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Contributor Andrew Post is traveling in the U.K and Ireland for the next two weeks covering the World Cup and his trip for TheExpeditioner.com. This week he’s in North East England before heading to Dublin, then on to Scotland. Minus any hooligan-related incidents, Andrew will be checking in with dispatches along the way. God help him.<\/p>\n
By Andrew Post<\/strong><\/p>\n For A Few Pints More<\/strong><\/p>\n After the anticlimactic but non-fatal draw between the USA and England, it was time for a day of rest. Elaine, one of my gracious hosts, had to go to work for the day, but Adam decided to take Jeff and I into South Gosforth (one of Newcastle\u2019s northern suburbs) to meet her afterward.<\/p>\n At about one o\u2019clock, Adam\u2019s mate Jay showed up in his blue Renault. Jay was born a Geordie (for a definition, see my first dispatch<\/a>), but lived in London while attending university, and has traveled extensively in the U.S. and Australia — all of which meant that his accent wasn\u2019t as pronounced as Adam\u2019s or Elaine\u2019s. His car was like a sardine can, a minuscule hatchback with just enough space for us tall blokes to get our knees under the dashboard.<\/p>\n Walking and driving through sizable English cities makes one sympathize with the numerous Britons who have deserted their shores and gone to live in the States. The main reason is elbow room. London was cramped enough, but Newcastle, though logically laid out, is a maze of byways, one-lane residential streets, and omnipresent roundabouts. Navigating this maze — in a Renault no less — is an exercise in reflex and agility. Clearance between parked cars and moving ones is practically nil at times. Roundabouts eliminate the need for stoplights, but they tend to throw a heavy dose of inertia at drivers as the car whips into the outside curve, throwing all its passengers to the left.<\/p>\n Compound this with the fact that I was sitting up front, and (23 years of driving American cars notwithstanding), there was no steering wheel. My disorientation and dismay should be understood.<\/p>\n Gosforth proved to be much like the rest of Newcastle: refreshingly clean neighborhoods composed of red-brick, two-story houses, many with bay windows in front and small sheds in the rear. The city was well-maintained if slightly aged, with immaculate lawns and gardens. Whatever pity I felt for the English driver immediately evaporated as we arrived at our destination: In England, it\u2019s perfectly acceptable to park on the sidewalk.<\/p>\n We stopped in at a pub called the Brandling Villa, a big, open bar with, as expected, much brass and wood paneling, and a large projector screen set up in a corner (as at Luckies the day before). The Serbia vs. Ghana match was on, so we sat down, ordered up a traditional English Sunday roast (and a round of pints) and settled in.<\/p>\n I once thought that pancakes, a couple of eggs and a slice of bacon was a permissible Sunday brunch. I was clearly wrong. The Sunday roast is hearty enough to fuel a Minnesotan farm boy through a hard winter. In North East England, the Sunday roast consists of mashed potatoes, cubed sweet potatoes, several giant slices of roast beef, green beans, and a hank of Yorkshire pudding (batter baked in an oven and served as a side). This feast comes to the table dripping with copious amounts of dark brown gravy. My hunger wasn\u2019t just sated, it was roundhouse-kicked in the face.<\/p>\n Suitably fueled, Jay, Jeff, Adam and I began the rounds. Taking turns to fetch pints, the four of us managed to sample every single beer on tap, and most of the cider — about seven or eight rounds between us. We tried the Leffe, the Mordue, even the Mordue, a dark red ale from a local brewery. We were there, sitting in the pub, watching football and drinking for something like six hours (I think, I lost count around pint four). The match was long since over; Germany was now creaming Australia. We pulled out a Scrabble board, then switched to Monopoly after disagreeing on too many Geordie slang terms. (\u201cYeah\u201d was not spelled \u201cYe,\u201d I insisted to Adam.)<\/p>\n Elaine showed up at 7:00 p.m. and we had a couple more rounds, then called it quits. The Metro ride through northern Newcastle was something out of a fantastic dream. Palatial buildings — actually schools but looking like castles — reared out of the twilit sky (which refused to darken, even at a quarter past nine). The green fields and hedgerows, typical rolling English countryside, darted by in the gloom. Once again I was struck dumb by the fact that I\u2019d actually made it here, observing it with my own eyes.<\/p>\n The Old Castle In Newcastle<\/strong><\/p>\n On the morning of the fourteenth, Elaine was due at work again. While she was out, Adam, Jeff and I made a solemn bargain: After visiting the old priory in Adam\u2019s hometown, Tynemouth, we would take a dip in the North Sea. No wading around or dancing in the surf, we were going to go under.<\/p>\n After a few minutes at the Tynemouth Library to print our boarding passes for our impending trip to Dublin, we went for a hearty English breakfast at the Waterfront Caf\u00e9. Each plate was piled high with beans, bacon, sausage, eggs, and black pudding (fried pig\u2019s blood, shaped into a patty — goes rather well with egg yolk or the vinegary Brown sauce which is so popular in Northern England). We also ordered about a loaf\u2019s worth of white bread toast, upon which we stacked eggs, black pudding and sausage to make decadent sandwiches. I could hear my arteries and my colon screaming as I ate, but I tuned them out. I was in heaven. The English eat what they like, and nobody can make them feel guilty about it.<\/p>\n Our next stop was the Newcastle priory, which has been around since 1300. There isn\u2019t much left today, except for some columns, some walls, and a few replicated stained-glass windows. When Henry the VIII dissolved the Catholic church, he took the roofs off all the chapels and priories, and, as Adam pointed out, \u201cthe elements did the rest.\u201d<\/p>\n The grounds were no less stunning for that. The priory sits on a black cliff overlooking the mouth of the River Tyne, and looks more like a castle than a monastery. An enormous gatehouse, nearly intact, broods over the entrance, portcullis and all. Between the Scots in the North and the Vikings in the East, the monks were kept on their toes for centuries.<\/p>\n Arrow slits adorned the walls, and one could imagine the green lawns dotted with vegetables and crops during a siege. Cannons taken from the Spanish armada and a naval gun from World War II stood sentinel on the seaward side. The graves of sailors and mariners from the 18th and 19th centuries dotted the lawns between the cliff and the priory building, and the tombs of the saints and the gatehouse garrison looked as intact as the day they were shaped. The priory itself brooded atop the cliff like a monument to darker times. It\u2019s a religious experience, standing in a building older than the country one was born in.<\/p>\n