As everybody (probably) knows, some disturbed people rammed an SUV into the Glasgow airport on Saturday, the day my roommates and I visited Scotland. Obviously, since we were in Edinburgh, we were fine, nothing worse than some inconvenience waiting for the train.

These stories contain far too many references to the distasteful weather, and I probably sound more obsessive and fixated than usual, but rain has fallen every day I arrived in this sunshine-deprived land of incessant precipitation, and I’m beginning to crack. Some permanent images from my current life include:

Falling water from the sky, spraying, spitting, hissing. Prolonged vitriolic cries of disgruntled seagulls. Outrageously frigid wind in the summer. Settling cold infiltrating the tender marrow. A mere four channels of televised crap

Wednesday and Thursday slipped away swiftly at the Arbeia fort in South Shields, where the weather persisted in remarkably wretched fashion. Though I mentioned my earlier intentions to sojourn today (Thursday, my dad’s birthday) in Edinburgh, plans changed Wednesday morning when we learned that the much-anticipated pottery lecture would occur at the fort on Thursday night, and the Saturday planned outing (a trip to York) was something we needed to pay for on our own. I enjoy labor on the site more than my down time, so I decided to stay and toil on Thursday. Additionally, though I spent a lot of time in lectures here (and I’m not always a tremendous fan of the lecture), the pottery talk holds significance for my Archaeology Colloquium (it’s a class I plan to teach) next year, so it could not be missed. The problem: my purchase of train tickets to Edinburgh needed immediate changing, something impossible to accomplish in South Shields. The plan: Katherine and I would sneak out of work as early as possible and go to Newcastle to change the tickets.

Despite the dreadful forecasts, the weather did not approach yesterday’s appalling misery, and when half of us deconstructed a layer of clay that was bursting with finds, the previous day’s suffering seemed worthwhile. Katherine commenced the day of discoveries from the 2nd century with a tremendous Roman nail, something that is fairly common (I think all of us uncovered a few of them today), but this one enlivened the entire group. Fashioned from iron, Roman nails appear somewhat square shaped, and they are easily spotted because they are habitually encrusted with rusty-looking dirt. The metal alters the color of the soil, so rusty patches of earth often generate careful excavation.

Merciless cold, relentless drizzle, unremitting wind: welcome to your South Shields holiday! Assuming that the atrocious weather precluded any outside activity at the site was my primary mistake today. Since warmth is infrequent for me in England, I sported three layers of clothing (long-sleeved t-shirt, short sleeved t-shirt, zip up cardigan) under my waterproof jacket, but I left my hair loose and flowing. I spent the day attempting to heat my frozen ears with arctic fingers, removing unruly hair from my mouth and struggling to contain the contents of my runny nose with a pitiful pocketful of toilet paper.

No metaphor or cliché suitably describes the amount of rain that descended upon northern England today, but an illustration might. Conjure up a cobbled street in Newcastle with a slight dip in it, picture a puddle in there, envision two minutes of furious deluge, then notice that the puddle has increased exponentially and cars negotiating it creep through with water licking the tops of their wheels. Been there, saw that, ran through it, took a shower fully dressed.

Through a crack in the drapes, a lighthouse winks at me. It is 10.20 pm, but the sky refuses to darken. Similar shades of grey color the sea and the sky, as if neither relishes the inevitable fade to black.

After leaving the library this morning, I returned to the B&B only to discover that I had to leave the people in room 11 (where I had been staying) had arrived. My suitcase was already packed, so I lugged it down the stairs, turned in my key and took off for my home for the next two weeks, Parkside.

 I managed a few hours of fitful sleep on the ferry (which is reassuring as I'll be taking it again on Thursday night) , and my arrival was mostly uneventful... mostly. I was perplexed by the announcements declaring our arrival at the port of Souda, but I assumed that perhaps the port had a name.

In an internet cafe in Athens, up on the second floor (by myself, and not getting pickpocketed), I've got the Afghan Whigs on the iPod, and I couldn't be happier.