Byron Nelson seems to be a good place to start on our adventure of moving to New Zealand–also called “En Zed.”
According to Dan (and ESPN), Byron Nelson (1912-2006) was a famous golfer–the Tiger Woods before Tiger Woods was Tiger Woods. I like his knickers and that he was called “Lord Byron Nelson.” Sounds fancy.
Of course, long before Byron Nelson the golfer was around, there were the two other lords, Byron and Nelson.
First, Lord Horatio Nelson (1758-1805) was a small, sickly, but nevertheless daring officer in the British Royal Navy. He is described as having “personal valor and firm grasp of tactics,” but alas, he was downsized by the Royal Navy. Perhaps one of the more colorful facts of his life and death is that when he died at war, he was chucked into a cask of brandy and his body was sent home lashed to the mainsail of the HMS Victory, although word of his demise was sent on the HMS Pickle, the more appropriately named vessel.
Then we progress to Lord George Byron (1788-1824), who appears to have been quite the dandy. He is regarded as “one of the greatest British poets”–although his morals were slightly lacking. Scandal was his middle name. I’ll leave it at that.
So where am I going with this saga? Today we signed a contract to buy a house in Greymouth, NZ. It is on the corner of Byron and Nelson. It’s quite an ordeal to buy a house from 9000 miles away. We did actually see this house (and many others) when we went to Greymouth last December, which helps immensely at this point. We should be moving in April (a couple of months away) but first:
- we need our work visas approved
- the Byron Nelson house must be inspected
- we need to do a lot of sorting and packing
- oh my…the list gets too long.
And this late Sunday evening, we let Lord Byron take over:
So We’ll Go No More a Roving
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.