Over the past weekend, Mr. Free Market obeyed the BritGov’s stupid social distancing rules in the proper manner:
Yes, I am insanely jealous. Why do you ask?
Also, re: my post about the Beretta 687 a week or so ago, he sent me this snippet:
…and a bonus pic from one of his earlier shoots, this time for vermin:
I see with great regret that the peerless travel writer Bill Bryson is closing up his inkwell for good.
In an age when cheap airfares and package tours — not to mention online “visits” through media such as Gurgle maps and InstaGram — could have made travel writing about as relevant as toenail clippings, Bryson’s refreshing, no-nonsense style has defied the trend.
I first encountered the man through his Lost Continent: Travels In Small-Town America. I found in Bryson a kindred soul because at the time, Longtime Buddy Trevor Romain and I were doing very much the same thing, albeit on a smaller scale: once a year we would take a long weekend off work, pick a part of the U.S. that we’d never visited before, and fly in (he from Austin and I, at that time, from Chicago). Then we’d rent a car and set off, destination unknown and only the return flight’s departure time as a deadline. The Golden Rule: No Interstate Highways. Even major U.S. roads with only two digits (e.g. U.S. 30 or Route 66) were treated with suspicion, and we’d get off into the back country roads with alacrity.
We were often asked why we did this — and we did it for nearly a decade — and our reply was simple. We did it to remind ourselves why we had both left our country of birth and settled in this new, this wonderful and this dauntingly-large and diverse land.
To say that we met interesting people would rank among the great understatements of the century: in New Orleans, Queer Tom and Opera Kate (an out-of-work opera singer working as a barmaid); the lady in a little town outside Portland who collected frogs of all descriptions (stuffed, porcelain, wooden, whatever) and displayed them all in her restaurant; the huge guy in New Hampshire who, when we asked him if he’d ever played football lisped: “Nope. I got weak kneeth”; and the slightly-batty breakfast diner owner in Rhode Island who wore the most eccentric earrings we’d ever seen, a different pair every single day; these, and many, many others were encountered in our travels, and gave us both dinner-party conversation topics and “Remember when?” reminiscences that survive to this day.
And during every single trip, Trevor and I fell in love with America all over again.
So when reading Bill Bryson’s books, it was like reading about one of our own “Blue Highways” trips (the name taken from the title of William Least Heat Moon’s book of the same ilk). And when Bryson settled in Britishland, it gave rise to works like the astonishing The Road To Little Dribbling and Notes From A Small Island — books which, because I’d been to the U.K. often myself, made me nod my head because I too had been to Little Dribbling, only it was called Upton-Under-Wold, Thirsk or Lesser Foldem.
I cannot recommend his work highly enough, because he is an extraordinary writer who sees everything through a pair of clear-sighted lenses and not rose-tinted ones. Never one to suffer fools or stupid things, he still talks about them with affection covered by incredulity. If you’re looking for a reading project for the winter, you could do a lot worse than read everything Bill Bryson has ever written.
And Bill: good for you. While I am distraught at your retirement, I am forever grateful to you and your wonderful works.
As to why he’s getting out:
“I would quite like to spend the part that is left to me doing all the things I’ve not been able to do. Like enjoying my family, I have masses of grandchildren and I would love to spend more time with them just down on the floor.”
I can think of no better reason. Give them each a hug from me.
The other day, New Wife and I were suffering a little from cabin fever, so we thought about taking a weekend drive trip somewhere — preferably out of Texas, because there are huge swathes of the U.S. that she has yet to see.
The problem was that we are confined to a day trip — i.e. one day’s drive out, stay overnight, and one day back (because of NW’s M-F job) — and because we live in the Great State Of Texas, we are somewhat limited in terms of destination choice, viz.:
Because of the stupid Chinkvirus restrictions, we’d have to confine ourselves to sight-seeing of the “Nature’s wonder” kind. But the problem is that within the confines of the above circle, there’s a whole lot of fuck nothing (e.g. Oklahoma, Kansas, etc.) and I don’t want to go to the collection of suburbs known as Lake Of The Ozarks.
Given that north Texas is flatter than Gwyneth Paltrow, we have to drive a long way before the scenery becomes a little less monotonous. And we’ve seen West Texas, thank you, so a westward journey is a non-starter.
Anyone have any ideas?
That’s because the average town in Britishland has clearly-defined boundaries, where Town Planning forbids any kind of development outside those limits.
Here in the Land Of Da Free, our towns sprawl all over the fucking place, and (e.g. in Plano) you can drive around all day, not see a business of any kind, and still technically be “in town”.
The Germans, of course, have it down pat. If you take the Ausfahrt off the Autobahn to, say, Stuttgart, you just follow the signs which say Zentrum and you’ll end up in the main business center of town.
Which, by the way, the Brits with their love of inscrutable acronyms refer to as the “CBD” (central business district), only they don’t always use street signs to direct you there. You get downtown by guesswork and luck. Don’t ever stop and ask for directions, because the local yokels think it’s great fun to send you into a series of one-way streets and cul-de-sacs (which is what signs do say, and not “dead ends”) until you wish Hitler had got the job done and flattened the place, back during the Slight Disturbances Of The Early Forties.
Not that I’m bitter about it, or anything. When you finally get there, it’s all worth it.
…right up until you try to find parking.
Because Mr. Free Market is a Foul Evil BastardTM, he decided to send me a few scenic pics from his current sooper-seekrit location in Scottishland. Here’s the general milieu (note the complete absence of freezing rain, for the first time ever in this event I’m told):
(Note that Mr. FM is not wearing a face condom, despite Scottish law.)
Then it’s off to the “boxes”:
Note the careful arranging of reloads in pairs, ready for the old Load & Slaughter routine in his Beretta O/U (gawd help us, but the man has such terrible taste in shotguns).
The group shot down several hundred grouse and partridge, but here’s a pic of one brace, taken by Mr. FM with a single barrel.
When I say “taken”, I mean “shot”, of course, not clubbed out of the sky with his shotgun (which would be poor form, of course).
I am so jealous I could spit.
When I see articles like this, I just shake my head. Go ahead, read it and see the glaring omission.
A well-built jacket will keep you dry in the field whatever the weather, protecting you from rain, wind and keeping you warm during the winter months as well.
It shouldn’t just keep the elements out though. The best waterproof shooting jacket will be made from a silent material too – keeping any noises that might disturb or spook your target to a minimum.
Other features to factor in are the number of pockets, which are useful for carrying cartridges in; a colour that blends into your environment; and good breathability.
Not all waterproof shooting jackets are equal though. Read on to find out our pick of the best you can currently buy.
Well, any such list which doesn’t include the peerless Barbour jacket isn’t a list at all: it’s a fraud no doubt perpetrated by Commies*. Here’s a pic which encapsulates all that is good about the thing:
I’ve owned a Barbour jacket now for about 12 years, and it’s still in excellent shape. (I left it at The Englishman’s Castle after my last trip Over There because a) I didn’t have room in the suitcase and b) I hardly ever wear the damn thing in Cuidad Tejas because it only rains here about twice a year vs. twice a day in Britishland. I left my wellies there for the same reason.)
Here’s the thing: when I have worn the Barbour Over Here, I have had people comment favorably on it every single time I put it on — whether at gun shows, shooting events or just visits to the supermarket. They’re not only wonderfully durable, they’re also good-looking — and they never go out of style.
Mine is the shorter “Cowen Commando” style (almost like a bomber jacket):
…but I hanker after the longer “Bransdale” style as in the first pic.
Sadly, we don’t get the range of Barbour jackets Over Here that they offer Over There, but you could probably order the one you want (Bransdale or Beaufort would be my recommendation) through Orvis or Nordstrom. They are not cheap (around $300), but you’re buying it for life, so it’s a bargain. My Younger Readers could expect at least 30 years out of a Barbour — for the Olde Pharttes, it’s truly a lifetime purchase.
For the ladies, there’s the cold-weather Dartford:
The men’s equivalent is the Oakum:
Don’t thank me; it’s all part of the service.
*That’s only mild hyperbole. In class-obsessed societies like Britishland, Barbour is the absolute uniform of the upper classes — add a customized Land Rover / Range Rover and a matched pair of Holland shotguns, and the Labour Party will hate you on sight.
Makes you want to own one, doesn’t it?