Greetings from Glastonbury

I'm sitting in the parking lot of of Glastonbury Abbey in southwest England. We've just come down from Glastonbury Tor, a huge hill topped by a 15th century monastery (above). The monks are long gone, of course, but it's a two-pound bus ride from town to the base of the hill, and then a strenuous climb to the summit. The sun was burning off the clouds as we arrived and below was the English countryside, pastures cross-crossed with hedgerows.

We were without Internet yesterday, while staying in the tiny village of Dinder, a collection of stone houses outside of Wells. We were at a B&B called Middle Farm. It turned out the owners, Francis and Liz, used to live in Oxford, on the same street we now live on. Small country; small world.

Have I mentioned we have the dog with us? Charlie's cramped our style a bit but it's broadened his mind. He'd never ridden on a bus before. Or seen a cow. Or climbed a tor and entered a 15th-century monastery. I think it had a profound effect on him. Here he is surveying the landscape below and contemplating his own mortality. Or he could just looking for a place to poop:

We have thousands of years of British history to learn about today, and what is my family doing? They're off shopping. Between the supposedly New Age powers of the tor and the rock festival that's held here every year, Glastonbury has a collection of funky shops that they couldn't resist. Ah, here they come now.

We're off to Tintagel, supposed home of King Arthur. Charlie is dying to see it.