My 25-Day Journey Through England with AncestralVoices
Sep 23rd, 2011, 01:51 PM
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Day 4 BATH, PART II
Our Full English was served in the antiseptic basement dining hall of Three Abbey Green. Today, Friday was upstaged by another hotelier named Nicki. Actually, we learned Friday’s name was Nicki, too. However, in order to differentiate between the two, Friday took her evident nickname. Anyway, we first began to notice Nicki after overhearing two older American couples from Virginia, if I remember correctly from distantly absorbing their now foreign-seeming conversation. Wherever in the States they were from, I seem to recall them insisting upon the artificial butter that we Americans are accustomed to being served in small plastic packets, rather than the butter I described when telling the previous day having breakfast at The Mermaid Inn in the quaint haven of Rye. Nicki accommodated them, as well as Kip and me, with the reproduction butter. But Kip insisted upon the butter she would’ve rather served initially.
Kip insisted we visit the fresh-looking public bathing site of the Roman Baths center, I guess because it seemed like the eponymous attraction, a must-see. Sort of like if you’re a movie buff but you’ve never seen Braveheart. The Baths themselves are below the contemporary street level, with various features and artifacts from the Roman era, springs, offerings to goddesses, a pump room and of course numerous international tourists. It was a brief visit, but not as brief as our visit to Bath Abbey. A university graduation ceremony occupied the cathedral and the courtyards around it. We couldn’t even step foot inside. It intrigued how the night before, in that very courtyard, was a lonely street musician playing a sad old folk air on a penny whistle and being attended by his plainly loyal dog. So touching and melancholy.
But one thing I forgot to mention in Part I was the incessant ringing of its bells. Just like the center of attention to be constantly calling more attention to itself. I saw an adorable little girl walking with presumably her mother and singing the melody in one of its short-lived intervals of silence.
Oh, and that park whose view of the Royal Crescent is protected by the trench. We strolled through, and savored each and every moment. Some young Jamaican guys occupied a skateboard ramp. A few couples played tennis. There was a boating pond and a colossal botanical garden, but most of all: Green, green, green, green, green. No developers building big box stores on it, no crass condominiums or shopping malls. Just green. Green for tennis, green for putting and golf, green for open-air concerts, green for children running around freely and playing tirelessly.
Before leaving Three Abbey Green, Kip began to strike up conversation with Nicki, while Friday---now dressed in what looked to me like nurse scrubs---acted as custodian and dishwasher after the guests’ breakfast. Kip is always the more outgoing one, when he and I happen to both be meeting someone, but Nicki was very interested in engaging Kip on the cultural differences we’d already begun to notice. She must not have many opportunities to vent about her experiences with the majority of her American guests, mainly women, for whom she had a laundry scroll of critical adjectives, including “needy,” “pampered,” “ignorant” and ultimately, “quite a bit arrogant.” She spoke generally of particular instances, but was also urgent in going on record with her acknowledgement of the many exceptions, noting that she has indeed hosted some “perfectly lovely” American guests.
As the vibe started to verge on our return to the carpark at the comparatively grotesque modern edge of town and subsequent departure to the Cotswolds, she educated us on the correct pronunciation of Llandudno. She said she went to college in Wales. And when Kip mentioned our indecision regarding a visit to Blackpool, she recommended it for the sheer kitsch of it. She likened it to Las Vegas in certain respects, mainly its supposed tackiness. Frankly though, the most indelible particular item from our long dialogue with her, for me, was that when Kip demonstrated his English accent---informed by decades of BBC and past experiences in the UK, and admired by countless American friends---she laughed and said he sounded like Dick Van Dyke. What a paradigm shift for us!
I suppose that’s enough about Bath. Kip described Bath in his trip report with much more succinctness and straightforwardness than I have, namely when he talks about the difficulty of capturing the place in photographs. One can only be present there first-hand to truly be subjected to and have a handle on the absolute awe. Not to say illustrating my time there was a waste of your time, because hopefully my reaction has portrayed that difficulty in fuller detail.
Our Full English was served in the antiseptic basement dining hall of Three Abbey Green. Today, Friday was upstaged by another hotelier named Nicki. Actually, we learned Friday’s name was Nicki, too. However, in order to differentiate between the two, Friday took her evident nickname. Anyway, we first began to notice Nicki after overhearing two older American couples from Virginia, if I remember correctly from distantly absorbing their now foreign-seeming conversation. Wherever in the States they were from, I seem to recall them insisting upon the artificial butter that we Americans are accustomed to being served in small plastic packets, rather than the butter I described when telling the previous day having breakfast at The Mermaid Inn in the quaint haven of Rye. Nicki accommodated them, as well as Kip and me, with the reproduction butter. But Kip insisted upon the butter she would’ve rather served initially.
Kip insisted we visit the fresh-looking public bathing site of the Roman Baths center, I guess because it seemed like the eponymous attraction, a must-see. Sort of like if you’re a movie buff but you’ve never seen Braveheart. The Baths themselves are below the contemporary street level, with various features and artifacts from the Roman era, springs, offerings to goddesses, a pump room and of course numerous international tourists. It was a brief visit, but not as brief as our visit to Bath Abbey. A university graduation ceremony occupied the cathedral and the courtyards around it. We couldn’t even step foot inside. It intrigued how the night before, in that very courtyard, was a lonely street musician playing a sad old folk air on a penny whistle and being attended by his plainly loyal dog. So touching and melancholy.
But one thing I forgot to mention in Part I was the incessant ringing of its bells. Just like the center of attention to be constantly calling more attention to itself. I saw an adorable little girl walking with presumably her mother and singing the melody in one of its short-lived intervals of silence.
Oh, and that park whose view of the Royal Crescent is protected by the trench. We strolled through, and savored each and every moment. Some young Jamaican guys occupied a skateboard ramp. A few couples played tennis. There was a boating pond and a colossal botanical garden, but most of all: Green, green, green, green, green. No developers building big box stores on it, no crass condominiums or shopping malls. Just green. Green for tennis, green for putting and golf, green for open-air concerts, green for children running around freely and playing tirelessly.
Before leaving Three Abbey Green, Kip began to strike up conversation with Nicki, while Friday---now dressed in what looked to me like nurse scrubs---acted as custodian and dishwasher after the guests’ breakfast. Kip is always the more outgoing one, when he and I happen to both be meeting someone, but Nicki was very interested in engaging Kip on the cultural differences we’d already begun to notice. She must not have many opportunities to vent about her experiences with the majority of her American guests, mainly women, for whom she had a laundry scroll of critical adjectives, including “needy,” “pampered,” “ignorant” and ultimately, “quite a bit arrogant.” She spoke generally of particular instances, but was also urgent in going on record with her acknowledgement of the many exceptions, noting that she has indeed hosted some “perfectly lovely” American guests.
As the vibe started to verge on our return to the carpark at the comparatively grotesque modern edge of town and subsequent departure to the Cotswolds, she educated us on the correct pronunciation of Llandudno. She said she went to college in Wales. And when Kip mentioned our indecision regarding a visit to Blackpool, she recommended it for the sheer kitsch of it. She likened it to Las Vegas in certain respects, mainly its supposed tackiness. Frankly though, the most indelible particular item from our long dialogue with her, for me, was that when Kip demonstrated his English accent---informed by decades of BBC and past experiences in the UK, and admired by countless American friends---she laughed and said he sounded like Dick Van Dyke. What a paradigm shift for us!
I suppose that’s enough about Bath. Kip described Bath in his trip report with much more succinctness and straightforwardness than I have, namely when he talks about the difficulty of capturing the place in photographs. One can only be present there first-hand to truly be subjected to and have a handle on the absolute awe. Not to say illustrating my time there was a waste of your time, because hopefully my reaction has portrayed that difficulty in fuller detail.
Sep 23rd, 2011, 02:01 PM
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Annhig---regarding the eggs---I asked that very question. We were told in Rye, Cotswolds, Lakes and Yorkshire that only free range hens eggs were served, so the deep orange that we consumed was due to the freshness(and happiness?) of the hens.
I have a some observations that I forgot to mention in my own version of this trip report.
Do people in the south drive faster? We noticed that in Yorkshire the driving pace slowed down considerably.
Also, we were struck by the lack of roadkill in the south. We saw no dead animals on the road, but then in North Yorkshire we were shocked to see many many dead rabbits on the roads. One right after another.
Finally--why did we never happen upon any railroad crossings? It seemed strange that we didn't cross one train track during our drive through so much of the country.
Good job, Joey! I'm enjoying seeing our trip through your eyes. It's allowing me to remember things I had forgotten.
I have a some observations that I forgot to mention in my own version of this trip report.
Do people in the south drive faster? We noticed that in Yorkshire the driving pace slowed down considerably.
Also, we were struck by the lack of roadkill in the south. We saw no dead animals on the road, but then in North Yorkshire we were shocked to see many many dead rabbits on the roads. One right after another.
Finally--why did we never happen upon any railroad crossings? It seemed strange that we didn't cross one train track during our drive through so much of the country.
Good job, Joey! I'm enjoying seeing our trip through your eyes. It's allowing me to remember things I had forgotten.
Sep 23rd, 2011, 10:50 PM
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I've been puzzling over this new "trench" in front of the Royal Crescent, never having noticed it. Do you mean a ha-ha, a steep change in level originally used to keep livestock at a distance from houses?
Sep 23rd, 2011, 11:12 PM
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>.why did we never happen upon any railroad crossings? It seemed strange that we didn't cross one train track during our drive through so much of the country. <<
That's an interesting observation. I suspect the answer lies in the fact that in Britain, railways had to be inserted into the existing uses of land, in both town and country. They and their promoters were regarded with a lot of suspicion by landowners, whose approval would be needed for a new line to go through. It caused a lot of disruption, and there was a great deal of concern over the potential impact on livestock and the like, so bridges over and under existing roadways simply became the norm. (In modern times, it's not unknown for special little tunnels to be built under new roads for wild animals to be able to follow their usual trackways in safety, rather than let them get squished).
There are a fair number of level crossings still (and occasionally accidents at them) - but these are usually on very quiet by-ways.
That's an interesting observation. I suspect the answer lies in the fact that in Britain, railways had to be inserted into the existing uses of land, in both town and country. They and their promoters were regarded with a lot of suspicion by landowners, whose approval would be needed for a new line to go through. It caused a lot of disruption, and there was a great deal of concern over the potential impact on livestock and the like, so bridges over and under existing roadways simply became the norm. (In modern times, it's not unknown for special little tunnels to be built under new roads for wild animals to be able to follow their usual trackways in safety, rather than let them get squished).
There are a fair number of level crossings still (and occasionally accidents at them) - but these are usually on very quiet by-ways.
Sep 24th, 2011, 01:22 AM
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It's a pity that so many tourists only experience fish and chips in pubs. I suspect that the microwave often has a lot to do with it.
The place to get fish and chips is from a proper "chippy" preferably at the seaside. A typical one will have a queue outside and steamed up windows. Inside, a group of busy people will be dipping fish in batter, lowering it into deep fat fryers and then scooping it into racks before serving it piping hot to customers. Most chippies will have a place where you can sit to eat your meal, but the vast majority of customers will take away parcels of warm aromatic fish and chips to eat at home or strolling along the pavement.
The place to get fish and chips is from a proper "chippy" preferably at the seaside. A typical one will have a queue outside and steamed up windows. Inside, a group of busy people will be dipping fish in batter, lowering it into deep fat fryers and then scooping it into racks before serving it piping hot to customers. Most chippies will have a place where you can sit to eat your meal, but the vast majority of customers will take away parcels of warm aromatic fish and chips to eat at home or strolling along the pavement.
Sep 24th, 2011, 01:41 AM
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>>Also, we were struck by the lack of roadkill in the south. We saw no dead animals on the road, but then in North Yorkshire we were shocked to see many many dead rabbits on the roads. One right after another.<<
It may be either that rabbits are less plentiful in the south, because of the nature of the landscape, or heavier pest control, or conversely that life is easier for them so that they don't cross roads so much.
To live up to regional stereotyping, they could be the kind of cunning, sly, soft southern jessies that made a killing on lettuce futures and found themselves a nice big field with all they need on tap. Whereas the hardier northern types have to hop miles each day looking for grass (<i>"Grass? Looxury! We 'ad nobbut a bit of withered thistle to nibble on"</i
, and have a tendency to stand their ground and speak their mind, thumbs in weskit pockets, plumb in the middle of the road if any fancy southerner comes poncing along in their plush car.
It may be either that rabbits are less plentiful in the south, because of the nature of the landscape, or heavier pest control, or conversely that life is easier for them so that they don't cross roads so much.
To live up to regional stereotyping, they could be the kind of cunning, sly, soft southern jessies that made a killing on lettuce futures and found themselves a nice big field with all they need on tap. Whereas the hardier northern types have to hop miles each day looking for grass (<i>"Grass? Looxury! We 'ad nobbut a bit of withered thistle to nibble on"</i
, and have a tendency to stand their ground and speak their mind, thumbs in weskit pockets, plumb in the middle of the road if any fancy southerner comes poncing along in their plush car.
Sep 24th, 2011, 02:25 AM
#27
when Kip demonstrated his English accent---informed by decades of BBC and past experiences in the UK, and admired by countless American friends---she laughed and said he sounded like Dick Van Dyke. >>
LOL - probably NOT a compliment! and sorry to be pedantic but the yellowness of the yolks STILL has nothing to do with the freshness of the egg!
and I can tell you that deep down in the south west we are over-run with bunnies and they frequently end up squished on the roadside, along with foxes, badgers, crows, etc.
ever played roadkill cricket? you score a run for every leg of the roadkill on your side of the car - eg a crow is 2 runs, a rabbit 4. endless fun on a long journey.
LOL - probably NOT a compliment! and sorry to be pedantic but the yellowness of the yolks STILL has nothing to do with the freshness of the egg!
and I can tell you that deep down in the south west we are over-run with bunnies and they frequently end up squished on the roadside, along with foxes, badgers, crows, etc.
ever played roadkill cricket? you score a run for every leg of the roadkill on your side of the car - eg a crow is 2 runs, a rabbit 4. endless fun on a long journey.
Sep 24th, 2011, 04:48 AM
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Annhig, re roadkill cricket: just the sort of twisted game my relatives and I love! I must introduce it on our next journey! (Can we change the name to roadkill baseball?)
Joe, I am enjoying your writing and observations! Looking forward to more. Thanks for sharing!
Joe, I am enjoying your writing and observations! Looking forward to more. Thanks for sharing!
Sep 24th, 2011, 05:23 AM
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tarquin-- it was probably what you described. Joey described it as a "trench" and that's not the best word to use. It was more of a "break" in the lawn. We were amused that it was not crossed by even one person. Like an invisible wall.
Patrick---thanks for the explanation. I had expected more rail crossings because your rail system is so much more extensive than ours.
Missprism---that Russian/English Pub was our only bad fish and chips on the entire trip, but we did have it from a few chippies later in the trip.
annhig--you're not being pedantic, you're just being a Virgo!! but I still disagree with you even though I love Virgos! My Grandfather ran a pheasant hatchery and farmed for most of his 99 years of life. He said(and others agree) that chickens which are free range will eat more greens which gives them more beta carotene which causes the yolks to be darker.
"Beta carotene, or xanthophyll both are natural plant pigments. When hens are able to eat green plant material or yellow corn (factory farm hens are sometimes fed yellow dye or other supplements to color the yolks), the beta carotene concentrates in the yolk making it dark sometimes even orange." http://coyotecreekfarm.blogspot.com/...egg-yolks.html
You're right in that some are fed colored dyes, and that is why I asked about the hens at some of our B and B's. Whenever I go to the farmers market and buy eggs(not often) the yolks are always that deeper color. When I purchase from the store(even organic)--pale yellow. I can usually tell even by the firmness of the yolk. I am very picky when it comes to eggs, butter, etc. Virgo ascendant, you know!
Nicki told me afterwards that my English accent was like someone who lives in Essex. I have no idea what that means or what they sound like, but there it is. The Dick van Dycke was when I purposefully exaggerated it(Mary Poppins). Nicki was terrific, but Joey is correct when he wrote about her opinion of American women. She said that other B and B hostesses would agree with her, but not feel comfortable in admitting their true feelings. We were sorry that her father was out of town during our visit because she said his personality was exactly the same as the John Cleese character in Fawlty Towers!
Have you decided yet on your Netherlands holiday with your mother?
Patrick---thanks for the explanation. I had expected more rail crossings because your rail system is so much more extensive than ours.
Missprism---that Russian/English Pub was our only bad fish and chips on the entire trip, but we did have it from a few chippies later in the trip.
annhig--you're not being pedantic, you're just being a Virgo!! but I still disagree with you even though I love Virgos! My Grandfather ran a pheasant hatchery and farmed for most of his 99 years of life. He said(and others agree) that chickens which are free range will eat more greens which gives them more beta carotene which causes the yolks to be darker.
"Beta carotene, or xanthophyll both are natural plant pigments. When hens are able to eat green plant material or yellow corn (factory farm hens are sometimes fed yellow dye or other supplements to color the yolks), the beta carotene concentrates in the yolk making it dark sometimes even orange." http://coyotecreekfarm.blogspot.com/...egg-yolks.html
You're right in that some are fed colored dyes, and that is why I asked about the hens at some of our B and B's. Whenever I go to the farmers market and buy eggs(not often) the yolks are always that deeper color. When I purchase from the store(even organic)--pale yellow. I can usually tell even by the firmness of the yolk. I am very picky when it comes to eggs, butter, etc. Virgo ascendant, you know!
Nicki told me afterwards that my English accent was like someone who lives in Essex. I have no idea what that means or what they sound like, but there it is. The Dick van Dycke was when I purposefully exaggerated it(Mary Poppins). Nicki was terrific, but Joey is correct when he wrote about her opinion of American women. She said that other B and B hostesses would agree with her, but not feel comfortable in admitting their true feelings. We were sorry that her father was out of town during our visit because she said his personality was exactly the same as the John Cleese character in Fawlty Towers!
Have you decided yet on your Netherlands holiday with your mother?
Sep 24th, 2011, 08:26 AM
#31
But AV I'm AGREEING with you about the eggs - what you originally posted was this:
We were told in Rye, Cotswolds, Lakes and Yorkshire that only free range hens eggs were served, so the deep orange that we consumed was due to the freshness(and happiness?) of the hens. >>
ie you were told that the colour was due to the freshness not the feed, which as you indicate is not correct. i agree that free-range eggs usually have deeper yolks for the very reasons you given but as you say it is not an infallible rule as some commercial chicken feed has dye added to it to give the same results.
thanks for asking about the trip to Holland with my mum. it's sort of planned - flights bought, hotels booked [not sure about my choice but there didn't seem to be much that ticked all the boxes], but we are off to Germany next week so any more planning will have to wait till we come back.
We were told in Rye, Cotswolds, Lakes and Yorkshire that only free range hens eggs were served, so the deep orange that we consumed was due to the freshness(and happiness?) of the hens. >>
ie you were told that the colour was due to the freshness not the feed, which as you indicate is not correct. i agree that free-range eggs usually have deeper yolks for the very reasons you given but as you say it is not an infallible rule as some commercial chicken feed has dye added to it to give the same results.
thanks for asking about the trip to Holland with my mum. it's sort of planned - flights bought, hotels booked [not sure about my choice but there didn't seem to be much that ticked all the boxes], but we are off to Germany next week so any more planning will have to wait till we come back.
Sep 24th, 2011, 08:55 AM
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ha annhig I think I get what you mean. Maybe we just have a different interpretation of freshness, then. FInding out that they were laid a day or two before consuming means fresh to me. I noticed that eggs are sold in your stores un refrigerated and in smaller batches. Over here they are sold refrigerated with an alleged long shelf life and with more eggs per carton---and almost always with a pallid yellow yolk.
What part of Germany? I know a few things... if you happen to be near The Eifel region(near Belgium) have a stop in Monschau. If you're in the north or Harz mountains area then DEFINITELY take a peek at the beautiful town of Quedlinburg! PLease let me know where you're going==joey won't mind a bit of thread hijacking!
What part of Germany? I know a few things... if you happen to be near The Eifel region(near Belgium) have a stop in Monschau. If you're in the north or Harz mountains area then DEFINITELY take a peek at the beautiful town of Quedlinburg! PLease let me know where you're going==joey won't mind a bit of thread hijacking!
Sep 24th, 2011, 09:40 AM
#33
ok, AV, here goes with the hijack!
we are actually going on a lawyers' trip to a place called Naumburg near Leipzig. we are due to stay with our hosts [who are both judges] for 5 nights and there are visits planned to Halle and Leipzig, as well as Naumburg, plus a dinner, wine-tasting, another dinner - you get the idea.
we are topping and tailing the trip with a day or two to ourselves - from Berlin, which we fly into, we are driving to Potsdam where we will stay the night and then tour [Sanssouci etc] before we set off for Naumburg in the afternoon, and when it's over, we've planned to drive to Dresden, and spend a night and the whole of the rest of the next day there before we fly home.
so at the moment, no room for Quedlingburg or the Harz - if we'd had longer I'd have loved to have gone there but there isn't time to do everything! However, any ideas will be gratefully received.
ref those dratted eggs again, yes of course i agree about freshness as we have our own hens and rarely use any egg that is more than 2 days old. Heaven knows how old those supermarket ones are, and i doubt if refrigerating them makes any difference to the shelf life. did you know that you can test for the age of an egg? put it [in the shell of course!] in a bowl of tepid water and watch what happens - if it is fresh, it will sink on its side to the bottom. the older it is, the more the rounded end sticks up until an old egg will be standing upright.
we are actually going on a lawyers' trip to a place called Naumburg near Leipzig. we are due to stay with our hosts [who are both judges] for 5 nights and there are visits planned to Halle and Leipzig, as well as Naumburg, plus a dinner, wine-tasting, another dinner - you get the idea.
we are topping and tailing the trip with a day or two to ourselves - from Berlin, which we fly into, we are driving to Potsdam where we will stay the night and then tour [Sanssouci etc] before we set off for Naumburg in the afternoon, and when it's over, we've planned to drive to Dresden, and spend a night and the whole of the rest of the next day there before we fly home.
so at the moment, no room for Quedlingburg or the Harz - if we'd had longer I'd have loved to have gone there but there isn't time to do everything! However, any ideas will be gratefully received.
ref those dratted eggs again, yes of course i agree about freshness as we have our own hens and rarely use any egg that is more than 2 days old. Heaven knows how old those supermarket ones are, and i doubt if refrigerating them makes any difference to the shelf life. did you know that you can test for the age of an egg? put it [in the shell of course!] in a bowl of tepid water and watch what happens - if it is fresh, it will sink on its side to the bottom. the older it is, the more the rounded end sticks up until an old egg will be standing upright.
Sep 24th, 2011, 10:23 AM
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Oh shoot I have never been to the areas you are visiting! Darn. Can't help at all. but it sounds like you will be in good hands and it's always a benefit to stay with locals. Sounds like a great trip! See, this is what I dislike about living here---what are our choices for a 5 day away? Still mainly within our own country. You can hop on over to Germany one week, France another, Norway....
You have just made my day with the egg age test!!!! I've never heard of it but you can trust that it will become a ritual in my house. I love eggs but can also be very easily disgusted with them. VERY easily. It's almost a neurosis! Perhaps I had some sort of incident with an egg as a child lol. My granddad also had turkey eggs on his farm. Never liked them--but I do believe that eggs, honey, and apples can help to promote a long life(granddad and his siblings all lived into late nineties and early 100's.).
You have just made my day with the egg age test!!!! I've never heard of it but you can trust that it will become a ritual in my house. I love eggs but can also be very easily disgusted with them. VERY easily. It's almost a neurosis! Perhaps I had some sort of incident with an egg as a child lol. My granddad also had turkey eggs on his farm. Never liked them--but I do believe that eggs, honey, and apples can help to promote a long life(granddad and his siblings all lived into late nineties and early 100's.).
Sep 24th, 2011, 10:43 AM
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Well said MissPrism - fish and chips have to come from a chippy or seaside cafe - no point having them at a pub. In fact, I'd make it compulsary for visitors to Blighty to buy a good pub guide in advance so they can guarantee getting a decent pie or ploughmans, rather than Iceland's finest offerings reheated in the microwave.
Nice report Jo, though I hate to break it to you that the Essex accent is not generally one to aspire to ;-)
Nice report Jo, though I hate to break it to you that the Essex accent is not generally one to aspire to ;-)
Sep 24th, 2011, 10:56 AM
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There used to be a rather grotty looking place in Felixtowe by the old harbour that served wonderful fish and chips, lovely crisp batter and good chunky chips. Sadly, the last time I was there, it seemed to have closed. It proudly advertised "Freshly caught fish and chips". I had this lovely picture of all those chips running for their lives and being pursued with butterfly nets.
Sep 24th, 2011, 12:49 PM
#37
but I do believe that eggs, honey, and apples can help to promote a long life(granddad and his siblings all lived into late nineties and early 100's.).>>
I'm not overfond of honey but I'm doing my best with the eggs and apples.
we are lucky that we can just "hop over" to "continental europe" as some people quaintly call it. Norway's a bit far, but France, Holland and Belgium are definitely possible for even 3 day trips. in fact now I think about it, we've done just 2 nights in Paris before now, and 3 nights in Prague Budapest and Madrid c/o easyjet or ryanair.
but OTOH, New York is quite a long way!
I'm not overfond of honey but I'm doing my best with the eggs and apples.
we are lucky that we can just "hop over" to "continental europe" as some people quaintly call it. Norway's a bit far, but France, Holland and Belgium are definitely possible for even 3 day trips. in fact now I think about it, we've done just 2 nights in Paris before now, and 3 nights in Prague Budapest and Madrid c/o easyjet or ryanair.
but OTOH, New York is quite a long way!
Oct 5th, 2011, 07:55 PM
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Day 5 THE COTSWOLDS Part I
After roughly an hour and half of driving from Bath, we happened through Bourton on the Water en route to our goal of Snowshill. Throughout our stay in the Cotswolds, this eclectic, level valley parish proved the most frequented of the villages, though that says little. The diversity of people didn’t cloud the picturesque High Street, nor the long wide greens and river lining it. It seemed to have less visitors than residents, but the visitors we saw and encountered at the tea shops and park benches and crossing the humble arched bridges shared the collective welcome and gracious disposition we were discovering to be the broad-spectrum temperament of England’s South. For the busiest village in this range of hilly counties, we managed to be served our tea luncheons rather quickly.
Over the course of our three-day stay in the Cotswolds, we twice visited this small, historic co-mingling of natural beauty and old-fashioned commerce. According to Kip, it’s viewed as a bustling tourist center, but the only evidence of that which I saw was actually yet another example of the sublime temperance of the United Kingdom as I experienced it. The scenic streets were indeed lined with shops and trinket stores of various kinds, many involving the heritage of the village as well as the Cotswolds on the whole. And yet, not a single inch of natural beauty was compromised in its favor. For a village of day-trippers and sightseers, there was never a moment on those charming strolls or wandering through those quaint little shops when anything caught either Kip or me as cheap, vulgar, gaudy or crass.
Nevertheless, after this first lunch and stroll in this three-day spine of rolling hills and stone, we were due at our bed and breakfast in Snowshill. We arrived at a sheep farm. Stepping out of the car is still a tangible moment for me that I won’t soon forget, no matter how long it’s been since returning to the humid, smog-filled air of the US. The wind was so robust, the sky was gray, the air clean. The blustering breeze coolly caressed my shirt and resounded across my earlobes as I stood in awe of the endless pasture of gently sloping knolls and farm fields peppered with sheep, roaming freely like a bleating convention that stretched for miles.
The second house on the property, where we stayed, was a modern structure, the only one I’d been inside in five days, an extraordinary amount of time for an American not to have a relationship with surroundings built in his own century. But each of these three mornings, we emerged from it, crossed through that blissful, gusting current where we would be greeted by charitable proprietor Tim Harrison’s free-roaming, endlessly playful dog and entered their home proper. His modest, gracious wife Jackie would serve us the warmest, most plentiful morning bounty of Full English, porridge and fruit. Our array of coffee, tea and juices were waited on by the most beautiful young dark-haired girl working for Jackie. She held her head low, smiled meekly and I don’t believe we ever learned her name.
Once we’d arrived that first day, we abandoned our luggage in the antibacterial home comforts of our room and board, and after that first run-around with Tim’s dog, one of the very happiest I’ve ever met in my entire life, Kip led our first footpath, beginning directly through the Harrisons’ back gate, through which pasture I remember thinking about the sheep while watching my every step, “I’ve never seen a living being, human or not, so unconditionally free that they are thoroughly, unreservedly surrounded by their source of sustenance (grass), can excrete it out their back ends any time and anywhere they like (grass)! It’s the simplest, most inconceivably stress-free existence that’s even possible, I’m sure!” Meanwhile, Kip was reacting to my minding each step through the poop-ridden grazing land and exhorting me, “Quit looking down! Look out and absorb the experience!” It somehow never occurred to him that I didn’t want the only shoes I brought with me on a three-week vacation to smell like feces. That aside, it was an easy, peaceful excursion.
And the town of Snowshill was a paradise not merely in the hyperbolic conventional use of that word. With truth to the letter, for a residential township, with a famous manor home open to the public, it was rare that we saw a single human soul outside The Snowshill Arms. And even in there, we found only two or three unassuming parties of local folks. This place was untouched, unsullied, by anyone, as if we were walking through a scale model, one that was as alive as possible with scents, currents of the freshest air, the living sound of stillness and silence. It’s a shift of one’s day-by-day paragon when you realize just how alive the world itself is, without the bustle of human activity. The earth would be A-OK without us.
That evening, we realized how convenient it was that Snowshill felt centrally located in the Cotswolds as Kip drove us a winding but very short distance to the village of Broadway. There, we discovered a three-century-old pub called The Crown and Trumpet, where I savored two delicious faggots in my mouth and for the rich, gooey extra treat at the end of that succulent indulgence, I relished a spotted dick. Having gone outside for a well-earned cigarette, we took notice of the American accents murmuring across the front area of tables and benches.
After what had already seemed like a whole trip in itself, our ears seemed much sharper and more discerning when it came to our indigenous dialect. Kip struck up conversation with Malcolm and June, who were living in the American Southwest, though she was from Canada. They, like us, were evading the blistering ozone reduction of the States, though on top of that, they were also eluding what Malcolm claimed was the third largest forest fire in Arizona’s history, wind blowing smoke from the flaming pine into New Mexico and Colorado. Though we had Cincinnati’s several consecutive days of smog alerts and 90-degree weather to offer, they clearly took the cake in regards to the Great Escape from the States. Notwithstanding, little did we know at this early stage, there would not be one subsequent day in England when we wouldn’t discover that vehicular emissions and other industrial fumes in Cincinnati were at alert levels.
We’d acquainted ourselves comfortably enough with this genial young couple that they offered to buy us a drink. Thus began my hot-cold relationship with Scrumpy. Oh, my Scrumpy, how you toyed with my heart. I must’ve had three pints of delicious Scrumpy as Kip and I continued to socialize with Malcolm and June and the four of us began to pal around with hilarious old goiter-sporting Englishman Bob, his ebullient Scottish wife Betty and the dog they treated like their child. Kip wound up spending a great deal of time talking to an earthy middle-aged woman named Lorraine before being egged on by the lot of us to play the pub’s lonely old upright piano.
Malcolm, having learned Kip composes as well as teaches music, encouraged him to start with an original piece. I recall feeling almost astrally projected hearing music I and very few other people on earth are familiar with, and yet being in a completely, utterly foreign place with completely, utterly new people. Then, for dessert, he played the great drunk white people song Piano Man by Billy Joel before launching into Elgar’s quintessential British anthem Land of Hope and Glory, with which the whole pub sang along, as proud as ever of being British, as they very well should be.
And, just like a wanton woman, I awoke to find Scrumpy had left me with an immense ache. I'm not easily hung over, sincerely. But Scrumpy. Ooooh, Scrumpy...
After roughly an hour and half of driving from Bath, we happened through Bourton on the Water en route to our goal of Snowshill. Throughout our stay in the Cotswolds, this eclectic, level valley parish proved the most frequented of the villages, though that says little. The diversity of people didn’t cloud the picturesque High Street, nor the long wide greens and river lining it. It seemed to have less visitors than residents, but the visitors we saw and encountered at the tea shops and park benches and crossing the humble arched bridges shared the collective welcome and gracious disposition we were discovering to be the broad-spectrum temperament of England’s South. For the busiest village in this range of hilly counties, we managed to be served our tea luncheons rather quickly.
Over the course of our three-day stay in the Cotswolds, we twice visited this small, historic co-mingling of natural beauty and old-fashioned commerce. According to Kip, it’s viewed as a bustling tourist center, but the only evidence of that which I saw was actually yet another example of the sublime temperance of the United Kingdom as I experienced it. The scenic streets were indeed lined with shops and trinket stores of various kinds, many involving the heritage of the village as well as the Cotswolds on the whole. And yet, not a single inch of natural beauty was compromised in its favor. For a village of day-trippers and sightseers, there was never a moment on those charming strolls or wandering through those quaint little shops when anything caught either Kip or me as cheap, vulgar, gaudy or crass.
Nevertheless, after this first lunch and stroll in this three-day spine of rolling hills and stone, we were due at our bed and breakfast in Snowshill. We arrived at a sheep farm. Stepping out of the car is still a tangible moment for me that I won’t soon forget, no matter how long it’s been since returning to the humid, smog-filled air of the US. The wind was so robust, the sky was gray, the air clean. The blustering breeze coolly caressed my shirt and resounded across my earlobes as I stood in awe of the endless pasture of gently sloping knolls and farm fields peppered with sheep, roaming freely like a bleating convention that stretched for miles.
The second house on the property, where we stayed, was a modern structure, the only one I’d been inside in five days, an extraordinary amount of time for an American not to have a relationship with surroundings built in his own century. But each of these three mornings, we emerged from it, crossed through that blissful, gusting current where we would be greeted by charitable proprietor Tim Harrison’s free-roaming, endlessly playful dog and entered their home proper. His modest, gracious wife Jackie would serve us the warmest, most plentiful morning bounty of Full English, porridge and fruit. Our array of coffee, tea and juices were waited on by the most beautiful young dark-haired girl working for Jackie. She held her head low, smiled meekly and I don’t believe we ever learned her name.
Once we’d arrived that first day, we abandoned our luggage in the antibacterial home comforts of our room and board, and after that first run-around with Tim’s dog, one of the very happiest I’ve ever met in my entire life, Kip led our first footpath, beginning directly through the Harrisons’ back gate, through which pasture I remember thinking about the sheep while watching my every step, “I’ve never seen a living being, human or not, so unconditionally free that they are thoroughly, unreservedly surrounded by their source of sustenance (grass), can excrete it out their back ends any time and anywhere they like (grass)! It’s the simplest, most inconceivably stress-free existence that’s even possible, I’m sure!” Meanwhile, Kip was reacting to my minding each step through the poop-ridden grazing land and exhorting me, “Quit looking down! Look out and absorb the experience!” It somehow never occurred to him that I didn’t want the only shoes I brought with me on a three-week vacation to smell like feces. That aside, it was an easy, peaceful excursion.
And the town of Snowshill was a paradise not merely in the hyperbolic conventional use of that word. With truth to the letter, for a residential township, with a famous manor home open to the public, it was rare that we saw a single human soul outside The Snowshill Arms. And even in there, we found only two or three unassuming parties of local folks. This place was untouched, unsullied, by anyone, as if we were walking through a scale model, one that was as alive as possible with scents, currents of the freshest air, the living sound of stillness and silence. It’s a shift of one’s day-by-day paragon when you realize just how alive the world itself is, without the bustle of human activity. The earth would be A-OK without us.
That evening, we realized how convenient it was that Snowshill felt centrally located in the Cotswolds as Kip drove us a winding but very short distance to the village of Broadway. There, we discovered a three-century-old pub called The Crown and Trumpet, where I savored two delicious faggots in my mouth and for the rich, gooey extra treat at the end of that succulent indulgence, I relished a spotted dick. Having gone outside for a well-earned cigarette, we took notice of the American accents murmuring across the front area of tables and benches.
After what had already seemed like a whole trip in itself, our ears seemed much sharper and more discerning when it came to our indigenous dialect. Kip struck up conversation with Malcolm and June, who were living in the American Southwest, though she was from Canada. They, like us, were evading the blistering ozone reduction of the States, though on top of that, they were also eluding what Malcolm claimed was the third largest forest fire in Arizona’s history, wind blowing smoke from the flaming pine into New Mexico and Colorado. Though we had Cincinnati’s several consecutive days of smog alerts and 90-degree weather to offer, they clearly took the cake in regards to the Great Escape from the States. Notwithstanding, little did we know at this early stage, there would not be one subsequent day in England when we wouldn’t discover that vehicular emissions and other industrial fumes in Cincinnati were at alert levels.
We’d acquainted ourselves comfortably enough with this genial young couple that they offered to buy us a drink. Thus began my hot-cold relationship with Scrumpy. Oh, my Scrumpy, how you toyed with my heart. I must’ve had three pints of delicious Scrumpy as Kip and I continued to socialize with Malcolm and June and the four of us began to pal around with hilarious old goiter-sporting Englishman Bob, his ebullient Scottish wife Betty and the dog they treated like their child. Kip wound up spending a great deal of time talking to an earthy middle-aged woman named Lorraine before being egged on by the lot of us to play the pub’s lonely old upright piano.
Malcolm, having learned Kip composes as well as teaches music, encouraged him to start with an original piece. I recall feeling almost astrally projected hearing music I and very few other people on earth are familiar with, and yet being in a completely, utterly foreign place with completely, utterly new people. Then, for dessert, he played the great drunk white people song Piano Man by Billy Joel before launching into Elgar’s quintessential British anthem Land of Hope and Glory, with which the whole pub sang along, as proud as ever of being British, as they very well should be.
And, just like a wanton woman, I awoke to find Scrumpy had left me with an immense ache. I'm not easily hung over, sincerely. But Scrumpy. Ooooh, Scrumpy...
Oct 5th, 2011, 07:59 PM
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Day 6 THE COTSWOLDS Part II
Inside the first hour of the second day in The Cotswolds, Kip and I found ourselves engulfed in a crushing sea of the boldest lavender. Rows and rows and rows and rows. At the same time I reacted with awe, I felt oppressed by the powerful minty scent. Intermittently while Kip painstakingly staged the perfect photograph of himself looking swallowed up in the bounding waves of flowers against the azure sky and intrepid clouds, I was preoccupied with the busybody bees and other insects hovering about the lavender and seeming irritated by our presence.
Not only have I never seen anything of the like anywhere in the States, there was yet another experience unique to my life immediately after Snowshill Lavender when we happened upon the Cotswolds Falconry Center, where nearly every species of owl, falcon and other birds of prey could be seen, up close and personal. Many were intimidating as they looked at you with cold, black eyes. There were even vultures, befittingly housed high above the ground to look down upon us like a quarry. A lanky Cockney demonstrator gathered us visitors to exhibit and expound upon the flight methods of a handful of these fascinating animals. He fed them little chicks right before us, one falcon unabashedly ripping out the innards of one carcass and gobbling them down. He would release the birds into the sky. As I squinted and teared up at the sunlight, the falcon was but a blemish in the bright blue, and yet the lure offered by the Guy Ritchie-sounding demonstrator on the ground would invariably affect the direction of the little winged speck. Also, the owl he exhibited, “a rubbish flyer” as he so succinctly put it, flew so close above my head that his talons grazed my hair.
Tea and scones in Bourton on the Water preceded a drive to the quaint, wooded village of Stanton, where we parked and wandered in a rambling, gradual circle uphill into Stanway and back. Having become a couch potato and media junkie in my daily American grind, I’d forgotten just how much I adore a protracted walk. It was one of many that consumed several miles and several hours.
After rewarding our lazy-by-nature selves with the snug refuge of our Sheepscombe digs to indulge in our internet connections, we attempted to repeat the remarkable night of social joy we’d previously had by venturing just a few yards up the hill to Snowshill Arms for good ol’ fish, chips and pea mash. We looked around for warm conversation. No such luck. But I did reunite with my old flame…sweet, voluptuous Scrumpy. She came at me in curves. I drank her like apple cider after a long, arduous day at the office. It sounds crazy, Keyes, but it’s true, so help me. I couldn’t hear my own footsteps.
Back in our Sheepscombe lodgings, falling asleep to the numbing ecstasy of that apple-flavored tramp from a long line of tramps, I began to reflect on the sounds of those enviable, bleating wild fleece. You know, I always thought the bleating sounds made by sheep had a choppy, brute jingle of “baaaaah!” Not these sheep. They sounded literally like stoner surfer dudes from California saying, “Muh!” I remember, one said, “Mah!” Then another said, “Muh!” And back and forth like that. It sounded uncannily like an argument over pronunciation. That’s all I remember before Scrumpy left me again with a throbbing that only made me want her more. She knew how to put the moves on me.
Inside the first hour of the second day in The Cotswolds, Kip and I found ourselves engulfed in a crushing sea of the boldest lavender. Rows and rows and rows and rows. At the same time I reacted with awe, I felt oppressed by the powerful minty scent. Intermittently while Kip painstakingly staged the perfect photograph of himself looking swallowed up in the bounding waves of flowers against the azure sky and intrepid clouds, I was preoccupied with the busybody bees and other insects hovering about the lavender and seeming irritated by our presence.
Not only have I never seen anything of the like anywhere in the States, there was yet another experience unique to my life immediately after Snowshill Lavender when we happened upon the Cotswolds Falconry Center, where nearly every species of owl, falcon and other birds of prey could be seen, up close and personal. Many were intimidating as they looked at you with cold, black eyes. There were even vultures, befittingly housed high above the ground to look down upon us like a quarry. A lanky Cockney demonstrator gathered us visitors to exhibit and expound upon the flight methods of a handful of these fascinating animals. He fed them little chicks right before us, one falcon unabashedly ripping out the innards of one carcass and gobbling them down. He would release the birds into the sky. As I squinted and teared up at the sunlight, the falcon was but a blemish in the bright blue, and yet the lure offered by the Guy Ritchie-sounding demonstrator on the ground would invariably affect the direction of the little winged speck. Also, the owl he exhibited, “a rubbish flyer” as he so succinctly put it, flew so close above my head that his talons grazed my hair.
Tea and scones in Bourton on the Water preceded a drive to the quaint, wooded village of Stanton, where we parked and wandered in a rambling, gradual circle uphill into Stanway and back. Having become a couch potato and media junkie in my daily American grind, I’d forgotten just how much I adore a protracted walk. It was one of many that consumed several miles and several hours.
After rewarding our lazy-by-nature selves with the snug refuge of our Sheepscombe digs to indulge in our internet connections, we attempted to repeat the remarkable night of social joy we’d previously had by venturing just a few yards up the hill to Snowshill Arms for good ol’ fish, chips and pea mash. We looked around for warm conversation. No such luck. But I did reunite with my old flame…sweet, voluptuous Scrumpy. She came at me in curves. I drank her like apple cider after a long, arduous day at the office. It sounds crazy, Keyes, but it’s true, so help me. I couldn’t hear my own footsteps.
Back in our Sheepscombe lodgings, falling asleep to the numbing ecstasy of that apple-flavored tramp from a long line of tramps, I began to reflect on the sounds of those enviable, bleating wild fleece. You know, I always thought the bleating sounds made by sheep had a choppy, brute jingle of “baaaaah!” Not these sheep. They sounded literally like stoner surfer dudes from California saying, “Muh!” I remember, one said, “Mah!” Then another said, “Muh!” And back and forth like that. It sounded uncannily like an argument over pronunciation. That’s all I remember before Scrumpy left me again with a throbbing that only made me want her more. She knew how to put the moves on me.
