Sicily to UK. Departure Day — Arrival Day.

We woke up in Trapani, in beautiful comfortable La Casa di Andrea, bright and early and went outside.

Mediterrania — to the left of us…

Monti di Trapani — to the right…

Here we are — driving to Palermo airport…

Good bye, Sicilia!

Hello, foggy Albion!

On the flight to London, Ryanair Air seated us next to each other and we had a real good time.

No one was meeting us upon landing and no hugs were expected but after religiously watching the movie every Christmas for a couple of decades, I was expecting to walk into Heathrow airport Love-Actually-style.

That didn’t happen — Tom got tickets to Stansted.

I vividly expressed my displeasure. Tom bowed his head — struck out, guilty.

Little did we know…

A few hours before our landing, a transformer short circuited at a National Grid electrical substation near Heathrow airport causing a major fire. The fire damaged the infrastructure supplying the airport. Loss of power disabled major airport control systems. All arrivals to and departures from Heathrow were cancelled for the rest of the day and more.

Some planes were turned back, some were rerouted to other airports and even other countries. British Airways had to cancel its operations for that day completely. According to various reports, more than 200,000 passengers were affected by the incident. What a mess!

We got lucky. Whatever made Tom book the flight from Palermo to Stansted — be it price, logistics, no tickets available, whatever — it happened to be a brilliant move. Again I swore to never question his decisions.

At least until our next flight.

From Stansted, we had to make a couple of transfers to get to our destination which was not London. We were heading to the Cotswolds.

First, Stansted Express took us to Liverpool Street Station.

My sulky face here is deceiving — more than anything in the world I love trains — their pace, the landscape outside the window.

At Liverpool Street Station we switched to the Underground and took Elizabeth Line to Paddington.

At Paddington Station, we had to wait for an hour or so for our train to the Cotswolds. We put this time to good use as well.

In about an hour and a half, at dusk, we got off at Moreton-in-Marsh. The sky was gray and threatening with a drizzle. We missed our bus.

Next to the train station this car was parked and I made a comment about fancy British businessmen being picked up by limousines after work.

Meanwhile Tom asked the driver about a cab or a car service that could take us to the bed and breakfast where we were staying. The driver said:

— I can take you.

I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears and our luck. We got in.

The driver was friendly and chatty. He educated us about the wild life outside the window, hunting seasons, and praised our choice of accommodation:

— Couldn’t find a better place in that area.

And just look at this leg room in the cab!

The cab dropped us right in front of our Inn.

We were staying in Broadway, at Crown & Trumpet Inn, a traditional 17th Century Bed & Breakfast built in Cotswold stone.

Downstairs there was a pub and upstairs they had five rooms for rent. One of them was ours.

At the bar, we received our keys.

Those were The Keys! Not a plastic card or a cut piece of metal. We got traditional bit keys with a solid shaft and an intricate bit. One key was for our bedroom, another one for the entrance from the pub to upstairs.

This was our room — very warm, cozy, a little squeaky — and I immediately pictured myself Elizabeth Bennett:

— “Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.”

The bedside cabinet with the most perfect tea service made me especially happy.

On a little table next to the window there was a piece of paper with a breakfast menu. My initial instinct was to check off everything — I was hungry — or at least one of each but sensible Mr. Darcy said:

— Let’s go see what’s downstairs and decide on breakfast later.

We locked our door and down these squeaky carpeted stairs descended to the pub. I was dying to start my fish and chips diet.

Small pub downstairs was packed. Everyone knew everyone here. That was obvious. It was a solid hangout for locals. Everyone knew everyone’s children, parents, dogs, food preferences, aliments, RVs.

They immediately sensed an alien presence in their midst but no one stirred. No one even moved a brow. It was a classic “we knew that they knew that we knew that they knew” kind of situation.

Without moving a brow we, too, entered and moved on to the counter with complete confidence — there were keys in our pocket.

One friendly face greeted us on our way through the pub — eye to eye.

It took a while to get a table. There was some specific system going on how tables were assigned. Some seats were reserved for certain people for dinner, others were designated for locals stopping for a quick drink only. We didn’t really got it completely and honestly we didn’t care. This was our final destination for the day, we had nowhere to rush, and were happily situated for people watching.

Once we were assigned a primo spot by the fireplace and got the menu, our first choice was mushrooms. We wanted to start light to save some space for fish and chips but breaded and deep fried mushrooms were heavier than we expected.

To order something different from me so we could share, Tom picked Worcester Minced Beef Pie with cheese mash topping, chips and veg.

I initiated my fish — not chips this time — extravaganza. Later, I got a lot of grief from my English friends for such impropriety but a craving for young potatoes hit so suddenly when I saw them on the menu — I couldn’t resist. And mushy peas. Love mushy peas!

And beer, beer, beer. Never thought I would say it: English beer will be missed. It is different — so deeply but mildly flavored, not zealously carbonated, or extremely chilled. A very classy drink.

We were too excited to go bed right after dinner and a stroll through the streets felt just right.

It was not raining but some sort of mist was hanging in the air making the pavement and the hair wet. Most of the food and drink establishments were closed and no people outside. We were not in New York anymore. As a matter of fact, later, we learned that when it comes to food in the Cotswolds, you really have to watch your clock or you will go hungry.

The only place open at that late hour was another traditional country pub Horse & Hound.

Similar cold shoulder. New York bartenders are definitely more friendly and engaging. They prefer strangers and people that are different. Bartenders in Broadway appreciated locals more.

It didn’t matter. I wanted to watch and document the amazing beer pumping process. Some workout it is!

That last glass of beer went really slowly — beer was ready to come out of our ears and our eyelids felt the time of the night.

Back to the outside to finish the loop towards Crown & Trumpet and the bed.

The Baskerville mist was still hovering over Devonshire moors like a blanket.

It turned out that the second key we had also opened the outside door of the pub.

So strange being in a different country at an unknown place to unlock the door of the empty establishment with a key from your pocket and find yourself there completely alone.

With the place empty, I felt more comfortable to walk around, look at the pictures and various artifacts on the walls, to sit on different mismatched chairs at mismatched tables. Such a beautiful place it was!

That table to the left of the fireplace is the one where we had our dinner.

Another room around the corner — the bar turned out to be not as small as I initially thought.

Good night, spigots and tap handles. Until tomorrow morning.