Carved Wooden bowl & Love Spoons

February 24, 2010


Few of the Welsh Love Spoons centered on plate.


My Own Hand Carved Wooden Plate.
Edelweiss & vine pattern with bead molding from Cedar.
No power tools used or allowed. :)

Love Spoons


Selection of my love spoons I have carved which are hanging around our apartment. All by hand, no power tools used.
Irony here, American carved Welsh Love Spoons in central England

Top : Bass Wood 5in tall 3in wide 1/4in deep

Bottom: Pine 7in tall, 1.5in wide, 1in deep



Top: Bass Wood 5in tall, 3in wide, 1/4in deep

Bottom: Hand Harvested British Beech 6in tall, 1.5in wide 1/4in deep

Bummble-Bee Holiday Travel

Everyone dreads the Christmas holiday period whether they admit it or not. Irrespective of the family members who you are attempting to be nice to in the spirit of the time of year. It may grate when you suddenly find yourself loosen your belt or pants again just when you thought the Thanksgiving bonanza had almost worn off of its unintended parts of your body. No, it seems the worst part to the holiday season is the travel involved. It matters little if you are the traveler or if you are waiting for the person who is traveling, events always seem to cast a dim glow upon the entire proceedings.
Take the example of two travelers from Reading who happen to be visiting the wife's family in say a contry in Eastern Europe. I will not name the country, simply refering to it by a false name of P and say perhaps the city may be W being their final destination.
The flight is destined to leave Heathrow early in the morning. Departure is around ten am. Minor problem, a snow storm arrives the night before and yes, as I have stated before, snow cripples England. Leaving their small apartment a.k.a. "flat" at four o clock in the morning to try to catch the four forty five bus to make sure they can make it, our intrepid travlers drag their fifty pound suitcases through four inches of snow about one mile. Let me make a minor correction, the husband drags the suitcases through the snow, slush and water because the English can't figure ot how to clean off their sidewalks, but why bother complaining.
After being told by the bus company the first bus went out, but they wouldn't know if they were sending out another until the first made it to Heathrow and reported, the intrepid travlers were told they should take the train as it was most likely the best way to get there. Inner shudder of fear and distrust passes through the husband upon being told this. Yes the same trains who can't get traction becase of leaves. Yes the same trains who get cancelled because of a dusting of snow or a hint of cold air. Yet, on this occasion, I must commend them, they actually got our train through. I feel sorry for the follow on passengers as I already saw the next few trains were being cancelled as we boarded ours. I, of course did not mention this to my other half. Crazy, not stupid.
Going through check in, one of our boarding passes refused to be printed. It seems there was an error and we would have to stop when we hit our airport change. Oh, yes from London we went to Prague then onto W flying the Czech national airline. No problem, we got our flight landed in Prague and went to check in our outstanding boarding pass. It seems however our seats were no longer together. Her seat was 6c while my seat was 9B. Asking the nice lady if it was possible to switch seats, she hit a few buttons on her computer and said, "No, I am sorry, bt the plane is full." Ok, we'll just ask someone to switch with us.
Arriving at the departure gate, there seems to only be about twenty people milling about. A little while later, they call to begin the boarding. Twenty people move into the line and one person looks out the window to see. . . . . No plane!!!!!!!! Asking my wife, "Did the Polish oops I mean P government upset the Czech airlines or something?" She laughs. Trooping down the boarding ramps from the first floor to the ground floor, we are calmly herding in a waiting airport bus.
At this point, I again count heads and it seem there is only twenty people in the bus as it pulls away from the gate. "Are you sure your government didn't upset the Czechs somehow?" She laughs. At this point the bus seems to be driving across the country giving us a full tour of the runway and airport and runway and hey I have seen this place before. Seeing a small passenger jet, I point it out to my wife, porobably that one. Nope, we continue our scenic jaunt. Past the midsize turbo props. "Seriously, did your government?" She shoots me a dirty look. We continue to drive.
The bus then makes a hard left turn. Why, at this point we are making a hard turn as we are near the ass end of nowhere on a airport runway, I can not fathom. Where we pull up to a small turbo prop aircraft being loaded by one baggage handler. "I just saw our suitcases." To which my wife replied, "You are joking!?" This should not be construed as a question and you should be under no illusion as to you should answer. The baggage handler finishes loading the bags including all carry on luggage bigger than a laptop, the pilot rolls down the window and is handed a small piece of paper. I am hoping at this point it is not the instructions to a) how to drive it or b) how to get there. Also at this point, a laugh escapes with the thought about the P government and upsetting the Czechs. Didn't ask. Crazy not stupid remember? We calmly board the plane to be welcome aboard by the single stewardess and the two pilots. They can turn around from the cockpit and talk to the people in the front row if the stewardess hasn't deployed her chair.
We rearrange our seats with some poor understanding soul and the bummble bee takes us into the air and on our way to W. You know you are flying slow and low when there is no talk about the masks dropping from the ceiling for pressure loss and the brace position for a crash is don't worry about it. Announcements from the captain can't be heard over the engines. It is a Saab by the way with ashtrays in the arm rests. Fun to play with when you are a kid annoying your parents, but worrying when I can barely remember when they stopped putting them in airplanes. Your butt and body get a free complimentary upgrade vibration massage though and a selection of water, three juices and mini cans of coke. Oh, the life of luxury.
The pilot had a sense of humor though. Everytime he made an announcement involving our one stewardess, he referred to the "entire cabin crew." Even the stewardess laughed.
We eventually landed in W. tired and well shaken.
It was only a few days until the traditional Christmas would exact its toll. Walking away from the bummble bee plane, "Yep, your governement must have really upset the Czechs." Ok, maybe a little bit stupid, definitely crazy.

Windsor Castle Fire

February 19, 2010

Sitting in my bar today, I came upon one of my regular customers telling a story about how she was partially to blame for the fire which wrecked a large chunk of Windsor Castle. Being the touristy type of person I am, I have actually visited the spot where the fire started in the castle. There is a small plaque in the room in the now rebuilt part of Windsor.
Little Sylvia as we call her is sitting down and telling her story of ow she was one of a few seamstresses who actually worked for the Royals and was in charge of making the set of silk curtains which were to hang in the small chapel. These beasts were twenty-eight feet tall and all hand sown. Sylvia explains how not a stitch can be seen and how they had to join four tables together. "You simply couldn't have this beautiful silk dragging on the floor now could we?" The silk was sown onto the wooden pieces so the curtains would hang correctly. The gold trimmings were measured every stitch they put in so as not to be off the slightest bit. Sylvia explains all of this with a sense of humor of how much work she and her team put into the curtains. Made simply because the Queen wanted to be able to close the Chapel off when she entertained guests as they walked from the Dining Room down to the receiving room and nobody had thought to put a door there.
After the fire, Sylvia asked one of the Royals if he would tell her what exactly happened.
The Royal replied, "We should throw you in the dungeon as it was your curtains which caused the fire."
In truth, a workman had left a set of high powered lights on in the room. The window had been left open because of it being such a nice day. A breeze or a gust of wind blew Sylvia's curtains onto the lights where they caught fire.
Two years ago, Sylvia was invited to attend a ceremony in honor of one of the service medals she had earned. Taking place not at the Castle, but in the large church, Sylvia was seated next to Lady A's lady in waiting. Sylvia, being Sylvia was curious as to what color the Queen would be wearing for the day. Sylvia explains it as being a womanly thing to do. Try to catch a peek of what the Queen is wearing. The lady in waiting took Sylvia behind the scenes to catch a glance. The Queen was apparently talking to three gentlemen when she caught a glance of Sylvia. Abandoning the gentlemen, the Queen walked over to Sylvia and talked to her for a moment. Sylvia said, "She has a great memory. She told me it was a shame about the curtains, as they were the most beautiful curtains she had seen." Sylvia was pleased beyond measure.
"I left working for the Royals when I was sixty-six years old."
Sitting and listening to the story, it reminds you of how something so small and seemingly forgotten can cause so much joy and even anguish to the people involved. The little stories found most amusing also seem to crop up at the funniest places and times.
Sylvia unfortunately had to give up dancing about two years ago when her partner dropped her during a move. She damaged her hip and broke her wrist. She still likes her ice cream after lunch when she comes by and flirts with the guys. Did I happen to mention Sylvia will be celebrating her ninety-ninth birthday this year.

Frying pans and melting pots

February 11, 2010

I am struck by the difference between two seemingly close cultures. One of course being at least in the main deriving from the other. In less than two hundred and fifty years these cultures seem to have drifted farther apart than I am sure any of our fore fathers would have guessed. Yes, I realize we were forcibly seperated by a war and then another about thirty years later. However, you might think we would retain some semblence of each other.
No, I do not speak to the difference between the US direct representative democracy versus a proportional representation which resides in the UK. I personally like to vote for my candidate, not for the party. Maybe iot is the grassroots feeling I enjoyed of all levels of American political process for better or worse.
I will only broadly hint at my running battle with English versus American language. How do you pronounce queen as queen and quay as key? Wait, why do you add extra bits to aluminum with your spelling and pronunciation? Why is a vacation a holiday and when did a cell phone become a mobile phone? Finally, if trousers are pants, pants are underwear and ladies underwear are knickers, why do you refer to "pants" and "knickers" as underwear? These minor irritations prove amusing to me. Especially when standing in front of a large group of English asking two guys if they have any black pants to work in. Social blunders. . .
One of the striking things which most would not even bother noticing is the idea of society as found in the young. How many Americans know and can recite the Pledge of Allegiance? I would bet most. We are taught about our melting pot culture where everybody is American and supports America. We sing the National Anthem in school from when we are little children. We are taught patriotic songs about our country. I bet if I mention, "This Land is Our Land . . ." again most of us Americans will start humming along. Heck, I can even fold the American Flag properly thanks to Mr. Norlin my third grade teacher.
Here, it seems they lack the certainty of identity. While we consider ourselves a melting pot where once you are there you are American, here it is a selection of which country you are from. I state proudly, I am an American from Minnesota of German descent as do most others I know with variations. Here I find most will claim they are Pakistani, Indian even Scottish and Welsh before even thinking of themselves as English or British. They speak no pledge to a common flag. They rarely sing the national anthem at school. They insulate themselves in a nanny culture to protect from offending each other and become isolated pockets.
Maybe one of the main reasons they have a hard time understanding us is we admit our country is not perfect, but we try hard to keep the "melting pot" alive in our schools and make it better. Here, it is more like eggs in a hot frying pan. No chance to get together before becoming set in an isolated shape.

The art of chugger avoidance

February 09, 2010

Walking down the high street in the pedestrian zone of most any English town, you will quickly discover the people who have lived in the town for more than a few months. There are blindingly obvious signs you are an outsider in Reading if you can't avoid the most common norms of walking downtown.
I am not talking about the signal lights crossing into and out of the pedestrian zone that only seem to work every ten or fifteen minutes. Don't worry as this is only a major road used by buses, taxis, delivery vehicles, other automobiles and even the homicidal bike rider intent on mowing down as many walkers as possible. Simply look down the street, judge the distance and calmly walk across the street. You are known as an out of towner if you actually wait for the crossing light to turn green with its accompanying screeching noise before you cross. Well, you might be someone from Warsaw, but you can't ever really explain people from Warsaw.
You will be used to the guy who might be homeless sitting on the corner by the drug store nightly playing his guitar and singing with his gravel rough voice most likely caused by years of hard living. They are the out of towners and normally heavily intoxicated who try to stop and talk to the local "blues" man. He calmly ignores them as we walk by chuckling to ourselves about those silly tourists who try to request songs. He is now doing afternoon shows on the other corner. I think the matinee crowd is not quite as good as he seems to do these infrequently.
No, I can pick out the "others" by their inability to spot and use the natural cover to avoid the English institution of chuggers. Most people would ask, "What is a chugger?" Well, I must confess, I picked the term up from one of the locals.
The term is a cute combination of "charity & muggers." The chuggers are the charity workers who will lie in wait from one end of the high street to the other in groups of five to ten who will attempt to stop random people to explain their causes and solicit card donations conveniently withdrawn monthly from your account. They are very clever, because they can not accept standard donations, but now take your details and credit card or bank card details which as I said "will automatically debit from your account the set amount of only X number of pounds a month. This is less than a couple of cups of coffee."
They see the "fresh meat" coming a mile away. Any eye contact and they will close in. The cry of "Do you have a moment?" echoes across the street. "I am working for . . . . " Now you are trapped and they have you pinned with pictures of something horrible to pile on guilt. Now don't get me wrong, I am American. I tip, I give to charity all the time and I volunteer to help out when I can. Apparently England is proud of the fact it donates so much to charity. It ranks within the top twenty of the EU. Now ask yourself how may countries are in the EU. Not a ringing endorsement. Besides, they get ahead a little because of the strong pound. . .
So those who have been here a little while will walk slightly behind and off to one side of the person in front of them upon seeing the pack of chuggers working the street. If the chugger moves, they will first try and pick off the person in the front. Yes, you will see us old hands using the trees as blocking agents, other walkers and mail boxes as cover and even those homicidal cyclists as screeners for us. If all else fails, a hard turn into one of the shops can spring the trap.
On a Saturday a few weeks ago, I saw chuggers from three children's charities, one for homeless shelters, one for cruelty to animals, one for homes in third world countries, one for affordable housing, one for developing infrastructure in third world countries and one working for the liberation of Palestine. It almost made me feel sorry for the poor Socialists trying to rail against the evils of all capitalism. Almost. . .
So I am now an old hand at these quirks of this town. Just a word of warning. If you have to take a hard turn into one of the stores make sure you choose a correct store to go into and realize they may wait for you. . .

Mail call. . . .

February 08, 2010

Awaiting a package from my family back in the States, I was mildly suprised to see a rather large bulky item sticking out of my rather small mailbox. I know what my parents have sent inclusive of the peanut butter cups, peanut butter M&Ms and a few other pieces generally not seen in this country very often. The normal result is the small note from the postman saying "Sorry to miss you. Your package has now been moved to the farthest possible point we could get it to and still stay within the United Kingdom." You laugh, but we have a central warehouse a five minute walk from our apartment. Instead, they transport it to a warehouse four miles away. Good to know USPS and Royal Mail share the same sense of humor and timing.
Anyway, the package is jammed into our communal mailbox with the free leaflets of Golden Wok oriental cuisine and Red Rocket Pizza with free delivery. Wrapped in protective celophane, I can see from a distance the blue writing of 10 on it and a picture of the Flag and the Constituion peeking from the mail slot of our poor little black mail box. Don't ask why the mail man can't put it in the box, I don't know.
You know a package from home is always exciting. Thinking it might be from my Alumni of SJU or maybe something as exciting. Like a small child with the silly grin, I cover the four steps up to our main entrance with a bound. This is actually a good effort as I am carrying grocceries for dinner plus some plates for the kitchen. No, I don't order from Golden Wok ever.
Giddy with excitement, I lift the package out of the mail slot collecting a piece of junk mail at the same time. Unfolding the magazine, I remember the sensation I felt even when I was living back in the States.
Yup, the IRS 1040 forms & instructions for overseas filers. All the forms everybody in the US enjoy, plus a few more thrown in with their instructions. Only a few hundred pages.
Well, thankfully, I will have something to put me to sleep tonight. If it falls off the table, it will knock me unconscious.
Hey, I still haven't gotten my peanut butter cups. . . . .

Jewelery Box

February 07, 2010


A picture of Ania's jewelery box lid for one of her gifts I have carved for her. Six inches from pine.

Crystal Butterflies pt 2

February 06, 2010

A small taster from another chapter of Crystal Butterflies. . . .


Scooger feels the cold seeping into his body as he lies motionless against the concrete of the street. Being motionless for an unknown amount of time starts to mess with even the strongest of minds as the temperature drops. Most of the pack lay hidden amongst the rubble and debris strewn from the day’s earlier battle. Included with the debris are the bodies of the slain. Since the running fight and the coming of night, no one dared to collect the bodies. So, in their death, they provided the perfect cover for Scooger and his warriors as long as everyone held their nerve and didn’t move at the wrong time. A slip from one of the pack would tip the enemy and it would be a quick bloody fight for Scooger’s pack as they started from a prone position surrounded by enemies.
Scooger watches as the first of the enemy scouts quietly slips by. The enemy is careful of their footing, hoping to get close enough to finish the scouting and then attack the barricade unaware. A foot passes a hair’s breathe from Scooger’s face. The sound of Scooger’s breathe and heart pound in his ears surely loud enough to be heard by the scout. The foot lifts and moves forward. Scooger waits to feel the sharp stab of iron in his back meaning the end, but moments pass without it.
The barricade is behind Scooger. So it comes as a surprise when the first shouts of alarm are raised by Samuel. The enemy scouts had gotten a little to close and the defenders now knew they were there. The enemy scouts raised a cry of their own. Scooger resists the temptation to turn his head. If anyone noticed supposed corpses turning and moving, it would blow the ambush.
Suddenly, a full pack of the enemy begin running down the street towards the barricade. A second pack turns round the corner followed by a third pack. Not a simple raid, the 3083 is intent on capturing the building. Scooger can only watch as hundreds of people run screaming by. They avoid the bodies strewn in the street. A small sigh of relief floods into Scoogers body for small miracles. Scooger’s pack of scouts numbering a hundred with Samuel’s detachment were now outnumbered almost four to one. Scooger watched the last of the enemy packs stream by him towards the barricade.

Taxes from heaven

February 05, 2010

Well, the great snow storms of 2009 have passed into the repository of history for England. The complications and lessons continue to be learned from the ability of English way of doing things. Most people will remember the rallying cry of the American colonies during the Revolution. This should be remembered as freedom from the English way of doing things. Well, who can forget the catchy slogan of no taxation without representation. It is not for me to complain abot the Chancellor being able to adjust taxes for the entire country on a whim. How about we raise the tax on everything because we can't manage to run our expenses in Parliament and we have a shortfall in our budget. I won't claim to understand how they can have a national sales tax of 17.5% and everybody accepts this as ok. Actually, the Chancellor lowered it to 15% for a few months to help get the economy started again, but since Jan 1, it is back to 17.5%.
Nope, here is what I can not simply understand. The local councils have now come out saying they are going to have to raise the council (property) tax in order to pay for the snow removal which occurred. There is no appeal as they will simply hike the tax rate up by 3% to pay for this extrodinary circumstance.
Wait, weren't these the councils who failed to have enough salt and sand to actually keep roads open? Or were these the councils who had only a few trucks actually in operation to even attempt to keep the main streets clear. Perhaps these are the councils who state in the newspapers they have millions in surplus, but they can not dip into those reserves in case of emergency. I seem to be slightly confused by the response.
It makes one wonder why America strove for its independence a couple hundred years ago with a simple rally cry.

Bar etiquette . . .

February 04, 2010

Working in the hospitality industry, I always have plenty of stories to tell about funny circumstances which happen. It seems if you work in this business long enough, you will see all sorts of normal people behaving in ways they generally would never consider when they are at home. At most points, alcohol has a large influence upon their actions.
How many times have you ever seen a thirty-five year old woman pick up a small storm drain cover about four inches square and throw it through an eight inch window trying to get into the building at three am because she thought she left her purse inside. Yes, she actually tried to get in through the eight inch window. Did she make it? Nope. Only a leg and part of her arm. The purse? She had set it down in her room then left to find it leading to the drain cover in hand instead. We compare many of the do you remember or did you hear about stories. Yes, us human beings who are sober and are working do see you when you try to hang from the lights and tear them out of the ceiling. Pretending it magically fell down doesn't work either and no, I don't care if it is your birthday. Yup, watched it happen.
English seem to take the ideas of revelry to new lows in bars. They are notorious for being huge binge drinkers who's sole purpose at a bar is to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible. It starts in the early years and I see it continue through until they are damn near crawling into their grave. It is considered by most as the in thing to do. Imagine a country full of people who behave as though their are twenty one at university. Yikes is all I can say.
The funny thing about it is, English people love to stand in lines and crowd around. If there is a line of three people, other English will join the line. Here they call it "queueing." So two English guys or gals (in this sex doesn't matter) are standing at a bar ordering a drink. A few more will come in and stand next to the first few. Soon, as the bar gets busier, they will form into a pack at the bar. Having their drinks in hand, they will stay with the others because there is now a line and to leave the line is an unforgivable and un-English. As the twenty people with drinks stand at the bar, the twenty behind who can't actually get to the bar grumble about slow service. The barman meanwhile has nothing to do because everybody has been served who is next to the bar. If someone has to leave to go to the bathroom, it will open a small hole into the next person will crowd, of course not moving once their drink has been ordered. Thankfully, a few innocent souls actually order and do leave the bar on an infrequent basis.
I walked into one of my bars a few nights ago. The room is forty feet by thirty feet with a twenty foot bar including the service hatch. Note: Service hatch is where the servers come and go from the bar. Stay out of the way, they are most likely trying to get you drinks at some point. Huge leather sofa, squishy arm chairs again in leather tables galor are all arranged in the room neatly. Sixty plus English occupied a three foot space in front of the bar crammed like sardines. Luckily, it was only a half an hour before they wanted to sit down for dinner. Just in time for the next group of "normal adults" to come in for their pre-dinner drinks.

N.H.S. = No Hope Specialists pt 1

Having watched the debate about the "new" initiative on health care n the United States make its burdened way through the House and stalling in the Senate, I can say without a doubt, no matter how bad, American's have it nice compared to the socialized medicine of the N.H.S. You might ask how a bloated system of over-priced procedures, expensive drugs and having to pay through the nose for basic coverage can be better than free medicine for all with low cost drugs. Simple answer is at least you stand a chance of actually seeing a real doctor who might actually get the diagnosis right back in the U.S.
One of the people who I consider a friend stepped wrong while at work. He felt something pop in his ankle. Of course you know the story. Ankle swells up like a balloon. He thinks he has sprained it, so tries to make an appointment at the local clinic. Answer he gets is simply can't fit you in today, you will have to come back tomorrow. You would think you could try the emergency room right? Well, the A&E (accident and emergency) is only for major injuries. Besides, who is going to sit for four hours just to be sent home.
He makes an appointment and is seen by the local G.P. who calmly tells him he has sprained the ankle. The G.P. does however decide they should x-ray the offending ankle a few weeks later when the ankle has not healed at all.
Telling my friend they could find nothing wrong with the inside of his ankle, they are baffled. Wait did I forget to mention, it was the outside of the ankle which was swollen. The G.P. decides to refer my friend to a specialist. The wait time is only a month or three.
The specialist promptly run an MRI on the troublesome ankle now six plus months later since the original injury. Verdict. . . He has torn one ligament and the second one has ruptured completely. Result, he will have to go in for surgery. Yup, he is placed on the waiting list for another few months until they can fit him in. Surgery one results in being in a cast and sidelined for two months.
Returning to the specialist, the ankle has still not healed. They decide to give plastic inserts to put in the shoes in the hope it will straighten his ankle out. Come back in a few months to see.
Ta-dum. Problem solved! Oops, wait. The first surgery didn't correct the problem at all. It seems they should have fused several of the small bones together to actually correct the problem. Fine, put him on the waiting list again.
It is now I think over eighteen months since his first visit to the G.P. for a sprained ankle and next week, he goes in the second surgery. He figures he will be out for only about three months this time.
Watch out for anything which may cause you damage in this country. They might get around to fixing you shortly before they bury you. . . .

Great Scots, they're English

February 02, 2010

Coming from the backwoods of Minnesota near the very wide open (read flat as a pancake) spaces of North Dakota and Iowa, distance seems a concept easily defined. It seems no great enterprise to jump in your car and travel three hours to see someone, spend the afternoon and return home in the same day. It wouldn't be polite to impose upon anybody by actually asking to stay at their place. Heaven forbid if the drive is less than six hours you even think of staying in a hotel. Distance and travel here seems to be a slightly slippery idea which I fail to grasp. Talking to a people is part and parcel of what I do for a living. Discovering where people are from, why they are here and where they are going while making small talk also comes from growing up a mid-western kid.
Most people travel by car here on road systems designed for horse travel in the early 1500's. You might think I jest in this, but I do not. English roads are classified as M for motorway, A roads which are the primary roads, B roads being the secondary roads and unclassified roads. Now an American's take on their classification system is simple. The motorways which should be equivalent to our interstates are more like highways. The A roads are what I would classify as our county roads and heaven forbid you travel on a B road which have blind corners single lanes and all sorts of other bits of fun. The unclassified roads are normally single lane (8 - 10 feet wide) with areas every so often where a car can pull into the ditch to allow the oncoming car to get around. Did I mention they like to drive somewhat fast on these roads. Now you understand why I normally take the train. Although, now I am digressing.
It seems to most English, the idea of a long drive is construed as slightly more than about one hour. Anything beyond this distance may require rest breaks or overnight stays. Of course, much like LA because of the road system English measure their drives not in miles or kilometers but time it takes to get somewhere in "normal" driving conditions.
One of the staff asked for a few days off to go and visit their relatives. They calmly explained they would need at least four days. If they could get five, they would be happy. I gave them their days off on the schedule. Asking the question, "Where are you going?" The response I got was they were traveling to Scotland. They figured a day to travel there and they would be exhausted by the drive. Three days to visit and the final day to return back.
"Where are you going in Scotland? Way up into the Highlands?"
"Oh no. But the drive will take about four or five hours." They seriously didn't know if they could make the drive in a single day.
I was told by a friend, it takes about eight hours to drive from the south shore of England to the north of Scotland. I think back and remember I could just make it to either the northern or southern border of Minnesota from my home in that same amount of time.