Traditions and history

Here's a funny thing, a lot of Brits I know are very attached to their washing lines. Not literally you understand, but when I say that in Canada or our bit of it, not many people hang washing out and in fact that where I live we are not allowed to, they will say how much they'd miss that. Yesterday I was able to hang some washing out. It is a bit of a ritual in Britain. You hang it out, then look at the sky, at the first spot of rain you rush out and get it in, at the first sign of sun you hang it out again, and truly, washing that has been dried outside smells wonderful. We also like to see washing lines full of washing. You know, I'm wrong, that's a European thing.

The train journey to Portsmouth takes roughly an hour, depending on whether you get a stopping train or a semi-fast. I love watching the countryside go past and the way the rain smears across the windows when the train is going fast. British Rail catering has always been notorious for being awful, but in recent years all that has changed, the coffee is very good, the sarnies, pastries, wraps, everything else are as good as you will find anywhere.

There are three stations in Portsmouth, all within walking distance of each other, that's the way it is with the trains in Britain. Wherever you are going you can go by train, you may have to change several times and you may have a walk at the end, but it is a part of British life that we can be justifiably proud of.
Sadly, it is also a method that people use to commit suicide, it's about as regular for commuters into London to be delayed because of a jumper as it is for commuters across Vancouver to be delayed by jumpers from the bridges. Actually probably more so, and the trains only get delayed because people have actually jumped, whereas very often on the Lion's Gate bridge it's because the police are trying to talk someone down.

So, I arrived, and although I could have walked, I phoned Austen to get me and he arrived with Holly in the car. She looked confused, maybe she remembered me, maybe not, but what a sweetie she is. I was able to cuddle her before meeting my new grandson Edward. My goodness he is tiny, so cute, a little bit yellow at the moment, but that will pass. Austen said that Holly is good with Edward, but she's a bit annoyed with him and Sue. And she did indeed kiss Edward very gently, patted his head.
When I left the UK, Holly was about to walk, could pull herself up and get around by holding onto things. Now she walks confidently and is starting to talk.

In the evening we took both children down to the sea. They have a double pushchair, one behind the other. It is quite mild here at the moment and as we went out the sun was just setting. I tried to take some photos of the sunset, but with limited success. The colour of the sky was breathtaking, deep red and gold with the trees black against it. We walked up by Southsea Castle where King Henry the eighth stood and watched the ill-fated Mary Rose sink into Portsmouth Harbour and we looked out to sea. Lights on Lord Palmerston's follies blinking red and green in the water, the lights of Gosport across the bay silver, and then turning round and looking back towards Southsea, the newly opened Spinnaker tower with its blue lights.
This city has so much history. Kevin and I once did a ghost walk around the old town. There is an old church ruin a stone's throw from the water. This is the garrison church where the Bishop of Chichester was murdered in 1449 which resulted in the entire city of Portsmouth being ex-communicated for fifty years. This explains a lot about Portsmouth in my opinion.

Returning to Sue and Austen's I was a bad guest and fell asleep on the sofa while they put the chidren to bed and Austen, an inexplicably good cook, made dinner. We talked about the world situations that bother me, Iran, Iraq, the French Presidency, Angela Merkel's chancellorship and the resurgence in interest in nuclear power. Also of course, yes, the Canadian election.
I slept soundly last night, whereas Holly it seems had a bad night, keeping her poor parents awake. Seems like Tony Blair may not have slept well either, since the police seem to have uncovered a plot by the annoying and inappropriately named 'Fathers for Justice' to kidnap his son Leo 'so that he would know what it's like to be separated from his son'. Pressure groups, another great British tradition.