Scotland's Second-best beverage*

* subject to hotly contested debate of course, but I have to stand by my newest love, Irn Bru.

Before we embarked on our epic whisky adventure around Scotland, or more specifically, Islay, I only knew a couple of things about scotch. One, scotch whisky is spelled WITHOUT an E but Irish whiskey is spelled WITH an E (I am a spelling fanatic and this drove me crazy until I knew the truth). And two, I couldn't really stand the taste of it. Sometimes, even the smell made me gag. Case in point:
Me: *sniffing* Do you think Ted rolled in something outside? Did you take your shoes off?"
Matt: "Uhm, no, why?"
Me: Something's weird...I smell feet...or something...
Matt: Is it this? (proferring his dram of something pale and oily)
Me: Argh! Stinky feet in a glass! How can you drink that?

Don't get me wrong, I tried to like it...I tasted and sampled and tried it with water, with ice, in tiny sips, in big gulps, and usually with the same result: wrinkled nose, squinty eyes, suppressed gag, sputtering cough. Oh, I also knew that the whiskies that Matt liked best were from this place called Islay and it had something to do with the peat. But I was pretty sure that peat was like dirt and it wasn't right to be eating or drinking something laced with dirt. Unless you're a silly weenie dog, in which case it's still not right, but I digress. I did learn to discern different tastes of whisky, and I could name certain points of them, like band-aid, bile, motor oil, firey, tar. Apparently those are my words, not sure they're something the distilleries like to advertise.

But when on Islay...whisky is a way of life there, and the main reason we'd crossed Scotland by car and ferry, so of course I wanted to check out the distillery tours although I'd already promised my complimentary drams to Matt. And do you know, that the process of making whisky was pretty darn interesting? It's also pretty complicated and it took a couple of tours before I put it together in my head but now I feel nearly ready to open my own wee distillery. Does anyone know if there are any peat bogs around here?

Since I might just about be the most knowledgeable whisky un-drinker out there, I'm going to try to tell you how they make this stuff:

First, one must malt the barley in water in order to release the sugars. It's then spread out over the floor to encourage germination, and its gently smoked. Here's the primary difference between Islay whiskies and almost all others: The barley is smoked over a peat fire, which lends it the peaty or smoky flavors. For most other whiskies, the barley is heated by blowing hot air above and below it, minus the peat (this is the kind that I like. No dirt for me.) Only a few distilleries malt and smoke their own barley anymore, and on Islay most of the barley is malted at the huge Port Ellen Maltings plant. Each distillery specifies the type and amount of barley, and somehow they specify how "peaty" their malting will be. Peatiness in whisky is measured by ppm phenol, and can range from 3 ppm (Bruichladdich, you are tasty) to 160 ppm (Ardbeg, your wee doggie mascot is so cute but your whisky makes me gag).

The malted barley is then ground through the mill which separates it into three parts: the flour (the inside of the seed), the husk, and the seed. The outcome of the grinding is called the grist. The amount proportion of grist that is husk, seed, and flour is determined by the mill and is slightly different for each distillery.

The grist is then washed. Most distilleries wash it three times: the first wash is around 69 degrees C, this runoff water has the most flavor and peatiness. The second wash is hotter but contains less water, this is done to make sure all the deliciousness is extracted from the grist. The second wash is added to the first water. Then just to make for absolutely certain no tastiness was left in that grist, a third even hotter wash is done. The water from this wash is re-used to be the first water for the next batch.

The washes then go into huge huge barrels and the yeast is added to them...this is plain boring flavorless yeast, not brewers' yeast for beer. The yeast germinates and carbon dioxide is released creating all kinds of warmth and bubbly foam and if you're a sucker they'll let you taste this concoction on your distillery tour. It's just kinda like warm flat
hop-less beer however.

After the yeasts have been bubbling and partying in their barley baths, the whole mixture gets send into still #1. Stills are also specific to each distillery, their shape determines how much and how fast the alcohol is distilled. This process is still a bit murky to me, but as far as I can tell the still is heated up until the alchohol becomes a vapor which rises to the top then falls down the spout of the still where it is condensed by big cooling condensers.



This happens a couple of times because the first alcohol bit is apparently sort of poisony, like methanol or something, it's called the feint. Finally the alcohol spirit that is condensed is juuuust right, or 43% alcohol as required by law in Scotland. And it shouldn't poison you either.

THEN the spirit is put into the cask.
This is usually a used bourbon cask from the US. Each bourbon cask holds 250 liters and costs around 250 pounds. Sometimes sherry casks from France are used, these cost around 700 pounds. The oak and the flavors that are left in the wood are drawn out and are what gives the whisky its color. And THEN you wait...for at least 3 years, usually more...maybe 12, maybe 18. Sometimes the spirit will be moved to another cask for finishing, this can be anything from a rum cask to a wine cask. On Islay, the casks are aged in open-air stone buildings. Apparently the relatively mild and damp climate is perfect for the whisky, and only .6 % is lost to "angel's share" as opposed to the usual 2%.

And THAT is all I know about whisky now. I still don't really like it, but I am finding more kinds that I can tolerate and even appreciate it a bit. Just no peat, thank you very much. It's still just dirt to me.

Home again, home again jiggity jig...

And then...it was all over and we are home again. Home to piles of bills, unwashed laundry, dust bunnies forming organized rebellions, the looming threat of going back to work and all that entails. But of course, all the good things outweigh ickies: like happy happy wiggly weenie dogs, my warm comfortable bed, Pagliacci pizza, my friends and family, etc yaddy yaddah.

Yesterday was one of the longest days of my life...starting at 4am GMT when the click-wheel of Matt's ipod woke me up, to the four-hour wait in Heathrow, to the two-hour wait on the runway, to the 9.5 hour flight...but I actually made it through immigration and customs this time without extra questioning and I didn't have my little tirade and breakdown until AFTER I'd made it through.

I have more bloggy travel updates, I'm going to tell you all that I know now about making whisky and then about our adventures in Edinburgh. But first, laundry, grocery shopping, dog walking, lather rinse repeat.

Islay, days 9 & 10 (Wednesday, Thursday)

I keep meaning to write this Islay post, but for some reason it's harder than I anticipated. I want to do it justice without being overwrought and cliched, I want to convey the peacefulness and solitude of being on the island, the beauty and timelessness of it. I haven't quite figured out how to do that with words, so I'm just going to post some photos for you and hope they come close.

Our first full day on Islay started with breakfast in the hotel, and of course I had to try the full Scottish breakfast. It was delicious, even the black pudding was pretty tasty on toast with tomatoes, but I had a hard time getting past what it was. No matter how you cook or prepare it, congealed blood is always going to look like what it is. We then popped the Scottish bagpipe Celtic music CD into the Vauxhall's stereo and headed off across the island for the Laphroaig distillery. We (don't want to blame you specifically, sweetie) made a scheduling mistake and we ended up missing our scheduled tour, but we looked around and took some photos and I wrinkled up my nose at the smell of burning peat.


Driving across Islay, navigating the narrow windy lanes and keeping my eyes peeled for sheep near or on the road, its apparent that its definitely another world, of another time. The tiny island is at least 60 miles from any Starbucks or McDonald's. There is a comforting sense of timelessness, and a secure knowledge that there never will be a Starbucks there. Sheep dot the hills and valleys, interspersed with big fat happy cows, and there are a few stone walls and fences but for the most part they roam back and forth across their fields and the roads searching for the tastiest grass in between their naps. The sea is never far from view, and the weather constantly changes from biting squall to warm golden sunshine and fluffy clouds, gentle breezes to gusting winds. When the clouds and fog shift and you are facing eastward, you can see the mountains ("paps") of neighboring island Jura, their bronze summits usually covered by clouds. Time dilates, the rhythms of life are dictated by the seasons and the weather and not by television schedules or timeclocks.

As you pass another driver on the road, you must give a little wave...this tradition tickled me. There is definitely no road rage on Islay. Islay is the perfect antidote to the oversaturation and chaos of London.







Ifound a photo book in the lounge of our hotel, showing photos of the island from the early 20th and today. The only difference was that most of the stone buildings have now been stuccoed and whitewashed to protect them from the sea air, and the cars on the road look a bit more modern.


It's a peaceful and constant island...and I could definitely picture myself living there. There is even a tiny hospital and clinic...and they need nurses everywhere, right? I'd only need the job until I could support myself full-time with my sheep farm and pony-trekking business... It's easy to forget the rest of the world and other troubles there. I think I could learn to do without my Pagliacci's delivery if I woke up to that view of the sea and the paps of Jura every morning.

Now I just need a sturdy pair of wellies.

Glasgow to Islay, Day 8 (Tuesday)

Glasgow was a welcome relief from the chaos and hustle of London. Tuesday morning the clouds mostly cleared away and we even had some blue sky. The city center of Glasgow is compact and small, and well-laid out on wide, gridded streets. We only had a few hours before we started our drive out to the island, so the only thing I wanted to do was see the famous Glasgow School of Art building, designed by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. I have always loved and admired his work and design, and was excited to be in his city. After admiring the building and dropping some pounds in the gift shop, we strolled a bit through the city. Glasgow seemed fairly quiet, and the streets were lined with some amazing examples of Victorian architecture.


Around noon we left the city in our trusty Vauxhall Corsa and headed north along Loch Lomond for the western-most reaches of Scotland, where we would catch our ferry to Islay. The road skirted the shores of Loch Lomond for at least an hour, and around every twist and turn in the road was another breathtaking site of mountains, hills, or loch. We stopped a couple of times to take photos, stopped in wee village called Lochgilphead for lunch, and stopped at Inveraray Castle. We weren't much in the mood for castle touring though, so I took a photo of the outside of it then was much more taken with the black highland coos (Scottish for cow) in a nearby field.

We made it to our ferry dock in about 3.5 hours, where we had to wait for a couple of hours for the ferry. We boarded just as the sun was setting and two hours later docked in Port Ellen, Islay. Matt couldn't wait to start the whisky pilgrimage so he had to have a dram of the "Whisky of the month" as offered in the ferry bar. We were going to miss dinner at our hotel due to the late hour, so we stumbled across a dodgy Indian place on the way there and got takeaway. We drove along the coast and between dark fields and pastures to our hotel, and I was excited that in the morning we'd wake up in a completely new place that we'd not yet seen since it was so dark and rainy on our way in. Once safely checked into our hotel, we picnicked on the floor on our takeaway curry and watched a television show starring Alan Cumming ("My favorite gay Scotsman!" exclaimed Matt...uhm, I like him a lot too but haven't yet gotten around the ranking the gay Scotmen I know) discussing Scottish films, with a focus on The Wickerman, one of Matt's favorite movies. The coincidence was delicious and more than enough to make up for the dodgy curry.

Random musings

I interrupt this cheerful and informative travel blog to bring you some snarky thoughts about my fellow travelers...I'm sure you've been wondering when I would include these thoughts, you didn't think I'd left my snark behind in Seattle, did you?

On the ferry to Islay, as we attempted to relax in the ferry bar lounge, we noticed a large group of about eight middle-aged white guys, being rather jovial and noisy, and judging by their alcohol intake the situation only promised to get noisier and more obnoxious. Not the mention the really pleasant habit several of them had of breaking into a loud, wet hacking cough following each laughing fit. The gabbered away to each other, apparently telling some of funniest stories ever told on a ferry EVER. At first Matt thought they might just have really thick unintelligible Scottish accents or even be speaking Gaelic, but as I listened closer, I realized with a sinking feeling that they were Dutch. (Sorry, Danae, you are awesome and I'm sure they are NO relation to you). Now, the Dutch in general are fairly benign and of course we all claim to love Amsterdam and its "entertainment," canals are charming, and we all adore Anne Frank. Since they lost control of world domination via the spice trade routes in the 15th century no one has had much to say about them. I mean, apparently we grow all their tulips in Mount Vernon and then ship them over there. But on Jodi's and my cruise down the Nile last October, a very large and obnoxious and tour group dominated the ship...and they were Dutch. So it's fair to say my impression of these boisterous Dutch dudes was colored by that experience. But as I like to remind people, stereotypes are simply time-savers. Anyway, they drank more and more during the 2.5 hour ride and got louder and even funnier (to each other, of course) and we just cringed and I tried to reassure Matt that our hotel probably wasn't big enough for all these Dutch. Fortunately, they stayed somewhere in Bowmore and the only other time we saw them on the island was when their van left Bruichladdich distillery just as we were entering...can you say "phew!?" We spotted them again on the ferry back to the mainland on Friday morning but avoided them in the cafe and just hoped they were all hungover enough to behave themselves. One of the distillery tour guides explained that the Scandinavians, Icelanders, and Dutch apparently just LOVE the peaty/smoky whisky from Islay, and some intrepid fellows have tried starting similar distilleries in their home countries. However, Islay won't export its precious peat ANYWHERE...so they resorted to breaking down old Islay scotch casks and burning those to malt the barley in order to get whatever "smoky" taste they could from it. Interesting.

We thought we were in the clear at Bruichladdich, but as we waited for our tour in the gift shop we couldn't help but notice a woman loudly chatting with the shopkeeper about how she' d love to get her hands on a few of those "really cool special tumblers" to complete her collection. The shopkeeper said he'd go check in the storeroom for her, and she replied, "Okay! Well, I'll be waiting right here! You can't miss me, I'm the American in the bright yellow raincoat!" Ah, restating the obvious. You can't blame Americans for doing what they're best at. Then she chuckled. Loudly. I would have noted that you can't miss her because she's the only one on the island wearing tight spandex cycling pants, but whatever. She also bore a striking resemblance to my arch nemesis and neighbor Lydia, so I'm going to call her East Coast Lydia from now on. She and her husband cheerfully announced that they were from Philadelphia, and as the tour went on we strained to learn more about the distillation process of whisky but somehow we learned more about how Mr. and Mrs. ECL. They had embarked on a bicycling tour around Scotland, but found biking in Scotland to be "trickier" that they had planned on. I'm not sure what's tricky about trying to bike on narrow one, maybe two-, lane roads with no shoulders or guardrails, and competing with huge logging lorries and coach buses for share of the road, but whatever. Apparently centuries ago when these roads emerged through the highlands planners failed in include bike lanes. Go figure, I'd have been shocked too. So Mr. and Mrs. ECL "cheated" (their words) by hiring a car to drive part of the way, and their disappointment in not getting a Subaru was palpable. They eventually cornered a poor unsuspecting fellow from California at the tasting part of the tour, and we could hear them telling him at length about their absolutely amazing bikes and their biking histories. I have found that a consistent trait of these biking/hiking/outdoorsy enthusiasts is that they usually have nothing else to talk about besides biking/hiking/outdoorsiness. Case in point, Mr. and Mrs. ECL find themselves on a gorgeous remote Scottish island drinking rare expensive whisky but all they can find to talk about are their pedals and spokes and elevation climbs and other items of various self-importance. We spotted them again on our ferry Friday morning, but at least this time they had both deigned to dress in actual clothing for the journey rather than grace us with their spandex glory.

Glasgow, Day 7 (Monday)

We sadly said goodbye to Elly on Monday morning and headed off to the York train station to return the stinky diesel Passat and catch our train to Glasgow. It was a direct train, with just three stops, and only four hours. Have I mentioned before how much I love train travel? No customs, no baggage claim, no waiting in the terminal for hours...just show up, find your platform, and get on. Then get off. The end! We were in the quiet coach again, which was mostly very nice. No amount of scowly glares seemed to convey to the baby two rows back that this was the quiet coach and not the cute and drooly coach. Cuteness does not cancel out squawkiness in my book. I guess that's why iPods were made.

And then we were in Scotland! Aye! This was my first time to Glasgow so I was excited to see a new city. Scottish weather greeted us the minute we got off the train at Glasgow Central...windy, rainy, chilly. We checked into our hotel...our "splurge" for this trip, the Malmaison Hotel, a boutique hotel in a stunning converted church. We had a duplex suite, and a whisky tasting was included, what more could we want? We were tired from day of traveling so once we picked up our wee rental car stayed in to take full advantage of our lovely hotel and bar.

I'll share an important lesson about whisky tastings with you: When the bartender offers to let you try three whiskeys, you should consider that this is actually equivalent to 6 drams of whisky in about 20 minutes (when one of the two tasters simply takes a teensy sip of her drams).
I'm not telling tales or naming names, I'm just sayin'... Anyway, our grass-fed Ayreshire burgers were fantastic after the tasting, even better in room service than it would have been sitting in the bar and eating.

Yorkshire, Day 6 (Sunday)

According the BBC Weather prediction, Sunday was to be a bit cooler and cloudier than Saturday was, with a few showers. So, of course the day dawned with crisp clear bright blue skies, fluffy white clouds, and not a hint of rain anywhere in site. It ended up being the most beautiful day we've had on this trip so far. So much for BBC Weather.

We visited Castle Howard, a 300-year old estate and mansion house in North Yorkshire. The house and furnishings were exquisite, and it's the site where both versions of Brideshead Revisited were filmed, if you are enough of an anglophile (I am!) to be excited by that. The one odd bit about the house was that amongst the classic old Chippendale furniture, ancient Greek and Roman sculpture, Rubens and landscape paintings, modern-day photos of the children who currently live in the house were displayed. There's something about a glossy 8 x 10 of young Merlin or his sister Octavia doing a cannonball into a hotel pool that distracts from the historial grandeur of the mansion. But I digress. I was tickled by the "Labrador Welfare" tent on the ground of the house. In the states they would probably have a "Feed the Children" charity tent erected, but here in Yorkshire, the fate of homeless Labrador retrievers is a much more pressing concern. Did I mention how I feel so much more at home on this side of the pond?



After lunch in the stable-yard cafe at Castle Howard, we set off across the Yorkshire Moors for Rievaulx Abbey. Set deep in the picturesque valley of the River Rye and surrounded by hedgerows, grazing sheep, and thatched cottages, it was so far the most beautiful and serene place we had visited. The Abbey and the monastery were in ruins, but that only made them more breathtaking. We scrambled over the ruins for a while, snarked at Russian tourists taking fashionista-posed photos, then headed back to York for a bit of a rest before our Indian feast.

Yorkshire, Day 5 (Saturday)

I'd like to say it was my stellar planning and forethought, but we arrived in York on the only train that made it on time from London that evening, thanks to the person who chucked it all in and ended it on the London-York train line. But it was really just dumb luck, and our train happened to be the cheapest at the time of the booking. Anyway, we easily found a taxi and showed up at Elly's house...a twee Victorian-era terraced brick house. Jo and Elly greeted us with mugs of tea, we flopped on the couch, and ordered pizza. It was a relief to be in a house with friends rather than a small hotel room.

Saturday morning we were off to York city center to pick up our rental -- erm, hire -- car, then to explore the city. First stop, my favorite cathedral ever, Yorkminster Cathedral, and that's saying a lot from a girl who avoids churches and any mention of g*d. I'd promised Matt that it would be more impressive than Westminster Abbey, and he agreed. There's something about the light through its windows and the soaring height and openness of the ceiling that is more peaceful and gothically breathtaking.


The steps to the top of the cathedral had never been open during my previous visits, so we decided to make the climb. Despite the hilarious (sorry, Jo!) story of Jo's paralyzing fear of heights angering the tour leader and the signs warning us to stay down if we suffered any tiny little hint of any kind of health issue, we joined the next group going up. The narrow stone winding staircase opened up to path across the roof about halfway up, which I didn't realize, so at this point I breathed a sigh of relief and started snapping pictures of the view below..."Ah! That wasn't too bad. 275 steps? Piffle!" Then Matt nudged me ahead and through another door, and lo, there were the remaining half of the steps to the top. Even narrower and windier. But anyway, we made it, took the photos, then wound our way down.

We explored the narrow Tudor and Victorian shopping streets of York, "oohing and aahing" over centuries-old cobblestoned alleys and stucco/tudor buildings that were sagging and crooked from age. We had tasty sandwiches in Swinegate at a place called Piglets, then headed back to our car for a trip into the Yorkshire countryside. But first, Matt happened across the birthplace of one of York's infamous Guy Fawkes, which completed his impromptu 48-hour tour of the life of Guy Fawkes, from the site in the Tower of London where he was hung, drawn and quartered, to his birthplace on a humble cobbled street in old roman York.

After apologizing profusely for the smell of the car and realizing that the gear I had believed to be first was actually third (you can imagine the hilarity that ensued. Uhm, it will be hilarious tomorrow when the smell and cloud of blue exhaust has faded from memory) we were smoothly on our way to Scarborough. I didn't have too much trouble driving on the other side of the road...to be honest, it's easier than trying to navigate the crowded sidewalks of London because at least the roadways have lines and you just kinda follow the other cars. Mostly. Heh. Just gotta pay attention to those right turns.

Scarborough the city is a seaside resort, and like most British seaside towns it's gaudy and bright and tacky and depressingly decaying between the cracks. They all had their heyday in the Victorian era but once Brits started going abroad for their hols, these places lost their allure. We avoided the main touristy drag of the city and headed up a steep hill (more steps? more climbing? srsly?!) towards Scarborough castle. It was built in the 12th century to protect against Viking invaders and is of course strategically located high atop the cliffs overlooking the North Sea. Cliffs and sea aside, the steep climb to the top would be enough to deter me from invading. Perhaps I would not have made a successful invader. A moany and whiny one, definitely. The castle was mostly in ruins, but I loved the views of the sea and the surrounding town, and it was eerily quiet and still atop the cliff.


After the castle...as per usual, we were exhausted after our long day. We scrapped our initial plans to eat fish and chips in Scarborough and just drove straight back to York, content to have leftover pizza and falafel. Hey, the combo worked. Elly and Jo treated us to a tear-jerking history of Ireland via The Wind That Shakes the Barley (I give it 5 stars, highly recommend it, moving, informative, and very well done...hey, you get movie reviews on at travel blog! Lucky you.)

London, Day 4 (Friday)

O London my love, ye are a harsh mistress. I love this city, but our love affair is wild and intense and passionate and after three days the city has sucked the life from me and overstimulated and exhausted, mentally and physically weary. It's definitely time to go for now, although I know I'll be, as always. I think Matt's at the same place I am, I can see it in his far-away glazed-over stare as we navigate the crowds and try to comprehend just how old that rock is. We sit silently over our pub lunches, shell-shocked and worn down.


We finally had our full English on Friday morning, at our local pub, and it was greasy and filling and all I had imagined. Then we checked out of our hotel, leaving our luggage there, and decided to wander over to the Natural History Museum which was somewhat nearby in Kensington. I'd never been there, only walked past it in Cromwell Road previously, but the building itself is beautiful, Victorian sand and blue brickwork.


Inside, we were greeted by an towering dinosaur skeleton. We visited all the dinosaurs and checked out the taxidermies of extinct mammals and birds. More than the impressive dinosaur bones, to me, was the setting that they were displayed in, the Romanesque architecture was a perfect contrast for the prehistoric remains. But after a few hours, we were even more tired and are feet were achier so back to the pub, then to collect our bags.


The lovely hotel receptionist phoned a minicab for us, and despite notorious London traffic we were deposited at Kings' Cross in about 35 minutes. The cabbie ominously asked us, "Have you been to Kings' Cross before?"
"Well, I haven't, but she has," said Matt.
"Hmm. Ok, at least she has," he replied. I remember it as a big and crazy, but was it really that bad?!

Kings' Cross was batshit crazy. There's a central waiting area, where everyone stands around staring at a main announcement board, willing their train to appear so the platform would be announced. Finally our train appeared with the designation "QC" under platform, that I somehow figured out meant "queue behind C." We found a queue of people who collectively agreed they were "queueing behind C" and we fell in line behind them. Despite the announcement of a "fatality" near Retford and threats of delays and cancellations, and a cheeky text from Elly ("Someone just killed themselves on your line! You may be delayed...") we actually boarded our train only 12 minutes late.

Two hours later, we arrived in York uneventfully.

London, Day 3 (Thursday)

Thursday morning we had grand plans to head to our local pub in the morning for a "full English" (big fried up breakfast) but we woke up late so we had to be satisfied with a sausage rolls and coffee from the pasty shop on the way to the tube. That was the first walk on the way to the tube, we had to do it twice because I forgot my tube pass the first time. My bad.



First stop of the day: The Tower of London, to revel in centuries of bloody history. Mmm my favorite kind! We attempted to join a tour group but after ten minutes of that, despite the entertaining Beefeater guide, we both remember that we don't like large groups of people and we dislike obnoxious tourists even more. Fortunately, those handy-dandy audio guides were available so we ditched the tour group, plugged in and put our headphones on, and off we went...through centuries of Norman invasion, medieval times, royal imprisonments and executions, even to the Jewel House. In the Jewel House you are moving-walkwayed (is that a word? I just made a new verb) past the crown jewels, which I always try really hard to be impressed by but have a hard time getting past how gaudy and tacky they look. Ah well. I guess I wouldn't be saying that if I were wearing the Koh-i-Noor on my annointed head.




After hours of walking around old cobbled roads inside the tower and dodging and tolerating other tourists, we were exhausted so we headed back to our neighborhood of Earl's Court, had a pub lunch, and ended up back in our hotel for an afternoon rest. (And uploading of photos, and checking emails, and planning of next adventures, a traveller's work is never done!)

On Thursday and Friday nights the British Museum is open late, till 8:30, so we took advantage of an opportunity to avoid the (although adorably-uniformed) noisy school groups and went in the evening. You could spend days and days in the British Museum seeing all of the treasures from looting and nearly every continent, but we hit my favorite highlights: The Assyrian room, the Egyptian mummies and artifacts, Greek and Roman sculptures, and Egyptian sculptures.



And finally, as the sun set over Bloomsbury, we (more exactly, our exhausted feet) were ready to call it a day. I was thrilled to see the shining beacon of Pret-a-Manger across from the tube station, so we grabbed some takeaway sandwiches and settled back in to our hotel room.

London, Day 2 (Wednesday)

Our second day, or first full day, in London dawned bright and sunny with a rare blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Our clothes were finally dried out from being caught in the deluge the night before (LOVE LOVE heated towel racks!) so we went off to explore.



Here's one reason I love London: it's never the same city twice. We did stuff today that I haven't done yet, and even if I'd seen it before, maybe I hadn't seen it under bright blue skies or from this angle or that. Anyway...first we headed over to Westminster to gape at the imposing gothic Houses of Parliament. I had investigated the possibility of getting in to Question Time but alas, parliament is not in session at the moment. The Abbey was closed for the morning so we stopped in the check out the Cabinet War Rooms and the Churchill Museum. The War Rooms are sets of fortified basement rooms used as a command center during WWII, and they're fully restored to look as they did during the war. It's a fascinating bit of history, and difficult to imagine a time when your own country is under seige...just hearing the air raid sirens gave me chills. I bought a postcard of a propaganda poster from the time which stated "Children are safer in the country...leave them there." I also bought one of my favorite poster: Keep Calm and Carry On.



After all that learnin' and thinkin', we relaxed and strolled through St. James Park to take a peek at Buckingham Palace. We stopped to recline in a couple of stripey beach chairs and people watch, but our snark and reveries were cut short but some fellow in an official-looking yellow vest demanding a pound fifty per chair for their use. We put on our best American accents and played the ignorant card, then quickly left.



I admit I'd not seen the palace in any of my previous London visits before, except from the back as my view from my Saudi-financed Hyde Park hotel suite, but that's another story (and another blog). The Palace happens to be one of the newer buildings in these parts (around 300 years old) and in itself isn't terribly impressive. The Russian tourists in velour track suits taking photos of their girlfriends in stiletto heels posing in every possible contortion in front of the palace were kind of distracting, although a bit more interesting and amusing than the palace.




By this point our feet were sore and we were hungry and exhausted and over-touristed (knackered, as they say over here), so we hopped back on the tube and headed for Brick Lane and a curry. The street was in stark contrast to the gaudy, loud, whitey touristy streets we had just come from. It's the home to a huge and lively Bangladeshi community, and our senses were assailed with the delicious smells of curry, the brightly colored fabric and sari shops, the gorgeous little sweets in the windows of the bakeries. Men in prayer caps poured out of a mosque. I would say that we didn't hear any English spoken on the street but that's pretty true for every London street. Anyway, we finally chose a restaurant and stuffed ourselves with papadom, chutneys, onion bhaji, and curries.



At this point I was well past ready for a nap (a kip, as they say over here) but Matt wanted to press on and head back to Westminster Abbey. I'm glad we did, although my aching feet tell a different story. The cathedral is impressive, but my favorite is still Yorkminster...more on that soon to come. I was most thrilled and moved to stand near the burial memorial to Queen Elizabeth I, being the Tudor history nut that I am. Matt experienced his religious moment at the graves for Isaac Newton, Charles Darwin, and some Faraday and Dirac dudes who are apparently pretty important. Literally standing on the shoulders of giants, I quipped.

Finally...back to our Earl's Court hotel room for a rest, then we ventured out later for some delicious Lebanese shwarma then a pint at our local. And shortly thereafter we both passed out.

Oof. Samuel Johnson said, "Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." I do agree with him, but perhaps I it would be more appropriate to say "bored," because man alive, are we tired.

In the puddles, across the puddle

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Originally uploaded by rosebuttons

We safely made to London, the flight was easy and uneventful and on time. In Heathrow, we grabbed our bags, sailed through immigration and customs, hopped on the tube, and found our hotel. Yep, it really was that easy. I love this place.

Our hotel is in South Kensington, closest to the Earl's Court tube stop, I'll post a link to it later when I'm not blogging from Flickr. We found our "local," and Matt had his first pint in a real English pub. "It's cool, like the Elephant and Castle but not actually really lame." Keep in mind he was sleep-deprived and jet-lagged when he said it, but he really was quite pleased. I even had some sips of his beer and didn't make the "Grody, I'm going to gag" involuntary beer face that I always do. To use an annoying and over-used trite cliche, it really does taste different on tap over here. Is that actually a cliche? Keep in mind I'm probably sleep-deprived and jet-lagged too.

Anyway, we braved the rain (not just rain, it was chucking it down. Tipping it down. Pissing it down). I'd like to say it was because we have hardy and stalwart Pacific Northwest constitutions and a bit of rain doesn't bother us, but in truth we had to get out of the hotel and walk around or we'd risk passing out at 5pm and that is NOT how to reset your time zone clock. I must say, I don't feel a bit silly for packing my brightly-striped rain boots however, they have already been a lifesaver.

We tubed over to Tower Hill and joined the Jack the Ripper tour through the City and the East End. Because you know, there are probably actually lots of things to do in London and places to go where you might avoid the rain, but we needed to do something that would leave us completely drenched and chilled to the bone. But that aside, it was great fun. Especially watching the Australians turn interesting shades of gray at the slaying descriptions and have to drop out of the tour early. Eh, wimps.

We were quite chuffed when we were stopped by some suits in the City and asked for directions...I was pleased that they mistook us for locals, or at the very least people who knew where they were going (we were a bit lost ourselves at the time) but once we apologized and said we weren't from around here, the men nodded knowingly and smiled, "Ah! Canadians." That made our day. Well, that and being in London. And having a pub lunch and a pint. And packets of crisps. And a kettle in our room for tea.

Hoppin' across the pond

Two weeks in the UK: We're ready! Above, my luggage.


And above: Matt's luggage. I have no defense, I guess I just need a lot of stuff.

I am beyond excited, London is my favorite city in the world. And I am even more excited to go there with Matt. I have usually been alone while traveling in London, except for those few days with Hedgehog, (but I wished I was alone and walked a few steps ahead of him the whole time, have you met Hedgehog? Then you'd understand) and a few excellent days with Elly (see previous blog posts, am too lazy to link to it at the moment). Anyway, when I think of being in London, I think of long solitary walks, turning up my iPod on the tube, people-watching through my camera lens, eating Pret-a-Manger sandwiches on my hotel beds. This time I'll get to share it all with someone, and I can't think of anyone I'd rather share it with. *end schmaltziness*

Don't worry, there will be plenty of snark and witty observations as I blog from this trip!