I’ve been remiss about keeping up with this. I blame insomnia, staying with friends who have an extensive library, a sore throat, and (in the words of Oliver Platt’s character in the ever-wonderful “Gun Shy”) narcosleepy. We’re in Stratford—n-Avon right now, and Ken’s in the shower, so I have a few minutes to ramble. I’ve been keeping notes on our exploits, anyway.

When we officially got up on Monday, we went to Trikon. I used a computer at the reception desk to check e-mail, and turned 78 new messages (about 1/3 of which were spam) into 1 in the In Box and 5 or 6 in the After Trip folder. Then I helped Ken photocopy things, and I read. We left there at 2:30 and went into town, where we had lunch (a warm goat’s cheese and pesto sandwich for me, yum!) and picked up a couple of guidebooks.

Then we headed north into the Cotswolds. We had time to stop and explore one long barrow (Nympsfield) before darkness fully fell. Then we looked at the map and decided that because we were only half an hour from Cheltenham, we should call our SCA friends Mary and Kevin. They joined Mynydd Gwyn near the time we were leaving, and they’ve always been really friendly, but we never got to know them well.

Happily, they had no plans and hadn’t had dinner, so we nipped up there and went out for a fabulous Chinese meal. They graciously offered to let us stay the night, and we accepted. They live in an 1800s building called The Priory (although it had at least one other name in the past, so I’m not sure it ever was a priory). They’ve done major renovation work to their flat, keeping the important components of the listed (e.g., historic by law) building whilst modernizing it for living. The place has tall trefoil shaped windows, and they had their dining room set custom-made to match (I took pictures). They have a reasonably big master bedroom, lovely kitchen (with the original box that lit up when someone rang for a servant), comfortably living room, and huge L-shaped library/study where we slept. They have more hard SF than I do, but otherwise it was like looking at my own books, with a few notable exceptions. I snagged a 1970s MZBradley horror I hadn’t read yet, and chewed through that while Ken did computer work (M&K had to go to bed at a reasonable hour because of work).

We fell asleep at 11:30 p.m. and I was comfortably tired, so I expected an uninterrupted night. Was I ever wrong. Around 4:30 a.m. I woke up, and I was awake. I browsed the shelves and to my delight found a Charles de Lint I hadn’t read (The Wild Wood, in the Brian Froud Faerielands series. I read for at least an hour, maybe more, then turned the light off and dozed for a bit, not really sleeping. Eventually I got up, puttered around the kitchen and found some incredible brown bread with crunchy bits in it, smeared goat’s cheese on that, went through hell and back to make myself a cup of tea (don’t ask), and settled back down. Great book, of course. It’s interesting how de Lint can often write the same book, with almost the same characters and similar plots, and yet each book sucks you right in. Mmmmmm.

Eventually Ken got up and breakfasted and we got on the road. We went to Belas Knapp, supposedly the largest long barrow in England (West Kennet Long Barrow seems larger to me, but I haven’t been there in about four years, so I could be wrong). We hiked up onto the windswept hill and through the loamy smelling forest with its Froudish trees watching us. I didn’t have a lot of energy, and had to stop frequently, and in a few hours I would learn why.

After that, we had lunch at a lovely pub (cod and chips and yummy fresh peas for me, lamb for Ken) and got back on the road. That’s when I got sleepy, and my throat started to hurt. And hurt more. And more. All I could think of was the last time I had a sore throat, when it got so swollen I couldn’t sleep because my breath would catch and I’d wake up. The doctor (British) prescribed penicillin (as appropriate) but not enough, so weeks later during our 3-week motorcycle trip through the Alps, I fell ill again. Fortunately, we were at a friends' house in Germany, and they helped us find a pharmacy who directed us to a doctor who spoke enough English to diagnose me and prescribe a long enough dose of penicillin. We were also able to stay at our friends’ house a day longer, allowing me to sleep on the sofa for most of the day whilst Ken went to the BMW factory in Munich and got new brake pads put on the bike. But I digress. I didn’t want to go to a British doctor again, although I figured if I had to, I’d just go to my own dr when we got back to CA and get a full dose of penicillin.

We got to Stratford, booked a B&B (paying a bit extra for a 4-poster bed that had lovely lace dripping from it, even if the bed itself took up almost all of the room), and went straight there. I peeled off all of my clothes, took Advil, and crawled into bed. Ken read in the lounge for an hour or so, and I reluctantly woke, although I huddled in the bed for a few more hours as we talked and watched some TV. Eventually we went out to dinner, at a very nice Italian place, where I had artichoke and asparagus ravioli and Ken had veal. I had enough energy for a short walk through town (Stratford is gorgeous, full of rambly leaning Tudor-style beamed houses). It was cold, though, and after meeting a wonderful cat, we retired to our B&B, where I actually fell asleep sitting up watching TV.

The next morning, after I gargled with salt water and fervently hoped for recovery, we took a bus tour of Stratford. Despite the cold, we sat on the top in the back, faces gleefully to the chill wind (I had to take off my hat because I feared it would blow away). The commentary was rather simple but quite good, and we saw the Shakespearean highlights of the area.

We headed out of town and stopped at the village of Wootton Wawen, a flyer for which we’d found in the B&B. Is “Wootton Wawen” not the best ever name you’ve ever heard? Say it out loud! Anyway, in the village is Warwickshire’s oldest church, in which there is a fascinating display of the town’s history. An artist has painted a birds’-eye view of what the place looked like in different centuries, and we bought postcards of them (sadly, one was missing, but they have a website that I’ll check). Great, great stuff.

Onwards we then went to Kenilworth Castle, just because it sounded neat. And it was. Cold the day might have been, sick as I was, the castle was fantastic. Mostly in ruins, but the sort with lots of staircases and nooks for canoodling in (we took good advantage of those) and a good solid history. And a spirit of sorts (I saw someone who wasn’t there, anyway), and pigeons that make me shriek in startlement (so I captured them in the camera). This was Dudley’s castle, and Elizabeth visited for “19 days of princely pleasure”, and it was easy to see why.

Thus weary and full of sightseeing, we headed into the outskirts of Birmingham and found the new home of Amanda/Dave/Gordon (although Dave spends most of his time in an apartment in London). I was feeling awful by then, and huddled under a blanket in the living room drinking tea whilst we caught up with Amanda, and, later, Gordon. Ed and Marian arrived, and we all went out for some incredible Indian food, the only downsides being that the service was terribly slow and I was falling asleep before the meal was over. Went home, crashed hard. I can’t remember if I woke up in the middle of the night in Stratford, but I know that although I woke up once or twice here, I feel back asleep almost immediately.

And now that I’ve caught up to the 7th, I’ll start a new entry and move forward into tomorrow.