Glen Echo Park

When you think of the National Parks of America perhaps the stunning vistas of Yellowstone spring to your mind, or the majestic granite cliffs of Yosemite, or maybe the sheer awe and scale of the Grand Canyon.  I'm guessing your thoughts don't immediately turn to an abandoned fairground.

Mine neither, but Glen Echo Park is run by the same National Parks Service that oversees all those other slightly more impressive natural wonders.  I'm not sure why.  The site is a collection of oddly-matched concrete buildings and crumbling amusements, including the ruins of a swimming pool.  There's the vague suggestion that some history happened here, in the form of a sit-in on the carousel to protest against segregation, but other than that...

Anyway, a few of the buildings are now home to artists of various kinds, so Hannah, Pete and I got a bit of culture before spending some time in the playground.  There's also an aquarium with a dozen or so fish wondering what they did to deserve this.  It didn't help that it was sub-zero, down to a temperature that even Hannah refused to picnic in.  Another wander around confirmed that we hadn't missed anything and we drove home.

Next time we'll just drive west until we get to the Grand Canyon.

Hiking in.



Somewhat missing that "wow" factor, and not a Yogi Bear in sight.

Ooo, a dodgem!  That didn't move.

I think this is the "Spanish Ballroom".

Daredevil Pete.

Not all customers were 100% satisfied.

Botanical garden

The wintry wind was whipping the dead leaves from the trees, but the sun was out, it was a Saturday, and we're British, so - by God and the Queen! - we were going to have a picnic.

The location for our sub-arctic jaunt was the US National Arboretum.  Yes, they have one.  It's 400 acres in size and has trees.  Lots of them, sometimes close together and sometimes separated by grassy areas.  Hannah's been wanting to go since we arrived in DC like the thrill-seeking adrenaline junky she is.

To be fair, there were some non-tree bits, including the National Herb Garden (yes, they have one too), and a bonsai collection that was rather fascinating and calming, while allowing me to feel huge.  Sadly we missed the National Boxwood Collection - "Few plants exude elegance like boxwood" says the brochure.  Indeed.

After lunch it was time to thaw out, and wouldn't you know that Washington's premier gin distillery was just around the corner!?  Green Hat Gin is named after the man who delivered spirits to the senators on Capital Hill during prohibition.  Corruption in American politics is nothing new, but you can forgive anyone for wanting gin.  Their "Navy Strength" variety, running at 57%, is especially warming.  A freezing picnic and gin at lunchtime - two British traditions in one day.

Exciting stuff.

Miniature versions of bigger things.

Pete wanted to take a photo of us so I let him.  Unfortunately he made the fatal technical error of cutting off the subject's feet, not to mention going for too-small an aperture thus increasing depth of field and drawing the eye from the point of focus.  I had no choice but to give him a time out.

This bonsai has been around since 1625.  OK, that's impressive.

It's freezing, why not splash in a pond?

Learning about herbs.  Juniper, coriander, angelica, etc.

I was feeling a little chili by this point.

These columns used to be outside the Capitol Building, and were the backdrop to Abraham Lincoln's inauguration (and many others).  Now they're here, which is a bit surreal.



Even trees need protection, especially from toddlers.

Fighting to get our seats in the picnic area.

And now I am happy.

Local family

Like angels arriving from heaven - or Wales, as it's also known - my Uncle Rod and Aunty Gwyn have appeared to blessedly fill the childcare gap left by my parents' departure.  We're very honoured, as this visit means they're spending a few days away from their own grandson, Orson, up in New York City.

Thankfully Pete has stepped up admirably, and we wandered around DC in sunshine while he dragged poor Gwyn through every pile of leaves he could find.  Today, Rod wants to go to the reflecting pool where all the civil rights protests happened.  He says he was last here 50 years ago, when Lyndon Johnson was president.  I'm slightly worried he's on a quest to recapture his youth, so if you read in the news about an angry Welshman being arrested for protesting (about the loss in the recent rugby world cup?) then I was nowhere nearby.

A great aunt and a great uncle, literally.

Where the power in the family resides.

Are you a Welsh lady, like Grandma?  Great!  Come with me...

Smashing Pumpkins

Cox Farms, where we recently went for baby Claire's seventh birthday, is coming to the end of its Fall Festival.  But what to do with all those pumpkins?  There's only one answer to that: smash them!  Yes, it's Pumpkin Madness weekend down on the farm, where you can watch multiple orange gourds being catapulted into the lake, dropped from a cherry picker, run over by a tractor...if you hate your vegetables, it's the only place to be.

Unfortunately it was raining.  Quite heavily, which meant that the various Americans we'd arranged to meet there chickened out.  Whatever - the Brits aren't scared of a few drops of water!  We managed to park by some people from Manchester, who noted that the weather was exactly like it is every day in that fine city, and trudged across the muddy field to the gate together.

Except that, at the gate, we were told the farm would be shutting in 45 minutes.  Shutting a farm because of the weather?!  If you did that in Britain there'd be no farming!  On the plus side, entry was free and so was all the food, and you could buy a pumpkin of any size for $5, which is good as I need one for when I make this:

A lot of the mud was mixed with straw, so it wasn't too hard to wade around, and we found out that the tractor rides were still going so jumped onto the open hay cart at the back.  We smiled at the colourful cutouts of gnomes and monsters as we drove by, but all the live action witches, trolls, etc. that entertained us the last time we were here were absent.  Hmm.  Two aliens did appear from their crashed UFO but disappeared quickly, as they didn't come from a planet with liquid water so lacked umbrellas.

We were thoroughly soaked after the 20-minute ride, but amazingly Tracy and 3-yr-old Virginia had arrived by that point, so they, Hannah and Pete embarked on another ride while I wandered the dripping, empty exhibits.  The cherry picker did demure to rise and drop several pumpkins for the fifteen of us demanding entertainment, but everything closed at 11am and we all dribbled back out to the parking lot.

Ten minutes later we were in a Starbucks, using two toddlers to scare away people in the bit with armchairs and taking full advantage of staying there for two hours, watching the rain fall outside, for the price of one coffee.  It was a pumpkin spice latte, so it all works out in the end.

Just a normal British summer day.  It actually reminds me of the last time I was at the Glastonbury Festival.



I seem to remember it being more crowded last time.  And dryer.

We're having such a lovely time!  Mainly because that popcorn was free.

Weathering the political storm.

Still happy.  Sort of.

What happens when you drop a pumpkin 30 feet?

Exactly what you'd expect.

Even the pigs got depressed.

Autumn is officially over.

Leftovers

Oh no - my parents have gone home!  Not only do I have to, yet again, assume full parental responsibilities, but I've lost any reasonable excuse to go to The Cheesecake Factory (my dad had their shepherd's pie, as usual).

While they were here they booked their next trip, which is the way I like it.  In the meantime, if anyone in the 70-85 age bracket wants to hang out with a toddler and buy us meals at chain restaurants, please apply at the usual address.

* not my actual parents.

For we can fly

It was time to celebrate Hannah's birthday properly, and luckily we had the best invention in the world - grandparents - on hand to look after Pete.  With a quick kiss goodbye to them all we jumped in the car and sped away towards the Blue Ridge Mountains and the Shenandoah Valley.

Since she was five-years-old, Hannah's wanted to fly in a balloon.  And good things are worth waiting for, even if the two-year-old we left behind doesn't tend to agree.  So, thirty-five years after the initial dream, it was time to make it reality!

It was a beautiful clear and still day as we followed a pick-up truck into a field near Boyce, Virginia.  Unfortunately the pilot, Bob (an old pilot rather than a bold pilot, so that was reassuring) felt that it was too windy to take off.  We were flying with one other couple in the basket; they had already been rescheduled four times due to weather so clearly it was all their fault.

There was a nervous half-hour while calls were made to automated weather stations but we tentatively unloaded the truck and started laying out the brightly-coloured silk.  Our pilot declared that he was optimistic (under considerable pressure from Hannah, I might add) and so big fans were deployed and the balloon started to fill.  Then fierce gas flames began burning and the thing moved upright, followed by a fevered shout of "all aboard!"  We jumped into the basket and floated away.

It was all pretty magical.  We soared silently 1000ft above the Virginia countryside, over autumnal forests, farms, and houses, the Blue Ridge Mountains behind and the Appalachians ahead.  The idyll was only broken - constantly - by the deafening roar of the gas flames and the accompanying feeling you were about to be set alight.  It was incredible to lean over the side of a basket suspended by a bit of hot air and ropes, clear space above, below, and all around.

The snag in this spiritual experience was the fact we were flying along at 14.5 miles-per-hour, when we'd been told that 5 mph was the maximum for safe take-off and landing.  Our pilot was slightly jittery, shall we say, and decided it was best to brief us on how to handle a crash landing.  "Don't hold on to your neighbour - it's every man for himself," he concluded, which is the way that every safety briefing should end.  Needing something to calm me, I looked around to see if the No Smoking sign had been extinguished.

Due to the speedy winds our ride was a little shorter than hoped, as we'd eaten up all our territory and were about to scare the residents of a nearby town by touching down on a rooftop (which would have been awesome).  Instead we ruffled the leaves of some trees and descended slowly towards a green field, where the grass looked surprisingly soft and welcoming.

When it came to it, the landing was lovely and gentle, and while the basket threatened to tip over it was nothing more than a lusty wobble or two.  I jumped out at the pilot's request and ran to grab some type of mooring rope, wondering if they'd take off again, laughing, without me.  I have eaten a lot of cake recently - perhaps they needed to shed ballast.

But no.  Soon the balloon was deflated, and it took longer for the truck to find us again than it did for us to fly there.  When the "chase team" (the pilot's wife, Carey) finally appeared she produced two bottles of Champagne which we merrily quaffed while folding everything up.  We all toasted Hannah's 40th and were driven back to our cars at the launch site.  It took a while for the feeling of floating to fade, although whether that was the flight or just the booze I'm not sure.

The balloon truck, with added balloons.

Almost as big as our tent.

Starting to inflate.

Getting there.

Keep hold, Hannah - you're the only thing stopping it flying off.

Add flame.

That lifting feeling.

We're up!

Goodbye ground.

The very picturesque Shenandoah Valley.

So I'm being held 1000ft in the air by the power of something I can't see being a bit hotter than other stuff I can't see?  Thanks science, but I'm going to stick to prayer.

Autumn colours in the valley.

This is the only time I felt a bit odd dangling from a basket with no sides.

There's a very famous National Geographic shot I was going for here.  I got close!

Jumping, then grabbing.

I know that feeling.

And this one.

Toasting a safe landing with our basket-mates, Paul and Noel.

18+22

Hannah's life can be divided into two halves - the eighteen dark and empty years before she met me and the twenty-two of romance and adventure since then.  Add those together and you get a nice round number.  

Yes, today Hannah celebrates her 40th birthday!  And what a 40 years it's been.  The falling of the Berlin Wall, the ousting of Margaret Thatcher as Prime Minister, England winning The Ashes ten times...quite a lot has gone on when you think about it.  More importantly I tricked her into marrying me.  Since grabbing those coattails tightly I've been flown around the world and even had a small part in making a baby.  Wow.

So well done Hannah on improving with age like a fine Camembert cheese, and here's to the next 40.

From this...

...to this.  A big improvement.