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Good Morning Nanty Glo!
Friday, August 17 2001

From Bath to North Wales

Llangollen, North Wales—Mike and I arrived here around 6:30 this evening after driving most of the day with a long stopover lunchtime at Stratford on Avon, William Shakespeare's home town and one of England's favorite tourist destinations.

This had been my third visit to Stratford, and it's always gratifying to introduce something you like so much to your offspring, and Mike had expressed interest in visiting it. This time, the crowds were almost overwhelming. On the other hand, in a beautiful afternoon the size of the crowd congregating in the park in front of the National Shakespeare Theater to see a street performer do his bits added energy that would have been dissipated otherwise. We were discouraged by a walk we tried to recreate from a tour book we had along, finding that the details were too skimpy and we had to turn back on our quest to find Shakespeare's wife's childhood home, which is one of the most beautiful homes of its era preserved in England (I visited and photographed it in 1994). However, for the first time I got to go inside the church where Shakespeare and members of his family are interred, and Mike also got to share this experience, a bonus as we had arrived at Westminster Abbey in London a couple days earlier too late to get inside. (Westminster is the final resting place of more historical figures of literary and political fame than any other English-speaking site, but many would tell you one Shakespeare is worth 100 more run-of-the-mill writers.

I wanted to come back to Llangollen (the Welsh name is pronounced "Clan-glof-flen") because it reminds me very much of the Nanty Glo in my mind. I first saw it 1994 when I came on my first visit to England, Wales, and Ireland with a church tour group. At that time we stopped here near noontime for lunch and there were many tour busses in town. It was bustling and seemed larger than it is. A strong river about three times wider than the Blacklick Creek in Nanty Glo rushes down through the hilly town, dividing it into two sections like our Nanty Glo. A large B&B has the name "Cambrian House" in large letters, also suggesting "home." (Cambria is the old Roman name for Wales, as Anglia was for England and Hibernia for Ireland, so those names have been used as "nicknames" or synonyms for all these places ever since.)

This time, arriving at dinnertime, we found it easy to find a bed and breakfast double room and the streets were almost too quiet afterward. We didn't find any sign of an Internet cafe or service so this entry was delayed in sending. Of course I didn't get to check Thursday's email, either, and the reason I'm writing more this evening is that there's not much to do after having had a gourmet dinner at a local bistro (even though the town seemed quiet, that place had been taking reservations for dinners and we lucked out by coming in just as space was opening).

A real "downer," too, is that the cable required to upload photos from Mike's camera to the computer couldn't be found when we went to process them this evening, so there's no photo to send today and if it isn't found it won't be possible to send any more in this tour, a major setback. I also have my digital video camera along, which I used for the photos from my July visit to Blacklick Valley, but I didn't bring along the hardware accessory required to transfer video frames into still photos, thinking the process will be much easier and the photos of higher resolution using Mike's new still digital camera.

Tomorrow we have our biggest "driving" day, having our goal as Edinburgh, Scotland.

Webmaster Jon Kennedy

Differences between you and your boss

When you're on a day off sick, you're always sick. When your boss is a day off sick, he must be very ill.

When you apply for leave, you must be going for an interview. When your boss applies for leave, it's because he's overworked.


Sent by Mike Harrison


There comes a day when a man understands that all is of grace, that the whole world is a gift of God, a completely generous gift since no one forced him to it. We see each flower, each drop of water, each minute of our life as a gift of God. ...The great gift, the unique one, is not a thing but a person. It is Jesus Christ himself. In Him, God has given himself, no longer just things which He creates or has created, but His own Person, His own suffering, and His own solitude, given until death itself.

—Paul Tournier

Sent by Carole Levinson Stuart

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