Getting to Old Repeater Station on Hadrian's Wall

We stayed at Old Repeater Station while in Hadrian's Wall country.  The proprietor was a Londoner who retired to Northumberland to run a bed and breakfast.  His name was Les and he looked just like Mike Myers, only a little more grey.  His dry British humor threw me off at first before I got used to it.  He also had that plummy aristocratic British accent that tickles us Americans to death (well, at least just me). In the evenings, when we all congregated in the common area, Les liked to pull out his whiskey bottle and offer it around: "Fancy a wee drop?"  He was a great host.

Haydon Bridge was the closest train stop to Old Repeater Station.  This was the most ordinary town we set foot in while on our trip.  It was actually rather a relief to see a working class British town--it proved that England was a real country with more faces than the typical tourist attractions of Oxford or Lacock. 

We got fish and chips made to order at the Haydon Bridge Fish & Chip Shop, which we ate on top of the bridge, attended by a group of squabbling gulls.  The number and ferocity of those birds made me feel as though I was in Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

Old Repeater Station was the only place on our entire trip that we could not reach under our own steam or using public transportation.  So we called a taxi and waited at a local pub.  Every head at the bar swiveled to stare as we entered, wearing our huge duffel bags.  The lady bartender called me "dear" and served up hard cider in an ice-filled glass.  We sat in the corner, entering the companionable silence of the other gentlemen there watching the World Cup.  A family came in through a door at the back, with a little girl in a frilly dress.  They paused to chat at the bar before walking out.  A gentleman at the bar struck up a conversation with us.  It was a neat little place, as comfortable as a well broken-in shoe.

Now comes the terrifying part.  The taxi driver gave us a roller coaster of a ride to the bed and breakfast.  The narrow winding road was hemmed in by chest high grass that grew right up to the edge of the road (there were no shoulders) and reduced visibility to what was immediately in front of the car.  Combine this with the driver's apparent suicidal streak as he went 40 - 50 mph, blindly whipping around corners and over crests with nary a caution that perhaps there might be a car coming in the opposite direction.  I wanted to lay down on the seat and hum "la la" to myself, but settled for closing my eyes and praying that death would be quick. 

Instead we pulled up in front of Old Repeater Station with Les walking out the door to greet us.  I managed to get out without going weak-kneed.  Seeing Hadrian's Wall just across the road may have helped.  Thus ends another day.

Oxford

The United Kingdom as a whole is roughly the size of Oregon. This is one of the things I had a hard time getting used to: how very close everything is. The entire trip between Lacock and Oxford, including waiting*, took about an hour or so. It was no big deal for us to hop on the bus and make several train connections to get to Oxford.

We arrived at Oxford in a chaos of tourists. School groups and tour groups jammed the heart of the city. Trying to move through the crowds sometimes felt like slogging through molasses. 

 There were lots of Oxford students out and about, most in academic dress of some kind or other. Some students were wearing short robes with strange flaps of fabric dangling off the shoulders. According to wikipedia, these are "streamers adorned with folds," and are worn by undergraduates.  Academic dress or not, they still looked funny, as if the undergraduates had sprouted extra arms.

The wildlife of Oxford

There were also schoolchildren in their uniforms. While we were waiting to cross at an intersection, we saw a schoolgirl walk by with artfully ripped tights. The group of schoolgirls next us started whispering furiously about her audacity.

We got our first proper tea at The Grand Cafe, site of the first coffeehouse in England.  The art deco interior was dazzling, due to an abundance of gold leaf and enormous floor to ceiling windows.

I got a kick out of the counterweight for the door, a teapot.  

The cafe was lit by lamps held aloft by arms sprouting from the walls.  They were eeriely similar to the arms in Jean Cocteau's 1946 movie La Belle et la Bete.  I kept expecting an arm to move, or the Beast himself to emerge from a hidden door, or out of one of those outlandishly huge mirrors.  My kind of place!

Tea itself was scrumptious.  A pot of steaming black tea, an overflowing sugar bowl (the British love their sugar), rich cream, and duchess cake, an intriguing mix of fudge, dried fruit, and nuts.  I truly settled into England after this tea.

Of course, we took a tour of the Bodleian Library. Our group waited for the guide inside the Divinity School, the oldest university building, built between 1427-1483.

Harry Potter was here

While building stone doesn't quite have the air of nature, I felt as if we were in a light-dappled glade. Such is the effect of light and airy Gothic architecture, and the skill of stonemasons from over 500 years ago. The columns were trees leaning over us, spreading a lattice-work of branches overhead in the form of lierne vaulting.

 

I wish I could have a painted ceiling like this

We visited Duke Humphrey's medieval library.  Books were not allowed to leave the room, not even for the king.  He had a screened in alcove where he could read books in private without commoners gawking at him.  There were also chained books, an early security measure in a time when books were extremely valuable.

After the Bodleian Library, we went to the TIC** and asked for directions to Tolkien's house.  At first, we were greeted with a blank stare by the first employee we asked.  After consultation with the entire staff, another employee came to the rescue and gave us directions***.

Tolkien's house is located in a very lovely suburb of Oxford, full of rambling old houses with arched windows, beautiful stonework, and windows full of happy plants.  The house itself wasn't one of the nicer houses, but, nonetheless, it is notable for containing the drawing room where Tolkien wrote The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.

After this satisfying stroll away from the crowd of tourists, during which we noted that Tolkien had most likely walked the same route countless times, we headed to the Eagle & Child pub, where the Inklings used to meet and discuss their current literary endeavors.

The usual place for their meetings was in the Rabbit Room, but people were sitting there when we arrived, so we ended up sitting in the enclosed conservatory in the back.  The bartenders recommended the nachos (I thought this was funny for some reason - nachos in England?), and we had some of the best beer of our trip there.  J. went to the bathroom and told me he went into a room where Tolkien has been, but where I can never go.

This tree looks like it is about to eat me

We walked along the Thames path and marveled at the many specimens of giant trees along the way.

Various rowing clubs were practicing on the Thames.  Once they got going, they really flew down the river.

We ate at Chequers pub for dinner.  I got to try a "ploughman's lunch," which usually consists of cheese, bread, fruit, salad, chutney, and a petite meatpie.  The cider I got here was the best cider I've ever had, Aspall Draught Suffolk Cyder, produced by Aspall Cyder.  Not cloyingly sweet, it had a pleasing floral note with a satisfying finish that put one in mind of the barnyard--an interesting mix of sweet hay and musky animal scents.  My description probably makes it sound unappealing, but you'll know where I'm coming from once you have a sip of this exquisite cider.

We returned to Damson Cottage pleasantly exhausted.  A chorus of baa's sang down the moon that night as we startled sheep lining the path between Lacock and Reybridge.

*See first footnote of post "And so it begins"

**"Tourist Information Center"-invaluable sources of information while traveling in the United Kingdom 

***If you're curious, the address is 20 Northmoor Road, Oxford

And so it begins

Jon was soon to wearily acknowledge his wife's propensity for picture-taking, especially self-portraits documenting places they've been, even airplanes and trains

After the long haul over the ocean (during which I am certain I saw lights along the Icelandic coast) and the flurry of Heathrow Airport, we arrived at Paddington Station in London. Pigeons fluttered about underfoot.  Grand Victorian architecture soared overhead.

This picture makes me wonder how often I show up in other people's pictures, a random person caught mid-step for perpetuity

People spoke with British accents. Normally - because that's how they really talk. I couldn't get over it. English is their native language too, and yet they pronounce things differently. What a concept for my parochial brain to grasp.

After this stunning introduction to the country, we caught the train to Chippenham and from there, the bus to Lacock, located in the southwest part of England in the county of Wiltshire. While waiting* for the bus, we got to be amateur anthropologists and covertly study the natives.  Our conclusions?  Teenagers are the same everywhere, regardless of accent or nationality.  What a revelation.  We did not indulge in amateur anthropology anymore after this discovery.

We arrived in Lacock, then shouldered our duffel bags for the walk** to Reybridge.  We had packed as light as we could, but our bags were still heavy (35-40 pounds), especially if you're packing for three weeks. Right when my shoulders began to protest vigorously, we made it to Damson Cottage.

Damson Cottage's blue door triggered my fascination with blue doors specifically, and painted doors in general.

Our hostess informed us of the public access footpath to Lacock.  It passed between several really old houses,

 through several sheepfields, 

over several stiles, and up a shady lane bordered by lovely stone fences.  I was happy, especially at the thought of walking through sheep.

The sheep weren't as thrilled.

I couldn't get enough of green doors, either

Lacock was a delight to explore.  

These buildings are older than America.  

It hasn't changed much over the past 250 years, due to careful management by the National Trust, which purchased nearly the entire village in 1944. 

The George Inn was a public house while Chaucer was alive.
 

We had our first dinner in England at The George Inn, which dates back to 1361.  When we first arrived, we sat at a table and waited.  And waited some more, looking over at the bartender, who was chatting with a fellow at the bar, occasionally glancing over at us.  We waited some more before we realized he wasn't coming over.  We finally asked for a menu at the bar, at which time we discovered that You Always Order At The Bar Before Taking A Table.

The George was very atmospheric.

Full of nooks and crannies.

Mismatched furniture and oriental rugs were crammed into every available space.  Light came in through windows still fitted with their original glass, imperfections and all. 

We had a hearty meal of steak and ale pies, "veg" (vegetables for us), and warm beer.  After relaxing for a bit, we walked back through the sheepfields at dusk to Damson Cottage.  It was the fitting end to a very long day.

*This was to be a preview of our travel for the duration of the trip: waiting.  We're so used to hopping in the car and going, that the notion of waiting is a somewhat foreign concept.  J. and I had to spend time throughout our trip examining bus and train schedules to make sure that we caught all of our connections in a timely fashion.  Initially, this was overwhelming, but it soon became curiously enjoyable.  Schedules and maps fascinate me.  I like perusing departure times and following lines on a map, imagining all the various permutations of possible travel.  This is probably why I was the primary trip planner.

**We walked.  A lot.