New Year's Part Two, or Chester and Josh have Stolen My Heart

Okay, so I'm doing two posts in one day, but you have to read the other one first or this one won't make as much sense.  

Anyway, to continue the story, we went to Will's dad's sheep dairy farm - these sheep are Dorset Down breed.  We got to look at the equipment, then we went to look at the LAMBS!  I wanted to snuggle one so bad.  The boy lambs get numbers on their left side and the girls get numbers on the right.  They kept running away and Josh was trying to catch me one to pet.  I picked up one for a moment, but it jumped down.  Then, another one, No. 98, walked right up to me.  I picked it up and snuggled it a bit, rubbing its little sweet ears and it kissed me and nuzzled my neck.  It was quite content to be held and I was loving just holding it.  

Then, talking to Will, I found out something terrible.  No. 98 was numbered on his left side.  He would not get to live the sweet life of a dairy sheep.  He would get fattened up to 40 kg of organic, grain-fed fleshiness, then they chop his head off, take his innards out and sell him for £100!  I am no vegetarian, and I like veal as much as the next person, but the thought of this sweet little lamb dying so someone could enjoy chops and kebabs made me want to cry.  

To make matters worse, when I put him down, he wouldn't leave.  He followed me to the edge of the pen and bleated pitifully when I left, as if to say "Please help me, Wendy!  Don't go!"  I can't let him die!  I immediately came up with a plan to save him, and a name, Chester.  I always said if I got another cat (or dog) I'd name it Chester, but this lamb is special too.  Anyway, Tom and Will's mum had pity on me, and if I pay the £100 for him, they will keep him as one of their lawnmower sheep and let him live a wonderful long life.  

Please, please help me save Chester!  You can join our Facebook group or just mail me a dollar (every little bit helps) - Save Chester! Facebook Group  

As if it weren't enough, here are pictures of me and Josh and sweet little Chester.

Hopefully, this next picture will also appeal to the depths of your Grinch-like hearts if that didn't.  The mum of the little sheep in this picture died, and one of the ewes lost her baby, so in order that he wouldn't starve, they put the skin of the lamb that didn't make it onto the one who has no mom, and now they make a family.  Are you crying yet?

Scrooges.  Anyway, the next day, we met our friend Laura from Manchester and travelled around rural Dorset and saw Milton Abbas, a big fancy boarding school with lovely buildings, and I ate my first ever Ploughman's Lunch, which is a British institution.  Then we went to Badbury Rings, a prehistoric village with lovely views (and more sheep).

This is the Sailor's Return, a proper "country pub" with a thatch roof and everything.  Dorset (and maybe the southwest in general) is known for cider, and I drank several (okay, four) pints of cider, which, as it turns out, has just as much, if not more ABV than regular beer.  We went back to Tom's house in the middle of the night, and even though it was a straight shot walking 1/2 a mile in the pitch-dark, Josh practically had to drag me back (and he says he was carrying me at one point, but I do not remember that).  Lesson: do not drink lots of cider with boys at quaint country pubs.  Two pints is more than enough to be sociable.  These pictures were presumably taken by said boys while I was in the loo.  Note that Josh is wearing an I LV NY shirt.

This is Josh's dad, Pete, and Charlie the puppy at Milton Abbas.  This was the most well-behaved the dog was the entire time.  :)

Here are part of the remnants of my Ploughman's lunch.  A ploughman's consists of: bread and butter, cheese or ham (or both), salad, pickled onion, pickle (which is actually a kind of relish), an apple, and a boiled egg.  I think the original ploughman's lunch, which presumably was fed to people plowing, was bread (a bap, or what we would call a bun), butter, cheese and pickle.  It was delicious, authentic and "mint" to use a British word.

Also, I am in love with Josh. That is all for now!

New Year's Part Un - Dorset

Okay, so I have been a little busy, mainly with two things: school and my new bf, Josh.  I worked extra hard on my essays, which were due last Monday, then I hung out with my poor, neglected boyfriend.   We both kind of have those cartoony hearts in our eyes, so I have neglected you, dear readers.  I apologize if this is overly sentimental and focused on my new beau.  Actually, no I don't.  Also, the most important part is at the end, so read to that part.

First, I have to talk about New Year.  I went to Poole, Dorset(shire) in "Southern" England on the coast to visit Josh and his family.  His mum, Lin, and dad, Pete, were both sweet and funny, and his younger brother, Sam, is a talented artiste who's going to study medicine at Uni.  The first day there we walked the dalmatian puppeh Charlie on the beach and went ice skating (re-enacting our first date, which neither of us realized was a real date till later).  I was basically wearing all the clothes I possibly could (yes, even the long underwear Mom), and it was still freezing.

The scenery in Dorset is magnificent, and we spent New Year's morning eating bacon buttys (or, as I call them "buddies") cooked by Josh's mum on the beach (well, in their cabana).  Only the Brits could come up with something so simultaneously horrible and wonderful to eat.  The recipe: You take two pieces of bread and slather each side with butter like you're making a sandwich.  Cook bacon, put it in the middle.  It is delicious, and I worry about gaining a stone just from eating them.  Back to the beach, it is beautiful, but it was as cold as... well, it was cold.

Here's a picture of Tom (Josh's best friend), Josh and Sam (the little brother).  Tom is basically what I thought every single British person is like (he's even wearing a fedora, come on!).

The afternoon on New Year's Day was one of the best experiences of my whole life.  I'm just going to throw it out there.  We went hiking to Lulworth Cove and looked at geologic formations then...to see...SHEEEEEP!  

Just to give you an idea of how much clothes I am wearing, I have on long underwear (top and bottoms), jeans, two pairs of socks, Josh's sisters wellies, a tshirt, one of Josh's fleece pullovers (enormous) AND my coat.  That's why I look like a 4-year-old on a snow day.  And to be honest, I was still cold.

You may not know this, but I have a longstanding love-affair with sheep.  They might be stupid and smelly, but the are so awesome and fluffy.  I love seeing them like little cotton balls on the English green hillsides.  I always wanted to squeeze one to see if it was all fluffy or if it was solid.  I tried to in Yorkshire, but they always ran away.  Josh's best friend Tom and his brother, Will, took me to their house (out in the country, in a town appropriately called Wool), and I got to feed their tame sheep and squeeze them, and it was GLORIOUS!

First, we went to their house to see the "lawnmower" sheep, which are tame.  The picture below is me feeding them.  The tame sheep are the Portland breed, which means they are fluffy and awesome.  I squeezed them and squealed quite a bit.

Then, we went to feed the pregnant ewes (there are lots).  I found one that had a big abcess on its face, so I actually did help Will with something other than feeding them.

This is Will and the ewes.  Isn't he a cute British sheep farmer?  If you are looking for one under 21, let me know.  By the way, sheep are kind of aggressive when you are feeding them, and they're preggers too, which probably means they are more hungry/mean than usual.  They kept biting my legs (just nibbles through my trousers) and they almost knocked me over.

ZOMBIE SHEEP!  Not really, they're just the sick/weak ewes wanting me to feed them.

Finally we got to see the lambs.  This part will actually be in the 2nd installment because there are lots of pictures as well as something close to my heart (i.e. Chester).

Christmas and Boxing Day in NI

Okay, I'll eventually get to the New Year's post, which will be the best.  It involves sheep and the beach, and that's all I'll say.

First things first.  After spending the night at the Europa Hotel in Belfast and touring around on the 23rd, I took the train just 20 minutes outside the city to Moira, the home of my lovely hosts, Sam and Evelyn Briggs.  They have a son my age living in Belfast (Simon) and another who is married with two children.

On Christmas Eve we went to a party with an eccentric but fun host and hostess, who raise sheep and are the N. Ireland leaders of the Int'l Young Farmers or something, which I think is the international equivalent of FFA or 4-H.  John had actually worked in cotton and peaches in South Carolina when he was younger, so I think he had a better idea of where I was from than anyone else.  The church where went went to midnight service was small (and FREEZING-due to someone not remembering to turn the boiler on).  There's a shiny lit thing in the photo which is actually Santa Claus on a motorcycle.  Apparently, the rector is into motorcycles, which didn't really explain the presence of the bizarre decoration, but I was too cold to care.  The parish, Aghalee (pronounced ACK-uh-lee), like the rest of NI lost a significant number of men during WWI and there's a large war memorial on the wall as well commemorating it.  I wanted to take a picture of the church's exterior, since it's around 350 years old, but I was too focused on staying warm.

After a mince pie (they are everywhere!) and a sherry we all went to bed and woke very late on Christmas morning.  "Dinner" (i.e. lunch) was to be served around one, approximately (I was warned).  Well, since none of us woke up until nearly 11 (which is definitely a record for me), this was obvs not going to happen.  We had a lovely salmon appetizer with sparkling wine around 2 while we unwrapped gifts.  My mum gave me pajamas (a long-running tradition) and a new denim jacket.  Sam and Evelyn got me some Marks and Spencer soaps and Simon burned me some CD's of Irish artists.  

Then, around 3:30 we actually sat down to a lovely meal, prepared by Evelyn (with two kinds of stuffing by Sam, which were awesome!).  Turkey, gammon (ham), cranberries with port (delicious!), brussels sprouts (also delicious, don't knock 'em till you've tried 'em), goosefat roasted potates, Christmas pudding, etc.  Of course there were crackers involved.  Crackers are gunpowder-laden toys that always have a terrible joke, a toy and a tacky paper crown in them.  Strangely, everyone in the UK is serious about wearing the funny crowns and doing the crackers before meals.  It's really odd to see grown-ups (even on tv specials) wearing funny hats eating Christmas dinner.  The rest of the day was nice and relaxing (unlike now, with my essays due), and we just watched television and read.

The day after Christmas is Boxing Day here in England.  Boxing Day was formerly St. Stephen's Day, after the martyr, but apparently, it used to be the day when bosses would give their employees bonuses in boxes, hence the name.  It's actually a bank holiday in the UK, Republic of Ireland, Canada, and Australia (and probably a bunch of other places, too).  In the UK and Canada, Boxing Day is also the equivalent of Black Friday and all the high street shops have their huge sales then.  I gladly stayed home with the Briggs' and sat in front of the fire while callers popped in and out.  In the evening, their older son, Robert, his wife Pam and their two children (Christopher and Lucy) came to visit, so it was lots of fun.  They were adorable.  Lucy wore her Sleeping Beauty dress all day, which is awesome.

The next day, before I had to leave, we went to Hillsborough and Government House, the former home of the NI governor (and where the Queen stays when she visits, which is probably not very often).  It's no longer used since NI doesn't have a governor anymore, but it does have a thousand year old fort and a Gothic Revival church from the 1640's, rebuilt after the Restoration (when the previous St. Malachi's church was burned in a rebellion).  The sentry posts in front of the house are the same as the ones at Buckingham Palace.  Evelyn and I were standing taking photos when the gate opens and some guy runs through.  Evelyn goes, "That's Shaun Woodward!"  Turns out, it was the NI Secretary of State!  He had been running, so he didn't shake our hands or anything, but he did say hello and hoped I enjoyed my visit.

This is me in the Queen's box which has a door and fancy blue curtains.  She goes to this church if she comes to NI.

Then, on to Newcastle, a Victorian beachside town made famous by 19th century musician Percy French's Mountains of Mourne.

"Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight

With people her working by day and by night

The don't sow potatoes, nor barley nor wheat

But there's gangs of them digging for gold in the streets

At least when I asked them that's what I was told

So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold

But for all that I found there I might as well be

Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea."

And indeed, they are beautiful, and the weather was amazing.  We ate lunch at the Slieve Donard (the highest peak in these mountains) Hotel which has been around since the 1890's.

Finally, back to Belfast, where I actually walked onto the tarmac to get into my plane with propellers! (Atlanta folks will understand how remarkable this is.  I felt like the president walking out to Air Force One or something.)

Anyway, I've taken half an hour of valuable essay-writing time to post this, so I won't be posting my New Year's tale until after the 19th.  I am here to go to school, you know!