Damp days and warm welcomes

Happily for me, England and Northern Ireland are home to friends and family who generously hosted Adam and I as we eased into our European travels over the first month after leaving Canada. The luxury of having clean laundry every week is one that I don't think I fully appreciated before now as I stew in day 5 of the same shirt, and sweater, and long johns. The limitations of baggage mean that my clothing allowance is incredibly restrictive though at least the underwear stash stretches further, and is more amenable to sink laundry and overnight drying on the handlebars en route.

I am incredibly grateful for those who housed us and fed us, and gave us shelter from the rain during our time in the UK. We also stopped along the way to see a few points of interest.

I watched a British documentary about Chatsworth a couple of years ago and promptly put it on my list of places to see the next time I was in England. 'Wait for Me', the gossipy memoir of Deborah Mitford (recently deceased Dowager Duchess of Devonshire), was my first introduction to the house and some of its history so I was quite keen to see it in person. We spent a couple of nights nearby, camping in the rain on an increasingly boggy open field in the Peak District and while I enjoyed our visit to the house, I think I expected too much. A stately home isn't as interesting without a witty monologue to accompany the tour and unfortunately the gardens were dampened by mist.

[From the Chatsworth greenhouse]

Our trip over the Wry Nose pass in the Lake District, on an afternoon when the sun put in an appearance, was a delight. The road is a narrow, mostly single lane track that zigzags up and down over high hills where the sheep and a few cattle graze freely. Like most roads, tracks, and paths in the UK, it was paved. Hard to believe that a grader managed some of the steeper 35 percent inclines, but there was asphalt the whole way. The road through Scotland to catch our ferry out of Cairnryan was mostly without note except for the stretch through Galloway Forest Park where the sights and smells of logging reminded me of Northern Ontario.

[Scene from the Lake District]

We received a wonderfully warm welcome in Northern Ireland but there the heated jacket and glove liners got their first outing. Basically, we entered a cloud bank from which we were not to emerge until we crossed into the Republic of Ireland a week later. Almost to the minute that we rolled off the ferry in Belfast did the skies open and a downpour begin. It was a shame to me that Adam's first visit to Northern Ireland should have been so soggy as it is a place that I adore after several summers spent there.

[Adam, enjoying the Irish weather]

We were lucky to have one bright clear day to travel the Antrim coast from Downhill Strand all the way to Larne. It was on our evening's return that we first learned the perversity of Adam's GPS as it led us straight into the heart of West Belfast. Today I suspect that there is little harm in traversing the formerly staunchly sectarian neighbourhoods but my instincts of old kicked in, and so Google Maps and I beat a hasty retreat back to Lisburn.

The Wicklow hills presented some breathtakingly austere scenery as we headed south to catch a ferry from Rosslare to Wales. One of the highlights of our time in England was a behind-the-scenes tour of Salisbury Cathedral. While I admit that the climbing of the rickety and steep circular wooden stairs into the spire was in itself no treat, the commentary by our guide was delightful and the hidden construction details of the medieval period were fascinating to behold.

[Cloisters at Salisbury Cathedral]

Our departure from England was hardly auspicious. Unable to find a B&B with available beds in Poole, we stayed on with my cousin for an extra night and left in the dark and the rain at “stupid o'clock” to catch our early morning ferry across the channel to Cherbourg. I was surprised by the thudding of the large ship as it seemed to struggle with the rolling seas, taking a couple of hours longer than scheduled to make the Channel crossing. We had inavertently stumbled into the tail end of tropical storm Henri whose rains would dampen our first days in France when Adam and I were alone, and without friends and family to call on.

[Wicklow, Ireland]