Manchester.

Hello again. In case you forgot, we just got off the train in Hale, which is in Altrincham, which is near Manchester, which is in northern England. Got it?

Now, because I'm writing this much after the fact and I'd like to get caught up quickly so I can keep pace, I'm going to make this slightly truncated. This is also because, compared to my usual sightseeing pace, the next four days were very relaxing.

I met Elizabeth on the platform, and she kindly drove back to her house, just a few minutes away. We had wine out on her patio and chatted about what I'd been doing that summer; after dinner, we watched telly together before I headed to bed.

See? I told you this would be quick...

Next morning, Elizabeth--oh, wait, I should explain.

When my ex-roommate Shannon was looking for a place to stay in Vancouver, BC, last spring, she invited me to come with her and we made a day of it. One of the prospective places we looked at was in the attic of a nice English woman named Maggie, who was very eager to offer advice when she heard that both Shannon and I were going to England in the summer. She also happened to mention that her mother lives in Manchester and offered to ask her if she'd be willing to host me while I was traveling. Through Maggie, I got in touch with her mother, Elizabeth, who very generously took me in.

Elizabeth is an absolutely delightful 87-year-old lady who lives on her own in a frankly enormous (for one person) house in the quiet town of Hale. Besides being very fun to talk to, Elizabeth is fiercely independent. She still very competently drives a manual car, and she has a hydrolic crane in the back of her car to load her electric scooter. Her two-story house has one of those stair chair lift thingies, but she can still do the stairs quite easily. She absolutely refused to let me help with anything--cooking, cleaning, parking, whatever. Really, though, it was great to be mothered and taken care of for a few days!

Anyway, the next morning Elizabeth woke me with a cup of tea and we went off to the nearby town of Stockport. Stockport had two attractions for us that day: the hat museum (no, seriously) and the WWII bomb shelter tunnels. In the hat museum, I learned more than I'll ever remember about the process of making felt and hats, although it was rather fun to look at the museum's collection of all the straight-up ridiculous things that some people have actually had the audacity to wear on their heads in public. Naturally, they had some extras for the kids me to try on as well.

We stopped in a M&S for lunch and then went to the tunnels. These tunnels had been excavated out of the sandstone beginning in 1938 in preparation for the war brewing on the horizon. The atmosphere in there reminded me of the Cabinet War Rooms in London--anxiety and fear are still thick in the dank, cool air and the long shadows cast by dim lights. Brush your hand against the reddish-orange walls, look at the sand on your fingertips, and wonder who's stood in this same spot in the darkness with dirt on their hands, hearing the thundrous booms in the distance and trembling.

Anyway. We headed home and Elizabeth made dinner (of course) and we watched telly together for a while. This kind of became the tradition.

The next day, Elizabeth took me in the morning to an exhibit on the Bible, run by the local chapter of some or another Christian Brotherhood that I've never heard of. A few of the manuscripts were genuinely old and interesting, but many were replicas. Also, one of the attendants tried to convert me.

After the exhibit, Elizabeth was going to a birthday party for a friend, so I got on the tram and went to Manchester. Of course, in Hale it was sunny and clear, but by the time I arrived in Manchester, it was pouring. I wandered around in the rain for a bit looking for the Central Library, only to find that it was closed, so I headed to the Rylands Library instead.

The Rylands Library was build in memory of John Rylands by his wife, and is, for lack of a better phrase, frikken gorgeous. Built in the decorative style of a Gothic cathedral and packed to the gills with gorgeous books, I can hardly imagine a more wonderful place. I wandered through an exhibit on Elizabeth Gaskell, a local writer, and spent a long time wandering up and down the main reading room. The collection is open to anyone who wants to use it as long as they register beforehand, so the long, vaulted hall is lined on both sides by alcoves with tables for study. To top all this amazingness off with a cherry of squee, in the middle of it all were display cases featuring a bookbinding exhibition. I stayed there for a while, staring at the exquisitely crafted little books and watching the fitful sunlight try to fight its way in to light the gilding on the shelved books.

By the time I tore myself away, it was downpouring again. I toyed with the idea of slogging through the rain to the cathedral but decided it simply wasn't worth it and got dinner at Greggs instead. As I was taking shelter from the rain and eating my pasty, I was joined by a homeless guy named Dave. To my wary surprise, we had a very nice chat, and he didn't ask me for money once and instead told me about Jesus. It was really quite sweet.

Having run out of options, I took the train back to Altrincham and walked back to Elizabeth's house, where it was, of course, a beautifully sunny afternoon. Shortly after I got back, Elizabeth suggested that we go out for dinner, so we drove down the road to a nearby pub for some proper pub food! Then of course, wine, telly, and bed.

I'm sorry, but I honestly don't remember what we did the morning of the 13th. I think we went to the library so I could check my e-mail, and maybe that was it. Anyway. After that, we went to visit Tatton, the grounds and mansion of a local lord whose name I've forgotten. (You have Google. Look it up.) We took a tour through the sumptuous interior, and I'd've liked to have stayed longer, but we did head back after that. And I know this is awful, but I don't remember what happened after that, either. I think I spent the afternoon repacking my luggage and watching telly with Elizabeth.

The next morning, Elizabeth woke me up with a cup of tea as usual, made me breakfast as usual, and took me train station. We said a quick goodbye, then she was off to go see a piano recital in Leeds. What an absolutely fabulous lady!

I got on the train and was once again on my own. Next stop: York.

Wondering in Wales

Where was I? Oh, yes, on a small train platform somewhere in Wales.

Over the course of this trip, the First Day Rule has kind of transmogrified itself from a fun idea into a tradition. As I mentioned in the post on Venice, what it means is that, if I arrive in a new city with time to spare before bedtime, I drop off my stuff in my hostel and then set out with minimal use of a map and with no clear sightseeing priorities. The aim is to get a taste of the city just as it is--get the flavor and feeling of the streets, the basic city layout, the locations (although usually quickly forgotten) of important things like grocery stores, Greggs, and McDonalds--the latter for Internet, of course.

Conwy, my home from the 8th to the 10th, was no different. Having been unable to book a bed in the hostel, I'd instead gone for a B&B just outside the town. This was total luxury: a quiet, airy room to myself with an utterly enormous bed, my own bathroom (!), and free WiFi. Soon enough, though, I was heading back down the quiet country road to the town to have a look around--it's tradition.

Conwy, as it turns out, is positively delightful. There was just about nothing here until the time of Edward I, who decided to show those troublesome Welsh who was boss once and for all. To do this, he built Conwy Castle and the walled town of Conwy at the strategic crossing of the Conwy River, along with many other castles throughout the country. The point of the castle was to keep the local Welsh in line, and for its purpose, could be conservatively called "total overkill." The enormous structure, with drawbridges, portcullises, murder holes, fallbacks, moats and the like, was never taken by force, and you can see why: for the time, it was pretty much impregnable. Apparently, though, Owen Glendower, a Welsh rebel leader, bribed the gatekeeper and managed to take it in a brief uprising before he got squashed. (For the lulz, I'd like to point out a sentence from that Wikipedia article: "Glyndŵr was a descendant of the Princes of Powys from his father Gruffydd Fychan II, hereditary Tywysog of Powys Fadog and Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, and of those of Deheubarth through his mother Elen ferch Tomas ap Llywelyn." Yes, I've always wanted to be hereditary Tywysog of Powys Fadog. Note to self: learn Welsh.)

In any case, the town of Conwy inside the protective walls of the castle was set up for English immigrants, but it doesn't seem to have gotten very far past its original confines. A good word may be "sleepy." Sure, there are cars and Spar supermarkets and such, but walking down the streets, you kind of get the feeling that if you poked one of the buildings hard enough, it would wake up with a grumble and ask you if it was 1500 yet.

I found my way down to the waterfront as the sun was going down. The mighty castle, now crumbling but still standing tall above the roofline, dominated one end of the promenade, while the little boats anchored just offshore guarded the river. I strolled somewhat aimlessly along until I came to a mother, her teenage daughter and friend and tweenage son, doing something rather incomprehensible off the quayside. They had a small netting bag filled with raw bacon, which they threw over into the water and waited. After a few seconds, they'd pull the bag up, except now it would be covered with two or three crabs smaller than the palm of my hand, which hung on tenaciously until they were scooped up in a net and plunked into a bucket of water with their fellow prisoners. I stopped to inquire what they were doing, offered to identify the sex of the crabs (useful life skill, that) and ended up chatting and crab-fishing with them until after dark. When we split up, they counted out the seething bucket of crabs one by one as they tossed them back into the water, for a total of somewhere around 68, I think--a record for them. I said goodnightand made my way back to my B&B for some QI.

I came stumbling down the stairs the next morning just in time for breakfast, which was staggeringly enormous. I could hardly totter back up the stairs to get my stuff, stuffed as I was with grapefruit, eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, toast, and three cups of coffee. I made it somehow and headed for my sightseeing priority: the castle.

It is truly astounding to visit a place like this. On the one hand, you have the actual structure as it appears before your eyes which, although large, is really a whole lot of crumbly stone towers and lichen-coated walls with slots and holes in strange places. Within a few seconds, though, with the right slant of the sun and a dash of imagination, the old rooms come alive. Those grooves are where the portcullis slid down, and the big holes are where the big oak beams for the doors would slide in, or where defending soldiers could throw down stones or boiling liquid on potential invaders. The shelves in the walls of towers were where the wooden floors would rest, dividing towers into three or four floors while they're now open to the sky.

But one of the best things to do is find a quiet room, away from the tourists and family with howling three-year-olds. Although the sun is shining brightly, in the shade of the stones it's dim, cool and damp, so all you have to do is squint to rebuild the vaulted roof. Hang bright tapestries from the walls and add flickering candles; in the fireplace, build a roaring fire. Curl up in a wall seat and admire the room, well-furnished--it is, after all, one of the king's. And here he comes through the door, waving off an attendant, rubbing at his temples. The Welsh are unhappy, are grumbling, are planning rebellion. Something has to be done.

Then two children, chased by their mum with a pram, come in skipping and shouting and the whole fantasy evaporates into the sea air. Once again, you're back in the modern age, and you shake off the smell of smoke from the fireplace and blink in the sunlight. Slipping back in time is not hard in a place like this. In fact, it might happen if you just don't pay attention long enough. Make a wrong turning, find yourself in an abandoned passageway or chamber, and you start to wonder if the footsteps around the corner belong to a day-tripper from Manchester or a knight. The entire run-down, moss-covered ruin of former grandeur is still saturated with memory.

As you may imagine, I spent almost the whole day here. I left for a bit to get some lunch, came back, and ate my steak pie and vanilla cake at the top of the highest tower with a view up the Conwy, down the estuary toward the sea, over the tops of the castle walls, and out into the rolling green Welsh countryside.

I finally managed to tear myself away from the castle and wander around the town walls and down on the quay for a bit until a seagull pooped on me and I had to book it back home to wash it off. I changed quickly and made it into town, just in time for the start of a walking tour. The kind and friendly guide, Judy, took a very small group of us around town, pointing out details and telling us ghost stories. When we were done, I got a dinner of fish and chips and headed back to the B&B for some grease-soaked goodness.

After another enormous breakfast, I left the B&B the next morning and got on the bus to Caernarfon. Bigger, Welsh-er (apparently), and home to another huge castle from Edward I's time, Caernarfon is close enough to Conwy that I could day-trip there before heading to Manchester. Whereas Conwy feels like it could just as easily be in 2010 or 1510, Caernarfon is much more solidly modern. It, too, though, has a ruined castle, which was the purpose of my visit.

Now, Conwy Castle felt ultimately like a ruin: a dilapidated, sad, and strangely beautiful in its decay. Caernarfon Castle, on the other hand, felt somewhat strangely like a structure someone had built to look and feel exactly like a ruined castle but actually be a tourist attraction. Why this is I cannot really explain, although part of it might be the bafflingly nonsensical layout--there were some floors and hallways that I could not, for the life or me, figure out how to access, and long, curving corridors would end abruptly in tiny toilets--and part may be the converted sections housing a gift shop, video theater, and military museum. Nonetheless, I spent a couple happy hours here getting cheerfully lost before it was time to head back to the bus.

I trundled through town on my way to pick up lunch, which included a piece of cake covered in glitter. No, not sprinkles, glitter. Edible glitter. Yes, this was the only reason I bought it. Although it was delicious.

I said a sad farewell to the Welsh seashore that washed by my window. A few hours later, I stepped off the train to an unassuming platform in Hale, England, and met my new host. But that's a story for the next post...

P.S. Pictures coming eventually. :)