Trip in the UK 2010

Part I

Tuesday, April 20th

Sometimes dreams are extinguished by mean parents or corporations or governments or terrible dudes.  In my case, my dream of traveling to Italy’s Amalfi Coast was suffocated by a volcano so lame, it can only be compared to a geek that was the only person in his high school to play the triangle and when he tried out for his school band that desperately needed a triangle player, he still managed to get cut.

The ash cloud created by the eruption of the Icelandic volcano known as Eyjafjallajökull cancelled my fight to Italy and forced me to pursue other vacation possibilities.  Dear Iceland - We look to you for strong men champions, Björk albums and a place to visit after we’ve visited every other country in Europe.  We do not look to you to dirty the air like some huge Pig-Pen from the Peanuts.

Since I was already in London on a four-month comedy sojourn, I decided to rent a car and visit the Lake District in northern England, Wales and the lovely English city of Bath.

After picking up a small black Vauxhall auto from Hertz So Good, I drove north like a vagrant towards the Lake District.  Five and a half hours later, I was embedded deeply into the gorgeous landscape, complete with mountains and valleys and rivers.  The whole place was the perfect backdrop for a commercial about soap or bacon.

I pulled into my bed and breakfast called Greenbank Farm which was a fully operational sheep farm and boy did it smell like one if the wind hit you right.  It sat right at the base of a small mountain and spanned 3000 acres into neighboring valleys.  As I parked,  I was greeted by a pack of playful dogs.  As I exchanged niceties with them, I looked over at the barn.  Next to the barn and about 20 feet from my car I saw something I usually don’t see right outside the place I’m going to sleep for the night.  The thing I speak of was a dead fox. 

Being the “go with the flow” kind of guy that I am, I shrugged my shoulders and walked into the B&B where the congenial Beverly showed me to my room.  I cleaned my body, got dressed and stepped outside where I spoke briefly with Peter, Beverly’s husband and head farmer.  It quickly became clear to me that Peter was a member of the Nice Tribe like his wife.

I brought his attention to the dead fox and he said, “Oh yes, the fox.  I shot it.  We’ve actually killed 23 in the past 3 days.”  He continued to tell me that they kill a lot of his sheep and the reason there were so many foxes in the area is because people in suburban areas of Liverpool and Manchester will capture them and release them in the Lake District. 

As I stood there, I suddenly realized how long it had been since someone told me a problem they were having that I struggled to relate to as I did at that moment.  This inability to relate only intensified as he discussed the solution (shooting the foxes).  I would have gone about this problem a different way.  I would have collected all the foxes, taped my headshot to each of their faces and let them run wild through London in hopes that this promotional tactic might finally get me some acting work in the UK. 

Another thing I noticed was that one of the dogs peed on my car tire.  The weird thing is that every time I came out to my car to get something or go somewhere, there would be more pee on another tire (or the same tire).  I’m not sure why this happened.  I know that dogs mark their territory with their urine which leads me to believe that were planning on stealing my car at some point.  “Good luck” I thought, “Without opposable thumbs, you won’t be able to operate the manual shift or steering wheel, much less open the doors, you terds.”  As much as this futility amused me, it would have been best if they stopped whizzing on my wheels.

I walked up the road to the White Lion Pub where I had an average meal that I tried to resolve with a Snickers candy bar.  After eating and researching possible mountain hikes, I walked home, scribbled these words while listening to “Dinner Jazz with Helen Mayhew” on jazz fm, read Gulliver’s Travels and moved towards sleep.

Wednesday, April 21st

I awoke in the normal fashion and descended into the dining room where I enjoyed an effective Eglish breakfast and some chat with four people that were doing the coast-to-coast walk.  In case you didn’t capture the essence of this path’s agenda by the name, it involves a walk from one coast to another.  The walk can be done in about a week which is amazing to think about – to be able to walk from one side of your country to the other in a week.  To do this in the US, I would have to be really angry or chased by a horny alien (the outer space kind).

I finished my meal, bought a map and compass at the local store and made my way to the base of England’s highest peak, “Scafell Pike” in Seathwaite.  The weather was beautiful: light wind, temperature in the mid to upper 40’s, clear skies.  This was good because if there is any atmoshperic foolishness around, Scafell Pike can quickly become more nasty than an older teenaged sister that just had her last tube of Clearsil thrown out of the house into a foot of snow by her younger brother (this actually happened years ago - my brother Sean and Michelle were fighting one evening so he performed this dark task as my sister looked on in horror and screamed, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”).

And with a height of 978 meters, I was garaunteed a climb that would add to my already alarmingly high levels of guyhood.  But guyhood is like a date with a decadent lady – there’s always room for more.

On my way up, I met two nice gents named Steve and Paul.  In their 40’s, they had been friends since they were born and originally hailed from Brighton.  They also shared the same career of being software consultants and still made time to make trips together.  Now this may sound like an idyllic recipe for gay happiness (especially since Brighton is the gay capital of the UK…party!) but this was not the case for these two lady-pleasers.

As we climbed, they asked me several questions about comedy and I answered them.  Once on the top, a stunning 360-degree view of the Lake District and ocean was quickly delivered to us like a pizza.  And we ate it down, along with our lunches.  On our descent, we discussed language subtleties, politics, travel, ways for independent Uk contractors to legally avoid paying too much in taxes and quality science fiction matters.

And if this isn’t exciting enough, the scenery everywhere secured a front row seat in the brilliant theater show that is my memory.  We then made it back, said our goodbyes and I hit a pub for a meal and a beer.  Still hungry, I hit the White Lion again where I ordered another beer, a bowl of baked beans and a Snickers bar.  These combined contents in my possession made me the oddest person I know.

Finally satiated, I went back home, parked my car, looked at the dead fox that was still lying in the driveway, lost myself with more Dinner Jazz with Helen and prepared for slumber.

PART II