I have been way too preoccupied recently to know what's going on in the world. So today I had a good long gawp at a newspaper stand. Jaw open and all. Nothing much really, a bunch of moron interest stories and some drivel about TV soaps and sports. Consumer media. The Google IPO seems to be going ahead, which I'm as excited about as anyone: excellent news for Tech, but I already knew about that.

Then a headline struck me. Apparently the A Level results are out and 96% were passes. I find this disturbing. If employers know that any NAAFI cretin can pass A Levels then mine aren't any good to me, they don't set me apart. I put two years into getting them and the learning was good, but I'd hope they have more value. Bummer. Maybe I should take a half dozen more, learn some eclectic subjects maybe. Hmmm....

I've seen this years crop of A Level candidates. There are some gems amongst them, but I wouldn't describe 96% of them as academic. In fact, some of them couldn't tell their own ass from a textbook. 'Me is well pleased wiv me A's, they is all passes!'. Dammit.

Oh well, maybe by the time I next see the newspaper stand it will have rained hedgehogs somewhere or something.

Boy do I ever have a lot of crap to do. There's movies I got on the mainland 3 months ago that have been staring at me since then and I haven't watched. I get a lot done, take on more instead of enjoying being finished and up to date with everything.

So, I have a mountain of ironing casting a great looming shadow over my laundry room, bits of carpentry to finish, electonics to service, drivers to find... some things never manage to make it into the list of stuff I have enough time for any particular day.

I wish days were 72 hours long and I could sleep for 3 of them, put in a full day at work and then still have time to get through everything I've been meaning to.

And I haven't typed up all of my travel journal yet. Or got the photos developed. I haven't written to most of my friends in a longass time. My site's still pretty rough.

So tomorrow I am going to stop. I'm not going to spend my day rushing around doing things. I'm not going to make a list. I know I have cabling that urgently needs attention. I know the sooner I sort my personal logistics out with the shipping company the happer I'll be about it. I know I really ought to find and read the terms and conditions for my broadband subscription, find discrepancies with local laws here, and then harangue someone at my ISP about it.

Instead, I'm going to sit on my ass. I might make a script for CONNECT proxies, I've wanted one forever. And I might tidy my site. I'll email some people. Maybe learn to make burritos. That would be cool, knowing how to make burritos. Burritos it is :-)

It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm in Pisa. Italy's stunning but I think I might make this a quick trip. Trains and stations in Italy are skanky and I don't feel safe. I really ought to see the tower and I'm sure I will. One day. As for now I've just spent four hours eyeing some shady lurker eyeing my backpack and I'd rather have been sleeping.

About 20 minutes into the journey a conductor came around with pieces of recovered stolen property. Short while after that I had the privilege of watching Italy's finest run some unfortunate loser down.

They paraded the guy up and down the train for awhile along with some luggage. Presumably to allow the public to venture information or something. An official looking person came by and sternly told me something just after that. I don't speak any Italian so I've no idea what.

Last thing I need now is to be subpoena'd as a witness or whatever so I just shut up. None of the 'Speak-English-?-Parlez-vous-Francais?' routine. Other than that the trip was uneventful. Spent it looking out into a windy night of docks and industrial parks. This shady guy in my compartment made it all uncomfortable.

First thing he did is come sit right by me asking (in English) personal questions about me and my journey. I lied, tersely. I really hate to lie to anyone but there's such a thing as common sense. Also I especially hate the smell of spearmint gum and he was chewing it noisily in my face. In short, very glad to be off that train.

I spent yesterday cooking in Nice (it's groovy). I'd love to get to Florence right now, to a hot shower and a chance to do some laundry. But the train I scheduled online isn't here. It's not coming. Of all the days Rail Italia could choose to go on strike it would be June 18th.

So I might see that tower after all. The world delivers good news via suppository sometimes. /me winces, sees bright side.

A bunch of people are stranded here. There's a litter of Texan schoolgirls curled up dozing in one corner of the station, but I really don't have the energy. They're cute and all and they're going my way (Firenze), I probably smell like a hobo after the garlic I've been eating and all the swimming in the Med I didn't get to do today (growl).

Chase schoolgirls another day. I'm going to see how much sleep I can get on the information counter before someone arrives to gesticulate at me about the error of my ways. And they might speak English, French or German. I don't actually speak German, but if Italians are going to be incomprehensible they might do it in a language that slows them down enough for me to have a stab at figuring out what's going on with this strike. 'Sprechen Sie Deutsches?'

In Italy. On the coast. At sunset. The countryside here is gorgeous. Chunky sandstone hills falling into the sea. Palm trees. A fountain. A dusty railway station. Greens and browns in the yellow light. Really tired. Dreamy. Surreal.

The beaches of the 8me Arrondissement are bounded by a breakwater of huge boulders piled into rows, about 300m paralell to the shore. I was climbing around out here on the rocks tonight, watching the waterfront and it's lights reflecting in the bay. I came across two guys fishing.

I'm still a little in England mode: I was expecting to have to come up with a witty answer to 'Oi! What the fuck are you doing?' or some such, climbing rocks in the middle of the night.

Instead I just got a cheery 'Bon Soir'. I also saw some kids on the rocks, which made me feel less like a gargoyle watching the city. And I was happy to see them catch a fish. I think England may have helped me become somewhat unfriendly. People are nicer hereabouts.

''No one calls you 'piece of shit' with as much love as I do'' - Mehma Tibb

Marseille is downright lovely. My first night here I spent under a wrecked car outside a TGV station way north of the city (I'd caught a bus there from the airport, long story). Kept carefully leeward of the security camera at the Hertz rent-a-car place, fairly sure no one knew I was there. Sleeping out is OK but it would suck to be deported for vagrancy.

A fox came by to check me out some time after the trains stopped running. I tossed pebbles at it when it came too close, and we watched each other for awhile. I'd never seen a fox in the wild before so that was pretty cool.

I once met a marine in Wilton who was a big fan of foxes and talked a lot about them and their habits. It's interesting stuff to think about.

5am saw me hiking to Aix en Provence (13km) and then on to Marseille (20km). Very beautiful country. I got to see the sun come up over the choppy hills around Aix. Very orange pink, the sky was all crossed with contrails from the night. The town's under some sort of sky lane. There were never less than three planes in the sky heading south.

The countryside is bleached but not barren. Wild wheat and grass heads. Red poppies and black, prickly thistles. Spiky dry weeds on white quartzy ground.

It was a lovely walk, despite feeling gritty and short of sleep. One curious thing: the roadside was littered with gloves. I've no idea why, but it seems Provence is where the world's single gloves go on holiday. All types and sizes.

I hitched a ride outside of Aix into the harbour at Marseille. The city's inside a crescent of white mountains facing out into the mediterranean. Opposite the harbour at the centre of the city are a set of small rocky islands, crusty with ancient battlements and crumbling walls.

Coming in over the mountains the city is miles and miles of red tile roof tops and spires of varying catholic and islamic form. The city was founded by the Phonecians some great long time ago and has considerbaly more history than can be written here.

At a rocky, weathered castle overlooking the bay a most pleasant and unexpected thing happened. I met an American girl who invited me to explore the city with her and two friends. They were students and really fun people. Togther we made an African, Indian, Russian and American. We saw the ancient church of Notre Dame and the old port, palace and city fortifications. We swam in the Med and chattered about ourselves and everything and being in France.

After some searching we found a supermarket, bought some random stuff and headed up one of the hills behind the city. We watched the sun set over over the sea, lit a fire and burnt some food. I couldn't have designed a better day, it was so good just to get on with these girls. I could be myself and not feel I was talking up to someone or down to someone, and I didn't have to feign interest in any dumb thing like motor racing or horses.

That's been really rare since I left Africa. And they were interesting people. So in all, a very pleasant day.

It was also something of a peek from the other side of the game. Wandering around with these three girls they were constantly hit on, by other tourists and locals of all sorts. Most seemed pleasant enough, some of the beach bully and drug dealer types were obnoxious. They had a sort of group dynamic going on that was magic itself to watch. They effortlessly put down advances and manipulated little everyday sitations in a way that was so polished and natural it must have been almost subconscious they were so good at it.

On the one hand I know exactly how much courage and indifference one must come up with to a group of strange girls and try to capture their interest. And how they can compeltely and cruelly trample on one's ego. But, I'm shy and a little sensitive and my ego's been kicked around.

On the other hand, watching these beachy stupid sounding jerks swagger up and more or less proposition them I could care less if their feelings were hurt by sharks.

Bearing this in mind it's all the more amazing they chose to hang out with me of all people. I'm glad they did, I had a really good time. And I'm staying awhile longer. Marseille's great, especially since I only came here to look for breasts. Which I found. Walking along the beachfront with a composed and thoughtful expression on the outside and grinning like a Cheshire Cat on the inside.

More mutton than lamb on the grill, but hey! Marseille rocks!

There's just been some disturbance at the airport. French police swarmed out with their big guns and little hostess uniforms, herded the passengers out of a section of the terminal and set up a cordon.

You'd think the English take first place for dressing their police officers up in funny uniforms. You should check out some of the palace guards on horses in London. Turns out the French also like to see young men in bonnets and tassely shoes.

Police in Napoleon hats: now that would be cool :-) [The dress kepi of certain monument gaurds in Paris are almost as good.]

It's offical, Paris kicks ass! This place truly is awesome. My French isn't great but it passes, and many people here can speak English, though they make a point of saying they don't.
The French are very different. So far I like it. Case in point: last night I went to a restaurant bathroom (unisex) Instead of the toilet I was expecting was this small room with a hole in the floor. It was neatly finished in ceramic and bergundy wallpaper, with two raised stands (to stand on presumably) and a tassely cord to pull to flush the floor. Lots of ordinary everyday things are simply done another way here.

Street life. Really awesome. I managed to get myself lost looking for an address on Bvd Richard Lenoir (turned up on Rue Richard Lenoir) when I came across a gang of youths. THey were drinking beer out of tiny bottles and... playing boules. And table tennis. In the street. At 11pm. The cafes were still open and the place had a friendly, buzzy vibe. The boulevards a beautiful and the architecture just fits together.

The people are colorful. Paris is very mixed ethnically, the dress seems to fit into an all sorts/mismatched theme. It's good to be back in style.

Paris is not as expensive as London but it's still pricey. If I fixed my French I can see it as a place I'd like to live. And there's lots and lots of cheese :-)

But I'm pressing on. I can't find a hostel for tonight so I'm heading south. Bus to airport €7.50, flight €20 something plus tax. I've heard Marseille has topless beaches on the Mediterranean. I could be going for the history or the art galleries, seems from where I'm standing I could go in any direction for those. So I'm going to Marseille. It's been a long long while since I've seen a pair of breasts, and I think it would do me good.

And on to Paris. I hope. I'm trvalling with a very flexible itinerary. Doesn't go down well with travel agents and ticket booths, but I'm not going to plan anything in advance just because it's convenient to them. I've cast off for awhile, I'll travel and do things and spend time in places as I feel at the time. It's great, and I don't want a schedule, that would introduce stress and restriction on my happy jaunt.

So the lastminute.com people can continue to look incredulous when I ask them to sell me a ticket right now to anywhere, for the best rate they've got. And, no, I don't think I should have booked two weeks in advance Ms Constipated travel agent, so make with the ferry times like it says in the window.

Got fleeced in Dover for a couple pounds on my ferry ticket but hey! I'm in France! And riding on the most retro looking train you ever saw :-)

UPDATE: Above is the total, complete blog post from 2004, which is getting a baffling ammount of traffic recently. I imagine most people are searching for Gare de Lille-Flandres, the central train station in the city of Lille, France. I'll try be helpful.

The station was built between 1869 and 1892 and currently serves regional and SNCF Intercity trains on the Paris, Rouen, Leige and Ostend lines, among others. Wikipedia says: The station front is the old front from Paris' Gare du Nord and was dismantled then reassembled in Lille at the end of the 19th century.

The station was built for Chemin du Fer du Nord (a train company) by Sydney Dunnett and Léonce Reynaud, shown here worrying about the English.

From Lille you could go to:

To me, life seems to be lived on different scales in different places.
In small villages life is infuriatingly slow and simple. People are more honest and sincere. Life is lived outside more and folks tend to know know each other, and sometimes mistrust strangers. I was in a little village in Lincolnshire a few days ago and the crowd in the town pub (social nexus) were planning a vilage ball for the summer, basically hoedown in a field nearby. People were volunteering and making arragements. It was a comunity.

I think of it as life on a small black and white TV. Lovely and simple and somewhow wholesome, but smaller than my ambitions in a way I can't quite nail down.

Life in a big town/small city is different. Sort of suburban and still sort of small. People don't all know each other, but they're not just faces to each other as in big cities. Aspirations aren't much higher than in small towns and it's all very Ordinary. House, job, mortgage, 2.4 kids, retirement. Suburban drug problems. Small businesses. Chain stores. Life on a family TV from a wholesale supermarket.

If you're from a small village you're a somebody to the people who live in nowhere with you. In a larger town you're a nobody in a nowhere. A marketing statistic. A completely soul destroying and uninspired life. I could not live like that.

Big cities. Diversity. If cities are cinemas the London (New York, Tokyo?) is an IMAX. A chance to be a nobody in a somewhere. You're anonymous and insignificant, it's a function of the sheer press of millions of other anonymous insignificant nobodies, but it's not opressive or deliberately unfriendly. There are more people who will have the same goals as you: filling a certain job, renting a certain apartment, getting a certain date. Your chances of succeeding are smaller because of that. The more people one competes with, the greater chance that one of them is better at achievng your goals than you are.

There's also a lot to see and do. And the freedom of being anonymous and independant. Existentialism. Wow this is a ramble. I'm going to shut up now.

I'm enjoying this hostel in London, mad mix of people. Last night was quieter, with the Canadians fast asleep, the Texan surfing porn on his phone and the Australian guy in the bunk above me muttering in his sleep.

I skimmed a few chapters of 'The Interpretation of Dreams' once, maybe tonight should have a poke at figuring out what's all in his head. Last night he mumbled ''where's my pants'' or ''my pants'' a few times, so I guess he was having one of those naked dreams.

I really like Americans, they have no clue sometimes but on the whole I enjoy their company. There are three in my dorm of eight. I woke up this morning to find the two guys shaving the back or each other's necks while the girl was curling her eyelashes. Here we are, al living out of a single bag effectively homeless in a foreign country and she has eyelash curling apparatus. I'm impressed. Can't say I've ever had someone shave the back of my neck before I leave the house though. Never would have occured to me.

Beautiful women. There's something London has in spades. Two possible reasons for this: London's more cosmopolitan, diet and attitude to healthy living are better here. And: a large proportion of Londoners are also foreigners.

Traditional English food - in my experience - is some dead animal (often cow or sheep) cooked in grease and maybe served with mushy vegetables that have had all the goodness boiled out of them. The best 'traditional' English food 've come across that's vegetarian is Yorkshire pudding with roast vegetables. Bland and mediocre at best. This I think is why Indian restaurants selling spicey food are so popular here.

But they wolf it down, with butter and beer, and refry the leftovers for breakfast. And so more than half of British women are what doctors call unhealthily overweight, and 30something percent are outright obese. Lots of fat chicks over here. Lots. But London's the happy hunting ground.

This is an ethical problem I have with myself. I would like to think about people based on how good and interesting a person they are. And I would like to be attracted to people by things like emotional compatability and intellectual partnership.

But I can't. I don't choose who I'm attracted to, my friend Zeus does, and he's not interested in how cool a person is. He likes slender young teenage girls (and on occasion an especially cute guy - but that's another story :-) So here's the problem: beautiful teenage girls aren't ideal partners: they're difficult to land, don't always make great conversation and their parents cause a hard time and make things complicated. And I'm not sure yet f I should feel bad about hitting on people based on sexual attraction alone.

On the other hand, if you can pull it off, success is it's own reward and then some. Getting down and intimatea willing girl (optional bonus: that you care about) is about the most amazing thing in the world. I have so far lived a full life, and tried all osrts of things, from riding in hot air balloons to experimenting with drugs, and no other experience comes close to the exhiliaration and fulfillment of finally getting with a beautiful girl you really want. For comparison, I gave up illegal drugs long ago, they just don't excite me that much.

But there aren't all that many hot young women in Britain, and competition is fierce for them. And there are so many intelligent, interesting women out there who aren't foxes who could still be an excellent friend and partner. And here's me too proud to lower my standards and just settle.

I don't know if that's a good thing or not. But hey, getting back to London food, I've found an all-you-can-eat-pizza joint. I don't stop for many square meals on the road so this could take awhile. So... I can contemplate the dilemma of the 'haves' versus the 'should haves'. And my blind slavery to evolution's forces. And there are these two stunning teenagers eating pizza over there....

The epithet for a person from Wilshire is a Moon Raker. This all got started some time ago when the wool market was such that the sheep farmers in the Cotswolds became wealthy.

Bandits would run ships aground on the south coast, move the cargo - alcohol, silks, spices, etc - through Wilshire to sell to the sheep farmers.

One night such a band of miscreants had the law on their heels, so they decided to hide the loot and split up, returning when the heat was off. So they fetched a couple of particularly thick yokels to stow the goods in a pond. And off they went.

Soon afterwards the Sherriff and his men arrived to find these two yokels standing by their pond carrying a pair of rakes.

When challenged as to what the hell they were up to in the middle of the night at the pond one yokel replied: ''We was tryin' to fetch tha' cheese wot's floatin' on tha' pond.'' (or something like that).

''What cheese?''

The yokel pointed to a reflection of the moon on the pond. Given whom he was talking to the sherriff was satisfied that he did indeed have before him two idiots trying to rake the moon off a pond.

And the name stuck: at least, that's the story as I have heard it. There is a Moon Raker Club for yokels who can trace their inbreeding a certain number of generations within the county, and I have seen a moon raker tie.

So, here's to Wiltshire. Because our inbred hicks are more retarded than your inbred hicks.

London Baby! (again) But first Nottingham. I started travelling a week ago. Wilton was fine for awhile, but only that. I quit drinking, quit smoking, went vegetarian and worked 6 or 7 days a week. That's about all I can say of my time there.
A Whole year.

But it has given me time to clear my head and have some space. I was sad to go, but not very. My co-workers were a perfectly nice bunch of people, something kind could be said about each of them. So I quit. I've served out my notice and here I am. I have a large battered rucksack (French army surplus - Prieveous owners have included Pierre 1988 according to the name tag). I have a couple hundred pounds and I'm off to see Europe. More specifically, I'm going to Florence.

And, on the way, look for purpose and meaning. And some idea of what I want to do with my life. And how I feel about it. And closure. And identity. And somewhere to make home. And all those elusive things.

Perhaps I will only find my destination, but I'm looking. Funny how I used to make fun of people who complained about all this quarterlife crisis nonsense. Ironic.

God I'm dreary this morning. And it's such a lovely day. And here's my station

Wilton in the past was an entrely different place, it was the capital of Saxon England. Wiltshire's named for Wilton and there's a road towards it in most old English cities. In London it's from Victoria Underground station, but there's Wilton roads everywhere round here. And they all lead to my ex front door.
The Holy Roman Empire set up shop on some ancient Celtic earthworks a few miles east of Wilton, and built the cathedral city of Old Sarum, which was the seat of power in the region for some time.

An abbey was started at Witon and by the time of the Reformation the Abbess of Wilton owned most of the surrounding countryside. A bunch of sacking and looting and burning fixed that.

Into the power vacuum cam the Pembroke family. I'm not sure how or when but they did. The Earl of Pembroke owned the town and the coutryside for miles around.

Arstocracy back then - such as the Pembrokes - travelled around and married for social climbing. (So if Europe's royal families seem like a set of buck-toothed giggling inbreds, it's only because they are). One of the Pembroke wives was of a Russian roayl family, and she set about building a grand church in Italian style to honor her national saint, St Nicholas. Santa Claus to the rest of us.

And so the Italiante Church of St Nicholas was built, in parts in close imitation of various European cathedrals the Pembrokes liked. She destroyed the original town church in the process - out of wanting to, it's still there, ruined. In their travels and conquests the Pembrokes transported the wealth and history of many European cathedrals to their church on their estate at Wilton and it's well worth seeing.

Getting back to Sarum: it had a problem. Being atop it's celtic earthworks it was very defensible, but it didn't have a water supply. A new city arose in the swamp below Sarum. A city with canals on the trade route from the coast on the south to the Cotswolds in the north. A new and Grander cathedral was built. Salisbury Cathedral. The Old Sarum cathedral is stiil there, from the ruins there's a view of Salisbury down the valley.

Wilton, meanwhile, was frozen in time. Earls came and went. Portraits in Wilton House. The industrial revolution gave the town a carpet factory. The Pembrokes sometimes misbehaved, as those with money can (since they have money, after all). One recent Earl shot is butler for failing to pour his brandy just so. He got off more or less scott free, and the freemasons are said to have had something to do ith that. But hey.

In a dining room alcove of the Pembroke Arms Hotel opposite Wilton House there is a map of the area circa 18something. The little villages around Salisbury are still excactly as on that map.

Wilton has a baker, a greengrocer, a florist, a convenience store, three pubs, a hotel, a few sundry shops, a notable antiques shop off the square and a dog grooming shop of all damned things.

So.. Visit in the spring when the ducks get in the roads. And buy a Barbie doll. And go to the antiques shop off the Market Square.

In London (again), in this hostel quite some walk from Victoria Station. I was going to go to York but it turned out too much hassle and Edinburgh is twelve hours on the bus either way. I'll spend time in them both, but not this trip.

And London's a great place to be. I'm always passing though, so I'm going to take a few days to just be here. And I'm staying directly opposite the Royal Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital. There honestly is such a place and it's on Grays Inn Road in Kings Cross. I love the world sometimes :-)

The hostel itself is a little seedy, I was kept up late by a group of young men in the next room chattering excitedly in some asian language and jumping on their beds.. I was woken up early by some jerk with Slipknot as loud as his tinny speakers would play it. But no matter. I've booked another couple nights here. Not only has the house got access to England's premier sinus institute but a pretty blonde has offered to teach me some French.

Note to travellers: Do not go to Nottingham, it is dodgy as fuck. It contains - if anyone is interested - some Disneylandish Robin Hood 'historical' sites, the Sherwood Forresters Regimental Museum, Nottingham Castle (nothing special) and lots and lots of greasy, wheezy pigeons. It is crossed off my 'Possible Places to Live' list. Lots of grime and people covered in tattoos. Lots of litter and lots of litter bins. The London Underground is very clean and it doesn't have any litter bins. Goes to show.
Anywhere that gives pigeons emphysema should recieve a wide berth.

From an aesthetic point of view, the buildings need painting and the local accent has an 'ee' sound to it. There is an art gallery. I didn't go.

From a cultural perspective, there are many stands selling England flags and football merchandise. And many football themed shops and advertising campaigns. I judge the Yob Quotient of a city on the proportion of cars I see flying football team flags. (Yobs being loud assertive young men with bad English who binge on Lager and then pick figts with random people. Sometimes form figting gangs. Use the words 'cunt' and 'fuck' a lot. Most sentences sometimes). Nottingham has a very high Yob Quotient.

The countryside around Nottingham is lovely. Tiny villages, old churches, hedged fields and stands of trees. Wheat, gypsophila (sp?), blackberries, those white flowers whose name I don't yet know.

Note to self: this county will be excellent for making crop circles. The fields are sheltered by hedgerows and the rolling countryside, and the local news doesn't seem to have anything better to report.

Something I did enjoy in Nottingham was watching a chugger on the High Street solicit money from a pretty young woman. I should pay more attention to chuggers, they have useful social skills to teach us.

This guy walks up to a strange, hot, young woman in the street, holds her attention for 15 minutes, makes her smile and laugh whilst talking about some sombre disease, pushes the right emotional buttons and walks off with her credit card number. All while looking like a hobo and staring at her breasts. Amazing.

Wilton today is a tiny village about three miles west north west of Salisbury. The carpet factory still makes carpets, Wilton house is open in the summer and there is a beautiful Italiante church to see.

The town is walking distance from Old Sarum and British Land HQ (MoD). It is also close to Stonehenge, Woodhenge and Boscombe Down (The RAF test base).

The village is mostly four streets (North, South, West, Silver) around a market square and the ruins of an ancient church. Market day is Thursday and is the closest thing to a supermarket te village has. You can buy fresh bread and local cheese and there's a butcher who puts you off them by hanging up whole dead animals. And you can buy hardware/expired batteries/Barbie dolls/snail bait/kitchenware from a man who stands around shouting 'Torlet apypa fer a pownd! Wype yer arese fer a pownd!' and such. There really is no other way to buy Barbie dolls (fer a pound).

There is also a strange fellow who sells garden gnomes. Makes them himself far as I can tell. I wish I'd been able to find one to travel with. They're harder to swipe than the Garden Gnome Liberation Front makes out. But back to Wilton...

Wilton House was the set of a Jane Austin move and some crazy film about Mozart that's due out sometime this year. Terry Pratchett lives in the area.

If you're going to visit do so in the spring, the fields and meadows are green, there are daffodils everywhere and ducks everywhere with their ducklings, and the women wear fewer clothes and the motorists honk and shout at the ducks in the road.

Wilton House gardens are very beautiful and there's a place there where you can go at four or five in the evening to gawk at tourists eating cream cakes and drinkng tea. Presumably because that's what some tourists think that's what the English do at that time of day.

Alternatively, if you are visting England you can go to one of the local pubs and gawk at what people in rural England really do at that time of day, which is drink bitter. Bitter is a flat, warm dark kind of beer - not as creamy or dark as stout. Whilst drinking people typically complain about their job/family/climate/politicians/Europe, harass the barmaids and talk about one another.

If you're visting, be aware that rural England can be incredibly insular. The UK is not one country to the people who live there and the county is the geographical area many assosciate with.

That's right. I'm off. I've served my notice, bought a backpack, and I'm going to see some of Europe.

I could wax lyrical about my time in England, and I'm not going to.

Bye

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