far too much writing, far too many photos

Yesterday — the day of chocolate Easter egg infamy — I arose at far too reasonable an hour, saddled up and drove to Manchester Airport to pick up another friend from the States. An older guy, a great person, who seemed astonished to find himself driving along English highways, sitting in what would be the driver’s seat in the States, but with no steering wheel to hold onto, no pedals to jam to the floor. And me next to him piloting the car with no problem at all. (I remain amazed at that last bit.)

He did all right until around noon, when fatigue from a sleepless night of hurtling over the Atlantic took over. I sent him to bed, putzed around until he came to four hours later. Then made him pull on clothes, dragged him out to the car and drove to Brampton Park, site of a funky little museum, some gardens, an aviary, a café (where I experienced the single most horrific batch of cappucino that I’ve ever attempted to hoover down — a shock, that, given that my last visit to that establishment had resulted in a respectable cup of espresso and a full English breakfast worthy of writing home about. Wherever home might be.)

To cut a long-winded prologue mercifully short, he, I and Dermot are headed up to Edinborough today for a weekend of plundering and looting (metaphorically speaking). I have no idea how internet access will go.

Guess we’ll find out.


España, te echo de menos.

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