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The Great Wet North

December 02, 2002 ~ 12:38 p.m.

If there is a worse curse than late November weather, I�d love to know what it is.

Now perhaps I really should not complain, seeing as how it�s polar bear weather in Massachusetts while across the pond temperatures have been tolerable. However, member in good standing of the PAMAEC (Piss And Moan About Everything Club) that I am, such comparisons are irrelevant to me.

This past weekend, my mother, wife and myself all went �oop� north for the weekend. We left London under grey skies. An hour and 100 miles later, we arrived in Grantham under grey skies. We met Jo, my mom-in-law, and hopped back on the train one more stop to Newark under grey skies. This scenario would change as soon as we arrived in Newark, however. That�s when the grey skies broke.

It was only a drizzle, but one that just kept sheeting down all day. We walked across town to the castle � or castle-like ruins, I should say � and went into the church, which was pleasant enough, but not brilliantly awe-inspiring either. Then we caught the train back to Grantham. It had been drizzling for the better part of the day and my jacket, hat and especially my knapsack were at that odd not-quite-soaked-but-well-past-moist stage. It had also been chilly � noticeably nippier than in London � but now things were turning what could with little argument be called cold.

�Hey, Mom,� I said, while we waited on the platform for the eastbound train. �Just think about what it�s like back home.� It came as little comfort to us. Perhaps the fifteen degrees of difference could be appreciated in dry conditions, but we were wet and it was a bit blustery.

Well, me ducks, it could only get worse. For the next day in York, the temperature did not rise much, but the level of precipitation did. It was, if you�ll excuse my excursion into crudity, pissing down. Even I would have put up an umbrella had I had one. Once again, my acrylic hat was the only protection I had. But given the choice between one lone piece of moderately waterproof material covering my cranium or a canopy of nylon shielding most of my body, I would have opted for the latter.

We all ducked inside the Minster (cathedral). The Minster is like a monster hiding behind the street leading up to it. You pass through the old city walls and walk a few blocks up the street with no indication of the church in sight. But then it suddenly appears � a massive, twin-towered structure, looking a bit like Westminster Abbey. As good as it was to finally lay eyes upon a building I�d heard so much about (�You�ve got to see York Minster,� was something I�d been told by so many over the course of more than two years), the novelty soon wore off in the rain. We had a coffee in a caf� to wait out the rain. Eventually, it stopped.

Nevertheless, it was still wet and chilly. We walked up and down the Shambles, the oldest street in the city, its medieval houses jutting out so far that the rooftops nearly touched. We also shivered. Our clothes had dried on the radiators overnight only to get wet again.

It was like heaven on earth to get back on the coach bus at four that afternoon. We had done our fair share of walking around this weekend, all of it in moody conditions. Yes it could have been worse � it didn�t snow, we didn�t have an Arctic blast, and though it was considerably breezy at times, the wind wasn�t gale force.

Instead, we just had that that perpetual mist and nimbostratus cloud cover that gave way to rain on several occasions. You never really appreciate your travels when the weather is crap. Case in point: I cannot truthfully say I enjoyed Brussels three weekends ago, cold and wet as it had been there. The high point of that vacation was crawling underneath the bed sheets and drinking wine in the hotel room.

On the coach back to Grantham, I turned to Mom and said, �Looks like the forecast I gave you for scattered clouds this weekend was a bit off.� In the end, all our weary souls needed a gas fire and cups of tea at Jo�s to give us the strength that the weather had sapped in order to get ourselves back to London.

And here we are again. The clouds, meanwhile, remain. And I expect it will rain as soon as I step out the door for my swim. Good thing I plan on getting wet anyway.

� M.E.M.

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