Lime End

 To begin...

This is the farmhouse at Lime End. Parts of it date back to the 17th century. Inside it you will find rooms with big oak beams exposed, a warm, grand room, with comfortable, overstuffed chairs, a big fireplace, a second floor where you can crack your head if you're not careful.

If your timing is right you'll also find my cousin John, his wife Helen, and if you wander into the other half of the house (which I have not been in) you may meet Matthew and Liz, his wife.

Your timing would have be right because, much of the time they are out and about doing all the things it takes to manage a farm that has about 1500 acres of fields, with close to 600 dairy cows. And we're here in calving season, so its extra busy.

These are Bella and Lilly, two of the four dogs at Lime End.

This is Benjamin, the third of four dogs.

I have not been able to get a picture of Molly, the fourth dog. She is however Lilly's daughter, and looks similar. So go with that for now. Getting all four into one shot is near impossible. I'm not going to try.

These are some of the new calves at Lime End.

As I mentioned, it is calving season and everyone is quite busy with it, especially the cows.

I'd never really thought about it before but dairy cows ideally calve once per year, that's what keeps them producing their milk afterall.  Yes, they can produce milk without having a calf every year, but it does dwindle off, so ideally, calf a year.

With close to 600 cows, even though not all of them are calving, you can see how it gets kinda busy.

This is another of the pens at Lime End farm, just waiting for more calves to arrive.

This is Herstmonceux Castle.

It is quite near the farm. Of the 1,500 acres used by Lime End Farm, 300 or so are owned outright and the other 1,200 are rented from various places. Herstmonceux is one of those places.

Aside from being a lovely castle, Herstmonceux is home to Queen's University Canada's campus in the UK. The castle was given to Queen's in, I think, 1993 or 1994, a time when I happened to be studying music and theatre there. "There" being in Kingston Ontario, not Sussex England. So yes, my alma mater abroad as it were.

I don't know the school song.

Herstmonceux was also home to The Greenwich Royal Observatory for a period of time. It moved here from Greenwich in London, (you saw pictures of it the other day of you've been keeping up) in the early fifties. Here is an interesting article on the subject that also chats about the castle a bit.

This is, from left to right: John, Helen, Jake, and Noah.

You already know Jake and Noah, so they need no further introduction. Though, what you may not know is that today is Jake's birthday. He is 14. Happy Birthday Jake!

John and Helen both grew up in roughly the same neighbourhood. At the age of 3 John and his family move to Lime End farm and Helen grew up in Eastbourne, about 20 minutes away. They met in their teens and have been together ever since. I like these kinds of stories by the way.

I don't know how to figure cousins. I call John my cousin as it is easiest. In actual fact he is my father's cousin. John's father, Bernie, was Henry, my father's father's, youngest brother. There father, my father's grandfather, and therefore my great grand father, was Jabez.  So I just looked up the math and the answer is John is my first cousin once removed, because he is my father's cousin and "removed" has to do with the number of generations we are from the common ancestor, Jabez in this case, and as I am two generations removed, and John is one generation removed, then that makes us first cousins, once removed. That then makes Matthew, John's son and I, second cousins, as we are the same generations removed from our common ancestor (still Jabez), but are our cousins via our parents being cousins.

 Clear as mud?

So, I just stepped away for a bit to have a bite of breakfast with the guys and Helen, and took the opportunity to explain how we're all related. So now I'm coming back and explaining it further, so that it is actually clearer than mud for all those interested. If you're not interested just skip to the next picture and read the sentence above it. That will get you back on track.

I could try and explain better myself but the words I just read are way better so I'll just include them here.

In your case, the common ancestor is your great grandfather. Both your father and his cousin are separated from your great grandfather by ONE generation (for your father, it is your grandfather -- for your father's cousin, it is your great Aunt or Uncle). Thus they are 1st cousins (1 generation separation from common ancestor).
The "removed" is the additional generations, if any, separating the second person (further away) from the common ancestor with YOU, your father's cousin is still closest to the common ancestor, 1 generation separation, so you and your father's cousin are still 1st cousins.
BUT you are TWO generations separated from the common ancestor (your father and grandfather). So the difference (2-1=1) is the removed number. So you and your father's cousin are 1st cousins once removed.
BUT, your father's cousins CHILD would now be two generations removed from the common ancestor --- as you are two generations removed. So you and your father's cousin's child are 2nd cousins. And since you are both 2 generations separated, there is no "removed" as 2-2=0.

They came from here.

So, for further clarity, this means that:

Noah and Jake are John's 1st cousins twice removed. Why? They remain first cousins because the common ancester, Jabez is now three from them, and one from John (3-1=2).

Noah and Jake are second cousins once removed from Matthew. 3-2=1 for the "removed" and that other crazy math that I still don't quite get theoretically but can apply practically. I'm usually the other way with math.

Now the fun thing is that:

1. People enjoyed this breakfast conversation, and
2. We decided that, with all this family coming over today that we'd actually figure out how we're all related and write it out.

Yay!

Onward.

This is a windmill off in the distance, on, appropriately enough, Windmill Hill.

These are the swans that live in the Pevensey marshland. Pevensey is near where we are, closer than Eastbourne. I have no idea what direction. The marshland borders along some of the land where the cows are grazing, so we got to see them as we bumped along the fields with John and Helen in one of their many jeeps.

If you hadn't picked it up by now, after picking us up at the train station in Polegate we took a scenic route back to the farm, but then basically got our stuff in the room and headed out for a bit of a tour of the area.

Above is one of the many herds of cows out and about in the fields. They are all clustered together near the gate because, I believe, they were expecting someone to be coming along and providing them with some additional food stuffs. The look we got for not being those people was an excellent indicator that cows are far brighter than I was lead to believe Icelandic sheep (and apparently most sheep) are.

This is Herstmonceux All-Saints. Its bits date back to the 12th century, and up into the 16th century, and it sits where the original town of Herstmonceux was. Herstmonceux is now a couple of miles north, nearer the castle, having likely moved there at some point in the 15th century.

Hilda, John's aunt, and therefore my great aunt (I have often wondered why they skipped grand aunt) is buried here with her husband. Hilda was the oldest of my paternal grand father's generation, and outlasted all her sibling, living till the most respectible age of 95. John suspects that, since she had spent so much time when she was younger keeping an eye out for all of them, that she decided to hang around until all of her siblings had past so that they wouldn't get into any serious trouble without her there.
Below is a brass effigy of a knight, in the floor near the altar within the church. There is latin below it, outside of frame, that I expect may explain it a bit, but whatever. I'll get google to translate it for me another time.

This is the sort of thing that people like to take rubbings of. My mother has a rubbing of a similar brass knight that my brother did one time when on a trip to the ROM (Royal Ontario Musuem). I always wanted to, but never got the chance to do one. Today was not that day. The effigy is actually normally hidden by the carpet that you can see rolled up at the top of the picture. John and Helen knew it was there, so rolled the carpet up to show us.

And this is why travelling with locals is a good thing.

Below is the Dacre effigy, also in Herstmonceux All-Saints. The effigy is for Thomas Hoo, Lord of Hoo and Hastings,  and his son Thomas Hoo his half-brother  (and this is my other brother Daryl), and dates back to the late 15th century, or C15 as all of these websites I am reading these days seem to use as a shorthand. The Hoo's are someone connected with the Dacre's. Find Dr. Seuss to explain it to you, I haven't sorted it out yet.

After a smashing tour of the surrounding area, which involved bouncing across fields in the jeep and stopping on a regular basis for me to hop out and open gates between the paddocks, we then headed back to the farm for a driving lesson.

No, not me. John had asked whether the boys would be interested. Both were, however Noah declined this particular opportunity, so off Jake went to drive another jeep around the field.

A nice safe distance lest he desire to runneth over his brother or I.

And proof that is indeed Jake, who now knows more about driving a car than I do, behind the wheel. Yes, it's on the opposite side. England. Remember?

Also on the farm is a nice man named Ralph. Ralph is by day (or at least school days) a teacher, and the rest of the time he likes to do a bit of gardening, and such. So he uses a small patch of land near the house and one of the smaller buildings for his past-time, and share some of the bounties of his labour with John and Helen.

These are some of the ducks. Ralph has a couple types of ducks, and I believe these are Alyesbury, if my sketchy memory and comparisons to pictures on another website are correct.

You can assume that caveat for the rest of them too.

I believe Ralph said that this was a russian breed of chicken, and perhaps an Orloff. Looking at pictures of other Orloffs though, they seem to be way more speckled, so I am likely wrong.

I don't know. I was so hoping to be able to impress you all with the breeds of these different chickens, but I can't. My memory is not that good. They were all running around at the time without their name tags on. There are way too many types of chickens to try and compare. Pick your excuse for me from the above, or make one up and share with the group. And yes, I know what I'm opening myself up for when I say that. Go for it. Just remember my mom is reading this.

And another nameless chicken. We'll call her Mabel. As you can see she is not on the table so you can still pay for your beer.

Perhaps I should be taking notes. Helen pulled out a couple of Michael Palin's travel books the other evening and I was thumbing through one about the Sahara as we'll be going to Marrakech and seeing what a former Python thinks of the place seemed like a rather splendid idea. Besides, I like him.

Palin at one point comments on how he is furiously trying to take notes about what people are telling him.

Right, I could take notes. Nah.

Truthfully, as these books are off shoots from his popular travel shows on TV, I suspect there is audio for everything, a crew of writers and researchers, and lord knows who else aiding the capture and organization of information. Nothing against Michael. I believe he takes notes, and he is an excellent writer for sure. Flying Circus? Beat that if you can.

Anyway, that's all to say that I will not be spending the rest of the year with note book in hand trying to write down everything everyone says. I wouldn't be able to read it afterwards anyway as my script is appauling.

Bunnies.

These were actually in the field at Herstmonceux All-Saints, but I thought I would put them here to stop myself from continuing on about taking notes.

The hands you see below are those of Ralph. In his right hand are nice clean chicken eggs he had, moments before, retrieved from the coop. In his left are dirty duck eggs retrieved at the same time. Why clean and dirty? Apparently ducks just walk all over theirs. Chickens don't.

The next day (we're on to Friday now) was a quiet morning with me blogging (I actually posted two yesterday in case you aren't checking every twelve hours) and the boys continuing school work.

After a late lunch, John set off to look into the hay and Helen, Noah, Jake and I set off to see more of the area.

This was our first stop, Pevensey Castle. Pevensey Castle is a medieval castle, and prior to that it was a Roman Saxon shore fort. Yes, the shore came up to the castle back in the day. The shore is now about 8km away, or 5 miles if you're in England. Yes, they use the mile. For some reason I figured they would use the metric system. Now I just went into the pantry to check, and they use metric for food stuffs it would appear, but not for distance. Maybe its an EU thing.

Anyway, here is the castle, taken by the Normans as part of the very famous 1066 invasion. It is one of several that dotted the shore, acting as a defensive first line. The area is referred to actually as 1066 land, as we're near Hastings, and well, this is where William the Conqueror did his conqueroring thing.

This is a surprised looking tower at the bridge to the castle. Perhaps it thought that Harold II was going to win.

We didn't go into the grounds. They charge admission for it and none of us really felt like seeing the insides. That said, it is also part of the English Heritage collection of buildings. These are historical sites throughout the land that, if you get your annual English Heritage membership, you can visit for free. Think of it as a London Pass, but for all of England. There is also an expanded version that gets you all of Scotland and Wales as well. Something to consider if you're coming over for awhile and like this sort of thing.

This is St. Mary's. It's a Norman church built in 1080 AD. It is a flint and stone church, so similar in materials to what we were seeing in Canterbury.

This is a sheep across the road from St. Mary's.

We then headed along to Eastbourne, which is right on the sea. You can't actually see the sea from the harbour we pulled in to as there is quite the build up of residences and shops all around it.

But once you get moving and driving along you do get to see the sea, and the piers, parks, and promenades that run along side it.

Above is Eastbourne pier. In the distance you can see some of the lovely architecture of the arcades on this pier. Closer in you can see the skeleton of the main arcade that caught fire earlier this week. Tragic.

Below is one of the many rock beaches in and around Eastbourne. The wooden walls and posts that head out into the sea are called Groyne's and are used to help limit the waterflow and keep the rocks where they are.

We took the time to walk along them for a bit. Helen, having grown up in Eastbourne used to come down to the beach quite often, but its been a while since she had done so last.

We got ice cream. It was an afternoon for ice cream.

We then continued on along to the coast to Beachy Head. It is the highest chalk sea cliff in Britain, rising over 160 metres above sea level. So no, that is not a model lighthouse, it is a real one.

Beachy Head is just east of the Seven Sisters. The Seven Sisters are a series of seven chalk cliffs. I have no idea why they are called this, but this is somewhere I've known about for several years, and again, I have no idea why. So, while I didn't know we were actually near them, I was happy that we were and got to see them and wander a little bit on the shores closer to them.

As I said they're chalk, and continue to erode. Houses tend to fall in if they're not moved back every once in a while. For example, Helen told us of another lighthouse, now privately owned and a home, that the owner having acquired, immediately and at great expense, moved back a fair distance so that it would not topple into the sea.

Noah and Jake though spent their time on the beach closer to shore, so were not in danger of having loose rocks or a house fall on their heads.

From there we went to see the White Horse of Cuckmere Valley. There are many chalk horses throughout England. Some do even date back to prehistoric times. That said, many more are far more recent, having been done in the 17th, 18th, 19th and 20th centuries. This one was done about 80 years ago or so I am told. I am still waiting for John to tell me the story that Helen promised me he would, and if I get a chance I'll share it with you at some point.

But its nice that they're still doing this sort of thing. Apparently some of the more famous ones get used for various publicity stunts and advertisements.

Now this one is the Long Man of Wilmington, that has been thought to be from neolithic period (so really old). Apparently though some now think it is more likely to be 17 or 18th century AD. So around the age of the kitchen I am sitting in. Both have been modernized over time. The kitchen has all the modern stuff, and the giant is now, instead of being carved right in, a series of white blocks. It's nearly 70 metres tall.

The boys, having been asked not to climb a nearby tree, instead got atop this wall, which is a remnant of the priory of Wilmington.

Then it was back to the farm for a dinner of fish 'n chips, which we picked up on the way home.  A little after dinner, as it was getting on towards 8pm or so, John turned in as he needed to get up at 3am to milk the cows. He doesn't do it every day as he has someone who comes in during the week, but Saturday is his morning for it, so an early night it would be.

Helen takes a walk out in what I now think of as the calving field in the evenings, usually around 8pm and then again before bed, closer to 11pm. She does not get up at 3am.

We had joined her Thursday night and it was all quiet. Friday night though it got a bit busier. Helen had gone out, helped one cow calve, and then came back in to collect us before going for her walk as she expected another one was coming along quite soon.

We all headed out and sure enough, there was Pointless Jordie with two little legs sticking out of her where you don't normally expect to see hooves. Pointless Jordie, or number 2555 as I knew her then, was well on her way, but really didn't want us around, so we continued our stroll through the field. Well, Helen and I continued. It was at this point that Noah and Jake decided to return to the house.

All the cows are numbered for easy reference. But they also all have names that, while sometimes quite long and bizarre, are used to track who their mom and grand mum and as many as you can get on the form are, and what dad, farm or breeding stock they came from. This helps keep track of who is related to who and by how much. That said, I have no idea how it works for their cousins.

Helen and I did a walk around the field, and everyone else there was pretty relaxed. Arriving back with PJ she was having pretty big contractions, and the legs were a bit more out, but she was still happy doing it on her own. Helen had checked the feet earlier and could tell from them that the positioning was right, so there was likely no need to intervene.

And apparently Helen was right. PJ stood up, turned around, and sat back down so she was facing us. We, still chatting, turned away to look at something else. We then turned back to find the following:

PJ is licking little PJ clean. And she continued to do so for about 30 minutes. She got her very, very clean.

From head to toe and back again, and back again.

During this time other cows came over to check it out, make sure all was well, offer congratulations, smoke a cigar, and slap one another on the back. Okay, maybe not, but they did come over and all had caring looks of concern on their very large faces. Or perhaps that is just how cows look. Apparently though they do check in on each other, and in some cases, they get confused, and think that the new born calf is theirs, even though they haven't given birth yet.

Odd.

After about 30 miutes  LPJ, who will get her own number and name that has something to do with Pointless Jordie sometime soon I suspect, got up and took her first couple of steps.

And then it was time for bed.

Farewell to London

Tuesday was a school day. Noah and Jake did school work, and I continued to fret over travel arrangements for  where we will be staying. I'm still fretting about them actually, and I should be a little, as it's Friday, and we'll be in York as of Sunday afternoon.

Anyway, Tuesday was a good, rest our weary legs, pyjama, school day. We stepped out in the early evening for a bit of Indian food, and then home again. Lots of reading. Plenty of relaxing. Likely not what a doctor would order as I do not think there is a billing code for it, but nonetheless, a good thing to have done.

Wednesday was our final day in London. The morning was a fairly quiet one at the house, as we were seeing a show in the evening so I did not want us to tire ourselves out walking about all day. Walking about for the afternoon seemed reasonable though.

Our target destination was Temple. Why Temple? Well, the church in Temple was founded by the Knight's Templar, or so we are told, and Noah had an interest in going there. 

I am not going to get into the Knights Templar. There is too much, and no matter what I say, I will not get it right. Really, this time I mean it. 

The church is lovely, but to be honest, we found it a bit disappointing.

It is a very nice building.

The original part being the rotunda you can see to the exterior of to the left in the above, and the interior of immediately below.

And has some lovely ornamentation.

There's that rose again. (I think.)

It has a nice monument directly outside depicting two Templars on a horse - a symbol of their vow of poverty,  but apparently one that was used against them later on in their history.

And some cool effigies inside as well.

So why the disappointment?

Well, we wanted the dirt. We wanted the secret symbols. We wanted everything Dan Brown and Umberto Eco (I apologize to Eco fans for putting those names side by each) wrote about. Secret Societies. Vast amounts of wealth. Manipulating the world from some secret lair.

Who keeps the metric system down?
We do.

We wanted all of that. What we got was a church. A church that continues to serve Temple today, and is currently displaying information on the first world war, and the role modern day Templars played in that.

And who is a modern day Templar. Well, they are the members of Middle and Inner Temples, two of the four Inns of Court that are the professional associations for barristers in England and Wales.

Templars are lawyers.

Given their roots in the crusades, setting up what was likely the first multinational corporation, managing land, vineyards, establishing what I imagine to be the first international banking system, it seems like a natural evolution.

But I said I wasn't going to go there. So I shan't.

Below is Lincoln's Inn, another of the Inns of Court. We stopped to read for a bit in Lincoln's Inn Fields, a once site for public hangings, and now a lovely park with tennis courts, and plenty of people out enjoying the sun.

Arthur Coleridge was a member of this Inn, and more importantly for our purposes, was the nephew of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. S.TC, the author of The Ryme of the Ancient Mariner, amongst other bits, and an obsession of my fathers. So that's for you Dad.

From here we went to the John Soane house. Soane was an architect during the Victorian period who bequeathed his home in it's entirety to London on the condition that it be kept in its original state and made a free, public museum. No pictures were allowed, and I cannot do it justice. All I will say is that it was full of stuff, so much stuff you cannot imagine. Art, architectural models, statues, sculptures. He was quiet the collector of things. It was overwhelming. Take the V&A and stuff it all into three townhouses linked together to create one maze of a house, and you'll get the idea.

It was then off to dinner. A, for London, straight line walk into London's Chinatown to meet up with Tanya and Simon for dinner. They weren't joining us for the show, but as it was our last night with them we wanted to share a meal together, have a bit of time, and say thank you for being such kind, wonderful hosts to us. We had originally planned for a Tuesday night dinner however work got in the way of that, and plans needed to change. As you may recall, these things happen.

So Chinatown. Conveniently located right in London's West End, which, for those who do not know, is the home to more theatres than I can count.

After dinner the guys and I headed to The Gielgud Theatre to see a production of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night. It is based on a book by the same title. I have read and liked this book. Noah has too. Even better, Noah is reading this book as part of his Grade 11 English course. So a theatrical version was a must see.

I love theatre. I used to, and still hope to, write musicals. We'll see how I get along with that. Some reasonable starts and unreasonable finishes in the past couple od years. As often is the case with personal projects, too many lame excuses to no dig in and committ to it. So we'll see. You can kick my but next time you see me Risa. I know.

I love theatre, and I had, since planning this trip, had it in my mind that while in London the three of us needed to see:

1. A musical. Not sure which, but a musical.

2. A piece of Shakespeare, perhaps at Stratford-on-Avon, perhaps at The Globe, perhaps in a pub. But Shakespeare. We're in England damn it!

3. The Curious Case...

We got to #3. We didn't do #1&2. If we had, you would have already heard about them.

London's expensive.

Choices, always choices, and there is the most of a year ahead.

That said, we made the right choice. This show was the best piece of theatre I have seen in my entire life. Period. I am not over exaggerating. I am so thankful that we got to see it, and mostly thankful for the kismet that has Noah reading it for school, else we would perhaps prioritized some other show and missed out on a piece of incredible theatre. 

I'm not going to get in to why. It just was.

Post that incredible experience we headed on back to Tanya and Simon's, Jake having done a brilliant job of getting us from the Gielgud, direct to Charing Cross Station by way of Trafalgar Square. I had no idea where we were. Jake? I may start tying letters to his ankle and using him for post. 

Back to the house where we, okay, I, gushed on about the show and demanded that Simon and Tanya go see it. Noah and Jake did not gush, but they did speak favourably on that topic. Then a nice wrap up of events over the past couple of weeks with the five of us and off to bed.

The next morning we got up to see Simon and Tanya off to work, and to bid our farewells. I can't possibly thank them enough. And really, I keep saying it, but that's because I keep meaning it. I am ever so grateful to them both.

Then it was packing and off to Victoria station to catch the train to Polegate, which is in Sussex near Eastbourne. Here we were picked up at the station by my cousins John and Helen to begin the next bit of our adventure. More on that later.

Now though it is time to say farewell to London. I think it's been a good leg of the journey. I've enjoyed and I believe the guys have too. I think I learned a lot in London about how this year is going to go, how there must be time to do "nothing", how much Noah and Jake really enjoy their books, how I likely need to plan a bit more, not too much more, but a bit, and how to find a balance between rest and activity that works for the lot of us.

I could of course be totally wrong. And I'm sure that whatever is working now, will still continue to change as we continue our travels. Whatever the case, I'm happy about what we've experienced, and excited about what comes next.

Cows.

A Canterbury Tale

When July's bright sun hast dried the land
That spring had so well soaked, and with its liquid hand
Brought forth...

I'm not actually going to do this.

Rewriting the prologue to The Canterbury Tales so that it starts in July and is about the boys and I, rather than starting in April, and being about a pilgrimage to Canterbury is not only overly ambitious, it's incredibly misleading. For, while I suspect my imagination could stretch far enough to describe what we're doing this year as a sort of pilgrimage, it's not. Maybe in hindsight it will be, or even by midsight. But right now, no, it's not.

I'm doing it again. I told myself when I sat down to write this morning that I am way behind, and so much is going on, and it's going to be a busy few days, and all that, that I just needed to focus, tell it quick, and cover the ground between Monday at Canterbury, and this morning at Limend Farm, shortly before 7am, where I sit at the kitchen table in my cousin John and his wife Helen's 17th century farm house, drinking milk that is less than thirty minutes old, and writing to you.

So I better pick it up a bit.

Canterbury Tales is a story about people. I received a note from my friend Anne the other day who has been following the blog, and she made the excellent comment that, while she was enjoying it very much (that too is an excellent comment in my opinion) she was wondering why I had not included pictures of any of these people I keep talking about. She was hoping for the faces, as well as the places, if I'm allowed to make it rhyme. Which I am by the way, it's my blog afterall.

And she is quite right. And given that I keep talking about how this trip is about meeting people, making connections, etc, you'd think I would have picked up on that one. Thank you Anne for pointing it out. And for those of you who agree, you can thank her too. That said, that may not happen this time, but I promise it is coming very soon.

By the way, its great to hear from people, so please, drop a note if you feel so inclined. Also, feel free to actually use the handy dandy comments function of the blog, that way we can all share.

Right, I'm doing it again.

The Canterbury Tales is a story about people, or more correctly, a collection of stories about people. You can think of our Monday in a similar way.

Dominic: The Guide
Arriving at Victoria Rail Station Monday morning we had no idea where the Victoria Bus Terminal was. We needed the bus terminal to catch our National Express bus to Canterbury. The blue line on the floor directing us to the terminal got us out the door and outside on the street, but somehow they neglected to include it on the pavement, and where to go next was not immediately obvious. So I asked someone with luggage.

Dominic is originally from Poland and has been living and work, work, working in London for a few years now. He was walking to the bus terminal and was happy to not only point it out, but to also walk with us and chat for a few. He asked where we were from, and when I responded Canada, his immediate response was: Rich, Canada is a rich country. Freedom. Like America.

I corrected Dominic on the America thing; we're different from the US, right? It's a point I have been quick to jump to, and I'm starting to think I need to stop. Be a bit more gracious about the whole thing.

Hearing "rich" and "freedom" being the first two descriptives was a bit of an eye opener. I know these things about Canada, and I hear them from time to time, but hearing them from a young fellow from Poland in the streets of London somehow made them more real. More important. It felt good too. We did however spend our few minutes walking talking more about working in London, which is very busy for Dominic, though he was now off to take a short vacation, and how, growing up in Poland, he did not ever imagine that he would be where he is today. Well done Dominic.

Dominic got us to the bus terminal, we printed up our tickets, and here endeth that little bit.

Sean (I seem to recall): The Bus Driver
Never a cheerier fellow have you met than our bus driver who's name I'm pretty sure was Sean. (If it was then, then it almost certainly still is. Tense can be complicated.) Sean explained the rules, told us where he was headed, invited us along, made us laugh, and most importantly, got us to Canterbury on schedule with no mishaps.

Lady of the Counter: Tourist Information Centre
The Lady of the Counter at the Tourist Information Centre was pleasant enough, and reasonably helpful. From her we were able to learn that:
1. The Canterbury Pass (think London Pass but for Canterbury) was presently not available as many sites were changing their pricing and therefore a new price for the pass required negotiating.
2. The next walking tour was at 11am and that we could acquire tickets for it from her. Which we did.

I've generally not used Visitor Information Centres in the past. I like to think that they are for other people, people who cannot find their way around on their own, do prior research, follow a map. People who are, tourists. Who am I kidding? (Yes, I know, myself is the correct answer.) This has all changed. Like the pendulum many of you know me to be, I have now swung from "I'll never step foot in such a place" to "This will be the first place I visit wherever I go". It will eventually balance itself out I imagine. With maps, coupons and walking tour tickets now in hand, and vague directions on how to get where the tour starts (just outside the Cathedral in Buttermarket) we set out.

How does one hide a Cathedral? It took a few false turns, walking to a fro, but finally we got there, shortly before the tour began.

Andrew (I'm pretty sure): The Teacher (I already used Guide)

Andrew lead our tour, and I would describe him best as a teacher, as, well, he taught us all a fair bit as we strolled along the street around the Cathedral grounds, learning the story of Canterbury and it's famous Cathedral.

I'm not going to share it with you here though. Look it up.

Actually, some basics. Canterbury got really famous in 1170 when followers of Henry II of England hacked Thomas Beckett, the then Archbishop of Canterbury, down on December 29th. Cause? Difference of opinion. Essentially Beckett wasn't rolling over and taking it from the King. Beckett was martyred and then canonized (made a saint) in 1173 by Pope Alexander III.

People have been coming to Canterbury ever since.

Actually, they started coming long before that. St. Augustine came to Canterbury (he was just Augustine back then) somewhere in the late 500's when, having come from Rome to London to make sure they weren't slipping too much, basically wasn't allowed in, so he went to Canterbury instead. Augustine became the first  Archbishop of Canterbury. And before him, Romans. Julius Caesar, who was not successful in defeating the local celts, and then another one whose name I cannot remember (though Andrew did tell us), who was.

Anyway, time passes, cathedral grows (read Ken Follett for an example of that), Beckett becomes a saint, the pilgrims keep a comin' the city grows to support them. Lots of inns apparently.

This is one of the higher class inns that Andrew showed us. Tudor times apparently, though the windows are newer.

Andrew chatted with us about Henry the VII and the beginning of the Tudors. Below is the Tudor rose. The Tudor Rose was created by Henry VII, or more likely some clever monkey in his PR team, as they concluded the War of the Roses, which was between the House of Lancaster (red rose badge) and the House of York (white rose badge). He did this through good genes and marriage. And now these lovely little things can be found all over the place.

This particular specimen can be found here, in Christchurch Gate, Buttermarket, which leads onto the Cathedral grounds. This was likely built as a memorial to Prince Arthur, best known for having died and allowing Henry VIII to have become Henry VIII.

The Cathedral is quite large. Getting it "all in one" requires some distance. The picture below was taken later in the day when the boys and I were wandering about on our own.

We took lots of pictures of the Cathedral. And I mean "we". Noah has bought himself a camera, and is fast becoming a shutterbug. These however are all my shots. You'll have to ask Noah for his. And while you're at it, you can ask him, and Jake, to start contributing to the blog. People keep asking me to get them to, and I'm not having much luck, So you can give it a try.

I will not share all of the pictures I took of the exterior. Here however is one, just to say I did.

It's a big place.

Andrew told us much of the history of the Cathedral and Canterbury, about the waves of French loomers that arrived on two separate occasions, explaining why there is still a small population of Huguenots in Canterbury, and all sorts of other stuff that I will not get in to. Andrew was an excellent teacher. I was a mediocre student. A good, educational walk was had. The weather held. We parted after 90 minutes, and all was well.

The boys and I made a beeline right back to the Cathedral. Time to pay our admittance and see the insides.

They're rather marvelous. As I've mentioned previously, I love the gothic style. Perpendicular Gothic in fact. (Something Andrew mentioned). Actually, older parts of the Cathedral are Norman. (Also something Andrew mentioned). Norman windows are rounded, and Gothic windows are pointed at the top, apparently to remind us where heaven is.

Incidently, if you look closely at the bottom of all Gothic windows you always somewhere find the engraving "Te sunt hic" to help one better orient one's self.

I'm making this up.

Meanwhile, back inside the Cathedral.

The nave.

The ceiling of the Martyrdom (I think).

 The pulpit.

I'm quite fond of this shot actually, as I saw it on one of their display boards, so tried to recreate it. Not being much of a photographer I would not have thought of this view. Perhaps I am learning a little. Composition is similar. Growth as a composer takes three basic steps: Copy, Variation, Create. I would think that the same rules apply for most art. Start with copying what you see or hear. Then you begin to make variations on it, so adding more of yourself. Finally you are creating your own masterpieces, spun of out thin air.

Simple as that.

This is the Quire of Canterbury Cathedral. You can pronounce it "choir".

This is the floor of the Quire. I find it fascinating how these seemingly "occult" symbols of the zodiac and such keep cropping up in the most Christian of places. Okay, so the last time was at the Tower of London, but you know what I mean.

This is a flower in the Cloister gardens. We have no idea what it is. Neither did the gardener we asked, though she was very kind in coming over and taking a look.

Any ideas anyone?

Ruby: The Rockstar

Having left the Cathedral we continued our exploration of Canterbury. It's got an old Norman castle, Canterbury Castle, so we wanted to see it.

Checking our map we got walking in what we believed to be the right direction, passed an old ruined wall, subway under a round-about, and continuing along the road. For those not in the know, a subway in England is a pedestrian walkway that passed under something.

It started to feel like we were not going in the right direction anymore. Enter Ruby.

Ruby was the lady who had the good fortune of being walking towards us right at the moment that I felt I wanted to ask someone where the castle was. Ruby had been walking a long time, and stopped to adjust her 24 or so holed grey Doc Martins. Ruby had been at a festival at a place an unspecified, walkable, but painfully so, distance away. She had been minding her own business when another woman started getting agressive with her, and while Ruby tried to chill her out, get out of the situation, and what have you, eventually the woman went "agro" and Ruby had to "punch her in the face". Apparently this resulted in Ruby being asked to leave the establishment. This seemed incredibly unfair to her, as she had not started it, nor had she had any help from the establishment while this woman had gotten so aggressive with her (agro = aggressive). She was forced to leave, without having had the opportunity to collect her harmonicas (she was in the band no less), but more importantly, was not able to get her coat, which was very cool, impossible to replace, hence very important.

Would other band members collect it for her I asked? Likely not.

Despite having had a self-described "shite" day thus far, Ruby was very kind and got us pointed in the right direction (back the ruins I've already mentioned) and walked along with us, sharing the story I have just shared with you.

See, Canterbury Castle.

It's a ruin now, but at one point had about three levels. You can see the remains of one of the stairwells just right of centre of that wall.

Having explored the castle we then made our way along the top of the old city wall and arrived eventually at Dane John Mound. The mound itself is an old Roman burial mound.

If we were in a helicopter I'm sure an aerial photo of the place would be lovely. Here it is from the bottom.

The mound is best known for, in this blog anyway, being the spot where I took that shot of Canterbury Cathedral.

From there we walked back into the general vicinity of the Cathedral.

Jeremy: The Gardener (not the Canterbury Cathedral gardener, another one)

Below is one of our stops. Greyyfriar's Chapel is an old Franciscan friary that spans a fairly large stream which is an off-shoot from the river Stour, one of three rivers in Canterbury; one of the reasons people settled here in the first place (that's from Andrew).

What Jeremy explained to me though, was that this particular stream had been essentially built by the Romans as a means to stop the Stour from flooding the city. Clever fellows those Romans.

Further, the gardens associated with the friary, are actually a small island in the river. You'd never know looking at it.

Jeremy was working in the gardens. The boys and I had stopped to rest and read our books for a bit (we like to do that now and again). Not wanting to read, I left the boys to it and instead decided to interupt this man who turned out to be Jeremy as he was cleaning up some brush.

Jeremy is a private contractor who takes care of these a a few other properties in Canterbury. A very nice man who was quite happy to tell me a bit about the place, point out some well hidden interesting bits (like old foundation walls) and reveal the secret of strategic growths such as the one below, which while quite lovely, serve the purpose of concealing the scaffolding that is keeping that very, very old wall standing up.

Coming from a relatively new place on the planet I generally think that anything really old should be preserved. This belief is being challenged and is changing.

Think about it. Think about how many really old things there are out there. Think about how many discoveries of the past must be being made whenever new ground is broken for a building, or some roadworks need to happen. Now, think of how below the modern city level there is a medieval level, and below that a Norman level, and below that a Roman level, and below that, well, who knows what is below that. Assume though that there is something below it somewhere as people tend to settle where people had settled.

Now, which level do you keep?

And, if you can actually make that decision, how do you fund it?

Ultimately there is only so much funding available, so all of these amazing things cannot be exposed and shared with the modern world.

Greyfriars is a good example of that. Jeremy told me about a show, Time Team, that came along and dug up the area and exposed the old roman ruins there. Where are these ruins now? They're still there, beneath the large garden he is caring for. They had covered it back up.

Always choices.

The garden was closing (they do that in England), so I bid farewell to Jeremy, collected the guys and off we went to continue our exploration of Canterbury, which lead us to crossing this bridge over the Stour.

You can take a punting tour of the Stour. Thankfully this does not involve someone grabbing you by the head and kicking you across for three points. A punt is a boat. Punting is taking the boat on the river. We did not do either.

But we did stroll along it for a bit.

And stopped to admire some art.

And eventually arrived at Canterbury's West Gate.

As we were hungry, and it was starting to rain, and it was near time for our bus back to London, we turned around and headed off to address staying dry, food, and travel.

We were successful in this, and arrived back at Tanya and Simon's where we regaled them with tales from our adventures.

And I suck. I just went to find a picture of Tanya and Smon to include right here but I didn't actually take a picture of either of them. Afterall, I know what they look at. You don't though. Sorry, I'll get better at this.

And then it was off to bed.

It would seem fitting to end this little bit with an appropriate quote from The Canterbury Tales. Afterall, I've played with it along the way, and ending with a poem or poignant line of verse, is an excellent way to show you all how clever I am.

"Then the miller fell off his horse."
    - Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales