I’m sorry for the delay (I should just make this the default intro for all these blogs), but the past week has been so beautifully sunny and springy in Oxford I have had very little desire to sit at a laptop and look out the window as spring passes me by. But at long last, here is the Yorkshire blog.

I picked up Aunt Boo and Uncle Jim at the bus station and after exchanging welcome hugs and receiving all the hugs that I had been sent from home, we dropped the bags at the guest house on the edge of town and began the abbreviated, jet-lag version of the Oxford tour. How badly I had wanted to show off this great city to my family and at last I had my chance. We wandered through my favourite streets, stopping in Blackwell’s of course before adjourning for a nap. We had a lovely dinner that night (the beginning of a delicious trend) at the Royal Oak pub. The next day was our Cotswolds day as we drove to Burford before heading on to Stratford-on-Avon (two places I had visited in the spring but was delighted to return to) to see the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of Hamlet that evening. I must take this time to express my sincere admiration for Uncle Jim. For the next week he had bravely committed to be our driver, in a country whose roads are backwards and in a car with the steering wheel on the wrong side. We made it through the day just fine, with the play the unquestioned highlight. I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed watching Shakespeare, I even managed to remember a few intermittent lines in the “to be or not to be” soliloquy. Tuesday was Aunt Boo’s birthday and although the weather was hardly celebratory we managed to have a nice indoors day at two of Oxford’s most prestigious institutions: the Ashmolean Museum and Bodleian Libraries. I had a great time showing my visitors all my favourite haunts, but ultimately Yorkshire was the reason for the trip, so that’s what I’ll devote the most time to. Fair warning, this is another long one. Take me on a week-long trip and you get a week-long blog. You reap what you sow.

We set off for Yorkshire early on the morning of the 15^th. I have been quite immune to the workings of the English road network, and since all of my travel has either been by rail or bus I really had no cause to pay any attention to it. That said, after a week of playing navigator in the passenger seat of our rental car (a spacious, zippy little specimen if I do say so), I am now more than qualified to make some observations. The most obvious difference between Canadian highways and their English counterparts is the prevalence of roundabouts. My God how the Brits love driving their cars around circles. There were quite a variety of shapes and sizes, some only had one exit option (apparently the thought of the road continuing on straight seemed too boring to the road surveyors working that day), some were simply painted circles in the middle of an otherwise normal intersection, some were figure-eight like messes that while hellish for a driver probably look lovely from the air, and still others, with multiple lanes and exits, did their best impression of the French death-trap that surrounds the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Needless to say we were all a little dizzy by the time we finally got on the M1 out of Oxford, but we had emerged unscathed thanks to the masterful driving of our chauffeur. Another distinction between English and Canadian roads is the size. The 401 is an albatross, apparently the largest highway in North America which seems to be growing by the year, and I think I know why. A highway is like a vein through which the vehicular life of the city courses, except in Toronto the vein has a massive clot. Rather than deal with the problem though, the powers that be have decided to expand the vein in the vain (sorry, couldn’t resist) attempt to delay the inevitable heart attack. In England, thanks to their extensive rail network (however incompetent it can be at times), the vehicular blood flows freely on major highways that are often only four lanes wide. I have heard stories in the British media of traffic jams on the M1 that could make your head spin, but this is also the same media that foresees massive spring flooding after a centimeter of snow falls. They really need to come to Canada, home of real snow and real traffic jams. Anyway, thanks to the clot-free highways we made great time during the morning and were in Leeds by mid-afternoon. And that’s when things got tricky.

I’m sure Leeds has many endearing qualities if you stay and get to know it. I’ve heard its park is very nice and that its downtown is quite presentable by English post-industrial city standards. However, after our extended encounter with its ring roads I have to confess that any desire I had to spend time there has permanently evaporated. To be fair, we didn’t have the best equipment for navigating through Leeds on our way to the Yorkshire Dales, but even after we had acquired a good road map we realized that it wouldn’t have been much help anyway. To put it in the most polite possible way, Leeds’ road system can best be described as a clusterfuck. It didn’t help that roads suddenly become other roads. We were in pursuit of one particularly elusive A road and in the chaotic hunt that ensued, the ring road that exists to take traffic around the downtown ended up dropping us right in the middle of it. This exchange tested the patience of all of us, and by the time we had finally figured Leeds out and were mercifully on our way north through the burbs, we were bitter, still somewhat confused, but victorious. We had unravelled and successfully defeated the great clusterfuck of Leeds.

Leaving the city, the scenery became progressively more Yorkshire-looking. Flattened fields gave way to rolling hills, hedges ended and stone fences began to spring up, houses and parking lots were replaced with fields of sheep, and the effect was truly a sight for sore eyes. We sped through the valleys and over the hills until we eventually found the town of Skipton. By now it was late in the afternoon and lunch was in order and we found a pleasant little café for some sandwiches. As we sat and began to strategize, a cheery local woman in the corner piped up and told us that we simply had to visit Skipton Castle. Later, as we tossed around possible destinations, the city of Richmond came up and again the lady exclaimed that “Richmond has a castle!” Evidently we had found ourselves the crazy castle lady of Yorkshire. We thanked her for her help, which was genuinely friendly, but in the end we didn’t see either one. Instead we decided to head for a different kind of stone ruin, Bolton Abbey, and have a walk since the weather was beginning to clear and we had been stuck in a car for the whole day. Bolton Abbey is quite beautiful. Set on the banks of a river valley it is a fairly small ruin, a remnant of one of the many grand abbeys that Henry VIII had so reasonably decided to trash. The sun came out for the first time all day and we took advantage of the lovely trails surrounding the abbey. One of the great differences I noticed between the Yorkshire parks and the Lake District is the quality of the footpaths. In the Lakes you would be foolish to go anywhere in anything less than a sturdy hiking shoe, but in Yorkshire you could go for a substantial wander through hills and valleys in stiletto heels if you felt so inclined. It must be the commitment of the locals to keep their trails accessible that makes them so fine, and those at Bolton Abbey were no exception. Revitalized by our walk we returned to the car and set off for Malham where we would spend the night. The drive was fantastic – for the passengers at least. The road to Malham was a narrow, winding single-track road adorned with signs warming that it was “unsuitable for buses and lorries” and, as in the Lakes, beautifully edged with rustic limestone walls. As I said, this made for quite spectacular views for the passengers, as the fields and hills glowed brilliantly yellow in the early evening light, but an altogether different experience for the driver charged with returning the rental car free of scratches. Eventually we found the tiny town of Malham that would be our base for walking the next day.

The happy vacationers!

Bolton Abbey

Bluebells in the woods

Bill Bryson (whom I have frequently referenced in these blogs and whose hilariously accurate “Notes From a Small Island” book has been endless source of amusement) once called Malham home. He has described it as heaven on Earth and I find it hard to argue. Malham is one of those classic English villages that I have grown to love. Like the villages in the Cotswolds or the Lake District, it is a charming collection of stone cottages clustered haphazardly around a river and nestled snugly in a valley that effectively eliminates any distraction from that ugly, busy and boring “outside world”. The town has few traditional amenities (grocery store, gas station) which is one of the reasons it is so lovely, and in its very heart has an exceedingly welcoming pub. This is yet another reason why I have become so fond of rural England. There are vast expanses of open country which are explored easily (especially so in Yorkshire) by footpath, but in the event that your feet have grown sore and you are in desperate need of a certain bubbly beverage and perhaps some Yorkshire pudding drowning in gravy, you need look no further than the nearest cluster of houses on the map. Every little hole-in-the-wall village (some can barely be called villages) has a pub and I have found that the smaller the town, the better the pub. Such is the case in Malham at the Lister Arms. Dinner was surprisingly upscale pub food in a distinctly pub atmosphere (stone floors, low ceilings propped up by crooked wooden beams, creaky chairs) which is quite a nice combination to enjoy after a long day of travelling. And not just travelling, mind you, but travelling … through Leeds.

The Lister Arms

One of the other great joys of the English countryside is the plethora of dogs, and for my two travel companions this was a welcome sight as they went through doggy withdrawal. Walks were routinely and happily interrupted throughout our trip to pet the next dog we had encountered along the path and in every instance the owners were as friendly as their pets. We met an especially chatty lady outside the hostel in Malham. She was out for an evening walk with a sheepdog which had become a house dog since it suffered from epilepsy. This was a rare case where the dog was more shy than the owner because as the dog hid behind her owner’s leg, unsure what to make of the foreigners with the funny accents, we proceeded to get the life’s story of this delightful woman. She was a resident of Malham and had a sheep farm with her husband just outside of town. She told us of the harsh winter and the sheep she had unfortunately lost and then told a rousing tale of saving a newborn from sure death by climbing over snowdrifts that were too high for the little 4-wheeler she owned. She was an animated and amicable lady, and I think it was safe to say that even if her stories had proven uninteresting we all would have stayed and listened to her talk anyway simply because of her fantastically thick Yorkshire accent. The most important tidbit we took from the supremely enjoyable encounter was her recommendation for walking. She told us we could easily see Janet’s Foss and Malham Cove in a day and, back in the hostel, after consulting the trusty maps, we found it was quite true and decided that was to be our plan of attack.

We were not led astray. I think our delightful ramble through the hills and valleys around Malham was the best of the trip. We awoke early (every day was a full day, which is something I quite enjoyed) and began trundling out of town following the meandering river. We soon found ourselves walking through rolling farm fields full of bleating dim-looking sheep hemmed in by picturesque stone walls. Here we were treated to the spectacle of watching a farmer and sheepdog at work, and spectacle really is the best word for it. I had seen a similar display during my adventure in the Lake District, but watching a sheepdog stalk a herd of dim-witted bleating balls of fluff is always a source of great amusement so we stopped. The farmer looked to be in his late seventies but he was herding the sheep and yelling instructions to the dog like a man half his age, it was an impressive sight. Finally the sheep were in the right place, and the farmer approached us. I love these sorts of chance encounters with English people. So far every one I have had has been immensely pleasing and the farmer we met was no different. He told us of the toils of being a farmer in the Dales (not an easy life by any means) and said how he had been training the sheepdog he was using, since she was new. Bess was her name. As we spoke with the farmer, he, without raising his voice, mumbled “That’ll do Bess”, and the dog came bolting back to his side like a shot. The intelligence of sheepdogs has always amazed me and it is even more impressive to watch them at work, doing what they are born and bred to do. I think I’ll have to have one.

We kept walking through a lovely wooded valley carpeted with a lush crop of wild onions. The smell was glorious and combined with the babbling water of the nearby creek and the singing birds to create quite a tranquil mood in the wooded valley. The tranquility was soon replaced with the falling water at Janet’s Foss. Waterfalls really are hypnotic things. I easily get lost in another world as I stand and watch the crashing torrent, immersed in the roar and clouds of spray, and that’s just what we did here for a few minutes as a light rain began to fall. We moved on to another site of spectacular beauty at Gordale Scar. Set amid the gentle hills of the Dales, the same hills covered in green grass and sheep, is one of the most spectacular geological constructions I have seen in my English travels. Gordale Scar is a cavernous gorge that cuts a jagged line through the otherwise diminutive hills. There is another waterfall here as Gordale Beck plunges through the rock, slowly carving the gorge away even more. Apparently there is a footpath that climbs the waterfall and carries on through the scar. Indeed there was a school group ahead of us with some incredibly ambitious teachers coaxing some uneasy, very poorly dressed children up the rocky falls and onward. All made it without incident, a true testament to the teachers. We again stood and soaked up this wonderful place, figuratively and in my case, literally as I wandered up to the falls and breathed in the lovely mist. We then followed the stone walls through more fields on our way to Malham Cove. Malham Cove is another amazing geological feature. The “cove” is a sheer cliff capped by stone formations known as pavements, due to their even surface. Clambering over these and peering, with no shortage of anxiety, over the edge of the cliff was exhilirating. I’m not quite sure why, but there is no barrier at the edge of the cliff, and it is a steep drop. A passing walker, in typical English style, shouted to his wife that there was “just a bit of a drop”, and really it is amazing that it is unblocked considering it is in a National Park. I had expected fences set well back from the cliff face and all sorts of signs warning of imminent danger and how falling off a cliff can be rather harmful to your health. I think the lack of fences is a good thing, you can see the place as it was meant to be seen. We laboured down the stepped path from the cove and wandered our way back into sunny Malham where again we found ourselves at the Lister Arms, this time accompanied by other walkers (and even their dogs), and again tired, only this time it was a welcome tiredness.

The valley

Janet's Foss

Approaching Gordale Scar

Gordale Scar

The pavements

Malham Cove

A stream emerging from nothingness

The next day we were bound for Hawes. Again the drive was spectacular, and again I’m sure the passengers got the better part of the deal as we negotiated a narrow, zig-zagging road following stone walls. We crossed over exposed hills covered in sheep and stone walls and little else before plunging down into a neighbouring valley. Once on the main road we could both tell that our chauffeur was beginning to enjoy himself. With wider lanes, lots of elevation changes, and a few good hairpin turns, the road went from death-trap to driver’s playground. We crossed more starkly desolate hills, spotting the beautiful Ribblehead viaduct in the distance, the only sign of man for miles. After a while the town of Hawes came into view. Though we didn’t spend much time in Hawes it appeared to be another very pretty town, but not as small or charming as Malham. We continued a little way outside Hawes to the Green Dragon Inn where we would spend the night. We stayed in an apartment in a row of accommodation blocks at the rear of the pub. The rooms were lovely and a noticeable improvement over the hostels to which I have become accustomed. Any place where the bed is already made for me, and I have a whole room to myself is a place of great luxury indeed. The pub was the piece de resistance though. We dined that night in the dim light of the pub, again under low ceilings, next to a small wonderfully cluttered bar decorated with all sorts of enticing local beer taps. The old worn stone floors were covered in patches by equally old rag rugs whose vibrant colours had long since faded, and in the dividing wall was a cozy little open log fire, flanked on both sides by creaky old wooden rocking chairs. More people began to amble in around 8:30 as we were eating. I could overhear the barmaid musing that “It’s half 8 and Paul’s not here yet” and then catching up on all the gossip with the regulars, and all in that lovely Yorkshire accent. Oh, and the food, mustn’t forget the food. I decided that, given where we were, I would like some sausage and mash in a giant Yorkshire pudding. No joke, the menu read “giant” Yorkshire pudding. And it was, and it was delicious. Yorkshire pudding filled with sausages on a pillow of mashed potatoes and cooked veggies, and then liberally bathed in gravy. It’s the kind of food that goes straight to your arteries, but I’m young and I have a fast metabolism so this bothered me little (although when I think of it, if I was a red-faced fat old fart I would probably make the same decision – you only live once). Anyhow, all things considered (food, atmosphere, company) The Green Dragon was, and I’m not exaggerating here, the perfect pub.

The Green Dragon

The next morning we again visited Hardraw Force waterfall which was located near the pub. We had seen it the evening before and decided that it was worth a second look before we departed. It was a captivating sight, apparently the “largest single-drop waterfall in England”. There is something about the English where there has to be something remarkable about nearly everything (“The Third-Best Laptop Repair Shop on the East Side of London” for example). This is another Bryson-ism that has proven true. So we gazed at the largest single-drop waterfall in England for a while before leaving. As we did we noticed the sign on the Green Dragon. It had gone unnoticed before. It read (and I know because I kept the card): “D. Mark Thompson, Innkeeper and Waterfall Provider, invites you to the legendary Green Dragon Inn”. Innkeeper and waterfall provider. For people so preoccupied with being the best at something, I’m surprised they haven’t added, “England’s most curious business model” to their sign.

Hardraw Force, the waterfall we were so graciously provided

Some friends

We left Hardraw that morning, bound eventually for Scarborough on the east coast. The drive was lovely, and at a farm was interrupted for some in-car entertainment as a different farmer herded his sheep across the road, aided by three of his dogs. A few stragglers made a break for it, circling a minivan, before being rounded up and pointed in the right direction by the toe of the farmer’s boot. Our stopping point to break up the drive to the coast was Fountains Abbey. Another National Trust property, Fountains Abbey is set in the countryside just outside the Dales. Although the landscape may not be as dramatic, the building more than makes up for it. Fountains is a massive ruin, a remnant of a Cistercian monastery of incomprehensible age, that again had fallen victim to Henry (he was nothing if not efficient in his destruction). The guy who did Henry’s demo though thankfully wasn’t the most thorough, and much of the abbey remains in pristine condition. We took a guided tour with an extremely knowledgeable and entertaining guide, learning the great stories of the abbey as well as the odd little anecdotes that only a guide can tell. We spent most of the day here before continuing on to Scarborough. The drive to Scarborough seemed to go through just about every little town in England, and through every little roundabout for good measure, but we managed to reach our destination in time for supper. A marked shift from pub food, we had an Indian feast that night, and a delicious one at that.

Fountains Abbey

Fountains Abbey with some ferns

The next morning we ambled around Scarborough’s castle, another of England’s many ruins steeped in so much history it becomes almost impossible to take in, before returning to our room for a picnic lunch featuring some of the delicious Wensleydale cheese (of Wallace and Gromit fame) that we had bought in Hawes the previous morning. That afternoon Aunt Boo and I took a stroll along the coast path, following the cliffs along the sea. We had a wonderful long chat, the kind of chat that has been few and far between for me with no family members around. I love hearing fun old family stories, and even just speaking about everyone back home made them seem a bit closer, which was special.

The view from our guest house

Scarborough Castle

The coast walk

That night by the Scarborough coast we had some fish and chips for (miraculously) the first time on the trip, although Uncle Jim cheated and had a more gourmet version in Malham. The food was great and the portions were excessive so all-in-all, a wonderful dinner. To work off the beer batter we walked along the beach as night fell. The city was alight in all sorts of blinking colours and flashing lights. Much like other English towns, Scarborough is stuck in a time warp, the only difference is that Scarborough is stuck in the 50s while the other towns are stuck in some time period hundreds of years ago. I found it quite fascinating to see people my age taking girls on dates down to the amusement halls to play arcade games and eat cotton candy (not a bad sounding night if you ask me). It was tacky beyond words, but there was an air of genuineness about it. Scarborough knows what it is, and it embraces that identity. It makes no effort to reinvent itself (at least not by the looks of it) and I rather like that. The amusement halls, casinos, bowling alleys, and theatres that line the ocean all shone with the glow of a bygone era, there was even a fortune teller machine straight out of “Big” but a young Tom Hanks was nowhere to be seen.

Scarborough harbour

The next morning, in a shroud of fog we left the nostalgia of Scarborough behind, bound for Whitby then Goathland (aka Aidensfield for those Heartbeat watchers out there). Whitby is a typical seaside town. And in England, being considered a “typical” seaside town is no insult. Undoubtedly its heyday as a fishing port has long since passed, but the town that remains is a pretty one that still centres on the harbour filled with colourful fishing boats and traps. We climbed the “199 Steps” (nobody managed to successfully count them all) to the top of the ridge on one side of town and ambled around the ancient church perched high above the foggy harbour. But alas, Whitby was not our destination for the day, that lay a little further inland in the heart of the North York Moors National Park.

Whitby harbour

Nice pedestrian streets

Technically Aidensfield is called Goathland in real life, but since the three of us much preferred the Heartbeat alternative, that is what we called it for the rest of the day. Aidensfield is understandably popular with the TV show crowd (of which we were part), but if you took that away, there really isn’t much to keep you in the village. There is a string of shops along the sheep-patrolled village green, but each is filled with so much gifty kitsch and utter crap that it doesn’t take long before you have exhausted the possibilities of the town. This is not to say I was disappointed, far from it. We all expected the tour buses and gift shops filled with junk, that was unavoidable, but the real joys were seeing the Aidensfield Arms, Scripps Garage and Funeral Home, and the train station just as they appeared in the show. It was great fun. Thankfully though, once we had had our fill of the town, we were treated to another lovely walk in the nearby hills and valleys. We found another majestic waterfall tucked away in a rocky ravine – Yorkshire seems to have a surplus of pretty waterfalls – and followed the river valley before heading back to town by way of an abandoned railway path. Again the day was made all the more special thanks to the cooperative weather. We really got pretty lucky considering you can apparently count on one hand the sunny days in a Yorkshire year. As we drove toward Pickering, where we would spend the night, we found the windswept moors so appealing that we pulled off at a roadside parking lot for another impromptu wander. We couldn’t pass up the combination of stunning scenery and glorious sunshine.

Aidensfield train station

Aidensfield Arms

The village green

Mallyan Spout

Words to live by

The moors

That night we stayed at without doubt the nicest place of the trip, the Blacksmith’s Country Inn. Again it was accommodation attached to a pub (or vice versa, not sure which). The rooms were wonderfully bright, clean and cozy and the cherry on top was an added balcony for our trouble. In the moors, above a pub, in a cozy bed. Not bad. The food was excellent too and as we finished our breakfasts we planned our drive to York. Yet again I had found myself feasting on the full English breakfast every day, which, along with the Yorkshire pudding and gravy, is another reason my heart will be relieved to see the end of England. Again we opted to break up the drive by stopping en route. This time our stop was the grand Castle Howard, which I like to think of as the Yorkshire version of Blenheim Palace. I prefer Castle Howard to Blenheim I think. The great mansion was designed by John Vanbrugh as his first foray into architecture – not a bad effort for a beginner – and is beautifully set amid woodlands and lakes. Unlike Blenheim, Castle Howard is sited based on the conditions set by the landscape, not the other way round, and I found that quite refreshing. There are of course the traditional elements from the time period (clipped hedges, formal boulevards, lots of lawns, sculptural and ornamental overload throughout the grounds) which are not my favourite, but there were also redeeming features like the ancient woodland, the pretty mausoleum designed by Hawksmoor, and a magnificent walled garden. The interior matches the exterior’s affinity for monumental grandeur. The central hall is particularly awe-inspiring. An interesting thing to consider as we walked through the palatial house was that it is very much still a functioning family home for the Hon. Simon Howard and his family. Picturing a pair of kids running through the halls and inevitably crashing into priceless heirlooms was a fun thought and took away the stuffy, museum air that some of these grand homes have. It’s nice to think that the china in the display cases is still used, and that it wears its stains and scratches proudly. There were of course rooms with large sections roped off and you couldn’t exactly walk through the place picking up things or flipping through the books, but the human element of the place was noticeable and refreshing. It’s a difficult feat to make a palace feel like a real human home, but Castle Howard manages to do that, and I liked it all the more for it.

My palace at the Blacksmith's Inn

Castle Howard

The mausoleum

The great hall

The walled garden

That afternoon we drove into York, our final destination. After getting settled at our guest house, which was nice, but a definite step down from our lavish comforts at the Blacksmith’s Inn, we set out for dinner. The pub we found was, again, nice enough but not especially memorable. As I said, city pubs just aren’t quite the same as country pubs. The next morning we awoke with only a partial day before us since the car had to be back in Oxford by late afternoon so we decided that the one, important thing to do in York is see the world famous York Minster Cathedral. Unlike the pub, the cathedral did not disappoint. It is a towering testament to the faith of the people of York and the immensity of the structure, yet the fine detail of the stained glass, sculptures, and plaster work is truly a sight to behold. Like at Fountains Abbey we had an incredibly engaging, witty, and knowledgeable guide. It is one thing to see the cathedral, but it is quite another to be escorted and educated so expertly by a volunteer. They are marvels, and I’m sure the donations to the minster (which surprisingly receives no government funding) owe a great deal to the skill of their volunteers. Although it was a pity that the great east window was undergoing a lengthy restoration, a happy side effect was that some of the original Medieval stained glass that had been removed and restored was displayed in a small exhibition space at the base of the wall. It was a very special, once in a lifetime chance to see these exquisite works of art up close and we were all awestruck by their beauty. I really love stained glass, and church buildings in general. I am not a deeply religious person, but I enjoy going to churches and looking at the spectacularly beautiful things that deeply religious people have created as a result of their faith. I don’t share their zeal for Christianity, but I have the greatest admiration for the things they create. You can’t help but feel inspired by the idea of people constructing such a massive monument to God without the aid of any machinery, buoyed on, year after toilsome year, by their undying faith.

Outside

Inside

And last but not least, some Medieval stained glass showing Jesus wearing a snappy purple robe

We spent the entire morning gawking at the cathedral before reluctantly withdrawing and beginning the long drive back to Oxford. We were home around supper time with the trusty Kia back in the lot unscathed and with a full tank for the next happy users. That night, since we were back in the international city of Oxford, we opted for some Lebanese food. The chef prepared a selection of things for us since we had no earthly idea where to start on the menu, and it was a delicious feast to cap a delightful trip.

The next morning we said our goodbyes. I had never been able to spend so much one-on-one time with my aunt and uncle. It was a wonderful experience to wake up every day and share their vacation with them. I am incredibly grateful for each little moment, and I hope it was as special for them. Thank you Aunt Boo and Uncle Jim for helping me write another great chapter in the ever-growing volume that is my English adventure. It was a real treat.