We dragged ourselves off the plane in Manchester, only slightly jet-lagged, down the long metal tube to be greeted by... quiet! The walk along the squishy carpet toward "Immigration" and the baggage turntables was remarkable for its muted voices, lack of blaring TeeVees and its almost ascetic simplicity. This "quiet" would follow us for the next 20 days and we grew to cherish its effect on us. "Immigration" turned out to be two desks, one for EU citizens, one for non-EU citizens, operated by friendly civil servants who efficiently and convivially dispatched their assigned task of electronically reading and then physically stamping our passports (inexplicably on Page 11 for Michael & 23 for Jean) "Leave to enter for six months. Employment and recourse to public funds prohibited. 15 April 2005. Manchester (1)," our virgin entry in our new, unblemished Passports.
The baggage carousels section was small, unadorned and... quiet. After the requisite visit to inspect the plumbing, we had to search carefully to find the exit marked "Nothing to Declare," which led us directly out into the modest concourse, unimpeded by officialdom, where Julian Puddy, our email correspondent and Manchester resident guide, waited to whisk us off to our first English hospitality.
And whisk he did! After much searching on three levels in the crowded car park, he found his car and Jean started to automatically hop in the right hand side. WRONG! We were in Britain! Julian drove us at what seemed like a mad pace through the busy streets of Manchester, with cars rushing at us on the wrong side of the road, wild circuitous rides through bewildering roundabouts and swift turnings through intersections that were arranged all backwards.
After this brief introduction to English traffic, we welcomed the sight of Julian and Kirsty's quiet 1930s brick home in Stockport at Woodsmore, a quiet village 6 miles south of Manchester center.
The baggage carousels section was small, unadorned and... quiet. After the requisite visit to inspect the plumbing, we had to search carefully to find the exit marked "Nothing to Declare," which led us directly out into the modest concourse, unimpeded by officialdom, where Julian Puddy, our email correspondent and Manchester resident guide, waited to whisk us off to our first English hospitality.
And whisk he did! After much searching on three levels in the crowded car park, he found his car and Jean started to automatically hop in the right hand side. WRONG! We were in Britain! Julian drove us at what seemed like a mad pace through the busy streets of Manchester, with cars rushing at us on the wrong side of the road, wild circuitous rides through bewildering roundabouts and swift turnings through intersections that were arranged all backwards.
After this brief introduction to English traffic, we welcomed the sight of Julian and Kirsty's quiet 1930s brick home in Stockport at Woodsmore, a quiet village 6 miles south of Manchester center.
Kirsty, Sam and Tom met us at the door, Sam on his way to school with his Mum. Jules gave us a tour of his gardens behind, alongside of and on top of the house and garage. Jules is a whiz with found materials, bringing the principles of Living in Place to work in suburban Lancashire.
When Kirsty returned, we were treated to our first English tea with milk, which immediately became a habit we have yet to break. Tea was accompanied by lively conversation and we were soon fast friends. |
All too soon, it was time for us to leave, as our bodies were still on Pacific Daylight Time and we had to get to our B&B in Lancaster before we could catch up on lost sleep. Jules took us to the local railway station just two blocks from home where we boarded the first of many delightful & efficient trains of the UK: this one a three-coach train to Manchester Piccadilly Station and our connection to Lancaster.
LANCASTER
We managed to find our train in Picadilly Station with the help of Jean's excellent direction asking skills and soon found ourselves disembarked at Lancaster Railway Station not quite sure where to find our pre-arranged accommodation for the next two nights. After more directions from helpful passersby, and a two mile walk through the ancient streets of Lancaster, we found the Lancaster Townhouse B&B, where we were greeted at the door by Margaret's Scottish brogue!
Later, we set off for town, warmly dressed in sweaters and gloves for the blustery cool and damp weather, walking a footpath along the River Lune, away from the noisy traffic on Caton Road. We very soon discovered the small scale and depth of history in the buildings that enchanted us throughout our travels.
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The scene as we approached Lancaster reminded us of downtown Santa Cruz, with the tidal river showing its bare feet at low tide. In search of a local pub for a drink and a bit of the local pub fare, we stepped into The Bobbin... and right out the other side. This was a pub for the local young folks, with loud music and equally loud young football fans crowded up to the bar. Not our cup of tea, so to speak. We walked on through the ancient streets of Lancaster, with its castle looming over all, sporting a jaunty set of TeeVee aerials atop its crenelated ramparts.
We settled for the Elliot, a modest eatery on a modest side street, sufficiently local and quiet. Lovely soup, salad and vegetables, with a nice white wine, and after, a relaxing walk back to the B&B. We took this picture of Mary Street for Jean's sister, Mary. We would see lots of Mary Streets, Lanes and Churches during our journeys.
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At breakfast the next morning, we learned of the full range of English B&B breakfasts. We passed on the black pudding, bacon and kippers, opting for eggs, hash browns, fried tomatoes (that's TOE-MAH-TOES), beans and toast, and, of course, tea with milk.
Fortified for the day, we set off for the Lancaster Railway Station for our bus trip to Preston!
Fortified for the day, we set off for the Lancaster Railway Station for our bus trip to Preston!