London, York and Edinburgh..................
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Al did not want to leave Paris and neither did I, but we had commitments. Our British friends Norman and Colin had set up a detailed itinerary for a joint vacation to include visiting the National Railway Museum at York, England, then traveling to Edinburgh, Scotland, to view a performance of the Military Tattoo, followed by a jaunt to Wales to ride some narrow-gauge railways. Norman would be driving, eliminating the stress of Al having to remember which way to turn into a roundabout.

We checked out of our hotel in Paris and took a cab to the Gare du Nord, where we were scheduled to board the Eurostar to London. It was almost like checking in for a flight since you go through passport control and security. There was even a sniffer dog romping eagerly through the waiting area. Let me at 'em, he seemed to say cheerfully, let me find something, yeah, yeah, sniff, sniff as he stepped on my feet trying to get closer to my luggage.

The train ride is almost as boring as a transatlantic flight although thankfully more comfortable and much, much shorter. The scenery in northern France is pretty well non-existent and of course they don't run train tracks through the better parts of town. Also, you are going so fast that it would be hard to focus on any scenery if there was any. The Chunnel is just 20 minutes of darkness, then you pop out into British weather, low gray clouds and intermittent showers. The scenery might be a little better but since the Brits like to line the track with hedges and trees, who knows? But the track is obviously not in as good a shape because the train goes noticeably slower on this side of the Chunnel.

This would be the first time in since we landed in Lisbon that we had to worry about the change of currency. Before we left the Gare du Nord in Paris, Al had carefully spent down all of his euro bills and most of his euro-denominated coins. However, by the time he did this, we were inside the security zone and there weren't any handy beggars to receive the rest. There were, however, some French youngsters in our car on the train and they were happy to take coins off his hands, although I did have to worry a bit about whether their parents would call the police. Maybe that's only in America.

Everyone needed to get British pounds, and by the time the lines at the ATMs cleared, so had the taxi line and we stepped right up to the next black cab. First thing you notice is that the London cabbie never leaves his seat. Unlike anywhere else we've been, you have to load your own luggage. But of course they still expect a tip. Then you watch the meter run, and run, and run. Ooh la la. The cost converted to USD was almost double the cost of the similar ride in Paris a few short hours earlier. This trend was to continue throughout the trip.

Picking up our tickets for the train to York was a convoluted affair dictated by the fact that the on-line ordering system was completely goofy and wouldn't let us pick up the tickets at the station even though that was supposed to be an option. Since we couldn't book the tickets more than 90 days in advance, when we would already be on the continent, the only other option was to buy them on the day of travel which would have cost us four or five times as much as the already absurdly high advance-purchase cost. Sigh. Note that the Brits pay a much higher per-mile cost for rail travel than any of the other EU countries. This includes travel on the London Underground. Part of a pattern that makes the UK inordinately expensive.

In the end, Norman and Colin, had purchased the tickets on-line for us and took delivery at their address in the Lake District in Northern England. They then delivered the tickets to a friend of theirs who works in the London Underground. Since Steve didn't come on duty until 3 pm, we had some time to kill. We checked our large luggage at the Lost Luggage desk, which was another complete rip-off but we had no choice since carrying everything through the underground was not an option.

Coming out of the station at Kings Cross, we emerged onto a typical London street scene, gray, littered, full of people (well, it is a big city, so that was no big surprise), with everything looking shabby. Across the street were some small restaurants and we ended up in a noodle shop because it had actual seating and not just a stand-up bar like the fish and chips stand. It was interesting to watch the mix of people in the noodle shop. There were men in suits, men in those construction uniforms they wear all over Europe with the stripes on the legs, young people, a white-skinned, red-haired Sikh, all different kinds of Asians from Chinese through Indians and Pakistanis, everyone speaking their own variation on English. One group waiting for take-out consisted of a typical-appearing English chap, a black man, and an Indian man, all with the same company badges hanging around their necks. Our Asian server didn't speak too clearly, but the restaurant had devised a clever way around any language difficulties: you were given a small order form and checked off the number of the dish from the large menu. Any misunderstandings would be your own fault. The portions were huge and we could see why this was such a popular place.

What was really depressing about the area around Kings Cross Station was that a few days later I read an article in the paper about a new residential development being built overlooking the station (the article contained a picture of the view of the station from one of the flats) and the prices started at something like 400,000 pounds, which would be close to 750,000 US dollars, and went up to over a million pounds. In a crummy neighborhood. I guess this same thing can be found in New York City or Boston, but it's still depressing.

After lunch we took the underground to Tottenham Hale station where we easily found Steve and claimed our tickets. Now we had more time to kill. Steve had sent us down to Liverpool Street station to see the restored Victorian interior and as chance would have it, there was an uncrowded pub in the station complex, right next to the Burger King that offered a Whopper, small drink and small fries for only 4.99 pounds, which is right around 9 USD. Yikes!

I love big city train stations. They always have a lot of shops, places to eat and drink and wonderful people watching. The one in Nuremberg had about three internet cafes, small grocery stores, produce stands and everything else you needed to make a quick purchase on the way home. We didn't see quite that range in England, but they did have pubs and what else do you really need when you're killing time?

After a while, the commuter traffic started to pick up and we decided we'd better get a train back to Kings Cross while there was a chance of a seat. The pub at Kings Cross was a different experience from the first one, maybe because of the time of day. We grabbed a couple of seats at a communal table looking out at the trains and Al went to the bar for a couple of pints. Our timing was perfect because pretty soon it was standing room only and it was hard for Al to get to the door to check on the train schedule board to see what track had been assigned to our train. There seemed to be a lot of regulars and everyone was having a great time. I wondered how sauced these guys were by the time they got home at night. Fortunately, no one hassles you to buy another drink and it is possible to nurse a pint for a really long time. I still don't understand the business model of the pub or the Continental bar where you can hang around as long as you want on one drink, but we sure appreciated it from a customer standpoint. This was the only time, however, in the entire trip that second-hand smoke became a real problem and my clothes reeked for days. But you can hardly complain about smokers if you are sitting in a pub, now, can you?

Lest you wonder why we were hanging out in the pub instead of the waiting room, there is no waiting room, just a large open area where people stand and watch the board to see where the trains will be. There are a few seats around the edges, all invariably occupied. It's obvious that one is not encourage to hang around railroad stations. Where do backpackers sleep these days?

Finally our train showed on the board, on the farthest track, of course. Al retrieved the luggage and we each bought something to eat for dinner on the train. I opted for a baguette sandwich, tomatoes and ham, but Al had his eye on the Cornish pasties, fresh baked in Cornwall, according the sign. Wherever baked, it was pretty good.

Most of the other people boarding the train were obviously commuters and we were surprised how far many of them rode. An amazing number got off at stations an hour or more out from London. Figure the commute time, including getting to and from the station, add some waiting time in the pub and it makes for a very long day. Of course you can read on the train and they had WiFi access in our car, but that's still a long time to be away from home every day. But judging by the price of a Whopper, those city salaries must be worth it.

At York, after one look at the stairs I'd have to navigate to use the overhead bridge to cross the tracks, we took the handicapped route from the platform to the main part of the station, which involved taking an elevator down, walking through a corridor under the tracks, and taking a second elevator up. Norman and Colin must have been expecting us to come over the bridge since they were looking the other direction as we sneaked up behind them. It was so good to see their friendly faces.

The train station is close to the main part of the city and the route to the B&B took us along the city walls. The York Minster and the city walls alike are made of a pleasingly tan stone which gives the area a warm glow, unlike the harsh gray of London. By day, the usual hordes of tourists wander about aimlessly and in the evening crowds of young people dressed up to go 'clubbing' keep the streets lively. I hadn't realized that York was such a tourist destination but it is very attractive and has a nice 'feel' so I can understand why people go there. The traffic was horrendous, like it seems to be everywhere in England, of course, and it took an amazing amount of time to navigate the relatively short distance to the B&B. This was a portent of traffic problems to come, as it turns out.

Because of the tourist volume in York, there are loads of B&B's. The street where ours was located must have had at least six others on the same block. Ours was a newly constructed building that had been in business for less than a year. The owners have planted something on every available scrap of land around the lot and made a nice garden with a water feature in the rear. Of course they do gardens so well in England, which almost makes me want to move someplace I could have all that greenery. Almost, but not quite. Surprising to me, the neighborhood was very quiet, which is a good thing because one sleeps with the windows open in this part of the world.

The establishment was also strictly non-smoking, which was a treat. Actually, we were surprised at the number of non-smoking establishments we encountered on this trip. It's always a shock to realize how much smoking goes on in other countries even though the price of cigarettes is often higher than in the US.

The best part about this B&B were the breakfasts. There was actually a menu of four choices, one being, of course, the full English breakfast which the three men had on the first morning. The host talked me into selecting the scrambled eggs with smoked salmon instead and after they saw what I was served, both Al and Norman joined me in having it the next morning. This was by far the best smoked salmon I have ever eated and Ian, our host, told us it costs something like 42 British pounds a kilo. Worth every penny. The third morning, my breakfast selection included three kinds of cheese, ham and a wonderfully ripe section of pineapple. There was also juice, toast, and cereal available in addition to any of the breakfast selections. Ian also makes his own jams and we regretted not being able to try all of them. Happily, he also knew how to make a decent cup of coffee.

We spent much of the next day at the National Railway Museum, which Al and I had visited five years earlier, but which is so huge that it warranted another visit. It claims to be the largest railway museum in the world and has over 100 locomotives and a slew of rolling stock including Royal trains used by everyone from Victoria through Elizabeth II.

There are people called 'explainers' stationed around the exhibits who are chock full of knowledge about what you're looking at. For example, one explainer saw us looking at a stuffed dog in a glass case and told us all about the dogs that, in a much earlier era, collected funds for charities at certain railway stations. Strapped to the dog's back was a little chest with a slot in it for coins and the dog would wander up and down the platform, standing in front of people until they put something in the slot. Can you imagine how that would work these days? Admission to the museum is free, about the only good deal in all of the UK.

Norman had decided that while we were in the area, we should ride the The North Yorkshire Moors Railway , a preserved line located about 30 miles from York at Pickering. We were game, so we all bundled into the car and headed out. And ran smack into a traffic jam. Colin consulted the atlas and came up with an alternative route. More traffic jam. Another alternate route. More traffic. I think it took us around two hours to finally get to the railway.

Now I remembered another reason we don't go to the UK--the traffic. It must be a principle of British highway engineering that every road must be interrupted by a roundabout at least every mile. This includes every highway except for the major motorways and roundabouts are put in on those occasionally too. Of course this saves tons of money by eliminating the need for overpasses every time two major roads come together, but it doesn't promote movement of traffic. When you realize that in the UK the price of automobile fuel (gas or diesel) is about 7.00 USD a gallon, you have to wonder how many overpasses could be built with the cost of fuel wasted by waiting in a traffic jam at a roundabout. The only saving grace is that Norman was driving and Colin was navigating and we were just paying for the fuel. We just sat back and enjoyed the scenery.

Actually, most of the navigation was done by Flossie, the nickname Colin had given to the GPS device that hangs from the inside of the windshield. All through Europe we had noticed people with GPS devices in their cars. With the convoluted roads and streets and wacky addresses they have, a GPS has got to be invaluable. Flossie was very good at finding anything that you could give her an address for even though sometimes Norman questioned her routing, usually to his disadvantage. She sped us through Edinburgh several times without a hitch and was amiable about changing the route if we ignored her commands to 'make a U-turn as soon as possible' when we decided to go a different way than Norman had programmed. I was constantly amazed at the little tiny roads that were in her database, which must be huge. Technology is great sometimes.

Once we found Pickering and the station, the train ride was quite enjoyable. I had envisioned the moors as being flattish, but the route went through some pretty wild and hilly country, full of heather in bloom. Norman tells me that it is heather that defines a moor and when I got home, I looked up the dictionary definition and he's not far off. At any rate, the North Yorkshire Moors are far from flat which makes them a lot more scenic that I expected. The line has 18 miles of track, which doesn't sound like a whole lot but you have to remember that the train doesn't move at Eurostar speeds although it does go a bit faster than the traffic had been in some of those traffic jams, which seemed far, far away out here on the moors.

Great Britain has an enormous number of preserved railways and an even more enormous number of volunteers that staff, maintain and operate them. From my reading, it looks like most of them are standard gauge branch lines that were abandoned for one reason or another, probably because of highway improvements. Most of them run steam and have only a few miles of track, but the nostalgia factor is unbeatable. I'm sure it would be possible to spend an entire month's vacation doing nothing but riding restored railways in England alone.

We stayed three nights in York before heading off to Edinburgh. On our way north, we stopped at Shildon where the National Railway Museum has a new auxiliary site with even more exhibits. There is a little steam engine that shuttles visitors from the welcome center area down to the train shed, a short but delightful ride. The shed is huge and filled with rolling stock. The presentation of the exhibits is straightforward in both museums with signs explaining each piece and its significance. I like this method much better than the one at the French railway museum which tried to used 'modern' techniques with audio guides instead of signage. When they work, audio guides are good at telling stories but they don't give hard information.

From Shildon we headed north up the A68 to Scotland. On the map, this appears to be a main road and it certainly carries a lot of traffic. However, the farther north you go, the narrower the road. British roads rarely have a shoulder and more often will be constrained by some centuries-old stone wall or hedge. Straightening a road to eliminate curves is not an option because of those same walls and hedges.

However, since we weren't in any hurry, the slowness of the road only allowed us to enjoy the scenery more fully. As always when driving in England, you notice how green everything is, especially if you live in the desert as we do. Of course, the reason that it is so green is that, even in August, it rains, or at least drizzles. As we drove north, the clouds got thicker, the hills got higher and there was more and more heather. And sheep. Lots of sheep. More sheep than I've ever seen in my life. Different sheep breeds than I was used to seeing also. All in fields defined by those stone walls that are all over the north country. How many man hours does it take to make a mile of stone wall? Of course, these walls have been built over a period of several hundred years, but the amount of labor in them is incredible.

There is a parking area with a monument on the border between England and Scotland at a high point, which was pretty much in the clouds and drizzle, so we couldn't see a thing in any direction. When we came back south, we stopped again and looked back at the now-visible vista, hills and hills and hills rolling away to the horizon where you could almost, it seemed, see John O'Groats, at the northern-most tip of the island.

Down we rolled from the high point, winding among the sheep and the heather and the traffic cameras which seemed to be placed every couple of miles. There is no excuse for getting caught by one because there will be a warning sign maybe half a kilometera few hundred yards before the actual camera installation, which is plainly marked by yellow striping on the box. Any particular camera may or may not be actually active, but you're taking a chance if you speed. We saw one camera go off so there was at least one active, but there must have been a couple of dozen installations. That says something about how people drive on this route and how fast they drive. There are also traffic cameras in England, but not as many so close together as on this road.

Flossie took us right to the guesthouse in Edinburgh where our accommodations were quite a comedown from York. First, there were the stairs, narrow and steep. Then there was the fact that three rooms shared our bathroom. And of course the breakfast, while OK, was not in the same league as Ian's, but then few are. However, Norman hadn't had a lot of options for accommodations since we hadn't booked a year in advance for a room during the peak season when both the Military Tattoo and the Edinburgh Festival (performing arts) fills the city to overflowing every year. To its credit, the actual room was huge and the bed reasonably comfortable.

Since I was not in shape for walking, we didn't see as much of the old town as I would have liked, but I had the impression that except in August, Edinburgh is very, very gloomy. The buildings are all made of a dark gray stone which is not going to be very cheerful when the days are also dark gray. That said, there are a lot of interesting, even dramatic buildings, including, of course, the castle.

Since the Tattoo didn't start until 9 pm, we had all day to be tourists. Norman had decided we should go to the Falkirk Wheel but, a great lover of surprises, he didn't tell us where we were going until we were almost there, and even then we had no idea what the Wheel would be. It was quite a surprise.

There is a canal that cuts across Scotland from the Firth of Forth (Edinburgh) to somewhere near Glasgow. It once was an important shipping route from one side of the island to the other, cutting out a lot of sea travel, but it fell into disuse with the advent of rail transport. Sometime in recent history, it was decided to renovate the canal system for pleasure use.

Near Falkirk, the elevation gain required a set of eleven locks that were very time-consuming to traverse. I suspect there were other issues also because of changes in the area during the time the canal was disused. It was decided to replace these locks with a boat lift. Not just any old boat lift, but a huge wheel, 115 feet in diameter to be precise.

The idea is that this giant wheel has two gondolas at opposite points on the wheel. The end of each gondola opens, the boat drives in, the end is closed. The boat is floating in the water in the gondola. The wheel then rotates and the boat is lifted to the higher level, or lowered to the lower level, where the process is reversed and the boat goes on its merry way. Since the two gondolas are perfectly balanced, even if there is a boat in only one of them, the mechanism requires very little energy.

The flashy design of the wheel was obviously calculated to make it a tourist attraction in itself, which it has become. In addition to the pleasure boats that use the lift, there is a tour boat that takes passengers for a trip up on the wheel, travels a short distance down the canal and through a tunnel, then returns to the wheel and goes back down to the starting point. Of course we took the ride. The young man who narrated with a barely-understandable Scots accent was a wonderful entertainer as well as educator. The wheel starts moving while the young man is talking and before you know it your're half-way up in the air. What a hoot! Norman sure knows how to pick off-beat activities as we would never have found this one ourselves.

That evening, we took a cab to the Tattoo since parking would be out of the question. It was interesting that the cab fare going was more than it was coming back late at night, although the time in traffic was the same. Hmmmm. We came around a corner near the castle and there was a mass of humanity trying to funnel up the one street that allows access to the stands. Oh boy, I thought, how am I going to be able to make it through that mess? Fortunately, Norman had been to this event before and he has trouble walking also and knows a shortcut. The driver let us off at a set of stairs which go through the wall and allowed us to join the crowd much farther up the street.

Norman had done a good job of getting us tickets on relatively short notice (six months) as we were only three rows up. The Tattoo itself is a fascinating display of military bands, mostly Scottish in kilts and with bagpipes, marching and playing and performing maneuvers. There are guest bands from other countries, one from Chile this year for the first South American band ever as well as a group of Gurkas from Nepal playing bagpipes. We also were treated to a mass of Highland dancers as well as a children's group from Uganda in what I thought were the best outfits of all, long traditional African dress with various brown and white patterns. There was also a group from China who performed with flags and a lot of martial arts types of maneuvers, some of them really young kids. The visual presentations were first rate, with different lighting effects and projections on the castle walls. The event ends with a bugle playing halfway up the castle walls and then a lone bagpiper plays at the very top. Very Scottish.

The next morning, we headed south to Gosforth, Norman and Colin's home village where we would have a rest day. But first, we needed to see Hadrian's Wall. If you need a history lesson, Hadrian's Wall was built by the Romans to keep those pesky Scots in their place. It stretches across the narrowest part of the island, some 80-plus miles. It's not the Great Wall of China in height or impact, but it's pretty cool anyway. I like to visit the old Roman sites and soak up the atmosphere.

Originally, I had visions of walking the length of Hadrian's Wall, which we found out is done by about 3,000 people a year. You can make arrangements to have your luggage moved from one reserved B&B to the next each day for the number of days that you've decided to take to make the walk. Fortunately, we had decided against making this commitment because when we visited Hadrian's Wall, I had trouble walking from the parking lot to the cafe and there was no way I could have walked several miles a day.

Fortunately, there is a road that parallels the wall for much of its length and provides excellent views of the wall itself. When we returned south, we picked up that road near Corbridge and followed it almost to Carlisle, thus seeing more than half the length of the wall, although at a greater speed than I had once envisioned. The whole area is a national park so development is controlled. It is great walking country and you can imagine following the wall path as it meanders over hill and down dale. Since this was August, every trail access car park was crowded and there were many people doing exactly what I would have like to have done. Along the wall there originally were numerous forts and some of the sites have been excavated.

We stopped for lunch at one of the excavated sites, Birdoswald. The sandwiches were great, made of local sausages with a sweet pickled fruit relish on a hearty brown bread. We noticed that in the cafes at various attractions, there will often be an emphasis on locally obtained foods, which allowed us to try some things we would not normally have encountered. For example, at one railway station we had something called a flapjack for our 'sweet'. In America, a flapjack is a pancake, but in parts of England it is a bar cookie-like creation made from oats, porridge (cooked oatmeal) and syrup which is a lot better than it sounds, the oats keeping the syrup from making it too sweet. We also tried local bottled drinks when we found them. One that Al tried was made from burdock and dandelion and was delightful. Whoda thunk?

Back in Gosforth, Norman and Colin dropped us off at the Horse and Groom Hotel which was just a short walk from their home, and later joined us for dinner at the hotel. We enjoyed a good rest the next day just hanging out around their home and enjoying their garden railway. Norman made dinner that evening which was a welcome change from restaurant food.

After a much-needed day of rest, we were off the next day to Wales to ride little trains.

First, we had to get out of the Lake District. Norman and Colin love to drive over the fells, which are steeply rounded, bald hills that have been grazing grounds for sheep for hundreds and hundreds of years. The roads are paved but only slightly more than a car's-width wide so meeting on-coming traffic requires some advance planning to find one of the occasional wide spots provided for passing. Everyone seems to work it out.

Although few people actually live on the fells, this area has been inhabited since prehistoric times and on our previous visit, Norman had taken us to a megalithic-era stone circle high on one of the crests. Up on top of the fells you look out over the Irish Sea and the Isle of Man is off in the distance on a clear day. I can see why they like the drive.

Of course there are sheep all over the fells. These are a special kind of sheep, a breed called Herdwick, the males of which grow lovely curly horns. They are an especially hardy breed, which is necessary since the weather on the fells is pretty nasty in the winter. Their other distinguishing characteristic is what is said to be an inbred knowledge of their grazing grounds. In other words, they know where they are supposed to go and they don't stray out of the their area. Since there are not a lot of roads and few fences in the fells, it helps the farmer a lot if his herds stay put. When we had last been here, there was an large outbreak of foot and mouth disease and there was a fear that the herds would be slaughtered and this unique breed would be lost, but that fortunately did not happen. Today there are plenty of Herdwick sheep on the fells, many grazing right along the road and keeping an eye out for cars. Who knew sheep were so smart?