Late

On Tuesday morning, we woke up to bright sunlight and a messy hotel room. Having got in late, we had pretty much fallen into bed, still aching from London, drained from our travels, and grateful to have a room for the night.


Joy still wouldn't say she wasn't mad at me for making her drive, though a restful night in a quiet country inn, surrounded by thatched roofs and chirping birds, seemed to lift her spirits.


We gathered up the laundry that had accumulated over the course of our trip, and my mom took £5 with her to do our laundry. Apparently, laundry is free. While she was doing the laundry, my mom told the owner a condensed version of something Joy had mentioned.


Joy said, referencing Pilgrim's Progress,


It doesn't matter what time you get to the Celestial City, or how long and hard the road is, or how much difficulty you had getting there. As long as you have a roll, a confirmed reservation, if you will, signed and sealed by Christ, the owner of the Celestial city, you will be welcomed and greeted. This reminded me of it.


It is true that we were not greeted by a detachment of angels, and that the comparison really did stop right there, but it was a great thought, nonetheless.


While our laundry was getting clean, we had breakfast - a welcome sight since we had had nothing to eat but apples and cheese sandwiches on Monday. The food was served in a low room supported by old oak beams.


We'd had a couple full English breakfasts by this point, but they were both in London. The addition of a teapot, milk, and sugar lumps, served in the country, made a wonderful meal even better.


After breakfast, I took off to take pictures around the area while waiting for the laundry to dry. Then we packed and checked out. I was sorry to leave. It was such a homey little cozy place.

We were still behind schedule, but we determined to do everything we could to get where we wanted to go. We still hadn't had our afternoon tea, but we figured we could do that somewhere between Anne Hathaway's cottage and the International Slavery Museum in Liverpool.


It took us a while to get to Anne Hathaway's cottage. It seemed that everything took longer, especially since we were still getting used to the fact that right was our left and left was our right. But the car no longer told us to take tea breaks, and people no longer honked at us, and traffic circles were no longer so much of a problem, and we didn't get turned around at all. (That last in itself was lovely.)





Anne Hathaway's Cottage was absolutely lovely. The grounds were delightful, and the house itself was beautiful and well-preserved. To be sure, Anne Hathaway did not live in any rooms but the kitchen and dining room (the rest were added later). This, however, did nothing to detract from the pure charm of a wattle-and-daub thatched cottage.




We set off toward Liverpool next, realizing that we would not, in fact, have time for tea this day. Traveling took longer than we anticipated - Joy was not exactly ready to fly through the countryside at a staggering 70 mph around curves on two-lane roads with no shoulders. So we arrived at the tunnel that ran under the Mersey River not long before the International Slavery Museum closed.


This was, incidentally, our only toll for the entire trip. Fun fact: at £1.70 both directions, we paid the same fare as a motorcycle with a sidecar or a three-wheeled vehicle.


Liverpool is an interesting old place, an odd mixture of history and trendiness. We stuck mainly by the Albert Docks, since we were there to see the International Slavery Museum, which had closed by that time.


It was still interesting to see all the ships in the docks, many of which were restored. One is used to teach the troubled youth of Liverpool a trade, as well as important characteristics such as respect, promptness, and initiative.



We left Liverpool behind, went back through the tunnel, and tried to get to the little place where I'd planned to have dinner. It's a darling little country pub, and I really wanted to get there.


But our directions were wrong. I don't know how, but we had to get lost in order to find it. I finally said, "Well, let's just go down this wrong turn and see where we end up." (Joy thought this a really bad idea, especially as it was getting dark, but she still went with it. This is how tired she was.)




And there it was: the Stamford Bridge Inn. I was looking forward to bangers and mash, or just a bit of nice, warm comfort food. This was not to be: it was Italian night at the English country pub.




We were greeted at the door by a charming and somewhat bashful centurion, who told us that we were welcome to stay but that it wouldn't be traditional English fare.

I hadn't realized until that moment how much I had wanted an evening like this. Never are the English more English than when they are pretending to be something else; finally I would get to see what that meant.

The fare was nothing like what Americans think is Italian. It was probably nothing like what Italians think is Italian, either.

What made the evening spectacular indeed was the music. Someone we had never heard of, Jon Christos, sang Italian songs, old love songs, and a wonderful rendition of "To Dream the Impossible Dream". We had not expected to find opera-quality talent in a small country pub. The patrons were encouraged to dance, but the only ones who did were two of the waitresses (both of whom were convinced it was the other who couldn't dance) and a very determined lady who danced by herself because her husband refused. Being the type of person who knocks paintings off walls just by standing up, I didn't try.

Jon Christos was apparently in town to perform with the Liverpool Philharmonic. How we managed to miss that small detail when planning our trip to the Stamford Bridge Inn I will never know, but at the time, we were only delighted that the evening had turned out so well, especially after our disappointment at Liverpool.

Since the Inn is not, in fact, an inn but a pub, we ventured forth into the dark once more to find our hotel for the night. It was a Day's Inn, thankfully not too far from the roadway, with three beds and an electric tea kettle. Having shared a bed with Joy since our trip began, I was glad to have my own again!

Hardhats and Sand Dunes

I started the day on Wednesday by hearing my mom say, "You should get up; it's 3:30." We had to leave by 4 in order to get to Page, AZ in time to go on a rafting tour of the Colorado River.

So I rolled out of bed and stumbled over to my computer. I had to write out the directions to get to Page since part of the road had collapsed and we had to take a detour. I took one look at the clock and said, "You looked at my phone clock, didn't you? That's two hours behind. It's really 1:30; go back to sleep."

Other than that minor catastrophe, the morning started off decently. We were able to see the entire blanket of stars when we went outside. We could also see the silhouettes of the elk grazing in the hotel yard.

There was a lot of "Are you sure this is the right way?" from my mom and sister when we finally did get going. I don't blame them; we had to go through the National Park in order to get to the right highway. They didn't like it very much when I said, "I don't know."

While en route, we got to watch the most beautiful sunrise over the eastern rim of the canyon. We also got to sit behind the most beautiful orange-and-white striped barriers for about 10 minutes. But other than construction and a bit of a kerfuffle at the end about which way to turn on S Lake Powell Blvd, everything went smoothly - a definite first for the Beckett clan. We even got to Colorado River Discovery's headquarters some 4 minutes early.


I am now able to boast that I have been on restricted government property heavily guarded by homeland security. However, I arrived in a bus loaded with other people who can also boast the same thing. On top of that, I was only there because CRD has an agreement with the government that they can use the access tunnel for Glen Canyon Dam. So it's not nearly as sketchy as it sounds.

This tunnel is two miles long, with several adits (windows) blasted through to the sides of the canyon. It has room for only one lane, though it is a bit wider at both ends. There are no lights inside the tunnel, and the grade is 8%. All in all, it's very interesting. I looked up the tunnel on the internet, and essentially all the government will say about it is that it is 2 miles long and not open to the public.

When we got to the end of the tunnel, Glen Canyon dam soared up overhead - 700 feet tall. We had to wear hardhats on the way to the dock for the rafts, since the government doesn't want rocks falling on people's heads. (Sounds reasonable.)

The actual rafting trip was superb. Nate, our guide, was funny and engaging. We had 18 people total on our raft, including two of the most precocious twins out there. They couldn't have been more than six years old, but I think they were five. The boy knew all about ospreys - do you? - and nearly everything else, effectively putting Nate out of a job. The girl, when questioned about how they knew all this stuff, replied in the most genuinely confused and matter-of-fact voice I've ever heard, "I read." (Of course you do. Don't all five-year-olds? I did, so I know the feeling of complete bewilderment when people ask you how you know this stuff, but most five year olds, in fact, do not read unless it's absolutely necessary.)

We stopped for a few minutes on a beach on the river. This was in order to go to the bathroom. Yes, the bathroom. They put free-standing stalls on a beach. I don't know what would possess someone to do that, but it was a good idea.

Past the bathrooms was a wall of petroglyphs - images cut into the rock by ancient and not-so-ancient peoples, including both Native Americans and cowboys who didn't know they were defacing a future National Park. (Joy says, "It's only fair for them to leave their marks, after risking their lives to explore the river." But I think it's a case of "Kilroy was here.")


Before I go on, you must understand that the water released from Glen Canyon Dam is a steady 47 degrees Fahrenheit year-round, since it's released from the very bottom of Lake Powell. We went wading in the river, and our feet quickly felt like blocks of ice. But the coldness showed its value when Nate hauled a bag full of cans of lemonade out of the water and passed them around.

The grandeur of the canyon is not something that can easily be described, or even photographed. It's too big, and too red, and too full of history. There's a deep, pervading sense of silence even when the motor of a raft is running.

We went around Horseshoe Bend and saw people up at the top taking pictures of us. They looked about three millimeters tall. I'm sure we looked just as small to them. Nate had us all yell "Hello!" on the count of three, but I don't think they heard us. The people camping on the other bank sure did, though!

On the way back, I decided to sit on the pontoon (we were allowed to!) instead of in the raft itself. My mom told Nate to try to get me soaked with the spray coming from the bow of the raft, but he didn't seem too interested in doing that. Until the end, when a huge wall of water came up to meet me and I had only enough time to close my eyes and mouth before being thoroughly drenched. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself before apparently remembering that this type of raft tour promised that no one would get wet.

 Let me tell you: 47 degrees is cold, even on a hot day. By that time we were back at the tunnel - and air-conditioned buses. I thought I would be grateful for the air conditioning; in reality, I could not feel my feet because they were so cold.

We entered the tunnel and were zipping along when we saw the one thing no one in a one-lane tunnel wants to see: headlights. Since they had come almost two miles and we had just started, the bus began to back up until the tunnel widened enough for the car to squeak past.

We headed back to CRD headquarters and were pleasantly surprised to see that we had a free Bistro lunch. We were, nevertheless, glad we had packed our own lunch as well, as nothing gets you quite as hungry as a large expanse of water and a tremendously hot sun. They also gave us directions to get to the kayaking place.

I wouldn't say that the kayak tour on Lake Powell was necessary, but it was fun. Our mom has always said that she will never get into a kayak or canoe; she hates them and they hate her. But this time she did get in - successfully, no less - and proceeded to kayak a distance that distance-challenged Joy says was either 2 or 4 miles. I, myself, have no idea how long it was, because on the way there I was busy trying to just keep my kayak straight. (I was the only one, besides the two guides, who was in a solo kayak. Everyone else had a partner.) On the way back, I was busy squinting with one eye because my sunscreen had gotten in the other and I was having a painful allergic reaction.

Lake Powell is a water-filled canyon. Since it's warmed by the sun, the water on top is about 78 degrees - a welcome difference after the river water! The deepest point is about 400 feet. We were in an area that was only about 100 feet deep. Therefore, I put the camera in a dry-bag that was strapped to the kayak. There was no way I was going to find it if it happened to drop over the edge.

We stopped for about half an hour to swim by a little island - really the top of a canyon formation. Joy somehow managed to drop one of the cameras in the water. We are not sure how this happened, since it had been secured around her neck. She rescued it immediately, of course, but it was effectively ruined. (Incidentally, this is the same camera that has been living on borrowed time ever since she dropped it a couple of years ago into a small, water-filled receptacle generally found in powder rooms and NOT in kitchens.) The SD card was fine, though, and I was able to save all the pictures we had taken. Later, when I tried to take it apart and see what was wrong with it, I found it water-logged and rusted. Even without batteries in it, it electrocuted me twice. (Is that supposed to happen?)

Anyway, we tried to go into Slot Canyon, but there was too much gunk in the water. One of the other kayakers said it was like trying to paddle through chocolate soup. We turned around, and stopped by another island to rinse out the kayaks and get the nasty-smelling goop off of ourselves.

By this time, we were starting to get the hang of kayaking. None of us flipped over! We even managed to not be the last ones.

But our adventure was far from over. We had parked on the beach of Lake Powell. Beaches mean sand, and lots of it. We had to drive uphill in all that sand. Being Becketts, we got stuck. In all of two seconds a man in an SUV drove up, attached a rope to our axle, and tried to pull us out. We were still stuck. One of the ladies in our group got a delighted, evil grin on her face, asked to borrow our camera, and proceeded to take pictures of our mishap. Eventually, of course, they got us unstuck, because obviously I am sitting at home writing this.

On the way back, we had to wait at construction for 30 minutes, waiting for the pilot car to come get us and lead us to through the construction. We were just happy it was on the way back, not on the way there. We had barely made it as it was!

We did manage to see the sun set, though. It was spectacular, even though it wasn't really over the canyon.

Finally, our longest day on vacation ended. By the time I had finagled the waterlogged SD card into saving its pictures, I had been awake for 22 hours. That is why I am posting this now, instead of then.

And that, gentle reader, is how NOT to do a rafting tour. I suggest going on one, but not quite like that. Later on, I'll post my list of ways to have a great vacation, Beckett style.