I studied abroad at the University of Sussex back in the dark ages of 2005, when a pound was worth about $1.95 and GWB had just won a second term. I had a friend A, another American down the hall (not much of a coincidence, since only first years and foreign exchange students lived in dorms), who eventually married the English guy she met while we were there and has lived here since we finished school. This weekend we met up with her and her family in Buxton, a former spa town. She expressed doubt that it would be worth the train ride for us, but "worth a train ride" is an extremely low bar for us at this point.

Buxton's chief attractions are the fancy hotel pictured below, the Thermal Baths which are now a shopping center, and an opera house. As a socioeconomic reference, we went to a coffee a note saying that they make coffee the right way so please don't get snippy if it takes a while (it did). After a brief stint at the playground we had a very good roast for lunch at a brewery, although this is a little flag for future me that I will always regret not getting the beef. We saw a little museum in one of the preserved bath houses. I was not brave enough to drink from the St. Anne's well, although I might have if I had know that's what it was called. There were some people in bonnets and top hats in front of the hotel, but it was not clear whether they were there in some sort of official ornamental function, cos players, or the equivalent of the guy dressed like Bumblebee who charges to take pictures in Times Square. We did not approach closely enough to enquire.

My friend's kids are a little younger than ours, and seeing them made me realize how much of my kids' earliest years I've already surpressed. The 5 or so hours we had planned between arrival and departure may as well be an eon for them. After they went home we had some time to kill and it was like 4:01, which meant every single place of business seemed to be closing. Earlier in the day N and B had asked if they could go up a very steep hill and we put them off, but now we didn't see how we could refuse without admitting the extent to which we did not feel like going up this hill. As it turned out we were able to summon the will to get up there and the kids had a spirited romp. It later transpired that during said romp they had both managed to lose a prized possession. From the heights of a pleasant day, a sudden plummet into grief! The lesson: never go up the hill!

We'd had lovely weather for most of the afternoon but from the train I could see a few wisps of fog in the valley below us. A few minutes later when I looked back it was so foggy you couldn't see across the street. Then our train from central Manchester back to our house was canceled, so we had a damp and chilly twilight walk to the bus stop. The bus took us down Wilmslow Road or Curry Mile, which is chockablock with desi and Middle Eastern restaurants. Their bustle beckoned and the dang hill had burned off our lunch so we got off and had dosa at Chit n' Chaat, which was everything you want when it's cold and dark, Monday is looming, and you are feeling a little frayed after a journey.