Britain 1983

north bank via the London Bridge.  This would, of course, be the current version of the renowned bridge because the previous span was sold in 1968 to some fellow who had it shipped to Arizona and erected in the desert there.  (As an aside, the ditty about the bridge falling down concerns an even older structure that was replaced in 1831 by the span that is now in Arizona.)  From there we hiked the ten blocks or so to St. Paul’s Cathedral—where we walked up all 540 steps to the top.  For our effort, and it was considerable, we were rewarded with a 360˚ panoramic view of London.  Afterward, we wended our way back to the Thames and proceeded down the wide, tree-lined river walkway, stopping along the way to wet our whistle on a boat that served as a restaurant.  What a delightful spot on a lovely day to enjoy a beer.

Our walk resumed along the river past the brass statue of the Sphinx and through the Government District, where and got as close to 10 Downing Street as one can, and it’s much closer than you’d ever get to the White House.  From there we passed by the scaffolded Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey and then through St. James Park to Buckingham Palace and then up the Mall to Trafalgar Square and the Nelson Column and on to Piccadilly Circus.  Phew!  We walked all around Piccadilly, night fell , we ate dinner (I had lamb) and finally took the Underground back to Cheswick.  In the span of a few short hours I had probably seen more famous landmarks that I had in the past ten years.  That’s London, chap.

We ate a big English breakfast, which typically included eggs, beans, bacon, stewed tomatoes (yuk!), and those funny looking and even funnier tasting sausages, at the B&B.  Then we set off for nearby Salisbury.  Now I know we walked around and shopped a bit in this quaint little town, but I failed to record whether we saw the famed Salisbury Cathedral.  I visited this gothic church with the prominent steeple in 1990,and I can only imagine that we saw it in 1983 as well. 

Our next stop was the nearby ruins of Old Sarum (i.e. old Salisbury).  I believe Dad was reading or had recently read a novel calledSarum by Edward Rutherford, so he had a greater appreciation for this place than I did.  If fact, I’d never heard of it before.  It was a lovely day, and we had the ancient hill fort pretty much to all to ourselves, and although the remains amounted to little more than a network of low stone walls, it did offer a splendid view of the Wiltshire plain.

Then we were off to Stonehenge, which of course most everyone has heard of, including the thousands upon thousands of youthful, zany, concert goers there on this day.  To our surprise, a huge outdoor rock music festival was underway on a field adjacent to the stone monoliths.  The place looked like Woodstock with tents & campers populating the plain and kids everywhere seemingly having more fun than allowed by law.  We overheard one young lad assure another not to fear an occurrence of a favorite, if extreme, druidic practice: “You don’t have to worry about them sacrificing any virgins here,” he said.  “Because there aren’t any.”  Stonehenge itself was crowded but not inordinately so.  We pondered the Druid’s handiwork (up close as one was permitted to do at the time) and then left the festival behind.

We motored north through the prettiest countryside imaginable to Stratford-on-Avon, where we toured William Shakespeare’s birthplace and an old cathedral and walked along the river Avon.  We ate dinner in town and then headed west, although we had to double back briefly to retrieve my camera, which I’d left at the restaurant.  After a stop at a pub, we went looking for a farmhouse B&B, but couldn’t find one.  Around midnight we finally found an open hotel/B&B in Leominster, where we stayed for the night. 

Highlight:     Shakespeare’s famed second best bed (the one he willed to his wife) wasn’t to be seen in Stratford, so Stonehenge takes the honor.

Lowlight:      Motoring around late in the evening looking for lodging.

2006 Notes:   We saw many of Britain’s finest spots this day, yet still we drove right by Cotswold & came within a whisker of Warwick castle.  I learned in rewriting this log that the festival we stumbled upon was called the Stonehenge Free Festival, which was held from 1972 to 1984 and culminated June 21 on the summer solstice (see link, link2, & link3 for more info). 

The lodging we lucked upon last night was called the Brook House B&B at 544 Blackpool in Ashton and  it was very pleasant and elegant.  During breakfast there, we met and chatted with an older couple from California who had been in England since early May.  They were telling us, I believe, that they had just come from the Lake District and how lovely it was there.  We were heading that way ourselves today, and if fact, after breakfast we left Preston and headed north through that very region.  We stopped at the town of Windermere on a lake of the same name.  It was quite the holiday spot, as most of the Lake District proved to be, full of B&B’s and tourists and some shops and recreation.  But we didn’t really see anything that special about it, but then we didn’t stay long. We got on Route A174 North and headed to Scotland.  It was a superhighway with lots of construction and a zillion trucks.  The countryside was mostly barren, rugged mountain terrain so unlike the lush and bucolic scenery we’d seen up to that point.  Via the motorway, we zipped through the very modern looking city of Glasgow and ended up northwest of town heading north on a big highway along Loch Lomond. 

Dad spotted an inviting place to pull over and view the Loch.  From there we headed a few hundred yards up the Loch to a castle-like hotel, where we walked along the banks finding a few interesting rocks and relics.  Then we drove along the shoreline on a little, winding two-lane road.  (I had no idea what happened to the big highway we’d been on, but it was for the best—this was a lovely ride).  We stopped at the Inverbeg Inn for a fancy dinner and then returned to a secluded spot on the banks of Loch Lomond.  Dad asked some fellow if we could camp there.  He said, “I don’t see any sign that says you can’t.”  So we pitched the tent, gathered firewood, and put our beers in a cool running stream, hoping they’d chill.  Then we returned to the Invervbeg for a pint.

     O ye’ll tak’ the high road and I’ll tak’ the low road, And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye.

     But me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.

Lowlight:   Burning my hand on the hot rock and the as yet unbeknown fleas.  

2006 Notes:   As a corollary to yesterday’s stench story, we quickly learned that normal crushed ice, so commonplace in the U.S., was nowhere to be found in Britain (much less a Styrofoam cooler to keep it in).  Consequently, keeping beer cold was near impossible.  Thus, lots of pub visits.  And since the pubs closed at 10:30 p.m. in the country & 11:00 p.m. in town, we usually got to sleep early. 

I showered and shaved at the campground’s facilities and then drove into town and washed my clothes at a Laundromat.  Having that out of the way, I was ready to explore the town of Oxford.  I parked near the center oftown in a metered lot (meaning I’d have to return to it every few hours to feed the meter).  The first tavern I came to had Budweiser beer.  Budweiser was my long-time brand of brew back then and this was the first time I’d encountered it in Britain.  I sat in the cool, paneled, and modern-looking establishment thoroughly enjoying my drink and wrote Lindsey a postcard.  For the next few hours afterward, I walked around Oxford taking in the sights and window-shopping.  Toward evening, I wandered around the Oxford University campus.  Unfortunately, I have no photographs of this delightful town or the magnificent college campus.  I suppose I left my camera in the car, not wanting want to be burdened with it, or worse yet thought to be a tourist.  (The photos on the page are from the Internet.)

Night fell, and lo and behold, I ended up in a tavern.  I don’t recall the name of the place, don’t even know that I ever knew it, but I socialized and drank there for the next three hours or so.  It was quite an intriguing joint with a wide assortment of rooms and bars.  And I met and chatted with quite a few interesting folks.  One bartender was most friendly, as was the barmaid who said she’d been to California.  I also chatted with a couple of seventeen-year-old girls who went to a catering school in town.  One of them was named Lynn.  Then I went upstairs and talked a while with Martin (a Swiss bloke who vanished without a trace) and Geezer (another biker dude who couldn’t get any smoke).

After leaving the tavern, I went back to the car and started driving toward my next destination—Cornwall.  I got a little past Salisbury and pulled off onto a dirt pathway beside the road to get some shut eye.  I was, as might be imagined, rather inebriated.

I was awakened at about 7:30 a.m. by a policeman.  I thought he was going to give me grief or even a ticket for parking the car and sleeping where I had, but he just asked if everything was all right.  Once assured everything was, he left.  I boiled some water to fix a cup of coffee and some instant noodles and then got back on the road.  After driving a little ways, I spotted a lady on a bike with a sidecar.  She was dressed all in black leather and looked quite alluring, so I drove ahead of her, pulled over, and snapped a photo as she rode by.  She smiled.  Further on down the road, I pulled over and stood on a fence and waved to her as she passed.  I never saw her again.

I got off the main highway and took back roads through Dartmoor.  It was a lovely day and this area was unbelievably beautiful and scenic—so much so that I kept stopping to have a look and take a photo.  The photos do not begin to do the place justice, but the one below perhaps gives a rough idea. 

The last fifty or so miles to Penzance were a pain in the butt what with all the trucks on the road.  Upon arrival in Penzance, which at first I thought looked congested and rather dumpy, I parked the car and checked out a few of the local shops.  I liked much of what I saw and bought several gifts.  At the last shop, I talked with a fellow who made things out of knotted rope—his stuff was really quite nice.  He told me that a good bar to visit in town was the Turk’s Head Inn.  I took note of the advice.

I walked along the bay near a World War I memorial, then drove to the Turk’s Head (briefly in the wrong direction on a one-way street).  Inside the bar, I talked to a guy who reminded me very much of John Rightley in both looks and mannerisms.  He said he was a seaman, which I had no reason to doubt.  But as with his look-a-like, he had his share of tall tales to tell, such as the claim that Cornwall was an independent country.  Afterward, I surveying the packed little bar with an eye for female company but ended up chatting with a motorcycle mechanic and rider named Tony.  He was quite a pleasant guy, and we got on quite well.  After last call, we went outside and met two lasses from Cornwall—Linda and her silent sister.  Tony invited Linda to go riding with him Friday on his bike, but she declined due to having a boyfriend of six years.  After Tony left, I chatted a bit longer with the sisters, then drove to Land’s End.  I found a campground nearby and pulled in but was too tired to pitch my  tent. So while a couple in a nearby tent “carried on,” I slept in the car.

Highlight:      The views of Dartmoor.

Lowlight:       The traffic to Penzance.

2006 Notes:   Judged as the 14th most memorable day of 1983.