England, March-April 1999

Jules and I had been jonesing for England since we got back from our Thanksgiving trip.  We knew, definitively and without a doubt, that we were going back, and relatively soon.  Plane tickets went on sale for the following spring in November of '98, and we jumped.  I wanted Dann to come along, and Julie wanted her boyfriend-now-husband to come too.  Dann opted for responsible parenting, but Dwinn was up to the challenge.  We made our plans... it was decided that I would fly out a week ahead of Julie and Dwinn and spend some time in the North, specifically a day at the British Library for work-related purposes, and some bopping around time thereafter. 

March 13 - Arrival
        I left on a Saturday night with a broken tailbone and an earache. Very quickly the tiny seat/broken tailbone combination became unbearable; even with ibuprofin, the most I could hope for was an intense ache (the worst was much worse than that). Sleep was unlikely, and happened in numerous 5-minute jags. The hyper Canadian girlscouts seated nearby didn't help, either My seat-mate was very entertaining, as she was a 60-year-old American woman with a fouler mouth than I had when I was 15 (and trust me, I was pretty foul-mouthed). . In spite of all this, I couldn't have been any happier.

March 14
       Customs. I was, for the first time in my life, jealous of Canadians.  They, including the girlscouts, got to go through some special Commonwealth- speed- line. I slogged through my "stupid rebellious colonial" line, and noticed how confusing the whole area was.  Just outside of customs there is a nice, comfy-looking waiting room.  I sat there for a few minutes to tighten my bootlaces and put my transformo-suitcase into backpack mode.  I looked around, thinking, "looks kind of like you'd expect someone to pick you up here, but it's very empty."  I went onward, through some double doors, and found the thronging crowds of drivers holding signs up for their passengers.  The real pick-up area.  Hmmmmm.....
       I caught the Gatwick-Victoria Express, which was advertised with cartoons of a sad-eyed Queen Victoria holding up signs with not-quite-edgy slogans-- one advertised Victoria Station to Brighton service, and showed her wading in the ocean, her skirt pulled up to her knees. Here was an irony. Wasn't she the one who put skirts on her chairs, so as not to see their "limbs?" 
       I trundled through the Underground with speed and aplomb thanks to my map-reading skills, all the way to King's Cross Station (why are there no trashcans in train stations? Do people who ride trains never generate trash? I held onto an apple core for an hour; I even paid a stupid amount of money to go into the public restrooms trying to hunt down a place to toss it. I ended up running down an innocent custodial-type, who mostly just looked perplexed.

       On the train to York, I was back in ecstatic mode. My tailbone stopped aching because I had more than a millimeter to move. The sun was shining, and once we were out of London, everything was green, green, green... I had a feeling of immense freedom. I was GONE. Gone from everything that frustrated and upset me in the U.S. for... my whole life, I guess. If I encountered problems, it wouldn't be paperclips in the billing pile, or endlessly ringing phones, or another person quitting in our office, or a missing paycheck, or dirty dishes in the sink, or-- .  Problems here would be the things I'd encountered before, but they'd be very different problems.

       It was freedom, and it was tremendous...  and here, it was spring. Back in Michigan it was still snowing. Here, there were lambs everywhere, rushing past my window. (I know, I was the one really rushing past.) Lambs-- and nuclear power plants. I counted four plants on the way up to York.  I think I found out later that Britain has more nuclear plants per capita, possible in total, than we do in America.  I guess that's what happens when you've used up all your trees over a thousand years ago, and sea-coal is your only (and filthy) other option.
       The British Library people had set me up at 23 St. Mary's, near Bootham Bar, and I'd been told to take a cab from the station. But the map wasn't impossible, and I decided to walk it-- a brilliant blue sky on a Sunday afternoon in March shouldn't be wasted on a cab. Nor should my 2 pound 80.
       23 St. Mary's was gorgeous. The hosts apologized a hundred times for putting me on the top floor, but I couldn't have been happier. It was like my favorite recurring dream (where I'm walking through a big house, and my room is always on the top floor).  I showered and dressed, and went to the Minster, looking at the stained glass and listening to Evensong.
       Then, a stroll on the city walls.  I wished then that someone was with me, but otherwise, being alone was ok.  I found some bearable food (chicken, chips and peas) early in the evening; thanks to Mothering Sunday, there were restaurants actually open before 7.  I remembered to pick up snacks at the grocery store, a necessity since my stomach seems to suffer from jet-lag more than the rest of me.  I came home to write postcards and eat Flake, and went to bed before 7, local time.

March 15
       After a night of tremendous charlie horses, which at least gave me the chance to view the Minster all lighted up from my window, I had my first tussle with an English breakfast in a year and a half. Then I went to the living room to read a fascinating article on bananas in the newspaper, until my driver came from British Library to pick me up.  The driver and I had a great conversation about WWII and living one's entire life in York and what kind of big American car I (don't) drive. The driver then collected the other two American "library ladies." I got to see Clifford's Tower alive with daffodils, and took copious mental notes as to what the driver did, since I was soon to drive in Britain m'self
       Well, the next bit was work, but fun work. I'll spare you the details. But I love BLDSC, and the folks who work there are fantastic. I ended up having dinner with a few of them, which was good, since I never would have gone to a place like the Judges on my own.  Additionally, it made me feel not quite so alone.

March 16
       The rude awakening: I had no place to stay that night, and I needed to move fast. I was planning to have another day in York, but every place I knew of in York was booked solid, or so I found on the phone that day. I sat down in the ruins of St. Mary's Abbey and dithered, while peacocks shrieked in the background. I'd wanted to go to Haworth, but had deemed the journey too long and intricate in light of the mere day I had allowed for it on my itinerary. But with York closed to me by dark, it seemed like the perfect opportunity.
       My pack was heavy, so I went to mail my work clothes to America... and I mailed Wuthering Heights back, too, since it seemed too tragic for what was shaping up to be a gloriously happy trip. I have a thing about moods. And the Brontës are always so dire.  Something peppy seemed in order, so I set about reading the trashy paperback I'd brought-- which I finished that very night, far too soon in my opinion.
       After a brief walk 'round York, I hopped a train out into the Dales. And then switched to a bus. And I realized that my previous bad experiences with English buses were not flukes, that, in fact, buses everywhere in England assuredly suck. I had all sorts of switching to do, and it was bouncy, crowded, noisy, miserable, etc.
       I left York at 11ish. I didn't get to Haworth 'til 4:30. I got off the bus and had a hellish time trying to find Main Street (the bus, it seems, abhors Main Street; and, one must not presume that because something seems to be the main thoroughfare of a town that it is also Main Street). I marched in the wrong direction for about half an hour, and came to a vista, looking out over the dales.
       Now, my first impression of Haworth had been "narrow, cramped, dirty, barren; no wonder everyone died young and had bad thoughts." But once I got a look at the slanting, golden sunlight on the dales, my heart just opened up. In that moment, I understood the Brontës perfectly.


Out my window in Haworth-- the death-defying picture    
 

March 17
       I won't bore you with how horrible the night previous was, but I had a lot of angst about life back in the U.S. I stayed at the Apothecary's Guest House, which was pleasant. It smelled like my grandmother's particular night cream, which was not as pleasant. It was difficult to air out the room, and I almost fell out the window trying to push it open. It was an adventure best related in person, because then I can mime standing on one foot on a slippery window-sill
       I spent the morning wandering the moors, and the afternoon wandering through the Brontë Parsonage Museum. I ended up buying a copy of Wuthering Heights. Stupid me for sending the first one home
       That evening I went to a pub and had an amazingly complex dinner, with Duchess potatoes and ginger-honey pork tenderloin. It's hard for me to eat alone; I feel on display and loser-ish, and I long for a book. But the little stray cat of Main Street, that had followed me and every other tourist in Haworth around all day, waltzed into the restaurant during my second course and led the wait-staff and the patrons on a merry chase of trying to get rid of it.

The Round Table in the Great Hall of Winchester    

March 19
       All-day tour of Winchester. I totally dug the much-maligned Cathedral there... Something about it not being as graceful as many of its counterparts. I found it charming. I also saw Jane Austen's grave, did my small obeisance there, and I think that's where St. Swithin is interred. Visited the Royal Hussar Museum-- somewhat interesting to me, but what bowled me over was the neighboring Gurkha Museum. While it was bad for my ego (because I'd never even heard of Gurkhas before), I was fascinated, and actually took notes on my tour, thinking that a Gurkha would be a great character in a particular historical fiction piece I've been thinking about.
       The Great Hall and the Round Table were must-sees for me, obviously. Felt a pang for Sir Walter Raleigh, since this was where he was condemned to death for treason-- twice. Wandered out back to see Queen Eleanor's Garden-- a mock-up of a medieval garden, I'm afraid, not the "real thing."  (I suppose that's too much to ask for.). Wandered around towards the Bishop's house, found it closed, walked up the River Itchen and enjoyed the daffodils, ducks and spring sunshine. Then, without warning, the weather promptly got cold and rainy, and was bad for the rest of my trip. Lockout at the Hostel was 'til 5, and after a confusing half-hour in the bus station trying to puzzle out how to get to Chawton (Jane Austen's old haunt), I just went to Pizza Hut and dragged out my lunch as long as possible, where it was warm and dry. Oh, and did you know that "spicy chicken" means, at best, "saltier than normal chicken?"
       I tried a couple of bookshops, but there were no super-mega-stores of the Borders/Barnes & Noble variety where you can get a mocha and a comfy chair and sit for a few hours. I ended up on a cramped stool, reading a book on body language, until I was, essentially, kicked out, to wander the cold, wet, joyless world alone. I did get mistaken for a native of the town by an older couple who were looking for the Great Hall.

Brighton and thereafter >>>