Category: Travel

Our daughter Debbie, a theater major at Syracuse University, had spent her junior-year-abroad in London, with side-visits to France, Italy and Sweden. Ken, our son, with a major in psychology at Texas A&M, had followed the path of Dr. Freud, with several weeks in Vienna and Germany, for his own European experience. Even our luggage had made it to Hawaii with friends! It was now time for Karen and me to begin our own overseas sight-seeing. We decided to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary by using Brit-rail passes for a fortnight in England, Wales and Scotland. On October 1, 1983, we flew from Houston Intercontinental to London’s Gatwick to begin the first of our many European excursions over the next thirty years.

Without a direct reference to photographs, videos and written notes, our visits to the United Kingdom merge into a single experience. Rather than comment on them as three, separate journeys, I’ve chosen to blend them together, resulting in a single impression of a town we may have seen more than once.

Our initial exposure included visits to London, Canterbury, Penzance, Oxford, Bath, Wells, Cardiff (Wales), Lancaster and York, as well as Inverness and Edinburgh in Scotland. Our second journey replicated much of the first: London, Bath, Glastonbury, Windermere, Lancaster, Edinburgh, York, and Canterbury. Our third Brit-rail passage included Brighton, Eastbourne, Winchester, Bath, Salisbury, Swansea, Gloucester, Chester, Caernarfon, Buxton, York, Fountain’s Abbey, Castle Howard and Windsor. This third tour had more day-trips than the earlier two. Evidently we became more accustomed to the use of coaches or short train trips from a central town to whatever could be readily seen in a day. In fact, at the completion of our third trip, we stayed in a hotel at Gatwick, used the left-luggage facility at Victoria Station, and made a day-trip to Windsor; we escaped, entirely, being a City-tourist that year.

Since I have joined several visits into one tour of England, Wales, and Scotland, it’s appropriate, indeed, for this reflection to be designated as “United Kingdom.” However, as most visitors will attest, it all began with our arrival at Gatwick.

We easily passed through customs at Gatwick, while observing other, less fortunate tourists being detained for a public viewing of the contents of their luggage, a condition originating decades before the terrorism of the twenty-first century made such searches mandatory. Perhaps we looked more like middle-class English than many of our fellow travelers did. Over the next two weeks, this conclusion was confirmed each time we were asked for assistance by other Americans who seemed to believe we were locals who knew how to help them find their way to a new destination.

My first observations of England were made through the windows of our train on the way from Gatwick to Victoria Station. They began with the number and complexity of all of the chimney pots poking like miniature towers from each rooftop along the track. Their smoke-trails showed the location of every warm room in the autumnal countryside. The immensity of Victoria Station, itself, and its crowds flowing in conflicting currents were quickly replaced by the sight of fleets of classical, black-box taxis transporting everyone who entered or left the station. We also discovered the importance of grabbing the first available trolley to tote our possessions between the arrival platform and the distant site for cab departures.

In some mysterious manner, we arrived at the Royal Horseguard Hotel in Whitehall. From the blurry-pane window of our tiny room I had my first sighting of an image seen consistently throughout every city in England – as well as in all of Europe, as I learned in the years to come. There were statues carved on the facade of every surrounding building – males and females, semi-clad with flowing cloth made of stone.

Given that the room, itself, was only large enough to hold a double bed, a writing desk and a single, straight-back chair, we spent little time within it before taking off on a brisk walk to Westminster, Parliament and Big Ben – where we saw our first, but not last, scaffold-encased site. It seemed this was England’s year for re-surfacing every building that was more than 500 years old, of which there were quite a few throughout the Island. We later learned that this renovation occurred routinely every year – or at least, during every visit we made. Soot-blackened walls of castles and cathedrals became white, once again, under the ministrations of fleets of acrobatic laborers performing high over head.

We arrived at Westminster Abbey with its lofty façade of rows of saints upon saints standing guard above its triple-door entrance. At their center, stood a Madonna and Child to lead them and to welcome arriving pilgrims or tourists. I wondered how many visitors belonged to these two groups; how many pilgrims were actually mere tourists out to see the wonders rather than to experience any of the event’s spirituality. I, myself, was both.

As we entered the Abbey, I was fascinated with its history as well as its tombs and monuments to kings, statesmen, saints, and even scientists. Somehow it seemed inconsistent to bury Darwin within an Abbey next to some medieval saint, but evidently not to the English. I quickly became overwhelmed with all of it – like a boy in a fancy candy-shop. Too much to see, to absorb, to believe. It was difficult to accept that beneath those stones lay the dust of Edward I and his heirs – kings I had read about during the last few years as part of my newly established interest in the history of the Middle Ages.

Reality and history merged in strange ways. Slowly, I believed real people, not actors, once walked these aisles, knelt here, prayed here for over a thousand years – here at Westminster, and at all of the other cathedrals and churches we would visit during the next two weeks. These religious sites were more than mere locations for buildings. They were the homes of living Brits as well – people who added living-drama to the castles and cathedrals we saw.

On our rapid walk along London’s Embankment from our hotel to a tiny, nearby shop selling pastry and coffee for an early breakfast, we passed the entrances to tube stations where bed-rolls awaited their night-time occupants. The English did come in all the usual shapes and conditions of people everywhere. Many of them were easy to encounter individually, although few would start the conversation. We uncovered the lives of some interesting people, if we, ourselves, initiated the interaction. For instance, there was the lady at Paddington Station with her Wellingtons and anorak for tramping Dartmoor and asking us what to pack for her forthcoming visit to Denver and San Antonio in late October.

London, itself, is a kaleidoscope of images; its colors shifting with every twist in the roads over which we walked. Horse-drawn carriages interdigitated with long black cabs and red double-decker buses. Black and gold gated Buckingham Palace, with bushy-hatted guards at their posts in front of small houses – did they use them when it rained? Lion and Unicorn guardians everywhere. In front of the Palace, a towering monument that includes a victorious Victoria regally seated beneath a golden, angelic Victory about to take off into the cloudy skies above the circling traffic and rushing pedestrians. A stroll along Pall Mall, past residents for minor royals, all protected by black, iron gates and thick, green hedges. Views of Old London beyond the Lake, with its own left-over, towered palaces. A surprising statue of Abraham Lincoln poses solemnly nearby. And back to Westminster Abbey and its neighbor, St. Margaret’s Church with its sundial mounted on the side-wall to yield its own unique method for displaying the hours when the sun is shining, occasionally, over London. And almost everywhere along the pedestrian hike there are marble window boxes with classic figures carved along their sides, holding flowers of every bright color and ferns in various stages of greenery.

Of course there are also the usual sites every tourist believes must be visited. The Tower of London with its walls and grounds showing both relics and restorations; edifices crumbling or reconstructed to last another thousand years. London Bridge with its crossbar connection high over head. Old Bailey with stones, white from recent cleaning or remaining darkened by smoke; still surrounded by the words of lawyers, ancient and modern. And for my own, personal reflection, the nearby Templar Church with its round chapel and the visions it recalls of knights of long ago.

Did I really twist my knee while climbing the ramp and stairs to enter the British Museum? Did I really ignore the pain as I stood in front of the Elgin marbles, which Greece continues to demand be restored to their rightful owners. Who is there who wishes to reclaim the Rosetta stone?

To cross the bridge over the River Thames and see the views along its banks. I am content with Big Ben and the House of Parliament. I really have no desire to see a Ferris Wheel besmirch the view I saw almost four decades ago. And to end the day with a quick stop at Covent Gardens, which cannot be replaced by any modern, glass-domed shopping mall. Where else would you have a bite to eat while watching a Punch-and-Judy show, or teens with purple and green hair?

The only thing we found uninteresting in London, and throughout the rest of Great Britain, was the food. English cuisine was not among the country’s contributions to society, although stuffed “pasties” in Cornwall, and fish and chips in any quaint eatery, were acceptable fare. On the other hand, I wondered who invented “mushy peas!” Perhaps this is why, in London, we ate dinner twice in the same restaurant, an unlikely Topo Gigio. An Italian Mickey Mouse served a delicious meal in comparison with most restaurants. On the other hand, pubs and tearooms were very good for snacks throughout the day. An even better treat were Double Decker bars or Cadbury chocolates purchased for 14p or 26p at any newsstand in every village, town, or city.

After several days in London, we made our way by train to Cornwall and a day-visit to St Michael’s Mount, the English equivalent of Mont-Saint-Michel on the French side of the Channel. The hike across the drained shore and up the miniature mountain along cobbled lanes was exhilarating as was the coastal panorama spread around us.

For our return to Penzance, the town for our center-stay in Cornwall, I tried to use a red-booth pay-phone in a village on the mainland to summon a taxi. I had never placed a call from one of them, but expected it should act much like our AT&T version back in the states. This one, however, would not accept any of my strange English coins and provide a welcoming dial-tone. Exasperated, I finally learned from the lady who ran the nearby chemist’s shop that the box was too full to accept more coins and, therefore, was not usable. She directed us to her neighbor who ran a combination taxi company and funeral home; the proprietor would be able to drive us back to Penzance in one of their conveyances.

That evening in the company of our Cornish host at the bed-and-breakfast where we were staying, we met a man from Glasgow and a woman from Kent; we all agreed we spoke the same approximate language. Earlier in the evening I had also discovered that “whitebait” fish have more bones than flesh.

The next day, I found our excursion to Oxford was a disappointing one. I was not able to take photographs of the colleges making up the University, since the day of our visit was the opening day for the new term and the quads were closed to mere tourists. Nevertheless, the streets held an unbelievable fascination; there I could walk the lanes and peer through archways that had protected scholars for half a millennium.

The town of Bath was a picturesque version of life in England, at least for an Anglophile tourist. We stayed at Pratts Hotel a block from the train station, although we had not realized this was its location when we had disembarked the train and had hailed a taxi to take us there. The cab-driver had seen no reason to enlighten us before depositing us two minutes after we had entered his vehicle. On subsequent visits to Bath, we walked to Pratts from the train.

Pratts Hotel had a major advantage due its central location on Parade Street, which was more like a plaza than a street. The living rooms were filled with Edwardian furniture in magnificent arrays of shabbiness. The bedroom we occupied was the largest we found during our two weeks in the UK. The cost was only 90 £ per night for the two of us. Unfortunately, for Karen, the bed we shared was also the hardest. She found that pillows piled inside our bathtub made a more comfortable place for sleeping. Not many other people can claim to have slept in a bathtub in Bath!

Bath is, indeed, a pleasant place for walking. Row after row of Georgian townhouses, all looking like identical relatives. They are not the residences for over-imbibers walking home late at night. Basement flats with gardens sunken. The sound of pipe organs, new but in need of tuning – more noise than music. How could Handel compose anything for the likes of this? It takes an act of faith. Clouds and bright blue skies, never certain how the day ends based upon its beginnings. Quiet Henrietta Park providing a respite in a day of walking. A maze not a labyrinth – depending upon opinions – seen along the shore. Young lovers and elderly ones, too – taking the airs in the park on a late summer’s day in Bath. Pultney Bridge crosses the Avon; does it pretend to be one crossing the Arno?

Our time machine traveled further – back to Roman Aqua Solis, to a time of caldera, tepidaria and frigidaria. Roman sights and smells – the turbid gas-bubbling waters smell sulfur-green, a bit humid and moss-covered, but what do you expect after two thousand years or so of bathing? Of course after our visit to another era, we had tea in the current period. Who can visit Bath and not have a “cuppa” and cake in the Pump Room? There is also Sally Lund’s for a more intimate version. The biscuits are exquisite, with plenty of butter and jam, but bland sausages are another matter. Jimmy Dean, please won’t you come to England, even if you don’t come home.

Not far from the Roman Baths another era is readily accessible. Bath Abbey with its ladders, one on each side of the huge widowed façade, with angels climbing up or down; it’s difficult to tell which direction they take, ascending or descending. The baptismal font inside the abbey has a large, domed cover suspended by a chain from the ceiling. It’s a puzzle how it is opened when in use. This receptacle for ritualistic bathing is countered outside the Abbey by a nearby Washerwoman who pours her water into an open basin for her daily labor. A mime stands close at hand, pretending to be another statue, with flowing drapery caught by the wind. Does he pay you if you can make him smile or, better yet, laugh? It’s always the other way ‘round; the photographer is expected to drop a coin at the statue’s feet. Occasionally, you might get a slight bow in return.

We made it to the Circus, with its adjoining townhouses, fronted by black-fenced subterranean apartments. The Royal Crescent with its matching apartments was equally austere. We also found a local Laundromat where Karen washed the clothing we had crammed into our two, overly large suitcases, the size of which decreased on later visits to England with its trains equipped for overhead storage of luggage.

One evening in the Edwardian Restaurant in Bath, we spent a pleasant hour talking with an Irishman from a neighboring village who had a son at Downside Abbey and who now traveled the world while undergoing a separation from his wife. Yes, we could learn a lot about the English, if we were the ones to say “hello” to a stranger.

During these visits, I was not sure what places or peoples I felt more in tune with – the Romans of Aqua Solis, the kings and pilgrims of Canterbury along with individuals such as Thomas a’ Becket of Canterbury or Professor Grosseteste of Oxford – or the everyday English men and women who were very friendly and open when given the opportunity.

The following day, we had the courage to take a motor-coach from Bath to Wells. We quickly learned that a “bus” was confined to travel within a city, and a “coach” was the vehicle for public transportation between towns and cities. We also learned about English patience: waiting for a herd of cows to lead our coach down the single-lane road for several miles.

The day in Wells began with mist but one which made its Cathedral and the Norman-Saxon Church of St Cuthbert even more picturesque. We quickly realized that, with an ever-present brolly, a tourist would never be thwarted by bad weather. We also discovered, once again, that although Wells Cathedral and St Cuthbert’s church were greatly different in size and liturgical styles, they afforded an opportunities to appreciate the long history of Christianity on the Island. Statues of royalty and of saints were found in each one; only the brightness of the images differed.

However, our trip was more than castles and cathedrals, although not quite in agreement with what one traveling American couple related to us once they had joined us in our carriage car. They had inquired about what we enjoyed seeing during our visit to England. When we responded with “castles and cathedrals.” They scoffingly replied if you saw one of each, it was sufficient for the whole trip. When we asked them about their own preferences, we learned they were comparing every Woolworth store they could find throughout England!

We had another very interesting companion join us in another carriage on our way to Cardiff, Wales, where we saw more castles and cathedrals. We first noticed Lucy Irvine through the window of our train as she stood in her fur coat on the station platform. She entered our compartment and asked if she might join us. We immediately agreed and spent an engaging hour listening to her story of accepting an advertisement submitted by a man, Gerald Kingsland, who was seeking a woman to join him as a wife-for-a-year on a deserted island in the South Pacific. Although he was going to write the story of their adventure, she took up the task when he decided not to follow through with the writing. Her book was called Castaway. She asked us about the Johnny Carson show on which she was scheduled to appear; we assured her it was a reputable venue.

Although we saw Cardiff Castle, our most charming experience in Wales was the result of helpful ladies who gave us advice on where to have a bite of lunch. At the Louis Tea House we were served by a small armada of waitresses – with their black dresses and tiny, white aprons keeping them afloat.

Cardiff Castle was for the protection of South Wales; for the North there was Caernarvon Castle, begun by Edward I in 1283. It is near the seacoast but really on the River Seiont. Amazingly it is still completely standing, with watch towers and walls to climb and give panoramic views of Wales and its countryside.

We met few tourists during our visit within Caernarvon; I had the castle almost completely to myself for views and contemplation. I climbed the spiral staircases to reach the summit of the walls six to eight feet thick. The steps were pie-wedges circling through darkness towards the sky with only a central hemp rope to guide the uppings and downings. Knights and archers must have very tiny feet, wide heels and pointy toes. How did they run up and down these tower stairs? With full armor, never would they have fit those narrow enclosures. Only a bright Welsh sun gave light through an occasional slit-aperture illuminating the interior of the ascending passage-well. Even a straight flight of stairs has problems when you leave the darkness for the open sunlight, blindingly bright. But what views! If you are willing to look out. Along the top, narrow walkways without rails. All of it magnificent and somewhat dangerous.

The upper rooms had sufficient windows for archers to protect the fortification from all directions. It was easy to believe I had personally returned to the thirteenth century, with which I had been intrigued for so many years, as I observed the moats and inner courts below me.

Later, I journeyed further back in time to walk across the ruined grounds of the Roman fort of Segnontium. This is, indeed, a land that has needed protection for several millennia. It was worth the long train and bus diversions to get here to the end of Wales and the Prince’s castle. At the end, I was truly castled out.

Sometimes, a mere notation of verbless phrases is all that remains for a passing visit. Early morning mists covered the Cotswold hills and the Wye Valley, seen while on a Badgerline day-tour which had cost 28 £ for a relaxing passage – with brief stops for photo-opportunities. Tintern Abbey, a relic of the Cistercians of Wales, with its quiet green cemeteries and quiet green abbeys … walls to last the ages … glassless eyes open wide … green upon green churches and castles … grey and brown. Moss green and yellow-spotted mold. Sound of rushing waters. Sounds of birds twittering over churchyard tombstones or cawing from abbey ruins … perhaps the sound of Merlin’s children in the Welsh hills. Sounds of rushing traffic through market streets once filled only by calling merchants. Hills upon hills for church and castle … to see the world below and be able to defend life in many styles. Sleeping and nibbling sheep with wool through the centuries. Green-carpeted cloister yards and grass-carpeted naves. Stone hands clasped in reposing prayer into the third millennium. Cirencester, ancient Corinium; parish church of St John the Baptist; Ross-on-Wye (Ross means headland). Parish church of St. Mary the Virgin. Chepstow, which means “marketplace,” with its namesake still practiced. Chepstow Castle, the oldest surviving Roman fortification in Great Britain, merits a quick photo-stop, but not the admittance fee.

On one of our UK journeys we planned to see the Lake District, having heard of its literary and cultural history. This part of England did not live up to our expectations. We had thought that the town of Windermere, on the side of a lake with the same name, would make a central location for day-trips around the lake, itself. As we had done for all of our British tours, we had pre-selected a hotel by using the Mobil Guidebook and telephoning each place for a reservation. Our traveling occurred long before the Internet made scheduling so much easier. However, with both media (print and electronic) not everything can be trusted.

The hotel, identified as being within walking distance of the center of town, was actually a long cab-ride from the train station. We immediately knew that an hour’s walk into town would not be acceptable. Perhaps we could spend time at the hotel, which had billed itself as a kind of English resort. It was not.

The hotel was large enough, and, for the English, it might have been a resort. It was certainly acceptable for the teenagers who had taken it over for their holiday. Their music and other shenanigans were not conducive to a restful night, nor an expectation of a peaceful day in the country. Our room had a magnificent view of the flat-roof of the ballroom and the air-conditioning units for the facility (perhaps the only air-conditioners we ever encountered in Great Britain!) Recognizing that a full day or two spent here would not be merited, we checked the Mobil Guide we carried with us and, having those wonderful Brit-rail passes, we decided to leave Windermere for an unscheduled day in Lancaster, which was only one train-stop away. Early in the morning we took a cab back to the train station and waited there, while watching the snow flurries that had arrived with the dawn.

We put our bags in the left-luggage lockers at the Lancaster train station and found the local TIC, where tourists could search out accommodations for the night. We found an inexpensive hotel close to the station and carried our luggage, so aptly termed, to our place for the day. Actually Lancaster was a pleasant town to visit. It had the usual churches and castles, along with pedestrian-friendly shops.

We thought that with our usual emphasis on Yorkshire, it was very appropriate for us to visit the home of the other side. After all, the Plantagenet family feud between the House of York, with its white rose, and the House of Lancaster, with its red rose, was a significant event in English history. For us, we learned that a trip open to last-minute changes can be quite enjoyable. When we traveled, it was always wise to carry a good guidebook, or two. The current tourist needs only ready access to the Internet to search for the latest accommodation and newest, old-attraction.

Then there was York, one of our favorite towns-to-visit. We stayed at a well-placed hotel across the circle from Clifford’s Tower. Of course I had to climb to the top of the old castle with its retaining wall of a height so low that I dared not get too close to the edge. We spent hours in the nearby York Castle Museum with its replicas of nineteenth century English shops and homes. Later we balanced this experience with a ride through underground excavations from the period of the Viking invaders – complete with re-created smells as well as structures. There was also the town-wall to climb for a walk around York to get an overview of what the Vikings had left and the Anglo-Saxons retained. Along the way we met a woman from Wales who presented us with the longest name of any Welsh town: Llanfairpwllgwyngyll. It was easy for her; impossible for us.

York is the town where streets are “gates” and the gates are “bars.” Micklegate Bar is not a place for a pint, but rather the arched gate to what might be called Mickle Street. And High Petergate is another street, not a large archway. The River Ouse, flowing through the town, has banks that are pleasant for quiet walks; it is easy enough to catch sight of single and double manned sculls enjoying an outing among a variety of ducks.

York is, also, the place for bell-ringing heard along every lane but silenced, in some mysterious way, so that peals are not heard within the Minster from which they go forth. Each morning, tower bells sound throughout the town, adding an extra touch to a stroll along its narrow streets from our hotel near the river.

One morning I took an early stroll so I could be engulfed by the bells. Karen remained in the hotel. Another sudden shower appeared; Karen was able to capture on film a wondrous full-arc rainbow passing from York Minster across the medieval landscape to reach its own pot-of-gold. Bells and Bows, essential images of York.

Then there is the Minster, itself, a molded mountain of stone supported by multi-rolled pillars blended together into massive rings vaulting to the man-made heaven above. The usual rood screen became a thick wall impregnated by a row of English kings, from William the Conqueror to Henry VI, separating the clergy from the commoners milling about the nave while a mass is hymned and hidden from view until a climatic chiming of hand bells announces everyone must stop gossiping and pay momentary attention to the miracle taking place at a distance from where they stood.

Along one side of the transcript the giant clock could be seen by a crowd of tourists, either modern or medieval, waiting for the two metallic knights to strike the hour. However, no mere sound awakens the knights and bishops sleeping on or under their monumental tombs. The hubbub is ignored as well by all of the white, ruffled collared men and women praying in the private chapels built for them centuries ago. Many of the side altars are protected from the casual passing tourist by patterned grates with openings large enough to accommodate a camera lens so that a photographer can get a clear view of the multi-colored holy figures protected behind the iron walls.

We climb the narrow steps leading up an interior hill to the Chapter House where the Minister’s brothers met in ages past beneath a vaulted ceiling with the Lamb of God at its apex. They sat in carved indentations under narrow, mile-high windows, their private locations divided by columns topped with paired, carved heads, many of whom enjoyed making strange faces to be seen by the living monks, who could also gaze upon small representations of strange animals – in particular, monkeys – gamboling above them.

It was a most pleasant experience a return to the Cathedral at dusk in order to participate in Evening Prayer with those Anglicans who continued to practice the rites initiated by their Roman brothers centuries ago. The incense smelled as sweet as it has for a thousand years; the music in Latin or English retained the same comfort for those who listened in the semi-darkness and semi-brightness of burning wax candles.

The town of York, although dominated by its Minster, has other amazing places to visit. The Castle Museum, rising up near Clifford’s Tower, provides hours, if desired, of viewing English history of the common folk who lived in Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian times. Household rooms from each era are on exhibit; each with its own clutter of every knickknack held dear by the Brits of the day. Ready comparisons are available for bathroom facilities as well as for iron stoves and ovens. These furnishings are also visible in miniature with an extensive collection of multi-floored dollhouses. Another wing houses replicas of shops where real items are viewed behind small-glass-pane windows. They even sell a few items to modern tourists interested in an old-fashioned souvenir.

Of course the best way to view York is to walk on top of its walls, which encircle the town. Their width varies from a single-file passage to multiple couples walking abreast. The visitor has uninterrupted views of backyard gardens as well as laundry hung out to dry from on more than Mondays. It’s also a short side-trip to view the ruins of St Mary’s abbey, built in 1088. Apparently throughout England it is easier to build around ruins than to cart them away as is the case in the U.S. On this particular excursion we were caught in another shower, one lasting for only a few minutes. Indeed, it is highly advisable to carry a portable umbrella and wear a trench coat all the time. No doubt, this is what makes the grass and shrubbery so green, even in autumn, and the flowers so bountiful throughout the year.

Before leaving York and his monumental structures, we had to pass through the neighborhood called The Shambles with its timber-framed shops and houses close enough so that occupants could shake hands across the street from their second floor windows. The tiny stores were now more than butcher shops as they had been in the fourteenth century. It was adventurous to see what was for on sale for tourists, even if the English had to buy their boar-heads in a different place such as an open-air town market or as enclosed market-hall. (I had encountered my first boar-heads in London in Harrod’s grocery maze.)

Although we have visited York on each of our three vacations in the United Kingdom, it remains among our favorite locations for another exposure, should the time and our condition allow for such a possibility. York is also an excellent center for day-trips to such places as Castle Howard, Fountains Abbey and Studley Royal Estate.

Castle Howard was begun in 1699; it is the movie-location for Brideshead, Evelyn Waugh’s view of life in England. As with every castle, there is no landscaping in front of the structure. It gives the appearance of solid rock rising directly from the earth. It reeks of authority. On the other hand, the gardens hidden (and private) behind the main mountain of stone provide lush plants and wandering peacocks. Here are flowers and fountains, streams and statues (usually Roman or well-established royalty.)

Fountains Abbey consists of ruins with windowless windows and roofless roofs. Solid archways remain with extensions of broken walls. Modern iron rails are used to keep people away from any falling hazards. Grounded flood lights illuminate the ruins at nightfall. On the day we visited, there were school children carrying colored soccer balls over their heads to represent the planets revolving around a boy with his golden globe raised above his blond haired head. Ancient sites are ideal for modern astronomy.

Studley Royal Estate lies nearby, with its lakes and wrestling statues along with a folly or two; and a deer park for fawns, does and a lonely stag. There is also a sign to beware of “free range children” playing along the road.

To the southwest from York, across the Island, is Chester on the River Dee. Once a true Roman fort (castra) without any embellishment of name, such as Eastchester, Westchester, Leicester, Worcester, Dorchester, etc. This Chester comes with the usual black and white Tudor shops. We stayed at Blossom Hotel protected by statue of a medieval knight, representing still another age in the city’s history.

We enjoy the views from the ever-present medieval walls, making a circumference around the city. Modern buildings seem to out-number the old, perhaps from postwar construction. A major attraction in the center of the town is the black, red and gold Eastgate Town Clock, constructed in 1897 for Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee. A street performer, a fire-stick juggler, entertains pedestrian tourists, most of whom ignore him.

The Chester Museum, like the one in York, exhibits models of English homes through the ages. It is good to leave the confines of another, albeit interesting, museum for a stroll through Grosvenor Park with formal plantings and lawns that provide a sunny place to sit on a bench and meditate. At its edge we spy an ancient small castle with laundry hanging in the backyard. We pass the ruins of the Church of St John and enter its replacement where a touring choir is performing.

Most of the streets are closed to traffic but are crowded edge to edge with shoppers. St Peter and Paul cathedral replace Stanta Werburgh whose banner has her holding a bishop’s staff next to her tomb. She was probably an abbess rather than clergy, per se. In a nave, we discover a labyrinth made of tall white candles on black iron sticks; Karen walks the route in quiet meditation. Fortunately the candles are not burning; the path would have been extremely hot otherwise. We also find a Cloister courtyard with statue of Christ and the woman at the well. They are joined at their feet to form a circular structure with them face to face …. depicting the waters of eternal life in the bowl they hold between them.

Across the moors to Inverness in Scotland. Although we would like to have traveled further north, this was to be the closest we would ever come to the North Pole. The major site to see was the tide flowing into the Moray Firth on its way to Loch Ness. We never saw a real sea monster in all of our travels; but I have recollections of a fake one on some lake in Italy!

In Inverness we ordered a worthwhile remembrance of our visit to Great Britain. Karen chose a kilt made from the Colquhoun tartan, of which her Scots-Irish ancestors would approve. As for me, I bought a tie with the lighter, fighting plaid; her kilt was of the darker, dress tartan in deep greens and blues with dashes of red. She also found a clan badge with its antlered stag and motto: “si je puis” – “if I can.” We agreed: she could!

Finally, we headed south. Our hotel in Edinburgh was combined with a large department store located across from Princess Park with its canopied memorial to Bobby Burns. Through the oversized windows in our room we had magnificent views of the City from the Castle to Holyrood Palace with its lion- and unicorn-guarded gates. We visited both of these locations and several others over the next few days.

The Seven Hills of the Athens of the North (and, yes, it is Rome that is known for its seven hills!) share their castles, monuments and ruins. One of them holds the remains of Arthur’s Seat. How the legendary king from southern Camelot ever sat this far north, I’m not sure. Nevertheless, an ancient, inactive volcano desires a noble nomenclature. We were young enough at the time to make the walk from Edinburgh Castle along Princess Street to the monuments on Calton Hill and over to Holyrood Palace. It is great that we began our worldwide travels when we were in our fifties!

St Gile’s Cathedral, displaying the Presbyterian founder, John Knox, was worth a visit; but it was in the Catholic cathedral of St Mary’s, where we attended mass, that we learned firsthand about the reputed values of being a Scot At the end of the liturgy, as the bishop processed out of the Cathedral, the lights were turned off, aisle by aisle, as he marched up the nave. On the other hand, the lights found in my memories continue to burn ever so brightly.

On our third visit to the UK, we avoided London as a place to stay. We took a train directly from Gatwick to Brighton, a seaside resort town on the southern coast. There are as many green-ribbon tunnels from Gatwick to Brighton as there are from the airport to London. And chimney pots and pocket gardens, as well, along the way. We stayed at a place with the non-British name of “The Twenty-One Hotel.” However, it was located at 21 Charlotte Street, within walking distance from the beach. Our Teutonic host had a kosher beard but no yarmulke, although his wife dressed more Iranian when she cooks.

A political party was scheduled to meet in Brighton, but no politicians were in sight on an empty beach early in the morning. The typically British beach had tons of pebbled rocks but no sand to comfort bare feet. Its ticky-tacky boardwalk cum amusement park was called Palace Pier. By now it was lunchtime for fish and chips (with or without mushy peas). As I once began an English vacation with a twisted knee at the British Museum, I now bite down too hard and chipped a tooth!. I do start my travels with strange handicaps. Around us, Americanization continued with venues showing virtual-action contraptions at impossible decibels next to “American Donuts” – along with the ubiquitous “Big Mac” attacking everyone who doesn’t consume the donuts.

It was a short hike to the Royal Pavilion, a fair-provided structure made to resemble an Indian/Persian fantasy outside, with Chinese dragons inside, of all colors, sizes and shapes. The buildings were fashioned like spirals of up-side-down ice-cream cones balanced on a wedding cake. English girls and boys march by as living history dressed in the clothes of chambermaids, cooks, and livery boys. They were on their way to a day of enactment at Preston Manor, a local historical site, where they received a remuneration of 12 £ per year, 28 £ for livery staff. However, they had to buy their own uniforms when employed at Preston Manor.

The following day, on a day-trip train from Brighten to Rye and Eastbourne, we met a Canadian watercolorist and British re-constructionist working on stone masonry in Spain. In Rye we saw our usual parish churches and castle keep. One church had a wall sundial, with flowers hanging down or growing up in all shades of reds, yellows, and golds. We thought that their bell-ringers must be thin to transit the passageway to the bell-pull room near the top of the tower.

Rye had the usual cobblestone streets lined with Tudor-wooded shops. We tried to find one selling scarves, since Karen now had the “hobby” of buying them as souvenirs of our travels; but Rye’s shops were scarf-less. We made a quick pass by the pastry shop of Simon the Pieman. We saw the Mermaid Inn and the “House Opposite to Mermaid Inn.” The Brits like to name places prosaically. While cars were parked along the streets, none moved, allowing pedestrians freedom to patrol the pavement unhindered as they passed from shop to shop.

It was a short cab-ride to Eastbourne and our walks by the sea to white cliffs. Which are older? The cliffs or the couples on holiday, tottering along on riding-chairs. Then, there is the Ditto railroad. But without the rails, what kind of a train can it really be? In Eastbourne no one seems to eat out, or at least the lack of restaurants would so indicate.

A semi-deserted Eastbourne terminal and many qued in Bristol for late cabs. Surely the multi-pierced, young man with blue and white feathers festooning his Mohawk cut is not a member of the new labor government which is holding its “conference,” i.e. convention, in Brighton this weekend. We used our Brit-rail passes for the return to our home-base.

In Southern England we quickly learned how to read Brit-rail timetables. There was a 9:00 (A.M.) train leaving Brighton which, with one stop in Fareham, arrived in Winchester at 10:47 (A.M.). If we would return on the 16:41 (4:41 pm) from Winchester we would arrive back in Brighton at 18:10, giving us plenty of time to roam Winchester and eat dinner on home ground. It was said that the British trains always ran on schedule, if you knew how to find the correct schedule for the itinerary you wanted.

The first sites to see in Winchester were the usual ruins in various stages of collapse or repair: the Ruins of Wolvesey Castle and the Old Bishop’s Palace. We saw their skulled walls with many eye-socket windows staring down upon us as we strolled by. Our first goal was to arrive at Winchester Cathedral. Instead we joined early elders having a cuppa at the United Church coffee house. We also listened to the Mad woman of Winchester, preaching about the temporarily closed Cathedral: “What a nuisance, holding a service at the Cathedral and delaying tourists their due viewing of the attraction.”

We decided the time could be well spent taking the Meadow walk beside the River Itchen, a narrow stream more than a river. We passed by another ruin or functional site, perhaps both: St. Cross Hospital. Much better to enjoy a quiet tromp across hazed water-meadows with songs of unknown birds, certainly not the ducks nor swans. In contrast to the incensed interior of a high-Anglican cathedral, we could smell the earthen damp of the water meadow.

Along the path, we met a Trojan horse, actually a pony, who readily approached us as we walked up to the wire-fence separating him from our path. Karen easily stroked his head. Perhaps he thought her action was insufficient. As she turned away, he nipped her shoulder in lieu of any proffered apple. We completed our stroll and returned to Winchester Cathedral.

Once more we were greeted by oversized, Gothic shelves with statues of kings, bishops and saints. Stacked vertically and horizontally like books waiting to be opened, but usually ignored. Cardinal Beaufort rested in his chapel and Bishop Langton lay next door. Bishop Wilberforce had his own memorial born aloft by six angels. We came upon another bronze statue, neither a saint nor bishop, but a rubber-suited, deep-sea diver, William Walker, who in 1905 helped drain the flooded foundations erected in the Twelfth century.

We came upon Jane Austin’s black tomb with its yellow asters. Nearby was the resting place of Isaac Walton, known for fishing mankind’s foibles. There was St Swithin’s tented shrine, without rain but with a few clouds. We missed Alfred the Great but did spy Arthur’s table mounted on the wall of the Great Hall with Henry III. This pie-wedge Round Table was not from Camelot, but was merely a fourteenth century tourist attraction, now protected by another blackened-bronze statue of rotund Queen Victoria.

Our return train did arrive in Brighton in time for us to enjoy spaghetti carbonara at Al Duomo restaurant, for 28.80 £. It was almost as good as the gael-potato consumed at lunch in a Winchester take-away for 10 £ along with two cappuccinos at one-pound each. When in England, it continued to be more satisfying to dine Italian and snack British.

On the train to Salisbury (Old Sarum), we engaged in a pleasant conversation with a former AMC movie businessman who says it’s hard to shift the Brits from sticky-sweet popcorn to butter and salt. To which I added, it might be even more difficult to get them to add spice to the sausage.

Upon arrival we had planned to walk from the train station, which is always in the center of the town, to the magnificent Salisbury Cathedral. In this instance it was not a short stroll but rather a long, long walk around the outside of the walls protecting the cathedral from invaders.

We found that the Cloisters were a quiet place to rest and meditate before viewing the interior of the cathedral. Once more I pondered: Why do noblemen have effigies with their feet resting on small dogs as they lie in solemn state for the centuries? Can they really find rest in full armor? And why did master carvers spend so much time on angelic and ecclesiastic details for work seen only by God? Certainly choir clerics without zoom lenses would not see them, especially in candlelight.

In Salisbury Cathedral there was even a Clerical section guarded by an orchestra of angels playing medieval horns and stringed instruments. Except for the soaring rood screen dividing clergy from commoners, this Cathedral was not unlike all the other Gothic structures we had visited in England. Perhaps that American couple on the train had been correct: once you’ve seen one Castle or Cathedral you’ve seen them all! On the other hand, we did spy, from the returning train, a white chalk horse outlined on a green hillside. Perhaps, if you’ve seen one ancient depiction, you’ve seen them all!

As York was a good focus-city for day-trips to surrounding Yorkshire sights of the North, London makes a hub for visits to several nearby attractions, for both the common and the cultured. On the two trips in which London served as our base, we traveled by Brit-rail to Canterbury and Windsor.

Reality and history merge in strange ways. It is so hard to accept that real people, not actors, walked towns and fields we saw at the end of the third Millennium. The churches where they prayed still stand much as they did centuries ago. Now few visitors knell; most of them gaze with craned neck to view the high-placed carvings and vaulted ribbed-ceilings. But perhaps those who preceded us were also tourists, come to marvel at the then-new styles of architecture where divinity dwelt.

It was in Canterbury, with it’s Edwardian tombs, beginning with the Confessor, himself, that I began to gain a sense that this was a religious site rather than a place for political memorials. Even with modern crowds, the church was quiet, not silent, but engaged with the sound of murmurings of tourists and their ever-present guides. There may not have been a need for there to be a plaque marking the spot where Thomas a-Becket was martyred; but there is some excitement in knowing that the murderous deed occurred on these very steps.

Although the Cathedral, itself, held mysteries and memories of ancient saints who once knelt there, the surrounding grounds held their own specialness. There were warm gardens with late-blooming roses surrounding benches placed there for thoughtful conversations or prayerful meditations. The ruins of the abbey of St Augustine of Canterbury, not of Hippo, were there to prompt other recollections of past ages. Was he, himself, really buried somewhere nearby? Although a site can bear a marker stating this is his tomb, a skeptic may still wonder about its veracity. Relic-sellers, ages ago, made not dissimilar claims to pilgrims with unfulfilled desires and needs for cures. Perhaps there is some merit in seeing the effigies of those pilgrims created by Chaucer centuries ago as they now are spread throughout the lanes of modern Canterbury.

For a more “modern” age, one only a few centuries after the time of Chaucer, there is a visit to Windsor and its royal Castle, which is still in use. After a short walk from the train station, the visitor comes upon the obligatory effigy of Queen Victoria with orb and scepter protecting the grounds and realm for which they stand. The thick walls are interrupted with round towers on the march towards the entrance to the multiple courtyards they conceal.

Once inside the stone fortress, the gold-hued stones of the palaces and chapels compete with the wooden barracks, hidden elsewhere. The Chapel of St. George has its unique merit as the site for royal events of the present as well as of the past. The entire location looks like a movie-set. Disney created one with white towers and moats; this one is much more realistic!

Leaving Windsor Castle, the modern tourist has the opportunity to wander through the town and cross the bridge to see Eton Boys’ School, the home of well-born British males over the years. A few can still be seen as they do their casual shopping in the town. One or two might even stop at the shop selling men’s fine toiletries. We, ourselves, did not go in; but it was amusing to look at the window display of gentlemanly equipment.

What remain as major recollections of our time in the United Kingdom? While there are many physical sites and sights, perhaps the Brits, themselves, are a true measure of the Island. I’ve already mentioned some of them as we met them throughout our travels. There are others worth a comment. Actually, not all of them were English.

The first one was Jane, a Canadian artist – although not always one. She had been a tenured associate professor in Vancouver who taught French, Spanish and Italian but was sacked when she refused to learn and teach Chinese! She took up watercolors then and has become, in her view, a semi-successful, internationally acclaimed artist. She was returning from Tuscany where she was to have taught a week-long course, but no one showed up. She wanted us to take part next year.

We met her on a day-trip from Brighton to Winchester. That evening we followed her on a journey to find a French restaurant in Brighton, an impossible task on a Friday night. She took inordinate amounts of time at each venue trying to convince headwaiters that there must be a table available. We finally waited at an Italian restaurant for an hour before having a fairly good meal. She was a most needful companion – trying to convince us, if not herself, how she was recognized for her work as evidenced by both French and Italian prizes. However, Margie, Karen’s aunt, is a better artist. Yes, Jane did show us photos of her works and gave us a poster before departing.

The most jubilant person we met was a thirty-six year old man who was on his way from Chester to Penzance to meet his biological mother, about whom his newly-discovered biological sister had informed him. He could scarcely stop telling us how happy, excited and thrilled he was to meet his mother for the first time. Yet he was apprehensive about the two weeks he was to spend in Penzance. He almost didn’t make it, being on the wrong track in Chester!

However, for personal history recitation, few would top the seventy-plus gentleman returning from Chester to York after attending his 45th or so reunion of his WW II regiment. We met him as we waited at Newton le Willows for a connection. He gave us his view of the war years, having been a prisoner of war in Germany before being assigned to guard such prisoners back in England. According to the Geneva Convention he had been released because the doctors thought he was dying. He was saddened that this fifty-year-old son had died last Easter, from colitis, only three days after their working together in the garden. He, himself, was a retired porter at an English agricultural college in York.

Yorkshire men seem to be very talkative, once started. Another one was a physician, actually a surgeon, an ophthalmologist, in fact, on his way from York to London for a meeting. He had book-reviews to complete on the train, but was very willing to converse in the meantime about comparisons between England and the U.S. on a variety of crime and medical professional topics. He had once been a student who heard DeBakey many years ago. He was a typical English physician-type: long and lean, with glasses and a bemused look.

Then there was the Yorkshire couple who were re-visiting Windsor after some forty-plus years. We met them briefly on the way to Windsor and happened to leave the town at the same time, as well. A very lively pair: he with a broad leprechaun smile, and she a pleasant opinionated matron, although more in the line of Edith Bunker than cousin Maude. Certainly not a Hyacinth. (Our pleasant conversation almost caused us to miss getting off the train at Clampton Junction. But he did manage to pry the doors open so we could get off!) The wife probably would have been troubled by the two young Jamaican men we shared a carriage with from Clampton Junction to East Croyden. They worked as professionals in London and looked forward to the weekend, as they munched on their take-aways from MacDonalds.

And yes, take-away memories may be munched upon even longer than those available from a fast-food service. Memories are food for slow digestion.