Author: Lindsie

Back in Nottingham, I had mentioned to Libby that I was thinking about looking up my uncle, whom I believed to be living in Sheffield, and giving him a ring. I didn’t know where to start looking for the number (I assumed the phone book) – but she told me she was visiting the library the next day and would check there. Apparently the librarian just looked up the phone numbers online for all of the B. Tomlinson’s in the Sheffield area. There were six of them.

I took that folded up piece of paper from her but didn’t work up the courage to actually call – until we reached London. (Sheffield is quite close to Nottingham – much closer than London – so that would have made more sense for arranging a visit).

But well, when you are calling a long lost relative out of the blue, sometimes it takes a week to work up to.

I haven’t seen my uncle Brian since I was two. Of course, I don’t actually remember meeting him, but I do have the photos to prove it.

Brian is my uncle on my father’s side (that’s how I was able to obtain my British passport) – but my parents got divorced when I was six. I didn’t see my dad much after that, even though we lived in the same town, never mind an uncle who lived across an ocean.

My parents had a pretty messy divorce, what with the adultery, the abuse and the alcoholism (all on the part of my father) so when I ran into my dad at the local mall four years later, I wasn’t too communicative when he approached and tried to talk to me. I saw him in the toy store and immediately left, only to have him follow and find me in the big grocery store engrossed in the ingredients on a box of cereal (not a very convincing way to hide for a 10 year old). He stood behind me for several moments, clutching his shopping bags. I could feel his eyes on me but I refused to turn around.

He finally worked up the courage to say hello and my automatic response to reply with my own hello followed. Then I turned back to the cereal section.

He continued to stand there for awhile before he spoke again.

“Aren’t you even going to say hello?” he asked.

“I said hello,” I uttered, in the hardest tone I could muster.

He gave me a defeated look as he shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave.

I never saw him again.

My dad died two years later of a heart attack.

It’s not the greatest last memory to have of someone. But more than that, all of my memories of him are of the first six years of my life. Some are good. Others are not.

So I think that my uncle, his older brother, may be able to shed some light on who my father was. As a child, as a teen, as a twenty-something, before he became my dad, before he became an alcoholic, before he died.

I had worked up the courage to dial the digits on the paper in front of me and as the first B. Tomlinson on the list answered the phone, I took a deep breath and asked for Brian.

“This is Brian,” came the response.

“Did you have a brother named Donald?” I asked.

Turns out he didn’t. It was the wrong Brian Tomlinson. The other five weren’t the correct numbers either.

Brian Tomlinson formerly of Sheffield, England might be too old to be web-savvy. But I know he has two daughters, and probably grandkids, who may stumble across this.

If so, please drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you.

Thanks,
Lindsie

Our Easyjet flight from Edinburgh to London Gatwick was in fact, easy. Catching the tube from the airport to Plaistow station went equally as smoothly.

It was dark when we exited the tube station with our packs, armed with the directions to our flat (which promised a short walk) – and we thought we had it made. Friends of Curtis’s mother had offered us a free flat to stay in for our week in London. They happened to be visiting Vancouver and Powell River while we were there and all info (such as directions and key pick up) had been emailed to Curtis.

Following the directions to the letter, we found the landmark of the pub they had mentioned. Continuing to follow their directions, we continued down the road.

The next street we came upon was completely sealed off with yellow police tape and – I am not exaggerating here – there were at least 50 cops canvassing the area. I was really hoping that this wasn’t our street – thankfully it wasn’t – because whatever had happened here was obviously not good.

I asked a few of the policemen directions to the street we were looking for but none of them seemed to be familiar with the area. After walking around a little more and asking a shopkeeper, we realized the directions after the pub just didn’t make sense so we returned to it.

The barman said we were on the correct street (no sign of course), which led down the opposite way of what was written in our directions (very confusing – obviously). Around this time is when I started to notice the local youths milling about. Menacing would be the best way to describe them.

We quickly found our flat but after pressing the buzzer for Flat 5 – we realized that Joan had given us her buzzer number and not the neighbor’s buzzer number. You know, the one who was actually in London and had the key.

Not feeling safe at all, I just started pressing random buzzers until someone let us in. In the safety of the stairwell, we hatched a plan that I would stay there with our luggage while Curtis went to try and call the neighbor. While he was gone, I was approached by one neighbor who offered to rent me his flat for 75 pounds a night (obviously I refused his offer to inspect the flat) and was also approached by a lovely couple who offered me use of their phone and a cup of tea. I told them I would wait until my husband had returned.

Curtis returned with the frustrating news that the neighbors cell phone (mobile phone as they are called here) wasn’t being answered. He was able to leave her a voice mail but his other attempts left him with an endless unanswered ringing….

This is when I decided to just ring everyone’s buzzer until I found the correct neighbor. Which only took two tries (it’s a small complex). She was absolutely lovely, offering us tea (of course), lending us two Oyster cards (which saves heaps of money on the Metro), apologizing and pointing out that you can in fact buy crack two doors down (I knew this was a dodgy neighborhood!) and offering us a frozen pizza so we’d have something to eat without having to leave the safety of our apartment again.

We breathed a huge sigh of relief once in our free digs – the free flat was fabulous.

Until the next day when I attempted to take a shower. It took us about half an hour to figure out how to make the shower work. The water for the bath was easy to turn on but we couldn’t figure out how to make it come out of the showerhead. After trying everything we could think of, Curtis spotted a pull cord over by the window. More out of curiousity than anything else (he was actually saying, “I wonder what this is for” as he pulled it) – he gave it a tug and it voila – the shower box turned on!

Our time in London was spent sight seeing, relaxing at home and running around the neighborhood. After our almost two week stint of way too much British pub food and beer, we were determined to make a concerted effort to get back in shape. We ate a lot of salads that week and packed healthy sandwiches and fruit to go that we could eat while sightseeing. Picnic lunches in small parks became our thing. And we banned the beer and wine completely (except for the one evening that we met up with The Cornholes – the couple we had met in Marseille).

All of our efforts paid off, I actually lost 2 pounds that week. Running in the streets of the Plaistow neighborhood however, was probably not the sanest thing to do. We often got mocked by the local youths who were drinking beer outside of shabby pubs. The rest of the people we passed just looked at us like we were crazy.

Besides our little health kick, we enjoyed walking around, taking in the famous sights.

On our way to the Tate Modern (free admission!) museum, we passed the Globe Theatre. I went in to have a peek and saw a sign that read, “5 Pound Tickets available for every show”. When we enquired about it, the cashier told us she had two left for tonight’s performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor. Sold!

We spent a couple of hours enjoying the Tate, ate our sandwiches, warmed up with a coffee and then lined up for our play.

I had no idea when we bought our tickets that we were buying standing room only. No wonder they were so cheap! Not only were we expected to stand for the duration of the play but the theatre was actually open air – there was no ceiling in the middle of the building. Did we get cold? Did our legs or feet get sore from standing all those hours? No! The Merry Wives of Windsor was the absolute best Shakespeare play I have ever seen. It was so high energy – so hilarious and fun – that I would have felt a little sad when it was over if I hadn’t been grinning so enthusiastically!

There was a catwalk that came out from one side of the stage and circled around to create a mini stage in the middle of the room, which was also used creatively in set changes. Part of the floor flipped around to create a “garden”, then magically disappeared to a regular floor, depending on the scene.

We were standing between the main stage and the catwalk so that the actors were often sweeping past us in their amazing costumes. It really felt like we were part of the play, being that close, I was able to smell the dust and perspiration clinging to the ends of their petticoats.

Another highlight from London was going to see the Changing of the Guard. It may be a cheesy tourist thing to do, but I felt a surge of excitement at my first glimpse of the procession.

London is a very expensive city – everybody knows that. But we managed to get by on 20 pounds for a weeks worth of groceries. We spent more than that taking the tube! So the free stuff is very appealing – which includes most of the museums, the Changing of the Guard, walking around Camden Town (market neighborhood full of punks), seeing the sights like Big Ben, the London Eye (to actually ride the thing costs 15 pounds – so we skipped that), London and Tower Bridges (the Tower Bridge is the nice looking one, the London Bridge is actually plain and boring).

Even spotting the double decker buses and the phone booths is neat!

Curtis really wanted to visit Abbey Road – the sight of the Beatles album cover by the same name – and recreate walking across the road just like they did. There were a few other tourists who had the same idea – so we took turns taking pictures of each other walking back and forth across the street. We were giggling with our new Japanese friends in no time!

There is a recording studio on Abbey Road and we saw a real life paparazzi waiting outside with his giant camera. He wouldn’t tell us who was inside when we asked, and actually had the nerve to scoff at us for being tourists. I took his picture just as he was getting off his cell phone – I figured fair is fair. So here’s a picture of an actual paparazzi in action. Unfortunately, I don’t have his name, but I can tell you he spent an awful lot of time on his phone and pacing around waiting. Boring!

We were told that one thing we should see while in London was a football match. We splurged on the 40 Pound tickets (that’s $80 each!) to witness our first footy game. (Which is called soccer where we’re from.)

It was a blast! They have to keep the fans separated on opposite sides of the stadium and no one is allowed to have the tops of their water or pop bottles (obviously in case you try to hurl a full bottle at someone or out onto the field). We didn’t witness any violence though – just some good old fashioned singing and stomping with each side’s fans shouting down the other. It was the Queens Park Rangers vs. Derby. Footy is actually quite a good game to watch!

With our week in London coming to a close and a very early morning plane to catch, we opted to take the last tube to Gatwick at midnight instead of catching a 4:00 am bus to the airport. That is how scary our neighborhood was! We didn’t want to be walking with our stuff in the wee hours of the night, only to get rolled for all of our earthly possessions. Or worse, stabbed! Every day in the paper we read about several stabbings – the most “famous” of which they dubbed the Phantom of the Opera murder. This was the one that had taken place in our neighborhood on the night we had arrived! I will spare you the details….

Gatwick airport is a haven for the sleepy traveler. By that I mean, everywhere, literally everywhere you looked, people were sleeping on benches, in chairs and on the floor.

I managed to stay awake until 4:00 am and then joined in the sleepy masses, finding myself a bench for a 90 minute nap – until Curtis woke me up to wander in a zombie like state through check in and onto our flight – where I slept like a baby from before take off until just before landing at our next destination.

Our train trip to Edinburgh took about five hours. There were some beautiful sights along the way and when we hit the coast, it was dotted with colorful houses – which set off the bold blue of the wild sea even more majestically.

When you exit the train station in Edinburgh, your breath almost catches as you’re struck by the awesome architecture of the old buildings, monuments and of course, a castle.

We are spending the next four days with Rob and Ashley. Rob is originally from Edinburgh, but has spent the last six years in Vancouver (where he and Curtis met while working for the same company). They have just moved back to Edinburgh so Ashley can attend university and after only one week, Rob is already homesick for Canada, so he’s very excited to see us.

Within the first twenty minutes of our arrival in Edinburgh, as we are walking from the train station back to Rob’s, we witness a drunken argument. Punctuated with colorful curses, the couple in question seem to be following us. Rob apologizes – he had hoped we wouldn’t witness this kind of welcome so soon. This episode is very mild compared to the other shenanigans we will witness – since we have arrived smack dab in the midst of Frosh week (Freshman week).

One evening, we sign up for a literary pub crawl which lasts about 3 1/2 hours. Our host is a local writer and in between visits to three pubs (which all have some sort of literary significance), we walk the streets and learn all sorts of interesting details about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (creator of Sherlock Holmes), Ian Rankin (who we met at a book signing earlier in the day and who is the author of the Rebus series), J.K. Rowling (we stand outside of the restaurant where she wrote the first chapters of Harry Potter, not far from Potter Row) and a few others.

At the first bar, The Royal Oak, we get treated to an impromptu show. A local musician has dropped by for a pint and agrees to play a few songs on his guitar for us. There is a little back and forth between him and the bar maid – some kind of traditional question and answer shout out in rhymes.

At the second bar, The Southsider, we are surrounded by young men dressed as women. A typical Frosher night out. There is a rather large hairy guy at the bar, dressed in a short skirt, sporting too much makeup and a wig – who is carrying a handbag. When he reaches into his purse to pay for his beer, he takes out his cell phone and keys to get to his wallet. I comment to him that it looks like he’s making good use of his handbag – he replies that he likes it so much, he may end up using one all the time, even when he isn’t dressed as a woman. It’s much more practical than shoving everything into your pockets…

I meet another young man who can’t help pointing out to me that his nail varnish is the same color as his nipples. Which is obviously only something a boy dressed as a woman would do.

Our last stop is Sandy Bells. It’s a very narrow bar with a great band squished up into one corner. As Irish guy gives us a good show as he breaks into an amazing rendition of Riverdance. I try to take some photos but the bar is so crowded that they don’t turn out. We stay until closing time – enjoying our pints, the music and the friendly patrons.

On the way home we do like the locals, stop at the chip shop for chips with chippy sauce. Which is French fries with a brown sauce that tastes like vinegar and HP. But, according to the Edinburgh Chippy Brown Sauce Appreciation Society (who knew?!), the secret recipe is Gold Star brown sauce and tap water, not vinegar.

The next day we go on an amazing hike up the crags. At the top we are rewarded with spectacular views of the city and hair whipping winds so strong, the birds have trouble flying.

We also take a tour of Edinburgh Castle one day.

And then go for haggis with neeps and tattys…

Which turns out to be delicious! I didn’t believe Pedro back in Strasbourg, but he was right!

Edinburgh has so many old churches that a lot of them have now been converted for other uses. They still look like a church, but now act as cafes or theatres.

Among the many statues we walk by, this one turns out to be one of my favorites. When his owner died in 1858, this little dog would sit at his grave site, only leaving for food. He sat there every day for fourteen years, until his own death in 1872.

The city is also filled with closes, which are narrow passage ways. We did a tour of The Real Mary King’s Close one day and it was neat to see how the city used to be and what life was like in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, but the “Disney” like effects definitely had a cheese factor. The new city of Edinburgh has been built over top of this close – unfortunately, we were unable to take any pictures down there.

We took a road trip one day with the ambition of making it all the way to Loch Ness – which turned out to be too ambitious for a day trip, especially since we stopped along the way.

I was disappointed not to see any hairy cows, but we saw so many sheep that it made up for it.

After a long day of driving, when we were back at Rob and Ashley’s, Rob declared, “I’m cream crackered.”

Which is Scottish for, “I’m knackered.” Which meant that he was tired – but the whole rhyming thing sounds a lot more exotic.

For our last lunch in Edinburgh before we hop on a bus to the airport, I order the deep fried haggis balls.

They were a lot tastier than they look – and a fitting final meal in this beautiful old city.

We arrive in London, Stansted to a “balmy 10 degrees with light rain.” The captain jokes that he’ll wait if we want to purchase a return flight back to the sunshine of Marseille.

But alas, we’ve got a train to catch as we’ve got to be in Nottingham in time for dinner. Our flight from Marseille costs us a third of what our rail tickets from Stansted to Nottingham cost – welcome to Britain!

I enter Britain on my British passport (so I won’t have to get a visa for the Shengen parts of the EU, since we’re staying longer than 90 days). In the line up I’m shaking a little inside, suddenly nervous about my Canadian accent and the maple leaf sewn onto my backpack.

What if they quiz me about my Britian? Do I even know who the new prime minister is? (Gordon Brown – yes I do!) Not that there is anything wrong with having two passports – I am considered a British subject even though I’ve never set foot in the UK before. I just identify so strongly with my Canadian citizenship that I feel as if I’m doing something wrong passing myself off as a Brit.

I breeze through without any problems or inquiries into my funny accent and have collected our luggage by the time Curtis makes it through the line up for all other nationalities.

There are big signs in the airport that say you are allowed to bring as much alcohol into the country as you like – this is one of my favorite things about Europe. They don’t worry about the booze.

Unlike the Canadian authorities who will tax you heavily if you try to bring back more than one bottle of wine, tequila, rum, Bailey’s or what-have-you from our lucky neighbors south of the border who enjoy their booze at a fraction of the cost.

Since our trains are going in opposite directions, we say goodbye to our new friends, Jessica and Jonathan and stride confidently up to the counter to purchase our tickets.

It feels so good to be back in a country where I can speak the language without feeling self-conscious. The ticket agent directs us to platform 2. We think. It’s a little noisy and it sounded like he said two but just to be sure, we ask a gentleman waiting outside the train on the platform if this is in fact, the correct train.

He replies, “You are speaking only Spanish.”

I am crushed. I can’t believe that he is making fun of my accent.

Then he corrects his response with, “I speak only Spanish.”

Aha! He is not a rude Brit but a fellow tourist who doesn’t speak English. The next guy we ask looks so British that there is no way he’s from anywhere else. Sure enough, he’s a Brit. Who assures us that this train is not stopping at the stop we want and rushes on board.

Curtis jogs back to find someone in uniform who assures us that yes, this is the correct train and it does in fact stop where we need to transfer.

Dilemma solved, we have a pleasant ride to Nottingham and are greeted at the station by Richard. It feels so good to see a familiar face!

He drives us back to his flat, which is incredible and spacious with an amazing view. He lives on The Park.

We are seriously spoiled for the next four days.

It begins with a bottle of bubbly before we are taken out to a wonderful French dinner. Richard’s friend Libby joins us and the four of us enjoy a five-course meal, each course paired with a different French wine. We have a wonderful evening and leave stuffed full of delicious delights.

The next day after an amazing breakfast of fresh salmon and eggs, we go for a walk in the warm sunshine. Not at all the weather I had expected.

Later in the afternoon, we drive out to Stratford-upon-Avon where we visit Shakespeare’s grave before meeting up with Libby, Nestor and another friend of Richard’s (I can’t remember everyone’s name that we meet along the way!) for dinner.

During dinner, we discuss where we should spend my birthday week. I’m tossing around the possibilities of Amsterdam and Prague but am also open to other ideas. This may be the only time in my life that I get to choose anywhere in Europe to spend my birthday.

Before the question is even out of my mouth, Nestor blurts out, “Venice.” With so much enthusiasm that it sticks with me….

After dinner? Why Hamlet of course. Starring Patrick Stewart and David Tennant.

The set is absolutely fantastic and the actors are excellent. My only complaint about the play would be the costumes – it seems to be an odd mix of modern and classic attire. I would have preferred classic, or at least for them to choose one. But regardless of that, it is a magnificent evening out and we haven’t paid a pence. I told you we were being spoiled!

Another great thing about staying with Richard was that we didn’t have to think. We didn’t have to figure out what to do and how to get there. He planned everything and he drove. After traveling for six and a half months, it was so nice to be taken care of.

He also took us to Chatsworth where the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire reside. It’s a beautiful drive through the country with flocks of sheep wandering over the hills. I love the English countryside!

Chatsworth is an amazing estate, part of it open to the public, so we can enjoy some of their treasures and the beautiful garden. I can’t imagine actually living there.

 

After hours spent wandering the house and grounds, it’s time to go home for Sunday dinner. I have just enough time for a luxurious soak in the tub first. I haven’t had a bath in seven months – I’m sure you can imagine what a treat this is.

Richard is quite the cook and makes us a delicious pork roast with all the trimmings.

The next day he takes us to Newstead Abbey, where Lord Byron used to live.

We have a great time wandering through the house checking out interesting tidbits like his old boxing gloves, letters and books. The real fun begins when Curtis happens upon the dressing room.

They encourage people to try on clothes like the kind that Byron used to wear – and Curtis really got into it. I was taking photos of him when two old ladies stopped to admire how handsome he looked. They insisted that I take a photo of him against the intricate dark wood paneling of one of the bedrooms. They told me to just hop over the rope and that they wouldn’t tell anyone.

I was hesitant to break the rules, but they were so insistent and the wall would make a beautiful background so I decided it wouldn’t do any harm.

I put one foot over the red rope and as soon as it touched the ground, a very loud alarm sounded. It reminded me of those caper movies where the burglars have to avoid touching the laser beams….

The four of us left the bedroom giggling as one of the security guards came ambling up to turn off the alarm.

“Don’t worry, it happens all the time,” he said. “It’s just usually the children who set it off.”

The old ladies admitted that it was their doing and apologized – then went off down the hall still in fits of laughter.

* * *

Nottingham is home to Sherwood Forest and of course, Robin Hood.

We drove by the “Robin Hood Experience” one day and Richard told us that when his niece was two and his nephew was four, he took them there, figuring that it would be a fun thing to do with kids. It was so bad in fact, that as soon as the “experience” was over, his two-year old niece declared, “that was rubbish.” We gave that one a miss for obvious reasons.

On our last night with Richard, we went out for Indian food and insisted on paying to thank him for showing us the most brilliant time in the UK.

The UK was never really one of the places that was on my “must see” list – so it was a great surprise to find out how wonderful it is.

Nottingham also happened to be home to one of Curtis’s friends from University so we spent two nights with him and his wife – the boys catching up on old times over a bottle of Scotch.

I made the mistake of indulging in the pub lunch two days in a row – once in Britain’s oldest pub, once in it’s oldest inn. At both places I had this amazing roast beef wrapped in Yorkshire pudding and served with gravy and chips– delicious. But I had a terrible ache in my belly for a day afterwards. Being a pig never pays!

After our week in Nottingham, it was time to board a train for Edinburgh, Scotland.