I’ve now been back at my father’s place for four days. Trying to settle in England is difficult. After living in the US for 14 years, I’m finding it nearly as hard as backpacking around
Europe.

The first bar I went into alone I was hit on by a very strange man wearing a fedora and dark sunglasses, who, within five minutes of sitting next to me proceeded to say I should seriously think about getting myself a push-up bra.

I paid a visit to the doctor’s and was informed I had five minutes to talk about one problem only. Oh, and no pushchairs/strollers allowed in the waiting room. Not that I have a baby who requires four wheels but I did feel sorry for the mother who had to drag in her twins and an infant. I thought about it after I’d left the doctor’s office but I wonder if they ban wheelchairs, too….

The money’s different (they even have two pound coins now) and so are the accents, and as far as writing goes, all of my Americanisms are “garbage.”

Bang, bang. Heads a bit upset with me this morning, but I can now—finally—reveal my first destination.

Bang, bang. Heads a bit upset with me this morning, but I can now—finally—reveal my first destination.During drinks at Alphabet Bar last night, little-known Argenbühl-Eglofs was picked out of the hat. So little-known, in fact, that I’m having trouble pinpointing it on a map.

Tell me again why I enjoy making things so difficult for myself…

Standing on Stafford train station’s platform this afternoon, I hugged mom goodbye and then headed off to wait for the train to London.

A gray-haired, middle-aged lady—I’d guess in her early seventies—with burgundy red half mooned spectacles perched on her nose had obviously been watching.

“Your mom looks worried,” she said. I think I detected a South African accent. When she asked me where I was heading with my backpack, I told her about my trip.

“I remember when my son went off on a round the world trip,” she said, “oh, about 10 years ago.” She paused for a moment, looked me up and down, then continued. “He was 25 years old then, though, obviously much younger than yourself.”

Okay, so backpacking is usually something that people do during their year out from uni, but as far as I’m aware there are no age restrictions for donning a rucksack. My dad did it when he was sixty. Maybe she could tell, though, that until this afternoon I’ve never actually been backpacking.

My bench companion then proceeded to list all of the things that went wrong during her son’s younger day adventures, including having his camera stolen, being mugged, and getting food poisoning.

“And now he’s talking about going to Africa. Hopefully he’ll change his mind.”

When mom picked me up today to take me to the station, she asked me if I’d got a will.

“What for?” I asked her.

“Well, you know, if anything happens.”

Great. Nothing like a bit of encouragement just before starting off on my travels. Between mom and my fellow train traveler, I’ve obviously got lots to look forward to.

I guess parents just don’t ever stop worrying about their offspring.

I’m all set to leave for Germany, except for one thing… a credit card. Trying to get a card after living out of England for 15 years is like pulling teeth. I think I’ve promised someone my first born child somewhere along the line of the begging process. If they had debit cards with Visa or Mastercard capabilities like in the states, there wouldn’t be any problem. But they don’t, which sucks.

So, like me, you’ll just have to sit tight for a little longer. If all goes well, I’ll be off down to The Alphabet Bar in London later this week, will get someone to pick my “A” city in Germany, and then before next Sunday, I’ll be off.

 PS: Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

“A lovely lady and a grumpy old man live here.” Painted on a small wooden board, the sign is stuck in the flower bed, just outside of the front door of the 15th Century cottage. Stable-style, the front door is painted a deep green.

The red-brick residence with its original crook frame, beamed ceilings and bay windows, sits across the street from the village church—its clock chimes every hour—and is attached to Stowe-by-Chartley’s only public house, The Cock Inn. In this instance, “The Cock” refers to a feathered male bird and not a male member.

“It’s the highest village in England,” said the grumpy old man the other day with an air of authority, referring to the village of Flash, located 30 miles north from where he sat at the bar in The Cock Inn, and 1518 feet above sea level.

“Must be great views from there,” said George, one of the locals.

“No, there’s absolutely nothing to see,” said Grumpy.

“How’s that possible, if it’s the highest village in the country?” asked John, the bartender.

“Because of the bloody hills,” said Grumpy. “It’s not the highest “point” in the country, it’s the highest settlement.”

“Ah, but what’s the definition of a settlement?” enquired the only woman sitting at the bar.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Grumpy.

“Of course it matters,” the woman said, “you said ‘village,’ and then you said ‘settlement.’ Are you saying there are no hamlets located on higher levels of ground elsewhere in the country?”

“Or what about single family houses?” asked George. Other locals listening in on the conversation nodded their heads in agreement.

“Makes a difference,” said John the bartender.

“It doesn’t make a bloody difference,” said Grumpy, “I was told it was the highest ‘settlement’ and that’s that.

“I think we need to clarify exactly what’s meant by ‘settlement,’ said the woman.

“I’m not getting involved,” said George, “it’s difficult to argue with him. Just easier to nod your head and agree.”

“What’s this place like then, Flash?” asked John.

“Not bad, when it’s not foggy,” said Grumpy. He handed his pint glass to John for a refill.

“Have you seen those big houses they’re building up the road from here, right next to the railway track?” asked John.

“They’re not right next to the track,” said Grumpy, “they’re at least 100 yards away.”

“More like feet,” said John.

And just like that the conversation switched from high settlements on hills—or not—to ones by railway lines. No one missed a beat. Except me. I was the lone female and chose at that point to return to the “lovely lady” sitting next door: my mom.

The grumpy old man and lovely lady live here.

Reputedly the highest village in England, Flash was known in the 17th Century for producing counterfeit money, or “flash” money, hence its name.

See where Salt is using Multimap.

Salt. Other than a condiment to sprinkle over fish and chips, it’s the name of a tiny village that lies six miles outside of the county town of Stafford, approximately 45 minutes drive north of Birmingham (in the middle of England).

The village stands on the south bank of the River Trent and was referred in the Doomsday Book in 1086 as “Selte.”

There are no shops, no police or fire station, no bank, and certainly no guesthouses or hotels. There was a railway station, a school and post office years ago but they were all eventually closed down and turned into residences.

In the latter part of the 17th Century, there would have been about 30 houses in Salt. Fifteen years ago there were 90. Today that number has increased by no more than five.

There’s really not that much to see, apart from rolling green field after rolling green field covered with Friesian cows, Highland cattle, horses and sheep, as well as plenty of acidic-smelling manure. On a cold early morning in March, when the air is frigid and snow specks have begun to appear, the intermingling sounds include a mother sheep calling to her offspring, a woodpigeon perched on a rooftop and a cockerel making his presence known at a nearby farm.

The only place you can buy anything in Salt is at the local public house called The Holly Bush Inn. “Scrumptious Food – Quaffable Ales” is the pub’s slogan.  The building dates back to the 14th Century and is generally believed to be the second pub to be licensed in the whole of the country. It’s not difficult to guess what the village pastime is.

This is where I grew up. The house my dad now lives in is different but the village hasn’t changed much over the years. Driving through at 35 years of age feels no different to when I cycled through at age ten. Over the years, the stinky shit that offends many urban folk has become something of a smell of comfort, an acquired taste, so to speak. 

What I can’t get over is that considering there’s bugger all to do here, I haven’t stopped running around since I arrived.

Have just got back from spending four long days with my father in Falmouth, Cornwall. Five hours in a car is hard enough with anyone, and when that person hums constantly and thinks they’re driving in a Formula 3 race, it’s even worse. Chester only gagged once, though, so it was something of a successful journey.

Being in a car with dad when he’s driving is a little like being on a fairground ride that’s working great: it makes you feel horribly sick. To avoid stomach spasms and deep breathing exercises, I try and sleep. If I am able to relax, I’ve noticed that while he’s busy pumping the brakes or accelerator (yep, he’s a double-pumper), my head tends to bob up and down like one of those nodding dashboard dogs.

Falmouth, where we’ve been, is approximately 300 miles south west from our home in Salt, Staffordshire. Dad came out retirement a year ago and recently purchased a brand spanking new apartment with a view to turning it into a luxury holiday rental on the southern coast of Cornwall. After four days of buying furniture, ordering curtains and kitting out the kitchen I’m knackered, and he’s delighted. The place is fantastic and is already taking bookings.

You can check out his website at falmouthapartments.com. And, if you’re interested in staying there, mention my site on the enquiry form and you’ll receive a 5% discount. Plus, I’ve been promised £25 commission for each booking I refer, which will definitely come in handy getting around Europe.