MonsterFool

It took us three trains and three hours to make our pilgrimage from Brighton to Canterbury. These are our tales. If you’re expecting something bawdy, you’ll need to read Chaucer.

The Mexican Food Lover’s Tale

One of the things we miss from the States is Mexican food. So when our friends from London suggested that we have lunch at a Mexican place, we said yes eagerly. Never mind that the restaurant is called “Le Café des amis.” (Um, do they know that’s French?) We enjoyed not only the food but also the location: catty cornered to the West Gate that leads into the center of Canterbury.

The Clambering Kid’s Tale

Sam climbed over a low stone wall to frolic and dance by the Stour River while we took pictures and watched the punters.

But when clambering back over, a sharp stone clawed her hand. There was blood. There were tears. Thankfully our pilgrimage did not need to detour to the hospital.

The British History Lover’s Tale

This is a gorgeous Cathedral, and it has been at this site in Canterbury in one form or another since the 7th century, although much of what we see now was built between the 12th and 15th centuries. The ChristChurch Gate was erected in 1517.

Almost immediately upon entering the Cathedral, Sam and I got sucked into a current of tourists and became separated from both AC and our friends. But thanks to the current, we were among the last allowed into the deeper recesses of the church just before the docents closed them off for choir practice. Was I happy that we made the cut! As Sam put it later, “It’s a graveyard church.” Canterbury cathedral is the final resting place for dozens and dozens, if not hundreds, of people. Most of the tombs are crowned with bronze or stone effigies, like this one for Prince Edward Plantagenet, who was also known as The Black Prince:

Edward’s nephew, Henry IV, is entombed just across the way, along with his wife, Queen Jeanne de Navarre. Henry IV is the only king of England to be buried in Canterbury Cathedral. These royal tombs were placed as close as possible to the site of the original shrine to St. Thomas Beckett. Thomas Beckett is the reason all those pilgrims flocked (and still flock) to Canterbury. Here is where the shrine used to be:

And here is, more or less, the spot where the Archbishop turned Saint met his end. The story goes that Henry II was fairly cheesed off at the Archbishop of Canterbury, because the latter insisted on excommunicating anyone who disagreed with the Church. The king is purported to have said something like, “Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?” Four knights took his remark as command, went to Canterbury Cathedral, confronted the Archbishop, and then murdered him with swords, while the man was on his way to vespers.

Here, Sam and I met up with AC, who reported having heard a tour guide claim that the discoloration on this stone is St. Thomas’s blood. However, this strikes us as a tall Canterbury tale.

The Thwarted Tourist’s Tale

Reunited with our fellow travelers, we leave the Cathedral and walk to the ruin of Canterbury Castle, erected shortly after the Norman conquest in 1066.

The sign said the castle was open to the public, but the locked gate said otherwise. We briefly considered climbing over the stone wall, but remembered the cautionary tale of the clambering kid. No Norman Castle for us.

The Hiker’s Tale

We hiked roughly west, following the river, and along the way we crossed an interesting variety of flora and fauna: along with the usual cows, horses, and sheep, there were pigs, swans, deer, and even reindeer!

We passed through orchards, berry patches, and fields of beans.

The forest was lovely.

Except for the stinging nettles (sorry, honey).

The Tired Traveler’s Tale

We were tired. We’d hiked between 4 and 5 miles and it was getting late. It was time to either turn around and hoof it back to Canterbury in time for the next train out, or to take a bus or taxi back. We decided to seek out the nearest village pub, have a drink, and see about a taxi.

The closest village was Chartham Hatch. The closest pub was… closed.

There was no sign of a bus stop nor could we gather any info about local taxis. We took a load off anyway in the pub’s garden, and plotted our next move. No drink for us.

The Fortunate Wayfarer’s Tale

After some map consultation, we determined that if we walked about a mile more, we’d come to a rail station on the Canterbury-London line. Lo and behold we did. And we ended up catching the very train we’d meant to take from Canterbury. Three trains. Three hours back to Brighton. Three tired travelers. But we got one final treat on our pilgrimage:

Sam’s latest literary obsession is Narnia. We’re currently reading the third book of the Chronicles (in publication order), The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, in which the children access Narnia through a painting. The other day Sam said, “I need to get into Narnia.” I asked her if she’d tried the wardrobe in her room. “Yes,” she sighed. “And it’s just a regular wardrobe.”

Today she drew this picture. “Look, Mommy! Here’s Aslan and he’s destroying the white witch.” Then she identified each of the Pevensie children, from top left, clockwise: Edmund, Lucy, Peter, and Susan. Edmund is frowning because he wanted to go with the white witch.

“It’s great, Sam,” I said. “May I take a picture of it?”

“Yes,” she said. “And then we can jump into it.”

New segment at the start of French class: we make a craft that we use later in songs or activities. These milk jug top ladybugs (ladybirds here in the UK) are pretty easy to make: all you need are milk jug tops, stickers or googly eyes, a permanent marker, and pipe cleaners for antennae. Like the lemurs of a few weeks ago, their numbers are growing at an alarming rate.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw one of these duck-like cars in France in the late 80s. I thought it was a VW Beetle gone very, very wrong. Turns out that the two cars were developed around the same time, just before WWII broke out. I learned this recently while researching a short non-fiction piece I’m writing about the 2CV (Deux Chevaux). So I was quite pleased to run across an example of the “tin snail” in Hove today.

Our jaunt to Canterbury was not entirely bloodless.

I thought this was a pretty dramatic way to enshrine the spot where the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Beckett, was murdered in 1170. Other less dramatic tales from our trip to Canterbury to come.

We had a quiet, rainy Saturday here, which we welcomed as each of us had indoor things we wanted to do: AC worked on the new business he is setting up; I did some writing and research; Sam trashed the living room. It was all good. At one point I happened to look up and out the window and saw a giant red gnome head being erected on the seafront nearly opposite our flat. I called out, and everyone ran to the window to watch the giant gnome head sway and twist and bob in the wind. Then, without warning, a gust pushed it over into the pedestrian/bicycle path alongside King’s Road, where it nearly crushed several people. Then we saw a gaping, white gash in its side. The gnome never stood up again. In a minute, it was entirely deflated. And then it was gone.

The whole event took under 5 minutes.

Why there was a giant, red gnome head on the seafront today for a few minutes is something I’ll probably never know. But it was a useful lesson to look up every now and then. You never know what you’ll see. Especially in Brighton.

That’s what I imagined this woman was saying to her companion as she waded into the water. The temperature outside was in the mid-50s and it was raining pretty steadily. (Sam and I were bundled up in our rain gear and we were freezing.) Not only did this bather make it all the way in, but her companion joined her shortly afterward and they swam together toward the west pier. The Brits don’t let go of summer easily.

Sam was delighted to discover a rocket ship at the library today. We watched the night sky tonight for signs of the Perseid meteor showers, but it’s just too cloudy over the island tonight.

Or, “Holding Onto Summer For As Long As We Can.”

Sam and Anjeli at the park post gymnastics class… a few minutes before the sideways rain soaked us.

From Mom-Mom and Granddaddy. We are in Trader Joe’s heaven.

Just east of Rottingdean.

Brighton & Hove is host to the largest pride parade in the UK every year. We stepped out to catch a bit of the parade hoopla: lots of feather, lots of pink, lots of drag queens, lots of pirates. It reminded me of New Orleans. We saw one particular swashbuckling pirate leave the parade and then later, we saw the same…man, woman? (I’m not sure) browsing the aisles of our local chemist. “Mommy!” whispered Sam excitedly, “There’s the pirate!” We also saw two women dressed up as Dorbies (what Sam calls Barbie dolls). They were impossibly tall, impossibly blond, in pink tights and blue leotards. Dorbies and Pirates. Sam was in heaven.

Après le cours, le déluge.

When we very first came to Brighton for a short stay at the end of 2008, we looked into going to Pooh Corner and Ashdown Forest in East Sussex, the stomping grounds of A.A. Milne’s son Christopher Robin, and inspiration for many of the stories and landmarks in Winnie the Pooh (1926) and The House at Pooh Corner (1928). But it looked difficult to get there via public transportation, and we just never mustered the courage to hire a car. We still haven’t. But this time around, we have bicycles and long days, which gives us plenty of time to putter around the countryside and still get home before dark.

We trained to East Grinstead, changing at East Croyden. We’re getting the hang of traveling with the bicycles, but it is a bit stressful locating the proper bike car & loading the bikes before the train departs. We had a bizarre exchange with a Doctor Who fan who was sitting opposite our bicycles. He made some comment about using his anti-gravity powers to keep the bikes from falling when we were unstrapping them. Then I made the mistake of asking him, “Who is your favorite doctor?” (He was wearing a t-shirt that read “You Never Forget Your First Doctor” with a picture of the Tardis on it.)

“Yes!” he said, grinning. Then I got the joke and nearly embedded my palm in my forehead for the remainder of the day. The Dr. Who fan grinned. Then he pulled out three different “sonic screwdrivers,” each one a different model from different eras of the show, and showed them off.

We managed to get our bicycles off the train without encountering any time anomalies. That I know of.

And off we rode, through East Grinstead looking for the trailhead to the Sussex border path.

Here it is:

The Sussex border path is a 159-mile corridor open only to foot traffic, cyclists, and equestrians. It is, to use the vernacular, brilliant. Nice and wide, not too rocky, and fairly level. Most of the time we rolled through farms and fields, but there was lovely shade from trees framing the path.

This is how green it was:

This is how fast I was going:

Eat your heart out, Tardis!

But too soon, it was time to leave the Sussex border path and head into the hills on smaller bridleways, into Upper Hartfield.

And after a mile or so on streets, we went off-road again into a spectacular descent. You know I don’t take pictures of descents because I need two hands and all my concentration so as not to hit a rut and fall off the bike. But it was spectacularly down. And that kind of descent inspires mixed feelings in a cyclist like me. I’m so glad to be going down, but I can’t help but wonder just how bad the next up is going to be. And heaven forbid we have to turn around and eventually and retrace our steps.

At the bottom was this handy sign:

The sign pointed us down another steep hill, heavily wooded, and just before it levels out at the bridge, I saw a little door:

The sign says, “RNIG ALSO.”

And then the bridge where Christopher Robin & the gang played poohsticks:

We had come equipped for a game:

The game is this: each player drops a stick on the upstream side of the bridge. Then everyone watches and cheers as the sticks are carried under the bridge. The winner is the first stick to emerge on the downstream side of the bridge.

We tossed our sticks in, joining a long line of Pooh fans who have played before us. Unfortunately, their sticks are all still there. Stuck.

So that didn’t work too well. Disappointed, we sat down and read a little A.A. Milne, while some other fans came and added more sticks into the gigantic poohsticks dam under the bridge.

After the others had left, Sam wanted to try the game again. To our amazement the stick dam was broken up a tiny bit now, and our final contestants floated partway under the bridge!

Satisfied, we made preparations to depart. But Sam wanted to see if the silly old bear was at home:

He wasn’t. But when he does come home, he’s going to find a lovely jar of honey for his smackerel:

Are Pooh fanatics any different from Dr. Who fanatics?

Don’t answer that.

One of Sam’s favorite activities at any park is chasing pigeons and gulls. The pigeons at St. Ann’s Well Gardens are quite fat and she gave these birds a workout.

A dozen lemurs so far and the ranks keep swelling. Our “Country Club” took the month of June off, and then Sam selected Madagascar for July’s country, possibly because she wanted to watch the eponymous film (which we did). But Madagascar is seeping into August, thanks to this lemur craft we did last week. Take a toilet paper or paper towel roll, pop an empty yogurt cup on top, tape on a cute lemur face, and attach entwined black and white pipe cleaners for the tail (if it’s a ring-tailed lemur you want.) Sam can’t stop making these. Since we ran out of black and white pipe cleaners, the very latest lemurs are sporting colorful tails (and faces). Time for a fossa craft?