MARSTON VILLAGE
If I’m dreaming, please don’t wake me up!
I’m perched on the bed in the guestroom of our English hosts and longtime friends, looking out over the farmer’s field that stretches out behind their house in the mellow sunshine. Morning has broken and the weather is smiling. The field is teeming with life–you can’t see it, but what a cacophony of sounds comes in through the window, day and night. Buzzing, humming, chirping. No need for screens here, a surprising change from home. The bugs must know that they have a pretty good life out in that field. None of them seem interested in coming indoors.
We have survived the crossing of the “pond”, as the British call the Atlantic Ocean, and have gradually emerged from our jet lag to the realization that we are in the United Kingdom at last, after years of planning for this adventure. We’ve rented our tiny car and successfully navigated the M-6 from London to Marston Village, having circled more roundabouts than I care to remember. I am so happy to leave the driving to my husband, who can somehow make the transition to driving on the “wrong side” of the road with minimal effort. This amazes me, especially when he negotiates these roundabouts. Roundabouts are one of the horrors of life in the UK. The one in the middle of the nearby town of Swindon has no less than five interlocking circles arranged around a sixth roundabout. It is known as the “magic roundabout”, but might be more aptly termed the “roundabout from hell”, in my opinion.
It’s hot, especially for here–must be in the high 80’s and was blistering at the local “fete” (pronounced “fate”), an annual festival held in this little corner of England. Our host warned us, “Prepare to be under-whelmed!” Whatever we were expecting, we had a great time chatting with these welcoming people who seemed to be glad to share a slice of their life with us. Little girls in flowered dresses and little boys in shorts darted here and there, under the watchful eyes of their “mums”. We raced to eat our rapidly melting ice cream cones while looking over tables of various and sundry craft items. A highlight of the fete was a completely restored 1953 Studebaker Champion. We heard some younger people commenting on how “streamlined” it looked! Surprisingly, the steering wheel was on the left side of the car.
After the fete, our hosts took us to an old pub tucked away in another tiny village for a fabulous lunch. Once we had enjoyed the main course, the waitress queried, “Do you fancy something from the sweets trolley, dear?” I lost no time in answering in the affirmative. It’s worth saving room for English desserts. Trifle, treacle, ambrosia, gateau. Yes!
Close to the pub is a woolen mill from earlier times, still in operation and producing many beautiful garments for sale. However, some of the sports jackets look like they may have been for sale since the 1800’s. It appears that every article of clothing that was ever created here is still waiting for just the right customer to come along. “Garish” is the word that comes to mind in describing some of the highly inventive plaids. Perhaps a tourist with unusual taste will purchase one in the future.
The next morning we motored to the foot of a hill here in the Cotswolds and hiked up to an ancient “castle”, a mound once used to fortify a prehistoric community. We were rewarded with a panoramic, 360° view of the farms and fields below. Wildflowers in reds, yellows and blues abounded everywhere. Exquisite red-winged insects hummed and swooped through the grass. I can hardly imagine that people once called this high and isolated spot their home. How fragile and fearful their lives must have been, subject to the vagaries of the weather and the warring tribes around them.
Yesterday our hosts took us to the bustling seaport of Plymouth to see the “Mary Rose,” King Henry VIII’s prize ship that sank right in front of his eyes. It must have been quite an embarrassment for the monarch, not known for his humility. Did his face turn red in anger and frustration? Did his kingly vocabulary take off in an unseemly direction? Dedicated experts have resurrected what is left of the ship and are in the process of restoring it in a huge 3 story museum with glassed in walls and walkways for easy visibility. Four hundred year old rotting timbers are being matched and mended like a giant puzzle. Quite a challenge, and worth the trip to view. We also checked out the “Victory”, a warship from Lord Nelson’s day. In fact Lord Nelson died on this ship during a battle with Napoleon. The bloodstains on the deck are still visible.
The day before, we drove to the nearby town of Cirencester and went through a Roman museum. We seem to bump into the Roman presence here in England at every turn. We were concerned about the cost of parking, but were cheerfully assured by a kind woman that it was free parking day. It was a Thursday – good to know. This small town is packed with people and cars, and it is anything but sleepy. We had savory Cornish pasties for lunch, poked around the shops strung out along the winding streets, and took part in evening prayers at the Anglican Church in the middle of town. One of the local church musicians was kind enough to play the gigantic pipe organ just for us. It’s been recently restored and its tones echo with timeless beauty.
MALMESBURY
Earlier in the week we drove to Malmesbury, one of our favorite spots in the Cotswolds, a fine example of a Saxon fortified hilltop town. The oldest borough in England, it was originally chartered by King Alfred in 880 AD. Athelstan, the first king of all England, is buried there in the abbey. Only about one third of this great cruciform structure, built in the 12th. Century, has survived. It continues to crumble, and strategically placed signs warn visitors to watch for falling stones. But preserved with it are some of the finest examples of Norman architecture and stone carvings in the country.
We wandered through the small museum there and were once again inundated with information on Roman history. Then it was time to stop for coffee and scones with clotted cream and jam. Yes! Clotted cream would probably be unmarketable in the U.S. under that name, but it is one of the major delights of England. Imagine the richest and sweetest whipped cream with the texture of butter. Spread it on a flaky scone and add a bright dollop of strawberry jam. It must be experienced; it is indescribably delicious and decadent. To be authentically British, one should wash it all down with a cup of hot tea, but we opted for coffee.
Malmesbury, although quite small, has several claims to fame. It was here that Elmer, an 11th. Century Saxon monk, fashioned a pair of wings in 1010 A.D. and leapt from the roof of the abbey. Believe it or not, Elmer remained aloft “for more than the distance of a furlong (660 feet!), but agitated by the violence of the wind and the current of air, as well as by the consciousness of his rash attempt, he fell and broke his legs,” wrote William of Malmesbury, who presumably was an eyewitness. Elmer is commemorated by a stained class window in the abbey church. We had to credit this monk with a certain amount of courage, while questioning his sanity. Whatever was Elmer thinking? The abbey is impressively high.
Who are some other notables from the town of Malmesbury? A thousand years ago, a bishop named Daniel fought off the cravings of his rebellious flesh by immersing himself in the cold spring rising near Daniel’s Well. Hundreds of years later the famous philosopher Thomas Hobbes was born here in 1588. A plaque marks his birthplace. Another plaque in the abbey yard marks the folly of Hannah Twynnoy, a young woman who made the fatal mistake of teasing a tiger in a travelling circus in the year 1703 and was eaten alive. Her sad demise was memorialized in the following rhyme:
“In bloom of life
She’s snatched from hence
She had no room
To make defence
For tiger fierce
Took life away
And here she lies in a bed of clay
Until the Resurrection day.”
Not exactly Shakespearean quality, but it does make the point.
No lack of local color here!
Some of the local color is quite literal. A stroll toward the edges of this enchanting old town took us past vibrant gardens that spill out in front of so many of the surrounding homes. More often than not, gardens are literally teeming with blossoms of all varieties. A bit further out, the bowling lawn spreads gently down to the River Avon by the old town wall. Because the town is built on a hill, we caught glimpses of neighboring farms and fields over the edges of the wall.
CORNWALL
From the Cotswalds, it’s a half day’s drive to the Cornwall coast, and the supposed site of Tintagel Castle, the center of King Arthur’s reign. At any rate, someone surely did build a castle here at some time. What a beautiful spot this must have been for a castle, high up on an island overlooking the sea. The brilliant summer light seemed endless. We crossed foot bridges and clambered up and down cliffs through the ruins to get a full view of Merlin’s cave and the water below us. It’s not too hard to imagine the magician scooping the infant Arthur up from the misty beach into legendary fame. As Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote long ago in the 12th. Century,
“…But after tempest, when the long wave broke
All down the thundering shores of Bude and bos,
There came a day as still as heaven, and then
They found a naked child upon the sands
Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea;
And there was Arthur; and they foster’d him
Till he by miracle was approven King…”
Did it really happen here? Did it really happen at all? Who knows? But on this incredibly blue day, with gentle sea breezes wrapping around us and the warmth of the sun on our backs, it was easy to imagine that it did.
Later, winding down hedge-rimmed roads, too narrow for passing, we came upon a sign that read, “Public Footpath”. Why not do a bit of exploring? The path must have been made for tourists like us. But we found out later how wrong we were in this assumption. The British government labels these borderlines between farms as “public footpaths”. It’s a wonder that no one shot at us for trespassing.
We pulled our little car over to the side of the road and hiked down to the coast on this path, barely one foot wide in most places. Sheep grazed peacefully in the distance. “How pastoral!” I thought. It was quite a long hike through fields and farmland, but finally we reached the water’s edge. I could have sworn I smelled the fragrance of incense. Druids?After catching our breath and taking a few pictures of the beautiful little cove we had found, we picked our way back up to the road and drove off. It was only after I got into the car that I noticed it. Just as the sun broke through the clouds in a shaft of light, I sniffed the unmistakable odor of sheep dung on my shoe. Never again was I able to wear those shoes! They were unsalvageable.
LONDON
Yesterday we took the train to London, riding first class with free coffee and shortbread. It’s relatively expensive, but provides great views of the countryside and the urban sprawl that begins as the train approaches London. And it beats the alternative of paying the “congestion charge” of eighteen pounds just for driving into the city, as well as high parking costs. We got off the train at Paddington Station and jumped on the Tube, exiting at King’s Cross/St. Pancras, right smack dab in the middle of this huge city. It was easy to hike to points of interest from there. The Tube is an efficient and inexpensive way to get around in London.
We toured the British Library and saw with our own eyes one of four copies of the Magna Carta. For me, that was enough to raise goosebumps. Then we looked at old Bibles including the Codex Sinaiaticus from the 4th Century AD. We also viewed copies of Beowulf from the 1100’s. There was so much more; way too much to see in one visit. We were pleasantly surprised at the eagerness of the employees to help us find our way around.
On to the British Museum we went, and were even more overwhelmed. My fascination was the Rosetta Stone, a decree issued in 196 BC, written in Ancient Egyptian, Demotic and Ancient Greek. It was found by chance in a random wall in Egypt in 1799, and became the key to Egyptian hieroglyphics. We saw many other Egyptian, Assyrian, Greek and Roman artifacts. Most of them towered over us, and this seemed to add to the sense of timelessness that prevails in such places. We could have spent days in there and not seen everything we wanted to see.
We trotted on to Westminster Abbey, a walk of several blocks in the summer heat, and were rewarded with an organ recital and evening service. How those huge pipes filled the place with sound! Bach’s layered tones wove in and out of one another majestically. The music seemed ancient, and yet so very harmonically modern. Back to the Tube and home on the train, after a little wallowing around, but not much. Everyone was cheerfully accommodating and helpful as we fumbled our way around the streets of London. People showed much kindness to us. A friendly city.
We are tired but happy with our adventures. I can hardly believe all we were able to see and experience. To quote a much more accomplished writer than I,
“This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea…
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England”
Tomorrow we say goodbye to our hosts and head to York, a drive of some 218 miles through heavily populated areas and busy traffic. What adventures await us there?
YORK
We have walked the streets and walls of York until our feet are throbbing!
By the time we arrived in the area, it was evening and we were starving. We circled around the city looking for a place to eat, and finally found a pub on the outskirts of town. Let me just say that rumors about poor cuisine in England are greatly exaggerated. Yes, it’s true that it is still possible to order steak and kidney pie, mushy peas and other similar delights. But the pub menus have kept pace with the times and offer nourishing soups, sandwiches and salads that appeal to our tastes. We enjoyed golden crunchy fish and chips, and Spotted Dick for dessert. Don’t ask; it has to be experienced.
Full of great pub food and feeling much happier, we returned to our Bed and Breakfast to settle in for the night. I never know for sure what I am getting when I rent a room on the Internet. It pays to read the reviews thoroughly and take them into consideration. I had a feeling that this tiny room at the very top of this old Victorian row house would have its quirks. For one thing, it was difficult to find, being tucked into the row houses that stretch out for blocks around York’s city walls. We should have asked for more explicit directions.
In addition, there was a strange odor in the bathroom and the toilet made odd choking sounds the majority of the time, whether in use or not. It’s a “macerating” toilet, I was informed by my engineer husband, and this was a concept I found to be quite disturbing. Then there were the dormers; the ceiling slanted severely in several places and caused us to bump our heads repeatedly. We began to feel somewhat concussed.
The weather turned “hot” according to the locals and everyone but us was complaining of the heat. I guess we are used to our warm and humid east coast summers. However, air conditioning is “never needed” here, we were told. So it was sticky in our little room, even for us. The one window, desperately needed for ventilation, looked directly out on many other dwellings so we had to be careful to undress in the dark. The parking area was unbelievably tiny and would accommodate 6 cars if we hadn’t cared about routinely getting blocked in. Because of this, we did all our exploring on foot, but the center of town was within easy walking distance.
In spite of the room’s quirks, the breakfasts were great and the company even greater. What fun it was to chat with people from all over England and to listen to the various regional accents as they obviously listened to ours. This is one of the rewards of staying in a Bed and Breakfast. The most interesting people turn up at the breakfast table, and once the ice is broken, conversation bounces freely around the room.
Everyone instantly knew we were Americans, before we even opened our mouths. I was beginning to wonder if someone had tattooed an American flag on my forehead while I slept. People all over the city were eager to make sure that we didn’t get lost, often going the extra mile to help us. When we looked befuddled, they would take time to stop and help without being asked. I’ve been impressed over and over with their warmth and hospitality. I think they were genuinely glad that we had come to York.
We made it our first priority to tour Yorkminster , a huge Gothic cathedral originating in the 1100’s, and climbed 258 steps up to the top of the tower for fantastic views of the countryside. Then we browsed in the extensive museum under the church, with the help of a very knowledgeable young man who works there as a guide. His delightfully thick Yorkshire accent took some getting used to, but added to the charm. The museum dates from Roman times to the present, making it possible to see the construction of the cathedral over the years.
Yorkminster itself is a thing of great beauty and grandeur. Huge glowing stained glass windows and high vaulted ceilings with Gothic arches confronted us at every turn. The exterior stonemasonry is continually repaired, and craftsmen can be seen working on gargoyles and structural stones in the church yard. A bronze statue of Constantine the Great stands near the abbey; he was crowned Emperor of Rome here in York in 306 AD. in an attempt to consolidate his power. Apparently it worked out well for him!
In the evening we walked down the old medieval street called the Shambles. It is so narrow that there are places where we could straddle the streets and touch the walls of the shops on either side. It’s a great place to feel transported back in time while shopping for souvenirs.
The enclosed city itself is not large, and we were able to walk a section of the original walls built by the Romans. To get onto the wall, we climbed through a “bar” or set of enclosed stairs which is found in each evenly spaced pillar. While walking on the wall, we came across a stone bench, a memorial to Peter Windass, a stone mason who died at the age of 22. Now, if you ask me, that’s one person who should have changed his name. He probably died of embarrassment.
We spent some time in the National Train Museum, which displays a collection of over one hundred locomotives from various periods of time. It’s a train lover’s paradise. Ernie reveled in it while I patiently endured, and learned a few things along the way. Later, we attended Evensong in the cathedral. The choir of men and boys blended their voices in breathtakingly intricate harmonies. Lovers of music will be glad that they did not bypass this experience.
It’s delightful to listen to the Yorkshire accent. Here’s a small piece of it:
“Tha’ can allus tell a Yorkshireman,
but tha’ can’t tell ‘im much”
It sounds strange to our American ears, but people here seemed to know when we were struggling to understand, and they took the time to help us. We felt somehow that we were not quite ready to leave this quaint and historic city, but it was time to move on to Scotland.
SCOTTISH LOWLANDS
We drove close to 200 miles across the Yorkshire countryside and found our way to a remote Bed and Breakfast on a farm in the Scottish borderlands. There are many places in the borderlands to literally straddle the English/Scottish border. Legendary stories are told of bloody battles fought between the Scots and English in times past. For hundreds of years the borders were disputed and “reivers” (an old Northumbrian word for robbers or plunderers) on both sides raided and looted back and forth whenever they could. Sometimes the combatants changed sides in the middle of a battle, when their enemies seemed to be gaining the upper hand. It is said that at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh in 1547, the borderers were conversing with one another in the midst of combat, and on being spotted, put on a show of fighting. Wouldn’t Monty Python have fun with that one?
I think we may have truly found the middle of nowhere! I got rather nervous as we followed the directions to get here, winding our way down one lane roads through tiny town after town with names like “Kershopefoot” and “Canonbie”, over little bridges, around tight corners. After a few miles of this, Ernie’s face took on a worried expression. In fact, we both began to wonder what we had gotten ourselves in for and if we would ever arrive at this place.
However, our fears were dispelled within a few minutes of our arrival at Abbotshaw House. It’s located on a working sheep farm of 343 acres. Our suite was no less than elegant, with panoramic views of the hills and fields from every window. The evening light seemed to last forever, as the moon rose over the pastures and cool breezes blew in through the windows. We had a big, comfy four poster bed, a sitting room with table and couch and a gigantic bathroom with separate shower and tub. Everything in this huge 500-year-old house is beautifully Victorian, refurbished and updated within the last year. Our hostess couldn’t seem to do enough for us and asked us frequently about preferences for food and schedules. She welcomed us in lilting Scottish tones, more like singing than speaking.
And oh, the weather! It’s perfect. Billy Connolly once said that there are two seasons in Scotland, June and winter. But it’s not so, at least it wasn’t so for us. Again, everyone but us was complaining of the heat.
Breakfast was served every morning in the dining room at our chosen time, with a perfectly set table of china and silver, soft music playing, and a fire in the wood fireplace. We had our choice of the full (and I mean full) Scottish breakfast or Eggs Benedict on Salmon or Scottish oatmeal (it’s extra good, and quite different from our American variety) or any combination of the above that we wanted. We were even served the vegetables that we love to eat for breakfast. We tried valiantly to eat everything, but didn’t quite succeed. We must have been the only guests as we had the dining room to ourselves. These Scottish breakfasts are a challenge – sometimes it is impossible to eat again for the rest of the day. We were afraid they would have to fly us home to the U.S. in the cargo hold if this went on much longer!
Yesterday we visited a Roman Army museum and climbed to Hadrian’s Wall, only a short distance away. Constructed for defense against the wild and wooly Picts, it was commissioned by Emperor Hadrian in the year 122 AD, and stretched all the way across Britain from the Solway Firth to the North Sea. The wall is just one of so many examples of Roman ingenuity and engineering in this land where Roman presence is evidenced so often. What a bleak existence it must have been for the Roman soldiers in those high and lonely towers, built along the wall at every mile point. I can only imagine their battles with boredom and fear and the bitter winter winds. Today, we can reach vantage points that give us spectacular 360 degree views of the surrounding country. Ask me anything at all about Hadrian’s Wall–I might know the answer!
Langholm is just a few miles away over the hill. We took the time to drive there, for my family on my mother’s side, the Biggars, emigrated from there to Prince Edward Island in 1832. That is a very long time ago, but we were hopeful that we might find a trace of family. The town was charming and picturesque, rising above a river valley. Houses and gardens clustered together on the hill above the main street that wound between the little shops.
Our time in Langholm was taken up with a short search for ancestors in a very old graveyard which was padlocked shut and quite overgrown from disuse, although I suppose the people in it are using it all the time! We had to get the key from the town clerk. The gate was nearly rusted shut, but yielded to pressure and swung open with a creak. I don’t think anyone had been in that graveyard for many years. It was overgrown and brambly and the midday sun was hot. Insects buzzed and swarmed around our heads. We did search for some time, and many of the graves were still legible, but none were dated much later than the late 1800’s. Unfortunately, we were unable to find any family names or dead relatives. We also had a fruitless interview with a local librarian, who was as helpful as he could be, but no trace of Biggars could be found in town records.
I held my breath during the harrowing ride back across the heights of the moor on a one track road. We found ourselves nearly getting involved with a few stray sheep and various farm vehicles. Twists and turns and hills and valleys and spectacular views just kept coming all the way. The local people must be used to this road, for they did not seem interested in slowing down when they met us. “Turnabouts” are strategically placed here and there, but the driver has to know where they are and be ready for them. We didn’t, and we weren’t. I would have closed my eyes, but I didn’t want to miss the splendid scenery along the way.
The day ended with supper in the lovely café at the Grapes Hotel in the little town of Newcastleton, which boasts only 850 people. The food was unexpectedly delicious and unique and had a continental flavor. What a pleasant surprise to enjoy such great cuisine in this tiny town.
On Sunday we took time to scoot a few miles down the road to the nearby city of Carlisle. We attended morning services at a thriving church in one of the older church buildings. It was a short walk from there to Carlisle Cathedral, the smallest cathedral in England. The cathedral is easily found in the center of this stately town and displays some 16th. Century German woodcarvings depicting scenes from the Gospels. They somehow enthrall me in a way I can’t explain.
EDINBURGH
This ancient city is just a few miles from our B and B. Here, in Edinburgh Castle, Mary Queen of Scots lived out her tumultuous reign, only to be executed by her cousin Elizabeth in 1587. The castle sits resplendently high above the city. In the Old City, St. Giles Cathedral forms a backdrop to Scotland’s turbulent religious conflicts. It teems with history. Not far away is Greyfriars Church, where in the 17th. century, Protestants were penned up in the open air of the churchyard for the winter. Many did not survive the biting cold.
Haggis, a culinary mystery, has to be experienced. This national dish is a pudding composed of the liver, heart, and lungs of a sheep, mixed with suet, oatmeal and seasonings. I shuddered as I gingerly bit into a turnip, spread with the mixture. Not for me, but at least I tried it.
WALES
We took off for Wales the next morning, wondering what we might find at this inn of mixed reviews, another of my Internet finds. Another 200 miles or so of motoring brought us at last to the north coast of Wales. As we turned south from the coast, we found ourselves totally frustrated by a nearly endless drive into the hills of North Wales. A wrong turn took us up and down a lush green river valley with little villages tucked in among the hills. Wales is incredibly green, and is considered to be its own separate country. All of the road signs are in both Welsh and English. The Welsh language has enjoyed a revival in recent years, and Welsh pride runs gently high. It was enchanting, but it would have been much more enjoyable if we had not felt so lost. I felt very sorry for my driver at this point.
Eventually we found our way to our destination, another “middle of nowhere”. This mountaineering inn, which dates back to the early 1800’s, has the almost unpronounceable name of “Pen y Gwyrd,” and sits high and lonely on a hillside along the road to Mt. Snowden. Mountaineers from all over the world come here to hike Mt. Snowden and the trails in the surrounding countryside. At a mere 3,000 feet, Mt. Snowden is the highest mountain in the UK. We resisted the urge to gloat about the heights of the North Cascades in my home state of Washington, but it wasn’t easy.
The inn has a rich history. This quaint out-of-the way spot has drawn adventurers for a long time. In 1870 the Society of Welsh Rabbits came into being, the object of which was to explore Snowdonia in winter, and as close to Christmas as possible. This group came often to Pen y Gwyrd and made the inn a popular winter holiday destination. However, the inn’s biggest claim to fame is that Sir Edmond Hillary frequented it and used it as a training base for his Everest climb in 1953. His signature and those of his team can be seen on the ceiling of one of the hotel rooms, and memorabilia of his exploits are displayed throughout the inn.
Staying in this inn was like taking a trip back in time. The family that has owned it for many years has capitalized on this bit of history and kept things just about as they were in the past. The building itself is a charming old stone farmhouse covered in ivy, originally constructed in 1808. The rooms are about as basic as you can imagine, with none of the modern conveniences we had experienced in Scotland, and that’s an understatement. There are no phones, TV’s or Wi-Fi. Even the towels, though clean, are frayed. But all is comfortable and everything actually works. It was refreshing to get a break from any kind of electronic input, and whether planned or unplanned, this added to the sense of timelessness. It’s just a bit stark for the modern taste, but we didn’t mind.
Guests were called to breakfast and dinner by the sound of a gong at a set time. It was not acceptable to be late. The dining room was anciently elegant, with signatures of former guests from back in the 1800’s scratched into the windowpanes. The Victorian furnishings added to the feeling of being transported back in time.
We were offered a choice between 3-course and 5-course dinners, and the 3-course dinners were definitely enough to fill us up. The meals were generous and elegantly prepared and oh, so tasty. Coffee was served afterward in the bar, and our requests that it be served in the dining room with “sweets” were met with a polite but firm refusal.
However, having the after-dinner coffee in the bar added to the experience because of the rich conversations with the other guests. After a brief and somewhat awkward pause, someone in the room would introduce himself or herself with a friendly remark, and the interchange would be off and running. We were privileged to chat with a librarian from the Bodlean Library at Oxford and his doctor son, as well as a group of seasoned hikers from Australia. Two of these hikers were personally acquainted with the same Sherpa who served as a guide for Hillary, and one had shared a cup of tea with him in his hut in the Himalayas. The “bar” was actually a series of quaint little rooms that seemed to meander around the lower level of the inn, each with its own fireplace and dark benches for sipping whatever, including the after-dinner coffee.
The inn is now run by two brothers, and we asked one of them to speak Welsh for us. He was glad to do it, and seemed so pleased that we had asked. Welsh has a musical quality, and some of the strangest sounds I’ve ever heard, including a “double f” that is a sort of aspirated spit. It seems to have no relation to English and simply must be heard to be believed. We listened in awe! Here is a small piece of the language to consider, with the English translation:
“Dychwelyd i wlad eich hynafiaid; gwaed yn galw i waed.
Return to the land of your fathers; blood calls to blood”.
I puzzled over it briefly, but if there is a connection to English, it’s beyond me.
The weather is supposed to be rainy at all times in Wales, and that was the forecast. But it didn’t happen. Instead, we had a warm day with a constantly changing sky and cool breezes as we hiked up the path to Snowdon. We hiked upwards for 2 to 3 hours, past deep lakes and old copper mines and other hikers. We should have gone all the way up but stopped at the “scramble,” the last hour or two of the hike, where it gets really steep. Had we known there was a café at the top, we might have gone on. But we turned back, and ran into a brief rainstorm, which got us damp and made the rocky path a little slippery.
We made our way downward, grabbed something to eat at the café at the bottom of the trail, and decided to be adventurous and take the sheep path back to the inn. This path meanders through the deep valley below the road, and it got old in a big hurry, so we worked our way back upwards and clambered over the railing onto the road. It had its own hazards, being quite narrow for the two-way traffic, but it was an improvement over the sheep path, for a number of reasons. I will leave the reasons to your imagination. I could not help but think of our experience on the “public footpath” in Cornwall.
When we left Wales for the London airport last Wednesday, we knew that this last leg of our road trip would be especially long and tiring. We were looking at a distance of almost 250 miles. We had to navigate around the huge industrial city of Birmingham. Our route took us through more roundabouts than I care to remember, and sometimes we were confronted with one as frequently as every mile. In each roundabout we found ourselves straining to read the complicated signs that shot up at the last minute, painfully arching our necks forward to interpret the additional signs painted on the pavement, all the while hoping to avoid the merging cars. I found myself thanking Ernie with great appreciation for his willingness to drive these challenging roads on the “wrong” side, for hundreds of miles.
We got slightly lost at Heathrow but finally found the car rental office and proceeded into the airport, which is huge and disconcerting. We got stuck in a mishmash line of people who were trying to drop their bags off, only to discover that we could not do so until two hours before the flight. However, it all worked out in the end, and the first class flight home was most pleasant.
****
We are once again home and reliving our travels. We have come “full circle” in the UK, from London to Portsmouth to the Cotswalds to York to Scotland to Wales and back to London. When I traced our path on the map, it did not really form a circle. It was rather more of a loop with a couple of scraggling tails. Still, we have lived a rich and complete adventure. I find myself feeling homesick for the little towns, the voices of the people, the green hills and those amazing cream teas.
What an island, full of diversity, from gigantic sprawling cities to isolated grandeur. The population density of the UK is an astounding figure of 660 people per square mile, contrasting with the United States figure of 80.9. So many people seemingly crammed together on this relatively small piece of land, yet so many corners of solitude and natural beauty. What a variety of “Englishes” we heard. How the people we met seemed to brim with good-natured cheerfulness and humor. How we were welcomed, everywhere we went. Is there any other place on earth like the UK? I don’t know of one. Would I revisit all of these places? Yes, in a heartbeat. I wouldn’t have missed any of it for the world.