It’s raining. We’re on the M5, a gray and sterile motorway that lets you traverse Britain quickly, unless a lorry has overturned. Shawn is driving, Kip navigating, Tony perusing today’s Times (of London). Your humble blogger sits contentedly in the rear, fortified by a cappuccino which has been additionally fortified by a shot of Bulliet bourbon, purchased by Rob W in Glasgow as a sentimental bookend to our summer’s touring. For it was Bulliet that we sipped in long ago and far away Phoenix, AZ, in the innocence of this tour’s first leg, in the 110 degree June heat.

All is cozy in our Peugeot on the M5. Two shows left, and then the great unknown: Heathrow and Gatwick airports. These are the weeks of the new terror, the arrest of the alleged second wave of air bombers, and this time it’s feeling personal. The bombers were purportedly targeting American Airlines flights from Heathrow to L.A., among others, Hey, that’s us. Most likely, instead of death in the skies, we’re facing possible crowd claustrophobia and delays on a new scale, and we’re worried about our guitars. We were able to carry them on board in soft gig bags in the pre-terror days of 10 days ago, and now we may have to put them on the conveyor belts that mangle baggage. Rumors of bags disappearing forever fill the British tabloids. Many flights are being cancelled. We’re nervous.

We’ve arrived in Leicester. It looks exactly like Worcester to these California eyes. Identical brick residences in long rows with the ceramic chimney stacks that seem to be made by the same factory. —–

We were wrong about the age of the Cathedral. It’s much older—begun in the 11th century and completed, like all cathedrals, including the unfinished Gaudi cathedral in Barcelona, over several centuries. It looks to be of enduring strength, like the pyramids. Each sandstone block bears the fine chisel marks of medieval stonecutters, and a look up the side of the massive and precisely mortared tall walls inspires visions of hundred or thousands of humble toilers, cutting stones under the exacting supervision of the masons, fortified by mead or strong ale under flocks of migratory birds in a bluest if skies. An architectural and engineering feat that can’t be surpassed.

The inside of the Cathedral is inspiring of awed silence, like all her companions scattered across Europe. The stones of the ceiling are bright pink. Luridly colored carvings of ancient kings and queens, lying staring at the ceiling on massive blocks, line the central nave. In the basement is a Norman crypt. The Cathedral site has been a holy place since the 7th century. We climbed the narrow circular staircase, past a cozy and rather decadent looking carpeted room, past the bell tower mechanism chamber, past the bell chamber, and up to blue skies shining down on our top of the tower perch, guarded by four ornate stone towers at each corner. Worcester has no tall buildings, and our view was that of the medieval bellringer, stretching to the soft green hills behind trees and hedgerows surrounding the town in all directions. The river Severn winds under many bridges through town and close by the Cathedral. We spy Rob walking along the river far below.

In the floor below the bell chamber a very complex 1870’s chain, pulley, sprocket, and counterweight system controls the ringing of the bells on the quarter hour. A classic of British industrial revolution design, the cluster of counterweights and flywheels go into a cacophonous frenzy as the bells ring, iron block weights rising and falling on greased chains. The massive iron pendulum swings serenely below us.A former bellringer told us that the bells are still rung by hand by a team of ringers on Sundays and holidays. There is a European bells competition among the great Cathedrals, and Worcester is currently ranked fifth. The bells can ring a single peal (a peal is a series of notes that don’t repeat a pattern) of 4050 notes. A bell master calls out sequences to the six bellringers, all of whom have to be trained musicians to play the complex bell pieces. The contemplation of the communal dedication and iron fisted discipline needed to harness humankind into these feats of scale and beauty is rather exhilarating. A grand chess game was the medieval period, with merchants, nobles, royals, clergy, and the builders and financiers all doing battle on the backs of the peasants. Tragedy and sublime beauty of a vanishing kind. Does democracy produce mediocrity, or is that simply modernity run amok?

The clouds are closer to the ground in the England. White on top, gray on the bottom, the heavy low clouds of Worcester seem to be more a feature of the ground than the sky. We’re on the fifth floor of the Travel Lodge, our un-quaint but budget accommodations. But the view out the window is much different than the typical motel room in America. No mall parking lot, no Interstate, no TGIFridays out this window. A giant narrow spire rises the highest over the red-chimneyed roof tops. But there are many towers in this town. The grand cathedral dominates the skyline. It is, not surprisingly, just so much larger in scale than any other building. We’re guessing it’s from the 14th, 15th, or 16th century. Ballpark guess, of course. It seems the Duke University chapel in Durham, North Carolina lifted it’s footprint, tower, and all of its gothic details directly from this site. It front of the cathedral is a wide meandering park that seems to be on the verge of going wild. Heavy dropping willows encroaching on the well trimmed lawns.

Worcester is a pretty town embracing its future as a tourist destination and in the midst of forgetting its past as a commercial center for the trading of hops. Perhaps we would all do better to forget our commercial ambitions and recline into a future built on the culture of past. At least it’s the approximation of a local culture with connections to something other than the bright lights of the television, euro-trash techno beats, and the tinkling digital dominance and perpetual interconnection of the cell phone age. As our trip comes to a close we fear and dread our return to Heathrow. There’s the big terror threat, naturally. But that only serves to amplify the previously existing condition. Airports are the worst, the ground-zeros of modernity where the chaos all comes together like ten thousand rivers crashing into one another, battling for one tiny overwhelmed outet. How we long for the ancient narrow unpaved roads of Scotland meant only for the feet of men and horses to travel. The Marr’s Bar gig was an under-attended affair made pleasant by the small crowd’s enthusiasm and the kindness and hospitality of Brian Marr and the Marr’s Bar staff who fed and watered us and made the room sound good. The place even had Wi-Fi, damn it. We’ve had gigs like this in America but this was the first truly dismal turnout on this leg of the tour so it took a little psychological adjustment. Our last gig was in front of hundreds of drunk admiring Scots in a packed tent on the Highlands.

Ah, Belladrum, Belladrum. Thank you, Rob Ellen, for introducing us to a perfect day. A day worth this entire journey.

We loaded up our gear with the kind assistance of the Glenrothes folks and headed northward on winding highways towards Inverness in the far north of Scotland. The skies were blue with billowing gray and black clouds, bestowing on us a kindly and dramatic lighting of the glowing green hills, and as we entered the wild north, the purple heather.Don’t tell anyone, but Scotland to the north is stunning. The hills are higher, with rushing streams and waterfalls tumbling through exposed rock, and heather in its ancient battle for hillside with green pasture, bounded by very precisely walled stone walls, some climbing to the top of a hillside. We pass distilleries with their distinct bright copper pagoda roofs. Alas, no time to stop.

There is much replanted timber in these otherwise wild hills, timber in straight rows for e-z harvest in 30 or 40 years, planted to precise legally specified ratios of pine to hard wood. The forests often end in an abrupt straight line up the mountainside, giving the glacier carved valleys the feel of a giant garden. A beautiful garden. Misting rain, then sun, then rain as we drive north.The Belladrum festival is a two day spectacle, with Arlo Guthrie and Echo and the Bunnymen the best known acts, and many modern pop and rave music groups unknown to the hopelessly retro Hawks but no doubt famous to the youth. (Tony Gilkyson does a pretty convincing senescent pan-Brit, wheezing and limping his way through faux regional Anglo and Scotch colloquialisms. As he points out, we mock that which we are about to become.)

We wind our bulbous rental van through narrower country lanes, into the woods, and the Belladrum signs appear tacked on fence posts and ancient stone cottages, guiding us to the artiste back road entrance. Through oaks and birch we spy the vast sea of tents, including rows of white teepees with thick blue white peat smoke rising, and we’re excited. These are our people. We park, walk, repark, guided by Belladrum officials into the heart of this lovely fest, a wide green field undulating over hill and dale, surrounded by thick woods, with a high ridge of forest gazing down on the frolic. This is a modern day Renaissance faire, quite unselfconscious. Families with graying hipping patriarch and wiccan mom with gray long hair and gleaming Celtic eyes camp in the soggy fields, and they’re prepared for it. Everyone’s in a mellow and, dare we say, happy mood. We are far from the travails of modern times. The intentions of Woodstock are alive and well in the Highlands.

The Hawks-Gilkyson-Boardman clans are of mostly northern stock, with much Scotch-Irish and Irish blood flowing, and that unmistakeable sense of home and belonging is palapable. We park the van next to the big Grass Roots tent, where we’ll play in the afternoon, and we wander the Belladrum grounds.Green grass trampled, big tents, small tents, organic beef stand, BBC Scotland tent, food stalls, stop atomic energy effigy, tents with music roaring therefrom, laughing running children, hippies young and old, towering young Celtic wenches blond and blue eyed and fearless, chatting in feminine energy clusters, Scottish rastas and their original brethren from southern climes, neo-druids entertaining painted-face children with raggedy violin and accordion, drum circles, sweeping vista of the huge main stage field far below, where bass and drum and other modern sounds drift into the surrounding woods, and a huge crowd pumps its fists for the lucky main act bouncing across the brightly lit stage, stage lights in the daylight. Ah, Belladrum!

We meet Rob Ellen, an ancient vibe Scot in cap (did he have a pipe?), who negotiates for us a real valve Marshall amp and a great Fender, likewise a valve amp, with reverb. We follow a retro-blues act from somewhere in Caledonia, and madly set up our pedals on the big stage, and tune our guitars. There’s a big crowd filling our tent. Tony and Kip play first, the crowd roars, then the Hawks step up, Tony staying for a rousing “Hecker Pass.” The crowd is with us. Not to toot our own horn too enthusiastically, but the Hawks bring the crowd to a mild frenzy. We’re almost weeping with gratitude from playing real amps and drums, the loud and crystal clear sound we hear in our minds. The roof seems to come off the tent during Golden Girl, as Rob chants “And I cried, I cried,” and the music builds and builds. This is the moment you wish for when you take up a musical instrument. The crowd freaks.

We jump off stage a bit intoxicated, chat with our new Scottish fan friends, thank the super cool sound men who rendered us gigantic, sell CDs, drink beer, wander the fest. Paul Marshall decides this is the moment to try his hand at driving in the British Isles. He fearlessly backs the van out of our tight space in the muddy grass, swings the beast around, navigates throngs of fest campers, finds a parking spot close to our exit wooded road. This is a complex and fearless man.

We gather our unsold merchandise, gather our pay–500 English pounds–from a lovely lass in a temporary building, head for Alice’s Restaurant, another temporary building down muddy lane, and enjoy a hearty and simple artiste feast. A walk through the rain to the van, and we’re off, through winding woodsy lane along hedgerow, eventually heading north to the little village of Ord.

Our lodging for the night is a late nineteenth century public house, with charming small rooms up a staircase. A raging Scottish wedding is in full bloom, with bruisers in kilts with big silver purses dangling over their manly parts, beautiful young and old women in fancy dresses. It looks like Scottish nobility. “You’re going to play for us, aren’t you lads?” Of course we are.Tony G, Kip, and Paul L stow our stuff and take a memorable sunset ramble down the country lane and into the hills, invading a soggy green field and gazing out on the gray black clouds on hilly horizon.

Later at the roadhouse, Tony G and Paul L take their guitars downstairs and sit down on couches in the big fireplace room, and jam with the very talented trad/pop Seth Lakeman Band, who have also just played Belladrum. These guys kick ass on the reels and jigs, especially Cormac Byrne, young virtuoso bodhran player. But the Scots want to hear good old American country music, and they sing along through our hacked up versions of Johnny Cash and Hank Williams, demanding more. Hours later Cormac shows Paul L his radical new style of bodhran playing, which Paul is choosing to ignore for the moment in favor of the traditional grip he’s just now getting a grasp on. The two sit at the great and ancient bar, where their reward for playing the wedding is on the house drams of the local single malt scotch, Glen Ord. The pub proprietor is dead serious about his whisky, pouring as if delivering the blood of Christ to a chosen few. And the amber spirit did indeed bring on an elevated spirituality.

This was a perfect day.LOCH NESS TO GLASGOW, GIGUS CANCELLATUS

The next day was a curious blend of the cosmic and the dismal. We set out from our Highlands roadhouse and headed south, through the narrow and straight as an arrow valley of Loch Ness, the winding road bobbing and weaving into and out of hills alongside the legendary lake.We did indeed spot the Loch Ness Monster, several times in fact, but didn’t take any photos as we wanted to respect the monster’s privacy.

Our rent-a-van, already much despised by the Hawks/Gilkyson clan, broke down somewhere in the woods near the lake. We used our trusty department store band cell phone and called the agency, who promised that help was on the way. Much time passed. The band scattered down various trails into the hills. Paul L found Tony holding a small reptile which Tony claimed was a legless lizard. It looked a lot like a snake. Paul L suggested it might be the poisonous asp, and Tony pondered the possibility that he had just courted death (it turned out woodsman Tony’s guess was right–it was indeed the Scottish legless lizard).Back at the roadside Rob and the extended in-laws clan pulled up. More time passed. The tow truck arrived, towing us back northward to the nearest tiny town, where we consoled ourselves over the local whisky. Verdict: the hated van is dead. Rob and Paul drove north to the nearest large town, and picked up an extra rentacar. They raced southward, stopping briefly in a Lochside pub for a sandwich, where we witnessed the witless decline of local Scottish youth. Lots of screaming and threats, heavy metal on the powerful jukebox, and a giant screen TV playing a different video from the jukebox. Meth? PCP? What are these youth on?

Mad dash south, pick up the band in the two rental cars, and then a stunning drive through fairy tail steep hills and misty valleys, darkened by the certainty that we were missing our evening’s gig in Glasgow. England is covered in surveillance cameras. Supposedly they are recording every square foot of roadway on the Isle. At a gas station approaching Glasgow, the digital readout on the gas pump informed us that our license plate was being scanned. If we weren’t terrorists, the pump would be unlocked. To Paul L’s disappointment, we were clean, and we petroled up.

And arrived in Glasgow around midnight, pretty bummed about missing our gig. The Holiday Inn or whatever it was was pretty dismal, but in a great location in the middle of Glasgow.Which is a great old town, great pubs and restaurants, with a classic early 20th century architectural school that influenced the arts and crafts and other movements. We walked all over town, checked out the cathedral and a strange cemetery perched on the highest hill in town. The dead have a spectacular view of Glasgow and its hills.

—–

Morning comes early for RW. He sneaks as quietly as he can out of the family room he’s sharing with PL at the Nottingham Travel Lodge. Down to the train station and onto a Virgin Rails train to Edinburgh where his family and in laws await. Good luck RW! See you Scotland!

The band woke with their usual leisure. Packing slowly but deliberately they made their way back to the minibus. There’s just no hurry today. It’s a driving day and we’ve got two days to go seven hours. In the USA, ISHILA would undertake such a drive in an afternoon, hope on the wide straight highways of America, set the cruise control at 85 and roll. But things are different here in Britain They left side driving, for instance, the roadabouts, and the wide narrow roads. So we’ll take our time. Further, we just like to adapt as much as possible to whatever region we are visiting. Things move a little slower over here and so shall wee. So it goes for this anti-global, international-traveling country rock band.

Robin Hood references abound. Our Travelodge is on Maid Marian Way. Statues of archers and merry men are everywhere. The Sheriff of Nottingham does not arrest us as we drive madly down the incomprehensible roads, trying to find the motel and the gig. We’ve violated many traffic laws, and circled endlessly through unmarked streets. We’ve passed that corner four times already. Shawn, Rob, and PL seem to have mastered the right hand drive from the left hand lane, but we still can’t follow the directions. Lookout for that roundabout! A great castle sits on a rocky hill overlooking the city, There’s a pub called the “Trip to Jerusalem” built into the base of one the cliffs at it’s base. The pub itself is connected to network of tunnels that rum beneath the old castle. You can sit and drink your pint at a table in the limestone caves.

The gig turns out to be great. To our delight and surprise, the house is full of enthusiastic ISHILA fans and new converts. One guy has driven 100 miles to see us (quite a long distance in the British Isles). We’re surprised and grateful. The staff runs out to get us great, huge, paper wrapped fish and chips. When Shawn opens his package he exclaims, “Oh my god! There’s a whole fish in there!” Indeed, there is. We devour the very hot food in the cold, half-outdoor dressing room. Yum. The amps don’t blow up, yet. Post gig we hang with the locals, drink tasty ales. RW gets bought shots by a Polish guy and his Greek brother in law. In younger days, RW would’ve tried to catch up with how drunk they were in an act of international cooperation and competition—sort of treated it as an Olympic gathering of drunks. But times have changed and the responsibilities of fatherhood, lead singing, and co-tour managing ground him into a two shot minimum.

We pack up the minibus, find our way back to the Travel Lodge only hitting two fast-moving British curbs, unload, even park with a new found confidence. We’re getting the hang of this.

The weather has been spectacular since we stepped off the plane. Balmy, with puffy clouds in blue sky, and it feels very, very good. We motorway through very dry fields bounded by rows of trees, and forests, glimpses of Celts, Picts, Saxons, Vikings, Normans, and Angles in the dark shadows among the green. England, like much of northern planet Earth, is suffering from a drought. A golf course is mostly dry brown with patches of green. Northward. .

London is a swinging town. At sunset all the birds are out in their short shorts and mini-skirts, enjoying this fleeting summer bliss, with their Arab sisters in full veil, some with faces covered. Every nationality imaginable passes in moments on the crowded little streets, ancient stone buildings shadowed by modern concrete and glass highrises and towers, some actually quite beautiful. The energy is relaxed but charged up. Burberry, Camper, Starbucks, MacDonalds—they’re all here, but so are the Algerian brothers serving top notch pizza, and the fish & chips and the swinging fashion boutiques, and a row of vintage guitar with prices a bit too dear for all but the rock stars and the accountants and the lawyers. It’s London, spiritual child of swinging London.

It’s high noon and we’re on the motorway back to that which draws all roads, London. We’re going to circle the massive metropolis on the A25 and then north on the A2 to Nottingham, four hours north (pronounced “Notngm”). Rob is driving on the wrong side of the road with style and confidence. We’re feeling good. The kindly Victor Car Hire folks who have rented us this bulbous 8 passenger van have also given us a UK Atlas. Oops, we missed our turn. Do we exit Bexleyheath? We do.

Shearness is actually an island, where the mighty Thames becomes an estuary and merges with the English Channel and the Atlantic. It’s surrounded by the classic names from WWII and earlier times of invasion, rape, pillage, and flotilla: Southend On Sea, Portsmouth, Dover. Mark drove us along the massive concrete seawall and pointed out the ancient gunnery towers far out at sea, home of pirate radio Caroline in the 1960’s. In the harbor is a sunken American merchant ship loaded with unexploded shells from the Greatest War. This is where the Vikings made landing. Behind the seawall is an older seawall that protected a firing range, still a wide pasture. Mark’s mother manned (womanned) a search light in the WWII nights. War and its practicalities (including a no nonsense breakfast of runny eggs and sausage, time to get on with it) haunt this otherwise pastoral lowland. England’s countryside is yielding to motorway lights, housing tracts, and power plants that dominate the view. The cows and furrowed fields seem like an afterthought, living on borrowed time. Although we must eat.Paul L has suffered from severe jetlag (worse when traveling east, defying nature in even more egregious fashion) his whole life, and was in mortal fear of having to do a gig and traveling while in a near vegetative state. But he has escaped jetlag almost completely this time, and wishes to share his recipe:

Get a good night’s sleep before your flight. Pack two days before so you’re not panicking as you leave the house. Take an evening flight, in this case to London Heathrow. Purchase No Jet Lag ™ at Trader Joe’s and take your first pill waiting for your flight at the airport. Treat the ritual humiliation of electronic strip search with bemusement. Bring two bottles of water and chug from them obsessively. Take the No Jet Lag pill every two hours. An hour into your flight take a half a valium courtesy Paddy McCorkle, rogue pharmacist. Fall asleep.Wake in time for your croissant and yogurt. Don’t eat the yogurt. When you get off the plane, do not fret over the fact that somehow it’s now 3:30 in the afternoon. Enjoy the sights from Heathrow into London. Set up your gear in the rock club, drink beer and tequila, have pizza, and play an electric country rock show. Have a midnight falafel. Drive one and a half hours to your late night accommodations. Smoke hashish rolled into stinky tobacco and drink more beer with Russell, your kindly host, a 62 year old Shell Oil retired engineer with stories to tell. Chat till 3:30 a.m. whilst watching VH1’s band reunion show, starring the entire original lineup of Berlin. Curl up on the settee (a couch that’s too short to sleep on). Drift off to sleep while your host continues to watch TV, which appears to be a series of electronica videos. Dream of nothing.

Wake at 11 a.m. Watch British morning TV, which is actually more vacuous than American, have a coffee with Russell. Join your mates down the road for eggs and toast at the amusement arcade. Hit the road. You’re cured. Jetlag-free.Russell’s philosophy on drinking: Vodka. Pure and simple. With lemonade. Single malt scotch is nice, but not for an evening of drinking. Stick to the pure stuff. Same with Guiness. You can only drink one, not worth the stroll down to the pub.

Russell is a good pal of his younger friend Mark Ellen, our gracious host. Mark dumps excess band members at Russell’s house. Mark works on Russell’s car when it needs the odd repair. British communalism. Mark is the drummer with Vanity Fare, who had two huge hits in the late 60’s, including “Hitchin’ A Ride” (“ride, ride, ride, hitchin’ a ride; gonna make it home; to my baby’s side”). Russell shows Paul L a video of the band, and they and Mark rock. See them if they come to your town. Mark also is a talented singer and guitarist, and has made a record of old cowboy songs set to a rave beat. We’ll see him again at the festival up in Scotland, his ancestral home.