Never say never

After a lengthy break from the blog, dear reader, I am happy to say I'm back, with more news than I could possibly report!

I never did get to blog about the Manchester International Festival's performances of The Machine or Macbeth or Massive Attack v. Adam Curtis, but luckily, other Manchester bloggers have. Click on the links for fantastic writer-about-town and rabbit-lover Dave Hartley's reviews!

I don't necessarily agree with him on every point, but he does write excellent, critical reviews, and if you want to know about the festival, well, Dave took a whole damn week off work to go to things and blog about them, so, he's your man.

Though I thoroughly enjoyed most of the festival (except Long Grass - it doesn't really even bear thinking about how rubbish that was), I was incredibly sad to see it go. It's a short three weeks, the MIF, and I can never really get enough of the summery buzz it brings the city. On one of the last days, I sat in Albert Square with Jonti and some friends, eating ice cream and wishing it weren't over just yet...

But, I didn't have much time to be wistful– I had a flight to catch!

Atlanta was in a stormy mood when I first got in, delaying our landing by about 3 hours. But once I was home, I had a lovely time, hanging out with my family, and rushing about seeing all my friends. I met baby Atticus!

Jeremy and Katie are already great parents, true believers in the CTFD method. It was great to see Lemuel and Emma and Allen, too. I miss you all so much, every day.

And then my mom, my sister, my brother-in-law, my nephew and my niece all went to Hawaii! I'd never been before, and I was very excited about relaxing on a beach and snorkeling. We stayed with my cousin, who is an Army doctor out there. This is the view from her place:

In the end, I didn't get to do much relaxing, because we were dashing about seeing all these beautiful places: 

Blowhole!!

A lot of things in Hawaii look like they're in the past, like this post office that seems to be in a Western movie from the 50s. But that's probably because Hawaii's infrastructure doesn't really seem to have been updated since the 50s.  

Sea Turtle! Maxin' and Relaxin'. You know. Because this is HAWAII, y'all. HAWAII.

And pretty much every sunset looked something like this. 

The beaches are pretty nice. A lot of people don't realise that Hawaii has such nice beaches. Have you even heard of them?  

We spent three days on the Big Island, and mostly saw lots of dried lava. A huge lava flow once stormed through Devastation Trail, leaving things rather... devastated.

In Volcano National Park at twilight, you can see a volcano still slowly releasing hot sulphur into the night sky.

My favourite day in Hawaii was our last day on the Big Island. I woke up early and took a free yoga class that the hotel offered. I ended up being the only one there, and got an hour's free instruction! After all the traveling I'd done (across 11 timezones!), it definitely helped put my body back in order. Then, I sat by the pool with a coffee and a book, and then we all went to Hapuna Beach and played for a few hours, before heading over to Kahalu'u Beach for some snorkeling. 

I absolutely love snorkeling. I would do it everyday if I could. I first fell in love with it at the Great Barrier Reef. There is something wondrous about the quiet of the water around you, watching the silent fish swim around.

And then, after a few days back in Atlanta, suddenly, I was back in Manchester. It was colder and grayer than it was when I'd left, and I was glad I'd remembered to bring a jacket as I stepped off the train.

There he was. Jonti. I'd been talking with him on Skype nearly every day that I was gone. We'd been texting pictures and chatting and missing each other for two whole weeks.

"It's your job to keep me awake all day," I told him, "Because I have work in two days, and I CANNOT be jetlagged."

He did his job well, dear reader, and in the afternoon, we went for a pizza at Croma, just near the Town Hall, one of my favourite places in Manchester. 

He said, "I've been thinking about it, and I think we should get married," he said. "Sooner rather than later. I've looked into it, and we can do it at the Town Hall."

I looked through the window, at Waterhouse's incredible building, and for a moment, I wondered, baffled, if he meant we should go do it right now.

"We should talk about it," he said. I smiled and agreed, and suggested a day when I wasn't quite so tired. 

And so it happened that the girl who thought she'd never never never marry anyone, that she had no need or desire of it, has met the man she wants and needs to marry. His name is Jonti. I can't wait for you to meet him.

The Masque of Anarchy

Last night was the last Manchester International Festival performance of The Masque of Anarchy.

First, some history:
The Masque of Anarchy was written by Percy Bysshe Shelley, in 1819, on the occasion of the Peterloo Massacre. Peterloo looms large in Manchester's working class history-- when the workers of Manchester's mills, some 60-80,000 of them, went on peaceful strike, after years of famine and unemployment, high bread prices and horrible Industrial Revolution-type conditions. The military responded in a somewhat less peaceful manner, charging the crowd with sabres drawn, and killing around 15 people. Many hundreds were injured.

Some of the peaceful protestors were veterans of the Battle of Waterloo, and claimed the massacre at St Peter's Fields was worse, thereby it the moniker 'Peterloo.' It was considered one of the defining moments of its time. It was Kent State.

Shelley, being not a very working class-type, was in Italy at the time, on what I can only imagine was some sort of Romantic writers' retreat. But when he heard about the workers of England standing together to demand their rights, he was moved.

This performance of The Masque was brilliantly Manchester-specific, which is part of what made it so meaningful. The location, the poem, the topic, the performer-- all had to do with Manchester.

The Albert Hall housed the performance. A former Anglican church, it's one of the venues that's been newly reopened for the Festival. It stands very near, if not on, the site of the massacre.

Photo credit: The Manchester International Festival website.

It was performed (beautifully, magnificently) by Maxine Peake, who was raised in Bolton, which is very near Manchester. And in Britain, this matters a lot. Peake is from here. She is Northern. 

Maxine Peake is not only a brilliant Northern actor, though. She's the perfect performer for this poem because she's a Socialist. She supports the Working Class Movement Library, and she has her head on exactly right.

Her recitation was powerful and impassioned. Framed by a giant organ and a wall of candles, her performance took on the air of a sermon. Directed by Sarah Frankcom, she spoke the poem with the whole range of emotions demanded by the drama of the words: from despair ("Misery, oh, misery!") to calm reassurance ("Ye are many; they are few").

The Masque of Anarchy is probably the most eloquent call to nonviolent civil disobedience in the English language. Before I went along to the play, I learned that Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. had used it in their speeches, rousing their followers to stand, firm and peaceful, against the violent, crushing action of a state that does not want them to know they are human.

And it was hearing Peake's performance of the verses that describe, fully, what a real commitment to nonviolence means, that made me shiver:


‘And if then the tyrants dare
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, —
What they like, that let them do.

‘With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.’

I shivered as I thought of people trying, as they did, in India and in Southern US, to stand strong and peaceful, while their brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers were slashed and stabbed and maimed... people trying to expect no better justice or revenge than just shame heaped on their violators. People trying not to even scream out, not to resist.

I thought of Trayvon Martin. All the work the Civil Rights movement never finished.

And I thought about how very difficult it must have been, to convince people that this was a tactic that could possibly work. What true, visionary, astonishing leadership is needed, to convince people to simply look upon the military and police 'as they slay.'

Afterwards, Jonti told me he's never had any religious feelings before, but Maxine Peake, in front of 100s of candles and an organ, calling for workers to stand in solidarity, is probably as close as he could get.

And I doubt Maxine Peake wants to be the leader who finally gets us out into the streets, gets us standing against the banks, the bankers, the welfare cuts and the privatisation of the NHS. But if she did, after hearing her speak last night, I know I would follow.

It's back!

The city of festivals has struck again, beloved reader. 2 years ago, the Manchester International Festival came and, like all fickle ephemeral festivals, it stole my heart away, only to leave me here, bereft, broken-hearted, with just a fluttering promise to--one day--return.

MIF feels even more ambitious and exciting than last time-- and don't forget, last time, it was Björk, doing her science album. That was an enormous, brilliant, audacious show, full of newly invented instruments and really weird songs.

This year, I was so excited about the Festival coming back, I bought tickets for pretty everything I wanted to see. It was a kind of (very) bad idea because I was seriously brizz-oke back in January, from all the unrepentant ticket-buying I was doing (oh also because I was moving house). But now that MIF is actually here, I'm thrilled. 

I didn't know this before, but MIF is the world's first festival, worldwide, of original new work. Entirely new commissions and special events-- nothing that's just on tour anyway. Such an ambitious, exciting idea for a town that's generally considered to be rather second-rate. Just another reason I absolutely love this place.

I'm only going to blog about things as they finish their runs at MIF, to avoid spoiling. 

The Old Woman

Pictures from the Manchester International Festival website

Based on a rather short story by Daniil Kharms, an obscure and largely forgotten writer from the pre- and early post- Soviet era. Kharms hung out with the vanguard of Theatre of the Absurd types, and his stories are full of violence, nonsequiter, characters who can't seem to act, all stuck in their heads and inertia. Some of his stories are incredibly short:

There was a red-haired man who had no eyes or ears. 

Neither did he have any hair, so he was called red-haired theoretically. 

He couldn't speak, since he didn't have a mouth. Neither did he have a nose. 

He didn't even have any arms or legs. He had no stomach and he had no back and he had no spine and he had no innards whatsoever. He had nothing at all! 

Therefore there's no knowing whom we are even talking about. 

In fact it's better that we don't say any more about him. 

This stage production featured Willem Dafoe and Mikhail Baryshnikov, as something like the same character, and it was stunning to watch and really intellectually intriguing. 

The play itself was a stunning feat of stagecraft. A bed, seemingly broken in the middle, forcing Willem Dafoe to crouch into it, its headboard and footboard forming a kind of cage around him evoked exactly the sense of incapacity that Kharm's main character embodies. There were precise spotlights, illuminating objects floating mid-air, changing the objects' colours, lighting up hands and making them seem disembodied. Visually, it was a fantastic spectacle.

It was absurd. In fact, at some points, it was downright bonkers. It was spooky, in that dark Russian way. Watching Baryshnikov pose, with arms up near his head, and let out a piercing scream is unnerving enough. Watching him take one step, pose again, and scream in exactly the same way 15 times in a row is enough to make you hold your heart. But it was also really funny, in a jovial, almost overdone, finger-snapping, toe-tapping tone.  The use of music, from 'Give Me That Old Time Religion' to Russian folk songs contrasted in a way that almost jarred-- but because everything in the show jars, it just seems to work.

And that's why I got really interested in this show, and started thinking of it as more than just something amazing to watch. 

Because I am an incessant researcher (as in, incapable of doing anything without looking up what it'll be like first), I not only read the short story, but I also read some analyses of his work before I went to the play. No one else that I've spoken to about this show had read the short story, so I'm intrigued by how different my experience was to other peoples. See this review by David Hartley for an example.

The show is not actually just an adaptation of one Kharms short story. In fact, it inserts several of his short stories into the general plot of The Old Woman. But the choices that have been made, in creating this production, are absolutely fascinating. Why did they change the last words that the main character said? In a lot of ways, the stage production wasn't like the short story at all.

Interestingly, the stage show, as a sum, is more bizarre than its parts. I'm sure many people had not read any Kharms. They must have left thinking that if an adaptation of his story ended up like this, then his writing must be absolutely off the wall, incomprehensible, disjointed and nonsensical. And that would be a shame. More than a shame: it would be wrong. Because Kharms' stories are dark, they are absurd and they are funny. But they are not nonsense or just a spectacle of words. 

Kharms plays with the Russian canon. For Dostoevsky, a young man goes to an old woman's house and kills her. For Kharms, an old woman barges into a young man's house and just drops dead. But somehow, both characters have to deal with the psychological repercussions of an old woman's death. Who, then, or what, is the old woman really? His stories evoke a sense of dread, fear and the burden of being ineffectual.

And that's where the stage show excelled. Somehow, even though it wasn't very much like the short story, it managed (through the absurd treatment, through the dancing and music, through the disjointed script), to evoke the exact same dark, brooding, strange and funny things that Kharms intended.

A masterpiece.

It's official. The Festival's back.

I flashed!

Partly because I don't write fiction (mostly because I've never really enjoyed limiting my word count), I've never tried to write any Flash Fiction.

But when some friends (just call them #Flashtag) asked me to take part in their Short Short Story Slam for the Didsbury Arts Festival, I was happy to be asked and to be able to do something for my friends.

So, last Friday night, I competed. I still didn't manage to write any fiction... so, I tried out a whole new genre: Flash Non-Fiction!

We had to prepare 3 stories:
1. 100 words or fewer
2. 150 words or fewer
3. 200 words or fewer

Basically, they set up 5 pairs of storytellers against each other, we read our shortest stories, and the losers from each pair were out. The winners of the most votes from each pair then competed against each other. It was brutal, as half the readers didn't even get to read their longer stories!

I've heard a lot of really great flash fiction since I moved to Manchester, and I really didn't think I'd get very far at all. Who's ever even heard of Flash Non-Fiction?!

To my surprise, I ended up being 1 of 3 finalists! I couldn't believe that anyone voted for my stories... I was floored by the fact that I even got to read all three of my stories. And if I had to lose to someone, I'm glad it was to another Southern girl: Trish Starbrook, who had never done an open mic literature night before, and left us all in her dust!

Thanks to #Flashtag for putting on this great night, and for inviting me to participate. I never would have done it, if y'all hadn't asked, and I'm so glad I tried it!

Uneventful

Eventful times, dear reader, make for a very uneventful blog.

I do not, when I am busy, even bother to tell you about the times I get 10 people over to my house for board games. I do not have the time to write about the day – it was a wonderful day – I made 6 people watch Don, the Bollywood classic, starring Amitabh Bachchan in a double role. It should have a better theme song.*

One of the reasons I love living in the UK is having fairly regular opportunities to see one of my favourite musicians: Billy Bragg. You might remember I once even got to meet him! He was annoyed at the state of American cheese.

A few weeks ago, I got to see him play again, this time at a lovely little Northern Quarter venue called Band on the Wall, so named because of this former use of the wall.

Jonti had never seen Billy Bragg live, and it was just after his very last exam, so it made for a great celebration. I didn't get to find out if Billy's had a better cheese experience since I last spoke with him about it...

Last weekend, Jonti and I decided to take a short holiday in the Lake district. We stayed at a quintessentially quirky and strange British B&B. It seems to be an obscure law of B&Bs that they must be run by unusually odd people, with unusually odd taste in wallpaper.

But we didn't have much time to worry about where we were staying, because we were out on lovely, lovely walks.

The first day, we left the B&B around 7pm, having enjoyed a post-lunch, late afternoon nap. It stays light until about 10pm up in the Lakes during summer, so we had hours of daylight left.

We decided on a short walk up to Orrest Head. 

A nice view, but we were only there for about 5 minutes before that ominous cloud blew over us and we got stuck in a rather ridiculous downpour.

After waiting for it to lighten up, sheltering in the trees for about 15 minutes, we realised that rivers of mud were beginning to form and it wasn't going to lighten up at all. We made a dash for it. I immediately lost my footing on a wet flat rock and fell hard smack on my arse. No awesome bruises to show you, unfortunately.

The next day, we were worried the weather might be ugly again, so we bought me a waterproof jacket (with extremely unfashionable hood!) and waterproof trousers (proven to make you look at least 20 lbs. heavier!).

I wasn't thrilled at how puffy they looked, but I knew I'd be happy to have them if it started raining on our walk. I certainly didn't want to sit around in the B&B just because of a little rain.

Weird custom of pushing pennies into a dead tree.



















When we started walking higher, though, it seemed we weren't going to need the waterproofs after all. The sun started coming out, the clouds began to burn away.

There's really no point walking if you're not going to stop halfway, get a pint, enjoy a good background tractor and let a 'morning coffee' sign grow out of your head.

Sometimes, there's a really weird vibe to English tourist towns. The whole local economy of the Lake District relies on tourism, both international and domestic. And so, a lot of people work in bars and cafes... but they seem to really resent tourists. Jonti and I ended up sitting outside having this drink not only because it was a gorgeous day, but partly because of the cold silence we faced when we walked in the bar. Like coming through the squeaky double doors of a western saloon, dust and tumbleweed fluttering in behind us, and everyone looking at us suspiciously.

Beautiful canopy.

After about 5 hours of walking, just as we finished a lovely picnic lunch of olives, bread, cheese and Jonti's homemade ginger cake, the rain started up. We got our waterproofs on. I expected to hate how they felt, for them to be an uncomfortable hindrance.But I was surprised. It turns out wearing waterproofs while it's raining feels rather like having a superpower. It's raining? No worries! I'm going to keep tramping about outdoors without worrying about having sticky jeans for the whole day after! I DON'T EVEN CARE IF IT RAINS ALL DAY. I'm just going to ENJOY THIS CAKE.

As we were heading home, Jonti suggested a detour by way of Wigan to have a Father's Day lunch with his dad.

Even though one of my best mates in Manchester is practically the King of Wigan (or just the patron of its libraries, whatever), I've never actually been to Wigan. I was excited about visiting, and about seeing Wigan Pier, even though I'd been warned it was a bit rubbish.

We tried to visit a museum devoted to a very large Mill Engine, but we either a bit too early or a bit too late. Considering the opening hours, though...

So, the whole thing about Wigan Pier is that there isn't one. Or there was one, but we don't know where it was. Or it wasn't a pier at all, but a sort of loading dock, where coal was tipped into boats along the canal. It was destroyed and sold for scrap as Wigan's industry died... so largely, Wigan Pier is about British industrial decline, the downfall of the North, and the lack of itself. About its own death.

However, helpfully, Wigan council have built a replacement for people who would like to have their picture taken with Wigan Pier. Obviously, it's probably not in the same place as the original loading dock was, because we don't know where that was.

But still.

Look at me, with Wigan Pier. 

Ahem.

And! That's not all! On Monday night, Jonti and I went along to see David Sedaris (!!) read from his new book. He was so friendly. David Sedaris is one of my major heroes; he inspired me to start writing nonfiction and set me on my path to radio as well, in a way. I've been listening to his voice for years, in audiobooks, on This American Life. His voice is incredibly familiar to me. I know the tone and tenor of it, the phrasing and pacing. On Monday night, hearing his voice actually come from someone, his voice suddenly embodied, was a strange and wonderful experience. I was in awe for the first few moments.

And after the reading, he did a thoughtful, intelligent Q&A. I asked a question about radio and writing. His answer was fascinating. He talked about how writers set a mood with words, but radio producers want to set a mood with music. About editing stories down for time. About working with themes, and how difficult that can be sometimes. He talked about being an American who lives in England, and how, in the countryside, everyone is just really happy to talk to him about how much they like America and how they went on holiday there once and it was amazing. I think he finds English countryside dwellers very sweet... and I think they're probably very different to English tourist-centre dwellers. I told him my story about the girls in Kings Lyn who forgot that Americans are real people.

Later, when he signed my book, he elaborated on his original thoughts on radio, saying he doesn't do This American Life much any more, largely because he thinks other people should have their turn on it and get the exposure he got when he needed it.

He was so friendly and lovely; it was a fantastic way to spend an evening. He asked no one to take any pictures or video that night... but I will always have this.

* Such as 'Strangers! Identical strangers!' sung to the theme song of the Patty Duke Show.

Sunny day!

Last weekend, we finally had some sunshine. Given it was the second May bank holiday, Jonti and I decided to find ourselves some greenery. He's in the middle of exams, but it was too gorgeous a day to stay in.

We went to Heaton Park! Having only seen it at night, I finally managed to get there in day time... and it was beautiful.

I'd had a really busy week, full of work deadlines and and illness and far too many evening activities: a Travelling Band gig (meh), Electronic Voice Phenomenon (hmm), a Pat Martino gig (wow!).

A day at the park was exactly what I needed. Jonti and I sat in the sun, at a weird little garden cafe, and talked over his exam topics. A beautiful day. I look forward to visiting Heaton Park again...

Much like I'm looking forward to visiting (wait for it...) ATLANTA again!!

Oh, how very exciting-- this July, Atlanta folks, get ready. I'm in for a whirlwind few days.* I expect to see you, your new babies, your cats, your pictures, your very best macaroni art. I can't wait. Atticus: Be prepared. I'm going to cuddle you silly!

*Email or FB me for more information!

Bloody-minded

British people can occasionally be spectacularly stubborn. They call it being "bloody-minded," a phrase that, when I first heard it, sent me into uncomfortable, nervous giggles, as I imagined a sort of visible stroke, gloopy brain muddled with blood.

This bloody-mindedness means that once you've decided you're going to enjoy something, you don't just force yourself to do it no matter what-- it means you're going to force yourself to ENJOY IT. To my friend Geraint, this means that when you've planned a picnic, even if it rains and hails on the day of said planned picnic, you will still go. You will sit in the car, in situ, and eat your damp sandwiches and your cold Scotch eggs, with your mum and your brother and sister and you will enjoy yourself.

I don't know if it's because I'm American, or because I'm from a town that can generally expect better weather sometime soon... but I just don't buy into this.

Consider this, from my friend and former flatmate:

made a rhubarb pie especially - was determined to have a picnic despite the rain and cold!
— The Shrieking Violet (@Natalieviolet) May 11, 2013

And this response:

@natalieviolet This is why I can only live in this country. Rhubarb & bloody-minded picnics. Excellent work :)
— Matthew Whitfield (@mwhitfield80) May 11, 2013

I mean, seriously. What is going on? How is there an entire nation of people deciding to have fun and then somehow managing to force themselves into having it despite all circumstances pushing against them? It's an act of will that I simply don't have the effort to manage.

I'm American. I like the sun and warm days and I will WAIT to have a picnic or a barbecue until a sunny warm day comes along.

If they don't come along, I will go without. Enjoy a warm living room and a cup of tea and a duvet, instead. Because these things, the picnics, the barbecues, they are not worth the effing hassle without lovely weather. But that's my take. Pretty much everyone I know in this bizarre country does not agree and can attest to happy childhoods spent wearing raincoats and gloves, standing in blustery wind, eating rainy food, because we are on a picnic and you will be happy about it.

When my friend Tommy invited me to a birthday weekend in the Lake District, I was a bit worried I'd have to take on some bloody-mindedness, for group harmony. They might not let me just sit by the fire in the cozy cottage and drink tea and read... they might cajole and coerce me into  some wet, hail-ridden, muddy, cold fell walking. They might all tell each other what a lovely time it was, and how it wouldn't really be better if it were warm and sunny, because it wouldn't be really British, or something. And then they'd look at me, expectantly, wondering when I was going to join in the group delusion. And I'd have to pull one of those faces that looks like a smile but is actually a grimace and say, "This is great! Happy Birthday, Tommy! Let's eat some damp food now!"

Luckily, this didn't happen. Instead, a huge group of Tommy's friends, about 13 of us in total, had a lovely weekend with some beautiful crisp sunny weather. We did a stunning walk up Helvellyn. I didn't go all the way up Helvellyn.

Gorgeous. We stayed in a very remote cottage in Coniston. It used to be a slate and copper mining town, and its lake has been used many times for setting the world water speed record. Donald Campbell beat his own record in 1966, getting to 320 miles/hour, and then immediately lost control of the hydroplane and lost his life.

The views from our cottage were breath-taking.

Our second day there was a bit grayer, so I decided I didn't want to go canoeing. I decided to take a suggestion from Jonti's mother and go to the Ruskin Museum. John Ruskin was a leading Victorian-era art critic, who championed JMW Turner. Ruskin owned Brantwood, a house on Coniston Water, and lived there for years. Apparently, it's a beautiful old home, turned into a museum and art gallery.

But I didn't go to Brantwood. I got confused and went to the (somewhat misleadingly named) Ruskin Museum. I would argue this museum is incorrectly named because it is actually just a bunch of rooms filled with stuff vaguely related to Coniston.

It is an excellent horrible little local museum. I highly recommend it. The room devoted to Coniston doesn't feature any sort of general history or chronology. It's just several unconnected displays: Copper! Slate! A poem someone wrote about Coniston! A boat that inspired a book about Coniston! 

There's a room about Donald Campbell and his hydroplane, the Bluebird-- with interactive touch screens! The slide titled 'A Generous Man' had me and Claire in fits. Rather than a list of Campbell's charitable work or donations, it was just a list of gifts he had given people. For Christmas once, he had cowboy suits made for a friend's sons. An acquaintance's wife enjoyed a poem he recited and wanted a copy of it-- so he stayed up all night to type it out for her. I mean, what. a. guy.

Creepy mannequin hands in the Bluebird room.

A fantastic provincial museum, full of wacky curiosities. It's what I imagine a Stars Hollow museum would be like. Brantwood might be a better museum, or even an actually good museum, but it's probably not at all funny.

Throughout the weekend, we also saw our fair share of adorable sheep.

They really are sometimes just black! Some of you, who grew up in rural Britain, already know this. I'm a city girl. I never realised there was actual fact behind children's songs.

I made new friends (hey y'all!), and I really enjoyed breathing all that crisp air. I'd like to do more fell walking this summer. 

The night we all got into the hot tubs and drank sparkling wine (which we insisted on calling 'champagne,' because maybe we did get a little bloody-minded, after all) was one of the goofiest experiences I've had in a long time. 

It was a lovely weekend, and I can't wait to visit the Lakes again. Though, since that weekend, the weather has taken another turn for the worse, suggesting that weekend might have been all the summer we'll get this year-- meaning, if I want to go to the Lakes again this year, I just might have to get a little more bloody-minded.