When I visit an historic site I like to imagine the people who might have occupied the very place I’m occupying, but in a different time. What would that person have seen? If there was supernatural gift I could have I’d love to have the ability to stand in a particular place and have time reverse itself before my eyes like a clock rapidly rewinding so that I could be an invisible visitor watching what took place at that spot hundreds, even thousands of years ago.

Whether I was standing in a room in the Bloody Tower of London, or next to a Neolithic open portal tomb in the Burren of Ireland it would be endlessly fascinating to me to watch things unfold. When we stood in the gateway of the old fortezza above Sarzana, Italy I thought of the people who must have come and gone into the fortification at the time when it was the center of economic and defensive activity for the area; messengers, peddlers, lords and beggars, all coming, going, living and dying. What if I could stand on Stirling Bridge in 1297 and watch William Wallace rout the English, or take in market day in little Dicomano – 500 years ago. Even just walking through a field in the English Cotswalds, watching the shepherds earn their bread and cheese could be interesting, or maybe venturing to the point at Loch Ness where St. Columba reportedly saw the legendary monster and commanded it to return to the depths.

Somehow this seems possible when you’re in Europe, where so much time and history is layered so densely in waves you almost can hear the voices and smell the ghosts around you.

How many walked or rode through this narrow entryway into the Sarzana Fortezza? What business brought them there?

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Flying home from London and we haven’t been airborne for 45 minutes and already the guy in front of me has tried to catapult his seat backwards into full recline – and into my lap. Not just ease it back, mind you, but a full-speed, full-length lunge. I long ago in my flying career lost patience with this tactic; on the first assault today I met the onrushing back of his seat firmly with both hands on the back of his seat and my elbows locked. “Pardon me,” I said politely but firmly, “but could I please have a couple more inches of space?” He returned the seat to its appropriate space.

A few minutes ago, just after I had opened the laptop, he tried again, and again with a sudden recline, which was rejected more emphatically, which drew a head turn and stare from my opponent. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Your seat closed my laptop so suddenly I had to react quickly to get my fingers out of the way.” He grunted and moved his seat to a safe distance.

Look, I know air travel is uncomfortable and we need to make allowances. I don’t have a problem with people reclining their seats an inch or three to get more comfortable, and I do the same myself. I always do it slowly, however, not suddenly and try to remember that there’s another human being behind me. Just because I can recline my seat farther, doesn’t mean I have to, or should. To do so is just downright rude, and may be dealt with in-kind. I’ve been on flights before where the seat in front of me comes back so far I couldn’t even keep a paperback book open comfortably, let alone a laptop (and I know that I can’t presume any God-given right to use my laptop on an airplane). Accommodations can and must be made. The fellow in front of me has received his extra space, and I’ve got my keyboard hard up against me and I’m looking at the monitor at a rather steep angle. It will do.

Should the chap in front of me again consider my personal space as the Sudetenland, I will have to resort to guerilla tactics. In the past if someone has insisted on a full recline at my expense he has had to contend with my newspaper overlapping his head as I vigorously turn its pages, sometimes even reading aloud from it to my neighbor if it’s someone in my family. My personal rule is, if I can see the crown on your head, it’s mine to play with. I may try to create intricate hair sculptures with my breath, or muster the juiciest nose-blowing I can manage. Today, however, I have what I believe may be the ultimate weapon.

Tiger Lilly is next to me and has the hacking cough three of us have been passing around the rental car the last week. It comes around about every minute and a half. If the invasion comes, I will switch seats with her, and encourage her to do her best to “get it all out.”

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Friday morning. We flew into Shannon airport from London Wednesday afternoon on Ryanair, which had offered airfare for ?1.90 per person one way. We actually paid more to check our luggage than we did for the whole family’s airfare, and the airport taxes were even higher, but we still managed the round trip for about ?124.

We’re staying at Clonmore Lodge, a Bed & Breakfast and working cattle farm owned by John and Maire Daly. It’s on the Atlantic coast of Ireland outside the small town of Quilty in County Clare. In addition to his farming and hosting, John is a local historian and caretaker of the cemetary on his property. Clonmore has been in his family since 1903, but the first reference to the property in the Annals of Ireland cites it as the place that received the wounded from a nearby battle in 1641. Also on the grounds are the ruins of a Catholic church that was built in 1091.

It’s a friendly place: already my wife has been drooled on and the Mall Diva has been pawed — by the farm’s three dogs. When we arrived Wednesday evening one of the first things that John took the girls on a tour of his barns to see the baby chicks and baby kittens that had been in residence only a little longer than us. Thursday morning began with John taking us on a tour of the church ruins and the cemetary as he described the histories of many of the families buried there, the customs of the time and many other useful details (did you know, for instance, that Guiness is the Protestant stout, while Murphy’s was the Catholic stout?). A lot of the stories described the long history of persecutions and reprisals between Catholic and Protestants that has shaped this area, as well as the entire country. There is generally peaceful co-existence today, offering hope that while sectarian differences may be ever-present, they don’t have to be eternally hateful.

There’s also a little pub near the lodge that used to be the local village general store – and the place where our host’s father was born. The pub doesn’t open until 9:30 p.m. and I dropped in to sample a Guiness in its native habitat. The pub is about the size of my living room, with a snooker table, a couple of small booths and half a dozen bar stools. It was also equipped with a handful of locals, one of whom clearly had a Texas accent. In a room that size you’re not going to be able to sit back and observe things unnoticed, and I was soon involved in conversation with the group. The Texan introduced himself and asked where I was from. I said Minnesota, and he said he was from San Antonio, Texas. I said I was born in Texas. He asked if I, being from Minnesota, knew of the little Twin Cities suburb of South St. Paul. I said I actually lived in South St. Paul. It turns out he used to work for a St. Paul company and lived in South St. Paul, on Dwayne St., just blocks from where I live! He had later met and married a woman from Quilty and moved here, ready to greet me on my arrival.’Tis a small world, indeed.

Thursday was also a “nice” day by Irish standards for the area: sunny and with temperatures well up into the 50’s – Fahrenheit, that is. As a result, a number of people were at the beach, many in swimsuits. The Reverend Mother, however, had on just about every layer of clothing she brought with her, and even commandeered some of mine. We also visited the Cliffs of Moher which are nearby. These are impressive formations, somewhat reminiscent of the Palisades on the Minnesota North Shore, but are much more extensive. Though several hundred feet above the ocean, the updrafts from the cliffs carry sea spray up and into your face when you stand near the edge of the cliffs.

Our trip is nearly over. Today we’ll tour The Burren, a large area of land containing prehistoric artifacts and ruins such as ring-forts and dolmens from the earliest days of Ireland’s history. Tomorrow we’ll tour some more of the countryside before returning to Shannon for our flight back to London, and finally, leave for home on Sunday. I have more stories to tell of our adventures in the Cotswalds, Scotland and travels through England, and more than 600 digital photos to sort through. I’ll try to post some of these shorter remembrances and other photos over the next couple of days.

Home is that-a-way: A sunset look at the Atlantic from our rooms at Clonmore.

Irish farms are a great place to meet chicks.

Our host and tour guide, John Daly, explains the significance of the various symbols on the grave and tomb markers in the cemetary, and how to tell if the deceased was Protestant or Catholic. Many of the stones have scaled or worn badly, but there was one with a date in the 1600’s and another where the deceased had left “this transitory life” in 1777.

The Cliffs of Insanity – I mean, Moher. There’s a paved path and fence that people are supposed to stay on and behind, but just about everyone ignores it. You might see more details in a future edition of “The Darwin Awards”.

A cow’s eye view: the locals always know where to find the best views.

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After an overnight in Carlisle we set out for Scotland on Saturday morning, crossing the border by following the A7 Historic Route to Edinburgh. Shortly thereafter we stopped at a wayside to read a plaque and let the girls skip stones across a fast-flowing stream. We wound our way toward Edinburgh, watching sheep dogs work their flocks into shape and admiring the scenery. We only gave the city itself a few glances as we crossed the Forth Road Bridge over the Firth of Forth because we were headed to St. Andrews and, ultimately, a bed in Inverness that night.

I’d been to St. Andrews before, on a cold blustery day 30 years ago and had virtually had the town to myself. I had walked the 17th and 18th holes of the Old Course and visited the ruins of the old town’s castle and original cathedral. I had stood on a cliff overlooking the North Sea has the waves pounded the rocks below and the wind chapped my face before I returned to my senses and realized I had been standing there for 40 minutes, hypnotized. This day, however, was a “soft” day, sunny, cool and, of course, windy. The occasional shower blew over us as we parked at the Old Course and walked up the 18th hole, and then turned toward the castle and the sea to retrace the steps I had made so long ago, this time able to show the sights to my children.

We left St. Andrews at 6 p.m. and made for Inverness, climbing and turning through the Highlands where the low clouds coddled the tops of the hills and the rain came more steadily. Finally we descended into the valley to Inverness, the sky still light at 9 p.m., making the greens of the hills and the grays of the town appear even richer in the gloaming.

Over the next couple of days we would visit Loch Ness (where one canny Scot, a bagpiper, had positioned himself in full regalia at one of the most scenic overlooks to play his pipes and pose for pictures – and accept tips), Urquhart Castle, and enjoy the rugged beauty of Inverness before venturing south again to Stirling Castle, built by another Stewart – James V, for his queen, Mary Guise. Nice place.

Ah, the gorse – a lovely weed, but a weed all the same.

We paid the piper (a pound).

Urquhart castle. This is an excellent place to visit. The ruins are very accessible and the grounds are small enough to make for an easy and leisurely tour, with excellent vistas.

A view of Loch Ness from a window in the ruins of Urquhart Castle.

New evidence of the Loch Ness Monster Truck!

We only had time for a couple of quick photos on the famous Swilcan Bridge – a group of Germans was eager to tee off on the 18th hole (and perhaps on us).

Below the ruins of the castle at St. Andrews.

The ruins of the St. Andrews cathedral.

A kingly view from the battlements of Stirling Castle.

Tiger Lilly gets fitted for chain mail (can you buy it at a chain store?).

A stained glass window in the Great Hall of Stirling castle (no, Kevin, it doesn’t say what you think it says. Athole.)

Inverness and the Ness. (photo by Mall Diva).

A stroll in Inverness (photo by Mall Diva).

Loch Ness.

Highland scene.

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Our last night in Inverness the whole family went on a “haunted” ghost tour of the old part of the city. It was an interesting and often funny diversion and the tour concluded with the group at a pub for our promised free drink included in the package. It turned out that a couple of big names in Scottish folk music were going to be playing at the pub that night, and our host offered the group half-price cover charges if any wanted to stay for the performance. The Mall Diva and I decided to hang around, and it was a very good show.

It ended about 10:45 and we walked out into the streets; streets that still looked as if it were merely twilight and not nigh onto midnight. That’s part and parcel of being this far north, but it was still an unusual experience. Rather than heading directly back to our lodgings, I made the Diva come with me a short distance to where we could overlook the Caledonian Canal as it bisects the city.

It was a special sight. The water of the canal was inky black and glistening with a gelatinous texture, while the stone buildings flanking the canal were shades of gray with small bursts of yellow light from the lights by their doors. Overhead the sky was still a light gray behind almost black clouds, except for a smear of purple-blue behind the finger-nail sliver of moon.

It was evocative and more memorable in the same way that some black and white photos are more powerful than full color.

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I thought driving in Italy would be the biggest challenge because of the reputation of Italian drivers and due to the language barrier, but in fact we picked it pretty well. We were greatly encouraged by the time we returned to England and picked up our rental car. Sure, there was that whole driving on the wrong side thingy but we figured we could get used to that quickly and, if we ever got lost, we could easily ask for directions.

The truth is, I hate driving in England, and it’s not because I still find myself walking to the wrong side of the car. In Italy, as I’ve already described, everything was wide open and you pursued your course without worrying too much about the other guy yet somehow it worked and everyone got where they were going; kind of like capitalism in a way. Driving in England is a perfect model for socialism where the goal is to make everyone equally miserable. There are more rules, more signs forbidding you from turning here or entering there, and everywhere there are signs noting that your speed and driving behavior are being recorded by police cameras. Much like the red-light cameras that have been tested in Minneapolis, “invisible” police may be taking your photo, noting your license plate and sending you a fine via the mail. It will be interesting to see if we’ve been tagged when we get home. Additionally, you are also informed that your license plate is being filmed when you buy gasoline, or “petrol.” The reason, it is explained, is to stop drive off thefts, but it makes you wonder about the whole “Big Brother” thing – cameras are watching you drive, watching you fill up – there is certainly a suggestive potential to this degree of monitoring that has to make you a little uneasy (of course, they can find out almost the same thing by tracking your credit card usage). To top it off, the nanny state mentality is further reinforced by signs regularly along the motorways urging drivers to take a break and rest so they can be fresh and avoid accidents. These were quaint the first couple of times I saw them, but they are everywhere and it long ago became annoying.

If they were really serious about avoiding accidents, then why don’t they get out there and cut the tree branches away from their roundabout signs? I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been trying to find a place, or trying to follow the arrows to be sure we get off on the right exit, only to have half the word of our destination covered up by foliage. Again, this happens all too often to be amusing. Is the brush-cutting union on strike?

The biggest frustration, however, is how long it takes to get anywhere. All of our trips so far have taken at least 50% longer than we expected looking at the mileage and the type of road we were going to be traveling on. The most bizarre example was a few days ago when we were trying to drive from the Cotswalds in the west to Carlisle, which is near the Scottish border. We had three lane motorway all the way, first the M5 and then the M6. The speed limit on the motorway is 70 mph, but this is largely theoretical. I have never been on a three lane highway before where you frequently come to a complete stop. And not just every now and then; repeatedly about every two miles we’d be forced to slow down for the “queues” as other roads fed into the motorway, backing things up to a standstill. Sheer torture, as the hours slip by and the miles don’t. And if you’re hungry or need gas or even just a toilet, good luck; you can’t expect to find these services at just about any highway exit ramp (especially exits for towns) like you can in the States. Your only chance for these things (and to have a reasonable chance of being able to get back on your original motorway) is to exit at a turn-off listed as having “Services.” Trouble is, because these are so few and far between, they’re always jammed with other motorists, queuing up for gas for the bathroom, for crisps and finally, maddeningly, to get back onto the motorway. I swear, the English would stand in line at an orgy.

So why are all these people on the road, anyway? Doesn’t England have a great public transportation system? How about all those trains? When I was here in ’79 I got around quite easily by train and it opened my eyes that maybe a pubic transportation system like this could be efficient. Now, however, the roads are crowded because no one can afford to take the trains, and no one has the time to trust the bus service. Some economists can probably give you a better explanation than I for the cost of the train service, but there’s no way we could have afforded to move my whole family around by train, even with the high prices for gasoline.

Finally, let me say this: the language “advantage” compared to driving in, say, Italy, is overrated. Just as we often found ourselves in sight of where we wanted to go but unable to get there because of the traffic signs and signals, we have also concluded that just because you know a language doesn’t mean you can understand it.

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As we checked out of our lodgings at Fattoria il Lago, my new good friend Francesco and I were talking about the number of languages he has had to learn how to get by in while running an agriturism business, and of our common failure in each of us having once tried to learn to learn German in our lives. Francesco told me, “You should learn to speak Italian, John, it is the most beautiful of the languages.”

I told him, “Francesco, I can speak Italian,” and to demonstrate I started waving my hands and arms in the air. He laughed and said, “You do speak Italian!”

One of our guidebooks said that you can get by easily in Europe speaking only English because most of the people you encounter speak it at least somewhat and love the opportunity to practice. According to Francesco, however, this isn’t the case in Italy where the schools don’t promote languages other than the native tongue. He said in the big cities you can run into more Italians who speak English, and with people heavily involved in tourism. This has pretty much been my experience as we found few people in rural Dicomano and in other places who spoke English. Nevertheless, we were able to get along pretty well.

For one thing, we picked up new words quickly, and it is also a big advantage that Italian is based on Latin so that we could frequently figure things out by recognizing Latin roots for words and, applying a little context. There is some satisfaction in making yourself understood in another country; you feel very cosmopolitan and begin to think you can survive anywhere. Of course, drop me in the middle of Poland, where the only word I know is kielbasa, and it would be a different story.

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Internet access has been problematic, and time has been short. Everything seems to take much longer to accomplish than you expect (even adjusting for experience), especially when traveling as a family.

Oh well, lots to tell but no time right now as someone else is looking over my shoulder and wants to use this terminal in 7 minutes. I have more updates on our trips to the Cinque Terre, the Cotswalds, and most recently, bonny Scotland. We’re in Inverness now, and heading south for Falkirk today. Hoping for better luck finding access for there is much to show and tell.

Nessie remains elusive, but we have lots of other photos and anecdotes of our travels, including taking a tour with a ghost last night and taking in an excellent Celtic music duo. More soon!

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We survived our week of renting a car and driving in Italy. Italian drivers don’t seem any worse than the ones I’ve encountered in Minnesota and they don’t drive any faster and crazier than the drivers I’ve experienced in and around Atlanta.

Italians do drive a bit more aggressively in that they’ll fit their cars into any space big enough to hold them, and since most of the cars are, in fact, about the size of a golf cart they can get these into some pretty small places. Give an Italian an inch and he’ll park in it. Show the slightest hesitation and you can expect three or four cars to jump in front of you. The funny thing is, this doesn’t bother me the way it would at home. If someone crowded me on Hennepin Avenue or Robert St. it would be downright rude and it might draw a rude response. Here that’s just the way everybody does it – and the weird thing is that there isn’t any road rage. Not only that, we saw just one accident (a minor one) in the time we were here. Maybe if your expectation is for others to follow proper driving etiquette at all times you are more apt to be offended when that expectation isn’t met. If the prevailing “etiquette” is that everyone is going to take (or make) the most direct path to their destination it somehow works out. In a way it’s kind of like walking in a crowd. When we’re walking we move diagonally, sidestep, shuffle and adjust course or “change lanes” often, scarcely giving a thought to those behind or even beside you. That’s how Italian driving works. I know it sounds counter-intuitive for an orderly system, but the thing is, it works. About the only rule is: don’t get in the way.

Yes, this is a real car. They’re everywhere over here. So, which of the two in this picture is cuter?

Don’t clog the left lane on the autostrada, and if someone flashes his lights behind you, you move over (you definitely don’t flip him off or go even slower). The great thing is, this works in your favor as well when you need to get around someone.

A big advantage in driving in Italy is that they drive on the same side of the road as we do. The disadvantage is in not knowing the language. The road signs and other basics are pretty simple, but it is disconcerting when you see signs that have your destination on them, followed by a lot of other words that you don’t understand. I mean, it must be something important to know, or else they wouldn’t have put the sign up – but what does it mean?

Does it say, “Closed for resurfacing 12 kilometers ahead” or “No passing on Tuesdays” or, maybe, “You just think you’re on the A12”?

Oh well, Italy wasn’t nearly as scary as we thought it would be. Now it’s on to a car rental in England, where the language is at least the same (or close), but they drive on the other side of the road.

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The Mall Diva hogged the laptop tonight so she could write her post and I’ve used a lot of my time to download, edit and format some photos from the past few days so that they’ll be more blog-friendly. I’ve got some more thoughts on Italy, the Cinque Terre and my impressions (not so favorable) of Florence and Pisa, but those will have to wait. We’re leaving Italy on the 24th to return to England and I’m hoping I’ll find internet access at the airport in Torino while we wait for our flight. I should have better internet access while in England and hope to post more regularly once we get there. In the meantime, here are some photos from the past few days.

Here’s a panoramic shot of the valley our house in Tuscany overlooked. (I used the computer to stitch together three separate photos to create the single, large image).

Here’s where we started every morning while in Dicomano, drinking cappuccino and eating pastry. The patio out front is where the old men met and talked, and the town’s piazza was just across the street and to the left of these tables.

This woman makes the finest, frothiest cappuccino’s we’ve ever enjoyed. We couldn’t start our day without her. If you’re ever in Dicomano, you really have to stop by Bar Centrale and have yourself two or three.

You know what this is. We came, we saw, it didn’t fall on us. We constantly had to step around people who cleverly (and so originally) positioned themselves in front of the tower with their arms up in the air so their partners could take a photo that looked as if they were holding up the tower. We did not do this, though it crossed my mind to stand on the other side of the tower and make it look as if I were pushing it over!

The Giant; Monterossa, Italy (Cinque Terre). This is also what I look like when the Mall Diva can no longer carry her own bag.

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More to come as soon as I can get reliable access to the Internet.

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