FINALLY - WHAT DID ENGLAND GIVE ME?

I have pondered. I have stewed. I have, especially after seeing Bristol, realized that my fruitless attempt to “see” the back roads and byways of the west of England, was nothing (for me only) but a romantic notion that I could see an idyllic element that makes the countryside of the U.K. so attractive. To me – it wasn’t. Yes, the size of the hedgerows was remarkable. Their very impenetrability daunting. But how many hedgerows do I have to see? How many narrow roads to I want to travel? How often did I find myself gazing out the car window at the pattern of farms, every field lush looking and fenced in by the ubiquitous hedgerows?

The small towns and villages did have charm. The castles appealed to my sense of history. But finally I realized once again, I am an urban creature. I think that cities, great and small, are the best reflection of the national ethos. The country road rurality (is there such a word) is interesting, but bucolic. If I were, I suppose, a landscape painter, or a member of the Barbizon school I would worship the outdoors. I don’t.

I am not without care for the quaint, the old and the sometimes exotic. But I am a city person. Which is why my greatest regret was that we stuck ourselves in the little town of Thornbury (kind of like Scarborough with an English accent) when I could have spent more time exploring the historic and the modern, the re-invention of famous cities like Bristol.

I thought that the main attractions in that once-famous city would be the work of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the engineer responsible for fulfilling the dream of regularly scheduled Atlantic crossings. The only evidence I saw of his brilliance was the steamship Great Britain, and the suspension bridge crossing the gorge of the Avon. Great things most often happen in cities. Brunel characterizes that. His Great Western Railroad was the best in Britain, his suspension bridge was a masterpiece of engineering, certainly rivalling Roeblin who designed and created the first suspension bridge over the Ohio river at Cincinnati, and the famous Brooklyn Bridge spanning the East River from Manhattan to Brooklyn. So our trip to walk the decks and peer into the cabins of the ship was an experience. The ship was built in 1843 and plied the Atlantic before being sold to a consortium that made a fortune transporting settles to Australia. It was the biggest ship ever built. It could hold 700 passengers. Its “luxury” was of course limited, but in its day she was the Queen.

Brunel was responsible for the rebirth of Bristol and its shipbuilding industry. And that is what struck me most about Bristol. There is not much one can do about the twists and turns of the urban roads designed for a more leisurely time of carriages and horses. Bristol is an example, perhaps predicted by Brunel, of what can be done to “make” a city.

Our visits there were all too brief. You become tangled in traffic and wish only to find your way home. But “home” should have been someplace like Bristol or perhaps Cardiff.

I would like to have spent at least a week roaming the streets and back alleys, savouring the wonderful way the waterfront has been reclaimed with tasteful apartment buildings.

Because it was where Giovanni Caboto (John Cabot to us) took a leaky little ship – Henry VII was a real cheapskate) and claimed Newfoundland for Britain. It was Cabot who said the cod were so numerous you could walk on water by walking on the back of them. You “fished” by just putting a bucket overboard and helping yourself.

It all began in Bristol. I asked out exchanger-hosts in Thornbury if there was anything to commemorate Bristol’s position as Britain’s premier storage house for wine from Bordeaux. He seemed puzzled by the question. But he did recognize the name Harvey’s Bristol Cream.” Maybe it dawned on him that it was a name that commemorates a grand history from the time when Britain owned Aquitaine.

So I said farewell to the cunning little towns with their wall-to-wall tea rooms and antique ships, to the rural landscape with its soaring hedgerows, and those aggressive, impatient drivers who risk their lives speeding and passing on two lane roads which are difficult to call highways.

It was not what I expected. But what did I expect?

The night we left my Anglophilia took a real beating. I have always believed, or wanted to believe, that there was something somehow a little more civilized about the British. We sat in the restaurant of the hotel in Gatwick and struck up a conversation with a couple sitting next to us. They were very friendly. They lived in a little village in the shadow of Windsor Castle. They were on their way to Tunisia where he would do a lot of drinking and play golf. I should have stopped there. She wanted me to know how it "really is" in Britain with terrorists and hordes of nasty immigrants. “They don't fit in.” I tried not to argue but told her that where we live there is harmony among the many races co-habiting our city. (Not true of course because we have our share of bigotry.) Nothing would calm her down. I felt like I was back on the radio listening to a half-baking nitwit tell me her very of the “truth.” It went something like: “They come here and are immediately put on the National Health, given money and houses. My own children can’t get a house, but they do.”

I wanted to remind her that “ her own children” had a head start, perhaps a hundred years with the benefit of a state paid education, and opportunities that they could take with no cultural or language difficulties. It was not, I would have said, the fault of some poor guy from Somalia that your kids have not succeeded. But you can’t argue with people who want to scapegoat.

It was a sad finish to the trip that started with so much optimism.

By the way, it seems my not-so-best-selling "Don't Be Blindsided by Retirement"
did not fly off the shelves. Whoever wants one can contact me and when I find out how much it will be to pay for postage. I'll mail you a book. The handling is free.