Ike and I rented the world's smallest car and soon found ourselves sharing the front seat with three enormous suitcases. We had a funny moment when we both went to get in the car and realized the steering wheel was on the right side, followed by a brief moment of panic when Ike set off on the right side of the road (shifting with his left hand, no less) and we veered dangerously towards an oncoming bus. After sorting out our side of the road we stopped at a little place called Pease Pottage for full English breakfast and tea. We pulled our maps out at the table and plotted our route for the next three days. I wanted to see everything; Ike just wanted to know why the exchange rate was 2.10 USD to every pound.
We agreed on driving west along 272 towards Bath and making a stop at Stonehenge along the way. 272 is a lovely two-lane road that winds its way through southwest England, dotted with small villages of dubious names: Fiddleswitch, Lickey End, Piddle Brook, Piddlehinton, and my personal favorite, Bishops Itchington. In fact, there is a lane in St. Andrews called Butts Wynd (pronounced WIND), but more on that later...
We pulled the car over several times to admire such comely little towns as Petworth and Devington, and even got out to take a few tourist-y pictures along the way. Still under the impression that England was the size of Maine, we doddered our way across the south thinking we would have plenty of time in the next three days to do whatever struck our fancy at any given moment, paying little regard to our destination or how long it took to get there. We stopped for a leisurely lunch at a roadside pub called The Seven Bells and I had probably the most amazing and improbable salad of my life. I'm pretty sure it was topped with pickled egg and apples.
We made it to Stonehenge at around four in the afternoon. I love this sensation you get right when you see something (usually from afar) that you have seen in photos your whole life. Stonehenge was that way. After cresting a small hill, the countryside spreads itself out in front of you and smack in the middle is this massive circle of stones -- made even more massive by the total windswept desertedness of the rest of it -- and hoardes of tiny people clustered around it in a perfect circle. All I could think about was the last scene in Tess of the d'Urbervilles when Tess and Angel have been pursued across the countryside (THIS countryside!) for days and they finally make it to stonehenge only to get caught amid the stones while Tess is laid across a slab like a sacrificial offering. Forget the Druids, I was looking at the last stand of Tess!
Apparently in the last couple of years the board of governors at stonehenge (I assume it's something like that, it is England after all) decided they would rope it off, sending visitors around the site counter-clockwise at a distance of about thirty yards. Once a year, during the summer solstice, anyone claiming to be a Druid (or basically looking for a rockin party) is allowed inside the ropes for "worship," although this was shut down a few years ago when things got a little out of hand. Regardless of the ropes, stonehenge is still quite a sight. I would put it up there along with the Duomo, the Matterhorn (in Switzerland), and the Grand Canyon as far as being something that was much, much larger than you thought it would be. As far as a monument to human ingenuity it far surpasses the Eiffel tower. Just have a look at the lintel stones!
Ike and I did the circuit, and it is worth mentioning that the free audioguide is excellent and very informative, even if you have to walk around with this crazy shoe-horn stuck to your ear and then unknowingly be doing that in all your pictures.
Exhausted from our quarter mile stroll and the digestion of the worlds craziest salad, we silently agreed to copy the large group of Germans in front of us and flop down on the grass next to the path. Along with the audioguide, I suggest doing this if you are a fan of napping and/or the softest grass in England. After a ten minute power snooze and a mutual decision to rename the place Naphenge, we set off again towards Bath.
We had made reservations at a bed and breakfast called Apsley House before leaving the states, and I had dutifully mapquested the location and printed out directions before we left. Now, let me preface with this: I never lose things. Ever. And even if I do I can generally conjure up a vague idea of where they might be. Not the case with the mapquest directions. I have no memory of them after the time I hit print on my mom's computer. In fact, they could still be sitting in the paper tray and I would still be digging in my carryon cursing myself silently. It was a classic blunder, and one that I never hope to repeat. We spent the better part of two hours driving around Bath ("I remember typing in Newbridge Road, dad, I swear to god!") and asking various passerby if they had any ideas. The first two women we asked, one in a car and one walking the largest dog I've ever seen, pointed us in exactly the wrong direction while nodding emphatically and assuring us they knew exactly where it was. I finally broke down and walked in another hotel (called Ashley Villa; ensuite bathrooms and enclosed pool -- I don't know much else but the receptionist was VERY nice) and got directions and a map to where we were going. We made it to Apsley House by around 8 pm. A bed has never looked so good.
We wandered down to a pub called the Hop Pole for dinner. After nearly turning back because we thought we were lost, we discovered it was still a ways down the road after asking for more directions. This is the thing about the English. They like to walk. We must have walked three miles to get to this pub that was described by the proprietor as being "a short stroll" away from our hotel. If, however, you tell them that you are driving to Scotland, they look at you like you are suggesting space-flight and shake their heads in awe. Anyways, dinner at the Hop Pole was amazing and would also mark the first of many meals that consisted of meat and potatoes served in varying manners. We trudged back up the hill to our hotel and fell violently asleep at around 8:30.
Breakfast at the Apsley House was a pleasant affair. The house is grand, very grand, and the breakfast room overlooks Bath and the hills to the south. Toast was served in a small ceramic toast-server (?), and everything came on its own plate. Ike got his eggs poached, and it looks like the cracker barrel may be the only place where it is appropriate to order your eggs scrambled with cheese. We finished up and leftApsley House (although it looks like just one night is plenty of time to get emotionally attached to the owners' springer spaniel). We drove into the heart of Bath and parked with the idea of wandering around the city centre and checking out the roman baths.
We wandered up a beautiful pedestrian street towards the town centre, and it was about this time I spotted my first Topshop. If you don't know, Topshop is my favorite store on earth. It is very expensive with the exchange rate, and I really have no business going in there at all, but it is my aesthetic temple and I will travel many miles to make a pilgrimage. This was a small one, but they had two floors of the most fabulous and bizzare clothes you've ever seen. I get very overwhelmed if I've been away for a while, so I had a first pass of everything and walked on down the street to mull over the choices in my mind.
We ducked into a cellphone (MOBILE) store to see about getting a sweet phone for my year here. I realize practically everyone reading this knows about my phone in the states. Remember the duct tape? Bling bling? Well, you can all quit your laughing now because I got a sweet razor phone with ITUNES! They were out of pink so I got red. It's very shi-shi, and even now I like to pull it out and hold it up to my ear as I walk just to feel the thin lightness of it against my cheek. So, if you want to give me a call while I'm on the go, my mobile number is 07928778350. You'll need to add 011 (44) to the front of that and sell your firstborn to cover the cost of the call, but know that it will be worth it because I will be talking to you on my brand new razor phone. Red. With Itunes.
So, clutching my new phone inside my coat pocket, we went to see the Roman Baths. If you've ever seen my bookshelf you will know that I have a mild obsession with Bill Bryson's travel writing (he wrote A Walk in the Woods about the Appalachian Trail). So, I was DELIGHTED to see that the audioguide at the Roman Baths included special commentary by none other than Bill Bryson in a new program called "Bryson at the Baths." The whole place is wonderfully set up. The flow of the museum into the baths themselves is effortless and dramatic. You descend from street level through a series of exhibits, and it is possible to get the feeling that you are going back in time. My favorite bit was the small collection of precious stones that had been found in the drain; presumably popped out of people's ring settings while they bathed.
The thing I love most about most European historic sites is that they don't send you to the gift shop on your way out. Bath was no exception, and at the end you have the choice of stepping back out into the street or turning right and popping into the Pump Room for a quick bite. We chose the latter, and enjoyed a delicious lunch in the largest, most Edwardian dining room I've ever eaten in. There was a woman playing the piano and a man dressed up in knickers serving water from the spring that feeds the baths. It was all very exciting.
We walked back towards the car park, and I couldn't resist going back into Topshop for a second pass. With the hours of proper consideration I made my selections in about twenty minutes, and waited in line for almost 45 minutes under the disbelieving gaze of my father to check out. It was worth it! I got the perfect jeans, the perfect cardigan, and the perfect shoes (leapord-print ballet flats, y'all) to wear around St Andrews. (I know, I know. What kind of person tells people about their shopping? Well, there are a handful of you who will find that very interesting. In fact, a few of that handful will care more about topshop than anything else I write about here, and that is why we are friends)
So, by the time we got out of the car park and onto the carriageway it was almost 4 in the afternoon. We had reservations at another bed and breakfast in the mythic LAKE DISTRICT, and judging by the map it would take a good four hours to get there by superhighway. We shot on up the western coast of England on the M6. I waved at Wales as we passed and shut my eyes at every roundabout. Ike's quote of the day was "if I never see another roundabout in my life..." -- certainly a sentiment shared by all in the car. We basically didn't stop for four hours, and by the time we got to the southern part of the Lake District I couldn't feel my legs. I unfolded my legs and got out to ask directions in Bowness and was astonished when I sighed and could SEE MY BREATH. I realized with a sinking feeling that it was getting colder as we went north, and St Andrews was yet another four hours up the coast.
We made it without incident (except for the one time) to the Beechwood hotel in Windermere around 8:30. We strolled a much shorter distance to another equally agreeable pub for dinner and I had another excellent variation of meat and potatoes. If you are looking for a place to stay in Windermere, I can suggest the Beechwood based on the comfort of the beds alone. They are unsurpassed. I have never felt anything like it.
The next morning, the 15th of September, we were treated to more fabulous English breakfast. This one had mushrooms instead of beans and probably the best sausage I've had in my life. The rest of the people joining us in the dining room were older English couples, an observation that Ike made with a certain degree of satisfaction as he likes to stay where the locals stay based on advice from my grandfather. We asked the husband and wife who owned the hotel (and also cooked and served us breakfast) what the best and most scenic route through the Lake District would be. They were two of the most accommodating and wonderful people and we even got a "jolly good" from the wife, an expression I've been waiting to hear used by a real English person for probably my whole life. They pointed us on down the road, and we left for the next leg of our journey (culminating in Scotland!!) at around 9 in the morning.
Next post... to Scotland!
