When I signed up for the tour, I saw that we had “several hours” in Liverpool between Wales and Cumberland and I immediate hit the travel sites to see what we would do with our unprogrammed time.
The Beatles, obviously. Or the Tate Museum. Or the International Slavery Museum….as I read those words a chill went up my spine. Of course I had to visit that exhibit. Every fiber of my being said I had to visit it. Fortunately my progressive husband (who also likes the Beatles) didn’t argue; he was all for it, even as I second guessed myself and wondered why on earth would I want to see such a place while on vacation.
My world perspective was rocked. First, by the accounts of modern people, from every race and country, who had been sold or trafficked into slavery.
Second, by the well documented section on the historical global slave trade, which for the first time made me realize the economic impact of the practice. The untold wealth generated by unpaid humans who were ripped from their homes and bred to provide an unending supply of more workers.
The last few years have brought media attention to economic injustice and the racist institutions that perpetuate generational poverty – I’m not an expert nor am I personally affected by this. But I know that it exists, and the exhibit at this museum brought home the truth.
I’ve heard a lot of people dismiss U.S. Slavery by saying “well, slavery still happens today” like that cancels out the past. It doesn’t. It can’t be swept aside like it’s history with no lasting impact.
It’s a big issue and I have no answers for fixing it, but I am learning. I appreciate the opportunity to learn. It was so important for me to know this.
And when I was shaking with rage and horror, I went to second floor to the Titanic exhibit to cheer up. It was that impactful.
Our local guide is charming and knowledgeable with a great storyteller’s vibe. He mixes Welsh and English and gives us a “potted history” of the country peppered with side comments about how it has been portrayed in film. Note: I hadn’t heard of a “potted history” and thought it had to do with alcohol. It refers to a shortened version of the whole story. More than a summary, less than a chapter. I like my definition better.
Castle Conwy is well preserved by the National Trust and Unesco and it’s fascinating to walk where King Edward surveyed his perimeter. Lots of twists and turns and it must have been cold back in the day. We recognize the “ringed defense” architecture that we saw at Windsor and admire the defensible walls. The day is sunny and clear and it’s all very satisfying. We get the overview and a lot of history and then have time to explore. Les checks out the tower and I pick my away along the stone walls, leaning on my cane to stay upright. Fire knee is well braced and the cane is a necessity. I’m able to move about quite freely without pain so I’m a happy girl.
Conwy Castle – defended by fewer than 25 men
The vistas are marvelous and the site isn’t crowded and there are windy stone stairs and hidden chapels and a few unexpected sculptures. It is all good.
We scatter for lunch and Les and I decide on a tea room close to our next destination. The proprietor is on her own thanks to Covid and labor issues but she welcomes us in and feeds us in good time to make our next stop. Les and I try the Welsh Rarebit which is not what I thought it would be, but delicious nonetheless. (It’s a cheese sauce on brown toast. A bit soggy) We’re table sharing with a couple from our tour and they are slugging down massive milkshakes and cheese and pickle sandwiches. I’m maybe a bit envious.
Our next stop is the “Tudor House” which was, you guessed it, built in Tudor times by a gentleman who worked for the court and accepted a lot of coin for access to the people in power (okay, it wasn’t said quite like that, but that’s the gist). He also went to the continent for soldier duties and had seen the glories of Rome and Greece. When he retired to Wales, he built a substantial home for his sweetheart and eventual family. Alas, she died, but he found a new wife with the same initial (he had worked her initial into the decorative plaster walls) and it all worked out. The house was completed in 1577 or thereabouts.
My initial! That could have been ME
It is airy and prosperous, lots of rooms, and I am quite taken with the plaster motifs and decorations. The owner really liked the caryatids in Rome and sketched out the general idea for his Welsh craftsmen. The result is a primitive homage. Paint choices take it up several notches and it’s a bit grotesque….a lot groteseque….but very lively. I take a number of pictures and hope that the owner lived a long and happy life.
TBH these were shocking at first sight, then I decided to be charmed
Check out the Welsh Baker to try these in the U.S.
After the tour we pause at a local bakery where I snag a few Welsh Cakes – there’s a place in Southern California that bakes and sells them and I want to compare. I also grab an “Eccles cake” because I’ve never had one.
The evening is capped with a concert by a talented Welsh harpist who entertains with a wide range of medieval songs, classical tunes and jazz. Our guide cajoles us into buying her CDs and we are happy to oblige. Les mentions to her that her style reminds us of Rodrigo y Gabriela and she knows of them! She says she’s tried to blend their percussion into her more modern pieces and we part with the glow of mutual appreciation.
Wales rocks.
View from the interiorUndated but so beautiful; it certainly could be a Tudor era embroideryI was quite taken with the plasterworkThe knee says “no” (sigh)Back at the hotel….the most elegant set up
Food on the road is very inflammatory and my joints are feeling it. Lots of bread and potatoes, tons of sweets, the milk that makes the tea palatable, the two sugars that do the same….my knees ache and the deep gnaw of arthritis has begun. Sigh.
Yesterday we boarded our motorcoach for a long trek to Wales. Our driver had been on the job six months and lacked confidence. I heard him muttering about Google maps and sent a brief prayer that we would arrive in grace and good health.
The bus was quiet as 22 seniors caught up on sleep.
I was out for about 90 minutes and then my body rebelled against constriction and I had to get that seatbelt off and I felt a bit queasy and and…I wriggled in my tight window seat searching for a comfortable position but was unsuccessful.
Fortunately I had listened to my inner voice and picked up an extra croissant at breakfast. That distracted me and helped settle my stomach. A sip of water helped as well and then I tuned into the sad story of Tim the driver. He felt like he was doing a terrible job and not representing his company very well and perhaps he should just chuck it all. Our leader spoke to him in bracing terms, saying that the job would get easier and she was certain he’d get the hang of it. “Just project confidence” she told him. Tim was unconvinced.
A foreseen consequence of Brexit was that foreign workers found it difficult to get through the paperwork et al in order to stay employed in the UK. Covid drove many of them home and they weren’t flocking back. It’s fine to complain about “foreigners taking our jobs” but the locals aren’t picking up the slack. Restaurants are short staffed. Tube stations are shut down. Shops can’t stay open. The effects are everywhere.
Tim drops us off in Chester, which is an ancient town noted for its splendid cathedral and many historical sites. It is a walled city that served as a border town between the Brits and the Welsh. I’m a big fan of the Romans and I am thrilled to be in proximity of Roman Ruins – an ampitheater, some walls, a few mosaics. So much history! It is deeply satisfying.
The city is a blend of old and new. There are actual Tudor-era buildings and the town was a popular tourist destination during the Victorian era. The cathedral is vast and highly ornamented. The streets are a mixture of ancient and Victorian cobblestones. My eyes can’t settle but I know Les is capturing it all, from multiple angles and exposures.
There is a famous Chester clock atop the West Gate but another imposing clock has a humorous story. I am told that the square clock tower has three clock faces – one to Ireland, one to Scotland, one to Britain and none to Wales because “we don’t give them the time of day.”
We have a delightful ploughman’s lunch in a pub before exploring the cathedral interior. Then we find our group and tour bus and continue into Wales. Tim has been replaced by another, more confident driver and a new motorcoach. Adventures!!
Our hotel is on the water and it feels like a holiday beach town, with older and fancier buildings. After dinner, Les and I cross the street and enjoy the final moments of an outdoor concert. The sun is setting and the water sparkles – it’s beautiful and reminds me a bit of summer in Seattle. The evening lasts longer, the sun shimmers and bed is impossible. We trek along the bay and enjoy the fresh air and the snap of flags in the evening breeze. Wales is great!
Chester CathedralRoman mosaic – the lighter grey is the restored sectionChester was a walled city (and now I’ve seen a weir!)I am partial to mosaicsA “ploughman’s lunch” Public ArtWales – the viewThe hotelAfter the concert
(Santa is still our tour guide, so a bit light on facts).
Gentle rolling hills carpeted with lush green grass, bisected by hedgerows and low stone walls.
Honey colored limestone buildings that proclaim “you are in the Cotswolds” (There is a cozy mystery series set in the Cotswolds and the protagonist always describes herself as living in the ‘honey colored cottage my aunt left me’ so this is imprinted on my brain now.)
The area was settled by the Conqueror. It is bucolic, prosperous and the site of a million British cozies. (One of the sisters thinks I’m referring to tea cozies and I’m not going to correct her).
There are spare angular Norman buildings with implacable flat facades.
And beautifully curved arches and saints and noblemen gazing down.
At some point the Victorians moved in and decorated the place.
Artists, craftspeople, poets descended and drew inspiration from the beauty of the English countryside. My soul is stretching and loosening under its aspect.
Such a beautiful corner of the world.
And dogs, so many dogs.
They outnumber children and shops offer dog incentives – a favorite seems to be a scoop of puppy ice cream. The Brits love their dogs.
Chipping Camden, Broad Way and Stow-in-Wye – charming villages with little to see but so much to discover.
A restful day. Tonight we do laundry and tomorrow…..Wales!
VERY Smart WaterAnd if you don’t obey, the Smart Water will come for youThis is for sale but out of my range
Straight talk: Stratford on Avon is less amazeballs than I expected. It’s a tourist town filled with postcards and bric a brac and tea shoppes all up and down the streets. There are Shakespearean quotes everywhere and street performers busking for a quid or two. The damp weather doesn’t help and I feel a bit steamy in my triple layers.
Me and Les and the Bard himself
Shakespeare’s birthplace is interesting as his rise to fame and fortune. He was from a solidly middle class family. Married a woman 6 years older. Had multiple children, most of whom died young. The rooms are low and small and yet were undoubtably comfortable for the period. Once again I skim, admire, move on. My husband reads every caption and dutifully photographs objects in low light.
The garden is enchanting – a beautifully layered mix of grasses and flowers. Roses climb the building walls – flat, single blooms in pink and deep red. It’s envy-inducing. California doesn’t grow like this.
I see wattle and daub and learn what a “tester bed” is – more phrases from my reading.
The “new home” on the site of the “original home” is well documented, much treasured and a fitting tribute to the town’s favorite son. It is artistic and literary and as rain begins falling, very atmospheric.
The “knot garden”
Our group is mostly docile, dripping, milling about. We have finished the new home and are waiting for an on-off bus in the mizzle. Our tour escort leaves us with Santa as she has food poisoning and needs to sort that out with a chemist. Santa is not so good with logistics or planning and he’s got 20 tourists hanging out waiting for something to happen. His anecdotes are no substitute for actual facts and the group is getting restless. Some of the ladies smell blood in the water and are attacking him with pointed questions about the bard.
After a lengthy wait we board a bus and are commanded by the operator to put on special headphones so we can hear the commentary. She’s not taking no for an answer and she’s not sharing personal information. We learn about commerce, the plague and how people handled illness in those days. (They tended to die) We are learning about Elizabethan life and it’s grim, let me tell you. My tour companions are delighted. I nap against Les’ shoulder.
Mrs. Shakespeare’s family home
Our group disembarks at Anne Hathaway’s cottage which is beautifully landscaped and very well preserved. The house has low doorways and period furniture and knowledgeable docents. It’s an interesting 20 minute tour and then we are ready to return to town for promised free time. Unfortunately we don’t have individual bus tickets to get back. Also unfortunately the next bus driver doesn’t know Santa and won’t let anyone on without a ticket. Our group reassembles at the bus stop and waits grumpily for Santa to join us and get us on the next bus, which is about a 30 minute wait. It’s raining again and no one wants to walk a mile back to town. We are hungry and damp and a bit mutinous but there aren’t a lot of options.
Finally our chariot arrives and we slog into seats and doze back to the town. Everyone hares off in different directions. The Connecticut faction is looking for the oldest pub in town. The sisters meander off the main drag. I drag Les in the opposite direction because my mood isn’t great and I need food and no distractions. We duck into a café that luckily serves “afternoon tea for one” with a nice selection of sandwiches and meat pies for those otherwise inclined. Hot milky tea and a ginormous scone with Devonshire cream and jam go a long way to lifting my mood. In good spirits we return to our lodging.
Very satisfying and much needed!
Dinner is early and on the far side of town at the Royal Shakespeare Company. The good news is they are willing to open up and serve us dinner. The bad news is that the company is on break and there will be no behind the scenes tour or performance. The weather, which has been mizzling on and off all day, morphs into a driving rain. We huddle in the doorway and await admittance. Santa entertains us with more stories, namedrops Judi Dench and does a little soft shoe to accompany a vaudeville song. The mutinous spirit returns but just in time we are let in, ushered past the gift shop which remains closed, and seated upstairs in a nice restaurant with a great view of the river being bombarded with buckets of rain. Dinner is not amazing:
The starter is a “fish cake” topped with a poached egg and hollandaise sauce over a frisee. It’s fried, crunchy and not terrible.
The entrée is pasta primavera. Long fettucine noodles, a few overcooked vegetables, greasy cream sauce, unspiced and very little flavor. These people don’t use garlic.
Dessert is a big finish – coffee mousse in a bitter chocolate cup topped with a baked merengue and a chocolate straw. There is unidentified greenery draped artistically over the plate. But it’s very tasty and coma inducing and almost makes up for the pasta.
I finish my meal with a cup of terrible tea that’s been polluted with coffee. Blech.
Stratford, I expected better.
We set off into the downpour to a local theater and see a well reviewed (but not very uplifting) play. (Neville’s Island if you are interested; there is a movie; I don’t recommend) The sky is clear when we leave and the walk back to the hotel is uneventful. We sleep.
A modern addition to Anne Hathaway’s cottageShakespeare’s birthplaceAn herbaceous border (another literary mystery solved!)Obligatory library snapshot
Today we boarded a coach and headed to Oxford. I’ve heard so much about Oxford. Dorothy Sayers, some television shows, a few movies….the phrase “the dreaming spires of Oxford” floats in my brain. Turns out it’s a town, a market city, and a bunch of colleges. There is no “Oxford College” There is Magdalen and Balliol and Bracenose and a whole host of others.
Oxford’s “dreaming spires”
We admire stone buildings, manicured lawns, many gargoyles and statues. There are gangs of students in academic dress because it’s exams week. Exams are given to freshmen and seniors and I guess the middle years are taken on faith that you’re learning something. The students are garbed in “sub-fusc” (I’ve read that phrase and now I’ve seen it!). There are lots of bicycles and deadly silent electrical scooters. It’s all very dense and very busy.
The streets are actual cobblestone – river rock laid out in a slippery pattern that would be lethal in heels. Other areas have “Victorian commercial cobbles” which are more like what I’ve seen in America. In any event, walking is a bit tricky – you have to watch for traffic and try not to turn an ankle at the same time.
Our guide looks like Santa Claus and is filled with anecdotes about his life at Oxford as a student and his adventures as a Morris dancer and his various odd jobs involving coeds and film stars. He sounds like a Person of Great Importance, but I’m not yet convinced that he is. He IS entertaining, which is helpful in a guide, but light on facts, which is not.
Arch designed by Christopher Wrenn; me in my mathematical hat (wait for it)
The Bodleian Library is beautiful and historical and shut down because of exams. It seems to function a bit like the Library of Congress – it receives copies of all published books. I wish I had looked up the cataloging scheme for the British Library System – surely they don’t use LoC? I can’t get to the stacks to find out. (Post trip note – they switched over to LoC recently. Would love to know more about that.)
The tour people are sorting out. There is one who told me that without a hair dryer in her room her hair “dries like yours” which I’m pretty sure is not a compliment. I quite like the sisters – one is a retired science teacher and the other a retired nurse. One lives in Seattle and the other in Phoenix. They are liberal of mind and quite entertaining.
We have a cluster from Connecticut and two ladies from Fresno. Hair comment lady told me there were too many people from California for her taste and that her home city of Pittsburgh has quite temperate weather and it’s one of the best places to live in the U.S. I’m not going to challenge her belief. We Californians know temperate weather and Pittsburgh ain’t it.
It is hot, SO HOT and we weren’t expecting this heat. Santa leads us on a forced march through covered markets, down narrow roads, up the main drag and barely stops for a breath. We end up at Magadelen college and I see actual punters on the river. Cross off another literary reference for Debbie.
The college is a feast for the eyes and it’s not hard to imagine legions of students laying out on the grass, drinking lemonade in the canteen, checking in at the gate. If only I had some water, it would be perfect.
The group splits up at that point for an hour or so of Oxford exploration. I really wish I could visit the Ashmoleon Museum which has a pre-Raphaelite exhibit going on, but the thought of trekking all the way across town in the heat for a quick in and out defeats me. We follow our tour guide back up the main road and I am distracted by an air conditioned gift shop. And here’s where some Oxford magic takes place. As I’m checking out, the sales clerk is squinting and peering at me. She abruptly asks me:
“What is ‘B’”
“B?”
“B”
I realize she is referring to my hat.
“’B’ means ‘Be’”
“What does it refer to?”
“Be better than average” – I point to the explanation printed under the mathematical equation (take THAT V&A)
“OH!” she explodes into laughter “It’s a meme!! I’m a maths student and I was trying to work it out!!”
Only in Oxford.
“Bridge of Sighs”But why?Magdalen CollegePUNTS!!!Oxford University PressStudents in “sub fusc”Inside the covered market
My knee is killing me – the tendonitis is red hot and feels like fire. I kept waking up last night trying to find a comfortable position. While Les is getting ready, I drape a cold washcloth and imagine ice. We’re moving slowly this morning and decided to revisit Le Pan Q for breakfast.
My original plan was to trek to Hampton Court but it’s closed today so we tube back to Oxford Circle and Regency Street in search of Sotheby’s. They have a free of charge display of tiaras. The day is warm and breezy and it’s a pleasant walk past the rich and wealthy. Think Rodeo Drive, times 3.
This one is for Adele
The Sotheby’s exhibit is fantastic. The tiaras are delicate, floating in space, refracting light as they twirl slowly. Diamonds, emeralds, pearls. They are wonders of engineering, many convert to broaches, necklaces, bracelets. I’m quite taken by a butterfly design and the ones with botanical inspirations. Ivy and palm motifs are charming when rendered in diamonds and topaz.
Apologies, professional cameras and flash were disallowed
Unfortunately, all that glitters does not inspire us for the rest of the day. I’m tired of planning things and Les has no ideas. I suggest a few things but get little response. It’s hot, we are tired and dehydrated and things are not going well. We trek to Fortnum & Mason’s for tea shopping and are overcome by too many choices and not enough luggage space.
Empty handed, we retrace our steps and stop at a bookstore cafe with air conditioning. This shop has three cafes so we take the lift to the top and settle in with beer and snacks. The cool air revives us and we’re able to make it back to the room without incident. It will be an early dinner and a better night.
We lie down for another nap and mine is brief because I had an iced coffee from Black Sheep and my veins are singing. Les has a higher caffeine tolerance and he drops off like a baby. I abandon the nap and do some preliminary repacking because tomorrow we join our tour and I am READY. For some strange reason things that didn’t fit into the suitcase in LA do fit now. This is not bad news!
At 5ish we head up to the “Coal Drop” – another redeveloped area past the redeveloped mixed use office space and cross the canal to an area where they’ve installed posh shops and a ton of restaurants. We don’t have reservations but hope we can get dinner before 9:00 PM. It’s hot, and the late afternoon sun is blazing as we trek past the greenspace, office buildings, fountains and restaurants that shunned us the previous night.
We’ve chosen a Tapas bar and are greeted with the familiar “Do you have a reservation? No? We can seat you at 9:00” “We’ll wait,” I hiss at my husband. My fire knee is not going on walkabout tonight. Despite the attitude, it all works out. The hostess reluctantly seats us at the bar with other non-reservation slackers and we settle in for some vino and small plates.
Our server is on day 3 of his new job and his spanish-inflected english is charming. We order a house version of sangria – red wine with a wedge of orange, sparkling water and a mist of sherry. It’s refreshing. He leaves us a carafe of water – first time that’s happened! On Les’ right is an intense Japanese couple who meticulously document every bite of food and on my left is an older British couple who communicate with the server in rudimentary spanish, which he seems to appreciate.
We’re hungry so we begin our meal with meat – chicken thighs and romesco sauce and lamb skewers in pimento sauce. The lamb is aromatic and tasty but the chicken is ambrosial. It’s garlicky and crunchy with nuts and the smooth romesco sauce chases it perfectly.
Next up is a spanish tortilla that is a perfect hockey puck of satiny potatoes and onions that runs with a creamy eggy filling. Our forks dance as we vie for each bite. We almost lick the plate.
By now our server is a friend and he glows when we order the spanish cheesecake – “Made famous in the pandemic!” he announces. It’s a rich eggy concoction redolant of sheeps milk that is lightly burnt on top and beyond delicious smoothness. It’s not too sweet and it’s a measure of our relationship that we share it more or less equally.
I leave Les at the bar while I check out a store that’s popped on my Insta – Wolfe and Badger. True to form, it is more interesting online than in person and has nothing that I need or want. We take an alternative route back to the hotel and are charmed by potentially edible artichokes blooming by the road. I’ve read that artichokes are members of the thistle family, but never expected to see them in a garden. It’s fun to see them emerge from a bright purple stalk.
But is it edible?
I think that’s a pleasure of traveling. You can read about something, but you gain understanding when you see it out in the wild.
I think about how greedy we are – how entitled – that water would be free and bread and butter or chips will magically appear on the table for no extra charge. We expect leftovers and aren’t used to paying a fair wage for service. It’s very different here.
And then the strident voice of a lost soul shrieks obscenities into the evening. We navigate around a sad human sleeping in the street. Maybe it’s not so different.
So many visits to the UK and this is the first time we’ve seen corgis! Perhaps they are more likeable than the queen?
I am in a tiny London hotel room, not much bigger than the infamous Hotel Metropole where Vickie and I stayed a hundred years ago when we were on our Catalina adventure. You can’t quite touch both walls at once, but the suitcases and jackets require wrangling. The chair barely fits my butt, the pillows are wafer thin and the bathroom is best enjoyed with an open door.
The Alhambra Hotel
We are weary, jet lagged and not quite able to believe we made it. Our 10.5 hour flight was mostly sleepless and mostly uneventful. I broke up a gang of passengers who were looting the mid-cabin galley for liquor. The air stewards were pretty dismissive when I mentioned it to them but one of them decided to check out the crime tip and then there were reinforcements hustling up the aisle. Much later I got a grateful thank you for bringing it to their attention. My fantasy is that they will upgrade me to business class for the flight home. (They do not)
For a wonder we packed early so there was a minimum of last minute drama and crisis. Everything fit and I don’t think we forgot anything. Of course, one of us was feeling his feelings, but we made it onto the plane, and later we got through the endless halls of Heathrow and onto the right train to London.
San Pancras
The Heathrow express dropped us at Paddington where we caught the Circle Line to San Pancras/Kings Cross. Then an exhausting bumpy walk to our lodgings. They are not luxurious but should do for a start.
The latest jet lag wisdom is to nap for 30 minutes and then get on local time. We manage the nap and find a neighborhood bistro for some much needed food. I have a delicious egg with salmon and hollandaise and start to feel human. The eggs are that peculiar bright orange that one finds in the UK but since I’ve seen this before, it doesn’t quease me out. My tea is hot and strong, milky and sweet and my consciousness comes back.
IYKYK
The streets around here are filthy – it’s a well used neighborhood. There’s grime, trash and homeless people. A polyglot of cultures. A street preacher reminds us that God loves us and some Muslims line up for prayer. A Hassidic couple with baby check both ways before crossing the street. Suitcases are everywhere because this is a great crossing place in London and people have places to go.
Black Sheep Treats
We pause at the Black Sheep coffee house and I see “brown cheese with jam” on the menu…is this the trip where I finally try brown cheese? (It is not).
Day 1 – we made it, we have lodging and caffeine, we are good to go. Adventures await!
Corgi and a Cuppa Tea 