Wales - Day 2 (Part 4)

Have you ever had a moment in your life when you experienced something so spectacular that you felt as though your breath had been snatched from your chest? And all you can do is cry because you’re sure you have just passed on to another life and your tears mean, no, you’re still alive and what you are seeing is very real? Well, the beach in New Gale, caught me off guard. As we hiked, over the wall of hundreds of smooth stones, my gasps turned to tears. And when I looked through the lens of my camera, I determined that I had not perished and then immediately wondered how I could possibly capture the peace, the expansiveness, the OMG I am a mere pebble in this magnificent space, in a single shot.

We picked stones of deep purple, jet black, mottled white and mossy green, and stuffed our pockets full. So many smooth and interesting patterns were found that it was hard to pass on each one that we touched. But our pockets were tight and the sun was falling on the horizon, and we wanted to be back on the road to Cardigan before dark.

Wales - Day 2 (Part 3)

With Cardiff checked off of our list of places to see this week, we headed out of the city with Rick navigating through the wacky streets.

“Where the hell is A4?” questioned the driver with Chan his trusty, yet sometimes gappy co-pilot at this side.

Our plan for the day was to head west along the coast passing Carmarthen and Pembroke and, hopefully, reaching Glouchester by night. Rick said the landscape reminded him of New Zealand with flocks of sheep dotted on the hillsides like lice. Once off of the M4, a busier and main through fare, we continued onto A477 which was more connected to the countryside. An abandoned cemetery, forests with lanky moss and ivy covered trucks, stucco houses, the Sporting Chance Pub and Restaurant and then the Olde Mill Cafe which encouraged “Gotta stop at the Cafe. Eh, Rick, eh? in conjunction with a right elbow, elbow and then “Eh, Rick, eh?

After being on the road for just over 2 hours, we pulled over for a stretch. I took a few shots of some very woolly sheep on the side of the hill and Chan slid down the muddy slope to find somewhere private to pee. Ten paper towels to clean off his sneakers and smacks from the driver for getting them so bloody mucky, we were back in business and were aiming for the docks of Pembroke along the A477.
The sign read “Carew Castle ¼ miles” which resulted in “Oh, cool there it is!” from the boy and we all turned our heads and said, “Ooohhhhh!” And to no surprise, Rick noted the free parking lot. We all agreed that we couldn’t pass on this opportunity.
“It’s like a hot chick coming in to kiss you,” Chan explained as Rick parked our car. “And you slap her saying no, not going to happen.” So we filed out of the vehicle with the boys’ analogy pressed in our minds.

I just couldn’t take enough pictures of Carew Castle. It was vacant and a mere skeleton of what it used to be years and years ago, but still captivating and somewhat eerie. Chan stood on a podium in the empty court yard and in a British accent announced, “Today ladies and gentlemen we are going to have a hanging. Not necessarily because anybody did anything bad, just because we’re bored. Do I have any volunteers?” He pointed out into his make believe audience, “You sir, you in the front!” I chuckled and applauded and he jumped down from his stage and carried on with his exploration of the castle. It made me wonder if the ghosts were amused too.

Back on the road, Rick commented on how it felt to drive on the other side. “At first it’s strange and you’re thinking that this just isn’t right,” he explained to us. “But then you say okay, I know what I’m doing and then you have to switch back and it feels strange all over again.” When I asked Rick if he drove in New Zealand, he said he would rent a car once in a while but when he lived in Australia, he would regularly drive his girlfriend’s car. When Chan asked if she was hot, Rick said, “Not particularly. But she was a fabulous person.”

“Better than mom?” Chan quizzed.

“Not nearly,” Rick replied hesitantly.

I tapped my pen on my writing pad as the boys laughed and I commented that it wasn’t exactly a compliment but nor was it a dis either. Nice going, Romeo, I added.

We continued on the A437 and we kept our eyes peeled for the ocean. When it popped into view from behind a knoll, just passed a town called Roch, Chan gasped, “Awesome. Fantastic, Rick.” Despite the fact that the road was so narrow, we still managed to find a place to pull over to get a better look. Chan hugged Rick out of excitement which resulted in Rick telling Chan to watch it, watch it as his left shoulder was sore today.

Wales - Day 2 (Part 2)

So with the 65 pounds back in our pockets, we decided to go for the all-you-can-eat buffet breakfast. Since the boy was still classified as a child, we chowed down on sausage, beans, bacon, toast, the works essentially, to fill our boots for the journey ahead, and we only had to pay for 2 adults.

After saying good bye to the hotel with the faulty smoke detectors, we stood in line at the Dr. Who exhibit, along with about 20 other pathetic fans, waiting for the doors to open at 10:00 am. Once inside, we saw costumes from episodes, moving and talking Dalek, the Tartis, the Ood, Donna Noble’s face in the stone statue from the library episode and David’s trench coat and trainers (yes, I did touch this, by the way, even though the sign said not to).

However, we seemed to almost enjoy the souvenir shop more. I snagged a pencil case with the Tartis pasted on the front and it is now probably the best makeup bag a girl could have as it is sturdy, waterproof, and well, has the Tartis on it. Rick kept eyeing a remote control Dalek. Chan was happy just to peruse the place and didn’t really want anything. Probably because we were such big kids there that he didn’t want to steal our thunder.

“How am I going to get that home,” Rick said, standing next to the box that was about 15”x 10”x 6”. And he didn’t mean Dartford. He would look at figurines, books, and plates but he was really infatuated with the Dalek. He was about to leave the shop only with the tie that he had finally settled on, when I asked if he wanted the toy for his birthday, which was the next day. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think he would really take me up on my offer. Instead, my suggestion made his eyes light up, he grinned and said, “Sure, honey that would be great.”

When I finished paying for his gift, I turned to both of the boys and chimed, “Here you go, honey. Happy Birthday” and then I passed the large package and passed it to Rick. I looked at a guy standing next to me and remarked, “I bet you thought it was for him, eh?” pointing to Chan. And we all laughed except for the humiliated teenager that replied, “Yeh, moom. It’s for me!”

With our Dr. Who fix pacified and the Dalek safely packed in the rental car, we strolled around Cardiff Bay. Now this is what we find fascinating. Not another Primark and busy streets with strollers and smoking mothers yapping at their band of dirty-faced youngsters. Instead the bay offered an array of cafes and restaurants, lovely views of the water, and civilized families taking in the sites.

What really caught my eye was a single concrete structure at least 100 feet tall that could have been nothing more than an oversized rectangle. It was softened by the water that clung to its exterior and flowed to the base from the peak and repeated the cycle so that the foot of the waterfall was merely damp. We took a photo of Channing with it flowing and glistening in the background. So pretty.

We all agreed that Cardiff was picturesque because of its interesting architecture which was a marriage of old with new. It reminded me of Vancouver where Terry and Andria, Rick’s brother and his wife, live on a harbour. They were modern buildings with a combination of brick, stone, and timber. Quite earthy yet sleek and dynamic.

Wales - Day 2 (Part 1)

6:45 am came abruptly as the smoke alarm jolted us out of our slumber. A dazed Rick struggled to find a light switch and was just about to hop onto our bed to try and deactivate the blaring Boop...OMG Boop...Bloody heck Boop, when it suddenly stopped as oddly as it had began. Chan groaned and yanked the duvet over his head, and Rick slumped back onto the bed and we were all wondering what the hell had just hit us.

“So much for sleeping in,” I said remaining under the warm covers. “We need to call the front desk and complain.”

Funny thing is last night when we checked in the gal gave us a card and said they have a goodnight guarantee. I pictured a bunch of marketing guys trying to come up with promotional ideas for the Premier Inn. After ditching the “if your towels smell like burnt paper, you get an extra facecloth for free” and the “if the hand soap is so small it washes down the drain before you had chance to wipe your knees” then some young buckshot blurts out the “you sleep or we’re in deep” concept and voila brochures are printed by the thousands. Then along came the Robbins-Teather clan (more Teather than Robbins, when it comes to outspokenness, really) Anyway, pretty sure they are going to rethink their policy after Rick was done with the manager. The offer of a free breakfast was not enough to pacify this bleary-eyed your policy is your policy customer and a refund on my credit card was promptly issued.

When Rick returned and told us how the conversation with the suited fellow went, I actually felt sorry for the employee. He was probably thinking, cool, gotta job managing a brand new hotel. What could customers possibly complain about?

“It most certainly was not the phone that woke us up,” clarified Rick when the manager struggled with the concept that a fire alarm would engage without well, a fire (smoke actually). And Rick continued, “Does the phone sound like this?” And in his loudest voice (and anyone that knows Rick knows what loud truly means) made the sound of the alarm that snapped us out of bed. “Boop...Boop...Boop!” he called out in the hotel lobby at 7 am. Nope, free breakfast was not gonna cut it.

Back to the drawing board, buckshot.

Wales - Day 1 (Part 2)

Bristol was disappointing. It was more modern than we had expected. Not a quaint and historical English town that we tend to gravitate towards. Although, we stopped at a Premier Inn to check out the rooms, the price was good at 65 pounds but were just weren’t feeling excited and decided to move on. We had Bath in mind, but navigating through England, as we have learned is tricky. Streets are not clearly marked and one streets turns into another in a flash. So instead of heading south to Bath, we ended up heading north, from where we first came into Bristol and in a fit of frustration for missing the signs, Rick made the call to carry on to Cardiff. We were heading there anyway.

Getting to Cardiff didn’t involve taking a ferry after all. Instead we crossed a long bridge that curved like a smile along the bay. Once in the city we found another Premier Inn just on the outskirts. They were all booked up but they did have rooms at their downtown location, which opened only two weeks ago. I like the sound of that. No old and lumpy mattresses to endure. I am sadly the Princess and the Pea when it comes to sleeping on a less than comfortable bed. Before going ahead and booking the first place that was available, we decided to get some supper at the restaurant next door and boot up Channing’s computer to search for other options. After a couple of phone calls, we liked the Premier Inn even more as the other places were charging upwards of 90 pounds per night.

Trying to land a parking spot on the downtown street, however, entailed circling the block at least 3 times while incorporating cutting over a curb, travelling in a bus lane, pulling into a spot that is marked for taxi’s only, and Rick telling “Buddy” to get off his tail, before scoring a space in front of the hotel. Keep in mind that there was a parking lot that was easily accessible from the hotel but that would have cost us 10 pounds and the street parking was free overnight and about 3 pounds for half a day. What can I say? Rick is thrifty.

We hit the sack early and hoped for bit of a sleep in as our plan for Tuesday was to get to the Dr. Who exhibition when it opened at 10 am.

Wales - Day 1

If there was ever a time to puke, now would be it. We are on the M25 heading to Wales for a few days for half term break. Not sure what the speed limit is but haven’t seen a sign. I’m trying not to feel frantic but this is Rick’s first time behind the wheel, our first time in a car, here in the UK, on the other side, you know. Rick doesn’t show any signs of nervousness, with Chan as his co-pilot and me, well, twirling my hair in the back. Chan scans the map and he and Rick discuss the route. I try to take in the scenery but my eyes keep returning to the road as other cars dodge in front or speed past us on the left. The right, I mean the right.
“Oh, look the hills of Kent,” Rick chimes. “I figure if you can drive on the 401, you can do the M25. Well, Chan, we will have to rent a car in Germany and do the Autobahn.”

Boy replies, “Yes, we are so doing that. Rent a Beemer. No speed limit. Sweet”!
Yep, puking is most certainly in order.
Chan cranks the stereo and Lily Allen sings out.
“Too loud, Chan,” I snap. “Let’s have quiet time for a bit.”
“It doesn’t take long to get up to 75,” Rick notes. “Now is that miles or kilometres? Only problem with going 70 is that it uses more gas and we’re already down.” For heaven’s sake, I thought, we’ve only been on the road 15 minutes. “Where does the A22 go, Chan?” Chan scans the map but a road sign pops up and says Eastbourne and Tunbridge Wells. A van cuts across. “Hey, thanks buddy!” Rick says to him.

The landscape is quite hilly here with farms scattered along the way. I remember as a girl flying over England and the patchwork quilt of light and darker greens and how neatly the pieces fit together. “This guy in the McNichol’s van keeps passing me then slowing down, “Rick says bringing me back to today’s journey. “Drivers are the same everywhere.”

Other than the fact that things are dryer and greener, we could be somewhere in Ontario. It looks very much like driving on the 401 near Colborne. The unusual makes of cars and the signs to Gatwick remind me, however, that we are in fact in England, after all.

“There’s the cut off to Leatherhead, Chan,” Rick pipes up. “Check this town - Dorking, I love it. I wonder what they do there for fun?” he adds.

“Dorking around,” Chan replies.

“I bet you a bunch of dorks live there,” Rick jokes.

Gee, am I glad I have to sit in the back seat while the two dorks in the front seat battle it out for King Dork.

“The J12 for the M3,” Rick thoughts turn to where we really should be going instead of Dorkville. “Do you see that on the map, Chan?” Then a vehicle zooms past us and 2 seconds later a sports car with blue flashing lights pursues. A police car is on a mission and we still can’t see any speed limit signs.

I feel myself starting to step down a couple of rungs on the ladder, but Chan struggles to find Basingstoke on our map when Rick calls it out. “Find Basingstoke or Richmond,” the driver requests as an exit approaches and the tension rises and directions are needed from his trusty navigator.

Instead Chan blurts, “Bracknell, Bracknell, Bracknell!” which is not the highway number Rick needs. But we still scoot off the M25 towards Staines and end up on the M3 West which is exactly what we want. Then Rick lectures Chan and tells him that repeating the town doesn’t help. He needs to listen to what Rick was asking and we cruise along the M3. The rental car tends to veer to the left and sometimes Rick rides the line and comes awfully close to the vehicles that pass on this side. “Easy, Rick.” a hesitant co-pilot warns.

We manage to navigate towards Bracknell, Bracknell, Bracknell and Rick yells out, “Bagshot! Owww, that’s gotta hurt!” Now I see why the Brits give their towns such crazy names. It’s to amuse the men in the world. As we pass through Bracknell forest, Rick shifts gears and brags, “We got the hang of this. We are in Bracknell forest, honey. Hope you are taking this all in. Chances are we’ll never be here again.” Does this mean I’ll have to live without Dorking, Bagshot, and Bracknell, Bracknell, Bracknell? Pity!

The wipers smear across the windshield. “Rain in England? No!” says Chan in a sarcastic tone, and he calls out the A329 to Rick as we zoom in the roundabout.

“What do you think, honey, just like I’ve been driving around England all my life, eh?” Rain comes harder now. And Rick continues, “Well, it’s nice to be in a car and we don’t have to get out and catch a bus or train. We are here and it’s nice and dry.”

Rick speeds up and passes “the world’s oldest woman” and a sign says Bristol 81 and the driver informs us that “it will be right on this highway so we can just settle in”.

Every so often I have to remind myself that we are in England, really living in England. Rick points out the ponies in a field. “I wanna ride the pony,” I tell him and Chan tucks the map away and plugs into his Ipod.
“Bristol’s supposed to be a real nice place,” Rick tells me.

“Oh, good,” I reply.

We come upon a monstrous wind generator which had Ecotricity written on its massive concrete base. Huge blades rotated slowly, scooping through the air. Chan noticed a bird flying towards the blades and he was sure it was just about to get dinged. Oops, nope, okay and he retracts his head back from the window feeling relieved that the bird avoided being creamed.

A lovely expanse of countryside opens up. “This is nice. No houses. Just countryside,” remarks Rick. “So honey, do you want to stay overnight downtown Bristol or do you want to carry on to Cardiff?” and I ask how much farther away Cardiff is from Bristol. Only about 20-30 miles, he tells me. We decide to check out Bristol first. Going to Cardiff, from what Rick understood, most likely involved a ferry and we don’t want to do that in the dark. Rick hums and yawns and I can tell he is happy to be on the road.

“Looks a little like home around here, eh, hon?” Rick asks me. “Kind of like Cobourg.” I agree saying I just wrote about that and I try to think less about puking and more about the sights along the way.

Character Development

Well, it’s Wednesday evening and we just finished having a traditional English meal of fish, chips and peas. Chan is working on homework, listening to music, and most likely checking Facebook and Rick is telling us about his encounters with his most interesting students. Today, in fact, one of his most hum, hum needy students actually brought him a Dr. Phil book that he is reading in an attempt to understand why Rick “didn’t like him”. He actually went through all of the points that would identify if he was in fact an annoying individual and he tried to convince Mr. Teather that he did not meet the criteria. Bad choice, young man, is all I can say. Very bad choice.

So, I have also been thinking about doing some short stories around characters that I encounter on the trains. There is no shortage of strange and wonderful things that happen during my morning commute and here's a sample.

There’s the silent business type that avoids eye contact with fellow passengers and either buries his or her head into the Metro newspaper or their Blackberry. They are quiet and reserved and even if there is a ruckus of impatient travellers pushing and cursing at one another because of overcrowding, they never flinch. They are like robots, really. Must check email, must read news, must get off train and head to office, must not stop. Exterminate, exterminate. If only they were as engaging as The Doctor.

Then there are the groomers. These are ladies that enjoy making a public display of themselves by either doing their makeup (now I am not just talking powdering their noses either, they are applying the entire gamut) and/or their hair. I have to say that when I women sits next to me and she pulls out her makeup bag busting with an assortment of powders, blushes, mascaras, lipstick, and oversized brushes, I start to squirm. I often wonder how it makes a man feel, if it makes me squeamish.

The third type of passenger that sticks out to me is the cell phone junkie. Their biggest fear is leaving their phones idle in their hands for an extended period of time. They have to call someone, anyone, to say someone or nothing and no matter how personal the conversation may become, fellow passengers will have the pleasure of listening to it. Why just the other day, I had to endure a woman explaining to the doctor how she yes indeed does clean her ears out, and another giving full names to a client (hope one of them wasn’t on that train), and yet another talking about her custody battle and her visits to the lawyers. Why, oh, why do you want a train full of strangers hearing these things?

So traveller four is the music enthusiast. The difference with these avid music fans on the trains from say maybe you or me, is that they assume that the rest of the world enjoys the same kind of stuff they are listening too. So much so that they have to play it at a volume that gives other commuters no choice but to listen to it line by line, bar by bar, chord by chord, bloody friggen beat by beat.

Interestingly enough, I think I have a solution for this dilemma. What if I made like I really dug the song that was blaring from the music enthusiast's head and I just got up and started boogying? Man, I wish I brought the taps shoes. Would the silent business type stop scanning the Blackberry? Would the Avon lady lay down her mascara? And would the cell phone junkie tell their caller to call back?