Lockdown

Along with the lockdown that I’m now in the 4th week of, comes a certain amount of free time I felt I bereft of prior to its arrival and since what we’re currently going through is fairly significant both socially and economically, perhaps even historically I feel duty bound to document it somehow;  so here we are. However, I equally feel if you were a completist, or stranger still had any kind of actual interest in the events of the last 13 months since my last entry I should at least attempt to summarise what’s happened between the last post and now. To me at least.

And the truth is not much. Not much of interest that is, otherwise I imagine I would have written about it before now, so consider it the lowlights before we talk about life under Covid 19. It might prove more interesting than I’d thought, our parameters of excitement having been adjusted now that we’re not allowed to do anything or go anywhere.

Leaving Baxter to go to America was I think the hardest thing I had to do, therefore reuniting him with him fit and healthy, him at least, was probably the highlight of my return.

Re-Entry

Getting back into the house after our term in America was a fucking nightmare. The people in it did not want to leave and did so only very reluctantly. It was in a bit of state and arguments were had about who owed what and we ended up defaulting to throwing money at it until it went away. The problem that is not the house. I wasn’t too annoyed as I understood our tenants plight, and they’d looked after the dog so well I could hardly be a dick about it. I was now however out of cash and had no car. Like Bend, Cumbria is not designed for carlessness.

Bangernomics

I asked Simone about the car in America as her cousin had picked it up off the side of the street and taken it for sale. It had not yet been sold but he had a buyer. The intention had always been to use that car money to buy a new vehicle this end, although the original plan was to sell it before we left. Unfortunately to this day we are yet to see a penny of it. Regardless I took my last £500 and bought a 15 year old Peugeot from a Christian. It was a right state but what can you expect for £500? The rear suspension was collapsed and the starter motor was shot, so I had to spend a week parking it at the top of a hill so I could jump start it the next day. I spent £250 on it and since then it’s just kept trucking. Kept carring.

175k on the clock and counting. The MOT’s now run out but it’s still sitting there until lockdown lock’s up.

6 months of not working passed quickly, and I busied myself running after the kids and indulging in general house husbandry. It was good to have my stuff back and I made the most of the Lakes in summer with the kids, who were now thankfully back at school. The comfort blanket of the NHS will for me, never again be underestimated and even with Brexit in full swing, I felt safer here than I had at any given moment on our travels. And before I knew it I was back at work. My students treated me like a returning rockstar and even some of the other members of staff seemed pleased to see me, and gradually I slipped back into the old routine, like nothing had ever happened. Contrary to the fact that sounds like the opening of a suicide note, I actually enjoy routine so that’s a good thing. It’s indicative nonetheless of the fact that little happens in my everyday life compared to the surge of events that unfolded every day in America. Time then begins to speed up again.

Yeah Buoy.

Bangernomics

So to distract me from this inevitable sprint towards death I decided to spend some money. Money I didn’t have. I was working now so the bank would lend me cash. So I asked them for it and they gave it to me. It was pretty much that simple. I’d been eyeing up a van as my next vehicle, and since the Peugeot sent from God would soon undoubtably return to him I’d elected to get something a bit more long-term. Having been turned back from Scotland in the winter as it was either too cold or too wet, and then again been turned back in Summer because the midgies were fucking insane, I wanted something I could hang out in, safe from the extremities of the outside world. I wanted a camper van.

After a truly ridiculous amount of research I settled on an ex-RAC conversion (hence the colour) that I could hopefully use for my only vehicle and was capable of both winter and summer travel. It slept four so at a push I could get the family in, not that this was in any way for them and it was fully kitted out with everything but a decent stereo. The mileage was high, the colour was loud, it looked pretty uneconomical and it cost much more than it was probably worth: I call it Big Jaffa

It’s undoubtedly a cliche of a vehicle. Since I bought it I’ve started to notice how many there are around, and how similar in demographic terms their owners are to me. When the seller asked me why I wanted one, I sarcastically replied that I was a mountain biker in his fourties, so I felt duty bound and it’s true, every budding outdoorsman north of the big four o either wants one, or already has one, or at the very least has considered one as an option. Why VW? The design is so tried and tested in camper-terms; it can sleep 4 with the poptop up, and has a parking heater for the winter as well as an amazing fridge, which has so far never failed to produce an ice cold beer on demand and the interior space is used amazingly with the spinning seats and the collapsing roof. I’ve been away in it now and it’s done Scotland and the Alps, both in winter and it proved far better than any rented accommodation; you can sleep pretty much wherever you want and and you can be as loud and obnoxious as you like, and I’m pretty loud and obnoxious when I’m drunk.

Speeding awareness

I never received a speeding ticket for the flash in south Cumbria documented in my last post. I reckon the one way nature of the journey – picked up in London and dropped off in Carlisle, along with the fact I had changed vehicles at the last minute meant I’d been too complicated to trace for the speeding fine. Either that or the camera that flashed me had run out of film, either way I dodged that bullet. I was snapped however on the way to work, and was totally oblivious until the letter arrived. I chose to attend the speeding awareness course to avoid the points and whilst driving to it sometime later I was slightly taken aback to see the same mobile camera unit waiting where I was last caught. I slowed to 60 yet the flash still went off. Had I just been caught speeding whilst driving to a speeding awareness course? It was possibly the most ironic thing that had ever happened to me, so I didn’t know how to feel. The nice men leading the speeding awareness course (Scottish, naturally) informed me that since the van I was in was a commercial vehicle (Big Jaffa), the limit on an A road was 50 and I had therefore been speeding by 10 miles per hour. Fucking brilliant. When I drove home that evening bicycles were overtaking me. It all ended up as a storm in a teacup luckily, as after several frantic phone calls to the DVLA, they finally confirmed the previous owner had re-registered the vehicle and that the Scottish men were wrong. I only wish there was some way that I could let them know that.

job interview

One of the most unpleasant things I did prior to starting back at my Job was interview for another. The head had been pressuring me to teach English on my return as there were blanks in that department that presumably needed filling. I didn’t want to teach English. I think it would be more accurately claim that I was incapable of teaching English. His argument was that I had an A’Level in Literature, which I did but he was asking me to teach English Language, albeit to lower school; but I felt strongly that this required a totally different set of skills, and when a teacher position became available in the Keswick School RE department, the allure of being able to teach my specialist subject and being able to walk to work convinced me to give it a punt.

What a ballache. I haven’t been interviewed for about 15 years so even scraping a CV together consumed several evenings. There were all the obligatory references, which in this case were demanded prior to interview, along with the brief including an incredibly specific lesson to be planned for observation. I even had to have a haircut. The yes or no’s of getting through to interview stress you out, and then the further stress of being accepted for interview loom, it basically dominated the two weeks between seeing the advert and attending the day. The full day. Mind you I wasn’t working so I suppose I didn’t have that much else to think about.

The interview day was particularly horrible, consisting of one-to-one interviews, panel interviews, observed lessons, timed marking tests and chats that aren’t chats at all: they’re more interviews. The students I taught and was interviewed by seemed to warm to me, but in my experience they don’t really like that, or at least don’t give it much credence. I was taken to the wrong room for my timed marking test and I ended up losing 10 of the 25 minutes through their fault – they said it wouldn’t matter but can’t imagine it made me look particularly confident. Despite this I felt I had a decent chance. The two other candidates had different strengths: one competent and senior, the other inexperienced but of course much cheaper to hire. Both were women, and I felt that at the end of the day it was down to what they were looking for spec wise. They gave it to the more experienced lady.

The world doesn’t owe us a living, and I’ll admit I understand why the interview process is necessary and I’m not bitter about the decision (not much), but it just kept occurring to me afterwards what a colossal amount of work and stress it all is to not get a job. I’d actually go as far to say I have now passed on two promotional opportunities in my current school as I wasn’t prepared to it all again. It’s so demoralising and can start you reflecting on yourself in all sorts of negative ways.

For example, I don’t look that good on paper. I make no excuses for having a 2:2 degree. People always claim it’s a party degree, the inference being that they were partying too hard so get the result they could have easily got had they not been so free-spirited and popular. I did plenty of partying at University, but it was the lack of work that dictated a second class degree, and whilst it would be wonderful in life to be rewarded for our potential, it’s hardly a robust philosophy on which to base a capitalist society. I got a 2:2 because I didn’t work hard enough to get anything higher. I’ll go further than that in fact: the idea that I was awarded a degree at all for the pitiful amount of work I submitted and the paltry number of lectures I attended is in reality a laughable indictment of the state of education at the time.

That said, the irresponsible hedonist I was at 21 is not the man I am now, and I’m very upset when people cite my academic credentials as reason for not employing me, which has happened on a couple of occasions now. It seems so far in the past and so irrelevant to my current situation, and whilst I am acutely aware of the hypocrisy in this sentiment bearing in mind I have literally just rejected accepting potential for experience, I have equally used nothing of significance from my Philosophy degree in my teaching, in the last 10 years. Maybe if I’d done more work I would have? Anyway, that all comes from merely reflecting on an interview rejection, not even from an interview itself, so when I was called with the bad news about the Job, I didn’t even ask why I hadn’t got it. The answer is, in my experience rarely genuine anyway, so to risk getting lost in that rabbit hole of reflection based on something that wasn’t even the truth in the first place is dangerous. They might, for example, have preferred a woman for the position rather than a man, for which there are all sorts of legitimate reasons, that they could never admit and I fear I could equally do little about. Or maybe they just thought I was a twat.

So there’s a few things that have happened in the last 12 months. Were they interesting? Perhaps not but at least it paves the way for me to talk about something more significant, if indeed you can imagine something more significant than me buying a car or getting a speeding ticket.

rain, sweet rain.

Inclement weather being the theme, I’m now sat in my ‘office’ at home in Keswick with the windows rattling and an apocalyptic storm raging outside which has been present since I first stepped back into this country, and is set continue, presumably indefinitely. Spoiler-alert, yes, I made it and with the kids asleep upstairs and my dog at my feet the journey is beginning to seem already, like a distant memory. What it’s like here however, can wait for a future post, as what is pertinent to the conclusion of this story is what it took to get back, so let’s start where we left off: it was snowing.

I’d planned to drive my car over to Eugene to give to Simone’s cousin Billy, with whom our adventure began. He had agreed to sell the vehicle on my behalf, which I’d hoped to avoid mainly because of the hassle for him, but also the unsurity for me, having invested a considerable amount of money in it; money I needed to recover.  However, my attempts to sell it had proved fruitless, and having been offered less than 2k on what was a 7k car, I’d decided to hedge my bets with Billy. This would involve a two hour drive to Eugene, over the mountain pass at which point I’d have to bus it back to Bend, meaning I’d lose a day and we’d obviously be car-less from then on in. America is not designed for car-lessness, and bearing in mind what we had to do to exit her, moving out the house etc, this was far from ideal but I saw little other choice.

Spot the car.

The truth was, no one wanted a two-wheel drive car in Bend and the recent whether had confirmed why. The snow was thick on the road, and anyone who had bravely attempted to test drive it had found themselves sliding around like a rally driver, as I had done for the entire winter. The snow was now so bad that the car could not be moved. In fact if it wasn’t parked on the drive I dare say it may not have been found, such was the severity of the recent dump, which was incidentally still dumping.

Our friend Karen (see earlier posts) was therefore tasked with chauffeuring us around in her 4x4 Merc, which was like a tank, and she really did drive it like she’d stolen it. It was a little unnerving at first being passenger to her – mild mannered mother that she was, she drove with inexplicable impatience, at breakneck speeds: drifting corners and ploughing through snow drifts, all the while cursing at other drivers’ apparent incompetence, which to me seemed only to be caution. 

The Beverly Hillbillies is a reference that’s old even for me, although I do remember it. It was awful.

When in Rome however, so I decided to get into it and embrace the excitement of her pushing the limits of her car, the value of which she had a total disregard for. The kids obviously thought it was an exciting way to get about, and it was only my wife who seemed genuinely terrified by it, as she adopted a permanent passenger position of holding on with white knuckles to what my father-in-law refers to as the ‘holy shit’ handle that’s bolted to the cars ceiling. Karen even offered to drive us to Seattle to catch the plane, which again seemed well above the call of duty. But true to form we accepted yet another charitable offer which far outweighed any value we could offer anyone as friends, and I was left with the task of working out how we could get all five of us in the car with her, and how I could then strap all the kit to it’s exterior securely enough for a 5 hour journey, mainly through snow. I imagined it to be a reimagining of the opening credits to the Beverly Hill Billies, adjusted for the new millennium.

The removal van booked to collect all our worldly belongings and sell them on was obviously snowed in and unable to come, so we did our best to pack what we were taking and clean around everything. It was important that we left the place spotless as our Landlady, obviously sympathising with our plight, had decided to charge us $3000 to break our lease, which was incidentally the maximum amount she could charge by law; so we could not afford any further disputes with regards to our deposit, which was also at the inflated amount of $3000 to account for us being foreigners and all. There were still three days before we flew so we resignedly accepted the delay, believing there still to be time. The next day they tried again but got stuck at the top of the road and aborted, so true to form they arrived in the eleventh hour, on the day we had to leave making everything as frantic and fraught as we were now used to. We were barely able to say goodbye to anyone, as we were either too rushed, or they were snowed in and I had to simply abandon the car on the side of the road, outside the house. I gave the keys to Karen but in truth I had no idea what was to be done with it. It also had a pretty flat battery, the title deeds had not arrived and the gas light was on. Whomever had to deal with it had a headache coming their way, but there was nothing I could do. We slept at Karen’s and headed off first thing in the morning. I felt like I was metaphorically tossing a match over my shoulder as we ploughed our way out of town that morning.

We were crammed in like sardines, and I’d tied so much stuff to the cars exterior that as soon as we got on the motorway straps started rattling, too loud to ignore, and stuff started to shift around up there. We had to keep pulling over to readjust things and I was beside myself with stress, the fear of something important flying off the roof and landing on a busy motorway was virtually freaking me out. I was also uncomfortable, and my feet were wet.

But after stopping for yet more fried chicken, and I say that without irony as I can’t get enough of it we braved the snow, then rain, then eventually a bright respite as we pulled in to our EconoLodge in Seattle. Karen choked slightly at the apparent roughness of the surrounding area, which to be fair did look a bit Hell’s kitchen, (the New York suburb famed for gang warfare, not the reality TV show) but I explained that since the booking of the accommodation was left to me, I had naturally gone for the cheapest hotel in Seattle, and that she need not worry as my family were by now used to this scenario, and competent at communicating with gang members and drug addicts alike.

The promotional pictures of the EconoLodge in Seattle did well to hide it’s questionable surroundings.

The hotel owner, at least that’s what he told us he was, was a huge Sikh man who immediately rejoiced at hearing our accents. He was from Wigan, and was a bouncer in a club there prior to his getting into the EconoLodge business. He was like a giant Labrador, enthusiastically emptying our luggage from the car whilst incessantly talking about his life and exploits, and when we couldn’t get into the roof box after trying for about 30 seconds, he confidently announced that he would ‘bust the lock,’ at which point all around became concerned.

Luckily Libby diverted his attention by smashing one of the two bottles of IPA I had saved for the evening on the hotel reception floor. We apologised to the staff, selfied with Karen and after a strange evening in which the hotel manager offered me a beer, and when I accepted went to the off licence and bought me a can of white wine mixed with cranberry juice, and, in a separate incident Simone was offered PCP, we settled in for a family Simpsons marathon on hotel cable and all seemed right with the world.

The flight the following morning was even better than the first. We’d been upgraded to Premium Economy, which had the exact amount of barely distinguishable upgrades to stir my children into a frenzy (a free glass of orange juice given to them on boarding was enough to do it), and we were charged nothing for our extra luggage: all 14 bags. The staff were equally, if not more helpful and the food gave me less wind, which was good for everyone else. In the absence of any Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson movies (to be fair; Skyscraper was available, but I just couldn’t rouse myself), I opted for the David Attenborough ‘Dynasty’ documentary about chimps. It was thoroughly depressing, and seemed to suggest that chimps were vile, violent, vengeful creatures that like to bite each others fingers off, which in turn made me feel better about sitting in a transatlantic jet eating a tiny packet of pretzels, whilst a lifetime’s worth of carbon dioxide was spewed from the planes exhausts. Those chimps were evil.

Most Cumbrians have been caught out at Ings for speeding. It’s like a rite of passage.

And the UK welcomed us back with a massive Storm. The man at the hire car place expressed concerns about the amount of luggage we had, and our ability therein to fit in the people carrier I had ordered, and insisted I upgrade to a van. I threw my credit card at him and loaded up like a zombie in a rainy, car park apocalypse and we headed North. It took all the concentration I had to stay to the left side of the white lines (that’s a Deacon Blue reference) but the weather was horrendous. As we finally aquaplaned passed the sign saying ‘Cumbria’, we cheered and started playing loud songs that we could all sing to, and as a final act of humiliation I sensed the familiar flash of the speed camera at Ings, near Kendal and our arrival home was sealed with a speeding fine. A fitting end to it all.

And here I am, and the rain that started when we landed continues. I’m surrounded by boxes like I’ve just moved in but we made it, and yes, Baxter is fine. As I predicted, I have little money and no car and a variety of loose ends to tie up in America which I have so far determinedly ignored. Our intention is to return in a few months time but whether that will happen and how is yet to be configured; but for the moment we are safely wrapped with the invisible blanket of the NHS, the girls are back in their underfunded schools and we’re back in a house that doesn’t email us requesting $2000 at the beginning of every month; a few things I can enjoy, at least until the rain stops, if it ever does.

Best Laid Plans Inevitably go Wrong

As I write this I’m looking out into a snowstorm which, even for a mountain town has unusual vigor. I’ve heard several comparatives used to describe it thus far: the biggest single snow dump since 1987, the worst single storm in two centuries and perhaps less impressively the third largest snowfall since a couple of years ago when it was also particularly bad. Over a metre has fallen now. The schools are closed, businesses have halted and getting out of ones own yard is now a business which involves digging. An avalanche last night blocked the pass to Eugene and all the way to Portland people are being advised to stay at home. It’s fitting that its only 3 days until we depart Bend, and in that time we have to empty our house, clean it, pack and make the 5 hour drive north to Seattle to catch a plane on the day my visa expires to return home to England to an airport 300 miles south of the place that I live. That should be relatively simple in these conditions.

Charles Joughin: 1878-1956. Chief Baker and piss artist on the RMS Titanic.

Perhaps it’s true to the nature of this trip that I’m constantly reminded of my favourite survival story ever: that of Charles Joughin - the last survivor to disembark the Titanic.  His Wikipedia page underplays his ordeal, but the journalists account I read portrayed his survival as a triumph for the man who doesn’t worry, a masterclass in why planning is irrelevant and he seemed to bring into focus all that is perhaps wrong in my approach to this trip.

He was a baker on the Titanic, and when it struck the iceberg it was his night off and he was getting pissed. What else would there be to do on a ship in 1912? He was getting pissed, on his own in the way that perhaps a hard drinker would. He seemed to nonchalantly acknowledge the impending disaster – helping people onto life boats and throwing deck chairs overboard so people could use them as floatation devices. At least that what the journalist assumed he was doing – he could equally have been doing it in some kind of angry drunken rampage. Anyway, in between doing his bit for the rescue effort he returned to his quarters for another snifter, and when he ventured on deck again it was curtains time, and the ship was snapping in half. According to eye witness accounts, even when all around him were being flung into tangled piles as the deck angle increased, he escaped harm and collision until he was standing at the top, holding on to the railings as the ship plummeted down, presumably directly next to Leonardo Di Caprio and Kate Winslet. He then inexplicably was not sucked down in whatever you call the twisty current that got Leo, claiming to have barely broken the waters surface, and I quote, ‘his head "may have been wetted, but no more".

He then spent just shy of 2 hours bobbing around in the water before being dragged for a while by one boat, and was then finally dragged aboard another, long after everyone else had perished. He furthermore claimed to have barely felt the cold, having been liberally sozzled prior to the whole debacle kicking off. It is of course medically claimed that alcohol consumption actually diminishes the bodies ability to stay warm, but of course medically it is equally claimed that alcohol diminishes ones ability to drive, and we all know that to be nonsense.  Charles was arseholed and invincible. We’ve all been there.

I’d have been worrying about all of this shit way before it happened. I’d be thinking about icebergs, listening suspiciously to the ebb and flow of the current, and working out in my head the best way to save my family when disaster inevitably struck. But I’d end up like Leo all the same, dead in the water, sinking to an icy grave, my last thoughts pondering whether a trimmer girl could have made room. I’d have died, all the same.

It’s probably best to mention at this point that I’ve actually had a pretty good time in Bend, so if you want the glamorous highlights see my facebook timeline, but here is where we sift through the dirt, because the dirt is more interesting.

Not only did the restaurant ‘Chicken Bonez’ sell phenomenal fried chicken, but it also served Ten Barrels session beer for $1 a pint. If this were in England it would be full of drunks. Instead of only one.

So why do I even bother? I plan everything and what, God laughs, is that the saying? We met immigration attorney’s, which cost money, and Simone travelled to Portland to have an interview with a customs official which was both colossally inconvenient and colossally unhelpful. We researched, we form filled the answer was the same and eventually we accepted the fact that beyond March our visas would not be extended and we were to vacate the country. 6 months was all they were prepared to offer; so we could stay illegally and compromise our chances of future re-entry, or fuck off.

I was now burning through money, whilst ironically living like a monk and I was a little ambivalent to the prospect of leaving. I liked it here, but man it was stressful, and not working was weird. There were further issues in as much as none of us had health care, Stan was missing out on a proper school and Simone’s businesses back home were constantly stuttering with problems difficult to solve from across the pond. Perhaps these were all the things I’ve told myself to adjust to the prospect, either way my feelings seemed genuinely mixed.

The prospect of upping sticks again however was very daunting. Admittedly this whole process would have had to take place at some point regardless, but an early return meant regaling on several agreements we had perhaps naively made but were equally necessary at the time. This would be costly, and the thought of moving out so soon after moving in was weighing heavy on my brain.  

So what had to be done? Change the flights (again), break contract on our housing lease, break contract with the tenants occupying our UK house, sell what I’ve bought (including the car), empty the house, get all of us and the kit to Seattle without a car, fly back to the UK and make our way North to Keswick. Relax? I wished I could Joughin my way through it but I feared ignoring it all and drinking hard liquor would be met with mixed reviews from my family, so the awkward and inevitably expensive conversations began. Meanwhile I decided I’d best focus my attentions to enjoying what time we had left.

The view from the top of the mountain. Mount Bachelor looking toward the Three Sisters.

Like the trip as whole, the last few weeks were a mixture of highs and lows. There was plenty of snow and I was on the mountain all the time. The girls were becoming competent skiers and I managed to get summit runs in and fresh lines and we began to go out a bit more and mix, forming more, what seemed like genuine friendships along the way. All the while we were wrestling with the logistics, having stressful arguments with those we were regaling on (and each other), and for every good day we had an equally bad one.

My mugging at the swimming pool was a good analogy for it, although mugging is a term I’m using only in the absence of a better description of what happened. We’d had a fantastic day skiing on the mountain, everyone was there and we’d had a beer après before heading down to the local swimming pool for a free family swim (free swim: there like swimwear). The lockers required padlocks, which were meant to be provided by the user. Naturally the user had no such padlock so I elected to shove mine and Stan’s clothes in regardless, safe in the assumption this was a city devoid of something as vulgar as street crime. A Ne’er do well, one which in retrospect I should have spotted, obviously got wise to this and went through my belongings whilst I was gleefully throwing myself off the free diving board and emptied my wallet of all it’s cash.

I was blissfully unaware of this happening of course, until I pulled out my wallet to pay for the family’s Macdonalds later that evening. I’m not sure how much was in there, but it was more than a ton, and the Happy meals suddenly became deeply ironic. Luckily, in another turn the manager of Macdonalds: the MacManager, decided to give us our meal for free, sympathising with my apparently visible distress. Swings and roundabouts?

My daughter Libby, enjoying the accumulating snow.

So lots of things have been happening: some of them good and some of them bad. My anxiety levels seemed to have dropped – a difficult decision is a decision nonetheless and there is a comfort knowing what is happening, when so long things have been up in the air. Unfortunately what is now a certainty is another trans-global journey riddled with hurdles, which will surely be even worse than the first one,  and will even more surely alleviate me of the little money I have left.

That trip is now 3 days away. And it is snowing. Really snowing.

Sir, will you please step out of the Country?

The use of the prefix ‘Sir’ is different here I’ve noticed. I’m addressed as Sir in my capacity as a schoolteacher, and it has always felt respectful, if not entirely appropriate. When addressed in the same manner in shops or by service staff it has always felt equally respectful, but whenever anyone calls me Sir here, it has been without exception, done negatively.

It reminds me of a Homer quote I’d long since forgotten: he is on the way to a black tie dinner with Marge and makes the comment, ‘Perhaps someone will call me Sir, without then adding, you’re making a scene’, and I didn’t realize how relevant it was to American culture until now. I’ve been addressed as Sir 3 times: once by a lifeguard for running in the swimming pool, once by Security in the airport prior to being searched and once by a Customs officer on the Border of Canada. None of these were positive exchanges, but the latter definitely takes the biscuit.  

As has been mentioned before, my wife has an American passport and can come and go as she pleases, however as British citizens, my children and I have come in on Tourist visas, which require stamping every 90 days up to a period of up to 2 years. Such stamps are achieved by leaving the country and re-entering it, however we opted for this over applying for a full years visa as 40% of these are declined, and we did not want to risk the trip being over before it began, so we opted for the low risk/high hassle option. This meant that midway through December our visas were due to expire, and as the many emails I received informing me of this proved, the government was well aware of this.

So a weekend trip to Canada was in order. Simone had an old friend who lived in a town called Duncan which was in British Columbia, and fairly close to the American border. Truth be told I was incredibly uncomfortable about the whole thing from the get go. It seemed like an arbitrary trip across the border might be questioned and I had heard the term ‘meaningful departure’ in abstraction although I wasn’t sure where. The trip involved a long car journey and a ferry to Vancouver Island so I was naturally also concerned about the arbitrary cost.

Since we’d just taken a rental contract out on a house and also bought a car (and above that bought season tickets on the mountain for the whole family), we decided it was a necessary evil/risk, so we planned a trip. My school friend Alistair lives in Hood River, a town around half way to the border so we requested a stop-off there, and Melissa, who was worried about my rear wheel drive SUV (Ha!) making it over the Hood Pass with the recent snow, insisted we borrow her 4x4 Minivan to make the journey. So we did, and I reluctantly packed another car for another long journey that promised little other than gas money and stress.

Al provided a safe-haven in Hood River away from the stresses of border crossing.

Luckily this journey fulfilled that promise with gusto. Heavy snow on the pass made the transition to Al’s skittish and taxing, but his warm hospitality made up for it. The journey to Port Angelis was long and against the clock, which is never nice. I slept for the entire journey on the ferry, upright, in a seat, so I’ve no idea what that was like, and our exit through Canadian customs was confusing.

The Canadian Customs man asked us some questions, before which he explained that he needed to ascertain whether we would be allowed back into America if we only  planned to stay for 2 days, North of the border. Unfortunately his knowledge of  US Customs laws seemed poor at best, as he displayed genuine surprise at being informed a US tourist Visa only lasted 3 months, as he believed it to be 6. If he was ignorant of such a basic and highly relevant law, then what good was he to ascertain our suitability for acceptance on our return? In fact, I think if any of you out there are thinking of emigrating to Canada in the inevitable wake of whatever Brexit turns out to be, I suggest you just turn up at the border with your stuff in a van and tell them you’re only going to be there for the weekend, and I imagine they’ll wave you through, as they did with us. Like a Venus Flytrap.

This was the view from Massimo’s house in British Columbia in the morning. What a cliche?

Canada was lovely, although pretty much exactly as I imagined it to be. Misty, woody, rural. It definitely felt more European than Oregon or Washington State. The price of petrol was high like in Europe, but everyone had those massive trucks, like in Oregon so God knows how that worked. Did the government pay for everybody’s petrol? Or did they pay for each other’s, in a friendly, rather than socialist way? Strangely that seemed more likely. 

The highlight of the trip for me, had to be the Municiple Swimming Pool. Not that that was how it was referred to, but that’s what it was, as proved by it’s $4 entrance fee ($4 Canadian!). I’d been reluctant to go at first, it seemed a waste of an afternoon in Canada to go to the swimming baths, but I was wrong: it was the best swimming pool I have ever been to, and I’ve been to a few.

The Swimming Pool in Duncan BC was a show stopper.

2 Diving boards, 2 water slides, the kind that go out of the building and then in it again, a wave machine, water guns, a hot tub (massive and really hot) sauna, steam room and a lazy river, the latter of which my son would have lived out the rest of his days, given the choice. We didn’t have armbands for Stan: they were provided, and no one stole all my cash from the locker I didn’t have the requisite change to lock (more on that in the future).  All in all, a class act.

We watched the film Blades of Glory that night and laughed, it was a happy day – but ironically again, it preceded a bit of a stinker. Our return to the ferry was another against-the-clock nail biter, and after an initially pleasant exchange with the front line customs lady, a concerned frown and mutterings mentioning the word ‘Superior’ led to us being asked to step out of the car, and report for interview. So we gave the kids a suitably serious warning and left them to fend for themselves as we stepped into the rejection queue.  

In that queue there was my wife and I, and two others. One Canadian lady whom they believed was seeking illegal work across the border, which, having talked to her for only 5 minutes I believed not to be the case. Her story checked out. There was also an Australian lady, who like us was extending her US tourist visa, but unlike us this was the second time she was doing it (we were later to find out that she was denied entry, and instructed to fly back to Australia there and then). We waited some time. The interviews before us seemed long, and our ferry was about to leave and that was the last one that day, so if we missed it? My wife and I discussed worst-case scenarios; and they were bleak. All of our belongings bar a weekend bag were still in Oregon, in a house we had taken an 11 month contract out on. Even the car we were driving belonged to someone else and ours was across the border. If we were refused entry to the US, we would either have to camp out in Canada for 3 months (with a weekend bag), or fly directly home; without passing go. What happens to our stuff? What do we do with this car? When the customs officer asked me whom the car belonged to I blurted inexplicably ‘our relocation agent’, which was met with all sorts of suspicious lines of questioning. I was clearly going to have to engage my brain filters for this one.

The interview therefore was intense. The customs officer was pleasant, but thorough. I was actually very impressed with how well he listened; I felt he would make someone a very good friend. He explained to us that now (exactly when things changed remained unclear), it was not sufficient that one left the country, but that it was a ‘meaningful departure’, which he went on to define as a departure in which the departee was absent from the US for a longer period than which they were there. That would mean 3 months in Canada, to satisfy the new requirements of gaining re-entry to the US. That wasn’t practical.

I explained to the Customs officer our situation, which was honourable in it’s intent: essentially my intention has always been to come to the US for a year, and empty my entire savings account into the American economy, and then return to England next September, to resume my duties as a schoolteacher. I’m a dream client. My wife has an American passport and my children have rights to one, if I’m prepared to pay; and I have to go back, as I’ve got a job so staying beyond August would be impossible. What is the fucking problem? Naturally my translation of that was a lot more tactful.

A lifetime later we exited the meeting with a stamp for another 90 days, but it wasn’t a walk in the park. It was given reluctantly; and the customs officer felt I should be grateful. But I wasn’t. Relieved yes, grateful no. Throughout the entire interview the customs officer had been suggesting our ejection was inevitable. Waiting outside the small, concrete office at the docks for someone to make an entirely discretionary decision which had an immediate and potentially disastrous effect on a legitimately present tourist and his young family had made me feel a little bit like an Asylum seeker. I’m quick to make light of it now, but it was a pretty horrific experience, in which the worst-case scenario fucked other people over as well as ourselves; and that makes it so much worse.  We stopped for fast food on our re-entrance to Washington-State, and I said to Simone, that in 3 months’, or in fact ever again, I would not do that a second time. And I hold that intent fast, still.

The customs officer appeared hurt at my suggestion that this had been a horrific experience, citing the fact that he thought that he himself, had been particularly pleasant in our exchange. I felt it strange that I was then meant to feel sorry for him somehow, since our interview had been difficult for him as well. I felt like punching him, but decided that would not help our plight, and so decided to take our stamps and get out of Dodge. And that’s what we did.

The fundamental problem with the system here - which is of course designed to keep people out, is the term ‘discretionary.’ Our stay in the States is completely legitimate, however the system is not designed to accommodate such a trip. We have tried at every juncture to abide by the laws and rules of the country, yet still our welcome is decided at an individuals discretion. The customs officer still holds the right to deny us entry for whatever reason he choses, even if we fulfil all the required criteria. This to me is not a robust system, and relies too heavily on individual opinion, and I found the attitude of the customs officer, who felt I should be grateful he believed my story, to be highly offensive. It was not a story, it was the truth which furthermore is documented and can be proven. He went on to say that should we pass through again and he interviewed us, he would further extend our visas as he could see we were legitimate - again the implication here was that if we were interviewed by someone other than himself, then our entrance would of course be refused. Again, I found this infuriating as it was further evidence of fundamentally flawed system: entrance or denial based purely on what seemed to be the luck of the draw.

Arriving home therefore was not the relief that perhaps it should have been. Yes we were back with our stuff, and the girls could go back to school, but we now knew that further extending our visas beyond March would be impossible by similar means, and that were we to stay beyond that, another route would have to be found - and we could already see that such a route might not even exist.

The joys of living in Bend

According to this chart, Bend is in what is known as the ‘Lumbersexual’ stage of hipster.

My family and I went to party a couple of weekends ago, and my wife noted, as we entered a busy living room, that I was the only man there not wearing a lumberjack shirt. The joke perhaps here is that I have a lumberjack shirt, and chose not to wear it that night. Admittedly it wasn’t coloured red and black, which I noted all others were, and I also noticed, like much of the developed world currently that facial hair was in. Facial hair isn’t my thing, as beyond a couple of weeks growth my face becomes a patchy, adolescent collage so I can’t really join that party. Anyway there was a clear uniform and I feel that applies to Bend in general. Coolness is through the roof here, but individually is desperately lacking.

The one eccentric fashionista I have seen so far was when I was volunteering at the Restore. The Restore was the humanitarian charity that furnished my house. I had been feeling so guilty about claiming the 50” TV that was there for the taking (disclaimer; this TV was claimed legitimately - I did not steal it) and had decided to volunteer for the shop, in order to give something back. Every time I worked there a man would peruse the shop in full cowboy gear. He was one of the few people that seemed to buck the trend in Bend; someone that dressed apart from the crowd. Everyone knew him, but he didn’t work there. I didn’t ask who he was, all sorts of people frequented the place and I thought he might be mentally ill, so I just rolled with it.

The thing is everyone seems cool, and to a certain extent they are cool. But if everyone does the same cool things in the same cool way then suddenly it’s not that cool anymore. For example, when I first saw someone drive past in a 4x4 Mercedes Sprinter campervan, with surf boards on the top and mountain bikes on the back I thought yeah, that’s the sort of thing I’d like to be driving round in. But when you’ve seen 6 of them driving down the same street you begin to realise that everyone has had the same idea.

Now is that a bad thing? When homogeny has created something largely positive, as opposed to something like Brexit or racism. Everyone aspiring to the same positive ideals, and in doing so rendering themselves identical? Or is that they’re simply all cool?

My daughters adding some perspective to the daunting but beautiful, Smith Rock.

What Bend is, is an outdoor Mecca. I’m aware that’s an overused term, but as much as Bend is not a place of religious pilgrimage, it homes a staggering variety and quality of outdoor pursuits and as a destination is a place sportspeople from all over the state and possibly the country are drawn to. The surrounding forests are riddled with managed and maintained mountain bike trails, some really good ones as well. Smith rock, a humungous outcrop of volcanic basalt that has world famous climbing is only half an hours drive, and Mount Bachelor is just 20 miles from the city limits, a 2764 m volcano hosting a bike park in the summer, and the 6th biggest ski resort in the US in winter. Every house seems to have an RV, a 4x4 and a Skidoo parked outside; most have hot tubs. You can also do Nordic skiing, husky driving, snow-shoeing and apparently the golf is world class, but I don’t give a fuck about any of those things. Suffice it to say it suits my sporting needs as well as the needs of others.

Culturally Bend is one of the whitest, most middle class cities I have ever visited. Like any city there is a degree of homelessness, but crime seems low and it is very much a town where doors are left unlocked. Ethnic diversity, even for someone raised in Cumbria is desperately lacking. Even the Hispanic community seems almost completely absent so it becomes a town where anyone who isn’t white Caucasian is cause for a double take. Some would like this, but I’m not sure I do, and I can’t help thinking that this whitewash is partly responsible for the ‘incomer’ attitude people have – admittedly that’s more directed toward Californian’s than anyone else, but it still gives me the impression that it is a town that might struggle with any kind of immigrant influx. Not that people are racist, far from it – attitudes here are extremely liberal, more so than Cumbria in general which seems to have concluded that other cultures are bad, regardless of how few of them exist there.

Socially it’s a difficult one to call. Having children, one of whom is under 5 it means we rarely go out unaccompanied so I can’t really comment on the nightlife beyond a Pizza house which has a soft play. The people are incredibly friendly, and I rarely converse with someone in the park without them giving me their number (perhaps that’s down to my not inconsiderable charm) and in the few months we’ve been here now we’ve made some good friends and are invited out more than we care to go. Interaction, particularly between men is different to the UK. A machismo front is prevalent in conversation and I regularly feel I’m being exposed to a guarded personality rather than a genuine self; similar to social media I suppose. Making each other laugh takes second place to conversations about economics or politics, but that could be as a result of friendships that are still in the stages of small talk, and that when people are more comfortable with me they may begin to open up (or rather close down). That’s one of the most difficult things about starting somewhere socially from scratch: a period of niceties and best behavior are required before friendships can be formed and these require time, and often shared experiences to blossom, and to a largely anti-social man such as myself this represents a considerable challenge.

The basics I was looking for however are more than covered. A climate that’s cold in the winter, hot in the summer with a nearby mountain that has lift access and plenty of freshwater to splash in, without the precipitation and land restrictions of the Lake District. The one thing I hadn’t previously considered however was the quality of the beer scene. I’ve mentioned in a previous post how many microbreweries there are here, but the quality and variety of ale on offer is astounding. I haven’t had a bad beer since I got here and bars and restaurants alike have 10 or even 20 beers on tap, ranging from delicious to irresistible. My current favourite is an IPA called ‘Secret Sauce’ (fnar fnar) which at 9.2% is stronger than Special Brew, but tastes nice. It appeals to my thrifty side (which are all of my sides) as it’s twice the strength of my usual tipple, meaning 2 pints ($10) and I’m ready to meander home.

So pros vs cons? People, place, beer and cheap gas come at the expense of a differing social culture, work, healthcare and of course Trump (although it’s fair to say the latter’s influence is not strongly felt here). How does that compare to the Lakes? How does it compare to where you live? Perhaps we should see how Brexit plays out before we make a call on who wins here.

From Rocky Beginnings

The Giant mechanic had a giant truck.

Whilst our major hurdles had apparently subsided, the next few weeks were not equally, but nor were they insignificantly fraught. My next-door neighbour, a professional mechanic for the Giant Bikes Enduro Team (whom I subsequently Googled and digitally stalked for this information), was having a yard sale as we moved further trinkets and necessities into the house. He claimed no one had lived in our house for a while, and as the week progressed we began to suffer the consequences of that claim.

The oven didn’t work. Or at least it didn’t seem to, but a setting labeled ‘broil’ had convinced me that I did not understand how it worked. The microwave made a metal-on-metal grinding noise whilst in use and the fridge light was obstructively hanging by a wire in the middle of its useable area. That also made a fair racket. Consistently. The thermostat was so complicated that even after downloading and reading it’s manual (I’m a manual reader), I could not elevate the temperature of the house above uncomfortably cold.

Later in the week the week the dishwasher backed up and flooded the sink, which had the waste disposal unit fitted along with its motors and blades, and the waste disposal unit in itself terrified me on several levels. This was followed by all the toilets blocking up, one of which contained a particularly nasty scatter bomb from Stan, who’s main diet of chips and apple sauce was producing some ungodly packages, one of which was now destined to float and ferment for days to come.  

All in all it took about 3 weeks before we had a functioning house. We even had to have a locksmith come and replace all the patio door locks, which were clearly open when we viewed the house. What happened to the locks? Why had all the keys suddenly gone missing? The property manager, Tricia, did her best to fix the myriad of problems and avoid answering any questions about the house’s history, which, even at the time of writing is still unanswered. The plumbers came in to exorcise Stan’s demons, and replaced the oven, microwave and dishwasher and Michael came round to re-attach the door frame which Georgie, with all her 9 year old might had managed to rip off after Libby had engaged the chain from the other side. It was debatable that as a security measure it was fit for purpose in the first place.  

I installed myself with an area. Not a room, like what I’m used to, but an area. At first it was in the kitchen, but that was too busy so I moved to the corner of the living room. I had a little desk with my laptop, an amplifier, some speakers and a mini audio mixer I’d smuggled out. I built my bike, put my skis and snowboards together having had to dismantle everything for transit. I even bought myself a midi keyboard off the internet so I could play the piano.

This panorama makes a flattering impression of the area I have occupied, but as you can see I have expanded it into quite a comfortable ‘work zone’ now. It’s a shame I’m not allowed to work.

So I tried, at least for a while to get into it. The kids were happy at school, which was one potential problem averted. Stan was a bit of a concern as in the UK he should be starting his primary education, but in the US this procedure didn’t occur until the following school year, so he was with us, 24/7. We hadn’t planned on that being the case. We decided to try and start the basics with him as best we could (ironic I know, considering my profession) and that Simone, the only one of us eligible to work here, should concentrate on getting some money to alleviate the pressure created by the thousands and thousands of dollars we had spent getting just this far. And we settled into something that resembled a routine.

Filmed on the last day of the 2018 season on Oct 7th in Mt Bachelor bike park, about half an hours drive West of Bend.

I intend to wax lyrical about the joys of living in Bend in a future blog, but with the excitement of discovering a new outdoor playground, came the same stresses and anxieties that I imagine plague all of our lives, and when I look back upon my first couple of month’s here in Oregon, I tend to remember those stresses and anxieties above the fun I was having. They seemed more prevalent. Not that these things consume our everyday lives, I think that’s called depression, but instead the time just after going to bed, but before falling asleep: that, for some reason is the time we decide to think about all of our many problems. I’ve since considered that the fewer genuine problems you have, the more you worry about life’s insignificancies. I often wondered whether that was why my father had started a legal battle with his next door neighbour over the branches of a tree, and on whose land they dangled. I thought that was perhaps because he had little else to worry about. I’d have loved that to be my major worry. Instead I was fretting about money: changing the flight tickets, which were booked for our return in 2 months time, how much was that going to cost? Would we be able to honour the 11 month contract we had just signed in blood for our house rental? Would my insurance cover the $2200 we had just lost? (spoiler: no) What happens if one of us is hurt or falls ill, we have no medical insurance?  What happens when our tourist visas run out 2 months time? I’m writing this in retrospect and now that I know the answer to most of these questions, I have concluded that these were all indeed serious issues, and I was fucking right to be worried.

The importance of having Wi-Fi.

The major spanner in the works at this point in the story, was that I now had an empty house, and furniture to fill it, however the furniture was somewhere other than the house, and I had a normal car and only one pair of useful hands. I couldn’t really envisage moving a corner sofa into a living room with my two small daughters at one end of it, bearing its weight. Nor could I imagine Stan being involved in any way being anything other than a massive liability. The only man I could ask to help was Michael, as he was the only man I knew but he was 71 years old, and had already gone beyond what could be considered reasonable to help already.

In steps Abbie Fritz with the power of social media behind her. And a massive truck. If I’m honest I don’t really understand the details of how Abbie became so actively involved, although I did understand that she had started a group on facebook in honour of our plight – presumably as she had seen us on the news? Anyway, she had somehow contacted Michael and arranged to meet me at his house 9am Saturday morning to collect the furniture from the Restore, as well as a plethora of other donations leant to us by Benders that were happy to donate some other useful items.

How she got Michael on board I don’t know. He seemed genuinely happy to help and kept claiming ‘I just want this finished’ ambiguously enough that he may have been joking, but I was more concerned as to how Abbie Fritz had broached bringing him on board. Had she asked him, assumed it or maybe even demanded? I’m not sure, and at some point I will ask Michael.

What followed was an understandably arduous day for all involved. A convoy of two trucks: one with Michael flying solo, the other (which was a 6 litre monster) had Abbie, myself and a small lap dog named something. Apparently it was a care dog, trained to react to certain emotional triggers of which I cannot offer an example, suffice it to say it could cheer you up if you were upset, but would be useless if you got mugged.  

The Restore had some really good stuff, and had this piano been there when I was given the keys I’d have had a real dilemma on my hands. Could a baby grand be considered a necessity?

We circumnavigated Bend collecting it’s offerings, and then arrived at the Restore to collect the rest of the booty, all the while delivering to the new abode to arrange it all whilst Michael’s wife Jane looked after my unruly children. It was a hard day, but much was achieved and it was all thanks to Abbie and Michael, who worked like dogs and retained a cheery disposition throughout. I didn’t really know how to thank them. I promised to take Abbie and her partner to dinner, and we left on the promise of arranging a further meet. Michael just offered me a fatherly hug, which I must admit felt good, and suggested no such repayment was necessary. Neither felt adequate for the efforts of the day.  

This left us so close, but yet so far as despite now being kitted up adequately for living in, we had no bed clothes in the house, and possibly more importantly no internet.

I remember in December 2010 we had an issue with our internet provider back home in Keswick. We were at the time with Orange, and whilst I don’t remember quite why, I do remember being without Wi-Fi for 5 days over Christmas. Even then it was really disabling, even before the days of Netflix it gave an unnerving feeling of disconnection. This was perhaps emphasized by pre-roaming phones which by coincidence was similar to my current situation in Bend, as I had no roaming data here either. Jane and Michael acquired all the necessary bedding the following day, but it wasn’t until the Bend Broadband engineer: Michaela installed a router that I felt we could all move in.

I’ve since reflected on the idea that my home was only inhabitable once it was connected, as I’m not an active user of social media, and I’m to the greater extent happy engaging in an offline world. Perhaps it was the pacifying effect it has on the kids that appealed. In a way that’s even more concerning. Perhaps I’m simply institutionalised: I don’t need it but I think I do. Either way I found it strange.

After an afternoon spent in an insurance brokers paying for house insurance I neither wanted nor needed, we acquired the keys and moved in. I swooped round to the bus station to collect Simone who was tired from travel and jet-lag, but jacked up on men dressed up as women, glitter and cutting put downs so I took her to her new home. I may have even carried her over the threshold, which felt very English, and a little sexist at the same time.

She dutifully hid any reservations she may have had about the décor, realising not only that her arrival coincided precisely with the moment the move was complete, but that criticising the efforts of all involved was more than our marriage was worth, and so we settled in, hoping desperately that this was an end to our rocky beginning.

No Mean Feat

The next seven days at Karen and Bob’s holiday flat were pretty much a long, arduous endurance test of single parenting whilst simultaneously having to secure and furnish a house.

Simone was there at first. We met with Melissa from Bend Relocation Services who was filled with the appropriate apologies and explanations as to why she had promised something which was clearly not fully hers to give, but as I explained to her that despite my disappointment at not being able to stay in Rivendell, being angry with her seemed futile as she was helping us, and helping us for free.

We then began the laborious task of driving round and viewing properties, which due to the piss-poor exchange rate produced by Brexit Britain, all seemed inordinately expensive. We jumped on the first shithole we saw and began the process of discussion of what we planned to do to it to make it less shit. It all turned out to be academic, as after spending an entire afternoon in some soulless letting agents filling out form after form, they told us that because we were English and had no recognised credit rating, our deposit was going to have to be $7000.

Grrrr.

They could clearly fuck right off with that.  I didn’t have that sort of money to tie up with nothing but the promise of a massive, transatlantic argument to get it back off them after we return to Blighty. Furthermore the principle? Did we present that big a risk to some two-bit landlord that he has to ensure we don’t default on our rent or presumably wreck the place to the tune of $7000. We explained to the letting agents that to do that much damage to the property we’d have to burn it down which would be counter productive to our interests, although at this point I kept quiet as my very first house burned down on the day I bought it: but that’s another story. We refused to pay the deposit and off they fucked. With their house.

I started to feel a bit sorry for Melissa, as she’d spent the entire time by our sides, even in the letting agents, with the passive aggressive smiles and the form filling and the broken dreams and we looked to be almost out of her hair: and then suddenly we were back to square one. So we did it all again, several times and as is usual in these scenarios, each option presented us with a different but considerable compromise. The last property’s compromise was its price, in that it was too expensive, but then again I suppose they all were. Seeing as everything else fit the bill, we began the whole tedious process again.

Then followed another, perhaps predictable clusterfuck of stressful admin, and money not being transferred in time, or in enough volume. Suffice it to say we had not got the keys by the time Simone flew off to New York. That’s right, she flew off to New York.

Simone had planned an early excursion to go to Drag Con in New York which seemed, for some inexplicable reason to be some kind of dream come true for her. She’d booked the flights long before our woes began, imagining us to be now in a relaxed and comfortable state within our relaxing, comfortable rental. The flights were too expensive to ditch, and she was meeting Frankie, our elder daughter there. Full commitment.

She left me to complete negotiations and secure the keys to the property, which I did. I got into the house and noted how very bare it was, and that even my snowboard and mountain bike would not bring this anywhere near habitable. The next day however, Melissa revealed the master-stroke. She’d spoken to the ‘Habitats for Humanity’ Restore, a Christian homebuilding charity which operate a donation based furniture shop. They had agreed to pity our plight and furnish our house for free, on the understanding that it was re-donated on our inevitable exit from the country. Back of the net.

This meant I had to go the Restore, and choose whatever I wanted from the shop floor. Now I can imagine a few people that would froth at the mouth at such a prospect: furnishing a place from Scratch? A second hand furniture store? Hell some people would prefer it to be second hand. Carte Blanche? I however approached this with a heavy heart, knowing that the many decisions I was about to make, would in their majority be wrong. Would you let your husband furnish your house from scratch?

I did consider a facetious approach, picking either things I knew only I would like, or things that weren’t obviously distasteful, but would annoy different members of my family in subtle ways. This was fleeting however, as the tone dictated a more efficient tactic. Unfortunately (meant Melissa, with kindness) Melissa was there, and like any rational female or gay man, was dizzy with the idea of a free furniture shop and an empty living room. Even if it was someone elses.

I made a few inappropriate purchases, including a massive, round kitchen table and chairs which I knew were far to big for the space but that she really liked, a toasting machine which I didn’t know I needed and a green leather chair which I agreed to yet had absolutely no intention of taking home. I also snuck a few purchases which she had vetoed in the minutes after she left, including a horrible red leather sofa which was a double recliner. A double recliner for Gods sake.

Does me being an RE Teacher in anyway make ammends for me excepting charity from a Christian founded organisation? Probably not.

I was all the while massively uncomfortable with the whole set up. I’ve never really received charity at this sort of level and it was weird: no lies had been spun in our plight, and we were genuinely in a bit of trouble having lost a lot of money, and truth be told I was really struggling with the kids and their appalling behaviour, but that was mainly because Simone had swanned off to New York. But I wasn’t desperate. Desperation is not having enough to eat, or not having somewhere free and really comfortable to stay. At any time we could have called quits and changed our return flights to the UK, and returned with our tails between our legs to our comfortable life and comfortable jobs. A bit of excitement was what I was after anyway, and the choice to come out here was one of leisure, not necessity.

It didn’t stop me buying most of the shop however, and the next hurdle was a noodle scratcher. How was I to get all of this booty back to the house, and install it on my own without my wife, who I’ve already explained is amazing at lifting heavy things? There was not time to consider that though, as I had to pick the kids up from school.

The kids were now in school yes. The reason I’ve not written anything about that, is because I had virtually nothing to do with it. If Simone ever writes her memoirs that story may be told, but until then this is my blog, and the kids were going to school, and I don’t really know how that happened.

Nevertheless I had to pick them up, and due to someone’s genius idea, their times were staggered by an hour. That meant one started an hour before the other, and also finished an hour before the other.  4 journeys were therefore required to satisfy the school run, and in the meantime all I had to deal with was Stan.

He’d been acting typically satanically: hiding under the cushions of sofas in the Restore, jumping out at people he wrongly believed to be me, whilst I fiddled with the electrical goods, prioritising the stereo system as the most important item of furniture, in some distant isle of the shop.

All together now, we met Melissa and her family in another thrift store, and whilst the kids all ran wild in the maze of remote-less TV’s and moth balled hoodies I asked what the deal was, and Melissa informed me none had been struck with this shop, but that it had some really useful items in it. On realising payment would be expected, I quickly lost interest in those items, regardless of how useful they were, and decided to call it a day.

That night was torrid. I was knackered and the kids would neither behave, nor go to sleep. I fed them and then slugged at a beer and stared into the middle distance as they bickered and screamed. We were living on top of each other. I needed to get the house up and running.

The Highs and Lows of Destitution

Jane had already committed to celluloid that she wished that her house was bigger, in order that we could stay forever. We decided to compromise on one more night and I spent a more relaxed evening drinking wine whilst Simone had a less relaxed evening vomiting and what sounded like breaking down. I’m not too proud to say that Jane was far better than me at comforting her, and it seemed more appropriate that I upheld the social fort and actually conversed with at least one of our hosts.

Michael was a proud Trump supporter, and I imagine that went down like a ton of bricks with many of the people in this largely democratic town. In many ways he represented a stereotype, with an American flag displayed proudly from his house, and as I later discovered, a ‘Build the Wall’ bumper sticker on his pickup. That however was where the stereotype ended, and since I’d received nothing but kindness and good humour from Michael, I was more than happy to listen to his opinions on what we both agreed were exciting if nothing else, political times.

He probably spotted that I lean to the left, and he wore his republican hat proudly but happily there were many issues that had a middle ground in which we could quite happily frolic together, and if nothing else, Brexit and more specifically Jonathan Pie has taught me that not engaging with alternative points of view is the major problem. I wondered if he had seen a republican equivalent and was thinking the same. He offered me some one-sided explanations about the state of American politics and the misrepresentation of Trump in the media, and I offered him some equally one-sided explanations of the current state of Brexit in return. All in all I think we both had a rather enjoyable evening, and I certainly felt that I had learned a few things, even if a few of them may have only been subjectively true.

I was only half awake the next morning whist taking my very first sip of coffee, when Simone came into the kitchen and announced that she’d received a text from Melissa that said the Apartment by the river was not available after all, and that her lodger had refused to move out.

The Deschutes River is beautiful, and is renowned for its rapids that run through the town and can be surfed - as seen in this picture. Looks cold though doesn’t it?

This news hit me harder than perhaps it should of. I was absolutely gutted. I’d been really excited about living by the river, so much so I had secretly harbored a hope that it might take a couple of weeks to sort a house out, as this place was so amazing, and free! So we may have even been able to recuperate some cash. I’d also been toying with all the outdoor activities that would be on my doorstep, and the views, and the fire pit, and some space for the kids, and the vegetable patch, and the hammock, and the wifi. 

Michael and Jane had wifi, but had no idea what the password was. I’d searched the router and even gone into the admin portal to no avail. This meant we were still largely without internet access, unless we used their computers or hard wired in.

Look at all those inputs. Phwoar!

Another nerd paragraph, this time about Apple Macs: feel free to skip. Later in our stay with Michael and Jane I really needed to use my computer, and was able to simply use an Ethernet cable to connect my mac; I then hot spotted my mac to the rest of the family giving everybody wifi. It was then that I decided that my MacBook pro mid 2012, now six years old is without doubt the finest piece of technology I have ever owned. It’s the one that still has all the connectors built in, and I’ve now used them all. I hard wired the router, I’ve used the card reader countless times, I’ve burned CD’s on it, connected to a 51” TV and used it as a games console with a ps3 controller, copied to USB’s you name it, and virtually none of these things is possible with a new MacBook without a plethora of dongles and accessories. My studio’s on it, all my media is stored on it’s terabyte hard drive, I fucking love it. My wife got it me for my 38th Birthday, so it also doubles up as the best present I’ve ever received. I’m even writing on it now. 

Anyway, I was yet again heart-broken. I stood with my hands outstretched on the counter top, and just stared into the middle distance for 2 maybe 3 minutes. I decided to react to the news as any reasonable man would, by being emotionally distant and overtly aggressive, particularly with my wife and children. In retrospect it wasn’t even that bad. We were on our 4th day with the Minklers and as obliging as they were, it was hardly ideal for the challenging family of five that we are. But we still had Karen. Although we had declined her offer the previous day.

We called Karen and she happily agreed to reinstate her offer, and I grumpily loaded the car again, and headed to our new abode on the South side. Another reluctant charm offensive was followed by another meeting, with another absolutely delightful couple. Karen and Bob welcomed us without question, and we settled into our small, but warm and internet connected flat. This would be our home for the next week, and I was extremely grateful.

Meet the Minklers

After a torrid and uncomfortable evening, the Policeman, Tommy, arrived around 9.30 that night, which to me, still nursing a rather difficult to shake time-shift hangover was around 5 in the morning.  We concluded that Wallace Hickman, the probable alter ego and email sign-on of my nemesis was more than likely not an Oregonian/Oragarnian/Oragnite and that if the crime shifted beyond the state, the red tape involved made the case more-or-less insurmountable. He summarised that we would be unlikely to get our money back, but that this was very much a crime of theft via deception, and offered me a crime reference number and his email address. Like everyone we had so far encountered, he was delightful, which made the otherwise depressing news more palatable at least.  

The news report was a strange mix of emotionally lead footer and a slightly artsy, close up of hands and feet shots, that had the hallmarks of an overzealous film school intern.

The next day I would awaken to coffee and pancakes and the news that a local TV crew would be round in 10 minutes. The lady with the PG tips, who I’ve since learned is called Helen (I think) had called them, thinking our story newsworthy. Everyone agreed that it could only help in our plight, and that we may even garner charitable offers if people were suitably moved. That, in my cynical and twitter savvy opinion, also risked a backlash with the possibility of us coming across naïve or dimwitted, but that didn’t seem to matter really, after all, we didn’t know anyone round here did we? There was the deeper moral issue of course, that this was also public information that needed to be shared, and our story was one of warning, but I’d be lying to say these were my only motivations in agreeing to it

The report was turned around within a couple of hours and by 5 we were being trailered on the Ellen show (much to my wife’s delight). The interview was typically cringe worthy. Simone came across as genuine if nothing else, I looked haughty in the background but the kids wrapped around Jane, their new Gran, and her saying all manner of complimentary things about us sold the story well.

The news article played out several times over the next couple of days, but they also put a facebook contact on for Simone (we both agreed a facebook contact for me would be pretty much pointless, as I rarely respond to anything, and Simone seems pretty much glued to it 24/7) and within hours of it going out there seemed to be another sizeable surge of kindness offered to us by the Bend community. They refer to themselves as Bendites, although Simone and I agreed Benders would be much better.

In the morning I was to find Simone talking to the Minklers (Jane and Michael, our hosts) and comforting Jane, who was crying. Apparently the backlash I had feared had come to fruition overnight, and that people had been saying some horrible things in the News 21 chat forum. Jane was upset because she said this did not represent Bend. I was quick to dismiss it as being an inevitable result of putting something up for public consumption.

I didn’t flick through the responses till later that evening, and knowing more or less what to expect I rather enjoyed them. I also noted that most of the scorn seemed to be coming from a single user, ominously self-titled (presumably) as freedomofvoice, which in itself had all sorts of right wing implications, but having read through his or her cynical vitriol, I found it difficult not to respond. Luckily, being able to respond would have involved creating a sign-on for the chatroom and that was a bridge too far, as I couldn’t be arsed. If you get a chance have a look, at the time of writing it can all be found at https://www.ktvz.com/news/bend-neighbors-help-scammed-family-from-england/797374876 but I don’t know how long they leave it all up. Probably forever.

Day 2 with the Minklers, and along with a lot of impossible offers, we were struck with a couple of solid leads. A couple from South East Bend offered us their holiday flat for a couple of weeks, more if needed until we got ourselves sorted. It was small but comfortable and private and more importantly free, which appealed greatly having just lost the aforementioned sum of money. We met Karen the owner whose husband Bob had heard about us and offered to help, and quickly agreed that this was currently our best option. However on the way back from this meeting, we were contacted by Relocation Agent Mellissa Gotlieb, who wanted to offer us her services for free. We met with her on the way back.

I toyed with the idea of engaging with freedomofvoice, but I feared it may become time consuming and may have also reflected badly upon us, bearing in mind the things I was going to say.

It has to be mentioned at this point that the kids meanwhile, were being looked after by Jane and Michael, a couple in their early seventies who had only met us for the first time the previous night when they scooped us off the street and gave us somewhere to stay. Along with Karen and soon to meet Mellissa they now represented 2 and 3 of a total 5 people being fully leant upon, and the number was again to grow.

Melissa said she had heard about us through her husband Fernando, and that having suffered a frustrating time herself when moving first to Bend, and that was without having been scammed out of ahem dollars, (I’m trying to forget the amount now) that she would help us through the jungle that was the rental market, so we could be housed quickly and without further fuss.

We met her at a temporary office, which was a small apartment in an absolutely stunning setting by the rapids on the Deschutes River. It sat on half and acre of land and had a garden full of fire pits and hammocks. The first thing she asked was if we had somewhere to stay, to which we explained the situation with Karen’s holiday flat. She said, ‘Stay Here’. We were confused, but she explained that she had a lodger, but he only used the premises for his midweek office and that he could be easily relocated. We could move in tomorrow.

 I was pretty exited about this. The idea of staying right by the river with some land to relax in (the weather was still warm and sunny), even if it were only temporary, sounded like paradise from all that we’d endured so far. We agreed, called Karen and let her down, or off depending on how you look at it and went back to the Minklers to tell the kids of the exiting news.

We even took the kids down to show it to them later that day, and in the evening Sun it looked even more idilic. This, I started to reckon, was to be the turning point.

Trio Crest 2

I’ve been scammed once in my life. That’s not counting paying £9 for a pint of beer, or buying pot in University only to find out it is a lump of wood: when I was 18 years old I was scammed out of £400. Back then that was a lot of money, and if I’m honest with myself, it still is now.

My Cumbrian schoolmates had come down to London, where I was attending University (a re-branded 90’s polytechnic) and we had been on a night out. We’d been to the Ministry of Sound, a top dance venue at the time, and having been up all night there, we were wondering the shops of Oxford Street for some morning entertainment. It was then that we stumbled upon the auction (not auction site, an actual auction) that was Trio-Crest.

I can still picture that slightly overweight, early-forties cockney that was running the show. He stood on a stage holding up all manner of cutting edge technology and appeared to be auctioning it all off at unbelievably low prices. The crowd of onlookers were in a frenzy, these bargains were too good to miss. ‘Where are you boys from?’ he shouted in our direction. ‘Cumbria!’ We all shouted back, sounding like the retards that we were. A couple of us pulled out after the £7 aftershave, they smelled a rat. Not aftershave. One of us went to £75, I can’t remember what he bought but it was worthless. I went to just shy of £400. He was selling a video camera and I really wanted one of those, and they were usually over a thousand, and this one came with all sorts of other shit, and I’d just received my student loan.  When I opened the box to find a fixed focus SLR copy from China that was worth less than £10, I realized I’d been had. I recounted the events in my head, and realized that the language he’d used throughout the auction was purposefully ambiguous, and that the things he’d shown the crowd, and the descriptions he’d give of those things were not actually very specific, and that legally he was probably in the clear. Scammed.  

I also struggle with this as my parents have always labeled my apparent optimism as naivety, which is why I am keen to impress that I knew what I’d done with the accommodation in Bend represented some risk.

It was the last piece of the puzzle when I was back in Keswick. When we got to Bend, in the car that we bought in Eugene, we’d need somewhere to stay. Motels were expensive and too small for our ridiculous amount of luggage, AirBnB again seemed overly expensive for anything more than a fortnight, so I was incredibly self satisfied to find a place to suit our needs under the ‘sublets’ section of Craig’s List. $1200 for the month, a bit small but good until we found something semi-permanent, and it had a hot tub which the kids would fucking love. Bills and wifi included, bish bash bosh.

In retrospect I wish I’d gone for the AirBnB option, perhaps going cheap was ultimately my downfall, but $1200 seemed in the right ball-park so I pursued it. Money up front was required, and since I’d read how tight the rental market was in Bend, I thought it reasonable. The obvious problem was, I could not view it.

I walked round it on Google Earth, and the exterior seemed to match up to the pictures I’d seen. I asked for more pictures but the seller said he didn’t have any. He was an agent, so fair enough. I even sent an email explaining my reservations at paying for a property I had not viewed, to which he sent a diatribe of claims to regulations on letter headed paper, with office numbers I could never call due to the time discrepancy, but his language was professional, and all the way up to his emails and receipts of confirmation on receiving the $2200 I wired to him suggested nothing but a professional outfit. The communication was superb, all the way up until my sporadic emails sent from Eugene. In fact it wasn’t until we began our journey across the Cascade Mountains that he truly fell into radio silence, and both Simone and I began to smell a rat of our own.

What popular saying do you think this cartoon illustrates?

His lack of responses said to me one of two things: he’s received my emails, his responses have not got through and someone will be there to meet us at the property. This still didn’t explain why he was not picking his phone up, maybe he was on holiday and had left the reception in the hands of a colleague? Alternatively: he is not there and there are people in our property and we have been scammed, and yes, I’d read about this happening prior to booking and booked nonetheless. The closer we got, the less I enjoyed of the spectacular views, and the more likely it seemed that that the latter of my predications was more accurate. Discussing that outcome seemed perversely to make it more likely somehow, so we elected not to and to play it by ear, if that were to be the case.

As we circled the ambiguous address in the car and became increasingly frantic, it began to dawn on us that our suspicions were again well-founded. The address we had been given in our final receipt had a different house number, I hadn’t noticed, and it was one that did not actually exist.  The pictures we had been given were of another property on that street, one that clearly already had tenants. The property I had paid for did not technically exist, the house I’d walked around on Google Earth had people in it. The realisation left me pacing up and down the street whilst quietly trying to come to terms with our situation and left Simone sobbing on the kerb at the end of what had already been, a fairly traumatic week.

I’ve only cried twice in my adult life. Once was on leaving my friend Stuart, who had been knocked over by a car in London. It was on leaving the hospital having been told by the nurses to say goodbye, as he lay on life support breathing only via the assistance of a large, mechanical machine, that I returned home on the tube, coming to terms with the fact he was dead and I cried. That and when Georgie chopped the top of her finger off: that happened on my watch and I felt responsible.

When I walked to the bottom of the street to gather my thoughts I’m pretty sure I shed a tear. Not for the money – I reckoned it to be £1700-£1800 which was a stinger, but not a deal breaker and there was a remote possibility one of our insurance packages might cover this sort of thing (although at the time of writing it’s not looking peachy), but because the stress and anxiety I’d been suffering in the previous couple of weeks was not going to come to an end. The opposite in fact: I now faced what could be several more weeks of motels and property hunting, frittering money away and living on top of each other and possibly others. And the kids, sweet Jesus the kids.

Stan came over as I sat on the kerb and wrapped himself around me. I’m not sure whether it was out of genuine sympathy, or he was just knackered. Either way I reckon it cut a good Athena poster, and possibly convinced Jane, from the property neighbouring ours, the one that had people in it, to sit down, rub my back and offer me some comfort. More than that, she offered to put us all up. All of us.

Simone was at the same time being comforted by another neighbour, Claire (possibly). She had made us both a cup of PG tips, which at the time seemed unfathomably considerate. Some old fella from the house opposite came with popsicles for the kids and it even started to get a bit weird when a well to do middle aged man, who was called, I don’t know, lets go for Bob came over with a roll of money in his hand offering it as a whip around that they’d had. That to me seemed too much (in a good way) and whilst it still intrigues me to know how much was in that roll, I politely declined.

Jane’s husband Mike was already clearing out the spare rooms at which point it seemed almost rude to decline them, so we agreed to their kind offer. Mike then proceeded to jab himself in the eye with a plank of wood he was removing on our behalf and his face swelled up frighteningly. He took a very stuff-and-nonsense type attitude to it, but Simone and I now felt absolutely terrible that our intrusion was causing actual physical injuries.

The girls didn’t seem to give a monkeys, and if anything were revelling in the drama and attention. Anyway Mike and Jane had a hot tub, so what the hell. For me it was a low, and probably the first time I genuinely started to question the wisdom of our venture. I also started to question the wisdom of their leader.

Sleepless in Eugene

The journey to Eugene passed in a haze of Asian tea and misbehaving children. Simone bore the brunt of the jet-lagged conversation, but I was expected at least to uphold my side of the charm offensive, a double act with which we were to become well versed. Luckily Billy was easy company and seemed genuinely happy to help.

BIlly found a turtle on the road and brought it home to the pond to join the other turtle he’d found early in the year. I thought it was a tortoise, but felt ill equipped to argue. Don’t turtle have flippers?

His house was pretty much off-grid, around 15 minutes drive from the town of Eugene. No internet, TV or decent phone coverage. To be fair he’d just moved in, but considering the amount that needed to be achieved (buying a car), I was concerned that this could make things difficult.

Billy had, in my experience, a greater knowledge of fungi than anyone else in the world. I actually have a fairly good knowledge of fungi native to Cumbria, but Billy knew so much I’ve forgotten most of what he told me. He even grew different types in a special sealed room that for some reason you had to be naked to enter (I didn’t go in).

It was on that first night in Billy’s house, when the children were misbehaving and I wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, that I realised I hadn’t actually relaxed for around a week. I was going to bed with my hands open clamped, as if about to shatter a whisky glass for dramatic effect. Things were actually pretty much going to plan but the pressure of all the variables, the half-sureties, the children, they were almost freaking me out. Those coupled with the stuff left to do: the car to buy, the insurance and tax to sort, the luggage to load, the accommodation I’d paid for yet never actually seen? It was all in there.

Eugene is next to Springfield, the town on which the Simpsons is based.

The next 7 days in Eugene were for me, an exercise in how many internal organs I could tense simultaneously before having a seizure. I could now open locked jars with with my clamped claw-hands.  Buying a car is stressful at the best of times, and buying in a time window worse. Buying in another country was also complicated but I had done this all before in Houston Texas, in my early twenties. The car I bought then was absolutely shit (it did however get us from Houston to Panama, and whilst it was mainly held together with gaffa-tape I feel it nevertheless deserves a disclaimer).

Buying a car it transpired was a whole other ball-ache. Billy lived out of town, therefore to look at car-lots meant he had to take me in. This added an extra element of pressure, knowing that whatever time was wasted, was wasted for two. (It was in fact wasted for 7, as all and sundry were forced to join us.) 3 car-lots in and I realised the one I had seen on the internet before leaving was probably about as good as it would get. It was still unsold and when we got over to Kendall Toyota, the Nissan (?) I’d spotted was all good.

Some seals came to check us out when we travelled to the largely deserted beach. Mind you, it was a bit blustery.

Car talk – skip this paragraph if necessary. When I was last in Oregon I’d spotted loads of Nissan Xterra’s. They were a bit like a mini-Pathfinder. I assumed by their notoriety they were probably reliable and cheap to repair, and they looked like a Tonka truck which I liked. They also came with a factory fitted roof-rack which I would need to get the bike and snowboards on. I wanted a 4 wheel drive version as Bend can get snowy, but in Eugene it was more temperate and they were all two wheel drive versions. This one had done 150,000 miles, which seemed the norm but was relatively new (2008) for the price limit I had assigned it, so after the usual back and fourth dance, which to be honest I enjoyed having recently experience the British version of this dance, which was essentially ‘pay the price or fuck off’, we agreed to a sale.

Georgie attempted to lure them in unsuccessfully, through the power of song.

Transferring the money to the car dealer: nightmare. Sorting insurance: infuriating. 3 days later we drove off in the car and I was able to focus my stress on other concerns.

One of my overriding memories of that week was of the kids driving me to what felt like, teetering on the brink of breaking. Everyone was jet-lagged, the girls were constantly bickering – I couldn’t relax because we were loud and annoying without relent. I would sit on the porch in the evenings trying to read a book (that’s how desperate it becomes without wifi) but every 3-4 minutes I would have to go in the house to discipline the children, with ever increasing intensity.

Stan didn’t know what the fuck was going on. He’s 4 and this trip has been described to him as a ‘long holiday’ in the belief that these were concepts he could relate to. His lack of routine and general discombobulation were manifesting themselves in appalling and completely unreasonable behaviour.  After a day of it, I was tired and pleading with them all to behave (I’d already tried shouting) and I felt a bit like crying. I’d been trying to organise Stan’s bedtime milk and had been switching between the microwave and the fridge to try and achieve the Goldylocks temperature he was insisting on.  He returned to the kitchen on the 3rd attempt, screaming blue murder, and insisting that to achieve the temperature he desired, the milk was to be put in the microwave for exactly 2 hours. Luckily, at this moment Simone awoke from her jet-lagged slumber to take over, as I was about to murder him.

Billy ended up helping me barter the car price down, he offered to act as a cashier if the money would not transfer, he even put Simone and I on his insurance to save on costs (independent insurance looked to cost us a small fortune, without which we would not be allowed to take the car) and assured us that once our trip was over, he would endeavour to sell it for us as well. What a fucking star.

Leg what? Libby worked it out as being around 9, and all the luggage went on and the car drove well. Onward to Bend, and our oasis of solitude with a hot-tub. I thought I might start to relax at this point. But I didn’t.

Sleepless in Seattle

Like more or less everything I do, the journey was organised on a shoestring. There are far more comfortable ways of travelling to London, but none are cheaper than a National Express bus. We were travelling on a Monday so a hire car was out of the question, as I’d have to hire it from Friday or Saturday if I was to get an early start and it was upwards of £350 for something big enough. Before petrol. The train was out of the question due to the amount of luggage and there was fuck all chance of getting either a cab or a friendly lift the 300 miles or so it was from Keswick to Heathrow. We were well over the luggage limit for a National Express, so I was already pretty anxious that we’d have a problem on the very first leg of the Journey. I usually depend on my wife’s charm in these scenarios, but it was possible that a northern bus driver might be more easily manipulated by myself? Either way my concerns were well founded as the Scotsman loudly shouted words to the effect of ‘there’s no way that’s all going on’ as he counted the 12 or so bags encircling us. I’ve always been good at apologising and looking sorry, and I think it convinced him that with my help the existing bags could be re-organised as long as I realised that had he been busier, we would not have been allowed on. Whatever, we were going to London.

It’s at this point I feel duty bound to apologise for the detail I’m including here, but understand that this blog is my therapy, and as aware as I am that these are very much first world problems, I feel I need to document them not least for my own memory, which at best is fairly short-term focused. I find it difficult to remember the movie I’m watching during a toilet break these days.

Anyway, we hadn’t even got out of Cumbria before we discovered Libby had lost a shoe, Georgie couldn’t find her iPhone and Simone had left all her important citizenship validation papers at home (which was apparently completely the fault of someone other than herself) so by Telford services I was already yelling. The minibus taxi I’d ordered to take us from Victoria to Heathrow couldn’t get anywhere near the station to collect us, and a ridiculous amount of luggage. As I circled the station with the cabbie, Simone was being yelled at by the station staff for blocking the foyet with, a ridiculous amount of luggage, and having 3 children hyped on sugar and cabin fever who were apparently trying to run under buses. After removing some of the headrests in the VW taxi, whilst again being shouted at by the station staff, we managed to get it all in and had a relatively eventless journey to Heathrow Central Travelodge, and another largely sleepless night.

Along with Stelios Haji-Ioannou and Osama Bin-Laden, Michael O'Leary has successfully stripped all the magic from air-travel.

A typically frantic, only-just-made it Hoppa Bus journey to Terminal 3 landed us in the capable hands of Virgin Atlantic early the following morning. My wife describes them as a huge blanket being wrapped around you as soon as you enter the airport, with a comforting ‘It’s all going to be okay’ attitude, accompanied by a smile and too much makeup. When you regularly fly Ryan Air to the Canary Islands as we do, being kicked in the nuts as you enter the plane and then being treated like a hijack hostage for 4 hours whilst your comparatively expensive hold luggage is sent to a country other than that of your destination, seems more familiar than someone saying ‘it’s four kilos over but that doesn’t matter’. I fucking love Virgin. The bike and snowboards cost £190, which was exactly what I’d been told by a friendly customer service lady weeks before. The food was great, if a little pastry based, which gave me more wind than I was comfortable with in an enclosed area, and I watched a film called ‘Rampage’ with Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson which was exactly as shit as I thought it would be. All-in-all, a class act.

My doppleganger, Richard Branson with a nugget of pseudo philosophical bullshit so easily spouted from behind a mahogany desk. What if the opportunity he’s talking about is a chance to fly one of his planes during a mid-air emergency?

When we landed in Seattle a young Indian woman came up to me, and with great enthusiasm told me I was the spitting image of Richard Branson. Since we had just flown Virgin Atlantic I assumed he was obviously on her mind, and that it was more of a racist slur than an actual observation, but when she returned to me a second time during baggage claim I began to become offended. I haven’t had my hair cut this year, and truth be told it’s becoming a greying stringfellowy mane which, although has it’s moments, is undoubtedly aging me.  I explained with a smile that since the man she was likening me to was in his 70’s, I couldn’t help but be a little insulted. She didn’t give a fuck. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was the jet-lag.  

We were collected by Simone (my wife)’s Cousin on her father’s side, Billy. For him it was the beginning of a symbiotic relationship in which he provided everything bar the gratitude. The first Oregonian to be fully put upon by the Fellows’ family.

For a Cousin she’d never met before, Billy was already stretched beyond the call. He’d travelled 5 hours in an 8-seater Toyota Sequoia with a trailer attached, in order to bring us 5 hours back to Eugene Oregon, where he lived, and within shouting distance (3 hours drive) of Bend Oregon, our final destination. We were to stay with him for a week.

'We've often talked of doing that.'

…is a response I’ve heard more times than I can count since setting off on a year long journey to America. So why don’t more families up-sticks and try living somewhere else for a while? Well over the next couple of blogs I’m going to explain why, and it starts like most adventures, with a journey.

I’m a secondary school teacher, and I’ve been given a sabbatical from work for the year. My wife runs a cafe and a pub in Keswick, and along with her managers intends to remotely control them from afar. Her task is far for more ambitious than mine, but the rewards are an income where I have none. She also has an American passport, having been born in the States, which allows her to work if she needs to. I have no such luxury and am therefore going to have to subsidise myself for the year. We have two elder children – one of 24 who has voluntarily flit the nest, one of 18 who as a result of our trip is being forced to. We also have 3 smaller children – a boy of 4 and two girls, one is 9 and one is 11.

Bend sits on a bend of the Deschutes River in Central Oregon.

We travelled the states a couple of years ago and fell in love with the town of Bend in Oregon. It has a high desert climate – plenty of sunshine and is cold in the winter. It resides at the foot of Mount Bachelor, a 2764m volcano: opinions are divided as to whether it is extinct or simply inactive – either way it hasn’t gone off for about 10,000 years so no one seems overly concerned. It’s a paradise for Mountain Bikers and Snowboarders alike, which happen to be two of my favourite things. The town itself is full of hipsters with moustaches and is home to 22 craft breweries. With a population of only 80,000, that works out as a brewery for every 3.6k people, which must be impressive as people seem to mention it wherever you go and with Marijuana having been legalised since 2015, there are almost as many dispensaries making this a progressive, liberal, largely anti-trump albeit incredibly ethnically homogeneous haven in Western America.

The pretentious twat that lives inside me believes to really experience a place, one has to live there. My wife’s dad lives in Kansas, and as an ex-veteran with only one arm and a dicky ticker, he cannot travel, so with the inclusion of some planned time with him and a letter in my hand promising that my job was safe, we took the kids out of school, booked some open return tickets to Seattle (the nearest direct airport from Eugene Oregon) and made a plan for adventure. The three younger children were to accompany us, and after much deliberation the dog as well, who is now 13 and ultimately did not make the final cut. More on that later.

It’s easy to glamorise a middle class family existence in an area of natural beauty, but even a happy life can become monotonous, and if you only get one go, you might as well mix it up a bit.

Moving the family to America for a year. It sounds exciting, almost glamorous and everyone I’ve talked to about it stakes claim to envy – so why don’t more people do this sort of thing?

Well firstly, think of how you would pack up your life for a year. I’m 43, my wife and I own the house we’ve lived in for the past 13 years. We don’t have the cash to allow us to leave it empty for a year so we’ve therefore had to pack it all up and rent it out. That in itself was a humungous task – organising tenants, clearing belongings, securing equipment etc it was a nightmare. I had to sell my car – that was also something that could only be described as a ball-ache. We originally intended to take Baxter, my Border Collie, who is as much a part of the family as any of the children, but together with a prohibitively pricy ticket (to fly him would cost more than all 5 of us put together) there was the concern that flying him out was one thing, but if at the end of the year he was considered unfit to fly back then what was to be done with him? I couldn’t really set him free in a field, or worse still have him put down, or maybe simply kiss goodbye to my wife and kids and forge a new life, just me and him. No, it was one of the hardest decisions I have made, but Baxter was to remain with the new tenants of our house. A bonus lodger if you will. Thankfully the new tenants were up for it, and Frankie would be close at hand.

Baxter…

‘Are you excited?’ people mused in the weeks running up to our exit date. No, excited I was not. The closer D-day crept the less sleep I seemed to get. The logistics of exiting Keswick were complicated enough, the logistics of getting 3 children, 2 snowboards, one pair of skis, a mountain bike as well as a years worth of clothing and equipment for all concerned half way across the world seemed almost impossible. The kids can’t carry their own luggage for a week in Tenerife never mind a year in the States so I needed to organise getting out the house, down to Heathrow, over to Seattle and then down to Oregon and over to Bend with a ton of gear and barely a spare pair of hands to help (my wife is amazing in many ways, but shifting heavy goods is not her forte). I then needed to buy a car, and organise accommodation for the year before getting both girls into school in order that I could what? I’m not even sure I knew.

Visas were a whole new world of headaches. Various emails to the American embassy were ignored, and the literature seemed to suggest that casual work-visas were not available to non-Americans, therefore working was not an option for me unless I had a specific job and sponsor, which I did not. One can apply for a 12-month tourist visa, but apparently only 60% of applicants are accepted for these, and if I fell into the 40% of refusals then I would not be let into the country at all. Not even for a long weekend. I therefore had to take the 3-month tourist visa option to avoid risking putting the kibosh on the trip before it had even begun. This would in turn involve either extending it once out there, or alternatively leaving the country every 3 months, only to re-enter which would thereby reset the 3 months grace for a period of up to 2 years. Both options sounded like a hassle, but less hassle than cancelling the trip altogether so hey-ho.  Naturally none of this applied to my wife with her dual citizenship – I’m still not sure where the kids fit in to this, I’m presuming it is something she has considered.

The weeks counting down to our flight dates were naturally wrought with stress. My 18 year old step daughter was to move into the staff accommodation in my wife’s pub, and since she neither wanted us to go, or herself to leave home, her reluctance manifested itself in an apathy to pack up and move out. The dog watched with increasing anxiety as we packed up the house around him. Having watched us go on holiday more times than he cared to remember he was well versed in being left behind, and collies are clever – he knew this was different. Simone had 13 years of clutter to work through as boxes and boxes of unopened letters and pre-millennial bank statements were unloaded from the loft to create enough room to store our lives and I watched people, who had no intention of buying my car, kick it’s tyres and tell me how shit it was. I also became increasingly annoyed with well-wishers enquiring as to whether we were all sorted. No, no we weren’t so I’d appreciate it if they stopped with the constant reminders of how much there was still left to do.  

But it got done. A lift to Carlisle was organised, along with a National Express Bus to Heathrow, followed by an evening in a Travelodge at the airport, a hopper bus to Terminal 3, a plane to Seattle and a lift from there to Eugene in Oregon, at which point all that was left was to buy a car, pack it and travel to Bend, where I’d even had to the forethought to rent a house with a hot tub for a month while we found our feet and dealt with the rest of the admin. What could possibly go wrong?

Eezer Good.

One for the solo riders.

I’ve had an ebike for two weeks now, and it feels like in writing this I am admitting to some shameful secret. ebikes divide opinion but repel purists, and there are ebike racists everywhere.

An ebike became an earworm for me when I saw Haibike were producing a downhill rig, and against my better judgment I purchased a 180mm N’duro labeled monster from the German brand at what seemed like a discount befitting a machine no one needed.

I needed it.

It must first be said that they are a bit of a ball ache. Hundreds of wires and remotes and a battery that weighs more or less the same as the rider, but a one minute test drive at a country show seemed enough to convince me it was the future. Straight to the top, enjoy the down, recharge.

So to the meat and veg. This is a Lyrik adjourned Monarch plus linkage system that looks exactly like every other mountain bike now made, except it has an engine in it’s crank. It’s a sealed unit, I’ve no idea how it works, it looks to me like magic. It has a massive battery on the downtube which weigh’s a ton, but I couldn’t give a monkeys as that’s what make’s it go, and it is a hoot.

It’s lumpish nature is indeed quickly forgotten, and in the higher settings it actually feels quite lithe. It doesn’t turbo up vertical climbs at 15.4mph, but it makes climbing quick, and eventless. At the top of each climb I was surprised to find I was still out of breath, but I’d achieved the climb in a fraction of the time it would normally take, and this meant that in the 2.5hrs I am awarded each week to myself I was able to climb Lattrigg (including the ‘secret’ downhill track, Grisedale Pike and complete a loop of Whinlatter, which is quite a maiden voyage.

Which brings us on to the massive advantage it has over a normal rig, and that is the ability to tackle steep, technical climbs that would be nigh on impossible on a human powered bike. Even with the slack head angle you are able to lean into the climb whilst seated retaining 300% power in the pedals. On the Haibike website they show a German pedalling up a ski jump on their downhill model, although they do tie a rope to him to stop him falling to his death, which seems quite impractical for the average weekend warrior.

From a purists point of view, it opens up the mountain quite a bit, enabling you to explore without the worry of a horrible climb followed by an impossible descent. The climbs are almost irrelevant, so that you end up simply backtracking if necessary whilst avoiding the frustration of feeling you’ve wasted you’re energy on a failed reconnaissance.

Where it really seemed to come alive however, was on a blue trail. The blue on Whinlatter is slow paced, up down territory that only gains flow at mach 3. The ebike’s incredible acceleration from slow speeds meant it could be launched off lips and pinged out of berms like a crosser. At one point I inadvertently wheelied out of a berm as there was so much power going into the back wheel. The flow and excitement resulting meant this trail was infinitely more enjoyable, and it got me thinking what other average trails this could breathe new life into.

The cons are fairly obvious. The battery eventually runs out, your bike has a massive computer on it, what on earth do you do if it breaks, can it handle my pressure washer and some would say you look a bit of a tit on it. Other riders attitudes are largely negative and I witnessed a few passive aggressive jokes which reminded me of the walkers on the fells that say ‘I though you are meant to ride them’ when they see you pushing your bike. Riding with anyone else that isn’t on one is also impossible as they couldn’t keep up, unless you go anywhere which requires a carry. Shouldering the bastard is right out, and that prohibits you from many a Lakeland treat.

Unless legislation clamps them down in the next couple of years I reckon they are here to stay, which is why I wanted to get on early. I can’t (yet) see the point of derestricting it, it voids the warranty and I want it primarily for climbing so 15mph suits me fine. If you were on any kind of road bike however I imagine it’s pretty useless as your cruising speed would be faster than that and the engine would be therefore disengaged most of the time. Enduro and downhill seem to be the disciplines where the engine can be exploited the most but I’m sure other opinions are available.

Is anyone really interested?

I've never written a blog before but it is something I once thought about. Hopefully enabling this option on the website will inspire me.