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This cry for help pointed to by NTK gave me horrible flashbacks. Still, I was ripe for finding a slagging off England entertaining, not just because I was nearly there this time last year, but because my English bank finally managed to get my wife and I the chequebooks for our joint accounts. A year after we ordered them.

Awwww. Apparently, it would be “unkind” and “insensitive” to UK farmers to promote New Zealand produce during their foot and mouth crises.

Let’s hear the sympathy for the English farmer, that noble breed. We might reflect on the factory-farming conditions in the UK that have resulted in BSE, but that would be unkind. We could discuss how New Zealand farmers are shut out of lucrative international markets by subsidised European agricultural products being dumped into those markets, but that would be unfair. We could point to the wall of import restrictions that mean, as things stand, British consumers will be without meat rather than allowing a single container more of New Zealand produce to enter Europe, by that would be insensitive.

No, instead we should think about all the things our wonderful friends in Europe have done for our agricultural industry, and be nice to them by not suggesting to British consumers that they could get more ethically farmed, better quality produce.

Amongst the things I better appreciate for having been in the UK: how much nicer my house is than I remember it. And how good it is to have daylight when I wake up (although the daylight until I go to bed is still a bit disconcerting).

Well, home again. And how nice it is to be home. I allowed myself one little toy by way of self-compensation for the pain of England; a little digital camera (an Epson PhotoPC650 that had been on sale), and a fine gadget it is too. I’ve been snapping away happily since aquiring it. One batch of photos from my last day or two in Stourbridge is here.

Having been completely fucked around by United, I’ve sworn off flying with them again. For one thing, I can’t afford to keep buying new luggage, and for another, I don’t like giving money to companies that leave me that close to smacking the shit out of the staff. It’s not why one pays other people to do stuff.

I just had what will probably be my last workout at Universal Fitness in Halesowen, a gym I can’t speak highly enough of - Stephen found it by accident and we started going, then I joined in when I got here. It is, quite simply, the best gym I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. The people are friendly, happy to work in, and make going to the gym a thoroughly pleasant experience.

Of particular note are Debbie, the woman behind the counter, a friendly lady with a good knack for telling a yarn and making friends with strangers; Bobby, a big man who always seems perpetually nervous; and Patrick, an even bigger bloke who’s been training for ten years, has arms bigger than most people’s thighs, and a thoughful approach to his training - and a great big smile for people who wander by.

So if there’s something about England I’ll really miss, it’s this place. It’s some of the most enjoyable training I’ve ever done - not just because I was getting good results (an average 50% increase in weights over three an a half months) - but because it’s the most pleasant and down to earth place I’ve ever trained. No bullshit, no sulky guys hogging the equipment, no show-offs, and no-one making fun of guys just starting out.

I wish I could pick it up and take it with me.

The local ASDA contained a celebration of traditional Midlands cuisine - an elderly couple buying (I shit thee not) Mr Brain’s Pork Faggots (with Free Mushy Peas!).

Spent the weekend zipping about the British countryside and sleeping. Actually, I spent most of Saturday dozing, and on Sunday headed down to Oxford to meet up with Tsar, miscellaneous of her friends, and have lunch.

Lunch was at the Trout, an apparently famous pub on the fringes of Oxford. It sits next to a river and a small, single-lane stone bridge. We arrived half an hour early, after a quick stroll in the countryside next to Oxford, and queued(!!) for the pleasure of their food.

The food was, gratifyingly, quite tasty; certainly a cut above most pub fare I’ve been exposed to here. The best bit, though, was the resident band of peacocks. They’re fairly incautious around people, to the point where I managed to get one to eat a chestnut out of my hand, with only a few misdirected pecks hitting my fingers. They look even more impressive close up - the colours become more interesting and intricate. Peacocks also have a rather sharp set of eyes on them - having one stare fixedly at one is a slightly unnerving experiance, since they look like they’re weighing up their chances if they decide to have a go.

The peacock I fed is obviously interested in becoming a diabetic - when one set of diners left their meal, it rushed over and ate the bowl of sugar that came with their coffee.

Then Maire and I squirted across England and into South Wales, stopping at a Roman Villa along the way - sadly, the (still active) archaeological site is closes at the end of every November, so we could only look at it from over a fence. We got into South Wales as the sun was setting, which made the brightly-lit Monmouth look reasonably spectacular, but meant we didn’t actually see to many hills and valleys (although one could feel them blatting over them).

So a daylight expedition to Wales will have to wait for another day - as will a daytime expedition to the Cider Museum in Hereford...

Well, I discovered that the (now lone - its nestmate appears to have abandoned it) cygnet Mute Swan living on the part of the Dudley canal in front of egg doesn’t like pork scratchings - or, at any rate, it prefers chasing the pair of Canada geese (also newly resident) to eating the scratchings. Bit of a shame, since I trekked them up from Merry Hell especially for the purpose.

The adult swans who were here for a while - who appear to have vanished from the area, sadly. It was very cheering for the brief period of time while I could be greeted by two geese, two cygnets and a pair of adult swans.

The geese still have the gratifying habit of coming ashore in the area egg’s smokers use and shitting all over the ground, though.

When I told Debbie, who works reception at the Halesowen Gym that I was going to York, she replied, “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to York.” That wasn’t the last of that sort of comment I heard from locals, but it reminded me of how far away from the New Zealand psyche I am over here. York’s about three hours from Stourbridge on the motorway system, even allowing for a break. No distance at all, in other words. To think that one could make it to a reasonable age and never find time to take such a short trip!

Anyway, York was a delight to both Maire and I - it still retains most of the city wall, and the (rather small) keep of the old castle is in reasonable shape, despite the walls leaning alarmingly outward. A small plaque commemorating the massacre of York’s Jewish population in 1190 sits at the base of the mound it is built on.

What was especially delightful about York are the people: York is about the only place I’ve been in England that works properly. And, contrary to stereotype, the people are happy and friendly (although one stallholder explained to me that the lack of a northern taciturn nature was probably since I was a foreigner, rather than a despicable southerner). The city still retains large chunks of old architecture - the Shambles, for example, is a maze of Tudor housing and streets, crammed with stalls and shops.

The York Minster is an extremely impressive monument to medieval Christian architecture, and the ring road conveniently runs around the outside of the aforementioned town walls.

The most disconcerting aspect of the trip was the darkness - by 3 PM, the place was pitch black; it felt like late evening to us.

Definitely a must-return. We might haul Jack and Heather along.

Weight training progresses apace. I’m the same weight as I was at my wedding, but I’ve added inches to my arms and chest, and I’m finally beginning to muscle up again. One of the odd things about the whole business is the way in which one springs fairly quickly back to old levels of achievement. Within a couple of weeks of beginning a lot of exercises in earnest, I’ve hit (or come close to) the levels of accomplishment I achieved after 2 years of work in my late teens.

Granted, some of the numbers are a little less impressive when rendered as proportions of bodyweight, since I’ve added 20 kilos to my frame in the last 10 years, but it’s an interesting indicator that the old theory that one can rapidly reatain old peaks, even after an old layoff.

I’ve almost finished my writeup of my trip to Paris, which was great fun. Suffice to say that Paris is a lot better than I expected, which has made a pleasant change from England.