Memory Lane. Mine, not yours!

Every time I start a post, I resolve to use less photos.

Twenty-one this time.

Not working out so well!

We stayed with Jan, my childhood friend, and her husband Steve for four days. Our bedroom was filled with sunlight when we awoke on Tuesday morning and I had a glorious sleep-in. The only activity planned for the day was to visit my old haunts, so we got a late start after breakfast. 

Jan is big on three squares a day and her main occupation, other than driving us around because I was out of patience with driving, was feeding us. Everywhere we went, a picnic was sure to follow.

Thank you Jan, for taking such good care of us. I felt very spoiled. In a good way.

I'll tell you something. Jan gets a big kick out of casually referring to things that she has read on this blog. She gives a little sideways glance and a smirk as she lets me know how much she knows about me. It's pretty hilarious. And, considering that we have only seen each other once in the last 45 years, she really does know a lot about me! It makes me wonder how many of my other friends and readers think that they have me all figured out. 

Maybe I tell too much? 

Maybe I should start holding some things back?

Not that I have lost sleep over it, mind you. It just made me think about how much I reveal about myself.

You can read more about Jan here.

The River Avon in Evesham looms large in my memories. My Mum and Dad used to visit the location before they ever moved out of Birmingham. 

You can rent those barges and putter up and down the river to your heart's content.

Or until the money runs out.

Here I am, holding my mother's hand, on the very same riverbank.

More British humour. These signs are in all of the towns. 

Tourists are expected.

My sister and I both remember this whale's jawbone. It has been on the riverbank for over 100 years. I think Dad used to make up tall stories about it, which is maybe why we remember it so well.

Little girls still feed the swans.

Evesham is old. With lots of history. Which I will forbear from reciting.

Next stop, the Littletons, where half of my childhood took place.

First, the old church, where Jan and I sat together many times. Jan also got married here.

These brick walls are ubiquitous in this area of the country. Anne and I used to walk on them on the way to school. This one surrounds the churchyard.

The old tithe barn.

Down the lane and around a few bends is a road known as Blakes Hill. At the bottom of the road was a dairy farm and behind our house were the cow pastures. The cows used to traipse up and down the road every day to be milked. I'll leave the state of the road to your imagination.

Here is the dear old house, looking almost the same except for the addition on the front.

And the brick wall.

Janet insisted that we climb two gates and clamber through the fields to take a look at the back garden.

As we were peering rudely over the fence, trying to get a look at everything, we noticed the owner right about the same time he noticed us.

How embarrassing!

But he was very nice and pointed out the changes he had made and even offered to take a picture for us.

I said "Thank you."

Note the solarium, one of his additions. 

Dad would have loved it.

There used to be two huge old apple trees in the garden and a whole swing-and play-set that Dad built for us. He also built a tree house in the tall trees that used to be where the fence now stands.

All gone.

We said our goodbye and climbed and traipsed back to the car. As we were passing the front of the house, the owner came out and called us over. He introduced himself as Richard and invited us into the house to see all the renovations he had made.

Oh, twist my arm, I cried!

No, I'm kidding. I accepted quite graciously.

Richard and his wife, Audrey, proudly gave us the grand tour. The house is really beautiful. Richard, who used to be in the construction business before retiring, has knocked out walls, changed the orientation of rooms, and added rooms until the mind boggles. It was immaculate and tastefully done, and I think Dad would have been impressed. 

This collection of old tools is on the wall in an addition to the house.

As we were standing in the solarium, talking, Audrey suddenly blurted out, "Were there two little girls?"

I confirmed that there were.

She told us that several years ago, when Richard was removing a cement slab from the garage, he found two little sets of footprints and names in the floor beneath. They had wondered about the footprints all this time and were tickled to meet the owner of the largest set. 

This was one of the sweetest moments of the whole trip for me. I think it is because I have always lived so far away from all the things that were familiar to me as a child. The villages in which we lived have changed so little that when I go back it is as if time slips away and I can walk the country lanes and relive those carefree days. I am very blessed to have had such a secure and happy childhood.

We walked around the village loop and Jan filled me in on everything she knew about the houses and the people who lived in them. Lest you fall in love with these gems, as we did, the price of real estate is prohibitive in these picturesque villages.

English people constantly crack me up!

Put money through front door.

How great is that?

The Ivy Inn, a village landmark.

Still there, after all these years.

Back to the car and one more wistful look at the old house.

I really earned my name that day.

Nostalgic Nana, indeed.

Oh yeah, twenty-three photos, did you notice?

Wells, a moat, Bath, and a rainstorm

Did you notice the water theme going on there?

It rained heavily on Sunday night and we awoke to a grey morning. Nevertheless, we trooped on and walked down some paths to Wells Cathedral. This is perhaps the finest of all the great British cathedrals.

It is surrounded by an actual moat!

The foundation of this church goes back to Saxon times, around 705 AD. The present cathedral was begun about 1175 and was designed in the revolutionary new Gothic style. 

The first building phase took about eighty years and about 300 of the original medieval statues remain today.

The pigeons really like them!

We wandered around and got completely lost.

It is that big.

Plus, we get lost easily.

We went through an archway and found this.

The Vicar's Close.

A little research discovered that this has its origin in the 14th century, when the Vicar's Choral was founded. Each of the 42 singing vicars was given a tiny house with a dining hall at one end of the quadrangle and a chapel at the other. The purpose of this beneficence was to protect he vicars from the wordly temptations that confronted them when they lodged in the town. The front gardens were added a couple of hundred years later. Members of the current Vicar's Choral still live here, along with other cathedral employees.

This is the only continually inhabited, completely medieval street in England.

This is part of Wells Cathedral School, which is right next to the cathedral and, as well as educating local children, trains some of them as choristers for the Cathedral Choir. By "choristers", they mean vocalists. Music is an important part of Wells Cathedral. 

I deeply regret missing evensong.

There is a clock at Wells Cathedral that is very famous for being the second oldest clock mechanism in England, and probably the world, to be still in use in its original condition.

This isn't it.

Go here if you want to see a photo of it.

This is the octagonal Chapter House that was finished in 1306 and was the meeting place for cathedral affairs. The Bishop would sit under the picture in the window to the left of the column and the canons would each sit in his designated spot under the smaller metal plaques. 

This is an illegal photo; I was too cheap to pay the photography fee so I only sneaked a few inside photos. Actually, I was starting to get tired of the constant fees we were having to pay for parking and entrance and, now, photography. 

It brought out my inner rebel.

Anyway, while Jeff and I were standing in this room, quite awed, and, thankfully, after sneaky photo-taking had ended, an elderly man came in. We asked him about the space and he proceeded to tell us stories about his war experiences and also about the Chapter house. Just one of the many helpful people that delighted us as we wended our way around the south coast.

The acoustics in this room are astounding. Those medieval architects knew a thing or two!

This was somewhere in Wells.

How could you not want to go in and buy something?

Goodbye Wells, we wish we could have spent more time with you.

Hello Bath.

By now, we are unwilling to pay to see anything.

Especially old churches.

So, when someone told us about the old Guild Hall, now the Town hall, which we could wander around for nothing, we were on it like whipped cream on a bun.

Behold, the working man's answer to the upper class's Assembly Rooms.

They weren't allowed into the former, so decided to build their own gathering place.

And it is stupendous.

The craftsmanship is divine.

And it is free!

This was on a bench outside the Town hall.

I love the understated British humour.

I don't even know what this is, but I like it.

It may be in the Roman Baths, for which we declined to pay but I may have sneaked another photo!

By this time we were feeling a little peckish and made the mistake of accepting a free sample of some cake from this pastry shop.

We succumbed in a big way!

We sat on this step in the square, listening to the buskers, and a passing lady offered to take our photo.

Our enjoyment must have been obvious!

Black Forest gateau for Jeff.

Something with a French name for me, but it was really a Napolean of the highest order.

In keeping with my new rule (sit and listen to the buskers) we sat for well over an hour and listened to some excellent music. Not only that, but we had some great conversations with our bench-mates. No one is a stranger for long when you're a tourist.

The town square is filled with music all day long. Apparently, the buskers have a meeting in the morning and decide who will play each hour. 

When we first arrived, the musician was playing an Irish flute.

This guy played some pleasing melodies and had a unique voice.

Then this young woman played a hang, pronounced "hong". It is like an inverted steel drum and resembles a flying saucer. The instruments are made by a couple of men in Switzerland and they only make a few hundred each year. The only way you can buy one is to go to Switzerland. I've never seen one before, but it is haunting and she played and sang beautifully.

Watch a couple of masters at work.

Aaand, a shorter one for good measure.

The hang player did not get to finish her hour because the rain started.
We ran to the car park and managed to reach the car before it became a downpour.

And on we drove to Aston Somerville, where Jan had a nice hot dinner waiting for us.

I need to get something off my chest

Yes, go ahead, laugh!

It's about driving in England.

First, let me say that English drivers are very courteous, more than Americans. I felt like a complete idiot most of the time, but only got honked at a couple of times when I was about to run some other car off the road.

Hanging head in shame.

Consider that I was in a right-hand-drive manual-transmission car that was upgraded to a non-compact. And the majority of the car was between me and the side of the road, which rarely had any kind of shoulder. Curbs, walls, houses, are often right next to the road and Jeff was in a constant state of panic that I was going to blow the left pair of tyres or worse. I did get better as the days went by, but my driving was never casual. 

Pair that with the ubiquitous roundabouts, which could have as many as four lanes entering at once and four or five exits all signed for several different destinations, and you can begin to appreciate my level of trauma.

However, in spite of my complaining, the angels were watching over us and we managed to end the fortnight unscathed.

I did, however, complain.

A lot.

Our lovely new friends on Hayling Island assured us that we must stop in Portsmouth.

So we did.

And got lost on those darn roundabouts several times before finding a little side street on which to park. We considered that to be a bonus, because there is no free parking in England! 

So many people, so little space. 

But this time, at least, we rocked on the parking front!

We hiked over to the historic dockyard and home of the Royal Navy and balked at the ticket price (over 20 pounds) to all the attractions, which include a couple of ships, several museums and the harbour tour. The only thing that could be paid for separately was the harbour tour, for a mere five pounds, so we did that. 

This is the HMS Warrior, the world's first iron-hulled, armour-plated, steam-and-wind-powered ship that was part of Queen Victoria's Black Battle Fleet. Launched in 1860, the Warrior was the largest, fastest, and most powerful ship of her day.  She was built in response to the first ironclad warship that was launched by the French a year earlier. Naval technology advanced so fast that the Warrior was obsolete in ten years.

You can get married on the Warrior if you've a whim and an extra thousand pounds floating around.

Portsmouth is home to three aircraft carriers, as well as a fleet of destroyers, frigates, mine warfare ships, and offshore patrol vessels. 

Kinda sounds like a game of Battleship, doesn't it?

I won't subject you to my whole flotilla of ship photos.

You can thank me later.

This beauty, of which we caught only a glimpse (see earlier reference to cheap tendencies) is the HMS Victory, the world's oldest commissioned ship and a proud memorial to Vice Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson, Britain's greatest Naval hero. 

At least that's what the brochure says.

It was on this very ship that Lord Nelson died and the battle of Trafalgar was planned and fought. It is undergoing restoration at the moment, which is why the masts are rather short.

The port is a busy one.

We were only a hop, skip, and a jump away from the birthplace of Charles Dickens. We found another free parking spot (score!) and paid old Charlie a visit.
No photos allowed.

Then, it was off to Stonehenge.

Words are not enough.

The ticket price includes an audio tour, which was fascinating.

Sue was here.

A little trivia: the lichen covering the stones has been tested and found to contain over 90 different species, many of them rare and unusual.

Even though you can't wander among the stones any more, Stonehenge is an awesome sight and worth the visit.
Again, sparing you my plethora of photos.
We walked up the hill to the burial mounds, called barrows. There are 24 of them in the area. Between Stonehenge and the barrows, the landscape is quite surreal.

Our destination this Sunday evening was Wells, which is designated a city because of its cathedral. I had hoped to make evensong again, but it was at 3 pm and the day had been too full of other things. 

We arrived in Wells in the early evening and started looking for the address of our host. It must be very obscure, because everyone we asked gave us a different opinion. We knew it was by the cathedral, so we parked and started walking the narrow alleys next to it. I knocked on a couple of doors and a kind lady called our host for us and he drove over and led us back to his house.

Turns out that what we thought was a cathedral was just a big church.

They all start to look the same after a while!

I have been thinking about time and perspective while writing this post. The abbey at Hastings is almost a thousand years old. The first incarnation of Stonehenge was thought to be over four thousand years ago. Every where you turn in Britain, history assaults the senses. I suppose that if you live there, you become less aware of the antiquity of everything, but for us, it was formidable. To tread the ground upon which thousands of men died at the Battle of Hastings brings a reality to history that I never feel when reading about it. I think this is one of my favourite things about traveling to new places. 

Jeff, of course, revels in it.

The other aspect that thrills me is being able to visit with family and friends who have been strangers for too long. On Monday, we will finally meet up with my childhood friend, Jan.

Stay tuned.

I know, bated breath, right?

The magical history tour continues

Well, if you're tired of reading about my travels, you'd better go somewhere else for a week or so! This serves as a journal for me. I love to go back and read old posts and relive our adventures, so I will selfishly recount everything I recall. 

Saturday found us in Hastings, on the south coast. We stayed in a grand old house in St. Leonard's-on-Sea, about thirty minutes walk along the seafront from Hastings itself. The house is Georgian and was built in the 1850's. It is in a state of benevolent neglect and, while the hosts were affable and attentive and engagingly befuddled, the room and bathing facilities were not quite up to the standard of our other stays.

No matter. The weather was becoming sunnier each day and it was a beautiful day for a walk. 

As we got to the main part of Hastings, this was the view as far as the eyes could see.

I could just imagine the crowds of holiday-goers walking the promenade a hundred years ago.

 Hastings was already a settlement when the Romans arrived in Britain for the first time in 55BC. The remains you see at the top of the hill are Hastings Castle, built by William the Conqueror in the 11th Century.

We walked all the way to Old Town and took the tram to the top of the opposing hill.

We walked around the "nature preserve" at the top, although the only evidence we saw of nature was millions of rabbit droppings. The expanse of grass must be a sight to see when all the rabbits come out to play.

The view, however, was phenomenal.

Then we went down again.

All the way back to St. Leonard's. 

Jeff decided he likes the south coast beaches, which are composed of shingle. He hates sand! At the end of our trip, we saw a photo in the newspaper of a beach like this, packed with people who were making the most of the Indian summer. And when I say "packed", I mean literally that there was hardly room to walk between the sun-worshippers. 

Personally, sitting on rocks is not my idea of a good time!

The Battle of Hastings was not fought in Hastings, but 8 miles to the north at a place called Senlac Hill. There is a nearby town called Battle. Funny, that.

It was fascinating to learn about the Battle of Hastings. I've always remembered the date 1066 from elementary school. Most Americans probably haven't encountered this particular period of history, especially younger generations, but it was a definitive time in English history. It marked the end of the Anglo-Saxon rule and ushered in the Norman rule. The Norman invasion transformed the ruling class, language, church life and culture of the country.

William the conqueror came from a group of Vikings who had settled in Northern France. He took exception to Harold Godwinson's ascent to the British throne in early 1066, claiming that it had been promised to him. Poor Harold spent most of 1066 defending his throne against various invaders, so his forces were already weakened and tired from a forced march down from Yorkshire. 

Harold's troops spent the better part of a day holding off William's army, but the Conqueror proved to be the better strategist in the end and his army rushed up this very hill to finally defeat and kill Harold.

There is a great rendition of the battle here if you have a few minutes to spare.

Behold, the abbey spoken of in this quote from the aforementioned website.

No later than 1070, King William 'the Conqueror', as he now was, marked his victory by establishing a great Benedictine abbey at Battle. On the one hand, this important religious foundation would serve as a memorial to the dead, and could be seen as a public act of atonement by the king for the bloodshed caused. Even the abbey's own chronicler was to later write that the fields had been 'covered in corpses, and all around the only colour to meet the gaze was blood-red'. But there was another purpose to the foundation, one reflecting the more calculating side of William's nature: it would stand as a symbol of the Norman triumph. Indeed, the abbey chronicler reports the king's insistence that the high altar in the abbey church was to stand on the very spot that Harold fell.

That William was a wiley one!

Our bed for the night was on Hayling Island, just out of Portsmouth. We arrived just before dark, having gotten lost several times on the way. Those darn roundabouts get me every time! Our hosts were new to the B&B scene, as were those on the previous night. We were their very first guests. The house was immaculate and our room was lovely.

This tray was supplied with snacks and hot drink makings. 

Our hosts' son just moved to New Zealand and they are visiting him in January so we had lots to talk about. I think this was our favourite of all the airbnb stays. 

We slept like babies.