Quotidian Loveliness

The Honeymoon: Day 11, To The Manor Born

Thu, 24 May 2012 20:21:11 GMT

May 28th, 2011

The day dawned gray and Englishy, like some sort of gray day in England.

This was the first day since leaving Los Angeles that we would stay in the same place for two days. I was very much looking forward to it. The whirlwind tour of Ireland and the UK was a delight, but also exhausting, and my dogs were barking. So when our hosts suggested we start the day with a rambling tour of the 700 acre farm and deer park, I was reluctant..until they showed us the 4x4 they roll around in. Then I was all "Oh yeah, that's how to do it." It's the 21st Century equivalent of taking the horses for a canter.

You know how you have this sort of idealized impression of the English countryside, half-formed from various sources like Downton Abbey, All Creatures Great and Small, everything Jane Austen ever wrote, and so forth? And you know how various medieval shows either try and make everything seem sparkling clean in a way that isn't believable for a medieval world, or they go the opposite extreme and make everything filthy and wretched? Well after spending the day rambling the English countryside, I feel like Jane Austen was right, it's all beautiful and sparkling and elegant.

We got the grand tour from our hosts, Peter and Alison, who are very involved with the management of their land. Alison even went to agricultural college after they bought the place, and Peter views it as his duty to be an involved steward of the land. He explained in great detail the interdependence of the wildlife there with the management of every aspect by humans.

I learned that foxes aren't cute if you're trying to raise chickens, that magpies aren't cute if you like any other kind of bird at all, and that hunting has become a vital part of population management for animals, and forestry crucial for healthy forests. We rambled all over the estate, pulling up to a gate, opening it and driving through, then closing it behind us. We saw an injured pheasant that tried rather unsuccessfully to hide.

If you look carefully, there's a red deer in this picture. The estate, "New Park" was named because it was the second of two deer parks on an older, noble estate where only the lord of the manor could hunt deer, and kept large preserves on which to do so.

We investigated badger workings, stopped for sweeping views on tall hills, and generally had a beautiful time learning a great deal from two people really passionate about their land.

We repaired to the house for a nice lunch, tea and beer. I mean, not together. Alison cooks on an aga, something I'd never seen before. It's basically a stove that is always hot, and lightning hot at that. Imagine that you put your furnace in your kitchen, and then put a couple of ovens in it, and a range top. That's an aga. It boils water in seconds, and is generally running at something like 700F, which is astonishing. It's reasonable in the cool climes of rural England. Here in Southern California it would be insane, and more's the pity.

After a relaxing lunch and long chat with the very voluble Peter, we also headed off to Corfe Castle. Corfe has been around for over a thousand years, and has been an important piece of military architecture ...until Oliver Cromwell decided he'd had enough, and blew it to pieces like Godzilla blowing out candles on a birthday cake.

We tried to take some more bookjacket photos, but it was extremely windy, and we never quite managed it, but clambering around the castle was interesting and fun.

There was also an old steam engine train that ran through the nearby town, which made for quite a picturesque scene.

After exploring the castle and the nearby town, we returned to New Park to rest for a while, and then get ready for dinner at the Royal Motor Yacht Club in Poole Harbour. Hanging on the wall was one of the club's foremost members - the very same Duke of Edinburgh who had stranded us on a traffic isle in Dublin while he and the Queen passed by. His Grace did not join us for dinner, which was a shame because I had a charcuterie plate of Serrano Ham as a starter, and pan seared duck breast for mains. It was fancy and delicious, and afterwards we watched the sunset over the harbour before returning to New Park.

I sat in the kitchen for a while chatting with Peter, who is a fascinating guy and has that English talent for agreeably disagreeing - making clear that his contention is with the issue, and not the man. I wish more people here had mastered that skill, as it allows for vigorous but enjoyable discussion of otherwise divisive issues.

For the first time, we went to sleep the same place we woke up!

The Honeymoon: Day 10, Rosslyn and Our Man Duncan

Wed, 23 May 2012 19:13:37 GMT

May 27th, 2011
We woke at the Piries and had a buffet cooked breakfast. Sadly this would did not include haggis, I don't think. Something that morning had me full of some kind of beans though, because I wrote in my little field journal:
"Went ashore. Received VC.
Breakfast at Piries."

If you're a history nerd that's rather droll, albeit wildly hyperbolic. Well, except for the breakfast, that I really did have. In fact, this was to be me very last proper cooked breakfast in the UK, though I didn't know it at the time. I have waxed nostalgic here about these wonderful breakfasts, and not without good reason. A good hearty breakfast is a joy throughout the day, and while I love an American style plate of bacon and eggs with toast, juice, coffee and potatoes, the UK cooked breakfast is also a thing of beauty. Fried tomato and mushrooms, egg, toast fried bread or crumpet, swhite and black pudding, possibly haggis (in Scotland), ham or bacon. Bacon! Bacon which is not streaky bacon like here in America, but more akin to Canadian style back-bacon. Here our bacon is belly bacon, which is fatty and delicious and I must say my favorite - but back bacon is healthier and yet still pleasantly salty and succulent. Breakfast in the UK is a wonderful thing.

After breakfast, we had a short day before we were due to fly out from Edinburgh to Gatwick to visit some friends of the Nybys. Their home is near Poole, England, and when making our initial travel plans we expected to take a train from London to Poole for the visit. There was some difficulty getting our schedules straight, and so Richard and Alison told us "Don't be ridiculous, our man Duncan will pick you up." As is implied in their message, they are uh...somewhat well-to-do would be an understatement. I found the prospect of being picked up by Our Man Duncan delightful, and imputed to him all sorts of powers both profound and trivial. Whenever in our journey we'd have some difficulty, I would say, "Our Man Duncan would straighten this right out!" As the journeyed continued his powers and legend grew, at least in my mind.

Anyway, we tried to go to some museums in Edinburgh, but every one we checked was closed, either for renovations or because ...I don't know, Scotland is weird about Fridays? We tried the National Gallery of Portraits and a couple others, but were either too early or they were closed.

Our last destination in Scotland before departing was Rosslyn Chapel, which has been famous amongst conspiracy theorists and grail-hunters for many years before being popularized in "The DaVinci Code." It is much smaller than I expected, and the whole thing is at present housed under a big canopy roof. Its interior is absolutely encrusted with a wealth of artistic details in stone, but age has not been kind to it. Some time in the past, an attempt at renovation was made that included sealing all the stonework in a sort of concrete crust. This turned out to be disastrous, as it was water seeping into the stone that causing the damage, and the coating sealed the moisture in and promoting the growth of mold. So this canopy was erected, which keeps the rather constant Scottish rain off the building and will allow it over several decades to finally dry out.

The chapel was created in 1446 by the St. Clair family, who have remained its sole private owners since then. There are a thousand legends about the chapel, which has remarkable architecture and interior details that are flatly amazing. Included is what appears to be a massive masonic code (which is to say, made of masonry, and maybe or maybe not also Masonic...) in the form of cubes with different facings. To date, either no one knows what they mean, or if they do, no one has come forth to explain it. There are dozens of other mysteries and stories. Among other things, the crypt beneath the sacristy was sealed a long, long time ago and has remained sealed at the family's request, despite many attempts by scholars and the government to discover what is sealed up inside it. There are many Masonic links to the chapel, and one popular theory is that the St. Clair family protected the treasure of the Knights Templar after they were suppressed and the order's treasure was spirited out of France.

We were only able to take a couple of pictures, as the exterior is the only place where photography is permitted. The grounds were thick with not just punters, but obviously eccentric Seekers After Legends, like for instance a thick-set German with an incredibly bushy beard who had a VHS video camera set up on a tripod, into which he was muttering a low, constant stream of what I can only imagine was observations on the esoteric secrets of the chapel.

No pictures were allowed in the interior, but the tour was fascinating. Some of the more interesting mysteries to me were the many Green Men in the chapel, despite it being a Catholic church; the presence of clearly depicted maize/corn hundreds of years before it was brought back to Europe and cultivated there and well before any European had set foot in the New World, and of course - what's in the crypt? I favor the treasure-of-the-Templars theory, though the Holy Grail, the head of Jesus Christ/John the Baptist and ...just dead Scottish people.

After the tour, and picking up a candle pillar that was a replica of the Apprentice's Pillar, we found lunch in the village of Rosslyn. There was a little cozy inn called the Grail Restaurant, where we found two club chairs by the fire. I had a Bellhaven Ale and a panini of bacon and brie.

After this we returned our car at the airport in Edinburgh and readied ourselves to fly to London, Gatwick. We had by this time acquired so much scotch and other souvenirs from our visit that we had needed to acquire a backpack at a sporting goods store in Castle Douglas, which we filled with all the goods, as well as another large cardboard box. We had intended to just ship that back home, but the cost was exorbitant, almost two hundred pounds! So we lugged it along. Also at the airport I saw the only men in Scotland I actually witnessed wearing kilts, though I suspect they were vacationing Canadians or Americans.

After our fairly short flight, we landed in London, retrieved our dunnage, and were at last met by Our Man Duncan!

On the fairly long car ride out to Lytchett-Matravers, where Peter and Alison live, Duncan kept up an amiable stream of chatter cluing us in to various aspects of local history, culture, and his personal story. Alas, he didn't seem to have any magical powers of Making Things Happen, but he did laugh readily and well, and expressed his desire to emigrate to America and open his own business. It is a mark of how dumb our immigration policy is that despite having a business plan, money in the bank and the ability to immediately hire 12 people, he was refused. Listen up government - we were THIS close to having Our Man Duncan here in the States!

We arrived at Peter and Alison's enormous 700 acre farm and estate called New Park.

This picture not withstanding, it was pretty late at night. One thing that wrong-footed me pretty consistently, and especially in Scotland, was how late the sun was up and how early it rises in the Summer. Local sunset was at nearly 10pm and rise at just after 4AM. Anyway, we were bushed so after a drink and a little chat with our hosts, we went to bed in their guest room.

The Honeymoon: Day 9, Edinburgh

Fri, 18 May 2012 22:48:00 GMT

May 26th, 2011

We left the Glasgow Novotel bright and early after another excellent breakfast, and drove to Edinburgh.

We were immediately impressed with the massive Edinburgh Castle that sits on top of a vast pyroclastic extrusion in the middle of the city, which is otherwise fairly level. The castle broods over the city like a particularly militant hen, looking angrily over her clutch of peasant-eggs.

We drove around, just looking at Edinburgh's stunning architecture for a while.

Eventually, we dropped off our car in a parking lot, and walked nearly all the way around the castle.

We climbed the long stairs up the rock.

That's not us, mind you, just some random people walking ahead of us. The view from the top was extraordinary, though admission to the castle is not inexpensive.

This is the firth of forth, one of my favorite places. Just because I really like saying that.

This cemetery for soldiers' dogs made me sad, though of course all dogs go to heaven, especially hero dogs. At this point, I have to admit I was also getting a little homesick, mostly because I missed Blink so much. If we could have had us with him, I'd have been content to stay forever.

There's a little restaurant called the Queen Anne Cafe nestled in the castle, and I was very footsore and a little tired. So we had a drink and a snack, and it was actually really good. Normally one finds that eateries at tourist attractions are long on price and short on quality, since...they can be. But Queen Anne's was quite good, and we enjoyed our lunch.

We did get to see the Honours of Scotland, which are the crown jewels of the nation. It included the Stone of Destiny, on which the kings of Scotland and England were coronated for many centuries. It was returned to Scotland by the current monarch, but will return to London for future coronations.
pyr8queen stood by Mons Meg, the biggest cannon around. In the world? I doubt it. But no, she didn't suddenly turn into the 50 Foot Tall Woman - it's just a really enormous gun.

We also toured the Regimental Headquarters of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, which has one of the golden eagles, one of the very few, captured from Napoleon in battle. It was taken through extraordinary heroism by Sergeant Ewart, who was made up as an officer for his heroics. This was very rare for the time, as commissions were purchased and only available to the aristocracy. Just down the hill there's a pub called The Ensign Ewart. As an American cavalryman (seriously, for real) I really wanted to buy a pint at the Scottish cav pub and toast "Confusion to the French!" but we never did find the time. We were only in Edinburgh for the day, and far too rushed.

We walked down the hill visited a museum of whiskey, where for a fee you can take a whiskey tour of Scotland, with tastings of various representative malts. We also spent some time in the mill and kilt-maker on Castle Hill. I picked up a few more MacPherson tartan items for family members, as well as, somehow, a kilt that fit me perfectly and was deeply reduced in price despite being of the best quality. It was still not at all cheap, but due to some tax oddities they actually gave further discounts for using American dollars, and I had a travel belt with quite a bit of cash in it "just in case." It was a bit extravagant, even so, and thus I look for every occasion possible to wear that kilt and get my money's worth! The tartan was very close to ancient MacPherson plaid, and I don't think anyone but a genuine expert could tell the difference.

Eventually we walked around the castle again, and saw some of the more extraordinary monuments.

We also took the Edinburgh Dungeon Tour, which was not at all what I expected, it was not an historical tour, but more like a modern theme-park with a...well, torture and grue sort of theme. There were even thrill rides down in its extensive basement. But what I remember most was the incomprehensibly filthy Glasgow accent of one of the guides, who probably said some funny stuff about the Sawney Beans, but I'll be damned if I know what he said. Tough material to make jokes about. But maybe not - I mean, serial killings, incest and cannibalism - that's good comedy, right?
We had dinner reservations at a famous restaurant called The Witchery, but they weren't until later. I was absolutely wrecked from walking all day, and my feet were a living torment. They had basically up and revolted against the rest of my body, successfully staged a coup against my ankles, and were sending absurd demands to my brain. In the form of pain. Terrible, terrible pain. So continuing our walking tour around Edinburgh was out of the question for me, really, making it back to the car was somewhat in doubt. Herself is more of the Legion Etrangere school, though, and March Or Die was the order of the day. I did manage to limp back to the car, finally - and to top it off, the car park ate our last five pound note and wouldn't let us out, and was unattended. So pyr8queen went for cash at an ATM, while I sat in quiet agony in the car. Really it wasn't quiet at all, but no one else was there, so that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Finally out of the damned car park, we checked in at our lodings, Piries Hotel. It was economical but quite nice, and after a shower, I sat out in their little garden pub with a delicious pint of Tenant's, a good smoke and book for company while Herself tended to...some errand which I now forget.

Much restored and fortified, we set out for dinner at The Witchery. I regret that we weren't able to actually take rooms at The Witchery, but by the time our travel dates were set, it was long since booked up. The best thing about it was definitely the decor, which is absolutely over the top, sort of romantic-medieval, at which the entrance only vaguely hints.

We were actually more impressed with their wine list and single-malts than the actual dinner. I started with a pint, and Herself with scotch.

They had on their wine list one of my very favorite wines, D'arenberg's "The Dead Arm" shiraz, and after dithering about it, we went ahead and got a bottle. It's quite hard to find anymore, and despite the expense was well worth it.

About the food I can say little, and remember less. Except that dessert was very good, and the creme brulee especially delicious.

We were both quite tired and a little cranky by the time dinner was over, and gratefully went back to the hotel to crash out, exhausted, footsore but well-fed.

The Honeymoon: Day 8, Glasgow

Thu, 17 May 2012 19:21:24 GMT

May 25, 2011

We woke up in the castle. Let me just say that again.

We woke up in the castle.

We had a full cooked breakfast in the castle that was marvelous, and included if I recall correctly, some delicious smoked salmon. This morning we were set to drive to Glasgow, but weren't in any particular rush, so we rambled around the castle grounds for a bit, including climbing down to the rocky beach to investigate smuggler's caves nestled in the base. Along the way was the gas works, which in Victorian times provided gas to the castle and nearby town.

We clambered down to the stony beach. It was all rocks, and no sand. We got there at low tide, so it was walkable. But given my double-fascia-ligament rupture, I wasn't going to risk re-injury by walking over sharp rocks. But pyr8queen had no such reservations, and cheerfully left me to sit and bird-look while she clambered off to the smuggler's cave.

Eventually she returned. She has never spoken of what she saw there, but when asked, she gets a distant look in her eye, and gently shudders.

With that accomplished, we packed up and drove to Glasgow. We got a little lost, and wandered around in the city looking for a place to stay, which was not unpleasant, as Glasgow is an interesting city. It has broad shoulders and broader roadways. Its buildings are made of obdurate granite that wears the industrial history of the city like a proud and tattered cloak of grime. It was not dissimilar to my home town of Philadelphia, with blue-collar roots tempered by intellectual heritage. Coincidentally, in filming the movie World War Z, the filmmakers redressed Glasgow to stand in as Philly. Why? I don't know, but hey, that's three of my worlds colliding!

We checked into the Novotel Glasgow, a very modern hotel with a gleaming white lobby like something out of Logan's Run. We then set out for the Kelvingrove Museum, but stopped for food because we were starving. We found The Butchershop Grill very near the Kelvingrove, and wandered in.

What followed was one of the best meals of the trip. I know I keep saying that. But really, this was great, and I wrote about it in greater detail at Letters To Bourdain. The owner stopped by to say hello, and when I told him it had a very modern feel to it while still honoring traditional roots, something which in my head I call "New Old School" - he chatted us up for a while about being inspired by chophouses and grills he'd worked for in Manhatten. He also laughingly told me not to worry about ordering scotch on the rocks, or on soda - in his words, "We don't care how you drink it, so long as ye drink it!"

I had a Foie Gras and Chicken Liver Parfait that was absolutely a revelation. This is some beautiful charcuterie right here.

For dinner I had Cote d'Bouef with sauce Bearnaise. This is one of my favorite dishes ever, but it's a cut of beef that is not often available here in the U.S., usually only around the holidays.

Herself had sauteed lamb's liver, which again was extraordinary. Despite seeing lambs gamboling and frolicking on every hillside, we'd hardly ever seen lamb on the menu. As this is her particular favorite, it was a disappointment, but the Butchershop made up for some of that! It was earthy and minerally but still had the smokey succulence of a very tender cut of lamb, and grilled to perfection.

I will say that Scottish beef, at the end of the day, doesn't quite compare to American. It was perfectly prepared, but this very fine cut of the best Angus beef was about what you'd find at the local Ralph's or Albertson's. Whereas, if you go out of your way to find a really prime cut around here, you'll end up with meat that I have yet to see rivaled anywhere in the world. But here at the Butchershop, the preparation, presentation and accompaniment were note-perfect, and the starter and lamb's liver were excellent, and quite different from anything anyone is doing here in L.A. at least.

Well fed indeed, we ambled off to the Kelvingrove Museum, a beautifully curated collection somewhat undermined by the simplicity of the text accompanying the exhibits.

The exhibits ran from the medieval to the surreal.

The Kelvingrove claims to have the largest collection of complete suits of armor in the world.

There were also a great deal of naturalist exhibitions, including this Irish Deer, now extinct but once a truly majestic animal.

And another majestic animal, who perhaps finally met her match.

We stayed at the museum until right up when it closed, then went back to the hotel to wash up and change. We walked around the neighborhood a bit looking for a place to eat, and settled on a place called Alla Turca. We ordered from a prix fixe menu that included a bottle of Turkish champagne (about what you'd expect) and a series of "mixed mezzes" that were all very interesting and tasty but not too heavy, a sort of Turkish tapas. We particularly enjoyed what my notes called "Iskander Something - Ottoman Style Iskander." I'm so glad I wrote that down, otherwise I might not have known what style of Iskander that was. Vital information. I am smrt.

I wish we'd have more time to investigate Glasgow, certainly half a day wasn't enough. But we had a ruthless itinerary, and it required constant forward progress. So we retired to our hotel, and readied ourselves to move on in the morning.

The Honeymoon: Day 7, Culzean Castle

Wed, 16 May 2012 19:14:33 GMT

May 24th, 2011
This day turned out, along with Ashford Castle and Peter and Alison's farm (coming soon!) to be one of my very favorite days of our trip. We started out with the ubiquitous and wonderful full cooked breakfast at Crown Hotel in Castle Douglas. Our ultimate destination was along the coast near Ayr along the rugged coast. But we weren't expected there until late in the day, so we had plenty of time to wander.

Most of the morning we spent just driving around Scottish rural roads, which range from picturesque to breath-taking.

There was a particular valley that plunged abruptly from a stony height down to a green vale that was remarkable. The road we were driving wound through it dramatically, but didn't have a safe place to pull over, and so I didn't get a picture. But I recall it vividly in mind, and when I think "Scotland" that is one of the images that quickest leaps to mind.

Along the way, we got hungry for lunch, and stopped at one of the few towns along the winding country roads, a place called Dalmellington. The local pub was open but not serving food, so we walked down to the Dalmellington Coffee Shop. Which really ought to have been called something like "Aunt Edna's Living Room Where You Can Get Food." It was full of little old ladies of the littlest and oldest sort imaginable, who huddled around one of the few tables drinking tea and clucking about god-knows-what. We ordered sandwiches and sodas to go, and awkwardly stood while the proprietor slapped together two pieces of white bread, one thin slice of ham, one slice of packaged cheese, and sent us on our way. It was terrible, and it was also not cheap, but I regret it not one pence, because seeing that quaint little coffee shop and its even quainter and littler denizens was well worth the stop.

We stopped at a wool and tweed outlet in Moffat. I've always wanted a real Harris Tweed jacket. I should stop and say - I love Scotland. When I was a wee laddie, I read everything I could about Scottish history. I traced my family roots back to Clan MacPherson, and sometime around age 14 or so, wrote away to the clan organization and asked if I could be a member. This was in pre-internet days, so it was a bit of effort, and entailed months of waiting. When I received my official Clan MacPherson membership card, I was proud as punch and carried it in my wallet until my wallet was stolen out of the back room of a restaurant I worked for in college. But the cost of genuine Scottish wool, and particularly Harris tweed, is a bit prohibitive, especially given the exchange rate. So here at the factory outlet, I found a great genuine Harris tweed coat, as well as some MacPherson tartans for family members at home. Real Harris tweed has a very peculiar provenance that involves secretively dropping bags of wool at the residences of authorized weavers without every interacting with them. Why? 'Cause Scotland, that's why. All told, we spent quite a while and a large chunk of coin getting fine woolen goods.

Armed with a fine tweed jacket, and an equally fine pipe acquired in Dublin I felt a proper gentleman when we set out. And our reception at Culzean Castle (pronounced kuhl-AYN) certainly continued to foster that happy delusion. Never mind I'd had to earn all that money myself, instead of taking it from peasants - today at least, I got to feel like the lord of the manor.

Culzean was gifted to the National Trust of Scotland with the stipulation that the top floor apartments be given in perpetuity to Dwight D. Eisenhower for his service to the UK during World War II. The castle is a public institution run by the National Trust, but the apartments are available on a very limited basis to guests.

We pulled right up into the court, and checked in. The museum was just closing, but as guests of the Eisenhower Apartments, we were permitted the run of the castle at any time. The entryway is a dramatic array of weapons, which despite looking very martial indeed, are really mostly a sham - they were purchased from the British army who were just going to destroy them. They sent along all the pistols, hangers, cannons and bayonets, as well as a quartermaster to mount them for display. The stories that populate Culzean are as varied as its tenants over the years. The castle itself was designed by the famous architect Robert Adams in 1777. He was given a limitless budget, which basically drove him mad and made the process unwieldy - he wouldn't bargain with merchants, purveyors and vendors, he'd just order anything, no matter the cost. But because so little was agreed on, when the bills were submitted they were often disputed, and so progress would occur in fits and starts that would give Adams time to re-design, fiddle with, or alter his plans.

Anyway, the end result is a gorgeous manor house, built on the remains of an earlier but undocumented castle. It has a sweeping central staircase, and sits brooding over the Irish Sea, with waves pounding on the cliff face upon which it lies.

I wish I were there right now.
We checked into our beautiful apartments, and were immediately served high tea in the circular drawing room, for which I was under-dressed.

Afterwards, we had time for walking on the grounds before dinner was served in the dining room.

This occupied a fair amount of time, and before long I became quite footsore, a perennial problem during this trip despite wearing good sturdy boots and orthotic inserts. Having no such limitations, pyr8queen elected to hike a little further into the grounds to investigate the swan lake, but when she found it was five miles away she decided to take pictures of woods and flowers and instead. Meanwhile, I sent a postcard to grrm and parrismcb as an amiable place for a writer with a big budget and a need for peace to hole up and finish a much-in-demand book. Even if he doesn't follow up, I dearly hope that someday I am in a position to do so. Because I will.

She took this picture with a timer. I swear it's the only picture of her smiling from the whole trip.

Culzean is reputed to be haunted, and is frequently seen in programs about haunted place and the like. What I found most haunting, in the best possible way, was the private bath in the apartments, which looks out over the cliff-face, and ultimately to Ireland. This, my friends, is the single greatest view from a bathroom I've ever experienced.

It was approaching sunset, and dinner time. So we changed into our recently-acquired genteel clothes, and took advantage of the golden hour to take what I hope will someday be a book-jacket photo. I firmly believe such pictures should feature castles where appropriate.

Despite the amiable circumstances, lighting and sartorial splendor, I'm afraid one can only do so much with source material, and so the bride was lovely and the groom was....present.

Dinner on the other hand, was excellent. The dining room overlooks the sea, and is furnished with antiques that have that effortless elegance that is the hallmark of the stuff good enough to hand down for many generations.

Afterwards, we took books to the circular drawing room, and lingered there, simply taking our ease and sampling the extraordinary whiskeys that the Eisenhower apartments keep stocked, as well as ale that to this day haunts me.

That's a glass of a blend made especially for Culzean Castle in bespoke batches. It was smooth and buttery, with a strong rumor of peat. I loved it. On the way out they offered me a bottle, and I gleefully bought it - it will be impossible to get anymore without returning to Culzean, so I am savoring it one sip at a time, and only on special occasions. I also tried a beer called "Caledonian 80/-" which means that traditionally it would have cost 80 shillings in tax per hogshead. Despite being "export quality" I can't find it in the U.S. and have even tried brewing it myself. (The results were good, but not at all like Caledonian.)

We struck up a conversation with the valet/servant/butler who was assigned to see to our needs for the evening, a stout and bearded fellow named Billy. I speak in praise of stout and bearded fellows, by the way - and Billy was well worth the praise. It turns out that he, and most of the rest of the staff at Culzean have at least master's degrees or even doctorates in history, and are employees of the National Trust. I thought that was a bit beneath such a lofty degree, but Billy pointed out that he was living as part of one of Scotland's important historical sites, involved with the very thing he'd studied to an intimate degree. He also doggedly defended all things Scottish being superior to any other version - giving the truth to Mike Meyers' "If it's not Scottish, it's CRAP!" sketches from Saturday Night Live. We left Billy with a copy of "Game of Thrones" which despite being a fantasy fan, he hadn't read. Since I'd just re-read it on the plane, it was cool to pass it on to a new reader, I hope he enjoyed it.

Our day at Culzean was lovely. We did wander about in the castle after hours, because we could, but we were responsible guests and didn't molest anything.

I highly recommend Culzean to anyone who wants an unforgettable experience. I certainly won't forget it.

The Honeymoon: Day 6, Wandering in Scotland

Mon, 14 May 2012 19:34:33 GMT

May 23, 2011

We got up and had breakfast at Fernlee house, prepared by the house's owner. It included haggis as part of the 'cooked breakfast' which, as haggis is the chieftain of the pudding race, made me quite happy. I chatted with the proprietor for a little while about haggis, apparently my keen appreciation for it is not much shared by most American travellers. However, she allowed that they had a sausage delivery service that provided daily or so their meat-needs for the following day. Another example of the UK just doin' it better than we do. So that's....sausage, cider and pastry, so far.

After packing up and heading out of Stranraer; and with pyr8queen driving this time, we headed out to nearby Kennedy Castle. I have a bit of a fascination with birds, and this turned out to be a great place to look at birds. I like "bird looking" as more than "bird watching" because, let's face it, once I've seen the bird, I'm basically done. I'm not going to follow it around and see what it has for elevensies with its neighbors.

Kennedy Castle also has a little stand of palm trees, which they are proud of just as Stranraer is. We arrived very early in the morning, and had to sort of moop around for a while until the docent turned up to open the castle grounds. We found, as is the case with nearly all castles, the original military structure is a ruin.

We saw a pheasant.

We wandered the gardens and grounds.

Look at an Oystercatcher, first one I've ever seen. Obviously misnamed, as it didn't catch a single oyster, and frankly I don't think there were ANY oysters in that field.

When were done wandering around, mostly because I was incredibly footsore already, we found a couple of old-timey Rolls Royces pulling into the parking lot. Naturally, it was a castle after all.

We journeyed on to a place called Glenn Luce Abbey, which was an important stop on one of Scotland's biggest pilgrimage routes. It was in ruins and also not open, so we just kinda...looked at it and then moved on.

I should really make up some story about having an adventure with like, ghosts of Scottish monks or something. But nah, that didn't happen. It was just pretty to look at.
At this point we had no particular agenda for the next day or so. This is shocking, because pyr8queen just doesn't do "no particular agenda." So we looked at some maps, and picked a couple of interesting destinations along the way to what we figured was an interesting place to stay the night, and wandered around, admiring the Scottish scenery, which featured as must not come as much of a surprise, a great deal of sheep.

We stopped at a distillery called Bladnoch, and got a tour of the works. It was an interesting story - it had been in operation since 1817, but was at one point purchased as a vacation home by a rich family who never did do anything with it. Eventually they decided to re-open, and found that the Scottish whiskey consortium didn't want them to resume production. Whiskey is taken very seriously in Scotland, as you might imagine, and one does NOT cross the consortium! So it remains in operation only for bespoke batches of whiskey, plus a little bit to sell in the gift shop, as well as being a storage facility for the casks of other major distilleries, especially Chivas.

By the time we finished the tour, had a bit of a taste, and picked up a bottle or two take home, including some kinds of whiskey basically impossible to find in the U.S., a terrific windstorm had blown up, which was to continue for several days.
We struck from the somewhat inland area we'd been wandering for the coast, and found ourselves at placed called the Dunbarrow Smokehouse, which was famous for having some of the best smoked salmon (and other meats and fishes) in Scotland.

Nearby, we found a placed called Carsluith Castle, another ruined Normal square keep that overlooked the Irish Sea.

It had a little lunch shop attached called the Marrbury Smokehouse, where we stopped for what turned out to be a surprisingly delicious treat. They served meats from the smokehouse as well as little pots of tea, and were rightly proud of having provided lunch during the Queen's diamond jubilee.
I had a filled baguette with smoked salmon, dill and cream cheese that was superb.

But Pascale had crispy smoked duck that I swear, I still dream about.

Obviously a very healthy meal.
After wandering on we stopped at a circle of standing stones that marked a crypt and/or ancient religious site.

Eventually we found ourselves at a little town called Kirkcudbright. We had picked it as a destination because it was called an "Artist's Colony." We parked on the street and wandered around a bit. I found a Masonic temple right away, and just from looking at its exterior, I could discern certain facts about the rites practiced there, which obviously here I can't relate, but were interesting to me.

Like many Scottish towns, Kirkcudbright had a ruined fort. In front of it was a statue commemorating William Wallace.

After wandering around, we found no evidence of it being an "artist's colony." I'm not sure what I expected...like some sort of little island, with a bunch of people in painter's smocks looking confused and trying to plant crops?

Before departing, I had done a little research to find from where in Scotland my family hails. We are Carsons, a sept of Clan MacPherson, but I never did track down the family castle, mostly because I'd been so busy with stuff for the wedding that I hadn't spent a lot of time on it. On our return, I found out that Kirkcubright was actually the family home, and it had billed itself as an artist's colony to attract rich patrons, who would be robbed on the roads. Is that true or not? I don't know, but our family has a bit of a dark history, so it wouldn't surprise me. The Carsons are also essentially the same family as the Arkenstones due to some linguistic twist of Viking invaders and Celtic oddity. The Arkenstone is the name of the gem that Bilbo and company are in search of in "The Hobbit." So there.
Looking on our map, we found a place that was famed as the "foodie capital of Scotland" called Castle Douglas. We set off for there, thinking that would be a great place to spend the night and get some dinner.

As we journeyed across the lowland vales to get to Castle Douglas, the windstorm whipped up so fierce it was nearly blowing us off the road. We stopped to take a picture, for some reason.

When we arrived in Castle Douglas, we couldn't find a room at three different hotels. We finally got a room in the Crown Hotel, which also had a pub and restaurant, sort of Fawlty Towers style, in the ground floor. Also Fawlty Towers-style, the hotel manager was also the cook, bellhop and barman, though despite my request, he didn't wear a different hat while doing each role.

We had dinner in the pub, and I had a Scotch Pie and sticky toffee pudding. In my notes, I have underlined Sticky Toffee Pudding very emphatically, and on the reverse page, I wrote a note to myself across the entire page in all caps: "LEARN TO MAKE STICKY TOFFEE PUDDING." Seeing that note, I realized I'd forgotten to do so, and I made some Friday evening that was well received both then and on Mother's Day.

After dinner we asked the barman/cook/manager/bellhop/waiter why Castle Douglas was called "the foodie capital of Scotland" and he explained that once a year they had a big festival where everyone ate outdoors. I said that sounded kind of like a big picnic, really, and he allowed that it was mostly just a marketing trick to get tourists in, and otherwise the town was pretty unremarkable. Just like, he explained, the nearby artist's colony of Kirkcudbsbright, which really had no particular connection to the arts. HA! Mystery solved on that one, too.

First Anniversary

Mon, 14 May 2012 17:24:20 GMT

IMG_3328, a photo by aghrivaine on Flickr.

Here we are - exactly one year later. Here's a picture of me reading the vows below to you. You look dubious in this picture, I hope the intervening year has inspired a little more faith!

My heart will be yours forever; with love and compassion given freely and always.

From you; my inspiration in all things; every journey of discovery or excellence will find its end just as it began, with you.

For our family, I will be always learning; and I will share what I learn to everyone’s benefit.

I take your family as my own, and will defend and support them as the blood of my blood.

As I love you, I will love them, and as our family grows I will be ever more blessed with a greater sum of love.

For our friends, I will share always with you our adventures and interests together.

The circle of people we love make our joys more joyous, our woes more bearable, and every experience more vibrant; the strength and joy you give me I will share with them to return to you ten-fold.

The people in our life together have enriched every blessing we share; we are fortunate for their wishes and work today – I honor them as they honored us, and all in the name of honoring you.

Years of my youth were wasted not;

Finally finding my heart of hearts.

I share with you my every thought;

And all the sum of my parts.

One Step Closer

Sun, 13 May 2012 18:51:23 GMT

House Inspection, a set on Flickr.

Initial inspection complete, and everything looks great!

The Honeymoon: Day 5, Ferry to Scotland

Thu, 10 May 2012 18:33:13 GMT

5/21/12
We had an early ferry from Belfast to Scotland, so we got up and head breakfast at the "RGB Restaurant" at the Park Inn - the afore-mentioned White Star/Titanic themed place. It was a Full Irish, but buffet style, which was a new thing. Not as good as the breakfasts we'd had at various B&B's, but it came with the room, so hey, why not.

In the cab on the way to the ferry port, the cabbie rattled on about the Titanic and its significance to Belfast (where it was built) especially considering the approaching Centennial. At least, I *think* that's what he was rattling on about, but the Belfast accent is amazingly difficult for me to understand. I need subtitles. I mean, they're speaking English, but I only get maybe one in three words. Now listen, I work with non-native speakers of English almost exclusively, and understanding heavily inflected English is practically a professional skill for me. But Northern Ireland? Not even the thickest Glaswegian brogue can compare to Belfast for incomprehensibility. I absolutely loved listening to it, but I'll be darned if I knew what people were saying to me.

So we got on the ferry to Scotland. When I heard we were taking a ferry, I imagined something like the Staten Island ferry, a flat boat that you drive a car up onto. No indeed. The HSS Stena was an enormous catamaran, a floating island far larger than any cruise ship, and powered by gargantuan, titanic turbine engines.

Apparently its since been decomissioned and replaced by an even faster ferry, which no longer runs between Belfast and Stranraer, but another more distant (but more convenient) point in Scotland. The ferry building was much like an airport, and without any trouble we checked our bags through, passed through customs, and didn't get pulled aside for additional screening. Several people were pulled aside for screening, and guess what? None of them were white. Racial profiling - alive and well in the UK!

Being on the ferry is not at all like being on a boat, the motion of the sea was barely noticeable, and the sound of the turbines was much more like an airplane than anything else. It was a placid crossing, with duty free shops, bars, cafes, gambling - you name it. I just found a nice seat at the bow, amongst the huge swarms of English bikers who were also on board, and read a book.

We found out later there had been a motorcycle road race and convention of sorts, like Daytona's bike week, in Belfast. English bikers tend to wear garish leathers, ride sport bikes, and have very short hair. They are nowhere near as intimidating as bikers in the U.S. The trip was fairly short, and before we knew it, we were disembarking in Stranraer, Scotland. We collected our luggage and rental care from the much less sophisticated ferry port. Stranraer is a sleepy little town that mostly exists to feed the port. It is on an isthmus that provides natural shelter from the Irish Sea, which is rife with storms, squalls and high seas that make good harbor desirable. This part of the Western coast of Scotland, in Dumfries and Galloway, lies astride the warmest part of the Atlantic current, which makes the climate mild. Stranraerians (or if they live on the loch side of the town, Clayholers) are quite proud of their palm trees, the only ones that grow in Scotland without artificial shelter.

I have now told you almost everything interesting about Stranraer.

We checked into our room at a B&B called the Fernlea House. It was on a modest street of red brick buildings that were not unlike the homes of Chestnut Hill in my own native Philadelphia. All around in Stranraer was a species of crow I'd not seen before, the Hooded Crow or Corbie.

Fernlea House was pleasant but sleepy, and it was still fairly early on a Sunday, so we set out to explore a bit. As was par for the course in this entire trip, all exploring had to be done on foot, with little mercy or consideration shown for my ruptured fascia tendons.

We inspected Stranraer Castle, also known as the Castle of St. John. It has been a fort, a prison, a seat of government...and is now just an interesting thing to look at.

Unlike the other castle in town, which is a hotel, and the world's first with its own indoor curling rink. Stranraer, if it is famous for anything, is famous for curling. We had a little bit of ice cream (rum raisin) at a place called the Coral Cafe, but found that it being a Sunday, most of the town was shut down and rolled up, as quiet as a Mormon bawdy-house.

All this might sounds as if I don't like Stranraer, but that's not true at all. It had a quiet charm that wasn't at all brooding, but rather just sort of cozy and slow, like an afternoon nap. The skies were quite dramatic, and the ramshackle buildings had a dilapidated charm that gradually creeps up on you, like a kitten stalking your ankle.

As with Ireland, everything was shockingly green, especially when compared to the sere and barren expanses of Southern California. Our wanderings took us down to the waterfront, where we had a "Bellhaven's Best" in a shorefront pub called the Marina Bar. All of the other patrons were men in track pants and footie shirts, which at first I thought was just how Scottish dudes dressed. It gradually dawned on me that it was Sunday, and they were all gathering to watch footie matches, so maybe it's not entirely de-rigeur.

The atmosphere at the Marina wasn't terribly convivial, and it was sort of a charmless, tile-floored place we'd only chosen because my feet were tired. So we rambled on until we found the Bridge Arms, a much more traditional looking pub. These were, I swear, the only two places open in Stranraer. There was quite a crowd at the Arms, and I had myself a Tenent's before switching back to Belhaven's Best. Belhaven's Best is an ale not unlike say Bass, or Newcastle, but it's even chewier than those beers, and served from a nitrous tap, giving it a creamy, toothsome quality of which I was really enamored. On my way back for another, I struck up a conversation with another patron about the footie match everyone was shouting about. It was a pretty big day, apparently, the relegation or "Survival Sunday" match between Manchester United and Blackpool. If Blackpool won, they'd remain in the premiere league, but they'd had the bad luck to draw Man U. to play against, one of the best teams in the sport. It looked for a while that they might even pull it off, and they were briefly ahead - but by late in the game Blackpool were all completely worn out, while Manchester was still going strong and scored two unanswered points in the last few minutes.

We liked the Bridge Arms, but it was getting on supper time and we were peckish, so we moved on to the "Starfish Restaurant," which was a fairly plain family-style place. I had chicken pie, because ...it comes in pie form! pyr8queen believes that the tiny version of a thing is better than the thing itself; personally I believe that the pie version of a thing is better than the original thing. Truly wretched American pop music was playing at the restaurant, which was a shame.

It was still fairly early, but almost everything was shut down and we'd had enough of hanging around in pubs. Clearly I'm only part Scottish. We went back to our room, and to our delight discovered that the BBC was one week ahead on airing Dr. Who, and this was the night it was on - with a little tea and a nice room, it made for a pleasant evening.

The Honeymoon: Day 4, Belfast

Wed, 09 May 2012 19:54:00 GMT

May 21, 2011.

We arose at Willowbank House to an immediate Dire Rabbit sighting, which I understand is a portent of doom in Ireland.

That rabbit was huge, easily the size of a beagle, say. I fear for Irish carrotry and their horrible fate. We had another excellent Cooked Irish Breakfast in the dining room of Willowbank House. I should note that the accents of the residents of Enniskillen were a gentle deepening of the Irish lilt just touching on a Scottish brogue - nothing like the impenetrable Belfast accent we were soon to be puzzled by. I ended that sentence with a preposition; deal with it.

We drove into Belfast and had a day filled with pictures!

Arriving in Belfast we had to wander around Grosvenor Road to find where to drop off the car. We were almost too late, which would have been an expensive mistake. I was none too sorry to bid farewell to my Irish Driving Experience, and I take a solemn oath to not do it again.

We stayed at quite a nice hotel in Belfast, the Park Inn, which had a White Star Lines / Titanic themed restaurant. The room was ultra-modern, one of the most sleek places I've ever stayed, to be rivaled on this trip only by our room in Glasgow at a Sofitel. It was maybe a bit pricier than we'd planned, but a gift from pyr8queen's grandmother had made our trip budget considerably easier, and after non-stop hostel and B&B's, we thought a modern hotel in a major city was a welcome change. Or I did, anyway, and convinced her of it.

At any rate, we were just around the corner from the world-famous Crown Liquor Saloon, which is not a corner store in Venice selling Thunderbird and Natty Light - but rather a "gin palace" and prime example of the Victorian public house. It's full of dark wood burnished by years of care and colored glass.

The interior consists of "snugs", wooden booths that are completely private, with stained glass separators and wooden booth doors. It was quite busy, and we had to wait a little while to be seated, but it was well worth it. Particularly since it was raining quite steadily out, the first time it had done so since our arrival.

I had a pork terrine and Herself had salmon en croute both of which were really excellent. I had a pint of bitters and some Belfast ale, pulled from their ancient taps. The bitters were a sort of English style, not very carbonated and poured mostly warm. I confess it was not particularly to my taste, but certainly a fine exemplar of the style.

<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/aghrivaine/5798127831/" title="IMG_5084 by aghrivaine, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3304/5798127831_d0992b9b5f.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="IMG_5084"></a>

I loved the finials on the posts of the snugs, which were carved wooden mythical beasts. I spent quite a bit of time just trying to get a good picture of the griffin on the top of our booth's posts.

<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/aghrivaine/5798678266/" title="IMG_5083 by aghrivaine, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2287/5798678266_511a2c78b7.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="IMG_5083"></a>

After lunch we wandered around Belfast, stopping in at the very large "visitor's center' which was basically a giant gift shop with a rack of brochures up front. Which is fine! Because I got the pen with which I wrote most of all this stuff down, and a really swell rugby shirt that I continue to wear, as well as more tchotchkes for friends and relatives. We also found a store specializing in Irish linen, where we got some great linens for our future house (which we are now closing on!) and at last uncovered the solution to the mystery of the strange cat-like beast we saw in Cong! There was a little statue made of "bog wood" - which is to say wood that has nearly petrified in a peat bog, of the mythical "Lucky Black Bog Cat." Attached was a placard explaining that a large black cat had been sometimes sighted but never captured, and was believed to bring health, good luck and good fortune. We were very excited to find out that the creature we saw was a genuine cryptid, and I really regret we didn't get a picture! Even now, extensive google searching has little to say about the bog cat, other than jokes and souvenirs.

Afterwards, pyr8queen really wanted to see the Giant's Ring, a ring enclosure with a henge located very near Belfast. So we caught a cab from a line of them in the downtown square, where we met up with Martin, a very colorful cabbie with a ton of stories to tell. He chatted amiably with us as we went out to the Giant's Ring. As we walked out and took a few pictures, I spotted a magpie on the henge.

I particularly like magpies because I took a bottle of D'Arenberg "Laughing Magpie" shiraz on our second date. Herself knows why that's funny, but I won't embarrass her with the story. Unless asked. As we were wandering around the henge, Martin asked us if we were interested in a tour of Belfast in general. I had it in mind to inspect some of the famous murals of Belfast that commemorate various factions in "the Troubles" but I was somewhat afraid to ask, not wanting to raise a sore subject. Martin allowed that he actually used to give tours full-time, and if we kept the meter running he'd take us around. His ballpark estimate of the cost of such a jaunt was about as much as any guided tour, and was private for the two of us, so why not?

We talked with Martin as we drove back into town. He admitted he'd lived through the Troubles, and as with any young man at the time, couldn't help but get sucked into the divisive politics of the time. We started with a tour of Milltown Cemetery where a notorious attack occurred, a reprisal by the during a memorial service held for IRA members by a man named Michael Stone. It was a flashpoint in the Troubles, and Martin's story evolved from explaining what had lead to it, what it was like to walk the streets and worry about being yanked into a "Black Cab", hooded and killed - to eventually explaining just where he was during the attack. His story gradually got more personal and more emotional, and he admitted to having been in the IRA, as were the vast majority of young Catholic Irishmen at the time.

I have no dog in this fight. I'm an American, and although I have Irish ancestry on both sides of my family, a protracted violent struggle between neighbors has never made sense to me. And as we toured the neighborhoods themselves, and saw the dagger-fight range at which this conflict unfolded, it was more and more horrific. Martin gladly embraced the era of peace which ended the worst of the troubles.

Leaving the cemetery, he took us on a tour of the murals that both sides had put up. Again I say, I have no dog in this fight, and take no sides. But I will say this; look at the following images and observe that the IRA murals are memorials to civic leaders, while the Protestant murals are generally militant in nature, and praising the armed action of volunteers. It is an interesting contrast, and one that runs counter to the media's portrayal of the factions.

Catholic/IRA murals:

Ulster/Protestant murals:

We also stopped and signed the "Peace Wall" which was erected to separate neighborhoods, thus keeping the peace. There's a clear line at about 12 feet where the wall was extended, according to our guide, it's because although partisans couldn't cross the walls, they were still low enough to throw firebombs over, and so they had to be raised to prevent attacks.

I can't imagine what it's like to worry that the neighbors behind my house might throw a molotov cocktail in my back yard. This tour ended up being one of the most memorable parts of our trip, and I'm glad we picked by chance the cab with such a knowledgeable guide. Who knows, maybe every cabbie in Belfast tells the same story as a bit of showmanship? But I don't think so, Martin seemed to serious and passionate about the subject.

After the tour, it was getting late and we were hungry. We went back to the hotel and dropped off the linens we'd bought, and went on a walk around the neighborhood. This was the day that Pirates of the Caribbean "On Stranger Tides" came out, and given that we'd had an Epic Pirate Wedding, we were pretty excited to see it. So we found a theater a few blocks over, and bought our tickets. The lobby had been tricked out in pirate style, and the ushers were all wearing piratey garb. We had time for dinner before hand, so we wandered into a place called 'Nando's. I didn't realize it was a chain, but even so it was very good, Portuguese style "peri peri" chicken. It's a great idea for a restaurant too - one is seated like a normal sit-down establishment, but orders at the counter and food is served at the table by a waiter. There's a bar at the counter too, so we had cider and flaming hot chicken that was really delicious.

In the back of my head, I think Nando's would be a big success in the U.S. When we first got back there were no franchises here, but now I see they have opened some in Washington and Maryland. I'd put one on the Promenade in Santa Monica, or at The Grove and rake in the cash.

We enjoyed the movie very much, and after two days jam-packed with walking, driving and touring, went back to our hotel for our last night in Northern Ireland.

The Honeymoon: Day 4, Ashford Castle

Tue, 08 May 2012 21:08:37 GMT

This day on the trip was one of our very best. Falconry! Spotting a legendary beast! Strolling the castle grounds! It was great.

We got up and had breakfast at the Dolmen House in Cong. It was comfortable and the Full Irish Breakfast excellent, and I recommend it if you happen to be visiting. We packed our bags and set out down the road to Ashford Castle, and saw a strange creature!

The creature was not in that picture, I fumbled the camera out too slow to catch it, unfortunately. Anyway, it was dark, probably black, and had a long tail and big paws. The tail swished back and forth like a cat's, and it was generally feline in the way it loped along the road. When we got close, I saw that it was about the size of a big dog, like a Rottweiler, or so, but its ears and tail were not dog-like. When it saw us, it ducked into the brush along the side of the road, and I missed getting a picture of it. I wondered aloud what kind of wild cats lived in Ireland, I wasn't aware of any - but we were on our way to Ireland's School of Falconry, where I reasoned some people with knowledge of animals would be working.

We arrived early at Ashford Castle, and wandered around the exterior and as much of the interior as they would allow. The castle is an imposing granite structure that was first founded in 1228, and was given a modern renovation and turned into a hotel and conference center some time ago. It as played host to many important functions, probably most famously to President Reagan in the 1980's. It sits on the shore of Lough Corrib, and is now a five star hotel. We had intended to stay there, but there was a big event as well as a couple of weddings there, so it was booked solid months ahead of time. This all turned out fine, because we ended up staying at another castle (more on that later!) in Scotland, which we loved, and wouldn't have seen the Lucky Bog Cat had we been in Ashford overnight.

The original square fort and subsequent military structure is architecturally distinct from the French style Chateau that was added in 1715 by the Baron Oranmore.

The castle grounds are vast, and incorporate a golf course, many hidden and lovely gardens, rambling greens, and of course, the National School of Falconry. We hiked out to the Falconry school for our morning appointment for a "hawk walk" as recommended by grrm and parrismcb. Along the way we found a secret garden of sorts, tucked down in a hollow, hidden by a tall flowering hedge with an oak door. Our timing was amazing - every flower was in bloom, the weather was cool and perfect, and the scent of Spring was in the air with just the faintest hint of Winter at the edges in the wind.

It's not without truth that Ireland is called the Emerald Isle. There is a kind of green that happens there and nowhere else, and we were everywhere surrounded by it on our walk. The path to the school was a verdant dream.

It lead by a winding path to a walled and enclosed compound.

Once let inside, we were greeted by our personal falconer who would take us on the walk. First we had an educational tour of the facilities, with detailed explanation of the care for the birds, and an introduction to all the hawks, falcons and owls that are at the School. It was kind of like Hogwarts for raptors.

Finally we were gloved up and introduced to the Harris Hawks who we would be hawking with for the morning.

Harris Hawks are unique amongst raptors, because they are social birds that hunt as a pack. For this reason they will trust any person that their handlers, with whom they have a long-established relationship, introduce to them. With other birds of prey, the falconer must themselves build up this trust relationship, but with the Harris Hawks, it is possible for a stranger to work with them as long as they are accompanied by the handler. We took our birds, Sara and Feorha, out on a walk through the castle grounds. They are well trained to seek morsels of food right out of the hands of their handlers.

The handler carries a pouch full of chicken bits, and in this case, a shrew or vole that Feorha, the cheeky boy, ran down and caught. The handler had to snatch that vole ought of his claws, or he would have gorged on it and been unwilling to fly again.

The hawks must know that they're rock stars, because they're more than happy to pose majestically.

I really wish this picture weren't blurry.

When you "cast off" the hawks with a throwing motion, they swoop off through the trees very aerobatically. When you hold up your fist, they assume you've got a treat for them, and will soar right down to your glove.

After a nice long walk with Sara and Feorha, we made our way back to the school, and put the hawks on their perches to rest. The guide then introduced us to the School's owls.

She fed the vole that Feorha had caught to the owl while pyr8queen held the owl, which she was...interested in but perhaps every so slightly unenthusiastic.

The owl was surprisingly heavy for his size.

We also asked the falconers about the cat we saw. They said they were unaware of any wild cats in Ireland, other than just house cats on the loose. They were very puzzled by our sighting, and had no idea what we might have seen.

Reluctantly, we left the School and got on our way, but not before stopping off for a little more shopping and some coffee and rhubarb pie in the Cong Cafe. And a little more coffee at The Hungry Monk Cafe. The rest of the day was a long trip - all the way across the country to Northern Ireland, basically.

Along the way, in a tiny town with a turnabout called Charlestown, we stopped at the Riverside Hotel and Restaurant, an ancient tumbledown tavern situated along the water for supper.

I had a salmon in white wine sauce with bread-and-butter pudding for dessert. The salmon was superb.

While we dined, we observed the multi-generational family who owned and operated the hotel serve food and drinks to other local families who were there for a leisurely meal. Satisfied and rested, we got back on the road with plenty of light left in the day. Along the Northern edge of Ireland, the views are pastural and sweeping, with rolling hills and white cliffs.

We hiked up a well kept path to a waterfall along the way.

We tried to investigate the Marble Arch Caves, but it was too late in the day, and the educational center next to it was closing just as we arrived at the top of a winding, narrow mountain road that was yet another white-knuckler. So we pressed on to our evening destination, a town just over the border in Norther Ireland called Enniskillen. Immediately on crossing the border between the Republic and Northern Ireland, there was an obvious difference. The roads were wider and more recently paved, and there were actual street signs. In addition, although every house still had a peat fire burning, there was much more evidence of economic activity, with shops and businesses other than just farms and inns. It's clear that every home in Ireland is a largely self-sufficient farm, with just enough income to keep afloat, and keep the house tidy and in good repair; poverty in Ireland isn't obvious, because the people there are industrious. But scratch under the veneer of fresh paint and well kept walls, and you find people with just barely enough money to get by.

We stopped in a shopping center in Enniskillen to get some cash - the Republic uses Euro, and the UK uses pounds. We also called the Willowbank House for directions, and finally made our way there to check in. It looks over Lough Erne, and is large and lovely house kept by a very friendly proprietor and her husband. The view from the front of the house was gorgeous, and pyr8queen insisted we take a picture.

We got recommendations for dinner, and settled on the Horsehoe and Saddler's Bistro and Winebar in town. I can't believe I didn't take a picture of the beef three ways that I had for dinner, but I remember it as being excellent in all three ways. We had a long chat with Marshall Coalter, the owner, who just stopped in to see how we were doing. I was curious about the place, it being very thoroughly modern in a very old building. He told us that he used to use this upstairs area as a night club, but the liability for a bunch of people dancing and drinking wasn't as big a return as it would be for catered events and upscale dinners, which was sort of contradictory to what my impression of restaurant economics was. Never the less, his business was doing well, and he'd put together a top notch wine cellar, list of craft brewed local beers, and hired a great chef.

After our excellent meal, we stopped at Tesco's in Enniskillen. I always make a point of visiting a supermarket in every country I visit, because little speaks as clearly to a character of a people as what they need to put on the table every day. I was shocked to find no less than three aisles of pastry in this enormous market - and an entire aisle of ciders. I love my counter and am a proud American - but man, they are whupping our butts in Northern Ireland when it comes to pastry and cider. We took a tiny cake and a couple of bottles of cider back to the Willowbank House, steeped in a luxurious bath, and called it a night.

The Honeymoon: Day 3, Western Ireland

Mon, 07 May 2012 20:11:00 GMT

We got up and had a nice Irish breakfast at Lough Owel Lodge. A problem that was common throughout our trip, the only coffee available was instant. I know, I know - when in Rome, do as Romans do...when in Ireland or the UK, drink the tea. So on our way through Mullingar, we stopped at "The Bakery" which was done up like any modern city coffee house. There they had a proper coffee, which goes to show how universal the saturation of coffee culture is. Is this a good thing? On one hand, it's a little bit of a triumph of the banal - recessed lighting, pastel and earth-tone colors, forgettable artwork and a cafe latte are the same all the world over. On the other hand, I can get coffee.

Suitably fed and caffeinated, we made our way to the Mullingar pewter factory. The town of Mullingar is mostly famous for its pewterworks (and not the Bacon Store - there ain't no justice!) and there's a factory store along the big motorway. Unfortunately we weren't able to take a tour of the factory itself, but the store was open, and we picked up thank you gifts for many of the people who helped us make our wedding a success. I lusted after some of the more elaborate stuff there, too.

We got on the road. And off the main motorway, looking for an historical site called Clonmacnoise. Driving in Ireland is a serious white-knuckle affair. The roads are so narrow that two cars can't pass comfortably. There is not a single street sign in the entire Republic. Curves are frequent and blind. There are banks in the roads so it is difficult to pull off to allow an oncoming vehicle to pass. Plus, i was driving on the wrong side of the road, in a manual shift on the wrong side of the car. All together, I was basically lost and terrified the entire time we were in motion.

None the less, we arrived in one piece at Clonmacnoise. This is a site on the bank of the Shannon River where the very influential St. Ciaran founded a religious community in early Irish history. Throughout its history it would grow in size and importance...and then be sacked by Vikings. Eventually the monks and priests would come back, and rebuild...and then the Vikings would sack it again. Eventually even the Irish figured there was no sense in letting the Vikings have all the loot, so they started sacking it too. The English got in on the act, too.

We walked through a museum that had informational stuff, as well as a few of the remaining standing Celtic Crosses in Ireland, an important archaeological preserve as its one of the distinguishing features of Irish Catholicism, and Clonmacnoise one of the first flourishings of the faith as a political entity.

It remains a beautiful site, although in ruins.

After leaving Clonmacnoise, we wandered through backcountry roads, mostly lost. At one point we chanced on a square Norman keep in a fenced off pasture. We pulled over on the "side" of the road, which is to say, on the ribbon-thin part of the roadbed that wasn't paved. It wasn't safe, since it was on a blind curve, and the pasture was marked as private. Never the less, Herself clambered through while I kept watch on the car, and she took a few pictures.

She even got inside the tower.

With white knuckles and frayed nerves, we drove most of the rest of the way to Cong, stopping for lunch at a little town called Headford, in an inn called "The Angler's Rest" where I had my first "bap." I ordered a sandwich and a cider, and in this part of Ireland, people confirmed they'd heard you by saying "Yep!" in a bright sort of manner. It was peculiar to that part of the country as far as I could tell, and interesting verbal mannerism. So I asked the tattooed, Converse-All-Star wearing waiter what a bap was when he asked "panini or bap?" and found out that a bap is a round bun, not unlike what we'd call a kaiser roll. I don't know the derivation of the word.

Fortified by a little bit of food and rest, we drove the rest of the way to Cong, a picturesque and purposefully quaint village near Ashford Castle. We checked in at the Dolmen House where we were staying, a bed-and-breakfast with a large standing stone out front - the eponymous dolmen.

Dropping our dunnage, we drove through those breakneck tiny roads back to Cong to wander around and get some supper.

We wandered around quite a bit, and found a ruined church by a little stream, where there many ducks who were about as noisy as I've ever heard ducks be.

We poked around the ruins of the church, preserved in national trust and with many others everywhere dot the landscape with relics of Ireland-that-was and make a bridge to Ireland-that-is.

We had a snack at a place called The Crow's Nest, which we viewed as a good sign since that was the name of the room at the Banning Lodge we'd stayed during the wedding. We shared a couple drinks and a steak-and-guinness pie, and then did some shopping. Cong is the town where John Wayne's movie "The Quiet Man" was filmed, and they are still very proud of this fact, with The Quiet Man Tavern still proclaiming this heritage, and little placards around town identifying particular spots for scenes or backgrounds. The proprietors of the shops here were very friendly and chatty, which to be honest was atypical of our experience in Ireland so far, where people had basically been standoffish.

We got some wine and fresh bread from a thatch-roofed general store.

I was exhausted from my perpetual nigh-nervous-breakdown from driving halfway across Ireland, and everything in town shut down quite early, so we took our food back to the guest house, and once again read, relaxed and took it easy.

The Honeymoon: Day 2, Dublin Re-Dux

Fri, 04 May 2012 21:01:38 GMT

Looking over my notes today, I see how incredibly aggressive our schedule was. Hmm, I wonder which one of us was on a mission to schedule so much stuff in such detail in such a short time? Hmmm...

Our second day in Dublin was a bit of a mess, frankly. Still on a different time-zone, we got up very, very early. Earlier than nearly any place was open, in fact, so we wandered in a bit of a fog through Temple Bar until we found a place called "Cafe Wonderful" that was just opening and served a Full Irish Breakfast, again a wonderful thing. It was run by what appeared to be Asian immigrants to Ireland, but they had the whole traditional breakfast thing nailed, so it worked for me!

We continued to wander around Dublin, finding nearly everything closed off due to the royal visit.

We couldn't get in to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells, which I was very interested in. We could, however, get in to Dublin Castle. Not because it was open, but because I had on a jacket and a camera, and Herself is pretty, they just assumed we were press, and let us wander around.

Everything was fine until I started taking pictures of the stands where some sort of review or procession would occur, then we got politely shoo'ed off.

What followed was an epic exercise in frustration. We had booked a rental car for the rest of our trip in Ireland, which we were to pick up in Dublin and drop off in N. Ireland before departing for Scotland. We walked all the way across the center of the city from Barnacles to the car rental place. At every turn we were thwarted by barricaded streets, and had to walk way out of our way to accommodate the Queen's motorcade. At one point we got halfway across a street, only to have the other half blocked off in front of and behind us, stranding us on a traffic island while waited for the motorcade to go by. Most of the standers-by took it in good cheer, and made jokes, and the Garda in the area weren't surly at all, and actually fairly apologetic. A few angrier souls shook their fists and cursed the crown, which is probably not a very big surprise.

Finally the motorcade passed, and we saw both the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, who waved as he passed. This is him right there.

Finally we cleared the barricade, and found the car rental place had been closed and re-opened at a new location - all the way back where we came from, and a bit further past, too. Le sigh. My feet were killing me already.

It took us a while to sort out where we were going, but once we did we set out and stopped at a little cafe called "Cinnamon Cafe" for a scone and an Americano, just to rest my feet and caffeinate a little. For some reason my notes say "Cinnamon Cafe" but the picture I have is of the Copper Alley Bistro, so ...I really don't know what this is about.

This was about 1/3 of the way back, and at the 2/3 mark we stopped at the Legal Eagles Pub, which appeared to be a lawyer-hangout, which is why we went. But it was full of Portuguese soccer fans, and the bar was tended by one of the least friendly people we met in Ireland, who made a point of mocking our American accents. I mean, not in a funny, "Howdy Y'all" but in a "Americans are stupid!" way. I didn't like that guy. And his Guinness was only about as good as you'd get here in the U.S., presumably because they didn't have the high standards of care the Heritage Pubs do. To be fair, he also cruelly mocked the Portuguese people in the bar, so clearly he was an equal-opportunity xenophobe.

Finally we picked up our car. With a sense of mounting horror, I realized I'd have to drive manual, on the other side of the car for the first time, on the wrong side of the road for the first time, in a city I don't know which was mostly closed off because of security. Yikes.

With as much alacrity as possible we picked up our bags from the hostel and got out of town. Those first few miles were absolutely nerve-wracking, but by the time we got out onto the major motorways, I was fine. We followed our directions out to our next major stop, a town called Mullingar, famous for its pewter works.

I knew we'd arrived in the right place, far more welcoming than Dublin.

Home. I was home. Not the home of my ancestors (Northern Ireland and South West Scotland) but the home of my heart. They have a BACON STORE. The butcher cheerfully gave us directions to the guest house where we were staying, too.

We arrived at Lough Ouwel Lodge,

We were a bit early. We'd planned to spend more time in Dublin, but .. it was closed! So we drove back into the town of Mullingar, and stopped in for lunch at an incredible little tavern called Con's. These are the sorts of places that make Ireland so amazing - a tiny place that's been open for ages but lovingly cared for by every proprietor. It was covered in beautiful woodwork, colored glass and well-cared-for brasswork. It was a bit early but the cheerfully served us lunch, and I had stuffed pork-chops with apples that was one of the best meals I had on our trip, especially paired with a nice cider.

We stopped off at my first Tesco ever to pick up some snacks, and went back to the Lodge, which was now open. We checked in with the very friendly owner, who made us some tea. After, we walked down to the Lough itself, the legendary home of the Children of Lir, who were turned into swans for a hundred years.

The rambling lawns behind the lodge and around the lough were full of quizzical sheep who were deeply skeptical of our presence.

After the walk, we went back to our room at the lodge. We were actually moved into a bigger room, I'm not really sure why - each of the suites was named after one of the loughs of Westmeath, and each filled with beautiful antiques.

We had a giant thing of cider, a bunch of cheese, meat, crackers and veggies, and some weird cookies called "Jackos" for dessert. We were still on the tail end of ragged from all the travel, jet-lag and walking around fruitlessly in Dublin, so a relaxing evening reading and resting was just fine.

The Honeymoon: Day 1, Dublin

Thu, 03 May 2012 22:34:47 GMT

The first anniversary of our epic pirate wedding is coming up soon. I thought a nice warm up to that would be finally putting down on "paper" (paper anniversary, get it?) the notes I took during the trip, and some of the pictures. So every day I'll detail one of the days of our trip. I kept a little field notebook with me during the trip, and noted where we went, what we ate, stuff like that. I'm glad i did, too, because looking back over my notes, I wouldn't remember the name of the tiny tavern we had lunch on the West Coast of Ireland.

Our trip started two days after the wedding itself - we were married on Saturday, May 14th, 2011. On the 15th we sailed home from Catalina and spent the night at home, then left on the morning of the 16th for Dublin, Ireland. The flight was long and on the brutal side, since we were flying coach and I was quite compressed. We landed in Dublin at about 7AM local time. As it happens, I have a friend, Padraig from the Brotherhood Without Banners, who works literally at the Dublin airport, where he is someone incredibly important, I gather. He met us after our flight, and joined us for a cup of coffee/tea at an airport cafe. It was he that asked us if we were in town to visit the Queen, who was for the first time in 100 years, visiting the Republic of Ireland. We had no idea, and were entirely too busy to make time in our visit to spend any time with the Windsors. (Our continuing apology, Your Majesty, maybe next time.) We had also just missed the Obamas, but try as we might, were unable to make our schedules fit with theirs, either.

After touching base with Pod, who I haven't seen since LaCon in '06, we took a cab to our hostel in Temple Bar. It was then that the Queen's visit became an inconvenience. Most of the Irish Garda (police) were in Dublin for The Visit, and as far as I know, not to greet us. Much of the city was shut off, any place that the Queen might like to visit, might be in the vicinity of, pass by, or mention in casual conversation had been blocked off for security's sake. This included all of the part of Dublin where our hotel was, so we were dumped unceremoniously several blocks away. We had luggage for two weeks, so it wasn't terribly easy to lug around, and we didn't really know where we were going, and we were tired and jet-lagged. When we finally found the place, Barnacles Hostel, it seemed sketchy. The entryway was tiny and the staff behind a bulletproof glass partition. We also were not allowed to take our room until 3PM, but for a Euro per bag, we could stash them in a communal closet, overseen by the Eastern European waif who was working the front desk. I desperately wanted to shower and lay down, but such was not meant to be.

We stashed our stuff, not without some misgivings, and set out to kill the morning and early afternoon before we could go back and get a room. I was a sweaty, tired, jet-lagged grumpy bastard, basically. I was considerably bucked by my first ever Irish Cooked Breakfast, a glorious combination of sausage, bacon, eggs, white and black pudding, and fried tomato. That and some coffee was a fair restorative. I had this delight at a place called "Chapter 1" which was immediately next to Christ Church Cathedral.

We investigated the Cathedral, and had another round of coffee in the basement cafe. pyr8queen was very interested in the woodwork of the chairs, pulpits, statue plinths, etc. I was fascinated by the giant crazy bird.

He's staring at you, and is skeptical about what he sees.

I had promised a fried I'd have a Guinness in the U.S. just before leaving, and another immediately upon arrival to test the theory that Guinness is better in Ireland. Sadly, the Guinness factory was closed due to Her Majesty, who is by all reports an impossible claigthsch liadhradhtnclh, which is Gaelic for "party animal" and pronounced "Clee". So we found ourselves at one of Dublin's heritage pubs, specifically Kehoe's Heritage Pub. I had a Guinness, and can confirm it was indeed a fair sight better than the U.S. version - probably because it's fresh, and because the heritage pubs pay careful attention to storage, tapping, line cleanliness, and all the details.

You probably think you know this pub. There are "Irish Pubs" in the states, after all. But if you haven't been to the real deal in Ireland, you don't know what an Irish pub is. Until you've heard the creak of the ancient floorboards under your feet, smelled the brass polish and stale beer of hundreds of years of men, just like the ones now holding forth on everything in the world at the end of the bar in their sweater-vests and caps, ducked your head under the low-hanging beams near the bathroom - the same way centuries of pub-goers from James Joyce to your uncle Bobby have; until you've felt that, breathed that, and lived that, you've just gotten a dishwater approximation; a Disney version of the real thing. We had a chat with the barman, who was enthusiastic about whiskies, and a big believer in Irish whiskey as a worthy drink. Our pick from the lot was Locke's Whiskey, and his personal favorite was the bargain-priced but very good Redbreast 12 Year.

Finally, disheveled and tired, we trudged back to the hostel and were at last permitted to check in. I took a blissful shower, and lay down for a bit - I awoke 90% less grumpy. Herself didn't want to be bothered with that silly resting stuff, and had wandered around those few areas of the city that weren't closed, and investigated some viking ruins. This wouldn't be news to the Irish, but I don't know if most Americans are aware that Dublin was a city founded by viking invaders, and much of Irish history involved the vikings and the English taking turns making things uncomfortable for the Irish.

When she got back up, we both cleaned up, and met The Devilbunny for dinner at place recommended by parrismcb, Gallagher's Boxty House. A boxty is a traditional Irish dish that's like a potato crepe over some kind of generally savory stuffing. I say "traditional" but Pod had never actually heard of them, and certainly never had one, so it was an experience for him, too. You can see from the insane glint in his eye here, they were excellent.

After dinner, Pod took us for a walk around Temple Bar and the River Liffey.

We had a round of drinks at the Ha'Penny Pub, right on the riverfront. In addition to the Royal Visit of Extreme Inconvenience, Dublin was also that week host to the finals of a football season between for second rung league champions. Both teams were from Portugal, and the fans had flooded the street and were loudly singing songs at each other. It was a little bit like hooliganism, and a little bit like West Side Story. I recorded a bit of it:

After watching the warring tribes for a bit, and full of food, booze and friendship, we finally retired to our room at Barnacles and I slept the sleep of the dead. And that was my first day in Ireland.

Blink and Bertie

Tue, 01 May 2012 18:46:26 GMT

Blink and Bertie, a photo by aghrivaine on Flickr.

This weekend we went and looked at a beautiful house in the hills, and brought Blink with us. He had a hard time with something in the yard of the house, and started eating grass and any plant he could get his mouth around. He threw up a few times, which was kinda nasty - I've also never seen him do this before.

It seemed to pass, though, and this was the second time that my parents-in-law new puppy, Bertie Wooster met Blink. He seemed a little freaked out by Blink's yarfing. After investigating the house, which we liked very much but probably can't afford after someone else made a bid on it, we went back to the La Canada house and Blink and Bertie played in the yard. Bertie "gets" the idea of fetching a ball already, which is pretty amazing for a ten week old puppy. We had to teach Blink the fetch game, and however much he has taken to it with wild abandon, he really didn't at first even though he was a year old.

So that, and this picture, which clearly demonstrate that Bertie is pretty dubious about Blink, seem to indicate that he's a really smart dog.

Back deck view

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 16:27:35 GMT

Back deck view, a photo by aghrivaine on Flickr.

We went and looked at a house this weekend. It is an incredible opportunity - a rambling 1920's craftsman ranch-house with four bedrooms, an amazing kitchen, a guest-house, barn, pool, and a master bedroom suite that is nearly as large as our current house. And this is the view from the back deck.

It is in Tujunga, which is an inconvenient location to say the least. It also presents wildfire hazard, and as recent years have proved, this is not negligible.

Still, it's the first place we've found that has everything we're looking for, plus a lot of potential for more, and in a price-range we can basically afford. And the notion of sitting on this deck with coffee and a book in the morning ...well, that appeals to me quite a bit.

Dog + Beach

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 19:08:31 GMT

IMG_7652, a photo by aghrivaine on Flickr.

Chasing balls on the beach is, apparently, the greatest thing in the world.

The Best Kind of Savaging

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 23:03:56 GMT

First writer's group meeting after the Really Big Awesome Thing two weeks ago. I've been a diligent writer, and have made great progress - sketching out my characters, story, structure, the whole thing. Well, I thought I had, anyway. And then I showed it to the two writers who showed up last night. We spent a long time going over it in real detail, and they had a lot of hard questions, a lot of criticisms.

Important to note - all of that criticism was constructive, and all of the questions were exactly the sort of questions you HAVE to answer to have a tight script. It's amazing how much work goes on beneath the surface; frankly dialogue is the easiest part. If dialogue was all you needed, you'd be writing for the radio, as David Mamet famously suggested. (He comes across as an utter asshole, but he is sometimes [but not always] right.) So I got raked over the coals on what was weak, what was too lose, what didn't serve the tightest possible structure.

In the past, I worried that the group's feedback was all positive. I went home feeling kind of bruised and grumpy, but after I slept on it, I realized it was incredibly useful and constructive; it hurts the way a Drill Sergeant's physical training hurts - it makes you stronger if you can gut it out. I can definitely gut it out, and unlike past writer's group, I know this criticism is coming from a very positive intention, of being helpful, of hammering the story into shape, of doing the hard work.

So much like the day after a hard workout, when one is sore but feels virtuous, I feel like I got the kind of savaging I needed, the kind that says I can't screw this up, that I have to pay attention to every nuance and every detail, and to above all be very honest.

Happy Surprise

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 20:19:09 GMT

How often do you really get to delight someone? Isn't it a little bit sad that it's not all that often?
Anyway, a few weeks ago, pyr8queen announced that we were hosting a scheme that she and Mary had ginned up - a surprise wedding reception for geekstress and banrionaniamh who had managed to make a civil union on the sly. We hope, of course, that someday soon they'll be permitted to have an actual public marriage, and that a public wedding reception will follow. But in the mean time, friends step in where the government fails. Someday they'll do it proper with family and friends and coworkers and distant uncles and embarrassing grandparents and all the trappings of a full, all-singing-all-dancing wedding.

But we did succeed in taking them quite by surprise. Almost everyone was able to show up early, and keeping the loudest amongst us quiet so as not to spoil the surprise was a challenge. But when they arrived, we had the lights down, and I was just carving a smoked brisket on the kitchen counter as pyr8queen escorted them in after a joyous greeting from the dog, who gave nothing away. She said, "Would you like some WINE?" which was the cue - and the lights came up and lo and behold, there were a couple of dozen nerds in weird hats shouting "SURPRISE!"

geekstress had sort of detected something was different, and was entirely stoic. banrionaniamh on the other hand, was sort of horrified, and cringed into the refrigerator like a wilting salad. But in no time flat, we'd whisked them in, pressed drinks into their hands, and the food that everyone brought was tucked into. There were SO MANY CAKES. I felt obliged to try them all.

I guess I was a little worried that this wouldn't be a welcome surprise, given the sort of sensitive issues of same-sex marriage and civil unions, and family and so forth. My fears were completely unfounded, and by the end of the night it was clear that they were both really delighted and surprised and flattered. But really, these two have done a tremendous amount of work for their friends in every possible arena, and if a tiny surprise party is only a drop in the ocean towards paying that back, it was a drop well-dropped, I think.

I say without reservation that putting together this party and making a friend truly happy is probably far more rewarding than having a party thrown in one's honor. So it was a win all around, with two guests of honor beaming by the end of the night, and everyone just as happy to have helped. That is time well spent, indeed.

Follow the White Rabbit

Sat, 21 Apr 2012 21:15:10 GMT

While a nice brisket is in the smoker, and pyr8queenis out running an errand, I took the dog for a walk. An attractive woman ran past me at a moderate pace, and I sort of did a double-take because she looked familiar. I'm just trying to place her...was she a resident at the old apartment building? Friend of a friend....oh, that's right - that's Carrie-Ann Moss. I recognize her.

Life in Venice. The dog was unimpressed.

An Open Letter to Crabbie's

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 00:41:04 GMT

Dear Crabbie's

Last year, after 39 years of singlehood, I married a lovely woman and we went on our honeymoon to Ireland, Scotland and England. There I had the great pleasure of tasting Crabbie's Alcoholic Ginger Beer. Just as the chalkboard inviting us in to the Phoenix Pub in London suggested, it was indeed tickety-boo on a hot day.

Whilst on our trip, I did my very best to enjoy Crabbie's wherever I could, an effort that lead to a sense of well-being and pleasure that has rarely been rivaled in my life. Of course, this isn't saying much, as on the whole my life has been one with only the modest pleasures that a middle-class upbringing can provide; nothing like the posh extravaganza that must be life at the Crabbie's corporate office.

My extensive research, which consists of googling a bit, and bitching to my friends, has informed me that Crabbie's is not available in the United States. This is a keen disappointment, somewhat akin to making a dear friend while on holiday and then never seeing them again. You know that warm glow of companionship when one meets a kindred spirit, the sudden delight in finding shared interests and that ineffable something that is sympatico? And then never again? It's not quite crushing...but it does add to the pile of rather dreary things that make one's life anything but tickety-boo.

In desperation, what I can not purchase here in Los Angeles, I am prepared to make myself. I have all the requisite equipment to brew some delicious ginger beer, but I simply don't have the recipe. I have done even more extensive research - which is to say, more googling, and being encouraged by my friends to shut up about Crabbie's and make them some. I have no recipe. I am bereft.

Dear people at Crabbie's, bringers-of-the-boo-which-is-tickety, I implore you - lend me your recipe. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I do have many friends, and they are all anxious to taste the things that I brew, much of which turns out fairly satisfactory. Imagine this as an opportunity to seed the States with a sort of 5th Column of Crabbie's partisans, ready to take to the hills and ...well, drink delicious things. And spread the word!

I would gladly be your ambassador to the States, or at least to Venice, California. Or at least to my block. Surely I would qualify for that. Will you help me out?

Yours etc;
Davy Krieger

Churches and the Main Line and Community

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 18:20:01 GMT

I grew up in a suburb of Philadelphia, most noted for its enormous shopping center. It was a bellwether of the town, which boomed in the heyday of the American mall phenomenon, and withered slowly as the luster went off on huge shopping Meccas. Our immediate neighboring townships, Valley Forge and the Main Line, which extended like a long vein of blue-blood from the national park to Philadelphia itself, weathered the rise and fall of the economy far more gracefully. Unsaddled with vast swathes of concrete boxes, and instead graced with gray stone and brick houses, rolling parks, ancient trees and a sense that they had withstood the vagaries of American fortune with as much grace as was possible anywhere in the North East.

My grandparents were very active members in a church that directly abutted Valley Forge national park; a spare white Presbyterian edifice that sits in the middle of a graveyard where rest people from before the signing of the Constitution, to as recently as my mother. The church is one of the oldest in the state, indeed in the nation, and has resisted nearly all hints at modernity, except to eventually include a closed-circuit camera so the oldest congregants could watch Sunday services in the small chapel on the ground floor. This was far cheaper than installing an elevator, and provided a place to stuff adolescent me, even then obsessed with technology, cameras, gadgets, you name it. Up in the balcony I would go, and when I weighed enough to move its enormous mass, I was also tasked with ringing the bell to call people to service. I was perfectly content alone up in the balcony, because I could sneak in a book to read during the dry sermons. Even then I was skeptical about church and its lessons from a deeply suspicious primary source; but I understood and valued the community that made up the church. Indeed, that community was nearly the whole of my grandparent's social lives, in as much as they could be said to have one, and our annual calendar revolved around this picnic, that oyster dinner, or one of several church bazaars and rummage sales.

Part of this calendar, too, was the visiting of nearby churches with which ours had a collegial relationship. Presbyterians of the old school sort, which is to say not the evangelical sort, not the modern infestation that appears to most advocate for keeping the wealthy wealthy, and excusing shabby treatment of the poor - are not jealous of each other, and rather than totaling up congregations, or looking for members that were influential in Society, generally went about the business of being nice to each other and supporting each others' increasingly narrowing attempts to stay relevant in their members' lives. I have a particular memory of visiting a vast gray-stone church on the Main Line for their annual festival and rummage sale. There is a very exact smell which the community rooms of every church shares, and it is a combination of dust, old ladies' perfumes, ancient books, moldering upholstery and the coffee and tea which is endlessly brewed in the cafeteria-style kitchens they inevitably have. This church we visited, and I can not for the life of me remember its name, or where exactly it was, only that it was on a long road in a tony neighborhood with very tall oak trees, and green and steep verges, rather than sidewalks; this church made a special effort to make their annual bazaar worth the visiting. There was, of course, the inevitable crock-pots full of meatballs, rice-krispie marshmallow squares, and other Presbyterian culinary delights that were neither culinary nor delights; but most importantly to my sisters and I, there was a huge box-maze that occupied the entire back half of the community building.

This was a paradise for kids at a church event. It was quite elaborate, consisting of many refrigerator boxes, big pieces of cardboard and even some lumber here and there where the chambers actually went up and down in multiple levels. I can only imagine now, as an adult, that they must have stored much of the cardboard for use year after year, because to acquire that many boxes annually would be unthinkable. Strange to think there was some room somewhere, and probably a large one, full of collapsed cardboard boxes and otherwise unused, dedicated to one weekend a year. But the result was a joy; it was too small for any adult to comfortably enter, and so kids would generally disappear into it not to be seen again for hours. There was chamber after chamber, box after box - loops that doubled back, large open spaces in the middle, and levels upon levels for climbing up, or dangling down from like an ersatz murder-hole in a cardboard castle. It must have taken days to put it all together, and a team of engineers to design. It was a marvel of temporary architecture.

I can't think today of anything that occupies that sort of space in my community. I'm now older than my mother was when she was taking my sisters and I to these events, and other than something crass (and germ-ridden) like Chuck E. Cheese, I don't know of a place where kids are left to benign neglect like we were there.

I may have left the church - I have definitely left the church; but that sense of belonging to something good and kind and innocent was important to who I am today. I hope I'm simply unaware of its modern equivalent, and that those churches are not now relegated to the same tatty faded glory that the once magnificent mall now occupies.

What is Dead Can Never Die

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 18:23:41 GMT

I can't pretend I wasn't horrified at S2E02 of Game of Thrones. Littlefinger, one of my favorite characters from the book, has devolved into an unsubtle, unclever pimp; Rakharo is dead, Salaador Saan is a strange pervert, and Asha Greyjoy has gone from tall, strong, dark-haired, beautiful and laughing to dumpy, blonde, sullen, short and very plain, in addition to be re-named "Yarra." There are more nitpicks, but my principle objections are to the vast change in Littlefinger. It's inevitable that there will be added or modified or removed scenes, the nature of changing from one medium to another. But so long as they're in the spirit of the original material, it's fine by me, fanboy that I am. But much of this departure seems not in the same spirit, and more in the spirit of Saturday Night Live's explanation - a 13 year old boy as line producer.

So this week's episode was even more of a departure, with relatively little of the material actually coming from the books, and quite a bit of it wholly fabricated. This time, at least, however the departures *were* in the spirit of the books, though the change in character of Margaery Tyrell is quite pronounced. As were her boobs, and maybe neither of those things should be a big surprise at this point, I suppose. Anyway though, I was a bit more relieved. And still delighted by Balon Greyjoy.

Rainy Day with Thunder and Lightning

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 20:17:17 GMT

Rainy Day with Thunder and Lightning, a photo by aghrivaine on Flickr.

Rain is fairly rare here. And a proper thunderstorm with lightning even more rare.

Here I am, on Friday the 13th, on the 13th floor - in a lightning storm. Am I tempting fate for a third lightning strike?

Somewhere, Blink is barking his head off, he doesn't like thunder one little bit. In the mean time, this is a pretty good spot to enjoy the show - not quite as great as the firewatch tower in Valley Forge Park. But what is?

"Snobs" by Julian Fellowes

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 22:12:14 GMT

Are you, like me, a big Gosford Park and Downton Abbey fan? Then you are, like me, a big fan of Julian Fellowes, who wrote them both, and also an insightful, interesting novel called "Snobs" about the lives of the aristocracy in England today. It's replete with incisive commentary on people of every class, but especially the insular "upper" class of England. Fellowes is one of them, a life peer and married to a handmaiden to the royals, he has been before an actor and writer, an aristocrat. His portrait of them is forgiving but also uncompromising; he sees the best of his class but is not blind to their faults, and to what it is about them that is to the other classes so aggravating.

But it's full of little Nabokovian gems of insight like, “How little Americans know when they disparage acquaintanceship in favour of real, true friendship. It is in acquaintanceship, bringing wiht it as it does delicious dinners, comfortable weekends, gossip shared in picturesque surroundings, but no real intimacy, no responsibility, that the greatest charm of social intercourse lies.”

As a piece of literature, this was a joy to read. As research for new and exciting project, invaluable. And as insight into another world, entirely revealing.