s you will recall, Sharon and I were married in San Antonio June 4, 2000, and dutifully took a brief journey afterwards to visit my father in Galveston, who was unable to attend the ceremony; this was referred to as the "honeymoon," for want of a better term; at the time, however, I promised my spouse that we would take a real honeymoon trip, something special and exotic, and that it would be done within a year, or at the worst, two. Early on it was decided that we go to Great Britain - where I had been once before - with an aim to see the Lake Country and the Scottish Highlands (which I had missed previously) and as much else as time and funds would allow.

Of course a great deal of life intervened fairly quickly: my father's death six weeks after the wedding and the consequent load of estate work to follow, the ordering of things in the house after my move and the remodeling-for-sale of my former house in Houston, a diagnosis of prostate cancer early in 2001 and subsequent surgery a few months later (quite successful, and no complaints here), combined with the day to day experience of our work and family, made the notion of the proposed journey seem a bit removed from our plans. Yet we persevered, and decided that September would be a good time to go: we both would have scraped up sufficient vacation time for about three weeks' travel, and the weather might be nice and cool, in stark contrast to the furnace we call home here in South Texas.

And then on 9 April 2001 came a notice from the estimable Colin White at the Royal Naval Museum, Portsmouth, forwarded to the Searoom and Gunroom Internet mailing lists, concerning a Patrick O'Brian weekend to be held there towards the end of September. Now, it should be explained that those of us who are enthusiasts of the splendid novels of the late O'Brian, most particulary the seminal Aubrey-Maturin series, have a tendency to congregate whenever possible at events ranging from simple dinners to formal seminars, like that given by the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C. which we attended in November 2000, and the notion of making this one most felicitously combined the opportunity to make another gathering and achieve the promise of the Real Honeymoon simultaneously.

Besides, I had missed Portsmouth the first time I'd gone to the UK fifteen years previously and this would be my first chance to see, let alone go aboard, HMS Victory herself. It was decided that we should go, and in the midst of a busy spring and summer we laid our plans as best we could, reserved our place at Portsmouth by means of cashier's checks in £s and much emailing, located likely lodgings, cobbled together an itinerary of sorts, realized that we had nothing to wear and insufficient luggage, and on and on. Like any other vacation, I suppose.

Meantime I had been in communication with Greg Hill, a fellow Texan and O'Brian follower who had moved awhile back up to Fairbanks, Alaska , where he directs the State Library; Greg planned to make the trip as well and using his library connections had arranged a viewing of a selection of the Joseph Banks Papers at the British Library the week before the Portsmouth event, and had most graciously invited us to attend. We were, of course, delighted.

e were booked to leave San Antonio the morning of Sunday 16 September, flying to Houston to board the flight that would take us straightway into Gatwick. Our travel agent had booked us into a nice hotel in London and made arrangements for us to hire a car in Portsmouth for our post-POB Weekend wanderings, which had been sketched out to a great extent, and with some new pieces of luggage and travel togs in hand we were eagerly anticipating our chance to endure jet lag and peculiar money and interesting food and much else besides.

Then came September 11th. I doubt that I could say anything about that dark day that has not been said already, and will only note that it appeared then that our trip was most likely to be postponed for some time. It took a day of reflection to come to the conclusion that if we would be allowed we would make the journey after all, reasoning that since the persons responsible for the tragedy had gotten their little victory we were damned if we would add to it by showing our fear. It was unclear at the time whether any flights overseas would be allowed, and it was clear that many of them would be cancelled regardless. Sure enough, our original flight out was scratched, but Sharon persisted, and by waiting at the Continental counter until after it closed that Saturday night, and with the help of Continental staff she was able to get us on a flight that was scheduled to leave the next morning, the authorities having just lifted the foreign-flight moratorium.

Packing kept us up until all hours, naturally, and it was a bleary pair of travelers who joined the modest queue for check-in at an eerily quiet airport, one without crowds or lines of taxis or aircraft coming and going at a steady rate, but one with armed National Guardsmen conspicuously placed and a refreshingly enhanced degree of security in place; it was a pleasure to have one's carryon bag searched, and no inconvenience to be patted down afterwards. After a time spent in the departure lounge looking out at a nearly empty airport tarmac, our flight arrived and we boarded for the short ride to Bush Intercontinental in Houston, where more time was spent waiting for the next stage. There were a reasonable number of overseas passengers about, and the atmosphere was one of slight nervousness combined with a serious attempt to conduct business as usual, something difficult for the chefs at the various airport eating establishments, who were trying to make do without the use of knives and were made a trifle testy thereby.

Time passed, and we duly boarded our flight, stowed our dunnage and wedged ourselves into our little seats, thinking the while of the necessity of keeping the leg circulation going and hoping to be able to get some sleep. A luncheon of sorts was served, and it was rather an odd feeling to note that metal utensils were provided, serrate-edged knives and all; but the flight went without incident for its seven or eight hours, and some people grabbed some sleep, though not us, alas.

Gatwick was landed at without incident early on a Monday(!) afternoon, local time, the weather obligingly gray and damp, and after the usual wait to get through passport control and retrieve the mountain of luggage we engaged a taxi to take us into London and the Hotel Melia White House near Regent's Park, a very pleasant place indeed, with a nearly-comfy bed to which we repaired as soon as we unpacked and promptly went to sleep, waking up Tuesday morning and rousing ourselves to explore our surroundings somewhat. We'd gotten a pair of tube passes and so went in and out of the Great Portland Street Station many times during the next three days. That first day we took it pretty easy, visiting the Tate Gallery in the afternoon and supping at the Sherlock Holmes Restaurant, near Trafalgar Square; the latter we looked at after nightfall, under scattered showers. What Nelson would have made of Americans standing in the shadow of his statue and peering towards the Admiralty in the drizzle is hard to say.

he following day, after visiting the British Museum, by mistake, we rendezvoused with Greg at the British Library on Euston Street and were able to see - yes, and carefully touch - some items from the enormous Joseph Banks collection housed there. Astonishing stuff: unique works on botany and natural history, a first edition of Banks's journal from his voyaging with Captain Cook, and much else. The staff were most knowledgeable and helpful, the Library itself new and well-appointed, its public holdings nothing short of astonishing. We lingered in the Ritblat Gallery observing Treasures (Magna Carta, the Codex Sinaiticus, the Luttrell Psalster, the (first) First Folio, the manuscript of '"Messiah," Jane Austen's writing desk and "History of England," and so much more) and pronounced the morning most excellent. Greg went on to other appointments, and we wandered around Bloomsbury a bit before going to look at Westminster Abbey and its environs. By the time we arrived there the wardens were readying the place for services, and so after looking about for about an hour we decided to stay for Evensong, which on balance was probably superior to simply nosing about the Abbey. It was the first time I'd experienced a cathedral as a place of worship, and I must say that the C of E does it nicely, and the echoes of the choir ringing about those great high pillared spaces stay with me still.

Thursday, after absorbing yet another enormous buffet breakfast at the White House, we went down to the Victoria Embankment to see Sights Various prior to catching an excursion boat that would take us down the Thames to Greenwich, where all sorts of nautical things were housed, as well as as the Observatory, and Mr. Harrison's chronometers, first seen being tended to by Jeremy Irons in the fine television production of Dava Sobel's 'Longitude'. A partly cloudy morning had given way to a damp afternoon in the London fashion and so most of the photography was of an indifferent standard, though I find little fault in the image at right, with Big Ben dimly seen in the distance; the lovely lady in the green coat I find most photogenic indeed.

Our trip up the river was pleasant enough, our guide pointing out the sights on either hand, and the approach to Greenwich on the river provides an excellent view of that venerable London suburb, the dockside dominated by the Cutty Sark, her great masts and yards rising above her surroundings in the harmonious geometry of the Tall Ship. Nearby is a more modest vessel, Sir Francis Chichester's Gypsy Moth IV, veteran of a voyage of solo world circumnavigation.

Unfortunately, there was just no place to stand to catch the full sweep of the clipper ship unless one could step quickly across the river, but no matter.

reenwich is a city of some size, home to the Royal Naval College - its centerpiece Wren's Greenwich Naval Hospital - the National Maritme Museum, and, atop a hill surrounded by parkland, the Royal Observatory. We ascended the steep slope of the latter and after a few deep breaths were rewarded by the sight of the well-kept environs of the Observatory itself (last used as such in the 1970's), and, of course, the Prime Meridian, whereby one might set one's watch to Greenwich Mean Time if so desired.

I declined the opportunity. Needless to say, the tempation to leap back and forth across the Meridian, or being photographed standing astride it, is difficult to resist. The building behind the doofus in the beard is the Observatory itself, part of which houses a museum holding Harrision's chronometers; the first three were in working order, along with one of his earlier clocks constructed almost entirely of wooden parts, and I undertand that his H-4 timepiece was set going some months ago. Astonishing things, really, as are the splendid observation instruments in the Observatory's collection.

It was a great deal more fun coming down that hill, believe me, and it was a short walk across the park to the National Maritime Museum; of course we'd spent so much time at the Observatory that there was about half-an-hour to take in the entirety of the NMM, though we gave it a good effort. I was obliged to linger in the gallery housing a number of dockyard models of various vessels, many of which were of such detail that every part of their interiors was faithfully reproduced even though covered by various decks; recently, flexible little cameras of the medical sort have revealed some of these things. All too soon we were obliged to depart the Museum, and we walked back into town for a splendid Indian supper at the Maharajah Restaurant before taking a train to the Canary Wharf complex, where after much walking through an enormous mall we found a station where we could catch the Underground to - wait for it - Great Portland Street Station, and so back to the hotel, and packing, and bed.

Next morning we trundled our mountain of luggage downstairs and jammed it and ourselves into a taxi for the short trip to Euston Street Station, and a train to Portsmouth. Luckily there weren't that many passengers to get in the way of, and the trip down was without incident or a very great deal to marvel at. Upon arrival we dutifully shifted our stuff into another taxi for a very short trip from the station to our lodgings at the George, a venerable inn of good repute that is just a short walk from the gate of the Naval Yard and all the marvels within. The proprietors (and the lads at the bar) were kind enough to help us move all our dunnage up to our room on the top floor, whereupon we discovered that Greg Hill was occupying the room next to us, though with far less baggage. I would hazard a guess that most of the guests carried far less than we did, but of course we were prepared for the chilly British Isles, if only they would get chilly.