 15:00 or so.It was a good night last night though, and a new experience for me: for the first time, I was in conversation for several hours with a group of Europeans my own age. So far, every older Englishman or woman has been completely accepting and friendly to me, even downright wonderful, but I haven’t really been in contact with anyone my own age besides Nathalie, who’s been essentially Americanized from her year in Madison with us. I had a chance to chat with three UK girls – Sarah, Sarah, and Hwoo (and I probably didn’t spell that properly at all) – the first a “Scouser” as she affectionately termed herself (a Liverpudlian in the more formal term), the second a Scotswoman, and the last a Taiwanese girl who had been living in Liverpool for the past 3 years for uni(versity, for you Yankees). Hwoo had just graduated from uni and was due back to go back in a few months, but she hung out at the youth hostel a lot. The two Sarahs are employed by the Embassie Hostel, which I arrived at about 19:00 or so, and the four of us hung around the main dinner table just chatting about life and uni life, and the differences between Europeans and Americans. I found it funny that Scouser Sarah was wearing a “Vote For Pedro” Napoleon Dynamite t-shirt, and she actually surprised me several times by affecting an excellent American accent (it was kind of a southern accent, but I forgave her since I guess that’s unfortunately how we must be seen as a national group). Scottish Sarah was soft spoken and nice to me – she gave me a free laundry and dryer token so I could watch my clothes for the first time (I was starting to smell a bit rancid) in the ancient machines in the basement.

The whole hostel was completely unlike the “professionally run” YHA hostel that I had stayed at the previous night. Besides that one being almost completely empty, this one on the other hand was packed with students and a few older travellers chatting, smoking, almost all drinking beer and mourning the loss of the Liverpool football (soccer, for you Yankees) team against Athens the previous night. I was told by a fellow on the train on the way over (Sergio, another excellent Brit) that if they had won the previous night the place would be an insane party right now. What with me being a confused and disoriented tourist anyway, I figured it was actually probably better for me to not have that extra distraction! But the hostel itself was a much more “homely” sort, with rough stone walls and dingy pots hanging from the ceiling, holes everywhere, ragged old red carpet, and a bathroom that is too horrible to describe here. The beds were comfortable looking though, and the men’s dorm room was also packed with sleeping (or passed out, judging from the alcohol smell permeating the place) uni-aged men.

I was pleased. I booked my next two nights for the two nights I’d be staying in Liverpool next week on my way back south and went to bed, getting up early this morning so that I would have time to have a look around Liverpool a little bit, grab a bite to eat, and make it to the Ferry terminal by 9:50. After an amusing romp through the back alleys of the dorm flats area trying to find a post office that would sell international stamps and a stop at a ATM terminal that wouldn’t charge me £7 to use a foreign card, I grabbed myself a steak and gravy pasty for breakfast with some orange drink from a company I’d never heard of, and headed across town to the docks.

I’m beginning to discover a pattern in my planning here – it was really badly timed. The plans themselves were grand and well-done, but somehow I managed to schedule things during the May Bank Holiday and the 100^th annual Motorbike races on the Isle. Now, I’m sitting in the lounge surrounded by people wearing leather chaps, sunburn, bandanas and weatherbeaten expressions. I guess the “biker look” is the same around world (which many of these folks are from).

My night in Bristol was wonderful. Nathalie’s family was very kind to me and I felt very much at home. When I arrived in Bristol on the train, Nathalie was there to greet me, at which point we spent the next hour and a half or so just chatting and wandering around Bristol, while I snapped pictures of various things and she was accommodating in allowing me to pose with various stuff and then take pictures for me. It was a lot of fun; we talked about Madison and Bristol and our own small hometowns in comparison, and she continued to assist me in figuring out how to pronounce things properly and different words for the same things. I tested out my “British accent” on her, just to see how I was doing after a day. “Sounds South African” she told me, to my disbelief. All of my years of theatre, and all I’ve gotten so far is South African?! (Meaning no offense to the S. Africans themselves, of course.)

By this point I was dead tired and starving with hunger, but we were going to meet up with her dad in Nailsea at about 5:00 and it was already 4:30. We decided we would go and visit an authentic English pub, and took the train from the same Temple Meads Station to Nailsea, where we met up with her dad. It was fun to be in the front-left part of the car and on the “wrong side” of the road. I told them that it was like being in a roller coaster or something; because that’s the only situation in America that you would be in the front-left part of a moving vehicle and not controlling it yourself. That, combined with the weirdness of the “wrong side” and tensing slightly while passing people on the highway, made for an interesting ride. Both Nat and her dad were great tour guides (she might not agree that she was, but I thought so anyway because she was cheerful about it) and her dad showed me a lot of stuff as we were driving.

After arriving at Nathalie’s house, I was finally able to get out of my travel clothes and get a shower as well. Upon arriving in the loo though, I remembered with some trepidation my experiences in France and Spain several years before…there was no shower curtain in the bath, and one of those detachable shower heads. Those two combined with my general clumsiness, I was worried I was going to get shower water all over the place! I was really careful though, despite my tiredness, and I managed to keep things under control. After what was essentially 2 days without showering plus the travelling and biking, I felt like a new man.

Then it was off to The World’s End pub in Taunton! I got to sample my very first bangers (sausages) and mash (mashed potatoes) and some Tanglefoot beer…legally, ha ha! The food was simply delicious though, and I told Nathalie I wouldn’t be able to let myself sample bangers and mash again in England because there was no way it could be as good as this stuff. We finished off dinner with some honeycomb ice cream…with real honeycombs in it, something I’d never seen before either.

However, because of complications in the Lake District due to a “Bank Holiday” – another thing I’d never heard of before coming overseas – I still had no place to stay for Saturday night. So Nathalie and her parents and I went over the internet and my maps for possible places to stay in Cumbria, and finally in desperation I was able to book myself (with her mum’s help) a night at a pretty expensive Travel Inn in Carlisle, where I would be leaving the next day for the Hadrian’s Wall tour anyway.

The morning came early though, 5:25 or so in order to get to the Taunton rail station in time. I got to sample some British “brekkers” like Weetabix (I love that name) and bread with both butter and jam at the same time, something I’d never conceived of before.

So far the rail ride has been uneventful, although it has continued with the friendliness that I got yesterday as well. I like to chat with people, and everyone seems to like me or my accent and enquire as to where I’m from in the States and where I’m going. Everyone has new things to tell me about different towns in the countryside and things that they’ve experienced that are different between US and UK. Only a couple hours left until I’m in Bangor in Wales!