So this morning, we climbed to the tippie top of St. Paul's which is only about 530 steps up tiny stone spiral staircases. Then, we rented a car and yikesies yowzahs, drove crazy town up the left side of the street. Here's the ultra-bizarre feeling of sitting on the left side of the car and not have to do anything. I checked the rear view mirror out of habit about 17 times before we had even left the London suburbs.
Seriously folks, not only do you need to remember that although (thank goodness!) the clutch, brake, and gas pedal (petrol pedal?) are all in the same place, you have the stick on the left, exits to freeways on the left, cars racing at double your speed, and roundabouts at a billion light years per second. And the roads my friends. Here's the best description. Take one giant pot of water and boil it. Then throw in about two pounds of superfine vermicelli pasta. Cook until al dente and strain off water. Then, throw the entire mess at the wall. Now take hold of one end of a strand. Without moving anything else, find the other end of that same piece at 70 mph. (It is mph here sometimes.) All in all, with my dad driving and me checking three sets of maps as well as the roads at all times, we do alright. Granted, it took five different sets of directions and two hours (including "drive to the bullseye and keep to the left, it's right there"), but what could you expect with a bunch of one way roads and a hotel in a pedestrian only zone and the car park three blocks away tucked under a train station . . . at night? I love an adventure! It's like orienteering advanced. Okay. Sorry. On to Warwick! So before we settled into the mess in Manchester tonight, we skipped Stratford-upon-Avon (birthplace of the defamer of our family name) and went to a medieval castle known as Warwick.
First on the docket was a trebuchet demonstration. This was amazing.
Basically four guys crawl inside the big wheels at the bottom and run like hamsters to wind up the trebuchet and lower the arm to the left. Then they soak a fabric wrapped ball in fuel and light in on fire. And then, they launch it arcing 200 yards down field. What were they doing? Preparing for the siege on London! Those Warwickers hated the town down south back then. Back up the hill at the castle, it was time to tour the grand hall.
Nothing like a good ole joust during din din, eh? We also climbed another 250 stairs up and 250 stairs down to walk along the tower walls where we could see some archers practicing shooting rats (not real ones, sadly enough). The most sobering piece was the gaol. Down some dank narrow stairs to the bottom of the tower. A small dungeon just twenty by twenty, it had a narrow gutter running through the center which was used as a 13th century bidet. But without the water. In the side, there was a small small alcove with a small small pit. A legit oubliette where they would bundle up a prisoner they really hated and lower them down and forget about them. In the solid stone walls of the goal, there were crosses rubbed and scratched in. It must have been a putrescent hell down there and you definitely didn't want to be from London, or York (the enemy in the War of Roses). Well, up and out of Warwick, we stopped by "The Porridge Pot Pizza Express" for dinner. Even though we "hadn't booked a tour" we still got a seat for an amazing bruschetta, a delicious pizza with pancetta and peppers, and bright lemon tart. I defend the British and their cooking even though I may have said otherwise in the past.
So this morning, we climbed to the tippie top of St. Paul's which is only about 530 steps up tiny stone spiral staircases. Then, we rented a car and yikesies yowzahs, drove crazy town up the left side of the street. Here's the ultra-bizarre feeling of sitting on the left side of the car and not have to do anything. I checked the rear view mirror out of habit about 17 times before we had even left the London suburbs.
Seriously folks, not only do you need to remember that although (thank goodness!) the clutch, brake, and gas pedal (petrol pedal?) are all in the same place, you have the stick on the left, exits to freeways on the left, cars racing at double your speed, and roundabouts at a billion light years per second. And the roads my friends. Here's the best description. Take one giant pot of water and boil it. Then throw in about two pounds of superfine vermicelli pasta. Cook until al dente and strain off water. Then, throw the entire mess at the wall. Now take hold of one end of a strand. Without moving anything else, find the other end of that same piece at 70 mph. (It is mph here sometimes.) All in all, with my dad driving and me checking three sets of maps as well as the roads at all times, we do alright. Granted, it took five different sets of directions and two hours (including "drive to the bullseye and keep to the left, it's right there"), but what could you expect with a bunch of one way roads and a hotel in a pedestrian only zone and the car park three blocks away tucked under a train station . . . at night? I love an adventure! It's like orienteering advanced. Okay. Sorry. On to Warwick! So before we settled into the mess in Manchester tonight, we skipped Stratford-upon-Avon (birthplace of the defamer of our family name) and went to a medieval castle known as Warwick. 
First on the docket was a trebuchet demonstration. This was amazing. 
Basically four guys crawl inside the big wheels at the bottom and run like hamsters to wind up the trebuchet and lower the arm to the left. Then they soak a fabric wrapped ball in fuel and light in on fire. And then, they launch it arcing 200 yards down field. What were they doing? Preparing for the siege on London! Those Warwickers hated the town down south back then. Back up the hill at the castle, it was time to tour the grand hall. 
Nothing like a good ole joust during din din, eh? We also climbed another 250 stairs up and 250 stairs down to walk along the tower walls where we could see some archers practicing shooting rats (not real ones, sadly enough). The most sobering piece was the gaol. Down some dank narrow stairs to the bottom of the tower. A small dungeon just twenty by twenty, it had a narrow gutter running through the center which was used as a 13th century bidet. But without the water. In the side, there was a small small alcove with a small small pit. A legit oubliette where they would bundle up a prisoner they really hated and lower them down and forget about them. In the solid stone walls of the goal, there were crosses rubbed and scratched in. It must have been a putrescent hell down there and you definitely didn't want to be from London, or York (the enemy in the War of Roses). Well, up and out of Warwick, we stopped by "The Porridge Pot Pizza Express" for dinner. Even though we "hadn't booked a tour" we still got a seat for an amazing bruschetta, a delicious pizza with pancetta and peppers, and bright lemon tart. I defend the British and their cooking even though I may have said otherwise in the past. 
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