My kind of town....Dublin is

It certainly wasn't the fact that our pilot aborted two of our landings in Dublin just moment before touchdown. We were diverted to Shannon and then Belfast, in essence giving us the "tour of the emerald isle". Nine hours later, my one hour flight was finally over. And it wasn't for the fact that the Temple Bar area of the city started their Saturday night party without me. It was Mardi Gras fused with St. Patrick's day fused with down Royal Oak. Then throw in the 6 Nation Rugby Tournament. (The French upset the English...sniff, sniff.) I couldn't get close to a bar rail, unlike Ludlow, so I went back to the hotel and retired. But I saw what I came for, a pulsing, pounding sea of humanity joyously celebrating friendships, good times, camaraderie, and every other reason to jam a century old, hardwood paneled, brass accented drinking establishment. But that's not the real reason I love Dublin. That came on the bus this morning, on the way to the airport. Sitting in front of me was a young couple, wound around each other like an old semi tire tied in a knot on the shoulder of the highway, kissing each other. A Wesley and Buttercup kind of kiss. A true love kind of kiss. If a city can nurture and grow true love, how can this not be the best place on the planet?

The English laundry, etc

Late this afternoon, when I returned to my inn, a note was pushed under my door. I could just see the top inch or so that was exposed in the hallway. It was hand written on white paper and it started with "Dear Mr. Fritsch". (I noted that "Fritsch" was spelled correctly.) My heart sank. Had my small TV been too loud for my non existent neighbors? Did I wake someone up by flushing the toilet at an un-Godly hour of the night? Did I insult the kitchen staff by not finishing the 9-1/2 pound full English breakfast? Or unimaginably worse- had I violated some secret tenant, an unspeakable breach of etiquette only understood by locals? Not quite. The letter was from the house keeper; she had heard of my luggage debacle and simply offered to wash my clothes for me. It was a gesture of kindness I wasn't expecting. Upon reflection, Ludlow has been full of unexpected kindnesses. Every shop, every pub, every church I've walked into, someone was genuinely glad to see me. It was almost like they had nothing better to do. And I don't think they do. This morning, my taxi driver told me "there are no IT jobs in Ludlow, kids grow up and move away"(probably to London,I presumed).And thats what's missing here- Internet Technology. It all makes sense now. No TVs in the pubs, no store clerks texting or seeing if Justin Bieber's still trending, no church docent asking you to fill out a survey. This hamlet is pretty much the same as it was ten, fifty, or a hundred and fifteen years ago. Shakespearian architecture meets Dickensonian architecture meets Georgian architecture. The brass bell above the town square still clangs eight minutes early every hour. The Wheatsheaf Inn, built into the town's original medieval wall and gate in 1668 has an 8 x 11 glossy of Lionel Richie hung up behind the bar... odds are it will still be there four hundred years from today.

Further Afield

If you find yourself well outside the walls of London, which shouldn't occur naturally, consider the life in a medieval shire. It exemplifies all the monarchy has aspired to since the year 400 AD. The English pub. Requisite with the low hanging rough hewn beams, often adorned with dried hops and Christmas lights, the regular "regular"- an older gentleman, with a name like Aubrey or Reggie, posted on a step stool very near to the hearth of a warm and lingering wood fire, and at least one watering bowl for a dog. Conspicuously absent are the TVs and the Keno screens, just as they were during the reign of Edward the First. But in the wake of such an entertainment vacuum, something primal has emerged. Adults sitting next to or across from each other engaged in conversation that remains uninterrupted by texting or social media updates. The air is filled with deep guttural laughs and high pitched tittering, often by the same patron. The walls are covered with pictures of cathedrals and royalty, musical instruments, and cigar band collections. The food is sustaining; meat pies, smoked haddock chowder, and Scotch eggs. But perhaps the most satisfying, rewarding experience derived from a visit to an English pub is the honor of witnessing the inception of a new word. Does anyone know what the word "squidgey" means?

Life in England

First and foremost, my daughter Elizabeth should be with me...she loves all things British. Most entirely. And for my friends who may never or will never make it across the pond, I am your eyes, blurry, bloodshot, glazed eyes. The English respect your privacy. You will be left alone, and they would appreciate the same courtesy, thank you. The young ones won't acknowledge you, they've got headphones in and are listening to a soundtrack of their lives. The older ones, my age, don't need headphones. They've seen you, judged you, and now are avoiding you. No nod of acknowledgment, no tip of the cap, no Iowa how do you do. They're on their way somewhere and you're in their way...step aside and mind the gap. It keeps things simple. The English invade your dreams. You can expect to hear words like mili-TREE, and GAIR-odge right away, in your very first night's dreams. And that wonderful lilt that makes every statement a question. Statements like- I bet this is the smallest hotel room you've ever stayed in. Or the water in your teapot is the same hot water you'll use in your shower. It always sounds like a question. The English style. Whether the Englishman has the prototypical greyhound body type of Hugh Grant, with the mop of tussled hair, or the body type of Ron Weasley's dad, the bowling pin, one common irrefutable thread is woven through all. Tweed. Tweed caps. Tweed coats. Tweed vests. Tweed trousers. Yesterday I saw a whiskey flask with a tweed cozy wrapped around it. By God do they love their tweed, perhaps because it goes so well with milk pale skin and a drippy nose. But no complaints, the cozy shire of Ludlow is quiet, understated, and reserved. Shops close predictably at 5:15 or 5:18 or 5:21. They drink their pints standing up. The dogs are welcome wherever their human owners are, and the village gets completely, peacefully disconnected at sunset. Which is nice- if you've forgotten the sound of church bells.