I returned home from the UK yesterday evening and am now up exceedingly early in the morning, deep in the throes of jetlag. Figured I could use the wee hours somewhat productively by blogging about my last day in Blighty. Read on below:
Friday looked to be sunny and warm in PoT (Pangbourne-on-Thames). My class finished up around 10:00 and after a reasonable interval of drinking coffee and sitting around twiddling our thumbs, everyone decided that it was safe to go home without arousing the suspicion of the local office manglers.
One of my students is a hot-rod enthusiast, so I stopped in the parking lot and took a few pics of his award-winning '32 Ford. Another student, a salt-of-the-earth Yorkshireman who'd been my boon eating and drinking companion all week, dropped me off at the Weir View, I thanked him for his company and free chauffering services, and he drove off home to the land of James Herriot and mushy peas. A prince of a fellow, his only fault being that he couldn't stand Indian food, but I'd made plans to have some after he'd gone.
At the hotel, the duty manager (a rather odd fellow who favors wearing tweed jackets with silk cravats and close-toed sandals sans socks) was watching Reagan's funeral on television, he looked like he was going to cry. I made some off-hand comment that we might have to build a mausoleum in DC and entomb RR in a glass casket a la Lenin and Mao if this went on any longer. He asked me if I was a fan of the ex-Pres. I told him that I thought Ronnie had gotten a few things right and a few things very wrong, but that I was really enjoying the severe panty-twisting effect his funeral was having on his many detractors.
Having experienced gas lines, the Iran hostage crisis, double-digit inflation, and listening to that dour, sanctimonious wuss, Jimmy Carter, pontificate about our "national malaise", I clearly remembered the palpable sense of relief many people felt when the door of the White House hit him on the ass on his way out. I had voted for 3rd-party candidate, John Anderson (who polled some very respectable numbers), so I was less than thrilled when Reagan won, but still the feeling back then was very much ABC (Anyone But Carter).
I took a walk into downtown Pangbourne to visit the shops. There was only one small gift store filled with overpriced tourist junque, so I took a walk along the public footpaths and looked at the beautiful cottages along the canal. This must be where Sloane Rangers go to die. A look in the window of the local realty offices confirmed my suspicions that one of these little gems would set me back a cool £600,000 or so.
I had overheard the hotel proprietor telling a guest about a local boat show that morning, so I decided to check it out. I grabbed my camera and crossed the street to The Swan Pub for lunch. It was sunny and warm out, so I relaxed with a pint of Abbot at a table next to the Thames and watched the beautiful swans glide by on the green water rippling in the afternoon sun. I also saw several brightly-colored houseboats motoring on up the river. I was famished, so I ordered scampi
and chips for lunch (tsk, taking pictures of my food. I'm such a bloody tourist).
Back at the road, I spotted a sign that pointed towards the boatshow and began walking in that direction. I walked and walked, past old half-timbered homes along the peaceful river. Eventually, I saw a footpath that branched off the road and followed the Thames towards a large bend in the river where I could see boats congregating. I finally arrived at the show, paid my £6 admission, and went inside.
There were beautiful wooden boats everywhere I looked. Every conceivable type of small watercraft was on display with a quality of craftsmanship that you simply don't see in the US. There was some sort of little dinghy covered from stem to stern with intricate folk designs and set for tea inside, as well as beautifully-restored steam-powered wooden launches with highly-polished brass fittings. Seeing all this made me desperately want to go sailing again.
I spent an hour or so admiring all the crafts, then headed back towards the footpath. I passed a small ferry that was shuttling people back and forth to Pangbourne and decided to hop on board. The ride back only took ten minutes or so, but I spent the time admiring the view and snapping pics of the various waterfowl, included a very suspicious-looking murder of ducks. I wondered if they could be the infamous Man-eating Ducks of Pangbourne that figure so prominently in the legends and folk songs of the West Berkshires. The boat dropped me right at the dock of the Swan.
In the evening, I walked over to Pangbourne Tandoori for dinner. The gentlemen who run the place remembered me from my visit last year. Consequently, they were very friendly and generous with the complimentary pappdams. I ordered a pint of Kingfisher along with lamb in an almond curry, saffron rice, sag aloo, and garlic/coriander naan. Delicious. Sorry, no photo.
Must have more caffeine now.
I'm flying off across the briny tomorrow to England. I'll be staying in swinging London over the weekend, but then I have to work the following week in the Reading area.
