Last weekend was London Open House, a once-a-year event where members of the public can get inside buildings that are not ordinarily open (or see parts of buildings that are not ordinarily accessible, etc.). For free, I should mention. This year we decided to trek to the extreme northwestern part of London, to the town of Pinner (birthplace of Sir Elton John, onetime home of Simon LeBon and setting of the BBC sitcom One Foot in the Grave. But we were not there for any of that. Instead we were there to see some old houses.

Our first stop was Sweetmans Hall, a 16th century timber-framed house. The present owners have only lived there for a couple of years, and have been spending most of that time restoring it (using more traditional materials than previous "restoration" which they have had to undo before their own restoration, in order to prevent disaster). We thought it would be a very lovely place to live, if only we had a couple million to spare. The view from the rear gives a good indication of its structure (see the nice exposed beams, including the brand-new beam on the rectangular extension on the right side of the picture)

And some very nice angles are quite visible in the closer view (it's amazing this building has stood for around 500 years)



Our next stop was Headstone Manor, "former home of the Archbishops of Canterbury and Middlesex's oldest surviving timber-framed building", parts of which date from 1310. It's surrounded by a moat (for purposes of ostentation rather than defense), and like many old, old buildings has been built onto in various ways over the years. Some parts were destroyed by fire hundreds of years ago, and in fact the building is currently still undergoing major restoration work (including massive metal supports from which the structure of the building now hangs). There's still quite a bit to go (some of the interiors have still been untouched from the building's recent previous life as council housing). Here's a view from the rear (the front is less interesting... it's all covered in brick, which apparently disguised the building's age for many years)



And then it was back into Pinner, this time to see the East End Farm Cottage (which has its own website, here, with much more information). It was built in the 14th/15th century, and the present owners have a list of every owner since 1429 (PDF link). As you might expect it's a lovely little cottage, with crooked angles everywhere you look.


(I don't mean to call Mrs. Dunce a crooked angle!)









But perhaps the highlight of the day was the interior which contained a large wall painting (~turn of the 16th century), featuring a hunting scene with a dog in action and the lower part of a stag, complete with dripping blood. Needless to say Mrs. Dunce was incredibly excited about this very unusual medieval remnant.



We were extremely pleased to have a chance to see these buildings, especially Sweetmans Hall and East End Cottage which are privately owned, not museums. Thanks to the owners of these houses who were willing to open them up to the public (and act as tour guides too).

A gazillion days ago I mentioned the Glasgow Necropolis, and that I'd write about it soon. I just have to stop making statements like that. Although I've been busy, I could have dashed off an entry or two about something other than necropolises (or necropoleis for those people afraid of sullying the language by using English regular plurals on Wörter borrowed from other Sprachen). Anyway, today I bring you a few words (and fewer pictures) about the Glasgow Necropolis.

The term "necropolis" really just means "cemetery" (preferably large, fancy and ancient). The Victorian craze for impressive burial monuments led to an enthusiastic adoption of the concept, and wealthy Glasgow was no exception. In 1831, land near Glasgow cathedral was converted into a cemetery, modeled upon Père Lachaise in Paris. Some 50,000 are now buried there; I believe 100% of them are dead. At the top of the hill stands a monument to John Knox, hero of the Reformation in Scotland. Built 253 years after his death, it features a brief summary of his anti-Popery heroism. Broken floodlights around the monument are a not-so-subtle reminder that not all residents of Glasgow are pleased with this substantial monument to anti-Popery.

On our first day in Glasgow, we were too late to visit the Necropolis; large iron gates prevented us from crossing the Bridge of Sighs to the Necropolis itself. But we were very eager to get there... here's a picture I already posted, featuring Mrs. Dunce's enthusiasm for the Necropolis. The Knox monument is at the top of the photo.


But once Sunday morning came, we had time to visit the Necropolis. We had it mostly to ourselves, at least if you only consider the living. On our rambling way up the hill, the less serious of our group felt compelled to pose before a particularly impressive monument:

There was quite a view from the very top:

 

As we were looking around the Knox monument, we were further reminded of Glasgow's sectarian heritage: the sounds of a drum and fife band began playing somewhere off in the distance, probably warming up for the Rangers match later that day. No, we weren't planning to be anywhere near the Rangers match, but were instead using our few remaining hours to see the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum (I'll try and convinve Mrs. Dunce into writing a guest post on that topic. I think she probably has more to say than I do).

I took a bunch of pictures at the Necropolis too (all the above are from Mrs. Dunce) but have somehow misplaced them. Par for the course, really. Fortunately others have succeeded where I have failed; for example, there are some very nice black&white photos here. And a very good (brief) article by Glasgow Necropolis expert Ronnie Scott here. Or there's always his book. Or even his very recently unveiled theory that the Necropolis itself is a giant Masonic emblem, symbols within symbols within symbols (article link)

Another substantial delay, sorry about that! Work has been frantic lately: I've been centrally involved in setting up all sorts of new experiments with various different people. I'm feeling quite productive, but little time is left for frippery. Especially since I've also been fighting off a nasty cold/flu sort of thing (my immune system should really get in gear). Anyway.... back to Glasgow.

We took a morning train from London, somewhat loaded down with a bunch of posters/flyers/information sheets for my work presentation. The trip to Glasgow was pretty quick, less than 5 hours up the West Coast Main Line on a Pendolino train. Once we ditched the luggage, we scrambled up the hill for some quick touristic activities before closing time. First stop was Provand's Lordship, Glasgow's only surviving medieval house. But just across the street from Provand's Lordship stands Glasgow Cathedral, so we had to make a quick visit there as well. And of course its surrounding churchyard. We Dunces always seem to find ourselves wandering around churchyards, graveyards, cemeteries, and this was no exception. The graves surrounding the cathedral were quite substantial, and many were surrounded by iron cages (perhaps this was to protect the recently dead from the bodysnatching craze?). One of these cages also contained a Dunce.





But wait, there was more. Up on the hill above the cathedral was a the Glasgow Necropolis! Mrs. Dunce was almost uncontrollable with excitement:


But we were too late to explore the Necropolis (without scaling fences, tunneling or some other similar non-standard means of entrance, so we would have to wait. We took a detour back to the hotel (where I met with my Deaf colleague for a briefing about the next day's event), then made a beeline for the pub. The Babbity Bowster is quite well-regarded (and was quite near the hotel), so we made it our first stop. It's quite small, with fairly minimal decor & lots of hard surfaces which made it noisier than we might have liked. But we managed to get a small table which was no mean feat on a Friday night. Decent ale, and quite good pub food (including vegetarian haggis, neeps and tatties). After that it was a very short wander to another pub, the Blackfriars. This was a much larger place, with quite a mix of people and a larger range of beers (many of which we'd never heard of). There's a smoking ban in Scotland (unlike England, at least for the moment), so the pubs weren't smoky either. Everything was quite pleasant; we didn't see even a hint of trouble, much less the famed Glasgow kiss.

The next day our paths diverged: I spent the day working, and Mrs Dunce hit the museums. Our next joint venture was navigating the complicated and overcrowded Glasgow subway system.


St. Dunce: Patron Saint of the Glasgow Underground:


After a quick drink in a nice enough campus pub, we made our way to dinner. Much to Mrs Dunce's delight we were headed to the Ubiquitous Chip, a very highly-regarded restaurant. Or more accurately, restaurant-bar complex, as it's subdivided into various separate entities, including the Restaurant, the Upstairs, Big Pub, Wee Pub, and Corner Bar. We ate at the upstairs part, which had a sort of fancy gastropub menu, not as expensive (or as unusual) as the restaurant proper. Again vegetarian haggis made an appearance, but the highlight of the meal was probably Mrs. Dunce's smoked haddock salad.

After dinner it was back to the Blackfriar again (told you we liked it). This time we tried some of the unusual bottled beers. Most of them were from the historic ale range by Heather Ale and contained unusual (but historically accurate) ingredients like gooseberry, pine, seaweed, or heather (not all in the same product, thank goodness). We had a good window seat, so we were able to see the Saturday night street traffic. Loads and loads of people out on the town, but we saw nothing even remotely resembling carnage.

The next morning we headed over to the Necropolis, which probably deserves its own entry.

Mrs. Dunce and I spent the past weekend in Glasgow, my first trip to Scotland. I was representing my workplace at a large Deaf event, trying to spread the word about the research we are doing, and to possibly recruit some Scottish BSL signers to participate in some of our studies. It was also a really great opportunity to practice my signing.

But I discovered something rather unfortunate when I started introducing myself to people. In BSL, as in many other sign languages, people often have "sign names", sort of like a signed nickname used in place of fingerspelling someone's actual name. My own sign name was given to me when I first met with a group of deaf researchers, after suffering an unfortunate broken-glasses incident which left me peering through the one remaining lens. It looks exactly like this: LINK.¹

In the southeast (including London), this sign also means "to peep" (as in peeping through a keyhole, and maybe something like a peeping Tom). Perhaps with a vaguely naughty connotation, but nothing too extreme (unless everyone has been having a laugh at my expense....). In Scotland, however, this sign means "pervert", and not a nice, amusing sort of pervert either. When I introduced myself to a Scottish signer for the first time, I got a classic double-take. He asked me if that was really my sign name. When I told him that indeed it was, he proceeded to explain that I should really think about changing my name (maybe something more like "tea", a similarly shaped sign, but at the corner of the mouth. Or maybe something more like "monocle", which is in front of the eye, but with a more open hand). The Deaf equivalent of "Bill, or George, or anything but Sue", I suppose.

Other than the embarrassment of introducing myself "Hi, my name is Pervert", things seemed to go quite well. I chatted to lots of different people about our research and the different things people here are working on, maybe 3/4 of the time in sign language, and only 1/4 of the time in English. I'd rehearsed quite a bit of my patter about the research, but was most worried about not being able to understand people (especially unfamiliar people, in an unfamiliar setting). But as my co-workers predicted, it was no trouble at all.

Next time I'll write about Glasgow itself; we thoroughly enjoyed our long weekend there.


¹A curious coincidence: this same handshape positioned on the forehead means "know-nothing" or "dunce". But I got this sign name before I chose the name of "Dunce" (that only happened when I started up this blog, and found myself faced with the difficult challenge of coming up with a title which, I felt, had to fulfill certain characteristics).

Now that the Dunces have started settling into our new home, we've managed to find the time to start exploring the area a little bit. The past two weekends we've done some wandering just a teeny little bit off the tourist trail. Today's post is in honor of the Tottenham Cemetery where we had a short wander after a local history walk¹.

It's quite a large cemetery, and has enough vegetation that it feels like anything but the midst of a legendarily urban area:




The different sections are divided by narrow walkways, and many of the gates along the way are locked. Once we made our way inside, we found out the secret to getting from one section to another:


And here's the best gravestone we came across:


Unfortunately, we found that the cemetery also featured hobo-ish ne'er-do-well-type riffraff wandering about and menacing other visitors:


Or if not ne'er-do-wells, at least a wild-haired Dunce in full "California Hippie" mode (along with super-nerdy GPS-as-fashion-accessory). But this weekend was the end of the Hair Farm. The advance of summer made it impossible to keep going with long, crazy hair. No longer will complete strangers comment on my resemblance to "Mikey" from the US TV series "American Chopper", but it'll most likely be Philip Seymour Hoffman once again. I'm not complaining, anything is better than "Spaz" from Meatballs (I'm very sorry I couldn't find a picture of this character. Trust me, 1979 was not a good time for a nerd who resembled a comedy character called "Spaz"). If I had grown up in the UK, I suppose it might have been the Milky Bar Kid instead.


¹This entry should perhaps be about the local history walk itself! It was the first in a monthly series of local history walks put on by the newly organized Tottenham Civic Society (which soon will count the Dunces among its membership), starting at the fabulous Bruce Castle museum and then taking a loop around Tottenham. Which was formerly quite an exclusive area but now has a reputation of a grim, crime-ridden hole (and one of the few places where first-time buyers might claw their way onto the property ladder). So it was really interesting to see just how many interesting buildings from various eras are dotted around the area. In any event, we didn't actually take any pictures during our wander, but only afterwards. So you'll have to take my word for it.

Sorry it’s been quite a while since I updated, thanks to the usual routine of just too busy to do anything. I’ve finally found a corner of sort-of-free time to write the last in my current cycle tourism series. We got up for the last morning of riding, fortified ourselves with a hefty hotel breakfast (giant omelette filled with strange assorted canned vegetables), then consulted the maps to decide on the best route back to Krakow. There was a small problem, though: only one of us had a map with sufficient detail to show all the roads on our desired route: taking roads as small as possible to avoid the main highways wherever we could (Not to say we were traveling without maps. Everyone had a map that showed highways both major and minor). The owner of the detailed map was, of course, your narrator (the Dunce is not above over-planning his activities, perhaps to a fault). Anyway, our plan was to stick together fairly closely, so that we’d all manage to make the correct turns at the correct moments. Not a problem; the previous day’s ride gave us a pretty good idea that we’d overestimated the amount of climbing we’d have to do (therefore making it easier to stick together: climbing sections are where groups separate quite quickly).

After the previous evening’s ride into Nowy Sacz (along a very busy highway) it was incredibly gratifying that getting out of town was much easier: immediately after crossing a bridge at the edge of the old town, we suddenly found ourselves on a quiet suburban two-lane road which quickly became quite rural (I guess Nowy Sacz style urban sprawl only happens in certain directions). And then the first climb commenced. Contrary to our expectations there were a number of climbs, the first of which led almost immediately to a separation of the group into three or four subgroups (each containing one or two riders). I, holder of the map, was unfortunately not in the lead group, and a combination of this with some badly lacking (i.e. absent) road signage led us to miss our first turn and continue for some distance on a more major road than any of us would have preferred. It was still only a minor highway but had quite a bit of traffic. This caused a bit of upheaval among the more athletically-inclined members (member) of our group who preferred to be in charge of both leading and route planning rather than leaving it to someone somewhere behind him on the road. A transfer of the map was effected about this time. We continued onward, the group splitting once again, and foolishly some of the rearguard decided to take a brief(?) stop to check out another wooden church. Unfortunately this did not bode well for the newly-appointed map-holder who had suddenly become very concerned about the possibility of reaching Krakow before dark, and issued a command that none of us should stop at churches, and further that we should follow the most direct route to Krakow. This may have been an entirely reasonable fear given the unexpected amount of climbing, and the inaccurate measure of distance on our first day riding. However, it may also have been related to the newly-appointed map-holder’s failure to realize the extent of the change in map scale (going from 1:500,000 to 1:200,000) and thus overestimating the distance remaining by 100% or more. Or something; in any event any sensible reader should find it quite obvious that I'm exaggerating the degree of conflict for narrative effect (perhaps highly ineffectively).

I might mention here that despite some degree of mental anguish (on the part of the newly appointed map holder, that we might not make it to Krakow before dark, and that some of us were lollygagging to an unacceptable degree. On the part of others, that the newly appointed map holder had gone power-mad for no apparent reason, and that we should lollygag more just out of spite), the scenery was still quite nice. Well-off farming communities for the most part along pretty river valleys, and on up into the hills.





I might be giving a sort of grumbling tone, but it was actually quite fine as we were making good time (especially for those whose scale of the map was somewhat distorted). However, the quality of the road surface was gradually deteriorating, and suddenly we found ourselves at the junction of a major highway leading to Krakow (and the only road that appeared on my map that went anywhere near where we wanted to go). Not only a major highway but a narrow, two lane highway with no shoulder and loads of fast-moving traffic. Mere moments (not even minutes!) after joining this road, three out of four of us were run off the road by a passing bus which not only failed to give us any room whatsoever, but would have run us over had we not taken to the (highly undesirable) ditch. As we had no other choice (and only 4km or so before we reached the next town), we tightened the straps on our helmets and took off at the highest pace we could manage, keeping an eye on the shoulder and intentionally ducking off instead of being hit or crushed. As soon as we hit the outskirts of town we took to the sidewalks, then flopped down in a small park by the intersection of the two busiest, most dangerous small highways any of us had ever seen. None of us wanted to ride on such a road ever again, yet the only slightly direct route to Krakow was on that nasty road we'd just left (which no doubt only got worse as Krakow approached). Fortunately we figured out that we were quite close to Krakow: maybe 20km. So a much less direct route would still get us there in plenty of time (as it was still the very early hours of afternoon. Just seemed like evening. We planned to take the two long sides of a right triangle instead of its hypotenuse, and given that the two sides were approximately equal in length we could have had a pretty good estimate of distance, had any of us been capable of rational thought at that point. The riding was a little less interesting: terrain had flattened out and just about everything reminded me of northern Indiana (guess that's why a lot of Poles ended up there).



At least there weren't any buses or big trucks trying to wipe us out, but this last part of the ride was becoming a bit tedious. Flat and fairly dull, and without promise of much more (from the hills we had seen that everything flattened out most of the way to Krakow). So instead we headed straight north, planning to intersect a railway line with a general plan to take a train west to Krakow central station (thus avoiding the very undesirable concept of riding west into the major built-up and industrial areas of Krakow, right about rush hour and with the sun right in our eyes (and in the eyes of the assassins behind the wheels of buses and trucks). Before long, there it was, a train station (or at least two platforms with people idly waiting for the next train). Some 45 minutes later (30 minutes late) the train for Krakow arrived, signaling the end of our bike ride. The journey was not complete, however, as we, our bicycles and our filth crowded into two entry/exit compartments for the ride. Scheming looking young men soon joined us in the compartments, looking very suspiciously at us and our bikes. I thought surely we were about to be robbed or something, and I wasn't pleased at all when one of them forced one of the doors open while the train was still moving (his companion watching down the train for authorities). I held onto the bike (as if using it for balance) and made mental plans about what I would do if (a) I were thrown off the train, (b) my bike was thrown off the train, (c) I and my bike were thrown off the train, (d) various other criminal activities upon my person and/or belongings. Turns out they were just sneaking into the entry/exit compartment to smoke. Reality 1, paranoia 0. (Or so "They" would like you to think. Anyway, we made it to the station, and to the hotel without further incident.

Distance ridden for the day: a not-so pleasant 52.9 miles
Time on the bikes for the day: 5:00 (moving time)
Moving average: 10.6mph
Maximum speed: 35.0mph.

Today's altitude profile was unexpectedly peaky though nowhere near as nasty as that first day:


Total distance for the trip came out at 266 miles, total riding time 23 hours and 36 minutes.

The last night in Krakow was uneventful; we were too tired to do much of anything. Dismantling and packing the bicycles, then showers and an ordinary meal at a fast-foodish Georgian restaurant, then straight to bed with no shenanigans of any kind. And the trip back home was entirely ordinary (and home was a very very good place to be).

With four snoring gentlemen in one small room, it's no real surprise that we were up quite early. Our quality accommodation offered no breakfast (although it did have a somewhat rundown kitchen, which might have been useful if we'd have bothered to buy any foodstuffs besides Snickers bars and beer). No problem, we'd just find a restaurant in the town centre. Well, after walking into several different establishments, we were sorely disappointed: we were looking for something a little more substantial than coffee or beer (half of the customers were having coffee for breakfast, the other half pints of beer). Eventually we found ourselves at a sandwich shop, very much a Slovakian equivalent of Subway (I might note here that in our entire time in Slovakia we didn't see any of the ubiquitous American chains: no Subway, KFC, McDonalds, Starbucks, nor any of your familiar large retailers). I had a big-ol sandwich with an odd mix of the non-meaty things on offer: boiled egg, mushrooms, cheese, pickled peppers, cabbage/slaw, onions, tomato, mustard. We sat there, gobbling our sandwiches and wondering what happened to the concept of breakfast in Bardejov.

Our original misconception was that today's ride might be the most difficult of them all, but our more informed reinspection of the maps gave a much more pleasant impression: hilly but not mountainous. We set off north from Bardejov toward the Polish border. Or we would have, except that P. discovered one of the bolts on his rack had worked itself loose and disappeared. Fortunately there was a bike shop on the main square, and they gave him a suitable replacement bolt (for free!). And then we actually did set off. Once again the weather was perfect for riding; slightly chilly, sunny, with a light breeze. Hazy/misty off in the distance but which had dissipated by the time we reached it. Roads were quite empty, apart from the occasional Mercedes (unusual compared to the rest of the traffic we'd seen in Slovakia). The last Slovakian town we passed was Becherov, the only place that had a Cyrillic sign:


The early part of the ride was a 6-mile climb (250m) up to the border crossing; here's a shot of a couple of us getting ready to attack the steepest part of it:


Although both countries are part of the EU the crossing is quite a serious one. High fences, gates, numerous guards with guns, motorbikes, jeeps and so on. And very quiet in terms of traffic: only a couple of cars passed through while we loitered on the Slovakian side (spending our SKK at the border shop, which unfortunately offered only chocolate and alcohol). Our passports were closely inspected, but none of us did anything rash or silly and we were permitted to pass. The road surface was very nice and we cruised downhill for the next 12 miles or so (passed several times by border patrol people on the aforementioned motorbikes and jeeps). The countryside was quite scenic: nice rolling hills and fairly prosperous-looking farms.


We climbed another long uphill section, and discovered to our general displeasure that its downhill counterpart contained some of the worst road surfaces we'd faced so far: not so many large potholes but innumerable small holes, broken surfaces and all the other properties that make a speedy descent a truly bone-jarring process. Not only bone-jarring but bicycle-jarring as well: all of MJ's chainring bolts had become slightly loose (fortunately these are easily tightened). Far worse, we discovered that P's rear cassette had jiggled itself extremely loose. As we didn't have the exact tool designed to tighten it, we would be stopping every five miles or so to tighten it back down as best we could. One more climb and then it was downhill the rest of the way to Nowy Sacz. It's fairly big (pop. ~80,000) and we found ourselves riding along a quite busy highway to the city centre. There we stumbled across a very nice hotel just off the main square, the Panorama (overlooking the river valley):


The rooms were good, the staff were very helpful, and there was even a quite secure sort of cellar area where we could stash the bicycles. MJ and P set off to find a cycle shop where P's cassette could be properly tightened (after a small wild goose chase they did find a workshop, where all it took was a good turn with a long-handled cassette wrench), and HH and I went on a less difficult mission (finding a nice outdoor cafe where we could have a coffee and a beer and some snacks). Nowy Sacz seems to have some interesting sights but we were much more inclined to sit and relax. Once the "cassette mission" had been completed, we took a bit of a wander, stopping for a couple of Zywiec Porters at a very lovely art deco jazz bar.

Dinner was at a very nice (although deserted) basement restaurant ("Restauracja Kupiecka") specializing in traditional Polish food. The cassette-mission boys went for the "most traditional/typical" option, pork in a prune sauce with buckwheat grits. They weren't a fan of this dish at all. However both HH and I had extremely delicious food: mine was trout in a creamy sauce, HH's was a venison dish, rated as perhaps the best food on the trip. And then it was time for a short wander round the square before returning to the hotel. Some of us had to stop and pose for a picture with the Pope sculpture:

MJ (front), Pope (rear)

Distance ridden for the day: a very pleasant 50.9 miles
Time on the bikes for the day: 4:15 (moving time)
Moving average: 11.9mph
Maximum speed: 37.7mph.

It was a gradual-up-and-down day:


Total distance for the ride so far: 212.8 miles, and only one more day of riding left.

After the previous evenings' carnage, getting up in the morning was quite difficult. Fortunately there was a nice breakfast (with great coffee), and a reasonably short and easy ride ahead of us. Having figured out that our reading of the area's topography was dead wrong (except knowing for certain that there was one substantial climb, of unknown height, noted as 12% grade on the map), we were fairly pleased to note that the day's ride to Bardejov would be relatively short and easy. Our original plan was to do the entire distance from Stary Smokovec to Bardejov in one day, but we decided that Bardejov (preserved medieval city, UNESCO World Heritage site, etc.) should remain the day's destination. Here's a view from just out of Stara Lubovna, looking east towards Bardejov:


And another of the many roadside shrines along the way:


Although we were on a fairly major road, there was very little traffic in general, except for the occasional bus or loaded lumber truck. Quite a few people seemed to be getting around on foot instead:


There was only one real climb on this ride (a mere 160m or so), so we made much better time than we had even expected. As a result three of us (HH was riding ahead) decided we could afford to take a short uphill detour to check out one of eastern Slovakia's noted wooden churches (here is a general historical note, and here is a quite extensive site about them). Here's a picture of the church at Krive:


(More info and interior photos can be found here). We were fortunate that a carload of well-organized German tourists happened to be visiting at the time; they had arranged for the caretaker to let them in. So we too were able to inspect the interior (most notably 17th century icons). Now I should note here that I was the first of our group to arrive at the church, and being anxious to get inside and see it, I locked my bike rather than leaving it unattended. Imagine my dismay upon leaving the church when I realized that the padlock key was nowhere to be found. I had to admit this to my traveling companions who began helping me look around the grass to find it. The Germans hadn't left yet; although they were lightly sympathetic and highly amused, they had no suitable tools to chop a cable with (I still contend that attacking the lock mechanism itself would have been more productive). Very fortunately the key was found, right beside the bicycle. So we were able to unlock the bike, although I was no longer permitted to be custodian of the key.

The remaining distance to Bardejov was a pleasant downhill along a fairly busy (for Slovakia, anyway) highway. We arrived in the gorgeous town square to find HH semi-snoozing on a park bench. Here are a few pictures of the square:






Although it should be quite a tourist draw, Bardejov seems to lack slightly important tourist facilities like accommodation. Or at least that's how it seemed to us. We did find a very cheap, very damp pension where all four of us (and our associated filth) got to share a room. Hot water only sufficient for two or three showers, vaguely musty aromas, etc., but at least we could store our bikes indoors, take showers, and sleep on beds. Then we headed back into town; some of us went into St Egidius' church to see the impressively preserved 15th century wooden altarpieces (some visible here; I tried taking pictures but it was just too dark). Bardejov is very much worth visiting despite the possible issues related to accommodation. Otherwise we just wandered around the old town, stopping occasionally at one of the many outdoor cafes for a cold drink and a small snack. When it came to dinnertime, well, there wasn't a whole lot of choice. For some reason just about every restaurant in town was a pizza place. We selected one of them and ate our fill of (surprisingly reasonably decent) pizza, slightly less than enjoying the accompanying music (an unholy blend of traditional southern German and Slovakian folk music with a lively techno beat). And then it was off to bed; after the previous night none of us were remotely interested in even thinking about anything considering nightlife.

Distance ridden for the day: 37.2 miles
Time on the bikes for the day: 3:09 (moving time)
Moving average: 11.8mph
Maximum speed: 33mph.

The altitude profile shows that this was a pretty easy day (note the compressed vertical scale compared to previous days):


Total distance for the trip so far: 161.9 miles

After the previous day's hard ride, it was a little difficult getting started. My knees were quite sore after their abuse on the climbs, but I was buoyed by the promise that a significant part of this ride would be downhill. This was originally planned to be a rest day in Stary Smokovec (possibly including a loop ride to Poprad and the Low Tatras) but we thought it was probably best to press on a little further, thus distributing the next day's ride across two days (a misguided reading of the map suggested that the terrain offered some significant climbs). Once again the weather was beautiful: sunny but rather chilly, so we all started out in long sleeves. Here we are getting ready to set off:


I was quite surprised to note that the promise of "all downhill" was actually true; the next 7-8 miles I didn't need to pedal at all, except to stretch my legs. The main highway was the only way down, but the road surface was quite nice and traffic was light. It was no effort at all getting into Stary Smokovec, which is apparently the Slovakian version of Zakopane. Here's a shot of the Grand Hotel which was our goal the previous night (if it hadn't been dark, we definitely could have reached it):


At this point my knees were still suffering quite a lot, and I felt like it could be quite problematic trying to keep up with the other guys, so an alternative plan was hatched. I would let them ride on to Stara Lubovna (taking a slightly circuitous route to avoid highway traffic which had increased somewhat once we reached Stary Smokovec), and I would continue down the river valley to the town of Spisska Bela where I could catch a train to Stara Lubovna. Here's the last I ever saw of the other guys:

OK, maybe I'd see them a lot sooner than I even expected.

The road to Spisska Bela was still a gradual downhill, with the mountains behind me. I passed quite a few people sitting on the side of the road trying to sell wild mushrooms or heaps of potatoes; quite a sad sight given the tiny amount of traffic along this road. Not long after that I reached a very nice pond/lake where I stopped to soak my legs (and take another picture):


The park adjoining the lake also had a substantial collection of tourist-friendly signage about the local area (including English!), but most importantly for my purposes, a very nicely detailed topographic map of the area, apparently showing that our calculations about the serious hills between Stary Smokovec and Stara Lubovna were entirely incorrect. It seems that we had mistaken shaded areas (depicting forest or park, I believe) for indications of topography, and thus guessed wrong about the direction of flow of the rivers indicated on the map. In fact, it appeared that the route from Strbske Pleso to Stara Lubovna was entirely downhill. Nonetheless, since I was on the outskirts of Spisska Bela, I thought I may as well visit the train station and check out the timetable. As it turns out, Spisska Bela is quite pretty -- a well-off medieval guild town in its day (some history here). Off the main highway there were hardly any cars at all:


There was a tiny train station there, or at least a house where a couple of rail employees were waiting. A train was arriving right as I got there, but going in the wrong direction. I tried asking the employees about the next train towards Stara Lubovna, but neither English or German were useful at all. Fortunately gesturing is always a possibility (point towards Stara Lubovna, point towards my watch with a questioning expression, and offer a pen and piece of paper). She obligingly wrote down the times for the next trains: the very next train would be arriving in a mere three hours' time. Since a number of schoolchildren had started to gather around and were taking quite a bit of interest in me and my bike, I decided I may as well hit the road instead. As it mostly ran parallel to the train tracks, I could always stop and wait for a train if the riding became too difficult. Turns out it didn't, and I continued mostly downward along the river valley (quite scenic all the way)





In this part of Slovakia there are numerous shrines along the way. Some of them large enough that you can probably go inside them for a quick prayer or nap (although I certainly didn't try).


As I cruised along the highway, I passed through a couple more small towns like this one:


and suddenly caught up with the other guys who had stopped for a snack and a drink. As I pulled up on my bike I was handed the remains of an ice-cream bar and an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Seems my pace was a little better than I had anticipated. From there it was a straight shot to Stara Lubovna. We rode around the main square and checked into a nice hotel (apparently the best hotel and the best restaurant in town). After a much needed shower and a spot of shopping (trying to find me a knee support for the remaining rides. Turns out the shop we needed was right next to the hotel, and would reopen at 8am), it was dinner time. We had balcony seats so we could watch the comings and goings of the locals (especially the local teenagers who were busy with the usual sorts of activities involving skateboards, rollerblades and irritated adults). My Slovakian vegetarian specialties (pierogi/haluska/potato pancakes) were tasty but not all that exciting. Once dinner was finished, we decided to check out the nightlife (at least around the town square). A dimly-lit bar offering billiards seemed like a good choice; shooting some pool would be a good diversion. Or so we thought, until the barman obviously misunderstood us, instead turning on the lights for ... THE BOWLING LANE!


It's a version of ninepin bowling: pins laid out in a diamond shape with substantial space between them. Pins were reset after every roll (they had strings attached to their tops for easy resetting). The balls were relatively small and didn't have holes, and the lane didn't have gutters (only rails). As we didn't know the rules, we tried various approaches to knock down the pins, mainly focusing upon the richochet technique off the rails. Only later did the barman explain to us that this is a foul: you score no points if the ball touches a rail. Scoring: apparently if you knock down all nine, you get another go (none of us ever did better than 7). We had a few rounds of incredibly inexpensive beers, and gradually a few of the locals came by to chatter. Mostly in broken German although a couple of them had a bit of English. Of course this kind of socializing has its risks, and soon enough the barman brought us some shots of the local drink (high-octane peach schnapps I believe, clocking in above 50% alcohol). Well, it's a bit difficult to refuse, so we asked him to join us and have one himself as well. Ouch! One of the most unpleasant things that's ever touched my throat. A few more rounds of beers and some more rambling conversations with the locals, and we were ready to go. Or so we thought... we had to face another tray of deadly peach schnapps. We so badly wanted to refuse, and even tried it on. Unthinkable! At least the barman had one himself (again), but I think we were all struggling to keep it down. We rushed to pay our bill (something like £4 or £5 each for loads and loads of drink + an hour of bowling) and get out of there before the dreaded schnapps made another appearance. A quick round of beers at the local hostel and we were definitely ready to return to the hotel and crash.

Distance ridden for the day: 43.8 miles
Time on the bikes for the day: 3:42 (moving time)
Moving average: 11.8mph
Maximum speed: 31mph.

The ride really was downhill all the way:


Total distance for the trip: 124.7 miles

And here it was, the first day we were actually going to do some real riding. Rather than rushing right off at a suitably early hour, however, we decided to have a relatively leisurely breakfast (including some tall tales from P. and I about our supposed experiences with Zakopane's nightlife) and check out one last cycle shop to see about finding the crucial replacement chain ring. A bit more wild-goose-chasery as MJ went from rental shop #1 to rental shop #2 before finding a real-live supply/repair/workshop type shop. Which didn't open until 10am. So we idled about, hoping an employee would turn up even a little bit early (let me tell you, as a former retail employee myself, we absolutely love it when customers are waiting when we arrive, and demand to have their urgent needs met immediately, ie before the normal pre-opening responsibilities have been completed). It turned out that they didn't have the exact chain ring required, but the mechanic offered to fix an entirely new set of chain rings for approx £30, and do so in an hour. However, as our ride was going to be long, and much of it mountainous, we thought that would be too much of a risk (we weren't reallly equipped with lights, nor prepared to ride unfamiliar mountain roads in the dark even if we had lights). So we hit the road, leaving my bike un-repaired (the plan was to ride on the large front chainring on flats and downhills, the small ring on uphills, and try to keep the switching to a minimum. Switching was at least possible although not smooth. It turned out to be a reasonably-manageable annoyance once I got used to manic shifting when I needed to drop down to low gears).

Our original plan was to take the shorter (east) route from Zakopane to Stary Smokovec, figuring that the ride into Zakopane might have taken too much out of us, so we should keep the most mountainous ride the shortest. But since we took the bus to Zakopane, we figured we may as well take the longer western route around the highest of the High Tatras (basically the shortest way you can get to Stary Smokovec on roads, heading west from Zakopane). Leaving Zakopane the road surfaces were impressively good quality (and had plenty of shoulder space), and the traffic was relatively light once we got out of town. It was a chilly, sunny morning with fresh mountain air and the smell of pine everywhere, and we kept up a nice pace through gently rolling (largely downhill) terrain. We saw numerous cyclists coming the other way; every few minutes you'd hear another "ahoy" despite being well out of Talk Like A Pirate season. Here's what the area looked like:

P. with his Poprad. We would eventually have to negotiate the hills you see in the background...

After not very long at all (surprisingly soon, actually) we reached the Slovakian border, a proper border crossing despite both nations' EU status. The quality of the road surfaces dipped noticeably, and we noticed there was a lot less road traffic. People walking everywhere, quite a few working bicyclists, just the occasional bus or massive truck. We'd already ridden up what I thought were a couple of fairly decent climbs (the first going from about 830m to 950m; the second from about 700m to 950m without any real breaks), but then I saw my first gradient warning sign:

Warning of 12% grade. P. up ahead.

This was a major uphill (at least in my world), the most I've ever climbed at once. Starting about 780m we went right on up to 1120m with only one relatively flat bit about halfway up.


The boys taking pictures and a much needed rest at the scenic overlook.


The scenic overlook itself.


HH getting in the mood to tackle the downhill.

The downhill section that followed was quite an intense experience itself. Just as I haven't climbed many mountains before on the bike, neither have I descended them. And this descent was significantly more than the climb, going from 1120m right down to about 580m including a bunch of hairpin turns and big sweeping downhills. Only a few vehicles, and good road surface (thank goodness) but I sure used up a lot of brake rubber just controlling my speed. Once the road levelled out (and my slight case of the shakes subsided), I stopped and took a picture looking back up the hill:


We were in dire need of nourishment at this point, since we'd gone about 85 kilometers (53 miles) and still had some distance to go. Especially because our various map-based estimates of the total distance seemed to be some 15% under the actual distances as measured on the road. Fortunately we were at the last big town before the High Tatras began in earnest, Liptovsky Mikulas. I can't say too much about Liptovsky Mikulas except that it had a large grocery store in the center of town, which we pillaged for sugary beverages, candy bars, trail mix and water (our first money spent in Slovakia, things seemed to be much cheaper than they were in Poland). We sat in the shade for only a few minutes, gobbling down our fuel for the last little section of the ride.

Liptovsky Mikulas is just full of bicycles; we were quite surprised to see all the bike lanes and people on bikes, even on the highway out of town. But I suddenly realized I was having quite a difficult time: my knees were really suffering (despite gobbling some ibuprofen) as my unfamiliarity with extended uphill rides had led me to use a riding style (pushing rather than spinning) that caused undue stress to the knees. This was quite a problem as we had some significant distance still to go, and sunset fairly quickly approaching. Therefore a change in plan was necessary: MJ gave me his wheel and instructed me to follow as close as possible, thereby giving me a substantial reduction of wind resistance. Quite important since I was the only one riding a mountain bike and thus using a much more upright posture. This went on for a while until we reached the steeper sections of the climb. Through some combination of extreme granny gears and drafting in the aforementioned manner we climbed, and climbed, and climbed. All the time the sun was getting lower and lower:


We switched into our most reflective (and long sleeve) clothing, because it was really starting to get dark, and eventually MJ and I crept into Strbske Pleso, the highest settlement in the High Tatras, having climbed continuously from Liptovsky Mikulas's 580m right on up to 1350m. Although Stary Smokovec was not far at all (and all downhill), we decided it was too dark to continue safely, so we checked into a hotel. All of us, that is, except for P. who had taken the bull by the horns and pressed on ahead into Stary Smokovec (fortunately there was a taxi available, only twenty of your English pounds). The rest of the evening was somewhat of a blur: the hotel was quite nice; MJ bought some really inexpensive bottled beers from a shop (I doubt he spent more than a pound on 8 bottles), and then we went to a restaurant just across the way (seemed like the only place open in the September off-season).

A couple of the guys had a big-heap-o-meat plate (disappointing, I understand) while this time the vegetarian (or vegetarian-ish; just about everything had flavor bits that may have come from living creatures) options were the standouts. Top of the table was a Slovakian garlic soup, very much like French onion soup (croutons, cheese, hearty broth) but with garlic replacing the onions. Just what we needed after such a major ride. I also had halusky, a Slovakian dish much like gnocchi, and some excellent fried potatoes. And I couldn't resist ordering the dish described in the English section of the menu as "Salad with cabbage, onion, tomato, vegetable, mildew and moldy cheese". Turned out to be a very serviceable blue cheese salad. Mmmmmmm good. And that was about it.

Distance ridden for the day: 80.4 miles
Time on the bikes for the day: 7.5 hours (moving time)
Moving average: 10.7mph
Maximum speed: a hair-raising 33.2mph

Total distance for the trip: 80.9 miles

I brought along my GPS (Garmin Etrex Legend) so I also have some interesting data about the contour of the ride:


As you can see we saved the best climb for last.

The next morning we got up, assembled our cycles and then lazed around town until we got word on HH's missing bag. Fortunately we were able to leave all non-necessary items (e.g. bags to take the bikes on the airplane, floor pump, extra set of clean clothes) at the hotel for the duration of our cycle trip. It had been suggested to us that the first section of the Krakow to Zakopane ride would be the least pleasant of our entire trip, mainly due to busy roads getting out of the Krakow sprawl. So we took our cycles to the main square, checked out St. Mary's Basilica (linky. I took a few pictures but my hand wasn't sufficiently steady to post them here), and had a bit of lunch. About 12:30 we got the word: the bag had landed, and would be delivered to our hotel within a couple of hours. We could have spent that time in a fruitless search for a cycle shop that was open on Sunday, but instead we lazed around in the park a while longer. By the time the bag arrived, we had decided it was too late in the day to make a possibly-unpleasant, entirely-uphill ride to an unfamiliar town where we had not yet secured accommodation. Fortunately, we had been told that it wouldn't be a problem to take the bikes on one of the quite-frequent buses to Zakopane. So we rode on over to the bus station, where we found a Zakopane-bound bus ready to depart.

There was quite a crowd of people already starting to board, many of them with heaps of luggage. But we opened up the luggage doors and found that there was possibly enough room for the bikes, if we were really clever and stacked them in pairs. As we started doing this, the surly driver came out and began berating us in Polish. The only words we understood were "stop" and "no". So we started pulling the bikes back out, only to find that he was actually ok with the bikes, as long as we didn't damage or dirty other passengers' luggage. But he was in an extreme hurry to leave, so we'd better get moving if we wanted to be on the bus (or at least, this is how we interpreted the situation). It was an absolutely frantic scramble as we removed wheels and bags, and carefully/quickly jammed them into the small spaces available (as MJ put it, good thing none of us are precious about our bikes). And the bus was rather raggedy but we took up seats at the back and cruised to Zakopane in style (and only about two hours).

Upon arriving we unloaded our bikes, put them back together and leisurely cruised into town. Zakopane is the highest town in Poland, and as the gateway to the Tatras it's a serious tourist town. We checked into a nice, inexpensive hotel at the top of the main pedestrian drag where we could lock up our bikes, and got ready to check out the town.


The view from our hotel balcony: Looking south toward the High Tatras


Another view in the direction we'd be heading in the morning (actually this was taken in the morning; apologies to you continuity pedants).


Wooden houses just off the main street


Tourist action on the main drag. We did wander up and down the main street a couple of times looking for bike shops (recall that my broken chainring had still not been replaced). Zakopane is a very sporty town and quite well equipped with bike shops, as it turns out, but nothing was still open at that time of the evening. No worries, we decided to check it out in the morning. We passed quite a few dodgy vendors (selling cheap binoculars, smoked sheep cheese, single roses, and all the typical cheap tat you find people selling on the main drags of tourist towns) and then we saw it:

When we walked by this crowded restaurant with rows of open-flame grills and mountains of meat everywhere you looked, our dinner venue was decided. I'm a bit of a pescetarian but was egged on into trying just a little something:

(Photo sent by one of my traveling companions to Mrs. Dunce with the title "Busted!"). Well, I can definitely say that the horseradish sauce, mustard, and barbecue sauces were quite nice. Not so sure about the kielbasa, though. Afterwards we headed back to the hotel. Upon getting there, P. and I realized the night was young, so bidding our traveling companions good night, we decided to sneak right back out to the main drag. Things had quieted down substantially but we found a nice bar where some musicians were playing a sort of fiddle-and-accordion-based distant cousin to bluegrass. As we hadn't tasted much variety in beer, we ordered a couple of the different choices from the menu. P chose the Okocim Karmi, and I the Okocim Mocne. Little did we know that the former was a non-alcoholic beverage, and the latter a super-strong (7.1%). Oops. Anyway, no harm done and a couple rounds later, the lights went up and we headed back up the hill to the hotel. Except that just around the corner, we were drawn into a huge, empty nightclub, full of attendants and staff but with no more than 15 customers. I'm sure it's busier in the high season, or on a weekend, but on a September Sunday night it was a strange and eerie place. Here's a picture of me out on the dance floor (I should note this was as busy as the dance floor ever became):


And then it was off to bed, ready to ride in the morning.
Total distance ridden for the day: 0.5 miles (slow ride into Zakopane)
Total time on the bikes: approx 5 minutes.
Total distance for the trip: 0.5 miles
Maximum speed: 12 mph.

But tomorrow would be different.

Our journey started at the ungodly hours between 3 and 4am as we had to be on a 3:55 train to reach the airport the designated 2.5 hours before departure to Krakow. For future reference it's no problem to fit two loaded cycle bags and various other assorted gear in a black cab. The 2.5 hour flight to Krakow was uneventful, except that when we arrived, one of the bags hadn't made it onto the plane (all the bikes had arrived, but HH's bag containing everything else had been left behind). We were told to expect the bag on the next flight (same time the next day), so we crossed our fingers and made the requisite comments of sympathy and solidarity whilst secretly being pleased that our own bags had arrived. We stayed at the Hotel Polonia, right in the old town and very close to the train/bus station.

But we couldn't sit around and enjoy the town just yet; we had a mission. You see, I experienced various difficulties related to preparing my bicycle for the journey. The touring bike I planned to take was not suitably geared for mountainous terrain, and it seemed to have a fairly obscure rear freehub for which replacement cassettes with very low gears are not readily available. After some various attempts to solve the problem (Replace the cassette? Not readily available. Get a new wheel? 27" wheels aren't readily available around here either, and I'd have to replace both front and back, plus tires and possibly brakes. Get a new front chainring of a "granny gear" variety? Still wouldn't suffice, would necessitate replacing the whole front setup. And so on) it was decided that instead I would borrow MJ's mountain bike, geared quite low, with a rack and reasonably well suited to touring. However, a few days before departure MJ opined that the rear rim was very close to failure (after having a similar rim failure on his own bike) so he had a new wheel built, with a new rear cluster and a fresh chain. This was only ready the day before departure, and as I took it out for a test ride, I discovered that the middle chainring on the front was so worn as to be unridable (this will often happen when a fresh new chain is put onto a worn ring: the old chain will be cruddy enough that it doesn't slip). The large and small chainrings were ok, but this causes some problems in the area of seamless gear-shifting. Anyway, after some panicked attempts to disassemble other bikes to scavenge an appropriate part (which didn't work out, due to differences in sizing and so on), we ended up in Krakow with the bike still un-repaired. Surely there will be a cycle shop in Krakow, we thought (after all, there were loads of cyclists around). Armed with the Polish word for cycle ("rower") we set off on a wild goose chase to a few cycle rental shops near the old town (no parts/service departments), one of which actually appeared to be a wheelchair/prosthetics shop, before finally piling into a taxi to get a "real" bike shop. Being Saturday, of course it had closed by the time we got there. And of course would not re-open until Monday. So we decided I should make do with the gears on the bike for now, and gave up the quest for the day.

After a very much needed nap, we headed back out for a cold one, some coffee and some snacks (assorted pierogis, herring, + strange smoked cheese curd, "oscypki"), hanging out in one of the zillions of outdoor cafes, doing some people-watching and (for three of us) still secretly being glad we had a change of clothes. For dinner we headed over to Pod Aniolami (recommended by a local!). Located in an ancient building, they focus especially upon very traditional dishes taken from centuries-old cookbooks. The carnivores in our group couldn't help but go for the hardwood-smoked grilled meat dishes ("Nobleman's shashlik, pork roasted in wine with prunes" or "King's shashlik, pork with bacon"); I had a hickory-grilled mackerel with a very tasty horseradish sauce, dill potatoes and baked apple. Plus the most amazing fried pierogi (of the Russian variety, ie cheese and potatoes). Such a heap of food, but we figured it would be a good base for the next day's riding (assuming the bag showed up soon enough). Perhaps the best meal we had on the whole trip.

Total distance ridden for the day: 0.0 miles
Total time on the bikes: 0:00
Total distance for the trip: 0.0 miles
Maximum speed: 0.

Oh yeah, don't worry that there are no photos on this post. This will be remedied in the next entries.

Well, I'm back at work now after the major cycling holiday in Poland and Slovakia. As I expected, I'm swamped so I don't have the time to write complete entries just yet. But here are a few of the main details:
5 days riding: we took a bus to Zakopane, then rode the next day to Strbske Pleso (highest settlement in the High Tatras, ~1350m above sea level); Strbske Pleso to Stara Lubovna (downhill all the way); Stara Lubovna to Bardejov; Bardejov to Nowy Sacz; Nowy Sacz to a train station east of Krakow. A total of 260 miles in just under 24 hours moving time.

Here's one picture to give you an idea: descending from Strbske Pleso with the High Tatras in the background:

(photo by MJ, his ride reports can be found on the roadbikereview.com forums HERE, registration required)

Last weekend we made a visit to Leiden, another very pleasant stop in the Lowlands (I have to mention the fabulous restaurant Mrs. Dunce took me to for my birthday, Restaurant Wessels. We arrived at 8pm and were the last party seated, and the food was just fantastic. I wish I had a little more time to write about it). A few discreetly placed signs indicate to the especially observant visitor that Rembrandt may have some connection to Leiden (alternatively, the whole town shouts REMBRANDT! REMBRANDT! REMBRANDT! until it's blue in the face). We did stop by a few locations on the Rembrandt trail, but spent a lot of our time wondering "Just who is the nameless singer?". You see, the entrance to our hotel room was decorated with a sort of shrine to the Zangeres Zonder Naam made up of assorted album covers and a few baubles:


(Google Images also gives a good impression of the album covers on display, minus the baubles, here). I was quite curious about the Zangeres, who'd obviously been highly prolific over many years, but who was totally unfamiliar to me. No surprise that a search turned up zillions of sites, almost all of them in Dutch.

Perhaps the curious visitor's first stop should be the Zangeres's official website She might have departed this earth but her songs live on. Prepare to be dazzled (and see if you recognize the song). Some additional clips are linked from a (Dutch) article about "twelve great stories from Leiden" (article HERE): Vaderlief, Kinderogen, Costa del Sol, Mexico. The Zangeres specialized in over-the-top sentimentality, songs of a type known as smartlap, "a simple, sentimental song, sang in Dutch, where melancholy, homesickness and deeply-rooted sorrow are the central themes. The term originates from 'stoplap', a cliché which lost its strength., and 'smart' which means 'grief' (quotes taken from this informative article), and also levenslied (literally "life songs", which are like the smartlappen but not necessarily sad).

A bit more biographical information (in Dutch) is available back at her official website HERE. Here's a summary: born in 1919 (named Maria "Rietje" Bey), spent years of her childhood abed in hospital before going to work in the wool factory at 14. She was discovered by "talentscout" Johnny Hoes (who wrote many of the songs she performed) in 1957 and took on her stage name. Her first hit (reaching the Dutch top ten) was in 1959, "Ach Vaderlief, Toe Drink Niet Meer" ("Oh dear father, don't drink any more", or something like that). And she kept cranking them out, (all song titles are attempted English translations by me; maybe I do better than Babelfish) The Beggar of Paris (staying in the charts for 7 months in 1961, The Blind Soldier, The Girl from the Street, The Rag-picker of Paris, you get the idea. And she just kept going, occasional doldrums but on through the 1970s. In 1980 there was one of those typical record company situations (I'm glossing over it in this manner so I don't have to decipher the Dutch) which seems to have resulted in the Zangeres no longer receiving any royalties from her previous recordings. She kept on going, until a farewell concert in 1987 (although "best-of" albums continued to be released after that). Coaxed out of retirement she recorded an album in 1993 (proceeds going to charity), and she died in 1998 (a commemorative box set was released; it's unclear from the biographical article whether it actually contained all 550! songs she recorded). Sadly we missed the 2000 exhibition in Leiden's Stedelijk Museum De Lakenhal "Van Rembrandt tot de Zangeres zonder Naam" (From Rembrandt to the Singer Without A Name).

So there you have it, she was a local star!

It's been a busy time here in Dunce-land, perhaps no surprise what with the extended silence on this page. Or whatever the printed-form analog of silence is (definitely not "darkness"; "blankness" isn't right either because the last old entry just sits there gathering dust [e-dust?]; perhaps "stasis"?). I spent most of last week re-haunting some old haunts, presenting some of my work at a conference in the Netherlands (Nijmegen to be precise). Mrs. Dunce joined me on Thursday for a few intensive days of Dutch tourism (Thursday night/Friday morning: Nijmegen; Friday afternoon: 's Hertogenbosch; Saturday/Sunday: Leiden). It was a great trip (we both really enjoy the Lowlands), but quite exhausting, especially considering the conference itself which went from 9am-7pm on Wed, Thu and Fri (and worse, the bus to the conference left my hotel at 8am sharp). I did sneak away for a few sessions including the aforementioned Friday afternoon. One thing about visiting the Netherlands (at least the parts we visited): if you'd like to have your dinner in a sit-down restaurant, you'd better be quick. Mrs. Dunce and I missed out the first night, wandering around after the witching hour (9pm) looking for food. We ended up at a fast food stand where we had a perfectly good falafel (and of course, friets; no Dutch meal is complete without french fries and mayonnaise). Our planning was better the next two evenings, getting to the restaurants at 8pm (and as it turned out, still just about the last people to arrive). Both meals were fantastic, although I don't have time to write about them today (or anything else about the trip for that matter). Here's where I make an idle promise to write about them in the next couple of days.

Yesterday after work Mrs Dunce and I went to Brompton Cemetery (Here's a really nice site with loads of photos of the cemetery: LINK.) to see an interestingly-titled talk: "Indignities Suffered by the Famous Dead". The advert on the London Free List (link) made it irresistible: Attendees will be ushered in by black-robed figures bearing scythes. The talk will describe the sometimes bizarre and humorous happenings that have occurred to corpses of famous people in recent times and in the past...."

We arrived at the chapel (perhaps most famous as the outside of the "Russian church" in Goldeneye [link]) and sure enough, black-robed figured bearing scythes did indeed appear at the doorway. We checked out the choice of drinks and snacks (including some nice coffin-shaped cookies with icing skeletons), then took our seats right up front. It's a very small chapel, and by the time the lecture started it was completely full.

The lecture (accompanied by appropriate slides) was given by Robert Stephenson, and was quite entertaining. It featured corpse tales of all sorts of historical figures (particularly royalty). The main themes? Well, there was the old classic: disinterring of the recently-interred (and various related indignities). And uninterred corpses left gathering dust in various places. And any number of traveling heads: chopping of the head of the recently dead seemed to be extremely common, and what gentleman's collection is complete without a famous head as a conversation piece? It gradually moved toward the present, although clearly there were plenty more famous dead whose indignities had to be cut for lack of time. Highly, highly entertaining and very much worth the £3 (suggested donation).

There are a couple of audio snippets of Robert Stephenson talking about other death-related topics on this BBC article about Kensal Green Cemetery.

As a sort of escape from last week's heat wave, on Saturday Mrs. Dunce and I set off for a seaside adventure: a day trip to Whitstable (wikipedia link). Perhaps best known for its oyster festival which by a remarkable coincidence just happened to be going on at the time. We got an early start (leaving the house at 9:15, which is impressively early compared to ordinary Dunce Saturdays), and made it there by midday or so (somewhat pleased that most of the drunken, lairy individuals riding in the same carriage of our train were continuing on to Broadstairs or perhaps Ramsgate or Margate).

Most of the other people who did get off the train at Whitstable made a beeline towards the sea, while we took a more leisurely approach via Whitstable's shopping district/main drag. This gave us a chance to stop by the local history museum and perhaps build our anticipation of eating some seafood. Soon enough we had made it to the eafood market, where we couldn't stop ourselves from joining the queue for fresh oysters (cracked and cleaned on the spot, £3 for a half-dozen). Plenty of other tasty-looking seafood items were also on offer but we managed to resist... for the moment. It was nice and sunny but not too hot, so we found ourselves a bench at the top of the Tankerton Slopes and relaxed with the nice sea view:

(all photos by Mrs. Dunce). At the bottom of the photo you can see some ;traditional British beach huts, and off in the distance some sailboats massing for the start of a regatta. We hung out on the bench, relaxing, for two or three sailboat-circuits, before we finally wandered down the hill to the "beach". A close-up will reveal the truth:

The rocky beach was very uncomfortable for my poor, soft, coddled feet, but somehow I drew upon every ounce of strength to brave the crashing waves of the open sea.


Then we wandered along the path, past many more beach huts:


Three oysters apiece can hardly be considered a proper lunch, so then it was time for a real lunch at East Quay Shellfish Restaurant. We were hoping for fried oysters, or perhaps a bit of crab, but many items on the menu were no longer available (having been eaten by customers who ate their lunch at lunchtime). Instead we went with fish and chips, very tasty I should add (Mrs. Dunce's huss was especially good). And just around the corner from the restaurant... what could it be but a beer festival? We didn't go overboard, and we stuck strictly to the local offerings (Whitstable Brewery's Oyster Stout, Raspberry Wheat, East India Pale Ale; and Nelson's Powder Monkey). There weren't many shaded areas but we managed to find seats at a picnic table under a rather bedraggled tent, where we relaxed some more and watched the seaside action. As the afternoon went on, it started to get cloudy, and a pretty serious sea breeze kicked up. So of course we moved out to the edge of the (very unsheltered) pier, where we sat for a while longer until the bracing winds became a little bit too much for us:

(I do not ordinarily wear my hair slicked back, and you'll notice I am looking straight into the wind, just in case an unnaturally heavy gust of wind somehow catches my glasses from behind and whips them off my face, in which event they will no doubt be lost in the sea, and I'll have to be helped home by my longsuffering wife).

We wandered around town some more, building up a bit of an appetite for one more dose of seafood. Perhaps a bit apprehensively as we didn't have reservations anywhere. But we managed to get a table at Pearson's Crab and Oyster House (pub downstairs, restaurant upstairs), provided we finished before the customers who were actually organized about their dinner. A really nice table with a sea view, no less. The staff were a little overwhelmed (and I think I even saw one couple being delivered a second set of main courses after their table had been cleared of the first; some sort of serious miscommunication I suppose), but our food was really good (contrary to bad reviews I noticed elsewhere just now). I had a cold crab salad with heaps and heaps of crab, almost more than I could eat; Mrs. Dunce had a tuna steak with green chile pesto [sic]. We did have a dessert (summer fruits thingy) and coffee, but the service had slowed to a crawl and we (or at least I) became quite anxious about getting to the station in time for the train (only one per hour at this time of day). A brisk walk through town got us to the station at the very moment the 8:24 (or so) train arrived (see, I was justified in panicking, especially when people walking ahead of us broke into a run, or when we crossed a bridge and found ourselves on the other side of the station, with a locked gate between us and the platform).

The train was absolutely packed with seaside revellers who had been enjoying the sun at one or more of the aforementioned seaside locations. The fashion of the day seemed to be horribly painful looking sunburns of a traditional English variety. Such bad sunburns that you didn't want to get near them because they were radiating so much heat. Anyway, we stood among the many standing-room-only passengers until our loaded train joined up with an empty one and we could flop into a pleasantly empty carriage. And the trip home passed without incident (unless you consider small children playing, and playing, and replaying mobile phone ringtones to be an incident). All in all, a wonderful day out.

This past weekend we joined some friends of ours at sea, on an attempt at a sailing journey. Seven of us were involved, of whom only the Captain had significant sailing experience. He's recently moved his boat (BUGLE) from the very inconveniently located Isle of Wight to the much more accessible (from London, anyway) Chichester, a small city in West Sussex perhaps best known for its cathedral. Last summer Mrs. Dunce and I took a very relaxing and enjoyable sailing journey on this same vessel, under the same command (see here), although several of the other guests had experienced less delightful conditions (a Channel crossing featuring copious vomiting; hanging up on a sandbar on choppy seas, again featuring copious vomiting). The Captain had warned us in advance that we should not underestimate just how cold it would be out there, and to bring a variety of waterproofs we don't actually own. Fortunately there were a number of extras, and once we were outfitted and some safety instructions were given, we set out.

Bugle's mooring is at Chichester Marina, which as you can see from its location at the very top of this map is quite some distance into the harbor. So we had plenty of time motoring along the narrow channel (we'll get back to the channel soon) eagerly anticipating the excitement when we would finally set sail. Not without a bit of dread, however. The winds had kicked up to force 4-5, reaching 6, a scale which is fairly meaningless to me, but indicates that they're 15-20 knots, possibly into the mid 20s. Again fairly meaningless to me; even conversion into good ol' mph (15-25 or a little higher) doesn't actually tell me anything. A lot more informative were the subtle clues, like the significant number of small sailboats in the harbor resting on their sides while wet folks struggled to right them. Or the mayday call on the radio while we were being shown how to use it (just in case).

It took us the better part of an hour to make it to the mouth of the harbor, where we approached Chichester Bar. Unbeknownst to most of us (all of us?) this area might offer some interesting seas. The navigation report says "Mariners should be aware that ebb tides in the entrance to the harbour can attain a rate of up to 6 knots on springs. When falling tides coincide with strong winds from a southerly sector a dangerous sea may be encountered.". This local website puts it in perhaps more comprehensible terms: "Spectacular seas can sometimes be seen at the entrance to the Harbour at times of high winds from the south combined with spring ebb tides which reach their fastest around 3 hours after high water. If the conditions are right, the sea state over Chichester Bar (an area of shallower water) can be very exciting. You will not see many boats around as their skippers will hopefully have anticipated these conditions.". Well, it seems we were approaching the Bar under near-optimal conditions for seeing spectacular seas. It was already getting a bit exciting, especially as the depth gauge was indicating shallower and shallower water, as the boat's rising and falling increased dramatically. Fortunately for all involved, a quick decision was made to turn back, and we negotiated the channel back to the marina.

Or we would have, but for the particular shallowness of the low spring tide. Despite moving right along the channel, it was just not possible to get all the way to the marina, so after quite a few failed attempts a few feet apart from each other, we decided to tie up and wait out the tide with a picnic. Eventually the tide came back in, and we followed another boat of similar size through the (still quite shallow) channel, into the lock and back to the mooring. And from there it was off to dinner, than back below decks for the night.

There's definitely a lot going on in the area, so many mishaps that can involve boats. Maybe I shouldn't have read last year's report from the Chichester Harbour Patrol (pdf), or the local lifeboat launch summary. Perhaps I'm only a fair weather sailor after all.

There's been another temporary outage at Confederacy of a Dunce, this time because we took a long weekend in Washington DC. I figured I'd be able to write a little bit while we were there, but you know how that goes. We chose to spend a few extra quid to take Virgin Atlantic in order to take advantage of their impressive in-flight entertainment. You might laugh, but despite our desperate viewing from start to finish of both flights, we didn't even come close to watching everything that interested us. We did manage to get through Syriana, Junebug, The Constant Gardener and Murderball (three of which were disappointing), plus highlights of the Japanese program "Masquerade" (perhaps best known for the "Matrix Ping-pong" video clip that circulated widely a while back), a Chinese action game show "Challenge 321". Mrs. Dunce also saw Transamerica while I chose lowbrow comedy (Green Wing, Arrested Development, the American version of The Office). Of course this meant we didn't sleep on the return flight; thanks to that yesterday was a complete blur, and our 8:30 bedtime took forever to arrive.

We were graciously hosted by Mrs. Dunce's oldest friend who took time out of her busy schedule at the Peace Corps (especially busy as she has some responsibilities for East Timor) to hang out with us. And her boyfriend (although I heard her use the F-word on one occasion) who drives their apartment's only blog. Our main purpose for attending was the wedding of another of Mrs. Dunce's old friends, but we also managed to cruise through an impressive assortment of activities in our short visit.

I have to start with food, mainly because I'm a serial eater. Bring on those American-sized portions, that's my cry. We started on the eve of Cinco de Mayo at a Mexican restaurant; even though we now have a decent option in London, good Mexican is our first choice elsewhere as well. Mrs. Dunce and I are so closely tuned to each other that we ordered exactly the same thing, gigantic crab enchilada and a margarita (rocks, salt). Um about those American-sized portions, maybe not such a great idea for someone who's just eaten an airplane breakfast. The next morning we got in the car and headed for Bethesda, where Matuba Sushi awaited us. They offer a lunch special: all the sushi you can eat for a mere $11.95. From the "only rotary sushi bar in the DC metro area". Needless to say this was problematic for anyone lacking in willpower (that's me); the only solution was an afternoon nap. After which we headed out to the home of another of Mrs. Dunce's old friends (the capital area seems to be crawling with them) where we somehow managed to eat yet again.

It's starting to sound like our visit was only about eating, but we did some museuming as well. Like the new National Museum of the American Indian. I liked the approach of their displays, taking a central theme (e.g. history, cosmology, contemporary identity) and putting together parallel displays on that theme from different tribes from different parts of the Americas. And, (whoops, here I go back to food again) the museum restaurant was truly amazing. Our hosts had already mentioned how good it was, but I had no idea. The cafe is called Mitsitam, which means "Let's eat" in a local Indian language, and features a whole range of indigenous foods, grouped geographically (Northern Woodlands, South American, Meso America, the Great Plains, and the Northwest Coast and Columbia Plateau). I had an excellent black bean tamale; Mrs. Dunce a crab salad sandwich. Other choices included buffalo, venison, salmon, plus a whole variety of side dishes also generally representing the various locales (here are a couple of reviews).

Well, I've come to the end of my allotted time today, and I haven't even mentioned baseball or street numbering/naming conventions. I guess I need to threaten another DC entry next time.

The Dunces spent the past week gallivanting around England with the Dunce parents, hence the lack of recent updates. For our travels we were issued a brand new hire car with three miles on the clock; we brought it back with just under 900. Not bad for a long weekend; in this country that sort of mileage can be considered quite respectable. Yes, I know in other countries 900 miles would be considered a long day on the road.

Today is their last day in town and I've crept off to the lab to do a little work. And being very effective at it, as you can see from this entry. Business as usual, then.

Today I came to the office to find a small cluster of people standing around waiting for a lift (US elevator) on the ground floor. They'd already pressed the "up" button and were patiently waiting for the doors to open. It seemed they might have some time to wait, as two of the three indicators showed their respective lifts were at the ground floor already. But there is a secret trick known only to initiates of the secret Otis Society (and perhaps to a few obsessive-compulsive individuals not affiliated with the O.S. who may have stumbled onto the trick through skills learned by trying all possible combinations of commands in text adventure games). In such situations, pressing the "down" button gets you an "up" lift: the doors open and the "going up" indicator lights up (and indeed, "going up" has priority: if one passenger presses the "4" button, and another presses the "B"(basement) button [um, maybe I'll use negative numbers for levels of basement as my local terminology of G, LG, B may confuse], the lift will go up first). It's especially strange, as the lifts often exhibit "typical" (ie, expected) behavior as outlined in perhaps excessive fashion below* (and perhaps not without errors).

If a button for a particular floor is pressed from inside the lift (hereafter, simply "internal button"), the lift will move toward that floor, stopping at any intermediate floors whose internal buttons have also been pressed. If someone presses an internal button corresponding to a floor in the opposite direction to the current direction of movement (ie, the lift is on floor 2, heading toward floor -1, and someone presses "4"), the lift will continue its downward motion until it is completed, and only then reverse. If someone presses an internal button beyond the range of the current movement but in the same direction (ie, someone presses "-3" while the lift is still moving toward -1 in the example above), continuing to move in the same direction takes priority over a change in direction (therefore in the above examples, the lift will travel from 2 to -1 to -3, and only then to 4). During this process, the lift will stop at any floor for which a call button outside the lift (hereafter, "call button") has been pressed, but only if the call button's direction matches the lift's current direction of movement (if the lift is going down, but you're waiting to go up, it'll pass you by). If the lift is not in motion from an internal button press, it will respond to the first call button press, traveling toward that floor with plans to stop there and give priority to movement in the desired direction. It can, however, be intercepted by a call button press in the direction of motion which could scupper the original lift-caller's plans (for example, the lift is waiting dormant on 4. Someone on 0 presses the "UP" call button. On the lift's way down to 0, someone on 2 presses the "DOWN" call button and intercepts the lift. This interloper presses "-3" which now overrides the call button from 0. The lift passes by 0 without opening, disgorges the passenger on -3, but now the lift is going upwards toward the unanswered call on 0 so it will likely collect the passenger on 0. Unless s/he has taken the stairs).

This simple system is slightly complicated by the fact that our building has not one, but three lifts (the very-slow-opening and jerky one on the left side, the middle one, and the one that's usually broken**). This necessitates some sort of priority system for "accepting" call button presses (otherwise all idle lifts would race for each call button press). It seems to be primarily on the basis of direction (if lifts are waiting at -4, 3 and 5, and a person on 1 presses the up call button, the lift from -4 will respond in order that no change of direction will be necessary, assuming the person on 1 is not a joker actually wishing to go down). But if one of the other lifts gets to 1 first (perhaps someone from 3 goes to 1), the poor lift from -4 will nonetheless continue to 1 and wait there for further instructions. Except there's yet another constraint on the system: if there is no lift at 0, any lift without instructions should go to 0 and wait there (presumably because 0 is the main entrance, hence the area with the highest lift demand). There may be other such constraints as some of the lifts do sometimes seem to move without any button-pressing ("seem" being the operative word, I haven't conducted enough of an investigation to be sure. It may also be ghosts). Anyway, all this (and I mean ALL) still fails to explain why the lifts sometimes sit idle at 0, waiting for a "down" call which means "up" and ignoring any "up" call.




*N.B. This entire system can be overridden by the use of an "Operator key": insert the key and the lift will obey only internal button-presses and ignore any call buttons.

**Knowing this, a savvy lift user might intentionally use misleading lift-calling tactics in order to request the much-faster lift. It's risky behavior, though, and requires a decent sense of traffic patterns in the building (e.g., don't do it within five minutes of an o'clock, because the building is flooded with students going willy-nilly between all sorts of floors) in order to avoid undesirable detours.

Yesterday I went with Mrs. Dunce to the British Museum to see a special exhibition "Forgotten Empire: The world of Ancient Persia" (link to virtual exhibition). It's only been on for a few months, but even on this not-really-a-holiday was absolutely packed. We tried to go once before (on a Saturday not long after the exhibition opened) but all the tickets were sold out; yesterday it was still incredibly popular but we managed to get tickets for the end of the day (4:30pm entry). An impressive collection, not only from the British Museum's substantial holdings, but also plenty of objects from the National Museum of Iran and the Persepolis Museum (don't let them catch you following those .ir links!!!). And all sorts of reference to the Big Three (Xerxes, Cyrus, Darius). I was perhaps most interested in the various multilingual documents -- especially the various lesser-known-than-the-Rosetta-Stone¹ items which similarly could be used for translation thanks to their nicely parallel nature. I would have liked to look at them for quite a bit longer, but all the shoving got to me and forced me to move along too (Most people didn't seem to be very interested at all in these items, but still felt compelled to shove forward and look at them for a second or so, before shiny, shiny gold caught their attention). For all my griping, I really enjoyed this exhibit. I'm surprised it's moving along so quickly; it's still incredibly popular.

¹The Rosetta Stone is just around the corner from the Forgotten Empire exhibition, so if you're underwhelmed by the smaller parallel-text objects in the temporary exhibition, you can wander into the Rosetta Stone crowds and see it quite easily. Or buy a Rosetta Stone necktie or umbrella...

Today's headlines shout "Coldest day in 19 years" as temperatures as low as -10C were reported in parts of the UK, and travelers are again suggested to avoid all unnecessary travel as the winter storms are due to continue today. So of course I decided to put on my layers and ride my bike to the lab to get some work done. After all, it was above freezing (1 C), and the rain was only heavy at times (and I couldn't tell that there was a 25-30mph wind until I was out in it). And the rain only got harder as I rode. Not being entirely equipped with rain gear (only my jacket and shoulder bag are waterproof), I got drenched pretty much instantly (even though I have installed fenders on my bike as a good cycle-commuting citizen). Fortunately I had enough layers that I stayed warm (thanks mainly to the Remington ninja costume I was wearing under my layers), and a small bit of foresight meant that I had some dry clothing waiting for me in the office. To conserve energy over the holiday period (the university is technically shut until January 2) all heating has been turned off; fortunately I was able to scavenge a space heater from a colleague's office, which (the heater, not the office) is now surrounded by damp clothing, giving a lovely steam-bath air to the office. By the time I head for home, my clothes will be dry enough that I can put them on, until I soak them again within minutes of going out the door.

Other than me, there are no signs of life in the building (most university staff seem to be taking full advantage of the official closure), so it's been a good opportunity to get a lot of work done without interruption or disruption. The nasty weather also meant that I was able to sneak into a very public space¹ (Be warned, the footnote may contain geocaching spoilers) to find another geocache. I've known about this one for quite some time (and have even seen it!), but there always seem to be lots of people in its immediate vicinity so I have been unable to complete my visit by signing the logbook. Today was different: the driving rain and cold temperatures meant that even the most hardened bench-sitters had gone somewhere else, so I was able to finish finding the cache and mark the logbook. Now I'm back in the lab with a hot cup of coffee and just a few more things to finish (and just a few more items of clothing to dry) before the journey home. At least the wind will be (mostly) at my back (if the local weather station is to be trusted).

^<1>The location deserves its own entry, not just a footnote to my new interest in geocaching. But for now, this will have to do. It's Tavistock Square, site of the bus explosion this past July (here are a couple of entries I wrote at the time: the day; the next day). Here's a very nice panoramic photo of the square, taken on a much nicer day than today. The main feature of the square is a statue of Mahatma Ghandi (photo, another photo); it also contains a memorial to conscientious objectors, an Hiroshima tree and Holocaust memorial (for these reasons, and its proximity to Friends House, it's the first stop on the "London Peace Trail"). All that right under my nose, across the street from my office.

The Bank Holiday Tuesday news was full of the terrible winter storm. We were not spared as nearly an inch fell in the morning hours. With my midwestern background I felt the total snowfall was downright feeble, and the media frenzy perhaps a bit excessive. On the other hand, in general this area is not equipped for snowfall in any amount -- there is nowhere near enough equipment to clear the roads, and most drivers are (presumably) not instantly prepared to turn in the direction of the skid (it is an automatic act for me thanks to a certain Bill Cosby routine which was played repeatedly in our house during my formative [pre-driving] years). So perhaps the warnings to stay indoors and eat your Christmas leftovers were reasonable.

We, instead, decided to take advantage of the holiday to take a ramble in the freezing cold (hovering right around 0 C, 32 F). Perhaps at my insistence, thanks to Opal Dunce's generous Christmas gift (GPS, European version). We loaded a few nearby geocaching waypoints and headed toward the Lea Valley, one of my frequent cycling haunts. There were a few people out and about, but nowhere near as many as there are in the summertime. That meant we were able to search for (and find) the caches with little fear of discovery. We were able to find three of the four caches: two micro-caches (small magnetic containers, each holding some paper on which finders could log their visits), and one "traditional" cache (a tupperware container with a log book and some assorted small items [finders are meant to take an item and leave another]). But the fourth (another micro) was a little too difficult (too many possible locations [a magnetic micro-cache, and zillions of metal surfaces], and a few too many passersby) -- even though we made a second visit to that particular location on our way home, we still couldn't find the cache. Even using the hint. But for a first geocaching outing, I think 3/4 is a good find rate (I should note that I've seen one traditional cache near my workplace, but it's in a very heavily trafficked area and I haven't gotten up the courage to sneak up to it). Oddly enough, all four sites appear in my cycling photographs from the end of September. When I took the pictures I had no idea there were geocaches in those particular areas; it's an excellent example of "right under my nose". All in all, our ramble took us just a smidgen over five miles (thanks to a slight diversion on the way home: we were magically led to Sharon's Bakery where we collected some freshly-prepared falafel for a much-needed lunch).

The weather storms are supposed to continue today; in fact last night's weather (and this morning's) warned that any sensible person should not make any non-essential travel. So I decided it was time for a bike ride to work. Somehow I made it here successfully through the lashing light breeze and treacherous bright sunlight, where I will labor diligently for another couple of hours before loading up the huskies for the dangerous journey home.

I spent the past two weeks in the USA, visiting various relatives on both sides of the family in a whirlwind tour of some of America's lesser-known tourist attractions:

Our first stop was Milton, Florida. Part of the Pensacola metro area, county seat of Santa Rosa County, formerly known as Scratch Ankle, and home to Opal Dunce's mother (and nominal home to both of the Dunces, now that we both have Florida driver's licenses).

From there we drove 550 miles (11 hours, on one of the busiest travel days of the year [the day before Thanksgiving]) to Rock Hill, South Carolina. Part of the Charlotte, NC metro area, home to Winthrop University, and also to Opal Dunce's sister, her husband [Opal's sister's husband, that is], and their small daughter (who does not have a blog).

Our next stop (by air) was Noblesville, Indiana. Practically part of the Indianapolis metro area, county seat of Hamilton County, and also home to Dunce's sister, her husband and their small boy (who does not have a blog). During our stay there we also took a detour to...

New Knoxville, Ohio, home to Dunce's brother, his wife [Dunce's brother's wife, that is] and their small boy (who does not have a blog). 65% of New Knoxville's residents are of German ancestry (a sizable proportion coming from Ladbergen) and many people still speak Low German at home.
Here are some comparative details about the various locations we visited.

Population (2000 census)

Milton (7,045)
New Knoxville (891)
Noblesville (28,590)
Rock Hill (49,765)

Racial makeup (% white)

Milton (78%)
New Knoxville (99%)
Noblesville (96%)
Rock Hill (59%)

Median income (household)

Milton $30,060
New Knoxville $42,375
Noblesville $61,455
Rock Hill $37,336

Most famous resident (that I could find in a few minutes' search)

Milton: Mary Chapelle, teacher, writer and journalist.
New Knoxville: Evan Eschmeyer, NBA basketball player.
Noblesville: Norman Norell, acclaimed fashion designer. Or possibly Steve Wariner, a country music artist I hadn't heard of before this very moment.
Rock Hill: Vernon Grant, artist and creator of the Snap!® Crackle!® Pop!® characters.

Maybe this will help you decide which of the four locations you'd like to visit. If you are a resident of one of these fine communities, please feel free to add additional information in the comments.

Today was the day that the Dunces got to visit the local license bureau to deal with our American driving privileges. As a US citizen resident overseas, I occasionally have to jump through some hoops in order to keep my license up to date, and this visit was one of those times. As the expiration date on my last license approached, I found myself in northwest Kentucky (home of my parents), and thus I found myself with a Kentucky driver's license (motto "It's <i>that</i> friendly"). But this time around I was not stopping in Kentucky, and will probably not visit the US before the expiration date (10-04-2006, especially since this expiration date would be interpreted in the UK as April 10th). Plus, Mrs. Dunce needed to get a replacement license with her married name on it, as it is recommended that this be done within ten days of the name change. OK this was a little late, but on our last visit (last year) her documents were not quite in order.

We were advised to arrive promptly at 7:30am when the license bureau opened, as it gets incredibly crowded, and stays crowded all day. So we did (give or take a half hour), and found that the license bureau was operating from a mobile trailer parked behind the actual building (one of many Pensacola-area establishments not fully recovered from the hurricane(s)). It was already quite crowded, and the phone was ringing off the hook. In a public services office this small, there are no secrets, and one of the biggest non-secrets was that the woman answering the phone had no patience for stupid questions. Although she expressed her non-patience in a very Southern way, speaking in exceedingly polite tones and peppering her responses with plenty of Sirs and Ma'ams. From her end of the conversation, we learned that:

* Your problems follow you everywhere, sir. If you've got a child-support suspension from anywhere, our records will show that.

* No ma'am I do not have an attitide. There are 20 people waiting in this tiny office and I need to assist them. No ma'am I do not know what they are here for. Probably driver's licenses, ma'am.

* We open at 7:30 and they are lining up then, sir. No ma'am, it is not traditionally an all-day affair.

* No ma'am, we are not open on Thanksgiving. I think you'll have a hard time finding any office open that day.

* No sir, we do not take appointments, just show up early and try your luck.

We also learned that teenagers cannot obtain their learner's permits without an official document certifying that they have completed a four-hour drug and alcohol awareness course. Fortunately we were well-behaved and didn't ask any stupid questions (and were apparently sufficiently aware of drugs and alcohol). It may also be relevant that Opal Dunce stopped and said hello to one of the branch's employees who just happens to be acquainted with her mother. In any event we were dealt with quickly and efficiently without having to pass along any "donations" for swift service. Now we both hold Florida driver's licenses in our correct names. Even if the photos are not so flattering.

The Dunces have safely arrived in Pensacola, Florida after a fairly ordinary and uneventful journey, and are now installed at Opal's Mother's Manor. For the longest leg of the the journey (9.5 hour flight from London to Atlanta, GA) we sat in front of two strangers (a twentysomething Philadelphian, and a middle-aged Englishwoman now living in rural Spain) who spent the last five hours of the journey talking absolute rubbish about various societal issues (religion, politics, paedos, etc.). Just a little bit too loud for me to ignore or tune out. I won't rant about anything they said, with the exception of "baby sign" which deserves its own entry later (don't start yet, I am not anti-baby sign). But it was just enough to make me slightly insane and extremely curmudgeonly.

When we changed in the airport in Atlanta, we had some time to occupy ourselves. Some of it was spent walking the length of the airport (none of your fancy-dancy airport light rail for us!), and obtaining then gobbling some messy sandwiches, but we did also have a few moments to observe the passing crowds. To me the most impressive demographic trend concerns the wearing of skirts and dresses by female individuals. Opal Dunce is a skirt-only sort of a person: her wardrobe does include garments with separate legs, but these items are only worn in circumstances of illness, or as pajamas. But at least in the Atlanta airport, she was as anomalous as a priest with a Mohawk. Perhaps I exaggerate as we saw no priests with Mohawks (nor any priests of any sort, come to think of it), but among the hundreds and hundreds of womenfolk heading to and fro, the number of skirts or dresses could be easily counted on one hand, with a couple of fingers left over for nose-maintenance issues (and my hands are normal, at least when it comes to the number of fingers). I hope Opal isn't planning to buy many skirts in these parts. Or perhaps Pensacola is different (I understand there are some Mennonites around, but Opal doesn't exactly favor floor-length denim).

Although we are traveling, our home is occupied. So don't get any ideas about helping yourself to our goodies.

I've been writing about the demise of the traditional London Routemaster buses quite a bit (e.g. this post), and recently one more route bit the dust. The #38 has now been converted from the iconic double-decker Routemasters to the mammoth and much-reviled single-decker bendy buses, leaving only one route served by Routemasters. And even that route (#159 between Marble Arch and Streatham) will be converted to "modern buses" after 9 December. According to routemaster.org.uk a handful of Routemasters will run on "heritage routes" (five RMs each on Trafalgar Square to Tower Hill and Royal Albert Hall to Aldwych routes, running only during daytime hours).

The Diamond Geezer has done a stellar job at reporting the end of the era on the #38 route: walking the route on the penultimate day of the Routemasters and creating a pictorial tribute (The 38 Stops). And then a report on the first day of the new bendy buses (also including links to many others' tributes to the 38).

I've been keeping track of the various travel options available to the dedicated Routemaster rider by updating the London bus map to include only "travel by Routemaster" options. Here is the first post, with a Routemaster map just after the demise of the 19, and here is the updated map after the 14 and 22 were killed.

I now present for your approval the last in the series (expires 9 December 2005). The heritage routes don't count, it's probably better to pay your respects in the London Transport Museum. When it reopens in 2007, that is.

London by Routemaster

(Please click on the image for a much larger version, perhaps suitable for framing).

This weekend the Dunces were guests at the wedding of our friends (two lovely people who met at our wedding reception) at the historic and scenic Trafalgar Tavern (famous for its whitebait suppers and apparently the setting for the wedding breakfast in Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens).


Although we were suffering from some undetermined illness (sore throat, light-headedness, coughing and runny noses) so were unable to fully enjoy the event, we still had a really good time. The food was good (unfortunately it did not include whitebait, possibly at the bride's request) and we met a lot of interesting people, as well as catching up with some old friends and the usual gang.

Here are a few photos; please forgive their low quality which should all be blamed upon the photographer. How could I not start with a photo of the couple themselves just after the ceremony. We are in the process of being received by them and I am blocking the receiving line in order to take a picture.


The happy couple then wandered outside for some family photos along the Thames. In this one they are posing with Uncle Horatio (I'm not sure which side of the family he comes from, but he was rather standoffish and didn't say a word to anyone the whole day).


Here are the Dunces in our wedding finery. I am sorry to say we got no pictures that show more detail of Mrs. Dunce's outfit (mine is nothing special as I wear it for every single court appearance and other similar occasion).


Mrs. Dunce and one of her oldest London friends, a Mr. R_______. When I say "oldest" I am not referring to the number of years Mr. R_______ has spent on this earth (although recently he has rather impressively cast off the shackles of 35 and joined many of us in the freedom that 36 can offer) but the duration of friendship (uninterrupted, I should also note):


The wedding was not without its intrusion by paparazzi trying to capture the moment and then cynically sell it off to the highest bidder. Fortunately equipment malfunctions prevented this particular pap from capturing any unauthorized images.



As far as the location, the review on Fancyapint.com says "Anybody who's ever been to Greenwich knows the Trafalgar. It's a huge, handsome pub, well in keeping with its grand and historic surroundings. It's right on the river with views to the north and as a result, is incredibly popular. We usually visit this pub when we're meeting people who are new to the area and then we have to move on. It's not the pub's fault, but the tourist crowds, seemingly packed floor to ceiling, cause us to repair to other establishments, should we require quiet conversation - you'd do the same same in any tourist haunt in any city."

Comments on beerintheevening.com are largely negative (the pub itself earns a passable 5.2/10 rating), but mainly related to the crowds of tourists and the poor state of the toilets. As far as the former goes, hard to say from our perspective as the wedding party had the entire upstairs area (including a small bar, a large dining room/dance floor, and another room which served mainly as the location for the gift table). The toilets, however, were not the best I've seen (nor even "average for a pub"). Quotes from beerintheevening give a good indication of the situation. "There is no excuse for the state they are often in." "The toilets are the filthiest I have seen in a pub for ages." "Never have I been to a pub where the toilets are consistently in such a disgusting state." and so on. My own toilet experience at the Trafalgar Tavern went beyond mere filth; I found myself in what can only be described as my own Fortunato moment. I went into one of the stalls and shut the door. Although it had no latch it seemed to close fairly securely, so I went about my business prepared to shout out if someone else started to enter. Fortunately no such interruption occurred so once my needs had been seen to, I prepared to make my exit (and grand return to the wedding party). But the lack of a latch which had led to my own dismay at the possibility of being interrupted now caused equal dismay as there seemed to be no surface on which my fingers could gain purchase to open the door. For hours I waited for someone else to enter, all the time working at the door, shredding my fingertips to the bone, breaking my spectacles and twisting them into a hook, sharpening my belt buckle on the floor tiles in order to dig out the hinges, then eventually writing messages to loved ones in the filth on the wall before expiring. Or else I opened the door by gaining purchase on its underside with my fingers (despite the caked filth which I spent the next few minutes feverishly washing off my hands).

Um, perhaps this is a bad way to make the transition into giving the bride and groom all my best wishes for the future. But now I have no choice. "To the bride and groom: Best wishes for the future, and may your marriage be like a clean toilet cubicle whose door opens and closes as it is meant to do." Errrr, maybe these wishes should not be thematically related to my own toilet experience. "To the bride and groom: Best wishes for the future; never mind the toilet comments."

It's time for another photo post, this time a few images loosely connected by the east London theme. In a previous entry I mentioned an impressive Hindu temple in the middle of a very ordinary neighborhood. As promised, here is a picture of the top of the London Sri Murugan temple (whose website is now working!), which has been built from granite and marble (carved in India, then brought to East Ham):


The lower part of the building is still covered in scaffolding, so it's still not quite complete. This picture was taken from just across the street, so it's not quite as gigantically impressive as the Shri Swaminarayan Mandir. But seeing it unexpectedly in the middle of such an ordinary neighborhood was a very pleasant surprise.

The rest of the photos come from a bike ride a few weeks back, in which I wandered around the River Lea valley (future site of the 2012 Olympics, and thus due for some serious regeneration work). Here is a view of the path, looking north. Although cycling is permitted, the conditions are not ideal as the path is quite narrow, popular with cyclists and walkers, and the edge of the path is the bank of the river (I am paranoid about falling or being knocked into the water). On the right you can see some of the many narrowboats that occupy this section of the river (as a hoarder, I can't imagine living in such a small space).


In the next picture I'm standing on a high(ish) footbridge across the river looking south. To my left is the Springfield Marina, and to the right is Springfield Park (I've never stopped there, but maybe I should ["built on the grounds of three 19th century houses (one of which still stands and has a rather nice café). The old glasshouses belonging to the buildings have since been turned into a tropical conservatory and are home to a pond and ornamental carp. All in all, a good place to visit on a sunny morning"]).The path alongside the river is just as narrow as before.


The east side of the Lea Valley at this point is full of water treatment facilities which lie just beyond the railroad crossing pictured here. The underpass is exactly five feet high (at the highest point), and just wide enough for two crouching cyclists to pass each other without contact if neither of them are wobbling. The pavement is also in rather poor condition here; just after I took this photo (before I got back on the bike) I was crashed into from behind by a tumbling jogger who tripped over a hole in the pavement and fell down.


After the underpass you can continue straight (past the water treatment plant, reservoirs and so on) and back into built-up areas (Walthamstow), or turn right and enter the marshland paths. As usual I did the latter, following the power lines through an otherwise natural landscape, at least if you select your location carefully and keep your eyes straight ahead, as in the picture here:


Eventually I reached the entrance to the Eastway Cycle Centre, a small island in the middle of a mess of industrial/road/rail landscape. A good impression of the area comes from this frustrated comment on the website of the British Human Power Club: "Access is actually from Quarter Mile Lane, which can be found on the southern side of Ruckholt Road, the A106. Fairly close to the New Spitalfield Market, if that's any help. More detailed directions are a bit pointless due to the perpetual construction of the M11 Link Road; the situation on the ground doesn't look much like any map, and changes quite frequently.". It currently includes a 1-mile road racing circuit as well as a serious mountain bike/cyclocross circuit. The site will apparently be redeveloped for the Olympics, to include a velodrome but to the possible expense of the off-road circuit (Eastway mountain biking still at risk from Olympic plans; a full set of considerations for a successful cycling facility, compiled by the Eastway Users Group can be found here). The picture below (looking south) shows one entry to the off-road circuit; the parking lot is to the left (it was full of serious roadies warming up for some sort of race event). I'm standing on an overpass which seems to serve only the cycle circuit, and the towers of the City of London can be seen in the distance:


My ride back took a less-pleasant turn down a highly-industrialized road (albeit with a segregated bike lane), past the construction site for a new ASDA (part of the Wal-Mart family) and many other construction sites. I breathed lots of dust and didn't feel like stopping for any pictures. Until part of the cycle path branched off towards another footbridge. It's a highly overgrown and rather secluded area, with a lot of ripe blackberries (at least when I went there). Here's a picture looking back south at the path, from the top of the footbridge. Somewhere in the underbrush to my left is my lens cap (Whoops! At least it was a cheapo replacement for the one I previously lost). Just across the bridge is a "pitch & putt" golf course; the bike path goes right through the middle of it, semi-protected by giant fences. But I got out of there fast, all I could think of was "target practice".

This weekend we took in a couple of sights on the annual Open House London. Mrs. Dunce has special interest in medieval churches, so what better opportunity to visit a St. Mary or two? Both in East Ham which is an area neither of us had visited before. We started at St. Mary the Virgin in Little Ilford, a small 12th century chapel (pictured here, 1984 archaeological report here). Most interesting to me was the Lethieullier chapel (sometime between 1724 and 1737), built above the family's vault and (it seemed) nearly half the size of the church itself. The Lethieulliers were wealthy Huguenots who owned the nearby manor of Aldersbrook and the chapel has a number of family memorials (one Mrs. Lethieullier met her end in a tragic coach crash, landing on her head). But not for their faithful servant who is buried in the churchyard (you wouldn't want the HELP buried in the FAMILY CRYPT!!). Someone has taken the time to document the headstone inscriptions in the churchyard, and in case you wonder what kind of plants can be found in the churchyard, here you are.

Just in the area of St. Mary the Virgin is an impressive Hindu temple, in the process of being built (or renovated). Further investigation has revealed it to be the London Shri (Sri?) Murugan temple which just opened at the end of May. When I remember to bring my photos with me I'll post a picture as it was quite impressive and unexpected (and a cursory Web search or three didn't find anything either).

We then caught a bus, heading south toward the Beckton Alp Dry Ski Slope [EDIT: apparently it is no longer dry], "a totem signifying the pervasive regulatory influence of Panopticism in contemporary urban culture" (as Iain Sinclair put it, not entirely to everyone's satisfaction). Or as Billy Bragg puts it, "where the upwardly mobile residents of East Ham can practice their skiing on the artificial ski slopes. When I was a child this commanding height was the blackened slag heap of what was once the biggest gasworks in the world. Now grassed over and with a ski lift on top it has become the Cockney Klosters.". In any event, we didn't quite reach the Alp, stopping just the other side of the A13 at St. Mary Magdalene, the oldest Norman church in London that is still in regular use (according to their Web site, anyway). Mrs. Dunce has special interest in seeing bits of medieval paint on church walls, and there were some nice restored bits of decorative paint with a flower motif, painted by Cistercian monks before they headed oop north to do some similar painting in Durham. There are some very interesting bits, like an anchorite's cell and the Neville family monument ("Unfortunately the smallest child has been stolen"). The church's web site offers a "virtual tour" that reminds me a lot of text adventures of the early 1980s: "Now you are in the grounds you can look around the outside, go into the church, or explore the nature reserve. If you come on a Sunday morning or Wednesday evening you could attend a service. You would be very welcome".

:ATTEND SERVICE
...COME BACK ON A SUNDAY MORNING OR WEDNESDAY EVENING.
...
:WAIT
...TIME PASSES
...
:ATTEND SERVICE
...COME BACK ON A SUNDAY MORNING OR WEDNESDAY EVENING.
:WAIT
...TIME PASSES
...
:ATTEND SERVICE
...COME BACK ON A SUNDAY MORNING OR WEDNESDAY EVENING.
...
:INVENTORY
...YOU HAVE
...A LIGHT BULB
...A SCRAP OF PAPER
...A CORKSCREW
...A FIVE-POUND NOTE
...
:EXAMINE SCRAP
...?SYNTAX ERROR?
...
:LOOK SCRAP
...THE SCRAP OF PAPER READS,
..."STAY INDOORS AT NIGHT".
...
:LOOK
...NOW YOU ARE IN THE GROUNDS YOU CAN LOOK AROUND THE OUTSIDE, GO INTO THE CHURCH, OR EXPLORE THE NATURE RESERVE. IF YOU COME ON A SUNDAY MORNING OR WEDNESDAY EVENING YOU COULD ATTEND A SERVICE. YOU WOULD BE VERY WELCOME.
...
:EXPLORE NATURE RESERVE
...YOU WALK INTO A TANGLED THICKET OF TREES.
...YOU ARE IN FELLOWS' WOOD.
...YOU CAN GO NORTHEAST (THE SHORT CUT), EAST (WOODCHIP PATH), WEST (CHURCH CLEARING).
...IT IS GETTING DARK.
...
:GO EAST
...YOU FOLLOW THE WOODCHIP PATH AND COME TO A SMALL CLEARING.
...THERE IS A TREE HERE.
...THE PATH CONTINUES TO THE NORTHEAST, OR TO THE WEST.
...IT IS GETTING DARKER.
...
:GO NORTHEAST
...YOU FOLLOW THE WOODCHIP PATH AND COME TO THE CORNER OF THE NATURE RESERVE.
...THERE IS A SMALL BUILDING HERE.
...A GATE MARKED "EMERGENCY VEHICLE ACCESS" IS TO THE NORTH.
...A PATH GOES TO THE WEST, ANOTHER PATH TO THE SOUTH, A WOODCHIP PATH LEADS SOUTHWEST.
...IT IS COMPLETELY DARK NOW.
...
:OPEN GATE
...THE GATE IS LOCKED.
...IT IS COMPLETELY DARK NOW.
...YOU HEAR THE APPROACH OF FERAL TEEN-AGERS.
...
:ENTER BUILDING.
...THE DOOR IS LOCKED.
...IT IS COMPLETELY DARK NOW.
...THE FERAL TEEN-AGERS ARE VERY NEAR.
...
:GO WEST
...YOUR PATH IS BLOCKED BY SNEERING YOBS.
...ONE OF THEM FLICKS A CIGARETTE INTO THE UNDERBRUSH AS THEY APPROACH YOU.
...BEFORE YOUR FLESH IS TORN FROM YOUR BODY, YOUR LAST THOUGHT IS...
...I SHOULD HAVE GONE INDOORS.


PLAY AGAIN (Y/N)?
:QUIT
PLAY AGAIN (Y/N)?
:N

Well, after a long delay it's time for me to walk back down memory lane and fill in the last section of my description of our trip to Tallinn. On the third day we started reasonably early, as we needed to catch a local bus out to the Open Air Museum. None of our touristy materials had a transport map, but we knew the correct bus number, and in a triumph of information gathering skills, I found a bus map in the telephone book in our room. I didn't tear out the page (I'm always irritated when I find missing pages in hotel phone books, after all you never know when a future guest may have an urgent need for an escort, liquor and/or pornography [or a restaurant, rental car or other hotel listings]), but instead committed the bus map to memory. Or something like memory (I did not bother showing the map to Mrs. Dunce as I was supremely confident -- can you see where this is going?). The #21 bus leaves from somewhere right near the very-underused train station, although it's a little unclear from the map whether its terminus is at the train station proper, or "just a little further down" (As it turns out, it was the former). We made a quick pass by (many of) the bus stops at the station and didn't see any indication of #21, so I advised a walk in the direction I (vaguely) remembered from the map. We walked a while in the hot sun. Walked some more, past a couple of bus stops that did clearly not serve the #21, but following the vague path the bus should take. Of course we were walking up a one-way street upon which our desired bus could only possibly be heading back towards the train station, but I was sure we'd eventually catch up with whichever road went in the right direction. On the way we saw some very nice examples of ramshackle buildings collapsing under their own weight, lots of locals going about their daily business, and definitely no other tourists or business establishments aimed at tourists. After, oh, call it between 30 and 45 minutes, we finally found a suitable bus stop (yes, indeed the two one-way streets eventually made their way into a single two-way street) and joined the masses on the bus heading towards the open air museum.

As it turned out nearly everyone was headed either (a) to the zoo, or (b) to a big shopping mall with carnival rides in the parking lot. You guess which one was more popular. We got off the bus with an older American couple (although we were not "with" them as no words were ever exchanged between us) and headed into the Open Air Museum. It's a large collection of historic buildings moved from different parts of Estonia (ranging from 18th-20th centuries), clustered into a dozen or so different homesteads which illustrated life in the different regions. It was quite empty, obviously more of a weekend destination, but there were a few people hanging around in traditional costume at some of the homesteads. I was pleased that they didn't approach us, I am not entirely comfortable with costumed interpreters even when my vocabulary has more than a solitary word ("please" = "palun"). It seems they were mainly there to provide a small amount of security for those buildings that were open to visitors (mind your head going through the doors, even Mrs. Dunce had to duck. I guess the winters are really brutal, especially in the Estonian islands, so doors and windows were really, really small). It was a really nice afternoon visit, and the bus journey home was quite uneventful as we got on at the very same bus stop. It headed further out, past some very large, newly-built homes until it finally turned around, taking on a massive crowd of locals headed for the mall.



Estonian farmhouses, photo by Mrs Dunce

We wandered around town a little more, seeing some more of the sights, then took a short rest before dinner, which was at the Russian restaurant Troika. Featuring various sorts of live music, occasional dancing girls, and set in the basement of another nice merchant hall on the town square (we may not have gone far off the beaten track, but everywhere we went was quite good). We started with a "grandmother's special" (pickles, honey and sour cream) along with some vodka (but not much, as our tastes tend to run [fast] in the opposite direction from vodka shots), and I also had a starter of herring done the usual way (with eggs, onion, sour cream, dill.... there may have also been potatoes involved). Mrs. Dunce had a shockingly huge blini (Boyar's blini, no less) which was well beyond anything we'd seen before bearing the same name. As for the mains, I had some sort of seafood (salmon perhaps?) but the memorable bit was Mrs. Dunce's Vladivostok catfish, breaded and fried as catfish is meant to be eaten.

After dinner we wandered back to the Hele Hunt for a leisurely pint or two. Or such was our plan, but we found ourselves seated across from two young Irish lads on a whirlwind tour of Scandinavia and the Baltics, and found ourselves in for quite an evening of conversation and a few more drinks than we had planned (it was near 3am when we finally left). As in our previous visit the pub never filled up (by British standards of vertical drinking, anyway), although there was one particularly noxious group of British men hanging around the bar in the company of a local gentleman who was obviously their guide to the city. Mrs. Dunce overheard some classy advice, which I pass on to any readers for whom this information might be useful: "Go with the Estonian girls, because the Russian girls will charge you an extra hundred." Are the Estonian girls (compared to the Russian girls) really so ignorant of the capitalist system that they fail to charge what the market will bear? Or are the Russian girls that much better at whatever it is that they do? Or is it a supply/demand thing, Russian girls being exotic and unobtainable while Estonian girls are a dime a dozen? Or more likely, RUSSIA=BAD, ESTONIA=GOOD, and the guy was just doing his part for independence.

And then it was a stagger to bed and a long lie-in (we didn't even partake in the free breakfast, that's how tired we were). Lunchtime came quickly (after a buzz through the Town Hall) and we splashed out on sushi. Suprisingly it was really good (even with a few strange digressions from the familiar... blue cheese & creme fraiche roll, anyone?) and while we gobbled the last few shreds of pickled ginger, the skies opened, and buckets upon buckets of water poured down on the crowds of tourists (the tourist population seemed to [at least] double every day, and this was Friday). Fortunately we are in training to become English so were equipped with umbrellas. We still got drenched from the waist down, but made our way to the Museum of Occupation. This was a very interesting concept for a museum: built with a central theme around a fairly recent period in history (starting about 1940 and going until independence in 1991). As the museum's site points out, it deals with a period about which we have incomplete information - an epoch characterised by totalitarian power and mass repression - and there is a plan to create a memorial complex, to remember those who did not return to their homeland. As such the physical exhibits are fairly limited: assorted physical objects, organized by date, which illustrate important facets of life but specifically pertaining to the occupation, first by the Nazis and then by the Soviet Union (it was very interesting to see some parts of this from the perspective "The Nazis weren't so bad"). Each display from a particular period, however, featured a documentary of the events of that time, shown on a screen at the top of the display case. I would have liked to watch them all (I still could, through the film clips linked here, at least if their server ever goes faster than 4KB/sec), but as each of the seven lasted about 25-30 minutes, and the screens were set in a position which caused a lot of painful neck-craning, I think we only lasted through the first four. It was really interesting to see the Soviet period documented in this manner from the inside.

Our last dinner in town was at an Estonian restaurant outside the old town, but I'm sorry to say I don't remember many of the details (perhaps because it had its unmemorable aspects, perhaps because we were approaching exhaustion at the end of the trip, perhaps because so much time has passed since we were actually there). It was a large, multi-roomed place, but very empty. Food came quickly and was dispatched just as quickly. As I recall it was quite tasty, but at the moment all I remember is the ambience which wasn't exactly thrilling. And then it was off to bed (and our last dose of German TV). Come morning we had just enough time for breakfast, then a super-cheap cab ride to the airport (70EEK, barely half of what we paid for our cab ride in the other direction). And home sweet home.

I have to break my one-a-day habit if I'm ever going to finish my travel posts before I'm off traveling again (heading to a conference in Belgium on Saturday where I will be presenting a little of this and a little of that.). But I had to say something about our TV experience in Tallinn. Previous trips have taught us that we enjoy watching TV in other countries as a good way to chill out while traveling and at the same time getting a different take on things, especially commercials which can be especially hilarious (e.g. Japanese commercial which showed a young man choking down massive amounts of noodles, with a message something like "Cook them in 3 minutes, eat them in 3 minutes") and/or mystifying (it can be incredibly hard to figure out just what's being sold if you don't know the language or the popular brands).

As I mentioned in a previous entry, we got a good variety of channels from different countries, but were drawn to the German telly from the start (perhaps because the Finnish edition of Big Brother hadn't quite started). Perhaps because we both understand a certain amount of German, but I like to think the content had something to do with it.

DISCLAIMER: My interest in the following has nothing to do with any relatives living in Kentucky, or any relatives-in-law living in the Carolinas

First, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of coverage of Forbidden Love, ja, the Liebe between an Inzest-Mutter and an Inzest-Vater, and featuring plenty of images of the resulting Inzest-Baby (the latter with pixilated eyes as appears to be the custom in German images of young children). I'll summarize from a nice Austrian report. Susan (21) and Patrick (28) are brother and sister from Zwenkau (Saxony) who have now had four children together at an impressive rate of just over one per year. Patrick is imprisoned at the moment (on charges related to the first few), and the big issue now is whether Susan will be locked up as well. Every news report contained more developments (The lawyer speaks. Then a parents' rights advocate speaks. Then we hear from child services. Then an angry mother. The only thing we didn't get was a German version of I'm My Own Grandpa), and believe me it's difficult to keep a straight face hearing "das Inzest-Baby" again and again.

But wait, there's more. During the programs there was constant reference to "Sarah & Marc in love", including brief clips of these characters. She, a blonde German girl. He, a dumb dark-haired American guy. And then suddenly, the reality program commenced. They're apparently both pop stars (she, he) who have fallen in love just like America's favorite newlyweds [sic]. Perhaps the situation is quite parallel, as her music career seems to be a bit more advanced than his (she has not one but two English-language sites, he doesn't seem to have any. They also have a son, Tyler [who had pixilated eyes on the series] who does not seem to have any musical career at the moment). I'd never heard of either of them, but perhaps in Hasselhoff-land they are household names. Anyway, the program was following them up to their DREAM WEDDING which happened while we had access to German TV. We saw a couple of episodes, which revealed one important thing: despite being a German pop star, poor Mr. Terenzi seems to have a very minimal amount of ability in the German language. Which caused him great difficulty as he tried to understand and produce German while being followed by cameras shooting a documentary for the German market. Both Mrs. Dunce and I learned German in the midwest, and there was a great similarity between his attempts at German, and our duller classmates in, say, the first year of instruction. Even speaking directly to camera, his German was limited to the most basic sorts of words and phrases and slipped back to English at the drop of a hat (e.g. Sarah ist, erm, sehr schell, erm, about the wedding. [I think he meant to say that she's stressed, upset, nervous, but probably not "fast"]). Conversations in German went on around him, not the most difficult but he gave an impression of understanding nearly nothing.

The wedding happened on a sunny beach in Barcelona (apparently they occupied a public beach and tried to turn away the public, requiring the Spanish police to get involved. And "Frank" the wedding planner left some of the gifts behind in rainy Germany by mistake, so she wouldn't speak to him for most of the wedding day). Mrs. Dunce applauded the choice of a beach wedding as Sarah was able to be barefoot, reducing her severe height advantage over poor Marc. And most romantic of all, he sang his new single to her at the wedding (available now for purchase, imagine that!). Their vows were in English, fortunately for him (She did not suffer from the American Second Language Syndrome; her English was flawless, and I am sure this is not just from rehearsing the vows).

A strange and mysterious television world indeed. But now we have to leave them behind as none of our channels seem to be interested in covering their daily activities. Thank goodness for the comprehensive Official Site which offers plenty of photos, music, even the details to hire Frank to plan your own wedding!

Our second day in Tallinn started with breakfast. A fairly standard northern European hotel breakfast: cheese, sliced meat, boiled eggs and various kinds of bread (in Estonia, as in Germany, the bread is a big deal), assorted cereal products, and some sort of fishy dish (I'd place my bet on herring). I would say it was good but nothing to write home about, except here I am, writing home (and beyond) about it. On our way out we stopped by the hotel desk to buy our Tallinn Cards. Talk about a useful resource for tourists: it permits free admission to pretty much every museum and tourist site in town, free public transport, and loads of other offers we didn't take advantage of. Plus a handy little guidebook explaining how to get to each participating site. We went for the longest-lasting one, the 72-hour version (350EEK each) which covered us right up to our departure time (they are also available down to a six-hour one for 90EEK, if you're on a blitzkrieg tour of Tallinn [errr, on the other hand perhaps "blitzkrieg" isn't quite the appropriate term as the Estonian counterpart came from the other direction. More on that later too]).

Then it was time to get moving and squeeze all the possible use out of our Tallinn Card in the 72 hours remaining; after all, the clock was ticking! I'm afraid I'll have to skip some of the sights as this entry will otherwise turn into a massive effort and I have plenty of other things to work on. We started with the Niguliste Museum & Concert Hall (set in a former church built in 1230, with substantial renovations after severe damage in 1944). Featuring religious art from 13-18th centuries, some of which was particularly impressive. Mrs. Dunce may be a bit of a fanatic when it comes to medieval art, and how could anyone not appreciate images like the Dance Macabre:

(Death dancing with the Emperor & Empress with the houses of Lübeck in the background, see this site)

Or the altarpiece of St. Nicholas, commissioned by the wealthy Brotherhood of Blackheads (a high-flying guild of bachelor merchants founded in 1399, active only in Estonia and Latvia, and which lasted until the 1940s). As was the custom, it featured a whole set of Blackhead Brothers as pictured below:


We then headed up to Toompea, the upper walled town and the site of many government buildings, embassies and the like. On our way up we visited Kiek in de Kök (supposedly "once the most powerful tower along the Baltic shores", now a museum of (mostly) military history of the area, and then proceeded into the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. Built at the end of the 19th century as part of the rush to Russify the Baltics, it's apparently a bit of irritation to Estonians when its image is used to illustrate Tallinn. But it's quite impressive, and here's my own picture to illustrate it:


Unfortunately we chose to visit the cathedral at the same time as hordes of loud, obnoxious tour groups (mostly older adults, just off cruises I would guess) were visiting, bustling, jostling, chattering, and so on. We had to wait for a while as one group streamed out of the entrance, then choose a gap and scurry in before the next group's exit. Of course other groups were crowding in at the same time for their allocated three minutes (or so it seemed, such was the rush).

After Toompea it was time for lunch (as I am writing this it's time for my lunch as well, suggesting to me that I should hurry up with this entry for goodness' sake). Due to incredible advance planning (some obsessive-compulsive tendencies on our parts), and the excellent availability of Tallinn restaurant websites, we had dinner reservations for all four nights. But there were many more than four interesting restaurants, so some of them had to be relegated to lunchtime. Balthasar was one such restaurant: Estonia's first garlic restaurant (founded in 1999, so there's been a gap in the market for centuries), set in a medieval building (of course!). We had our lunch in a lovely courtyard (my photo didn't come out well, perhaps Mrs Dunce will post a better one over on our photo site). We had garlic in everything (a mozzarella salad with sun dried tomatoes and pickled garlic, fish-garlic soup with mixed seafood, and snails with cheese and garlic butter). Thus fortified we set out for another museum, the Tallinn City Museum (one of the few websites that isn't in English). Set in a medieval merchant's house, it covers the history of the city (hint: trade, trade, trade) from the 13th century to modern times. Near the end was a section dedicated to life under Soviet rule and subsequent declaration of independence in 1989 which I particularly enjoyed. Especially the video footage of "Hands Across the Baltics" in the summer of 1989 in which a chain of people held hands through Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania in a public demonstration of solidarity (the footage was much more moving than what I remember about Hands Across America. I had to look it up to remember why that was done, and the impact of the Baltic version certainly appears to have been greater). At some point here (as well as the previous day which I have neglected entirely) we took a wander down some craft/art workshops of various kinds (in which the workshop and shop are one and the same). Mrs. Dunce ended up with a couple of very nice baubles, but I can't do them justice at all.

We went back to the room and watched some German TV to take a break before dinner. Again, I'll come back to this as it was especially memorably. For now all I can say is

(graffiti in Stamford Hill, north London)

Dinner was at Mõõkala, a swish seafood restaurant located in the town executioner's house (fortunately he was no longer living or practicing there). It was another excellent meal of the fishy sort: I had a pike-perch in some sort of extremely tasty creamy sauce, deeeeelicious. It was still early so we stopped by the Estonian pub (Hele Hunt) on our way home. They had their own line of beers, plus a large variety of imports (including not only Lithuanian, Latvian and Russian specialties, but also German, Belgian, English, even American beers), at quite reasonable prices (EEK25-30 for a half-liter, that's about £1.20 or so). A small sign on one of the pillars informed visitors that stag parties were not welcome, although there was quite an English presence at the moment at which we arrived (the Arsenal match was being shown on the big screen, although most of the Arsenal shirts were being worn by Scandinavian sorts). One thing quite different from British pubs is that there was almost no "vertical drinking": nearly everyone present was sitting down to drink: people would come in, see that there were no seats available, and go elsewhere rather than enjoying their drinks in a large, standing crowd (perhaps using the crowded environment to provide much-needed balance). And then we headed back to the hotel to catch up on the news from Germany. (Cliff-hanger alert).

Well, our trip to Tallinn was fantastic, and a lot more Hanseatic than Lager-Loutish. This week I'll write a series of posts about the trip; it's too much for just a single post.

We got up bright and early (4:15am taxi arrival) to catch our 6:45 flight from "London" Stansted airport to Tallinn. A relatively painless 2.5 hour flight and a short taxi ride (apparently we were overcharged, paying 130 Estonian kroons for a ride from the airport to the old town. But as the total fare came to less than £6, we can hardly complain) later, we were at our hotel. The Meriton Old Town Hotel is built into the old city walls at the northernmost tip of the old town, and was a welcome sight indeed as we were desperate for a nap.


Our hotel, the Meriton Old Town Hotel, viewed from above

A few z's later we were ready to hit the old town. And what better than Oleviste Kirik (St. Olaf's church)? I should have paid more attention to the guidebook which pointed out that it was once considered the tallest building in Europe (until the Eiffel Tower was built), but no. In our still slightly-befuddled post-nap state, we wandered in and paid a nominal fee which we thought was an admission charge. It was indeed an admission charge, but to the tower rather than the church itself (free, donations encouraged). OK, we thought (and said), a few stairs aren't so bad. Stairs, stairs, stairs. Many narrow, medieval stairs later we finally reached the summit: a rather narrow viewing platform that gave impressive views of the city, and especially the old town. Did I mention it was a nice, warm day? So we stood up there sweating and panting (or at least I did), admiring the view (the picture of our hotel above was taken from the platform) and steeling ourselves for the trip down (always fun to try to pass someone in such a narrow passage). Some pictures:


Tallinn's old town, viewed from the tower


A view of the ferry port on the Baltic Sea. Our hotel room was the closest we got to the harbor.


Mrs. Dunce, who did not jump.


(Very soon there will be a full photo gallery at our photo site).

After such an effort we wandered down to the town square where lo and behold we found ourselves outside a fine establishment with the curious (Estonian?) name of Beer House. Tallinn's only microbrewery (or so they say), but if you wander inside it's anything but micro. A cavernous beer hall, with the classiest of German beer drinking songs ringing out, and a few grizzled locals propping up the bar (come to think of it, they looked rather English). Loads and loads of outdoor seating, so we found ourselves a nice spot, a couple of frosty mugs, some fried cheese, and the first of many herring-based snacks (herring, potatoes, sour cream, onion and dill). MMMmmmm good. As one is meant to do, we loitered for a while, watching people pass and trying to guess their nationality (Not easy unless you hear them speak, and even then it's quite difficult).

And then it was time to go back to the hotel and get ready for dinner. OK, it was more an excuse to check out the local television channels. Local? Hardly! There were English channels (BBC), German channels (we'll come back to the German TV...), Finnish channels (lots of dubbed American programs), Estonian channels (more dubbed programs from various places), a Russian channel (strangely, they seemed to show an awful lot of Mexican soap operas dubbed into Russian). But before we knew it, it was dinner time and perhaps the highlight of the whole trip.

How touristy can you get? How about a restaurant with a medieval theme? Sure thing, that's where we were headed, to the Olde Hansa. A restaurant "established to honour the Hanseatic League... a journey to Tallinn's golden age.... Studying medieval times with the Olde Hansa Guild and the Medieval Choirs helps us to come into contact with the Hanseatic world of centuries ago." Yes, indeed, not only of a medieval theme, but apparantly serving historically accurate medieval victuals (somehow I think it's not quite the same as the US equivalent). The place was decorated with medieval-style wall paintings, (almost) entirely lit with candles, staff were dressed in medieval costume (tights? check. pointy shoes? check.), and a hip young three-piece band were playing some swingin' jazz, daddy-o (OK, not really. They were playing medieval songs on instruments like pipes, drums and the nyckleharpa). Special dishes are a little heavy on the meaty side (Bear, Marinated in rare spices and cooked over a fire in honour of Waldemar II, the brave King of Denmark, EEK 650; Grandmerchant von Wehren's hunting company's wonderful Rabbit roast; EEK 255), but the bounty of the sea was well represented as well (dishes for fasting days, of course). We both had dishes for fasting days (Mrs Dunce a smoke-grilled salmon, and me a grilled salmon with forest mushrooms, both of which were excellent indeed). Drinks were also traditional; we enjoyed a couple of "Dark strong beers with herbs" and a "Light cinnamon beer", served in medieval-style earthenware tankards. Water glasses were nice too, slightly irregularly-shaped green glass (We took home a pair of tankards and a pair of glasses, but don't worry, we paid for them). And surely that was enough for our first day in town!

Gentle readers, please do not be dismayed at the lack of recent updates. I'm scrambling to get some (non-blog) things written before we depart tomorrow for our summer holiday. I'm hoping our trip is more Hanseatic League and less, errrr, lowbrow. Expect a trip report or three upon our return.

The various locations that findyourspot have generated for various individuals certainly makes me wonder about issues of payola. What is it that makes Little Rock and Sheboygan appear on the list of self-proclaimed urban culture buffs in search of the finer (blue) things in life, but not places like New York City and Seattle (I do notice with some shame that My Brother The Thief has managed to cleverly select his answers in a way that brings Seattle into his list, perhaps just to rub my nose in it). So a few moments to see just what could be making Little Rock and Sheboygan so desirable for the Dunce family (and other individuals perhaps of my acguaintancedave), although I should note that Tulsa also came unexpectedly onto the "desirable" list for others (exhibit A, B, C).

First we start with Little Rock, Arkansas. According to the official website the city motto is "City Limitless" (a bit of a linguistic abomination, at least according to the icky feeling in my stomach). Like all other cities in the world, Little Rock offers "a wealth of unique sightseeing, day trip and tour opportunities", but even beyond the unique is the "one-of-a-kind [attraction] like the new William J. Clinton Presidential Center & Park." Little Rock is also home to the minor league baseball team (sigh!) the Arkansas Travelers (just to give you an idea, they blew their most recent game because one of their players forgot to touch third base [this is not a euphemism]). It's also the headquarters of the Arkansas Cattlemen's Association (get your Cattlemen's vanity license plate here[PDF]), and has street gangs if we want to join right in (Sensible street gang members, too, as indicated by this quote which led the article linked above: A Little Rock gang member, asked by a judge why he shot two men, had a two-word answer -- "Bad decision.' That's my sort of gangbanger.). But finally I found the answer, just what it is that makes Little Rock an ideal hometown. Like the gangbanger's answer, it comes in two words: books and banjos (conference site). We love books and don't mind the sounds of banjos, so Little Rock could be the home for us.


Now we turn to the puzzling question of Sheboygan. The Chamber of Commerce calls it "a great place to live, raise a family, retire, golf and is a world-class manufacturing community.". The things to see and do page gives a clear indication of priorities: five entries for "Arts", six for "Bowling/Billiards". Not wishing to endorse stereotypical views of Wisconsin in general I should also quote the Chamber of Commerce site again: "When people think of Sheboygan County, the first things that come to mind are golf and fishing." (apparently good for record-size brown trout, but that has to be a euphemism), It also seems popular for hunting as well (never mind that there were quiz options related to golf, hunting and fishing, and I can't see the Dunces [or the otherdave] being especially positive about any of these). Hate crimes? Check. Meth labs? Check. Porn ring? Ummm, maybe I'd better stop. I think I'd prefer Little Rock.

When I completed the quiz, I went back and did it a second time to see what my least suitable US locations might be. I did this by answering the opposite polarity for every question for which I expressed a preference ("neutral" items remained neutral), and selected the least desirable option when given choices. I'm sorry to report that the Gulf Coast featured extremely heavily on my no-go list (Mrs. Dunce's mother lives in Pensacola, which at least does not appear specifically on the list). But it makes sense as I am a major whiner when it comes to hot places, especially when they're also humid.

1. Melbourne FL
2. Fort Myers-Cape Coral FL
3. Mobile AL
4. Biloxi-Gulfport MS
5. Savannah GA
6. Yuma AZ
7. Coral Springs FL
8. Ocala FL
9. Dothan AL
10.Beaumont TX
11.Port Arthur TX
12.Wilmington NC
13.Delray Beach FL
14.Boca Raton FL
15.Galveston TX
16.Tyler TX
17.Scottsdale AZ
18.Jackson MS
19.St. Petersburg FL
20.Lakeland-Winter Haven FL
21.Corpus Christi TX
22.Killeen TX
23.Athens GA
24.Tuscaloosa AL

Ummmm, looking a little closer it looks like my no-go list is heavily overlapping with the real list of Mrs. My Brother The Thief. Don't worry, I'll still come and visit (perhaps hiding inside air-conditioned buildings).

I'm not usually one to jump on web quizzes, blog memes and the like, but today I came across one that sounded genuinuely interesting and I couldn't resist. It came my way from des petits moments and goes a little something like this.

The site Find Your Spot offers a "relocation quiz" as a hook for their relocation services: We'll instantly provide you with a tailored list of the best cities and small towns that fit YOU. Compare the perfect hometowns and undiscovered havens that match your interests. Dig deeper with colorful reports, job listings, and more. So how could I not? WARNING You cannot get your results without registering on their site, so you may wish to use a less-valuable email address in case they load your inbox with junk.

Unlike "Ayzair" whose "best" list was heavy on the Carolinas, Tennessucky and Virginia, my recommended locations are all over the place (rhyme? reason?). Of course this only includes US cities so it may not be very accurate.... In order of "desirability", here they are.

1. Worcester MA
2. Hartford CT
3. Milwaukee WI
4. Providence RI
5. New Haven CT
6. Boston MA
7. Portland OR
8. Chicago IL
9. San Francisco CA
10.San Jose CA
11.Washington DC
12.Baltimore MD
13.Honolulu HI
14.Sacramento CA
15.Little Rock AR
16.Baton Rouge LA
17.New Orleans LA
18.Santa Fe NM
19.Medford OR
20.Las Vegas NV
21.Oakland CA
22.Sheboygan WI
23.Danbury CT
24.San Diego CA

Although I didn't specify any particular regional preference, the South (especially the southeast) barely featured on my list (OK, Little Rock made a token appearance for some odd reason). Looking for rhyme or reason, obviously my choice for city life and its associated activities (live music, public transport and the like) skewed the list towards population centers (but this was not strictly the case: as Sheboygan doesn't come to [my] mind as a happening urban center). There are quite a few university towns on the list, but not entirely (Sheboygan? Maybe not the best well-known university around, maybe they should fix their web site). The top three seem to be united in minor-league ice hockey, but the only really reliable indicator seems to be "Red vs. Blue": considering the 2004 Presidential election returns, in terms of whether a state voted Republican or Democrat. Of the top 24 locations, only five were in "red states", and the highest rated of these was Little Rock at #15 (Before anyone asks, there were not any Bill Clinton-specific questions on the list).

The biggest mystery is why Sheboygan made the list (there were no questions about bratwurst, and I didn't indicate a desire to retire and/or play golf). I guess I won't be moving to any of these places anytime soon.

As a bit of a map obessive I have been a big fan of Google Maps, and especially all the clever ways people have integrated other data into Google maps (e.g. Recent earthquakes, Traffic alerts, Find a taco truck in Seattle). Perhaps my favorite at the moment is the Google Maps Pedometer which uses Google Maps to plot, display, and calculate distances for any routes mapped by Google. The author developed it for running, but it applies just as well to cycling. Here is the route I photographed on my recent blog entry (my usual route, give or take a few back streets where I have choices). The distance is 5.40 miles (OK, perhaps the pedometer gives an excessively precise measure of 5.403858529828216 miles, the last ten or twelve digits of which should be considered highly suspect), almost entirely on side streets and taking somewhere in the vicinity of 22 minutes. Today I took a more direct route, illustrated here. It follows major bus routes until the last quarter mile or so, and is only 5.03 miles (5.032665737759287 if you want to be needlessly precise). You might think it should be faster -- I'm forced to ride at a quicker pace to flow with the traffic, and there's no joy in dawdling. But in fact it's consistently slower: today it took me about 28 minutes despite getting lucky with the traffic lights for the first half of the ride (8 traffic lights, compared to exactly zero in the first half of my preferred choice). The route is more direct and the running pace is quicker, so this is all about stopping and starting. I don't think I'll repeat the heavy-traffic route any time soon.

Today I followed the lead of a fellow London cycle commuter and documented my commute into London. Unlike MJ's rather harrowing commute through heavily trafficked streets (documented here) I have the good fortune of a route that involves almost entirely back streets. There is a (slightly) more direct route but it's one of the busiest roads around, with loads of traffic signals, heavy vehicles, lots of changing lanes and unpredictable drivers (and takes me about five minutes longer in the best of times). It's about 5.5 miles (depending on the exact route).

The first photo is our street; despite the incredible similarity with MJ's street (first photo in the thread linked above) we are separated by a mile or two. It's a fairly quiet residential street with buildings from various periods (on the right is early 20th century; just behind the trees on the left are some alms houses built in 1883). Cars need not be parked facing the direction of traffic.


I have now crossed busy Amhurst Park through a cycle-only entrance (motor traffic is one-way the other way), and am traveling south on the West Bank (on the west side of the railway headed for Liverpool Street). Yes it is a largely Hassidic neighborhood.


There is a small cluster of shops here (mostly kosher) and it's always jammed up with double-parked vehicles, plus plenty of slow and frequently stopping traffic for the many schools in the next couple of blocks. Hidden by the red van are two Hassidic gentlemen who walked out in front of me without looking.


Cutting through more back roads (where motor traffic is blocked) I come to Clissold Park. The main roads adjoining the park are narrow and heavily trafficked, which leads to fairly long tailbacks at the traffic lights. I avoid riding on pavements (sidewalks) so going through the park is the only choice. It's usually very empty during my commuting times so I can cruise through at full speed. There's a nice pond to my left, obscured by the trees.


More back roads on the other side of busy Green Lanes. Here's an instance of a chicane installed in the road for no reason other than to slow down the road traffic. Or more likely, to give speedy drivers some occasions to swerve at speed. Not pictured is the sign which visually illustrates that drivers should yield to oncoming traffic (except that some wag has flipped it upside down, so instead drivers from either side believe they should have the right of way). To the very left of the chicane is a gap through which cyclists can ride, if they don't mind some combination of broken glass and gnarled road surface.


Still more back roads, heading up a slight incline. The lack of traffic isn't just a coincidence; usually the only other drivers on most of this route are taxi drivers (suggesting that my route is a good one).


This is a real irritation most days: a shared-access cycle and pedestrian path along the edge of Highbury Fields. There are parks in both sides so cyclists need to be vigilant not only for pedestrians straying from a straight line, but also for small children, dogs and other park users running from one side to the other. At least today there was a clear path, and the shared section is only a couple hundred yards.


The most harrowing part of my journey and not well depicted in the following picture. This is the traffic roundabout at Highbury Corner; I take a long loop around it in order to go essentially in a straight line. Ah the beauties of London traffic control. There is usually a long line of traffic going to my left; in the photo I have just passed through it and am swinging around to my right. This is a major route (cycle and otherwise) into various parts of central London and as such I am leaving it very soon.


And just like that I leave Upper Street and duck down one of the many side roads. Again only cycles may travel in my direction. Note the split speed humps in the photo, as well as the "bicycle" markings on the road surface, and the nice terraced houses. And most importantly, that there is no traffic once again.


I briefly join up with another very popular cycle route. The green road surface is a dedicated cycle lane, emphasis on "dead". Note the cars parked right up to the edge of the cycle lane (Hello, door!). Also visible up ahead is a traffic island (the blue over yellow marker) which is there to slow down road traffic (it also features a road plateau). Most importantly it's not quite wide enough for a car and bicycle to go through at the same time (almost all cars swerve into the cycle lane to get through), unless the cyclist is keen on swapping a little paint. Fortunately the road plateaus mean that it's possible for a cyclist to travel at the same pace as the car traffic.


Just south of Kings Cross Station, this route avoids heavy traffic for the most part (although it's not often this quiet). I think the jagged paint markings are warning us about the zebra crossing up ahead (the one place where pedestrians have the right of way). This used to be quite a seedy area but has been greatly improved in the past year or two.


Now I join the masses of cyclists heading for the Russell Square area, the West End and all sorts of other popular central destinations. We're just passing into a traffic squeeze zone which mainly serves to trap delivery vehicles and create long traffic backups.


This is a brand new segregated cycle lane (which is gradually being extended westward at the rate of a block every few months). Dedicated traffic signals for cyclists and everything (although it's a real pain when delivery vehicles, ambulances etc. park in it). Unfortunately I'll want to go left in another two blocks, so it's almost not worthwhile to go from left to right for such a short trip.


And here it is, my destination. It's a really beautiful (apparently listed) building from the 1960s. Note the white railings which provide an efficient combination of semi-dry bicycle parking and a free bicycle buffet for local thieves.


My parking place, aka my office. Yes it is as small as it looks. That's my new 42-tooth chainring shining in the sun, a real difference from 32. Out the window you can see the windows of a large tourist hotel, which is why I don't change clothes in my room (I am afraid I cannot say the same about the tourists).

No one should be surprised that there is a competitive element to Dunce holidays, nearly always in the form of a SLUG BUG contest. The basic idea of the game is to be the first to see a Volkswagen Beetle, utter the words "SLUG BUG" plus its color, and punch ("slug") your opponent. The exact rules of the game are wildly divergent, including the "no slugback" rule which prevents subsequent slugging for the same bug, bonus points for certain colors or certain situations, and whether the new Beetle is a legitimate slug bug. In order to prevent disputes and permit high-stakes competition, we have developed our own house rules (or out-of-house rules) as follows:

A competition shall begin at a designated moment and stakes must be agreed upon before the first Slug Bug is spotted. The competition is deemed complete at an agreed-upon destination, or if no destination is specified, when the travelers return home. The first person to see a qualifying Slug Bug and begin the utterance "Slug Bug" shall be identified as the spotter of that Slug Bug. The scoring utterance is not complete until the color (or other words or phrases indicating the vehicles's appearance, such as "British flag", "sunflowers", etc.) of the Slug Bug has been named (and an opponent has been "slugged"), but another player cannot "scoop" a scoring Slug Bug by finishing the phrase and/or slugging an opponent first. Close calls should be decided by an impartial referee or by agreement among the contestants; in the event of simultaneous utterances the points shall be divided amongst the players. A player may not unduly extend the pronunciation of the initial "S" of "Slug Bug" in the hope of seeing a qualifying Slug Bug during the lengthy sibilant. False identification of non-qualifying vehicles as Slug Bugs is discouraged; frequent infractions may be subject to penalty. Slugbacks are never permitted; once a Slug Bug has been spotted it is removed from the competition. "Known" Slug Bugs (i.e., those with which the participants are already familiar) are not eligible for scoring, and it is considered bad form for one participant to select a route including Slug Bugs known only to him/her, and to spot those Slug Bugs as if they were unfamiliar. Spotting a Slug Bug not only offers the satisfaction of being first, and of striking your opponent, but also scores points as follows:

Ordinary VW Beetle aka bug ("Slug Bug"): One point

VW Beetle convertible ("Slug Bug convertible"): One and one-half points

VW Microbus aka VW van ("Slug Van"): Two points

In theory, ten points are awarded for spotting exceptionally customized vehicles such as a Slug Van converted into a truck, a Slug Bug dragster or other exotic vehicles (Slug Helicopter, perhaps?). Such instances must be agreed upon as "exceptional", otherwise they score no more than a standard Slug Bug of the appropriate class.

Half points may be awarded to spotters of partial Slug Bugs, but awarding of points in such instances must be agreed upon by the referee or participants (in the absence of a referee).

No points are awarded for New Beetles or an updated Microbus (should such an atrocity be loosed upon our roads).

Additional scoring classifications may be implemented for specific journeys (e.g. five points for a silver or gold Slug Bug for the Queen's Jubilee) but these do not carry over into future competitions.

Our trip to Cornwall took us into one of the UK's Slug Bug hotspots, as the VW Microbus is the vehicle of choice among the surfing community. As such our spotting was fast and furious, mostly two-point Microbuses so the scores mounted rapidly. I may have been at a slight disadvantage to Opal Dunce as I was behind the wheel, but I have previously prevailed under such circumstances. This time, however, it was not to be. The competition started at 9am on Friday morning, and finished at 6pm on Sunday afternoon (a total of 57 hours).

Final scores
Opal Dunce: 84 (1.47 Slug Bugs per hour)
The Dunce: 51.5 (0.90 per hour)

So I'll be buying the sushi this time around. I'll have to train more for the next outing... I wonder how many Slug Bugs they have in Estonia. Maybe I'll be the one to spot something like this.

Friday morning we set out bright and early (9am), headed for Cornwall and the Tapestry Goes West festival. An hour later we were still enjoying the London traffic creep, having been diverted for unspecified police activity near Mrs. Dunce's workplace (potential worriers, do not be concerned, this was nowhere near Dalgarno Road where snipers pointed guns at bare-bottomed bomb suspects at about the same time). I could go on in great detail about the journey, but will just say that at about 5pm we found ourselves in the vicinity of Spirit of the West, the festival venue. Only in the vicinity, however, as there is only a very limited amount of signage for this highly desirable tourist location. One hour later, after painstakingly traversing every road between St. Ives and Bodmin (perhaps exaggerated for dramatic effect) we found it & set to pitching our tent.

The Wild West theme park is divided into two areas: Fort Smith (the "good town", full of law-abiding citizens, proper businesses, and a snack bar) and Silver City (the "lawless town", full of stinking, no-good hombres of all sorts, a tavern full of lairy, leering misfits, and a gallows in the center of the square) and to some extent the musical entertainment reflected this difference (Fort Smith performers were all string quartets with powdered wigs, angel-faced boys' choirs and sweet little old ladies singing along to the player piano; Silver City performers were satanic demons eating the faces off young children, people who didn't wash their hands after using the toilet, and players of electrified instruments of all sorts. Or something like that).

There's plenty to tell about the weekend's events (to come later this week), but for now I'll just mention my musical highlight: Swearing at Motorists. Two guys, a singer/guitarist and a drummer (I don't think they are married OR brother and sister, there goes that comparison down the drain). A lot of loud, manic guitar playing and a sound somewhere between Flat Duo Jets and Steve Albini (Opal Dunce's opinion which I couldn't really better). Also the only act to perform on both the vile, degraded stage of Silver City (Friday night) and the pristine, family-friendly stage of Fort Smith (Saturday). Perhaps one of those circuit riders got to them in the night; there was definitely an unearthly power behind them, a few words from singer/guitarist Dave Doughman were enough to stop Saturday's rainfall just long enough for their set. When they finally finished I was near enough to the front to join the mad crush to buy Swearing at Motorists merchandise (I ended up with a handful of gravel, a corner of somebody else's setlist and part of Dave's ear. Actually, an early Swearing at Motorists CD). It's always a good feeling to be excited about a new band (OK they are not a new band, but new-to-me and not exactly well-known [as far as I know]).

Like i said, more tales from the Wild West later in the week. And possibly a cycle-commuting travelogue. We'll see...

Only the briefest of updates today, but I couldn't leave without mentioning our weekend destination. We are traveling to a Wild West theme park in darkest Cornwall to attend the Tapestry Goes West music festival. We went last year, so we (think we) know what to expect this time around. Except that maybe the entire place will be flooded out after this week's torrential downpours. I'll make a snorkel out of paper towel rolls just in case. Expect a detailed report next week (and I mean it this time, not like those other detailed reports which haven't quite materialized).

In a previous entry I highlighted the limited number of London bus routes served by the classic Routemaster buses with a Routemaster-only bus map of London. Today is the last day for two more routes, 14 and 22 (some nice pictures at Casino Avenue (sorry, I'm not sure how to link to the exact post)). So I thought I should update my Routemaster-only bus map to indicate this change. Here's where you can get in London by Routemaster bus:


(Please click on thumbnail for a very large version).

This weekend the Dunces took an excursion to Pitzhanger Manor House, after seeing a brief mention in this week's Time Out.

Pitzhanger Manor House

It was designed as a country home by architect John Soane, whose London house (Sir John Soane's Museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields) is perhaps my favorite museum at the moment. The latter is a fascinating combination of architectural design features (Soane was not afraid to knock down and rebuild in his preferred style) and an impressive collection shoehorned into every conceivable space. The preservation of its appearance, contents and general state (as well as its accessibility to the public) were preserved through an act of Parliament negotiated by Soane before his death. Pitzhanger Manor, on the other hand, was not similarly preserved. Soane bought it in 1800 and completed his renovations (tear down most everything and rebuild it entirely) in 1804; for the next six years the family used it as a weekend country retreat before selling it on (from Ealing history site). Subsequent residents included the four spinster daughters of former Prime Minister Spencer Perceval (1843-?) before it was sold to the Ealing council in 1901 for use as a library (and doubtless renovated many, many times by its different residents). In 1985 the library moved to a new location and the council began restoration of the house to reflect its appearance in Soane's time. But because the collections have been moved to Soane's museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields, the focus here is more upon the architecture and design. It's an excellent companion to Soane's museum, which contains many similar architectural features but in which the focus is upon the items he collected, which are displayed on (under, against) every surface (and sometimes hidden behind other items). After seeing the clutter of the collection, it's fascinating to go to Pitzhanger and see the design features essentially on their own (rooms contain basic period furnishings but virtually none of Soane's collections or personal effects). Our next Soane-themed visit will have to be Moggerhanger House near Biggleswade, a house designed by Soane for the director of the Bank of England, which has only very recently reopened following extensive restoration work.

After visiting Pitzhanger House we had an excellent dinner at Taqueria, a new Mexican restaurant in west London which seems to go a long way toward answering concerns about the dire lack of authentic (and/or interesting) Mexican food in London (and we're not the only ones to complain). It's a different take on Mexican than I'm familiar with, more like tapas than anything else. I've already exceeded my allotted writing time so let me just say briefly, YUM.

...in my last entry when I said that the journalists seemed to have moved on. I was just looking in the wrong place and at the wrong time. When I left work, I could hardly move for the crush of journalists. Well, not exactly, but there were an awful lot of them scrambling to get good spots for their live reports on the evening news. Mostly British and European although I didn't exactly stop to ask (I was busy making shouting noises at people who were aimlessly wandering into the path of my bike with ladders, tripods and the like). The police cordon has shrunk yet again, although I still have to go a few blocks out of my way to get home.

As I write this it's approaching the moment when, one week ago, the bus explosion happened. I was rather surprised not to see more cameras and crews converging on the area to note the moment. Probably, though, I was just at the wrong place at the right time. I rode past the Kings Cross area on my way in, and it seemed like business as usual (hurrying commuters, befuddled tourists, near-gridlock), but for a few minor differences (police everywhere, media vehicles parked in every back road I could see). I didn't actually see any journalists in action, so maybe they were undercover (or more likely I'd missed the rush by arriving later than the precise moment ["Exactly one week ago, London's Olympic celebration was shattered forever...", "I am here live at the scene, well not exactly the scene, but the scene out of the tunnel, up the escalators, out of the station, across the street and over the way, from where one of the bombs exploded...", and so on]). Despite wandering on foot with my bike in hand (or at least, guiding my bike with my hand), and trying to look "informed" I was not interviewed or even journalistically approached (I was asked for directions a couple of times. Just keep going that way/immer geradeaus).

As the days pass, the cordons around my workplace become fewer and fewer, gradually narrowing down to only a block or so around the site of the bus explosion (and the entrance to Russell Street tube station). A few police officers are hanging around each one, remarkably patient at having to answer the same few questions over and over and over and over. Here are the answers in case you'd like to play at police:

I'm sorry, you can't go through there.
I'm sorry, Russell Square station is shut.
No, I don't know when it will re-open.
Just keep walking that way to Holborn.
Go around that way, take the first left you can, then left on the Euston Road to Euston station.
Go around that way, take the first right you can, then right on the Euston Road to Euston station.
Go around that way, take the first left you can, then right on the Euston Road to Kings Cross.
The nearest (taxi/bus) is a few minutes' walk that way (point in any direction other than through a cordon).

There are very few journalists now at the sites immediately around my office; I suspect many of them have bolted for Luton or Leeds (or anywhere else that starts with L) now that this area is old news. Doubtless there are still a lot around Kings Cross which lends a good scene for a stand-up on the evening news. I'll go around that way on my way home to see. Rumor has it they're drinking the local pubs dry, although thirsty local workers and gawkers may also be playing a part.

After finishing off yesterday's entry, I decided to make a move and head for home. Leaving the area I had to pass through three or four police cordons which were letting people out but not in. Except for the extremely large number of journalists who were within the second or third circle. I was briefly interviewed by one of them as I wheeled my bike under the police tape, but as I didn't have much to say and didn't look suitably disheveled (I did look somewhat disheveled but that is my everyday appearance), it's extremely unlikely that I'll appear in the news as a result ("Coming up after the break, meet the cycling psycholinguist who heard a boom and then browsed the web looking for news!!"). By the time I got to Mrs. Dunce's office the scene had changed -- the roads that remained open were jammed with traffic, and a swarm of pedestrians was headed north. We joined the walkers for the 5.2-mile trek (at least according to Multimap's route planner). Some buses were running from Camden Town, but we decided not to bother (I had my bike, Mrs. Dunce wasn't interested in fighting the crowds, and it was sunny but cool). Rather than stay in the swarm, we wandered off the main roads and took a more residential approach through the back streets (4 bedroom house for sale, in need of modernisation, Camden Borders, £525,000). Eventually (just under an hour and a half) we got home, and flopped down on the couch in front of the television.

Today's travel news suggested that travel into London was ok, except for the affected tube lines, so we decided to come in as usual (well, not entirely as usual as we took our sweet time getting out of bed and getting ready). I biked in without incident... until I came to the affected area within a block of my workplace (and just by the site of the bus explosion). Streets were still cordoned off, and all traffic was diverted around (including foot and cycle traffic). The picture below indicates my route to work (marked in green, starting on the right side of the image).



I was first turned back as I approached the nearest intersection to the bus investigation site, proceeded around until I reached the (Quaker) Friends House where I was able to cut through. I approached my department again from the west, coming within spitting distance before I was turned away again. The officer suggested that entry was being permitted from the south, so that's where I went. Denied entry at the top left corner of Russell Square, then once again at the top right corner (exhausting all possibilities by road). Finally I retraced my steps back around Russell Square to the rear of the Institute of Education. I went in through the back door (with my bike), exited through the front door and zipped right into my building. After all that, I find that some of my cow-orkers and collie-gues got in without incident. Maybe I looked like a wild-eyed loony (fair enough) or perhaps they were intimidated by my bike. And that's where I am now.

This past weekend was the warmest of the year so far, so how could we resist a friend's offer to take us sailing on his boat?! It's not exactly a small boat so it was with a small amount of trepidation that we joined in. We got up on Saturday at a reasonable hour and took an air-conditioned train to Southampton (fortunately not the fictional one), then a high-speed ferry to Cowes on the Isle of Wight, and finally a little putt-putt of a water taxi across the River Medina to East Cowes (we could have taken the chain ferry/floating bridge instead) where the fine vessel BUGLE is moored. We were joined by a few of Sea Captain's cow-orkers (something in the Money business, I don't really want to know. Fortunately they were fine company and there was a minimum of sneering in my direction), and after hardly any preparation, we were off.

We chose perhaps a less than ideal day for our sailing trip, as the Round the Island race was going on at the same time -- something like 1700 boats all heading around the island and directly toward us (at the narrowest point, no less). So we decided instead to go against the tide (but with the wind) and head west, for Yarmouth (island) or Lymington (mainland [if you can call England "mainland"]; if you follow the Lymington link let me add [sic].). Fortunately one of our fellow sailors had plenty of sailing experience, so he and Sea Captain took care of all the details related to sails and ropes and the like.... Or so I thought until I was handed the tiller and told "Steer it straight". Well, it was a little choppy from all the ferry and powerboat traffic, and I was still getting my sea legs (OK, really I was petrified with fear and holding onto something solid for dear life), so my attempts at steering were not entirely useful. But soon enough we were underway, most of us lounging around the boat in the sun, sipping cold drinks, watching the other boats and mostly just relaxing. Despite my difficulties in the early stages I was passed the tiller again, and found driving much more to my liking as we cruised along. It was really easy going, mostly about 5-5.5 knots, and after a few hours we made the decision: Lymington it was.

I gave up the driving duties as we motored into the marina. It was especially crowded and we provided a great deal of entertainment to the locals, as first we attempted to thread between parked (docked?) boats, then tie onto a buoy without a boat hook (fortunately the other experienced sailor was also a rock climber, so he hung off the front of the boat like a monkey to tie on, and a fellow boater came by with a dinghy to help out). Then do it again, moving to an entirely different buoy as our mooring was in especially shallow water and we feared that we'd be left in the mud when the tide went out. But if you think that's funny, then we had to get to shore. Sea Captain's inflatable dinghy, however, was not exactly up to the task of transporting seven (7) people, being suitable really only for one at a time (two if they are very careful, being sure not to leave the grain alone with the chicken OR the chicken alone with the fox). The first crossing saw the passenger's trousers fully soaked, and the rest of us quite unwilling to get in. Fortunately one of the amused locals took pity on us and lent us a larger dinghy which we used to cross without further incident.

We had dinner at the Bluebird Restaurant, reviewed here but that review hardly gives an impresion of just how good it was. I think all of us ordered from the "specials" board which featured loads and loads of fresh, local seafood (I am drooling as I write this [Yes, more than usual]). I had a super-healthy deep-fried Brie as a starter and then a monstrous crab thermidor; Mrs. Dunce had gravidlax and then, errrr, some sort of fresh fish. All of it was fantastic, and those of us who had desserts (unfortunately not either of the Dunces) raved about them even more. Two of our number were staying on land, so the remaining five trooped back to the dock with devious plans to "borrow" a better dinghy for the return voyage to the BUGLE. But it was not to be, as we'd left our return journey too late, and only our own bedraggled inflatable remained. Somehow we managed to do it and stay dry, ferried one at a time (first taking the chicken to the boat, then the fox, bringing the chicken back, taking the grain to the boat, and finally returning to bring the chicken across). We all slept on the boat without incident as far as I know, and got up to a bright, bright, bright early morning.

And then we were off again, sailing into the wind. For the first couple of hours, against the tide as well, which meant that we made very little headway (on our first trip across to the isle and back we gained about 200 yards). Mrs Dunce and I served largely as ballast, scrambling across the boat during the tacks, moving to the high side for balance as we were consistently leaning about 25 degrees (it's probably not much but it seemed like quite a lot). Of course I counted the number of tacks -- I'm fairly certain it took just about 16 to get back to our starting point of the previous day. When we weren't tacking there was plenty of time to lounge on the boat and enjoy it. There seemed to be a lot more boats in the water, although perhaps it was just because we were tacking against the wind and thus crossing many more potential paths. But before long it was finished, so we docked, cleaned up the boat and came back the way we had come.

It was a great way to spend a weekend but there is definitely some post-sailing suffering. Despite vigorous application of sunscreen, I have a few nasty burned spots (knees, tops of feet), and poor Mrs. Dunce has discovered that she has a very nasty sun allergy. We're both on the mend, though, and ready to do it again.

My closest living relative (or less-ambiguously, the relative who lives closest to me) has been learning Dutch (ok, maybe Flemish); his most recent post (EDIT: whoops, it was only a temporary link) about giving & understanding directions in another language (I think along the lines of the ambiguity of English "right" in "turn right" vs. "right there) reminded me of my own experience with directions in Dutch.

I was living in Nijmegen at the time (OK, I was living in Wijchen but nobody's heard of Wijchen) and was out for the evening with some Dutch guys. We were approached by a couple of Germans who asked directions to a hole-in-the-wall drinking establishment (one of the few places in town I was fairly confident I knew how to find). One of the Dutch guys gave the directions, and although I didn't hear exactly what he said, I was surprised how quick and simple they were (mine would have involved five or six turns, with a landmark at each turn, and doubtless would have failed in directing them to their destination), and once the Germans had set off, I asked whether there is a quicker way I wasn't aware of. As it turns out, no. "I just said 'immer geradeaus' [German: 'keep going straight'] and pointed to the river. Maybe they'll fall in and drown".

For some reason, I can never avoid being asked directions, no matter where I am (well, except Japan), and this was true of the Netherlands the moment I fell off the turnip truck, errrr, got off the plane. Fortunately once I found myself in Nijmegen/Wijchen it was pretty easy to give directions (just about everything is correctly answered by pointing down the main road toward the center of town and saying "immer geradeaus" [errr, I mean "recht door", or maybe "rechtstreeks". Or is it "rechts"?], or maybe I just pointed straight, grunted a few times and gestured "just keep going until you fall into the river and drown"). Strangely enough, that's also how you get to the British Museum from just outside my office...

St. Ignatius Catholic Church is the nearest of these to my home, and not technically on my commute unless I head the wrong way, but I thought I'd include it anyway. St. Ignatius was founded by the Jesuits in 1894 (although the chapel was replaced in 1903 with the present building, once again rendering my selection of dates suspect) and still remains a Catholic church (and primary school) today. It is a highlight of the neighborhood (according to the surely-unbiased Jesuits, but I think that's fair given the underwhelming surroundings). Apparently St. Ignatius is also blessed with an unusual organ (stop snickering, you in the back!). They offer a mass in Spanish once a week which strikes me as unusual given my perception of the ethnic mix of the area -- where are the Spanish shops and restaurants?! The Community of Servite Sisters (St. Mary's Convent) and St. Ursula's Convent are both in the immediate vicinity and associated with St. Ignatius.

Regarding St. Ignatius school (now primary only , according to Ofsted's 2001 inspection report (PDF) things had changed markedly since the previous inspection of 1999: The school was last inspected in February 1999 and found to have serious weaknesses in a number of key areas, including teaching, leadership and management and the spiritual and cultural development of its pupils. A visit by Her Majesty's Inspectorate in March 2000 reported that the school was making satisfactory progress towards addressing the issues, although some still remained, notably in leadership and management. Since then the school has made good progress towards addressing most of the issues and is well placed to make further improvements. Good, then, that's sorted.

Here we return to the northwest corner of Newington Green to the China Inland Mission which I am fairly confident was built in 1872. The Mission was founded in 1865, in order to evangelize the whole of China (not just coastal areas), and is still in existence today as the Overseas Missionary Fellowship (administrative history here).

The founder and leader of the Mission was James Hudson Taylor (an exhaustive/exhausting biography from the 1930s can be found here, or perhaps a more accessible and certainly briefer one here), who made a radical move, dressing in Chinese style (including a pigtail, much to the derision of the coastal missionary clique), and encouraging his missionaries to do the same. The Boxer Rebellion (errr?) caused all sorts of difficulties for the mission, and Taylor died shortly thereafter. Another brief biography of Taylor can be found on the site of the Pacific Hills Christian School (Australia), where students are divided into Houses (Taylor, Elliot, Carey, Mueller) which map neatly onto the four Houses of a slightly more famous school system.

The Mission (by then OMF) moved out of the Newington Green site in favor of Sevenoaks in 1976 (the new location was selected due to the presence of retired workers in the area, I kid you not). at which time it was acquired by the Evangelical Alliance (but who were eventually unable to handle the costs of maintenance).

The building is now student housing (along with some more recent buildings tucked behind it).

The second picture in my quiz depicts north London's Canonbury Square. More specifically, 27 Canonbury Square, where George Orwell lived from 1944-48, after his St. John's Wood home was bombed. This period is described in much detail by Orwellologist Jackie Jura at Orwell Today, and with a collection of photos (including the interior) here. Orwell, however, was not the only prominent resident of this square. Evelyn Waugh lived at #17 from 1928-30 and wrote A Handful of Dust there after being cuckolded and divorced by his wife "She-Evelyn" (and Nancy Mitford apparently rented it from him in subsequent years). Samuel Phelps, perhaps best known for his work in traditional English theatre (putting on the works of Shakespeare in the days of melodrama) lived at #8 from 1844-67; Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant also lived there, although I am not sure exactly where or when (we non-subscribers are teased by the beginning of this History Today article).

As it turns out the date I listed for the construction of this square (1800) was not correct (although I am not alone in this error). According to british-history.ac.uk (perhaps a more definitive source than Evans Baker estate agency or londontourist.org), the square was not even laid out until 1805, so the date of building should perhaps be more like 1810-15. During the Waugh/Orwell period, much of the square was rented to *shudder* local tenants, but the situation changed after the war. Again according to british-history.ac.uk, "The new owners of part of the estate from 1952, Oriel Property Trust, stopped reletting to local tenants and began to rehabilitate Canonbury Square and its neighbourhood hoping to attract middle-class tenants. By 1961 Canonbury, the first area in Islington to be gentrified, had a higher concentration of professional and managerial residents than the rest of the borough."

Today it seems that some local tenants may be able to rent after all (findaproperty currently shows this property to let: 2 bedroom flat, partly furnished, and only £440 a week). Although I didn't find any properties for sale at the moment, the last 12 sales averaged £669,625 according to nethouseprices. This average is pulled down by some "cheap" flat sales: #1a, #2, First floor flat #4, Basement flat #11, #14b, #15a, #16a all sold for less than £400,000 (obviously the ghetto side of the square), while freehold terraced houses sold for £1.25m (#5), £1.5m (#46), £1.647m (#34) (all before 2003).

Unitarian Chapel, Newington Green, London (Built 1708, enlarged 1860). According to the Local London Timeline, it was built as the "Dissenters Chapel", at a cost of £200, and "is today the oldest non-conforming place of worship in London. Newington Green has been a center of non-conformist belief since the early days of the nonconformist tradition. A brief history can be found at the Newington Green Action Group's site (more detailed timeline is at British History Online).

There is no shortage of famous names with Newington Green connections. Just a few are Daniel Defoe, Richard Price (and many American revolutionaries who visited him there), Edgar Allan Poe, Samuel Rogers, Samuel Wesley, Mary Wollstonecraft (and her daughter Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley) (and Abney Park Cemetery is full of other interesting residents). But perhaps the most famous was Henry VIII who apparently spent some time in the "Bishop's Palace" with a mistress or three.

Newington Green is the northeasternmost point on this walk (PDF format); see for a detailed timeline of the development of this area. An academic treatment of Dissent in the area can be found here.

I've mentioned before that I'm rather obsessively refining my cycle commute, and there are so many alternatives and variables that simple gradient descent is just not going to work. I was thinking about documenting my efforts but just thinking about it bored me to tears -- if it had that effect on me, imagine how undesirable such a sequence of entries might be to someone else for whom fine-grained improvement offers little personal benefit. So instead I decided to take a different option which nonetheless relates to my commute. Below are pictured four buildings which are on (or near) my commuting route. Your task, dear reader, is to place the buildings in the order in which they were constructed and, if you wish, add a comment with your guesses (please make your decisions before looking at the comments, which may include answers). I have included the dates (in random order) below, and I'll write something about the buildings in a future entry.

A:	B:
C:	D:

Dates of construction are 1708, 1800, 1872, 1894.

Images A, B came from N16 magazine, Image C came from Westminster Yearbook; Image D was taken by Andy MacDonald

It seems that Google has launched a new map service; since I am a map obsessive I thought I'd play around with it. One of its features is route planning, and with London's tangled streets and multiple possibilities to get anywhere, London routing is a good test.

Therefore I am extremely delighted to discover that Google has discovered a quicker route from work to home (5.1 miles) than I ever imagined: clocking in at an estimated 9 (nine) minutes. Quite an improvement over some other sites which give the same route, only slower (18, 13 and 15 minutes respectively [I should also point out that the directions given by the AA site are much clearer & comprehensive than any of the others]). I guess driving in the Google lanes is much faster.

That route is probably the quickest by motorbike or car (although I'd be extremely surprised to get there in less than 20 minutes any reasonable hour of the day or night), although probably the most dangerous possibility where cycling is concerned. A future post will document my obsessive search for the "optimal" cycle route, in which I attempt to minimize both traffic and travel time. Which will prevail?

Following the removal of Routemaster buses from London's bus route #19 (see previous post) I thought it might be nice to see a map of the London routes still covered by Routemaster buses. So here it is:


(Please click on thumbnail for a very large version).

Routemasters on the "blue routes" (14 and 22) are scheduled to be phased out on 22 July 2005.

On the first of April, we decided to experience the last day of operation of classic Routemaster buses on one of our local routes. These buses are being phased out across the city in an effort to modernize, and now it's the 19 route's turn.

Around 6pm we arrived at Finsbury Park tube station and joined a small group of bus enthusiasts waiting for a suitable bus. The first was a modern-style double-decker bus, although we saw our ride waiting in the wings:

We boarded on 6:08 and rushed to the upper deck where we chose the "love seat", a double seat at the very back of the bus, next to the curved staircase. By 6:19pm we had reached the Angel and the bus was full enough that passengers were turned away. More passengers were turned away at 6:30 when we reached Mount Pleasant (formerly Coldbath Fields). Some begged the conductor to let them on but to no avail; the bus was so full that unpleasant grinding noises issues from the suspension at every dip, bump and turn.

Only a few minutes later (6:33 to be exact) we came to a halt in a traffic jam in Holborn; where it was announced that we expected to wait for 15-20 minutes due to an RTA at Hyde Park for which an air ambulance was required. RTA? RTA? RTA? Me either. In any event, the bus quickly emptied out, except for the most enthusiastic of enthusiasts.

As promised, it was 7:00pm by the time traffic finally broke and we were able to move smoothly down Charing Cross to Shaftesbury Avenue where we were joined by two more Route 19 Routemasters. We passed through Piccadilly Circus to Hyde Park without incident as the bus gradually refilled to capacity.

At 7:32pm the bus made its final stop on the run, just across Battersea Bridge, and I was the last one to alight from it before it cruised round the corner to the bus garage where a small group of enthusiasts were taking pictures.

Although our ride was nowhere near the last Routemaster on the 19 route, and we spotted few of the special buses running that route in honor, we were happy to have been part of the last day. Some excellent pictures of the final day of the 19 Routemasters can be found here (day) and here (night).

I took a brief trip to Saarbrücken this week to present a paper at a small conference. I managed to make a small detour to see the 13th century gothic church of St. Arnual:


As described in remarkably identical wording on quite a few Web sites,


I queued up among the masses and shuffled my way along the designated tourist route, peering for my designated twenty seconds at the tomb of Elisabeth. Or more accurately, I walked into the empty church and inspected its contents at my leisure, undisturbed by anyone. Perhaps the most impressive was the tomb of Count Johann III of Nassau-Saarbrücken (d.1472), depicted along with his two wives (Johanne von Loen and Elisabeth von Württemberg) as illustrated on this page (scroll down to section "Saarbrücken, Landeshauptstadt. Evangelische Stiftskirche St. Arnual).

Some more historical information about the church can be found here (with photos) and here (timeline) (both in German only, although if you do not speak German, they can also perhaps use automated translation aids, as Google translate, if you are ready to employ a certain level from immutability to).

Who was St. Arnual? Not clearly listed in the register of Catholic Saints but apparently he is also known as St. Arnulf which matches up to the timeline also linked above. Arnulf seems to be a popular name, or at least a saintly one as there are six other St. Arnulfs listed in the register at catholic.org.  This particular St. Arnulf doesn't seem to be a particularly exciting saint; a cynic might even say he's only a saint thanks to royal patronage of King Theodebert II of Austrasia (who gave him the village of Merkingen as a gift & changed its name to St Arnual by royal decree) More biographical detail can be found here.

Comparing him to the other saints who share July 18 (as described here) he's definitely low on the list of impressive criteria for sainthood. Here's my own ranking of the July 18 saints (all descriptions cribbed from the breviary.net site linked above).


The miracles are only vaguely stated, although the hermitage moves him up from the very bottom of the list. Without death, misery and suffering it's hard for a sainthood to impress me.