As you drive north from Gloucestershire the valleys get deeper, the hills rise to almost mountains. Wales is what dreamers dream about. My earliest memories - fictionalized and romanticized - the life of a Welsh coal miner, a book by Llewellyn made into a movie. Long lines of sturdy men (and boys) heading to the pits singing lustily. Of course there is more to being Welsh than being able to sing. That movie remains with me through. Donald Crisp the patriarch of the Morgan family. It was pure bathos but beautifully done thanks to John Ford’s direction and stalwarts Maureen O’Hara and Walter Pidgeon. And the tragedies of the pits and the poverty of the company-owned row houses. .
Travelled through most of south Wales and never did see one colliery. We did drive by Swansea, the scene of the most recent tragedy – four miners drowned in a vertical mine. The hills around Swansea probably still contain vast amounts of coal, but there are now better and cleaner ways to generate power. There must be some nostalgic longing among the British people for the days when the natural presence of both iron and coal were the machine that drove the Industrial Revolution, a “revolution” that came first to the U.K, with factories and steam trains and shipping and made them the most successful industrialized country on earth. Nostalgia of course, because they are no longer that power. Only the memories (and some of the bravado) remain. Back to our voyage of discovery..
By the time we crossed the border at Monmouth the hills shone green and loomed higher. The valleys grew greener, deeper and more lush. And there were forests. Only one had a name that we could see: Bean. But unlike our roads that are often rimmed with trees with plenty of room on the shoulder of the road, there is no room here and the forest seems to stretch back deeply from the roadside, roadsides often made picturesque but daunting by the hedgerows where our shoulders would be. And that’s my poetry and illusion about the once-country of Wales, last home of the Britons forced back by hordes of Saxons, Angles, Danes, and Norsemen.
The language. “Sufferin” Succotash” spoke Mel Blanc, the voice of Daffy Duck. The cartoon character made the sound I hear in Welsh. The “double L” is pronounced “sshh” but seems to be formed between the tongue and the back teeth in a puddle of saliva. Today’s Wales pays tribute to the language and all the signs are in Welsh then English. There are ff’s, there are words without vowels. I am no linguist of course, but is the derivation Celtic? It reminded me of Basque, a language that was never written until the Basque nationalist scholars decided that it could be. The letters used approximate sounds unknown to English speakers. Similarly in Welsh there are back-tooth sounds, gutturals, and throat-clearing consonants that defy “spelling.” No word is spoken as it looks. Beyond this, and it is only speculation, I have no knowledge of the language. Was it strictly oral? Was it written in some ancient script? Don’t know. I DO know that “ll” is pronounced the way Daffy Duck would say it.
We had been starved for castles and Wales offered castles galore. We saw, with one exception, nothing but ruins. I’m a little vague on the history of the area. There were castles built by the English to defend Wales against the Normans. (But the “English, courtesy of William I were Norman.) There were Norman castles to defend Wales for the Normans. The two best we saw were Raglan, just inside the Welsh border, and Kidwelly, a Norman castle – one of a chain that guarded Norman possessions in southwest Wales. It fell several times during the 11th and 12th century to the Welsh and in 1159 was burnt by Lord Rhys. It went back and forth but was finally held by the English the least of them was a portion of a battered Norman castle all that was left after the Welsh hero Llewellyn got through with it. But don’t think that there were only English villains and Welsh heroes. The Welsh fought bitterly among themselves, just as the English did in the 17th century civil war. I’m not an authority on the somewhat Byzantine shape of politics, friends and enemies, invaders and residents of what is now the U.K. Remember, there was a time when a king without a throne named Alfred, hid in a swamp while the Danes hunted him – Alfred who would be the first king of what came close to a unified England. Hence – Alfred the Great. Don’t phone and ask me for more. I’m ion over my head already
It is clear that the winners were vindictive, the losers vanquished. There was no such thing as what we mistakenly call “chivalry.” Look how Henry VIII ravaged the monasteries.
Raglan represented, at least to Cromwell, the worst of the Royalists. It had a history. One owner, William Thomas, fought alongside Henry V at Agincourt. The next owner was the Earl of Pembroke. It was also the boyhood home of Henry Tudor who became Henry VII and was heir t0o the Lancastrian control of the throne.
During the Civil War it was garrisoned by the Royalists and subjected to a long siege accompanied by heavy artillery bombardment. Cromwell’s engineers finished the job, tearing the castle apart to the point where no one could live there, assuring that no upstart Royalist could shelter there and strive toward renewed power. The saddest of all is that for many years Raglan was a “quarry.” People were urged to carry off as much of its stone as they wanted. They did not finish the job. The ruins are spectacular. The architecture timeless. Sans roofs and some walls – it is magnificent.
There was still another ruin to be seen: the site used on the Antiques Road Show. What a disappointment. Nothing to rival either Raglan or Kidwell, and certainly nothing to compare with another “roadshow” taping site: Gloucester Cathedral. Then finally – a castle – standing and preserved: Tretower. It is really more of a manor house. There are no soaring towers. No moats. No massive gates. A two story manor house but of course, with Royalist sympathies. The York kings stayed there
Finally the rain was getting to us. Let’s find out about modern Wales. Let’s buckle in and head for Cardiff. I often wonder, as I see tour buses Toronto, how much they really see and how accurate the commentary is. I am always disappointed but I keep going back for more. Disappointed because the buses make only the designated stops while whizzing by other stuff you want to at least photograph. (I n Toronto I heard that at least one tour stops at the south side of Casa Loma and gives them a view but doesn’t go u-p into the castle lot for the complete view. Takes up too much time and what do tourists know anyway?)
In Bristol, after we finally trudged what seemed like miles from our hotel through chilling winds, we came to a tour bus in front of Cardiff Castle. (Most of the castle was built or rebuilt b y a wealthy Welsh philanthropist, the Marquis of something-or-other.
What I got from the commentary was the story of one of the U.K.’s most successful cities. The newest “capital” in Europe and the smallest. The fastest-growing – see the huge stadium and the most cleverly redeveloped – see the transformed waterfront. He talked about how Cardiff was once a huge shipping port courtesy exports of coal and steel, both of which have shriveled to nearly nothing. The city seems to bustle, and I could easily put up with the commercial hubris of the commentator. Sidebar: turns out he is a retired musician who played with the Welsh National Orchestra and has made many trips to Toronto, one of his favourite cities. He played at Roy Thompson Hall.
Bristol, like many “re-invented cities is bustling and hopeful. So is Bristol only more so.
One trip to see the incredibly restored transatlantic steamer “Great Britain.” But we’re heading back. More to come.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
LETTER #7: GREAT VIEWS, GREAT FOOD, RUTTY ROAD WILDERNESS.
Shirley does not react well (significant gasps and spasmodic drawing in of breath) to driving on tiny side roads that seem to threaten that any minute they will peter out and we will plunge over an unseen cliff and not be seen by the odd car that passes by, or we’d be staring at a field full of sheep gazing with that ovine puzzlement at an intruder into their domain. I wax poetic again. Carried away.
I’m not quite sure why it happened, but as we navigated from home to Cirencester, we did not travel the broad M4. Instead, our Tomtom was taking us on the “scenic” route. For a short time we’d travel a reasonable two lane road where we could see the slopes of the Cotswolds rolling around us. But most of the time we were consigned to one lane winding roads, roads that would descend steeply with an abrupt turn at the bottom and deteriorate into a pair of wheel tracks – well almost. It is a times like this that my navigator, holding the GPS is going on about how stupid it is and that at the next layby we should turn around and go back. To where? She wasn’t sure. But she was sure that we were lost and our sun-bleached bones (impossible unless the rain stopped) would be all that rescuers would find. I thought of others who had been led by their GPS to strange places. There was the tragic story a year or two ago about the couple who found themselves on a muddy, unused road where their car became stuck. One of them had to leave to look for help. One of them, I don’t remember which one – died. This is the stuff that urban legends are made of.
I am impatient with her and our voices start to rise. Then we break free of the wilderness and turn on to a more hospitable highway with the prefix “A” attached. We are saved.
The upside of cruising the Cotswold back roads is that you get a wonderful view of these lush, rolling hills. There are surprises. We reach the bottom of a hill on a tiny road and there before us is a mansion. I don’t just mean a big house – I mean A MANSION!
An observation in passing: the Cotswolds are a tourist magnet. I was standing in a tourist information booth in,I think, Chipping Campden. A very agitated Chinese man was having a long and difficult (due to language) conversation with the tourist information woman. It was about finding a room. The “i” sign is what you head for most of the time. They will find you a place to stay. On this occasion she told the man: “It’s Friday night. The weekend. Prices always go up in the C otswolds.” In fact, as I will describe later, much of the “charm” of these little towns and villages is that the High Street is lined with antique shops – a magnet for the tourists. I wondered what the local residents did. I saw no evidence in these places, or snch other for that matter, of the convenience of a Mall.
Arrival at Cirencester. Took a while finding out to9 to pronounce the name. The opening two syllables rhyme with “siren” and the remainder pronounced as it looks. There may have been more but it appeared that the only things worth stopping for was thr massive (and under renovation) Parish Church of St. John the Baptist. It’s old. The nave was begun in the 12th century, the tower in 1400, the Lady Chapel in 1240. Old and big but not memorable. By this time I am getting “Cathedraled out.” We moved on.
Up the route designated by the most incomplete guide I have ever read (see this – see that – but where?) We push on to Stow on The Wold. (never got to see thre Wold.) The guide, for once being helpful, points us to a B&B called “Limes,’ an exquisite six bedroom cottage set in a lush garden. It is owned by a young couple with two little girls, one barely a toddler. (Later they will confide to Shirley that they will soon sell and get lout from under the hectic life of raising a family and running a major B&B.)
A comment about food. We ask our hostess for directions to a decent restaurant. In the old town square - this used to be a big market city - we choose the dining room in The Old Stocks Hotel. It is far beyond “decent.” The procedure is unusual. We are greeted at the bar. We are offered a small table and something to drink while our table is being prepared. . They take your order and call you to your table when the meal is ready to be presented. It was one of those succulent surprises: As good as the best meal we have had since leaving New York almost four weeks ago. I have ordered a salmon filet, Shirley a chicken breast. The salmon arrives on a bed of fettuccini Alfredo laced with spinach right in in the sauce. It is perfect, The salmon flakes under the fork. It has a sweetish tang to it, perhaps a honey marinade. There is a jardinière of fresh vegetables served on the side. Shirley’s chicken is perfect. I tell the wait person that this is as good a meal as have had, not only in England but on the QM2, where the meals could be either dazzling or indifferent.
A note in passing. It took some getting used to that in most restaurants we visited you did not take a seat and wait for table service. (Available sometimes) You order at the bar, sometimes carrying your drinks back to the table and waiting until a server arrives with your dinner. As often as not, you return to the bar to pay the bill. In every restaurant where we used our VISA card, there was no place on the machine to add a tip. It has to be done with cash. In some places they accept credit cards but put a surcharge on your bill. (I’m sure VISA frowns on this kind of discrimination.)
Something is happening in the culinary world. I would doubt that a place like Thornbury, say twenty years ago, would have had a really good restaurant. As TV shows for “foodies” proliferate, as celebrity chefs become stars, and as the wine lists grow larger and more discriminating – the food gets better and better. England is no exception. In an earlier blog I mentioned fish and chips at Rick Stein’s in Falmouth. Only later did I realize that he has become a “brand” – perhaps like the over-exposed, over-valued Gordon Ramsay who has made a career out of being a celebrity. Stein may be the hottest chef on British TV shows
In Thornbury there is Ronnies, which was named the best new restaurant in the UK I wouldn’t go that far, but it was pretty good. Also in Thornbury a hotel restaurant called “Mezzes.” By the name you would presume Greek. It was a sort of hodge-podge of Mediterranean foods from shishkabob to spreads. I have never, ever had “hummous” that compares with “Mezzes.”.
We head north for Stow and enter the realm of the everything in the Cotswolds for tourism. We stop every time but continue to find more and more antique shops and places to buy local crafts and cunning little tea rooms.. We ;pass from ?? to ?? then we come to a sign that points to “The Roman Villa” at Chedworth. We sometimes forget that the Romans were masters, occupiers, and long time residents of England for about 400 years. This “villa” first discovered on the 19th century, has now become the site of continuing archeological investigation and re-creation. For a villa presumed to be occupied by two families, it was remarkably large and luxurious. Occupied for 200 years, it included such quintessential Roman luxuries as baths, hot ones and cold ones, radiant heated rooms, spacious kitchens and latrines. The Romans brought that culture of progress with them.
If you read Bernard Cornwell, best known for his “Sharp” series, but wonderful on medieval times in England, he writes that the far more primitive people of Britain who followed the Roman departure understood little about Roman technology. Where the Romans had heated stone floors in their homes, the British lived kin huts with dirt floors. In the Cornwell books there is always some reference to a Roman wall or road that had fallen into disuse and ultimate decay.
The Cotswolds were pretty enough, but after a while everything starts to look the same. We finished our excursion in a town called Broadway, stopped for lunch, and pushed on with our search for access to the M5 and return to Thornbury.
Luck was on ojur side. A sign pointed to Sudeley Castle. We took the turn and drove endlessly. Often there are no signs giving distance. It was father than we thought,. But would bring us near Cheltenham and access to M5.
Sudely was a treat. A monument to nearly a thousand years of English history. Henry’s last queen,. Katherine Parr is remembered there. The chapel’s stained glass windows show her and Henry and other dignitaries. I was a little startled that when we entered the chapel there was a reminder that a contribution would be welcome. After paying 12.40 pounds (about $18) just to wander the grounds, we were asked for more!
The castle was occupied by permanent residents so the interior was completely closed to visitors. We paid the price to see – and it was worth it – a classic garden with topiary that rivals anything I have ever seen, Not the gargoyle-like figures in some pasrks, but yew trees trimmed to dozens of enormous shapes lined the gardens. Sheep (the ubiquitous ones) grazed in the fields. Had we not seen the sign and continued to depend on our “Country Roads of England (a great disappointment) we would have missed it completely.
We have one more week. Having joined the National Trust we now have a comprehensive book showing the location of dozens of castles and palatial estates. We hope for Wales. And soon I will take you to one of the great surprises in the west country – the re-invented city of Bristol. Remarkable!
Correction: thanks to my friend and historian Helen, ”The Lion in Winter” – played by Peter O’Toole, was Henry II not as I wrote Henry I.
Shows what name-dropping can do to your ego.
I’m not quite sure why it happened, but as we navigated from home to Cirencester, we did not travel the broad M4. Instead, our Tomtom was taking us on the “scenic” route. For a short time we’d travel a reasonable two lane road where we could see the slopes of the Cotswolds rolling around us. But most of the time we were consigned to one lane winding roads, roads that would descend steeply with an abrupt turn at the bottom and deteriorate into a pair of wheel tracks – well almost. It is a times like this that my navigator, holding the GPS is going on about how stupid it is and that at the next layby we should turn around and go back. To where? She wasn’t sure. But she was sure that we were lost and our sun-bleached bones (impossible unless the rain stopped) would be all that rescuers would find. I thought of others who had been led by their GPS to strange places. There was the tragic story a year or two ago about the couple who found themselves on a muddy, unused road where their car became stuck. One of them had to leave to look for help. One of them, I don’t remember which one – died. This is the stuff that urban legends are made of.
I am impatient with her and our voices start to rise. Then we break free of the wilderness and turn on to a more hospitable highway with the prefix “A” attached. We are saved.
The upside of cruising the Cotswold back roads is that you get a wonderful view of these lush, rolling hills. There are surprises. We reach the bottom of a hill on a tiny road and there before us is a mansion. I don’t just mean a big house – I mean A MANSION!
An observation in passing: the Cotswolds are a tourist magnet. I was standing in a tourist information booth in,I think, Chipping Campden. A very agitated Chinese man was having a long and difficult (due to language) conversation with the tourist information woman. It was about finding a room. The “i” sign is what you head for most of the time. They will find you a place to stay. On this occasion she told the man: “It’s Friday night. The weekend. Prices always go up in the C otswolds.” In fact, as I will describe later, much of the “charm” of these little towns and villages is that the High Street is lined with antique shops – a magnet for the tourists. I wondered what the local residents did. I saw no evidence in these places, or snch other for that matter, of the convenience of a Mall.
Arrival at Cirencester. Took a while finding out to9 to pronounce the name. The opening two syllables rhyme with “siren” and the remainder pronounced as it looks. There may have been more but it appeared that the only things worth stopping for was thr massive (and under renovation) Parish Church of St. John the Baptist. It’s old. The nave was begun in the 12th century, the tower in 1400, the Lady Chapel in 1240. Old and big but not memorable. By this time I am getting “Cathedraled out.” We moved on.
Up the route designated by the most incomplete guide I have ever read (see this – see that – but where?) We push on to Stow on The Wold. (never got to see thre Wold.) The guide, for once being helpful, points us to a B&B called “Limes,’ an exquisite six bedroom cottage set in a lush garden. It is owned by a young couple with two little girls, one barely a toddler. (Later they will confide to Shirley that they will soon sell and get lout from under the hectic life of raising a family and running a major B&B.)
A comment about food. We ask our hostess for directions to a decent restaurant. In the old town square - this used to be a big market city - we choose the dining room in The Old Stocks Hotel. It is far beyond “decent.” The procedure is unusual. We are greeted at the bar. We are offered a small table and something to drink while our table is being prepared. . They take your order and call you to your table when the meal is ready to be presented. It was one of those succulent surprises: As good as the best meal we have had since leaving New York almost four weeks ago. I have ordered a salmon filet, Shirley a chicken breast. The salmon arrives on a bed of fettuccini Alfredo laced with spinach right in in the sauce. It is perfect, The salmon flakes under the fork. It has a sweetish tang to it, perhaps a honey marinade. There is a jardinière of fresh vegetables served on the side. Shirley’s chicken is perfect. I tell the wait person that this is as good a meal as have had, not only in England but on the QM2, where the meals could be either dazzling or indifferent.
A note in passing. It took some getting used to that in most restaurants we visited you did not take a seat and wait for table service. (Available sometimes) You order at the bar, sometimes carrying your drinks back to the table and waiting until a server arrives with your dinner. As often as not, you return to the bar to pay the bill. In every restaurant where we used our VISA card, there was no place on the machine to add a tip. It has to be done with cash. In some places they accept credit cards but put a surcharge on your bill. (I’m sure VISA frowns on this kind of discrimination.)
Something is happening in the culinary world. I would doubt that a place like Thornbury, say twenty years ago, would have had a really good restaurant. As TV shows for “foodies” proliferate, as celebrity chefs become stars, and as the wine lists grow larger and more discriminating – the food gets better and better. England is no exception. In an earlier blog I mentioned fish and chips at Rick Stein’s in Falmouth. Only later did I realize that he has become a “brand” – perhaps like the over-exposed, over-valued Gordon Ramsay who has made a career out of being a celebrity. Stein may be the hottest chef on British TV shows
In Thornbury there is Ronnies, which was named the best new restaurant in the UK I wouldn’t go that far, but it was pretty good. Also in Thornbury a hotel restaurant called “Mezzes.” By the name you would presume Greek. It was a sort of hodge-podge of Mediterranean foods from shishkabob to spreads. I have never, ever had “hummous” that compares with “Mezzes.”.
We head north for Stow and enter the realm of the everything in the Cotswolds for tourism. We stop every time but continue to find more and more antique shops and places to buy local crafts and cunning little tea rooms.. We ;pass from ?? to ?? then we come to a sign that points to “The Roman Villa” at Chedworth. We sometimes forget that the Romans were masters, occupiers, and long time residents of England for about 400 years. This “villa” first discovered on the 19th century, has now become the site of continuing archeological investigation and re-creation. For a villa presumed to be occupied by two families, it was remarkably large and luxurious. Occupied for 200 years, it included such quintessential Roman luxuries as baths, hot ones and cold ones, radiant heated rooms, spacious kitchens and latrines. The Romans brought that culture of progress with them.
If you read Bernard Cornwell, best known for his “Sharp” series, but wonderful on medieval times in England, he writes that the far more primitive people of Britain who followed the Roman departure understood little about Roman technology. Where the Romans had heated stone floors in their homes, the British lived kin huts with dirt floors. In the Cornwell books there is always some reference to a Roman wall or road that had fallen into disuse and ultimate decay.
The Cotswolds were pretty enough, but after a while everything starts to look the same. We finished our excursion in a town called Broadway, stopped for lunch, and pushed on with our search for access to the M5 and return to Thornbury.
Luck was on ojur side. A sign pointed to Sudeley Castle. We took the turn and drove endlessly. Often there are no signs giving distance. It was father than we thought,. But would bring us near Cheltenham and access to M5.
Sudely was a treat. A monument to nearly a thousand years of English history. Henry’s last queen,. Katherine Parr is remembered there. The chapel’s stained glass windows show her and Henry and other dignitaries. I was a little startled that when we entered the chapel there was a reminder that a contribution would be welcome. After paying 12.40 pounds (about $18) just to wander the grounds, we were asked for more!
The castle was occupied by permanent residents so the interior was completely closed to visitors. We paid the price to see – and it was worth it – a classic garden with topiary that rivals anything I have ever seen, Not the gargoyle-like figures in some pasrks, but yew trees trimmed to dozens of enormous shapes lined the gardens. Sheep (the ubiquitous ones) grazed in the fields. Had we not seen the sign and continued to depend on our “Country Roads of England (a great disappointment) we would have missed it completely.
We have one more week. Having joined the National Trust we now have a comprehensive book showing the location of dozens of castles and palatial estates. We hope for Wales. And soon I will take you to one of the great surprises in the west country – the re-invented city of Bristol. Remarkable!
Correction: thanks to my friend and historian Helen, ”The Lion in Winter” – played by Peter O’Toole, was Henry II not as I wrote Henry I.
Shows what name-dropping can do to your ego.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
LETTER 6 - RAIN, WIND, HOPE
NOTE: Response to my recent blogs QM2 and England, have been almost nil. Is it because your server is posting the blog as "junk? Is it because somehow nothing has been going through? Is it because you have no response? If all I wanted was to keep a record for my own use, I would not send out a blog. Please let me know what I should do. Meanwhile - here, for those who read it, another entry.
Typical late summer in South Gloucestershire, wind, rain, chance of sunshine. This time it has been aggravated by the tail end of the last Atlantic hurricane which lashed (that’s journalese cliché) the British Isles, especially Ireland and Scotland. Trees fell. One man was killed. The Brits carried on. We stayed in and hoped for change. Sunday was ferocious. Trees bending, rain pelting, forecast: more of the same. By Tuesday it had calmed to a light gale so we decided to make one short excursion in the afternoon.
Gloucester Cathedral is one of England’s most storied churches. Built in the 11th century it is described as combining many Gothic styles. To me is has that architecturally delightful look – the sturdy towers soaring into the sky ands topped with (I forget the architectural term) spindly Gothic towers. Inside it is massive with enormous heavy pillars supported the classic vaulted (There seems to be no “style” to them i.e. Doric, Ionian etc.)
Being an unbeliever does not prevent me from being awestruck by the structure. There is a spiritual quality about it (I usually detest “spiritual” wanderings) perhaps because it is so awesomely huge, possible because it contains and reflects a thousand years of history.
Henry I (see Peter O’Toole in Lion in Winter) haunts the place. Rumours abound that somehow Henry use this place to hide his older brother Robert, whose right to succeed their father William, was usurped by Henry. There are, as is characteristic in these cathedrals, many chapels and tombs. I was attracted to the spot that alleges it is the burying; place of Edward II. He was known by most as the great lawmakers. He is known by some as the king who expelled the Jews. They were invited back by Oliver Cromwell.
There is always speculation about how Shakespeare wrote the Merchant of Venice. Suspicion is that there must have been Jews around – even though he patterned Shylock after the worst legendary evil qualities of the Jews. (Strange of course that he redeemed them in the famous “Do I not…” speech. That’s another story.
Gloucester also has a waterfront and was once a bustling port. (I don’t know how it connects to the sea – directly, by estuary, or by river. But there are dozens of restored warehouses, a large marina, and promenade. There is a tribute to “The Fighting Glosters” (sic) commemorating their part in the Korean War.
The next day dawns bright, sunny, blue skies. Time for another day trip, the one I have most looked forward to: a day in Bath, on of the country’s gems and home of the most faithfully reproduced Roman Baths. I hoped also to get a better look at the famous Georgian architecture – the beautiful uniform Georgian town houses. (The real thing, as op posed to the “faux Georgian” that abounds in Toronto where everyone who lives there is pretending to come from old family.) I exaggerate.
First mistake. I miss another cutoff going on a roundabout. We are headed away from Bath on the M4. The M4 is one of those severely limited access highways. You can go 15 or 20 miles before you can turn around. I had planned to stop at a “Park and Ride”
and take a bus into the city centre. My highway mistake was remedied, courtesy of Tomtom by sending me, not back to M4 but to an “A” carriageway, sometimes not divided but two lanes. As much as I had to concentrate on driving, I could enjoy the quilt-like fields that spread out below the highway – farms with fields of green and gold and hedgerows looking neat and nearly perfect.
As I suspected, we were headed straight into Bath without a Park and Ride anywhere in sight. Miraculously found a large parking garage just a few steps away from the city centre. Stopped for a classic English lunch at the Hong Kong Noodle Restaurant. Astonishingly good but too challenging to finish. Started walking along the suggested two hour walking tour which would take us toe both the Abbey and the Roman Baths. Tiring much too easily, we took a “hop on hop off” tour bus. We “hopped off” at the Baths.
The fun began. I detest having to fight crowds just to get close enough to look. The slavering crowds at the Baths reminded my of a day spent dodging tour bus tourists at the Alhambra and trying to get close enough through ravening crowds at the Louvre fighting for enough space to see the Mona Lisa. The Roman Baths are right up there.
The restoration is perfect. Not only is the enormous spring fed pool surrounded by people, but so are all the other fascinating exhibits. There are all kinds of restored Roman artifacts. The frustration is that you can’t ever get a photo shot that doesn’t have the heads and other body parts of other tourists straining for a look. I am not so unrealistic to suppose that this is not part of tourism. I only wonder why the management does not meter the admissions so that everyone can get a decent view. They don’t. The groups pour in one entrance. The individuals in another. It is bedlam. And it is tiring. Having waited all this time to see what restoration has brought (I visited Bath in 1975 when restoration was in progress but there was nothing much to see) we decide on one stop at the adjacent Abbey.
It is worth a look. It is perhaps just another Gothic pile, or perhaps I’m becoming jaded. Perhaps I was exhausted. Perhaps we should get in the car and find our way home to Thornbury. It takes about 45 minutes just to find our way out of Bath. Worth it? Better to fight the crowds and gripe than to stay home and wonder.
Tomorrow we head for the thatched roof cottages of the Cotswolds.
Typical late summer in South Gloucestershire, wind, rain, chance of sunshine. This time it has been aggravated by the tail end of the last Atlantic hurricane which lashed (that’s journalese cliché) the British Isles, especially Ireland and Scotland. Trees fell. One man was killed. The Brits carried on. We stayed in and hoped for change. Sunday was ferocious. Trees bending, rain pelting, forecast: more of the same. By Tuesday it had calmed to a light gale so we decided to make one short excursion in the afternoon.
Gloucester Cathedral is one of England’s most storied churches. Built in the 11th century it is described as combining many Gothic styles. To me is has that architecturally delightful look – the sturdy towers soaring into the sky ands topped with (I forget the architectural term) spindly Gothic towers. Inside it is massive with enormous heavy pillars supported the classic vaulted (There seems to be no “style” to them i.e. Doric, Ionian etc.)
Being an unbeliever does not prevent me from being awestruck by the structure. There is a spiritual quality about it (I usually detest “spiritual” wanderings) perhaps because it is so awesomely huge, possible because it contains and reflects a thousand years of history.
Henry I (see Peter O’Toole in Lion in Winter) haunts the place. Rumours abound that somehow Henry use this place to hide his older brother Robert, whose right to succeed their father William, was usurped by Henry. There are, as is characteristic in these cathedrals, many chapels and tombs. I was attracted to the spot that alleges it is the burying; place of Edward II. He was known by most as the great lawmakers. He is known by some as the king who expelled the Jews. They were invited back by Oliver Cromwell.
There is always speculation about how Shakespeare wrote the Merchant of Venice. Suspicion is that there must have been Jews around – even though he patterned Shylock after the worst legendary evil qualities of the Jews. (Strange of course that he redeemed them in the famous “Do I not…” speech. That’s another story.
Gloucester also has a waterfront and was once a bustling port. (I don’t know how it connects to the sea – directly, by estuary, or by river. But there are dozens of restored warehouses, a large marina, and promenade. There is a tribute to “The Fighting Glosters” (sic) commemorating their part in the Korean War.
The next day dawns bright, sunny, blue skies. Time for another day trip, the one I have most looked forward to: a day in Bath, on of the country’s gems and home of the most faithfully reproduced Roman Baths. I hoped also to get a better look at the famous Georgian architecture – the beautiful uniform Georgian town houses. (The real thing, as op posed to the “faux Georgian” that abounds in Toronto where everyone who lives there is pretending to come from old family.) I exaggerate.
First mistake. I miss another cutoff going on a roundabout. We are headed away from Bath on the M4. The M4 is one of those severely limited access highways. You can go 15 or 20 miles before you can turn around. I had planned to stop at a “Park and Ride”
and take a bus into the city centre. My highway mistake was remedied, courtesy of Tomtom by sending me, not back to M4 but to an “A” carriageway, sometimes not divided but two lanes. As much as I had to concentrate on driving, I could enjoy the quilt-like fields that spread out below the highway – farms with fields of green and gold and hedgerows looking neat and nearly perfect.
As I suspected, we were headed straight into Bath without a Park and Ride anywhere in sight. Miraculously found a large parking garage just a few steps away from the city centre. Stopped for a classic English lunch at the Hong Kong Noodle Restaurant. Astonishingly good but too challenging to finish. Started walking along the suggested two hour walking tour which would take us toe both the Abbey and the Roman Baths. Tiring much too easily, we took a “hop on hop off” tour bus. We “hopped off” at the Baths.
The fun began. I detest having to fight crowds just to get close enough to look. The slavering crowds at the Baths reminded my of a day spent dodging tour bus tourists at the Alhambra and trying to get close enough through ravening crowds at the Louvre fighting for enough space to see the Mona Lisa. The Roman Baths are right up there.
The restoration is perfect. Not only is the enormous spring fed pool surrounded by people, but so are all the other fascinating exhibits. There are all kinds of restored Roman artifacts. The frustration is that you can’t ever get a photo shot that doesn’t have the heads and other body parts of other tourists straining for a look. I am not so unrealistic to suppose that this is not part of tourism. I only wonder why the management does not meter the admissions so that everyone can get a decent view. They don’t. The groups pour in one entrance. The individuals in another. It is bedlam. And it is tiring. Having waited all this time to see what restoration has brought (I visited Bath in 1975 when restoration was in progress but there was nothing much to see) we decide on one stop at the adjacent Abbey.
It is worth a look. It is perhaps just another Gothic pile, or perhaps I’m becoming jaded. Perhaps I was exhausted. Perhaps we should get in the car and find our way home to Thornbury. It takes about 45 minutes just to find our way out of Bath. Worth it? Better to fight the crowds and gripe than to stay home and wonder.
Tomorrow we head for the thatched roof cottages of the Cotswolds.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
LETTER 5 CORNWALL - CROWDS - FOG - EDEN.
The road is barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Heading toward me is a leviathan – a huge tractor. The machine has an enormous motor-driven trimming mechanism and he is trimming the top of his more than ten-foot-high hedgerow. He moves relentlessly toward me. I have no alternative but to back up until I find a place where the road widens. After several muddy impacts with the hedgerow, I make it. He lumbers on, turns in the roadway where I have waited, and waves acknowledgement. What choice did I have! We are lost somewhere on the back roads still looking for signage to lead us to the King Henry ferry. It was late afternoon of our third day.
Day one. Thursday, Finally we are in St. Ives. Nothing like what I expected. It hangs from steep hills the way Nice hangs from the slopes of the Alpes Mediterranee. Our Cornwall discovery drive will begin. But first….
It is spitting rain, a fine mist that comes and goes. I decided that we should use a “wasted” rain day to begin our next “excursion:” Cornwall starting at St. Ives. Long tedious drive made worse by the Tomtom GPS – made to drive you mad. The voice finally started working but not well. Following the explicit instructions we headed west. We were told to get on M5, then told to exit. No sooner had we exited than we were told again to head for M5. Maybe it was my fault – some costly error in the maze of directions on a roundabout. At one point I drove an extra 30 miles, only because we were sent (for the last time) to M5 – sent in the wrong direction and having to drive 15 miles before we could turn around and resume. If the GPS had belonged to me and not to our exchanger, who is now happily n Toronto using my Garmin GPS, I would have tossed it out of the car window accompanied by vile and foul imprecations.
A note in passing. I have never been so shouted at or so honked at angrily, than on this trip. I found myself wondering: do people in Toronto honk impatiently at anyone who seems either to be confused, disoriented, or simply slowing down to read the signs? Perhaps we do. I am impatient when someone seems to be driving slowly as if looking for a place to park. I identify them as visitors and cut them some slack. Here I have not been given that kind of latitude. If I dare slow down on a roundabout so that I can easily see which of the many directions I should take, there is angry horn-honking. Even worse, when I am a little confused and have to pull over to check things out, the anger behind me exploded – especially if I have made a sudden turn off the roadway. One man rolled down his window and let fly with expletive-loaded scolding. My response was that while I may have turned in without notice, he, as the following car, has the responsibility to stay clear or be able to stop. Maybe not in England. I am thinking of printing a sign for the back window “Tourist – please be kind.”
Returning to the tried and true we opened a map, took the correct route from Exeter, arriving tired in St. Ives several hours later. The next hour was spent fruitlessly looking for accommodation. None available. I had thought that the “season” was over when the kids went back to school. Not in St. Ives. They have a huge music festival starting in a couple of days. After an hour found a room in the Badger Inn. Room tiny. Kleenex unavailable. Bathroom exhaust fan continued to run annoyingly loudly for several minutes after the light was turned off. On the plus side the food was surprisingly good, and there were sweeties topped with clotted cream. (Later in the trip I would “get into it” with a woman in Cornwall who adamantly told me that the clotted cream in Cornwall was the best, in spite of Devon having the reputation for it.) I was a little surprised. I thought “cream.” Whitish? Not so. Looks more like butter..
Today we try – with some success this time – to find a tourist information booth so we can pick up a map and go discovering St. Ives famous galleries, including a branch of the Tate. By 10 am it”s getting crowded. No parking anywhere on the street. The parking lots are as high as you can get in St. Ives. Walking into town is easy – all downhill. Getting back will be the problem. (Turns out we found the bus that goes there.)
The Tate is a masterpiece but we chose, unwisely I think, to take a guided tour. The young man , artist in residence for nearly 20 years talked and talked and talked. We saw most of what was on one floor – exciting work by Gabo, and a fun piece of hundreds of white balloons riding on a curtain of air. But by this time my usual gallery “fatigue” had set in. We established ourselves at a table in a small restaurant overlooking the ocean and a huge sandy beach and dozens of surfers. An exquisite vista. We were simply played out. The Barbara Hepworth Museum would have to wait, perhaps forever.
Observations. Too many people visiting a strange place get into a taxi and let the cab driver tell them everything that is right and wrong with the people, the politiucians and liofe itself.. I find that deplorable. But what about a bus driver? Sitting on the bus at the seaside esplanade he announced:. “St. Ives” isn’t what it used to be, The best properties are being picked u-p by rich people from London. Everything has become so commercial. Right here (pointing to the land overlooking the sea) used to be Council Houses. (Subsidized housing so well known in Britain.) Now it’s all luxury buildings that only the rich can afford.”
I thought suddenly of the Ford brothers and their plan for Toronto’s Portlands. They seem taken not by how the lands can be made a part of the dynamic of good living in our city and a magnet for visitors. Instead they see it as a chance to exploit property values: a big shopping mall to be built by a world-famous Australian firm known for the blandness and detachment from the outside world, a ferris wheel, and more and more condos. Nothing wrong with that if all you want is to maximize profit, which seems to have happened here in St. Ives. The human factor, alas, seems to have fallen into a distant second place.
Leaving the seaside we ventured along a street, hoping to see some of what makes St. Ives famous. Yes, there were a few galleries, but nothing in them that would alarm a middle-class tourist. There were snack shops. Every other shop it seemed, was selling fudge. Of course, it was, according to the signage – unique – and very Cornish. To me it was more of the same-old-same-old. Either we couldn’t find it or the vaunted St. Ives chic is not there.
We awaken on day three to fog. Our waitress at breakfast says that Cornwall is “socked in.” It was not a pea-souper, where you could barely see your hand in front of your face. But it was unpleasant. Visibility on the road was perhaps 50 metres. Everyone else drove fast. I crept. Impatient drivers would swerve out into the fog and tear by us.
Because it was “there” and on the way – we drove through Penzance. No pirates. Fog, palm trees, guest houses, B&Bs, and hotels A boat basin with all the boats high and dry. Low tide.
The real disappointment was that we could not see any of the seaside sights. St. Michael’s Mount has a 12th century castle, now a private home, that can be walked to at low tide and boated to when the tide was in. We pulled into the parking lot. There were tour coaches parked. Fog or no fog it was on their schedule. All I could see was a stretch of tidal flat disappearing into the fog. I am guessing that some of the more intrepid took off shoes and socks and walked across the mud to the castle. Most seemed to be standing around and staring.
We ;passed through the pretty village of Marazion and headed once more into the fog. Of course it is complicated by twist and turn, impatient drivers, and widths that terrify me when another car approaches. I have still not quite grasped the “feel” of the car and a sense of how close I am to the hedgerow on one side and the oncoming car on the other. There is a lot of breath-holding. And of course there are impatient drivers behind me. From time to time, if I spot a “layover” I will pull in and let the impatient roar on ahead.
We stumble on Trelisick Grdens. (It was once again, not in the guide book.) We decided that it wouold b e cheaper to join the National Trust and get free parking and free admission to all their listed properties. Trelissick was one of them It actually turned out to be a good deal. For the price – something over 30 pounds, we got a ten pound voucher, our parking fee of 3.50 was refunded and we got to walk through exquisite gardens covering many acres of foliage, tries, and lawns. (English lawns are evergreen – the upside of the continuing rain.) On the way out we used our voucher for what the menu calls “cream tea.” It is more. A large pot of tea with hot water to add, two crumbly scones, a little pot of clotted cream and a jar of jam. For the two of us, under 10 pounds! It would, we discover, take the place of dinner at our next stop.
Before we stop, another castle visit, the one with the hair-raising confrontation with the hedgerow-trimming juggernaut. Turning right as we leave the garden, it is a short drive to the road leading to King Henry’s Ferry. I am assured that it is a better way to go than the land route which is another 20 miles through Truro. They were wrong! The ferry crosses a “river” which I think is a port estuary. Two large ships are anchored, waiting, I presume for docking instructions. The ferry takes us across but then there is a 6 mile twisting road drive to the fortress. We almost don’t stop. We pass the fortress without seeing a place to park. We continue on down a hill into the town. People are walking up the hill, a long dreary trudge to the castle, not made any more pleasant by the light misty rain. Shirley informs me that she is not walking. I go back to in what I think will be a fruitless search for a place to park. Eureka. A small sign points to the castle parking lot.
It is a masterpiece. Built as part of a chain of forts by Henry V!!! in around 1550 is is marvelously preserved. We enter and congratulate ourselves for having joined Nationsl Trust. Turns out this ;place is run by the English Heritage society or something. We pay. It’s worth it. Heavy stone blocks that, according to the gatekeeper, are the original with very little renovation or repair required. The rooms are stark. The walls thick. Cannons point out to see, presumably in the direction of hostile French or Spanish forces.
Strange, you tend to think of Henry as the gay divorcer, forgetting that as king, however venal and savage the kings of his day all were, he did protect England. To be cynical about it – not for his people but for himself - his own privately held fief.
The trip back, looking for the ferry was highlighted by the encounter with the hedge trimmer and occasionally, with cars tearing in the opposite direction totally confident that there will be no collision. After many false starts and bad turns we spot the ferry and make our way back to the road.
We arrive in Falmouth, once one of Britain’s principal ports and embarkation port for the Shackleton Antarctic expedition. The town is teeming with tourists. I observe that most of the tourists who arrive by car are Brits. The ones arriving by tour coach are Europeans. Falmouth is not listed as a “must see “in “Back Roads of Great Britain.” Surprising. The Marine Museum is a wonderful compendium of the sea and of explorations, with the accent on Antarctic exploration. The complex of buildings which include the museum, are wonderfully designed. The facing of the buildings is all weathered wood. The biggest surprise was Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips. The word must have gotten out. The place was pretty full, The food and th4e service were perfect. There were almost to many fish and chip choices – from battered to grilled to fried. We chose to split (old folks split portions) an order of battered sole. Perfect. Chips done the way they should be – cooked through then fried for crispness. A little light for my taste, but we didn’t leave a single chip. They had ginger beer. Not just any ginger beer. There were choice. I picked “hot.” It had an extra tangy kick. To finish we shared a treacle tart with clotted cream. On the way out I noticed a large bookshelf with travel books and food books all written by Rick Stein. Where have I been all this time?
From Falmouth our next stop would be the famous “Eden Project.” But first, a stop for the night. We find a B&B on the main road and bedded down without dinner. The cream tea snack was enough. Observation: another Englishman, our host, gives us all the inside stuff on what’s wrong with England. (He reminded me in his scorn for government of the Viet Nam vet we met on the QM2.) He had been a farmer. His first target was the control of food prices and marketing by the supermarket chains. He was angry that marketing boards disappeared with the joining the EU. Then he told me how brainless politicians were. Then he blamed unions. He didn’t seem to know where to focus his anger. He seems also to believe that Thatcher was good for England, just as so many Americans, out of touch with the facts, believe Reagan was good for America.
Final stop. Maybe the best of all: The Eden Project. The entire complex was built by private charities. They found a worked-out clay quarry, dug a little deeper, and created a masterpiece of exotic space covered by enormous geodesic domes, which they call “biomes.”. \
You reached the “biomes” walking along winding paths with lavish plant and horticultural displays. Palm trees, dahlia bushes, plants I had never heard of. Each carried the message of conservation and the nurturing of the world we live in. Eden Project is an evangelist for the environment, for renewable energy, for natural foodstuffs.
Each biome led seamlessly to the next. We started at the Mediterranean. It was a massive collection of plan t life from temperate climates – everything from Italy to the American south-west, from South Africa to Saharan Africa. Paths twisted and turned. Hundreds of plants and trees were marked. Flowers we all coupled with descriptions of where they came from. The Tropical rain forest was as you would expect – jungle and forest from Africa. Asia, Indonesia, Australia. The wood used was bamboo. The arguments made were for sustainable resources. It would gladden the heart of every devout tree-hugger.
I confess. I find many of these people tiresome. I am an environmentalist but not a zealot. I do my part by separating garbage, by using public transit, and when highway driving maintaining a fuel saving, pollution saving speed, and we buy our own supermarket shopping bags I want us to learn bout biofuels and biomass power generation. I do not march in demonstrations against the killing of baby harp seals.
What was absolutely overwhelming was not just the message of living without the environmental chaos, it was the massive enterprise of conceiving and building the project. One of the ironies of course it that enorous fuel-burning trucks and machinery were needed,
There are still people who want to do a project dedicated to the environment by using only primitive tools and lots of willing manpower. You couldn’t have built Eden Project with good intentions. Some small wrinkles like a little mock train station where we took the land train back up the hills to the welcome office. It was made entirely from scraps of wood, old window sashes, doors, and windblown lumber. Cute.
The drive back was clear but horrible black clouds darkened the horizon. We managed to skirt most of the rain. Arrived “home” exhausted. Tomorrow, a day of rest.
Day one. Thursday, Finally we are in St. Ives. Nothing like what I expected. It hangs from steep hills the way Nice hangs from the slopes of the Alpes Mediterranee. Our Cornwall discovery drive will begin. But first….
It is spitting rain, a fine mist that comes and goes. I decided that we should use a “wasted” rain day to begin our next “excursion:” Cornwall starting at St. Ives. Long tedious drive made worse by the Tomtom GPS – made to drive you mad. The voice finally started working but not well. Following the explicit instructions we headed west. We were told to get on M5, then told to exit. No sooner had we exited than we were told again to head for M5. Maybe it was my fault – some costly error in the maze of directions on a roundabout. At one point I drove an extra 30 miles, only because we were sent (for the last time) to M5 – sent in the wrong direction and having to drive 15 miles before we could turn around and resume. If the GPS had belonged to me and not to our exchanger, who is now happily n Toronto using my Garmin GPS, I would have tossed it out of the car window accompanied by vile and foul imprecations.
A note in passing. I have never been so shouted at or so honked at angrily, than on this trip. I found myself wondering: do people in Toronto honk impatiently at anyone who seems either to be confused, disoriented, or simply slowing down to read the signs? Perhaps we do. I am impatient when someone seems to be driving slowly as if looking for a place to park. I identify them as visitors and cut them some slack. Here I have not been given that kind of latitude. If I dare slow down on a roundabout so that I can easily see which of the many directions I should take, there is angry horn-honking. Even worse, when I am a little confused and have to pull over to check things out, the anger behind me exploded – especially if I have made a sudden turn off the roadway. One man rolled down his window and let fly with expletive-loaded scolding. My response was that while I may have turned in without notice, he, as the following car, has the responsibility to stay clear or be able to stop. Maybe not in England. I am thinking of printing a sign for the back window “Tourist – please be kind.”
Returning to the tried and true we opened a map, took the correct route from Exeter, arriving tired in St. Ives several hours later. The next hour was spent fruitlessly looking for accommodation. None available. I had thought that the “season” was over when the kids went back to school. Not in St. Ives. They have a huge music festival starting in a couple of days. After an hour found a room in the Badger Inn. Room tiny. Kleenex unavailable. Bathroom exhaust fan continued to run annoyingly loudly for several minutes after the light was turned off. On the plus side the food was surprisingly good, and there were sweeties topped with clotted cream. (Later in the trip I would “get into it” with a woman in Cornwall who adamantly told me that the clotted cream in Cornwall was the best, in spite of Devon having the reputation for it.) I was a little surprised. I thought “cream.” Whitish? Not so. Looks more like butter..
Today we try – with some success this time – to find a tourist information booth so we can pick up a map and go discovering St. Ives famous galleries, including a branch of the Tate. By 10 am it”s getting crowded. No parking anywhere on the street. The parking lots are as high as you can get in St. Ives. Walking into town is easy – all downhill. Getting back will be the problem. (Turns out we found the bus that goes there.)
The Tate is a masterpiece but we chose, unwisely I think, to take a guided tour. The young man , artist in residence for nearly 20 years talked and talked and talked. We saw most of what was on one floor – exciting work by Gabo, and a fun piece of hundreds of white balloons riding on a curtain of air. But by this time my usual gallery “fatigue” had set in. We established ourselves at a table in a small restaurant overlooking the ocean and a huge sandy beach and dozens of surfers. An exquisite vista. We were simply played out. The Barbara Hepworth Museum would have to wait, perhaps forever.
Observations. Too many people visiting a strange place get into a taxi and let the cab driver tell them everything that is right and wrong with the people, the politiucians and liofe itself.. I find that deplorable. But what about a bus driver? Sitting on the bus at the seaside esplanade he announced:. “St. Ives” isn’t what it used to be, The best properties are being picked u-p by rich people from London. Everything has become so commercial. Right here (pointing to the land overlooking the sea) used to be Council Houses. (Subsidized housing so well known in Britain.) Now it’s all luxury buildings that only the rich can afford.”
I thought suddenly of the Ford brothers and their plan for Toronto’s Portlands. They seem taken not by how the lands can be made a part of the dynamic of good living in our city and a magnet for visitors. Instead they see it as a chance to exploit property values: a big shopping mall to be built by a world-famous Australian firm known for the blandness and detachment from the outside world, a ferris wheel, and more and more condos. Nothing wrong with that if all you want is to maximize profit, which seems to have happened here in St. Ives. The human factor, alas, seems to have fallen into a distant second place.
Leaving the seaside we ventured along a street, hoping to see some of what makes St. Ives famous. Yes, there were a few galleries, but nothing in them that would alarm a middle-class tourist. There were snack shops. Every other shop it seemed, was selling fudge. Of course, it was, according to the signage – unique – and very Cornish. To me it was more of the same-old-same-old. Either we couldn’t find it or the vaunted St. Ives chic is not there.
We awaken on day three to fog. Our waitress at breakfast says that Cornwall is “socked in.” It was not a pea-souper, where you could barely see your hand in front of your face. But it was unpleasant. Visibility on the road was perhaps 50 metres. Everyone else drove fast. I crept. Impatient drivers would swerve out into the fog and tear by us.
Because it was “there” and on the way – we drove through Penzance. No pirates. Fog, palm trees, guest houses, B&Bs, and hotels A boat basin with all the boats high and dry. Low tide.
The real disappointment was that we could not see any of the seaside sights. St. Michael’s Mount has a 12th century castle, now a private home, that can be walked to at low tide and boated to when the tide was in. We pulled into the parking lot. There were tour coaches parked. Fog or no fog it was on their schedule. All I could see was a stretch of tidal flat disappearing into the fog. I am guessing that some of the more intrepid took off shoes and socks and walked across the mud to the castle. Most seemed to be standing around and staring.
We ;passed through the pretty village of Marazion and headed once more into the fog. Of course it is complicated by twist and turn, impatient drivers, and widths that terrify me when another car approaches. I have still not quite grasped the “feel” of the car and a sense of how close I am to the hedgerow on one side and the oncoming car on the other. There is a lot of breath-holding. And of course there are impatient drivers behind me. From time to time, if I spot a “layover” I will pull in and let the impatient roar on ahead.
We stumble on Trelisick Grdens. (It was once again, not in the guide book.) We decided that it wouold b e cheaper to join the National Trust and get free parking and free admission to all their listed properties. Trelissick was one of them It actually turned out to be a good deal. For the price – something over 30 pounds, we got a ten pound voucher, our parking fee of 3.50 was refunded and we got to walk through exquisite gardens covering many acres of foliage, tries, and lawns. (English lawns are evergreen – the upside of the continuing rain.) On the way out we used our voucher for what the menu calls “cream tea.” It is more. A large pot of tea with hot water to add, two crumbly scones, a little pot of clotted cream and a jar of jam. For the two of us, under 10 pounds! It would, we discover, take the place of dinner at our next stop.
Before we stop, another castle visit, the one with the hair-raising confrontation with the hedgerow-trimming juggernaut. Turning right as we leave the garden, it is a short drive to the road leading to King Henry’s Ferry. I am assured that it is a better way to go than the land route which is another 20 miles through Truro. They were wrong! The ferry crosses a “river” which I think is a port estuary. Two large ships are anchored, waiting, I presume for docking instructions. The ferry takes us across but then there is a 6 mile twisting road drive to the fortress. We almost don’t stop. We pass the fortress without seeing a place to park. We continue on down a hill into the town. People are walking up the hill, a long dreary trudge to the castle, not made any more pleasant by the light misty rain. Shirley informs me that she is not walking. I go back to in what I think will be a fruitless search for a place to park. Eureka. A small sign points to the castle parking lot.
It is a masterpiece. Built as part of a chain of forts by Henry V!!! in around 1550 is is marvelously preserved. We enter and congratulate ourselves for having joined Nationsl Trust. Turns out this ;place is run by the English Heritage society or something. We pay. It’s worth it. Heavy stone blocks that, according to the gatekeeper, are the original with very little renovation or repair required. The rooms are stark. The walls thick. Cannons point out to see, presumably in the direction of hostile French or Spanish forces.
Strange, you tend to think of Henry as the gay divorcer, forgetting that as king, however venal and savage the kings of his day all were, he did protect England. To be cynical about it – not for his people but for himself - his own privately held fief.
The trip back, looking for the ferry was highlighted by the encounter with the hedge trimmer and occasionally, with cars tearing in the opposite direction totally confident that there will be no collision. After many false starts and bad turns we spot the ferry and make our way back to the road.
We arrive in Falmouth, once one of Britain’s principal ports and embarkation port for the Shackleton Antarctic expedition. The town is teeming with tourists. I observe that most of the tourists who arrive by car are Brits. The ones arriving by tour coach are Europeans. Falmouth is not listed as a “must see “in “Back Roads of Great Britain.” Surprising. The Marine Museum is a wonderful compendium of the sea and of explorations, with the accent on Antarctic exploration. The complex of buildings which include the museum, are wonderfully designed. The facing of the buildings is all weathered wood. The biggest surprise was Rick Stein’s Fish and Chips. The word must have gotten out. The place was pretty full, The food and th4e service were perfect. There were almost to many fish and chip choices – from battered to grilled to fried. We chose to split (old folks split portions) an order of battered sole. Perfect. Chips done the way they should be – cooked through then fried for crispness. A little light for my taste, but we didn’t leave a single chip. They had ginger beer. Not just any ginger beer. There were choice. I picked “hot.” It had an extra tangy kick. To finish we shared a treacle tart with clotted cream. On the way out I noticed a large bookshelf with travel books and food books all written by Rick Stein. Where have I been all this time?
From Falmouth our next stop would be the famous “Eden Project.” But first, a stop for the night. We find a B&B on the main road and bedded down without dinner. The cream tea snack was enough. Observation: another Englishman, our host, gives us all the inside stuff on what’s wrong with England. (He reminded me in his scorn for government of the Viet Nam vet we met on the QM2.) He had been a farmer. His first target was the control of food prices and marketing by the supermarket chains. He was angry that marketing boards disappeared with the joining the EU. Then he told me how brainless politicians were. Then he blamed unions. He didn’t seem to know where to focus his anger. He seems also to believe that Thatcher was good for England, just as so many Americans, out of touch with the facts, believe Reagan was good for America.
Final stop. Maybe the best of all: The Eden Project. The entire complex was built by private charities. They found a worked-out clay quarry, dug a little deeper, and created a masterpiece of exotic space covered by enormous geodesic domes, which they call “biomes.”. \
You reached the “biomes” walking along winding paths with lavish plant and horticultural displays. Palm trees, dahlia bushes, plants I had never heard of. Each carried the message of conservation and the nurturing of the world we live in. Eden Project is an evangelist for the environment, for renewable energy, for natural foodstuffs.
Each biome led seamlessly to the next. We started at the Mediterranean. It was a massive collection of plan t life from temperate climates – everything from Italy to the American south-west, from South Africa to Saharan Africa. Paths twisted and turned. Hundreds of plants and trees were marked. Flowers we all coupled with descriptions of where they came from. The Tropical rain forest was as you would expect – jungle and forest from Africa. Asia, Indonesia, Australia. The wood used was bamboo. The arguments made were for sustainable resources. It would gladden the heart of every devout tree-hugger.
I confess. I find many of these people tiresome. I am an environmentalist but not a zealot. I do my part by separating garbage, by using public transit, and when highway driving maintaining a fuel saving, pollution saving speed, and we buy our own supermarket shopping bags I want us to learn bout biofuels and biomass power generation. I do not march in demonstrations against the killing of baby harp seals.
What was absolutely overwhelming was not just the message of living without the environmental chaos, it was the massive enterprise of conceiving and building the project. One of the ironies of course it that enorous fuel-burning trucks and machinery were needed,
There are still people who want to do a project dedicated to the environment by using only primitive tools and lots of willing manpower. You couldn’t have built Eden Project with good intentions. Some small wrinkles like a little mock train station where we took the land train back up the hills to the welcome office. It was made entirely from scraps of wood, old window sashes, doors, and windblown lumber. Cute.
The drive back was clear but horrible black clouds darkened the horizon. We managed to skirt most of the rain. Arrived “home” exhausted. Tomorrow, a day of rest.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
LETTER #4 HELLO LORNA DOONE
LETTER #4 – HELLO LORNA DOONE
A crow raucously signals the start of a sunny day. Maybe he was just signaling some road kill.Out my window I see two fat sheep grazing in a hillside pen. At the crest of the hill there are more sheep. It is the beginning of our second day and we are in Somerset. We’re headed for the sun-tossed (we hope) surf off the coast of Devon and the Bristol Channel. Our host Jan, a former engineer, who with her husband David, own the B&B we have chosen - tells me that the two sheep are pets. Their owner is a “Horse Whisperer” much in demand for her laying on of hands and curing sick animals. She visits her sheep regularly. Are they one day to become food? Certainly not. They are her pets. Raised from infancy. They will die natural deaths and will not be sent to a dog food slaughterhouse but interred with respect.
Our high hopes for picturesque West Somerset began at Taunton. The town and much of the countryside have a long and colourful history dating back to before the Civil War. No one seemed able to tell me if Taunton was Royalist or Puritan. Finally found the famous castle only to discover that the renovation s and conversion to a museum, which the guidebook had said would be finished in 2010, were still underway. (It reminded me of the Orangerie in Paris where the announced dates for finishing renovations were delayed again and again, finally re-opening last year after many years of delay.)
Taunton, like many cities everywhere, has closed a large street to traffic. This one was a little sad, almost tawdry. No chic boutiques. The restaurants Рexcept for a Burger King and a caf̩ across the road Рwere closed. We had our first High Tea. It did not disappoint. Dainty sandwiches, scones (no clotted cream) quiche and other little delicacies. But that, and the outside of the castle, were all we got to see of Taunton. Getting out and back on the road was a challenge, around and around we went never finding the highway. Frustrated, I finally turned on the TomTom GPS, which refused (and continues to refuse) to talk to us. Eventually we found our planned route which would take us to our planned overnight РWashford.
After an aborted look at a B&B whose only virtue seemed to be its price, we found Jan and David in their wonderful oak-beamed cottage; “Monkscider” named for the monks who has used it as a cider mill. (This part of Somerset is apple country, but not everyone knows it. More in a minute.)
Jan, she was an engineer, and David, has was and still is a writer and magazine editor, bought the place several years ago and proceeded to embellish it, almost too much, with pictures, knick knacks and all very tasteful adornments. Our room was a-flutter with things like marionettes hanging from a rafter. Jan promised us that we must spend at least a day exploring her part of Somerset. We booked a second night and hit the road early to the next town, Williton, where we would find an ATM machine. Monkscider, like many B&Bs does not accept credit cards. On the way, a fortuitous wrong turn led us to Wachet, a little place clinging to the side of the hill leading to the sea. Narrow streets. Cunning little shops and ;pubs. A promenade with a statue of the Ancient Mariner. Below the boat basin with fishing boats and pleasure yachts.
Scenery abounds. Hills everywhere. The “highway” rolls, twists and turns, rises and falls with the hills and challenges my sense of space as cars whiz by in the opposite direction and I hold my breath hoping not to graze a mountainous hedgerow. Highlight of the day: a trip to the once-wrecked (courtesy of Henry VIII) now mainly restored Cleeve Abbey, a Cistercian monks monastery dating from 1188. Interesting conversation with the woman in the shop who sells the tickets. She complained that people seem not to know about the abbey. That day, excluding a group of students on a field trip, there were, including the two of us, just 12 visitors. Thousands are missing one of the loveliest cloisters I had ever seen, mainly restored. For the children - a treat. They are given monks robes with cowls and shuffled along, looking very Cistercian, from one stone chamber to another.
One wasted afternoon. Jan suggested w ride the steam train thr0ough and around part of Exmoor with step-off step-on stops along the way. Landscapes, when you could see them. Beautiful. Otherwise, bad advice.
We left the Abbey and stopped for a little thirst-quencher at the White Horse Inn just up the road. There I meet a young female bartender who proves to me that my notions of many young people living in their own cocooned world remain unclear about what surrounds them. Making light of it, I asked her if the beer was cold, having been served a Boddington’s pint at room temperature in Taunton. She said she didn’t know. She doesn’t drink beer. Later I asked her about apples. She didn’t know. “You are in the heart of apple country. Look there -a tree full of red fruit.” She hadn’t noticed!
In fact, when I told Jan the story, she was appalled. Said she’d speak to the owners who happen to be friends of hers. In this part of the world everyone is “friends,” even though unless your great-great-great grandfather had tended sheep on the hilly pastures, you were still (as they say in the Maritimes) “from away.” Jan said that was the way it was.
I told her about having read in the wonderful novel “Maine” about an Irish-American family from Boston’s “Southie” – and the comment that Americans all seem to want to be from somewhere else. After generations the family in the book clung to their Irishness. I commented about a sweet lady we had sat next to on a bench in Thornbury. She was English to the core. I got the sense, and I have always had it, that the English are English, even if they come from somewhere else. Sometimes that clinging to heritage can be annoying when you have English friends who have lived in Canada for thirty years and still speak of “home.” Another story.
Dunster Castle was next. A huge well preserved (thanks to National Trust) castle with a view of Bristol Channel. A storied castle that was seized by the Royalists and then besieged by Cromwell’s forces. The walls are covered in portraits, more than a few by the likes of Joshua Reynolds. The usual elaborate bedroom and formal sitting rooms. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see palm tress thriving in the beautiful gardens.
More hills and narrow-escape roads take us to Selworthy which is, according to “Back Roads of Great Britain” is a must-see for its collection of thatched roof cottages. Ho-hum. Not worth the drive, except for those wonderful moments where you came to the crest of yet another hill and the countryside spread before you.
Next morning said farewell to Jan and headed for Lynmouth. But on the way, a breathtaking view of everything from the famous Porlock Hill. Drivers are advised to avoid the steep hill, especially in the rain, and take the toll road that winds its way via numerous switchbacks to the summit and heart-stopping views of the sea below. Even more enthralling was the twisting “toll road” through a lush rain forest. Canopies of green. Enormous tress, looking like the famed Douglas firs. Along the way you pay a toll and proceed through more woods. Suddenly you break free of the forest and drive along the narrow roads at the crest. Below you is Lorna Doone Country – Exmoor, where the Doone brigands terrorized the countryside and Blackmore got his inspiration. The result was the book almost everyone read in high school lit.
On and up and more up. Then the descent began into Lynmouth. There is a hall memorializing the death of 34 people. You could see why. Even after a bit of rain, the Lyn rivers poured in a torrent from the gorge. Stopped for pictures and my first Cornish pasty. Flaky, delicious and we’re not even in Cornwall.
The rest of the day was a waste, except for a long drive along a one-car-wide road to Barnstaple. That was a stop we could have missed. Wandered around the town fruitlessly looking for the once important waterfront. Gave up. Back to Thornbury the fast way.
Next – we go look for the “man with seven wives.”
A crow raucously signals the start of a sunny day. Maybe he was just signaling some road kill.Out my window I see two fat sheep grazing in a hillside pen. At the crest of the hill there are more sheep. It is the beginning of our second day and we are in Somerset. We’re headed for the sun-tossed (we hope) surf off the coast of Devon and the Bristol Channel. Our host Jan, a former engineer, who with her husband David, own the B&B we have chosen - tells me that the two sheep are pets. Their owner is a “Horse Whisperer” much in demand for her laying on of hands and curing sick animals. She visits her sheep regularly. Are they one day to become food? Certainly not. They are her pets. Raised from infancy. They will die natural deaths and will not be sent to a dog food slaughterhouse but interred with respect.
Our high hopes for picturesque West Somerset began at Taunton. The town and much of the countryside have a long and colourful history dating back to before the Civil War. No one seemed able to tell me if Taunton was Royalist or Puritan. Finally found the famous castle only to discover that the renovation s and conversion to a museum, which the guidebook had said would be finished in 2010, were still underway. (It reminded me of the Orangerie in Paris where the announced dates for finishing renovations were delayed again and again, finally re-opening last year after many years of delay.)
Taunton, like many cities everywhere, has closed a large street to traffic. This one was a little sad, almost tawdry. No chic boutiques. The restaurants Рexcept for a Burger King and a caf̩ across the road Рwere closed. We had our first High Tea. It did not disappoint. Dainty sandwiches, scones (no clotted cream) quiche and other little delicacies. But that, and the outside of the castle, were all we got to see of Taunton. Getting out and back on the road was a challenge, around and around we went never finding the highway. Frustrated, I finally turned on the TomTom GPS, which refused (and continues to refuse) to talk to us. Eventually we found our planned route which would take us to our planned overnight РWashford.
After an aborted look at a B&B whose only virtue seemed to be its price, we found Jan and David in their wonderful oak-beamed cottage; “Monkscider” named for the monks who has used it as a cider mill. (This part of Somerset is apple country, but not everyone knows it. More in a minute.)
Jan, she was an engineer, and David, has was and still is a writer and magazine editor, bought the place several years ago and proceeded to embellish it, almost too much, with pictures, knick knacks and all very tasteful adornments. Our room was a-flutter with things like marionettes hanging from a rafter. Jan promised us that we must spend at least a day exploring her part of Somerset. We booked a second night and hit the road early to the next town, Williton, where we would find an ATM machine. Monkscider, like many B&Bs does not accept credit cards. On the way, a fortuitous wrong turn led us to Wachet, a little place clinging to the side of the hill leading to the sea. Narrow streets. Cunning little shops and ;pubs. A promenade with a statue of the Ancient Mariner. Below the boat basin with fishing boats and pleasure yachts.
Scenery abounds. Hills everywhere. The “highway” rolls, twists and turns, rises and falls with the hills and challenges my sense of space as cars whiz by in the opposite direction and I hold my breath hoping not to graze a mountainous hedgerow. Highlight of the day: a trip to the once-wrecked (courtesy of Henry VIII) now mainly restored Cleeve Abbey, a Cistercian monks monastery dating from 1188. Interesting conversation with the woman in the shop who sells the tickets. She complained that people seem not to know about the abbey. That day, excluding a group of students on a field trip, there were, including the two of us, just 12 visitors. Thousands are missing one of the loveliest cloisters I had ever seen, mainly restored. For the children - a treat. They are given monks robes with cowls and shuffled along, looking very Cistercian, from one stone chamber to another.
One wasted afternoon. Jan suggested w ride the steam train thr0ough and around part of Exmoor with step-off step-on stops along the way. Landscapes, when you could see them. Beautiful. Otherwise, bad advice.
We left the Abbey and stopped for a little thirst-quencher at the White Horse Inn just up the road. There I meet a young female bartender who proves to me that my notions of many young people living in their own cocooned world remain unclear about what surrounds them. Making light of it, I asked her if the beer was cold, having been served a Boddington’s pint at room temperature in Taunton. She said she didn’t know. She doesn’t drink beer. Later I asked her about apples. She didn’t know. “You are in the heart of apple country. Look there -a tree full of red fruit.” She hadn’t noticed!
In fact, when I told Jan the story, she was appalled. Said she’d speak to the owners who happen to be friends of hers. In this part of the world everyone is “friends,” even though unless your great-great-great grandfather had tended sheep on the hilly pastures, you were still (as they say in the Maritimes) “from away.” Jan said that was the way it was.
I told her about having read in the wonderful novel “Maine” about an Irish-American family from Boston’s “Southie” – and the comment that Americans all seem to want to be from somewhere else. After generations the family in the book clung to their Irishness. I commented about a sweet lady we had sat next to on a bench in Thornbury. She was English to the core. I got the sense, and I have always had it, that the English are English, even if they come from somewhere else. Sometimes that clinging to heritage can be annoying when you have English friends who have lived in Canada for thirty years and still speak of “home.” Another story.
Dunster Castle was next. A huge well preserved (thanks to National Trust) castle with a view of Bristol Channel. A storied castle that was seized by the Royalists and then besieged by Cromwell’s forces. The walls are covered in portraits, more than a few by the likes of Joshua Reynolds. The usual elaborate bedroom and formal sitting rooms. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see palm tress thriving in the beautiful gardens.
More hills and narrow-escape roads take us to Selworthy which is, according to “Back Roads of Great Britain” is a must-see for its collection of thatched roof cottages. Ho-hum. Not worth the drive, except for those wonderful moments where you came to the crest of yet another hill and the countryside spread before you.
Next morning said farewell to Jan and headed for Lynmouth. But on the way, a breathtaking view of everything from the famous Porlock Hill. Drivers are advised to avoid the steep hill, especially in the rain, and take the toll road that winds its way via numerous switchbacks to the summit and heart-stopping views of the sea below. Even more enthralling was the twisting “toll road” through a lush rain forest. Canopies of green. Enormous tress, looking like the famed Douglas firs. Along the way you pay a toll and proceed through more woods. Suddenly you break free of the forest and drive along the narrow roads at the crest. Below you is Lorna Doone Country – Exmoor, where the Doone brigands terrorized the countryside and Blackmore got his inspiration. The result was the book almost everyone read in high school lit.
On and up and more up. Then the descent began into Lynmouth. There is a hall memorializing the death of 34 people. You could see why. Even after a bit of rain, the Lyn rivers poured in a torrent from the gorge. Stopped for pictures and my first Cornish pasty. Flaky, delicious and we’re not even in Cornwall.
The rest of the day was a waste, except for a long drive along a one-car-wide road to Barnstaple. That was a stop we could have missed. Wandered around the town fruitlessly looking for the once important waterfront. Gave up. Back to Thornbury the fast way.
Next – we go look for the “man with seven wives.”
Friday, September 2, 2011
LETTER # 3 - ENGLAND AT LAST
Apologies for getting sick our first five days in England in bed. Up today and ready to see things and remember,
First, leaving the Queen without having done everything – from dance lessons to duplicate bridge, I don’t feel cheated. The final night was about as vulgar as possible, only because vulgar is what I usually ascribe to any show that is like Vegas – loud and showbizzy. The Cunard singers and dancers opened with a meaningless but well done set of songs and dances, Then came the classic first three buttons open swagger of the Vegas hitmaker – Joel Bennett. Yes, he did do the lead in Les Miz. Yes, he did the lead in the Broadway flop musical based on Cyrano. But here he was, belting it out. He also has a deep and profound side, which you can see the minute he starts talking about Jimmy Webb and the drama surrounding the cake left out in the rain in McArthur Park. He did an Italians song and archly commented: “Why do I sing in Italian? Because I can.” The audience seems to be mainly the same kinds of people who still want to hear Bobby Vinton and kept Celine Dionne running for years – middle aged throwbacks to the fifties and still hoping for a return of Doris Day.
My friend who hates this kind of talk will once again suggest that I am becoming vituperative. Not at all – just terrible superior.
We hacve an early call dor departure. Characteristically, we both lie awake in anticipation. There was a short burst of sleep somewhere around 4 a.m. We trudged wearily to breakfast then to the disembarkation procedure which are nothing if not tedious. On a signal from the tanoy (or whatever their speaker system is) we on deck 11 herd ourselves to the club on deck 7 where we await orders. We are cleared for departure. Down and down we go arriving at the disembarkation point. Having been cleared by customs while still on board, we have only to check out and collect or luggage. It always seems like an eternity of shuffling slowly to the front of the line. It wasn’t. Our bags were where they were supposed to be. We had no trouble getting a taxi. He had to stop on the way to the train station so I could visit an ATM. An anxious moment: at five minutes before arrival of our train to Bristol, we were told to go to a different platform which meant take the elevator up and then another down and we rushed to get a train that was so crowded there wasn't enough room to change your mind. I’d done it! Our arrival coincided with the last bank holiday of the season and the back-to-school date for millions. The train was a zoo. Our baggage stayed in the hallway. We did find two seats which for me were knee-bruisers. The train was a local making every stop. By the time we reached Bristol it was half full.
Our host was at the station He greeted Shirley with a kiss and me with a hearty handshake – lugged all our stuff to his car and off we went. Graham is a classic. Retired young, his “Lanky” accent is still strong. He took us briefly through his town - Thornbury – small town ex.-urban chic.
I had already started to cough – incessantly. One more tour of the town and we returned for dinner. I ate well, thanks to his loquacious and charming Mary, an Irish girl and mother of their three grown children and numerous grandchildren; I excused myself and hit the sack so I could cough in private.
Thornbury is our first look at a small English town. It holds about 15,000. It is neither quaint nor clever. There are no thatched roof cottages, (that I could see) clever little pubs left over from the reign of Henry IV. There are many old stone houses, some of them stuccoed, perhaps to give them a Regency look. There are no high rise buildings – no office building, no condos – just human scale. There is something slightly “precious” about it all. We parked in a huge free parking lot right next to a clever little mall which leads to the High Street. Graham told us they were especially fussy about “how” you parked. They did not like anyone parking improperly. You had to be within the lines and not even touching a line. I’m not sure what the penalty is for this enormous malfeasance.
The high street reminds you of every ex-urban community that found itself part of the flight from the city. Chic little shops – like perhaps what you would see in Unionville, or the old part of Markham or perhaps Uxbridge. Holding enough small town charm to make you feel peaceful I guess.
It makes me miss the sound of fire sirens churning by yet all hours along Wellington...
First, leaving the Queen without having done everything – from dance lessons to duplicate bridge, I don’t feel cheated. The final night was about as vulgar as possible, only because vulgar is what I usually ascribe to any show that is like Vegas – loud and showbizzy. The Cunard singers and dancers opened with a meaningless but well done set of songs and dances, Then came the classic first three buttons open swagger of the Vegas hitmaker – Joel Bennett. Yes, he did do the lead in Les Miz. Yes, he did the lead in the Broadway flop musical based on Cyrano. But here he was, belting it out. He also has a deep and profound side, which you can see the minute he starts talking about Jimmy Webb and the drama surrounding the cake left out in the rain in McArthur Park. He did an Italians song and archly commented: “Why do I sing in Italian? Because I can.” The audience seems to be mainly the same kinds of people who still want to hear Bobby Vinton and kept Celine Dionne running for years – middle aged throwbacks to the fifties and still hoping for a return of Doris Day.
My friend who hates this kind of talk will once again suggest that I am becoming vituperative. Not at all – just terrible superior.
We hacve an early call dor departure. Characteristically, we both lie awake in anticipation. There was a short burst of sleep somewhere around 4 a.m. We trudged wearily to breakfast then to the disembarkation procedure which are nothing if not tedious. On a signal from the tanoy (or whatever their speaker system is) we on deck 11 herd ourselves to the club on deck 7 where we await orders. We are cleared for departure. Down and down we go arriving at the disembarkation point. Having been cleared by customs while still on board, we have only to check out and collect or luggage. It always seems like an eternity of shuffling slowly to the front of the line. It wasn’t. Our bags were where they were supposed to be. We had no trouble getting a taxi. He had to stop on the way to the train station so I could visit an ATM. An anxious moment: at five minutes before arrival of our train to Bristol, we were told to go to a different platform which meant take the elevator up and then another down and we rushed to get a train that was so crowded there wasn't enough room to change your mind. I’d done it! Our arrival coincided with the last bank holiday of the season and the back-to-school date for millions. The train was a zoo. Our baggage stayed in the hallway. We did find two seats which for me were knee-bruisers. The train was a local making every stop. By the time we reached Bristol it was half full.
Our host was at the station He greeted Shirley with a kiss and me with a hearty handshake – lugged all our stuff to his car and off we went. Graham is a classic. Retired young, his “Lanky” accent is still strong. He took us briefly through his town - Thornbury – small town ex.-urban chic.
I had already started to cough – incessantly. One more tour of the town and we returned for dinner. I ate well, thanks to his loquacious and charming Mary, an Irish girl and mother of their three grown children and numerous grandchildren; I excused myself and hit the sack so I could cough in private.
Thornbury is our first look at a small English town. It holds about 15,000. It is neither quaint nor clever. There are no thatched roof cottages, (that I could see) clever little pubs left over from the reign of Henry IV. There are many old stone houses, some of them stuccoed, perhaps to give them a Regency look. There are no high rise buildings – no office building, no condos – just human scale. There is something slightly “precious” about it all. We parked in a huge free parking lot right next to a clever little mall which leads to the High Street. Graham told us they were especially fussy about “how” you parked. They did not like anyone parking improperly. You had to be within the lines and not even touching a line. I’m not sure what the penalty is for this enormous malfeasance.
The high street reminds you of every ex-urban community that found itself part of the flight from the city. Chic little shops – like perhaps what you would see in Unionville, or the old part of Markham or perhaps Uxbridge. Holding enough small town charm to make you feel peaceful I guess.
It makes me miss the sound of fire sirens churning by yet all hours along Wellington...
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