jolly ol' England

After initializing my vacation in Paris, I was off to England for more formal matters. England is the land of which the Walker name claims origin. My earliest confirmed relation in England was christened in a small borough in Lancashire named Ashton-under-Lyne. I wanted to visit, so I headed to the closest major city thankfully only a stones cast away: Manchester.

UK border officers are a funny bunch. Each person they meet every day is a complete stranger to them, but their job demands that they ask as many questions about your trip as possible in a 90 second window. The gal at Manchester airport was a kind sweet woman by nature I could tell, but soon knew everything about my trip anticipations with the exception of the number of steps I predicted I would take. After passing that test, I headed into a new world that I had not yet encountered.

England is an amusing culture to Americans. They speak English, but we don't understand more than the first two words of any sentence. They love democracy, but still have a monarch. The British Empire once ruled most of the worlds population, but most British folk never travel more than a few dozen kilometers from their home and are quite content about it from what I gather. I on the other hand, love to travel across the globe, and Manchester was worth being a stop on this trek despite some snags.

My first order of business was to go worship in the LDS Temple just an hour north in Preston. Getting a train ticket there proved to be a little more complicated than I expected (and alot more expensive) but nothing a few more quid couldn't fix. The Preston Temple was lovely, and it was nice to take a break and get some quiet time to contemplate holy things. On my walk back to Chorley train station, I encountered something more man-made but still heaven sent: fish and chips.

I was hungry, but was more excited to go home and rest than eat. However, on my trek back to the train station there were no less than 8 signs tempting me to come and eat Browns Famous Fish and Chips. I envisioned some large pub that was touting one meal to attract customers, but when I arrived at the takeaway "chippy" at Parker Lane, I was pleasantly surprised. I opened the door and found a line of about 5 blokes in front of me snaking around the wall and back towards the door per the register. I payed close attention to the ordering process and was handed something that looked like this:

I couldn't resist dashing it with some 'Chip Spice' (which I believe was just seasoned salt) and dousing it with some onion gravy. I learned that night that a real English fish and chips plate actually dosent come in a plate at all, it comes wrapped in newspaper. If you are ever in Chorley, I highly recommend Browns. Its not the classiest place in the world, but as I walked back to my hostel chowing on a newspaper-wrapped mess of fried haddock and fries, I never felt more English.

The next day I bounced off to my primary destination: Ashton-under-Lyne. It took me a bit to find the proper way to take the trains, but the wait was not wasted as I got to a good lot of fine Manchester folks in their native environment. Despite being able to rarely decipher much of any words they said, it was neat to sit and listen.

When I arrived in Ashton, I was surprised to see a much busier place than I had expected. In reality, Ashton is a growing borough with a few large draws to town not the least of which include an indoor arcade (mall in America), an Ikea furniture store, and dozens of shops right in downtown. I only had to walk down the street to find St. Michaels church, the locale of my grandmothers baptism in 1804. The church had not aged terribly well, but I snapped some photos just to document. I was greeted by a baptism of my own; it started to rain. Welcome back to England Walker.

Unfortunately, I hit a snag. Hopeing to explore this church and the local history library down the road (and out of the rainstorm) I was blocked by the fact that they were all closed. Ironically enough, I had not realized when I had planned my visit, that the very day I was in town was an English Bank Holiday and one that closed most churches and national services; it was Good Friday.

Good Friday, but bad luck.

Nonetheless, Manchester was a pleasant time and I will return someday. That someday will be on a Thursday and will not be a bank holiday.

Upon arising on Saturday morning I caught my train headed to London, where the party would truly begin.