October 9, 2003

So after two days or so in Ireland, my body was finally getting adjusting to the time difference and I was awake and aware enough to appreciate the country. So we left.

The next stop on our tour (and when I say "stop" I am speaking very loosely) was Wales. If you look at a map of the United Kingdom plus Ireland plus a tiny strip of France that gets caught in the rectangle, you will notice that Wales appears to be, more or less, a giant lump sticking out of the west side of Britain (sometimes referred to as "the big island"). The city of Holyhead on the northwest corner of Wales is, therefore, a very useful jumping off point for reaching Ireland. Hence, nobody ever goes there.

In order to get from Ireland to Wales you must ride a freakin' big ferryboat. Anything smaller simply will not do. Our ferryboat came equipped with everything you could possibly want on a boat crossing the Irish Sea, especially if what you want is a plate of overpriced American fried chicken, and not a viewing deck, which they didn't have. So on the ferryboat ride, we mostly played cards, and swayed left and right while walking to buy overpriced American fried chicken. With all the staggering and falling down, we probably fit right in with the Irish contingent on the boat.

We arrived at Holyhead at approximately 85:42 (that's military time), where we all got out our passports so that nobody could look at them, and then boarded our tour bus*, which would be our home away from home for the duration of the tour, that is, 65 million years. The more or less continually irritated driver of our new home was named Jim, and he was very happy to see us, which he expressed by telling us that if we spilled so much as an atom of Fruit Twist Fanta on his upholstery, he would strangle all of us personally. We were very happy to meet him.

As the bus pulled out of Holyhead, hapless student Amanda Brown was then commanded by our professors to deliver her carefully prepared speech on Holyhead over the bus's P.A. system, which I quote for you here in its entirety:

"Holyhead is the place where the ferries leave to take you to Ireland. (awkward pause) That's all I could find."

This was perhaps the most informative speech on a British or Irish landmark I have ever heard. We all applauded loudly. This irritated Jim.

From there, we did what every tourist who travels to Wales desperately wants to do - drive through it very rapidly on a tour bus. Actually, I am just kidding. Before we drove through it very rapidly we went to visit a Welsh castle. This irritated Jim.

The Welsh castle was named Caernarfon (pronounced "CAR-care-yoo-NO-wut-aye-meen"). It was an awesome castle, and is famous across the country for being the place where Prince Charles got inducted or installed or whatever, which involves taking a lot of pictures of him looking like a complete weenie. You can even stand on the grass where this all took place, provided you ignore the signs that say "Absolutely No Standing on the Grass," which we all did.

Caernarfon Castle is also home to several extremely precarious spiral staircases, where each stair is something like five molecules wide. In order to maintain your balance you must hang on to a centrally located rope for dear life, or else plummet to your death in the gift shop below.

At the top of the precarious spiral staircase there is a movie starring a young-looking Scotsman chosen for his complete lack of shame. This movie detailed the history of Caernarfon Castle, but mostly all I remember are the time-tested filming techniques that the directors used to make the film as cheesy as humanly possible. For example, there is the "progressive cross-fading zooms on the actor's mouth as he says the words 'for..ev..er' really slowly with the orchestra booming in the background" technique that I especially liked.

After the movie, we were all left to our own devices, so we all went climbing the precarious staircases and parapets and rickety bridges, as if the next precarious staircase could be any more fun than the previous.

Soon, we were leaving Caernarfon Castle and riding on the bus to the Lake District, where the scenery is spectacular. This irritated Jim.

We arrived at Ambleside sometime late and immediately set out to find food. Of course, when I say "immediately" I am using HUE code to mean "after four hours of unnecessary waiting." Not that I am complaining, because the lake outside of our Youth Hostel was gorgeous and contained many ducks, which could have kept me busy for a while, but I was hungry. Fortunately, we all went out to find dinner before I caught and ate a duck, which was probably a good thing.

We went to find our first English meal by visiting an Irish pub. The food was very good, and I paid for very little of it. The trick is to pretend to not be hungry and not order anything, and then when everyone else is through with their food, devour the leftovers. It is very economical, and not at all gross. The owners of the Irish pub and several of the patrons were extremely nice and talkative people. The bartender was so nice he even put ice cubes down our administrative assistant's back, and gave us all coasters that said "no humping" and had a picture of a camel on them. The people there wondered why we didn't drink alcohol. Then they saw how crazy we were and realized it was essentially unnecessary.

The next morning we left "immediately" for Keswick** village, a picturesque hamlet consisting of nothing but fudge shops. After all the girls had each gained 500 pounds, we left for Dove Cottage, the picturesque and beer-encrusted home of the ironically named William Wordsworth. It was actually very interesting. Evidently all the poets in that era lived in the exact same house, except for Lord Byron, who spent a lot of time and ink writing about how great he was and how dreadfully rotten Wordsworth was. To be frank, I'm not a big fan of romantic poetry, but I enjoyed getting to see how people in that time lived and drank and misspelled everything.

This was followed by Beatrix Potter's house, which irritated Jim especially.

That night we settled in at a youth hostel in a town called "Once Brewed"*** in eager anticipation of the next day, and the next corresponding load of C-File material.

*The British word for bus is "coach." This is why I had to try extra-special hard to say "bus" whenever I possibly could. I'm not big with the fitting in philosophy.

**As is the case with most British town names, most of the letters are actually silent. Thus, it is actually pronounced "Kk."

***Also, "The Absolute Middle of Nowhere."