Sometimes I take photos of Bucolic Berg events that are only interesting to me, and solely for my own amusement. You can tell which photos fall into this category because their quality, generally speaking, is horrible, and also their subject matter doesn’t interest you. Not that this is necessarily different from any of my other photographs, but I digress.

I call this one Pheasant with Wheelie Bin:

Sometimes our cows like to play mind games with us. Which One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others? or No, That Row You’ve Arranged Yourselves Into For Purposes Known Only To Yourselves Is Not Creepy At All:

It’s not all sunshine and giggles out here, though. For instance, this teenage lady cow is currently the front-runner for the Ennui-mal Of The Year award:

If this isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is:

Just A Little Farther And The Wheel Will Go Right Over

1. To wake up before 8 a.m. on the weekends, or 6 a.m. ever.

2. To tolerate the unexpectedly prolific littering habits of the general British public.

3. To be barred from making changes to accounts that I have personally set up because you, account giver, assume that what I really want is for it to be set up in Stephan’s name, since he is a man, despite the fact that I am the household Doer Of Things and he, although a man—as you have so duly noted—never, ever wants or plans to talk to you or any of your affiliates [again, British people: what is up?].

4. To eat seafood, including almost all types of fish. Seriously: gross.

5. To listen to Nickelback [see also: Mel Brooks movies].

6. To ride the bus.

7. To suffer Sarah Palin.

8. To wear gladiator sandals [see also: Uggs, Crocs].

9. To self-checkout at the grocery store.

10. To participate in competitive team sports.

Our flight was instead delayed by 1.5 hours, during which time we were given approximately no information. Of any kind, really, until it was time to board and they apologized for unforeseen “maintenance issues.” At one point, a disgruntled British person approached the airline guy working the gate counter and regaled him with a delightful story about having been in the airport for the last 9.5 hours and something about “no communication” and “it’s just about customer service.”

And by “regaled,” I of course mean “bored to tears.” Every now and then, the airline guy would disinterestedly look up from his computer and say something like “I don’t have any more information than you do,” or “I can only tell you what they tell me,” and eventually the British person gave up and wandered himself off.

Then Stephan motioned me over to where he was standing, with a clear view of the aforementioned counter computer. “You know,” he said, “that guy has been googling frogs this whole time.”

Well, first there was the Chesterfield move, which took much longer than absolutely necessary, probably because there is less incentive to get everything shipshape squared away when your new house actually has enough room to function in without bothering to unpack.

Then there was this one trip we went on, to this place:

Hint: That roped-off area is a sea turtle nesting site, and we were delighted by the lack of tar balls.

No, not Blackpool: Florida Gulf Coast! We decided that it was about time to embrace our Britishness and vacation to Florida, like every single British person ever, even those who have never managed to make it so far as Scotland.

The real reason is that Stephan’s cousin had a Birmingham wedding we just couldn’t miss, after which all of the family who weren’t on their personal honeymoon(s) decamped to Seaside for a few days.

And we finished up with a layover at JFK that we spent in Manhattan, mostly trying to eat this wee little sandwich:

I figured since I was in New York, I should take the opportunity to have my annual Reuben. I did not expect the above Wad O’ Meat. Yes, it was delicious, despite the unnaturally colored Thousand Island, and no, I did not manage to eat all of it. More like half of the “sandwich” (I promise there’s bread under there) and maybe 12 fries.

I think I’m still digesting.

I bet you thought that I’d forgotten about you. You should be so lucky.

As it happens, we now live in Chesterfield in a lovely house that until recently had no Internet service and sits at the top of a very steep hill which one must descend before ascending another, smaller hill and then walking through the town centre to get to the library where one is limited to an hour of computer usage which must include assorted Actual Work business and sending reassuring emails to one’s personal mother regarding one’s safety and general well-being.

And when that’s all finished, there is of course the descending of the other, smaller hill and the subsequent ascending of the very steep hill atop which we live. So you can see why you maybe haven’t been quite so high on the priority list of late.

But now I’m back! Our house isn’t quite put together so you can’t see it yet, but in the meantime, this is what it looks like out our office window:

Those little white specks just visible against the hedge are the white parts of the eight teenage lady cows who live here too. The landlord comes over every day to check on them, and just recently moved them into this large field much better suited for bovine gamboling and also easier observation from our living room. They’re quite friendly, and we’ve started naming them: Broken Face, Mostly Black, Mostly Mostly Black, and Licky, though this last one is up for some debate because I’ve been licked twice, but I don’t know if it was the same cow and/or can’t remember what either of them looked like. It’s all very complicated.

This little guy came by last week:

And on a wholly unrelated note, Stephan wanted me to show you this:

On what turned out to be an excellent day for an IKEA trip, this is the motorway on the afternoon of July 27, during England’s last World Cup game. It was like the Super Bowl, only more. And different.

2. A constant stream of visiting strangers who hope to rent one’s current house just as soon as one moves out is a great motivator to actually picking up after oneself.

3. Stephan and I really are perfect for each other. I know this because I am probably the only person in the world who would 100% sincerely appreciate these two gifts he’s given me for Valentine’s Day and Christmas, respectively: 75 cents (three of the state quarters I was missing) and a spray bottle for additional ease of ironing his button-down shirts.

4. I have been hearing these rumors that the weather in Portland for the last month or so has been dreadful, and not at all what it should be for May. Perhaps it will hearten you Portlanders to learn that for approximately the first time in 2.5 years, the weather in England for the past few weeks has been (mostly) glorious. Not a cloud in the sky, negligible humidity, and a nice, comfortable 75F-ish. Mostly.

Glorious! I have tan lines!

This is from the top of The Wrekin, approximately halfway through our 8.5 mile walk. Sunny, dry, warm, and overall delightful.

It also helps that when it comes to walks, the British know what’s up—there’s usually at least one pub/teashop/refreshment stand somewhere along the way. Today it was ice cream.

We’d like to order a few more days like this one, please.

It’s called the Jorvik Viking Centre, and it’s built on the site of a Viking community that was discovered during excavations for some kind of retail development during 1970s.

First what you do is pop into the Starbucks across the street for a nice leisurely breakfast [alternatively: The Whisky Shop, right next door. If that's how you roll].

Then you wait in the queue for 20 or 30 minutes to buy your ticket, after which you walk down a flight of stairs to the archaeological bit that’s below the current street level.

After wandering around a glass-floored room featuring multiple video screens that may or may not be telling you important things in a very boring way, you wait in another queue leading to parts unknown.

Then you get on a suspended amusement park type ride that carries you through a very detailed and presumably expensive life-size replica of what the aforementioned Viking community may very well have looked like.

Which is all well and good, with the possible exceptions of:

a) Animatronics creep me out, especially the creepy kind.

b) The part where instead of telling me about Viking society or family structure or legal system or culture, they used the very detailed and presumably expensive animatronics to show me how Viking couples fought over whether they should have fish or meat for dinner—OMG you guys, they were just like real people!

c) The little cottage tucked away at the end of the market street whose open door displays two pairs of feet in a, shall we say, compromising position. Just as you have finished processing—Wait, that wasn’t…was it? Really? A little something for everyone, I guess—you realize that you’ve arrived at:

d) The dump/latrine. One of the features of the museum is the state-of-the-art Smell-O-Vision throughout, so you can imagine how great this part of the experience is. And at the far end of the dump is:

e) A man…sitting behind a small, square woven fence…with a grimace on his face…is that moss in his hand?…and is he—grunting? Yes, yes he is. He is sitting in the latrine, and then the helpful electronic narrator in the seat headrest helpfully translates his Viking into something like “Can’t you see I’m busy? Come back later!”

That’s it for the ride, but don’t worry: the weirdness is far from over. That last bit segues beautifully into:

Giant Viking Poo!

The showpiece of the entire museum is a fossilized piece of Viking poo (official name: Lloyds Bank Coprolite) that is, quite frankly, practical-joke big. What I now know about this Giant Viking Poo:

a) It is in the Guinness Book of World Records, I think for largest human coprolite ever found, and lost approximately 10% of its mass during the fossilization process

b) It has been featured several times on the children’s show Blue Peter

c) It has been on tour in Japan

d) It has been handled by HRH The Prince of Wales, who declared it “delightful”

Meanwhile, what I now know about Viking life in York:

a) [crickets]

Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration, but not terribly far from the truth.

It was weird.

It’s just that in addition to my US driver’s license, I now carry a UK driving licence.

Okay, that’s not technically correct, because I do have to wait up to 3 weeks for it to arrive in the post. But in the meantime: interim Practical Driving Test Pass Certificate!

With my Shiny New Full UK Driving Licence [Interim Practical Driving Test Pass Certificate], I can drive:

a) Vehicles up to 3.5 tonnes and up to 8 passenger seats (just what I’ve always wanted!)

b) On the motorway (not allowed for learner drivers, so most motorists have zero motorway training)

c) A manual transmission (separate tests, so if you pass on an automatic, you can only drive an automatic)

In conclusion:

HOORAY I WIN.