The Real Salem’s Lot … (Canadians Driving in Wales, Part II)

Again, this post has nothing more to do with Doha than a recounting of silly tales by Doha expats off on a short summer driving adventure.  

Duly impressed by my selection of lodging in Cardiff, Smilin’ Vic decided to wow us by booking a posh room for the next leg of our trip in a lovely seaside university town on the Western Coast of Wales.  It was to be our last night in Wales before moving on to Ireland, and he hoped to make it a memorable one.

It was to be memorable, for sure, … but perhaps not in the ways he’d hoped.

Our destination was Aberystwyth, and we took our leisurely time getting there, stopping in a quaint little village called LLandarrog, at a lovely pub with a thatched roof and the most impressive interior I’ve yet to see.  Unfortunately, for reasons we can’t quite explain, we left without taking a single picture of the interior of the White Hart Thatched Inn and Restaurant.

The White Hart Thatched Inn & Restaurant.  Lovely food.  Lovely cider.  Lovely hosts.  Just lovely.

Added bonus, the Inn was also a brewery, so we got to sample the cider (me) and the ale (Smilin' Vic)

We did enjoy a little afternoon stroll down a country lane however, and some lovely cider and lunch before continuing on our way to Aberystwyth.  We arrived in the town around 7:30 p.m., having stopped in a few more small picturesque fishing villages along the way, and allowed our GPS to guide us toward our much-anticipated seaside destination.

Afternoon stroll down a country lane ... little things you don't get to do when you live in the ME ... (you can't believe how meaningful walking on a dirt road surrounded by green and grass becomes when it's just NOT a possibility).

On the way to Aberystwyth ... The roads don't get any wider, we're on the wrong side, and it's a steep drop on MY side!

Fishguard.... low tide.

Kiddo and I really had no idea where we were headed, as Smilin’ Vic wasn’t spilling all the beans, but we later came to learn that he actually believed there was a proper Four Seasons Hotel in this town.  He was partly right; there WAS a Four Seasons.  Just not the legitimately branded sort.  What more would you expect for 90 £ per night one street back from the waterfront?

I had an inkling all was not as it should be when I spotted THIS directly across the street from our lodging for the night.  (Stephen King fans ... I think this is where it all began ....)

A subsequent Google search showed that, had we done our homework, we would have been forewarned of the hotel’s (town's) dubious ratings and questionable accommodation.

Smilin’ Vic headed in to the hotel to check in, leaving us parked on the eerily empty street to wait.  He proceeded to smack his head HARD on THIS …  

Another sign?

He got back into the car, bruised and battered, and drove us (bleeding cranial wound and all) ‘round to the back, where we parked our car for ‘free for the night’ into a local car park.  We would only be charged if we left the car there past 8:00 a.m. apparently.  Possibly another indication as to the state of our setting.  As we manoeuvred our way up to the first floor and through FOUR sets of fire doors, visions of the room awaiting us played havoc in my head.  When we finally arrived at our room, I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was clean, even though the luggage carrier immediately collapsed under the weight of our smallest duffel bag.

Note collapsed luggage carrier folded uselessly behind pleather upholstered chair...

Settled in, we decided to make our way down to dinner.  Though still bright as daylight outside, it was closing in on 8:00 p.m.  Our hostess informed us that the hotel restaurant was closed, but that we could find a kebab shop or Chinese takeaway open down by the pier.  I remained hopeful that we’d find a quaint seaside oyster shack …

We walked the block to the pier, winding our way for about 5 minutes through what can only be described as the walking dead.  Sad, twisted, angry faces, shouting out ‘f you’ and ‘burn in hell’ to stalkers visible to none but them.  Drunken bodies lying twisted and seemingly lifeless on benches and boardwalk, beggars staggering about bumming cigarettes, and middle aged couples such as ourselves weaving raggedly down the boardwalk in a drunken stupor.  Smilin’ Vic tried desperately to tuck away the Canon EOS camera that so blatantly marked him as a tourist as we retraced our steps as quickly as possible, ignoring the dishevelled youth who ran drunkenly after us shouting ‘wait for meeeee’.  

We tried unsuccessfully to find anything other than a filthy KFC (occupied by a sole patron sitting amidst chicken skin and paper packaging strewn across the floor) that might provide some sustenance, eventually settling on crusty rolls, ham and tomatoes from a local grocery store.  

Armed with our grocery spoils, we headed back to the relative retreat that could barely be referred to as a courtyard at the back of our hotel.  There we sat on the patio backing onto a rather suspicious alleyway, enjoying our picnic as best we could while a flock of hungry seagulls, the vultures of the sea, hovered anxiously overhead.

Only one lone gull standing guard over the 'courtyard' ... but the poo on the roof gives credence to the fact that the flock was not far behind ....

To their credit, the hotel owners really did try to make our stay as pleasant as possible, but everything about our experience in this town would have fit perfectly into a Stephen King novel.  Zombies on the boardwalk, boarded up shop fronts, circling seagulls, 3 gaunt AA members who emerged from the church basement just before sunset, gum-chewing boxers at the local grocery shop with butterfly ears, death-pale vacant-eyed 16-year-old goth chick with the pasty belly walking down the street in ripped fishnet stalkings and a crop top.

We hunkered down for the night in our room in what we’d come to refer to as ‘Fort’ Seasons, anxious for morning to come to get as much distance between us and this haunted town as possible.  Sunrise couldn’t come soon enough.  

June 19 in Aberystwyth ... with the looming summer solstice, light still shines lights the room at 9:30 p.m.

The one good thing that has come from our stay in Aberystwyth is that we’ve narrowed down Kiddo’s university choices by one.  She will NOT be going to Aberystwyth U!

P.S.  My views on the town of Aberystwyth are mine (and my little family's) alone; feel free to visit and make your mind up for yourself.  On the upside, the subsequent ride to Holy Head was glorious.  The countryside in Wales is truly something to behold.

¨Pitstop ... Kiddo on her way up the hill to mingle with the sheep...

Narrow roads in Wales ...

You can't see me, but I'm reaching for the flask of wine I've hidden in my bag ... Close encounters of the Welsh kind ...

Thanking the gods for no oncoming traffic ...

There is a line down the middle - deceitful - because there is in fact no room for two cars. ...

I'm two fists into the bottle by now ....  enjoying the glorious scenery ....

So how we gonna get by this dude Smilin' Vic?  I don't really care.  I'm three sheets to the wind!  Yeeeeeehaaaaaa!  Gooooo Wales and teeny tiny roads!

Gorgeous scenery.  Learned by reading the maps that 'Lynn' actually means 'Lake'.  Very relevant in our family.

Serenity.  Enough to sober me up :-)

These dudes are like:  'Hey Canadian Woman.  RELAX!  Enjoy the ride and just chill.  De-stress for the sake of us all ....'

Manners in Manors …. (Canadians Driving in Wales, Part I)

This bit on Wales carries on from our most recent visit to Southern England, Wales and Ireland. Sorry, no real insight into Doha life in this post, just a recounting of how some Doha expats experience the little things in life when away from Doha

Rear view of the garden sitting area behind Miskin Manor.

We had no idea where the road might lead as we headed into Wales on our journey to Ireland.  Our first glimpse into pub life in Wales as we stopped for lunch in Newport was slightly reminiscent of Ponderosa’s in Hamilton, Ontario circa 1978 …  but much appreciated by Smilin’ Vic for the yummy double portion of Yorkshire pudding.

It was Father’s Day, so the place was packed; the crowd and excitement fairly drowned out the ‘f’ bombs being dropped by the dudes in shorts behind us.  We pretended to blend in seamlessly and fully grasp the Gaelic being directed randomly our way.  The weather was great, people were happy, toasts were being had.  We were cool.

I took advantage of the free wifi while there to google ‘best places to stay in and around Cardiff’ and happened upon a little gem called ‘Mirskin Manor’.  With a rich history dating back loosely to the 1100’s, and following wartime occupation as a hospital, this imposing property was later converted into a hotel at some point in the 1980's.  

Kiddo, admiring the window seat view of the gardens and the feel of amazingly fresh air in Wales.

So it is that we drove down into Cardiff to enjoy two nights there, with me spending the first afternoon sitting in the gardens reading and writing, and Smilin’ Vic and Kiddo exploring the grounds and chillaxin’ as you do when wandering with no true destination in Wales.

We spent the next day touring the area, visiting Castle Coch in the morning, and Cosmeston Medieval Village in the afternoon.  While the 18th Century Gothic Revival castle was impressive, Cosmeston and our tour guide Reeve Ross proved a highlight that would be hard to beat this vacation.

Castle Coch, near Cardiff, Wales.

Reeve Ross ('we' later came to refer to him as ‘Handsome’ Reeve Ross) and his muscles greeted us in full Medieval dress at the entrance to the village with a warning that this would be a tour like no other and that there would be loads of talk of ‘poo’.  

Well, if you’re looking to grab and 8-year-old’s attention (we won’t mention the 52-year-old’s), open and frank talk of poo is likely the best way to go about it.  

Others on the guided tour may have completely disregarded Handsome Reeve Ross’s silly accoutrement (somewhat reminiscent of a diaper over tights) and toilet talk and focused solely on an occasional glimpse of bulging bronzed biceps … I’m just assuming, mind you.

A 9-year-old mesmerised by talk of poo ... a 52-year-old mesmerised by this archeologist/historian's storytelling, and Me doing my best to capture the muscles ... I mean 'moments' ... to memory.

Our hunk host proceeded to walk us through the history of this charming rebuilt medieval village, reconstructed approximately 20 years ago on a chance call when a local senior, aged 102, shouted out to the construction crew about to build a parking lot over the castle and village site.

Apparently she called out to them from her home just next to the site: ‘And what will ya do wid da castle den?’  

At which point excavation halted immediately, crew put down shovel and spade and proceeded to have tea with this charming little old lady who regaled them with tales of playing in the castle ruins as a young girl, years before the quarry was built and local villagers began pillaging stone and rock from the site.  

A little digging revealed that under the overgrowth remained the foundations of several village homes, barns, a bakery and village ovens.  Reconstruction began soon after, and Handsome Brave Reeve Ross was the archeologist called in to lead the excavation and later assume the role of manager and tour guide.  

And so began Handsome Brave Hunky Reeve Ross’ life as a connoisseur of ‘poo’.  From the beginning of excavation, all efforts were made to ensure as authentic a rebuild as possible, with all stone on the houses stuck together with an emulsion of hay and poo that was poured into a large pit and trampled on by enthusiastic and fairly mad archeologists keen on recreating the glue of the day.  Much like Italians crushing grapes, this crew of mad Welshmen padded about in a vat of poo, day in and day out, massaging turds with their toes until achieving the perfect consistency.

Two hours with *Handsome Brave Hunky Savvy Reeve Ross* passed by in the bat of an eye, as he flexed his muscles explained to us the rich contribution of Medieval times to the English language as we know it now, running through examples such as ‘by hook or crook’, ‘the bottom of the barrel’, ‘curfew’ and many more.

He moved on from talk of poo eventually, turning to talk of wee as a wool bleaching agent, oats as a curing agent, bacteria in the ale, and rats at every turn.  

A vat of fake 'poo' which villagers were required to store and hand over daily to the 'gong farmer', who would then re-sell it to the peasants for a variety of uses, including mixing with straw to solidify cottage walls and using as fertiliser on the fields.  The vat of 'wee' was kept to bleach black wool to white, as white wool was all the fashion back then but the sheep were mostly black.  What with livestock herded in the cottage for the night and a proper coal fire puffing up clouds of black plume, it must have made for an interesting potpourri!

His discourse on life and death in Medieval times was truly captivating, making the village, the atrocities of the true filth of the times, and the horror of the ensuing Black Plague come to life. 

In all seriousness, if you are passing through Cardiff, do take the time to stop in and say hi to Reeve Ross.  It’s more than worth the 5 or so odd pounds for the two-hour tour, and any additional donations would be well spent on contributing to this truly worthwhile endeavour.

Me, intensely contemplating a horseman riding backwards and a horse's bum ... I think this picture might make me look worldly were it not for the bum and that silly, silly hat ...

Warming Up to Worms … (Canadians Driving in England, Part III)

As in the previous two posts, this is not a post about living, driving, breathing, working in Doha. It's about how Doha residents might choose to live, drive, and breathe when they leave the harsh summer desert climate for a short vacation.  

Invigorated by the day’s 5 mile hike (not km; we were in England remember) and plenty of fresh air and Vitamin D, we decided to head South West to explore England’s sandy beaches and resorts town.  Our first stop in Torquay redefined our naive take on ‘resort’.  

Expecting to arrive in a peaceful seaside village to find a B&B on the coast, waves gently lapping on the shore just beyond our doorstep, and captains’ cottages with widows’ peaks at every turn, we could only stare wide-eyed as we drove into a carny’s paradise, reminiscent of circa 1970’s Coney Island and The Warriors, only in broad daylight and with gangstas ranging in age from 16 to 84.  

Dilapidated hotel fronts, a 1980’s carnival set up next to the pier, reddened, blistered and peeling bosoms and torsos, staggering tourists, and a general air of old, funky, seaside debaucherie.  No disrespect to the town; we might have enjoyed it in our twenties, but as middle-aged parents it just wasn't our 'thang'.  

We decided to carry on further down the coast.

The next coastal town gave no hint of anything better, so we decided to make our way to Dartmouth on our quest for local charm.

Smilin’ Vic spotted a sign for the Normandy Arms along the way, smack dab in the middle of nothing, somewhere in county Devon.  We followed the markers down a maze-like bike track to the quaint village of Blackawton, awarded the cleanest village in England in 2008(?). 

Its moments like these where I regret not carrying a bottle of wine or something stronger in my bag.

Though the Normandy Arms had no more rooms available, we continued down the village’s main thoroughfare (i.e. single lane carriageway) to a public house called The George.  

It was tiny and quirky and everything country we'd been looking for.  We decided to stay the night.

I'm assuming this is meant for those who prefer to enjoy their tea in the privacy of the pub loo?  It goes without saying that steak and chips have no place down the toilet either ...

While there, we discovered that the George was renown for hosting an Annual Worm Charming Contest.  

Though we initially scoffed at the concept, we googled the sport and found that it actually has a following in Canada as well, most particularly in the town of Shelburne, Ontario, where worm charmers gather from near and far to tantalise night crawlers to the earth's surface.

Though the food was somewhat akin to a kitchen experiment (Smilin’ Vic compared it to an army buddy deciding to ‘try something out’), the hospitality and the cleanliness of the very basic accommodations were worthy of mention.

We truly enjoyed our evening; had a glass of wine on the back terrace before heading up to bed, and even though Smilin’ Vic and Kiddo managed to tune in to the end of Forrest Gump, I was once again out like a light before my head even hit the pillow …

The next morning, we enjoyed the second of way too many English breakfasts, and sipped on steaming cups of coffee on the back terrace, enjoying the feel and the sound of a cool morning breeze rustling through the field behind the public house.

Mowing the lawn the good ol' fashioned way ...

We took a few minutes to visit the town's church grounds and cemetery, and before we knew it, it was time to pay up and continue on our journey ... (to be continued).

When Canadians do Castles (Canadians Driving in England - Part II)

As noted in my last post, this is not a post about Doha.  It's about Doha expats escaping the summer heat for a little bit of silly summer fun.  It's about finding glory in little bits of normality as we return to the 'familiar'.  It's about appreciating what we miss, and eventually allowing living out of a suitcase to make us appreciate the return to Doha.  So forgive me if you were expecting to find any Doha info in this post ....

Though we’d hoped to see Stonehenge up close, the shuttles ferrying tourists to the towering monument had ceased operating for the day (6:30 p.m. is the last).  So we grabbed a quick sandwich, took a few pictures of poppies and fields with Stonehenge far off in the distance, and headed back on our way, reinvigorated, hydrated and ready to complete our first day’s adventure.

Well, at least we saved on £40 admission fees ...

It's the journey, not the destination ....

We arrived at the inn just minutes before 9:00 p.m., and were let in by the lovely owner Michelle.  We headed up to our third floor room which, although lovely, bore a distinct lingering stench of cat urine (urine if you’re posh, pee if you’re not, wee if you’re travelling through England).  Either way, it wasn’t pleasant.  Exhausted as we were though, we decided that then was not the moment to complain about such trivial matters.  A quick call by our friendly hostess to the local pub 500 m (that’s meters, not miles) down the road meant they would keep the kitchen open long enough for us to grab a quick bite to eat.  

Satiated and bellies full, we climbed into the most comfortable bed ever and collapsed into a deep dreamless sleep, blissfully oblivious to the cat pee pee smell.

We were served up a wonderful breakfast the next morning, and armed with 50 brochures and the advice of both our hostess and the previous evening’s pub patrons, we headed off to discover Fingle Bridge and Castle Drogo.   

Yes, you CAN expect to meet oncoming cars on this 'road'.  If I'm not mistaken, the speed limit was 40 miles per hour ... I was hyperventilating and desperately craving wine by the time we hit the second curve.

As we made our way down single lane country tracks in County Devon, we wondered if perhaps we should have stuck to major highway attractions.  But all our doubts were erased as we arrived at Fingle Bridge, a small stone structure supported for centuries by naught but a keystone over a gurgling river in the middle of a truly majestic forest.  Kiddo was immediately drawn to the river, and headed down to play with the other kids and dogs splashing around in the icy water.  We sat back long enough for refreshments at the pub on the water’s edge, then grabbed our backpacks and camera in preparation for the 45-minute hike along the river to the castle (as in the previous post, the ’45-minute’ guide was nothing more than the Brits once again having a laugh at global perception of time).  

A sight like this, the gurgling in the background, and the warm June sun make all the world's ills fade into the background ...

Cold water on tired feet on a hot day ... who could resist?

We started off along the forest pathway, revelling in the warmth of the day, tempered by the cool breeze coming off the water and the shade of the trees.  Perfection.  

Sometimes you just have to stop and listen ....

Until about 1 hour and 15 minutes into the walk, when we realised the steady uphill climb appeared to be leading nowhere.  Which is the point at which we noticed a family of five jostling and tumbling down a steep incline to our right.  Smilin’ Vic asked the dad where they were coming from and the dad answered ‘Castle Drogo'.  We asked if up the cliff face was the only way there.  He answered that we had the option of going up that incline for about 10 minutes or continuing along our original path for 30.  He clearly stated that coming down the incline was treacherous and that he would most definitely not recommend going UP it.  I heard him clearly.

Advice that Smilin’ Vic and Kiddo chose to blatantly ignore as they set their compasses upwards, tempted by the possibility of an earlier arrival at destination.  And so it is that we set up that 70 degree incline, me in my white pants and cursing all the way up, daring either of them to say One. Single. Word. about how hard this was.

Final destination ... but. HOW. MUCH.  FURTHER. ???????

The climb up took about 15 minutes and four litres (not gallons) of sweat.  But we finally made it, and were well rewarded with the visit.  We became official members of the National Trust, and were given a car decal to prove it.  I must say, if you’re ever in Devon, do take the time to visit this historic site.

One of the walls in the castle.  A memorial to a son lost on the battlefield.

The last castle to be built in England, it is a dichotomy of old and new, with indoor plumbing, central heating, electricity and telephones built into the cinderblock structure.  Although it is undergoing major renovations to the tune of 11,000,000 £, it is still truly impressive and a sight to behold.  If you’re visiting in 2018, you’ll see the structure fully restored to its original glory.  Unfortunately, on our visit most of the furniture had been stored to protect it from ongoing works, many of the windows boarded up to prevent dust from coming in, and the exterior sheeted to protect visitors from construction works and construction works from visitors. 

All we could see of Castle Drogo from the outside ....

Having learned a lesson about British timekeeping, we spotted an Italian tourist and asked him for the quickest route back down the mountain, and were rewarded with a surprisingly accurate indication of a 25-minute route running almost straight down the mountain back to Fingle Bridge.

Where we knew a cold pint would await....

And the Brits actually drive over Fingle Bridge;  this dude's shoulders barely fit through!

And from there, we decided to pursue our haunting of Devon with a jaunt to the East Coast, aka ‘the Riviera of England’ …. (to be continued)

When Right is Wrong ... (Canadians Driving in England - Part I)

The next few posts aren't so much about living in Doha, they're more about some of the inane types of things Doha-ites may do on their travels when they escape the summer heat ... (so to any readers who were hoping for Doha trivia please accept my apologies in advance).

Every June, the very morning after Kiddo’s last day of school, we escape the summer furnace heat in Doha by embarking on an indulgent vacation (read ‘Maldives’) or a long haul trip (classified as a gruelling 12+ hours flight, as in back to Canada, the Far East or Australasia).

This year, for a number of reasons, including restricted leave period and a depleted vacation budget due to my two trips back to Canada this winter, we opted for a 10-day vacation to South England, Wales, and Ireland, neither exotic nor long haul, with no pre-planned itinerary.

We landed in London at noon, already exhausted by the 3:00 a.m. wake-up call and 7-hour sleepless flight, but energised by the thought of work-free leisurely days ahead.  

Though the Customs agent at Passport Control was a little surly at first, he seemed to warm considerably as he enquired into the purpose of our trip (leisure/escape) and our plans for this holiday.

As Smilin’ Vic explained our intention to drive to Exeter that very afternoon, a slightly evil smile masked as British hospitality began to spread across the agent’s face.  ‘Planning on taking the A303 then, are you?’ he asked.  ‘Yes, answered Smilin’ Vic, we’ve booked a room at the Woodleigh Coach House.  How long a drive is it?’

The Woodleigh Coach House, just outside Exeter.

‘Well that would depend on how fast you’re going’, answered the ever-so indulgent evil agent.  ‘Have you driven in England before?’

Smilin’ Vic assured him that he had, about 20 years ago.  The Customs agent’s smile stretched out just that little bit further as he wished us well and said the drive should take about three hours.

We went straight to the car rental booth at Heathrow, paid up, and were given instructions to jump onto the green Enterprise Rental bus that would bring us to the car rental park 20 minutes away.

Neither we nor the driver of the green bus had the wherewithal to note that we carried an ‘Enterprise’ voucher as we boarded the ‘Entourage’ Rental bus.  We were whisked away and dropped off 20 minutes later.  Smilin’ Vic stood in line for 10 minutes waiting to exchange his voucher for a car key before being informed that we were in fact at the wrong rental zone and that he would have to walk 1/2 a mile away to the Enterprise pick-up location.  

Thirty minutes after lugging our bags across the way and finally securing our rental vehicle, we headed off to Exeter.  ‘Left is right’ became our new mantra as we navigated a roundabout going the wrong way no more than 20 meters into our trip.  Smilin’ Vic asked me to remind him to stick to the left shoulder, and I hyperventilated for the next 10 minutes as we repeatedly banged against the left-hand curb like a bumper car gone mad at the local county fair.

Kiddo was in hysterics as I chanted ‘left, left, left, CURRRRRB’ non-stop.  We finally got onto the M3, relieved to have found a stretch of road where all cars were headed in the same direction and there was a soft shoulder we could hug the left fairly safely (which in the UK, by the way, is the ‘slow’ lane).

Finally on the M3, where left is still wrong to a Canadian ...

Finally out of London, about 40 minutes later and what seemed like 100 km (was probably more like 10, and technically not even OUT of London), we decided to stop, rest and grab a bite to eat to calm our nerves in Slough.  Big mistake.  Navigating our way precariously down the town lane, at one point we just naturally navigated to the right … because right is right, right?  

I found myself yearning for the days of Yore as I re-considered our decision to spend the next few weeks driving at breakneck speed down one lane roads with a newfound respect for the expression 'right is right'.

Wrong!  If you’re in England, very, very wrong.  As we realised about 20 seconds into cursing the stupid HUGE white trolley barreling down on us, blaring horns and flashing lights.  Just plain wrong.  Fast forward to a rapid ‘so-close I smelled the oncoming vehicle’s paint job’ sweep to the left and all was again ‘right’ with the world.

We found a local pub quickly after that, relished in the fish n’ chips and relaxed atmosphere, then headed back off, sure we had covered a great distance and probably had no more than 2 hours’ drive ahead of us.

We ordered fish 'n chips; Kiddo ordered Mac 'n Cheese.  Smilin' Vic had warned me about fried toast in England, but never would I have dreamt that it was possible to fry macaroni!!!!!

In reality, we’d probably covered about 1/8 of the distance, and on the best bit of highway to boot.  What we quickly came to realise was that the more numbers the road had, the narrower and more perilous it became, i.e. M3 being 6-lane motorway, A303 being ‘barely there’ dual carriageway.

What became even more evident was that miles in England cannot be calculated using any actual logical estimation.  One mile can in fact stretch far beyond the allotted 1.6 km, extending far beyond human reason.  One mile in England could be infinity.  Or so it seems when you become waylaid on what appears to be an overgrown dirt cornrow but bears a distinctive highway marker sign reading ‘A30345’ followed by ‘Speed Limit 50 mph’ and ‘Bear far left for oncoming vehicles’ (at which point my side of the car would be completely engulfed in the foliage on the left hand side of the road).  Add to the mix a roundabout every 20 feet, and the 1-mile journey becomes a lifetime.

Add to the confusion a Western tendency to embrace the right-hand side of the road and a GPS that insists on leading you back to London, and the 10-mile journey becomes an endless space loop in which you are mercilessly suspended.  Then add in a traffic jam at Stonehenge and the agony becomes unbearable.  This is the point at which you realise the Brits have no concept of distance NOR time.

I now know this is the reason they’ve never converted to the metric system.  To do so would openly expose these failings.

Now 4 hours into our 3-hour journey, we realised we weren’t even halfway to our destination.  For every 2 miles we would drive, the GPS would tag an extra 20 minutes to the trip.  This is the point at which we began to lose hope.  We were on the verge of conceding that we’d probably never arrive at our destination. 

We decided to stop at Stonehenge because that’s what ambling tourists like us do.  As we turned into the lane leading up to the National Trust tourism centre, Smilin’ Vic had a momentary lapse of ‘unreason’, and reverted to the ‘right’ side of the road.  As if in a trance we watched the obvious tourist headed toward us, also hugging her right side of the road.  Then in a flash both we and she realised we were both driving on the wrong side, made a quick switch TO THE LEFT!!!!!!, and barely avoided clipping each other in the process.  It made for some good, nervous laughter, and relief at the pee break (‘wee’ break when in the UK) that a pitstop at Stonehenge would bring …. (to be continued).

Stonehenge ... not a great picture; taken with the i-pad as we were stuck in a traffic jam ....