I woke up at 5:30 this morning, fifteen minutes before my alarm, determined to have one last opportunity to go on a real walk in the Wells area. The rain and storminess from the weekend had finally disappeared entirely, and by 6 a.m. the sun was shining brightly, although it was still quite cold outside. I pulled on my gloves, slipped the ipod earphones into my ears, and headed down the hill from Beryl toward Wells.
My plan was to walk to Wookey Hole, a village not too far from Wells. I’d had this in mind since I saw on my map how near Wells was to Wookey Hole. There was a walk from Wells to Wookey Hole in the book of walks I’d bought at the National Trust shop the other day, but the book’s route was a longer walk that went on to Ebbor Gorge before looping around to Wookey Hole and back to Wells—a total distance of 7½ miles (and described as challenging, "in places requiring you to climb with your hands as well as feet")—a little too challenging and time consuming for this morning before breakfast. But I thought I could use the map and directions to take me to Wookey Hole and back.
The directions took me easily through Wells and along to the point where I had to choose whether to go on or turn toward Wookey Hole. I turned to follow the helpful wooden sign pointing toward Wookey Hill. I realized, as I walked along a narrow paved road winding downhill, that I was off the footpath trail entirely.
But I didn’t care—the road (Lime Gulch Lane) was good for walking, offered nice views, and, unlike the paths, was not muddy. The road was certainly narrow and winding enough to be a path! Just before the intersection with the main road into Wookey Hole, I turned right onto a footpath heading directly into Wookey Hole. 
I was greeted by a friendly group of cows as I passed their field (my path was on the other side of the fence along the field), no doubt wondering why anyone would be out and about so early if not to bring them treats!
Wookey Hole is a strange little town. Its claim to fame is the Wookey Hole Caves, which are open to visitors (though not, of course, at 7:30 a.m.). 
Archeological finds indicate the caves have been occuppied by humans (of a sort) for 50,000 years. Various other tourist attractions have been created around the caves. There is also a story about the "Wookey Hole Witch" (Wookey Hole Caves - History, Mystery & Fun - Wookey Witch) which has been incorporated into the town's propaganda.
I noticed a nice little tearoom (all tearooms are promising to me), which would be a good place to stop if one were passing through Wookey Hole during normal hours of the day! 
There’s not much to do in Wookey Hole early in the morning (if ever), and I was on a tight schedule anyway, what with getting back for breakfast, checking out of the hotel, and so forth, so I turned myself around and headed back toward Wells.
As I recrossed the field toward the cows I contemplated switching over to my book path directions, as an alternative route to the road I had taken. I studied the instructions in the book. At the point where I would leave the footpath and turn onto Lime Gulch Lane, the footpath route would have me turn left and go over a stile (now a gate), and walk uphill across the next field.
I went so far as to go through the gate into the muddy field (the dirt reddish brown with iron), and climb up the steep side to look ahead at the proposed route. There was no clear path, and the directions would have me “follow an uphill track” then later “continue steeply downhill through woodland”—all of which probably included more mud and wet grass. I decided that Lime Gulch Lane would be a fine path to follow back to Wells, and descended back through the gate onto the road. Then I just retraced my steps back into Wells, enjoying the views of the Cathedral as I approached and passed it, finally climbing the hill back to Beryl.
My original plan for the day was to check out of the hotel at 10:30, stop in Wells for a short spell (perhaps visiting Starbucks), then go on to Glastonbury, and finally spend the afternoon at Stourhead Gardens before proceeding on to Bath.
I can tell you right now, it didn’t happen that way. After we packed up to leave, I wanted to work on my computer in the sitting room for a while before I said goodbye to the wireless internet at Beryl. We traded off the stop in Wells for that (which was fine, we had all spent time in town and the Cathedral before, and I had been down in Wells several times on this trip—although always before 7 or 8 a.m., except on Sunday afternoon after the fun run).
By the time we were leaving around noon, I had decided to postpone the trip to Stourhead, because I had told the host at Haydon House that we would arrive at 3:30 p.m., and I knew if we went to Stourhead we would be much later. That left the visit to Glastonbury, which turned out be a much quicker stop than I had anticipated. But we didn’t know that as we were leaving Beryl.
I have often wondered how other travelers seem to accomplish so much more in a day than I do. I have a firm belief that you can only do two major things in a day, sometimes three, particularly if this involves traveling from place to place. Yet I hear again and again about people who are going to four or five different places in a day, and covering long distances getting there, and I just think I could never do that! Nor would I really want to. This kind of kamikaze sightseeing just seems overwhelming and unsatisfying to me. Maybe I am just a travel wimp, but I am truly just as happy spending an hour of my afternoon having tea at the Village Hall in Snowshill, or running in an unexpected fun run in Wells, even those these activities are nowhere to be found in a tourist’s guidebook. In fact, I don’t even like to call myself a tourist (although I know that I am).
At breakfast on Tuesday morning , we sat at the table with a pair of men who had just spent one night at Beryl, en route to other parts of England. They chatted between themselves, and we listened (as you do), and it became apparent that they considered themselves quite the seasoned travelers in England (as do I). Soon it became a subtle competition as to who could present themselves as the most experienced travelers. (It is possible, however, that only I felt there was a competition. Although my father jumped right in by “mentioning” that I had been to England 16 times. Unfortunately I had to correct him and clarify that it’s been in fact 13 times.)
I had heard them talking about going to the Cotswolds—I asked casually where in the Cotswolds they were going. “Stow-on-the-Wold”—and I nodded knowingly, “oh yes, Stow is lovely, and so convenient for other places” (my point). “Yes, we always stay in the same hotel there, we just love it” (their point).
One of them (the one with the aging geek appearance) works in the computer industry—the other (the one with the trendy-stylish glasses) is “retired” from buying for Neiman Marcus and before that Tiffany’s. Now he stays home and gardens, spending about 25 hours a week on the garden. (Okay, point, point, point.) So of course (of course!) they’ve been to all the big gardens—Hidcote, Kiftsgate, Sudeley Castle, even Snowshill Manor—but not Sezincote, because it’s open only a couple of days a week. (Pretty much a tie, because I haven’t been to Sezincote either.)
I recommended going to Snowshill village, because it’s so charming (point for me), and talked about some of the Yellow Book open gardens we’d been to (points for me, because they’d heard of the Yellow Book but didn’t have it); then I ran up and brought them the Yellow Book excerpts for Gloucestershire and Worcestershire (double points for knowledge and generosity, even if they don’t go any of them); but forgot to mention our luck at finding Barnsley House on its open day! (Subtract points for stupidity and forgetfulness.)
But in the end they jumped way into the lead by mentioning that they had gone to the Chelsea Flower Show 2007 in London last week (big points); that the gardening one was a Master Gardener (extra points) and thus learned from his Master Gardener cohorts that he should join the Royal Horticultural Society (more points) , thereby getting to go to the show on Members Only days! (Ding ding ding! That’s the sound of points piling up.)
Well, I had to concede defeat at that point. (If only I had remembered to mention Barnsley House. And did we make it clear that we had a cottage in Chipping Campden?) Of course there really was no competition. Each of us remained certain, I’m sure, that we were the more seasoned traveler, and bade the others a good trip with sincere goodwill.
Our breakfast companions had an ambitious plan for the day. A stop in Wells, then Cheddar, then driving south all the way to Penzance (which takes several hours on the train which goes 125 mph!), with a stop at the Eden Project on the way. I don’t know how long they are planning to stay in Penzance, but then they are driving back up to the Cotswolds for just three days there. That’s way too big a bite for me to even comprehend chewing. But to each their own, I guess.
I’m not completely alone in preferring a less hectic, more contemplative style of travel. There is a movement called “Slow Travel” which encourages the small scale, intensive rather than extensive way of traveling (Slow Travel, vacation rentals, villas, reviews, Europe travel guide ...). One of my favorite travel books, England as You Like It, by Susan Allen Toth, recommends the “thumbprint” method of travel, where you put your thumb on the map and then limit your travel area to the part covered by your thumb (I guess the actual size of that area depends on the scale of your map). England as You Like It also inspired me to start renting cottages and join the National Trust, as well as offering many other ideas and travel tips that were very appealing to me. A few years ago I found a tour company, Gentle Journeys, which offered guided tours in a more relaxing style. If I were ever to consider a group tour (which I find hard to imagine), I would definitely have considered this company. I did go on one of their day trips from London to Sissinghurst a few years ago, and found it very pleasant. However, I see from their website that they have recently dissolved the company, so perhaps traveling gently was not too popular! (Let's hope they just decided to retire from the travel business.)
I’ll admit that some of the people who have traveled with me might take issue with the idea that I travel “gently” in any way! I do keep a full schedule, and some of my activities require a lot of stamina (long countryside walks, for example). But I like to think that I travel a different, nicer path than the average tourist (there’s that word again), and if I skimp on churches and museums (and restaurants) a little, I make up for it with open gardens and village movie nights and (as I pointed out to my mother) Sunday afternoons off the itinerary.
So, on this Tuesday afternoon we headed down to Glastonbury. I’ll admit that it wasn’t well planned out (or planned out at all), and we soon learned that you can’t just drive up to the Glastonbury Tor (a big hill just outside of Glastonbury). We didn’t really want to take the time to find a bus to the base of the Tor, and I don’t think my parents were too hot on climbing it anyway, so we took a quick picture from the side of the road and called it good. I do have a scheme to return later in the week, if time and weather allow.
With all other plans set aside, we turned around and headed north again towards Bath. Bath really isn’t that far from Wells and Glastonbury, and by 2:15 or so we were only a few miles outside of Bath. We weren’t expected at Haydon House until 3:30, so we had time on our hands and I was hungry. Announcing I wanted to stop for something to eat, I kept my eyes open for a potential stop.
Moments later we were approaching a pub called the King William Inn. In an unusual demonstration of decisiveness (the more common reaction is to dither and pass on by), we pulled into the car park and I ran in to see if they were still serving lunch. It was 2:25 and the pub was pretty empty, but the proprieter gave us a nice table and brought menus.
Everything sounded delicious, though I said—apparently heard only by my mother—that I doubted any of us would want the Ploughman’s lunch, since it consists primarily of cheese (which has been our staple for most of the trip). Having been deprived of most foods (other than cheese, bread, and sweets), each of us ordered what we most craved. My mother ordered bangers (sausages) and mash (mashed potatoes), which is not something she eats at home but is a treat she enjoys in England. I ordered a warm chicken Caesar salad (having been too deprived of greens for a while now). And my dad—believe it or not—ordered the Ploughman’s lunch, a plate of bread, cheese, fruit, and a little bit of leaf salad. I also couldn’t resist a bowl of tomato and basil soup, with extra spoons so we could all share.It was a good thing that we got those extra spoons. The piping hot soup came in a bowl big enough to serve four. (And it was delicious.)
All the dishes were beautifully presented, extremely generous portions, and exceedingly tasty. My chicken Caesar salad (dressing on the side, by request, with anchovies, by request) had a pile of lettuce big enough to be a “big salad” for Elaine on Seinfeld, a big portion of tender chicken breast, and shavings of parmesan (and exquisite croutons). 
My mother’s bangers and mash had three large sausages climbing a mountain of mashed potatoes, swimming in savoury rich gravy, and topped with sweet potato crisps. 
Finally,the Ploughman’s lunch was a fine selection of local cheeses (Somerset brie, mature cheddar, and Stilton), a hunk of homebaked bread, some fruit, pickled onions and chutney.
(We had the leftover cheese and fruit that my father didn’t eat wrapped to add to our food collection.)My mother and I, at least, really enjoyed the opportunity to eat something different from what we’ve been eating day after day. I was very impressed with this gastropub (a new style of pub that emphasizes food), because the food was so delicious and generous, and very reasonably priced. (My father would say “for England,” but I would say even converting the prices to dollars it was comparable or only a little bit more than I would pay for a lunch at Anthony’s or Lombardi’s.) Our host, who I later determined was probably the owner, was very nice and showed me around before we left. I think he probably just opened recently, because everything was very spiffy and unworn. While the walls and décor were pale, contemporary colors (cream, celadon, as in the picture), the décor still kept a hint of old-style pub with dark beams and dark wood furnishings (plus delightful needlepoint pillows with dogs on them). The signs outside said that they also offer lodging and banquet facilities. The King William Inn is located in Tunley, Bath, on the B3115 just off on the A367 south of the city center (http://www.kingwilliaminn.co.uk/).
After driving the few remaining miles into Bath, we pulled up in front of Haydon House promptly at 3:30 p.m. I mean on the dot. I have never been so prompt and on-time arriving somewhere before in my life. It was, of course, pure chance and luck. But I was willing to impress the host at Haydon House, who marveled to my mother, “She said 3:30, and that’s exactly when you got here!” I’m quite sure that arrivals at bed and breakfasts are rarely so precise.
Haydon House (Haydon House Home) is one of my long-standing favorite destinations in England. I can’t come to England without going to Bath, and I can’t go to Bath without staying at Haydon House. But I was shocked when I looked up the Haydon House website a few months ago and discovered that the owners were no longer our beloved Gordon and Magdalena Ashton-Marr, but some upstart newcomers named John and Allison Criddle. I learned on the phone that they had bought Haydon House last August. (I was just here in May 2006, with no idea that Gordon and Magdalena would soon be selling!) Although somewhat distressed about the change, I couldn’t give up Bath and Haydon House—so I resigned myself to the new management.
Other than the owners, I first only noticed one big change—they had switched the sitting room and dining rooms, so now the former sitting room was the dining room, and vice versa.
While the change was unsettling, it did give the dining room a nice view of the garden. The sitting room now looked out towards the front path and street. The décor was largely unchanged, except that all of Gordon and Magdalena’s bric-a-brac was gone, and of course the masses of silver-framed family pictures that we had studied each time we came (including pictures of their daughter with Sarah Ferguson, and with Bill Clinton).
Another startling difference—Gordon’s study, next door to the former dining room, once crammed with books and more bric-a-brac, where Gordon had printed out endless maps and directions and copies of their famous shortbread recipe—had been converted to another guest room.Our rooms on the first floor looked exactly the same as before—mine in pink and white Laura Ashley and my parents’ large room (with the gigantic bathroom) in the same cream, peach and aqua shades as it has been for more than ten years.
However, we noticed later, the ubiquitous decanters of sherry were gone, and—much more distressingly—the tins of homemade shortbread had been replaced with small packets of store bought shortbread. It was a shocking, but not so surprising, change. It would have been unlikely that the new owners would want to continue baking trays and trays of shortbread—even though guests like me (and others I know) wait for years to come to Haydon House for a piece of shortbread! Now my copy of the recipe at home is much more precious, because it is the only future source of the scrumptious shortbread. So, I guess anyone who wants Haydon House shortbread will have to go through me. (Gosh, I hope I can find the recipe!)
After loading in our masses of suitcases (spread out into additional bags and carriers during our ten days of car travel), my father and I drove down into the city for a late afternoon walk about Bath. We arranged to meet at 6 and I wandered off to reintroduce myself to Bath. I spotted the Starbucks (in New Bond Street) and marked it on my map for future reference.
Then I just strolled up the main shopping streets, peering into a few shops, bought a book or two at W.H. Smith, and made my way over to the Abbey. It was still beautifully bright and sunny out, so I sat on a bench and read one of the new books for a while (which was largely enjoyable except that despite the sun, there were periodic bursts of wind that were quite chilly!). The crowds were pretty thin for once around the Abbey, so I spent a long time standing in front of the Abbey trying to take a picture with no one in it. I was never quite completely successful, despite keeping my camera at the ready, because every time the scene cleared someone else wandered in! I tried to keep calm but it was difficult not to feel irritated, especially when people seemed to just stand in front of me for no apparent reason! I finally conceded that I had a good enough picture, and headed off to Starbucks before it was time to meet at the railway station.
When I ordered my latte (triple grande nonfat with three pumps sugar-free vanilla, extra hot), it seemed to take a very long time to prepare. The reason became clear when the barrista put out three drinks for me—she had interpreted 3x on the cup as meaning three drinks the same! She added my extra shot of espresso to one of the drinks, and I took one of the extras to give my dad and headed back to the train station to meet him.
Then all that remained of the evening was to fix our own versions of Ploughman’s lunch with our still leftover cheese, rolls, and the fruit we had saved from dad’s lunch! We hoped and anticipated that Wednesday would be as sunny and clear as Tuesday had been. Alas, it was not to be….
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