On the East Coast to Scotland, past rolling farm and sheep land, past brick farmhouse and mustard field, with scattered rain clouds overhead, far from the iClouds under fingers. Lovely. We have a four hour roll to St. Andrews, a time to sit and peer and pen. The English surround us, from the gracious black trainman to the very Scot looking gentleman beside us to farm structures that are, like West Marin in CA, seldom new. There is a perenial weathered look to everything English. They, like most of Europe, value ruins. They put plaques next to them and give a history. They preserve them as they would a family heirloom.
The British are great talkers. I think they just love their own accent. They are born talking, I think. Americans are born acting. The British interact. They no longer own the world. But they own its airwaves. It’s the tone of authenticity. Walter Cronkite had a bit of British in him, I suspect. There’s also a weathered look about them. Perhaps it’s the weather. Perhaps it’s the war. Perhaps it’s all the talking. I love the British. And I love visiting since I can talk with them. My wife knows it makes me happy to be able to converse with people when I travel. I feel less isolated and being isolated is why we travel: to feel connected to this magnificent planet.
Newcastle: Nothing much to distinguish it from this train window. A large infrastructured river. A few church spires. A 19th century patina to it. If you’re from Newcastle and take offense, my deepest apologies. I’m sure there are some enlightened spots to the place. Like their Genting Casino, for example. Ah, the Brits can make any vice sound dignified with their way with words, and excuse themselves with “Sorry.”
Mealtime. Cheese and Chutney or Salted beef and pickelilly along with Burts hand fried Potato Chips sea salted Made in Devon. Naturally delicious. It doesn’t even sound so bad for me. Haven’t the foggiest, but we’ll take it. Both. Thank you ever so much. TaTa. PipPip. Groovy.