Half-Term Time

Emma and John have been out of school for a few days on "half-term." Since they aren't involved in any extracurriculars (other than rugby) neither of them have a whole lot going on, and it didn't seem as if any of their new Scottish friends were doing much over the mini-break either so they have had pretty open schedules. Emma has spent most of the time in her room, working her way through the stack of books she brought from home. John convinced David to buy him a "football" and when they came back from their walk into town, he was also carrying a ripstick that they had found in a charity shop for £5. He was beside himself with excitement about this, and headed off down the path towards a big park where he could practice.

We did manage to take Leah down to a duck pond at the other end of the path one afternoon after school. We had brought a heel of bread, and she had a grand time feeding it bit by bit to the ducks. The ducks saw her coming and surrounded her within minutes, so I gather we aren't the only ones making use of our bread butts in this way.

About a week ago I had gone to the Morrison's grocery store with the kids and while I was waiting for them at the till, I started to check out some of the community announcements on the bulletin board. I saw a call for volunteers from a local "bloom" group. This is a small group of folks who do community gardening, and there seems to be a bloom group in most towns in the UK...even the very small ones. I dashed off an email to the address on the flier, and received a prompt invitation in return to join the group for their next meeting. So, on Thursday evening, I walked "down the lane" to the address they had included for the meeting. It can be difficult to find places in St. Andrews because the path on which we live runs parallel to a main road, and that means that there are two or three layers of homes in one place with the same street number. Predictably, when I found a placard with the correct street number mounted onto the stone wall, I wandered around the surrounding houses for about 10 minutes before I managed to find the right place. I was about ten minutes late for the meeting as a result, and as I rang the doorbell to the house of the hostess, a man who was also apparently lost pulled up in a car behind me and shouted through his rolled-down window, "You must be trying to find the same meeting as me, then?" I said, simply, "Yes, I think so." He responded with, "Oh, well I can tell who you are from your accent!" so I quickly figured out that word had spread that there was a new American volunteer for the group. I was surprised that he could read my accent with only four words, but I'm getting used to being identified as an "other" the moment I open my mouth here.

The meeting had already started, and the folks around the table were halfway through their agenda as well as thei scones and tea by the time I was seated. They said they would proceed, then hear from me at the end of the meeting if I had any questions. I was able to follow the proceedings pretty well, though as they were discussing their fundraising efforts their use of the word "bid" when I would have used the word "application" caused me a bit of confusion at one point. There was one member of the group who spoke with a very thick Scottish accent and I did need to focus very intently on her to understand what she was saying, and then there was another woman whose accent was so very, very pronounced that I decided she must have been speaking in gaelic and I gave up on trying to decipher her words. At one point in the meeting, it was revealed that the group had been contacted by the BBC to be included in an upcoming special they were making about Fife (the council area in which St. Andrews is located). They wanted to film some of the activities of the group, and had asked if they could film an upcoming meeting. I thought this sounded promising, as did some of the other members, but then one chap pointed out that they would have no control over how the footage was used, and it was possible that the BBC might do something like dub over their voices with disparaging comments about the council leaders. Given the kinds of outlandish reality-based programming I have seen on the telly since we have been here, I can understand the concern. 

The meeting ended with some preliminary plans for cleaning up the group greenhouses in a week, and then some details about how they would go about changing out the spring bulbs in all the community containers for the summer starts. I let them know that I was happy to help in whatever way I could, which launched a discussion about gardening gear. There was some mention of "a gilet" in a member's "boot"and I was proud that I was able to understand that one, when I certainly would have missed the meaning of that when we were here in 2011. As we left, I thanked the woman who had hosted, and complimented her on her tidy house. "Oh, this is just the granny flat," she said with a wave of her hand. Another woman jumped in, "Aye! You should see her real house down the lane!"  I loved this, of course...the idea of checking out some high-end Scottish real estate makes me even more eager to join up!

A Weekend of Sport

Since the weather is still a bit unpredictable and the days are short, we didn’t get too ambitious about this weekend. On Friday, John had a sleepover at a new friend’s house so the rest of us got fish and chips for takeout and watched a movie. Our rental house features a decent collection of DVDs, which is nice because one can only play Region 2 DVDs in the UK, and those that were purchased in the US are for Region 1…i.e., they won’t work here. Our rental house also has a DVD player, but it’s very old. The rental agency left a note for us regarding the DVD player that warned us, “The DVD will make a severe jutting noise when it is turned on. Don’t be alarmed, as it will quickly settle itself.” Periodically, Leah will try to turn on the TV, but the DVD player will come on and start jutting about, and she will run into the room screaming, “I turned on the TV but it’s too loud and now it’s scary!”

On Saturday, I left David with the kids for the morning and met a friend for “hot yoga.” This is apparently a trend in the US and in the UK, and neither of us had tried it before so we didn’t know what to expect. It’s basically hatha yoga done in a very small room that has been heated to about 102 degrees F. The concept is that the heat is supposed to warm up your muscles and make the poses easier to attain, and since I am about as inflexible as a human can be, I appreciate any assistance I can get. It’s also supposed to make you sweat a lot, and the folks who run the facility share all kinds of theories about how this is supposed to release toxins from the body, etc. I don’t buy into any of that, so really I was just going to try out a new workout as my Body Revolution DVD collection is already getting old. The yogi for this class was a male, and my friend (who is English) leaned over at the start of the class, once the instructor began to speak, to point out that he was an American. I said he definitely wasn’t, with all those rolling “r” sounds he was making. She said, “Canadian, then?” but I shook my head. “No, definitely Scottish,” I said. She didn’t seem to buy it, so when he asked us to lower our chin so much that it “fell onto the costume” I gave her a look. “Definitely not an American,” I said. “Costumes to us are only for theater and Halloween.”

After I sweated through the yoga class, I went home to meet everyone else for lunch. We had grand plans to walk to the beach, but it was really raining at that point, so we decided to bundle Leah into her “pushchair” and go into town instead. We lasted for only a few hours, and most of that was spent talking with one of our students and her parents who were visiting from the U.S. Leah was sleeping in the pushchair, but was getting pretty soggy since we didn’t have a rain cover for her (really, what a novice mistake…) so we cut our trip short and went home for an early dinner and another movie (we looked through the house collection of musicals and chose the fitting Singin’ in the Rain).

On Sunday, we drove up to the seaside community of Montrose for a rugby fixture. This was to be John’s first game, and he and I were a little nervous since neither of us really know what’s going on in the game. The coaches are very gracious to John, and manage to give him the ball from time to time and just tell him to “Run run run! Before we left home, we tried to assemble a uniform for John. John’s friend Scott had loaned us an old jersey and some rugby socks since we hadn’t ordered one for John yet. He also gave John a pair of Canterbury rugby shorts, and though they were the right size, John absolutely refused to wear them because they were so short. David showed him pictures of how short the pros wear these shorts, but John wasn’t buying it. He tried to talk us into letting him wear his Nike basketball shorts he has brought along, but we told him that he would just look ridiculous in them when all the other boys were wearing proper short shorts. Luckily, it seems that none of the boys go to the game in their “costume” but turn up in trousers, collared shirt and club tie instead. John didn’t have a club tie either, so he used his Madras school tie, and we packed a variety of options in his sports bag.

We arrived at the club in a complete downpour, though it was actually so windy that close to the ocean that it was really more of a sideways pour. We all hustled into the tiny clubhouse, and John was appalled to realize that we were the first ones there. The coach from the Kircaldy team asked if he was from Madras, then pointed to a corner and told him to wait there for the rest of his mates to arrive, and he instructed me to stand right next to him until someone else appeared, and then to go away as quickly as possible. He was very worried that none of his teammates would be wearing their jackets and ties, so we were both relieved when one showed up wearing just that. I dutifully disappeared and John followed his teammate into the locker room. When the team ran out onto the field, I noticed that every single one of them was wearing the short shorts, and so John had put his on as well. However, he was also wearing a pair of white compression pants that he had used during football season in the fall at home underneath the short shorts in an attempt to make him feel less exposed. In the end, this worked out well for me because it made it easier to identify him in a big scrum on the field (see photos below).

After the games (which John’s team won easily, though I’m not sure he made much of a contribution) we drove a few minutes south to the seaside town of Arbroath. We stopped in the city center at a tea room I had read about online, and had a lovely lunch. Arbroath is famous for the “Arbroath smokie” which is a piece of haddock that is tied with twine and hung over a smoking barrel covered in wet jute sacks. The sacks create a very smoky fire, and so the fish has a strong smoky taste. I’m really the only one in the family that likes them, but I don’t like how many bones are in them, so I decided to order them in a pate served on oatcakes. Emma had a delicious baguette made with melted Brie and vegetarian bacon, and Leah and John ended up with huge mountains of homemade “macaroni cheese” served with chips. John taught her how to eat her chips with “salad cream” and the two of them were so impressed with this new option that we brought most of the macaroni cheese home for dinner. After lunch, we stopped at a little shopping center in Dundee to set John up with some rugby gear. To my surprise, he allowed us to buy him the shorts, though he chose the ones with a white stripe down the side to go with his compression pants and so I assume it will be a while before he goes bare-legged!

Of course, our night ended with the Superbowl. The kids and I had gone to the grocery store for supplies to make our usual nachos, and we didn’t have too much trouble finding suitable versions of what we needed. There had clearly been a run on avocados by the other Americans in town so we had to settle for store-bought guacamole, but since this often happens at home the kids weren’t too disappointed. Emma tried to convert her chocolate chip recipe into milliliters and grams, and had moderate success. We intended to watch the game on the TV as it was being broadcast by the BBC, but when David realized that the BBC had brought in their own announcers and color commentary team and were broadcasting from the tiniest suite possible in the stadium, he shut it off and streamed it online instead. That way, we could also see the American commercials, which we all know is as much fun as watching the game anyway!

Breakfast fit for a toddler

Leah doesn’t go to nursery on Fridays, and though David and I usually split the day and take turns with her, we decided to venture out this morning as a team for breakfast. I had done a bit of research about where to go for a breakfast with a toddler in tow in St. Andrews, and came upon a suggestion to try a bizarre spot called Clayton’s. It’s a caravan park about 10 minutes outside of St. Andrews in a tiny little village called Guardbridge. A “caravan” here is what we would perhaps refer to as a “park model RV”, and there are a number of caravan parks dotted throughout the area for holiday-makers and for those who possibly can’t or don’t want to live right in St. Andrews. This caravan park features a restaurant at the entrance, and the restaurant features a room in the back that has a large “soft play” area set up. It’s kind of a Scottish version of a McDonald’s play place, really. Here, though, alongside the brightly-colored, padded and netted play structures is a lovely little set of café tables stacked with leather placemats. No squeaky Styrofoam containers or fast-food breakfast sandwiches here!

When we entered with a toddler in tow, the guy at the bar sort of motioned towards a set of double doors and handed us a menu, instructing us to set ourselves up in the play room and come back with our order. Though it was only about 10:15 am the place had just opened at 10, about half the tables were already taken by mums in small groups, talking over elegant pots of tea while their toddlers were climbing among the nets and ball pits. We removed Leah’s shoes and walked her over to the play structure to help her settle in, then David went back to the bar to order breakfast. There was a Scottish breakfast on offer, and one could choose to order five, six, seven or eight pieces to breakfast. Options included the predictable (bacon and eggs), the predictably Scottish (black pudding and haggis), the predictably British (baked beans and cooked tomato), and a few oddball options (potato scone anyone?). David ordered the five-piece with eggs, black pudding, and a square piece of Lorne sausage, which is another kind of meat product known and loved only by the Scots. I took a miss on the Scottish breakfast and instead opted for a poached egg served over a huge piece of smoked haddock that seemed to have been cooked in turmeric. It was strange, certainly, but delicious. David had his usual tea, while I took yet another flat white (which is quickly becoming the usual for me here).

I still find it a bit confusing that most cafes that serve breakfast here don’t open until 10 am, but I really do love how serious folks here are about their tea. I have never, ever seen tea served with fewer that four separate dishes: the single-size tea pot, the tea cup, the small pitcher of milk, and a wee tray to hold it all together. Sometimes, there’s also a tiny saucer of sugar on the tray as well (much to Leah’s delight…). And, if you happen to order a scone with your tea, then you get another three or four small dishes on your table…one for jam, one for butter, one for set honey and one for the scone itself. Who on earth is washing all of these dishes?

Leah had a grand time on this “soft play set” and set herself up with a little blonde boy who I imagine was named Fergus, or possibly Furgus, or Furgas, or maybe Forgus (there’s one of each in Leah’s nursery, I noticed…). The mums were content to let the kids have a go at the playset on their own. I saw no hovering whatsoever, and the only time a mum entered the play set was when one of them noticed their son was whacking a small girl over the head repeatedly with a stuffed bat. Neither the mother of the victim nor the perpetrator overreacted to this, and the mother whisked her son away for a quick rest on a café chair, while the father of the victim gave his girl a quick peck on the cheek and sent her back off to play. He was back to his newspaper, and the entire transaction took about 11 seconds in all. Again, something you wouldn’t see at a “soft play place” in the U.S!

Leah and her new friend streaking down the slide!

The Logic of the Roundabout

I'm still getting adjusted to the quirks of living in a different country, and shaking my head at some of the "challenges" of spending an extended period of time in the UK. I don't think I will ever understand, for instance, why the washing machines here are so small. They are the same size as ours on the outside, but on the inside they have such a small capacity that I was afraid I was going to have to take David's jeans apart at the seams in order to get them clean.

On the other hand, I'm starting to notice that there are a number of things about this country that just work really, really well. So well, in fact, that I think it's a real shame that we Americans can't raise our heads just a bit and take notice that there are other ways of doing things, and those ways are actually better. First, we really must figure out how to introduce this roundabout concept as widely as possible, because it's actually brilliant. I think about this every morning as I take John to school because to get there I have to pass through a very small and very, very busy intersection. This intersection is sandwiched between a centuries-old tavern with exterior walls that are only about 18" away from the side of the road, and between an even older town gate that consists of a central arch about the width of a small car, set between two octagonal towers. There are four roads that converge at this point, though none of the roads meet each other at a 90 degree angle. One of these roads, the one that passes under the town gate, is actually one way, going away from the intersection, but that still doesn't mean that a surprising amount of traffic passes through this intersection each morning. And yet, because it's a mini-roundabout, the traffic passes through efficiently and one has to wait at the intersection for a few seconds at most, even during the busiest part of the morning "rush."

I notice this because, at home in Hamilton, I live just north of a very busy intersection as well. Folks from Hamilton call it the "five-way" because it's a crossroads in which two roads converge and a third begins. So, there are five points of entry/exit into the intersection. It's an enormous intersection, and it's governed by traffic lights that work in a three-part cycle. So, one of the roads has a green light while the other two roads have a red. That guarantees a substantial wait time for any car that comes upon the intersection, and an especially long wait time for any pedestrian trying to figure out how to cross the intersection. In fact, the wait time for pedestrians is so long that even the most well-meaning of them eventually give up and just cross against the red light, probably assuming that it's all just malfunctioning. Folks in Hamilton complain about the intersection constantly, and a good deal of time and money has been thrown at the problem in previous decades, with one study after another commissioned on how to address the issue and fix the intersection. Each study comes up with a different solution, and each solution seems to suggest some small fix that might moderately speed or clear things up. Every solution comes with an enormous cost that Hamilton can't afford, and so the suggestion goes on the shelf with all the others, and folks continue to complain.

I see from living here that the obvious and clear solution to the Hamilton "five-way" is to put in a mini-roundabout. I know I'm not the only one to think that. But, when it's mentioned, someone will say something about how the intersection is too small to fit a roundabout as per DOT regulations, and we all just shrug our shoulders and move on. I don't know what the DOT regulations are, or if a mini-roundabout is even permitted in the U.S, but after seeing this one outside my house here, I KNOW one will fit. I'm quite tempted to measure the darn thing and bring the numbers back to the village administration. So, if you see some kind of click-bait on the web in the next weeks about an American woman who was run over while trying to measure a roundabout intersection in the UK, it's probably about me.

The vast "five way" intersection in Hamilton

An especially arty depiction of the wee roundabout between the Whey Pat Tavern (shown) and the West Port Gate.

Edinburgh Weekend

We left St. Andrews in our car, and met up with our students at the nearby rail station. They all made it there in time, which is always a worry for me, and we had plenty of time before our train to Edinburgh arrived. Unfortunately, as the train pulled up, I led the group to the wrong car so we weren’t able to make it to the seats that I had chosen, and in fact we didn't have any seats at all and spent the hour long ride squished against other passengers. I was carrying Leah, and so an older chap gave up his seat to me, though only after she started to swing her booted feet wildly and complain about not sitting down. Once we were sitting I could still barely move, and when she decided she wanted to draw on the Kindle Fire in my backpack, I did panic a bit. I managed to distract her by pointing out enough diggers along the tracks, and then boats in the harbor as we got closer, to keep her occupied.

We arrived in Edinburgh, tumbled out of the train, and regrouped. Emma and I met up with John and David, who were furious at each other for some miscommunication that occurred mid train ride about where they should actually get off, and they were both mad at me for botching the boarding process. I put them in charge of all future train rides from then on, which I though was an excellent tactic but had the unfortunate side effect of causing John to be anxious about our return trip, and to spend the whole weekend talking about how we were going to get on that return train correctly.

We walked to the hotel, which turned out to be a great, trendy little place with dorm style rooms, some of which included in-room ping pong tables, PlayStation and TVs at the foot of the bunk beds. Unfortunately, it was on a really downmarket street called Cowgate, known for its gloominess since it’s well below most of the other streets of Old Town Edinburgh. It’s also known for being a street of rowdy pubs and rowdy pubgoers. In fact, one actually passes through the beer-soaked patio of a huge pub to get to the lobby of our hotel. I picked the hotel because I thought the students would love it...and they did. I hadn’t considered, however, what it would be like to carry an overly tired toddler through a loud beer garden after sunset, past boisterous groups of twentysomethings out on the town for a night. The first night, after we arrived and had a quick dinner at a Nando’s, David took the students to a theater performance. Emma and John wanted to go as well, so I walked with the group to the theater, then left as they found their seats. I walked towards the hotel, and it was pretty quickly evident that I was the only person on the streets who 1) was over 40; 2) was accompanied by someone under 5; and 3) hadn’t been drinking for the last several hours. The nearer I got to the hotel, the worse it became, and of course the harder it was getting to carry Leah. I hadn’t brought a stroller because the wheels would have been no match for the cobblestones, the stairs or the hills in Old Town Edinburgh, but after a 20 minute walk holding almost 30 pounds on my hip, I was getting tired. We entered the Grassmarket area, which is a bit more pedestrian friendly than the area in which we had just passed, and so I put her down and let her walk next to me. Grassmarket is known for its restaurants and pubs, and also for its history as a horse and cattle market, and as a place for public executions by hanging. Here, Leah caught a second wind, and started to jump up on the low stone memorials that list the over 100 Scottish Covenanters that were hanged here in the 1600s. I was a little hesitant to let her do this, but since she was quite content and I wasn’t carrying her any longer, I hated even more to prevent her from doing so. Also, I couldn’t imagine her understanding what I meant if I said, “Sweetie, maybe we shouldn’t jump on a memorial to people who were hanged here, hmmm?”

On Saturday, we had a quick breakfast at a cute little tearoom on the Royal Mile, which is Edinburgh’s high street, called the Deacon’s House. This is in reference to Deacon Brodie, a Jekyll-and-Hyde type well known in Edinburgh history. Inside were murals that told the story of Brodie, but we couldn’t look too closely at these since other customers were sitting in front of each one, digging into a full Scottish breakfast. We were on a schedule, so we just had crepes and porridge and coffee, and headed out quickly to meet our students at Edinburgh Castle. I had intended to set the students up on a tour of the castle, but as we arrived it started to snow sideways, and got pretty miserable. Instead we ushered them to the top of the castle, where there are a few inside exhibits on the Honours of Scotland (Scotland’s crown jewels). We saw a few of the rooms that had been occupied by Mary Queen of Scots, toured some of the prison vaults, and caught part of a demonstration on the use of armour and weapons. This kind of thing always proves interesting because one realizes how incredibly heavy these suits and swords are. I’m not sure I would be able to take more than a few steps forward when wearing one of these…let alone engage in battle in one!

After an hour, we had exhausted all of our indoor options, so we moved to the on-site café for an early lunch. Most of our students were there as well (as were most of the other castle visitors) so regrouping for an afternoon tour of Old and New Town wasn’t an issue. Our afternoon tour guide was an older chap with a number of very interesting stories to tell about the city and the people who lived there, and though I was thoroughly enjoying the tour, I had to leave part-way through. It was seriously bitter and windy at this point, and I felt guilty at making Leah suffer through it since she really couldn’t get anything out of an outrageous story about the time naughty King George IV visited Scotland (a story I later learned was untrue, and this I know because I googled it…). So, I returned to the hotel, and took John with me to fight off any tuffs I encountered in the pub lobby.

David called me in the late afternoon after his students had finished touring the National Portrait Gallery, and we decided to meet back up at a café that was mid-way between the hotel and the museum. It was on a quiet side street and was nearly empty, which was odd because the coffee and scones we ordered were both delicious. We all sat in a circle of comfy chairs, and Leah busied herself with a basket of kids’ books nearby, while Emma recounted the rest of the tour for me. It was dark and blustery outside, and none of us wanted to leave, but the group had a scheduled tour of some of the underground “closes” of Edinburgh so we had to leave our cozy spot. When we were planning the trip, we wanted to give the students an idea of how the narrow closes of Edinburgh were constructed over the years, but it’s difficult to access some of them without being a part of an organized tour. Most of the tours are overly dramatic “ghost tours” that are intended not to be historically accurate, but to feature costumed “jumper-ooters” to scare the bejeezers out of their customers. I opted for a more sedate and established tour of the “Mary King Close” instead, though on the way we did end up waiting for a pedestrian light next to one of these “ghost tour” groups, and their guide, though made up in zombie face paint and dressed in an oily black cloak, seemed quite knowledgeable and reasonable. Of course, as we stood next to him, Leah kept eyeing his zombie face paint and then loudly whispered to me, “That is a sick man!”

Leah and I skipped the tour of the close because she didn’t meet the minimum age requirement, so we went back to the hotel and played with some Jenga blocks for about an hour. When the tour was over, I went to pick up Emma and John for dinner, and left David with the students for a group meal. It was a three-course menu prix-fixe at one of the lovely restaurants on elegant Victoria Street in Old Town, so I thought I would skip it and head to a more casual place with the kids instead. We ended up finding a great café that served venison pies, and homemade mac and cheese for the kids. Though it was past her bedtime, Leah spent most of the evening playing with the little bottles of Coleman’s mustard and HP brown sauce on the table, while Emma and John and I made a list of stupid things we overheard other tourists say in the Edinburgh Castle earlier in the day. I was dreading the walk home since we would have to march down Cowgate to get back, and we all talked about how strange this city is…chock full by day of mums with prams, but the moment the sun goes down they all disappear and the entire place turns into

a city-wide “stag do”.

The weather improved a bit on Sunday, but still wasn’t good enough for us to carry out our planned hike up Arthur’s Seat. Instead, we pushed back our start time and met up at the fabulous Museum of Scotland. We gave our students some free time to wander about in here, since the museum covers pretty much everything about the country from its land mass to its animals to its history to its recent vote for independence. We had lunch at a nearby Pizza Express with the group, and sang “Happy Birthday” to one of our students who was turning 21 (bummer to turn 21 in a country in which the drinking age is 18, right?). Two of the students did decide to climb Arthur’s Seat, but I couldn’t imagine hiking up that with a 2 year old in that kind of wind, so we went for another coffee at the Elephant House Coffee House. This is the café where JK Rowling was supposed to have written some of the Harry Potter series, and as such it is actually more of a tourist destination than a café now (so much so that the menu and signage appears in English and Chinese). Nonetheless, the students were happy to be there, and dutifully pulled out their laptops at the very table where she did some of her writing to finish up some of their work for David’s class later in the week. After we finished our coffee, we took one more stroll up the Royal Mile (poor Leah was so tired of trudging up hills at this point that she was puffing next to me, “So. Much. Tired”), picked up our luggage and headed for the train station.