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Photos from my March Scotland adventure with my visiting parents continue:

After leaving Edinburgh Castle, we ducked into what looked like a little storefront selling tartan blankets and scarves and turned out to be a massive showroom with fun little weaving exhibits set up throughout.

Weaving tartan (plaid) fabric at the Scottish Tartans Museum on the Royal Mile next to the Edinburgh Castle gates.

The place is a maze and you have to walk through huge rooms and shopping areas to get out (they obviously want you to buy) but I was very happy to buy a lovely thick, tartan wool blanket that was woven right in Edinburgh. I've wanted one for ages, both for picnicking and as an extra bed blanket (they're soft and warm over a duvet on cold winter's nights) and I was glad to get an authentic one at a good price.

We then walked down a hill that was alive with spring flowers and grabbed some lunch, which we ate hillside looking over the Old Town.

After lunch we headed back to the National Galleries of Scotland (at the bottom of the hill we'd descended from the Royal Mile), which had a rather fabulous art collection with many famous pieces, such as the Skating Minister. My mother is an artist and going to art museums together is a favorite hobby, so we spent several hours in the place (taking a nice break for tea and cake in the gallery tea shop) until they shooed us out of the galleries for closing. We then spent a long time in the gallery shop until they shooed us out of there, too. "You could've made a lot more money if you'd let her stay longer," I muttered to the shopkeeper, as my art-dazed mother hurriedly brought a few more things to the till.

We strolled about the city's old town a bit more, watching sunset over the hills and ancient streets, before enjoying a great Italian meal. After this we walked up to the castle one more time, just to see the Royal Mile and city below with its nighttime light display.

Finally we caught a bus back to our charming little B&B a few miles away for a well-deserved rest before getting up the next morning for a hot breakfast and sojourn to Stirling.

I haven't posted on this blog in two weeks, and when I realized this fact the other day I groaned aloud. Posting, you see, is work, especially when one is usually posting about one's own life.

Pausing on my way across a railroad bridge in Edinburgh

It'd be easy enough for me to post a few comments and links about the fascinating political revolution that's going on here as newspapers publish quite shocking details about expense claim abuse by elected members of parliament (the Speaker of the House was forced to step down for the first time in 300 years...longer than our Constitution has been in existence).

Or I could post solely about the amusing cultural differences between America and Britain, some of which still have the power to shock me and others. A recent example is when a male American visitor found a piece of litter on the floor and offered to "toss it," thereby sending all listeners into gales of laughter--except for me, who was thoroughly confused until a friend explained under her breath that, over here, that statement does not necessarily mean throwing the litter in the trash can. (Sorry, can't write the slang translation here, so look it up).

However, the last two weeks have been especially intense for me because of a few frightening family illnesses back home in Arizona (which I can only follow from afar and with anxious phone calls and prayers) and also because I've had to make difficult decisions about the future.

I'm happy to announce that both family health situations seem to be resolving in a hopeful manner for both my grandmother and my as-yet-unborn baby niece. I can also now announce that I've made a major decision for my future--I intend to settle in England for the next several years. I actually made this decision quite awhile ago, but have been waiting for several matters to resolve so that I am able to do this in a way that fits my visa and economic needs. I'll post more about that decision in the future (trust me, it wasn't easy....leaving one's home is never easy, no matter how much one feels called to a new home), but I hope it explains why posting light, frothy comments on this blog that was supposed to follow my one year abroad in England has become increasingly tricky.

Yes, life has been an adventure since I came here in September 2007, but adventures always come at a price, as I'm sure most people who've had them will admit. However, I can solidly testify that, despite all of the pain, frustration and homesickness, this adventure has been absolutely worth it.

The story of my travels to Scotland, Wales and England with my parents (who visited in March) continues with these photos from Edinburgh Castle.

The approach to Edinburgh Castle, at the top of the Royal Mile.

We were there in mid-March and I couldn't believe how wonderful the weather was. Temperatures were probably around 40-50 Fahrenheit (not bad, trust me) and it was sunny every day. The daffodils and crocuses were just starting to come out around the city and the grass was green. We loved it, and views from the castle were stunning.

Looking out over the city from the castle, which is built on an extinct volcano.

Edinburgh Castle is a fantastic site, maintained by Historic Scotland. Most of the buildings are from the 1500s, but St. Margaret's Chapel is a surviving 12th-century structure.

Windows

But it's not just a bunch of old buildings. There are scores of fascinating exhibits, including the Honours of Scotland, Scotland's crown jewels. Alongside the Honours of Scotland you'll see the Stone of Destiny, the ancient stone used in the coronation of Scottish and British monarchs. Seeing that stone felt like being in a legend come to life.

View of King Arthur's Seat, another extinct volcano at the opposite end of the old town, from Edinburgh Castle.

You also learn scores about Scottish and British military history, and one unexpected treat was visiting the former prison, which displays graffiti and handiwork by American prisoners who were held there during our Revolutionary War (though in Britain they perfer to call it the War of Independence).

View of the city from an old gun hole (probably not its technical name).

While exploring the castle, I highly recommend buying a personal audio guide to help you understand the site. The explanations on the guide are simply packed with fascinating history, trivia and architectural information, and improved my visit immeasurably.

A row of guns, picturesque now but extremely important during the days of sieges and wars.

If you are visiting Scotland for less than 10 days, I also suggest purchasing a Historic Scotland Explorer Pass. Our 3-day passes gave us free access to all Historic Scotland sites for just 21 pounds per person, as well as 20 percent discounts on audio guides. As we visited both Stirling Castle and Caerlaverock Castle over the next few days, it was a bargain, indeed.

Castle walls.

Finally, I recommend spending an entire day at the castle. We were there about four hours and, even though we were a group of history buffs and keen explorers, there was just so much to see and take in that our eyes started to glaze over about 1:00 and we left for lunch and an afternoon of continued sightseeing.

My parents visited me the last two weeks of March and we filled the time well with many trips around England, Scotland and Wales. Today I begin sharing some of the stories and photos from their visit.

After we spent a few days here with friends in Nottingham, we hired a car (and put 1,300 miles on it in one week!) and drove north towards Edinburgh, probably about a 5-hour drive from Nottingham. But we took our time on the way up, stopping first in the historic city of Durham (It's England. It's all historic). Durham's city centre is a charming little warren of twisty, narrow streets winding up a hill and past intriguing shops. Park in the city centre car park for a few quid (pounds) and wander up the hill. Within 10 minutes you'll arrive at the park bordered by the castle and cathedral.

My dad and friend Ruth in front of the Norman-era Durham castle, now part of the local university.

I didn't take any good photos of the cathedral, first built in the 11th and 12 centuries, so go here to learn more about it and see photos. I was very impressed not only by the building, known as "the greatest Norman building in England, possibly in Europe" but also by the wonderful sense of local community and history housed within. Although it is a grand building it is also a parish church, and memorials to local boys killed in the 20th century wars and also lovely modern artworks only enhance the experience. I highly recommend this tourist stop.

For those who are able, I also strongly recommend paying a few pounds more to climb the very long, very steep, very winding staircase up to the roof of the cathedral dome. Climbing hundreds of old steps is an experience itself, but the view from the top is incredible.

I think these are buildings of the adjacent Durham University, as seen from the roof of Durham Cathedral.

We climbed back in the car and an hour later passed the turn for the Holy Island of Lindisfarne, which is reached by driving on a causeway at low tide. We checked and were there just about at low tide, so we drove across and spent another hour exploring the island.

It was windy but lovely at the old Lindisfarne priory grounds.

This friendly horse came up for a pat as we walked through its paddock on the public footpath leading through the the 11th-century priory ruins, past a local parish church and then down to the beach.

We didn't have time, sadly, to visit Lindisfarne Castle, a stunning 16th-century property maintained by England's National Trust.

We were blessed with sunny, warmish weather almost the entire two weeks that my parents visited. They--used to the Arizona desert sun--wrapped up on the gusty island, but my English friend and I were delighted to shed our coats and enjoy the spring warmth as we set off on our adventure.

I'm grabbing a few moments to post an update here--my parents have been visiting for the last week and we have spent nearly every moment of the last 8 days sightseeing and traveling, and it's not over yet. After an initial evening in London, then a day out in Nottingham followed by a day in Leicester, to a day seeing my friends and finally a four-day trip to Scotland, we have been busy! We got back from Scotland at 6:30 p.m. last night, just in time to get back in the car and drive to a friend's house for another big dinner in Mom and Dad's honor. This morning we are off to Wales for a few days--I figured after all of those castles and sheep we would go to southern Wales for scenery and sheep. Then we're back here on Monday for another special dinner and then it's off to London again the next morning for a few days. After that I'll be hugging my family goodbye as they get back on a plane to Phoenix and I board to train back to Nottingham.

Their visit and our adventures have already produced enough stories to fill a book, not to mention a whole heck of a lot of photos, many of which will soon be on these pages. One thing that I've really noticed since they've arrived, though, is how much England has become home. I see my Mom and Dad trying to navigate the grocery store, understand terms of speech (like "homely" for "homey" and "wind me up" for "annoy me") and I suddenly realize how far I've come. I'm trying to help them out by sharing my hard-won knowledge about English culture, but sometimes I forget. My dad, for example, only likes his eggs cooked over hard, and it wasn't until his soft-centered egg arrived at our Edinburgh B&B that I remembered they always come here with runny yolks.

I've also been struck by the sheer number of good friends who've wanted to meet my parents and have us round for a meal. All of these experiences have really helped me realize that, in almost every way, England has become home. For now.

And now I must pack my little suitcase once again because we are off to Cardiff and Swansea!

On Saturday, Feb. 21, I traveled down to London with a group of artistically minded friends for a day of sightseeing at the Tate Modern art gallery and at St. Paul's Cathedral. We climbed the steps of St. Paul's as high as we could, enjoyed the exhibitions at the Tate, and finished up with a pub dinner and drinks. It was a gorgeous sunny, warm day and we soaked in the beauty of the capital.

Winter sunshine on the Thames, from the Millennium Bridge

When we were preparing to go out for a meal, my friend Ronnie said, "There's a pub just down the road from St. Paul's that looks all right."

"Really, what's it called?" I asked.

"Ah, it's probably Ye Olde London Pub or something like that," Ronnie said, and we all snickered at those tourists who would want to find a place named that. We set off in a large laughing, chattering group towards this pub, but I stopped short when Ronnie shouted, "Steph, you're not going to believe this! It really is called "Ye Olde London Pub!"'

"No way," I said. "You just made that up."

But sure enough, the sign said "Ye Olde London Pub."

"OK, so you knew it was here," I told him. "Nice one."

Ronnie was laughing so hard he could barely speak.

"No, I didn't," he said. "I just tried to come up with a cheesy name that would appeal to tourists, and here we are."

We trooped into Ye Olde London Pub and had a blast.

Ronnie, his wife Sam and our friend Kristen point gleefully at the sign reading "Ye Olde London Pub" (which sadly is not in my snapshot)

View of London from the top of St. Paul's Cathedral

This sculpture look familiar? It's an oversized styrofoam (polystyrene) version of Alexander Calder's "Flamingo," the red steel sculpture that stands in Chicago's Federal Plaza. It's part of the fascinating multimedia exhibition TH.2058 by Dominique Gonzalez Foerster, now on exhibit at the Tate Modern.

St. Paul's Cathedral by night

I've begun the frustratingly bureaucratic, somewhat terrifying and ultimately humbling experience of trying to get a British driving licence.

I passed my American driving test 14 years ago, and the whole experience--while the obvious epoch in a 16-year-old's life--now seems like a lovely walk in the park compared to doing it in Britain. At the time making two trips to the Arizona DMV to get my permit (I'd forgotten my birth certificate the first time) and waiting in line a few hours seemed like a big deal. But I passed the permit test easily and, after my parents spent several patient months teaching me to drive on our old Chevy Cavalier station wagon, I passed my driving test one very hot Arizona summer's day with only one small infraction (forgetting to signal when beginning to parallel park). In fact, I did everything so carefully and expertly that my pudgy, red-faced instructor, uncomfortable in the car on a 115-degree day despite the blowing air conditioning, told me I was a fine driver and to hurry up so he could get back inside. I walked out an hour later with my new driver's license in hand.

There is no doubt about it...getting one's driver's licence (yes, that's how they spell it here) in Great Britain is much, much harder.

While Americans are allowed to drive in the UK on their U.S. licenses (yes, that's how we spell it there) for one year, after that they need a British driving licence. I've decided that it's time for me to conquer this next hurdle of living abroad, especially since I'm being given a car in a month's time. At first I figured it wouldn't be hard to get a new licence...surely they allow some sort of transfer and an easier test if you have an American license, right? Nope. I have to start at the bottom again, just like any 17-year-old English teenager learning to drive for the first time.

That meant filling in a provisional licence form and sending it off, along with passport, photos, and, of course, a hefty check. It came back two weeks later, along with a host of instructions. I can only drive with a fully licensed, experienced British driver supervising me. That's fine, I understand that. I have to affix special "L" stickers to the front and back of my car so everyone knows I'm a newbie. Slightly embarrassing, but OK. I need to take a tricky theory test, booked at least a month in advance, costing another hefty fee, and apparently equal in scale to the SATs. All right, it's booked and I found someone to borrow study materials from. Only after passing my theory test will I be able to book my practical test, and it could take up to three months to get an available slot, I've been warned--and I don't even know yet what hefty fee this test requires. Only 42 percent of applicants pass the practical test the first time around, so hiring a private instructor who'll teach you what the examiners look for is highly recommended. It was at this point that I finally cracked.

"Do you realize that in Arizona you take both tests the same day, that you walk out of the DMV in an afternoon holding a driver's license?" I sputtered. "Do you realize that I have been driving for 14 years with experience in all kinds of weather in all parts of the country, including one of the nation's largest cities? I know I need to learn the rules of the road here, but why do they make it so hard?"

"Because," said one of the colleagues listening to me rant and rave, "they don't want everybody to drive."

And there you have it, one of the fundamental differences between Great Britain and the United States. America is a land of roads and distances, cars and drivers. Getting your license when you turn 16 is as much a part of life as ordering a drink when you turn 21. But England is a land of trains, buses, cycle paths and pedestrian streets and, while it's succumbing more and more to the unfortunate commuter and homogenous retail-park culture so prevalent back home, it's a still a place where one can get along without a car.

In fact, I've often loved not having to worry about driving in the 18 months since I've moved, and I do plan to continue cycling to and from work each day (petrol costs alone are a big deterrent to stay on the bicycle). But it only makes sense as I consider the future that I get my British licence, especially so I can make use of the marvelous gift of a car, especially when I want to get out of Nottingham. Many of my friends have their driving licences, but many do not, and they don't really care if they never do get one.

This is why yesterday afternoon I could be found gripping the steering wheel tensely as rain poured outside and a wonderfully patient and kind Brit re-taught me how to drive a car with a manual transmission, as unlike many Americans I can drive a stick, or at least I could last time I tried, eight years ago. Yet he also had to show me how to drive a manual on the other side of the road with different signs, symbols and rules, all the while warning me what the driving examiner will look for.

"Don't cross your hands over when you turn the wheel," he said. "Pass it through, keeping your hands at 10 and 2 all the time. That's right, ease off on the clutch, find the biting point and -- [insert shudder and jerk as the car stalls] -- OK, maybe you should just try that again. Right, now try accelerating down this empty road, getting it up into third gear... hands, hands, hands! Did you check your mirror when you indicated? Look the other way when you reverse, Steph, and stop crossing those hands. And--arrrgghh! Curb, curb, curb! Don't drive into the curb! Remember you're about two feet to the right of where you used to sit, you need to make a mental adjustment as to where the car should be."

I was tense, scared, trying desperately to remember everything and adjust long-held habits, and suddenly feeling like I was 16 all over again, yelping in apology whenever I stalled the engine. By the end of our little session, though, I was beginning to feel more confident and remember that I am an experienced driver. Still, as I handed the keys back and took a deep, shaky breath, I suddenly found myself very relieved that it is several months until my practical driving test. God bless the British bureaucracy.