Aus der Stadt der Brotschnitte

Having established Daddy's passion for walking in our last entry, this week takes us to Sandwich, a pretty. and pretty small place that most English folk don't even know exist, nor how come the sandwich is called sandwich, and which came first, the sandwich or Sandwich. Sandwich, of course, with it's gambling royalty who had to have their dinners served between slices of bread so they could go on gambling. Really. And I fully understand them. If you're fat royalty and a walk down to the seaside is beneath you, there isn't much else you can do, other than dine and play. Which is exactly what I really wanted to do here, but the only truly appealing place, No-Name Shop in No-Name Street, had but two tables that were hogged by three ladies thinking their three coffees entitles them to three hours sitting time. What can I say? That daddy is a clever man not having rented a house for us here. I would have either sought employment in No-Name Shop for my occasional chance to sit down, and run back to Leicester in two weeks flat. I'm sure my job and my social life would have appreciated that.
And now, off into Sandwich, die Stadt der Brotschnitte.

Pretty old houses. The kind you want to touch up to feel history.

Did I say it's a small place? Then why did they run out of street names in the centre?

Believe it or not - the only fetching shot I could get without cars parked up all over my picture.

A shoddy old playground for Tara, who loves it! Jose excuses the state of it. It's only a small place with surely not many children, he says. Well.

"Ma!" (= mas, Spanish, proper Southern pronounciation / mehr / more)

The beach will be down there somewhere...

... and you'll eventually get there...

... if you don't take the wrong turn and wind up in the middle of nowhere NEAR the beach!

Fine as long as you have a pushchair and cheese to bribe Tara back into it. Those jittery 11 kilo are quite a job to carry!

Birds! Ducks! Dangerous creatures!

That is, if they mean your daughter absolutely insists on anting to explore them close up. Allowing her to throw herself at them sadly isn't an option, so the trip in die Stadt der Brotschnitte is slightly spoiled by an 'I want to touch these ducks there in the water' tantrum, followed by the corresponding 'You're NOT going near the water' fight and an equivalent double parental sulk.
And what with said women hogging the only truly appealing cafe in town, there's nothing like a long sleep, and waking up to an outdoors tea and buttered scone opposite the visitors' parking lot. Now, I call that a much safer sight, if somewhat less pretty. Tara likes it too, though. "Ham," she says, "Püppi ham," and a happily observant "caaaar!"*

Now, a special treat for my reader friends at the American Studies Seminar of Hanover University! I know you regret having lost me to the old country, but look closely, even here you will occasionally find a little touristic treasure of American relevance. Zoom on in, I won't give the game away. And let me tell you, I stood in respectful reverence, and only briefly considered whether the house would look better in pink. It would not.

* Ham is baby German for 'eat', and nothing to do with ham. Püppi = dolly.**
** Yes. She does indeed talk.