Bank Holiday

We're on a bank holiday right now.  That's what we call a three-day weekend over here.
 
No one asks, 'What are you doing over the long weekend?"  They say, "Are you planning anything special over Bank Holiday weekend?"
 
Obviously, we don't have the same holidays as the States.  We don't barbeque and set off fireworks on the fourth of July, run to the sales on Columbus Day or sleep late and lounge around the house in our bathrobes--grateful for the day off but not sure what it's all about--on President's Day.
 
Instead, we have an odd variety of holidays based on traditions no one can properly explain (i.e. May Day, Boxing Day) and a smattering of religious-type holidays which are off-limits to church-and-state-separated countries like America (such as Whitsun, Good Friday and Easter) and which is why I'm currently enjoying four days off.
 
We took advantage of Good Friday and the brilliant weather to make the short trip to a local, scenic overlook knows as Devil's Dyke.  The Dyke is a deep and unusual looking cleft in the otherwise gently rolling down land.  It is 300 feet deep and over half a mile long, and it is situated in one of the most outstandingly beautiful spots in Sussex.
 
I remain astounded and chagrined that I allowed myself to live here for so long without once visiting this area.  It is astoundingly beautiful--so much so that it rates its own page (which I will post as soon as I finish our Spanish trip).  What I will say here is that its breathtaking views rival those of Thatcher Park--my favorite scenic overlook in New York.  And unlike Thatcher Park Overlook, someone had the foresight to build a pub at the Devil's Dyke summit.

 
View from Thatcher Park Overlook

 
There were a scores of hikers putting the numerous hiking trails to good use, as well as a bevy of paragliders (performing the types of aerial feats that would leave me with a hefty laundry bill) and a crowd of relatively pedestrian kite fliers.  We joined the hikers and completed a rambling loop that brought us down a gentle slope, through the quaint and picturesque hamlet of Poyning, and then straight up the side of the bluff. 

View from Devil's Dyke

 
Along the way, we happened upon a family, with two young boys, on their way down.  The boys capered past us while the father--a mild-looking man--stopped to ask us if the path we were on went into Poyning. My wife assured him it did, just as his wife--a hulking woman with a shock of hair in a color never seen in nature and a face that could curdle milk--came up behind him.
 
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING ASKING DIRECTIONS?" she screamed.  "WE'VE BEEN ON THIS HIKE A HALF DOZEN TIMES"
 
"I'm just asking if the trail goes through Poyning."
 
"NO IT DOESN'T!  IT GOES OFF TO THE LEFT. YOU KNOW PERFECTLY WELL THE TRIAL DOESN'T GO THROUGH POYNING!"
 
Still browbeating the poor man, they continued past us without even a look.  I have never, in my life, met anyone so inexcusably rude.  I felt so badly for her unfortunate husband I briefly considered following them and finding out where they lived so I could sneak into their house some night and kill him to put him out of his misery.
 
Instead, we ascended to the pub where I had a beer, smoked a cigar, enjoyed the view and had occasion to contemplate my good fortune in having a life-partner who does not consider it her responsibility to make my life a living hell.
 
Life is, finally and at long last, very good indeed.

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