Let's preface this by apologizing for falling so far behind on our blog. We're still covering the beginning stages of the tour. Which were memorable nonetheless, like so:
You should really see our van. It's quaint. The sort of thing you'd see gun-toting Libyans riding in, through a sawed-out hole in the roof. So imagine it, day 1, in the Northern Irish countryside, running out of fuel. Facing uphill. Our driver/sound guy/handler Gavin, who really is a swell guy, rolls the van backwards downhill (into oncoming traffic, no less) - our only option - so we can back it into a driveway. And it was then that we all, save Gavin behind the wheel, got out. To push. So we get it going, and then the adrenaline rush to end all adrenaline rushes: running after the van, it moving at increasing speeds, and jumping in though the side door. First Jared and then Will running-jumped in, then finally, imagine Rob chasing a van down a hill, full bore, trying to hold his pants up with one hand. And oh yeah, the side door doesn't open from the inside, and it had slid closed, so Tim had to lean out the front window and finagle open the door so Rob could finally dive in. Straight outta Little Miss Sunshine. And a serious adrenaline rush. Stupid GPS.
Anyway, from there, took a ferry from Belfast to Scotland. Then we got our nature boners up on a drive up the Scotish coast, the most sighttastic to date. Since then, of course, it's been those nondescript British motorways that look like you could be in California, except there are sheep and medieval castles on the side of the road. Glasgow, Manchester, Leeds, Oxford, Birmingham - different towns, same British Travelodges, same music videos.
Tomorrow = day off in gay ol' Paris. Eat it.