UK-Portugal-UK

Needless to say, my head is spinning. And it’s been a while since I’ve had time to post things. . . traveling to Leeds, visiting Stonyhurst College, learning about a town called Dorking near London. And yes, I got a photo of the road sign. After Leeds, it was to London to get to Portugal to visit my aunt, uncle, and 3.5 year old cousin, who never stops talking, singing, and repeating whatever she was just talking and singing about. But she’s adorable and smart, so it takes longer for it to get annoying. Except for the repeating. We had a great time, and as far as kids go, I think she’s a good one.

But first. . . . on the way to London. . . wouldn’t you know that there was a sign for Sherwood Forest? Can I just tell you one things about the Brits? They are anal about signposting some things (but very few signs have mileage), and they don’t tell you that you are still on the correct road very often. Case in point: Sherwood forest. I think it was MILES before we saw signs reminding us we were on the correct road. It was also MILES before we actually got to Sherwood Forest (though we did pass through “Robin Hood Country”), which makes me think that we fell afoul of another British strategy: even if it’s the most damned inconvenient road to get you anywhere, if it eventually leads to a British landmark, even one 50 miles away, we’re going to tell you that you can get there through this crappy one-lane road, after you follow a few tractors, go through a few roundabouts, and hopefully don’t get lost somewhere along the way since we’re not telling you you’re still on the right road – HA HA! So basically, I think we took an early exit, in our excitement to see Sherwood Forest, when we probably could have waited a few more exits and had a shorter, easier trip. Stupid signs.

But the best part about my trip? No, it wasn’t the awesome salmon and grouper that I had, nor was it the vinho verde straight from the mother land, nor was it the Instituto de Porto (though these all run a close second). . . it was the 17th or 18th century chapel in Évora made entirely of the bones of 5,000 monks (dead, in case that needed stating). It has skulls instead of crown molding, it has some walls almost entirely of skulls, and then there’s the father/son skeletal pair hanging from one wall for some reason. . . they’re not sure (of course there’s a local rumor, but it’s unconfirmed). The creepy Latin above the doorway where you enter the chapel says “Our bones are here waiting for yours.” Friendly, aren’t they? Columns are arm and leg bones, others are crammed in sideways in the walls, and thank god they’re not on the floor. I don’t like walking over dead people unless it’s in Westminster Abbey, for some reason. I’m working on making some pictures small enough to post online, just to give you extra nightmares.