Monday, June 22, 2015

London trip 2015: Day One 21 June

     My friend Heather and I (finally) arrived at London Heathrow via Air Canada.
     With all the Canadian celebrities there are, I've never thought much on how how I feel about Canadians -- all seemed a decent lot to me; however, after flying Air Canada, I've a new perspective, and I now lean more toward the opinion that they're cold and unfriendly.
    
     From Heathrow, we rode the Express to Paddington station   
and then went on a relaxing train ride through the English countryside to Paignton, Torbay in the southwest.  Everyone deserves to take some time from their day to enjoy the English countryside.
     We trekked, the wrong way, and then the right way to our lodgings -- the Wulfruna Hotel, a tiny, yet comfortable place run by a lady named Wendy.


     The weather was gorgeous -- sunny and warm with a lovely breeze from the harbor, which rests directly across the street from our hotel, though the 'hotel' is really more a bed and breakfast than an actual hotel.  Heather described the weather differently from me -- cloudy and cool/cold -- and did not find it so wonderful, though the differences may be found in where we each grew up: me in a valley of Virginia surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains, Heather in a quaint beach town of southern California.
     Paignton is a darling place; across the harbor lies another of the beach towns this way of England called Torquay (pronounced 'tor-kee').  Many people are about, a healthy mix of locals and visitors.  Heather and I ate dinner at a tapas-style place called Olive.  For the uneducated, such as I was, tapas is Spanish for 'small meal'; the idea is to order three or four items, which are small samplings, to create a meal.  The samplings can be shared amongst everyone at the table.  The food at Olive (including the Rockslide Brownie) was delicious, but the service -- I think they forgot we were there most of the time.  At one point, waiting an eternity for our check, I almost threw some cash on the table and walked out.
      * (This next bit is a bit long and boring, so feel free to skip down to the next asterisk below.)  Let me explain the confusion and frustration.  In England, when one eats at a pub/bar, you order and pay at the bar, and then someone brings your food to the table; you may either pay as you go or ask the bartender to give you a tab.  As an American and someone not used to this, I find it all a little confusing and intimidating.  Restaurants operate as restaurants everywhere do -- you're seated, you order, you eat, you receive a check/tab and pay.  
     Olive (the place we ate at) had two options: eat on the terrace for which you would pay as you go, or eat inside for which we had to wait to be seated.  Heather and I were given a table.  Everything was going as is normal in a restaurant.  The table behind us was given a check, so we assumed, our check would also be brought to us.  I ended up going to the servery, as they called it, and paying.*
     So our biggest...um, 'adventure' since arriving in England has been the toilet in our ensuite at Wulfruna!  Apparently British plumbing is designed for the sole purpose of making spoiled Americans feel like total eejits.  We were pushing the handle on the toilet as we would in America, but the toilet, alas, was not flushing.  After reading a few articles/blogs on the internet - thank you once again Google -- I finally figured out (for the most part) how to flush our bloody toilet so that we didn't, with much shame and embarrassment, have to ask our proprietor.  So today, Monday the 22nd, as I write this, I am thankful for being able to flush a British toilet and for American plumbing.
     For those still laughing at the thought of what kind of an idiot can't flush a toilet, Google either "how to flush a toilet in the uk" or "I can't flush the toilet in the uk" -- it is a real issue!

Me and my new pal Paddington Bear

Fairy Cove in Paignton



Saturday, June 6, 2015

Version 2: DF Story selection



     Then she appeared, a tall, thin woman.
     She was handsome in her severe-ness.  A linen dress stopped midway down her slender calves.  With her elegant, long fingers she drew her brown shawl tighter around her bony shoulders.  Her face was all sharp lines: her high cheekbones sloped beneath sloe, crystal-blue eyes to her pencil-thin nose, which had a slight upturn at its end.  Her wide mouth showed neither friendly nor stern, yet the only thing soft about this woman was the loose, brown curls that framed her angular face.
     Annabelle swallowed hard; she was not able to look away. 
     "I am the Forest Wife, Matt Jones and Annabelle Smith."  The woman’s voice was deep, feminine and rich, like liquid caramel.  "It is my cottage in which you find yourselves.  I hope the stew has filled your bellies."
     Annabelle pressed her lips together before saying, "The stew was delicious.  Thank you.  And thank you very much for your hospitality, but my friend and I," she broke from the woman's stare to glance at Matt, who stood stricken, "we've decided to find accommodation elsewhere."    Annabelle reached to Matt and tugged his sleeve.  He stumbled to her side.
     The woman's mouth widened slightly further into a smile.  "There is nowhere else," she said.  "You will not survive out in the night.  You will stay here.  I will take care of you."
     "Thank you for your warning, but we'll be leaving just the same."
     The conundrum was before the pair like lightening, and Annabelle gasped while Matt moved between the two women.  “Sit,” she said.
     Standing so close, Annabelle could smell the fragrance of fresh trees, petrichor and newly turned dirt wafting from the woman, who could nearly look 6'1" Matt in the eye. 
     “Please.  I am anxious to hear of your journey."
     Matt and Annabelle sidestepped the woman and made for the door, Annabelle clinging to the tail of Matt’s jacket like a leash.
     "Matt Jones, Annabelle Smith," spoke the woman. 
     Matt stopped and lingered at the door.  Annabelle found herself lingering too, shoulder bag swinging from her hand. 
     "You will stay.  Only terrible danger awaits you out there.  Stay here, where there is a warm fire and food to fill your bellies.  Listen to what I say; then tomorrow you may make your…decisions."
     Something in Annabelle's head, like a small, insistent voice softly pounded an encouragement to not leave the cottage.  Annabelle shook her shoulders and guided Matt forward with a hand on his back.
     "Thank you, but we really must be going."  She closed the door behind them.

Version 1: DF Story selection



     Then she appeared, a tall, thin woman.
     She was handsome in her severe-ness.  A linen dress stopped midway down her slender calves.  With her elegant, long fingers she drew her brown shawl tighter around her bony shoulders.  Her face was all sharp lines: her high cheekbones sloped beneath sloe, crystal-blue eyes to her pencil-thin nose, which had a slight upturn at its end.  Her wide mouth showed neither friendly nor stern, yet the only thing soft about this woman was the loose, brown curls that framed her angular face.
     Annabelle swallowed hard; she was not able to look away. 
     "I am the Forest Wife, Matt Jones and Annabelle Smith."  The woman’s voice was deep, feminine and rich.  "It is my cottage in which you find yourselves.  I hope the stew has filled your bellies."
     Annabelle pressed her lips together before quietly saying, "The stew was delicious.  Thank you.  And thank you very much for your hospitality, but my friend and I," she broke from the woman's stare to glance at Matt, "we've decided to find accommodation elsewhere."  Matt stood stricken.  Annabelle reached to him and tugged his sleeve.  He stumbled to her side.
     The woman's mouth widened slightly further into a smile.  "There is nowhere else," she said in a throbbing, steady voice.  "You will not survive out in the night.  You will stay here.  I will take care of you."
     "Thank you for your warning, but we'll be leaving just the same."
     The conundrum was before the pair like lightening, and Annabelle gasped while Matt moved between the two women.  “Sit,” she said in that throbbing, steely voice.
     Standing so close, Annabelle could smell the fragrance of fresh trees, petrichor and newly turned dirt wafting from the woman, who could nearly look 6'1" Matt in the eye. 
     “Please.  I am anxious to hear of your journey."
     Matt and Annabelle sidestepped the woman and made for the door, Annabelle clinging to the tail of Matt’s jacket like a leash.
     "Matt Jones, Annabelle Smith," spoke the woman. 
     Matt stopped and lingered at the door.  Annabelle found herself lingering too, shoulder bag swinging from her hand. 
     "You will stay.  Only terrible danger awaits you out there.  Stay here," the woman's voice became liquid caramel, "where there is a warm fire and food to fill your bellies.  Listen to what I say; then tomorrow you may make your…decisions."
     Something in Annabelle's head, like a small, insistent voice softly pounded an encouragement to not leave the cottage.  Annabelle shook her shoulders and guided Matt forward with a hand on his back.  "Thank you, but we really must be going."  She closed the door behind them.