Hughenden and Dignified Men

Coming back to Wendover from visiting my uncle and family in Greystones, I instantly demanded that my kind Grandpa amuse me. Well, it didn't quite go like that, but if you asked him, he would undoubtedly use those exact words.

So he took me to Hughenden Manor, the old mansion of the coolest prime minister of whom I've heard, Mr. Benjamin Disraeli. First of all unexpectedly elected during the victorian age because of his Jewish heredity (I stared blankly at the woman after she told me this. I thought the English were on the other side during that war?). But secondly he drew comics, and third, he flirted unabashedly with the queen.
He earns my respect.

We began in the garden of apple trees and herbs. I grabbed a bit of mint to chew on but left the knobbly apples. After taking a photo, a friendly English couple asked me if I was Canadian. Err..what? Was this French influence on my accent? I walked a bit indignantly back to Grandpa and we went in search of the actual manor.

Hughenden was also known for housing the RAF (Royal Air Force) during WWII. The basement was modeled after typical bomb shelters and a sweet 40s living room. I walked in and stopped, startled. With the radio going and the yellowed flowery wallpaper, I honestly felt like I had walked into the age of air raids and food rations, and half expected Churchill's booming voice to come soothingly into the room.


Grandpa waited in the sunny parlor upstairs, reading about Disraeli and doing some flirting of his own. Alright, maybe not, but I'd like to think the lady who lent him the magazine was sneakily winking a bit.


We then went walkabouts the gardens. Grandpa decided he wasn't 25 anymore and sat on a bench, waiting for me to explore the wooded area. I finally found him again quietly snuggled in a hedge. He then found a new bag and I a new cup at the giftshop, and we went cheerfully home for a cup of tea.

Isn't he sweet?

The hills of Scotland indeed sing, but the lyrics baffle me

Towards Monifieth from Dundee

I had the chance to meet THE Nessie of Scotland at my french summer camp in July. Well, so we fondly called her. Rachel/Nessie was so good as to welcome me to her cozy town of Monifieth outside Dundee for a weekend.

I took the national express bus from the victoria station for an 11 hour bus ride up north. Surprisingly it passed brilliantly quickly. I amused myself writing, reading, and continually shooting dazzled looks outside at the fairytale rivers, shining fields spotted with cows and sheep, and perfect wee villages with perfect wee gardens. The bus driver cautioned us as we began, and my stomach filled with confused butterflies--wait. Was that my language? I often asked Nessie to repeat herself, but he wasn't even intelligible. I shrugged and hoped it wasn't too critical. If I could survive a year in France understanding if best the bare minimum, this should be doable. A few hours later I worked up the nerve to peep up at the guy sitting next to me.
It went a bit like this:

Me: "Gawd, it's hot in here, isn't it?"
Nice Scottish guy: "Bjiwe orklp kenr ejre je zej hot wiem ekler....kjre ehir box. eirheiwor heo box." (with a gesture towards the ceiling)
Me: "Ah...Yeah." (awkwardly clears throat, nodding, and returns to kindle)

On arrival I instantly felt at home, her mother had made a deeeeelicious soup and the family chatted on as if I had always been there. If I focused I could keep up. The friendly bickering continued as Nessie and I made a beeline for Dundee to celebrate her birthday with her buddies. As we paraded about town, I was fortunately very rarely lost in the conversation. I think her friendly pals made a bit of an effort speaking slowly, bless their hearts.

The next day we scrambled to make the bus to Edinburgh (ah ha, I spelled it right!) for the Fringe Festival. I've been to various carnivals and festivals with strange costumes and people eating indigestible objects, you know the like, but this was the first of its sort.






Not only did we see aliens casually ambling the streets, we were asked if we had a moment for a poetry reading (which is now my new favorite request from strangers), if we had seen a real space monkey, then if we were interested in "a one night stand". At the last question, we hesitated (who wouldn't?) before realizing it was the name of a comedy show.
We also bumped into Yoda and a scarily realistic golden mermaid.

He was actually hovering!

Yes, there you have it,
THE William Wallace.

Scottish humor? 

Again...the humor

Standing in the very spot of the international military Tattoo spectacle made me grin two weeks later while watching it on the telly with my grandpa. I only then truly got the pride of the Scots, and the original beauty of their traditions.

The question of the entire weekend became, "Well, do you have a kilt then?" Unless you're tooting the pipes on the corner for change, you're meant to wait until someone is tying the knot to bring it back out of the dusty corner of your wardrobe. Pity.

Edinburgh Castle

Overwhelmed by the various options of entertainment, we ran away. We found ourselves on the rolling hills outside the castle and spread out on the softest greenest grass known to man, or woman. Nessie did her best to show me how to roll down appropriately.

Music everywhere!

To make up for not sticking around the festival long enough for much scottish music or *cough* a one night stand, on returning, Rachel's bro Steve played his guitar as we had a nice cup of tea.

The following day I set out early to the beach for a lone promenade. Rachel's mum thought I was a bit kookoo, but it was well worth the photos. I cuddled up to my ipod with some classic snow patrol and breathed in the intoxicating views.

That afternoon Jess and Steve, the extraordinarily friendly and helpful siblings of Nessie helped us continue the nature exploration at Crombie Country Park. I learned some scottish slang (some of which my mouth refused to pronounce), what Irn Bru was, and the doggies learned some professional jumping.

They'll be famous soon enough.

O' Cambridge: Whence comes light and...ducks

St Catherine's College

My dear friend Emma from Toulouse and I took a big bouncy national express to the stuffy little town of Cambridge. But stuffy we did not find.

The sun shone brightly on the green on arrival. Walking into the center we stumbled upon a quaint market where I conjoled Emma into getting her fortune told.

They've got to be joking...?

In the fortune booth. Did we learn anything new? I'll let you imagine.

We hungrily explored bookshops, as we english teachers go as clichéd lovers of print, we were in over our heads. Leather bound classics, english humored nonsense, advice for problems I was then convinced I had, research from only the world's best, temptations more tantalizing than in the olympic gift shop.






When it comes to comparing Oxbridge (Oxford with Cambridge), my primary discovery was fewer bikes exist in Cambridge. Or so it seemed.



Everywhere were grinning tourist traps trying to convince us to go punting (Venice style) down the river. A big 'whynot' won us over, and we conceded to a good argument of good-looking cambridge punters as well as a good view of the historical colleges.

Our punter was hilarious if not a bit...unconventional.

And we sat back and relaxed as our fiercely strong punter entertained us with anecdotes of the colleges, the kings, the king's college, and all the bridges in between.

King's College

Bridge of Sighs

Although I think the real moment of brilliance was when Emma made her birdie friend.

Drinking Bath water

For our escapade outside of the 2012 Olympic capital, Michelle and I ran off to the old town of Bath by train for a day. We were drawn in instantly by quaint roads and gardens. I think I must have said, "How lovely" at least 42 times that afternoon.

The land of Jane Austen reminiscent of old soldiers, is stoic yet twinkling. We stopped at a corner cafe for paninis and found a bench with live music at the square outside the chapel.

Although..the seagulls were competing and I think they may have won, at least for decibel count.







Then into the grand chapel to see some super ancient tombs, quickly followed by the Baths themselves. I stopped to examine all the coins thrown into the fountains over the last 1000 years or so, the intricate gemstones, and the pitiful requests hardly legible made to the gods for vengeance drawn on slates of stone. People had some great ideas back then for punishment..


As much Latin as I took during university and as much as I adore the gods, the place was a bit too chockful of history for my taste. I soon grew sleepy from the droning listening device and being stuck inside the caves. I skipped on to the good bit--the big ol' Bath.

No "do not run" sign necessary.

The actors walking around (what a job!) seriously had me going. I asked one to take a photo and was disdainfully reproached. "What do you want with that box? Excuse me, miss," (he turned to an innocent tourist) "I think she wants something done with that funny little box." I cast my eyes low and asked her to then take our picture. The Roman women were slightly more agreeable, posing candidly on request.





I filled up my water bottle with the oh-so-famous natural healing spring water (also a great tourist souvenir, how long have we been being charged for water..?). I giggled for the rest of the day, reminding Michelle I was again "drinking my bath water". She humored me, the good-natured friend she is.

I found Colonel Brandon!

My fave :)

We walked on up to the Jane Austen museum, then the Royal Crescent.










There I could visualize the horses trotting around the circle, the nobles strutting on the green, all the pretty frocks and hats on display. We took full advantage of the grass and let our minds wander.

Walking along the Avon on the way back, I spotted a cousin of my own dear Shamu (see Ibiza blog).