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.