Tierra de Tortugas

Summer 2016: A Bed in Bath, and then Beyond...

We departed Cardiff by bus on a drizzly day, leaving Wales behind and crossing the Severn Bridge back to the ‘English’ part of the British Isles. I sat next to a nice lady named Patricia and she told me of her family’s surviving The War. It’s a common subject in this part of the world; painful and vivid memories that remain common, compelling, and inescapable – and as fresh as yesterday.

We transferred to a local bus in Bristol and soon found ourselves on a street corner in Bath, searching out our next lodging. Oddly, our room was around the back, the sign said, reached by the alley. The place was small but it was inexpensive and a good enough fit for us as we usually spend most of our days, and part of the night, out wandering. We stowed our bags, locked the door, and soon found the Saracens Head Tavern, one of England’s many fine pubs, nestled in the narrow and winding streets of this ancient city. We settled into chairs, surrounded by dark walls of deep history, and quickly wrapped ourselves around a pair of hearty meals with a tall rich ale standing proud beside each one. This is the essence of England and how much better can life get?

Bath is awash in theatre, much like England in general, and they honor their actors and writers by naming theaters after them. Like Peter Ustinov, actor, playwright, bon vivant, author and wit. Among his finest aphorisms:

• At the age of four with paper hats and wooden swords we’re all Generals. Only some of us never grow out of it.

• Parents are the bones on which children cut their teeth.

• The point of living and of being an optimist is to be foolish enough to believe the best is yet to come.

We managed to score tickets to a production with a good cast at the Theatre Royal (dating from 1805) – at far less than London prices. Yet another among the many charms of small towns.

 

While in Bath, a visit to Sally Lunn’s Eating House (est. 1680) is in order, although we had to wait about 15 minutes for a table. But we reaped the rewards of patience and settled in for another fine English repast. It’s a very good thing we wander a lot; it helps burn off the calories we enjoy so well.

And the streets near Sally Lunn’s are filled with more savory and tempting delights. With a few even ranking as bizarre. 

 

We’re just a few steps from Bath Abbey, where a plaque provides the answer to an important (although frequently un-asked) trivia question: “Who was the first King of England and where was he crowned?”

The quiet interior of Bath Abbey is bathed in iridescent light filtered through large stained glass windows. The ceiling is a lacework of traditional Norman tracery. The floor and walls contain numerous stones marking the passing of the faithful down through the centuries, augmented by proverbs for the living. 

 

A white-haired priest steers us to a stone in the floor marking the exact spot where Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip stood on their visit in 1973 to commemorate the thousandth anniversary of the crowning of Edgar, the first King of England.

 

Once we’ve returned to the open air we find street life outside the Abbey continues much as it has for centuries, with minstrels, vendors, and street artists. Some with period clothing and instruments.

 

We cross the old stone Pulteney Bridge over the Avon River and find a maze that keeps us, among the many other happy children, entertained for a good while. And there are posters throughout the city announcing the soon-to-be arrival of the Tour of Britain, a counterpoint to the Tour de France we witnessed a month earlier in Beaucaire. We make a point to be ‘on station’ in a few days to see them as they blast into town.

And after the day’s wander we found The Raven, yet another fine pub to while away the evening. The menu offers a choice between ‘Hot Pies’ and ‘Not Pies’ – a sufficiently delicious variety for us.

 

Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey – all that stuff – they’re fine to see and visit, and the experience can make us more educated, more worldly. But the true reward, at the end of the day, and found throughout the British isles, have to be those evenings spent in the comforting embrace of a local pub. With a steaming meat and vegetable pie sitting before you and a tall glass of ale at hand, the world just looks better.

 And our after-dinner stroll back to the apartment is graced with a few more signs and sights.

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In Bath, to our great good fortune, we were recommended to a kind lady named Patricia by our friend Maggie Becker. She and Maggie have been friends for about 50 years (!), and she offered to drive us around the local countryside via every hidden back lane and through every charming village the day would allow. All we had to do was cover the cost of gas, which wasn’t much for her modest car. We were more than happy to buy the gas, plus mid-morning scones and lunch and whatever else was needed.

 Bath is nestled at the edge of the Cotswolds, and we were soon whisked away into the greenest of rolling hills and dales. England’s famous rainfall rewards us with the most beautiful of gentle landscapes, and quiet stone villages with such names as Cirencester, Upper Slaughter, Stow-on-the-Wold and a variety of other labels.

Our mid-morning tea of delicious scones and jam, served on fine china in an ancient building in the town of Bourton-on-the-Water, is all that could be hoped for. Outside, a small stream meanders through town – with ducks! – under hanging willow branches.

After a thorough walk-around, we’re off again through green hill and forested dale to other adventures. We dash past several imposing gateways, wondering what and who is inside. “That’s HRH’s (Her Royal Highness') place,” Patricia notes as we pass one of those large gateways a bit too fast for me to get a picture. And the day unwinds gloriously as we stop in a few more uber-charming stone villages. 

In one narrow street some of the local gentry are out exercising their vintage Rolls and Jaguars.

 

Then we’re back to the countryside (with sheep!) on our way to The Lock Inn Café for lunch overlooking the Avon, one of the countryside’s many navigable rivers. We consider the idea of renting a canal barge on a future trip, and it just might happen. Who knows?

After watching several barges make their lazy way down the river, we return to Bath, happy but exhausted. And thank you very much, Patricia, for a fine English interlude! (And thank you, Maggie Becker, for making it happen!)

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Just a block or two uphill from our apartment, and across Royal Victoria Park, lies The Royal Crescent, one of Bath’s signature architectural works, and one I studied long ago in school. It was completed in 1775, I’ve been waiting years to see it in person and it’s an impressive sight indeed, rising on a hillside overlooking the valley below. The pictures can speak to that. 

The streets behind the Crescent also abound in interesting sights, from Charles Dickens placards to an ancient Land Rover – plus some delicious lunch fare. 

 

And just across the street from lunch was a ‘Chemist,’ so we paused to ask him the question many Americans would like to know (after one of the more recent prescription drug scandals in the US): “How much does an ‘Epi-pen’ really cost in the UK?” 

“I’d be happy to look that up for you!” he replied as he consulted his computer. “Let’s see, since you don’t qualify for the British National Health Service, it will cost you about 42 pounds (around US$45).” It’s not surprising that the true cost is nowhere near the $650 each that those US thieves are currently getting, and expecting the government (meaning you and me) to pay.

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And then it’s time for The Big Day – the Tour of Britain is coming to town. The grounds of the Royal Crescent are filled with crowds awaiting the arrival of Britain’s finest cyclists. Local youth cycling clubs are going through their paces beforehand. Food vendors are serving the hungry hordes. 

Then we’re all crowding the rail to see the pace car go by, just a few minutes before the leaders come racing through. And then, very quickly, like a deflating balloon, it’s over. Suddenly all the air is gone, the spectators hang out for a few more minutes, then drift away and the street sweepers appear. 

So we set off to enjoy the rest of a fine summer’s day as we wander the streets of Bath a bit more. And then we’ll search out another good pub dinner to end the evening.

 

The next morning we settled in over a hearty breakfast with our friends Bonnie and Francis, from Albuquerque, who just happened to be in Bath. It was good to join them for some English fare in a little cafe with a fine view of the river. We were just planning our day when the phone rang: “Will you be checking out today?” the caller asked. Oops. Wasn’t that tomorrow? we asked. We were off by a day, somehow. We quickly wolfed down some chow, raced for the apartment, and were soon rolling our bags to the train station – an abrupt end to a fine time in Bath. Our next stop: back to affordable lodgings in the cultural diversity of Ilford, just a bit east of London.

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We spent a few more days exploring more of London’s fine museums and backstreets, before boarding the Heathrow Express at Paddington Station. And then we were soon on an Icelandic flight for a stopover in icy-windy Reykjavik on our way to New York City. We had plans to meet up in NYC with our friends Judy and Paul, who took the train up from the DC area.

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You can spend a lot of time (and money) in the Big Apple because there’s just so much to see and do in this great city of the world – everything from visiting some of the world’s finest museums to enjoying a cold cocktail in a quiet Manhattan bar. We spent much of our time walking beautiful Central Park and the city streets, exploring Brooklyn’s Park Slope and Botanical Gardens, and watching the sun set over glittering Manhattan followed by a late-night dinner in a Brooklyn bar. We're glad that Judy and Paul are usually up for those kinds of simple pleasures before heading back to DC.

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And soon enough we were back in Tucson for Aeromar’s inaugural flight to Hermosillo, complete with free food, margaritas, and mariachis! All this meant that the flight was a couple of hours late to leave, but who cares? Actually, there was a business-looking guy who was bummed out, but I was deep into the music and a cold margarita and he got no sympathy from me. Then, when the dry and dusty beloved city of Hermosillo appeared below our wings, we were home again. We rolled our bags to the street and flagged down the next Costa bus for Kino (cost: 120 pesos/US$6 each). 

So that wraps up our fine Summer of 2016. Since then, we've been immersed in the daily life ("la vida quotidiana") of Kino Bay, Sonora, Mexico. We'll be traveling again this next summer, to world-class Mexico City and charming Guanajuato. We wrote extensively about both of these places and many other places in Mexico in 2015, and hope we'll have the time and energy to write about these wonderful places again. — PRW

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In the meantime, here's a sparkie lady with a few more 'travel cheap' tips:

How to travel cheap (by Oneika

Summer 2016: ...Cardiff, Bath & Beyond

Cardiff, Wales

The train whisks us quickly from bustling London into the green landscape of southern England, through the heart of modest cities and past numerous quaint villages. We’re on our way to the storied countryside of Wales.

We arrive in Cardiff and enter yet another new linguistic world. This is the final month of our 4-month meander through Europe and we’ve dealt with numerous languages and dialects already. We’ve come to Wales to experience the culture, the people, and now another new language, although we soon realize that any real facility with Welsh is not in our immediate future. We never ever get a real grasp of the pronunciation during our stay in Cardiff.

We drag our bags from the railway station through the streets of town and find lodging at 62 Cathedral Road; it’s a solid and elegant townhouse, nestled under spreading trees, and with an abundantly flowered entry garden. The gracious owners checked us in to a large comfortable room with triple-glazing, just in case the modest traffic outside got noisy. (It didn’t.) 

We’re in a neighborhood of fine older row-houses built of stone, each with a classical entry, each set back from the street, with trees and flower gardens in front. It’s an excellent location for walking to the center city and to any number of historic attractions. 

 

There are at least four very good pubs and eateries settled into similar townhouses within a block of our lodgings. On our first night in Cardiff we enjoy the cosy pub right next to our quarters, although in a rare break from pub tradition we opt out of a tall draft. A glance at the impressive dessert menu decides us on a good red wine instead.

And in the morning, the establishment just across the street at Cathedral 73, with the bright yellow Rolls Royce parked by the door, serves up an excellent breakfast. We’ll not lack for excellent and nearby food choices.

 

(We never did actually see the ‘Cathedral’ itself, but we’d already seen so many others on this trip.)

On another morning, and on a nearby corner, we find a place called Coffee #1. It’s a sunny day, so all the outside tables are taken, but the cosy interior is a great place for a large cup of sturdy coffee and a pair of delicious ‘Welsh Cakes.’ We’ll return to Coffee #1 for Welsh Cakes and coffee several more times during our stay.

Almost just behind our lodging place lies the vast greenery of Bute Park, and we spend plenty of time wandering its verdant paths; it’s our best route to the nearby center of Cardiff. Along the pathway that skirts the River Taff we peak over a fence lining the grounds of the venerable Cardiff Bowling Club (est. 1878) for a bit of the day’s action on the greens.

 

We cross the River Taff bridge and enter the lush gardens of Bute Park. We’re heading to the sprawling grounds of Bute Castle for a day of exploration. The back door into the Castle is no longer in use, so we’ll find our way to the street and through a tunnel to the other side.

The Castle’s street side entry is flanked with the famous ‘Animal Wall’ and its collection of creatures escaping from the castle confines. They were featured in a 1930s cartoon strip that suggested the animals came alive at night – a scary prospect for the sleeping children of Cardiff!

Cardiff Castle, with its extensive grounds, is an extravagance worth experiencing. It boasts numerous Gothic modifications and additions over the centuries. There’s even a huge trebuchet designed for tossing horrible objects over the wall at besieging enemies. It recalls that old Monte Python skit where the French are flinging various items at the English, although without a trebuchet. 

Much of this opulence, and the soaring main castle, owes its existence to coal. At its peak, the Bute family was among the wealthiest in the world. During the Second World War Cardiff was one of the largest coal exporting ports on the planet – and hence an important target for the Luftwaffe. The experience still resonates in Cardiff today.

We’re first drawn to tunnels within the high surrounding walls overlooking the city. The tunnels served as a bomb shelter during The War; the Warden’s Station remains intact, bunk beds line the corridor, and old posters hang on the walls. And there’s a soundtrack, complete with whistling bombs and explosions to recreate the sensation of huddling for protection in these dank quarters. In Cardiff the Second World War is not that distant and abstract concept held by many Americans. Here they vividly remember the terrible screaming bombs and their friends who perished. It remains part of their personal history.

We emerge from the tunnel into the daylight and climb to the pathway along the wall. The bright red flags of Wales festoon the battlements overlooking the city beyond. And behind us the towering 12th century Norman keep stands proud on a hill upon the green below, the site of an old Roman fort. 

 

 

 

We do plenty of walking on our travels, but climbing to the Norman keep challenges our aging knees. With fellow intrepid climbers we assault the narrow stairs en masse. Within the keep there’s a tower accessed by another narrow stairway where the last holdouts would resist to the end. Through portholes we see the grey hulk of Cardiff Castle, the futuristic Millennium Stadium, and the distant hills.

The Castle itself contains a treasure of fine furniture, stained glass, art, sculpture – and beautiful books, books, books. The names of classical authors are designed into the wallpaper. Ah, for endless time in which to recline with a snifter of fine brandy, and enjoy an ancient book, or several, from these shelves. I think I’ll never be so lucky.

 

Wales is the homeland of Dylan Thomas (the ‘other’ Dylan), one of our favorite, and notoriously well-lubricated, poets. Yet the hallowed shelves in Cardiff Castle seem not to have any of his work. Well it’s their loss. It’s unlikely we’ll be going to his home down the coast in Swansea, but at least we’re nearby. His long poem, “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”, is a perennial favorite of mine.

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On another morning we’re again at Coffee #1 for a ‘refresher course’ on quiche, fruit, Welsh Cakes, and their bracing strong coffee. One must prepare well for the daily toil of wandering this ancient city. And especially its imposing fine art museum.

This is the day we’ll visit the neoclassical National Museum Cardiff, one of Britain’s best museums, for another hit of the fine arts. Among their many works are significant pieces by Monet, Sisley, Renoir, and Van Gogh. Important Welsh artists like Gwen and Augustus John are also well presented. 

There are paintings of famous battles and other events that resonate in Welsh history. The WWI battle of Mametz Wood is flanked by a stark and touching written work that brings the lie to notions of battlefield glory.

And the works of the British Army officer and war protestor Siegfried Sassoon are given their due. After serving with valor he, along with Wilfred Owen and others, came to realize the corruption endemic to warfare and worked strongly to oppose it. His poetry is memorable for its stark depictions of trench warfare.

 

On another morning we arranged to meet with our Brit friend Luke Waterston, an award-winning author who’s been widely published in Lonely Planet, Rough Guides, the Guardian, BBC Travel, and other sources. His first novel, Roebuck, a bracing read about an historical adventurer in Brazil, has been recently released to fine reviews. Luke spends much of his time in the Andes and the Amazon Basin, so we were happy to find him nearby.  

After coffee, I take Luke on a long walk through distant parts of the city, beginning at the northern end of Bute Park. It’s more than a bit odd that I’m leading this trek, but for all Luke’s travels, plus his vast knowledge of Britain and so many other countries, he’s never made it to Cardiff before. So here I am, the Yank, pretending to be knowledgeable about this old port city. Yes it’s odd, but I managed to fake it well enough, and Luke seemed to enjoy the irony of it.

 

We’ve seen so much in our stay, yet Cardiff Harbor still awaits. So on another fine day, we board an excursion boat in Bute Park and ease our way downriver to the port. 

It’s a weekend and we’ve arrived in the middle of a party as Cardiff celebrates its long history with the sea. There are jugglers and musical artists to keep us amused. The old Norwegian Church, with its herring-themed stained glass, is now an arts center and serves up a tasty lunch. And there’s a massive coal bucket sitting on the dock as homage to the industry that built this city.

And there’s a simple memorial to a lad of 15, one of many young men of Wales who’ve been lost at sea over the years. As well, there’s a warning to others not to dismiss these stormy British and Irish seas. There’s a dangerous world just off these shores and sailors must always be prepared for the worst. 

Other memorials are found in various parks and other places in the city, like quiet Alexandra Gardens just behind the Museum. Most monuments commemorate the wars that have cost this community so dearly. But it’s touching that they even have a 2016 memorial to the victims of the Thalidomide tragedy, a horrible event that many have long forgotten.

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There’s still much to see and experience in the streets of Cardiff. The Brit spelling of ‘Wahaca’ brings a chuckle (nobody in Wales can pronounce Oaxaca?), but we enjoy their slogan, “La vida es corta; El precio no importa” (“Life is short; The price is not important”). We didn’t try the tacos, even though it was “The Year of the Taco” – according to somebody, somewhere. 

 

 

 

 

 

And how could we not get a picture of the smiling lady at the laundromat wearing a “Great Dorset Chilli Festival” T-shirt? She was a bit amused when we told her ‘chile’ is spelled with only one ‘L’ and an ‘e’ on the end. Texans misspell it with an ‘i’ on the end, but even they don’t spell it with a double ‘L.’

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After many days of rich wanderings through Cardiff, it’s time to move onward again. On our last night we enjoy another fine dinner and good wine in a quiet bistro before retiring again to our comfortable bed at 62 Cathedral for the night.

 

The morning dawns overcast and drizzly, the very sort of notoriously proper UK weather we've actually seen little of on this trip. We don broad hats and rain jackets, and roll our bags just a few blocks to a long-distance-bus stop located nearby in Bute Park. And we’re off yet again, this time to our last stop in England, the charming village of Bath.