Upon arriving in England everything went 'afoul'. The ride back had even more screaming children then it had going (two little girls were on both flights but on the second one they were backed up by two more little girls, ugh). After we got through customs we went to see what baggage carousel we needed to go to get, believe it, our baggage. There were maybe a little less than 100 people milling around the screens with this information. We stood there and we stood there and we stood there some more. We stood there long enough to hear people groan over England's loss (or maybe it was some other team's loss). We stood there long enough to see our flight number make it to from the second screen (low down) to the first screen (high up) until, all of a sudden, our flight and its blank spot that should have been filled with a carousel number disappeared entirely. I believe all this standing took about forty minutes. That was disgruntling. Then we got our baggage, my mother and I and met up with my father who had gone on ahead to get our car. And that is where disgruntlement got notched up to severe tetchiness. Basically what should have been, maybe, a forty five minute drive from the airport to our lodgings for the night became an epic two hour (or more?) drive around and around and around. It was bad. At one point we stopped at a roundabout to consult my father's fifteen years out-of-date map and the police came with disapproving looks...those looks became a little less disapproving once we opened our mouths thus branded ourselves hapless Americans. The policemen's directions got us another, say, five miles down the road before we got flummoxed again...and again...and again. Oh! And again. We finally arrived at
The Brocket Arms around 10 and it's a good thing we did because if we hadn't, well, erm, it wouldn't have sucked. We were welcomed into a small but bustling pub and quickly had pints in our hands. The landlord/governor type, whose name was Toby Wingfield Digby (first initial C), held my hand in a slightly creepy but actually kind way and helped us figure out how to turn the car lights off. Though the kitchen was technically closed for the night they opened it up again for us. Mom and I each had a bowl of soup (it was kind of too thick and not so good) and shared some fried shrimp (nicely fried but forgettable). Dad's venison sausage and chips on the other hand was quite tasty. I think the general rule with pub food is keep to the basics and don't ever think that maybe something exotic will be done very well. I went to sleep after my second beer.
The next morning we had breakfast outside as cooked by the guvna'. He and his wife have an English Springer Spaniel that bounded along anywhere the wife went (mainly it seems she was going back and forth between the stable and the house) but occasionally stopped at our picnic table for a quick petting. After our breakfast we needed to get going in order to get to our next destination...Lodge Down again...in order to be part of 150 (250?) people celebrating the 2005 Derby winner,
Motivator. This horse was owned by the club that the Lodge Down owners belonged to...thus the shin dig. Before we left, however, we had to settle up with the guvna'. This included a credit card, a small glass of beer and, with said glass of beer, a beer baptism. That's what I said. Beer, on my mother's, my father's and my own naked foreheads with wishes of health, happiness and grandbabies. It was weird.
The horse party included a tent, live musicians and me becoming the 'drunk, brash American'...I had kept her under wraps for most all of the trip but somehow that afternoon and evening seemed like the time to unleash her on a bunch of Brits.
But before I became brash, I had three different kinds of salad.
And a heck of a lot of strawberries.
Then I got drunk and refused to call a young gold professional by his name and opted instead to call him 'golf guy'. Croquet was played, a pool was swum in, some (not I) recklessly rode around on a lawn mower, snooker seemed to have been played and I generally behaved badly. Though without breaking anything nor insulting anyone (says my mother). Whoopsy!
The next morning we had breakfast outside as cooked by the guvna'. He and his wife have an English Springer Spaniel that bounded along anywhere the wife went (mainly it seems she was going back and forth between the stable and the house) but occasionally stopped at our picnic table for a quick petting. After our breakfast we needed to get going in order to get to our next destination...Lodge Down again...in order to be part of 150 (250?) people celebrating the 2005 Derby winner, Motivator. This horse was owned by the club that the Lodge Down owners belonged to...thus the shin dig. Before we left, however, we had to settle up with the guvna'. This included a credit card, a small glass of beer and, with said glass of beer, a beer baptism. That's what I said. Beer, on my mother's, my father's and my own naked foreheads with wishes of health, happiness and grandbabies. It was weird.
The horse party included a tent, live musicians and me becoming the 'drunk, brash American'...I had kept her under wraps for most all of the trip but somehow that afternoon and evening seemed like the time to unleash her on a bunch of Brits.
But before I became brash, I had three different kinds of salad.
And a heck of a lot of strawberries.
Then I got drunk and refused to call a young gold professional by his name and opted instead to call him 'golf guy'. Croquet was played, a pool was swum in, some (not I) recklessly rode around on a lawn mower, snooker seemed to have been played and I generally behaved badly. Though without breaking anything nor insulting anyone (says my mother). Whoopsy!
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