by Jeff Kay

We were going to be day-trippers again today, and that meant being up and ready at an ungodly hour. The restaurant at the hotel opened at 6:30 a.m., so, for the sake of convenience, we decided to eat there.

I had a toweringly bad cup of coffee, a spoonful of scrambled eggs, two slices of Canadian bacon (probably called something else there), a bowl of mixed fruit, and some Rice Krispies. For the equal of fifteen U.S. dollars...

While we ate, a large group of American college (high school?) kids overtook the place. All the girls were wearing what looked like pajama bottoms, and every boy appeared to be some kind of science and/or tuba nerd.

Our British/Filipino friend, seeing this sudden influx of humanity at his restaurant, was a bundle of nerves. He was running around with his eyes bugging out, trying to explain how a buffet works(?), and reminding everyone they can't just charge it to their rooms. He was the Don Knotts of Kensington.

And I overheard one of the sleeping-pants girls whisper to another one: "I don't want to be rude, but I can't understand a word that man says…"

After breakfast we walked to a nearby hotel, to wait for our "coach" to drive us back to the tour company cattle-drive. It went a lot smoother this time (our names were actually on their lists), and before long we were on our way.

Possibly because it was Easter Sunday, the bus was only half-full. It felt luxurious, all that extra room… And our guide wasn't nearly as nutty as the one we had before; she was a little scattered and unorganized, but apparently sane. I had a good feeling about the day.

As we accelerated and braked our way out of London, the weather went straight down the ol' crap-catcher. Here's a picture I snapped through the bus window. But we'd grown accustomed to such events, and didn't think twice about it. In fifteen minutes we'd have some radically different style of weather, so what's the point of worrying about it?

Our guide told us that, on-average, it only rains twice per week in London. The first time is Sunday through Wednesday, and the second time is Thursday through Saturday. And almost nobody laughed.

When we finally made it outside the city, she told us we'd first be visiting Blenheim Palace. Then we'd have lunch at a nearby pub, and proceed to the Cotswolds, a collection of small villages that reportedly drip atmosphere.

She sent around a sheet of paper, upon which we were to indicate what we wanted for lunch. Our choices: bangers and mash, shepherd's pie, or fish 'n' chips. I went with shepherd's pie, even though it was described as containing "beef or lamb."

Man, they don't bother getting specific with their meats over there, do they? It's apparently whatever they have lying around at the time... Often the menu just says "and meat," and that doesn't exactly give me a warm and fuzzy feeling.

I couldn't remember ever having eaten lamb before, but what the hell? You only go around once. And how baaaad could it be?

Blenheim Palace is an incredible place. It was built in the early 1700s, and is still home to some sort of Duke or whatever. (Duke Snider? Patty Duke? I simply don't know.) Surrounding it is massive acreage of green rolling hills, and the whole thing is like something out of a coffee table book.

They wouldn't let us take pictures inside the palace itself, but here are a few I snapped outside.

Winston Churchill was reportedly born at Blenheim (what the??), and they have a large Churchill museum inside one of the buildings. We walked through it, and it was pretty interesting.

Did you know he designed sappy-ass Hallmark greeting cards after he was prime minister? Apparently it's true, and they had a whole bunch of them on display. A few of his cards, they said, are still in use today. Bizarre.

After we toured the, um, house (it's roughly the size of my hometown), we had a cup of coffee in their café, overlooking some elaborately landscaped gardens.

I was still having trouble with the British coins (the sizes don't make sense to me, except for the pound coin, which I grew to like) and finally just stuck my hand out and told the girl behind the cash register to take what she needed.

The coffee was surprisingly good, served in fancy cups, and the view was spectacular. The boys had hot chocolate, and they were raving about it, as well.

We roamed around outside for a while, and I saw a man who looked like Churchill himself. I told Toney, "Check it out, he's still haunting his birthplace…" Then I spun around and snapped a picture, right in the guy's face. Good times.

They ran us through a gift shop (needless to say), and I bought a copy of a paperback book called 1066 and All That. It's a satirical version of British history, written in the 1930s, and is something I heard Jean Shepherd raving about on one of his old radio shows. Jean said it was genius (jeanius?), so I had to have a copy.

While we were exiting the palace grounds, we passed fields of grazing sheep. I wondered if the lunch I was about to eat had been standing out here yesterday.

We filed into the Duke of Marlborough pub, and ended up sitting with an older man from Australia . He was traveling alone, visiting London and Paris, and his wife was back home in Melbourne. I wanted to ask why she wasn't with him, but decided it wasn't any of my business.

He was nice, but kind of odd. He seemed laid-back and quiet, but got excessively worked-up when the shepherd's pie was slow in being served. I mean really agitated… He also wanted to know every detail about us, but seemed reluctant to tell us anything about himself.

For the rest of the day, whenever we'd see the guy, I'd say, "Soooo many unanswered questions…"

I went to the bar and ordered Toney and myself a cask ale each, something called Adnams the Bitter. It was exceedingly good.

And our food wasn't bad either. My "meat pie" was indeed made with lamb, but I didn't have a problem with it. I ate the whole thing. Toney went with bangers and mash, and found something hard in one of the sausages. After that, it was nothing but mashed potatoes for her…

Later she showed me what she'd bitten down on, and it looked like a section of human toenail.

After lunch we started driving toward the villages, and it was beautiful country all-around. We passed a giant house on a hill, and the guide said it was the former home of John Entwistle, bassist of The Who. But, of course, he doesn't live there anymore, because he's dead. But while he was alive, man, he sure had an incredible view.

We passed through several tiny villages without stopping. They all had names like Miscarriage-on-the-Water, and Big Spittle. I practically had my face pressed to the glass, because it was so freaking cool.

Our first stop was Stow. It looks like a Hollywood version of an old English town, but is actually real; the buildings have backs on them, and everything. We walked around for a little while, bought shortbread cookies at a hole-in-the-wall bakery, and ate them while sitting on benches in the town square – which is still equipped with an ancient stockade.

Here are some pics.

Our second stop was Bourton, and it was even better. There's a small river running through the center of town, with footbridges crossing every few yards. I don't think these pictures do it justice, but they'll give you an idea.

They allotted us extra time here, and we strolled the streets and took in the atmosphere. And every direction we turned, it looked like a postcard. We walked into an old-fashioned "sweet" shop, and bought candy bars... Kids were kicking around a soccer/foot ball near the canal... It was all so magical and perfect; how could places like this really exist??

The third stop was Burford and, after the gut-punch we'd just experienced, it was a mild letdown. It was pretty, of course, but nothing like the previous two places. We started walking, and the town was full of shops selling things we didn't care about. Like ₤100 dress shirts, and wool blankets that cost as much as my first car.

There was but one thing to do… find a pub.

We went into a place called The Phoenix, and the bartender was nothing if not uppity. He acted like he could smell poop, and told me the kitchen was closed. I said we just wanted a couple of beers, and he sighed with disappointment.

I went with a cask ale called Greene King IPA, and it was far too warm. This was the only time we had beer that was truly at room temperature, like the myth suggests. But no way was I complaining to ol' snooty up there; we'd just drink 'em the way we got 'em.

I looked around the place, and it seemed cozy and inviting. Too bad it wasn't… I noticed several drawings of cow heads, hanging in frames, and have no idea what that was about. Mildly disturbing. And in the corner was a gang of pompous pricks, drinking Budweiser and pontificating about how "American intellectuals" just don't get Shakespeare on a primal level, and never will.

Worst pub ever.

We had a longish ride back to London, and I faded in and out of sleep most of the way.

I heard the guide talking to someone about a "derelict" 16th century cottage she was in the process of buying. And she pointed out a farm where they reportedly have llamas hanging out with the sheep, to scare away the foxes. And she uttered this phrase, exactly as I report it to you now: "Once a fox has been kicked by a llama… hoo boy!"

And that's about all I remember. Toney later filled me in on some of the things she learned while I was konked out.

For instance, the old lady and teenager in front of us was grandmother and grandson, from the Chicago area. Apparently she's loaded, and has a standing offer to all her grandchildren: graduate high school, and get accepted at a college, and she'll take you anywhere in the world you want to go. This one wanted to see England.

And the couple across from us, probably in their mid-fifties, own a pretzel company in San Diego. They struggled for years trying to build a successful business, and their persistence finally paid off. Now they're able to travel, and do the things they always wanted to do. Toney said it was an inspirational story, and she wasn't being sarcastic.

It's like reality TV on those tour buses... Or is it just reality? Sometimes I get confused.

We were planning to go to another Wagamama location for dinner, but when we got back to the room everybody started sinking into chairs and beds. All of us were burned down to a smoldering nub.

And what did we eat for our evening meal – in London, England? That's right, Subway. I went and picked it up, and it was like the friggin' League of Nations in that place. I don't think any two people were speaking the same language, and that’s not a joke.

After I secured our sandwiches (a challenge), I went to a tiny grocery store a few doors down, and bought a four-pack of Bass Ale. Then I hoofed it back to our room, and we had luxurious meals while sitting atop beds and watching (yep) Friends.

Everybody went to bed early, so I took my notebook to the bar downstairs. I ordered a Boddington's, organized my notes, and watched cricket on the big-screen.

As best as I could tell, England was beating New Zealand 114-2, in the second inning. And the whole thing was completely baffling to me.

And I’ll finish up this epic tale next time.

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