Monthly Archives: May 2024

Well here’s a new wrinkle, Yours Truly came up with a lovely park-up in a charming village named Abingdon-on-Thames.

Yes I know, even a blind squirrel comes up with a nut now and then. Saxons, uninvited, are said to have “settled” here around 676 and the village gathered around a Benedictine Abbey, bits of which are still in evidence.

Now we find large fields, often filled with white clad cricket players abutting the parkup.

It was an easy walk into town by crossing the picturesque stone bridge over the Thames, actually three bridges connecting Andersen Island with the mainland. We found wandering around this pleasant town very enjoyable, and we discovered we could catch a bus to Oxford, only an hour away. Yes, Abingdon will do nicely as a home base.

The next morning we took the bus to Oxford. Our first stop was a cafe under the Tower of Dreams.

There’ll be no golden Buddha at the top, but then again it’s only 99 steps. Still, I do so enjoy a fine view. and this was a very fine view.

We ambled through this quirky charming town to meet Martin, our young walking tour guide and current Oxford student.

We walked toward the scattered collection of medieval college buildings under the Oxford University banner.

Martin regaled us with wacky traditions still practiced, some recently by Martin and friends. Even though Oxford was founded in 1096 some traditions survive to this day. One such is the Mallard Song which is to be sung once per century by the reigning Lord Mallard of the All Souls College.

Their entrance exam is famously based on writing a lengthy essay on one word. Not to worry, they stopped admitting undergraduates in the nineteenth century and the Mallard Song was last sung  in 2001, so you know, you do the math.

There is a special buzz in the air as we noticed a certain amount of graduation going on at a few of the colleges.

At 9:05 pm, plus 2 seconds the bell is rung 101 times in honor of the first group of students at Oxford University. Towns throughout England kept their own time more or less similar to the next town but with the advent of railroads everyone, everywhere found it wise to get in sync with everyone else. Oxford Time however, prevails in Oxford.

Friction between Townies and the perceived privileged elites of Oxford boiled over into the streets early in its history, when two students, up against their curfew, ran from a pub just making it to their building where the  Lincoln College student was allowed to enter but the Brasenose student was denied entrance. In a sobering story, the Townies found him and beat him to death. Once a year, on Ascension Day, a connecting door between the two colleges is briefly unlocked for a few minutes and Lincoln College serves refreshments as an apology for past actions. “Ivy beer” and a scone doesn’t much signify to me.

By this point we couldn’t deny that our dogs were barking and we still had a long way to go. We charted a course back to the Tower of Dreams and the bus stop.

I know what you’re thinking. “Don’t make me laugh! Jack on a Hajj to Mecca, shuffling off on a pilgrimage to Bethlehem, or better yet, a Greyhound to Utah?” Turns out for yours truly, a life long devotee of all things Formula 1, that would have to be Silverstone Raceway.

Oh, I’ve seen signs for Silverstone while crisscrossing the UK, usually while dicing with death on one of England’s suicidal merry-go-rounds while simultaneously attempting to change lanes and trying to read the route numbers painted on the road, avoiding the annoying little econobox that darted around beside me, downshifting while trying to find the damn turn signal, which after all is on the wrong side. Getting it wrong only adds chattering wiper blades to the chaos, with Marce counting the number of exits to tell me where to get off, all the while contemplating the odds of survival if we have to go around again. There’s no, “Hey hon, that was a sign for Silverstone back there! Maybe what with being so close and all, we should pay a visit.”

As we begin our swan song leaving the UK I said, “This is it, I will not miss at least seeing F1 Mecca.” I wasn’t sure what could actually be seen with an expensive ticket to something called the “Silverstone Experience” but again we were passing close by and it’s a take it or leave it situation. We’ve been burned by so many lame museum “experiences” that I didn’t have much hope for this one which, by rights, ought to be great but, well let’s just say that I had a hinky feeling about this one due to the complex’s well known financial shortages that they may have given short schrift to the exhibits.

We pulled into a massive empty couple of hectares of white lined macadam and it wasn’t hard to find a place for Escape Velocity. Walking up to what I assumed was the museum entrance, I wasn’t sure it was even open until I heard that sound. Once you’ve heard it you’ll never forget it. Screaming, the torture of things being shredded, terrible things emanate from these machines at an indescribable level of decibels that should never be allowed on this earth. It’s glorious and it is happening right now while we have to stop to pay the ticket lady. She’s being awfully nonchalant about how I might see what is going on out behind the museum. “Oh I think that’s Mick Schumacher testing with Mercedes today, “ she mumbles. Oh my lucky stars! Nobody is this fortunate. She says, “Usually nobody’s testing at all.”

The back story is that I’ve tried to book tickets for the British F1 Grand Prix for over two years, only to be met with derisive laughter. Yes, occasionally we are in the area and we have a motor home so we could take advantage of Silverstone’s large camping areas so why not make a weekend out of it? Turns out this is England and apparently two years in advance is the minimum lead time in a slow year and these are not slow times. We never really know where we’ll be tomorrow let alone in two years.

Silverstone held the first official Grand Prix in 1948, built using old WW2 bomber runways, as thick as flies in these parts. I can’t begin to tell you the feeling of walking on what for me is hallowed ground.

Low concrete steps are to my left as we entered the grounds, a grassy knoll follows to the right and I recognize the iconic Brooklands turn leading to Luffield and then Woodcote.

Just saying the legendary names of the corners is like mumbling an F1 rosary; Abby, Wellington, Brooklands, Copse, Maggotts, Beckets.

Suddenly I can hear the scream of the once mighty Mercedes bombing down the Wellington Straight and shockingly quick, it’s passed me.

That’s as it should be but I wasn’t fast enough to get the shot.

The pattern that afternoon would be three fast laps, one cool down lap with five to ten minute breaks in between. After all, they must have their tea.

Marce had to tear me away from trackside to go through the exhibits in the museum.

Full marks for drilling down into the weeds of interactive but arcane suspension and braking theory with safety and engine exhibits.

Some exhibits were worse for wear. The cars on display were, as expected, an odd collection of bits and bobs with a few modern F1 examples but could have been much more.

Finally we succumbed to the siren song of a snack bar, a bit of a sit down, and a chance to reflect on a “Silverstone Experience.”

Now that we’re road legal and with a new and improved propane system on board, it’s time to cross the Irish Sea and make our way south. We planned to take the ferry back to Scotland and visit another sailing friend on our way to Dover but it turns out our friend is off traveling too, so that route makes no sense. We did some quick time-distance-cost calculations and decided instead to take the ferry from Belfast all the way to Liverpool, an 8-hour sea journey that cuts off some driving time but also gives us an opportunity to stare at the sea for hours and look for dolphins.

It’s been a year since we coaxed Escape Velocity onto a ferry but she didn’t mind one bit, even after having to do a delicate backup maneuver to slot between two giant trucks.

Eight hours is a long time on a ferry and we batted around getting a cabin for the crossing but in the end decided instead on the Plus Lounge, with an all day buffet of snacks and beverages and comfy seating just below the bridge.

Jack wasted no time ordering his favorite breakfast.

It was a gloomy day so not the best sea views we’ve ever seen, and sadly no dolphins, but we enjoyed it anyway and ate our fill of the mostly healthy snacks.

As usual we had no plan on arrival but a symbol on the map intrigued me and before long we were off to Wales.

What caught my eye was the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, the longest in Britain and the highest in the world. That’s certainly worth a detour. (Is it a detour if you aren’t following a specific route?) It wasn’t the nicest weather the UK can offer up but it wasn’t raining and for that we were grateful.

The aqueduct carries the Llangollen Canal over the River Dee on a stone and cast iron structure with 18 arches. It’s 12 feet wide and 5 feet deep and 126 feet above the river. There’s a towpath along one side, which we walked.

I have a perfectly reasonable fear of heights but despite the palmsweat I made it all the way across and back again with barely a whimper. I even looked down once in a while.

The aqueduct is quite the engineering feat and it’s another UNESCO site for us to tick. After watching the boats and paddlers for a while we chatted with the volunteers in the visitors center, had some ice cream, and continued on our way. Jack is on a mission.

Ten years ago today while on passage to French Polynesia the unimaginable happened and a catastrophic rigging failure brought down our mast. We were 450 nautical miles from land with no way to carry on. Luckily we were not injured and aside from the loss of the rig, the boat was still sound. We limped back to the Galapagos on our tiny engines and eventually to Costa Rica where six months later we were rerigged. The giant lemons life threw at us that day gave us the lemonade of a year in Central America and the gift of new friends and cousins we hadn’t met before. Almost exactly a year after the dismasting we finally made landfall in the Marquesas. We still count that day as one of the best ever. We hope we will always carry on.

You can read the original account of the dismasting and our recovery starting here.

I awoke to the pitter-patter of a frigid mountain rain dancing on Escape Velocity’s metal roof. We are not in India anymore. I pulled the comforter back over my head thinking maybe another thirty minutes would do nicely.

Coffee aboard the bus is job number one for the skipper and that’s Yours Truly. There are no more helpful inn keepers waiting to serve us a steaming hot cup of chai in the morning. Ultimately I knew that I had no choice, so I performed a particularly clumsy “flying man” maneuver in which I attempt to throw a leg over Marce, suspend myself over her without smashing anything tender and, using that knee to support my weight, spin my body a further 90 degrees which allows me to back down off our quite high bed while searching for a small interim step with my toes so I can let myself down to the floor. It’s all terribly awkward. It’s been more than six months since I asked my body to do this. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.

With our old sailing friend Alan’s help we had plugged Escape Velocity into the house mains so there was a little heat on; otherwise this would be impossible. On the other hand I just heard, “Where’s my coffee?” This question had a plaintive edge to it. “I’m so sorry about that, but coffee will be a minute or so.” Kettle on, heat turned up, and Aeropress primed.

We are here, nestled at the base of the Mourne mountains to await our appointment with the mechanic who will convert EV’s propane to a refillable system.

We’ll have him do a full service and investigate an annoying check engine light that mysteriously comes on for a while then disappears. He’ll also do a pre-MOT inspection, and we’ll run her through state sponsored inspection scheduled for the following day. All of this happens two weeks from now. Turns out most people in Northern Ireland wait months for an MOT inspection appointment. We’re lucky to have this scheduled soon.

The to-do list is long and includes our yearly frustration with British insurance regulations, filled with catch-22’s and an inability to say yes to willingly rip us off. In the meantime we’re here in this beautiful but cold and rainy corner of Northern Ireland in the lap of luxury with friends in a comfortable warm family atmosphere.

Our every instinct demands action but other than wrestling with insurance bureaucrats and totally reorganizing EV, there’s little productive to occupy our minds for the two week hiatus so we walk and try to firm up our plans for Europe.

I don’t know why we came back so early but finally we find ourselves ready for MOT inspection with the check engine light reset to off. Four different mechanics have put the van on the diagnostic computer for this intermittent warning light and every time it comes up “no fault.” In a short ceremony we beseeched the Laotian Little People to keep that check engine light off while we’re at the inspection station. They’re in charge of special dispensation for spunky fools, but they are also well known for their mischievous behavior.

Waiting in the inspection line.

As I started EV up sure enough, the check engine light came on and the inspector, leaning in the window said, “your check engine light is on.”

We’d just come from the garage and it’s been off all day. Honestly. Realizing that no one ever says that and after much schmoozing by Marce the Charmer, we felt him soften. He smiled that impish Irish grin and said, “pull her around back.”

We’re either about to be impounded or those crafty Laotian Little People have done it again. I like to think we left him feeling better about himself as well and that pesky dashboard light is now called the Engine On light. A wee dram of celebratory whiskey would go well about now, but I’m driving.