Up the Ben and Down the Boozer

Parking Ticket Appeal: Driving in England

  I Am Tourist—Hear Me Out!

 

November, Cotswolds

Delightful as it is, we are headed for Cirencester only because it is on the way and probably has a mobile phone shop which can repair mine. Negotiating the traffic-calming roundabouts that ring this market town set in the epicenter of the Gloucestershire Cotswolds takes the kind of two-person concentration which while it does let us notice the Waitrose on the Sheep Street Roundabout, does not let us pre-plan our parking intentions.  A series of narrow one-way streets signed to Town Center take us circuitously around a warren of lanes which eventually dump us in yes, the Town Center.

 Cars driven by people who know where they are going chivvy us to right and left as we try to determine our next steps. We are clearly in the Market Place which offers a long skinny packed-to-the gills car park as an island in the middle of the square. With impatient cars behind us, and one suddenly exiting from a parking space before us, I swing our car in to the narrow space and stop. Hurrah. We sit quietly for a moment with that exhalation of relief you get when you are driving a rental car in riotous traffic and you have once again managed not to mangle it.  The square is teeming. Did I mention that Cirencester is a shopper’s paradise, it is Saturday and Christmas is just a month away? 

 Now to get a Pay and Display ticket, stick it on the driver’s dashboard and sprint. The ticket machine seems to be attracting a crowd. A large man with an Irish twang tells me that he can’t get it to accept his coins. Two other attemptees blur my view of anything but the coin slot itself and being an American who knows a thing or two about ramming a coin down the throat of a parking meter, I slide my own pound coin in and watch it get solidly wedged. The Irish dude tries to pry it out but it’s a goner. The rest of the crowd starts a car park chant, “Grace Day! Grace Day!” which is apparently the British version of  “Broken Meter—Free Parking” and skip off to shop.

Tom and I consult.  Not comfortable with being touristy scofflaws if there is a solution, I go in search of another meter, which I find after a good hike to the far end of the market square.  As I have already put a pound coin (currently at the exchange rate of $1.59) in the broken meter, I put one more in this meter, extract the ticket, bring it back to the car where I write a note to the effect that I have now paid two pounds for two hours parking with one pound successfully applied to one hour and one awaiting extraction from the broken meter and stick the note on the dashboard along with the parking receipt so that the parking enforcement officer can clearly see the thoughtful and beyond -the- call -of -duty effort we have made to pay and comply.

 We get a map and some pens at the Tourist Information Center (TIC) tucked into the new Corinium Museum and make our way around the streets with stops for mobile phone repair, a saddle pad for my horse Archie and some books.  I lived near here for a while many, many years ago and cannot quite get a grip on how things have changed.  This place used to bustle on Market Wednesdays right where we have parked our car, but shut up tight as a drum once the market half day came to an end.  The tea shops, stationer, hardware and fruit and veg I remember are all there in ghostly shape but their prosaic selves have morphed into boutiques or crafts or mobile phone shops.

 On our way back to the Market Place we come across the Metro Tesco grocery store (and its car park) which we suddenly remember shopping at in a similar drive-by episode a number of years ago on our way to Dorset. We find the phone box we spent several hours in trying to line up a B and B in Lyme Regis on a bank holiday (successfully, after an arsenal of sixpences thrown with abandon at British Telecom) and reminisce. Looking at the time, we decide to skip the appeal of the Waitrose and shop at the Tesco, emerging with laden bags and a wish that we had seen this car park first.

 Tom carries the groceries and I drape shopping bags over my shoulders while we walk, talk and I fish around for the car keys in my purse. Our car is sandwiched tightly in between two others in their narrow slots staged in a row, hugging the long square.  

The yellow plastic packet glued to the windshield yields, when unstuck, a Penalty Notice. We have parked 22 minutes longer than the hour on our metered ticket. My note to the Parking Enforcement Officer explaining the situation lies visible on the dashboard read or unread.  Tom sighs and piles our bags in the car. I wait until we are both seated to read the fine amount.  £25. Twenty-five pounds!

A day or two later I ask some friends from Cheltenham what the odds are of beating a ticket in Cirencester. They laugh. I google Wikipedia on UK parking appeals which basically says forget it. It is Thanksgiving at home.

 When we are back in London a couple of days later, I read the ticket closely.  We can appeal by registering on the Council website.  £25 is equivalent to about $40.  $40 is a night at the pub. I want to appeal. I find the site, and after some hunting locate the Traffic Violations Appeal link. I press it. It is broken.  I find the name of the person on the Council website who looks most likely to be in charge of traffic violations and write an e-mail:

24.11.11  Dear Cirencester Traffic Violations Office:

I would like to appeal this ticket please. As tourists we arrived in the Market Place not aware that there was longer term parking nearby. On going to put money in the meter another gentleman (also a visitor I believe) was struggling with making the machine work. I put my pound coin in and it was irretrievably wedged making it impossibly to get a parking slip. I struggled with it. He struggled with it. Others arrived and said, 'Grace Day" which I assumed meant if the meter wasn't working there was no way to pay for parking. I did finally notice that there was another meter on the other side of the square (no one else seemed to be using it), made my way over, put another pound coin in and placed that slip in my car window with a note visible in the windscreen that I had "lost" a pound in the broken meter. 

Returning to the car with what I assumed was well over half an hour to spare given the two pound coins I had spent on parking, I was surprised to find we had received a (very substantial) fine. I am not a scofflaw, I did try very hard to pay the appropriate amount, spent a considerable amount of time trying to make that happen and would appreciate very much if you could allow that the situation and confusion (and poor signage) attributed to my (as a visitor to the UK) not knowing/understanding what to do in the situation of a broken meter and lost money.

It's been years since I spent time in Cirencester and much has changed. I do recall, at age 18, receiving a traffic fine (from an officer on a bicycle) for riding my bicycle the wrong way on a small roundabout. It was 25 pence. I paid it on site and learned the error of my ways.

Thank you for your consideration. I did try to respond via your website Parking Fines url but the link is broken. Were you able to extricate my wedged pound?

  Regards, MR

 Surprisingly, I receive an e-mail response the next morning.  The Cirencester Council signature demands that I… should not use, disclose, distribute copy or print the e-mail or any information attached to or contained in it. The Council does not guarantee the accuracy or reliability of information in the message. The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the Council, which of course raises the question about what information is accurate, and whose views they really are but I will distribute, copy and print as I believe in full disclosure and I am currently residing across a very large ocean’s reach from the wrath of Cirencester Council.

 25.11.11  Re: Parking Violation Market Place, Cirencester

Thank you for your recent e-mail regarding the above Penalty Charge Notice (PCN), which I received on the 24^th November 2011. Under the Traffic Management Act 2004 (as amended), your letter has been treated as informal representations against this Penalty Charge Notice and careful consideration has been given to your representations, including all the circumstances relating to the issue of this Charge.

 Your vehicle was parked in a short stay car park as indicated by the signage in the area. Although you state you had entered £1 into one machine which became wedged and then proceed to purchase another ticket from the other machine this does not mean you can leave your vehicle for 2hrs as you are only entitled to leave your vehicle for up to 1 hour in this car park.  There are a number of car parks within Cirencester whereby you can park for up to 10 hours.  It is the driver’s responsibility to make sure their vehicle adheres to the parking regulations that apply and that they are fully aware of the regulations before leaving their vehicle. Your reasons for not complying with the regulations in force are insufficient to merit the cancellation of this Charge.  We are satisfied that this Charge was served correctly and your representations are rejected for the reasons outlined above.

 You may now pay the discounted amount of £25.00 within 14 days from the date of this letter, after which the PCN reverts to the full charge of £50.00.  If payment is not received, a Notice to Owner will be sent to the registered owner of the vehicle. This will advise of the process and grounds on which formal representations can be made.  The Council is obliged to consider representations to the Notice to Owner, even if your informal representations have been rejected. You should be aware that the discounted amount will not be applicable once a Notice to Owner has been served.

If the formal representations to the Notice to Owner are rejected, the registered owner of the vehicle has the right to appeal to an independent Parking Adjudicator.   This cannot be done until after formal representations have been made to the Council following the issue of the Notice to Owner and subsequently rejected.

Yours sincerely,  Mrs. M   Parking Services

I think about this for a minute.  Apparently I have unwittingly had my day in court and despite it being me who has to pay the ticket; only the Owner of the Car (the rental agency) will be allowed to make ‘formal representations’. Plus in making a further appeal not only will I accrue the charges the rental agency is sure to extend, I would, if my appeal loses, have to pay the double fine. Ouch.  I find myself humming a few bars from Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant and imagine Officer Obie at the other end of the e-mail. I call up the Google Earth map of Market Place and look at the car park, the meters and the distance between them. Perhaps I will take a pro-active leaf from Officer Obie’s book and provide the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one.

 25.11.11 Dear Mrs. M,

Thank you for your swift reply. I might mention that given I only tried to purchase one hour I had no idea the lot was limited to that. Had I tried to put in two coins in a machine that functioned perhaps I would have been more knowledgeable about limits. There was quite a crowd at the kiosk so that made it difficult to read any terms.  I thought that I was parking in a two-hour lot.

 I would appreciate your reconsidering my appeal. I did not in any way try to abuse the privileges of parking in the market lot. I did my very best to be responsible, thoughtful and to operate within the parameters of the law. That the kiosk was broken and I lost a pound and then spent a considerable amount of time trying to understand what was expected was of course my fault.

I would ask you to please reconsider. A fine of 25 pounds is considerable. In my town the same transgression would cost you, as a visitor, a third of that and had you been as confused as I was as a visitor, we would have forgiven you that one -time overstay and welcomed you back.

I wonder too about my lost pound?

Regards, MR

  A few days pass while we allow London’s public transport and our own two feet to get us where we want to be.  I have not heard from Mrs. M.  We are leaving the UK in a few days and our two -week window to pay the ‘discounted’ fine at  £25 is narrowing.

28.11.11 Dear Mrs. M,

 As I am sure you had a busy Friday and having not heard back from you re my recent query, I am writing again. I would prefer to write by letter but suspect that you would not receive it for several days so hope that e-mail is considered as legitimate a form of appeal as a written letter as the Cirencester website encourages me to e-mail.

 I reiterate that given the circumstances of the broken kiosk, the absence of notice regarding what to do as well as poor signage regarding parking hour limitation given that kiosk one retained my pound coin without ticket, I should not be held liable for a very understandable offense. I would reiterate that the crowd around the kiosk obscured any notice about parking limits. I made the effort to pay for one hour (kiosk two) and left a note in my windscreen regarding my lost pound, which I hoped would cover the additional hour but did not have the opportunity to put two pounds in a kiosk which, by not accepting it, would have informed me that it was a one-hour lot. 

I would respectfully ask this fine to be dismissed due to poor signage, information and good intention. As I am leaving the UK for home tomorrow could you please let me know what further steps I need to take to have my appeal re-considered and to expand the 14 day £25 rate to cover that appeal and the time international mail might require.

I wonder too if the fine shouldn't actually be £24 given my lost pound which was irretrievably wedged in the broken meter? 

Thank you for your assistance, MR

 Surprisingly, I hear back within 24 hours. Mrs. M has perhaps grown impatient with me so I am now communicating with Mr. B who replies:

 29.11.11  Location: MARKET PLACE (Cirencester)

 Thank you for your recent email regarding the above Penalty Charge Notice (PCN).

The Council has already considered your informal representations and they have been rejected.  Under current legislation, the Council is not obliged to consider any further representations until the registered owner of the vehicle has been served with a Notice to Owner.

The Tariff on the Pay and Display Machine clearly states that Maximum stay 1 hour No return within 1 Hour. The ticket you purchased expired at 14:27 and under the terms of the tariff you are required to leave the Car Park and unable to return until after 15:27.

As explained in our previous letter, the Notice to Owner will advise of the process and grounds on which formal representations can be made. You may wish to resubmit your correspondence with your formal representation to the Notice to Owner if you wish. The Council is obliged to consider representations to the Notice to Owner even if your informal representations have been rejected.

If the formal representations to the Notice to Owner are rejected, the registered owner of the vehicle has the right to appeal to an independent Parking Adjudicator.   This cannot be done until after formal representations have been made to the Council following the issue of the Notice to Owner and subsequently rejected.

Yours sincerely,

Mr. B   Parking Services

 Mr. B sounds cross.  I look closely at a Pay and Display meter in London on a tramp around Hyde Park. The fine print is, like ours at home, very fine.  If it weren’t for the large sign above it which clearly states how much and how long, I would not be able to read the meter without a fairly strong magnifying glass or an 8 year old with 20/20 vision.  Mr. B is not buying my point. If I put in two pounds for two hours in one meter, the idiot-proof meter would have spit out one of them and given me a ticket for just one hour. I would likely have thought about this for a bit before understanding glimmered. One pound=one- hour lot.  I feel Mr. B’s annoyance radiating across the watery miles now dividing us from Cirencester Parking Services as we leave the UK  but not the parking dilemma.  

  The yellow plastic envelope with its expensive contents travels home with my passport.  In three days the £25 ticket will morph into £50. Insisting that the writing is on the wall (or in this case on the ticket) my spouse has created an internationally stamped envelope stuffed with  £25 in cash, which he is anxious to mail to Parking Services without further ado.  I grudgingly agree with him but ask him to just wait a little bit longer.  I send Mr. B one last gasp, a sort of closing argument.

 29.11.11 Dear Mr. B,

 I realize that you are complying with process but as I am not the Owner of the Car and it was a hire car, I am not in a position to be able to formally object to the £25 fee I was billed at Market Parking Cirencester.  I attest that the indicators about both the broken meter and the hour limit at Market Parking in Cirencester are not displayed in any visible effort to ensure that the many visitors to your lovely town are clearly advised as to time limit in the Market Place car park nor does your response address the issue of the broken meter and my wedged pound coin.

While I do realize that "Under current legislation, the Council is not obliged to consider any further representations until the registered owner of the vehicle has been served with a Notice to Owner" I wonder if, under those circumstances you might re-consider the £25 fine.  As you must know, my hire company will charge me considerable fees in addition if I seek to formally appeal what I feel to be a ticket issued under poor circumstances. I am sure the Council does not want to take advantage of a situation which does not allow me to formally appeal.

    A: The signage for Market Parking does not clearly inform motorists that it is a one-hour lot as they are approaching the parking, nor does it clearly direct them to longer parking. The confusion of entry to the Market, especially in traffic does not lend itself to both driving carefully and trying to pick out parking options.

    B: The meter we used was broken with very poor signage about directions or otherwise (lost 1 pound)

    C: Many others were confused as well, their crush around the meter contributing to anyone's ability to more closely read what must have been very fine print on the meter in terms of time limit.

     D. In all good intention I thought I had paid for two hours, I wrote a note to accompany my one-hour ticket and placed it in my windscreen attesting to the pound I had wedged in the broken meter. If I had not lost a pound in the broken meter, I would likely have discovered on trying to spend two pounds for two hours at the far- side working meter, that it was a one-hour lot. I do not recall ANY other indicator of that which caught my attention. I disagree that the tariff is clearly stated on the meter.

    E. I returned well within the time I thought I had paid for, saw the ticket, read it, but still did not see any easily visible sign indicating that Market is a 1- hour lot.

    F. I did not have a guided source of information about appealing the fine, having to resort to an inquiry e-mail, which was apparently considered to be my informal appeal, without my having any knowledge about that appeal process. The Council website link was, like the meter, broken.

   G. I do not reside in the UK and have had to since return home making it very difficult and likely expensive to properly protest this fine. Thank you for your ongoing patience and thoughtful response.

  H.  Shoudn't the fine actually be £24 as I have not been credited for the wedged pound?

Most Sincerely, MR

 The next day ticks on.  It is 6 p.m. our time and 23:00 GMT when everyone at Cirencester Parking Services is likely sound asleep or watching Kristina Cooper present the government news on BBC Parliament. I check my e-mail.

 30.11.11 Location:  MARKET PLACE (Cirencester)

Thank you for your email regarding the above Penalty Charge Notice, which I received on 30th November 2011. I have reviewed this case and I am satisfied that it was issued correctly as the area in which you had parked has a maximum stay of 1 hour. This is indicated clearly on the pay and display machines.

As a gesture of goodwill as it appears that you are visitor to this county I have cancelled the above PCN.

Yours sincerely, 

 Miss W    Parking Services  

 My first thought is of course curiosity about what my confidantes Mrs. M and Mr. B make of this as now an authoritative Miss W has joined our conversation.  Did Mr. B object? Did Mrs. M smile? Are we all d'accord now? My second thought is whoopee. I careen  into the living room, humming, "You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant" to tell my patient spouse that we have been granted a pardon.

He has that look on his face which can only mean one thing.

He has already mailed the fine. 

 30.11.11 Dear Miss W,

Thank you for your e-mail response and kind effort towards goodwill. Sadly, the fee was mailed  (in cash) just prior to your generous response. 

Should you receive the payment and find that indeed you do want to honor closing the PCN then I would be very happy to send a stamped return envelope to have the fine I mailed returned to me or to a friend in the UK.

Thank you for your patience. I am in the future, sincerely committed to more carefully reading the parking hour limitations on British Pay and Display meters no matter how fine the print.

 Regards, MR

No word from Miss W. Yet. She may be otherwise occupied as apparently the Council has riled even the locals recently by raising car park charges.  

If you're reading this and you happen to be traveling in Cirencester, would you mind stopping by the Market Place and seeing if my pound is still stuck?

 

 

 

 

Dartmoor by Fog

 

November, Dartmoor

The fog, sitting heavily on Haytor Down has, if anything, intensified.  Not only can't I see my hand in front of my face-- I can't see the tor in front of my horse.

A tor is a gigantic pile of compellingly mysterious rocks which are not uncommon throughout the British Isles but are most notably part of the terrain in Devon's Dartmoor, a bleakly gorgeous national park pocked with bogs, rocks and tors high above the far off sea.  

Zana suggested we box two ponies to Dartmoor to explore possible trails for her trekking program at West Steart Farm. A good trekking route is circular, not too strenuous and the route is clear. Although the weather was iffy in Stoodleigh, an hour's drive should find us above the fog according to the British weather channel Metcheck which tends to be conservative in its forecast. So we drove. 

Two motorways, several roundabouts and one hour later we seemed to have the fog glued to us as we rose higher and higher above the Exe River valley far away and far below. By the time we reached the Haytor car park the fog was so dense that the only users of this perpetually popular spot were ourselves, the two horses, one dog and the Molly Macs Ice Creams Van.  We thought for about one minute whether this was a good idea or a dumb idea, unboxed the ponies, saddled up, whistled along the sheepdog Alfie and headed out to find the trail to Hound Tor via Becka Brook.

I actually like fog. Well, maybe I don't like it when I'm driving but it's soft and friendly and okay when you're walking or riding a nice solid Dales pony. Even so, there are pony-eating bogs on Dartmoor,  many tales of those who never return and some more about huge dogs and monster cats who stalk the misty moors and I am as susceptible as the next person to imagining what I cannot see.

The Dartmoor Walking Association advises those exploring the moor to:

Treat the Moor as the unspoilt wilderness it is.
Wear proper clothing and footwear. 
Take waterproofs, a map and a compass.
Tell someone you can trust your route, 
and expected return time before you set out. 
Check the weather forecast. Close gates behind you.

The nice man in the Molly Macs Ice Creams Van waved at us as we rode off so I suppose he is our "last-seen" contact. We are both wearing our new wind and wave-proof  Devon Riding Holidays jackets and as our feet are clad in jodphur boots, our heads encased in approved safety helmets  and we both sport high visibility safety vests, we are properly clothed.  Zana has her requisite emergency medical kit around her waist and I have the emergency  chocolate bar tucked into a zipper bag along with my mobile, camera and bandana around mine. The ponies wear head collars under their bridles. Leadropes attached to our saddle dees are tidily secured in their pony club knots. 

 Zana is an enthusiast in the  art of Le Trec, a French- originated equine sport which involves reading maps (orienteering), having a fit horse at all gaits and negotiating obstacles which might be found in normal (and sticky) situations when riding cross country. This is the kind of thing you want the person who is leading you through dense fog on an open moor to be good at. She wears her OS map (Explorer OL28) in a waterproof see-through case around her neck along with a small plastic combo magnifying glass and compass and consults it closely before we trot along the road for a very short time before we cross and head up the moor on what we hope will be just a three hour tour.

Crossing the narrow B3387 may be the most dangerous part of our ride, as motorists, who are implored by the National Park authorities to "Take Moor Care" have great difficulty noticing the backside of a horse, which sadly causes Dartmoor pony fatalities far too often. Even now we see small groups of ponies grabbing mouthfuls of grass by the verge of the road, easy prey for mindless motorists.

The pleasant part of riding in the fog is just that. You get to ride in a fog. Your world shrinks to one of mist, muffled sound and nebulous shape. Objects appear in muted clarity only when they are directly near you. We ride by two tors knowing them only by the vague cloudy shape they present in the fog, although on a clear day we would be able to see their enormous rocky pile from miles away. The dim light helps me to focus on small details I might not normally notice: the peculiar shape of certain rocks, the variety of muds and slick grass. My pony Trooper is particularly focused on the grass which he samples every time Zana stops with her pony Donna to check the map. This happens often enough to keep both ponies happy. I start thinking about the emergency chocolate bar about 38 minutes into the ride.

 

.

Our route is designed to take us to the old quarry tramway circling the quarry pit past Smallacombe Rocks and down through the woods to Becka Brook. While we can make out Smallacombe Rocks when we are right on it,  we cannot see the wood enclosing the brook, nor can we find the tramway bridle path leading towards it. We are aiming for the path which leads us past the Medieval village of Hundatora (long abandoned due apparently to climate change and Black Death) to the inviting jumps course the South Devon Moorland Hunt have put up around Hound Tor. We won't, on a day like this of of course be jumping any of the fences, but we would like to sort of sidle up to a few.

Tom and I have walked this path a couple of times in other years on clear sunny days where the landmarks shout the direction to take. Being able to see Hound Tor off in the distance, or head for the woods shrouding Becka Brook, the walk is a pleasurable snap in clear weather when even Tom can't get us lost. We once had a lovely picnic in a glade near the brook and waded  its chilly waters.

Trooper is getting impatient with the frequent stops.  By our second circuit past Smallacombe Rocks we start to realize that we won't be finding our way today. We finally decide to bag the ride when we find ourselves peering through the murkiness to determine if we are retracing our steps by examining the hoof prints going in the opposite direction. Are those our ponies' prints or those of some other unseen horse and rider? The hoof prints outline have melded with the muddy moor. Unsure, we give the ponies their heads. Clever Dales ponies will nearly always find the most direct route back and ours determinedly aim us towards the distant horse box.

Once we are back in our zone and find ourselves easily on the map, Zana as she
always does, finds us a gallop. This one is straight up the long rise to Haytor itself with the two fastest ponies in the herd. The sound of hooves muffles in the fog and we have the odd sensation of galloping through clouds. It is not until we have nearly crashed into it that we find ourselves at the Tor, its giant boulders stretching ghostly above and before us.

Catching our breath and laughing at the pure fun of  being wild, we pick our way back down the long grassy slope to the car park. The Merry Mac Ice Creams van sits stolidly unseen in fog in the empty car park and after we put the ponies away with a grooming, tail and leg wraps and bulging hay nets, we wander over hoping he has warm drinks as well as cold ices.

Finishing our hot chocolates and cheese sandwiches in the cab with Alfie gulping down our crusts, we happily head back down the narrow lanes to the motorway towards Stoodleigh,  Zana expertly guiding the horse box through fog-mad traffic. I fish out the emergency chocolate bar. When we arrive at the farm, the sun is shining.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arrive London—Rent a Car Survival

 Heathrow Airport 2011
Many of us are well familiar with wandering blearily into Heathrow after having been awake for the past million hours.  While Big Ben is donging half past 7 am London time, our eastern US alarms aren't due to go off for another five hours. We are awake during our prime REM time and, stupid as it is and sounds-- we're about to (legally and on the 'wrong side ' of the road) drive a car. 

I like to think I am getting better at it as I get older. No longer do I drive into oncoming traffic  endangering everyone in visible sight as I head out of Glasgow Airport, nor does Tom book the Irish rental car for 10 am when it is 5:30 we arrive in Dublin. We both know that while we can manage a couple of hours drive-time, we'll need a serious break before our brains fade. 

That we are bound to come to words before we are actually on an M Road, is a dead cert. But--we have a plan. I am now the doyen of car hire and I book with the same companies each time because A: I have priorities and B: I am cheap. Free extra driver*, free mileage, fast pass and a quick shuttle --all aces. Currently a fan of National (EuropeCar) because they have all of the above plus a free-for-all choose your own car plan, it usually goes like this:

1. Deplane and spend either a short or long time being admitted to the UK. Pass go and trundle downstairs to find  bag* and shuffle it through Customs on the hairpin bend that leads to Arrivals. 

2. Enter Arrivals and do some necessary and immediate humdrum tasks which include pushing the luggage trolley through legions of travelers with thousands of bags and millions of small screaming children who have been met by all of their friends and relations and are headed for the car park whose elevators are annoyingly causing a heavy back up right in front of door. Exit the terminal to shuttle bus*.

3. As Bus has just left, wait. Discover that luggage trolley has no brake and spend the wait time keeping it captive as it tries to escape down the peculiar incline just next to the bus stop. Watch everyone else hauling bags, kids and jittery trolleys.

4. Load bags into bus and hold breath as bus negotiates Terminal gauntlet allowing riders to be spit out onto the Perimeter Road  with  huge jets hovering just overhead. Get out. Fast. Be First One in to Car Hire Agency as partner deals with luggage. Produce drivers' licenses, reservation and Big Smile. 

5. Wave loaded -policy -car- rental Amex card* at agent and Decline Additional Insurance, crossing fingers that it actually works should you actually hit something. Get the nice guy with the laid- back attitude even though you are American, who won't remind you more than thrice that you really should take the super deluxe no worries insurance• coverage for an additional million pounds a day.

6. Grab the paperwork and dash into parking lot to Choose Car.

  Although I love this part because it's FUN to choose your own car, this is where we sadly lose key time and mutual empathy. Tom always lets me decide as I also insist on driving. It's not that Tom is not a fabulous and trustworthy individual, it's just this little here-and-gone thing he has for taking his eyes off the road.  So we wander what's on offer (usually strange cars no one anywhere else will ever drive) and choose one. We load our gear in and I sit in the driver's seat adjusting  mirrors and wrestling with the handbrake• and stuff until I see a Better Car and we unload the gear and reload it and drive around the parking lot for a while until we remember to go that way to get to the exit booth with the green light and we Get the green light and Pass Go to the Real World, or at least back to the Perimeter Road*.

Leaving the Car Hire is so much easier than it used to be-- if you do it right. Years ago, a real test of jet lag was enduring passenger map- reading aloud at high volume,("Left! Right! Stay Straight!") through five or six  poorly-signed, seriously many-laned roundabouts that trickily dumped you right back where you started. Now you can drive fairly effortlessly (except for that faux turn into airport employee parking) on to the M4, M25 or headed towards your ultimate M, A or B. 

Bingo, you're there, and it's just steering, getting your M-legs and beginning to play the lanes (left slow, middle travel, right pass).  Relaxing to BBC morning news enjoy the scenery which actually has fields and cows, vistas and Sights to See placed strategically by the motorway for your driving pleasure. 

Car Hire Sanity Savers

Heathrow Car Hire: Heathrow terminals have been playing hop scotch as each is upgraded but car hire still requires a bus ride. Enjoy it! Look for the Concorde!

 Gatwick Car Hire :"As part of Gatwick’s £1 billion investment programme we’re transforming North Terminal. Our new multi storey car park 6 opened on Wednesday 20 April 2011, ahead of schedule. Car rental desks will be open on level 1 of the terminal (The Avenue). Take the lifts adjacent to International Arrivals and you will clearly see all car rental desks located on level 1. Car rental staff will then direct you to the cars. The new location has direct access to the terminal, contemporary surroundings and all cars are parked undercover."

 Heathrow Arriving Flights are posted on baggage hall monitors but grab a trolley first. Many travelers do not know that many airlines allow an extra bag "free" for sports equipment. Your sport might require a diving suit or motorbike gear, check to see if  it gets a free ride. 

Free Extra Driver: NEVER pay for this, I mean that's just really dumb if you think about it -only one person can drive a car at a time, so why pay for two? Many "business" elite programs which offer perks like free driver are available free through AARP or AAA. Additionally free drivers are often available as a freemium if you Google car rental promos but make sure yours applies to UK rentals as well.

•Some credit card companies offer a for-a-fee per use additional coverage for complete coverage when hiring abroad--except in Ireland, Australia, New Zealand and a few other countries where they'd lose their shirts. Check to see if your card offers primary car rental coverage as secondary means collison charges go to your own insurance company.

Getting to Know Your Car: As everything is on the opposite side of the car, don't get crazy over not being able to find the handbrake. Stick your head out the window and ask for help.

 Leaving the Car Hire Lot: It is OKAY to drive around the car hire lot while you learn how the car works and practice right side steering on the left side of the road. This may well avoid wrong way and  the all-t00-frequent post-car-hire exit booth sound of passenger screaming at driver, "You Idiot!"   Ouch.

 

 

 

 

Lost in Hembury Wood

 Dartmoor, Devon, November

 Somewhere in the great wood lies a castle. Long ago and beyond memory it may have been a remarkable place. Motte and bailey structure, it lies buried under soft leaf mold leaving only a suggestion of shape. The surrounding forest harbors nuance and guards against discovery. I'm sitting under a tree caught somewhere between now and then, with no idea in which direction lies out.

It was Tom's idea to take a woodland walk after we had taken a moorland walk and I was post my best adventure mode. The wind had blown in our faces from all directions up on the moor and after a a couple of hours of wiping hair out of my mouth, my arms  and eyes got weary despite the bracing air and the tantalizing views.

Descending into the woodland dells that make a vague sort of tree line below Dartmoor, we park in an empty National Trust forest lot and go for a walk without a map. Again.

A word about trees. Living in New England as we do, we have a lot  of them but as our family farms fail we lose the balance of meadow/tree, meadow/tree of the past 350 years and totter between forest, housing estates and strip mall. Left to themselves, the forests have reclaimed the hard-won clearings made by those yankee farmers and there are some who say that a squirrel can still run branch -to-branch from Maine to Tennessee.

In the UK trees have never really made it back since the great forests were channeled into grazing and villages and cities and colonial fleets and  the M-1.

A recent move by the Tories to "privatize" (as in sell off) great tracts of British forest met with resounding opposition by walkers and birders and riders and hunters and resulted in Environment Secretary Caroline Spelman having to drop her bid and issue a public apology.

So a walk in the woods is a fortunate treat and would have been to us as well if we had not been clueless about where the castle path was and  had that tiff over which way and gone our separate ways and, unfortunately, lost each other. 

I like a nice soft wood. Who doesn't? When Tom heads his way and I head mine neither of us thinks we can get too far out of earshot to holler, "Okay I give up," only Tom does. I lose him within five leaf-stomping minutes. After another five of not hearing his stomps in a crackly wood, I start calling; gently at first and then with all the great lung capacity I inherited as the descendent of opera singers and hotdog salesmen. I hear nothing-- and Tom has the car keys.

After another half hour of slogging through the leaf mold of yesteryear and finding neither Hembury Castle nor my  spouse I start that whole Blair Witch Project reel in my head and have trouble shaking it out. These woods are eery. A big black bird which may be a raven plunges  through the trees and startles me into a full stop as I watch it caw its way to the sky.  There are legends about these woods which if true, mean there are legions of Roman and Danish soldiers buried deeply beneath the soft ground I am treading. Legends lead to ghosts and I am prey to suggestion.

I stop and call again. Where earlier I simply called a gentle enquiry, "Tom? Tom?" now my word choice is less lady-like. I am counting on there being only me, the birds, the squirrels ("skweeralll in Brit-speak) and hopefully Tom, as my voice bellows across the wood and its silent, hidden past. 

"What?" Tom neatly pops up just behind me and gets the galvanized jump from me that he had hoped for. I expand on his query ("What?") with some additions to what that make the skweerallls run for cover and we debate who heard whom for a bit before agreeing to strike off for the castle path which we find and follow and walk around a hump in the ground which must be IT and head back to the car park. 

Oddly, later as we talk the walk over a pint at the Rock Inn  snug in Haytor Vale, Tom insists that he never heard me call until he was right next to me. I am convinced that even the long-dead could hear me and we bat that around for a while until we run out of steam and realize that one of us could not hear the other and wonder why.  We also find it compellingly curious that the well-marked path to the Castle was clearly apparent once we had re-discovered each other but seemingly invisible on our first sortie. If we had wandered off the map and into long-ago--how would we know? I for one cross Hembury Wood off my list of must-returns. Tom says he had a delightful walk and will come again next chance. 

Storm Over Teagardens

Living in western Massachusetts we are savvy on blizzards, nor-easters and summer thunder. This is the way it is and has always been.  We bundle up and deal. Yesterday changed all that as we received a line of  summer weather that resulted in three  tornado touch-downs better suited to the wide plains of nowhere and things blew apart.

Up here, just west of the mighty Connecticut River, we had hail and winds and thunder and lightening and suffered the great loss of trees. Losing trees is to me visceral as I think I may once have been one. Just south of here people lost homes, jobs and lives. The sky went green and the winds swirled and the horses in the barn tried their best to kick their way out past the deafening hail and wind and noise. Sirens roared and television news focused on loss and anguish and damage and terror.

I thought about Australia. When people talk about environmental challenges in Oz they tend to mention all the wildlife (scorpions, snakes, jellyfish and sharks) that can kill you but they don't usually mention storms unless they involve water or fire. The first day we were there we met a brown recluse spider who took ownership of our Byron Bay veranda, dangling down every evening on its silvery, poisonous thread. We avoided running our small car over a huge snake sunning in the road by driving up the verge.

A week later we were acclimatized-- swimming behind shark fences, avoiding bluebottles, wearing sun hats with huge brims and slapping flat white sun block over exposed skin. Arriving on yet another sunny day in Teagardens, a watery town north of Sydney,  we checked into the town's hotel/motel which offered backpacker rooms set around a tropical courtyard, each room demarcated by pairs of hiking boots placed in the sun to de-odorize. Wandering down to the Myall River to find dinner we settled on Mumm's and a table in the tent where we could see the water and enjoy the cool evening.  The restaurant was pleasantly full and we ordered fish, wine and greens.

The wind picked up when the wine arrived. By the time dinner came the wind had risen and we heard thunder from across the river. When we could see the lightening I was gauging the conductivity relevance of  metal table to metal chairs to metal tent poles. This lightening was not what we generally know (or knew until yesterday) in western Massachusetts. It appeared as a gilded  serrated column of spectacular orange and gold, often two or three or twelve driven deeply and directly from sky to water, sky to ground in a vertical and deadly ear-splitting  thrust. Tom happily tucked into his tilapia but I had just finished a book where the key character dumbly dies from being electrocuted by trying to fish a spoon out from under the fridge.  When the tent lights went out with the next fiery explosion there was a brief silence amongst the diners until one Ozzie voice called out to unseen waitstaff  in the darkness, "Oy mate, bring us another bottle of the shiraz?" and the sounds of pleasant conversation and clinked glass resumed, audible briefly between thunderclaps.

It took only one more huge and dramatic flash for me to grab Tom, leave our meal and rush to pay our check in the generator-fueled main restaurant. We foolishly ran handheld together down the center of the deserted street in an Armegeddon downpour chased by bolts of serious electricity.  By the time we reached the motel we were drenched and exhilarated in the way that happens only when you have dually toyed with death and reaped the highs of powerful negative ions. We dried as best we could with the motel's ancient towels and stayed awake until the wee hours watching night to day as each bolt lit our view of Oceana, listening to the world at its end.

The planet is at a strange place right now, weather-wise.  If the choices are between  American panic and Ozzie calm, I'd say open your cellar door to the neighbors, don't toy with disaster by video-iphoning that tornado and have another glass of the red.

 

 

In the Shadow of Castle Drogo: Sitting With Mabel

   Drewsteignton, Devon    July

Signing away your week's holiday on an unknown, unseen, not-sure village/cottage and in this case--pub, is both intriguing and unnerving. We knew we wanted to be in Dartmoor but we weren't sure where.   

Rule of  Thumb: when in doubt book through the National Trust Holiday Cottages. While not cheap (a caravan is cheap and while a week with the National Trust is increasingly Not Cheap they are dropping their rates--next year), reliability, location/location, ambiance, hot water and bath tub, fireplace/stove, and double bed with duvet. Some people (according to the guest book I always read in the first ten minutes of our tenancy while drinking my "welcome" cup of tea, eating my "welcome" biscuit and watching Tom bring our stuff in) get excited about the welcome tea tray, while others declare a life-long love with the cottage, the area, and the woman who prepared the tea tray. You can count on the Trust. 

  So here we were, week- long tenants of Trinity Cottage smack dab in the middle of the village square, thirty footsteps to the Drewe Arms pub and high above the glory of Dartmoor. We parked the car in the square right outside our cottage which was one of a long row of medieval cottages called Glebe on this side of the square. We unpacked suitcases from home filled with items necessary to a week away and some hot sauce,  items from the Sainsbury's back in Dartmouth: wine, beer, real butter, real bread, eggs, bacon, garlic cloves, yogurts, cheese, toilet paper, paper towels, cling wrap, some nice Spanish salami, five candles and Hello magazine, and went to the pub.

The thatched pub was originally the Druid Arms until 1915-ish when Julius Drewe (Home and Colonial Stores tycoon and creator of the peculiar Castle Drogo which stands crumbling high over the  nearby River Teign) paid the brewery to change its name to Drewe Arms to match his. Let us all be Drewe. Outdoor seating on tables tucked away from the wind in front and in the garden behind, the pub has recently been renovated but the original part has been left largely undisturbed. This means that you walk in a narrow aisle, order a drink at the  tiny bar drawn from carefully coddled shelf- casks in the original tap room and carry it either outside or into the snug unless you want the more upscale experience in one of the dining rooms.

Our first drink at the Drewe Arms was in the back garden under a summer sky, all by ourselves.  Trees in heavy green leaf, a nice breeze and a blue sky, we congratulated ourselves on a choice well made. Later, after a home-cooked dinner of real bread and real cheese  and Dartish chicken we went for a long walk where we got only modestly off-piste through some meadows, over stiles and past cows, circling back through the village churchyard which landed us right in front of the pub again. Leaving the evening's  gloaming for the cozily lit interior, we were warmly welcomed as neighbors for the week and forgiven for cooking our own meal rather than eating out.  The pub lends itself to a few people just standing in the hallway with drinks,  minding the doorway and chatting to the bar staff. Tom stayed to talk and I took my chardonnay into the snug. 

A British pub snug is just what it sounds like--a cozy place to sit with a drink. Think settle or stool, often an open fire and room for a few couples or a group of after-work celebrants. On this evening it was just me-- and Mabel. Taking in the satisfactory fire, the dart board and the small hatch into the bar, I turned my head  and met the  rather critical glance of a small round woman with arms made powerful from years of pulling pints.  Gazing towards the dartboard from her portrait gracing the far wall, she struck a familiar chord. It wasn't  just because she was portrayed sitting just where I was (where she would have been looking out the small window opposite me), nor was it that this (according to the plaque beneath the photograph) had  been her pub for 75 years.

No, Mabel and I had met before and it wasn't until that night that I woke remembering when.

We all make memories of where we've been or where we would like to be. I tend to buy books and it was in one of those purchased years ago that Mabel had made her appearance. A small collection of photos of British pubs, hers was a riveting face  and I remembered every detail of that well worn snug and her tired slump. You could tell her feet hurt. A small book of ancient buildings and their as-they-were interiors, I'd enjoyed flipping through it for as long as it sat accessibly on a living room table. I'd marked pages of pubs I thought we should someday visit. Even when it was eventually disappeared to a bookshelf I had occasionally pulled it down to "be there" and had spent many a moment with Mabel. Hers was an uncanny portrait, one of those that make you imagine an entire history. I sometimes thought I could hear Mabel sigh and wondered what she was looking at. Now I knew.

According to a 1995  article in the British Independent which chronicles the village's brief fling with running the pub themselves; Mabel Mudge, known to one and all as "Auntie", officially retired as Britain's longest-serving pub landlady on October 4, 1994. It was her 99th birthday. In 75 years at the Drewe Arms in Drewsteignton, Devon, she presided over one big change: the installation of running water and electricity.

Suffice it to say that we had a delightful week exploring Dartmoor, getting lost as night closed in on the Two Moors Way from Fingle Bridge past Castle Drogo, avoiding oncoming cars on high-hedged single-track lanes and finishing each day at Auntie Mabel's, as the Drewe Arms is still called in the village. We joined most of the surrounding population in the pub's Long Room for the final (and disappointing) game of the World Cup. Mabel's great-great nieces and nephew chased after their dogs in the square in the long summer evenings and their mother brought us a dinner tray of home-made roasted baby courgettes.   

When we returned home, I dug out the photo book and looked for Mabel. There she was (page 22) and will be. Turning back to the front (they are all lovely pubs) I laughed at what I had written to Tom on the flyleaf:

     "Oh down to the boozer we'll go, down to the boozer we'll go.

      We'll hold hands over Black and Tans 'til the candles burn down low."

Looking back at the Drewe Arms, I thought Auntie Mabel would have had a thing or two to say about that. 

 

 

 

 

Discovering Doc Martin

Permalink: http://megrobb.typepad.com/britishtravel/2011/02/doc-martin.htm

 
Cornwall, November

I am a big fan of the online forum, Slow Travel, whose devotees are  committed to touring depth rather than breadth, so it was no surprise that one of us brought up the subject of Doc Martin. We're not  talking clunky shoes--  this Doc Martin (Martin Clunes) is the popular ITV British television 4 going -on-5 series featuring an annoying but highly skilled London surgeon who takes up a general practice in a very small Cornish fishing village due to his having acquired an unfortunate phobia to blood. The Doc also struggles with what appears to be an unfortunate phobia to humans.

 So when the Slow Travel topic came up about staying in Port Isaac, the village  stand-in for the fictitious 'PortWenn' where Doc Martin is filmed, I replied:

"...and here I was--a complete Doc M neophyte  when my friend Gwynedd and I walked the SW Coastal Path from Pentire Farm to Port Quin  (a  three- footprint walk according to the map's scale of 1-easy to 3 -"strenuous") to Port Isaac last year. It was an absolutely gorgeous cliff-side walk around the Qellan and Varley Heads past Lobber Point, up and down seaside hills, hoisting Rosie the Lurcher over the stiles she refused to leap and finally the descent into Port Isaac. Noting a sign importantly announcing the home of Doc Martin I naively asked Gwynedd, "Who's Doc Martin?"

She was horrified--you don't KNOW? We walked down into the village, stood at the small beach where the VW gets sunk in  Episode 1 (little did I know) and up and down the 
High Street past the school house and the point of giggling girls (five of them in situ as we passed), looking for a: our husbands who were supposed to be rendezvousing with us and b: a pub that   allowed Rosie the Lurcher. No  sign of either, so we walked on to Port Gaverne  where we stopped at the extremely dog -friendly Inn for a warm fire and drink with our found spouses and then on by car to dinner at the tick-tock clock-eccentric Earl of St Vincent in Egloshayle.

 The view from the broad fields just up from Doc Martin's surgery out over the village is ancient and surreal at the same time. Huge cliffs mellow out into the  Terrace down below before yanking themselves back to precipitous drops. Fishing boats chug out of the harbor along the coast making their own trail of whitecaps in the aqua waters.   

Slow Travelers wanted to know if there are pubs in the village. There are   p   ubs and inns aplenty in Port Isaac (I think any village in Cornwall without a pub would have some pretty dreary days) but when we were w alking through after a long, somewhat damp walk in Full Dimpsey  (the Cornish term for low cloud and  fine drizzle), one was closed and two were barred to dogs. Rosie  the Dog was insistent on joining us for a warm hearth and a sof t rug.   

The Old School House Hotel, not surprisingly the filming site of the PortWenn school, looked pretty upscale.  I peeked into the windows as the tables were being laid for dinner and given we were trudging by so many times in spouse-tracking, I became pretty familiar with their progress, getting at first a warm smile, then next circuit an amused grin, and finally waves from my new best friends doing the set up.

The village must be far more crowded when it's summer and there are more people than lobsters, but in November, we stood out as what we were--gawkingingly muddy daytrippers in search of warmth. The only conversations we had were with the innkeepers who said no dogs, the giggly girls whose comments were clear but one-sided, and with Rosie the Lurcher who said she was hungry, footsore and saw no reason why we shouldn't stop now.

   The Southwest Coastal Path runs 630 miles (we have tried and tried to cover it all in shorter shifts--no lu ck yet) and some of the nicest bits are near PortIsaac. Enthusiastic walkers can hike (about 12 miles) in to Padstow if they don't mind some serious ups and downs, and take the bus back after a nice meal at a Rick Stein. Doing shorter   stints the way we came, head up the hill past Doc Martin's and walk about two hilly miles to Portquin admiring the sea and the thoughtful stairs provided on the steepest hills, and then walk back unless you feel buoyed enough by view and fresh air to take the 3 -footprint challenge  another few miles to Pentire Farm. It's a stunningly beautiful walk that fuels good daydreams to get you through a snowbound winter.

Ignored post by Monty posted Sep 30, 9:09 AM Show Post

Abel Tasman: Head Meets Rock

 

        Abel Tasman National Park, South Island New Zealand

January

It's not always Tom's fault. What I have discovered in the enlightenment that often comes with additional years as a planetary citizen is that the flaw may lie in my following Tom. There we are, moseying up and down volcanic hills and native bush on a single file trail and I knock myself out with an overhanging rock.  Life lessons learned from travel don't always come easily.

 My lovely and long suffering spouse loves maps. All maps. He pores over them on   winter nights, studies them closely before venturing out and keeps them to himself as we trek whichever trail he guides us to wherever in the world we happen to be. This is a win-win for me as I am of the persuasion that says start here, walk for a while and when in doubt bear left. We do not now nor will we ever own a Global Positioning Satellite Receiver for much the same reasons that some people prefer raw food.

 So back to this 'following' business. Imagine the day. We have spent the morning kayaking and then shuttled by aquataxi from Kaiteriteri to Tonga Quarry over the azure sea that laps the shores of New Zealand's South Island Abel Tasman National Park.  The sun shines, the sky is blue, the water warm. We hop over the side of the catamaran as we reach Kaiteriteri and wade ashore. Tom takes out his map. "This way" he says, although the large brown sign saying 'this way' is visible to both of us.

We walk. 

The Abel Tasman Coastal Path is perfect. No -really. Ferns, palms, waterfalls, native    bush, fine sand and sweeping views from the top of each winding rise, it's easy to daydream. This is the thing about following Tom. When there are two people walking and Walker One is in front and that person has the map, all Walker Two has to do is to keep Walker One in sight. Pleasant daydreams. No worries.

The last little rise of the first leg of this lovely tramp leads to a blue lagoon at Bark Bay. When the tide is out you can walk across the lagoon. When it is in, you stick to the shore. I do not have an enormous backlog of experience with blue lagoons and find them riveting. Gentle swells of peaceful water laze under offerings of flower petals and leaves.  Foot follows foot, eyes  follow water. Bang, the overhanging rock lying in wait just around the next bend runs me over. Tom, who has of course noted both the height, distance and perimeter of the rock and carefully bent under it clearly expects I will do the same.  Hearing my thud, Tom turns back as I rise to stand and-- hit my head again. Bam, down I go. Tom makes the huge and advisably avoidable mistake of laughing. I crawl under the rock, check my head for gaping holes, grab my hiking stick and we trudge along the idyllic seaside, me pouting and Tom keeping a healthy distance still ahead, still sputtering. 

When we finally stop to throw ourselves down on the soft sand beach fronting this aqua heaven I announce that I plan to return to this spot and this place tomorrow. By Myself. And I do.  The next day I ride the water taxi-drawn-by-tractor from Marahua's main street to its harbor l aunch to Bark Bay.  I spend an hour diving into the lagoon's far  side as the tide sweeps out and carries me and the other ten year olds back to shore. I alternate reading my book on the comforting sand with floating lazily in the Tasman Sea. I idly watch hikers  attempt to swim across the lagoon with backpacks on their heads either in an effort to avoid the longer walk or as protection against overhanging rocks.

Recovering, restored and rock-head free, the water-taxi carries me back to Marahua  where I say yes to a mea culpa dinner at Hooked on Marahua and we spend it talking about the Next Walk. We get to the point we always reach after these little setbacks and remark for the millionth time that our 'what not to do ' list is getting to be a lot longer than the 'to-do's'. This is what we came up with for a top five tips to walking in Abel Tasman:

1.  Do watch where you're going stupid, as there may be overhanging rocks. 
2. Don't laugh so hard your tonsils hurt when your walking companion knocks herself out on an overhanging rock.
3. Don't continue to indulge in what  you annoyingly call 'chuckling' for the next fifteen minutes even if it did look pretty funny.
4. Don't escalate the situation by 'accidentally' poking your walking companion's sandal with your walking stick no matter how much your head and feelings hurt.
5. Do seek solace in a blue lagoon. If one is not immediately available try a blue margarita.
6.  And a bonus: Do have the seafood chowder at the Hooked on Marahua Cafe.               

Once we have wandered back to our hillside chalet I sit on the deck in the gathering dusk with the roaring cicadas, watching the kind of  sunset that makes you think in color. Tom lights careful candles, spreads maps over the floor and makes plans. 

 

 

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