14-15/08/08 Chicago to Manchester UK to St Bees

Some have been kind enough to say I'm a good writer. I appreciate that, but here, in this
community on the coast of England, words fail me enitrely. Everything from the temperature to the sea breeze to the vivid evening colors, the smell of antiquity, horses, flowers and grass, the sounds of birds, motors, dogs and horses overwhelm my senses. If that weren't enough the age of everything, the orderliness of everything, the feeling that all is as it should be, where it should be fill me with tranquility/anticipation. Can it get any better?
-'Oh wait 'till Ennerdale' says one 'Ah, Scottland puts the c2c to shame', says another. It is simply incredible to realize that a scant 48 hours ago I was in the 104 heat in dfw, 24 hours in the bustle of ord, and now I'm camped in the garden of a centuries old house, and if that weren't weird enough, when I pitched my tent and intruduced myself to the family already camping here, they said ' Oh, we knew you'd be here. we read your blog!" It truly is a small, small world. I apologize if I step on toes or take your seat!
The flight went as flight do. First a delay for equipment, then the battle of boarding, take off and feeding, followed by hour upon hour of chasing rest and sleep. I did get some rest, having learned that while sleep is ideal, just relaxing and resting will fill in the momentary lapses enough to fuel the next day's work

Manchester is a tunnel-like airport with a hallway instead of expansive lobbies, but fairly easily navigated. The train station is attached, and it was easy to obtain and then modify my ticket to St Bees. The key is deparutre/destination = track. I connected in Preston to Carlisle, where I had an hour to walk about. I had a meat and potatoe pie and then remembered (too late) that I needed alcohol for my stove. Couldn't find any, so new plan is to carry a gaz stove head for the cannister stuff 'just in case'. Back on the train for the costal journey, that was, in itself, worth the trip over. St Bees is all the guidebooks say and more, and while I am loathe to leave I cannot wait to do so, to be walking thorough these green, moist, cool, welcoming fells.

Dinner at the Manor house (the Queen Anne having been closed by the brewery - such is the fate of a 'closed' or company pub)) was tuna sandwich and chips (fries) and a local draught beer. Two local chaps, Spike and Morton, from the nuke plant to the south, were great company - harassing the barmaid and each other, and I had to turn down a pint and endure further (justified) name calling for the sake of rest.

It can't get better than this!