Sammy de las Cueavas y Piñas Coladas

    Palma, Palma, Palma. How does one even begin to describe the four magnificent days that I've experienced in Palma? Well, we'll begin by first admitting that no matter what attempt at Palma-inspired prose I produce, it will not, nor could, capture the breath of fresh Mediterranean air that this island was to my study abroad experience. However, I'd be a complete pendeja to not give it a whirl (I'm not sure about you but when I learn a language, I prefer to learn the profanity before the pronouns as they are often just as useful in my dialogue).
    I suppose chronological progression might be the easiest route but I warn you, the beginning was certainly the roughest part... Of course, anything is rough when compared with a piña colada on the beachfront. To begin, we had a 6:40 am flight out of Glasgow Prestwick and as foolish Americans, we assumed there was only one airport in Glasgow. To be safe, we took a 12 am bus out of Edinburgh, planning to spend the night in the terminal. Unfortunately, the discovery that there were in fact two airports "in" Glasgow was realized at 1 am in the morning in the sketchiest bus station I've had the pleasure of being stranded in.  I say "in" because Prestwick is a little less than an hour away in a 60 quid taxi ride- something I've learned from lived experience. To say we slept would be faulty- in reality, we tossed and turned the night away in a freezing airport awaiting the opening of check in. However, all this soon fell by the wayside as we breezed into Palma. 

   Our hostel was a fantastic deal, costing a total of 40 euros for four nights including breakfast- don't know how we got so fortunate but luck seemed to follow us around after landing. The first day was really about getting familiar with our surroundings. Indeed, it was a tasking effort: 

This photo belongs to my friend Jessie who only had to walk a mere 

20 seconds from our room to take it.

    The second day we boldly headed where every tourist had gone before us, into the city center. However, I'm not one to scoff at clearly marked multi-lingual signs, especially when my Spanish was as rickety as the brakes on my 1997 Pontiac Grand Am--mind you, it failed inspection with flying colors. Now, before we delve into photography that will transform you, personally speaking as one, into a green-eyed monster, we'll do a bit of a history lesson on Majorca. The island has been under Roman, Byzantine, Islamic as well as Moorish rule and then squabbled over by a series of prominent figures in Spanish history. What can I say? You do want the abridged version correct? Honestly, I'm sure Wikipedia would be a more fruitful investigation than my tedious jabbering. However, what's more interesting is the reality that each of these cultures left a mark on the island. It's visible in the eclectic architecture, woven together through a series of conquerors fixed on making themselves immortal. Ah, but enough history and back to scrapbook blogging. 

This is La Seu Cathedral and arguably the most impressive building in Majorca. 

Hell, I'd go to bat for its architectural prominence any day of the week. 

The inside was a fantastic mix-and-match between traditional Gothic themes and 

contemporary additions. However, this is only fitting for a building that Gaudí had a 

hand in- the same of the whimsical park in Barcelona. 

Guessing game time: how long do you think it took to build this cathedral 

given construction started in the 13th century?

Answer: over 350 years. Can you imagine beginning something with the 

knowledge that you wouldn't be present for its completion, building in complete faith? 

Me neither...

This is central Palma and there are horse carriages everywhere. However, 

despite a strong equine representation, the city smells completely floral. Go figure!

Posing with some swans right below the entrance to the palace and cathedral, 

conveniently located across from one another. 

Now, nothing soothes a sangria-induced haze quite like chanting within convent walls 

which was exactly what we experienced here. I'm sure had they known my love for

 Spanish profanity, they wouldn't have readily let me in their doors. 

This is a picture from the Arab Baths or Banys Àrabs that we visited, dating to 

Moorish occupation with some Byzantine construction as well. I think I could

 settle for this if I was in a pinch, don't you?

This is the famed Parc de la Mar that sits right under the cathedral.

 Also, if ever you need an intellectual ego boost, just write in italics.

 It's my personal recipe for instant sophistication.  

A street performer from whom I was able to purchase a CD of Spanish guitar music to 

accompany the first night I have back in Brunswick, Maine. 

Do note the green backpack, which, between my family members,

 has traveled nearly all over the world now .

Trying my best to balance for a photo shoot. 

Fortunately, vanity did not lead to being soaked.

Just another typical Palma fountain. Alright, maybe typical isn't the word.

    So, while the first day exploring in the city center amazed me, it was, and don't take this in a catty fashion, nothing compared to the second. However, this is because the second day was literally a dream brought to life. No, not dream in a fluffy, air-headed sense. Dreamlike in the "this is so bizarre, I can't fathom that it's reality" sense. This day was the 21st birthday of my friend Jessie so we all hunkered down in the lobby of our hostel deciding what fantastic plan to attempt. 

   Las Cuevas del Drach (don't ask be about the strange language mashing) holds one of the largest underground lakes, Lago Martel, which stretches 177 meters long and can only be reached after an a 25 meter descent. However, on the way down you are accompanied by the most fantastical stalactite and stalagmite formations. Of course, due to pressures to suckle every last euro from a tourist's wallet, pictures are not to be taken, "remedied" by their purchasable availability at the end. Yet, I am an American and the severity of the phrase "prohibited" holds great situational flexibility. While mine do have a sort of contraband charm, the ones from the cave's website give more of a wow factor and what can I say? I'm all for sensationalism.

This hangs over your head and on different occasions, we all made the mistake of

 pointing out the truncated ends that lost the battle with gravity, imagining them 

landing on some poor visor-capped vacationer's dome. 

It truly looked like the most intricate of modern art designs but crafted with a patience 

no human could ever muster. I mean, I get upset when my internet loads too slowly so

 I think thousands of years of formation is far out of my league. 

This is part of the underground lake, but do you notice something out of place? 

Perhaps the gondolas laced with sparkling lights? Why, yes! Now we get to the most sensational part of this experience. Yes, it was a dash of surrealism that really made this splendid.

    After a lengthy descent, you've come to a clearing, best described as some cavernous amphitheater. You think to yourself, dear God, this has got to be some sort of twisted cult practice I've stumbled across. In a sheep-like mentality, you funnel into the crowd and wait. As you wait, the lights, your only source of vision for all 25 meters down, begin to dim. Suddenly, remembering that "Drach" translates to dragon, you begin conjuring images of things that go bump in the night. However, as quickly as your nerves ignite, they are calmed by the soothing and characteristic echo of a violin. Then, bending round a giant stone formation, come three gondolas like the ones pictured above. Two are captained by a rower alone but the third boasts a string ensemble complete with other indiscernible wind instruments. They proceed to play a series of classical movements on the lake's surface in the dimness. Surreal, no? I have a hard time admitting that I preface this story with "In Porto Cristo" instead of "I had this weird dream where....". And, of course, your concert-viewing experience comes complimentary with a gondola ride across the lake to the exit, where you stumble out wide-eyed and stunned by the reality you've just seen and heard. Talk about a bucket list item that, until scratched off, I would have never imagined.

    The rest of the day, obviously soaked in post-cuevas euphoria, was spent on the magnificent beachfront of Porto Cristo: 

    

Some ships docked outside of what I can only guess are the apartments of these lucky, lucky sons of guns.

Obviously, we played the "which yacht, which house is mine" game.

I thought images like this existed only in the land of postcards and romantic movie scenes. 

I was very happy to find that this was incorrect cynicism. 

And, if I could travel the world with anyone is my decked-out- I recently discovered my blog has been sadly deprived of puns-sailboat, it would certainly be with these three stubby-legged mates. In Palma, I guess it's a dog-sunbathing-with-dog type world. 

My friends and I, baffled at our good fortune but enjoying the sun on our

 characteristically Scottish, alabaster skin. 

    Our last day was spent on the beach, burning ourselves in full recognition that travel and sunburns have a long-lasting animosity. However, it was fully worth the trouble:

As another fun guessing game taken from our last round of tropical cocktails, 

can you guess which one was mine?

If you guessed the one with the sophisticated sprig of mint, paired with a 

delicate slice of lemon, you were terribly wrong. As I have a worsening Napoleon complex, 

I have to compensate for it by having overly decorative drinks.

    And so we come to the final stretch of study abroad. This is perhaps the only reality more surreal than my bizarre cave concert. What's ahead in these last 28 days? Well, tomorrow night I am going to the Beltane Fire Festival that celebrates the coming of May in a very Celtic fashion which should be a fantastic time. I've even created a list of a couple things I must do before I leave which was a strange experience. However, as much fun as I've had, I look forward to that moment when I crawl from Logan to 45 Mckeen Street. I can't wait to walk through the door and become swarmed by emotionally needy cats, open a fine red to let it breath and recount my adventures to my parents while the kitchen fills with the aroma of my celebratory return dinner. Take note: Italian with a tongue-bitingly spicy sauce would suit this weary traveler just perfectly.  

Sammy the Highlander

    Alright, alright. I know. I'm not a highlander but let's be transparent. You know, or have probably discovered through this blog, that I happen to be the proud owner of an enormous ego. I mean someone who writes about herself this much isn't exactly what I would categorize as humble. And to be honest, as soon as I found out that humility had nothing to do with humor, I was done with it. We both know it was only a matter of time before I quickly began associating myself with Scotland's cultural symbol of awesome, the highlander. If I were in Spain it would be Sammy the Conquistador and Japan? Sammy the Samurai (actually that's been a family nickname for ages so that one would be fair).
     You're right. The shoe doesn't fit but that doesn't mean I'm not going to wedge it on my foot and hobble around after giving myself the moniker. Not to mention, my Sean Connery impression is fairly decent so let's just let me win this one alright? Good, Sammy the Highlander it is. Now that we're past that, we can discuss the context surrounding this ballsy moniker... that I've been pining to give myself since blog one. Of course, when you hear the touristy context, I know you're going to start fighting me on the name thing again but let's remember, I don't force you to submit yourself to this conceited, self-constructed effigy I call a blog.
    To tell the truth, I gave in and caved- but hey, it didn't end well for the Jacobites either. I told myself I wasn't going to go on one of those sardine cans that they call tour buses to Loch Ness. Well, with the weeks flying by, my brain began ticking. Reflect with me: During discussions of my time in Scotland, how many times do you think some plucky individual would ask, "So, did you see Loch Ness?" A seemingly innocent question but God, if I hadn't. Oh, they would smile and ask me about my other adventures but inside, pure judgement. As we discovered, I have an ego to coddle so this just wouldn't do. So yes, I caved but I damn happy I did. It was beautiful.
    Our trip started with an 8 am departure from High Street which is about a 30 minute walk from my dorm. Katie, my friend who accompanied me on the Dales adventure, and I had played it safe the night before so although not bright-eyed and bushy tailed, we were well rested. In fact, we arrived at the bus early, which was not a sardine can. However, I would have preferred cramped conditions to the horrible jokes from our bus driver. I tried to laugh. I really did. On the highway, fine. Go ahead and make another terrible joke but dear God man, when viewing Glen Coe, the last thing I want to hear is another pushy attempt of humor fall on annoyed ears. But enough of pettiness.

On our way to the Highlands

Although this is not my picture (because my camera occasionally goes on the fritz when asked to do what it was designed for), this is an image of Doune Castle. Look familiar? That's because it was the castle in which an irreverent Frenchmen insulted Monty Python's knights of the round table- a favorite scene of my father's which is quoted with frequency. Most of the filming of Monty Python and the Holy Grail was filmed around this castle or Glen Coe. Doune Castle is also in my new favorite tv series, Game of Thrones, where it is the set of the Kingdom of Winterfell. 

    Where the Yorkshire Dales are warm and inviting, the Highlands are glorious but all the same, nothing about the landscape begs you to linger. Instead, every imposing mountain or falling glen takes your breath. You can't help but be conscious of the reality that these formations were here long before you and will be here long after. I'm currently taking a course entitled, "Visualizing Scotland". My professor kept introducing the notion of the sublime in the landscape genre, a concept first developed by the philosopher and statesmen, Edmund Burke. Where beauty calms and pleases us, the sublime produces more exaggerated emotions of awe, reverence and even fear. For all the reasons we love an adventure, we love the sublime- it promises no safety but also no boundaries. Now, previous to my visit to the Highlands, I thought this theoretical squabble was a fabrication of powdered men with nothing better to do than drunkenly discuss emotive art. Yet, even the great Samantha, can admit when she was wrong, albeit in a covert manner. Although no one utterance can encompass the vantages of the Highlands, the concept of the sublime at least brings one to the threshold of the matter.

Now, I've set up the photos in chronological progression, transitioning from the Lowlands and heading towards the barren north. And, of course, at the end are some more touristy photos. As we began to ride through, the scenery was fantastic but not quite producing the sense of mortality for which the Highlands are famed. 

We'll break our exercise in the sublime for a fun fact. Did you know that The Last of the Mohicans  was actually filmed in the Scottish Highlands as well as Monty Python? Yeah, all those time that you were in awe of the American majesty... Not the American majesty. 

And now we see it start to shift.

Now, I'm not much of a mountain girl as I've always preferred the ocean, but the Highland mountains did have a certain alluring, siren song about them. In fact, they hummed this tune until our driver informed me that this particular mountain, Buachaille Etive Mòr or the Great Herdsman of Etive, annually takes the most climber lives per year of all the mountains in Scotland. I use the word "takes" because so many of these deaths are unpredictable avalanches or rock falls instead of over-ambition. I'll stick to my beach in Palma, thanks. 

Forgive my smiling in this photo. One as socially awkward as myself really doesn't know how to take a photo at the site of a massacre. This is where the Glencoe Massacre of 1692 took place in which the MacDonald Clan, failing to pledge allegiance to William and Mary after the Glorious Revolution, were brutally defeated. However, the death toll encompassed more than warriors. Many women and children of the clan were also sentenced to death after the defeat.  

In the hazy background is the image of Ben Nevis. Ben means mountain in Scottish Gaelic which is pronounced "gahlik", much in the same way a Long Islander says garlic. Ben Nevis stands 4,409 feet. Now, this number would normally impress me if I didn't have two very proud Coloradans as friends. In fact, I was about to brag about this mountain to them until I double checked my facts and found the highest peaks in Colorado to be over 14,000 above sea level. I even looked at the prominence, which is the relative height instead of sea level and it still didn't make a difference. You win this time Melanie and Pru!

    Onto Loch Ness! Now, let's keep the discussions of Nessie brief. Not because I don't enjoy a good mythos but because things that dwell in the water, especially monster-like creatures, tend to terrify me. Honestly, when someone says Nessie, those horrid shrieking eels from Princess Bride that haunted my bathtub experiences for years come to mind. Here's a refresher just in case you wanted another phobia: 

 

   Nessie/horrible sea monster aside, Loch Ness and Urquhart Castle which rests on its shore are beautiful. By the time we got there, it was getting a bit nippy but thankfully the skies stayed clear for the most part. 

Urquhart Castle, a Jacobite fortress that was abandoned as a lost cause

I was, as Mainers always do, pretending it was far warmer than it was.

Obligatory photo with Loch Ness in the background.  

All the rubble is an outline for the castle that used to stand. One can only imagine what it would look like in completion. 

This structure actually used to be shaped like a beehive and was used to farm pigeons for their meat and eggs. I personally never understood the stigma against pigeons.

The view of Urquhart Castle from our boat. Yes, we got to go on a boat and I was ecstatic. Anytime I get to go on boat ride, I become a dog with its head out the car window. However, momentarily, I did get flashbacks to that eel, ship scene in Princess Bride and last I checked, I don't think the Highlands has Westleys readily available to save damsels in distress. 

Loch Ness contains more water than all the lakes of England and Wales... combined. It's 755 feet deep meaning that you could submerge Big Ben in Loch Ness and it wouldn't even reach halfway to the surface. 

     So what's to come? Well I have some smaller, fun plans for April when I'm not laboriously clacking out another essay but for the last week in April, I'll be going to Palma with Jessie, Courtney and Emma- three wonderful women (I use the word "women" because we have constant feminist debates) I've met here who are also studying abroad. Unfortunately, Scotland's lack of sun and "the full Scottish breakfast" (which at first seemed a blessing and now, a curse) do not bode well for bikini wear but to hell with it! Who could view pictures like the following and even give a thought to such frivolities? Not this highlander. That's for sure!

Sammy Who Walked in the Footsteps of James Herriot

Warning: this blog post is of an absurd length. My apologies. I put it into pieces so that you can leave it and come back to it should you decide to even try to get through my rambling. Don't worry. I won't be offended if you choose to skim to the pictures.
 
 "In my daily work I was always aware of the beauty around me and had never lost the sense of wonder that had filled me when I had my first sight of the Yorkshires, but this morning the magic of the Dales was stronger than ever... I felt a surge of excitement in the solitude, a tingling sense of the nearness of all creation".
   This is taken from James Herriot's Every Living Thing, written in his older days when his nights were less rambunctious but his veterinary adventures had lost none of their erraticism. Of course not everyone knows who James Herriot, or Alf Wight as he was in real life, is. No judgement. I, myself, would have no idea if it weren't for one of my father's loving yet unpredictable Christmas presents. That's how my passion for all things All Creatures Great and Small began. You see, PBN (our local broadcasting network in Maine) used to show episodes from All Creatures and my parents, when my sister and I were plotting chaos in cradles, would watch it avidly.
    Eventually, PBN stopped showing it and my parents got caught up in life, dealing with two very independent and trouble-prone daughters who liked to give them panic attacks via acts like lodging rocks into nasal cavities or swallowing bottles of perfume. You can see why keeping up with the latest episode might be a challenge. However, a good deal later, when I was about 14 or so, my father got my mother the first season on DVD. We all sat down to watch the charming opening sequence in which James and Siegfried roam the Yorkshire countryside while making merry. I was hooked. It was completely removed from my instant chant, boy-crazy, too-big-for-my-adolescent-britches reality but I found myself wishing I could be apart of it. It's become a family favorite and is watched religiously as we now have the whole collection. Of course, in the Kingsland-Eddy household none of the DVD's are in the right boxes but as every episode is equally captivating, you'll settle for whichever one you find first. Since its introduction, I've watched practically every episode and, once I learned that I would actually be visiting the UK, swallowed up the books like bonbons.
    The idea of visiting Herriot's hometown developed when Katie, a dear friend from Colby, and I finalized her visit to Edinburgh as she also loved the novels. Thus, we bought train tickets, paid a deposit on a bed and breakfast and readied ourselves for Thirsk, the real-life Darrowby. But of course, no daydream has ever become reality without a struggle.
     Our's was a man named Richie. Now, I ask you, who takes a fine name like Richard and changes it to Richie? No offense if it's you but this man tainted the nickname for me so take it up with him. Richie works at the Haymarket Train Station and when we approached him to check in for tickets, cheeks rosy with the anticipation of adventure,  we were met with a lack of empathy that even a viking couldn't muster. He was convinced that we had somehow, as stupid Americans, messed things up and, despite the presentation of our last names, travel destinations and the promise of our firstborns, would not budge until Katie, spending lord knows what on roaming fees, connected to the internet and showed him our confirmations. His defeated look would have tasted much sweeter had the clock not been lingering dangerously close to boarding time. All said and done, we made it onto the right train and actually sat first class which consisted of cushioned seats with free meals and coffee. However, don't be fooled. Trains do not function like the Hogwarts Express, although there is a trolley. They're damned hard to figure out and let's just say that we had a bit of an adventure before we were actually able to make it to Thirsk. It consisted of failing to press a button and a resulting hour and a half long diversion.
   
     Thirsk is everything you would hope for and more. I'll let the pictures captivate you as I've already done my fair share of typing- of course they'll be paired with overly descriptive captions. Remember what I said- my silly blog, my silly rules.

A shot of the river that passes through the downtown area

The St. James Bed and Breakfast, owned by Barry who I will expand on later

The downtown during market day!

The church where James and Helen got married. It's just a stone's throw from the practice. 

It was, in fact, lambing season when we visited. I swear it's the good luck from that crusader's hand. 

Our first day we arrived, a little late due to our train ineptitude so we spent our evening buying a bundle of carrots, sneaking onto farms and befriending the animals on them. It was a solid use of 50 pence

A hilarious pony we met. You should have seen him run for those carrots.

During the first day we also got a wonderful view of the countryside, albeit probably illegal since we were on private property. Katie and I simply pretended that we were young veterinarians. I'm sure my poor footwear choice would have convinced them otherwise had we been caught. 

This was during tea time. As pathetic as it might be, I chose outfits that resembled Helen in the TV series. The Carol Drinkwater and not Lynda Bellingham Helen, mind you. Unfortunately, I did not meet my own James Herriot there, despite being damn well ready to be whisked off my feet into a world of veterinary romance. 

     The James Herriot museum was fantastic. It started off with a tour of Alf Wight's home practice at Kirkgate (known as Skeldale in the books). The museum leaves the house as it must have been in the height of its usage; disheveled, homey and brimming with character. It made you feel as though at any moment Tristan might come rushing around the corner with Siegfried on his tail, barking some order or that you would find Mrs. Hall mid-creation of a Yorkshire dinner. After traveling through the house, you go into a smaller museum section about the production of the TV show. 

The outside of Kirkgate

The dining room       

 

                                              The reading room with a statue of James

The small animal operation room                                    

  

      The breakfast room looking as though it was just used

The medicine cabinet, filled with jars of castor oil

     

An actual script from the TV series and the shows set of the breakfast/dining room- I was very proud to note the table was the wrong way 

           

        This is James, Siegfried and Tristan's favorite pub- known as Dover's Arms in the books but it was The Golden Fleece in real life. Our dinner and pints were fantastic. I had a steak and ale pie while Katie had a lamb and herb dumpling stew. The first pint: ecstatic with our meals and the comforting atmosphere. The second pint: completely euphoric about our entire existences, no doubt red-nosed from the excitement. 

The welcome sign for Thirsk. At this point my stockings were completely ruined from trumping around the farms but I couldn't have been happier. 

James Herriot's favorite view of the Dales, known as Sutton Bank.

The cliff in the background is where James' ashes are scattered. Our b&b keeper, Barry, told us this. He knew because he had personally found out from James' son, Jimmy.

     Now, departing from All Creatures topics and delving into other stories, let me tell you about Barry. Barry is around his late 70's or early 80's and is a complete gem of a human being. He is also the proud owner of a black and white cat named Lucky, a handsome tom (but of course, no where near as dashing as Charlie). As a fellow owner of black and white cats, I knew Barry had to be a worthy fellow. He knows about everything from astronomy and space travel to the historic past of every abbey in the area and beyond. 

     How do I know? Because he talked to me... about all of it. I adored Barry but if leaving the house, you would have to plan an additional 15-30 minutes into your schedule to allot for time spent talking to him in the front hallway. Our favorite phrase was "Ohhhhhhhhh giiiiiiiiiirls!" because just as you thought you had tied up your conversation and could finally do something about that grumbling hunger, you would see he had followed you out the door to give you another piece of advice on Thirsk dining, even though he had already given you a list of restaurants. But, I owe Barry so much for saving my second day in Thirsk which, without him would have been a near flop.

    Now, in planning our second day, Katie and I must have seen Greek gods in the mirror the night before because for some odd reason, we came to the conclusion that a twelve mile walk, starting at 1 pm was more than doable. Perhaps I thought I had packed my winged sandals but sadly, I hadn't. Before I get into our almost defeat, I begin with pictures from the petting zoo we visited which was a great success, consisting of battling off children to pet adorable animals. 

They had baby everythings! 

Including piglets which would let you pet them for as long as you were willing. Next pet?

This is the famed "hairy coo" or Highland cow. I was going to share some of the feed from my bag with him but when my hand drew close, a tongue that would put Jabba the Hut's to shame emerged from his lips and I decided that he looked rather full anyways.

 I never get tired of ponies

And, quite inexplicably, they had wallabies!

   

      Now, after the petting zoo, where Katie and I were literally the only group walking about without a toddler at our heels, we decided to get to the famed "White Horse". Here is where Barry comes in. We started walking in the general direction a skeptical petting zoo guide gave us and then we kept walking. After that, we walked some more. And after that? Well, we walked until all seemed hopeless as we were lost in the middle of Yorkshire farm country. 

     We had just settled down for a water break and a regaining of morale when a sturdy, red Subaru started flashing its headlights at us. Barry, who had known of our foolish plans and tried not to damper our spirits with his subtle warnings, was coming to save us. Katie and I sheepishly got in the car and Barry, seeing the defeat on our faces promised to make it up to us. Make it up he did, driving us around the beautiful countryside, taking us to multiple villages and abbeys and weaving all the history together in a signature Barry manner that was brimming with interest and charm. We were more than happy to listen to him go on about satellite space travel as he had rescued us from pride that would have only ended in blisters. 

Us at The White Horse. Even in the car it took another ten minutes of Barry's rather zippy to get there. On foot? Let's not think about it.

An abbey Barry showed us. Now, Barry's history lessons are fascinating but quite hard to follow so forgive me for not remembering its name

This was the other abbey we went to. Likewise, I remember all about the religious battles that ended in its destruction but its name was lost somewhere in the story.

A view of the Dales from the roads we drove on. If you're going to get lost, this is the place to do it!

    Ultimately, I left the Yorkshires with a yearning to return the second I stepped on the train. Something here sang to my heart, or perhaps whistled. It reminded me of home and yet excited me with its novelty. Had this been my first date with Thirsk, I would have been convinced it was my soul mate. I've only ever experienced this sort of passion about a place once before and that's in North Conway, New Hampshire. For North Conway, it makes sense because I've been visiting it with my family for years, building up warm memories in New England Spring. But with Thirsk, it was love at first sight. I now know what James Herriot was speaking about when he praised his home so fervently. I have walked in his steps and come to understand why this dot on the map meant everything to him; why he wanted to share it with the world through his novels. I have a feeling that for the Yorkshire Dales and I, this is the start of a lifelong friendship, filled with many visits and stories.