"Ta, London - Had a Wonderful Time!"

And London replied, "Not so fast, American tourists!"

Despite leaving two hours earlier than we'd originally planned to get from "the country" to Heathrow, we missed our flight by five minutes.

Literally.  British Air closes the gate at 3:55 p.m. for their last flight of the day to Los Angeles at 4:15 p.m.

After three different Tubes, we finally got to Terminal 5, Heathrow.  Heathrow is a confusing tangle of  escalators and elevators and the odd dead end.  At one point we had to walk over a glass-floored "bridge" high over the 5th floor below us.  As I am fearful of heights, this was traumatic. 

At Bag Check, a mounful-looking man in uniform, looked at his watch and sadly said that we'd just missed our flight.  He then directed us to the reservations clerk to "re-book" the exact same flight the next day.  The fee was 275 pounds ($412.50 approximately.)  We could have gone out earlier, but the up tick in price would have been even more murderously high than the stabbing we'd just suffered to Ye Olde Pocketbook. 

To add to our pleasure, British Air had just installed a new computer system and our agent wasn't familiar with it and had to keep calling other agents to come help her out.  She finally was able to confirm the change and give us security passes.  We'd have to line up the next day to get the boarding pass.  More fun!

I went outdoors for a much-needed cigarette and personal brood time and Richie went in search of the centralized hotel system for Heathrow.  My only instruction to him had been to get a smoking-permitted hotel.  I didn't care if it was twin, double or a bag of dirty bedding on the laundry room floor.  

He was successful and we were soon fixed up with the Park Inn Heathrow, including a cheauffeur-driven car to the hotel now and back to Heathrow at 11 a.m. tomorrow.  We'd just become gate dwellers until our flight departed.    It would be just like flying non-revenue.

Part II

We dined at The Craven Heifer Inn, in Colne.  Villages are rather sparse on the ground in and around the Dales and often you will find a restaurant, bar AND hotel all in the same set of buildings.  The Craven Heifer Inn is one of them. 

I interrupted myself to show you the pictures of the food.  My starter was billed as "Prawn Puffs" which came with a chili sweet sauce and a half a plate of fancy lettuce salad.

Frank ordered "gammon and egg" which interested me as to American eyes (mine) it looked like a large ham steak with a fried egg on top.  It turns out that "gammon" and ham both come from the hind l

Looking straight down on an Eton Mess

In all it's full glory...

eg of a pig, but gammon is cured with the bacon; ham is (usually) brined. 

Richie ordered an "Eton Mess" which is a wild combination of berries, ice cream, meringue, topped with toffee sauce and Chantilly cream.  If I can't get the picture to stand up right, my apologies. 

And Then We Went Out To Dinner...

Frank had taken the scenic route on the way to Herriot Country (and they do call it that) but after we toured, he used the more direct route.   We did go off that for a quick visit to Bolton Abbey and the countryside there.

Lovely, isn't it?

Anne's dinner - sea bass? over a tian of vegetables

This is my cheese, leek and onion pie, tian of vegetables



This is Richie's stuffed pork roast

is   

Is The Vet Inh?

Visiting James Herriot's office and home...He is the acclaimed author of  four books about his experiences as a vet in northern England.  His stories, which are woven around animals, are nevertheless, not about animals, but the people who own and tend them.

This was normally the office, but spruced up, it served as a holiday dining room

It was something of a shock (understatement) to come around a corner and see this!

Some of the various items used to cure farm animals and dogs and cats.

Haworth, Home of the Bronte Sisters

When our hosts Anne and Frank first suggested visiting the former home of the Bronte family, I was privately kind of jealous.  I remember thinking, "I'm a writer, too!  And no one cares about my old family home."  Yes, well, my mental health provider is working on this.

Haworth, the home village of these worthies, was first mentioned as a colony in 1209.  Today the main industry is tourism and the population in 2011 was a mere 6,379 souls.

The Brontes came to Haworth in 1820 because the pater familias was assigned there as the Perpetual urate of the church.  The church is conveniently located a short way from the house.  And they lived in that house for the rest of their lives, as short-lived as some of them proved to be.

By 1822, Mrs. Bronte and two of the older daughters - Marie and Elizabeth - had all died.  The only son, Branwell, because a dissolute drinker and died in 1848 with his family gathered around him.  As he had been considered a danger to himself and others prior to his demise, it is likely that some family members weren't all that grief stricken

Mr. Bronte died in 1861 at the ripe old age (for those times) of 84.  He had outlived not only his wife, but all of his children as well. 

Inside, many of the original fittings still exist.

This pharmacy was once owned by Anne's grandfather

Getting Around

We bought Oyster cards when we arrived at Heathrow.  They are a distinctive blue and white, made like a credit card but instead of slipping it in and out of a slot, we merely swept the face over a yellow triangle at the entrances and exits for the Tube.  You have to use it to exit or the Tube people will assume you're still in there, riding aimlessly around and around.  Each card cost 20 pounds and the usual fare was around 1.44 pounds or approximately $2.16. 

Prior to actually getting there, I had kind of feared the Tube.  I worried that the cars would be filthy, the outsides covered in graffitti and an Arab terrorist in every car, lurking fiendishly.

Nothing could have been farther away from the truths that faced me -- spotless plastic seats, no graffitti at all and best of all, no apparent terrorists.

We hadn't had occasion to take a cab anywhere and I'd already read that the famous Black Cabs were roaringly expensive.  The drivers all have to pass an exam called The Knowledge, a series of tests on the location of every street in London.

But it was raining when we were ready to leave the hotel.  The Tube to Euston Station would require two transfers - during rush hour.  It would require me to pull a roll-on suitcase, topped by another bag while clutching my purse (the size of a satchel) under my left arm and then carrying an open umbrella over it all (and me.)   

It was imperative that we catch the train for which we'd bought tickets.  Richie was seriously annoyed; he hates spending money for a cab except in dire necessity such as to and from LAX.

The desk clerk called their pet cab company, but, alas - nothing for 30 minutes.  So the doorman was bid to go outside and flag one down.  The cab that stopped was a Black Cab!  Another tour goal score!

There is no trunk.  Instead the luggage is piled up against the driver's back seat with pull-down seats folded up behind the luggage.  No chance of your luggage being lifted at a long traffic light.

We had an uneventful ride to Euston Station, albeit in silence on Richie's part.  15 pounds and well worth it. 

Euston is a big station with an even bigger patio on one side.  This square is dotted with fast food restaurants, stone benches and people eating or smoking in the rain.

Our train was announced and we hastened to the track.  Other than a really long-looking snout, the Virgin train seemed no different from trains we've ridden in France.  The Brits did add a crescent moon shaped, hard plastic handle to the back of every aisle seat though.

After we got out of London, we saw rolling green fields bordered by hedgerows and short stone fences.  As we went farther north, the distant hills began to get steeper.  We were looking forward to new sites and seeing good friends.

The Tate Modern Scenery

A view of the Millenium Bridge from the Tate Modern.  This Tate (there is another up river with classic paintings) was once an old power factory and like our electrical power plants, no windows.  The architecture was what I wanted to see at this one.  Museums are, generally speaking, full of natural light.

A modern, glass windowed viewing station that opened out onto a spacious terrace offered prime views of the Thames and surrounding buildings, but the rest of the place had to rely on artificial lighting.  And once again, it was Kensington Palace lighting - big patches of utter darkness when you crossed from one room into another.  I've read that Queen Elizabeth shuts off the lights when she leaves a room, but not that her subjects took her so seriously that they don't bother to turn ON lights when they enter a room.