TUESDAY, JULY 18
Despite the good times in London, it was nice to leave the hustle and bustle of the big city and head out to the countryside to Bath, about 100 miles west of the capital.
After a taxi-ride to Heathrow airport, we hopped in our Hertz car, a Ford Mondeo (similar to a Taurus) and drove on the wrong side of the road. Well, for them it's correct, but sitting in the passenger seat on the left is a bit strange. I feel like I should have a steering wheel and pedals to push. Maybe they should try that, like a driver's education car, just for my peace of mind.
There are so many tourists in London -- remember that England is in the minority of nation�s that drive on the left side of the road -- that at pedestrian crosswalks there are messages on the road telling you to "Look Left" or "Look Right" because so many foreigners have been run over by looking the wrong way before stepping into traffic.
Or, the tourists are too busy looking for street names, since signs telling you where you�re at are less likely than Bill Clinton teaching a sexual abstinence class to White House interns.
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The wait was so long on the M3 that the lady in the silver car even tried to fence stolen goods from her trunk.
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Now armed with transportation, we zip out of the airport, hop on the M3 (their interstate system uses the letter M, the next step down is A) and immediately run into every driver's nightmare. With no exits for 10 miles, we hit a traffic jam that took 3 hours to get through. Much of the time was spent idling, although the British remained calmer than Americans who would see this opportunity as the perfect time for fisticuffs..
Eventually we found out that there were four exits closed because of a wreck. That better have been some wreck, with 50 cars on the side of the road and a dozen lorries (trucks) blown to bits and an earthquake causing a 10-foot hole in the road, because there is never a wreck so bad that a chunk of the motorway has to be shut down altogether!
Thus, a two-hour trip turned into a Greek odyssey, complete with a Cyclops trying to divert us from the peace and calm of Bath. If I hadn�t resisted the song of the sirens, we�d still be oohing and aahing the green pastures of the Midlands.
However, the jam compounded another problem, that driving on vacation and not knowing where to go is always a firecracker. All cohesiveness flees faster than the French when someone yells "Look, Germans!" the moment the first indecision arises over directions. We just get downright cheeky! After a day or so I had it down, once I understood the convoluted road signs that mock the American laziness of actually believing that the shortest route from A to B is a straight line.
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Oooooh, the eerie mystery of Stonehenge.
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Not so fast, though. On our way to Bath we felt a mystical force telling us to stop at the ancient wonder known as Stonehenge. This was not a long stop, since there's not much more to see than the formation of rocks out in the middle of nowhere.
I'm serious, literally it took a half hour to get out of the car, walk under the highway, walk around the stones, walk back under the highway, buy a shot glass and postcards to prove that I was there, get in our car and drive away. We actually spent more time in line to get in the car park, admiring the formation of senior citizens (rumor has it many helped to build Stonehenge) filing off of the 500 tour buses.
At least I can say I saw it up close, though, since I've seen every show on the Discovery Channel about Stonehenge.
Once we got off the motorway onto the smaller two-lane roads Danielle was flipping out about being in the beautiful British countryside. She was relieved to finally see "quintessential" England, what you see in paintings of thatched-roof houses and centuries-old churches at the center of the villages. In a couple of the villages surrounding Bath, no house is �younger� than 150 years old. In the U.S. to find something that old you have to visit Strom Thurmond.
Now to Bath.
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Insert hot-air joke here.
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In "Northanger Abbey," Jane Austen wrote that "I believe I shall always be talking about of Bath ... I do like it so very much. Oh! who can ever be tired of Bath." Fodor�s describes the city as "A remarkably unsullied Georgian (architecture, not state) city," that still looks as it did when Austen made it famous in her novels.
Disclaimer: I have not read Jane Austen, nor do I plan on doing so, as long as I am a member of the male sex. However, speaking of sex, were it to be necessary to read the aforementioned author in order to perform said act when I am married, then I will retract this statement.
We stayed at the country house-style Gainsborough Hotel, which is really a bed and breakfast with only 17 rooms and a hot breakfast. It was a big step up from Hyde Park in London, as my room had plenty of room to walk around, with high ceilings and a comfy double bed. All this for half the price of the Plaza on Hyde Park.
The place had an old feel, even down to the skeleton key used to lock the doors. Unfortunately there was no bath, only a stand-up shower, so there would be no bath for me in Bath. However, the breakfast was tasty, if only served from 7:45 until 9:15, not a minute sooner or a minute later as told by the check-in lady.
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See sights like this everyday, and you'll write chick books like Jane Austen, too. [click on photo for larger version]
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The three of us decided to walk into town, as it took about 15-20 minutes to get to the City Centre. But the walk was easy and relaxing, mainly through Victoria's Park (like London there is plenty of green space). Once in the Centre there are dozens of pubs and little restaurants and shops, with tourists and residents floating from one street to another. As with every British town, the Abbey is the most prominent structure in the center of town, and like Westminster is a perfect antique and a marvel to look it. Plus I think people do that worshipping thing inside.
Dinner was outside at Brown's Restaurant and Pub, near the River Avon as the sun was setting behind the hills. We were served by an extremely cute local girl, tall and thin with rosy cheeks and the best accent and shy and polite demeanor. Yes, I admit I swooned. It�s a delicate art, that of swooning, it involves constantly staring at the subject without letting her catch your eye, and thinking of growing old together with four children in a beautiful house in the Bath countryside. Or am I pathetic? That�s the fine line that worries me!
The swordfish steak was okay, but nothing compared to the mashed potatoes. I guess I could have saved 10 bucks by just ordering three servings of the mashed potatoes!
We were a bit wary of driving much because the streets were very narrow -- "not made for motorcars" as our taxi driver told us on the way back to the hotel. No kidding, in Bath and in Scotland later, many times only one car at a time could drive through the narrow streets, because the English park wherever they want on the shoulders.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 19
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Great big bath, and me without my rubber-ducky. [click on photo for larger version]
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The historical tourist spot of note in Bath is the Roman Baths. It isn't a spa, as I originally thought the day before, but an ancient site that dates back to the time of Jesus.
Unearthed in the 1800s in the center of town, the Baths were formed around a natural spring that constantly feeds water at 116 degrees Fahrenheit.
The Romans knew how to relax, and would come here to take it easy and kick back a few brewskies, while also praying to the gods and seeking cures to their ailments. Two thousand years ago there was a large temple dedicated to the goddess Minerva, long since fallen, but there are still a few remnants seen on the tour through the Baths.
The water flowing from the springs was apparently good enough for Romans to bathe in, but as I and others stuck our hands in it to feel the warmth, one of the older guides told us to wash our hands because the water is "unhealthy." I think he's lying, that at night he and his senior citizen club hop in the springs and feel younger like Cocoon.
Not much of the original structures still stand, but the remaining architecture is impressive, as some of the drains built for excess water to flow to the River Avon a few hundred meters away still perform perfectly. You can also see some of the other rooms with remnants contained, like dressing rooms and steps to the temple, as well as some of the altar stones.
Along the tour are money and bronze tablets that were found among the ruins, tossed in the sacred spring next to the baths to ask favors of Minerva. I can't believe the change was removed, since as we well know from Sean Astin in The Goonies, "These were somebody's wishes."
Many of the tablets still have legible writing, and my favorite was the one in which a Roman asked that a neighbor be cursed for making him angry. Looks like some things never change.
Once the Romans left the area, the Baths were ignored, we're told, because the new inhabitants didn't bathe. Yep, some things never change.
After the Baths it was still A.M., and Danielle wanted to do a bit of shopping in the City Centre, so while she did that Dad and I had drinks at Brown's Restaurant and Pub again. It's in a great spot, next to the Abbey, a little park and the river, so people watching is at a premium. The waitress from the night before was working again, and kept me swooning. She even made a point to wave and say hi, but didn't come right out and say she wanted to have my children. Thus, an opportunity squandered.
The afternoon was reserved for touring Warwick Castle, just north of Stratford-upon-Avon, over an hour's drive north from Bath.
Along the way we continued to be entertained by BBC Radio, of which the talk shows are ten times better than the States. I love the British wit, and they're always on their game. As Morley Safer of CBS News said, "BBC Radio is not so much an art or industry as it is a way of life. . . a mirror that reflects . . . the eccentricities, the looniness that make Britons slightly different from other humans."
Since it's state-funded, there are no commercials so there's always something playing. There aren't many stations, though, so during a slow period you're relegated to boring talk about British politics once in a while, but the rest makes up for it. I'll really miss the Britons' sense of humor, and heck, just the accent!
Warwick Castle is a fun old-fashioned medieval structure complete with forbidding walls, a moat, elegant living quarters, the grandeur of the Great Hall and a dungeon complete with torture exhibit. I tell ya, my ancestors knew how to party!
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You don't frighten us, English pig dogs! Go and boil your bottoms, you sons of a silly person! I blow my nose at you, so-called "Arthur King," you and all your silly English K-nig-hts. [click on photo for larger version]
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Like Westminster Abbey, Warwick was begun soon after William the Conqueror and the Normans took over the British Isles nearly 1,000 years ago. Begun twenty years after the Norman Conquest in 1086, there are many buildings and towers to explore the history of the castle, as well as that of England.
Plenty of exercise here, too, climbing stairs not made for size 14 shoes and not wide enough for someone with a 42-inch waist. There was a good view from the top of the Towers, ready to shout down anyone who dares challenge my knowledge of European swallows and their ability to carry coconuts.
The State Rooms were fairly impressive, with plenty of elegant furniture and artwork, although I again felt dumb when Danielle was excited by the amount of works by van Dyck in the Castle. I, however, was confused as to why she�d be so excited by the paintings of the eccentric white-haired assistant from �Coach.�
Guiding us through the State Rooms and Great Hall is an exhibit featuring some wax figures sponsored by the famed Madame Tussauds. Not really caring for Tussauds in London, since I don�t care if I see a wax figure of Bo Duke, at Warwick the figures actually added to the self-guided tour, featuring people in traditional garb of the Victorian Age.
The Ghost Tower, though, was kind of lame. Telling the story of the murder of Sir Fulke Greville by his manservant, who then killed himself out of remorse. The rooms are dark and moan as the lights twinkle, which may be fun for kids but was a little boring. Maybe I was in a hurry to get to the dungeon.
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Help! Help! I'm being oppressed!
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Ducking down the narrow stairs deep underground, the dungeon is the dark and dank hellhole one imagines with an ancient English castle. Hanging from the walls are torture devices, with an open drain running through the middle for sanitation, and the only light is from one small window.
Even more ghastly is the small hole in the corner in which prisoners are placed and forgotten, a dungeon within a dungeon in which there's no light or sanitation, and room only to lie down. Basically, like our rooms at Hyde Park.
The most prominent prisoner of the dungeon was Edward IV in 1469, captured and held by the Earl of Warwick during the War of the Roses brouhaha. The earliest prisoners were reportedly French soldiers captured during the Hundred Years War in 1356.
On the way home from Warwick we finally relented and ate at Burger King for dinner. I wasn�t ashamed since it took an entire week to fold, and since we were at a rest stop which aren't like ours in the States. Their rest centers have a convenience store, restaurants and even a game room, compared to our amenities consisting of dirty toilets and vending machines that don�t give you your M&Ms.
That night my immune system continued to ignore my pleas to work, because apparently it went on strike to protest my continued insistence that it absorb unnatural amounts of diet coke and animal crackers.
Do you remember that a couple of nights before I had the chills? Now add to that uncontrollable itching. The only variable I could think of was the aloe vera I put on my sunburn, because everywhere that the sun had burned was itching without cease. This was THE worst feeling of my entire life, and nothing I did would alleviate the annoyance. I took a shower, curled up in my blankets, rubbed my entire body with a rough towel, scratched, but to no avail.
Add, on top of the chills and itching a headache and the cold sweats, and you can see that the misery factor was high that night.
Not being able to sleep, I stayed up much of the night watching Major League Baseball because the Braves were playing the Marlins. Unable to enjoy the game, I was ready to jump out the window and rub a rake against my body, but the itching finally subsided enough a few hours later to allow me to fall asleep and appreciate that tomorrow we were going to Scotland.
