They opened at 10, but I had chosen 11 o'clock and that was a wise decision, not just because it meant one more hour of sweet sleep, but there was so much road work and confusing and conflicting signposting of diversions that I spent half an hour on pointless maneuvers way the fuck out in the English countryside.
Once at the castle I was never asked for proof of my membership in Historic Scotland (the sister organization of English Heritage, which owns Framlingham). I even got the 10% discount given to members when I bought gifts but never had to show my card. The English, like the Norwegians are really way too trusting for their own good.
Framlingham is still a very castly castle. (Yes, I have turned "castle" into an adjective. Wanna make something of it, grammar Nazi?)
Old ruins. Mmmmmmm!
You could lose your head if you mucked about with heraldry.
I bought half a dozen of these as gift tokens for mah colleagues.
Costumes! I want to dress up! Bwaaaaaah!
Sho, sho cozy with the lake.
Here, I should like to make a few observations on English driving culture. On the motorways, they seem very polite and considerate. Generally speaking, you don't need to flash your lights or honk to get people out of the fast lane; they will pay attention to traffic around them, including behind them just fine.
But they also expect you to drive insanely fast, even along narrow country lanes or in highly pedestrianized towns and cities. In Norway, I tend to drive quite a bit faster than the posted speed limits (note to Norwegian law enforcement officers reading this: It's just for dramatic effect. Uhm, yeah), but in the UK, I've finally become the slowpoke everybody honks at.
Framlingham was nice enough but not all that interesting, so I left after less than an hour. First, I drove off at random, and then I put in the address in my phone and it took me back to Bury by another and much faster road than I had come. Such is the mysteries of modern map science.
Back in Bury, I decided to walk a little around the old city center. It's a city with lots of narrow little one-way streets and very cute looking houses, sometimes with flowers hanging outside them. It has a big abbey with a nice garden behind it and there's even a statue to the local fallen in the effin Boer War.
Cozy, Engerlish street.
Old building.
The Boer War memorial.
Another lovely building.
Yet another store name I don't think you'd find in the US...
The city also hosts a splendid little local history museum, the Moyle's Museum. It has a very nice exhibition about torture instruments and witch burnings with just the right touch of cruelty to make it interesting. It's also manned by cheerful, nice people… although I was the only visitor I ever saw, and they had two people manning the tills so maybe there's room for some budget cuts.
"She turned me into a newt!"
This kinky collection could probably be found in any number of middle class homes these days.
I walked a little more, taking pictures of several nice little streets before stopping in to stuff face at a café. Sadly, they had just stopped serving from the lunch menu, but they had a sausage in that horrible pastry thingy that flakes all over your clothes.
I also stuffed an Oreo milkshake with whipped cream into my breadhole, but all the walking must have done something good to my blood sugar, because when I measured it two hours later, it wasn't any higher than what it had been that morning.
I hung around my lodgings for several hours, keeping updated on news and gossip and then went out and had possibly the finest Indian meal ever at the VC restaurant.
Back at the pub more than an hour later, I was regaled with stories by this old guy I'd seen sitting in the pub the night before. He was in his 80s, but still fairly sharp and had tons of stories from all over the world.
Born in Liverpool in the mid-1930s, he'd been in the army for 18 years and had served in many countries all over Africa, Asia and South America, but he told me he couldn't give specifics because he'd been sworn to secrecy. He did mention Uganda (remember this was in the 1950s probably).
Furthermore, he'd met a shitload of country artists in the US, Johnny Cash and Charlie Daniels among them. He played country and 50s pop all night on the jukebox and we talked music and stuff for hours.
He also confirmed to me my adage that even after two wars against the Krauts, the British still hated the French more. He told me that most British servicemen detested the snail eaters but respected the Krauts. He also said he loved Scandinavians. All in all, a nice end to the evening, and a confirmation that even though old castles and museums are good, real people are better.
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