Travelling the One-Track Road

London Calling

2009-05-12T16:00:00.000-07:00

After reading Pasta Queen's post mentioning her "travel playlist," I was inspired to go to iTunes and download a few of the songs to my own iPod. Then I was further inspired to do a search for "London," and ended up downloading a whole pile of songs with "London" in the title.* My only criteria was that it sounded like a song I wouldn't mind listening to. So there's a wide variety of genres, including rock, pop, alternative, dance, easy listening, and one ringtone of "Mind the gap."

So here's my London playlist, check it out!

*The only one without "London" in the title is Bach's Air for the G String, performed by the London Symphony Orchestra, which I threw in just because it is such a lovely piece.

Picture links

2009-05-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

Many of the posts from this last England trip have links to Facebook photo album. I didn't realize, when I was doing this, that the "public" links to Facebook are only good for about a week. So if anyone who happens to be reading one of these posts wants to see those pictures, leave me a comment and I will provide a new public link!

A few pictures from the Bath Half

2009-04-16T14:18:00.000-07:00

I splurged and spent mega-pounds on the downloadable picture package from the Bath Half. It truly was a splurge, as in the end there were only a few of the pictures that I could actually stomach (that didn't make me look like I weighed mega-pounds as well). Furthermore I can't quite figure out how to properly download all this content, so it is very possible that in a day or two or few I will lose everything except the ones I have particularly saved!

So here, for posterity, are some gold-plated photos of my run in Bath.

This first one must be near the beginning. I deduce that because it was the first one in the series.
We are still in the city here, as you can see from the buildings in our background.
I must have seen the photographer here... there are several in a row where I am grinning broadly and I can't imagine any reason why except for the photo op! You will notice from these pictures that I, and most of the people around me, have green bibs. The bib color signifies our starting wave, which is based on our estimated finish times. The white bibs are the fastest groups, then the greens, then the oranges. You can see, in the pictures, that most of the bibs around me are green. This is encouraging, because at least I was relatively holding my own! In the second photo I did, however, spot a speedy orange bibber at the left front, as well as, what's this, a white bibber behind me in the the third shot!

I never wrote a real race report for this run because, from a racing standpoint, it was a real disappointment to me. But now, a month later, the scars have pretty much healed—although I still don't like to think about my time—and I can remember it in a more positive light.

There were a few things about this race unique to any run I've ever done (other than the excrutiatingly slow time).

First, and definitely coolest, I got to see the front running racer (and probable winner) go by with all his entourage. This happened because the race was essentially a double loop. About a mile or so after the start in Great Pulteney Street, we did a big loop through town, which took us to about 10K. Then we repeated the town loop, and finally traced our original steps back to the finish line, at the same place as the start. Somewhere during the first town loop, we heard sirens and megaphones directing runners to keep left; then on the right we were passed by a vehicle carrying the time clock, followed shortly by the lead runner. He was quickly on his way, never to be seen again (by me).

The other new experience I had was something I'm sure other people have seen in other races, but which has been uncommon in the rather modest, sedate runs I've done in the past. That is, of course, runners relieving themselves by the side of the road. Mostly men, although I'm sure I also saw a few women ducking off into the bushes. There seemed to be certain spots along the way—all outside the town center—that were magnets for peeing runners. I suspect there is some kind of a tradition relating to this race, and perhaps the regulars take pride in marking the side of the road as they go!

There were, by the way, porta-potties along the route, all of which had some kind of line when I passed them. So not everybody was willing to drop trou in public!*

Unlike the U.S races I have done, the water stops were stocked not with paper cups of water, but small bottles instead (just like the elites). The stations alternated between water and Lucozade, which is a Tang-like orange bottled sports drink. I had actually started the race carrying my own mini-bottle of water, so I bypassed the water stations until after I threw away my empty bottle. I'm not crazy about carrying a bottle—I think it slows me down, although I do it when I'm running at home—but it was a warm day and I was loathe to give up my water. In fact, a while after I ditched my bottle I became quite thirsty, enough that I was desperately awaiting the next station. That happened to be a Lucozade station, which I took happily, hoping not only to quench my thirst but perhaps get a boost from the sugar in the drink! I kept that bottle until I traded it for a new water bottle sometime later. Since they were providing whole bottles, the stations were not as frequent as they might have been if the water was only provided in little cups. In fact, I think the water station where I got my bottle might have been the last one in the race.

It was a sunny, warm day, and since the race didn't start until 11:30—delayed from 11:00 due to difficulty clearing traffic—we were running in the height of the day. What is it they say about mad dogs and Englishmen? I had left the hotel a little past 9:00, wearing a jacket, but by the time we actually started I had taken the jacket off and tied it around my waist. I wished, desperately, that I would see my parents on the route so I could throw it at them and be done with it, but of course, with hundreds of people lining the street, that didn't happen.

The crowd support was fantastic. The papers said hundreds of viewers (and 15,000+ runners), but I felt like there were thousands stretched along the miles. In the more central town parts of the race, the crowd was packed many deep. Only in the most remote stretches were there few observers, and even there we would be cheered by a handful of people every few feet or so. Many of our supporters were children, and every time one stuck out his or her hand I slapped it as I passed. I figure that I was slow enough that the fractions of seconds it would take to high five someone (or a lot of someones) would not make a major difference to me!

Despite the huge number of runners I never felt sardine packed. I was able to run at my own pace easily (unfortunately that happened to be a slow pace). The sardine situation happened only after we crossed the finish line and were ushered into the exit area to pick up our goody bags and make our way to the street. The goody bags included our medals, t-shirts (size large for everyone, very efficient), and some snacks and drinks. I was not the only person ripping open a granola bar as we shuffled along!

That was pretty much the end of it all. I finally got to the street, met my parents over by the Abbey, got an ice-cream cone then walked back up the hill to the hotel. I was feeling a little mopey and depressed over my performance, so I'm afraid I wasn't very good company. It was after that that I decided not to run Whidbey two weeks later, and take some time before doing another race.

In the end it didn't take much time. One month after Bath I signed up for Bloomsday, which is coming in just a little more than two weeks. So, we shall see... I am optimistic!

*I maintained my streak of never needing to stop for a bathroom in a race—although this one was a close call because I had mild cramps throughout, but never amounting to anything urgent enough to stop.

One more thing before I go

2009-03-26T12:30:00.000-07:00

Or two. I have a couple more posts in me before the travel blog goes into hiatus. Don't know when I'll get them together... but soon.

Penzance, Newlyn, Mousehole, and the train back to London

2009-03-19T16:17:00.000-07:00

I wrote about today in my running blog, click here to read it. More pictures here. Tomorrow we head home.

As I was going to St. Ives

2009-03-18T13:25:00.000-07:00

This morning started out foggy and windy (you would think the two would be mutually exclusive, but they were not), so I shelved my original plans to walk the coast path to St. Ives and instead rode along on the train with my parents. It's a 30-40 minute trip on the train, including a change in St. Erth. The trains are little three-car commuter trains, a far cry from the big train that travels to and from London!

In St. Erth we hopped off the train from Penzance—this one was going on to Plymouth—and crossed over to the St. Ives platform, Platform 3.* We had about ten minutes wait for the connecting train. The ride to St. Ives, though, took just another fifteen minutes.

The St. Ives station is about a quarter mile or so outside of town, and you can walk into town on a footpath that follows the coastline. This is the same footpath that turns into the coast path going away from St. Ives.

St. Ives, known as an artists' colony, looks like a painting itself, all pale shades of gold and grey and white. It has a little bit of the exotic—palm trees—and a good dose of tourist attractions, as it is a popular holiday spot, especially in the summer months. In the late winter it has an out-of-season charm, although on this sunny day the streets and sidewalks were hardly deserted.

We wandered along the waterside street, location of numerous restaurants and pubs, pasty and ice cream shops, and probably an arcade or two. I was trying to walk by the bed and breakfast we had stayed in before, but couldn't quite remember where it was. It is always strange when you come back to a place that had been so familiar years ago, and you feel like you should know where things are but can't quite sort it out!

My wanderings led us to the other side of St. Ives, which also looked familiar but slightly confusing. Then we walked right by Bumbles Tea Room, where my mother and I had once had a lovely cream tea. (Of course, that didn't set me straight but it was nice to see it again!) What did help was a sign pointing to “Fore Street.” I wasn't sure what Fore Street was but I suspected it was somewhere we might want to be. We walked in the direction of the arrow, and walked right into a Cath Kidston shop! Cath Kidston is sort of a Laura Ashley for the 21st century—purveyor of lovely patterned fabrics (many of them in candy-coloured stripes and florals) made into all kinds of accessories for the home and kitchen. I went in “just to look” and emerged with a few things...a pair of pajamas, a large stripey “laundry bag” which may very well find a role as an airplane carry-on, and a few other smaller bags which may or may not turn into gifts.

We had now entered shopping nirvana. Strolling up and down the surrounding street, I popped into a couple of clothing stores (yellow floral cotton sundress) and several of the child and baby stores that seemed to be rampant in St. Ives. Shopped out—or at least restrained by some sense of reason—we considered stopping for a Cornish pasty at one of the many pasty shops lining the streets. But my father wasn't interested, so I pulled the plug on St. Ives and hustled them back toward the railway station.

Leaving my parents (with the shopping bags) on the platform waiting for the train, I returned to the coast path and started in the direction of Lelant Saltings, about four miles away. I figured it couldn't be too hard to get to, as the coast path follows the cliff's edge above the seaside, and also tracks the route of the train. But while the train's track is level and mostly straight or gently curving, the coast path undulates up and down hills, and zigs and zags across the landscape. In some spots I could look down onto the golden beaches and sparkling surf; at other times I was surrounded by trees and greenery. The final stretch, shortly before I turned into Lelant, was almost dune-like, with beach grass and sand even high above the water.

About a mile or so from the station I approached Carbis Bay. I have memories (somewhat fond) of Carbis Bay, because five years ago my mother and I walked from St. Ives to Carbis Bay, then rode the train back to St. Ives. There is a long, steep hill from the footpath up to the station, and we only had a few minutes to get up it before the train arrived. My mother would happily have waited for the next train, but trains are few and far between, so I threatened and cajoled her up the hill as fast as we could go. When we did get to the top, we almost could not figure out how to get onto the platform, but the train operator told us to take our time, and we made it on without a problem. In retrospect, we could have just stopped at the Carbis Bay Hotel and had tea, but we didn't think of that until later.

On a couple of occasions I did worry whether I was going the right way. Once the path split and I truly did not know which was the right way. I think I actually chose the wrong way, a pathway that accessed waterfront residences rather than the actual coast path, but after a somewhat panicked enquiry to a man in a garden (after the path seemed to end at a rail crossing), I crossed the train tracks and rejoined the actual footpath.

In Lelant the path ended, for my purposes anyway, and I walked through town toward the Lelant Saltings Station. There is a Lelant Station, but the train only stops there a couple of times a day, and then only by request, and this wasn't one of those times. At Lelant Station I asked a man in the car park if I just kept on the same road to Lelant Saltings Station, and he said yes, but warned me it was much further than it seemed!

It was about 3:15 at that time, and the train I wanted arrived at 3:35; after that there wouldn't be another train for an hour. I picked up my pace to a brisk walk, hoping that the station wasn't much more than half a mile away, thinking that 3:25 would be a reasonable time to get there.

I walked, and I walked, and I walked. 3:25 arrived, and I was approaching the intersection with a major road. That worried me a bit, as it didn't seem consistent with my map. But at the road I saw the railroad symbol on a street sign, so I knew I was still on the right track, though quickly running out of time. I followed the signs into another road, then into a housing estate, wondering if this could really be right. Spotting a couple of women ahead with a baby carriage, I shouted to them, “where does the train stop?” They pointed in the direction I was going, so I kept on.

Finally I reached the parking lot, crossed it, and climbed up to the platform. I got there at 3:32, with three minutes to spare! Enough time to sit on a bench and take pictures of the train when it approached.

From there it was just a couple of minutes ride to St. Erth, then a ten minute wait for the Penzance train. By a little past 4:00 I was back at the hotel, just over two hours after I left the St. Ives station.

Tomorrow morning we head back to London, on the 10 a.m. train to Paddington.

To see more pictures of St. Ives and the coast path, click here.

*Five years ago we had the hardest time figuring out which platform was for the train to St. Ives. Now it seems ridiculously well marked. I don't know if we were just blind and stupid back then, or whether they've improved the signage!

A Sunny Day in Penzance

2009-03-17T14:54:00.000-07:00

After I finished breakfast this morning and while I was still sitting in the dining room using my laptop, Ben (assistant manager and breakfast cook) mentioned the sunny day we were having, saying “it is hot out there!” I had already been out running, and though it was bright and sunny and pleasant for running, I hadn't especially noticed it was what I would call “hot.” (And I'm from a part of the U.S. where people break out their shorts—cargo shorts of course—when the temperature breaks 50º!)

But I took note of his comment and my own observations, and when my mother and I headed out around 11:00, instead of a warm coat I put on a khaki jacket. And brought my sunglasses, of course.

The sunglasses came into use almost immediately, for it was quite bright out. We followed the streets around the hotel (into a very uninteresting area that my mother called “a total waste of time,” primarily because it required walking up a longish hill to get back to the main streets). We did emerge into one of the primary town streets, however, the politically incorrectly named Market Jew Street, and walked up it into Causeway Head, another main shopping street. We weren't shopping, really, so instead of stopping we just strolled along, taking special interest in the windows of various bakeries, all of which exuded the tantalizing smell of freshly baked Cornish pasties and other savoury treats (as well as your typical bakery goods, including a plethora of hot cross buns and other yeast buns).

On the way back down we succumbed to one such shop, and decided to get Cornish pasties* for our lunch (it was noon by then). Cornish pasties, if anyone is not already familiar with them, are essentially turnovers, filled either with a traditional steak and potato filling, or variations such as chicken, cheese and onion, etc. There were a number of different options at this shop (as well as other pastry wrapped goodies, like sausage rolls), but I didn't look much further than the steak pasty. We each got a “cocktail-sized” pasty, which is not nearly as tiny as it sounds (I would consider cocktail-size to be the size of a potsticker). This is what I would call “small,” about four inches wide, I would guess. The “small” size is at least medium in my book, “medium” is quite large, and “large” would probably feed a family of four.**

We sat on a sunny bench to eat our pasties (after standing around for a few minutes glaring at the couple who had dared to sit on the bench before we got to it). Eventually they had to leave. Perhaps they felt uncomfortable being stared at....

The one disadvantage to the cocktail-sized pasty is that there was a plethora of potato in the filling and only a couple bits of steak. Well, nobody ever called Cornish pasties—or English food in general—low carb!

After our snack—er, lunch—I wanted to take my mother down to the Promenade where I had run earlier, to walk along the seaside. On the way, however, we spotted a sign saying “to the gardens.” I had to follow, and it led us to Morrab Gardens, described as a “subtropical garden”—whatever subtropical means. There were palm trees, but also rhododendrons and camellias growing happily. We walked around the outside path and then into the inside path, stopping at least once to sit on a bench in the sun.

We were not the only people flocking to the park on a sunny day. We passed several occupied benches before we found ours, and in the inner garden there were mothers and children playing, and even a few brave souls sitting on the grass—which still had to be a bit cold and damp at this time of day! I did not, however, see anyone wearing shorts.

Leaving the park, we continued onward to the Promenade. Despite the sun, it was not hot out, and in the shade it was rather cool. In the wind it was downright chilly! And there were some decent wind gusts out on the Promenade. Still, we walked the length of the Promenade to the end of town, then turned back. As we turned, we noted that the wind had been at our backs on the way out, and now we were walking right into it on the return. Not great for hairstyles.***

One of the views from the Promenade was back toward the Jubilee Pool, a public saltwater bathing pool in Penzance. I loved its Art Deco gate and the old fashioned name "bathing pool." In this long distance picture, you can also see St. Michael's Mount at the right, a small island now owned by the National Trust, home to a medieval castle and gardens.

Back in Chapel Street I pointed my mother down Abbey Road toward the hotel and continued back into the center of town to shop for our next meal. Yes, soon it would be tea time and treats would be called for. I had noticed in our early shopping that yeast buns were prolific and scones were scarce around Penzance, which seems odd as Cornwall is famous for clotted cream. The bakery we had stopped in earlier had packaged scones, which would have to do. They also had... Battenburg Cake.

I popped into a Co-op Food store to procure clotted cream. It was a beautiful sight, stacks of Rodda clotted cream, in several sizes. It was enough to inspire all kinds of gluttony. But I did, as a cautionary measure, study the nutrition information before I went truly crazy. About 500 calories per 100 grams.**** A generous serving for tea is about 50 grams. You could definitely use less, but I was being realistic. It's definitely not diet food, and a better person than me would shun it by a mile.

(I'm not that person.)

So I brought back the goodies, made a pot of tea, and my mother and I had a homey tea party in our sitting room, while watching Murder She Wrote (my mother's choice) on TV. Just another afternoon in England.

My father was out on the train and didn't make it back for tea. We had expected him early, so this caused a bit of alarm, but he finally appeared at 5:30 and said that he had gone to the loo. No, wait, he had gone to Looe on the train. This required a change of trains so took longer than a simple out and back journey.

Instead of trying to go out to dinner—none of were interested in that—I went back out and up the street to pick up takeaway fish and chips. A mountain of chips topped by a whale of a deep fried fish filet—just what I need. Back into the running shoes....*****

Incidentally, I only realized it was St. Patrick's Day today when I logged into Google and saw their shamrock-strewn logo. Throughout the day, I barely saw another reminder. In contrast, five years ago we happened to be in Penzance on St. Patrick's Day, and although it was hardly a wild scene, we did see people walking around the streets wearing tall Guinness hats that looked like the Cat in the Hat's hat, except Guinness colours. They got them by purchasing a certain number of Guinnesses in the pubs. Drinking the Guinness was not required, but I'm sure most did not throw it away! This year is much more toned down. There is an effort to curb binge-drinking in England, and that probably has put a perhaps much-needed damper on St. Paddy's Day celebrations.

For more of today's pictures, you can click here.

*Pronounced with a short “a,” like the crust.
**I may exaggerate just a bit... it's probably growing in my mind by the minute. But definitely big enough for two or three people.
***Hairstyle? I have used that curling iron I bought at Boots exactly one time, and that time was not today.
****Equivalent to a 4.5 mile run. Nice.
*****That was just for effect, as I'm not planning to run tomorrow. I'm hoping to walk the coastal path near St. Ives, if all goes well. Right now the wind is whipping around like a—um—really strong, noisy wind. But the guy in the fish shop said it is supposed to be nice the rest of the week until the weekend. So we shall see.

The long, long road to Penzance

2009-03-16T14:41:00.000-07:00

We left Bath early this morning to head south to Penzance. In what most would consider a ridiculous plan, we took the train back to London and then caught the 12:06 to Penzance. The rationale was that it would be easier than taking a train from Bath to Penzance, as all the routes appeared to involve two train changes. With our many bags, we didn't fancy any more train changes than absolutely necessary. With our railpasses, there was no extra cost involved. However, it made for a long day, with an hour and a half on the train from Bath to London, an hour and a half waiting at Paddington Station, then a five-hour trip to Penzance—literally, a full day's travel!

The wait at Paddington wasn't quite as tedious as I expected. With a number of shops, food venues, and even a Starbucks, Paddington Station is a little city unto itself. I amused myself by getting a latte at Starbucks, then picking out sandwiches at the Marks & Spencer food shop to take on the train for our lunch. (Someday I am going to write an entire post on the vast, delicious variety of ready-made sandwiches for sale in England!)

Fortunately, we had made advance seat reservations for the train, as even the first class carriages were fuller than I had seen them. We were able to claim a full four-seat section (three of which were our reserved seats), and my father wandered to the next carriage where he found an unoccupied seat block for himself (we all like to have our space).

The train trip from London to Penzance is quite scenic, through countryside as well as along water. We entertained ourselves by alternating between reading, watching the view, napping, eating our sandwiches, and scoring free diet coke and water from the buffet cart.

Penzance is a seaside town, with a picturesque harbor and steep cobbled streets. Our hotel, the Abbey Hotel, is tucked into one of those streets about the harbor (Abbey Street) and may possibly be a former abbey—at least it has some very churchy-shaped windows! It's now painted a bright Wedgwood blue on the outside and decorated in other vibrant tones. The owner is former '60's model Jean Shrimpton, but her son manages it (so we learned from the chatty assistant manager, Ben).

It's just reopened this month after being closed for renovations. We're staying in “the Suite,” an apartment with an entrance separate from the main hotel building. We have two double bedrooms, a large bathroom, and a very large sitting room with a down-filled sofa and chairs, a big wooden dining table,and a spectacular harbor view. Plus, satellite or cable TV (whatever it takes to get more than four channels). Of course all those channels are hardly a benefit when I have no idea what is on. I've been doing a little channel flipping and have yet to get exceptionally excited—sort of like the channels at home. Hey! I just found Friends! (Also like the channels at home.)

We went to dinner at a rather nice restaurant called the Bakehouse. At first I was very dubious (some might say pissy) because the décor was too nice and the menu seemed too fussy for my taste (my travel taste, which tends to cheap and simple, at least in England). But we stuck it out and I must say the result was a pleasant surprise. They had an early bird menu, from which you can choose either a starter and entree, or entree and pudding (dessert) for a set price of £12. The entree selections were a bit too creamy and carby for my taste, but I settled on smoked mackerel fillets with salad and mustard mash (mashed potatoes, yes, but it's a set menu—what can you do?). And it was really good. Very generous portions, two large pieces of smoky fish and a good-sized scoop of tangy potatoes.

Then we all had dessert as our second course. I am somewhat ashamed to say (considering my criticism of the creamy entrees) that I ordered the ice cream topped with clotted cream. I must add, however, that the meringue with berries and cream that my mother ordered had a much larger dollop of clotted cream on it! (My dad also had the ice cream.) Both puddings were quite delicious.

I'm surprisingly tired for a day in which I did little more than sit on a train. Tired, and kind of full of clotted cream. Once again, the wireless signal is not strong enough to receive in our room, so I am sitting on a chair across from the reception desk, in the rather drafty entry hall to the hotel, not having bothered to bring a coat! The sacrifices I make! I am counting the moments till I am back to our cozy sitting room (and, er, the TV....).

I am too tired to post any more pictures here, but you can see some scenery pictures taken from the train, and some pictures of our hotel "suite," by clicking here.

Today was the Bath Half Marathon (in case you hadn't heard)

2009-03-15T13:38:00.000-07:00

The entire day today was devoted to the Half Marathon in Bath. Not just my day—though it was, for sure—but everyone, everything, and everywhere in central Bath was somehow occupied with the race from early this morning until about 3:30 in the afternoon.

The run was supposed to start at 11 am, but at about 10:00 there was an announcement in the starting area that there would be a 30 minute delay, as the police were not done clearing the streets, and so in fact the race would now start at 11:30. This was probably a tremendous relief to the people standing in the porta-potty lines. Not so much for those who had already taken their turn and had to wait a half hour more than expected to start running.*

In my trips to and from the two Starbucks, and trying to do a warm-up run around the nearby streets, everywhere I looked I saw people in running clothes and race bibs, sometimes accompanied by friends dressed in street clothes. The few genuine tourists around, some trailing their rolling suitcases behind them, unaffiliated with runners, probably felt rather bewildered by the mobs surrrounding them on an otherwise unspectacular Sunday morning in Bath.

15,000 people had registered for this run, and by 11:15 they were all congregated in the area around the Pulteney Street start line.

In addition to the 15,000 runners, there appeared to be that many and more people lining the streets of Bath to watch and cheer the runners. Much of the way, and particularly in the the in-town portions of the run, spectators were lined several deep, packing the sidewalks. Even in the most remote portions of the run, which would be the outer parts of the loop at about four miles and nine miles, people were scattered along the road clapping and cheering as we ran by.

The route was configured so that we essential ran the whole thing twice. From the start in Pulteney Street, we followed Pulteney Road then veered into the city center just west of the railway station. We ran around Queen Square (three sides) then west along Upper Bristol Road until it joined with Lower Bristol Road, turning and following Lower Bristol Road back toward town there. Shortly past the 10K point we turned back into the city center, then repeated the Queen Square, Upper and Lower Bristol Road portions. Finally, we stayed on Pulteney Road all the way back to the finish line (same as the start).

After crossing the finish line all the runners were herded along toward a rugby field which is below the Parade Gardens on the river (I think this is the location, I just followed the mob). It took more than half an hour from the time I crossed the finish to make my way out to the street, where I had a very quick walk over to the Abbey Courtyard to meet my parents.

I had told them I would meet them at 2:00. I must have been somewhat prescient, because although I got there at 2:30, when you consider the half hour delayed start, I was right on schedule. Even over by the Abbey, at least every other person I saw was a runner, now wearing a finisher's medal around his or her neck!

My parents were waiting, as directed, on a bench outside the Tourist Information Centre, in the shadow of Bath Abbey.** As a post-race treat, I bought us each an ice cream cone.

After that, all we really wanted to do was go back to the hotel. We headed back toward the railway station, because that was the direction of the hotel. Either we could catch a taxi or start walking uphill from there. The roads which had been closed to traffic were open again now, and apparently everyone in Bath was ready to go somewhere in a taxi. Waiting in line did not seem appealing. (Of course, if you ask my mother, walking up the hill was not in the least appealing either.)

Earlier in the morning I had measured the walking distance from the hotel to the railway station and found it was "only" about 1.1 miles. "Only" 1.1 miles is one thing walking downhill, but quite another going uphill! Still, we plugged along up the hill and actually, my legs didn't feel too bad while I was walking. It was just every time I stopped for a while that they got stiff!

I returned to the hotel a bit past 4:00 and, truly, the whole day had revolved around the half marathon. The only thing left to do was take a shower and head back down to the Bear pub (half a mile from the hotel, per this morning's measurements) for dinner.

Some other pictures from the half-marathon—mostly of other people running, as my parents never managed to spot me—can be viewed here.

*Ninety minutes? That would definitely call for at least one additional potty stop before the start. I personally went four times between 10 and 11 a.m. (it's a running thing, not a bladder infection), each time at Starbucks, with a wait of no more than four persons ahead of me each time. No porta-potties for me! (I noted that every time I passed the large banks of porta-potties, they had very, very long lines.)

**That is a figurative expression. The sun was still out and there was no shadow in our direction.

I really don't like other people

2009-03-14T13:58:00.000-07:00

I know that sounds bad. If that were completely true, I would be a misanthrope. (I wanted to throw that word out there because I spent some effort finding it.)

There are a lot of people I do like—my friends, family (most of the time), the people I work with and see at work—that makes dozens, maybe hundred(s) of people who don't drive me crazy (or who I am willing to tolerate even when they do). I am willing to consider that there are people out there who I don't know, but might meet in future, that I will also like. So no, I do not hate all humankind.

However, I do hate people en masse. In crowds. In airplanes and train carriages and department stores with sales. And most of all, in my pictures!*

My entire objective in travel photography is to take pictures of sights populated with absolutely no extraneous people. No crowds massing around a fountain or heads bobbing in front of a cathedral or, worst of all, bystanders in a garden scene.** I know it's unnatural, but I prefer my pictures to look like postcards.

I think I wouldn't mind having people in my photos if people weren't generally so unattractive. Really, there are some amazing ugly people walking around in the world. Especially in foreign countries. Especially in tourist locations.*** Or in London, generally.

Let me fine tune this a little more. I have forced myself to tolerate people, even crowds, in the background of my photos. I really have no control over that, although I have minimized it by traveling when others choose not to, e.g. during the foot and mouth scare in England (early summer 2001), right after 9/11 (autumn 2001), at the peak of the unfavorable pound/dollar exchange rate (2006 & 2007) and during a major recession when nobody can afford to travel despite a vastly improved exchange rate (right now).

Sometimes, dare I say, a few people in the distant background even add to the ambience of a picture. I am thinking fondly of a favorite picture from Barnsley House and Garden in 2001, when the garden was still owned by the Rosemary Verey family and was open to the public, where the other visitors strolling about gave the impression of a garden party.

No, it's the odd person or pair who walks right into the middle of your carefully composed shot just at the moment everyone else has cleared away, who makes me want to tear out my hair by the roots. At Piccadilly Circus the other day, a man was just standing idly in front of my mother while she was clearly pointing the camera in my direction. Today, while I was taking a picture at Sally Lunn's (and clearing that space was a task, everyone wanted to go in to eat), a bald man persisted in standing in front of the otherwise deserted shop window, studying the menu, if you can imagine that! The absolute nerve of him!

You can, if you would like, have a look at my pictures from Bath today. There aren't too many, not so much because of the people around, but because I have been to Bath so many times I have less of a compulsion to take pictures here.

While I am confessing my anti-social tendencies, I will also admit that I like riding in first class on the train because, in addition to the nicer seats and free refreshments, there are very few people and no children in the first class carriages. Much calmer and quieter! And, although I enjoyed sitting with my laptop in the pub this afternoon, I was happy to leave in the evening when it became crowded and noisy, and retreat to our peaceful B&B. I am, I confess, an unapologetic introvert!****

To read today's running post, click here.

*Excluding people who I choose to put in my pictures.

**My temper tantrum while trying to photograph the Queen's Rose Garden at Sudeley Castle in 2001 is legendary. Well, I remember it well. But I was patient and eventually I got some beautiful shots sans people!

***I know I'm not one to talk. On this trip I have been devoting all of 20 minutes to getting ready in the morning, have basically abandoned my hair altogether (although I did buy a curling iron at Boots today), and spend all my time in either an LL Bean Gortex or Polartec jacket, depending on the temperature. I'm sure no one's exactly excited to see me wandering through their view finders!

****I might add, I talk to tons of people every day at work. That probably also contributes to my joy in solitude.

Hello Bath (goodbye London)

2009-03-13T14:19:00.000-07:00

Today's post is on my running blog... click here to read.

Goodbye London, Hello Bath

2009-03-13T03:03:00.000-07:00

In a few hours we will be leaving London and catching the train to Bath (from Paddington Station). Then, two days from now, the Half Marathon! The course description promises "flat," although the detailed description makes references like "climbs gently (but remorselessly)." So we shall see.

I forwent (is that the proper past tense of forgo?) running this morning to give my legs a chance to rest up for the long run on Sunday. For the last couple of days my quads have been rather achy, don't know why exactly, and my ankle and achilles tendon have been quite tender. In fact, yesterday when my mother and I were walking and stopped to rest, I tried rubbing the back of my leg and it was sore to the touch. I was limping a little too, but luckily (though mysteriously) that doesn't seem to transfer into running.

This morning my legs feel fine, though, and my ankle is barely sore at all. That's actually kind of unusual for London. The last time I was here I remember my whole body aching in the morning when I got up to run, thanks to all the pavement pounding during the day. Maybe we've been taking it a little easy so far. (Day on the train, anyone?)

I had intended to walk to Regent's Park with my dad before breakfast today, but before we even got to Euston he tripped and fell off a kerb and scratched up his hands and face. I insisted that we return to the hotel, where he got ice and bandaids ("plasters") from the hotel staff. Other than an incipient black eye, he seems to be okay, luckily.

But the lack of exercise did not prevent me from eating a large, rather carb-laden breakfast. I have taken to heart the advice from a recent Bath Half newsletter:

As you begin to taper your training you should also gradually increase your carbohydrate intake. Foods such as potatoes, rice, pasta, bread, bananas, jelly sweets and Lucozade Sport are all high in carbohydrate and low in fat.

I've tapered (reduced mileage, down to zero today!) and this week I've been carb-loading for England (with some disregard of the "low in fat" suggestion).

I'm as ready as I'm going to be. Not much I can do now! Other than avoid injury myself and refrain from eating foods that could bring on intestinal stress, or distress, on Sunday. So yesterday's foray into clotted cream, and, er, fish & chips for dinner, was a one-off. At least until after Sunday.

I don't know what my internet access will be like in Bath and Penzance over the next week. I hope to have it. But if not, the blog will be silent for a few days. Then I will be back as soon as I can with the race results!

One day in London

2009-03-12T14:26:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you have only one full day in London?

It helps if shopping is not a priority. Many of my pasts days in London were occupied with hitting one shopping venue after the next. It was fun, if exhausting, but now I have all that stuff and don't need much more. (Don't need some of that, either.) Plus, it's Thursday, and if I wanted to go to, say, antiques markets, I would be out of luck, because Thursday is not a good day for the markets.

I ran in Regent's Park before breakfast. Not quite as early as planned, and as I stopped frequently to take pictures, I didn't get back to the hotel until almost 8:30. Breakfast closes at 9. You can believe that my mother was pissed. But I put on a burst of speed and was showered, dressed, hair-dried and in the breakfast room by 8:45.

But somehow the energy that took me out running and got me ready in record time dissipated over the meal, and by the time we left the breakfast room and I checked email, both of us needed just a little bit of a rest before heading out. So we retired to our rooms to recline just a bit until the room cleaners kicked us out.

I didn't have a set schedule, or any plan at all, so it wasn't a problem that we didn't even leave the hotel until after 11. We walked down the street to the Russell Square Station and hopped on the tube to Piccadilly Circus. That's always a good place to start.

When we emerged from the Underground into Piccadilly Circus, I was startled at the lack of crowds. I don't remember ever being in Piccadilly Circus when it wasn't swarming with people. Was it the recession keeping people away? Or simply that it is March, pre-spring break, and my last visit was in June, always a busier time? We walked around the Eros statue, taking a few pictures. Of course, it is never so deserted that someone doesn't walk into or interfere with your picture-taking!

As I was taking a picture down Piccadilly (the street), a young man asked me if I would take a picture of him and his friend. I figured that they must have figured I was a safe bet not to take off with their camera.* They stood in front of the Eros statue (how sweet) and I took one horizontal and one vertical shot, hoping that at least one would be frame-worthy.

As I returned the camera, the young man asked, rather formally, if he could return the favor. I considered just a brief moment, then called my mother to come for a picture. I handed our camera over, thinking briefly that this could be the best scam ever (ask someone to take your picture with your nice looking camera, then offer to take one with theirs and run off with it instead). He did not run off, and now we have quite a nice photo of my mother and me in front of Eros.

From Piccadilly we headed down Haymarket, as this is the best way I know to get over to Trafalgar Square. A look at the National Gallery is mandatory. Going inside is optional.**

Once again, I felt like the crowds were curiously lacking. But maybe it was just early in the day.

This was now turning into a walking tour of favorite London sights. I opted not to head down the Mall to Buckingham Palace, but instead turned down Whitehall towards Westminster, Big Ben, and the Thames. My mother, who was still tired, started getting a little grumbly about the wandering with no apparent destination. She kept trying to pin me down over where we were going. My answers—we are going towards Big Ben, we are going along Embankment—were curiously unsatisfactory to her. But she followed. What else could she do?

I did have a bit of a plan. I thought we could walk along the river approximately to Waterloo Bridge, then cut back into the Strand. Before getting quite that far we walked into the Embankment and Victoria Gardens, and paused to sit on a bench for a few moments. We were just about at the Jubilee Bridge, a walking bridge that crosses the river on either side of the Hungerford Railway Bridge, and my mother abandoned her recalcitrance and agreed to walk onto the bridge to get some good photo ops.*** We took numerous pictures of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben; the London Eye; me; and various combinations of the above. We were seeking the perfect picture. While we may not have accomplished that, my mother liked this windswept one of me.

Despite my intentions, we were unable to get to the Strand from the Embankment near Waterloo Bridge (you have to actually be on the bridge), so we kept going, looking for an escape route. It came at Somerset House, where we entered one of the buildings at the Embankment level and was able to take a lift up to the Strand level. This was a part of Somerset House I had not been in, housing a design center and some other things. We left quickly, not wanting to feel obligated to make a donation, and crossed the courtyard and passed the Cortauld Institute to get back to the street.

By that point we were both ready for a break, which would mean a place to sit and have a little something. So we hopped on a bus that was headed toward Piccadilly Circus (as most buses going down the Strand are). It's really only a short distance, but with all the stops and delays, it was a rather long bus ride.

I wasn't sure where to go, but walking down Piccadilly seemed like a good plan. After a quick visit to Waterstone's (and the purchase of three books), we came to Fortnum and Mason, always a favorite stop. The last time we were there they were undergoing renovation, but now it was all complete and the store was restored to the heights of elegance.

Once of the new additions to F&M is a cafe called the Parlour on the first floor. It specialized in ice cream treats (as in "ice cream parlour," get it?) but also has other light foods, tea, and most importantly, scones and clotted cream. We decided to each have an open-face smoked chicken sandwich (for nourishment) and to split an order of scones. When the scones arrived they were quite petite—a little smaller than I'd expected, to be truthful—but they came with an amazingly ginormous scoop of the most luscious yellow clotted cream. It was thick, heavy, sticky and the very essence of creamy, and every bit of it went on those little scones. I regret nothing!

After the scones and cream we did a little shopping in the new and improved F&M (okay, I am not completely cured of shopping). We were entranced by some appliqued tea cosies (and egg cup cosies) and I skulked around taking pictures with my camera phone.**** We had some idea of making our own versions for gifts at home. We shall see.... In the meantime, we bought "samples" to bring home. Down on the ground floor I also bought a bunch of miniature tins of tea, to use in gift bags for the various tea parties I am committed to putting on this spring. And some silver dragees, just because they're beautiful. But that was all.

And that was certainly enough to make a day. We walked the remaining blocks to Green Park Station, past the Ritz Hotel,***** and rode the tube back to our rather less ritzy but welcoming hotel.

For a little more of our day, check out the pictures here.

*Little did they know I am a runner! Oh, who am I kidding. They were both young and slender, they would have caught me in a minute.

**They do have very nice public restrooms, though, should the need arise. And as the National Gallery is free, and a sight to be seen even without the displays, a visit inside is worth your while if you have the time and the inclination.

***She also discovered the elevator which carried us up and down to the bridge and street. I didn't object. My legs were curiously tired and my ankle and achilles tendon were quite tender today.

****I can't download them until I get home, however.

*****And past Richoux and Patisserie Valerie, two other places we could go for tea in future if we were looking for somewhere to go that wasn't a hotel or a department store.

In which the best part of the train trip was the train

2009-03-11T15:18:00.000-07:00

I have a feeling that I am not going to be as good a travel blogger on this trip as I was last time around. Partly because (so far) I feel less prolific and inspired, for the moment, at least. And partly because last time I was not obsessed with reading the Twilight series.* (Although I just finished New Moon—after starting it yesterday, 563 pages consumed like a carton of ice cream, one delicious, addictive bowlful after the next—so unless I go out and buy a copy of Eclipse, I'm off the stuff until I get home.)

Yesterday was pretty much lost to travel and recovery. We landed in London at midday, got to the hotel around 1:30 or so, and ended up resting away a good part of the afternoon (and starting New Moon). It was all I could do to get up at 3:30 or 4:00. I had that sick, heavy feeling you get after napping too long—but I hadn't slept very much, so I think it was just the opposite, my body was still craving more rest.

I went downstairs** and convinced my mother we need to go out for a bit. At the very least we needed to find something for dinner. So we took a walk down Marchmont Street to the Brunswick Center. This used to*** be a rather dingy shopping center with a Safeway and a few shops, but some years ago it was refurbished with a shiny new Waitrose supermarket and a bunch of nicer shops and restaurants, including a Starbucks.

We made a circuit around the shops—nothing called my name—and headed into Waitrose to ogle the English foodstuffs. Grocery stores are good entertainment, and I thought we might pick up some dinner there as well. They had a tasty looking selection of prepared sandwiches and salads (which we ended up getting), but first we took a tour around the store, salivating over the variety of cakes and sweets and biscuits, not to mention all the varieties of cream.****

That was pretty much the extent of our outing. Oh, except that I used the Cash Point by Waitrose to get pounds with my newly acquired debit card. You just put in a secret number and it spits out money, can you imagine that? Yes, I realize I'm living a little behind the times.

So much for the first day in London. The rest of the evening was eating, watching TV (nothing good on), reading, and eventually sleeping.

One thing that we did accomplish Tuesday night was making a bit of a plan for Wednesday. Although we are not the rail travel addicts that my father is, my mother and I decided to go on one train trip with him to max out our rail passes (good for travel on four days, three of which are already committed to getting to Bath, Penzance, and eventually back to London). We agreed to go to Carlisle, which is near the Scottish border, and a long ride on the Virgin train line.

Wednesday morning I was up pretty early, just after 6:00, to go running. This was the first time I'd been in London with my Garmin watch, so finally I had a way to really measure those elusive distances. The first thing I learned was that it is almost exactly a quarter mile from the Harlingford Hotel to Euston Station (by way of the Woburn Walk shortcut). This is good to know for purposes of going to Euston Station, but not much of a run! Good thing I wasn't stopping there.

Next, on to Regent's Park along Euston Road. Yet another conveniently measured distance—a mile from the hotel to the east entrance of the park. That's pretty much what I had expected all along, maybe a little on the shy side. The big question has always been the distance around or through the park. In the past I've spent a lot of time searching the web for the definitive answer on how far it is around Regent's Park. The problem is, that depends on exactly what route you take! Today I started out on the outer circle, but eventually ended up on the perimeter outside of the park. I followed that outer sidewalk past the London Zoo, where I turned back into the park and followed the Broad Walk back to the east gate. The distance for that circuit, by the way, was 2.6 miles. The return trip to the hotel brought me to about 4.7 miles. Even though it was getting late, I didn't want to stop until I hit five miles. So I took an extra turn around the crescent and added a couple blocks at the other end, managing to end up at the doorstep of the hotel just after hitting 5.0. (Today's pictures from Regent's Park here. For a summer visit to Regent's Park, check out this love letter post from 2007!)

I managed to zip in and out of the shower in record time (not too hard when the shower consists of a mere dribble, nothing you want to linger in), and get dressed and dry my hair (no curling iron with me) by 8:15. Just enough time for a small bite***** in the dining room before heading to Euston Station to catch the train.

As I was selecting my clothes I realized (once again) that despite my packing dramas, I really could happily get by the whole trip by wearing just what I wore today.****** Which was jeans and a slightly gathered Lilla P charcoal grey long-sleeved T with a tissue weight black turtleneck underneath (which could be eliminated on warmer days). Add my khaki jacket (which I didn't use today), and a pair of easy black pants in case I don't want to wear jeans, and I would be set. And probably happy. And not carrying such a heavy suitcase! Oh well. I'm going to wear something different tomorrow anyway.

At Euston we got our rail passes validated then waited for our platform number to be posted. About half an hour before departure time, Platform 13 was announced and we surged to the gate.

As we were about to hop onto a first class carriage, an attendant advised us that the whole car was booked for a football team, and we should go to the next car. So we did. Then in that car, a well-dressed gentleman told us that carriage was reserved for the football team. As was the next. This was quite frustrating, as he directed us back to the original car we'd been turned away from! He assured us it had all been sorted, so we sat in seats marked reserved and hoped we didn't get thrown off the train (we didn't) or out of our seats (ditto).

Our biggest coup in this day of train travel was that we ate all our meals for free. In addition to whatever breakfast anyone had had at the hotel, complimentary meals came with the seats. I ordered the English Breakfast, as I'd “only” had a bite at the hotel. Then at around noon, the trolley came around with sandwiches. We weren't hungry yet but each took one for later.

Of course, where we would eat became a question when we arrived to rain in Carlisle. A wet bench hardly seemed appealing! Nor did Carlisle, as we marched around in the heavy drizzle. I may have become a bit snappish. I cheered up, however, upon spotting a Starbucks. Not so much for the coffee, but for a warm, dry place to hang out, maybe eat lunch.

Which is in fact what we did, taking our drinks upstairs where we ate sandwiches, read, and whiled away some of the afternoon. My dad eventually left to go check out a museum, but my mother and I were content to lounge in the armchairs (and, for me, read New Moon). At 3:15 we met up to head back to the station and catch the 3:49 train to London.*******

Once on the train, out came the sandwich trolley again! But not being complete pigs, and after ascertaining that they would be serving a hot dinner later on, we passed on this round of food. We partook instead at 6:00, for the dinner service. My mother and I opted for the smoked salmon and sundried tomato rigatoni (it was yum), and my father went all modest with an egg salad sandwich. Both of which were followed by a tasty chocolate mousse dessert. (And if I need a late night snack, I have a strawberry muffin tucked in my bag!) (Pictures from the train trip here.)

The train route passed sort of through the Lake District, and although we saw no lakes, the views from the train were scenic. I had not been anywhere near the Lake District since an ill-fated stopover after law school. It was in August, which is a bad time to go to England period, but even worse for the Lake District, which is overrun by tourists (including the English) at the best of times... and August is not the best of times. I haven't been back since, although I did see Miss Potter (while I was in England in 2007, as a matter of fact). If I ever were to go to the Lakes again, I would want a car to get off the beaten track (if there is any unbeaten track), and I would probably avoid the height of summer!

We got back into London around 7:30 p.m., and the quarter mile to the hotel seemed a lot longer at the end of a long day than it did in the morning! Since we are boring quiet folk, we were quite happy to end the day there. Leave the pub crawling and theatre going to the young. Or at least the ones who weren't up at 6:00 to go running.

*Thanks, Corey, for introducing me to this paperback crack. You know what this leads to, don't you? The hard stuff—hardbacks.

**My parents are on the second floor and I am on the third floor (which in American translation means third and fourth). There is a huge difference. To get to my tiny little single room garret at the very furthest reaches of the hotel you have to climb an additional narrow, winding flight of stairs. I don't mind the stairs but it is a pain to haul suitcases up and down them! But I intentionally chose to have that room. I wanted a room facing the street and garden square below (way below), and the only lower level front side single room was described by the desk clerk as “very small”—and that's saying something. My only serious regret about the remote room is that the wireless signal does not reach up there. So I have to go down to the lobby, or at least a landing, to access email and the internet. Which is a royal pain.

***When I was in college.

****A foodaholic's dream.

*****Okay, two small scones with butter and jam, and some tinned grapefruit. I love tinned grapefruit.

******Which I am about to describe. Even though this is not that blog.

*******Which was an earlier train than we had planned. But I had no real desire to stay in Carlisle longer. There were tons of restaurants, but we weren't looking for food. There were shops (which we eventually did find), but nobody had a yen for shopping. The historical and scenic areas seemed rather inaccessible this early in the year, not to mention unappealing in the weather. Carlisle is a nice enough town, but it is a big town, and other than London, Bath, and certain other wonderful English cities, I really prefer the villages. Which are pretty inaccessible by train. But we do enjoy the train trips!

London, Standard Time

2009-03-10T06:42:00.000-07:00

It's not Daylight Savings Time here in London yet, so strangely we are only seven hours ahead of the folks at home. I haven't yet determined whether the time will change while we are here, or not. A simple Google search (or, ahem, asking someone, like the desk clerk at the hotel) should resolve that question.*

I'm a bit tired as it is 6:45 a.m. at home and we've been traveling since yesterday afternoon. Here is the blizzard we encountered in Everett before we left on Monday, and here is my post while waiting at SeaTac.

I could write about the flight (half empty) or the new video-on-deamand system on the plane (cool), but I don't have the energy just now. I'm in that post-arrival slump, worn down by a long flight and lack of sleep, and slightly less than thrilled with anything. So maybe I'll go read the book I didn't read on the plane (due to the video system) and rest up just a bit.

*The answer is Sunday, March 29.

Leaving on a jet plane (tomorrow)

2009-03-08T19:34:00.000-07:00

In about ten minutes I will be able to check in and obtain seat assignments for our flight to London tomorrow. If you think that means I am all packed and ready to go, you are wrong. I am suffering from my typical, perpetual, packing procrastination. Not a new experience. It dates back to my college years and occurs whether I am going to Europe or to Canada for a weekend.

I just took a break from my procrastination post to try the online check-in, and have encountered a loop of frustration. British Airways requires you to provide passport information in advance, but when I attempted to do so I got a message that the system was not working, try again later. However, I can't check in or get seats until that information is provided. So although online check-in is "open," I CAN'T CHECK IN!!!

Better go pack. But before I do, a few notes to update.

Yesterday I did my last long run before the half marathon, 10.2 miles on the Centennial Trail near Snohomish. This was actually a fundraising event for the YMCA's Invest in Youth Program, where you raise or donate money and run as many five-mile loops as you choose to. I hope somebody besides me brought some money, because I got the sense that the participants were more interested in running ultra-long distances than raising money. I'm probably wrong, I'm sure they chipped in. Just because one of the volunteers seemed surprised when I handed him a check, meant nothing I am sure.

Anyhow, I was one of the few people there who seemed to be planning to run less than at least a marathon-length distance. I came planning to run ten miles (with enough time allotted for that), and that's what I did. I got there a little after 10 a.m., just in time to run into Julie Bell, who I've seen at so many races over the last couple years. She was finishing up ten miles, so that's one other. The friend that she was running with wanted to do a couple more miles so she asked if she could run along with me for a mile (then she'd turn back and quit).

I said sure, although I warned her I planned to be slow. She said that was fine, she just wanted the distance. Now you'd think she might be a little tired after the ten miles, but on the other hand she was also all warmed up, and I had just come straight from my car (and pretty much my bed before that). We started out at what felt like a pretty decent clip to me. Then she started talking to me, and asking me questions. It was all I could do to maintain the pace and answer in short sentences, while I was trying to get my legs and cardiovascular system going. We finished that first mile in just under ten minutes. Shortly afterward we said our goodbyes and she turned around.

I realized, after she was gone, that I had been running without my ipod, so now that I was alone I pulled it out and turned it on. Nothing like music in your ears to mask the sound of your own breathing. The good thing about starting out faster than planned is that it set the tone for me. I was able to continue to maintain between a 10:15 and 10:30 pace even on my own. This made me happy because that was the non-race pace that I had usually maintained last summer, before my downslide began. I did not consider this event a race, because nobody was running against anybody else, many of us started at different times, and there was no specific finish.

The turnaround was just past 2.5 miles, and I headed back toward the trailhead to finish my first lap. The "back" part of the out and back was slightly easier, because although the path seemed pretty level, it was slightly uphill on the out portion, and therefore slightly downhill on the way back. That was nice.

At the trailhead I stopped at the bathroom, dropped off my gloves because I was getting warm, and started out again. Second verse, same as the first. I began to recognize people as we passed each other going opposite directions. Usually we would wave, sometimes the other person would say "good job" to me (I was never quick enough to say it back).

On my second and final return trip I caught up with an older woman who was walking and talking to another runner who was passing her. Both of them were doing marathon distances ("just" a marathon, each said), and were doing some sort of walk-run combination. The older woman said, I think, she was doing 60-40, which I assumed meant 6/10 of a mile running, and 4/10 walking.

I met up with her just as I began mile 10 on my Garmin, and she started running with me and talking to me. She organizes some kind of long-distance trail run in Kirkland (or somewhere like that) and much prefers trails to pavement, even the gentle blacktop of this path. As we ran together I was able to talk much more easily than in my first mile, yet when I looked at my watch we were doing a 9:30 pace. Clearly warming up makes a difference.

After a ways together she said goodbye--apparently going into a walk phase--and I finished the remaining half mile or so. I was definitely glad to be finished, but felt pretty good about the run.

This morning, even with the one-hour "spring forward" time change, Rod and I were up before the crack of dawn to go skiing up at Stevens. The Pass had multiple inches of new snow, and shockingly, there was even an inch of snow on the ground here from a late night or early morning snowfall (in March!).

In addition to the fresh snow, we were treated to shockingly blue skies and bright sunshine, warm enough that I felt overheated working my way through the soft snow. Rod was excited and claimed it was very light, but it made me a little nervous. My nervousness was well founded when, on one run, I inadvertantly wandered too far off the side and got stuck in deep "powder."

This was a bit of a freak-out experience for me. I don't want to relive it (much) now, but I will say that it took a long time for me to get out, and there was a certain amount of hyperventilating and crying, as well as a fair amount of swearing. Afterwards I was still shaken and skiied badly for at least a couple more runs, until I regained my equilibrium by having lunch. (Funny how that works.)

After lunch some clouds had rolled in and we got some snow. Still, even the snowflakes were light and fluffy, and didn't really disrupt the skiing the way snowfall sometimes does. But by very early afternoon, my quads had had enough. Yesterday's ten miles plus somewhat strenous skiing did me in. At one point I literally thought, I just don't want to make another turn; luckily that was in a spot where I could just point myself downhill and go!

So I've done lots of stuff this weekend (I didn't even mention the auction fundraiser and dinner we attended last night); everything but pack, really. And, now, check in for the flight. I made a second effort and the system is still down. Better go do that packing and try again later. I am sure my mother will blame me if we get bad seats! Okay, better try again now, just in case it's working. Then pack.

The final countdown

2009-03-04T16:42:00.000-08:00

Well, it's less than a week now before we leave for England. Tick tock, tick tock! All plans are laid. Most importantly, hotel reservations are made!

I'm quite excited about our planned accommodations. Our first three nights in London will be at my long-time London pied-à-terre , the Harlingford Hotel near Russell Square in Bloomsbury, where I first stayed as a college student in 1986. Then in Bath, for the weekend of the Half Marathon, we will be staying at a bed and breakfast called Meadowland, a new destination for me. I found Meadowland after discovering that Haydon House (where I've been staying since 1995) has closed. However, Meadowland is not only in the same neighborhood as Haydon House, it appears (from the website) remarkably similar in style and appearance! Finally, the day after the run, we will take the train to Penzance for three days of R & R by the sea. We're staying at the Abbey Hotel, which I located through Alistair Sawday's Special Places to Stay.

I have my new passport (replaced after my purse was stolen in December), a general idea of what I want to pack, and kitty care lined up for the ones left at home (Rod and my cats, or more precisely, Rod for my cats). The only snag in the preparations is that I have misplaced my camera and my desultory efforts to locate it have so far been to no avail. I keep telling myself, it's got to be somewhere!

Other than that difficulty (and the numerous other little tasks that need to be accomplished), I'm ready!

Snow falling on London

2009-02-03T13:18:00.000-08:00

London hasn't seen snow like this since the last scene of Bridget Jones's Diary.

Depending on which news source you read, since Sunday London has seen up to three, six, even eight inches of new snow accumulate. Schools were closed, traffic jammed, and complaints about lack of snowplows ran rampant. (Just like our Seattle snowfall before Christmas!)

But just like here, the unusual volume of snow has also piqued excitement and delight amongst Londoners more accustomed to weather that is grey and damp than white and fluffy. Sledding (sledging) on Primrose Hill, skiing on snow-covered sidewalks, and general winter merriment has ensued.

Here are some snowy London scenes, borrowed from the BBC.

London snow is not unheard of in literature. In addition to the ubiquitous romantic snow scenes in movies like Bridget Jones's Diary, poet Robert Bridges wrote "London Snow" back in 1890, telling of seven inches of new snow blanketing the city.

When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder!'
'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!'
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken.

Bridges' lines foreshadowed the magical effect of snowfall on adults and children alike, as real life mirrored fiction (and poetry). Alas, no one has been yet been spotted running through the snow in knickers and trainers, or snogging Colin Firth on a snowy street corner!

Exchange rate drama!

2008-11-17T11:55:00.000-08:00

Sometime this weekend the dollar-pound exchange rate dropped below $1.50. I know this because, when I was unable to sleep at 2:30 a.m. this morning, I hopped onto the computer and looked it up. $1.49 and decimals. I then sang myself to sleep with lullabies of "the pound is falling, the pound is falling."

When I last checked a bit ago, it was back to $1.50. Still, that's a number that hasn't been seen in years!

I've been debating in recent weeks how low the pound would need to go before it would make sense to take some money to a bank and exchange it (or buy English traveler's checks) in anticipation of next spring's trip. Not enough to fund the whole trip, but enough for cash spending money. Obviously I'd lose some on the exchange, so the deal would need to be pretty good.

Of course, that leads to dilemma number 2. What if the exchange rate is better in the spring? On the other hand, what if it is worse? Like it was in 2007 and 2006? Then I'd be kicking myself.

What will probably happen is that inertia will keep me from even making the decision to exchange or not exchange, and I'll end up just taking my chances in the spring. But I'm sure I'll be debating this question all along the way.

I must leave for England immediately!

2008-10-25T21:34:00.000-07:00

The exchange rate has dropped below $1.60. It has not been this low for years! I am ready to travel. Well, I guess I can't go right now. I am just praying it stays low for the trip to Bath in March 2009. This is encouraging enough for me to consider adding on a few days in expensive London. Surely this must be good for the English tourism industry, if a low exchange rate encourages Americans to travel to England again and spend our money there?

Bath, here I come!

2008-09-01T09:12:00.000-07:00

I just signed up for the Bath Half Marathon on March 15, 2009. That means a trip to England is back on the agenda for next spring!

Anglo-MANIA

2008-08-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

Pictures taken in the QFC parking lot... this person really loves England—and pirates!

The blog is back (maybe)

2008-08-07T19:51:00.000-07:00

After finally publishing my final trip pictures last summer, I let the One-Track Road slip into hiatus. That is because it's hard to write about traveling in England when you're not actually in England. (How many times can you complain about the exchange rate?) Instead, I found myself writing more about running. So, eventually, I started a running blog.

But I still think a lot about England. In fact, I think about England a lot when I am running! For months after the trip, I could get through several miles just reliving the story of the trip. Sometimes I alternate with thinking about potential future trips.

Recently, thoughts of England have been on my mind and have even infiltrated my running blog. For example, I recently determined that I must go to London for the 2012 Olympics. Further, I announced that if I ever run the London Marathon, I am going to stay at Brown's Hotel! (Both fantasies are too remote to worry about.)

But one fantasy that is not completely remote is my plan to run in the Bath Half-Marathon next spring. The reason there is no link to that is because the 2009 race information is not available yet. I have been checking almost every day to make sure I don't miss open registration! So until I actually get registered, this too is only a fantasy. But one that just may come true.

Travel back to England with me

2007-07-14T15:42:00.000-07:00

It's been more than five weeks since we returned from England—almost double the time we were actually there. Finally I have overcome the blogger gremlins and posted my final England post, with pictures. And surprise, it shows up in its chronologically correct position, based on the day I began working on it, not when I posted it.

What that means is that to read it, you have to scroll back to the June posts in the blogs (before all my posts promising that I was working on it).

Or you can just click right here, and I will magically send you back in time to June 17 (the date of the post). I believe Harry Potter has a spell for that....

A Glorious Fourth

2007-07-04T13:11:00.000-07:00

Today celebrates the 231st anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, the document declaring the United States' independence from the Kingdom of Great Britain. Ever since then, people like me have been spending their money and vacation time trying to go back!

The Continental Congress actually voted unanimously for independence on July 2, but it was on July 4 that twelve colonies voted to adopt the text of the Declaration of Independence (New York abstaining), and a copy of the document, signed only by John Hancock, was released to the printers.

The Declaration of Independence was, of course, famously written by Thomas Jefferson, statesman, writer, farmer, third president of the United States, and really a renaissance man of the 18th-19th century. Jefferson died on July 4, 1826, on the same day as John Adams, second president of the U.S., who Jefferson had defeated for reelection in 1800.

Independence Day, the Fourth of July, is our only big holiday of the summer, between Memorial Day and Labor Day, and I think despite the emphasis on food, fun, and fireworks, most people remain cognizant of the origin of the holiday, as indicated by the flags sported all around, on hats, clothing, and decorations, as well as the front porches of many houses. (Except for my house, because I didn't even think to put it out. Darn.)

Our friends in England, while they do have a fourth of July (hahaha) are probably not celebrating our Independence Day. Early July is Wimbledon, and today, I believe, were the quarter finals. Strawberries and cream are a traditional Wimbledon treat, and every year about 27,000 kilos of strawberries are eaten during the Wimbledon Tennis Championships, together with 7,000 litres of cream! English strawberries are extremely delightful and delicious, and I enjoyed them a couple of times while we were there. Even more delicious, however, are our local Marysville strawberries (in season right now, but not for long!) and I plan to keep the English tradition by eating plenty of strawberries today (albeit with ice cream instead of cream, since we don't have any of that amazing English cream here).

My Fourth of July began with the Everett YMCA Yankee Doodle Dash 10K this morning. It's a gorgeous day today, although that made the run a bit warmer than might be optimal! Perhaps I can blame the heat for finish 16 seconds slower than last year (at 55:02 today). I do realize that I would have been under 55 minutes if I hadn't taken a few seconds for a drink of water partway through... but given the heat, I voted in favor of a little hydration. A big congratulations to the woman who caught up to me at that water break (just before the four mile point), and ran with me the rest of the way up to about half a mile from the finish, then pulled ahead to finish in front of me!

Entering the final stretch...

...Pushing toward the finish line!

I did come in third for my age group (women 40-49), and won a cool medal! (The results later posted on the YMCA website put me in second place for my age group.)

The woman to my right in the last picture (in pink) came in first for her age group (50-59) (and a better time than me).

I think for the rest of my day, I will celebrate independence from any more running! Cheerio!

The end is coming (the final trip post, that is)

2007-06-24T21:21:00.000-07:00

I have finally gotten all my pictures gathered for the final wrap-up and am now in the midst of editing. I thought I might finish today but I am bedeviled by the blogger poltergeists which change my spacing and layout despite my efforts to save what I've done! So I need more time to fix it... yet again... before I publish.

In the meantime, I have published an i-tunes mix of some of the songs from my Half-Marathon Mix, the music I used in the Half Marathon and still run with now. This can be found at http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewIMix?id=258837320 . The entire playlist here is 154 minutes long, which is plenty long for any half marathon, plus extra. (My original playlist was over four hours long, enough for—gasp—an entire marathan, almost, but i-tunes only published the songs that were available through them.) I think you have to have i-tunes downloaded on your computer to see it, however.

My body is in Everett, but my heart is still in England

2007-06-17T15:22:00.000-07:00

I am working on my "Final Wrap-Up" of pictures, sorting through hundreds of pictures and struggling to select a few and put them together in a logical fashion. I already know that is not chronological, so anyone who wants to know where we were when, will need to go back and read my past blog entries!

In the meantime, news of England continues to filter in. On Friday, I read news stories of torrential rains in parts of England, with threats of flooding in some places, including Durham and York. (Although today I can't find any evidence that these stories ever existed.)

Earlier last week I saw a piece on the Today show about Boots No. 7 miracle face cream, "Protect & Perfect" beauty serum, which has been all the rage in England for its anti-aging properties. I kicked myself for not being aware of this while I was in England, when I could have gone to Boots and stocked up for myself.

And of course, tomorrow (Monday), NBC will air Matt Lauer's interview with Princes William and Harry on the Today show and Dateline NBC.

Not to mention the Harry Potter countdown; only a little more than a month before the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I am contemplating whether to order from Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk—I think I will just order both. I have been thinking that I should reread the entire Harry Potter series from the beginning before reading the final book. There are so many things I know that I don't remember anymore from the early books.

I am also starting to read all the books I bought in England or ordered from Amazon.co.uk to be sent to me in London. (I grossly overestimated the amount of time I would have for reading while we were in England!) This should keep my busy during all my free time this summer...and beyond.

I have distributed some of the clotted cream I brought home, and put the remainder in the freezer as an experiment to see whether clotted cream can survive freezing. If so, what wondrous possibilities that could present for the future!

My suitcases remain only partly unpacked—that alone should keep me in England for some time to come! Soon I will reluctantly put away my stacks of travel books and maps, for future use and perhaps lending to others who want to travel my parts of England.

And then all that will remain of my trip to England is the after-effect of scones and cream and cakes and biscuits that make my jeans feel a little bit snug. The remedy for that—more fun runs!

Race for the Cure—16 June 2007

Some of my philosophical travel companions—the Book Club (most of them) gathered on Friday night for food and fun and (ahem) high minded intellectual discourse....

Jennifer & Linda at the grill; Jennifer, Sue, Kari, Della, Linda, Ann

The Final Wrap-Up—A Gallery of Pictures

2007-06-17T14:17:00.000-07:00

Greetings everyone, and welcome to my pictorial summary of our entire trip. If you haven't slogged through all the posts from the road, these pictures will take you along without having to read a lot of blathering and digressing by me. If you do want to know more about each picture, click on the caption below the photo and you will go to the relevant day's post. These pictures are not chronological, by the way, but instead arranged by general topic. For those who have read along with all the posts throughout the trip, thank you! Writing the posts was almost as much fun as the traveling (and certainly equally exhausting).

ENGLAND
17 May – 6 June 2007

This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infrection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,—
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
William Shakespeare

St. Pancras Station, London

Well, I'm having a good time. Which makes me feel guilty too. How very English.
David Attenborough

Taking the train to Durham.

THE COUNTRY

I love London. I love England. We were out in the countryside and I had the time of my life.
Debra Messing

Overlooking the Vale of Evesham from atop Dover's Hill.

Aspects of life here—civility, courtesy, coziness—have always bound Britons to their country... They are part of the British myth, along with lovely countryside, dogs and horses, rose gardens, the Armada, the Battle of Britain.
R. W. Apple, Jr.

A public footpath overlooks a garden in Chipping Campden.

A roadside garden in Chipping Campden.

Villages

You arrive at a village, and in this calm environment, one starts to hear [an] echo.
Yannick Noah

The village of Castle Combe.

Soon the houses in the village will be decorated with lavish summer hanging baskets.

The church cemetery is filled with memories of years past.

A river runs through Castle Combe....

A quiet street in Chipping Campden.

A roadside wall adorned with flowers.

The English may not like music, but they absolutely love the noise it makes.
Thomas Beecham

Concert-goers at an outdoor performance at the Chipping Campden Music Festival.

A bay window decorated with golden roses (they look like Graham Stuart Thomas).

Chipping Campden Town Hall and street.

My writing station.

The other side of the Town Hall.

Chipping Campden market hall.

The main street, Chipping Campden.

The village of Bourton-on-the-Water, popular with tourists for its pretty scenery and many attractions.

Anne and Kristin on the bridge in Bourton-on-the-Water.

Burford, a charming village and a fine shopping town.

Burford is known for its many antiques shops.

The houses and buildings are built from the iconic golden Cotswold stone.

Snowshill, a picture perfect Cotswold village.

The churchyard and cemetery, overlooking rolling Cotswold hills.

The upper road, leading to the Village Hall.

A house in the village, a filming location for Bridget Jones's Diary.

An old-style telephone box in the village square.

The Countryside

When I go out into the countryside and see the sun and the green and everything flowering,
I say to myself
Yes indeed, all that belongs to me!
Henri Rousseau

Overlooking Broadway from the Cotswold Way.

I love the English countryside. I find that extremely satisfying.
Harold Pinter

The path from Chipping Campden to Dover's Hill.

Looking over Chipping Campden.

I love England, especially the English countryside. We had a little cottage in Sussex.
I loved those cottages.
Richard Widmark

Spring Cottage, our little cottage in Chipping Campden.

The patio garden at Spring Cottage.

Walking

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.
Antonio Machado

A public footpath in Chipping Campden.

A kissing gate along a footpath.

A stile between fields.

"Walk steeply downhill to a stile in the corner of the field..."

An unobtrusive footpath through a field near Buscot, on the return walk from Kelmscott Manor.

The short English miles are delightful for walking. You are always pleased to find, every now and then, in how short a time you have walked a mile, though, no doubt, a mile is everywhere a mile, I walk but a moderate pace, and can accomplish four English miles in an hour.
Karl Philipp Moritz

The Cotswold Way to Broadway Tower.

Approaching Broadway Tower.

Further along the Cotswold Way.

Walking is the best possible exercise. Habituate yourself to walk very fast.
Thomas Jefferson

A sometimes appropriate road sign (Thomas Jefferson would not approve).

Walking from Chipping Campden to Broad Campden.

Walking is the natural recreation for a man who desires not absolutely to suppress his intellect
but to turn it out to play for a season. All great men of letters
have therefore been enthusiastic walkers.
Leslie Stephen

Kelmscott Manor, the country home of William Morris, a great man of letters and many talents.

I know the joy of fishes in the river through my own joy, as I go walking along the same river. Zhuangzi

Walking the River Thames from Buscot to Kelmscott.

The locks at Buscot.

Near Buscot.

Riverboats and pleasure boats on the river near Kelmscott.

The walk, the stroll, were private ways of passing time,
the heritage of the feudal promenade in the nineteenth century.
Theodor Adorno

An overgrown stile enroute to Kelmscott.

Climbing Glastonbury Tor.

Walkers descending Glastonbury Tor.

Yet another amazing view of English countryside, this time from Glastonbury Tor.

Inside the tower atop Glastonbury Tor.

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading: It vexes me to choose another guide.
Emily Bronte

A woodland path along the Cotswold Way.

A steep downhill path in the National Trust woodland nature trail through Lynches Wood below Dover’s Hill.

Gardens

I love English gardens to the point of folly. . . .
Empress Catherine II to Voltaire

A view of Barnsley House from the kitchen garden.

Climbing roses grow into the shape of a heart at Cerney Gardens.

Looking down onto the many levels of the gardens at Snowshill Manor.

I like the gardens with good bones and affirmed underlying structure.
well-marked paths, well-built walls, well-defined changes in level.
Russell Page

The Long Walk at Hidcote Manor Garden.

Hidcote Manor gardeners at work.

Cerney Gardens is a Victorian garden with rectangular borders and beds.

Looking down onto one of the borders at Cerney Gardens.

The central garden at Cerney is edged with climbing roses.

The Bathing Pool Garden at Hidcote, with topiary.

The walled walk through Snowshill Manor Gardens.

Tintinhull consists of a series of interconnecting garden rooms.

Catmint borders a functional and decorative kitchen garden.

Stone eagles guard over Tintinhull.

A Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot
The veriest school of Peace….
Thomas Edward Brown

Kiftsgate Court Garden, with Kiftsgate blue chairs and tables.

Entering Kiftsgate Court Garden.

A secluded fountain at Barnsley House.

Another pool at Barnsley House, with irises and pond lilies.

A dramatic variety of columbine growing at Cerney Gardens.

A mossy pool at Snowshill Manor is edged with coral bells.

A white garden surrounds a pool at Tintinhull Gardens.

The English light is so very subtle, so very soft and misty, that the architecture
responded with great delicacy of detail.
Stephen Gardiner

Barnsley House, a happy marriage of house and garden.

A pair of lovely ladies mind the gate leading to the kitchen garden.

A hideaway bench in the kitchen garden.

Lettuces planted in the kitchen garden.

Kristin looking over the kitchen garden.

A whimsical scarecrow guards the kitchen garden.

A low-growing knot garden at Barnsley House.

Singing the blues at Snowshill Manor.

Vibrant blue irises at Regent's Park in London.

A colorful border reminiscent of Hidcote Manor, at Barrington Court.

A richly coloured border near Montacute House; most of the vast grounds are parkland.

Stourhead offers a two-mile walk around a sweeping landscape garden, including a lake, bridges, and many classical features.

The Palladian Bridge.

Swans in the Stourhead lake.

We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses,
Dewy as the morning and colored like the dawn.
Thomas Buchanan Read

The Regent's Park rose garden in Queen Mary's Garden.

The rose garden and lake.

Typhoon.

Westminster Pink.

The rose garden.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies.
Christopher Marlowe

Beds of roses edge the lake.

I ran around Regent's Park and in the rose garden every day we were in London.

Rose beds circle a statue.

Colorful roses.

It is the month of June,
The month of leaves and roses.
When pleasant sights salute the eyes,
And pleasant scents the noses.
Nathaniel Parker Willis

A bench offers a resting spot beneath swags of roses.

The swags encircle the rose garden.

Different varieties of roses adorn the swags; all, however, are pink.

A close-up of the rope swag.

Sheep, Cows, & Cats

Sheep atop Dover's Hill.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
And, deepening still the dreamlike charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.
Emily Brontë

Sheep like the footpaths too.

I love the lambs, not the sheep.
Roger Peyrefitte

A pair of lambs.

The mountain sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter.
We therefore deemed it meter
To carry off the latter.
Thomas Love Peacock

Flocks of sheep graze on Dover's Hill.

She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.
Her flocks are thoughts.
She keeps them white;
She guards them from the steep.
She feeds them on the fragrant height,
And folds them in for sleep.
Alice Meynell

We walked through fields of sheep and lambs between Chipping Campden and Broad Campden.

Cows are amongst the gentlest of breathing creatures; none show more passionate tenderness to their young when deprived of them; and, in short, I am not ashamed to profess a deep love for these quiet creatures.
Thomas de Quincey

I passed by a group of cows on the walk to Wookey Hole.

Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows—and china.
Charles Dickens

Cows block the road on the drive to Barrington Court....

Then retreat as suddenly as they appeared.

Cows on the footpath from the Tor to Glastonbury rile up a passing dog.

The friendly cow, all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple tart.
Robert Louis Stevenson

Cows in a field overlooking the Vale of Evesham.

Time spent with cats is never wasted.
Sigmund Freud

The Kelmscott cat.

Tom is a fixture at Cerney Gardens.

Cats know how to obtain food without labor, shelter without confinement, and love without penalties.
W. L. George

Tom joins us for tea.

He is quite interested in cake.

But settles for a saucer of milk and cake crumbs.

When the tea is brought at five o’clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.
Harold Monro

Clementine (one of the cats at Beryl B&B in Wells) visits my room for a snack of kippers (saved from breakfast) and milk.

As anyone who has ever been around a cat for any length of time well knows, cats have enormous patience with the limitations of the human kind.
Cleveland Amory

Marmalade agrees to pose for a picture with me.

Cats don't like change without their consent.
Roger Caras

Marmalade meets me at the swing....

Joins me for a moment....

Soon becomes restless....

And is on his way.

Cats are inquisitive, but hate to admit it.
Mason Cooley

Clementine wants to read my blog.

I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.
William Shakespeare

Clementine likes to visit guests' rooms and demand milk.

I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.
Jean Cocteau

Marmalade, one of the cats at Beryl bed and breakfast in Wells.

Marmalade strolls the grounds of Beryl.

Afternoon Tea with Scones and Cream

She is
The queen of curds and cream.
William Shakespeare

Shopping for clotted cream at Tesco.

The pleasures of afternoon tea run like a trickle of honey through English literature
from Rupert Brooke’s wistful lines on the Old Vicarage at Grantchester
to Miss Marple, calmly dissecting a case over tea cakes at a seaside hotel.
Stan Hey

A tearoom in Durham.

Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable
than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.
Henry James

Tea break at Cerney Gardens.

Thank God for tea! What would the world do without tea?—how did it exist?
I am glad I was not born before tea.
Sydney Smith

An invitation to tea in Snowshill.

Tea at the Village Hall.

Scones piled with cream, and delightful cake.

Mmmm... delicious!

Stands the Church clock at ten to three?And is there honey still for tea?
Rupert Brooke

Afternoon tea at Spring Cottage.

“I shall sit here, serving tea to friends. . . .”
T.S. Eliot

Abbeys, Churches, and Cathedrals

I never weary of great churches. It is my favourite kind of mountain scenery. Mankind was never so happily inspired as when it made a cathedral.
Robert Louis Stevenson

Durham Cathedral

The finest Norman Cathedral in England, perhaps the world.

St. James' Church, Chipping Campden

One of England's finest wool churches (a church built from the proceeds of the medieval wool trade).

St. James' Church is also a landmark of Chipping Campden from the Cotswold Way.

St. Catherine's Catholic Church, Chipping Campden (a landmark of the road to Spring Cottage and Dover's Hill).

Wells Cathedral, the second smallest cathedral in England.

But surely one of the loveliest.

Bath Abbey.

St. Paul's arose like some huge mountain above the enormous mass of smaller buildings.
Karl Philipp Moritz

St. Paul's Cathedral, from the Millenium Bridge.

Norwegians on the Millenium Bridge.

Southwark Cathedral, London's oldest gothic building (and almost impossible to photograph due to close proximity of streets and buildings).

Westminster Abbey.

Wells and Bath

The Swan Inn's little garden, with Wells Cathedral in the background.

The high street in Wells (Starbucks just behind me) on the day of the Wells City Fun Run.

The finish line near Bishop's Palace gardens (after the race is over).

The entry hall at Beryl.

The lovely sitting room.

The front facade of Beryl.

The Royal Crescent in Bath.

The Royal Crescent from the other side.

A Georgian Garden in Bath.

Hands Tearoom, home of delicious big, fluffy scones.

The dining room at Haydon House, set for breakfast, looks onto the garden.

Bath Abbey, early in the morning.

A narrow street in Bath.

Looking down Broad Street.

The weir on the River Avon.

Looking toward Pulteney Bridge and Parade Gardens.

North Parade.

Parade Gardens, from North Parade Bridge.

Riding the Rails

Railway termini are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return.
E. M. Forster

Bob at the Moreton-in-Marsh station.

Breakfast on the train to Stoke-on-Trent.

LONDON

I go to London, my favourite city in the world, and I feel at home.
Boris Becker

Queen Victoria at Kensington Gardens.

The Norwegian cousins with Anne and Bob on a bridge overlooking the Thames.

London is one of the most enchanting places I've ever been on this planet.
Don Johnson

The Palace of Westminster and Big Ben.

When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.
Samuel Johnson

The London Eye, Westminster and Big Ben, and crowds of walkers out for a sunny day on the Thames.

By seeing London, I have seen as much of life as the world can show.
Samuel Johnson

Waterloo Bridge.

St. Paul's Cathedral.

A break from walking.

Beaches of the River Thames.

In London, love and scandal are considered the best sweeteners of tea.
John Osborne

The New Globe Theatre, where William Shakespeare's plays are performed once again.

Borough Market in south London.

Onward to the Tower Bridge.

The Tower Bridge from Thameside.

Looking up the Thames from the Tower Bridge.

The Tower of London.

Buckingham Palace from the Mall.

The Mall.

This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.
William Butler Yeats

Walking down Whitehall towards Westminster and Big Ben.

Commemorative statue in Whitehall.

Buses proclaim England's upcoming abolition of indoor smoking.

The Blewcoat School, once a school for poor children, now a National Trust shop.

I had almost forgotten to tell you that I have already been to the Parliament House; and yet this is of most importance. For, had I seen nothing else in England but this, I should have thought my journey thither amply rewarded.
Karl Philipp Moritz

Houses of Parliament.

Big Ben behind the Houses of Parliament.

I have now been pretty nearly all over London, and, according to my own notions, have now seen most of the things I was most anxious to see.
Karl Philipp Moritz

The London Eye and Big Ben.

The National Gallery.

Lord Nelson Tower in Trafalgar Square, Big Ben and Westminster in distant background.

The British Museum.

Russell Square (Bloomsbury).

The Real Last Day in London

2007-06-10T14:35:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, 6 June

If yesterday was our last full day in London, today is the final day, the last opportunity to be in London, to experience the London ambience, and, of course, to pick up clotted cream before flying home to Seattle.

Which of those three is the most important? Depends on who you ask.

But with a little luck, I can accomplish all three things in one final outing. After my great disappointment at Waitrose, I only had one potential source for clotted cream, and that was the Sainsbury's at Holborn. Conveniently it opens at 7 a.m., so at 6:45 I set out.

The Sainsbury's at Holborn is right across from the Holborn underground station, one stop beyond Russell Square on the Piccadilly Line. I could hop on the tube and get there that way, or I could just walk above ground, only a mile literally down the road from Russell Square. I opted for the walk. I suspect that it would take just as long to go down to the tube, wait for a train, ride for a few minutes, then go up the long escalator to the street, and crossing the street to Sainsbury's. Why not have the added enjoyment of a nice morning walk?

So, walk down Marchmont Street to the Russell Square station, turn right to go towards Russell Square, then left on Woburn Place (across from Russell Square), and follow Woburn Place southward as it turns into Southhampton Row, until you get to the Sainsbury's (and Holborn tube) just before the road turns into Kingsway.

(By the way, it is just a short distance further down Kingsway to Aldwych and the Strand, where you will find Somerset House, Waterloo Bridge, and various West End theatres. A few years ago during a firefighters strike in which the tube workers struck in sympathy, my mother and I were going to see My Fair Lady at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, and since the tube wasn't running we got on a bus near Euston instead. Of course, since the Underground wasn't running, the above ground streets were packed with cars and taxis, and our bus was not moving.

After about half an hour of very little progress, I insisted that we get off and just walk. My mother reluctantly agreed, so we set out down Kingsway, which is a big, wide street with big sidewalks. The sidewalks were filled with people who had taken to the streets as a solution to the lack of trains, buses and taxis. There was something magical about this quiet tsunami of walkers, all moving in unison toward some unknown destination.

As if swept by a wave, we arrived at the Aldwych intersection where we turned toward our theatre. At almost the same moment we saw our bus pull up, having finally broken free of the glacial traffic. So, had we stuck it out on the bus, we would have arrived at the theatre at the same time—but without experiencing the communal journey down Kingsway with the other walkers.

That night became slightly less magical after the play was over, when we hesitated over grabbing a taxi immediately, then were unable to get a taxi at all when they all disappeared! We ended up wandering to Covent Garden, then Trafalgar Square, then Piccadilly Circus, and finally into Regent Street, in hope of finding an unoccupied taxi. This was, I might add, in the middle of a drenching rainstorm. I finally saw a taxi pulling up to a restaurant in Regent's Street to deliver a passenger. I ran toward it and suddenly slipped and fell on the wet sidewalk (in front of a crowd of bystanders waiting outside the restaurant)! Without pause, I hopped up and asked the driver, "Are you for hire?" He was indeed, and we climbed into the taxi and rode back to our hotel.)

On this morning, I had no need to go further than Sainsbury's, and I went immediately to the dairy shelf hoping to find clotted cream. I was in luck; they had a whole stack of small tubs of clotted cream, and I picked out the five with the latest expiration dates. Objective accomplished—now I just had to get them into my suitcase with the frozen ice packs.

As I retraced my steps back to Russell Square I felt a wave of sadness over my immiment departure from London. In so many ways my time in London felt unfinished. I hadn't even gone to Covent Garden—I usually go there for the Jubilee Antiques Market on Mondays, but since we went to Stoke-on-Trent on our only Monday in London, I hadn't had any other opportunity to go to Covent Garden. (Sometimes I walk through Covent Garden en route to other destinations as well.)

And the British Museum—I hadn't been by there at all. I usually pass by it several times on the way to Oxford Street or Charing Cross Road. (I never go in, but I always go by it!) By now it was about 7:15 or 7:30 a.m., and I had plenty of time before our designated breakfast meeting time of 8:00, so as I approached Russell Square (the actual square, not the station), instead of turning back toward the hotel I turned left toward the British Museum. Moments later I was in Great Russell Street looking through the gates toward the massive columns of the British Museum. The entry gate was open for employees to go through, and I asked the guard if I could step inside to take a picture. She agreed, so with a snapshot I remedied my British Museum deficiency.

Before leaving I turned down Museum Street, past the Museum Tavern (a picturesque landmark pub across from the British Museum) and walked along a back street looking for a street named in a (fictional) book I was reading. I never found the street, and couldn't see it on my map, so perhaps the author made it up for purposes of the book.

I returned to Russell Square, another destination that I usually walk through several times during a trip, and had barely passed until this morning. Russell Square, the British Museum, and in fact our hotel are all part of the area of London known as Bloomsbury, a region with a distinguished history and geography.

Bloomsbury was developed by the Russell family in the 17th and 18th centuries as a fashionable residential area. Geographically it is an area bounded by Tottenham Court Road to the west, Euston Road to the north, Gray's Inn Road to the east, and either High Holborn or the thoroughfare formed by New Oxford Street, Bloomsbury Way and Theobald's Road to the south. The Woburn Place/Southhampton Row thoroughfare runs through the center, linking Tavistock and Russell Squares. While there are still residential portions (including a lot of hotels), Bloomsbury is also known for academic establishments and colleges, hospitals, and a large number of parks and squares.

Bloomsbury's impressive parks and squares consist of:

·Russell Square, a large and orderly square; its gardens were originally designed by Humphry Repton. The Square is adjacent to the Russell Hotel and Russell Square Tube Station.
·Bedford Square, built between 1775 and 1783) is still surrounded by Georgian Town Houses.
·Bloomsbury Square, a small circular garden, but called a square, also surrounded by Georgian buildings including the former Victorian House and state home of the Lord Chancellor.
·Queen Square, is home to many hospitals including the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery.
·Gordon Square surrounded by the history and archaeology departments of University College London, as well as the former home of John Maynard Keynes, the famous economist.
·Woburn Square and Torrington Square, which are home to other parts of University College London.
·Tavistock Square, home to the British Medical Association, its eastern edge was the site of one of the 7 July 2005 London bombings.
·Coram's Fields - a large recreational space on the eastern edge of the area was formally home to the Foundling Hospital.

Bloomsbury is perhaps best known for its connections with the artistic and literary world. Virginia Woolf ((1882-1941), author, essayist, and diarist) and her sister Vanessa Bell ((1879-1961), painter) lived at 46 Gordon Square, and was part of a group of artists known as the Bloomsbury Group, who met in private homes in the early 20th century. Poet TS Eliot worked at the publishing group Faber & Faber when their offices were in Russell Square. Many years later Eliot's book of poems Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, Illustrated Edition was the inspiration for Andrew Lloyd Webber's famous musical Cats, which includes a reference to flying "up, up past the Russell Hotel" (apparently taken from some unpublished Eliot material).

Other notable Bloomsbury residents include:
Randolph Caldecott (1846–1886), illustrator, lived at No 46 Great Russell Street;
Charles Darwin (1809 - 1882) lived at 12 Upper Gower St in 1839;
George Dance (1741–1825), architect lived at 91 Gower Street;
Charles Dickens (1812–1870), novelist lived at 14 Great Russell Street, Tavistock Square and 48 Doughty Street;
Philip (1792–1870) and Philip Charles Hardwick (1822-1892), father and son architects lived at 60 Russell Square for over ten years;
John Maynard Keynes, lived for thirty years in Gordon Square;
Bob Marley lived in 34 Ridgmount Gardens for 6 months in 1972;
John Shaw Senior (1776–1832) and John Shaw Junior (1803-1870), father and son architects lived on Gower Street;
Thomas Henry Wyatt (1807–1880), architect lived at 77 Great Russell Street;
William Butler Yeats (1865–1939), poet, dramatist and prose writer lived at Woburn Walk (which is, by the way, the little road we walk through as a shortcut from the hotel to Euston Road); and
Kristin Timm, (plus thousands of other American college students from Pacific Lutheran University and other universities), went to school in the premises of the University of London, January through May 1986, and have returned to stay in the area numerous times thereafter.

(This information was obtained from Wikipedia, the free on-line encyclopedia, and other internet sources.)

After standing at the corner of Russell Square for a moment reflecting on all this history (imagine it running through my head like a compilation video—Virginia Woolf looking like Nicole Kidman in The Hours; T.S. Eliot and Jellicle Cats dancing around; Charles Dickens and Charles Darwin travelling from one square to the next; and W.B. Yeats picking through the cobblestones of Woburn Walk),

I turned into Russell Square and walked through it in the usual way, diagonally from the southwest to the northeast corner, emerging at the intersection with Bernard Street near Russell Square Station.

Finally, I felt as if my stay in London was complete.

This would be a great place to end; a satisfactory finish and a firm final punctuation mark to our trip. But, I don't know when to stop and our story is not yet done.

After a big final breakfast—or should I say a final big breakfast—we hauled our various pieces of luggages into the hall and out to the sidewalk to await our car to the airport.

It was due at 10:30 a.m. and from 10:25 or so we were out there waiting. And waiting. At 10:45 we had the desk clerk call to check, and they were on their way, delayed by traffic. Finally the car arrived (a big Mercedes estate wagon, very nice), and we loaded up and began our slow trip to the airport. Some 30 minutes later we passed Regent's Park (which takes me 15 minutes to run to in the morning). I stopped paying attention to the time, relying that the great amount of extra time we allowed before our flight would keep us on time. And in fact, we arrived at Heathrow Terminal 4 some time before 1:00, in plenty of time (though not excessively early, at this point!).

We had already checked in online, and for the first time I can recall, did not have to stand in a long line to check in. We dropped off our bags, got our boarding passes, and headed toward the gate. The clerk warned us that the gate was at least a 15 minute walk from security, which was a good thing to know, because it prevented us dilly-dallying in the shopping concourse too long. In fact, we went directly to the gate and within ten minutes of getting there, the flight began boarding.

Unlike most airports, the British Air flights from London to the U.S. seem to board in a cattle fashion, everyone just piling on at once, rather than by row number. I have experienced this bizarre method several times, even on flights that are quite full, as ours was today. But while it was chaotic in the terminal, by the time we got to the plane everyone seemed to sort themselves out adequately.

The flight was unremarkable, other than watching Hugh Grant's Music and Lyrics twice, with Stranger Than Fiction (Will Ferrell and Emma Thompson) in between. (It passed the time!) (My only Hugh Grant siting of the trip.) After leaving London at 3:05 p.m. London time, we arrived in Seattle at 4:00 p.m. Pacific Time. (Funny, the flight seemed a whole lot longer than an hour!)

And that really is the end.

Of the trip, that is.

I may still have a few things to say, every now and then, as my Anglophilia resurfaces.

And stay tuned; in a few days I am going to post a final wrap-up in pictures, for those who can't be bothered to read the long narrative posts!

Last Day in London

2007-06-10T12:38:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, 5 June

Twenty days on, and suddenly it is our last full day in London. “Suddenly” is a relative term, of course, because it seems like a very, very long time since we left home. Each day has been long and full (in a good way), and yet so many things have been left undone. Some by choice, of course—there is no way you can see and do everything in one trip, and I consciously omitted any number of potential sites and activities, like St. Paul’s Cathedral (was there last year), the Tower of London (too long lines and too many tourists), and countless museums and galleries (someday I will go back to the Victoria and Albert Museum, really—maybe even the Tate Gallery).

Other destinations were ruled out by lack of time or opportunity, like Kensington Gardens and the Orangery (where we went, but the Orangery closed early that day and I decided to spare my parents the exertion of spending too much time walking in Kensington Gardens). I didn’t go to the theatre at all, and didn’t really make an effort to, other than a couple of occasions where I thought about trying to get theatre tickets, but ultimately discarded the idea. I saw in the newspaper’s theatre listings that Equus with Daniel Radcliffe still had “a few good seats available” and definitely contemplated trying to get a ticket!

(I also read a newspaper review of King Lear at Stratford, which stated that actor Ian McKellen brings “depth, openness and emotional, spiritual and, at times, literal nakedness to the title role”—apparently nudity is a frequent element in serious British theatre. I think, however, I’d rather see Daniel Radcliffe.) (Though, of course, he’s no Hugh Grant. Just thought I’d add that.) (And he's not even going to be 18 until July. Okay, that's creepy. Moving on.)

I still had a moderately long list of things I wanted to accomplish on this final day in London, ending with a final trip to Harrods to pick up a VAT refund form. (Harrods was at the end of the day since they are open until 8 p.m.) I plotted out my itinerary by location, so I could move from one stop to the next.

I began the day with a final run in Regent’s Park. I wanted to make this last trip the ultimate Regent’s Park run—one loop around the Outer Circle, one loop around the Inner Circle, and finally a loop through the interior of Queen Mary’s Gardens and rose garden. The Outer Circle is the road (with sidewalk) that circles the outside of Regent’s Park. I have tried again and again to ascertain its distance but can’t find any firm information on the internet—strangely enough, because you’d think that was the kind of thing someone would be quick to determine. I estimate that it’s about 2½ miles, based on how long it takes me to run around. (After writing this I found something that says it is 4.3 km, which converts to 2.67 miles, so I was pretty close in my estimate! I am good!) This was the first time I’ve run all the way around the Outer Circle on the outside of Regent’s Park; usually I prefer to run on the inside of the park on the paths that follow the outside edge of the park. Once I completed the rotation and returned to St. Andrew’s Gate, I ran up the Broad Walk to the Inside Circle and took my loop around the inner road. Finally, I made my final visit to the Rose Garden and Queen Mary’s Gardens, passing through the rose gardens and other lavishly planted beds and borders. Just before I turned back into Chester Road, I came across a part of the Rose Garden that I had not seen before—an English Rose border, planted entirely with David Austin English Roses! I regretted not having my camera there to take a picture.

I have said before, the Rose Garden at Regent’s Park is probably the most beautiful rose garden I have ever seen, and I was happy to run through it day after day. Regent’s Park itself has become one of my favorite places, certainly my favorite place to run, offering many more paths and possible courses than I have yet to explore, despite my daily visits (when I tend to run the same routes every day anyway). I am sure I could run there every day for a year and never get bored. (Regent’s Park also has public restrooms that are open early in the morning, which makes it even more desirable as a running course.) Other people in the park are scarce early in the morning—I usually see a few runners and walkers, several persons with cameras taking pictures, and my favorites, a group of older Asian ladies practicing tai chi. I am not alone in loving Regent's Park, of course, in fact, Regent's Park and the adjacent Primrose Hill are even mentioned in numerous musical pieces and songs—something for me to explore for my ipod in future, perhaps.

Saying a sad farewell to the glorious roses, I reluctantly left Regent’s Park to return to the hotel for breakfast and the remainder of my day. After eating breakfast, I set forth on my day’s agenda.

First stop, the the National Gallery which I reached by way of Piccadilly Circus tube, walking down Haymarket and then turning left into Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery. It took me a moment to notice the change in the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square; the busy road which has always run between the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square has been closed and turned into part of the pedestrian plaza. I don’t remember whether that road was open or closed last year, but I suspect I would remember if it had been closed! I approve of this change. It adds a lot to both the appearance and ambience of the National Gallery.

I arrived at the National Gallery at 9:45, fifteen minutes before it opens. I took this time to perch on a ledge, taking pictures and watching passersby.

My objective at the National Gallery was to pick up a Van Gogh print and miniature chairs by request for Pam. The National Gallery is an amazing building with a breathtaking interior, and I didn’t need to visit the exhibits to enjoy the ambience of the National Gallery. While waiting for the print to be ready, I contemplated going into a few of the exhibit rooms, but rather than make that overwhelming choice, I walked down to the Waterstone’s bookstore on the opposite side of Trafalgar Square to look for some books I had been asked to find. About half an hour later I went back and collected the finished print in the shop of the Sainsbury Wing. The National Gallery has a scheme where you can purchase digital prints of many of their paintings. These prints are meant to be much better quality than a traditional poster, as they are digital reproductions of the original artwork.

After my final departure from the National Gallery, I circled around Trafalgar Square to head down Whitehall toward Westminster. Walking down Whitehall, you can see Big Ben ahead; you also pass the Horse Guards Parade, numerous government offices, and Downing Street on your right. I was going to Westminster to find the National Trust shop that the clerk in the Bath shop said was located in Westminster in London. I had some idea that it would just pop up and be easy to find, probably in Whitehall or in Bridge Street across from the Houses of Parliament, where there are a number of other shops.

But it did not appear so easily. I went into the Parliament Bookshop and asked the clerk if he knew where the National Trust shop was; despite trying to find it on the National Trust website on the internet, he could not help me. I walked past the Houses of Parliament and toward Westminster Abbey, going into the Westminster Abbey shop to try for assistance there as well. They sent me toward the small English Heritage shop located in the Jewel Tower adjacent to the Houses of Parliament. I spent a little bit of time walking about the grounds of Westminster Abbey, crossing Victoria Street to get a picture; this was the most time I had spent around Westminster Abbey since I was in college!

After the English Heritage shop provided no information (although they did encourage me to join English Heritage, to gain free admission to a whole slew of historic houses and properties different from those owned by National Trust—including Stonehenge, although I believe National Trust members get free admission to Stonehenge also), I finally conceded that I was not going to find this shop just by walking around. In fact, I seriously questioned whether it existed at all!

Despite my frustration, I did take this opportunity to admire the views of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben.

My next planned destinations were Somerset House and the Courtauld Institute of Art, followed by a walk down Fleet Street to the Temple Church. Geographically, my plan was sound; I could walk to Somerset House either by walking down Victoria Embankment, or by returning to Trafalgar Square and then into the Strand. Temple Church would then be only a short distance further.

But I had spent more time than I had planned looking for the National Trust shop, and I reluctantly decided to eliminate Somerset House and the Temple Church in favor of returning to the hotel to look for further information in my National Trust book. Yes, it might have been helpful to look up the exact address in the book before I left in the morning! But it really did not even occur to me at the time. While I regretted eliminating cultural destinations in favor of shopping, I also realized that I would not appreciate those places if I forced myself to go to them when I really wanted to be somewhere else. I was obsessed with finding that National Trust shop!

(So, Pam, yet another effort to go to Temple Church thwarted by time and fate!)

I retraced my steps back to Trafalgar Square and then to Piccadilly to hop on the tube back to Russell Square. I also suspected that a short break at the hotel would give me more energy for the rest of the afternoon. I stopped at a bakery in Marchmont Street to bring back a bacon and cheese panini to share with my mother. This was about as close as I could get to a traditional bacon butty—and let me say, it was tasty. (It wasn’t just bacon and cheese, there was also “salad”—lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber—on it.)

Sure enough, my National Trust Handbook listed the locations of the town shops, including the London shop, located in Caxton Street in Victoria. Now, granted, Victoria is just adjacent to Westminster, but still, there was no chance I could have found this shop just by walking around. In fact, the shop is located in a historical site called the Blewcoat School, a school that was built in 1709 as a school for poor children. It was used as a school until 1926. It was used as a school until 1926. In 1954, it was purchased by the National Trust who use it as a gift shop and information centre.

After our lunch and a bit of a rest (not too much), I persuaded my mother to come with me to the National Trust shop and my next round of final errands. (She is a sucker for National Trust shops.) This time we took the tube from Euston Station on the Victoria line to Victoria Station. From there we walked up (or down) Victoria Street what I felt was a short distance but my mother possibly considered a moderately long walk.

A left turn into Buckingham Gate brought us to Caxton Street and the back of the Blewcoat School and the National Trust Shop.

We left with bag in hand. Despite my mother’s packing concerns, she could not resist the lure of the National Trust Shop! When I gave her the option of walking back to Victoria Station, or getting on the tube at St. James Park, only a couple of blocks away from us but necessitating a change of trains, she chose the St. James Park tube. Rather excitingly, our walk to the tube took us right past New Scotland Yard! Outside New Scotland Yard, we saw a man being interviewed by TV reporters, and although we did not know who it was or what he was saying, we assumed it was something important and newsworthy!

Not unlike Mark Darcy/Colin Firth being interviewed at the Royal Courts of Justice following his victory in a big civil rights trial. (Since we pay no attention to the news, we never did find out what it was all about.)

After one stop on the Circle Line, we changed trains at Victoria Station to go to Oxford Circus. Luckily it was only two stops on the Victoria Line, because at 4:30 or so the trains were starting to get rush hour crowded. We emerged from underground into Oxford Circus and turned directly into Regent’s Street, destination Liberty. Liberty of London is a large department store, historically famous for its prints and fabrics, which were also sold in PVC tote bags and gorgeous silk scarves. When the store remade its image in the last few years, they discontinued the bags and other Liberty print items, and the scarves they sell are other designer scarves rather than the classic Liberty scarves. Last year I bought a very expensive “one-off” (meaning one-of-a-kind) silk skirt made from the last of the stock of old scarves. It is hanging in my closet like a treasured piece of artwork, waiting for the right occasion to be worn.

My main reason for coming to Liberty was to try out its new tea room, conveniently located on the main floor. It is a curious amalgam of very contemporary molded plastic furniture and classic dishes and silver. The dishes are black and white transferware and the silver is slightly battered hotel silver. We unfortunately arrived at the same time as a number of other people, and though we didn’t have any problem finding a table, we did have to wait a very long time for our order to be served—and it wasn’t even right. I had ordered one high tea (full afternoon tea) and one cream tea (scones and cream). When it finally arrived all we got was the cream tea and tea for one—the other half of the order had been forgotten, or never ordered, or something. No longer interested in prolonging our stay, I just asked for one more pot of tea and forget the high tea. Later, when we got the bill, I had to have words with the waiter because they overcharged us for “splitting” the cream tea! To their credit, after I explained two or three times what the problem was, they re-rang it as the cream tea plus extra pot of tea that we actually got. Of course, we paid at least twice as much for the cream tea as we would have paid for the same thing outside of London! London is an expensive place.

My final destination in Oxford Street was John Lewis, a big department store. I had some idea of finding the “Big Tomato Company” dishes that I had so liked in Bath (I saw on the internet that they are carried by John Lewis). I did find a pretty big collection (though not all the pieces I had wanted—why oh why didn’t I try to get them in Bath?), but when I learned I would have to go to the 5th floor to get a form to have anything shipped to the U.S. (the chinaware was in the basement), my interest waned and I decided to skip it. Maybe I could find it on the internet some other time.

Dragging my mother back to Oxford Circus, we squeezed onto the now impossibly crowded tube (we had to wait for a second train, and that was still packed) for the two-stop trip to Euston Station. After dropping my mother at the hotel, I set out on my final last-day journey—to Harrods. Lucky for me, this train was not so crowded, so I was able to get a seat for the ride to Knightsbridge.

While I was paying for one last purchase, I commiserated a little about the exchange rate, and the friendly but outspoken clerk opined that we had had it good for a long time (1993 to 2004 or 2005, in my calculation), and now it’s payback! I told her she should take advantage of it and take a trip to the U.S., and she said she was going later in the year. I then headed to the export bureau to collect the paperwork for my pathetic VAT refund.

Back at Russell Square and Marchmont Street, I popped into Waitrose to check on the clotted cream I planned to buy in the morning. I grabbed a shopping basket for a few other purchases—several packets of chocolate covered digestive biscuits and some flapjack. In the cream aisle, I was disturbed to see that the clotted cream was all gone. The clerk who went to check on it for me then told me that they would not get any more until the next afternoon (by which time we would be on the plane). I was quite distraught as I left the store. I was so distraught, in fact, that I didn’t notice I was carrying a metal shopping basket filled with digestive biscuits and flapjack until I was half way to the street! After a stunned moment, I turned around and slipped back into the store, hoping that I would not be accused of shoplifting. (No one even seemed to notice.)

Purchases now paid for, I returned to the hotel, somewhat resigned to the idea that I would have to go home without clotted cream. Of course I had personally eaten enough clotted cream to satisfy several months of teas, but there were others at home hoping for cream deliveries, and I hated to disappoint!

But for the moment, I turned my mind from clotted cream to fish and chips (from one full-fat item to the next), and headed out with my mother to pick up an order for our dinner. We learned from our last experience, and this time ordered only one order of chips to share, although we did order three pieces of fish. The fish and chips were quite delicious, hot, crispy, and just greasy enough. We ate every crumb!

That left just the packing to finish. Fortified with yet another strong latte, I faced up to my bags (of shopping) and bags (to be packed). I definitely had not done that much shopping, but with the decreased carry-on allowance, I had to get more stuff into packed luggage. (I had brought along an extra duffel bag, and this would leave us with six bags to check amongst us, and then the three to carry on.)

I won’t dwell on the packing experience, though it wasn’t pretty. But being a practiced packer, I managed to wedge almost everything into the three bags I was packing (without busting any seams this year), leaving only a very few small items—including the clothes I was wearing on Tuesday—to squeeze into my parents’ bags. The bulk of my excess packing was books I had bought and travel maps and guides, plus an electronic Monopoly game only available in England, and a large number of PVC shopping/tote bags.

I had emailed to Jennifer that I didn’t think I could get clotted cream (or have any room to pack it), and she responded threatening the welfare of my cats if I did not bring back clotted cream! Feeling bad (though not particularly concerned about the cats), I managed to rearrange my suitcase to allow space for the clotted cream, if I could manage to track some down at Sainsbury’s in the morning. We had bought ice packs at a kitchen store in Bath, which the Harlingford kitchen staff had put in the freezer for me. I hated the idea of not using the ice packs (which we had a hard time finding, believe me), so that was another incentive to try to find the clotted cream!

Done packing by midnight or so, I read my book for a while then turned out the light on my last full day in London. Even without Somerset House and Temple Church, it had been a full day. When I looked at my pedometer that night it read 39,269 steps! (A mile is 2,000 to 2,500 steps.) About 13,000 of those steps came from my run that morning, and the rest had been my various excursions around London. And this was a day when I had taken the tube a lot! My mother would not be surprised to hear that her part of the afternoon probably amounted to at least 6,000 to 8,000 of those steps, and that was just in going to and from the tube and our various destinations. At least it helps a bit with the clotted cream!

Taking the Train to China

2007-06-07T20:42:00.000-07:00

Monday, 4 June

My first trip to England in college was before email and digital cameras, back in the day when we sent pretty picture postcards home to record our travels and adventures. Back then I took every spare moment to squeeze in writing postcards to my friends and family. I remember sitting on a train one day, on the way to Canterbury, with a postcard in front of me but my mind on shopping for English bone china. (Before I actually purchased any, I was obsessed with which pattern and manufacturer to buy. This was, by the way, the days when the exchange rate was great and English china was a great bargain. Everyone who came to England bought some. Plates and cups and saucers were being shipped overseas by the gross.) I started scribbling away on my postcard and then read what I had written—"I am on the train to China." My friend Jean and I got quite a kick out of that Freudian slip. (It didn't take much to amuse us—we laughed for years about Jean saying that she was going to "scald Andrew" for giving us bad directions.)

So I wasn't really on the train to China back then, but you can indeed take a train to china in England—that is to the place where china is made, a place called Stoke-on-Trent. Stoke-on-Trent in Staffordshire is a unique city made up of six separate towns: Tunstall, Burslem, Hanley (the City Centre), Stoke, Fenton and Longton—collectively known as "The Potteries." These towns have been for many years, and are still, the production center for English ceramics of all kinds, from stoneware to fine bone china.

I had traveled to Stoke-on-Trent a couple of times over the years, primarily with the intention of buying even cheaper china at the factory seconds shops. Before my pattern (Minton Consort) was discontinued about twelve years ago, I spent hours pouring through stacks of seconds, picking out plates and other pieces which, despite being seconds, had no visible flaws (to my very picky and discriminating eye).

Although I had no china to buy, I thought a train trip to Stoke-on-Trent would be an interesting change of pace (after weeks in the bucolic countryside). So this Monday we took an abrupt change of direction and jumped on the train northward to Stoke-on-Trent.

Our objective was two-fold: one, to visit the Wedgwood Visitor Centre and tour the Wedgwood factory; and two, to take a nice long train ride where we could take as much advantage of possible of the perks of traveling first class. This was because the train to Stoke (which is the train that goes on to Manchester), is part of Virgin Trains (the train line owned by Richard Branson), the most first-rate of the first-class trains.

Now, when I say we hopped on the train, that was only after we spent hours the night before studying the timetables and website to establish exactly what we were entitled to and make sure that we got on a train that maximized our perks! My father and I debated extensively before agreeing that we would be offered free breakfast on our outbound trip, although our return trip would only offer beverages and snacks (pretty substantial snacks, though).

This was a very important thing to resolve because it affected whether we needed or wanted to have breakfast at the hotel before going to the station. We agreed to have breakfast on the train, so we would leave the hotel at 8:30 to walk to Euston Station for the 9:05 train. Skipping the hotel breakfast would certainly eliminate some time pressure in the morning.

But funny thing, as I came back into the hotel at around 7:45 after my run in Regent's Park, I saw my dad in the hotel dining room, apparently having an early first breakfast! Later he told me he had gone in for just a "light breakfast," fruit and cereal and a banana, coffee and toast, and two fried eggs. I guess that would keep him going for a while, until we got on the train anyway.

Our train was the Manchester train, leaving from Euston station every half hour, which made it easy to get onto. Stoke-on-Trent was about half an hour before Manchester. When we got to the station at about ten minutes before nine, the platform number had not yet been posted, so we joined a throng of other passengers hovering under the departures board, waiting for our platform number to go up. It's pretty common on British trains leaving London stations for the boarding platform not to be announced until just a few minutes before departure, which can be very stressful if you are travelling with luggage that you have to drag to the platform and onto the train. But on a short day trip like this, where we were traveling light (carrying only light daypacks), there was no real pressure (although you are always a bit anxious until you are actually on the train!).

A few minutes later the platform number flashed onto the screen—Platform 7, not too far from where we were waiting. Moments later, we were boarding the waiting train. It took only moments to succumb to first class fever, as we snatched up the menu cards that described all we had to choose from. Since our train left at 9:05, we didn't qualify for the "Great British Breakfast" offered on trains leaving prior to 9:00, but instead could choose a full English breakfast (which is essentially the same thing anyway), or vegetarian or fruit plates, should we desire.

The Pendolino trains are sleek and modern, and the seats are roomy and comfortable. Train attendants, dressed in red uniforms to match the red seats and general color theme of the trains, appear promptly to take our breakfast orders, pour coffee, tea, or other drinks, and offer newspapers. (Our attendant brought me a copy of Marie Claire magazine, apparently determining that I was the only member of our party who would be interested in a young, trendy fashion magazine!) My mother and I ordered the English breakfast, but my father, having already had his "light" breakfast earlier, opted for the fruit plate.

The glamour and comfort of the train and the lure of free food led me and my mother into a flight of fantasy where we contemplated planning a trip in which you spent all your time traveling on the trains and eating the free food. If you planned it right, you would never have to buy a meal! However, I think you would need to have a place to stay at night, because even if you could arrange your travel around overnight train journeys, the comfy first class seats might become less so if you tried to do all your sleeping sitting up in them. Later on in the day, the idea of constant train travel seemed less appealing than it had in the morning, but still I think we left a lot of train travel benefits untapped. (There is a special breakfast menu if you are traveling from Manchester to Euston in the morning, and if you are traveling from Euston to Manchester during a certain part of the afternoon, or a certain time in the evening, you will be served afternoon tea or a full dinner! I am still intrigued with the idea of hopping on the train at Euston and riding north long enough to have tea, or dinner, then getting off and taking the next train back to London. This would only work, of course, if you already had a railpass so that you didn't have to pay for a ticket.)

We arrived at Stoke-on-Trent to discover yet another change in what I believed was true (recent years in England seem full of changes to things which have been constant for hundreds of years). The fun little train from Stoke to Wedgwood had been changed to a rail replacement bus! Transportation-wise, it didn't matter, of course, but the ambience of riding a bus is completely different from hopping on and off a train.

Oh well, it could not be helped, and we got on the bus for the 15 minute ride to Wedgwood. The bus lets you off about a quarter to half a mile from the Wedgwood factory, so we followed the road past the Wedgwood railroad platform (waiting for two intercity trains to pass before crossing the tracks), and across a park and parking lot (which I remember as a field some thirteen years ago) to the back entrance of the Wedgwood factory.

In addition to the potteries, a major attraction in the Stoke-on-Trent area is a theme park called Alton Towers. But as we walked toward the Wedgwood factory, I noticed another potential attraction to the area, the Waterways of Stoke-on-Trent, canals which are lined with towpaths for walking as well as canal boats for riding the water. Staffordshire has more miles of canals within its borders than any other part of England. In the past, these canals provided a system of transportation for the pottery industry. In the 18th century Josiah Wedgwood commissioned a local engineer to create the Trent and Mersey Canal which enabled kaolin (china clay) to be brought from Cornwall right to the door of his factory. Equally important, the finished products could be taken away smoothly, with the minimum of breakages. Nowadays the canals are thick with boats offering holiday cruises and tours.

We approached The Wedgwood Visitor Centre from the back, the "canal entrance" as well as the employee entrance. After walking through hallways lined with historical Wedgwood pictures, we entered the main section of the visitor center, where we could go on the tour or visit the shop. I was rather disappointed to learn that the factory part of the tour was closed that day, so we were limited to the exhibition section (a display of historical china pieces with an audio guide) as well as a demonstration area, where craftspeople demonstrated some of the techniques of china decoration. I particularly enjoyed an exhibition and film about Royal Doulton (now owned by Wedgwood), focusing particularly on the making of Royal Doulton figurines. (Royal Doulton also includes Minton and Royal Albert, so by acquiring Royal Doulton, Wedgwood seems to have taken over a large segment of the entire china industry!)

After browsing through the Wedgwood shop, I insisted on stopping at the restaurant for tea and a scone. I had been lured by the website to believe that there is a special Wedgwood Tea Room (which opened in 2007), but apparently the special teas are only served on Sundays, by reservation, and the manager of the restaurant indicated to me that this is especially popular with groups of Japanese visitors. Apparently not, however, something that you can just drop by for.

Finishing with Wedgwood, we made our way back to the road to catch the bus back to the railway station. This was a little bit stressful, as there is no marked bus stop, but we successfully waved down the bus as it approached and stopped. (My mother was convinced that we were on the wrong bus, even though it had the right number—X-1—and came at the right time. She was disturbed that it wasn't yellow, like the first bus had been, and was certain that she did not recognize the roads we were on! However, after about 15-20 minutes we pulled up in front of the Stoke-on-Trent station.)

Charmed by the Virgin Trains, we decided to maximize our trip a bit by riding the train on to Manchester, then turning around and taking the train from Manchester back to London. We were just a tiny bit embarrassed (at least I was) that our train back to London was the exact same train that we got off in Manchester, so the crew recognized us and commented on our quick turnaround!

On the afternoon and evening trains into London, there are no "meals" served, just "snacks." But what snacks! The menu offered sandwiches, a wrap, quiche, and salad. I had a piece of the very tasty salmon quiche with some salad and bread, and that certainly made a nice supper in my estimation. In addition to the snacks and other meals, they offer complimentary tea, coffee, soft drinks, and alcohol for those who so desire. First Class travel on Virgin Trains is definitely the way to go!

Our return to Euston Station was the end of our planned day. We now had only one full day ahead of us in England before heading home on Wednesday. I had a rather full schedule in mind of "last minute" things to see and do on Tuesday, and my father wanted to squeeze in one last train trip. My mother preferred to start worrying about packing and the flight home.

Back at the hotel I pulled out our flight information to check on our departure time (15:05 on Wednesday). In looking over our itinerary I saw something which, I admit, I should have noticed before—a change in the baggage restrictions from our flight over. Flying to the U.K. on British Air we were allowed two checked bags, plus one carry-on and an additional laptop/briefcase/purse. On the return flight leaving the U.K., our carry-on allowance was decreased to one carry-on only, without the additional laptop/briefcase/purse! This was incredibly annoying since the tendency is to increase baggage on the return home, not decrease it!

So this created an additional tension as we had to contemplate reorganizing our luggage so that each of us would carry only one item onto the plane. This mostly affected me, of course, since I had my laptop bag plus my regular carry-on which I had already packed full of breakable china mugs. In my past experience, British air has always been very lenient about carrying extra stuff on the plane (especially if it is a bag of purchases from duty-free), but I didn't think this was the time to test their patience. Especially with my mother along—I didn't want to send her into a nervous breakdown (if it could possibly be avoided). In the end, of course, we did manage to pack everything up and do it within acceptable guidelines, but not without some 24 hours of anxiety to come!

A Royal Rose Garden

2007-06-07T17:04:00.000-07:00

Sunday 3 June

At 6:32 on Sunday morning I appeared at my parents’ door to escort them to The Regent's Park. I had puzzled over the best way to get them there without making them walk too far. I decided that they should take the Circle line tube from King’s Cross to Great Portland Street station, which is almost right across the street from Regent’s Park. (They could have gotten the tube from Euston Square instead, but both King’s Cross and Euston Square are about the same distance from the hotel, so it seemed best to go to a station that they were more familiar with.) I let my father use my Oyster card and I would just run there instead.

I walked them to King’s Cross then took off up Euston Road toward Great Portland Street. I had told them to meet me outside the station, but I wasn’t sure whether they or I would get there first. When I arrived there was no sign of them. I peered inside the station in case they were coming through the gates, but the station was empty. I decided to run around the outside of the station to pass the time while I waited (it’s a very small station). Each time as I passed the entrance I looked inside, until after three or four times I decided that I wouldn’t look in again until I did ten loops. (I cheated and looked after a few more circles, but they still weren’t there.) So , after ten times I started on another ten—and after number twelve I rounded the front of the station to see them sitting on a bench. They said that there had been a long delay waiting for the train—not surprising before 7 a.m. on Sunday morning.

As usual in London, taking the tube (or bus) to the stop nearest your destination doesn’t mean you don’t have a walk ahead of you. To get to the rose garden in Regent’s Park we still had to cross Euston Road (or actually Marylebone Road, as Euston turns into Marylebone at Great Portland Street), enter the park by way of Park Square East and St. Andrew’s Gate (my usual entry point), follow a path west to the Broad Walk, then walk north on the Broad Walk until you take a left on Chester Road, which will lead you directly to the entrance of Queen Mary’s Gardens (and the rose garden is, luckily, right inside). Just a hop, skip, and a jump, really.

Since I was foregoing my usual run around the park, I ran back and forth on the Broad Walk and Chester Road until my parents caught up to me at the gates to the gardens. We walked in, and the roses were every bit as magnificent as the day before. Rosy pink swags of rambling roses, massed beds of white, pink, red, yellow, and amazing sunrise and sunset shades from appricot to orange. The rose gardens contain more than 30,000 rose bushes of 400 varieties.

A few of the lovely roses....

Norwich Castle

Cherry Brandy & Pensioner's Voice

Singing in the Rain & Heart of Gold

Tatton

A cool blue delphinium border, edged with catmint or something similar (I can’t quite make it out for sure), provides a contrasting backdrop to the beds of roses.

Queen Mary’s Gardens extend beyond the roses to other mixed borders, trees, and shrubs, but our time that morning was limited, so as we came to the end of the roses we turned around and circled back to the entry. It would be so easy, and wonderful, to spend hours at Regent’s Park walking in the gardens and sitting on benches, but breakfast awaited at the hotel. Not to mention that my father had a train to catch.

Later that morning Regent’s Park was to be the site of a green fair and bike rally, so our peaceful, solitary park would be swarming with people. We were happy to have the roses almost to ourselves, joined by only the occasional walker, runner, or early morning photographer. All my visits to Regent’s Park have been early in the morning, so I consider it my personal park, and am not too eager to share it with the mobs! Even without the fair, all the parks are are magnets to visitors on sunny summer days, city dwellers seeking a bit of countryside and green.

Regent’s Park is one of London’s largest parks, covering 410 acres. On the south side it is only about a mile from central London, close to Paddington, Baker Street, and my own Euston and Bloomsbury areas. On the north side it borders the residential area of Primrose Hill (where Mark Darcy lived in the book version of Bridget Jones’s Diary). In addition to Queen Mary’s Gardens in the center and other landscaped areas, the Park is home to the London Zoo at the north end, London’s Central Mosque at the west, a college, an open air theatre, and several cafés and restaurants (plus a sausage cart). On one side of the park there is a boating lake, as well as a smaller pond in the rose garden (site of the “dead duck” incident in the movie About a Boy.)

I returned my parents to the Great Portland Street station around 8:20. Breakfast finished at 9:00, and if the trains took as long as they had on the way, they might not get back in time. I knew I would get back in plenty of time, so we agreed that I would order their breakfast if they didn’t return before 9:00. But as I was finishing an extra loop around the block by the hotel, there they were walking down the street (at only 8:45 a.m.)—in plenty of time for breakfast.

My dad took off right after breakfast to catch a train to Newcastle. I had promised my mother already that today would be a "light" day (despite the 6:30 a.m. trip to Regent's Park). So I freed her from any obligations until we went to tea in the late afternoon. I had originally planned to go out myself and then come back to get her for tea, but as I sat down to write I realized that maybe I too should have a somewhat unencumbered afternoon, with time to write and just hang out. Despite my rather full schedule over the past couple weeks, I haven't felt unusually tired—although I have upped the strength of my lattes to triple talls and quadruple grandes (and I don't know if I can go back!).

Like the day before, the weather was bright and sunny on Sunday. As I ventured out to Starbucks around 10:30 or 11, the streets were Sunday morning quiet, only a handful of people out and even fewer cars, offering a sense of peacefulness that was rare for London. I settled myself in the hotel lounge with my latte and computer, and let the afternoon while itself away.

Around 2:00 or so I suggested to my mother that we walk down the street to the Brunswick shopping centre and get a little bit of lunch to hold us over till tea later on. The Brunswick Centre is a newly renovated shopping area and residential block close to Russell Square tube, a concrete and glass behemoth which has apparently been a London landmark since it was built in the sixties. (Who knew? I just thought it was an apartment building and shopping center which has been spruced up in recent years. I used to shop at the somewhat dingy Safeway store in college; it was closed a few years ago and is now replaced by a shiny new Waitrose and other retail shops.) There are a number of moderately priced, trendy casual restaurants there, and we went into one called Nando's, an English chain specializing in grilled chicken, and ordered grilled chicken Caesar salads. (The meal-size salad, virtually unheard of in England even a few years ago, has now become almost as ubiquitous here as in the U.S.)

I wanted to stop at Fortnum & Mason before going to Brown's Hotel for tea, so we decided to leave at 3:30 to allow plenty of time to get there. After spending the day in a t-shirt (my Wells Fun Run shirt) and baggy pants, I wanted to dress up for tea, so I changed into the cotton wrap dress that I had brought along especially to wear to Brown's. Unlike most wrap dresses, this one had very little overlap in the skirt, so there was a rather unnerving tendency for the skirt to flip open unexpectedly. I spent quite a bit of time holding it together, especially in gusts of wind!

Fortnum & Mason is about halfway down Piccadilly between Piccadilly Circus and Green Park. We took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and it only took a few minutes to walk to Fortnum & Mason. The visit to Fortnum & Mason did not take long, partly because F & M is undergoing renovations and thus offered a lot less to explore than usual. After a stop at Hatchard's, the venerable bookstore next door to Fortnum and Mason, we continued on down Piccadilly and crossed at Albemarle Street to head to Brown's Hotel.

After a few minutes wait (we were early), they showed us to our table and our Brown's tea experience began. Afternoon tea at a fancy hotel is a pricy proposition at the best of times, and a poor exchange rate makes it so expensive as to begin to wonder whether it is even justifiable at all! But if any expensive tearoom offers an opportunity to get your money's worth, it is Brown's Hotel. Brown's generously provides unlimited seconds (thirds, etc.) on all aspects of the tea—sandwiches, scones, and sweets—so depending on how hungry and/or piggish you feel, you can make afternoon tea into quite a meal.

A few years ago Brown's redecorated the tearoom, so the lovely old classic library decor has now been replaced with a more contemporary style. I feel rather sad about the change, because I liked the old furniture, even if it is quite nice now. At least we were seated at a table whose chairs have arms, and not on the leather cubes that constitute some of the chairs!

I was thankful for the large linen napkin the waiter draped over my lap, so I didn't have to monitor my skirt during tea. Between the top half of my dress dipping low, and the skirt trying to pull open, I was a couple of deep breaths away from sitting there in my underwear! By the time I finished my share of two plates of sandwiches (we did take the seconds), scones, and a few little cakes (we didn't have the stomach for seconds on the scones or cakes), I was convinced that I was threatening the stability of the wrap even more. After we left Brown's, I was completely unable to control the skirt, and my slip was exposed most of the time—at least it is white and doesn't clash with the dress or anything.

Before heading back to the hotel, we walked over to Berkeley Square, just a few blocks behind Brown's Hotel. I've always loved the mention of Berkeley Square in the song—"There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square"—and I love the line-up of benches with dedication plaques on them. Berkeley Square is very austere, landscaped only with trees, and a few clumps of daffodils in the early spring. On this particular day one end of the park was covered with large tents, apparently meant for some kind of upcoming event.

It is a short walk from Berkeley Square back to Green Park, where we hopped on the tube back to Russell Square and the hotel. As we rounded the corner to Cartwright Gardens, we could see and hear into the hotel lounge, where my father was sitting with the Norwegian cousins, who had stopped by to say Farvel before flying back to Norway early the next day. We learned that Annbjorg had led them on another long walk today, five hours walking from their hotel to Oxford Street and around and about in Oxford Street—after which they hopped on a bus back to their hotel. Luckily they still had enough energy left to walk over to our hotel, so we didn't have to find our way to them (being still overly full of sandwiches and scones).

So goodbyes were exchanged, with promises of visits to Norway soon.

Velkommen til London

2007-06-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

Saturday, 2 June

On Saturday morning my parents found a note under the door to their room. It said, "Bob—Your Norwegian cousins came by at 10:30 last night—they will be back at 9 a.m. Saturday."

The Norwegian cousins are actually my mother's cousins from the Trondheim area of Norway, Kåre and his wife Annbjorg, and Gerd, who had visited my parents in the U.S. a few years ago. When my mother had emailed Kåre about the trip to England, he replied that maybe they would come meet us in London. Hopping between European cities is not so unusual here, especially with bargain airfare deals being advertised all the time. It's a lot like flying from Seattle to San Francisco for the weekend. Still, it was quite a surprise to find them actually here!

So after breakfast on Saturday morning we stationed ourselves in the hotel lounge to await their arrival. After a bit we saw them approaching in the crescent outside the hotel, cheery and triumphant over their success at finding us.

So, what do you do in London with a gaggle of senior Norwegians (including my parents)? My plan for the day (which my mother was going to be required to participate in) was a walk along the Thames from Westminster to the Tower Bridge, with a stop at Borough Market along the way. I was a little dubious, however, about dragging these relatives on a forced march through London, regardless of how scenic and enjoyable the path might be.

But they were all up for it. I decided it would be easier to start at Embankment, to which we could go directly by tube, rather than make our way down to Westminster Pier. That would shorten up the trip just a little bit but still offer all the same views and scenery.

So, after forcing Gerd to change from her rather high heeled shoes into walking shoes, we were off. First stop Euston station, to hop on the Northern line to Embankment. My mother and I already had tube passes, 7-day Oysters, but the others needed travelcards for the day.

In my past visits to London (prior to last year), transportation on the Underground and buses was easy to arrange—I either pre-purchased a travelcard in the U.S. for several-day periods, or bought one-day travelcards in London. But a couple years ago London Transport introduced the Oyster card (Oyster online - Transport for London - Buy or top up your Oyster card), a smart card that can either be purchased as a travelcard, for unlimited use in a period of 7 days or by the month, 3-month, 6-month, or year; or as a "pay as you go" card, which you top up as desired and each journey gets debited from the card (at a better rate than you would pay for a ticket). Just like travelcards, the Oyster is good for travel on both the Underground and buses. (For single days, you can still get a travelcard.)

Using the Oyster is pretty nifty. On the buses and Underground entry points you simply touch your Oyster card to a yellow circle, and it opens up the gates for you.

So, with everyone else outfitted with their lower-tech travelcards, we filed down the escalator to the trains. A short ride brought us to the Embankment station, and we emerged onto Embankment, the road that runs alongside the north bank of the Thames. Since we were starting at a different point than I had originally planned, I was a little undecided about where to go next. First we crossed the street to walk along Embankment; but the minute we reached the other side I decided we should cross Hungerford walking bridge to the other side of the river. So back across the road we went.

Hungerford Bridge links Charing Cross Station with Waterloo Station. It is actually three bridges, a railroad bridge flanked by a pedestrian walking bridge on either side. Because of the railroad bridge, you can only see in one direction from each footbridge. On one side you look toward the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament (Palace of Westminster), and Big Ben (St. Stephen's Tower). From the other side you look downriver toward Waterloo Bridge (which also leads to Waterloo Station), with St. Paul's and the City beyond.

From our point on Embankment, we climbed up to the bridge that looks toward Waterloo Bridge. I momentarily cursed myself for choosing that side of the bridge, as I peered through the rail bridge at broken pieces of Westminster. But that deficiency was solved when we reached the other side of the river, as a short walk back provided a fine view of all of Westminster.

We then proceeded to walk along the South Bank down the river. I believe that almost everything you want to see in London can be seen from the banks of the Thames. Walking along the river truly gives you London in a nutshell, beginning of course with Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, and the London Eye. As you pass the Hungerford Bridge and approach Waterloo Bridge, you can look toward the Strand and the West End on the north side of the river, and the South Bank arts complex, plus the National Theatre on the south bank—a veritable pantheon of artistic and theatrical offerings. Just before Waterloo Bridge you can see the Savoy Hotel alongside the river (Monet painted his Thames pictures from a hotel room at the Savoy). Somerset House is visible just past Waterloo Bridge. Formerly the home of England's records of births and deaths and other public offices, Somerset House now houses several art museums and other arts facilities, including the Cortault Institute, a lovely building containing a collection of Impressionist art. Beyond Somerset House lies the Temple, constituted of Middle Temple (one of London's four Inns of Court, essentially barristers' offices) and Temple Church (The Temple Church, London - Place of Worship).

Going on to pass Blackfriar's Bridge, an ornately decorated railway bridge, you then approach the Millenium Bridge (Millennium Bridge (London) - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia), a pedestrian bridge that stretches between St. Paul's Cathedral (Welcome to St Paul's Cathedral - Home Page) on one side of the river, and Tate Modern and the new Shakespeare's Globe Theatre on the other (south) side. I made our group walk onto the Millenium Bridge in order to experience the view looking in both directions.

The further down the river we go, and as we near the Borough Market area, we pass more and more pubs and cafes, most with outdoor tables and seating filled with people eating and drinking. The sidewalks are also swarming with walkers, strollers, and a few runners, all soaking up the sunny river view. While the midday sun is pleasantly warm, there is a nice breeze coming off the river and it is not uncomfortably hot.

Two more bridges onward, and we are at London Bridge where we turn away from the river to approach borough market. I've been to Borough Market a couple of times before, on my Bridget Jones pilgrimage walks, but this is the first time I have actually managed to go there on a day when the market is open. It is an incredible food market, with dozens of stalls selling fruits, vegetables, meats, breads, cheeses, and many other kinds of fine foods, both fresh and prepared. It is said to be frequented by London's celebrity chefs, and it was certainly well-populated today. In fact, it was so crowded that it was all we could do to squeeze our way through the mass of people from one side to another. Ann-Bjorg did manage to emerge with some kind of roll or pastry in her hand!

By now it was near 1:00, and we had been walking at least a couple of hours. Lunch was in order. But despite being surrounded by food, and all the restaurants and cafes we had passed, we were unsure about where we should eat. Finally we decided on a pub where my mother and I had eaten a few years before, the Marker Porter, in Stoney Street right across from the market.

After a rather leisurely lunch, we returned to the street to continue our walk along the river. But first, I led us into Bedale Street to see Bridget Jones's flat (the movie location was above the Globe Pub in Bedale Street). I had been here last May on a Sunday afternoon, and found the area almost deserted. I have several pictures unsullied by other people.

But today, a Saturday afternoon, was an entirely different matter. For one thing, the pub was open, and the street outside was crawling with pub patrons, most with glass of beer or wine in hand. While the area teems with life and vitality, it was missing a little of the magic that I felt when I first walked into the deserted street last year, knowing that Bridget's flat was supposed to be at the Globe Pub under the railroad overpasses, then looking up and seeing it right in front of me. Then, I was able to find a passerby to take a picture of me in front of the door. This time I took a picture of my mother and Gerd and Annbjorg (the three Bridgets), but I can barely recognize the background with all the other people around.

We returned to the river to complete our walk down to Tower Bridge. The riverside path we were following is also called the Thames Path (Home - Thames Path - National Trails). The Thames Path is a long trail that follows the Thames River for 180 miles from its source in the Cotswolds to the North Seat. Our walk from Buscot to Kelmscott followed the Thames Path for a short portion. This extended trail is another walk I would be interested in doing in future, should I ever be able to work out the arrangements.

Before going under London Bridge—the last bridge before the Tower Bridge—we passed Southwark Cathedral, a historic site which has housed a place of worship for over 1000 years. The present cathedral, London's oldest Gothic building, was first constructed in the 14th century, although it was later damaged in a fire and repaired, and then added onto in the late 19th century. It is an active church, used for a wide variety of community events and services, and is also twinned with Bergen Cathedral, Norway and Rouen Cathedral, France.

Past London Bridge you begin to see close, fine views of the Tower Bridge. Despite all the pictures I've taken in the past, I can't resist more glamour shots—and the tower bridge is a photogenic subject indeed.

Walking across it is fun, and gives you a different perspective than you would have from the river or the side banks. On the north side of the river you will of course see the Tower of London, somewhat obscured at this time of year by trees in full leaf.

We walked past the Tower of London and up onto Tower Hill where we could catch the Number 15 bus back to the West End. This bus route offers a London tour of its own, taking you through Cheapside and right past St. Paul's Cathedral, down Fleet Street, past the Royal Courts of Justice (where Bridge Jones interviewed Mark Darcy in Bridget Jones's Diary), and into the Strand, after which you can alight at Trafalgar Square or go on to Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Oxford Circus, or as far as Paddington Station.

We got off at Trafalgar Square and walked down the Mall to see Buckingham Palace. From there it is an easy walk through Green Park to Piccadilly and the Green Park station. By that point I think I had worn my tour group into the ground, so I put them on the tube at Green Park and sent them back to their hotel. I then did a little

shopping at Waterstone's in Piccadilly before heading back to the hotel myself. I also stopped by Brown's Hotel in Mayfair to make reservations for my mother and me to have tea on Sunday. Brown's Hotel is a swanky but perhaps lesser known hotel just off Piccadilly. Our first encounter was in 1999, when my mother and I were looking for a place to have afternoon tea after a long walk, and the doorman at the Ritz sent us to Brown's. We have never gone back to the Ritz since! Brown's is located between Albemarle and Dover Streets, and the main entrance is on Albemarle Street. After arranging a reservation for 5:00, I visited the restroom off the lobby then decided to slip out the back door into Dover Street. Since the revolving door was locked, I went to the side door instead. As I pushed open the door a piercing fire alarm started shrieking. I quickly pulled the door shut, but the alarm continued. A nice young porter came running to turn off the alarm, as I apologized profusely and repeatedly. He kindly explained that they don't use that back entrance any more. I slunk back through the hotel and out the main door, hoping that they would not remember me on Sunday!

Later that evening we met up again and Kåre took us to dinner at a pub not too far from the Harlingford. Sometime in the last few years this pub had changed its menu from standard old-style pub fare to a more exotic Spanish menu, including a wide assortment of tapas and a number of dishes that we needed to get interpreted before we ordered. I remember years ago my mother and I tried to order fish and chips there—after spending a long time trying to get a table, we finally did, only to be told that the kitchen was closed; no special reason, just on a whim. Nowadays it seems to be more professional in its food service!

Another difference I noticed in this pub from before is that it is not smoky like before. In fact, I've noticed that in all the pub/restaurants we've been in (although, admittedly, it's been very few). While the English probably still smoke as much as ever, restaurants and other buildings are fast eliminating smoking. In fact, as of July 1, England will be smoke free. It will probably help that the change is coming in the summer, when smokers can easily stay outside—and perhaps they'll be used to it before cold weather comes.

After a leisurely dinner (these foody pubs are not fast food), we said good night and promised to touch base the next day (they were returning to Norway on Monday).

Today was our first full day back in London and I made my return to Regent's Park early that morning. Around 6:30 a.m. I headed out to Regent’s Park for a run around the park. As I ran down the Broad Walk, a wide path that cuts through the park along the east side, I realized I had enough extra time to make a foray into Queen Mary’s Gardens to see the roses. Last year I thought the rose garden was amazing, even though none of the roses had been in bloom. This year, as I passed through the black and gold gates into the garden, I was immediately stunned by the masses of roses in bloom, bordered by thick rope swags lavishly draped with pink climbing roses. Beyond the circular rose garden lay dozens of beds, each planted approximately 72 bushes of one variety. My first reaction, and the one I still hold onto, is that this was the most beautiful rose garden I had ever seen. I was determined to get my parents there to see it, preferably early in the morning before the crowds. So that night I broke the news that they would be get up the next morning to head out to Regent's Park by 6:30 a.m. They seemed dubious... but agreed.

If you’re tired of London…maybe you need a nap

2007-06-03T15:23:00.000-07:00

I am not tired of London (yet), though I probably do need a nap. But as we returned to London from our sojourn in the country and I felt a little stunned by the crowds and noise, I did think of Dr. Johnson’s famous quote: "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." I love London; I say it frequently, and I’ll say it again, and mean it wholeheartedly. I can’t imagine a trip to England without at least a few days in London. But more and more I have come to value the time outside of London, in the country and villages and smaller cities like Wells and Bath, which do not have all that life can afford, but have just about enough to make me happy.

Rather unintentionally, we planned our trip so that we began in the smallest village, Chipping Campden; then went to a small city, Wells; then to a bigger city, Bath; before ending up in the very big city of London. The crowds and intensity did increase accordingly as well. In London everyone seems to be moving very fast somewhere. I am a fast walker, but many Londoners walk faster than me. (However, as the weather warmed up over the weekend, the pace of London seemed to slow—there was much more strolling, and sitting around outside cafes and pubs, and lounging on the grass and folding chairs in the parks.)

We left Bath and returned to London as we had arrived thirteen days early—by train. We were just a little more loaded down with bags than on our arrival! (Not much, really.) We first dropped off my father at the train station with all our luggage, driving up to Platform 2 and leaving him on a bench surrounded by suitcases and bags. Then mother and I took the car back to Hertz to drop it off, getting a taxi back to the station. By the time we were on the train, it was approaching noon.

Even though this train is not as fancy as some of the newer lines, it is always nice to collapse into a seat and watch the world go by. As always, we arrived in London too quickly. After hauling ourselves into a taxi, we returned to the Harlingford Hotel in the early afternoon.

I was the first to go into the hotel, and the desk clerk who had helped us before greeted me in a friendly but understated way. Then, a few minutes later, as my father came in the door, I heard her shout, “Bob’s back!” I couldn’t believe it—Mr. Popularity. (I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t even remember my name, unless she looked at the reservations.)

London was noticeably warmer and sunnier than when we had left, and the hotel was warmer as well. When I went up to my room, I was a little dismayed that the window did not open. I asked my father to check when he went down to see whether the window could be opened. (I could see why they might not want it to, as it was a full length window with a little balcony that I’m sure they wouldn’t want people to go out onto.) I made some kind of dramatic statement about how I can’t sleep in a room where the window won’t open (although after he left I noticed the fan, which would probably cool the room off adequately). But (luckily) before I could concede, the desk clerk called the room and said she could move me to a different room where the window would open, and it was a bigger room. So I left my tiny little single room to move up one floor higher (which didn’t matter to me), to Room 28, which is one of the nicest double rooms, with a 4-poster bed, a fireplace (nonworking), plenty of floor space and a big bathroom. Very nice.

The only plan I had for the remainder of Friday afternoon was a trip to Kensington Gardens and tea at the Orangery. At my father’s request, I added a visit to Harrods to follow tea; easy to do as Harrods is now open 10 a.m. to 8 p.m. Monday through Saturday, and noon to 6 p.m. on Sundays.

The best way to get from Bloomsbury to Kensington Gardens is the #10 bus from Euston Road. That route goes through Knightsbridge and on to Kensington Gardens, so it would be a good bus back to Harrods later on as well (both the #9 and #10 go from Kensington to Knightsbridge). The bus ride was somewhat slow and I noticed, when we got into the park, that my parents were as well. I became concerned that the weeks of travel were taking a toll, and felt reluctant to make them walk too much just so that I could see some of the gardens. Besides, it was after 4:00 and I felt we needed to get to the Orangery before it was too late (cue ominous music).

So we headed toward the Orangery without further ado. Had I realized what would happen when we got there, I would have perhaps urged everyone to try to walk fast! As we approached the Orangery, I went ahead to the entrance—where I saw a sign posted. “Due to a private function, the Orangery will be closing at 4 p.m. today.” We were too late (though it was not our fault; normally it is open until 5:00).

No tea for me—but at least the roses are in bloom!

So it was back to Kensington Road to catch the 9 or 10 bus to Harrods. Harrods was, of course, packed—what else would you expect on a Friday afternoon in June? I had tea on the brain, especially after the rejection at the Orangery. I insisted we all go to the Terrace Bar on the fourth floor for tea. The Terrace Bar is the outskirts of one of Harrods fancier restaurants. We were seated in the enclosed balcony, which must be air-conditioned because it was cool and breezy despite the conservatory-style glass roof. It was very pleasant sitting outside Harrods, looking down at the roofs of Knightsbridge. We ordered one full tea plus extra sandwiches, which was just right for us.

Then we sent my father off to go see Harrods, arranging to meet in the Egyptian Escalator an hour and a half or so later. My mother and I sat a while longer, finishing the tea, then went off on our own browsing tour. We ended up buying a few of the Harrods PVC bags, both for gifts and because we (I) couldn’t resist the new designs! After a stroll through the Food Halls (always an impressive sight), we met up with my father as planned and headed for the tube back to Russell Square.

We weren’t tired of London, but we were tired and ready to call it a night.

When it rains, it Tors

2007-06-02T14:15:00.000-07:00

Thursday, 31 May

It seems that the only thing consistent about English weather is that it is completely changeable and unreliable. On more than one occasion on this trip—in this week—we have experienced, within one day, clear sunny skies, overcast clouds, drizzle, light rain, and a drenching downpour. And then the same all over again. And again.

At 6:30 in the morning Thursday began with blue skies and sunshine, a promising start for my plans of the day (climbing Glastonbury Tor and visiting Stourhead Garden). This was the day I decided to run down to Bath city center and run along the walking tour that is marked on my pop-out map. Good idea, in part, because the route took me all over and around Bath and let me build up some mileage while seeing the sights of Bath. Not so good idea, in part, because I had to stop every few minutes to look at the map, because goodness knows I can't retain more than one street direction in my head at a time, and this route changed directions a lot. I actually missed a few of the finer turns I was supposed to make and had to redirect myself to stay on the path! I never did see Trim Street (an early miss) until I turned up in it on Friday morning (purely by chance). (It's a narrow bendy street with very bumpy cobblestones, tucked in between other streets, very easy to miss.)

But I did cover all of Bath pretty thoroughly, from the Bath Abbey and Roman Baths, to the Royal Crescent and Circus, and even across Pulteney Bridge and on, turning around at the Holborn Museum, then along the River Avon and weir through Parade Gardens, back across North Parade Bridge and on to the railway station, then back up the hill to Haydon House.

By the time I returned to Haydon House, around 7:45 or 8, ominous clouds were already starting to roll in. Having already experienced yesterday's unpredictable weather (where the rain never really happened, until just as we were returning to our car at 4:00 the skies opened up and released the floods on us, I had no intention of cancelling my plans "just in case" the weather was bad. I decided to accomplish my walk to Glastonbury Tor, rain or shine.

So after breakfast (where I had already established a "usual” of a small porridge with berries, raisins and dried apricots, and walnuts, plus scrambled eggs with smoked salmon (they give you quite a lot of the lox, and I felt it was my duty to eat it all). we all got into the car so I could again drop my father at the railway station before heading out with my mother.

My father was going to Salisbury on the train. He wasn’t particularly thrilled with that destination for a train ride, because the train on that route is kind of dumpy and there’s no first class, but I convinced him that Salisbury was a good place to see. He came back that night saying that Salisbury is the greatest town he’s visited yet—so I felt vindicated in persuading him to go there.

Since my mother and I were heading south again, I thought we might as well drive through Cheddar on our way to Glastonbury. I didn’t want to take the time to stop in town—and besides, I had already spent extensive time in Cheddar last spring with my fellow travelers and cheese lovers—but I wanted to see Cheddar Gorge anyway and that would take only minutes to do. We didn’t even need to stop at all, but I was drowsy so we took a few minutes to stop and doze in one of the car parks along Cheddar Gorge. So yes, I napped in Cheddar Gorge instead of, say hiking or touring the caves. But it’s amazing what a few minutes of sleep can do to prevent that feeling of wanting to fall asleep at the wheel and drive off the road!

Last year we left Cheddar bearing a lot of cheese, some of which we ate along the way during the remainder of our trip, some of which traveled home. Two years before that in Cheddar, we had bought some Scrumpy, a type of hard apple cider which Somerset is famed for (I believe I even recall Rick Steves promoting it on his show). Well, that Scrumpy was the most disgusting beverage I have ever tasted. I am quite certain it is what manure would taste like, if you ever distilled it into a beverage and drank it. (I don't know how I know this, I just do.) After just a few sips (why I took more than one, I'm not sure), we dumped the rest down the sink. (And that is saying something for inveterate tightwads who hoard crusts of bread and cheese, and partly drank bottles of diet Coke for future meals.) I have not had any desire to try Scrumpy again.

From Cheddar we resumed the route to Glastonbury. I had picked out a road that went directly from Cheddar to Glastonbury, bypassing Wells, but in a typical moment of misdirection we missed that turn and found ourselves back on the road to Wells. No big deal, at least it was a known path, and we zipped quickly down the familiar road through Wells to Glastonbury, spotting landmarks with a fond sense of déjà vu.

Just outside of Wells is the Pound Inn—each time go by I wonder whether the "pound" in the name means a pound like the money, or like the weight measurement, or the verb "pound," or a name like the poet Ezra Pound (who, though born in Idaho, did live in England for a number of years, where he was friends with W.B. Yeats and T.S. Eliot, before moving to Paris)—and by the time these thoughts pass through my head, we are past the Pound Inn and onward down the road.

Next there is the Camelot Inn, a sign that we are approaching Glastonbury with its mythical King Arthur connections. Just before you pass the Camelot Inn, a road sign warns caution—"Hidden Pub Entrance Ahead"—but it doesn't seem particularly hidden to me, because I always see their signs promoting two for one dinners (and a father's day special coming up), even before I see the name of the inn. (Now, is the sign there to warn you that there may be cars pulling out of the pub into the road, or is it a warning in case you might miss the pub entrance and go on without stopping?)

My mother is particularly fond of the signs just into Glastonbury directing us to "Tor football." Nothing special about that, just the amusing idea of looking for the Glastonbury Tor and instead getting caught up in a football match!

We parked easily in a car park near the town center. For a small town, Glastonbury is full of car parks. Possibly to accommodate the large number of visitors who come for the various Glastonbury Festivals - but today it was pretty quiet and we had no problem parking. My mother noticed, as she spent a couple of hours in the car waiting for me, that apparently we were the only people who bothered to actually "pay and display" parking tickets.

The weather, during our drive to Glastonbury, had fluctuated from drizzly to rainy, and I expected to have some rain during my walk. Originally I had planned to follow a 6½ mile route from my Somerset walks guidebook, but since it was already noon and rain seemed inevitable, I decided to cut it in half (approximately) and only walk up to the Tor and back. The remaining farmland portion would have to wait for another time.

I walked into the High Street (the main street of town), to look for a restroom before heading out. The man at the tourist information center directed me to another car park which has an "all-singing, all-dancing" restroom (a quote). Now, I wouldn't normally spend time writing about trips to the toilets, but this particular restroom facility truly deserves a mention. I finally found it, after some confusion (as usual), and as I opened the door I was greeted by piped in music (at somewhat eerie, mysterious tune was being played at the time), and as I secured the lock a voice welcomed me to the facility and told me that my time (in the restroom) was limited, but assured me that I would be notified when it was time to leave. All the fixtures were metal, and the faucet, soap, and hand dryer were automated and built into the wall. To flush the toilet you simply touched a spot on the wall. On the exit door there was a warning to be sure to unlock the door before trying to open it, or apparently some sort of security system would kick in. I did manage to get in and out without setting off any alarms or using up my allotted time!

I used up a bit of time in my quest for the restrooms, and by the time I headed off in the direction of the Tor it was after 12:30. Time was significant to me only because we had paid for two hours of parking, and although my mother could (and had directions to) put more money in the machine if needed, I figured she might start to wonder what happened to me if I was gone too long! Plus I had the goal to get on to Stourhead before too late in the day!

The route from the town center to the base of the Tor simply followed the road. My book did not include this part, of course, because if I was following the book I would be out in the middle of nowhere by this time! But luckily the roadway was pretty well signed.

Glastonbury and the Tor are the subject of number of legends. According to my walk book, legend says that St. Joseph of Arimathea visited Britain around AD 60 and came to Glastonbury. While there he reputedly founded the first Christian church; stuck his staff in the ground on Wearyall Hill, causing it to grow and flower into the Glastonbury Thorn; and hidden the Holy Grail, the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper, beneath a well on Chalice Hill. At the Chalice Well (which you can visit by paying the entry fee into Chalice Gardens), the water is stained red—probably due to mineral deposits in the soil, but the legend says it is because of the Holy Grail containing the blood of Christ.

Glastonbury is also linked to the story of King Arthur, and he and his wife Guinevere are said to be buried in Glastonbury Abbey. (Of course, a number of other places in England and Wales also claim connections with King Arthur.) The Glastonbury area is called the Isle of Avalon, a link to King Arthur legends. The alleged tomb was apparently faked by monks in the 12th century, but the Arthurian connection remains part of Glastonbury's lure.

Glastonbury Abbey is a dramatic ruin, the site of various monasteries and churches throughout the centuries. Over the years many pilgrims traveled to visit Glastonbury, including the modern-day ones who continue to come today, making their offerings to the various businesses, attractions, and restaurants in the town. In addition to the mythical historical aura, Glastonbury retains a sort of sixties culture, attracting the same type of people who might go visit Woodstock. My mother, who spent a couple of hours sitting in the car watching people come and go, said there are a lot of hippies in this town—and they all have grey hair.

As I made my way up the streets toward the base of the Tor, the rains suddenly came, in torrents and giant drops. Even though I stood under a tree for a few minutes waiting for the rain to let up, within minutes my pant legs were soaked halfway up the thigh. (Luckily, I was wearing my hooded gortex raincoat, which prevented me from becoming entirely drenched.)

The footpath to the Tor began just past the Chalice Gardens. I would have liked to see the Chalice Well, but I didn't want to pay for entry on a day when I didn't have time to spend walking around the gardens. Particularly with the rain, I just wanted to get on with it.

The Glastonbury Tor is a cone-shaped hill, topped with a tower.
The path up the Tor is a steep paved path, alternating with sections of stairsteps. The mythical significance of Glastonbury Tor is a little less clear to me (see, for example, All about Glastonbury Tor). What is clear is the amazing views as you climb the Tor, expanding to almost a 360 degree view from the top.

As I walked upwards, the rain abated a bit, enough to allow me to take pictures, although by the time I reached the top I was again buffeted by wind gusts and bursts of rain.

I took shelter in the tower at the top for a few minutes before starting down.
My down path was not the same as my up path. My walk book urged me to take the alternate path, to the right of the tower, which was a narrow, possibly steeper path than the way up. I did feel moments of nervousness as I picked my way down through the wind! Although, since I was surrounded by a grassy slope (though a steep grassy slope), what was the worst that could happen?

Needless to say, I made it down to the bottom of the Tor without incident. I was at the bottom of the Tor but I was also, for the most part, in the middle of nowhere. Luckily, I had my book to guide me, as I passed through a kissing gate (as directed). Of course, following the book's path meant not just paved paths and road, but fields, footpaths, gates, stiles, and periodic moments of confusion and uncertainty, As when I came to a Y in the road and the book did not mention what to do. (Fortunately the map did show the two roads and I could tell that I was to keep to the left.) My only real moment of wondering whether I would actually successfully find my way back to Glastonbury occurred as I was walking along the road looking for a public footpath sign where I was to turn right over a stile (into a field). As many times before, I seemed to go an awfully long way before that obscure footpath sign turned up—and even then I wasn't completely certain that it was the right spot. But from there on the route worked like clockwork, and I was even more relieved when I caught up with a woman and a dog, giving me some assurance that I was on a commonly recognized route.
The view of the town below me helped too.

Shortly before coming into town, I encountered several cows standing in the path. In Somerset the walking routes seem to be populated by cows, rather than the sheep I met in the Cotswolds. I guess this is dairy country instead of wool country. The cows let both me and the dog that was traveling somewhat ahead of me pass peacefully.

Then I was back in Glastonbury right on schedule, a few minutes before 2:00. Before going to the car, I stepped into a yoga shop, and was somewhat tempted to buy a hemp shirt (in the spirit of Glastonbury). But I couldn't make a selection and also, the store smelled heavily of incense which I was afraid would permeate my suitcase and other clothes, so, unable to make a decision, I went on.

By now the rain had let up for long enough that my pants were almost entirely dry. I am amazed at the miracle fabric! My feet, however, were exceedingly damp due to my non-waterproof shoes.

I insisted that my mother go see the "all singing, all dancing" public restrooms before we left. Since we were also passing the town bakery (called "Burns the Bread"), we stopped in to get a couple of Cornish pasties (called "Glastonbury pasties" for fun here) to have a bite of lunch before going on, and stocked up on extras to have for tonight's dinner.

It was only 2:30, and the afternoon was young, so we set our sites for Stourhead. Although Stourhead House would not be open on a Thursday, the gardens were open until 7 p.m. and it really made it easier not to have to deal with the house also. It took us about an hour to drive there from Glastonbury.

National Trust Stourhead is a celebrated 18th century garden and Palladian mansion. It is probably the biggest and most diversified of the national trust sites we've visited yet. In addition to the House and gardens, National Trust shop, and restaurant, there is a farm shop which sells products from the Stourhead farm, and an inn on the grounds that is not owned by the National Trust.

Our first order of business (despite the pasties in Glastonbury), was tea in the cafe. If nothing else, I wanted to be able to say "I had tea at Stourhead." Scones and cake finished, we headed back out to follow the 2-mile walk around the grounds. (My mother still believes it was longer than two miles.) Stourhead's garden is a sweeping landscape, planted with trees and shrubs (including rhododendrons and laurel). The path ambles around the perimeter and around the edge of the lake, providing stunning views and classical features, such as Temple of Flora, the Pantheon, the Temple of Apollo, Gothic ruins and a Palladian Bridge. My mother insists that we went more than two miles, but I think that's about right....

We returned to the beginning at just a little before 6:00. The drive back to Bath was pretty easy, leading us to our favorite road into Bath (because it goes almost directly to Haydon House), the A-367. The only moment of confusion was actually getting onto the A-367 in Radstock, at a most-confusing double-mini-roundabout. This was two small roundabouts adjacent to one another—to make the turn onto A-367 you went around both, then turned right off of the first one. I did it right, amazingly, and from there sailed smoothly on to Bath.

The next day, Friday, we would return to London.

Changed Priorities Ahead

2007-06-01T16:48:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, 30 May

English road signs can be so … English, in their understated way of stating directions. One that we’ve seen a few times recently is “Calming Area Ahead.” Now, one might hope that this is an area for soothing your jangled nerves (perhaps agitated by two weeks of traveling with your parents), but it seems that it refers to speed bumps, meant to slow down traffic (which certainly needs slowing).

My favorite, which I only saw once, is “Changed Priorities Ahead.”
Doesn’t that have great philosophical implications? Imagine driving along, at a crossroads in your life (as well as the roadway), and seeing a sign that says “changed priorities ahead.” Certainly that might appear to be a sign from above! (The real meaning, I believe, is to change which lane of traffic has the right of way and which has to yield, for sections of road where there is only a single lane and traffic has to take turns.)

Just as roadwork and detours force you to change direction in your driving, sometimes circumstances conspire to change travel plans as well. On Wednesday I was determined to go to Prior Park Garden in Bath (which is a bit of an effort to get to because cars aren’t allowed to park there), but a sudden change in the weather forced me to change my priorities and make other plans.

After Tuesday’s beautiful, sunny weather, it was quite a shock to get up on Tuesday morning and see rain and clouds. I went for a run anyway, running up Wellsway then down into Bath. When I refer to “up” and “down” in Bath I mean it literally—Bath is built on hills. The route from Haydon House to the City Center is a long, steep hill, and other hills rise up the other sides of the city. After a loop through Bath I turned back to the hotel, running up the hill very, very slowly! (I think walking might have been faster!)

With the rain falling, I had less desire to go walking in Prior Park, so we drove my father to the railway station so he could take a train somewhere (turns out he went to Southampton), then parked in the Manvers Street car park, a very convenient location for the city center and railway station both. There had been a lot of deliberation over whether to walk or drive into town. The traditional way (my tradition) is to walk down the hill into town. But with the rain, I thought it might be better to conserve my mother’s energy for actually getting around town, not just getting there. Walking in the rain has a way of sapping your enthusiasm, sometimes.

So here we were in Bath, on a sporadically rainy day—what to do, what to do? The time had come to do what Bath does best—shopping! The National Trust shop, the craft show at the Roman Baths—each was good for a trip back to the car to drop off a bag (just a few purchases, not excessive). Then a stop at Starbucks for a latte infusion and a break. (It was also a break from the off and on rain.) We sat upstairs at a table by a window and read our books (conveniently carried along in my backpack), occasionally looking out the window at the Bath street below. Could we have been in any Starbucks in Seattle just as well? Well, yes, although there was a strong predominance of English accents among our fellow patrons which we probably would not hear in Seattle. But to me, some of the fun of being in a place like Bath is to be able to do the ordinary things, like sit and drink a latte, rather than feeling obliged to spend every minute doing and seeing the sights.

However, we couldn’t spend the whole day sitting in Starbucks! After a while we picked ourselves up and headed back into the street. We wandered up the street, looking in shop windows and occasionally wandering into a shop—Waterstones was unavoidable, despite my vow not to buy any more books (I only bought a couple). I dragged my mother into a cute home décor shop to look at some whimsical creamware dishes made by a company called Big Tomato Company—appropriate (and inappropriate) phrases printed on teapots, mugs, etc. I am now on a search to find a source that sells the pieces I liked and will ship to the U.S.!

To get away from the shopping scene, I talked my mother into taking a walk up to the Royal Crescent, a curved row of houses overlooking Bath.
It’s a little bit of an uphill walk, but takes you through many scenic streets on the way, including the Circus (rows of houses forming a circle). The center portion of the Royal Crescent is a very expensive and exclusive hotel (called Royal Crescent Hotel). That was further evidenced by the line-up of cars parked in front of the hotel—all Range Rovers, BMW’s, Mercedes, and one Porsche. The big grassy park in front of the Royal Crescent offers a lovely view of the Crescent, and is also a popular spot for dog walking!

As we walked along the walkway below the crescent, my mother spotted a small gate marked “Georgian Garden.” We went inside to find a small, pretty garden tucked behind one of the houses on the Circus. Rose bushes were centered in three circles of clipped box, with an additional box hedge around the rectangular perimeter borders.

The interior surface of the garden was rolled gravel, as was common in the Georgian era (according to the descriptive plaque), and a gravel roller was on display alongside at one end.

As we made our way down the hill back toward the Abbey and Baths, it was approaching 3:00 and clearly seemed like time for tea. In all my past trips to Bath I have always had tea either at the Pump Room at the Roman baths, or Sally Lunn’s shop, but this time I had an urge to try something new.

Several times I had walked past another tearoom called Hands Tearoom, in Abbey Street just around the corner from Sally Lunn’s and near Bath Abbey. I had peered through the windows (both before it was open and when there were people inside) and studied the menu (seemed satisfactory—they offered a full tea with sandwiches rather than just the cream tea that is more common in the southwest). (Since we are usually hungry by teatime, we appreciate sandwiches!)
Happily, we got in before 3:00 and staked our claim to a nice table, tucked into a nook by the fireplace, before many more people started coming in after 3. We ordered the Hands “High Tea” (which includes a sandwich, scone with jam and cream, and a small selection of sweets), and were quite impressed when it arrived. The sandwich, cut into four triangles, really hit the spot (we are fiends for tea sandwiches), the scone (split and pre-spread with strawberry jam and lots of clotted cream) was large and tasty, and the sweets included small pieces of Victoria Sponge cake, chocolate cake, and a couple of chocolate fingers.

By the time we scraped up the last bit of cream and last crumbs of scones and cake, it was about 3:45 and we were approaching the last quarter hour of our paid parking. We had just enough time for a final foray into the National Trust Shop (to buy a “His Lordship” mug for my father, as he had seemed fascinated with them at prior National Trust stops), and a visit to Sally Lunn’s shop to buy Sally Lunn buns to use for our dinner later that night.

Then we hustled back to the car and drove on back up to Haydon House. By this time the route between Haydon House and Manvers Street (both for parking and access to the railway station), had become second nature to me. The roads by the rail station are all torn up for construction, so in order to drive through the area you have to follow a complicated route that wanders all over the place. It seems complex, but actually once you get onto the right road you have no choice but to follow it through. We had about an hour and a half to relax in the hotel before going back down to pick my father up at the station.

At one point I had hoped to spend some time at the new Bath spa (Thermae Bath Spa, Britain's only natural thermal spa), but I reluctantly decided that I’d rather not make the effort to go back down to town for a third time that day, so I cancelled the spa idea in favor of a quiet evening at the hotel (eating bread and cheese for supper once again). (And then did make another trip into town later, driving down to the railway station to pick up timetables for my father.)

And so it was the end of a lovely day in Bath—in spite of my changed priorities!

Taking the plunge—from Wells to Bath (and a walk with the Wookey)

2007-06-01T11:53:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, 29 May

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….