Bere Ferres is much farther away than it looks on a map…


“Killing time.” Not something anyone should do after the age of sixty.

Jeanne had this idea of doing encouragement visits. She thought that since we were going to be in England, it would be really fun and good ministry to drop by and visit some extended family members like Elizabeth (our daughter-in-law Noemi’s sister) in Brixham along the coast then spend the night in Plymouth with a visit to Jeremy (our son-in-law’s) grandmother in the little village of Beres Ferrers. Good idea and easy enough, I thought! We had missed a connection with Elizabeth because of time constraints, so we really wanted to make this second connection if we could.

After saying our goodbyes to Suzy and James, we drove off to Plymouth where we found a nice little Bed and Breakfast, “Mia Casa” which is located only blocks from The Barbican, a famous waterfront area from which the Mayflower sailed to America.

It was raining when we arrived in Plymouth, so we spent the evening mostly in our room. Invigorated, the next morning we were up and ready, and after Jeanne’s  thrilling first encounter with “the full English breakfast,” we were out the door.  After several hours of walking and taking in the quiet Monday streets, we loaded up and raced off for Bere Ferres, only what appeared to be a “hop, skip and a jump” away. Surprise! True, it may have been less than twenty-five miles away. But there was no simple and straight way to get there. I tried the most sensible route but wound up having to back track, go across a six pound round-trip bridge twice, drive across a hedged in, single road surrounded by hedges for ten miles, to wind up where I started three hours earlier. So I made a decision! I was going to go the long way around or give up on the idea completely.

After another thirty minutes of pretty sensible driving we saw the sign: “Bere Ferres.” What a relief! We were going to make it to Jeremy’s grandma’s house after all! Here is some advice. In all of England, there may be no such a thing as a “short cut.” It pays to go the hard way.

Jeremy’s grandmother, Betty

Arriving at around noon we were surprised to find this ninety-year-old gal not at home. We had met Betty on several occasions, so, especially after this investment of time, emotions and petrol, we were pretty intent on seeing her. Now in Bere Ferrers there are no addresses. You find where you are going by the name of the cottage. Once we had asked around and found it, we went on to the pub to wait for a while.

After a half an hour or so, I suggested that we just drive on. So Jeanne wrote a note of regret that we’d missed her and we drove by to put the note in her mailbox. But this time we saw a car in the driveway! Happily, we jumped out of the car, went to the door, and were warmly received by Betty and her sister, who also lives in Bere Ferres. Once inside, we enjoyed a good visit over a cup of tea in her cheery little house. It was definitely worth the anxiety to get there.

Photos from Plymouth and “The Barbican.”

In the heart of Cornish Pasties… a Greenhouse favorite.

The Mayflower passenger comemorativ

Right hand driving and freaked out

From Portofino Emile rushed me to  Rapallo where I caught a train. I would like to express my thanks to the very public conscious Trenitalia who failed me once more and then I had to pay the penalty for their ineptitude. I arrived behind three people at the biglietteria but no matter. What should have taken a matter of three minutes –uno biglietto di solo andata a Milano – took thirty minutes as the single ticket master dealt with two older people who were attempting to exchange their tickets. People would come, express exasperation and go but I stayed at my post thinking it couldn’t be more than another few minutes. In so doing, I missed my train and had to finally take the next. I managed to buy a ticket, board the train and then was penalized eight Euro for being on a non local train. Anyhow, I finally got into Milano at about eight found my two-star hotel, got something to eat up on Strada Buenos Aires, went to bed, awoke early and grabbed the shuttle to Linate and a flight to London Gatwick arriving at eleven in the morning.

Now the scary part…

VW Sharan… a lovely automobile for Montana

 All along, for about three weeks, I had been dreading the moment when I would finally get behind the wheel of an English automobile. I had promised Jeanne that regardless of the terror involved, I would give her the convenience of driving right to the doors of our friends and hotels. Trains would’t take us where we need to go so this was the most economical and frankly, the most sensible way for two people to travel when having to cover the full length and width of England in twelve days.

I had been to England several times before so I knew something of what to expect.  With this in mind, I was clear in reserving a small Peugeot . My son once did a similar thing only to be given the only car available, a Jaguar XF. Well, guess what? My worst nightmare came true. I went to the counter as nervous as a rabbit to have the girl fumble through her bulging envelopes to finally pull out one with my name on it at the same time apologizing, “Mister Hedrick, I’m sorry but we are in short supply of the car you requested but we do have something available, quite nice and at the same price. Would you be willing to drive a Volkswagen Sharan Van?” What could I do? I finally had myself braced for this. I made a face of displeasure and discouragement . I put up a weak complaint telling the young lady that I didn’t really want to drive some BIG car all over England.  At this point, a young man interrupted suggesting that he would find someone to track me down and change cars with me when one became available. I thought, “What a nuisance this would turn out to be” so against my better judgement, I gritted my teeth, took the key, signed the papers, got the instructions and went to the car like a man approaching the galley.  I located it, got in, turned the key and roared out of the lot  repeating to myself, “Remember, keep yourself on the center line and you’ll be alright.”

The safety of my room

I drove like a madman toward the M-23 in the direction of Crawley. Praying all of the time, I managed to land (completely surprised!) on the right round about spitting me out toward Crawley. After some instructions from several people, none of whom I could understand, I followed the pointing of their fingers and eventually, four frightening round-abouts later, wound up in the parking lot of my hotel, “The George.” I parked and secured the Leviathan, checked in, went to my room and with a sigh of relief fell on the bed. Fortunately, the story improves – at least for a while.

Jeanne at “The George”

I had a splendid, well thought out strategy. I would just park the car and leave it until after I had picked up Jeanne at the airport only two train stops and two pounds eighty pence away. I would collect her and her things then train her back to the hotel. I would give her a day getting rid of jet lag and then we would venture out on the roads together. So this is what we did.

Finding Sebastian Joe’s by Tony Hedrick

Finding Sebastian Joe’s was a Walk in the Park

It appears that our adult children are some worried about us. They think that, because we got into a rather heated disagreement about the location of Sebastian Joe’s Ice Cream Parlor in Linden Hills, our marriage may be on the rocks. It is true that I got lost and was taking more time than necessary to find the exact location. It is true that my memory is not as good as it once was. It is true that their mom hates waste and frivolity, but the truth is they have not helped as much as they had hoped.

I have one daughter who has become an internet junkie and is a masterful “Ebay” and “Craig’s List” shopper. It is my guess that this was her idea.

For my birthday UPS delivered a GPS. It looked simple enough and I immediately got the idea that this might be a hint. Well, I must say, that this brilliant idea came close to sinking the ship completely. I was so excited to use it and thought to wait until just the right moment. So, I announced to Jeanne that on Labor Day – the day after my birthday – I was going to treat her to a pleasant drive to Gaffney, South Carolina, let her shop at the outlet stores and then we’d drive on to Spartanburg, visit the Art Museum, have a nice early lunch and head back to Charlotte. Actually in the back of my mind I intended to impress her with my new GPS by showing her how it worked, just in case she might like to use it sometime in the future.

After trying to first attach the mounting system with its handy sticky base and utterly failing I thought to simply put it on the dash of my new car by using the suction cup option. So when, at a little after nine, Jeanne got into the car I carefully dismounted the GPS unit from its carriage and set out to show her how one enters the address of the intended destination. Normally this is quite simple to do. I had practiced before hand, but with her wanting to get started and the car running (using expensive gas), I became nervous about the entire operation and fouled up several times. Looking like a complete incompetent, I muttered something, turned it off, set it back in the carriage and squealed out of the driveway. All the while this was going on she wanted to know why I was so angry … which led to me telling her that she absolutely has no sense of adventure. As you can imagine, this didn’t go over too well.

After filling the car with gas (gas that I should have bought yesterday because it was a pre-Labor Day price) we drove in relative silence toward Gaffney. As we were riding along, my new GPS mounted to the radio console, the sun shining brightly in the window, the suction cup let loose and the entire carriage fell to the floor!

 “Oh, no,” I thought frantically, “Is the durn thing broke completely? I’ve only had it for a day, and I’ve already managed to bungle the thing completely.” Fortunately, once retrieved and the power turned on, it seemed to be working. I was incredibly relieved – relieved, that is, until I looked at the dash from whence it had fallen to discover that the beautiful and flawless paint had been torn completely off, leaving an ugly circle the exact shape of the suction cup.

“Now what?” I thought. “This thing was obviously made for Minnesota and not Carolina, where summer temperatures reach in excess of ninety-five degrees every day for two or three months of the year. Well, if we’re gonna have this glaring circle on our dash we might as well mount it there permanently. How in the world can we get this fixed anyway?”

Finally, we arrived in Gaffney … after having the GPS fall on the floor a second time. I determined that I was going to show her that this thing works, so while she went shopping I sat quietly in the car and programmed the GPS to navigate us to the Spartanburg Art Museum. When she had finished her shopping, settled herself into the car, and we pulled out, I planned to push the start button and let it talk us down the road… and it did just that! 

When we followed the directions given by the female voice and pulled on to Interstate 85, I noticed a road sign that said it was nine miles to Spartanburg. My GPS, however, indicted 29 miles to the Spartanburg Museum. This didn’t make much sense, but I have learned to follow the directions rather than my intuition, so we went on in faith. When we came through Spartanburg we both saw the sign that read, “East St. John” street. This was similar to the street that I was looking for (400 East John Street) but the GPS advised us to go straight ahead … into the countryside … for at least another nineteen miles. We did and when we finally heard the voice say “You have reached your destination” we looked to our right to see a country lane leading to an abandoned trailer house.

Fortunately we both had a good laugh about this. Looking down at the GPS we noticed that the destination was not 400 East John … it was 400 Eastlake Street. Somehow I had recorded the wrong destination but I didn’t know how it had happened … yet. Was the GPS defective? We both wondered.

Well, we decided to try to find the museum another way. We looked up “Attractions” and by clicking one button “Museums” on the GPS we got all of the listed museums in the area. Then I realized there were several with a similar name and I wasn’t sure which one was the one I was after. Even more troubling, none of them listed 400 John Street as the address. Oh well, I picked the one that sounded like what I remembered and asked the machine to take us there. We drove back twenty miles into town and again we followed the voice precisely. Turn left at the next stop, Boink! Go one thousand feet, turn right, Boink! Follow Marion Street 1.4 miles.  Eight hundred feet on the right is your destination. We dutifully followed every command and even when we turned too soon, we were quickly corrected, got back on the route and eventually arrived at our second destination … an empty building with a “For Sale” sign in front of it. Perhaps an Art Museum was once there but it wasn’t now and no one had informed the satellite.



We had another good laugh before deciding to turn off the GPS and just drive around the downtown until we maybe ran into it. I had the inspiration to ask a couple of policemen cruising the downtown and it was then that I discovered my mistake. The address was 400 SAINT JOHN Street. No wonder the GPS couldn’t find 400 John Street. Finally we found the Spartanburg Museum of Art — an impressive structure that looked like it was chuck full of great art pieces. But it was Labor Day and closed. So there we have it, my first day with my GPS. Our marriage is still preserved, but your birthday gift had nothing to do with it and if I ever have to find Sebastian Joe’s Ice Cream Parlor in Linden Hills, I will ask a Somalian taxi driver.

The John Greenhouse Epiphany, by Tony Hedrick

John Greenhouse’s epiphany has come too late…

THe good lord never takes from any man the time he spends fish’un

This is it.

This is it.

Perhaps many folks out there have come to know that you, John, finally, at this late date, have become quite a competent tracker of the elusive salmon and the wily lake trout.




I admit to some envy, especially when I consider that stretch of water just below your summer house at Tobermory. What is disappointing for me is to think that, for years, you rose in the early morning and took your tea on the deck but rarely dangled a line until that July day when I demonstrated for you the art of the catch. People have no idea as to how you established yourself as a fisherman. That’s the purpose of this snippet.


There was a time when John simply had no clue regarding such manly things as down riggun, spoons, knots, filleting, and so forth. He didn’t – but knew that I did. Being as modest I am, I didn’t want to gloat each time I was in his presence. But it had been reported by my children, on more than one occasion, how proficient I was at bringing home stringers of bass, crappie, catfish, walleye, well… let me just cut to the chase… almost any fresh water species.


Nevertheless, John, living but a stone’s throw from the Grand Canyon of sport fishing did come under some conviction about wasting this resource that lay right before him. He knew full well that other men spoke disparagingly about him behind his back. He was aware that Japanese and Italians, with an outlay of thousands of dollars, made trips just for the experience that he ignored. He knew that the majority of his male friends would trade their penthouse apartments, grand urban lives, exclusive clubs, and gourmet dining with him in a moment. “If only I could simply rise, slip into a sunlit but misty morning and calm sea! If I could but just lean back, and putter along. If only I had a little boat with a 35 horse Merk.” But here, in their view, is an undeserving man who doesn’t even recognize the word Merk.


John is, for the most part, a man trim and angular, hardly looking his age, one who could handily take on a thirty-year-old on the tennis court, ride his bike twenty miles to work each day, and still… he did not even own a child’s tackle box. Embarrassingly, it would take most of the day for him to dig out enough gear to catch a perch. That was how it was until I came to visit.


It was the day after the wedding of my youngest son, Matt, to Noemi in rural Orangeville. The entire family had come, some from as far away as Texas. John and Jane, being more gracious and obligated than thoughtful invited all of us up for a few days at the cottage.


To be honest, I felt a little overwhelmed by the idea. Loving to fish, recognizing the opportunity, yet bringing no equipment, and knowing that John Greenhouse would likely have none I arrived on the scene with a certain despair of heart. This would be akin to going to Paris for a week and staying in your Best Western hotel room for the entire time.


John and Jane have these twin boys (they appear to have become young men now) who have as little sense as their father about what it takes to catch any noteworthy fish. But after a day or so my reputation began to come to the surface of their conversations. They wanted to know if I might take them out and show them how to catch trophy salmon like other people on the fishing charters do.  My first thought was to recommend a local charter but this went nowhere – as anyone who knows the Greenhouses might imagine. The Greenhouses are not known to squander money. Hence, they have a summer home on a magnificent point overlooking Georgian Bay and I do not. I have fish stories; they have a cottage on the lake. This trait of frugality had meandered its way into the genes of Ben and Alden, who couldn’t see parting from their money, especially since they have a sea worthy aluminum fourteen footer that should easily do for us what we need.


Now, it was encouraging to discover by observation that the boat was not all that bad. Still, I had trouble visualizing three fellows, one of Chesterton proportions, all jammed into a small dinghy. Further still, I thought that the idea of any fish on the line might jeopardize the lives of all.  Unknown to the boys, this is one of the reasons people spend money on twenty-two foot charter boats. Large salmon are not willing to be caught and one might expect the kind of action and unbridled enthusiasm that would capsize boats of lesser size.


They did demonstrate that the motor would start – a good beginning. I saw no way to convince them that their likelihood of being successful ranged somewhere between unimaginable to impossible. In their minds, a man of my reputation would surely require, even prefer, less accommodation than the novices who luxuriously cruise back and forth, six lines out, in front of their cottage.


As we surveyed the boat down in the cove John, the senior Greenhouse, optimistically trotted down to the shoreline to tell us that we should buy a net. He didn’t have a net. It seemed that a net was somehow important to him, but Down rigger wasn’t. A couple of sixteen-foot rods with sturdy open­-faced reels, copper leads, and assorted four inch spoons weren’t. But, yep, no doubt about it, we’d definitely need a net if we intended to land a big one.


“Let’s go to the store! There’s a bait shop up on the highway!” This is when I felt that it was safe to inquire, “Do you have any down rigger?” After describing what we’d have to come up with the boys, who are reasonably handy, thought that they could fabricate something while John and I were gone. I explained that salmon run in 58 degree Fahrenheit water and that, if we wanted to have any chance at all, then we would have to stabilize our lines down at sometimes as much as eighty feet deeps. Being Canadians of another generation they were busy converting Fahrenheit and inches into Celsius and meters, missing my point entirely. The point being: Without adequate down rigger every other consideration is silenced.


Off to the store we went.


John was almost giddy with excitement. If nothing else, the Greenhouse’ are experts at three  things, all of which I have virtually no interest in. They enjoy hikes (not walks… HIKES) after big meals, complicated (and sometimes homemade) board games, and projects that require tools they do not own. The joy for them is in devising the tools.


Well, after John insisted on a BIG net, an outlay of more money that I thought he was capable of spending at one time, we headed back to see what the boys had come up with.


There they were. Somehow they had done it! They had managed to jerri-rig not just one down rigger, but two lures, one just about four feet above the other. They figured this out on their own and I was impressed with their common sense and ingenuity. I began to think that all of this should, at least, make them feel as though they were fishing.


“Now boys, “ said I, “How are we gonna set our rod? We need some sort of mount whereby we can stick the butt end of the pole into it. We want to down rig the bait and then we want to watch the end of the pole. When she gets a hit, we’ll want to know it! The whole end of the rod will jump and quiver. This is how we know to grab the rod up and set our hook.” I said all of this to make them feel good.


At this, John rushed to the garage to fetch a piece of four-foot PVC pipe and a 3/8″ rope. When he reached us, without a word, he began to lash it to the middle seat support of the boat and then said, “There, we have it! This should provide a rather serviceable rod mount.”


There was certain ugliness to all of this. In spite of the fact that fishermen handle night crawlers and leeches there is still a twisted sophistication about the sport. Though nothing like the decorum attached to cricket, people out there on the lake can spot the skilled angler in a heartbeat. The right attire and equipment signal to all who pass by that you know what you are doing – that you are “one of them.” To be frank, I just really didn’t want to do this.


Well, as I began to stretch my arm through the life vest, one of the twins reached out, touched me, and then half humorously said, “When are you going to pray? Don’t you pray before you fish? I mean, don’t you ask God to help you catch a fish or something?” I am, as you know, an ordained minister and the boys who had, on occasion, sat through my rather lengthy sermons thought that this might be a legitimate question to pose. I confess to having boasted about my deep spirituality.


Nevertheless, I was surprised to hear either of them make the suggestion at all. All along, I had been convinced that little that I ever said caught their attention. They, to my recollection, had never commented back anything significant from any of the sermons they were forced to sit through. Oh, on second thought, there was one line that did recall and repeat back to me. I’m not sure if it was Alden or Ben but one of them did remember that I once made the facetious statement, “Every man’s a bachelor a hundred miles from home.” Whichever one it was (back then I could never tell them apart) he never forgot it. His wife should take note of how embedded in his subconscious this line is. 


To satisfy their leering eyes and waiting ears, I mumbled some brief utterance, asking God to help us in our quest. We struggled into our life jackets, fell over one another into the boat, and launched out into the bay. One press of the ignition and the boat heaved in the direction of the open reach.


Out there in the open sea it is hard to hide from others your gypsy-like appearance. Smug captains drifted by and did what they could to look the other way. Their wake threw us one-way and then the other. Finally, when we were alone, we put out our line, set our course, and began to troll with the pole arched out of the PVC pipe lashed to the seat.


The long day was beginning to close. I could see my aged mother – who loves fishing – walk this way and that way. Every time we circled to go the other direction she would turn and march along with us on the cottage deck three hundred yards away. With her hand over her eyes to block the sun she squinted at us. Perhaps she was saying prayers of her own but she was definitely a silent encouragement to our pathetic venture.


“I think we just got a hit!” I remember shouting. “Yer kiddin,” came the reply. “No, I’m serious. Yes, it is! It’s a fish!” Real fishermen shout some obscenity at this point but I refrained. I grabbed the pole with both hands, lifted it from the PVC pipe, quickly turned the reel, pulled up the slack in what line I could, all as I was snapping the end of the pole in an attempt to set the hook.


The boys were beside themselves and shouting as I reported it to be a “BIG” one. Off went the drag and they could see the line whiz into the water. Now the boat was unsteady and tossing as the two jumped to see what they could do. One grabbed the recently purchased net while I thrust the pole into the hands of the other and yelled in a deep southern accent, “Keep the end of the pole up, play ‘em, play ‘em. Give ‘em a little and then take in a little! Take yer time. Yer in no hurry. Yah wanna wear ‘em down.” (When I’m excited I find that my southern upbringing returns) By now we were all clapping. My mother was screaming from the Greenhouse deck, “Come quick! Come quick! They got one!” We could see that faces were filling the windows and others began pouring out of the patio doors. By now everyone was in an uproar. We turned and casually waved in their direction, as though we knew exactly what we were doing.


“There she is! See her? Gosh, she’s a big’un!” With this, the fish came close to the boat and the net was pressed into service – a miss, and then another lunge. Down she went with the reel steaming and screaming behind her.  With all of the noise, yelling, and screaming the large cruisers, which had before wanted to be out of our way, were finding their way back into line and as one took up position they radioed the others that “some fellas down here are having some dumb luck.” Soon the scoffers, who had snickered at three big men in a small boat and our PVC pipe pole mounts, were leaning out over the sides trying to gain a better look.


Within minutes we had all seventeen pounds and four ounces of her in the net and on board. After sufficient congratulations all around and salutes to our family and friends on shore we did not hesitate to make our way back, anticipating a certain amount of praise and looking forward to the requirements to go over every detail of how we did it.


That night we all sat down to fifteen charcoaled salmon steaks and made a great deal of the fact that without John’s net we would have never landed that hog. John is normally a rather understated personality but we could tell that he enjoyed his part in the catch.


Well, this little success has set John back financially. Unbeknown to Jane, John has developed an addiction of sorts. He now has this compulsion to frequently stop at Canadian Tire stores where he buys unnecessary fishing lures, takes them out of the bag, destroys the receipts so that Jane doesn’t find out, breaks the lures out of the blister packs, and hides them under the seat of his Suburban. The truth is, he doesn’t know what some of these things are or what they will do. Anyone hearing this now can simply take a flashlight, go out to his car, open the door, and peer under the seat to see if what I say isn’t true.