What's the plural of "synopsis"?

I know the answer is "synopses", but it just seems like it should have an octopus or hippopotamus-like plural somehow.

That's what I should be doing right now.  It's what I was doing before I convinced myself I needed a break from working on the synopsis for The Edgeling.

But I did need a break.

One last look at Britain, then back to work...

After spending time in Wales we returned to Copthorne Bank, just south of London.  During our last few days in England we went here:

That's St. Paul's.  We climbed the stairs to the Whispering Galley and yes, I could hear my kids whispering to me from the other side of the dome.  We went to the vault and saw Nelson's Tomb and discovered that while Westminster Abby has a Poet's Corner, St. Paul's has an Artist's Corner (more of an Artist's Wing, actually).

We crossed over the Thames on the Millennium Bridge and headed toward this imposing structure:

It's hard to get the scale from this picture.  This is a decommissioned coal-powered generating station which has found wonderful re-use as the Tate Modern Art Gallery.  What a treat is was to show the kids Warhol, Lichtenstein, Picasso, Dali and more, up close and personal.

I have to admit that there was one piece that had me confused.   I unfortunately couldn't get a picture.  There were three upright Hoover Vacuum Cleaners standing side by side with an acrylic platform over them on which stood a single industrial wet-vac.  The piece was lit from both bottom and top.  The acrylic did interesting things with the light and the surfaces of the vacuums.  Was it art?  Some people thought so.

I thought it sucked.

After the Tate Modern we went a little way down the block to this place:

What trip to London would be complete without a trip to the recreated Globe Theatre.

This concludes our trip to the UK.  Now, back to work for me.

Dylan Thomas and William Williams

Let's talk about poetry and hymns.

A short, winding drive from Pendine, where my dad grew up, is Laugharne.  Laugharne was the home of Dylan Thomas, thought to be Wales' premiere poet.  Since we were so close, I asked my cousin if he knew where the grave site was.  He said he did.

"It's in the churchyard where my parents were married," he told me.  We drove the handful of miles to Laugharne and parked at the church.

As we crossed to the newer part of the graveyard (ie graves no more that a few hundred years old) we passed by this grave.

I told my kids that this grave belong to Wales' shortest vampire, hence the low fence to keep him from running free at night.

Once in the newer part of the churchyard I immediately spotted this elegant cross.

Caitlin Thomas was Dylan Thomas' wife so I assumed his grave would be near hers, but I could see nothing with his name on it.  My cousin's wife solved the mystery.  This is the same cross seen from the opposite side.

It's a custom in Wales (perhaps all of Britain) for married couples to be buried in the same grave.  This might be a matter of space or finances, but the romantic in me likes to think that spending an eternity like that is a little more intimate than side by side.  Note the items left on both graves from well wishers.

Our next trip, while we were in Laugharne (gotta love any place with Laugh right in the name), was to see where Dylan Thomas did his writing.

Here is the boat house where Dylan Thomas lived with his family,

but this isn't where he did his writing.

Up on the cliff where this photo was taken is the original garage for this house.  Thomas converted the garage into his famous Writing Shed.  Here's the exterior.

And here, with the reflected image of the photographer, is the interior.

A very simple, yet private place to write.

I said there was a family connection to Mr. Thomas, and there is.  My grandmother used to take the bus from Pendine to Camarthen.  The bus stopped in Laugharne and my grandmother often found herself sitting next to Dylan Thomas.  A few years later when my grandmother was driving her car to Camarthen she happened upon a man walking along in the rain.  She slowed down and recognized him as that nice writer man from the bus.  She, of course, gave her country's greatest living poet a lift.

Now who, you might ask, is William Williams?  Well, he's not William Carlos Williams - that's a different guy entirely.  William Williams is a direct ancestor of mine on my father's mother's mother's side.  Here's a picture.

This guy wrote over 800 hymns over his lifetime but is best remembered as the gent who supplied the words for "Cwn Rhondda", the Welsh Rugby Hymn.

Our trip to Britain is mostly documented - there's still a little left to tell, but other writing awaits...

My Father's Haunts

Wales boasts a remarkable landscape and it was in this setting that my father grew up.  One of the things I wanted to do during our UK visit was to make a connection to the land that my dad called home.

My father grew up in Pembrokeshire - the south-western tip of Wales.  The hills there are not the mountains of northern Wales, but they're pretty damn serious hills.

This is taken from a hill overlooking Dinas, the village where my cousin and his wife live.

Although Dinas is on the northern coast of Pembrokeshire and my dad grew up on the southern coast, this picture and the next give you an idea of the rugged beauty of the place.  This is the beach that lies at the bottom of the hill my cousin's house sits on.  It's about a ten minute walk...

About a ten minute drive a little to the south of Dinas lies the Pentre Ifan Burial Chamber.  These standing stones have been there for over 6,000 years.  The top stone is reported as weighing over 16 tons and is balanced on the tips of 3 uprights.

The large stone in the middle - the portal stone - does not make contact with the cap stone.  This site stands on an unassuming hilltop, surrounded by fields of sheep.

But we have to head south to get the my father's haunts.

My dad grew up in a place called Pendine and my childhood was filled with tales of this place.  I heard the stories so often that I felt I'd know the place as soon as I saw it.  We drove into the village and parked at the lot for the Museum of Speed - which was closed for the season.  When it is open it has motorcycles and cars on display which have broken world speed records on Pendine's seven miles of compacted sand beach.

When they were kids, my aunt and dad were in a movie filmed in Pendine called, Pandora and the Flying Dutchman.  My dad and aunt are apparently in the crowd shots as the car races down the beach (along with just about everyone else in town).

Along the beach are caves.  My dad was an avid spelunker as a kid and, according to my aunt, much of it was without my grandmother's knowledge.  These little caves along the beach are not the one that my dad spoke of.

Apparently the deep and dangerous caves are higher on the cliffs.

Speaking of danger - check out this sign:

Doesn't that sign have "Exciting Childhood" written all over it?  Running along the beach are miles of sand dunes that the British Ministry of Defense thought was a good place to use as a testing ground for heavy guns.  Since it was forbidden, my father and his friends would, of course, wiggle under the fences and play hide and seek in the bombed out tanks and vehicles.

My parents actually got married in Pendine and it was a quest of mine to find the church while we were there. In old black and white photos of my parents' wedding day there was a white arch with lettering on it.  My cousin took me to two churches.  One was actually high above the town.  I knew right away it wasn't the right church but they did have the most elegant cenotaph I've ever seen.

In the village was the church I was looking for.  Here it is with the kids standing in the archway.

It was a very special moment for me to see my kids standing in the place where married life for my parents began.

Just down the road from Pendine is the town of Laugharne.  Laugharne is home to Wales' greatest poet and there's a Beynon family connection here...but it'll have to wait until next time.

Enter the Dragon...er, the Welsh Dragon, that is...

Finally, to Wales.

Wales holds a special place for me.  I was raised on stories of Wales from my father's youth.  I always felt that I knew the places from my dad's descriptions and you know what?  It was partly true.

To get to Wales we could have taken a train, but far more exciting, I think, to drive on the other side of the road.
A lift from my aunt brought us to Gatwick Airport's car rental and after waiting for other folks to get their paperwork in gear we got this:

It was a Vauxhall Astra. Vauxhall, I discovered, is GM's presence in Europe, but they don't advertise that fact at all.  In fact, the only item on the entire car that I could find that had a GM mark was the gas cap.  The Vauxhall served us very well.  It was fairly fuel efficient and had plenty of power.  The only problem was that some joker at the factory put the steering wheel on the wrong side!

I was a trooper and adapted.  Our first step was to navigate Britain's busiest motorways which, all things considered, was surprisingly easy.  The signage is good and through the photo-radar enforced use of variable speed limits (determined by constantly monitored volume of traffic), we never slowed to less than 40 mph.  And this was at rush hour (I have since been told we were lucky with the traffic, as well).

We followed excellent directions into the west of England and crossed over a massive new bridge into Wales.  After a brief roadside stop for the worst Bangers and Mash anywhere on the planet, we continued on.  Everything went fairly well until we were about 12 or 15 miles from the town of Dinas, where my cousin lives.  Roadworks at a few crucial roundabouts made us lose our co-ordinates and we became slightly lost down a secondary country road.  After a few minutes we came to Scolton Country Park, an old manor house and grounds  which have been converted into  a public park.  At the visitor centre we spoke to the cleaning lady, asking her how far to Dinas and how to get there.

"Ohhhh." she said.  "It'ud have to be about ten mile from here.  Your best bet is to go back to Haverfordwest and then go to Fishguard and then out to Dinas from there."

She showed us the route on a map on the back of a complementary Pembrokeshire Coast National Park  Coast to Coast booklet.

"Wait a minute," said I. "If we take this little road we're on and follow it to this little road over here - why that takes us directly into Dinas without messing around with those two other towns."  I felt like I was discovering the new world with my astounding cartographic skills.

The cleaning lady rose a skeptical eyebrow.  "Well," she said, "I suppose you could go that way..."

On the way back to the car we discussed the merits of my plan.  My wife was weighing in on the side of local wisdom while I knew best with my newly discovered route.  As we left the Scolton Country Park driveway my signal light flashed left - away from Haverfortwest and the cleaning lady's obviously erroneous directions.

It didn't take long to discover why some roads just look little on the Pembrokeshire Map.  It's because they are little.  They are skinny, twisting roads, not much wider than a cycling path.  With hedgerows looming on either side, it felt claustrophobic on those narrow, narrow roads, but I was fueled with the conviction that I knew best.

After about half and hour we were closing in on our destination.  I just knew we were getting close.  After travelling up one side of a mountain and down the other how could we not be?  As we skidded into a little grouping of houses at the bottom of a valley, I spotted a rust speckled sign being strangled to death by ivy.

Dinas   3 miles

Ha!

It didn't matter that the sign pointed upwards at the narrowest road I'd seen all day.  It didn't matter that the sign next to it warned me of a 25% grade.  It didn't matter that the three gents in the beat-up Land Rover coming down from that road eyed my little Vauxhall with contempt and skepticism.

Dinas was 3 miles away and by hell or high water I was going to get us there.

The Vauxhall screamed at me as I first-geared her to the initial little level part of the ascent.  Pressed back in her seat, my wife quietly asked if I was sure about this.

"Just let me do this!"  I said, a little more forcefully than I would have liked.

After an eternity of climbing we came to the end of a driveway where a pair of rubbish bins stood waiting for pick up.

"Jesus," I said with renewed confidence.  "If a garbage truck can make it up here, I'm damn sure a brand new Vauxhall can."

With the engine protesting we pushed on, ever upwards, as the road continually narrowed.  After a few minutes we met another Land Rover and I pulled into a gateway to a pasture field to let her pass.

"Well," I said as we continued.  "I supposed that'll be the biggest vehicle we'll likely meet up here."

The road thinned a bit and grass began to appear, forcing its way through the asphalt in the middle of the road.  I had just maneuvered around a corner when we met the bus.

"A bus!"  I cried.  "What the hell is a bus doing up here?"

I slammed the car into reverse and found a little wide spot where I edged the Vauxhall into the edge of the hedgerow.  I bit my lip as the bus'  side mirror whispered past my window.

After the bus, I knew this mountain couldn't throw me any more curves.  After another couple of miles without meeting anymore traffic we ended up at Dinas.  My wife patted me on the arm and I turned to her.

"I'm pretty sure," I whispered to her,"that one of those forms I signed at the car rental office mentioned that road in particular - and that I wasn't supposed to drive on it."

As I turned onto Dinas' main street I said quietly, "I guess I should have listened to the cleaning lady..."

My wife to her credit said only, "But think of all the beautiful scenery we would have missed out on."

I really married up.


Next time we'll continue with more of Wales...

An Eye on London

I know I promised yesterday to share a little something Welsh, but we'll need to wait a day or two.

Before we travelled to Wales we saw a few points of interest in London.  Of course, what's a trip to England without a quick stop to visit Liz.

I didn't see her flag, so it's likely she wasn't in residence.  We all waved to her anyway.

We also took a trip on this thing:

Wow.  Unbelievable views from the comfort of a safely sealed capsule.  The slow rotation takes between 30 and 45 minutes and provides unparalleled scenery.   There's really only one safety rule...

...which I broke.

Look down there -

It's Big Ben!

Next we rode the subway and I had to snap this picture:

I'll have to re-watch the movie to be sure, but I think this is the same tunnel used in An American Werewolf in London.  From this point on I told the boy that the mirrors mounted at the turns in the tunnels are to see if you are being chased by a werewolf.

The subway dropped us off near the British Museum where I was thrilled to meet this handsome fella:

When I was a kid there was this incredibly informative and poorly animated cartoon called The Wonderful Stories of Professor Kitzel.

Through the use of a lever-activated time machine, the good professor opened a window on events from the past.  I credit a fairly robust general knowledge to the early influence of the aforementioned time machine.  The show introduced me to my hero, Thor Heyerdahl and to the Easter Island statue above.  But nothing on the show stirred my imagination like the episode which covered the Rosetta Stone.

I'd waited my whole life to see this thing.  (And, yes, my kids do know how lucky they are.)

It took my breath away.


Next time I promise we'll go to Wales.

2 Weeks in the UK

43 years ago I was born in Accrington, England and, as the story goes, I was lucky to be born alive.  When I emerged into the world I had my umbilical cord wrapped around my throat.  Not only that, it also had a knot in it.  The knot is so rare a thing for a live baby to have in his umbilical cord that the good folks at the hospital apparently saved it in a jar of formaldehyde.  I assume it still sits with a peeling label, dusty on a shelf.

Well, I did live and when I was 4 months old the family moved to Canada.  Except for a twelve hour stop in London waiting for a ferry crossing to Belgium, I'd never returned to the land where I was born. Now I have and it was an enlightening and emotional trip.

We flew in to Gatwick airport and as luck would have it my aunt and her husband live a short jaunt away in nearby Copthorne Bank.  They live here:

It is called "Crown House" and would serve as a home away from home for our stay.

Close to my aunt's house is a place called "Wakehurst" - a park and manor house that are part of Britain's National Trust.  I was told it was a favourite place of my father who was a friend of all things green and living. When I was a kid and my dad taught me how to draw, his bridges invariably looked just like this:

A little walk down from this bridge was the Manor House:

It is an impressive structure and one I photographed extensively.  I will be using details of the Wakehurst Manor House in my Middleman Acquisitions stories.  After all, Alistair Middleman needs a stately home to live in.

We took many trips into London.  The rail and underground systems make getting around easy for a family at a very reasonable price.  On our first trip into London we saw this

at the Natural History Museum.  Then we travelled up the road a bit to Royal Albert Hall.

The boy made me snap this one quick so that we'd get the double decker bus in the shot.

The following day we visited the Tower of London and got the obligatory picture of the Beefeater.

And that's it for today.  

Join us here again for more pictures as we explore London from on high and visit the landscape of Wales, where I'll disclose some family history concerning Wales' greatest poet and its greatest hymn writer.

Back

Got back from the UK Friday evening - picked up the lovely Willow from the kennel yesterday - getting everything in order for the resumption of everyday life tomorrow.  A detail post about the Beynon's British adventure will follow - probably tomorrow...

Land of my Fathers

Off to here tomorrow.

Actually, we will be landing at Gatwick.  That's here.

We will visit museums and see the sights and I am sure that at some point I will be standing on the Prime Meridian.  After a week of exploring different places around Southern England we will head here

to visit a cousin I've never met.  While in Wales we will be visiting my father's old haunts.  It promises to be and exciting and emotional trip.

More when I get back.

A little older and a little wiser...I hope.

On Saturday I turned 43.

As I've said before, since I have a January birthday, the New Year's resolutions come into play at that time.  It has thus been a very busy day for me.  After a morning workout, during which I admittedly overdid it, I headed straight into my basement office to get to work on The Edgeling 2.  I've had a successful day, both in quality and quantity.

As I was heading down to my office, my lovely wife said to me, "Have you been using your Dragon NaturallySpeaking program?"  I told her that I hadn't, not lately.  She suggested that maybe I should.  Although I didn't use the speech recognition software while I was writing today, I think I will tomorrow.  This blog entry has been composed entirely ( with the exception of "The Edgeling 2", which it doesn't recognize) through the spoken word.  It is astounding how fast the words find their way onto the page when you don't have to type the damn things.

The celebration of my birthday included an amazing lunch of All-You-Can-Eat Sushi at a place called, curiously enough, Hockey Sushi.  Don't let the name fool you.  For an all-you-can-eat place, Hockey Sushi serves up some excellent fare.  During the drive to and from lunch, the family had an opportunity to talk about our upcoming trip to the United Kingdom.  We discussed all of the different things we hope to see during our short two week vacation there.  I'll share more details in future updates.

Another item of note - on my birthday it was so mild that when we got home from lunch the children asked if we could go for a bike ride.  A bike ride on January 23rd?

How on earth could you ever say no to that?

Root of Evil

It is finished - well, the first draft is anyway.  Around 3:45 this afternoon I put the stake through the heart of Root of Evil.  I've forwarded it off to the usual suspects for a first reading and will look at it myself in about a week to edit.  For now I'm just glad to have it done.  At just over 12,300 words I'm not so sure it's a short story anymore but we'll see where it ends up after editing.

I'm thinking Patriot is next up, but The Witch is calling out to me too.  Maybe alternating days - work on one, next day the other?  I've never tried that before - might just work.

It is numbingly cold here again today.  Since we got the dog I am more aware of the cold (nightly 11:00pm walks will do that), but I must say my usual hatred of winter has lost its zest.  I guess having kids takes the edge off - I mean who can be too pissed off at the cold when the people you love most are hauling you out into it for tobaggoning and snowball fights.  

A little bit of news -  The Beynon family is heading to the UK in the spring.  At Christmas my aunt not so subtly hinted that she and my uncle are not getting any younger and that a visit was long overdue.  We agree and are making plans.

One last thing - that picture of me up there.  It's been two years and about fifteen pounds (I'm lighter now, thanks for asking) since that picture was taken and it's time for something new.  It'll change in the next few days, I'm sure.

That's all for now - kids are calling.