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C’mon, Barb, you don't have to worry. No one here is going to hurt you.Hey! Mind where you put those hands!
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A Lowland Adventure - Mr. Maxwells' Vacation
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
- Start date
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
Here, that is, can't speak for other places!C’mon, Barb, you don't have to worry. No one here is going to hurt you.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I am trying a new schedule for posting in this thread. The standard will be one story update every other day, not every day. The actual story will begin with tomorrow's post. Posts might be a bit longer due to this, but nothing is sure.
Beginning with tomorrow's post, that surface will come to the fore and shall dominate much of the story. But the irrepressible evil will continue to occasionally poke its head up out of the mire, just as, among the gentle slopes of sedimentary rock that characterize the region we will be exploring, intrusive igneous rocks are found in harsh upthrusts from beneath.
The Prelude should be seen as a kind of warning to the reader. Be prepared for unpleasantness to lurk around any corner. In the immortal phrase of W. S. Gilbert:
I was aware that the Prelude may have come as a surprise to readers based on my introduction talking about a mystery romance. But I always emphasized the dark evil lurking underneath. In Midsomer Murders, for instance, the tranquil, almost fairytale, surface of Midsomer conceals unbelievable evil just out of sight.
Beginning with tomorrow's post, that surface will come to the fore and shall dominate much of the story. But the irrepressible evil will continue to occasionally poke its head up out of the mire, just as, among the gentle slopes of sedimentary rock that characterize the region we will be exploring, intrusive igneous rocks are found in harsh upthrusts from beneath.
The Prelude should be seen as a kind of warning to the reader. Be prepared for unpleasantness to lurk around any corner. In the immortal phrase of W. S. Gilbert:
Things are seldom what they seem,
Skim milk masquerades as cream;
Skim milk masquerades as cream;
Why would we expect anything less from a PrPr story?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Our Dashing, Swash-buckling Hero is introduced! Women, be prepared to throw yourself at his feet!
A Lowland Adventure – Mr. Maxwells Vacation
Praefectus Praetorio
With invaluable assistance by Eulalia McTaggert[Episode 1]
July 1st, 2019 Starting Over*
Alexander Maxwell was only on his first day in Scotland, and he was already wondering if the whole idea of this vacation was a spectacular screw-up. If the reader is to understand, he must be taken back a few years.
When the time came to celebrate his 45th birthday, Alex Maxwell was pleased with his life. Though his marriage was lacking in overt affection and childless (due to his wife's insistence to save the planet from the “infection of humans” as she described it), he was happy in it. Dorothy was younger, 37, a beautiful redhead, charming, and preferred a job that allowed her time to take care of most of the household chores ("I have to," she'd say. “If it were up to you, we'd live in a pigsty.”). Alex had never dreamed of straying from fidelity.
Alex was an only child, and his parents had passed away a few years earlier. He had several friends at work and was active in a bowling league, and occasionally golfed with buddies in the summers. He loved his job and had received frequent recognition for his talent and accomplishments.
Although Alex avoided outdoor activities and strenuous exercise, he was in decent condition for his age, six feet, 164 pounds. He wore his dark sandy hair, medium-full, but had noticed a little gray at the temples in the last year. His face was a bit boyish looking for his age, and some women considered him handsome.
Two days after his birthday, he found the house emptied on a Friday and a letter on the dining room table when he came home from work. It was from Dorothy. She said she had never loved Alex much and a year ago had lost all affection for him. She was in love with a woman she'd met at the nail shop. They had packed up and left town. Dorothy asked Alex to arrange the divorce in order to marry "Silvia" in Oregon, where they were going.
Alex sat on the floor of the dining room and read the letter over and over. It is almost an understatement to say he hadn’t seen this coming. An hour later, Maxwell heaved himself to his feet and went to the butler’s pantry to pour himself a Scotch, neat. That was the first; soon, he lost count. He awoke the next morning, lying on the living room floor, with the worst hangover of his life.
He got up, took a long hot shower, shaved and dressed, had several cups of black coffee and three fried eggs with a generous sprinkling of turmeric, and went to his Saturday bowling league. That night and many others for the next month, he cried himself to sleep. But he never again allowed the events to affect his daytime life.
During this time, as he met with a lawyer to arrange the divorce, Alexander began to think of a trip to Scotland. His father was of Scottish descent, though Alex only had a vague conception of the details. Alex was named for his grandfather. His father explained that it was traditional in their family. Other than the mention that the family came from somewhere in the "Stewartry," which meant nothing to Alex, he remembered no more.
Now, with no close family and entering mid-life with much of his life torn to pieces, Alex Maxwell was thinking about his origins. For the moment, these were just ideal thoughts that he would return to sometimes when daydreaming. However, they would not rest.
Alex was a criminological motivational researcher, commonly called a profiler. Out of college with an everyday vanilla degree in psychology, he had been attracted to law enforcement. However, a minor marijuana conviction when he was nineteen disqualified him from a police job. He had been fortunate to get a job as an assistant to a private investigator. The PI was old and grumpy, but he knew crime inside and out and took a liking to the eager lad who wanted to "catch the bad guys."
Encouraged by his boss, Alex had begun reading every book on the criminal mind he could find. Add to that the vast experience of his boss from 40 years in the business meant that Alex soon acquired a deep understanding of criminals. He savored the opportunity to get inside the minds of these people and to be able to predict what they were like and what they would do.
For most, criminal profiling is a science, a study of texts and charts and probabilities. For Alex, it tapped into something deep in the way his brain worked. Although he studied and learned all the statistics and graphs, they were only a minor part of his work. He would gather everything known about the criminal and his actions and then go off to a quiet place to think. He would try to get inside the mind of the criminal. It could be a harrowing experience when the person was an incredibly sick individual. Alex was most profoundly affected when the criminal was sadistic, requiring him to share those dark thoughts. He felt a sense of guilt from almost savoring the cruel details.
After every quiet retreat, he would come back with an eerily accurate description of the guilty party. When his minor conviction was ten years in the past, and the people in authority observed his remarkable abilities in several cases, opportunities with real police opened up. Once it did, his success rate and his advancement were phenomenal. Three years ago, he had accepted the position as chief profiler for the Wisconsin Department of Justice. He worked at its headquarters in Madison, the state capital. His office was the Risser Justice Center in downtown Madison.
Almost exactly nine months after Dorothy left him, the divorce became final. Alex was glad to put it behind him. He sent the papers off to the “LGBTQIAP+” farming commune near Bend, OR, expecting to never hear from her again.
Two months later, Alex found, to his surprise, a letter in the mail from Dorothy. He cracked open a beer, sat on the lounger on the back porch, and opened the envelope. First, she thanked him for being so good about the divorce and arranging everything. (Yes, everything, he thought. Thanks for no help from you!). As he began reading the next paragraph, he dropped his beer can on the ground.
"You'll be excited for me, I know, when you hear our FABULOUS news! I'm pregnant! With Twins! It is so wonderful! Silvia and I had been wanting to start a real family so bad! And it just isn't real without kids! Of course, you know we had to use donated seeds (from a very cute bisexual man at the farm! Artificial insemination is FANTASTIC! (Or the turkey baster method as it's called on the farm! …"
Alex picked up his beer can and grabbed the propane lighter stick from the grill. He carefully lit the corner of the letter and placed it and the envelope on the bricks. It held his total concentration while the paper was reduced to ash. He ground the ashes into the bricks with his foot and then went to get another beer. That evening Alex began to make his plans for a vacation in Scotland.
His research soon showed that "Stewartry" referred to an area in Southwestern Scotland, in what is called the Lowlands. Alex read that the name came from Stewards, who administered it on behalf of the king. To his amazement, he learned that Steward was a hereditary office of the Maxwell family! South of Glasgow and West of Dumfries, it's the land of the Gall-Gael, meaning "strange, foreign Gaels." Alex felt an immediate kinship when he read that since he'd always felt an outsider. And the region immediately caught his attention for another reason. His favorite mystery writer (Alex loved mystery fiction) was Dorothy Sayers. One of her books, The Five Red Herrings, is set in set this very region!! In the very center of the area was the Forest Park, which boosted excellent online reviews –
“Beautiful, quiet part of southern Scotland. Think English Lake District but with no-one there. Forestry plantations and logging operations can restrict access to walks, but you can find a way up into the hills if you are determined. Few towns and those are a bit run down, but there are some great pubs and cafes."
Scotland's first Dark Sky Park within the Forest was described as one of the best places to stargaze in Europe. Alex had always loved gazing at the night sky. It sounded perfect.
Over the next few months, Alex planned out his trip. He hadn't traveled much and never been to Europe. So, he would fly to London and spend four days doing the usual tourist things there.
e then booked a first-class ticket from London, Euston Station at 10.00 AM on the West Coast Main Line, reputed to have fine views of the Lake District and North Pennines. Then change at Carlisle for Dumfries. The whole ride was scheduled to take between four and five hours. At Dumfries, he arranged through his Endeavour Plus membership for a rental car (in Britain, they seemed to call them "hire cars"). They offered pickup at the station and "long opening hours" (though no actual hours were specified – the British, he was coming to realize, do some things differently from America). He would drive to Kenmuir to stay the night in a B&B nearby before beginning hiking in the park the next day, July 2nd.
Starting Over* is a 1979 American comedy film starring Burt Reynolds, Jill Clayburgh, and Candice Bergen in a complicated romantic triangle.
A Lowland Adventure – Mr. Maxwells Vacation
Praefectus Praetorio
With invaluable assistance by Eulalia McTaggert
July 1st, 2019 Starting Over*
Alexander Maxwell was only on his first day in Scotland, and he was already wondering if the whole idea of this vacation was a spectacular screw-up. If the reader is to understand, he must be taken back a few years.
When the time came to celebrate his 45th birthday, Alex Maxwell was pleased with his life. Though his marriage was lacking in overt affection and childless (due to his wife's insistence to save the planet from the “infection of humans” as she described it), he was happy in it. Dorothy was younger, 37, a beautiful redhead, charming, and preferred a job that allowed her time to take care of most of the household chores ("I have to," she'd say. “If it were up to you, we'd live in a pigsty.”). Alex had never dreamed of straying from fidelity.
Alex was an only child, and his parents had passed away a few years earlier. He had several friends at work and was active in a bowling league, and occasionally golfed with buddies in the summers. He loved his job and had received frequent recognition for his talent and accomplishments.
Although Alex avoided outdoor activities and strenuous exercise, he was in decent condition for his age, six feet, 164 pounds. He wore his dark sandy hair, medium-full, but had noticed a little gray at the temples in the last year. His face was a bit boyish looking for his age, and some women considered him handsome.
Two days after his birthday, he found the house emptied on a Friday and a letter on the dining room table when he came home from work. It was from Dorothy. She said she had never loved Alex much and a year ago had lost all affection for him. She was in love with a woman she'd met at the nail shop. They had packed up and left town. Dorothy asked Alex to arrange the divorce in order to marry "Silvia" in Oregon, where they were going.
Alex sat on the floor of the dining room and read the letter over and over. It is almost an understatement to say he hadn’t seen this coming. An hour later, Maxwell heaved himself to his feet and went to the butler’s pantry to pour himself a Scotch, neat. That was the first; soon, he lost count. He awoke the next morning, lying on the living room floor, with the worst hangover of his life.
He got up, took a long hot shower, shaved and dressed, had several cups of black coffee and three fried eggs with a generous sprinkling of turmeric, and went to his Saturday bowling league. That night and many others for the next month, he cried himself to sleep. But he never again allowed the events to affect his daytime life.
During this time, as he met with a lawyer to arrange the divorce, Alexander began to think of a trip to Scotland. His father was of Scottish descent, though Alex only had a vague conception of the details. Alex was named for his grandfather. His father explained that it was traditional in their family. Other than the mention that the family came from somewhere in the "Stewartry," which meant nothing to Alex, he remembered no more.
Now, with no close family and entering mid-life with much of his life torn to pieces, Alex Maxwell was thinking about his origins. For the moment, these were just ideal thoughts that he would return to sometimes when daydreaming. However, they would not rest.
Alex was a criminological motivational researcher, commonly called a profiler. Out of college with an everyday vanilla degree in psychology, he had been attracted to law enforcement. However, a minor marijuana conviction when he was nineteen disqualified him from a police job. He had been fortunate to get a job as an assistant to a private investigator. The PI was old and grumpy, but he knew crime inside and out and took a liking to the eager lad who wanted to "catch the bad guys."
Encouraged by his boss, Alex had begun reading every book on the criminal mind he could find. Add to that the vast experience of his boss from 40 years in the business meant that Alex soon acquired a deep understanding of criminals. He savored the opportunity to get inside the minds of these people and to be able to predict what they were like and what they would do.
For most, criminal profiling is a science, a study of texts and charts and probabilities. For Alex, it tapped into something deep in the way his brain worked. Although he studied and learned all the statistics and graphs, they were only a minor part of his work. He would gather everything known about the criminal and his actions and then go off to a quiet place to think. He would try to get inside the mind of the criminal. It could be a harrowing experience when the person was an incredibly sick individual. Alex was most profoundly affected when the criminal was sadistic, requiring him to share those dark thoughts. He felt a sense of guilt from almost savoring the cruel details.
After every quiet retreat, he would come back with an eerily accurate description of the guilty party. When his minor conviction was ten years in the past, and the people in authority observed his remarkable abilities in several cases, opportunities with real police opened up. Once it did, his success rate and his advancement were phenomenal. Three years ago, he had accepted the position as chief profiler for the Wisconsin Department of Justice. He worked at its headquarters in Madison, the state capital. His office was the Risser Justice Center in downtown Madison.
Almost exactly nine months after Dorothy left him, the divorce became final. Alex was glad to put it behind him. He sent the papers off to the “LGBTQIAP+” farming commune near Bend, OR, expecting to never hear from her again.
Two months later, Alex found, to his surprise, a letter in the mail from Dorothy. He cracked open a beer, sat on the lounger on the back porch, and opened the envelope. First, she thanked him for being so good about the divorce and arranging everything. (Yes, everything, he thought. Thanks for no help from you!). As he began reading the next paragraph, he dropped his beer can on the ground.
"You'll be excited for me, I know, when you hear our FABULOUS news! I'm pregnant! With Twins! It is so wonderful! Silvia and I had been wanting to start a real family so bad! And it just isn't real without kids! Of course, you know we had to use donated seeds (from a very cute bisexual man at the farm! Artificial insemination is FANTASTIC! (Or the turkey baster method as it's called on the farm! …"
Alex picked up his beer can and grabbed the propane lighter stick from the grill. He carefully lit the corner of the letter and placed it and the envelope on the bricks. It held his total concentration while the paper was reduced to ash. He ground the ashes into the bricks with his foot and then went to get another beer. That evening Alex began to make his plans for a vacation in Scotland.
His research soon showed that "Stewartry" referred to an area in Southwestern Scotland, in what is called the Lowlands. Alex read that the name came from Stewards, who administered it on behalf of the king. To his amazement, he learned that Steward was a hereditary office of the Maxwell family! South of Glasgow and West of Dumfries, it's the land of the Gall-Gael, meaning "strange, foreign Gaels." Alex felt an immediate kinship when he read that since he'd always felt an outsider. And the region immediately caught his attention for another reason. His favorite mystery writer (Alex loved mystery fiction) was Dorothy Sayers. One of her books, The Five Red Herrings, is set in set this very region!! In the very center of the area was the Forest Park, which boosted excellent online reviews –
“Beautiful, quiet part of southern Scotland. Think English Lake District but with no-one there. Forestry plantations and logging operations can restrict access to walks, but you can find a way up into the hills if you are determined. Few towns and those are a bit run down, but there are some great pubs and cafes."
Scotland's first Dark Sky Park within the Forest was described as one of the best places to stargaze in Europe. Alex had always loved gazing at the night sky. It sounded perfect.
Over the next few months, Alex planned out his trip. He hadn't traveled much and never been to Europe. So, he would fly to London and spend four days doing the usual tourist things there.
e then booked a first-class ticket from London, Euston Station at 10.00 AM on the West Coast Main Line, reputed to have fine views of the Lake District and North Pennines. Then change at Carlisle for Dumfries. The whole ride was scheduled to take between four and five hours. At Dumfries, he arranged through his Endeavour Plus membership for a rental car (in Britain, they seemed to call them "hire cars"). They offered pickup at the station and "long opening hours" (though no actual hours were specified – the British, he was coming to realize, do some things differently from America). He would drive to Kenmuir to stay the night in a B&B nearby before beginning hiking in the park the next day, July 2nd.
Starting Over* is a 1979 American comedy film starring Burt Reynolds, Jill Clayburgh, and Candice Bergen in a complicated romantic triangle.
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He’s certainly a complicated, flawed, interesting nonetheless, kind of soul.
Whether I’d be prepared to throw myself at his feet, though, would depend on answers to a pair of very important questions:
(1) Does he expect his lovers to swallow, and (2) would he trust me with the keys to his car?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
No and OMG NO!!!
Completed in 2001 and named in honor of the state’s longest serving member, a Democrat, of the state legislature’s Senate.Three years ago, he had accepted the position as chief profiler for the Wisconsin Department of Justice. He worked at its headquarters in Madison, the state capital. His office was the Risser Justice Center in downtown Madison.
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Indeed, Maxwell is, as Barb says, a complicated nan, but paradoxically, nonetheless, a man who can put the emotional trauma of realising that he had been domestically duped for his entire married life behind him, with the help of a simple hiking trip to the land of his family roots ...
... But as we know in PrPr's compelling tales, nothing is ever simple ...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Tout Au Contraire! Saturday reveals an episode of Midsomer/Marple. The simple joys of British travel.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
[Episode 2]
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness*
On June 26th, 2019, at 2:57 PM, having requested and received a one-month vacation, Alex departed Dane County Regional Airport to a quick change at Chicago O'Hare and then on to an overnight flight that arrived at London's Heathrow Airport at 6 AM the next morning. He checked into his hotel, the London Marriott, Park Lane, and went straight to bed. Alex had chosen the hotel based on its location right by Marble Arch. He had considered the Dorchester, which was highly-recommended but had proved to be highly-priced as well.
Four days of tourist activities in London was extremely satisfying. One of the spots he found most interesting, as a criminologist, was just across from his hotel, the former location of London's gallows, Tyburn Tree, at Marble Arch. He stood at the marker for over an hour, visualizing the fate of the thousands who were hung there over the centuries. He channeled the minds of the killers, the sadists, the cruel men, and women, who had broken the law and met their final fate right here. The enormity of the evil that had been executed here was staggering to Alex. He also knew some had been innocent; after all, they didn't have all the modern techniques. And they hadn’t had Alex Maxwell! But justice prevailed in the end for most he believed.
Alex arrived at Euston Station early on Monday, July 1st, only to have the train depart 30 minutes late at 10:30.
However, the guard assured him that they would make up most of the time on the route. Alex didn’t worry since there was an hour layover in Carlisle. He settled back in his first-class compartment to watch the world going by.
Once they entered the Lake District, the views were indeed enchanting. Though no lakes were directly visible from the train, the countryside was pleasant and pastoral with humble towns and villages. A fellow traveler pointed out that they were very lucky that the mist and drizzle lifted long enough to catch a glimpse of some distant hills to the right, the Pennines. In all, it was a fascinating region that Alex had never heard of before.
His train pulled into the station in Carlisle just 20 minutes late at 2:10 PM.
Alex’s connecting train to Dumfries wasn't due to depart until 3:05. He found the track location and sat on a bench to wait for his train. He was a little surprised that at 2:45, there was no sign of the train. A train employee in uniform was standing looking bored, so Alex went over to inquire.
“Oh, yes, the 3:05 to Dumfries. It’ll be in shortly. It might be running a wee bit late.”
Alex went back to sit down. Three o’clock came and went. Three fifteen. He'd been watching the trainman the whole time, and he hadn't had a message or any communication at all, so Alex knew it would be a waste to ask him again. Three twenty-five. What was it with this railroad? A few other passengers were waiting, but they all seemed unconcerned as if the delay was not unexpected.
Three forty-five. The Dumfries' trip was supposed to take thirty-five minutes, and the train was already forty minutes late. Alex, still on the bustle time of an American city, was fuming. ScotRail seemed to be an amateurish operation if ever he'd seen one! Finally, at three fifty-five, a train pulled in. Alex was shocked to see it was a little local two-car, no first class. The few waiting passengers climbed aboard, and precisely one hour late, they pulled out.
Alex checked his watch and figured he'd be in Dumfries by twenty to five. Still plenty of time to grab the shuttle to the rent-a-car and head out for his B&B. His annoyance was partially mollified by quite good views of Carlisle Castle soon after leaving the station. His guide book told him it was built by the son of William the Conqueror to keep out the wild and barbarous Scots.
Looking out the left window, he saw a broad expanse of tidal valley and the Lakeland Fells' rise in the distance to the south. It was a splendid view, he thought, as his spirits rose.
Just then, the train began to slow and come to a dead stop. It sat motionless for ten minutes before starting to crawl ahead. While it gave Alex time to enjoy the view, the continued turtle's pace began to be of concern. He glanced at his watch, four-fifty. Then the train stopped entirely again. He went to the guard and asked what the matter was. The man just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I dinna ken. But we’ll be on oor way again in a wee.”
For the next half hour, the train alternated dead stops with five mph crawls. At last, it pulled into the Dumfries station, and Alex alighted at 5:35 on the dot, a mere two- and one-half hours for a thirty-minute trip! He was surprised to see the station's modest size, more like a small suburban station outside of Madison, than an intercity depot, though he thought the architecture nice and some well-kept flower beds were a nice touch.
He went to the phones and called his rental company. It rang for a very long time before a recording came on. The bored sounding voice recited every fact that Alex didn't care about concerning the rental company until the critical information. "Our hours are 9 AM to 5 PM Monday through Saturday. We are closed on the Sabbath. Please call back during normal business hours."
What? They were closed at Five? What happened to "long opening hours"? Alex looked over the reservation he'd printed from the Endeavour website. There, in fine print, amidst the pages of boilerplate was a short notice. "Cars available for pickup 9 AM to 5 PM Monday to Saturday." Damn!!!
Alex looked in vain for a taxi, but the marked parking spots were empty. He went to the lone station attendant on duty (if napping behind a cage with a fan blowing on his bald head counted as being on duty), and roused him, explained his situation with the rental car, and asked where he could find a taxi to Kenmuir.
"Och, ye'll hae to call for ane. Gin ye're cannie. It'll be here in an hour. But, mind ye, it'll be £35 or mair..”
“What? That’s highway robbery!”
The agent looked mildly offended but suggested that he stay overnight in the Loreburn Hotel. Alex's immediate reaction was shock. What king of flea-bag hotel would be near with this run-down station?
At this moment, Alex, as recounted at the beginning of this tale, wondered whether this whole trip would be a spectacular screw-up.
The agent pointed the hotel out. Alex saw a typical Victorian baronial edifice with the vaguely unsettling atmosphere of faded glory one could find in Atlantic City before the casinos arrived. With no other viable option, he hauled his bags over to the hotel. He was pleasantly surprised to see it as part of the Palais Royale Chain (Alex trusted a respectable American corporation!). He used his AAA card for a discount, checked in for a reasonable fare, and found a lovely room, very clean.
*The Innocents Abroad (or The New Pilgrims' Progress) is a travel book by American author Mark Twain published in 1869 humorously recounting his five-month “Pleasure Excursion," through Europe and the Holy Land with a group of American travelers in 1867. It was the best-selling of Twain's works during his lifetime, as well as one of the best-selling travel books of all time. The Original Cover for all you Bibliophiliacs out there:
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness*
On June 26th, 2019, at 2:57 PM, having requested and received a one-month vacation, Alex departed Dane County Regional Airport to a quick change at Chicago O'Hare and then on to an overnight flight that arrived at London's Heathrow Airport at 6 AM the next morning. He checked into his hotel, the London Marriott, Park Lane, and went straight to bed. Alex had chosen the hotel based on its location right by Marble Arch. He had considered the Dorchester, which was highly-recommended but had proved to be highly-priced as well.
Four days of tourist activities in London was extremely satisfying. One of the spots he found most interesting, as a criminologist, was just across from his hotel, the former location of London's gallows, Tyburn Tree, at Marble Arch. He stood at the marker for over an hour, visualizing the fate of the thousands who were hung there over the centuries. He channeled the minds of the killers, the sadists, the cruel men, and women, who had broken the law and met their final fate right here. The enormity of the evil that had been executed here was staggering to Alex. He also knew some had been innocent; after all, they didn't have all the modern techniques. And they hadn’t had Alex Maxwell! But justice prevailed in the end for most he believed.
Alex arrived at Euston Station early on Monday, July 1st, only to have the train depart 30 minutes late at 10:30.
However, the guard assured him that they would make up most of the time on the route. Alex didn’t worry since there was an hour layover in Carlisle. He settled back in his first-class compartment to watch the world going by.
Once they entered the Lake District, the views were indeed enchanting. Though no lakes were directly visible from the train, the countryside was pleasant and pastoral with humble towns and villages. A fellow traveler pointed out that they were very lucky that the mist and drizzle lifted long enough to catch a glimpse of some distant hills to the right, the Pennines. In all, it was a fascinating region that Alex had never heard of before.
His train pulled into the station in Carlisle just 20 minutes late at 2:10 PM.
Alex’s connecting train to Dumfries wasn't due to depart until 3:05. He found the track location and sat on a bench to wait for his train. He was a little surprised that at 2:45, there was no sign of the train. A train employee in uniform was standing looking bored, so Alex went over to inquire.
“Oh, yes, the 3:05 to Dumfries. It’ll be in shortly. It might be running a wee bit late.”
Alex went back to sit down. Three o’clock came and went. Three fifteen. He'd been watching the trainman the whole time, and he hadn't had a message or any communication at all, so Alex knew it would be a waste to ask him again. Three twenty-five. What was it with this railroad? A few other passengers were waiting, but they all seemed unconcerned as if the delay was not unexpected.
Three forty-five. The Dumfries' trip was supposed to take thirty-five minutes, and the train was already forty minutes late. Alex, still on the bustle time of an American city, was fuming. ScotRail seemed to be an amateurish operation if ever he'd seen one! Finally, at three fifty-five, a train pulled in. Alex was shocked to see it was a little local two-car, no first class. The few waiting passengers climbed aboard, and precisely one hour late, they pulled out.
Alex checked his watch and figured he'd be in Dumfries by twenty to five. Still plenty of time to grab the shuttle to the rent-a-car and head out for his B&B. His annoyance was partially mollified by quite good views of Carlisle Castle soon after leaving the station. His guide book told him it was built by the son of William the Conqueror to keep out the wild and barbarous Scots.
Looking out the left window, he saw a broad expanse of tidal valley and the Lakeland Fells' rise in the distance to the south. It was a splendid view, he thought, as his spirits rose.
Just then, the train began to slow and come to a dead stop. It sat motionless for ten minutes before starting to crawl ahead. While it gave Alex time to enjoy the view, the continued turtle's pace began to be of concern. He glanced at his watch, four-fifty. Then the train stopped entirely again. He went to the guard and asked what the matter was. The man just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I dinna ken. But we’ll be on oor way again in a wee.”
For the next half hour, the train alternated dead stops with five mph crawls. At last, it pulled into the Dumfries station, and Alex alighted at 5:35 on the dot, a mere two- and one-half hours for a thirty-minute trip! He was surprised to see the station's modest size, more like a small suburban station outside of Madison, than an intercity depot, though he thought the architecture nice and some well-kept flower beds were a nice touch.
He went to the phones and called his rental company. It rang for a very long time before a recording came on. The bored sounding voice recited every fact that Alex didn't care about concerning the rental company until the critical information. "Our hours are 9 AM to 5 PM Monday through Saturday. We are closed on the Sabbath. Please call back during normal business hours."
What? They were closed at Five? What happened to "long opening hours"? Alex looked over the reservation he'd printed from the Endeavour website. There, in fine print, amidst the pages of boilerplate was a short notice. "Cars available for pickup 9 AM to 5 PM Monday to Saturday." Damn!!!
Alex looked in vain for a taxi, but the marked parking spots were empty. He went to the lone station attendant on duty (if napping behind a cage with a fan blowing on his bald head counted as being on duty), and roused him, explained his situation with the rental car, and asked where he could find a taxi to Kenmuir.
"Och, ye'll hae to call for ane. Gin ye're cannie. It'll be here in an hour. But, mind ye, it'll be £35 or mair..”
“What? That’s highway robbery!”
The agent looked mildly offended but suggested that he stay overnight in the Loreburn Hotel. Alex's immediate reaction was shock. What king of flea-bag hotel would be near with this run-down station?
At this moment, Alex, as recounted at the beginning of this tale, wondered whether this whole trip would be a spectacular screw-up.
The agent pointed the hotel out. Alex saw a typical Victorian baronial edifice with the vaguely unsettling atmosphere of faded glory one could find in Atlantic City before the casinos arrived. With no other viable option, he hauled his bags over to the hotel. He was pleasantly surprised to see it as part of the Palais Royale Chain (Alex trusted a respectable American corporation!). He used his AAA card for a discount, checked in for a reasonable fare, and found a lovely room, very clean.
*The Innocents Abroad (or The New Pilgrims' Progress) is a travel book by American author Mark Twain published in 1869 humorously recounting his five-month “Pleasure Excursion," through Europe and the Holy Land with a group of American travelers in 1867. It was the best-selling of Twain's works during his lifetime, as well as one of the best-selling travel books of all time. The Original Cover for all you Bibliophiliacs out there:
Marcius
Tribune
'The worst place in Britain used to be well known: it was the 11.15 overnight coach from Glasgow Buchanan Street to London St Pancras.
'The journey would start with quiet men in duffle coats and students with knapsacks, all engaged in private things or puzzles, but by the time the coach was passing the lights of Carlisle – and a symphony of Special Brew cans had gone kss, kss, kss – the bus would resemble Bruegel’s The Triumph of Death...'
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Well that was like a journey through my homeland. Being a Pennines man, much like @old slave, I know the views well, although it is the North Pennines that you can see from the Lake District side, and it is indeed a fascinating, wild and windy, landscape, with the more Central Area at Saddleworth, being infamous for the 'Moors Murders' ... A really authentic narrative PrPr, even down to the 'relaxed attitude' of the local train service! Hope Maxwell got the London Hotel in with the flight package price, because, like the Dorchester, The Park Lane Marriott is also bloody expensive! Looking forward to the next instalment.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
He did. He booked the flight and hotel through the Wisconsin Professional Police Association (WPPA) for an overall discount including the hotel package.
Thank you so much. Understand that I have only been to the UK once, over a decade ago, and never got farther North than Maida Vale. We did use the tube a lot ("Watch the gap!")
M
montycrusto
Guest
Worrabout da West Country, boy? E’s gurt lush innum!
Just as well. Since @windar stiffed them on his last visit, the Dorchester has been less than welcoming to American tourists ... with the exception of those high-spenders with the surname “Moore” for whom the staff fall all over themselves to roll out the red carpet.
Looks like Prestwick. Or indeed any other middle-sized, terminally depressing, airport in the world.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Is the treatment offered due to 'high-spending' or 'low morals?'
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