Day Fifteen

(photo is an example of the fine public art in Newport, Wales)

Bruges plans went up in smoke by way of the volcano. After congratulating myself on making all arrangements to ferry to and from, with motel reservations near the terminal and a mere ten miles to drive to that reputed "Venice of the North", I cancelled. As you no doubt know, those ferries are inundated with massive lines of British repatriates desperate to get home ASAP. We didn't feel assured of a timely return. On the up side, a natural disaster meant that travel cancellations were relatively easy. But if ever you're in England wanting to take that side trip, it would have only cost around $200 all told, for two nights lodging plus round trip transportation.

So I threw a dart at the map, so to speak, and we landed in the south of Wales for a week in a cheap but acceptable motel room. We're barely squeezing around a couple of twin beds shoved into a king-size, with almost all the amenities of our wonderful American motels (including, as you see, free wi-fi). We've made our way to three locations thus far for floor spots and a sing-around, and will get to two more before hitting the road for the rest of the tour. Last night we somehow stumbled onto a recommended song circle in a postage-stamp sized pub room outside of Nailsea. I say stumble because when we finally managed to get to the likely location our directions gave us, it seemed impossibly remote. We drove a hundred yards or so on a one-lane dirt farm road thinking we'd better turn around fast. So we managed to retrace our path, found a walker who gave us directions, and made another turn back down the tiny lane which indeed led eventually to the pub. We squeezed into a parking spot, entered, and found the place jammed with people in this farmhouse-looking place in the middle of freshly-sown fields.