Category: Friends and Other Strangers

HOME: WHERE THE BOYS ARE

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks16 Comments

Today’s LetsBlogOff asks, “What is home?”

Boy, has this changed for me.  “Home” has gone from “BEFORE” – an apartment with me and my dog (late, great, adorable beagle/basset Stella), to “AFTER” – a house with my husband and stepsons. (And the emergency replacement basset, Daisy.)

Home is where:

BEFORE:
I could watch whatever I wanted on TV.

AFTER:
My husband could “accidentally” delete my DVR recordings to make room for every college football game anyone ever even thought about playing.

BEFORE:
My kitchen sink was typically empty and dried with a paper towel to eliminate drips and spots. (Just the way mom used to do it.)

AFTER:
Every time I walk into the kitchen I find another glass, knife, fork, spoon and/or dish in the sink. And a sopping wet sponge. EVERY TIME.  I blame my mother- in-law.  (Sorry, Didi. Love you. But really??) For some reason the boys (and hubby) were never allowed to open the dishwasher and place items inside. When I was first married and tried to “take this hill,” they (the boys) insisted items in the sink made a house look “lived in.” Apparently that is supposed to be a good thing. Whereas my life was spent trying to make a house NOT look lived in, but to look photograph-ready.

BEFORE:
I could feast on a dinner of appetizers every night. Cheese & crackers Monday.  Cold shrimp Tuesday, Taquito Wednesday…  I kept my weight in check and grocery bills down.

AFTER:
Dinner involves an entrée, 2 sides and often the appetizer that used to be my whole meal. Plus, for some reason, boys who ask “What are we having for dinner?” are not happy when the response is, “I’m having an apple and some cheese and crackers. I don’t know what YOU’RE having.”

On the flip side, more often than not, it is hubby who is cooking the too large and complex dinner. I’m just the idiot who eats it and then feels terrible because I just ate a steak and baked potato at 8:45 PM.

I could go on and on… but I won’t. Thank your lucky stars I am at the end of lunchtime again.

But in summary, my answer to the question: “What is home?” is apparently, “Where the boys are.”

Dramatic sigh.

Hogging the TV, making messes that amplify the “lived in” look we were SO not going for, and tempting me with too much food that I normally would not even consider purchasing, much less consuming. (Thank goodness most of the junk food gets eaten before I am even fully aware it’s available.)

It’s also where I am never allowed to take out the trash myself, where the yard work is “men’s business,” and I always have someone who knows the score of the game.  ANY game.  I can also occasionally get a neck rub, an awesome old-fashioned, and a really good steak (medium rare).

 For other takes on the What is home? topic, please click here.

JUST CALL ME PUMBA

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

Something started happening to me recently that I cannot believe I am about to discuss in public.

I’m snoring.  And I don’t mean that cute little snuffle / purr that some people do.  I am apparently full feral hog these days.  Pretty, huh’?  I feel SO attractive right now.

Like everyone, I will go through a little rough patch now and then from allergies, but that is usually over within a couple of days.  Whatever is going on now has lasted about three months.

Think back to the trip to Wales. Imagine Sandy’s surprise in our shared hotel room. I had warned her in an earlier blog – but she didn’t believe me. When I awoke the first full day of our trip the conversation went something like this:

Sandy: “Peanut, I love you like a sister, which is why I can tell you this. You snore like a feral hog.”

Me: “I warned you. Why would I kid about that? That is not an attractive quality to have.”

Sandy: “I just couldn’t believe it. At one point during the night, I actually thought I was going to cry.”

Me: “Sorry. Snort.”

By the fifth night we had the whole routine down to a science.  Sandy explained that every other night, I breathed steadily, if a bit raspy, but the OTHER nights I sounded as if I had the world’s worst cold and couldn’t breathe at all. Then I would STOP breathing. At that point she would crack an eye open and stare at me (probably not sure whether to wish me alive or not.) Suddenly, I would gasp (or snort)  – perhaps not as delicately or as ladylike as one might wish, and start the whole thing over again.

This amount of “snore detail” was news to me.  Hubby had mentioned my snoring. That conversation went something like this:

Hubby: “You’re snoring. Loudly. It’s gross. Stop it and be my pretty, non-snoring wife again. Or else.”

(That may or may not be a direct quote, but it was definitely IMPLIED.)

My doctor has recommended a sleep study.  Apparently, aside from just making you an embarrassed and obnoxious roommate, snoring (Sleep Disordered Breathing – SDB) can cause the following *relational issues:

  • Irritability
  • Personality changes
  • Decreased sex drive
  • Loss of intimacy
  • Clashes with the bed partner (spousal arousal syndrome)
    (* SleepWell Solutions)

I like the term “spousal arousal syndrome.”  Apparently this is the “spousal arousal” we do NOT want; the one that results in statements like “If you don’t stop snoring I am going to hold that pillow over your face until you suffocate for real,” and “How much life insurance do you have again? Maybe we should up it.”

I have already detected other *symptoms I am exhibiting lately, such as:

  • Excessive daytime sleepiness.  (Okay, I normally have this anyway, but still.)
  • Poor memory or clouded intellect.  (Thought it was either age, or a result of my “wasted” youth.  – Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.)
  • Performance decrement. (No comment. I don’t like that word.)
  • Inability to exercise. (Gee, I thought that was my innate laziness. How great I can now blame it on something else!)
  • Becoming more prone to accidents. (Well, we’ve all covered that before haven’t we? – See paragraph, oh, around 10, in Confessions of a Frustrated Former Warlord.)
    (*SleepWell Solutions)

Other potential health problems include death.  Death is definitely something I wish to avoid.

I think it should be pointed out that SleepWell Solutions is NOT where I am going for my sleep study, even though it is where I have gathered all this nifty information. I went to THEIR website instead of the company where my sleep study is actually taking place because THAT website frightened me silly.

How so? Let me show you the room in which my sleep study is likely to take place.

STOP SCREAMING!

Oh, sorry.  That was me.

Yeah, take a gander at that. It looks like someone’s dead grandmother’s room.  A grandmother who was neither motherly nor grand.

She was definitely dead, though.  And itchy.

(This reaction COULD be from having been exposed to actual interior design for the past ten years. Not to mention Max and Tony’s influence. But I think I would have been freaked out regardless.)

So you can see why I had to go to another website to collect information about my potential condition.

I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep there.  And if I do, I’m afraid I’ll have bigger issues than Sleep Disordered Breathing.

I’m going to ponder this situation. I have until next Wednesday to figure it out. Or to arrange for delousing on Thursday.

Dear Sleep Study Place,
May I bring my own bedding?
How about my own bed?
Carpet?
Pictures?
General decor?

Sweet dreams, people.

CONFESSIONS OF A FRUSTRATED FORMER WARLORD

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks5 Comments

I’ve been asked recently about the “frustrated former war lord” bio on this blog. It’s probably not as good a story as one might think. I haven’t had a past life regression, and I haven’t battled anything in this life more terrifying that a couple of old boyfriends and an addiction to aerosol cheese. Frustrating, yes. Life threatening, no.

Here’s the scoop: Many, many years ago – maybe 15 or so… I went to see a psychic. I do not do such things often, and certainly not for “real” advice or direction. In fact, I think my total number of visits to psychics is four.

The woman I saw that Fall day 15 years ago looked pretty normal. She did the readings in her home, which was decorated just like a grandmother’s house. Doilies, upholstery that was not particularly fashion-forward, and pictures of children and grandchildren in the foyer.    

We sat in her study. She pulled out a note pad she had been scribbling in while she awaited my arrival. She told me she often begins by reading these notes to her client. You see, the Guides would sometimes start communicating with her before the official session.

So, of course, I ask, “Guides?”

“Yes,” she said. “Like guardian angels. Everyone has Guides who watch over them and help them throughout their lives.” She went on to explain that most people have two or three Guides. She was quite impressed with me.  I had SEVEN.

“Seven? Is that normal?”

“No!” she smiled. “And three are doctors!”

Sure, I thought.  I can’t find a doctor to marry, but I have three hovering around in an alternate universe or plane, or something. Awesome. My first internally voiced questions were, “Why do I need three doctors??  Is something bad going to happen? Or are they keeping something bad from happening? Will there be blood involved? Pain? Crap.”

Any friends who read this are currently saying. “I know why you have three doctors. Because you’re a walking accident. A klutz. For someone who was once athletic, you can’t walk to the fridge without clipping your shoulder against the door frame, or tripping over a dog toy. You have no concept of your physical space in relation to the rest of the world’s solid objects. THAT’s why you have three doctors. AND why we won’t EVER let you go skiing, Ms. Bono.”

I had to let the doctor questions go because Madame Psychic was still talking about the other Guides.  In addition to the three docs, I also had a Joy Guide. “Wow,” I thought. “I have a terrible Joy Guide.”

Joyful would not be an adjective in anyone’s description of me. Which, I suppose, is exactly WHY I would be in need of a Joy Guide. Who knew?

Scary thought: Maybe my Joy Guide was actually doing an amazing job. Oh, and by the way – the name the psychic jotted down as my Joy Guide? Shamu.

Stop laughing. This is a serious story. My name is Ann. I am a former Warlord and my Joy Guide’s name is Shamu.

Since I’m already revealing all this psychic mumbo-jumbo, I might as well confess I believe I met my Joy Guide several years later. I know, I know. It may have been (probably was) a dream. The psychic told me during our session that my Guides wanted to reveal themselves to me, but knew I wasn’t ready. “Amen to that,” I thought. As one part of me thrilled at the prospect of some spiritual entity revealing itself to me, another part of me freaked at having some spiritual entity REVEAL itself to me.

So anyway, I was asleep one night years later and awoke suddenly. On the side of my bed sat a shadowy female figure. My brain was telling me I should freak out NOW, but instead, I looked around the room to see if I could determine if I was awake or not, or if my eyes were just playing tricks on me. When I looked back at the side of the bed, she was still there. She was plump, and black, and had on hoop earrings. My brain supplied the name. Shamu. I think she was Jamaican. I have no idea why I think that, but I do. Anyway, she just nodded and smiled at me and then dissolved. Feeling strangely pleased, I went back to sleep.

Now, back to the session with Madame Psychic.

She startled me with a few revelations even some of my closest friends didn’t know, and I was really starting to feel a bit creeped out. Then, as casually as if she was mentioning a fact like, “You have blue eyes,” Madame Psychic says, “Well, you KNOW you were a Warlord in another life.”

Forget Guides. THIS was obviously a mistake. My eyebrows shot heavenward and I’m sure I smirked. She actually scowled at me. “This is a much more humble existence for you, of course.”

“You have no idea.” I rolled my eyes.

When I left I was angry. A Warlord?? I had been a Warlord and was now reduced to being an insecure, self-sabotaging female. I supposed this was retribution for all that pillaging and plundering I had once enjoyed. 

So there you have the balance of the universe. Kick ass in one life, cry at chic flicks and have people ask if it’s “that time of the month” when you’re out of sorts in the next.

Now I find the Warlord thing amusing (obviously), since I included it in my profile. When I am feeling particularly frustrated or powerless, I just think, “Well, you brought this on yourself, you badass. If you hadn’t kicked so much medieval butt, you’d be having a better day, wouldn’t you? But, no, you HAD to be a Warlord. You HAD to sack that village. So suck it up. You had your fun. Go pet a puppy or something.”

Yep. Nothing cheers up a former Warlord like – a basket of puppies.

WE ARE NOT MOUNTAIN GOATS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

See Wales Tours picked us up this morning and we drove with five others, and our guide, Adrian, to Langland where we were let off the bus to take a leisurely 30-40 minute stroll along a paved walkway high above the sea.

And just like in the movies, that’s when it got weird. The walkway was blocked off and labeled “under construction.” A paper sign with a big arrow directed us to climb UP what can best be described as a steep, slightly muddy ski slope, to bypass the construction.

After a brief time of spinning in circles and muttering, “You’ve got to be kidding…” we realized we had no choice, as our van would be waiting for us at the end of the “walk,” and it was too late to turn back.

And so, we cautiously proceeded to climb. And climb. And climb. Every now and then we’d try to glance at the view, which was lovely, but found the terrain required our full attention.

Once we reached a point that was a little less steep, we paused. Sandy pulled out her video recorder to begin a message to our loved ones, (just in case) and catch our breath. Catching our breath was difficult, as I began laughing so hard I was gasping for air and tears were streaming down my face. I’m not sure if it’s Wales, or Sandy, or jet lag, but I have laughed until I cried quite a bit on this trip. When and if we share the video, you’ll hear me in the background, cackling like a lunatic.

During our trek we lamented the fact that until that time, we had grown quite fond of our guide, and had been considering packing him and his lovely lilt in our suitcase when we left.

We reconsidered our opinion as we recalled he HAD mentioned a short bit of the trip would not be paved, and wondered if he POSSIBLY knew about this little detour, and was having a bit of fun.

As we trod along the hilltop, with the sea to our left and… a golf course on our right, dodging potential concussive shots from bad golfers overshooting the greens, we finally found another blasted arrow and knew we were on the right “path.” For awhile, we weren’t sure if we had wandered the wrong way, as none of our companions, except the Canadian women with us, had been spotted ahead or behind.

Sandy and I trudged downhill, and stumbled to a stop beside Adrian’s bench, where he sprawled, comfortably soaking up a few rays.

“THAT was just mean,” I said, starting to laugh again at his puzzled expression, and feeling like a lazy American. Sandy managed to clarify the situation, and when he realized what had happened, I have to give him credit. He dropped to his knees on the concrete, grasping our hands and begging forgiveness. He also looked a little panicked about the fate of the others.

Now, I also must report that we apparently broke with tradition, as Americans NEVER finish the walk first. So, we did accomplish something for the good old USA. (Cue the national anthem.)

The Canadians came in behind us, then the Indians, then the gentleman from somewhere. (Sandy says definitely North American, but we missed specifics.) He had climbed around the barricade, as men tend to do, and been turned back by the workers, so he took a more scenic route.

All in all, it was a great bonding experience. We were out of breath, sweaty, and tired from our leisurely stroll, and we still had several more stops to make for the day.

Walking was wisely kept to a minimum after that.

We saw a 7 thousand year old burial ground, had lunch overlooking Rhossili Bay, then went to a castle that could fit inside the great rooms of the other castles we’ve visited this past week. Still, the descriptions provided by our guide were entertaining and educational. And that LILT! Scrumptious. (No offense, hubby.)

Here are some sheep lounging in the form of a check mark. I’m not sure why, but it just seemed suitable for today. Lost on side of hill? Check. Sheep? Check.

Plus, the drive home to Cardiff was filled with music by Tom Jones, Petula Clark and Shirley Bassey. (Welsh, one and all.)

It was a nice way to end our stay in Wales. Tomorrow, London, where I look forward to seeing a wise-cracking friend, and possibly her equally sharp witted fiancee, before attending a show.

Goodnight, Wales. It’s been fun. Let’s do it again soon.

Just not the whole walking/detour/mountain goat part.

Okay. Here’s the damn “Lost Tour” video. Hubby is not mentioned amongst those we are leaving behind because 1, Sandy was only worried about parents missing us, and 2, I was too hysterical to get much more than one word out. Sandy was in charge of me.

Tour Video.

TIPPING AND TOWERS

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Today’s plan went a bit wonky, but we easily caught the train to Caerphilly and toured the castle there. The weather is crazy gorgeous, so there were a few more folks out and about, making photography without people wearing fanny packs in the shots a bit more trying on our patience. We succeeded pretty well, so here are a few shots of Caerphilly. You may notice the giant leaning tower. I had the urge to pose either pushing it over or holding it up, but controlled the urge. (Thank you, Sandy, for giving me THAT LOOK.)

This castle was built mostly for defense, rather than as a royal holding, so it is definitely less glam than others, but it does make one wonder how anyone could get in if you didn’t want them to. Some reproductions of the war engines were also on display. I had a Monty Python moment, imagining cows being hurled at the siege army, but recovered before shouting, “Run away!!”

Instead of traipsing on to Abergavenny, we headed back to Cardiff Bay and the surrounding area for a few trinkets, then settled in for champagne and tea service. Sandy has been drooling for scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, so she is now content.

Aside from a fit of the giggles, we carried it off with some dignity, and no injuries. Why they kept playing Gladys Knight and the Pips’ “Midnight Train to Georgia” is anyone’s guess. That, and “Me and Mrs. Jones” were on quite an impressive loop.

Also, not to be an uncouth American, BUT, we seem to be dining in France these days, as achieving the check for the meal takes longer than the meal itself. (And we are taking our time at it.)

The staff is lovely, so I do hate throwing myself in front of them to beg for the check, even though we’ve told them we have finished. Hours ago.

I believe I explained we’re only here a couple more days, so we’d like to do more in that time than stare at empty plates and glasses. They are so sweet, though, with their, “loves” and “lovies,” I forgive them immediately.

Meanwhile, despite reports of tips not being expected for cabs, pubs, etc., Sandy is single-handedly determined to tip everyone with whom we come in contact. Cabbies are stunned and grateful, bartenders are bemused, and wait staff blush discreetly. She’s told several young men to “Have one for yourself,” which has been well received. One added on a whopping 1.75 for what must be the cheapest ale in the place.

I am afraid they will all be quite downhearted to see us go.

Tomorrow we visit the coast. Gower, Swansea, Mumbles (how cute is that?) and Rhossili via See Wales Tours. (I always think “Sea Whales” when we say it.)

This is going to require that we wake up and actually get ready on time. (Which has been challenging. We like sleep.)

Since the temperature seems to be hovering near the 80s, we are definitely overdressed for the beach. Pack coats and long sleeves for the 50s, you get a warming trend. “That’s the way baseball go.”

Until tomorrow, then! Or as I like to call it, “When we finally get the check.”

FROM MAX TO MAXIMUS

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks5 Comments

Good news! We went to bed an hour earlier last night.

Bad news! We got up an hour earlier to get in a cab from the hotel to the station, to catch the train to Newport, to catch the bus to Raglan. Once in Raglan, we walked and walked, and found the dirt road that led to the castle. And some cows. Say hello to my little friends.

The “incident”of the day, in which we are reminded we sound like hicks, occurred just after this picture. A car pulled up and a woman with a lilting British accent asked if we were locals. Sandy answered, “Unfortunately, not, no.” The woman’s eyes got big and she exclaimed, “Oh, no…no…” as if it had been made abundantly clear with those few words. They drove on. Sandy turned to me and said, “Really?”

“Nails on a chalkboard to them.” I said. “Definitely lacking in sing-songy quality. Although I, for one, adore you.”

Our excitement returned as we approached our destination. Sandy is attached to this particular castle due to her love of the show, Merlin. Apparently they shoot at Raglan on occasion.

Here’s the view upon arrival.

Now, THAT’s a castle. Once inside, we were speaking in hushed tones as we wandered about snapping pictures. The silence was suddenly broken by a little boy with a sense of the dramatic as we heard him call out in his best Gandolf voice, “YOU. SHALL. NOT. PASS!”

Max was his name. We know this because his mother called it repeatedly – perhaps several dozen times, trying to slow him down, or locate him. I believe Max made it up and down the first spiral staircase about four times by the time we’d made it up once.

We were snapping more photos from the top of a tower when we heard him explaining, “If you fell from here, you’d go SPLAT.”

Thank you, Max. I never would have thought of that.

From Raglan, we walked back to the bus to head toward our base camp in Cardiff, but stopped at Caerleon to see the Roman ruins. We visited the museum, the baths, then the amphitheater and barracks.

We actually ate today, which was novel, and had great fun with all our various bus drivers, who were extremely helpful.

Also, we were the youngest people on the bus by at least 30 years, which made us feel quite jaunty.

Tomorrow, Caerphilly and possibly Carmarthen or Abergavenny, again, on our own. Thursday is the official tour day, so all we have to do is make it to the bus and let others worry about getting us where we are supposed to be.

The good thing about going around at this time of year, and without a group, has been the lack of others at the sites. Castle and ruin pictures look so much better without tourists rambling about in them.

Cheers! (See, I’m getting this lingo business down.)

Say goodnight, Max.

“YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Shut up, Max.

MY LEGS (AND FEET) ARE IN RUINS

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Today, we slept in a bit and Sandy, our navigational expert, studied maps and trains and bus schedules so we could find Chepstow Castle and Tintern Abbey.

Here’s the decision of the day: I refuse to visit any other towns built on hills as steep as any you find in San Francisco. Plus, the so-called sidewalk was just wide enough to make you feel as though even if hugging the building on your left, you were sure to get clipped in the back of the head by a truck’s side mirror.

We walked approximately 100 miles, according to the non-existent muscles in my legs.

Chepstow Castle was amazing. Some portions as old as the 11th century, and at one time William Marshall lived there.

Beware spiral staircases. These people obviously had feet the size of a small child’s, because climbing up and down was a bit nerve-wracking, as we wedged our feet sideways to gain a foothold that felt even tolerably solid.

To my dismay, I had no ghostly visions, no invisible hands tried to shove me downstairs, and nothing moved in the shadows. Perhaps they realized I was too fragile to mess with today.

A friendly bus driver teased us as we headed to Tintern Abbey, asking why we wanted to see an old building with no roof. I also had the surreal experience of reading this roadside sign (stolen from the internet, as I was too busy trying to comprehend the warning to snap a photo of my very own.)

So, I guess in the US, we are blissfully unaware of this badger situation in Wales.

Despite missing its roof, the Abbey is gorgeous. The bones are majestic, if a bit forlorn. At one time, the Abbey hummed along with the daily rituals of the religious brethren. The sanctuary was beautiful, and had as a benefactor the owner of the castle at Chepstow.

When I could no longer stand, (seriously) we found our fish & chips meal at Simpson’s and ate on a bench in Chepstow. I thought it would take dynamite to get me moving again, but it only took the promise of the hotel bar.

Sandy is plotting our course for tomorrow, and I believe I will be bedding down WAY before midnight tonight, or I may not make it.

The favorite word of today, was “Ta!” as uttered by our poor bus driver who made the mistake of thinking we knew which side of the street to wait upon his return. You should have seen his face as he passed us by, then stopped and reversed so we could cross to the correct side of the road and climb aboard. I think he may have been pleased to not feel responsible for us anymore. Thus, the “Ta!” as we alighted. I think he “peeled out” too, if a bus can be said to “peel out.”

Getting around is not as difficult as it must be for tourists in the States. Between the trains and buses, it’s really quite simple – if you have a Sandy to direct you and do the research. Just don’t expect her to feed you regularly.

A note to my hubby: Thank you for encouraging me to do this.

And again, much better pictures are available via Sandy. I’ll eventually get them posted upon my return.

A CASTLE FULL OF CHEESE

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As I begin this post, I am on the terrace deck at the hotel, sipping a Chardonnay and thrilling to the fact I am off my feet. We arrived at the infamous Cheese Festival around 11:00 AM. A drizzling rain was falling, which allowed me to wear Sandra’s fabulous rain cloak with hood. I felt very dramatic as we walked the Cardiff Castle grounds, cloak billowing in the breeze. We were one of the few who braved the weather, and were greeted immediately by a young man at the cheese tossing area who asked where we were from. Apparently Sandy’s “Hello!” was a dead giveaway that we are not locals. He tried to entice us to toss a large block of cheese to each other. This is performed by one person taking a giant step backward after each successful toss and catch, and repeating the process. Luckily, we had enough sense about us to refuse on the grounds we were each afraid our competitive natures would lead us to potentially render the other unconscious or with a broken nose from an overexhuberant toss.
We did watch others, though…

Cheese Tossing.

The jokes of the day? “Stay Stilton!!” and “I Camembert the pressure.” (Jokes courtesy of the cheese toss referee.) Got complaints? Talk to him.

We visited the museum, then purchased our tickets for the castle tour. Premium, baby. Your own tour guide and all. He was a charming older gentleman who could climb the 51 steps to the chamber level of the castle far easier than I. Sandy has taken some great pictures, again, but I took a few with my phone. Items of interest? The castle had central heat in the late 1800s. And, it is still working today.

 

These were taken in the dining hall. Princess Diana, Prince Charles, and Nelson Mandela have all dined in this room.

We also climbed to the keep, which was amazing, and spotted the peregrine falcon perches in the distance. Note to self: add “Falcon” to Christmas list this year.

The Keep.

And of course, what’s a Cheese Festival without cheese? It’s just a festival, that’s what.

We sampled cheese until we couldn’t stand it anymore. I had visions of trying to sneak a ten pound block of cheese on the plane in a baby blanket, like the episode of I Love Lucy, when Lucy and Ethel have to try to eat the entire cheese before they get charged for another ticket.

We resisted the urge. However, we will be googling and ordering cheese upon our arrival back home.

A couple of bands played as well, but our favorite was the Severed Limbs. (I am not making that up.)

The sun came out this afternoon and everyone lit up with smiles. It was warm and absolutely perfect. Apparently we have brought some Texas warmth here, and temps are expected to continue into the mid and even upper 20s C.
Gorgeous. Now, I will have nothing to wear.

Tonight, we enjoyed a steak, red wine and bacon pie at a nearby pub. Tomorrow,we attempt to be our own tour guides and find some ruins to visit. Caerleon, here we come!

CRUISING CARDIFF

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Bad news last night:  Our tour of Romans & Ruins was canceled. We will regroup and arrange to see those places on our own now.  Plan B was to attend the Cheese Festival. We decided to skip to the previously non-existent Plan C, due to the chance of rain today. Plan C turned out to be AWESOME. And by awesome I mean it involved more yummy food, a pint, and a freezing cold and windy ride across the viaduct which resulted in that panicky kind of hysterical laughter that happens when you think you are going to turn to ice and break into a million pieces.  Sigh. Good times.

First, we walked over to Cardiff Castle, where we realized we better be on queue first thing in the morning, as the Cheesefest is POPULAR.

There, we boarded a tour bus headed for interesting sights around Cardiff.

Click HERE for Sandy’s intro.

It was a hop on-hop off type tour, so we did just so at the Millennium Centre. Sandy took a jillion pictures, which is great, because I took approximately 6. With my phone. I figure hers are better because 1, they were taken with a REAL camera, and 2, it’s impossible to be a worse photographer than I.

We wandered about Cardiff Bay, where we found a carousel…

Please click CAROUSEL to view the Cardiff Bay video.

Lunch was rarebit – bread, cheese with ale sauce, plus a pint at Brains.

We walked around Millennium Centre’s gift shop where I came perilously close to purchasing this book. Warning: Best title EVER.

Then, we visited Cathays Park where we saw some amazing wildlife. Making no sudden movements while stealthily tracking them, Sandy was able to snap this pic of the seldom seen “Flamboyant Trio.” (Or as Sandy calls them, Harry Potter gone bad.)

We ate a subdued dinner since we were – Whoop whoop! It’s the word of the day: KNACKERED.  (Very tired, exhausted.)

However, I was not too knackered to try for a quick photo of one of the lovely freshers strolling (stumbling) around in the rain. However, it is not as easy as one might think to look “not guilty” while trying to take a photo with which to mock someone. So, this was the best I could get tonight. I have a few more nights to try again.

Tomorrow, the Cheese Fest. Really. That is Plan A, B and C. Stay tuned. EyeonWales tells us it’s brilliant, and we can’t wait!

OMG! There’s cheese tossing!

PLANES, TRAINS AND WELSH HOOCHIES

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

We have arrived! Hello, Cardiff!

Most of the plane awakened around 5:30 AM in preparation for landing at 6:30. Sandy and I stumbled off and somehow made our way through customs without incident. We then found the Heathrow Express (not to be confused with the Hogwarts Express) and arrived at Paddington Station. There, we began our vacation officially with a delicious traditional pasty. (Beef, potato, onion and swede, a.k.a. turnip, in a yummy, flaky crust.)

Afterward, we wandered over to Plat 9 to board the Swansea train that would take us to Cardiff. At this point, I was operating on 3 hours sleep and Sandy had just a little more. We were foggy, disoriented, and worried about being where we are supposed to be. At the same time, we felt pretty pleased that no major catastrophes had occurred. We had our luggage, our limbs, and a pasty and chips under our belts. For our introduction to Paddington, click here:

Sandy and Ann at the station.

Here we are on the train. You know that statement about being so tired your eyes are crossing? That was really happening if I sat still for more than a minute. So we had to amuse ourselves with more photos.

We DID end up with the best cabby ever and arrived at our hotel to see a lovely room waiting for us. It looks like this. Ignore that it appears to be one large bed. It is, in fact, two beds we are rolling apart lest we kick each other to death as we run after trains in our sleep.

We went to a nice dinner this evening, but noticed something strange. There appeared to be a hooker convention in town. Young women teetering around in high heels on cobblestone streets, yanking at the hems of their “dresses” so as to keep their most private parts covered. Barely. The concierge informed us the young ladies are in fact “Freshers” beginning school at Cardiff University. Apparently the first few weeks are taken up with sowing a few wild oats. Rest assured we will deliver some of these fashion disasters to you tomorrow.

Now, we are going to bed. Say goodnight, Sandy.

Good night all!