England 1990

Day 1—Thursday, August 30, 1990

We awoke at 6:20 a.m. at my parents’ house and quickly got ready to catch our 7:25 a.m. flight.  Dad zipped us over to the airport.  It was nip and tuck, but we made it with 10 minutes to spare to catch our connector flight to JFK Airport.  We breezed through JFK and boarded the Pan Am jumbo jet to England.  Someone, however, was sitting in our seats.  And it wasn’t Goldilocks.  The airline either didn’t think we’d make the flight or else booked more passengers than they had coach seats; whatever, it worked out splendidly for us because they seated us in Clipper Class.  Life is good in Clipper Class—extra wide seats (two abreast), ample leg room, Champaign (French no less), and elegant dining (hors d’oeuvres, salmon, brie cheese, etc.).

We slept a couple of hours on the flight, although we could have watched the in-flight movie for free with our complimentary Clipper Class head sets.  We arrived in Heathrow Airport at 8:45 p.m. local time.  It was too late, we learned, to convert our Underground voucher into a pass, which costs us nine dollars.  Before we tackled the Underground, we each had a pint of beer in the airport terminal.

I called the St. George Hotel to confirm the reservations that I’d made earlier in the week, and I again spoke with Mushi.  He said that he would have a room for us, sort of, but you really have to Mushi to understand the “sort of.”

Taking the Underground to Paddington Station proved to be a trying experience, primarily because the “District Line” was such a disjointed route.  The prohibition against smoking in the Underground also didn’t help.  But with guidance from the locals, we eventually found our way to Paddington Station.  Then we headed off to find St. George’s Hotel on Norfolk Street (or Ave. or whatever it was).  I asked a couple of young Brits if they knew how to get to Norfolk Street.  They told us that there was no street in the area by that name.  I showed them the street on the map, to which they replied, “Oh, you mean ‘Norfick’ [the British pronunciation].”  Once that was cleared up, they told us how to get there and in minutes we were.  In hindsight, we should have accepted that there was no such street and looked for other digs, because the St. George’s Hotel was a complete dive.  It came with no shower, no breakfast, no in-room bathroom, a lumpy bed, and a single naked light bulb hanging by a threadbare wire from the ceiling high above.  And to top it off, we couldn’t figure out how to turn the damn thing off.  This place was crummy and creepy.

Hungry, thirsty, and unable to bear our room, we headed out into the pleasant night in search of food and beer.  We found food, shish kabobs, but there was no beer to be had.  London still turned off its taps at 11:00 p.m.  We ate in our dingy room, then read a bit.  Afterwards, we tried to turn out that damn bald-ass light bulb directly overhead, but never succeeded.  We finally went to bet about 1:00 p.m.—with our clothes on.

Highlight:  Clipper Class

Lowlight:  First prize is a week at the St. George’s Hotel.  Second prize is two weeks at the St. George’s Hotel.  Hell is eternity at the St. George’s Hotel

Day 2—Friday, August 31, 1990

We got up and going about 8:30 a.m. with the bare bulb staring us in the face.  We ate breakfast at a restaurant recommended by Mushi, which should tell you something about the place.  Actually it wasn’t that bad.  (Note:  Mushi’s explanation for why he no longer served a continental breakfast:  Everybody wants an English breakfast anyway.)

After breakfast, we went to the Paddington Underground station to obtain a 3-day Tube Pass in exchange for our prepaid voucher.  There we were told to go to the rail station, where we were told to go to one of the main stations (e.g. King’s Cross).  Having failed to obtain a pass, we checked out a couple of hotels on the other side of Russell Square and settled upon the Falcon.  The Falcon was £12 more per night that St. George’s but well worth it.  Our room featured a shower and lights with covers and that actually could be turned off if so desired.

After purchasing four cans and one bottle of beer, we took the tube to King’s Cross station, where we finally got our pass.  From there, we took the tube to Tower Hill station to begin our long peregrination through historic London.  Our course very nearly mirrored the path taken by my dad and me in 1983.  The exceptions were we didn’t tour the Tower of London but did take the Tower Bridge tour, we ventured through the London Dungeon (although at a rushed pace because of time constraints), and instead of the park path to Piccadilly, we took the mall from Buckingham Palace to Trafalgar Square (quite impressive) on up to Piccadilly.   Along the way, two couples asked us to take their photographs, which I did, and two people asked me for directions, at which I could offer no help.  Also we discovered that “Evans” had/has a majestic coat of arms, bearing a gold and blue shield with a lion, whereas the “Lloyd” coat of arms is a configuration of three Neanderthal types spaced about a cross.

During our walk along the Thames, we stopped at the same restaurant/boat for coffee on which my Dad and I once hoisted a beer or two.

After Piccadilly, we dined at an Indian restaurant, where Sharon had curried chicken and I had some spicy beef or goat dish and rice costing $8.00.  The food was quite good, as was the King-Fisher beer.  Then it was back to Paddington Station.  By this point we were getting rather familiar with and efficient at using the Underground.  We stopped off at our hotel room to drop of our cameras and then headed to the Dickens Inn in Paddington for a few pints.  We chose to drink at the bar in the front room instead of the back room where the “foreigners” hung out.  [I’m not sure what I meant by this last comment.]

Back at the Falcon, we drank a few more beers and watched Twilight Zone, two of the original episodes, on the telly.  Finally, we fooled around and went to sleep about 1:30 a.m.

Notes:

• The bars still have last call at 11:00 p.m.

• The clock tower (i.e. Big Ben) looked grand—no scaffolding.

• Downtown London remained a clean and orderly city.

Day 3—Saturday, September 1, 1990

Our day started off, as usual, at 8:30 a.m.  We headed straight to the breakfast provided by the Falcon an ate a typical English breakfast, consisting of one overcooked fried egg, sausage as on the English can make it, Canadian style bacon, and beans in tomato sauce.  After breakfast and showers, we took the tube to Liverpool Station, near the City of London.  We wandered around the nearly deserted streets of London’s banking district for about an hour.  Had this been a weed day, the streets would have been bustling with financial types.  To Sharon’s disappointment, and mine too, we didn’t chance upon the headquarters of Lloyds of London.

Next it was off to St. Paul’s Cathedral, which is not a hard place to find.  After circumnavigating the nave (I believe that’s what they call it) with its countless statues of admirals and generals, we began the obligatory hike up the 10,000 or so steps to the top of the cathedral.  The steps at the very top turn into something more like a suspect ladder than a stair case—one’s safety is a reasonable cause of concern.  But we made it from this magnificent perch gazed down at London. 

Following our tour of St. Paul’s, which besides being a full-fledged tourist shopping center, passes for a church, we headed down Fleet Street, which is the journalistic heart of London.  We ducked down a side street for a bite to eat and a couple of beers.  We dined outdoors, although “dined” is perhaps the wrong word.  The sandwiches were awful—too much butter and mayonnaise.  The beer, however, was superb, as was the weather.  (Note:  The sandwiches came form a sandwich shop, not the pub.)

Afterward lunch, we made our way to the British Museum.  One could spend weeks touring this museum; we had about one and a half to two hours to take it in—and on legs and feet wracked by yesterday’s long walk.  We leisurely toured the library, with its near ancient books and letters of famed writers, and then blew through 3000-plus years of Eastern artifacts in 25 minutes.  After brief respite, we inspected the relics of ancient Rome and Greece and Egypt.  Our Egyptian education was alas cut short by the fact that the museum was set to close.  The mummies were neat.

From the British Museum we headed toward Soho, stopping along the way at a bar called Munchen, where we drank a few pints of Lowenbrau beer.  Lowenbrau is as good as beer gets in my opinion.  Our next stop was Soho.  That entailed hordes of people, myriad strip joints, and in our particular case, a salted beef sandwich and coffee at a kosher Jewish restaurant.

Understandably, wending and winding through Soho was a bit more up my alley than Sharon’s.  At any rate, we wended and wound for a couple of hours, stopping only at a pub here and there.  Sojourning Soho left me with two questions:  What is a “bed show”?  And where have all the punk rockers with their Technicolor hair and pierced everything gone?  Ah yes, lest we forget, two pound sterling were played and squandered in one of those carnival gizmos where you drop in a coin and watch it fail to push any of the coins teetering on the edge over it.

Following Soho, we caught the tube at Leisetier Station, where for reasons unknown to me a vast horde of folks had congregated outside.  Our final explorations of the day were a stop at another pub near our hotel, where we had a pint apiece, and a return visit to the Mideast restaurant for a couple pita bread sandwiches to go.  I ordered “feta cheese.”  The guy serving us was perplexed by the order, but after I showed it to him on the menu posted outside and he had consulted with his partner, he set me up with a very tasty sandwich.  We ate the sandwiches back in our hotel room, where we drank another beer, watched a bit of the telly, fooled around, and then went to sleep about 1:00 a.m.

Notes: 

• What movie did we watch?

• Missed being with the Jammers.  This was their long weekend without Sandy stopping by to feed them.

Day 4—Sunday, September 2, 1990

We got up at 8:00 a.m. and went down to breakfast for the usual overcooked fried egg, et al.  The plan was to get to Heathrow Airport by 10:00 a.m. to pick up the auto rental.  But, of course, everything (e.g. showering, taking the tube from Paddington to Heathrow, locating the Alamo rental agency, which we discovered along the way was not at the airport and thus necessitated taking an Alamo shuttle bus) took longer than was fancifully estimated.

I was finally behind the wheel a little past noon.  After making a wrong exit in a roundabout, which sent us circling through Heathrow, and after coming to the realization that third gear was not first gear, we drove to Windsor Castle.  We arrived in Windsor and proceeded to pass all the available parking spots, which left us on the road heading back to London—very frustrating, particularly in light of the fact that I had not yet remastered the art of driving on the left side of the road.

On our second pass through Windsor, we successfully parked the car.  Next we ate a light lunch and drank a beer.  Then it was off to see the castle.  Admission to the castle grounds was free.  The only interior areas accessible to visitors were the __________ Church and Princess Anne’s doll house, and both of them had an entrance fee and featured long lines of people waiting admission.  So we passed them by despite Sharon’s keen interest in visiting the famed doll house.  While at the castle, we did catch a review of the Royal Guards.

We departed the castle and had a beer at the same pub we had stopped at on our way in.  Before taking off for the town of Brighton, Sharon purchased a couple of rabbit figurines.  The drive to Brighton was relatively uneventful.  The drive in Brighton featured a near accident at an odd sort of roundabout.  It seems as though I forgot to look to my right.

After parking the car in an underground car park, I bought a map of the town and then we began a long walk along the beach at Brighton.  Our tour started at the West Pier—an Atlantic City type pier that at some point in the past had a section washed out by what I presume was a severe storm.  The rest of the pier had been left to wither away over the years.  Barnacles clung to the dilapidated structure, rust corroded it, and the whole thing gave the effect of being haunted by a gay past that was long gone.

After stopping for sandwiches and coffee, we strolled along the walkway running between the beach and shops hawking tawdry souvenirs and eventually arrived at the Palace Pier, another Atlantic City type pier but this one was still alive.  The Palace Pier featured cotton candy, video arcades, amusement rides—all the usual stuff.  Continuing eastward, we walked to about a ½ mile from Brighton Marina and then cut up to the roadway, which at this location runs a hundred feet or so above sea level.

Our interest turned to locating accommodations for the night.  We found a few places recommended in Let’s Go England, but they either cost too much or were in what appeared to be Brighton’s only run down area.  Eventually, we arrived at the Royal Pavilion, where we briefly took a self-guided tour of the outside grounds of this noted Brighton landmark.  As we continued our travels through this lovely yet yuppie part of town, nightfall drew dear and our interests turned to finding dinner.  And Sharon’s feet were causing her considerable misery.

After first stopping at a pub for a beer, we dined at a small restaurant across the street from the English Channel and next to the car park; thus we were back were we started.  Dinner featured a plate of plaice and chips and a lamb dish.  The food was fair, the service lacking, and the view splendid.  Following dinner, we wandered through town some more looking for an establishment that sold beer to go.  Four bottles of the golden brew were eventually procured at a pub, but only after first being chastised for not knowing that it was illegal to sell beer (on the premises) after 10:30 p.m. on Sunday.  We returned to our car and paid the outrageous parking fee of £5.60 (what was a real pisser was that if we had entered the garage an hour or so later, it would have cost only 60 pence for the entire evening).

We drove back to Charlotte Street, where earlier we had noticed a couple of inviting bed and breakfast inns, and checked into the Penny Lane.  Parking proved to be a bit of a problem but was accomplished.  Our hosts at the Penny Lane were gracious despite our late arrival; the room was spacious with a shower, toilet, and television; and the cost was not outrageous at £26.

We settled into our room, taking in a beer or two and watching the movie “Niagara” with Marilyn Monroe, which kept us up until about 1:00 a.m.  Seems that they love old American movies everywhere.

Notes:

• Remember the cat on the table in the pub.

Day 5—Monday, September 3, 1990

Our day began with breakfast at 8:30 a.m.—the usual British fare (Tang for orange juice).  Afterward, we showered, packed, and checked out of the Penny Lane.  We loaded our belongings in the car and ventured off on foot to the Royal Pavilion.  The weather was quite warm and sunny, splendid in fact.

The Royal Pavilion is a gaudy palace built by King George IV, who was then (c. 1820) the Prince of Wales.  The exterior features Indian architecture and the interior is in the Chinese tradition—sort of.

Following our tour of the Pavilion, we returned to the beach and headed a mile or more from our car (which was still parked where we left it the night before) to the Brighton Marina.  Once we got near the marina, I kept a lookout for nude bathers—having read in one of our travel books that the beach west of Brighton Marina was England’s first and only official nude beach.  I spotted none.  At the marina, we walked out on a long, concrete breakwater pier, looked around, and then headed back to the beach.  We considered taking the miniature train up the beach toward our car but decided to walk because another train was not due for a spell.

At the outset of our walk back, we encountered nude bathers, consisting for the most part of old men.  Sharon wanted to take the high road, in others words near the roadway and away from the sunbathers, and I wanted to take the more scenic low road.  She finally conceded to walk along the beach but quickly lost interest in doing so and headed back to the sidewalk.  I gradually began drifting that way myself.  (There are, after all, only so many old nude white men I care to see.)

So it was—back to the car and on the road westbound.  Our first destination and stop was the tiny town of Beaulieu (pronounced Bee Yoo Lee by the locals).  Beaulieu is a wee but charming village and offer rather little to do.  We walked around a bit, bought a sandwich and a couple of beers, which we consumed in the car, and drove out of town toward Salisbury.

The drive to Salisbury featured a brief and unintended tour through Southampton.  Once we righted our bearings, we drove to Salisbury, where we parked the car in a municipal lot and set off on foot to explore the town.  Our exploration was soon interrupted by a torrential downpour that had us scrambling back to the car for rain gear; however, by the time we reached the car, the rain had abated for the most part.  So we set off again by foot to see the town.

Our first destination, and the only one of note, was the Salisbury Cathedral.  Like most of the ancient relics in the country, the cathedral was under renovation.  The steeple was shrouded in scaffolding, and workmen were busy doing their thing inside.  All the same, it was (and is) a magnificent architectural structure; I particularly liked the cloister.  Sharon was so fond of the place that she donated one pound sterling towards its restoration, at the urging of Prince Charles, so that her grandchildren may someday visit and enjoy the place.

We returned to town in search of the great local shopping district we’d heard tale of.  We never found it.  Daylight was running out, so we had to conclude matters in Salisbury if order to make it to Stonehenge before sunset.  We grabbed some fish and chips and a beef kidney pie to take away, along with four bottles of Samuel Smith’s lager, and took to the road.  Exiting Salisbury, however, proved to be challenging and frustrating, but after our third circuit around the same roundabout, we found ourselves headed toward Stonehenge.

Arriving at Stonehenge, we parked in the nearly deserted parking lot and ate our dinner.  Entrance to the ancient monument was closed for the day, which meant we were deprived of getting about 40 feet closer to the stones than one gets from the road.  It also saved us a few pound sterling.  As dusk fell upon the Salisbury Plain, we took our pictures and beheld the monoliths.  There were no Druid priests sacrificing virgins in the vicinity, just some Japanese tourists and a few bikers.  Yet still, Stonehenge in twilight is an awesome sight.

We packed away our awe in our vault of memories and returned to the road after we drank a beer and decided to forgo Dartmoor in favor of Bath.  The road to Bath at sunset featured its own bountiful share of awe-inducing scenery. 

As we neared Bath our primary concern was to find lodging, and as usual, find a nice yet inexpensive place to stay for the night was fraught with frustration.  Round and round the city of Bath we drove for an hour and a half.  There were scads of hotels all right, but at $90 a night, we were compelled to keep looking.  Our guide book, Let’s Go Britain, recommended the B&B’s along Pulteney Road; alas, we never could find Pulteney Road.  The hour neared 10:00 p.m., and my mind neared delirium when I encountered a double roundabout that required negotiating a U-turn and then a sharp right in the middle of it in order to pull into the restaurant.

We wanted to visit this restaurant, so I had to make the maneuvers described and somehow succeeded in doing so without smashing into anyone or anything.  Once safely inside, we drank a few pints of lager and a cup of coffee until we were rushed out of the place at 11:15 p.m. by a rather surly waitress.  I felt much better.

Following the advice of a bartender at the restaurant, we drove toward a town called Keynsham instead of back to Bath.  Hotel prices in Keynsham, however, proved to be no more of a bargain.  So be it—we paid 40£ for a room.  It was a very lovely place.

We settled into our room, where we drank some of the complimentary coffee, watched the telly, and did some laundry in the sink.  Sharon fell asleep about 12:30 a.m., and I stayed up for another 45 minutes or so drinking beer and watching what I can’t remember.

Notes:

• Sharon seemed to enjoy Brighton considerably more than she expected to.

Day 6—Tuesday, September 4, 1990

It took some quick work, but we got up and dressed in five minutes and made it downstairs to breakfast for last call at 8:30 a.m.  The dining room was elegant, and breakfast featured real orange juice.  Back in our room, we put the finishing touches on our faucet-cleaned laundry and showered.

We checked out of what would prove to be the most charming of all the places we stayed on the vacation (and the most expensive).  We loaded up the car with gas and headed back toward Bath, stopping at a nearby park ‘n’ drive on the recommendation of the same bartender who suggested our hotel accommodations.  The park ‘n’ drive proved to be a boon—no hassle with Bath traffic and expensive parking.

Once in Bath, I bought a map and off we went in search of the famed Roman baths.  Our search was not exactly the shortest distance between two points.  But as it turned out, all the better.  We wandered through Victoria Park, a well manicured patch of green; came upon a royal crescent, a semi-circular construction of what appeared to be one of the world’s most dignified stretches of row houses; and lest we forget, an old house that boasted of having once been the residence of the friend and secretary of the composer George Frederick Handel.

The time had come to consult the map.  Where the hell were those baths?  Not just yet.  The next stop was Bath Abbey.  In our travels we’ve seen a few old churches, and Bath Abbey in my opinion (and Sharon’s) was the second most impressive one we’ve seen.  (Number one being The Vatican, of course.)  From its ornately carved, massive wooden doors to its immense pipe organ to its sleek flying buttressed roof, the abbey is a wondrous structure.

And last but not least—the baths.  We romped around this 2000-year-old Roman ruin and its quite recent vintage museum for well over an hour.  We probably would have stayed longer had our itinerary not demanded we soon hit the road.  But our stomachs came before the road.  So we sought and found a suitable pub, where we dined on our second choice of fare—chicken Kiev.  They were all out of our first choice—beef kidney pie.  Of course, we required a couple pints of lager to wash down our lunch.

It was now about 3:00 p.m., and our tour of Bath was over if not complete.  We took the park ‘n’ ride bus back to our car and got under way for a 4:00 a.m. rendezvous with a ferry in Holyhead, Wales.  The going was slow at first.  The road signs to the Motorway were sparse and led us on a zigzagging course through Bath.  Once outside of town, the going got even slower.  Much slower.  Road-construction, watch-the-workers-not-work slow.  This was the worst traffic pile up of the entire trip.  And I had to take a leak worthy of Secretariat, himself.

Well, no one ever stayed in a traffic jam forever.  We eventually found ourselves on the Motorway doing 80+ miles per hour.  Once makes very good time doing 80+ mph, even with the frequent stops made for fuel, food, and water closet visits.

As night fell, we left the main roadway to venture into Queensferry in quest of dinner.  Queensferry wasn’t happening, so we drove toward Chester.  We stopped along the way at one inviting looking pub, but they weren’t serving food at that hour, so we drank a couple of pints and continued toward Chester.  Once there, we parked and tried out another pub; they weren’t serving food either.  We probably would have further explored Chester for a place to eat, but I detected that our right front tire was going flat.  We drove to a gas station, where my diagnosis was determined to be unfounded.  Flat tire or not, that was the last of Chester.

We found our way back to the Motorway, M55/A55, which ran along the northern coast of Wales.  Efforts to find a suitable establishment in which to dine were fruitless.  The drive along this near empty and newly built section of the Motorway , however, was impressive—highlighted by the lights of Liverpool off in the distance.

About 10:15 p.m. we pulled into a Welsh pub.  They weren’t serving food either, but beer they had and beer we drank.  We also chatted a good bit with a few of the local patrons—a short unkempt truck driver, a Britannica salesman with a disabled car, and a Welshman who did god knows what but was a delight to talk to.  Finally, we bought some beer to go and left.

Onward to Holyhead.  The roadway at this stage was still under construction and as such had a schizophrenic character to it.  We passed by Conwy Castle and soon thereafter Anglesey Isle, at which point the road became a simple two-laner.  Sharon fell asleep; I drove on.  At last we came to the ferry terminal at Holyhead.  A parking attendant directed us where to park, which looked more like a queuing point for cars destined to board the ferry than a parking lot.  We entered the Sealink Lines reservation/lounge building, had some coffee (I also had a lousy cheeseburger), and looked over the ferry schedules.  I decided to go with the B&I Lines cruise because they had a ferry returning at a more palatable time than did Sealink.

We bought our ferry tickets and were told that we should park our car at the rail station because it wasn’t safe to leave a car near the ferry yard.  We had a hard time understanding how it could possibly have been unsafe to leave our car in the well-patrolled, heavily-used lot it was parked in.  Our suspicions were well founded—we had, after all, parked in the zone for cars waiting to board the ferry.  Fortunately, we were at the front of the row and could easily exit the yard, which we did.

We parked at the railroad long-term parking lot, packed our bags, and took the shuttle bus to the ferry.  Our movements didn’t go as smoothly as stated, but even with the rain and the difficulty in locating track #2, we did what had to be done.

Very shortly after boarding the ferry, we fell fast asleep.

Notes:

• The English Motorway has come quite far since 1983.  They’re as well built as any road on which I’ve ever driven.

• Bath was a blast.

Day 7—Wednesday, September 5, 1990

We may have fallen fast asleep on the ferry, but not for long did we slumber.  The night, or early morn, was a whole lotta cold out there on the Irish Sea, mate.  And all of this cold was funneled into a draft that emerged in very close proximity to my seat.  The cold woke us up no later than 6:00 a.m.  I got up to thaw out and smoke a ciggie.  I ventured into a lounged that resembled a beer hall.  Inside there remained a few stout Irishmen and women still slaking their unquenchable thirsts.  Most of those in the hall, however, were asleep at the tables; some still clutching the handles of their beer mugs.

I returned to my seat and attempted to get some more sleep.  Mostly I just froze.  At 7:30 a.m. we pulled into port.

From 7:30 a.m. to past 9:30 a.m., Sharon and I sat in the ferry terminal doing little other than missing the only two buses into town.  I, for one, was disoriented and waiting for my bearings to return.  Based on the write-up in the guidebook, I thought Sandycove was our best bet for finding a nice place to stay.  I occasionally confused Sandycove, however, with Sandymount.  My second mistake was I thought we were in Dun Loaghaire, when actually we were in the Port of Dublin.  Sandycove is next to Dun Loaghaire but 15 miles from the Port of Dublin.

We had no Irish money and at that point didn’t know British money was acceptable currency in Ireland.  Sharon made a few inquiries of a guard or whatever he was.  That didn’t accomplish much as far a getting us anywhere but did lead to getting our passports stamped.  I asked a taxi driver a few vague questions, but still we sat dazed and confused (for so long it’s hard to believe it’s true) in a ferry terminal with Irish stamps in our passports.  By this point, even the coffee shop had closed.  We spoke to another guard.  He told us there wouldn’t be another bus until that evening.  So we started walking and flagged down the first taxi we saw.  To Sandycove, we instructed, and step on it.

In light of my belief that we were in Dun Loaghaire, the ride to Sandycove seemed to be exceptionally long.  I suspected that perhaps the taxi driver was taking the long way at our expense, although he seemed to be an awfully decent chap.  Anyway he took us to a bed and breakfast he recommended that turned out to be splendid, although as weary as we were at the time, we’d have settled for a closet.

After some discussion with the proprietor of the B&B, Mrs. Helen Callanan, a most Irish lady if ever there was, it started to dawn on me that we’d come into a different port than the one I thought we did.  Our taxi driver was on the up and up after all.  Mrs. Callanan directed us to a nearby mall, where we might find coffee, because our room would not be ready for a couple of hours.  On that note, we ventured into the town of Dun Loaghaire.

First, we exchanged $180 for how ever many Irish Punt(s) that bought.  Then we got some coffee in that mall, and a most surprising mall it was what with all it Americaness right there in the middle of Dun Loaghaire.  After coffee and soup, we made our way back toward the B&B and then cut down toward Dublin Bay.  Near the bay, we followed a sign directing us toward the Joyce Museum.  The walk to the Joyce Martello Tower took us through a bay front park; past some fancy, expensive restaurants; and finally to a bathing area, which featured a secluded section tucked away from view where several elderly men, some naked, dove from overhanging rocks into the icy waters.  (I wonder where the lady’s secluded swimming area was?  Probably on the other side of the promontory.)

We hung out near the Joyce Martello Tower Museum for awhile debating whether to go in and check out the place.  We never did, and of course, I regretted not doing so almost then and there and for a long time to come.  We trekked back to the B&B, where the topic of discussion was what to do next.  What we did next was take a short nap that turned into a 3½ hour snoozathon—hey, we had it coming.

Waking up at 5:30 p.m. didn’t leave us with many options other than to find a place to eat and then a place to drink.  To that end we set out on foot.  We walked up an down the main street in search of an Irish meal.  Only problem was, the Irish wanted too much for their meals.  So we ate at a shish kabob joint.  Then we bought a few Heinekens and Budweisers to take away, which we drank three of in the park area along Dublin Bay.  As we sat on a park bench drinking our beers, dusk fell and the Irish chill set in and a good many Irish dogs trotted by our little feet.  That could only mean it was time to find us a pub.  So we did.

Snug and warm in a pub, we downed a few pints and wrote out a few postcards, most notably one to Reliance.  It was while in this pub, more specifically in the men’s room, that an Irish fellow accosted me while I was relieving myself. 

            He said, “Fitzgerald!”

            I replied, “No, Marc Evans.  And you?”

            “Oh, you’re American, hey?” he shot back.  “You look just like Fitzgerald from Dublin.”

So if you ever pass me on the road or catch me with your wife, don’t jump to conclusions.  It just might be that Fitzgerald bloke from Dublin.

Back at the B&B, we hung out in the dining room nursing a few more bottles of beer and watching the telly (British news about the Persian Gulf crisis, which is what they called the Kuwaiti mess before it became a war).  We were accompanied by Coco (a/k/a Kocomo), Mrs. Callanan’s 12+ year-old Siamese cat, who took quite a fancy to Sharon and me.  Finally, we went to bed, perhaps more tipsy than on any other night of the trip.  But hey, this is Ireland, mate.  And maybe it wasn’t even me downing all those brews, could have been that Fitzgerald.

Note:

• Reflections on the Irish weather: Sunny one minute, then drizzling the next.

Day 8—Thursday, September 6, 1990

Woke up early with a slight hangover.  Breakfast and shower put the pieces back in the right places.  We ate our breakfast at 8:30 a.m. and were the only ones in the dining room.  Our room, which was brightly decorated and had a splendid view of the bay, didn’t have a shower, so we had the use the communal one flight down on the 2nd floor.

We got an early start on the road, but our unfamiliarity with the bus routes to Dublin resulted in a lengthy delay waiting to get a bus.  If we’d only known about the train, we would have gained a lot of time and enjoyed the ride considerably more, I’m sure.  (The train station was only one block from the B&B.)

Train or no train, downtown Dublin was the next stop.  Our first order of business there was at a café across the street from Trinity College, where I wrote a postcard to Grandma Evans.

The day’s plan was to follow the circuitous Dublin trail as laid out in the B&I Line complimentary tour book and then catch a bus to one of the noted cities outside of Dublin.  Our first stop on the Dublin trail was a tourist information office on O’Connell Street, a wide mall-type boulevard with many sculptures on the grassy median.  At the tourist office, I got a map of Ireland, and we both bought some postcards.

At the north end of the tourist trail, following the trail became impossible through the maze of tiny back streets and alleys, but we were treated to one of the more decrepit parts of the city while the wind on this windy day picked up its tempo.  The path south and west, particularly along Little Mary’s Lane with its commercial warehouses, left me wondering why we were being routed through this part of town.  The interest level picked up as we approached the Liffey River.  We crossed the river and walked along the south bank a few blocks, then cut down toward the city hall/castle and over toward Christ Church (oh, Christ! Church).

Continuing southward, we came to St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  Nice church but after having just visited Bath Abbey & Salisbury Cathedral, we weren’t especially impressed.  The little in-church souvenir shop didn’t add to the ambiance.  Our trail now ran westward leading to St. Stephen’s Green, a cozy and pleasant city park with ducks and ponds but too many people.

Emerging from St. Stephen’s Green, we walked up Grafton Street, a bustling pedestrian area with wall-to-wall shops.  We turned down Duke Street and stopped for lunch at Davy Byrne’s Pub (from Ulysses).  Our lunch was bland, but the menu I liberated from the establishment would surely add a touch of pizzazz to my room.

After lunch, we made our way to Trinity College.  I bet there are quite a few folks who probably don’t know this—but two volumes of the famed Book of Kells are housed at the college.  Until today, we were counted among the uninformed.  Hell, I never even heard of them.  And I still don’t know what they look like because we didn’t want to pay the cover charge to examine those illuminated wonders, although I did catch a glimpse of them through the doorway.  Exiting this walled-in college of green squares and tranquility in the midst of frenetic commotion proved to be rather difficult.  Trinity College is not only a institution of higher learning, it also doubles as a walk-through maze.

Our next stop was a pub.  Mulligan’s to be precise.  James Joyce’s favorite pub in all the world.  The joint looked as though it hadn’t changed much since the great Mr. Joyce bellied up to bulky brown bar for his favorite brew.  Sharon was one of the two women in the place.  It was not posh, not close.  The interior, however, was painted green—the most sickly shade of green one could imagine.  All in all, we like the place.

The time had come, our tourist trail complete, to catch the bus back to Sandycove.  Without going into elaborate detail about the difficulties encountered in locating the bus stop and flagging down bus #8, suffice it to say that it was not a day at the beach.  The bus ride back to Sandycove offered little of note.  We got off, actually, in Dun Loaghaire and stopped in the American looking mall for some coffee and pie at the same place we had stopped before.  Afterward, we walked back to our B&B to freshen up before heading out for dinner.

This evening’s search for an ideal dining oasis covered even more ground then the previous night’s.  We ended up dining at the Wishbone Restaurant, the place the B&B owner had recommended the night before.  Mrs. Callinan, in fact, showed up to dine there herself.  I had lamb chops.  Sharon ordered Irish stew, but the stew had just run out, so she got a plate of Irish cheeses.  All very tasty.

After dinner, we went next door to the same pub we visited the night before.  We of course downed several pints.  Our conversation on this night encountered a few rough passages, probably due to the subject matter.  Fortunately, these choppy locutory waters were short-lived, and we managed to right our vessel and drink aplenty until they closed the pub (at about 11:30 p.m. to 12:00 a.m.) and tossed us out on the street.  We returned to the B&B, where we made splendid use of the first “B” in “B&B.”

Notes:

• It is true what they say about Guinness Stout—It is far superior, to the point of being drinkable, in fact delightful, on tap in Ireland than in its U.S. bottled version.

Day 9—Friday, September 7, 1990       

What with a ferry to catch for a scheduled 10:00 a.m. departure, we were up, packed and down to the breakfast table by 7:45 a.m.  Coco joined us for breakfast and so did a lady from parts unknown.  After breakfast, Mrs. Callanan gave us directions on how to get to the ferry port.  The directions involved taking the train.

Ah, the train—convenient, clean, fast, and comfortable.  If only we had taken it the day before.  We got off the train near the bus station to catch a connecting bus.  Instead, we took a taxi the remainder of the way, which used up the last of our Irish money.     

We reached our ferry about thirty minutes early and it left about thirty minutes late.  Once aboard, we made our way to the top and toward the stern.  The weather was clear, cloudy, rainy—take you pick—but always chilly.  Pulling out of Dublin Bay was a bittersweet experience: glad I got there, sorry I didn’t get to stay longer.  From the bay, one can see straight down the Liffey into the heart of Dublin, where they remember James Joyce, who had remembered them.

The ride across the Irish Sea was uneventful until toward the end of the voyage, when we witnessed a helicopter pull three men from a small raft.  I couldn’t really tell but perhaps the raft was marooned.

Back in Holyhead, we made our way to our car and got on the road.  Only this time, for the first time, Sharon was at the wheel.  Without going into the gory details, it was touch and go for a little while.  (Actually, she did quite well except for engaging second gear, which gave us fits the whole trips, and negotiating the narrowest of roads this side of a goat trail.)

We drove across the Isle of Anglesey and then cut south once we hit the mainland.  This section of Wales is called Snowdonia—a mountainous region of winding narrow roads, lush green valleys, seemingly endless low stone walls meandering across the hillsides, and sheep.  There were very many sheep.  We stopped for lunch at a café snuggled in a picture postcard setting.  The fare included scones with whipped cream and mugs of good coffee.

Back on the road, we set off in search of a Welsh castle—Harlech Castle in particular.  Along the way we passed through the idyllic town of Betws-y-coed but didn’t stop.  We did pull off the road, however, a few miles farther on near (or in) the village of Dolwyddelan to take some pictures and a look around.  I didn’t see anything resembling a village, but I did see what I considered to be one of the most peaceful, green, rich, isolated valleys I could imagine.  It even had its own castle, a small one up on a hill.

While we were taking pictures and shouting at the sheep, an old fellow wandered through a field up to the stone wall, aside of which our car was parked.  We walked over to him, somewhat apprehensive.  For the next hour and a half, we stood on the other side of the low stone wall enrapt in the tales of this old Welsh shepherd.  His accent was as heavy as Welsh rarebit, but as charming as the Welsh countryside.

He was 71 years old.  His name was Ellis Evans.  When I told him that my name was Evans too, he replied, “Aye, you must be an important man.”  I pointed out that we’d seen the name “Evans” on many war memorials in Wales, which led me to believe there were a great many Evans’ in Wales or else they were poor fighters.  He laughed at that.  He told us of his brother who tended the flocks with him, of his mother and father and grandfather (who also lived in this same valley) and of friends past and present.  He recounted a tale of a farmer who some years ago jumped into an old, water-filled, abandoned mining pit because the weather had been so bad.  The day they buried him was a lovely day.  Ellis’ brother said it was too bad he didn’t jump in a month before. 

Mr. Evans had never been to London, and when I asked him why, he said, “what for” or something to that effect.  Standing in that valley, I could understand what he meant.  I gathered that he hadn’t ever married.  But I’m certain he was a perfect neighbor.  And it just so happened that his neighbor, and as far as I could see, he only had one, was named Lloyd.  Only in Wales.

We hated to say goodbye to Mr. Evans, but evening was drawing near and there were castles to see (as well as a water-filled hole, where once a forlorn farmer took his life because the weather was not to his liking).  I took the wheel and drove to Harlech, where we arrived near dusk.  The castle was closed, so we only got to see it from outside the walls.  Then we drove southbound, up above the coast of Cardigan Bay, while the sun set.  Our sights were now set on finding a place to dine and place to bed.

We drove through the coastal resort town of Barmouth but didn’t stop.  I wish we had because it was an enchanting village.  We did stop in the town of Dolgellau.  But I wish we hadn’t, although I would wager that it’s the quaintest biker-town the world has ever known.  We ate dinner at an old roadside inn.  It was a charming place with excellent food—I had beef kidney pie while sitting on couch in front of an unused fireplace.  Unfortunately, they had no vacancies because of the weekend crowd from London.

Our efforts to find lodging for the night were once again fraught with frustration—either the place cost a mint or they had no vacancies and sometimes both.  We ended up backtracking to an inn that we had passed up earlier in our hunt.  We had a pleasant, paneled room with a television, on which I believe a good movie was playing.  But I was not long among the awake.  I opened a beer, slipped into bed, and was asleep by 11:30 p.m.

Notes:

• Along the coast of Cardigan Bay, we saw several huge trailer parks, which struck us as rather out of place in quaint, rustic part of the world.

• Ellis Evans—the very best part of a splendid holiday.

• I can’t remember a thing about our motel room.  (8/98 commentary)

Day 10—Saturday, September 8, 1990

Up at 7:30 a.m. after a good eight hours of sleep.  Sharon couldn’t figure out how to get the electric shower going.  Turns out it just took a good stiff yank.  The shower wasn’t the only peculiar thing about this place: the toilet made a god-awful noise for about ten minutes every time it was flushed, our door didn’t lock, and smoking is not allowed anywhere in the entire hotel.  The innkeeper was a strange fellow himself.

We ate breakfast in the dining room, along with about fifteen Brits in their early to middle twenties.  Listening to their palaver was interesting, or perhaps amusing is a better word.

After breakfast, we got on the road.  A segment of our travels over Route 483 followed the route taken by my dad and me seven years earlier.  While on this stretch of highway, we detoured to the town of Montgomery and the ruin that was once Montgomery Castle.  The castle afforded a vast and splendid view of the countryside.  It also afforded our meeting with puss ‘n’ boots, a soft, furry black and white kitty, who was most friendly.  I took a picture of Sharon holding her with the ruin in the background.

Very soon after leaving Montgomery we were out of Wales and into England.  We headed toward Warwick, which was a rather long trek and featured motoring around, fortunately not through, Birmingham.  Warwick, of course, is where one finds Warwick Castle.  And it is not difficult to find the castle.  We arrived a little before 4:00 p.m., and the first order of business was relief, particularly for Sharon who had been holding things back for over 100 miles.  Relief was had in some bushes behind a mound, which we later found out was directly adjacent to the restrooms.

We entered the castle grounds, after paying the 5£ per person admission, and set off with the intent to see everything in the remaining two hours that the castle was open.  Warwick is considered the grandest English castle of all.  And there is a lot to see: the rose garden, the furnished interior with Madame Troussoud’s wax figures, the peacock garden, and on and on. 

As the hour neared 6:00 p.m., we were set to go to the gift shop believing that we’d see it all.  But wait, we forgot the dungeon.  So we scurried to the dungeon, where a groundskeeper was locking up nearby doors and gates.  We asked if we could take a quick look around below.  He consented.  We descended a flight of steps into the dark, damp dungeon and the adjoining oubliette.  While we were inspecting the area, we heard a door above close.  The first thought through Sharon’s mind (and after she voiced that thought, it ran through mine as well) was that someone had bolted shut the door to the dungeon.  The second thought contemplated the most unpleasant prospect of spending the night trapped in the dungeon.  Our fears were unfounded, but all the same, we were up and out of there in a flash.

Although it was till a few minutes before 6:00 p.m., the gift shop was closed.  That meant I couldn’t get a souvenir guide book, which meant I was bummed.  Warwick Castle, however, was a thrill and lived up to its billing—it was, indeed, most grand.

We drove south-southeast from Warwick through Stratford and on into Cotswold country.  (Time constraints did not allow us to stop in Stratford.)  Our plan was to find a place to eat and spend the night as early as possible, so we could have a relaxing evening.  Of course, we’d had that plan a few times before and had yet to see it materialize.  And this time was no exception.

We drove by a few B&B’s but didn’t stop for reasons unknown.  We drove through the town of Broadway but kept on going.  Outside of Broadway, the road wound its way up the Cotswold hills.  Near the summit, we stopped briefly at Broadway Castle—a small yet fascinating turreted structure in the middle of nowhere.  One we drove.  The sun went down as we neared Stow-on-the-Wold.  The B&B’s in stow proclaimed “no vacancies.”  I proclaimed enough.  Enough driving for me for one day.  The mind was frazzled, the stomach empty, à la Bath.  I stopped at a pub at the edge of Stow, where we had dinner.  I had the Malaysian chicken, rice included.  Quite tasty.

Following dinner, Sharon drove us out of town in search of lodging—old story with a bit of a twist.  We didn’t find any.  So we returned to Stow, parked in the municipal lot, and set off on foot to uncover lodging.  There are a many hotels and B&B’s in Stow, but all but one of them was full.  The one that wasn’t wanted 45£.  At that price we decided to we would sleep in the car in the brisk night air.  But before retiring to our rental, we returned to the pub where we had dinner and drank a few pints.  The pub was warm and hospitable, as was its Irish proprietor, a very affable fellow.

The car, however, was cold.  So we piled on the clothes and made do.

Day 11—Sunday, September 9, 1990

We arose at dawn—what with the sun shining right smack in our eyes, we didn’t have much choice in the matter.  The parking lot had restrooms, but with no hot water, there wasn’t much I intended to accomplish there; Sharon, however, washed her hair in the icy water.  Afterward, we set off on foot in search of hot coffee and breakfast.  Most of the stores and restaurants, however, were still closed at this early hour, so it was some time before we found a place.  We finally found a ritzy hotel that was open.  They charged too much for breakfast for my taste, so we settled for coffee—two pots of it served in an elegant lounge room, quite upper-class.

After coffee, we traipsed up and down the streets of Stow, stopping in a number of shops that were just beginning to open.  For breakfast we bought a couple of chunks of shortbread, a staple in our diet during our holiday.  Finally, the purse strings came loose and the shopping begin, on this our final day abroad, to amass a stash of souvenirs.  Sharon purchased a black marble cat, a little bear figurine, and a glass cat in a bed.  I bought a map and a small box filled with candy.

We left Stow, drove to the town of Burton, and resumed our shopping spree, buying two cat mugs and other sundry keepsakes.  Our stay in Burton was brief; we soon were back on the road heading for Broadway.  Along the way we stopped off again at Broadway Tower (or Beacon) for a little walk in the fields on a hill in Cotswold.

Broadway has many delightful shops.  On this day it was a mob scene.  The town may be as quaint as they come, but it certainly wasn’t undiscovered.  We did some browsing and moved on.  Our next stop was a little tow-bit flea market, where I bought a rather unusual item, which I guess could be called a copper engraving of a nut and bolt, for 1£.  By this time we were quite hungry, so predictably enough we stopped for grub at a pub, where I ate a ploughman’s lunch featuring a bold Cotswold cheese.  The pub carried the famed Carlsberg Export on tap.  Sharon had a half-pint of it, and I had another flat-tasting bitter.

After lunch, we drove on to Warwick Castle on this warm and sunny day.  Our purpose in revisiting the castle was, of course, to shop, which is precisely what we did.  Once we were sufficiently stocked with Warwick Castle memorabilia, we motored slowly toward our final stop before Heathrow—that being Oxford.

We rolled into Oxford about 4:30 p.m.  I wanted to find the same centrally located parking lot I had parked in during my previous two visits to the town.  We found the place with ease and parked.  The money was holding out pretty good, so it was time to spend more of it on souvenirs.  There was only one problem—all the stores were closed on this Sunday afternoon.  So we stopped into some rather ordinary but high-priced restaurant for some coffee.  We would have had a beer too, but it was Sunday afternoon, and beer isn’t served on Sundays in England between the hours of 4:00 or 5:00 p.m. and 7:00 p.m.  That left us with two hours to sight see before we could wet our whistles.  When it come to seeing sights, Oxford has the sights to see: hundreds of years of old green quadrangles, courtyards, cathedrals in all four directions, fancy expensive shops, busy streets and quiet ones.  We saw what we could while the daylight lasted and then checked into a café for a couple of double cappuccinos and an almond pastry of some type (of the delicious type).

We returned to the car to drop off our cameras and research the Lets Go guide for recommended dining establishments.  Off went in search of those places.  We found an open liquor store, where we bought four bottles of beer, but we weren’t so fortunate in locating those restaurants.  We eventually tired of searching and dropped into a pub.  It turned out to be a dive, so we only stayed for one beer and then moved on to the indoor-outdoor-upstairs-downstairs pub/bar/restaurant across the street.

This hangout was trendy and exceptionally crowded.  And it was here we spent our last couple of hours in Oxford (what were truly our last remaining hours on holiday).  We ordered sandwiches and ate them outside at a picnic table.  Then we moved inside and upstairs for another round of beers.  The holiday was winding to a close, but before it was over, I had to procure a local poster.  That I did—right off a beam, I detached a poster advertising a local production of Othello.

About 10:30 p.m. the bar closed.  We returned to our car with bottles of beer in hand.  The drive to Heathrow got off on the wrong track due to the difficulty we had in finding signs posting the way out of Oxford to London.  We asked a great many folks for directions and somehow, despite their advice, we trued our course.  Sharon fell asleep.  Without a hitch, I found the Alamo rent-a-car office and parked for the night on a nearby side lane.  Tomorrow we would fly home.

Day 12—Monday, September 10, 1990 (written 11/22/90)

You know how it is at the end of a holiday.  All that remains are the motions: returning the car, checking through customs, boarding the plane.  The pilot does the rest.

U.S. duty import law restricts what overseas travelers can bring back to the country.  Fortunately, they can’t tax memories or else I would have gone broke.

Goodbye, Mrs. Callanan.  Farewell, Mr. Ellis Evans, may your sheep grow fat and may your hills remain lush and may people like you bless our world forevermore.

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