We arrived in the Yorkshires last night after a long but pleasant flight from Seattle, a subway ride to London’s King’s Station, a train ride from London to Northallerton, and a taxi ride from Robert to Foxglove Cottage. And the best part of it all was Robert himself.

I reached out to Robert’s Taxis while I was at King’s Station, knowing we’d arrive after dark. I try not to use Uber because of the CEO’s support for Trump. Buy local, instead. Turns out Robert and I had a lot in common. He grew up in Paisley, Scotland, which I wrote about in No Perfect Mothers and again in The Devil’s Pulpit. He was surprised that an American would be so familiar with the town he was born and raised in until he was 12, when his family moved to the Dales. Not only did we share a love of Scotland, Robert told me some of the surnames he was related to and without knowing my madien name, he named Spears as one of his family names. The spelling is different from mine but not from my ancestors. And seeing how I have an ancestor who was a ship merchant from Glasgow, Robert and I are sure we are related.

After dropping our bags and bidding goodbye to Robert, Tim and I headed down to the local pub for a bite to eat. We were walking in at the same time as another couple, who quickly invited us to join them for a visit. Sarah worked as an Au Pair in Michigan when she was 18 and loved it. She made plenty of good friends in America, including the niece of Morris Dees, one of the founders of the Southern Poverty Law Center. So we sat in the pub talking about the US and Mark Carney and all the ways people in the UK have such a disdain for the Orange Tosser. We will be getting together again soon.

Tim and I crashed when we got back to the cottage, which is cozy and perfect for the two of us. I slept great and was up at 7 when the horses, for which this area of the Yorkshires is known, went clopping by. I could have just pinched myself to see those horses and jockeys out the rain splattered window with the castle ruins as a backdrop to it all. Could this really be any more charming?

Yes!

After a breakfast of Yorkshire tea and a slice of an Italian Panatone for me, and properly poached eggs and coffee for Tim, we headed out to pick up some “messages” (groceries). As we poked around, I struck up a conversation with Martin, a local vet. The local pub does a monthly breakfast to honor veterans. “It’s because here in England, they don’t care for their vets the way they do in America,” Martin said. I corrected him on that, stressing that a lot of America’s honoring is more lip service than reality, given that a goodly numer of our homeless are vets just like here in the UK.

Then Martin chimed in on the Orange Tosser. “I liked some things about him at first,” he said. “I liked the way he spoke his mind, said what he was thinking.”

“Well,”I retored, “I don’t want my grands speaking their minds all the time. I don’t even want my kids speaking their minds all the time. I want people to hold their tongues if they can’t be kind.”

Martin laughed and said he agreed with that. He didn’t want his grands talking like the Orange Tosser either. In fact, Martin said, “Whatever goodwill Trump had is gone now after what he said about our soldiers. He’s finished here. Nobody in Britian likes him now. He’ll not be getting another invite by the King, no red carpet roll out after what he said.”

Martin, a former secret service fella with the Royal Army, once worked as a body guard for the Saudis in Washington, D.C., which he loved. D.C. I mean. He told me of his favorite haunts and how he lived for six months at the Highland Hotel in D.C.

Of course, where else would you put a fellow from the Yorkshires?

After Martin rejoined his fellow vets, we met another vet – Ian – who served with the Army Corps, the Merchant Marines and the Royal Air Force. He noted that he took at look at the Royal Navy, too, but loved the Air Force work the best.

Ian noticed the pin I was wearing: Dear World, we hate him, too. I ordered it from Bad Kittys on Etsy before leaving the US because I wanted the Brits we meet traveling to know where I stand on Trump. Ian said he was glad to see the pin and to know my position on him. Trump is not well regarded in England as Sarah, then Martin and Ian confirmed.

Ian’s wife Shelia said they were heading off to Tennant’s Auction House, the largest one outside of London, and invited us to come along. So we did. Hopped into Ian’s lovely red audi and went for a spin around the Dales. Unfortunately, the auction house is closed on weekends, so we spent time poking around instead. There was a postcard exhibit and a beadwork exhibit that was incredible. I picked up some things at the gift store where I had yet another conversation with two women, June and Jennifer.

Jennifer is from New York but is married to a Brit so she doesn’t live in the US any more. She had some thoughts about Trump, about Melania (she recommended the NYT review of the so-called Melania documentary, compared it to Zoolander) and high praise for Mark Carney, as did June. We chatted for half-an-hour about all the awfulness that is the Orange Tosser. One might safely assume that Trump is the most hated man in the world. I suppose that alone makes it clear that he isn’t the Anti-Christ, who is supposed to be deceitfully charming. Only the racist few find anything charming about him. That said, there is a consensual bewilderment among those we’ve met as to why more people, especially Republicans, don’t take a stand like Mark Carney and put Trump in his place – kicked to the curb.

All that to say, dear friends, the world is worried about us. Our beloved Brits are worried sick about what is to become of you and me under this madman’s rule.

I worry, too, which is why I’m in the UK now. I can look out the windows here and see the ruins of a castle that was once a center of power and know that Trump and Melania and Miller and Bannon and Rubio and Noem are all going to face the same fate soon. Their lives and reputations decaying and in ruins.

Yet the country will survive and the people will head to the local pubs and toast new friends and old, and tell the stories of the Orange Tosser getting tossed for good.

Stay the course. The Brits are pulling for us to overcome, the way they always did with the threats and rulings from all manner of bad kings.