Maiden Voyage to Wales

I keep saying we've never lived in a metal box before, but of course we did that daft Route 66, Etc. tour for Bill's 60th birthday.  I missed a third of that with family business in OKC and the eleven of us travelling seemed to chop and change around so much it wasn't really like a home, more like a base station

This is a modest sized box, being only about 20 ft long & 7 ft wide.

So our first trip in the motorhome was for only three nights.  Bill has long wanted to visit northern Wales to do some genealogy research and I like beaches, so he found a campsite on Cardigan Bay (Don't you love that name?!) near Aberech, outside of Pwllheli.  We first drove to Atherton (outside Manchester) to stay with Helen and Martin and break the journey.  


When we left Manchester, Bill asked me to read him the directions he'd printed off from Google.  Besides having to shout over the sound of the diesel engine and the scraping gears, I wasn't much good at reading the info:  I said it too soon and sometimes too late.  I read the distance when it was so far it was unnecessary and sometimes left it off when it was critical.  At one point the instructions talked about a turning every 20-35 metres and it was all pretty impossible.  I pointed out the fact that I was not a GPS.  In fact, the motorhome measures speed in kilometres and whilst we know that a 10K race is 6.1 miles, or that a kilometre is .6 of a mile, neither of us is much good at translating Imperial and Metric very quickly.

It got even more ridiculous when we entered Wales, where the names of things are a long string of consonants in an unnatural order.  By the time I could even start to formulate a guess about how to say it, we were long past the sign and I'd forgotten the last 20 letters.  I told Bill I simply didn't have the qualifications for the job; he took pity and accepted my resignation from the post.

Bill loves Welsh place names; I guess he grew up hearing them.  I started thinking the Welsh wasn't so much gutteral as spit-eral (remember Tom Jones?) but perhaps I just need to practice the front-loaded lisp a little more (the double 'l's at the start of many names is pronounced 'thl'.)  Another thing I worked out when we got on a train for a day trip, was that loads of towns around started with Aber- so it was important to remember our ending.  Apparently 'aber' means the mouth of a river. 

I'm thinking that I might grow to like sunglasses; one can be so anonymous
when wearing them!

Bill had brought our bikes.  I'd not ridden for over a year, but figured I may as well put it to use.  Our destinations were Llanystumdwy and Criccieth, supposedly about 6 miles away.  Of course the journey wasn't straightforward and it was much further but, never mind, I lived. 


Sadly my camera batteries were nearly dead (I'd forgotten to bring the battery charger thingie and Bill had forgotten his camera; we're so organised).  



So I only got a couple of shots of the place where Bill's great grandmother was born and lived before coming to the northeast.   Fortunately he had his phone with him.




We were both astounded at what she left behind to go live in a mining town in the NorthEast of England.  I gather she never did fully master English, it being her second language. 

It appears that the 'family home' is likely to be demolished, what's left of it anyhow. 



Another couple about our age were looking at the place just as we arrived. 



The woman, hearing Bill's story about the house, encouraged Bill to trespass and take more photos



- not that he needed much encouragement.

Bill's grandmother always said she came from Criccieth, but the Census records put her in Llanystumdwy.  Turns out just to be an administrative thing, as 200 yards beyond this stone cottage were  incredible houses and a view of Criccieth Castle.




We rode along the front of hotels and B&Bs all painted in the requisite seaside pastels, old architecture on one side, sparkling sea on the other.  I was immediately converted to a fan of northern Wales, if not of the language




According to Bill, unlike speaking Gaelic which is sort of a middle class thing, speaking Welsh is almost working class, firmly routed in a rebellion against English rule.  I've no idea how accurate this is, but it's definitely still a living language and we heard it everywhere.



Bill says there used to be an advert of the Coal Board, "Come home to a real fire".  This became a different sort of catch phrase when people in London and elsewhere bought second homes in places like Wales (and Northumberland) making the price of houses too expensive for the locals to remain near their extended family.  "Come home to a real fire" was about arson for a while.  He wondered if this had been a victim, but it didn't look like it had burned, just crumbled.

The next day on our return train journey I spotted the Castle from the other side and I snapped pictures like mad.




Surely the intent is to build another house on this exquisite site, unless there is a problem with the cliff crumbling away.  For that view, I think I'd almost risk it!

Our Second Home

As we've travelled to meet distant cousins we've been struck by the number of people who own second homes.  I suppose you could count my houses in Salt Lake City or Oklahoma City, but they are lived in by other people who - all things going well - pay rent.  It's not like I could just pop over and live in them on a whim.  That said, I am quite happy with just one home, thank you.  It's plenty to keep maintained and tidy for us.


On the other hand, the one we have is stationery in a very pretty but chilly part of the world and we would like to experience longer periods of summer.  I decided the best way to do that would likely be to get an RV and live in it in southern France, Spain or Italy for a month or two in summer. 



Bill has been shopping on the internet for nearly the past year and I can't tell you how many times I've dropped everything to go look at photos of the latest exciting find. 



Except that it cost too much or didn't have certain features.  We decided to have a bed that didn't have to be put up before the other person could get on with life, also one that doesn't block access to the loo at night.  Bill didn't like the overhead bed compartments at all.  I didn't really care so long as it wasn't monstrously big and didn't cost too much.





We looked at one locally which was way too small, then drove over to Halifax to visit a place that specialised in second hand motorhomes.  There was a Hymer that was lovely, but at the top of our price range.  Also the dash had been mucked about and I'm against anything that is patently put together with duct tape, even if it did come with an outside tent, potential roof garden space, solar panels and champagne-coloured fake fur seat covers. 



Bill liked this Tabbert a lot better but I went back to look at the Hymer again.  There were others looking by then which would have made negotiating a bit harder; also it now felt miniscule after being in the Tabbert.





I told Bill that orange really wasn't my colour at all and neither of us could work out why anyone would put blue curtains in an orange van.  Then again, the woman who sold it to us told us at least five times how much she loved taking her friends with her to festivals and such and how drunk they all got.  Way too much information for me, frankly.  Bill started to talking about turning away from the Tabbert on the basis of the interior colour scheme and I had to laugh.  My sewing skills aren't wonderful but I figured even I could manage cushion covers and curtains. 



So the Tabbert we got.  I was uncertain whether the transmission actually worked - a five-speed on the column - as Bill fought with it all the way home.  Also, with it being a left hand drive (easier to drive in Europe where Bill is less familiar with the roads) when he went around a parked car or a cyclist it was me stuck out there on the wrong side of the road in the path of the oncoming lorry, not him.  And I've made a will leaving everything to him, haven't I?  It's the most helpless I've ever felt. 




The mirrors didn't altogether work for him on the way home either.  He would ask me to tell him if there was traffic coming.  I found that very hard to do, not knowing how long it would take Bill to find first gear.   I was exhausted by the time we got home.   If 'Full Body Grimace' is not a yoga posture, it probably should be.

The seller-woman gave us a lift from the train station in her doggie-smelling car, which is fair enough - it's her car.  It worried me though that the RV smelled very dog-like for a while.  Gradually the odour faded, but for the clothes closet.  I worked out that it was her that smelled like a dog, and probably her clothes, not the van. 

Enormous shower compared with some; almost a waste of space, but we'll
find a use for it no doubt.

Lavendar sachets and car fresheners here we come!

The front double bed pulls down and rests on the front seats; it can
fold back up or remain down if you are not driving anywhere. 

They did replace the toilet for us to a tidier arrangement and had a number of cupboard catches replaced so every thing more or less works. 

The usual conversion of the eating area into ?king size? bed.  Not likely to
bother with this part, except that two of the couches could
serve as single beds if needed.

Unfortunately, we've yet to find a users manual on the internet in English instead of German.  Still, we know several German speakers and Google translate is pretty cool.

Strange green chenille curtains for privacy.  Those will be
trickier to replace, but I'm sure we will figure it out.

These are the before photos...I'm working on the afters!

A Wet Walk

Bill and I are still walking quite a bit and we decided to go down to the beach one day when it was especially nice.



There were several groups of school children doing various activities, each delineated by t-shirts of a different colour.





Bill and I took off our shoes to walk in the sand.  I was pleased not to have stepped on this fish, about the size of a minnow, thinking that would have been unpleasant. 



I've no idea what kind it was, but given that later on the local paper warned about weever fish I was even gladder not to have stepped on it and I've been very careful ever since.

The only trouble with the walk was that I turned around and noticed this approaching.




We chose our shelter and made a run for the bus stop up on the roadside.




I was fascinated to see this poor ship leaving the Tyne and launching out into that storm. 

There is a ghost of a ship there just to left of the
street light, above the railing.

It completely disappeared into the rain and cloud, as did the horizon itself. 




I guess they knew what they were doing as I didn't hear about any ship wreck / rescue later on.



I rather enjoyed standing there in the middle of it all, sheltered as we were.  As usual, the storm passed as quickly as it came and we made our way back home, relatively dry after all.  I always thought the saying 'Don't like the weather?  Just wait a minute' was peculiar to Oklahoma; turns out people say that pretty much everywhere.

Returning Home

Our trip home was long, but fortunately uneventful.  I remember at some point at the airport telling Bill that I was just too tired to make conversation any longer.  I felt that I had been talking practically non-stop for 3 weeks and my brain simply didn't want to participate in any exchange of words for a while.  Have you ever been so tired you were speechless?

When we got home I was anxious to see how the garden was doing.  We were greeted first thing by brilliant orange flowers in the front.



The back had gotten along just fine without us!  The runner beans were running, the strawberries were berrying and even the raspberries were rasping (whatever).  Turns out George had just looked over the fence and not seen any strawberries.  They were of course all under the leaves and so the whole crop was still there.

We had strawberries every night for dinner for a couple of weeks, but never enough to freeze or make preserves.  The raspberries came on just as the strawberries dwindled and have given over a half dozen every day.  Not a big crop, but enough to add to fruit desserts and make them special.  I'm still sufficiently new (and bad) at gardening that whenever anything actually grows I still get really exciting.  Most the credit for that obviously rests with Bill. 




Now it's blackberry season, which is wonderful in terms of finding free food. 



However, not so wonderful in that the end of summer is rapidly approaching.

Wee Prezzie

This is the third thing about the holiday that I wanted to show you. 



I'm terrible about knowing when to give presents.  It's not just about being a tightwad, it's about knowing what is appropriate and when.  I hate to give someone the sense of obligation I feel when I receive a gift, so it's all rather fraught for me.  That said, people who give me a bed for a night - or more - clearly need a tangible thank you.

Bill and I debated this a while with no real conclusion until one day I was posting a book I'd sold on Amazon and spotted these stamps.  No doubt the world has seen these images a squillion times but I can't tell you what a big deal this wedding was over here (far bigger even than the later riots, though perhaps not for the individuals directly involved).  I've never seen Britain happier than on that wedding day.

So it seemed a good memento to share.  I bought sets of the stamps - the last the postmaster had!  Bill and I visited the fleamarket the next Saturday and had a chat with the framing guy there.  We've done business with him before and know him to be reliable.  We chose the frame and he promised they would be ready the following week, the day before we flew!  He was actually quite excited about the project as he liked my idea.  He made sure he protected the stamps so they would in remain collectable condition, the least of my concerns but nice of him all the same.

I didn't remember to get snaps of this at Sandra & John's or at Doris & Don's, but finally remembered at Jan and Jerry's house.  I was pleased with the result and hopefully it will be a happy reminder of our visit.

Jaw Breaker

There were three final things I wanted to tell you about this last holiday that I didn't manage to fit in elsewhere.  One of them was my sewing project.  This is another.

Much as I loved digging up information in ledgers and libraries or hunting gravestones in badly marked cemeteries, visiting South East Oklahoma was the low point of the trip for me.  I've always had really healthy teeth.  My first cavity came at 27 along with my first grey hair.  My fillings have always been surprises to me, the need indicated by the dentist not by any discomfort on my part; in short, I've never actually had a toothache before.  My mom always made my dental care a financial priority and having seen the record of monthly $25 payments she made for 10 years after I got my braces off, I feel obligated to take care of my teeth. 


That said, I was overdue for a dental check up.  When the discomfort started I thought I was just grinding my teeth more than usual and took to wearing the splint I have again, though it does interfere with sound sleep.   

This didn't really help the problem either.  The first couple of days, I couldn't for quite a while locate the pain into one tooth - they all hurt on that side.  Eventually, though, I knew which one it was.  It didn't seem a good idea to go poking it in polite company, so I did my best to keep my fingers out of my mouth.  Sometimes, though, if I couldn't get it to stop hurting I just needed sometimes to make it hurt different.

By then I was having not just toothaches but headaches such that I was sure the mirror would show me a big splintered hole in my head that an axe must have left.  My cheek was swollen hard and hot to touch, so I knew there was an infection.  I looked all this up on the internet and decided it might be a cracked tooth.  As I said earlier, dentists work part time in South East Oklahoma and they aren't interested in meeting new patients on their days off.

Bill found me some pain tablets in the pharmacy across the road from the Coalgate library and I popped a couple in the bathroom at the Courthouse, not even reading the label.  I had work to do.  Later, back at the motel, the headache was back and I wanted more pain relief.  However the label said no more than 2 in 24 hours.  It would seem that I had a choice between headache relief and a healthy liver.  I really do value my liver; you only have one and replacements are hard to come by.  So, I just moved in and lived with the pain for a while longer, though I'd read that dental infections can invade the blood stream and cause heart disease.  Bill kept telling me that the label warnings were very conservative and I could take more tablets, but I was too frightened not to follow the label to the letter.  My rule following tendencies annoy him and amuse others, I know. 

It scared me to be back in the US, seemingly without access to medical care.  I've always had jobs with health insurance and whilst I didn't take it for granted, I never imagined being without either.  It was like not being a member of the 'club' anymore with no hope of getting in.

On this trip I was pretty sure I could afford whatever treatment would be needed to take care of the problem, but what must it be like for those who can't?  I was thinking about the Dental College in Oklahoma City if I couldn't get in anywhere else, but I still had to get through the weekend.  There was something about being in the 106 degree heat in the back woods of a conservative state that made me feel alone and vulnerable.  I had a good cry both Friday and Saturday evenings, faced with getting through the long nights of hurt  and waiting.

Fortunately, the headaches were transient, if not the infection.  I could go for hours and feel almost normal before the next episode began.  It suggested something to do with nerves, but at that point I didn't really care about the details.  When we pulled into South OKC to Doris and Don's house, Don mentioned that the people across the road had a son who was a dentist.  When I woke up Monday morning, Donald P. was on the phone to the dental office who said I should come in first thing, at 8am.  Don told me he liked the man I was to see, he was a good dentist.  Don said he called him 'Jaw Breaker', so I should, too.

Donald P. is a retired (but still working part time) truck driver with a deep scratchy voice, an outspoken nature and an unexpected turn of phrase.  He doesn't cuss as much as he used to, but I wouldn't cross him all the same.  That said, he's a real teddy bear and I felt really loved when I woke up and heard him talking on the phone in my behalf.  {Thank you, Don.  I love you, too.}

So I went and met Dr. Robert Mars.  I told him I had been instructed to call him 'Jaw Breaker', but if it was alright by him, I'd prefer Dr. Mars.  He laughed and said "That's Don for you."  He had a look and said it was my old-fashioned metal fillings.  One had loosened and allowed bacteria to enter.  I needed a root canal.  Or he could pull the tooth and I could go for a bridge.  He had plastic models to demonstrate these options.  We talked prices.  Because I value my teeth I decided to keep it if I could; besides, bridges sound a right nuisance to me.

There is an old cartoon advert that mentions 'diabolical dentistry'.  I can't pretend to understand the problem other than it's an odd mix of NHS and private dentists over here, often the same dentist.  If you had a choice between treating smelly old NHS patients for a pittance and nice shiny rich ones for private fees, which would you choose?  All I can tell you is that if my dentist were a runner, he could easily break the 4-minute mile.  He's a busy man, rushed to get through all his NHS list so he can get on with making money, but he's very polite while he's rushing, I'll give him that.  He is in no way responsible for my metal fillings, however, they are all American.

Another thing about dentistry came up the other day when Helen and Martin came over for a visit.  Martin is scared to death of dentists; apparently, he's only experienced "butchers".  The description 'American style dentistry' over here refers not as much (I don't think) to Duchess Kate's dazzling whites as it does to 'painless dentistry'.  I am telling you the whole, unvarnished truth when I say I spent two and a half hours in Dr. Mars' chair and nothing he did hurt.  It sometimes seemed as though there was a whole construction crew at work in there, but I didn't even have to hold my mouth open; they have wedges for that these days.  The whole right side of my face was sore and swollen to the point of obstructing my vision for half of the next day, but while he was working, boredom was my very worst problem.  He is a nice man and I highly recommend him if you need a dentist.

I will admit that $1,354 was a bit of an ouch; today, that's in the ball park of £700.   I'll get about £200 back from my travel insurance.  I had £2 million medical cover, but we already know that dentistry is not a high priority in Britain, right? The pain tablets and the antibiotics were another $40.  I did remark to the receptionist when I turned over my credit card that I considered it money well spent.  Looking back now at those numbers, they are a bit staggering, but I've never been any good at negotiating at the best of times and given I could afford international travel I didn't think I had a very strong hand.  Besides which, I was grateful.  He didn't have to see me; he worked me in between his other appointments, not that his office was very busy.  Bill was astonished at the difference between the occasional patient and the full waiting rooms found in Britain.    

One of the thoughts I had whilst having my (painless) root canal was that I'd always heard about women getting crushes on their OB-GYN physicians.  I was thinking I could just about develop a crush on 'Jaw Breaker'.  But don't tell him I said that if you see him, OK?

Grandma's Birthday

This is currently my favourite photo of Grandma.  Is that a snazzy (Grandpa's word) outfit, or what?  I hadn't appreciated what a clothes horse she was until I began writing this blog and collecting photos of her, scanning the photos from her and Grandpa's album.  When I knew her she wore cotton floral dresses with matching necklaces and earrings and what I thought of as 'Grandma shoes'.  Then again, these days, if I'm not wearing trainers I'm most likely wearing 'Grandma shoes'. 

I've had a bit of a resentment about Grandma keeping Daddy's adoption a secret.  Then, just the other night, it occurred to me how much I had in common with Grandma.  She couldn't have children, for whatever reason.  I've never had children either.  I know as much as I do about Grandpa's family history and her family history because of the bits of information she wrote down and tucked into their family Bible.  My Dad didn't keep in touch with his relatives and so the only ones I know now are through my genealogy research.

I know the names of everyone in Grandma's album  because she wrote their names on the photos.  I used to think this was defacing the pictures and she should have written on the back, but I've definitely come to see the wisdom of labelling the front of photos (the one above, a case in point).  Grandma corresponded with her brothers and sisters, then with their children and even grandchildren.  She talked about her family a lot and I grew up hearing names that I've since been able to put with photos and in the family tree.  It's been a very satisfying puzzle to solve.  I can see now that family history was important to her, perhaps because she came so close to having no family future, like I have none. 

For most of the time I remember her, she was increasingly senile.  I saw her as a rather wishy-washy housewife, sometimes a bit smothering in her affections.  From what Mom told me, Grandma always liked my Dad's first wife better, so Grandma had definite opinions at some point.   That said, without fail and certainly without any prompting, everyone at the reunion of Grandma's family mentioned what a nice, lovely person she was.  It makes me sad I didn't have the opportunity to get to know her better as a person, but I suppose while it's possible to become friends with one's parents, we are all that little bit further removed from grandparents. 

Whatever else this adoption business has roughed up in me, it has certainly brought Grandma to the fore of my mind a lot and I've come to realise she was much more complex that I gave her credit for being before. 

One of the housewife-y things she used to do was to knit dishcloths.  I expect Bill will hate them, but I have a feeling I'm going to have to knit myself a couple of dishcloths, just in case there is more value there than I'd previously appreciated.

Happy Birthday, Grandma!