Read from Day One here.
Oh, you thought I’d fizzle out and never return to these posts?! You were almost right.
—
A Man with Yellow Teeth (a poem in-progress)
A Man with Yellow Teeth
Never stopped talking a beat.
He sat in front of us
On the bus,
And made us realize
That even England could become nightmarish.
—
Warwick Castle was everything you’d expect from a castle owned by the same people who run Madame Tussauds: gimmicky and touristy and wonderful.
The Greville family owned the castle for generations and threw massive parties with medieval set pieces. Imagine going to a 1975 rager at a medieval castle where liquor is served in a forty-gallon, cast-iron pot. If anyone knows of a good book about this family, just like a prayer, take me there.
—
Stratford-Upon-Avon,
or as our tour guide would probably call it, Heaven.
Our tour guide was an acting school graduate who retold this sketch beat-for-beat. He also gave the “to be or not to be” line ten times, putting the emphasis on a different word each time. You know when a comedian (or a sibling) does something funny and then they do it enough and it becomes super annoying and they press on until it becomes funny again? That was this guy.
Also, once you’re in the room where Shakespeare was born, you’re kind of like, well, this is a bit gross, isn’t it?
—
Cotswolds.
For the first six times I listened to Ed Sheeran’s “Castle on the Hill,” I thought he was saying, “We watching the sunset over the Cotswolds.” Of course! Ed gets it. The magic of the Cotswolds! The wool churches! The hills!
It’s “the sunset over the Castle on the Hill.” That’s the name of the song. (You all knew this, huh?)
—
Like so many places we’ve visited, I could spend weeks (months?) in Oxford. I get this pang when we visit because Oxford University used to be my DREAM college. I spent ages 10-17 convinced that I was going to go there. So, what did I do fall of senior year?
That’s right. I didn’t even apply.
And I remember this when we we’re walking those cobblestone streets and seeing Hogwarts buildings, and it isn’t regret exactly that blooms in my chest. Instead, it is this immense sense of responsibility–a responsibility to go after life with all that I have in me. There’s so much we can’t control.
Seriously, there is so much we can’t control.
But we can turn in the application. We can always try. We have a responsibility to try.
—
Another pub. Another dark beer. Another wonderful day.
—
Early morning. I’ll get delicious hot cross buns before we leave! It’s only a mile away!
*Walks there*
*Realizes upon arrival that businesses aren’t open at 6:30 am on a Saturday*
*Takes selfie to document idiocy*
—
All-day train to Edinburgh.
“Is this our stop?”
“Maybe this one.”
“This one?”
“The next one.”
“This one? Oh, this one. Hurry!”
Mom and I have the most lovely hotel experience of all time, which is to be expected in the most perfect city of all time. More on that later, but look at these photos for now:
Mom and I walk up the Old Town street past bagpipers and magicians and street performers.
“Oh, the Museum of Childhood. We’ve got to go in there, right?”
“Let us never speak of this again…”
We see the sight of my future wedding (half kidding), St. Giles Cathedral, and we sit and marvel and admire.
—
Dinner: The World’s End Pub.
A couple of beers in, without food…
Waiter: What would you like?
*I look at Mom. She looks at me. I look at the waiter whose face is right by my face.*
Me: I’m sorry.
Waiter: That’s all right. We can just stare at each other, if you’d like.
Me: Oh. HAHAHHAHAHA. I think we’re lightweights.
Waiter: What?
Me: When you can’t hold your liquor.
Waiter: You’re Americans. Are you Chiefs fans?
*I look at Mom. She looks at me. I look at the waiter whose face is right by my face.*
Waiter: American football.
Me/Mom: Ohhhhhhhh.
I’m going to like this place. I definitely like the haggis.
Read about Day Eight here.
Hilly Miller 