Lovely place, or should I say, "Lover-ly"?  Landing, the first thing I set eye upon was an exquisite English cottage.  i wish I had been on my toes enough to snap a photo, but it is indelibly stamped in my mental photo album.   I loved the country from the moment we saw it and my experiences in the few days we enjoyed, only solidified my first impressions.  The  People were delightful, helpful, honest and wonderfully coy.  The streets varied between spotless, with a little man picking up banana peels with one of those "long arm" claws, to filthy and neglected.

The smells were definitely not American, nor were the passer byes.  Even before they spoke with their deliciously proper accents, it was evident we were far from the familiar. The sites were ancient and colorful.  The streets sang with the voices of a thousand lives, in a silent symphony of humanity. The trees lined each street that wasn't made of imposing marble and brick or stone.  I found it curious that I saw dozens of dogs, but in ten days only one cat. 

Heritage seeped through the stone walls and clothed naked statuary in historic cloaks.  Birds - pigeons mostly - sang songs from "mary Poppins' and the homeless shuffled to the tunes of "wouldn't' it be lover-ly' or at least they seemed to. Pubs opened teeming doors to breathless strains of 'Cheers" and "fine day!"  whilst mothers corralled miniature royalty to 'the tube' to catch their next connection. 

Old women walked alone and youth moved in pairs, stopping in one doorway or another to whisper or steal a kiss. 

The palace shone even in the rain, and the red bedecked soldiers didn't flinch from their ancient ritual. 
 
 

Flowers were piled at the window at Harrods on the anniversary of a princesses consorts death, and at a place wall for her own immortalization.

Speakers corner bustled with noise and opinion, harassment and rapt devotion.  Gathered in groups of three or thirty, the speakers offered their opinions freely and without fervor to interested and the curious alike. Hecklers spat and bifurcated voices debated in a tangible painting of democracy. 

Those on 'holiday" flocked to fill every bit of green possible, worshipping the too infrequent 'fine' day with fervor. 
 
 

A quaint hotel with rooms almost large enough to turn around in, did its best to maintain flavor while still turning a buck... or pound.

Andrew Lloyd Webber gave his all in 'Whistle down the Wind', and we thrilled to the music and the story line in a London theatre. 

All in all my feet took me from bus to train to underground to plane off to the next incredible experience in the land of green - Ireland.