Wednesday, August 7
Our first longer driving day. We were staying at a B&B in Wells tonight, and wanted to first visit the stone circle at Avebury on the way, possibly making a quick stop at Stonehenge. When I was in England in 1969, taking a theater class with a tour group, I overslept on the morning the bus went to Stonehenge. I know that “everyone should see Stonehenge”. But it was also important that we arrive in Wells in time to catch the 5:15 evensong service at the cathedral. So we decided to play the day by ear.
I took the first driving shift, from Woodstock to Marlborough, a distance of maybe 50 miles. For some reason, though I was still fine with other-side-of-the-road driving, I did poorly on the roundabouts, of which there were many – several in each small town we passed through. The primary rule is “yield to the right”. I had a heck of a time with it. I yielded very well to the left instead. I got honked at by all three people I cut off who were coming from the right. Each time, Art spoke up with authoritative energy, telling me what I had done wrong. I felt defensive. After a while it seemed like I could do nothing right. I felt worse and so I drove dismally. I was fortunate not to have an accident in one of those roundabouts. And Art got so frustrated that by the time we got to the TI (Tourist Information) parking lot in Marlborough, he wasn’t speaking to me. I felt like an errant soldier paired up with an angry drill sergeant. (As I was writing this, three months after the event, I asked Art to add his comments. He stiffened and said, “Not today.” I guess some experiences driving with spouses are better off forgotten.)
I marched myself into the TI office and asked where I could purchase an “L” (new driver) decal for our windows so that other drivers would be merciful with their horns. When I told Art I was turning myself in, he assented to coming with me. Every now and then it helps to eat a little crow. I’ll do just about anything to avoid conflict when we’re traveling.
We walked over the bridge to High Street, bought the decal, and found a sandwich shop. I’m sure the building was 300 years old, with uneven wooden floorboards, but the food was good! – and after we’d eaten we both felt better. We found an Internet café down the narrow, winding staircase of a computer repair shop, then wandered through Marlborough’s Market Day.
Back at the car, I apologized to Art for my abysmal driving and encouraged him to take the wheel for the last leg. I wished he’d apologized to me for not speaking, which he didn’t do, but he did get in the car on the driver’s side.
We arrived in Avebury without incident. It’s the site of a large stone circle, one of many scattered throughout England. These circles were apparently the sites for community rituals of some sort, though their actual purpose is not known.
Art and I differ in how we look at historical sites. I see what’s there and read about it quickly. Art can visualize what used to be there and bring the past to life. Our perspectives on Avebury are a good example of this difference between us.
This is what I wrote about Avebury:
We walked around the inner circle, along a path of stone pairs, and around the mile-long outer perimeter. It was gratifying to see no tour buses in the car park, and only a moderate number of people at the site. I expect all the buses were at Stonehenge, about 30 miles to the south. We wandered through the excellent museum, housed in a 300-year-old barn with bats in the rafters.
And here is Art’s recollection:
Coming up on it, I didn’t know what to expect. The stones placed around were difficult to picture what was happening. But after looking at all the areas where the stones were, it appeared to me that it was like an early fort. It had an outer perimeter with a moat around it -- which at this time was not filled with water -- and one entrance, which would make it difficult for an attacker to come by.
The outer perimeter of rocks on the inside of the moat, most likely reinforced with wood, gave protection against arrows and spears that might be thrown from the other side of the moat, and provided a place to shoot back from.
On the inside of the circle was a place where I could visualize huts and dwellings for the people and their livestock. In the center of this circle were several taller monoliths which I could see as serving two purposes: as a lookout where one could see in all directions, because these circles were on hilltops, and as a place where one could address the citizenry.
Looking back at the entrance gate, I could see that it was a pathway --most likely it could have even been a covered pathway, with the rocks as stabilizers -- that went up to what they said was a sacrificial altar type area. Or it could have even been a smaller defensive area in case the attack was overflowing.
The early peoples of Britain, I have learned, were very warlike and very savage, even to their friendly neighbors. This might account for a lot of the peoples missing from early times, because they couldn’t put up with the onslaught of attacks.
By the time we left Avebury it was after 3pm. I wanted to find a phone to call the B&B to let them know we’d not be arriving until after we’d been to evensong at the cathedral and stopped for dinner. That was the agreement we’d made when I booked the room by email. But as we drove along I saw no telephones, so I got a little nervous. Besides, we were on narrower roads and Art was driving the speed limit, which I thought was too fast. I think of speed signs anywhere as saying that’s the fastest you can go. It looks to me like Art thinks the signs define how fast he is required to go. At home, he rarely speeds, but he seldom drives slower than the posted speeds – even at night in pouring rain on congested freeways. Each of us is terrified by the driving habits of the other. So there I was, a helpless passenger hurtling down the wrong side of rural roads.
After about an hour of this, Art started yawning. I asked him several times if he’d like to pull off and change drivers so he could take a nap, but he shook his head. Along a particularly narrow stretch of road, the van jerked and veered. Art had fallen asleep momentarily at the wheel. At that point he pulled over and I drove. Duh!
When we reached the city limit of Wells it was just past five. I was looking forward to the evensong service at the cathedral. I was feeling time pressure to get there in time, accompanied by continuing guilt that I hadn’t yet called the B&B. The tour buses in front of us crawled along. The parking lots nearest the center of town were full. We finally found a spot near the other end of town, parked, and walked briskly toward the church spire. When we were nearly there, I asked for directions just to be sure. I was told we were headed for the wrong church. The Wells cathedral was up the street “about a five-minute walk”.
It was a lovely cathedral. We sat down in a pew. We could hear music and reading. It sounded like a recorded service. After a few minutes I saw movement at the other end of the cathedral. I tried to go toward the activity. The gate was closed. Rereading the Wells section of Rick Steves’ book, I found out that, at 5:10 sharp, visitors are ushered into the evensong service and then the doors are closed. We had missed getting in by about 10 minutes. Very disappointing.
We found a phone booth to call the B&B hostess to tell her we’d be late. I tried to use the phone card I’d bought in the States. I kept getting a busy signal. There is a long string of numbers to be entered. I wasn’t sure whether I needed to enter them all. I suspected I might be dialing wrong, but I wasn’t sure, and I couldn’t find anyone to ask. I asked Art for 20 pence (he carried the change on this trip) and used the number in Rick Steves’ book. I got through immediately.
By this time I was tired and hungry, very frustrated about missing the evensong service and aggravated by the British phone system. Art was hungry, but not frustrated or aggravated. When I’m in a bad space and he isn’t, he always acts surprised that I’m being unreasonable. Maybe that’s because it doesn’t happen often. I don’t think he realizes how much work planning a trip is, and how much responsibility I take on. He’s just along to enjoy the trip, and he does.
Anyway, we found a pub for dinner. I ordered lamb shoulder and vegetables. When the order came, there was an entire lamb shoulder on my plate! It smelled delicious but it was shiny with grease. I picked off the meat until I was full and gave the rest to Art. He’ll usually finish any food I leave. But this time, he had a large dinner himself, with no room for my extras.
Our B&B was Manor Farm, with a 300-year-old house, in Dulcote, a tiny town outside of Wells. It was dusk by the time we arrived. We were welcomed warmly by Rosemary, the owner. Originally from Wales, she moved to peaceful Dulcote about 20 years ago. Rosemary keeps a goat, sheep and chickens, and she is devoted to them. She told us that her chickens are allowed to run free so they are happy, and they lay wonderful eggs, which she serves to her guests for breakfast.
Our room was on the second floor. We had brought only one suitcase for this overnight trip, but it was heavy. The stairs were steep and narrow. I wondered why I haven’t yet learned to pack light. Rosemary said it happens a lot. “A guest will toil with her suitcases up the stairs, take out a toothbrush and a nightie, then toil back down the stairs the next day.” It did sound silly and pointless. But there we were with our heavy suitcase, toiling.
We asked Rosemary how she came to be listed in Rick Steves’ book. She told us that years before, an American couple had happened upon her B&B and stayed for three days, loving the peace and quiet of the place. On their return to the States they’d written to Rick, whose guidebook they were using, and recommended that he check out Manor Farm and the town of Wells. The next year, Rick knocked on the door and booked a room for the night. In subsequent editions of his book, he added Wells as a recommended destination, and Rosemary’s Manor Farm as a great place to stay. I guess word of mouth is still the best way to run a business.
Another couple came up the stairs, and Rosemary introduced us. They were from Newcastle, a good-sized city in northern England. They seemed like steady people, especially the woman. She commented that her colleagues thought it odd that she would take a holiday in the southern part of her own country, rather than elsewhere in Europe or the States. She said that England has beautiful, interesting areas, and she was content to explore it. We chatted for nearly 20 minutes. I felt glad to be a traveler, enjoying conversation with kindred spirits. The next morning Art and I sat at a table just across the small breakfast room from the English couple. We said hello, but that was all, and then we left. We had a number of these experiences on this trip – excellent conversations with people we saw only once. Snippets of friendships.
Our room had open windows that overlooked a field where Rosemary’s sheep still grazed. Across the narrow country lane, Rosemary was at the gate, calling her goat in for the night. Masses of flowers just outside smelled wonderful. We left the windows open.
Thursday, August 8
Rosemary was right. I had regrets as we pulled away from Manor Farm after breakfast. I could have stayed here for several days, exploring the quiet countryside. But she had no rooms available, and we’d made plans to see Bath today and return to Woodstock in the evening.
The 20 miles between Dulcote and Bath was not a quick trip. Traffic was considerable, and detours routed us onto narrower roads. Art was driving this morning, and I was the navigator. We were not a class act, but we did make it to the Bath Park and Ride, and we were still speaking to each other.
Like Oxford, Bath is an ancient city with limited auto capacity. Buses run regularly from the Park and Ride to the city center. Once we’d found a parking spot, we looked for an attendant. The fellow in the shed near the bus stop was chatty and helpful, advising us which bus to take and where to get off. “Americans, aren’t you?” he asked. We said yes, how did he know? “It must be the Stars and Stripes on your foreheads”. We all laughed, and he told a couple of quick jokes while we waited for the bus. As it pulled up, he said, “Well, nice talking to you. Did I annoy you with my chatter?” We assured him he had not. “Pity.” We all laughed again as Art and I boarded the bus.
Our first stop was the Hop On – Hop Off bus tour of Bath. In an hour and a half we got a quick initial view of most of the sights, took a ride into the hills for some panoramic shots, and learned about the history of the city. Natural hot springs have been used as healing baths for many centuries. The Romans built extensive structures surrounding these hot springs. In the 19th century an English queen came to Bath for her health, and soon after the city became a social mecca for the wealthy in England.
In 1965, a woman who’d recently bathed in the springs came down with meningitis. The spring waters were suspected as a source of her illness. The baths were closed down that year. The springs are expected to be open to the public again in 2003, using the latest sanitation technology.
Some of the 2,000-year-old Roman buildings have been excavated in the last 30 years; others have been left alone because the modern city of Bath has been built on top of the old structures.
By the time the bus tour circled around to its starting point, we were ready for lunch. We found a sandwich vendor and picnicked in a park by the river. The park not only had flower gardens and many statues, but there were alcoves that could serve as dance halls or cabarets for parties. These are closed at the present time, which Art thinks was due to the weight of modern-day vehicles on the roads built atop the roofs. These alcoves might not have been from Roman times, but they were part of the large city of Bath during its heyday as a social center. Horses and carriages didn’t weigh as much as 21st century vehicles.
We were eager to tour the ruins of the Roman baths. For some reason, I was fascinated with the place. I talked earlier about how castles aren’t appealing to me as a travel destination, and how history doesn’t come alive for me. The Roman baths were something else.
The partially-completed excavation is tourist friendly. When we entered we picked up individual audiophones. At numerous points along the walkways, we could punch numbers printed on the walls into our devices and hear a recorded narration for that section of the walkway. It was almost a custom tour, because you could go into depth on points of particular interest, or you could skip a part entirely. Because everyone was listening to their audiophones, the crowd was quiet, even in congested areas. I thought this was much more effective than a group with a guide.
A couple of spots in our tour of the Roman baths were particularly impressive to me. In one small alcove, on the opposite wall, was a photo, circa 1985, of a pair of archaeologists excavating two stone steps. Right at my feet in the alcove were those actual excavated steps. I got a vivid juxtaposition of the contemporary and the ancient, the living and the used-to-be living.
The other recollection is two rooms full of stacks of flat tiles about 12 inches square. They looked like a bunch of people had come along and stacked them for seating at a crowded assembly of some kind. Or wild and crazy headless square mushrooms springing up out of a stone floor. What they turned out to be was heating ducts. Where the hot springs came up, the water was very hot. When a floor was laid on top of the stacks, it created a duct to heat the floor and also moved the heat from one room to another. The Romans could move the hot air and water into other places and mix it with the river water to cool it down. They also used the dry heat for saunas. Additionally, storm drains ran out of the building – plumbing and sewer. Two thousand years ago. It’s too easy for me to think of people of that time as being simpler than we are, less innovative. As if we have evolved since then.
We spent another few hours on the streets of downtown Bath. A light rain was falling – one of the few episodes of rain on our entire trip. Most people ducked into shops, and vendors put tarps over their wares. We donned bright yellow slickers and moved along. As we were the only people wearing yellow, Art and I were able to find each other when we got separated. We were quite conspicuous. We were also warm in our raingear, so we stopped for ice cream at a street vendor’s covered stand. We ordered with a flake, a stick of chocolate sticking out of the top.
We returned to the Park and Ride in the middle of the evening commute, and headed out of the city in the heaviest traffic we’d encountered yet on our trip. The roundabouts were even more challenging. Once we reached the motorway, the traffic thinned but the speed increased drastically. Art was hurtling down the road toward home. By this time he felt more confident on English roads, so he applied some of the driving habits he has at home – frequent lane changes are especially terrifying to me. We were only on the motorway for about half an hour, but it seemed much more than that. I kept my eyes closed most of the time. Some day maybe I’ll find the words that will induce Art to slow to a speed where I’m comfortable. He says, “I do. I park the car every once in a while.” I’ve read somewhere that driving habits are a major source of argument among couples. It helps only slightly to know that we are not alone.
It was nearly dark by the time we arrived back in Woodstock. Our hosts had left a list of things to do in the area, and the fish and chips shop in the center of town was, they said, terrific. We decided a take-away meal was a good idea, so we found the place. It was staffed by two Armenian immigrants. While Art waited for our order, I walked to the market for some milk. Art told me that the men had engaged him in conversation about the United States. They wanted to know if everyone packed a gun and was shooting up the streets. Art told the men no, that usually only happened in big cities; he pointed out London as an example of a city closer to their home with plenty of gangs and gypsies. They agreed.
Back at our townhouse, we ate our dinner of fish and chips. The fish was tasty but greasy, and so were the chips. I remembered that the place we’d eaten in Wells, recommended by Rosemary as especially good, had also served greasy food. It occurred to me that we might be dealing with different standards of “good food”. Art commented that the British have a high incidence of heart disease; it’s blamed entirely on their diet. He reminded me that the fish and chips we had in Ireland three years ago were hardly greasy at all.