Monday, August 5
Refreshed from our long sleep, we were able to appreciate our new surroundings as we enjoyed our morning toast and coffee. The house had many more windows than ours at home, and they were all open to let in the fresh rural air. Our dining area overlooked a garden and, beyond, the open barley fields between Woodstock and Oxford. The townhouse was practical and comfortable. Our hosts had left us wonderful chocolate. We had everything we needed to be at home here.
We began our sightseeing with a local destination – Blenheim Palace. We walked not quite a mile from our townhouse to the front gate, and another nearly half mile to the palace itself. The first Duke of Marlborough was a war hero back in the early 1700s. As a reward for his service, the queen gave him the 21,000 acres of the Royal Manor of Woodstock and a sum of money to build a palace. Plus a title. The guy’s name was actually Churchill – but he got to choose a name to go along with his title. So he picked Marlborough, a name which had died out in his mother’s line. The eleventh Duke of Marlborough lives there today, in a part of the palace. I suspect what he does for a living is keep up the place with the money collected for admission.
The palace tour began with a museum centered around the room where Sir Winston Churchill was born. Seems his mother was attending a party at Blenheim and went into early labor. Seeing Churchill from an English perspective was new. The rest of the tour was large rooms full of expensive antique furniture and paintings. I’m not a big fan of sightseeing in buildings, but one thing I do remember – that the designer of the palace was an artist with no architectural training.
In spite of my interest in traveling, these big buildings hardly ever make a lasting impression on me. I do remember that I saw them, but the specifics fade fairly quickly from my memory. I’m more likely to be impressed by a monument – like the Lincoln or Jefferson Memorial in Washington DC. Yet I continue to do the building thing when we’re on the road. I wonder what Art would say if I told him I would be content if we never saw another old building. Even if he did say that was fine, I’d probably insist on the visits anyway. What kind of a traveler skips all the edifices?
We decided to save walking the grounds for another day since, as residents of the village of Woodstock, we have permanent, free walking passes.
We left Blenheim and found the bus stop for our first ride into Oxford on public transportation. This city was built centuries before automobiles existed, so its roads are inadequate for modern traffic, and its center is car free. Park and Rides ring the city, with shuttles into the center. We walked through the colleges of Oxford. There are 46 separate colleges to which students may apply, each housed in its own courtyard and, sometimes, in adjacent buildings. It was late afternoon by now, so we decided not to pay the admission to tour the colleges. When we accidentally headed through the “exit only”, we were stopped by a suited-up docent. He had time for a few quick explanations before paying customers came along on their way out.
Students apply to particular colleges rather than to the university. They have tutors – corresponding to advisors, I think – who guide their course of study. Students attend tutorials (no classes) in their own colleges or, if arranged by their tutors, in other colleges. Each college has its own flavor, courses of study, and instructor expertise – though they may offer the same subject majors. I commented to the docent that it sounded quite different from American universities – at least from the one I attended (University of California). He said, “Well, that’s how it’s been done here for hundreds of years.” Hundreds of years. That phrase still impresses me, young-country citizen that I am.
Returning to the Oxford’s main street, we saw an Internet sign displayed in the window of a coffeehouse, so we stopped for an espresso and a few minutes on the Internet. I’d like to say that when I’m on vacation I get away from email, but that’s not the case. When I’ve been away from email for 48 hours or so I get a little twitchy. I start looking, or I find out where the public library is and what days it’s open, and then try to fit a library trip into our day. Most of the email is routine, but I don’t want to miss anything important. For example, my mother was ailing, and when we’re traveling it’s easier for my sister to reach me by email than by phone. That’s probably a rationalization. Independent traveler I am, but being out of touch I am not.
Four of the six Internet machines had “Out of Order” signs hanging over the coin slots. I sat down with my double tall mocha to wait for the next available working machine. Art sat at an out-of-order machine, put a one-pound coin in the slot, and tinkered. Nothing happened. I rolled my eyes mentally, wondering why Art didn’t just observe the sign. He got up and a woman sat down. Using our pound, she logged on successfully. Art’s tinkering must have served some purpose. Before she left she gave us a pound of her own and I sat down. The machine worked fine. I was glad I hadn’t said anything condescending to Art.
We spent a couple of hours with coffees and newspapers. Our first AA meeting in England didn’t begin until 7:30. While in the coffeehouse I noted two firsts for me: a black man and an oriental man with English accents. So different from home.
The AA meeting was a familiar, friendly haven. We headed for the bus stop after the meeting, but had missed the once-per-hour-after-9pm bus to Woodstock by about two minutes. Soon one of the men from the meeting came up and offered us a ride home. John was an Englishman who had lived in the States for 18 years, returning just two years ago with his American wife and several children. As he dropped us off at the center of Woodstock, he gave us his number, encouraging us to call if we wanted a ride to the Friday morning meeting – “that’s the best one” -- or if we had any other needs. That’s usually how AA works.
We were tired when we went to bed. We figured we’d walked four or five miles that day, all on roads or cobblestones.
Tuesday, August 6
Our first driving day on English roads in our exchange partners’ vehicle. We opened the garage door, expecting a tiny car like most of those we’d observed on the road; we found an air conditioned, seven-passenger minivan. I’d told Art I wanted to share the driving on this trip, since on our trip to Ireland four years ago he’d been the only driver. At that time, he’d not wanted to pay the extra 25 pounds for the additional driver, so he’d done every mile of the miserable, narrow Irish roads himself, with me as the terrified navigator. On this trip I had made sure we were both listed in our partners’ auto insurance.
However, we first had to back the minivan out of the single-car garage, down the short driveway and into the narrow street full of parked cars. Art has a commercial driver’s license and drives a utility company truck nearly every day, and I figured he was slightly less likely than I to hit a car on the way out. So he took the first driving shift.
We were headed for the Cotswolds, an area of picturesque thatched-roof villages on sheep-grazed hillsides, about 40 miles to the west. I’d planned our route carefully using Rick Steves’ Guide to Great Britain. We’d stop in Chipping Camden, take a 4.2-mile hike described and mapped on a card left for us by our hosts. Then we’d spend a couple of hours cruising through half a dozen villages, maybe taking another short walk before heading home. It would be good practice for next week, when we’ll on our guided walks about 300 miles north of Woodstock. Those walks will be eight to ten miles a day.
Art headed out at the wheel of the minivan. Most of the first 20 miles was on two-way roads with a center line. He had a chance to work on mastering the roundabouts – circular intersections for roads converging from three to six roads coming in from different directions. You take a quick look at the sign just before the roundabout, figure out which road you want to end up on, count the number of “spokes” you need to pass. Yielding to the right, you head in. You stay in the inner ring of the roundabout as you go around, then drift to the outer ring as you switch on the turn signal and shoot out the other side. For us, it’s a two-person job: one drives and the other navigates and calls out frantic instructions.
By the time we arrived in Moreton-on-Marsh we were ready for a break. It was Market Day. We found a parking spot alongside the road on the outskirts of town and walked the quarter mile back in. Two long rows of stalls had been set up along Market Street (many towns we saw have a Market Street and a main street called High Street. The High Streets were usually laid out wide enough to provide room for sheep to be herded). I’d expected Market Day to be where farmers sold their produce to townspeople. It was some of that, but there were also vendors selling nonperishable goods to local residents – toys, books, shoes, sweaters, underwear, blankets, etc. These Market Days are held once or twice a week, depending on the town, and it becomes a social occasion as well as a time to pick up necessities. One of our B&B hostesses said that she rarely needs to go anywhere further than her own town’s Market Day to get what she needs. She said, “I like the limited choice. Having choices can be confusing.”
In Moreton-on-Marsh, we walked both rows of Market Day. I noticed the various regional accents. I didn’t hear a single American voice. Most women wore skirts and blouses and low-heeled pumps. I would describe the attire as without style; Art called it “working clothes”. There appeared to be little concern for appearances other than being neat and clean. Most of the women wore no makeup, and most were over 30. I wondered where the teenagers were.
I took the wheel of the minivan as we headed out of town. I was surprised at how easy it was to navigate the roads on the left-hand side. My driving shift was fairly rural, so my first few roundabouts were uncongested and easily negotiated. We arrived in Chipping Camden, starting point for our first walk. The High Street was edged with shops and residences built of the local limestone for which the region is famous (rock quarried in the Cotswolds was used to build St. Paul’s Cathedral in London and other famous edifices).
High Street parking was full, so we pulled over to ask an elderly pedestrian where we could leave our car. In our five-minute chat we learned that she was born and lived her entire life in Chipping Camden – she’d been to London twice (about 100 miles away), but that was the extent of her travels. She said she’d been a farmer’s daughter and she had everything she needed locally.
We parked at a school nearby and changed into hiking boots and socks. We put on our hats and carried our daypacks with snacks, water, and raingear, though the sky was only scattered with clouds. It was close to 80 degrees Fahrenheit. We walked back through town, past Market Hall, built in 1627 for the cheese and butter merchants. We stopped at a tiny shop to pick up a couple of sandwiches, then turned right at the Catholic Church, set up our walking poles and headed up the hill.
In the first two block was a residential area of thatched-roof homes. I’d been surprised to read that a thatched roof can last 50 years before needing to be replaced; my thinking had run more to the three little pigs variety of straw house, easily blown down. Within 500 feet we were in the countryside. On a field to one side grew rows of cabbage; sheep grazed in the pasture on the other side. When we reached the top of the hill we were treated to a beautiful panoramic view over the Vale of Evesham.
At the end of the field, our route map indicated we should turn left and head toward a triangular marker. However, we weren’t paying attention to the map at this point, so we continued on down the other side of the field, where we came upon a youngish man walking his border collie. He recommended we descend the hill, cross the stile and take a 1k walk (that’s about .6 mile) through a wooded area. He assured us the trail would circle around and bring us back to where we were now. So we took his suggestion.
The woods were beautiful and deserted, the path well cleared – but heading downward. Eventually the way turned back uphill. And it was a steep one going up. We decided to stop for lunch midway up. We’d brought along three half-liter bottles of water. We could see we’d need to preserve it.
When we left the woods and returned to the field, we looked at the map. Now we started looking for the triangular marker. I couldn’t see a thing but sheep and rocky hillside. Art took out his binoculars – I didn’t even know he’d brought them along on this vacation – and pointed. “There it is.” We trekked up the rocky, grass-clumped hill. No path here, just sheep moving out of our way, calling to each other like people doing bad sheep imitations. We were sweaty and short of breath by the time we reached the crest of the hill again. I couldn’t decide which was more uncomfortable – wearing my hat to protect my head while sheets of perspiration ran down my face, or taking it off to catch the faint breeze and leaving myself exposed to the afternoon sun. I alternated.
We rested at the triangular marker. Art pulled out the digital camera. A middle-aged couple joined us at the marker; they had walked from the car park (parking lot) a hundred yards across the field. After they used our camera to take a few shots of Art and me with a backdrop of hill and sheep, we chatted for half an hour or so. This is what we heard from them: that without the help of the United States in World War II, the world would have been a different place now, because England would have lost the war; that Tony Blair (the British prime minister) is “Bush’s poodle”; that land can be developed only if it has previously been built on – current building density is 20 units per acre; that great attention is paid to protecting animal species – in one area a pipeline was laid through a forest by boring under it to protect a badger habitat; that England had a revolution (Oliver Cromwell is all I remember of this from childhood history lessons and vague recollections from our Ireland trip) between the common people and the monarchy.
We said goodbye and continued on our way, negotiating several stiles on a downhill trek to a forest stream. Our map directions were unclear even when we were paying close attention, so we took a couple of long ways around through horse pastures. Distances were greater than I had anticipated from looking at the map. Art swore mightily as he tore his new lightweight rain jacket on a nail protruding from a fencepost.
Crossing the stream, we headed uphill again. By this time I was seriously warm and sweaty, and a little scared. I had to stop once to cool down. It wasn’t so much that I was tired – just very warm. Last year, on a 22-mile walk during the Avon Breast Cancer 3-Day, I got dehydrated in the heat and wound up in an Auburn emergency room. So I watched myself. Today we were in a rural area, running low on water, with no emergency vehicles nearby to pick me up if I got into trouble. Art lay down by a creek and filled a water bottle. It was cold, but I’m leery of drinking unpurified water. So I poured some on my head instead. Art drank the water and suffered no ill effects.
Once we reached the road, my uneasy fear retreated. The going was easier for the last mile. We walked through fields of ripe yellow wheat, where Art took several pictures of Linda the Walker. The pictures show me looking pretty sweaty, but that wasn’t the case – the water I’d poured on myself to cool off a mile earlier had soaked my shirt, and it was still wet. The cold water we bought at a grocery when we reached Chipping Camden again tasted very good indeed.
It was 5:30 by now, so we skipped the rest of my drive-through-several-villages-and-take-another-walk plan. Instead, we drove back to Woodstock. By the time we got home we were tired, hungry and crabby. After a silent dinner, we headed for bed.