FIELDNOTES Issue #14 11 May 2014 Marie arrived in the UK on April 5th. On the 10th, some long-­‐time Weber family friends, David and June Joy from Gloucestershire, drove a couple of hours to Swansea for lunch and a stroll. We four had a wonderful afternoon -­‐-­‐ good companionship and lots of laughs. David referenced the formula I shared a couple of months ago in these fieldnotes for making tea the English way, and told me that someone had been having me on with it. So to make tea, if you’re doing all of what I told you to, do so only if you want a real Englishman or -­‐woman to think you’re a git. On the 14th, spring break began for Swansea University. Marie and I were in and out of Swansea during the recess. We visited Ireland; a town in Northern Wales; and a couple of cities in the center of England. Spring break is somewhat longer at Swansea University than at UNCW; on the other hand, UNCW has several spring holidays plus days off for bad weather, if necessary. Swansea Uni has no holidays and no days off for bad weather. So across the two universities, breaks in the spring calendar turn out to be roughly equivalent. The UNCW students studying abroad here scattered far and wide on the Continent during the break. Two of the students reported that they would travel together with their moms, who would come over from the U.S.A. When I was an undergraduate and left school in 1974 to for a wanderjahre in Europe, I never would have dreamed of traveling with my mother; nor would any of the other hundreds of thousands of U.S. university students and fellow dropouts who’d come to Europe. Instead, you purchased a cheap Eurail train pass and membership in the International Youth Hostel Association. From the airport where you landed on your cheap trans-­‐Atlantic flight, you decided where to go first, hopped on a train (thereby activating the railpass), and you were sur la route like that for months and months, knocking up hostels, pensiones, cheap hotels, and sometimes ratholes, hoping for available space. I suspect my study-­‐abroad students traveled less by the seat of their pants. Swansea University’s travel staff advised them to begin booking their spring break plans in February. Several of them reported booking a succession of flights -­‐-­‐ European airlines offer reasonable fares for Continental destinations -­‐-­‐ and space in hostels (many of which today have gone upscale and often to families and older travelers as well as “yoots”) and inexpensive hotels. One makes these arrangements on line, where also one may access all kinds of “inside-­‐baseball” information -­‐-­‐ suggestions, warnings, recommendations, tips -­‐-­‐ at interactive travel sites. Marie and I booked our rental car, lodgings and train tickets, for two reasons. One, we only had so many days and we wanted to limit delays and make the most of our time. Two, travel by the seat of your pants just isn’t fun and romantic any more, now that I’m in my seventh decade of life. I have renounced some of the rough travel preferences that I used to favor, although ultimately, I still travel inexpensively … I haven’t completely sold out. For example, Marie and I had a “rough travel” experience just getting to Ireland. We left my Swansea apartment at 15 minutes before midnight for a two-­‐hour train journey to Fishguard port in North Pembrokeshire; crossed St. George’s Channel (between the Celtic and Irish Seas) by ferry to Rosslare, County Cork, departing at 2.45 a.m. and arriving at about 6.30 a.m. I booked the tickets by phone because I had a few questions. Such as: “Your website speaks of cabins on the ferry. The crossing is about four hours long. Do you recommend a cabin?” “Up to you,” replied the ferry company advisor, “but personally, I don’t think it’s worth it. You’ll not be just sitting on a ferry, mind; there is plenty to do during the crossing. Restaurant, bar. Wifi access. If you do decide you want a cabin, you can organize one after boarding. The cabins are never fully booked.” So I figured we could save about 35 pounds by not taking a cabin. Big mistake! No comfortable seats on the vessel. No wifi. Bad lighting throughout the boat. One set of restroom facilities, only semi-­‐operational. No food or drink except for a small canteen serving coffee, tea, soft drinks, cookies, stale-­‐looking croissants. Passengers who knew the drill lay down in the canteen’s booths, to nap. At 21 years old I would have thought of such an experience as fun. But at 61? Pretty grim. I found the sole member of staff on duty (other than the cashier at the canteen) and, ready to pay darn near anything for one, inquired about a cabin. “Fully booked,” he replied. We rented an automobile in Wexford, about 30 min. by bus from Rosslare Harbor. I had never driven a car in traffic that keeps to the left, which it does in Ireland. Marie served not only as a superlative navigator but my conscience, reminding me, “Keep to the left…left” before I would, say, turn right into the lane immediately to my right. Our little VW carried us throughout southern and western Ireland. Did you know that Ireland has become well-­‐respected for its cuisine? Neither did I. But we ate some magnificent meals there. Irish cookery hinges on local sourcing of ingredients. Lamb and beef usually comes from small local ranches, fish from rivers sometimes flowing near the restaurant, and vegetables from local gardens. Cooks usually grill meats and season with basic herbs and spices in perfect amount and balance. The side dish is often a platter of three or four nicely steamed or roasted fresh vegetables. At the last Irish B&B we stayed in before returning to the UK, breakfast consisted of eggs taken that morning from chickens in the backyard, bacon cut and smoked in town and toast made from bread baked in the kitchen that morning. We hiked throughout our days in Ireland and England. On a trail in the Dunloe Gap, Co. Kerry, Marie, who is extraordinarily observant, spotted on the side of the trail an antler shed by a young buck. She also noticed where the critter had apparently rubbed bark off a tree while trying to separate itself from the antler. She shipped the antler home, where it now rests on her buffet. What a cool souvenir…I hoped I might find the beast and rip the other antler from it, to put on my buffet! In York, England, we visited Britain’s National Railway Museum. I love trains and rail travel, so what a treat! Signage announced that one could see the locomotive and a coach from The Flying Scotsman -­‐-­‐ an iconic British train from “the Golden Age of travel” (and still operating in contemporary form), much as The Orient Express or the 20th Century Limited are also icons from that era. I asked a docent, named Bob, where I might find “the Scot.” He answered literally: “You’ll find her engine in Manchester, her wheels in Liverpool….She’s been dismantled for refurbishing. She’ll be back with us in about two years.” Bob then began to tell me everything one man could know about the Scot…how many trains went by that name, what kinds of trains they were, how many hours a journey on her required, and much more. After a ten-­‐minute recitation, Bob stopped to take a breath, enabling me to ask him if he was a retired railway man. No, he said, he loved trains and was a modeler as well. I told him I too had always loved trains, although I never could figure why I did. “I know why you love trains,” Bob grinned. He poked me gently in my chest. “It’s because somewhere inside you, there’s a little boy who never grew up.” Assuming I don’t grow up before I next visit York, I expect to see the Scot at the museum the next time I come through town. I hope Bob will be there to tell me more about her.