A Traveling Fool

After entering Italy through the Brenner Pass — in the rain — we didn’t see much in the way of civilization for several miles.  Of course, when one is winding around narrow roads in the mountains, a few miles can seem like several.  Perhaps you’ve been driving for an hour, but you’ve only gone ten miles (that might be a bit of an exaggeration).  Every once in a while, we would see a farmhouse through the cloudy, rainy haze, or a medieval castle, or an old fortress.  In ancient times, this had been a rather strategic area and so had been well-fortified.  What we mainly saw though were vineyards — lots and lots of vineyards — grapes as far as the eye could see.

The first town we encountered was Balzano.  However, our tour director must not have thought it was a terribly exciting place, because we skirted around it and headed for Trento.  There we stretched our legs and exchanged some money.  This trip was taken before the European Union had been formed.  So the princely sum of 480,000 lire made me feel awfully rich until I remembered it was only $300 in U. S. currency.

My mother and I were hungry, so we wandered into a deli to get something to eat.  The only problem was that everything was in Italian and neither one of us could speak it.  Nobody there spoke English.  I do know a little French (sort of), so I reasoned that, if “pain” was “bread” in French, then “panino” might have something to do with bread in Italian.  Also, “fromage” was “cheese” in French, therefore, “formaggio” would likely be “cheese” in Italian.  I semi-confidently ordered a “panino con formaggio”.

From what sounded like a question accompanied by a sweeping motion of the hand across a case containing about 50 varieties of cheese, I deduced that I had a choice of cheese (Sherlock Holmes has nothing on me).  I prayed they only had one kind of bread.  While studiously contemplating the contents of the case, I heard the question repeated with some impatience.  I held up my hand.

“Una momento”, I said.  I was trying to find something that looked remotely familiar.  Eureka!

“Provolone, per favore,” I now declared triumphantly, and was quite relieved to receive a provolone cheese sandwich on a thick cut homemade bread (the only kind they had).

My mother, who had been watching all of this with great interest, noted my success and followed my lead.  Soon we were enjoying one of the best cheese sandwiches either one of us had ever eaten, along with some Fanta.

From Trento, we continued on to Verona (of Two Gentlemen from Verona and Romeo and Juliet fame).  There you can see what is purported to have been Juliet’s balcony.  “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?  It is the East and Juliet is the sun.”  I did play Juliet once, when I was 15, opposite a 17-year-old Romeo who I had to slap offstage.

From Verona, we went to Vicenza, Padua and Maestra (which is the suburban part of Venice).  After a light lunch in Maestra, we boarded a small launch and headed for Venice itself.

Venice is built on a series of tiny islands in a gulf in the Adriatic.  Although nobody knows for certain how old it is, there seems to be evidence that a city has existed there since at least the 5th century.  The architecture of Venice is fascinating since it is a mix of many styles and has as many Turkish influences as it does Italian.

We disembarked at St Mark’s Square — the main square in Venice.  Basilica San Marco was originally built in 829 and rebuilt in 1043 to 1071 after a fire.  A basilica is designated as such when it contains an important relic (often part of the body) of whoever it is named after.  St Mark’s contains at least most of the body of Mark (who wrote the second Gospel of the New Testament of the Bible).  The whole interior is covered with gold-leaf mosaics.  When the light hits it just right, it sparkles and glitters with a near blinding intensity.

The bronze horses on the roof of the basilica were captured in Constantinople in 1207 and placed on the roof in the mid-14th century.  Napoleon took the horses to Paris in 1797, after conquering Venice, and had them placed on the Carousel Arch at the Louvre as a monument to his defeat of the Italians.  They were returned to Venice in 1815.  Now they sit in a museum high up inside of the basilica.  The horses currently on the roof are copies.

The Bell Tower was built in 888 to 912.  It collapsed in 1902 and had to be rebuilt.  Nearly a thousand years isn’t too bad, I’d say.  I doubt that much of what we build now will stand that long before collapsing.

After a short visit to a glass blower (I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he suddenly had a laughing fit), we had some free time, so my mom and I decided to take a tour of the Doge’s Palace.  The Doge was the ruler of Venice and his palace was built to impress.  It did.  All of the ceilings were enormously high; most of the rooms were large enough for a good game of football; and the the walls were covered with breathtaking works of art mainly by Veronese and Tintoretto.  There was, however, one room in the palace which did not impress me at all, and that was the rest room.

Throughout both France and Italy, many of the public rest rooms are co-ed.  Although somewhat disconcerting at first, it really isn’t that big of a deal as the stalls are usually quite private.  After waiting in a long line for what seemed like hours (I was getting desperate), I entered one of the two stalls and found myself staring at a hole in the floor.  “Who stole the toilet?” I wondered.  I later discovered that this was what they referred to as a Turkish toilet.  I was completely flummoxed.  But, as I said, desperate.  I later learned how to properly use a Turkish toilet from an female Afghan friend of mine, but I managed as best I could at the time.  By the way, “where is the rest room?” in Italian is, “dove si trova una toilette?”

As part of the Doge’s Palace tour, one can cross over the Bridge of Sighs.  This is an enclosed bridge in which anyone taller than me (I’m 5’3″) has to double over to squeeze through.  The structure got its name because, if a man found himself crossing it, he knew he was going to prison and would sigh over his lost freedom.

If he merely sighed on his way over to the prison (which had cells so small that a person couldn’t lay down decently), I can imagine he did much more than sigh if he crossed back over to the palace.  If that happened, he wasn’t being released.  He was instead being taken to the two columns at the entrance of the palace where he would be drawn and quartered in front of an audience.

Another legend associated with the Bridge of Sighs is:  if two lovers kiss just as their gondola glides beneath it, as the sun sets, they will never part.  I heard this in a film I saw at an impressionable age.

We left the palace and boarded a gondola for a canal-level tour of the the city.  This was when we received the warning not to touch the water.  It contains several hundreds of years worth of sewage.

Our gondola and a couple of others with members of our tour group formed a small parade.  One of them carried a singer and an accordion player, so the ride was accompanied throughout by all of those old romantic Italian songs you’ve likely heard all your life.  Toward the end of the ride, we passed under the Bridge of Sighs.  I was slightly disgruntled that I had to share all of this romance with my mother.  I’m sure she felt the same.

As the sun sank slowly in the West and Venice sank slowly in the East, we boarded another launch to return to Maestra, from which we traveled to Gambarare to spend the night.

Venice really is sinking slowly into the mud and the sewage, plus the water level around Venice is rising.  Every year it floods to the point where platforms have to be set up in St Mark’s Square for people to be able to walk around.  They have come up with a solution that should be in place by 2020 that involves flood gates.  I’m glad.  I’d hate to have Venice end up completely under water.

Next time:  Roman Holiday or “Be It Ever So Crumbled, There’s No Place Like Rome”.  Ciao.

Prior to my adventures in Auland, Austria, I spent some time in Switzerland.  Ah … Switzerland.  Noted for its chocolate, clocks, chocolate, banks, chocolate, Heidi, chocolate, yodeling, and — lest we forget — chocolate.

My father’s paternal grandfather, Kasimer Lichty (originally spelled “Liechte”), came to the U.S. from Zurich,  Switzerland in 1863 at the age of three, along with his parents and brother, Anthony.  When indulging in a little genealogical research, I discovered that anyone of Swiss descent, no matter where they were born, can apply for dual Swiss citizenship.  The catch is that they have to do so before they turn 21, and they have to be able to prove their ancestry.  Unfortunately, I was over 21 when I found this out.  Too bad.  Sometimes I think that a Swiss passport might come in handy.  But then I would probably have to know some German to be convincing.

Our first stop in Switzerland had been Basel, which is at the intersection of France, Switzerland and Germany on the Rhine River.  From there we drove on to Lucerne.  It was en route to Lucerne that we first came upon the Alps.  I had never seen a mountain from the ground up before in my life.  I had flown over the Rockies on my way to Los Angeles and had looked down on a few craggy peaks.  But I had never looked up at one prior to the Swiss Alps.  I was awe-struck.  Right then and there I decided that I loved mountains.

Lucerne is a quaint, picturesque town with some of oldest streetcars in Europe.  Surrounded by mountains, Lucerne is also on a river, which is traversed by an old, medieval, wooden bridge.  On the ceiling of the bridge are paintings as old as the bridge itself.  There is also a 10th century monastery to explore as well as a beautiful painted church.  These are in the older part of the town.  A more modern commercial area exists across the river.

Instead of staying within Lucerne, we stayed in a tiny village not too far away called Stans.  Here was another small chalet-type hotel.  Just outside of my window grazed a cow — a friendly cow.  She simply chewed her cud and occasionally smiled or nodded in my direction.

After dinner the first evening there, my mother and I decided to take a walk.  We hadn’t gone very far when we encountered a group of children wearing brown shirts and shorts, carrying torches, chanting something in German while parading down the main street.  The combination of brown shirts, torches, German and parades doesn’t have the greatest connotation in the world to either of us.  So, we hot-footed it back to the hotel.

Trying to be nonchalant, we asked the proprietor what whose kids were doing.  He explained that they were some sort of scouting organization.  I don’t know about you, but I never marched around carrying torches when I was a Girl Scout.  The last thing the scouting masters would have done was to trust any of us with fire.

The next day, however, we went on the real adventure of this particular leg of the trip.  Now, I have a major fear of heights.  It’s really of falling from the height.  I had previously declined to go up into the torch of the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor or the whispering gallery of St Paul’s Cathedral in London.  I still won’t take an open down escalator from several stories up in the Mall of America.  My mom wasn’t much more of a fan of heights than me.  Despite all of this, we had decided to travel to the top of Mount Titlis — 10,000 feet above sea level.  We figured that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  So I was determined to conquer my fear and do it.  A group of about 20 of us met at about 10:00am on a Sunday morning to say our prayers and begin our journey.

The first part involved a specially constructed small train that ran straight up the side of the mountain.  So far, so good.  The next leg of the journey, however, was inside a small, open gondola traveling along a slender cable.  One could either sit along the outside of the car watching the ground falling away below, or stand in the center or the car, holding onto the pole located there.  Mom and I chose the latter.  The car was small enough (each car held about ten people) that I could still see the ground falling away unless I closed my eyes, but at least I felt I had something fairly solid to hold onto.  Silly me.  Then we transferred to a second gondola.

By this time we were far enough up the mountain that the ground below us was covered with snow.  We soon found ourselves gliding past a large glacier.  The air was getting colder and the wind was picking up.  I had pulled on a jacket, muffler, hat and gloves — which wasn’t easy to do while holding onto the pole.   As the car attempted to dock for the transfer to a third gondola, it had some difficulty slipping into the slot that had been designed for it.  Each time it would back up and try again, the gondola would sway a bit.  This did not make me at all happy.  I gritted my teeth, wrapped my fingers even more tightly around the pole and said my prayers.

After four or five attempts, we finally docked.  My fingers were pried from the pole and we climbed the steps to the third gondola.  At least the others climbed — I crawled.  My legs had the same rubbery consistency as Spencer Tracy’s had in the original film version of “Father of the Bride” when he had that nightmare about trying to walk down the aisle at his daughter’s wedding.  Ricardo, our Italian Tour Director, looked at me and commented, “Your face … she’s as white as a sheet.”  He pronounced the word “sheet” differently.  I felt pretty much the way he pronounced it.

We were above the glaciers now and the wind and snow were blowing strongly around and through the dangling car.  When the gondola would begin to sway too much, it would stop moving along the cable.  I was certain my knuckles were tensely white beneath my gloves and my hands felt as if they were frozen to the pole.  I began to think about the fact that, should the gondola actually dislodge from the cable, the pole was not really going to be of much use to me in a plunge of several thousand feet into the frozen tundra.  I began to imagine being found 3,000 years from now, frozen solid, my hands still wrapped around the pole and my mother’s hands still wrapped around my neck.  It had been I who had talked her into this.

I realized that, at the moment I had made the decision to ascend this mountain, I had obviously been suffering from temporary insanity.  It might have been kinder to have locked me up for about 24 hours at that point — straight jacket and all.  [NOTE:  I wore a straight jacket in a play once.  It was actually rather comfortable.]  At least this gondola had no trouble docking and we were all quite relieved to climb out of it.

We were at the top of the mountain.  It seemed like the top of the world.  There was a small restaurant and gift shop there.  The rest of the group staggered into the restaurant and ordered a round of drinks.  Still in the grip of lunacy, I noticed a door that led outside onto a stone terrace.  I opened it and stepped outside.

The snow was blowing fiercely, but the view was spectacular.  I pulled out my camera and took several shots of the Swiss Alps from the top.  Looking down upon the nearby snowcapped peaks was a thrill.  I heard the door behind me opening and someone else stepped out onto the terrace.  I took that as my cue to go back inside.  I was glad now that I had gone through with it.  Back inside in the gift shop, I bought a small cow bell inscribed with the words “Titlis — 3020M — 10,000 ft” for six Swiss francs.

Fortunately, the trip down was uneventful.  I even pulled out my camera again and took pictures of what we saw on the way down.  The next day we left for Liechtenstein (of which I have always been rather fond due to the similarity to my own name), followed by Austria.  Now you know why I needed that rest in Auland.

Feeling a little stressed out?  Need to get away from it all?  Want to know of a quiet, restful vacation alternative to a beach or a cruise with fantastic scenery?  One place I would recommend is Auland, Austria.

You say you’ve never heard of Auland, Austria?  Neither had I.  It was during a 1984 European tour when the tour company we used chose to have us spend the night in the tiny village of Auland instead of in Innsbruck.  There isn’t much to do in Auland, but the scenery is amazing.  If you love mountains, that is.  Auland is completely surrounded by them.  I was there in May, but the mountain tops were still covered with snow.  In fact, much of “The Sound of Music” was filmed near there.

The architecture of most of the homes and the two small hotels was exactly like the chalets in Switzerland.  From one end of town to the other is only the equivalent of a couple of blocks and a less-than-five-minute walk.  In addition to the two tiny hotels, they have one general store, two churches (one Catholic, one Protestant), and a disco.

The disco movement remained strong in Europe long after it died down here in the States.  The hotel lounge television seemed to be permanently turned to an Austrian equivalent of MTV.  A hotel employee, who strongly resembled Rick Springfield, but spoke only German, pointed to the TV screen (which was showing the “Beat It” video at the time, smiled and said, “Michael Jackson.”  I smiled in return.  “Ja,” I replied, thus establishing that we both knew who Michael Jackson was and exhausting a large portion of my German vocabulary.  I turned to my Mom, who had learned German at university, but she shrugged her shoulders.  It seemed she had promptly forgotten all German upon graduation.

After dinner, which was the one disappointment — I had hoped for something very Austrian, like wienerschnitzel, and had been served fish and green beans instead — we went for a walk (the Rick Springfield look-alike very gallantly helped me on with my jacket, at which time I used another large chunk of my German vocabulary by responding with “danke”).  Quickly completing the one-end-of-town-to-the-other circuit, our next option was up or down the side of the mountain.  We chose up.  Being basically a lazy person, I figured I would rather come down when it was time to head for shelter.

Walking along a dirt road, we came across a small stone bridge spanning a rippling stream.  Standing on the bridge, we looked down into the valley below where the stream chased itself over rocks and around boulders, sometimes cascading briefly into a small waterfall.

A rough log railing ran the length of the bridge and gravel had been strewn upon the stone beneath our feet.  The air smelled crisp, clean and fresh; the view was spectacular; the only sound was the rushing water.  I breathed deeply, content that this was a little piece of heaven-on-earth.

When we turned to go, we found ourselves face to face with a very large and not altogether friendly cow.  She had managed to sneak up on us because the sound of the water had drowned out the jingling of the bell around her neck.  She looked at us; we looked at her; she spoke first.  “Moo-o-o-ve,” she said and we did, although I did think she could have been more polite about it, seeing that we were out-of-town guests and all.  I suppose, however, that it was her bridge.

We returned to the hotel and spent the rest of the evening sitting on the balcony outside of our room, staring at the mountains and at a small bottle of peppermint schnapps (one sip had been enough for us each).  This was our only night in Auland and we never did get to Innsbruck.  We had been invited to a yodel-and-polka fest in Innsbruck that night, but had turned it down to get in some relaxation time.

When it was time for bed, we went to sleep with the faint strains of that old chestnut “Disco Inferno” wafting up from the disco about a quarter of a mile down the side of the mountain.

If you were to opt for Auland and find that the peace and quiet is too much for you after a few days, you could always to into Innsbruck for some excitement.  They have everything a city has to offer, including restaurants, movie theatres (American films dubbed in German), nightclubs, shopping, etcetera.  However, Auland is a great place to rest, read, write that important novel, or simply stare at the mountains and contemplate the meaning of life.

Since returning home, whenever I start to feel somewhat overwhelmed by life, I’ll often meditate on that place and find myself transported back to the stone bridge with the rippling stream in Auland, Austria — minus the cow, of course.

The place of William Shakespeare’s birth was nearly the place of my death.

I once heard a comedian talking about the difficulties of translating a joke from American English to British English.  He used an example which contained the phrase, “hit by a truck”.  In the UK, a truck is called a “lorry” and the phrase “hit by a lorry” just doesn’t have the same punch to it.  “Lorry” isn’t as harsh a word as “truck”.  To further complicate the issue, a semi is called an “articulated lorry”.  Nevertheless, whatever you call it, I was nearly flattened by one in Stratford-Upon-Avon.

Stratford is a very small town which is famous mainly for being William Shakespeare’s birthplace.  The Royal Shakespeare Company also has its headquarters there and performs the Bard’s works in a large theatre complex on the edge of the River Avon.

The squashing incident (or “nearly squashing incident”) occurred on my very first visit, not only to Stratford, but to England.  The British drive on the left side of the road, so it takes some getting used to as to where the cars are coming from.  It’s second nature now, but a new experience then.

I was at the crossroads of five streets.  I looked up and down every one of them and then proceeded across.  Apparently I should have looked down and up them instead of up and down them.  I was not quite halfway across when an articulated lorry parped his hooter (which is what the Brits do in place of honking their horn) and slammed on his brakes.

Well … I could have broken the Olympic record in the high jump.  I rocketed straight up into the air about 50 feet (give or take an inch), came back down (almost — my feet didn’t quite touch the ground), polished the truck’s grillwork with the sleeve of my jacket in passing, and shot across the remainder of the road in a single bound.

Once the shocked onlookers ascertained that I was indeed all right, I was congratulated on my agility.  A bit shaken by having seen my life flash before my eyes in sixteenth century iambic pentameter, I repaired to a tea shop for tea and scones.

While we’re on the subject (or at least in the neighborhood), let’s discuss a few differences in terminology with reference to road transportation.  Although a truck is a “lorry”, a car is still a car.  However, the fender is the “wing”, the trunk is the “boot”, and the hood is the “bonnet” under which is a “cylinder block” instead of an engine block.  The windshield is a “windscreen”, the muffler an “exhaust silencer”, the drive shaft a “propeller shaft”, the battery an “accumulator”, the transmission case the “gearbox housing”, the turn signal the “flasher”, and the choke the “strangler” (I rather fancy that one).

You fill the vehicle with “petrol” instead of gas.  If involved in a “car smash” (accident), you might fix it with a “spanner” (wrench).  You do drive it, with a driving license, but on a motorway instead of a highway (although, inexplicably, a divided highway is a “dual carriageway”) upon which you may be involved in a “multiple smash” or experience “nose to tail traffic”.

Then there are the traffic signs:  A detour sign is a “diversion notice”; instead of just play “slow”, the road signs in the UK emphasize that you proceed “dead slow”; and the yield sign says “give way”.  I almost expected the stop sign to say “cease and desist”, but it simply says “stop”.

Across the street from the tea shop was Shakespeare’s birthplace.  For a small fee it can be toured.  But you will be stooped over by the time you leave the house.  Even I had to duck through the doors, and I am just 5’3″.  People were much shorter 400 years ago.

In addition to the birthplace, there is also Shakespeare’s daughter, Suzanna, and her husband’s house — Hall’s Croft.  She married a doctor.  Many of his medical instruments and records are on exhibit and the house itself is completely intact, including the furniture.

You can see Will’s school, which is across the street from Harvard House.  This was the home of the founder of Harvard University here in the States.  Just outside of town is Anne Hathaway’s house, which looks like the Seven Dwarves should come marching out of it.  Anne became Shakespeare’s wife.

Will’s grave is in the church at the end of town.  There is an inscription on it that reads in part: “… cursed be he who moves my bones.”  People have taken this very seriously indeed.  At one point some group was hunting for the originals of his play manuscripts.  They poked around the houses that are still standing, found nothing, and then came up with the brainy idea that they might have been buried with him.  Spooked by the curse, they used machines to x-ray the grave instead of digging him up.

I could have told them they wouldn’t find anything anyway.  Playwrights in his day did not own the plays they wrote.  The acting company for which they were written owned them.  If they want to find the original manuscripts (if they still exist) it would be necessary to track down the movements of John Heminges (the last of the company to die) and his descendants.  Heminges was in possession of them at one time as he was the person who had them published at Will’s death.

The town has changed little since Shakespeare’s day, so it is possible to get a real feel for what it was like back then.  Shakespeare lived and wrote in what was the end of the Elizabethan era.  This was also the time of Sir Francis Drake, Sir Walter Raleigh, and the Spanish Armada — a fascinating period in history.

I have named this blog “A Traveling Fool” for two reasons.  One is that I love traveling and do quite a lot of it.  The other is that I can sometimes get myself into some interesting situations on some of these trips from being naive or just plain stupid.  This isn’t meant to be a travel tips site, though you may glean some tips on what to do or not do from my personal experiences.  My main intent is for you to simply enjoy the commentary and photos.

My travels so far have mainly been to the UK, Europe (including Eastern Europe), some of the Middle East, the US, and Canada.  But since I have been an Anglophile since I was wearing diapers, my first trip was to London, England.  This took place in 1983 with my mother.  In 1983 (I know this is making me sound ancient), we didn’t have the internet or mobile phones.  So traveling involved going to see a travel agent, who made all of the arrangements for you.

Our trip was through the main airline out of Minneapolis at the time.  It was a package including air, hotel, train tickets between Gatwick Airport and Victoria Station, a day trip from London, and tickets to a West End play.  The entire trip was about a week in length and was timed to coincide with the Queen’s official birthday celebration — Trooping the Colour.

I was so excited to be going to London that I don’t think I slept for days before we left.  I also didn’t sleep on the plane (I still don’t).  I learned the hard way to stay up until what would be a normal bedtime in the location to which I’m flying.  Trying to take a nap once we arrived in London not only didn’t work, but added nausea to looking and feeling like a zombie (which wasn’t considered cool in 1983).

To compound the situation, I wasn’t adjusting well to the food yet.  I tried ordering egg salad and got some sliced eggs on a bed of watercress.  Later I found out that, if I wanted what we called egg salad in the States, I needed to order “egg mayonnaise”.  A peanut butter and liverwurst sandwich also didn’t hold much appeal.  So we temporarily gave up and went to McDonalds.  Although I normally want to experience the food of wherever I am, I was desperate.  That settled my stomach and I was able to to spend the rest of the trip eating British food with no qualms.

The train from Gatwick to Victoria Station had some of those wonderful older cars that were polished wood and had individual doors that opened in each section.  The compartments weren’t walled inside, however.  A gentleman traveling on business from Florida helped us hoist our cases up onto the train and into the overhead racks.  He and my mother then had a lively conversation all the way into London while I stared out the window in awe.  We were in England — home of the Bronte sisters, Charles Dickens and nearly every author I had ever read at that point.

During the cab ride from Victoria Station to the hotel (which was in Piccadilly Circus) we passed by a tall wall with barbed wire along the top.  The taxi driver confirmed for me that it was indeed Buckingham Palace.  My mom was surprised that I had figured that out and I had no explanation for how I knew it.  I just did.  I had also pretty much memorized the London map and watched for all the street signs (which were on the sides of buildings on the corners) on the way.

All of the lack of sleep didn’t help me when it came time to actually sleep that first night either.  I was still too excited.  When I did finally fall sleep, I kept dreaming that I was lying on one of the slabs in Westminster Abbey with people walking around me.  The hotel bed was quite narrow and high.

But the sights were incredible — Buckingham Palace and the Changing of the Guard, the Duke of Wellington’s House, Banqueting House on Whitehall, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, St Paul’s Cathedral, St James’ Palace, the Royal Mews at Buckingham Palace.  For the Trooping the Colour, we got some space on the Duke of York Steps that lead down to The Mall from the Duke of York Column.  I developed an immediate crush on the guardsman who sold us the programs.  He was young and cute, in full uniform, and could actually chat with us as he wasn’t guarding anything — just selling programs.

My camera was a cheap view finder that I had gotten at a pawn shop, so my photos of the parade pretty much all look alike.  You have to look really closely to even begin to make out the Queen Mother & Princess Diana riding together in a open carriage, or the Queen, Prince Phillip and Prince Charles on horseback, or the rest of the family.  But I was thrilled to see them all and have all of the photos properly labeled in an album.  The photos that I share in this blog will all be photos I have taken myself on the trips that I describe.

Coming next:  “Stratford-Upon-Avon” or “To Be or Not to Be”