Yorkshire Notes

We are now in Derbyshire, on a hill lay-by between (beautiful) Bakewell and Arbor Low, moving back to the left side, toward Wales. We'll be zig-zagging all the way back to Dover, I suppose. It's really a small island. Today we saw incredible Chatsworth, about which I'll write tomorrow. For now, some notes vaguely related to our second visit to Yorkshire:

1) In Yorkshire, on the Bronte Way walk, I had what I considered the nearly perfect day-hike lunch. First, thin-sliced Spam ("Some Parts Are Mammal"), fried in its own glop until golden brown. Although popularized by the Pythons, it is not really the British delicacy. Too many hikes in Hawaii have inclined me to it. Serving suggestion: don't read the label. Second, a chunk of Normandy cheese, accompanied by a few gulps of red French wine; in my case, Chateau de Tescaux, a very recent vintage, I suspect. Third, a hard-boiled egg (remove shell). Fourth, a handful of salted almonds. And, fifth, a confection, in my case, a slab or two of Romney's Kendal Mint Cake. (Make sure you have finished the wine). Mint cake ingredients are: sugar, glucose, and oil of peppermint. Nothing else. I love the way they sort sugar out from the glucose. Unlike all other British foods, there are no other nutritional notes. Nothing about daily requirements of triglycerides or red dye #4. Apparently Romney's was great-grand-fathered in, or else the appreciative 1953 quote from Sir Edmund Hillary on the package was good enough. It was good enough for me. Hillary...whom we encountered in Nepal and then in New Zealand, and now here, if only on a candy wrapper...really ties things together.

2) Driving in Yorkshire, especially in and around Haworth. The Dales are pretty, but driving up and down these deep valleys can be harrowing, especially in a 22 foot 3 ton van. The roads are rarely more than 12 feet wide, often less, never a shoulder, grades less than 20% aren't even marked (seriously), people park all over the streets, there is always a bus or "heavy goods vehicle" coming at you, there are bicyclists and pedestrians and dogs, and, invariably, there is always a woman and a baby carriage between you and the oncoming heavy goods vehicle, which is in a hurry, on the 24% grade turning road. None of this is hyperbole.

I have been coping, despite driving on the left side of the vehicle, contrary to British custom, and left side of the road. Vicki absolutely freaks out whenever we start the motor and stays that way for the duration of the trip. She braces for impact at the sight of any vehicle. In just four months she has nearly finished the bottle of raspberry liquer; normally it would have taken four years or fourteen years. Tom, our navigator, only complicates matters by consistently routing us through the CBD of any hamlet/village/town/city/metropolis we are near, consistently also on the smallest, steepest, and most exposed roads available. His answer to every query or command, and the first thing he says whenever we turn him on, is "turn around when possible." Turning the Grey Wanderer around, on these roads, is not always my first answer. But we are coping. Fortunately, British motorists, like those we have encountered elsewhere in northern Europe, are consistently patient, couretous, considerate, and smart. I hope they don't mind too much our blundering among them.

3) We did not visit Peniston, and we did not sample the pudding.