Spelled like your dad cheating at Scrabble (stole that one from Henna), Blaenau Ffestinog is a former mining town just south of Snowdonia National Park. Takes three trains to get from Liverpool to Blaenau. The last one was the best; again it was just two cars on a single track with the last ten minutes a tight and completely pitch back squeeze through a mountain.

The trip from Liverpool to Blaenau Ffestinog was uncrowded and on-time. Somewhere along the way we crossed into Wales. And by the time we reached our new home most overheard conversations where in Welsh.

Blaenau Ffestinog is the end of the line for the south spur that interrupts Holyhead to Chester. For us to go just a tad bit further south took a bus trip. Conversations onboard remained in Welsh but were easily understood. Like the elderly woman who gave several warm goodbyes before exiting the bus. The last was to the bus driver and lasted almost a minute. Then she was on the side of the road with a final wave and a smile for the departing bus. Shortly afterwards the bus driver pulled over to use a restroom. The bus idled without him for at least five minutes.

Besides riding the bus we also visited the Portmeirion Resort. One of are all time favorite shows, The Prisoner, was partially filmed there and it was fun walking the grounds. There we mingled a bit, possibly the only Americans on their grounds. It all felt so good, so natural. I miss home but am already mapping out our return.

The summer Scottish sky is never completely dark. Sometime before five the sun escapes and your room is then bathed in light. It is at that moment when I wake but try my best to fall back asleep. Key to doing so is not looking at my phone.

This morning temptation won and I learned that much of National Rail was off grid. Should we stay or should we go? Stay and we avoid a rough travel day (but lose the mega Marriott points needed to book our Liverpool hotel). Also no guarantee the next day will be any easier. So we decided to go.

Four trains and over six hours later we made our way from Stirling to Liverpool. A big shout out to the hardworking National Rail workers who made our trip possible. Besides fixing wires, filling in for sick co-workers and otherwise keeping the system rolling, they also patiently answered a whole bunch of questions from nervous American tourists from Chicago. They are simply awesome.

Liverpool right now is in the low sixties. Yesterday it was in the mid to high nineties. For the friendly clerk who checked us in, someone who knows heat from the year she once spent in Texas, it meant not be able to cool down her eighteen month old child. She said that she had a fan but all it did was blow the hot air around. No one she knows has air conditioning and she was scared for the health of her child.

There is so much to do in Liverpool. We won’t do any of it. And that is what it is to be in the twilight of an epic trip. Tomorrow we ride the rails again to enter a new country in a familiar kingdom.

Airbnbing across Europe has put a bit of a damper on meeting people. Seven years ago we mostly camped and in doing so met a lot of wonderful people. But we have still had a few interesting conversations.

On the train from Inverness to Stirling I talked to a thirty something year old from Glasgow. An immigrant from Poland, he has never been to London partly due to his belief that they are not as welcoming to people like himself as they are in Scotland.

I was surprised by that sentiment as we found London to be incredibly diverse and without a noticeable edge. For example, while taking the Tube we saw many field trips. These field trips almost always involved a diverse collection of kids (a typical group involved twenty or more kids in matching jacket and ties marshaled about by a few very clearly stressed out adults). It is of course possible we misjudged the climate, but it also seems that piling on London is a bit of a past time up north.

Our time in the UK overlapped with a historic heat wave. For northern Scotland this meant highs in the mid 70s with lots of sun before cooling off at night; a welcome relief to their usual overcast and cool Summer days. That at least was the sentiment of one Inverness small business owner. When asked about places like London where residents faced over one hundred degree temperatures without air conditioning he replied, “That is what they get for living in London.”

The next day here was a bit more uncomfortable. Upper eighties with some humidity. Stirling was quiet and the uphill walks to the castle were daunting. Meanwhile London endured a second day of plus one hundred degree weather. It must have been incredibly miserable there. Among other calamities suffered by this heat wave was damage to the rail line which may or may not severely impact today’s scheduled run to Liverpool. Will keep you posted.

Inverness is a small city/big town surrounded by amazing Highlander scenery and sites. Inverness also is where Macbeth once ruled. It is, however, best known for its historic battle against the Loch Ness Monster. A little over thirty years ago some 3,000 brave Invernessians lost their lives in combat against that monster from hell. While Nessie has not been heard from since, many fear his return is a question of when, not if. They play the bagpipes here with one ear to the Loch.

One of the quirks of ScotRail are the request stops. They operate kind of like secret menu options at In-N-Out. Care to get off at Achanalt? Then you better speak up a stop or two ahead of time otherwise you will be getting off at Lochluichart instead. And trust me, no one wants to be in Lochluichart.

Just kidding Lochluichart. I’m sure it is lovely there. The next few days though for us are a series of request stops. We were going to head south via a ferry and a different train line to a town called Hellensburgh. But then Tiger Woods, but, a couple hundred years of unchecked industrialization, ongoing labor strife and Covid conspired against those plans. So now we are making our way towards Glasgow via Inverness which means a return trip on the same line that brought us to the Isle of Skye.

The same train we took on Thursday again chug-chugs it’s way across a single track. This time though the car is nearly empty. Corey sleeps, Henna listens to the Mountain Goats and I stare out the window relieved not to be driving. There are worse things to do again.

Kyle of Lochalsh, our jumping off point to the Isle of Skye, is pronounced with a hard khhh sound that would fit right in with the blessing of the candles for Hannukah. Hagis is basically kishke (and like kishke is now usually wrapped in wax instead of intestine). So swap out the bagpipes with a klezmer band and you got yourself a destination Bar Mitzvah.

The train to Kyle of Lochalsh offers stunning views. Just two train cars, it runs mostly on a very narrow single track with tree branches frequently scratching across the windows. At certain set junctures either the east or west bound train will pull off the track to allow the other to pass. These passings are negotiated in real time by each train’s respective conductor and driver.

A similar feat is performed when driving the Isle of Skye. Pretty much anything off the main route is a single track road. You immediately brake whenever you see another car coming at you from the opposite direction. At least that is what I did with appreciative locals then beeping their horns in approval. Or yelling at you in Gaelic in what I assumed could only be words of encouragement.

You also drive here on the left side of the road. That’s true even if your an American. And everywhere you drive includes a family of sheep hanging out by the side of the road. Sometimes you see a sheep taking a nap with one hoof dangling ever so slightly onto the road. Or they walk along side of you at a pace only slightly slower than the crawl of your car.

Mostly on the Isle of Skye though you look out to the grass, the mountains and the sky and wish everyone could experience a few days in the Highlands. Then a local yells at you and you resume your drive along the winding, beautiful and way too thin road.

It is easier to find your way around than to pronounce Kingussie. Can-you-see; the g is silent. Kingussie is one main street, a small grocery store, a good fish and chips joint and two coffee shops. Remarkably there are also multiple book stores but they all keep odd hours. The locals are incredibly nice. They are also well connected by rail (more than six trains a day) to Glasgow, Inverness and a dozen other small towns. Surrounding Kingussie is Cairngorms National Park which looks in every direction like Scotland is intended to look. With no car, we had to be content exploring areas adjacent to the Aviemore and Kingussie train stations. These are a few of the things we saw.

A visit to Edinburgh Castle convinced us that Game of Thrones is a toned down version of actual Scottish history with less dragons but bloodier entanglements. Despite this history the people of Edinburgh are incredibly nice and welcoming. We absolutely love the city and cannot begin to fathom why anyone, like our neighbor Tony, would ever want to leave.

Scotland becomes more boisterous north of Edinburgh. On the very crowded train from Perth to Kingussie (a small town south of Inverness) we stood some of the way. Backpacks (ours included) clogged the aisle with crowds of teens sitting by the doorway. A tired family of at least five squabled. They were spread out over multiple seats with the bickering carrying out across the train car. A couple spoke next to me with an incomprehensible Scottish brogue. Later I realized they were speaking Swedish. Sitting opposite me was a young man who I understood only a wee bit better. He talked of working his way through Scotland. How his young niece missed him. More than a bit drunk, he also periodically yelled out, “f$_ the English” and then to me add “you know what I mean.” In a crowded train assumedly filled with many English tourists I emphatically disagreed with that statement. Later he took long pulls from a bottle then passed out on the shoulder of the Swedish tourist. Shortly thereafter we climbed over the teenagers to an empty train platform, the only passengers to do so.

Britain boasts an incredibly efficient and user friendly train system. For example, from London there are no less than twenty trains a day heading to Edinburgh. Even on the Friday of our departure, the busiest day to travel from London, and with an “incident” on the track causing massive delays, we still were able to arrive at King’s Crossing with just our Britrail Pass (a sort of automatic standby ticket) and leave for Edinburgh in less than forty minutes. No reservation necessary.

Just a few stops away from central London on the Northern Line is Golders Green. Not quite in the city, it is also not quite a suburb either. Known for its large Jewish Orthodox population, it has, per Wikipedia, the largest concentration of kosher groceries in all of London. For the last seven nights it has been our home with us staying in a hostel like Airbnb filled with both long-term and more transient guest like ourselves.

The Northern Line runs east-west through the heart of London. To the east lie the fantastically named Tooting stops with our favorite being Tooting Broadway (which brings to mind a very gaseous Nathan Lane triumphantly making his way through The Producers). Near us are the more sedate, but still interestingly named Chalk Farm and Morning Crescent.

Besides riding the Tube we took several busses. Our return last night from dinner involved one tube run, a bus and over thirty bus stops. We did not at all mind the near constant stop-and-go pace as it allowed us more time to digest our food while our phones charged from the outlets coveniently placed on the back of each seat.

For our week in London we saw much but not nearly enough. Mostly we walked. And ate. Or had a pint or espresso. Then we walked some more. We also checked out a lot of museums and spent time at Stonehenge and Oxford. But pretty much we walked all over London with only a vague plan. It was all great fun and we miss London already.