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...