On Returning

On a spur of the moment decision I returned to my once often updated blog to find that I have neglected the poor thing for nearly seven months, for shame! It was in this mindset that I've come to inform you of my impending return to the great Isle of Britannia for what will now be my fifth transatlantic voyage to that particular country. In fact, this June will be the fifth anniversary of my initial visit to England and the blossoming of a life long love affair with the country.

So with barely contained anticipation I have booked my outward flight from San Francisco Int'l to London Heathrow for the end of June during which time I will spend a good week up in my former home, York, venture through other parts of the country visiting long unseen friends, a jaunt to Vienna and other Eastern locales to visit my dear friend Sophie, and ending with a week long Irish adventure with two of the finest twins England has to offer.

Five weeks of bliss before I enter the working world and what some might call "real" life. But while I still have my free spirit and young college mindset I will be exploring all that I can, visiting the known and unfound, and of course, documenting it all whenever I have a chance on this here weblog! So moral of the story: stay tuned come June for more adventures from the White Rose of York!

xxx

London Calling. Again.

(The Clock, Hampton Court)

And so I decided to end my journey where it began 10 months earlier, in country’s capital: London. Beth and Ellen waited with me at Diss station where I would catch the train to London Liverpool street. It’s funny how we had so much time waiting, we were early as usual, but then all of a sudden the train was approaching and it seemed like there was so much I had to say to them. I wanted to give them the biggest hugs I could and tell them how incredibly special they are to me and how I couldn’t imagine my time in England without them. As it was I had enough time to throw my bags up into the carriage before hugging each of them in turn until the doors began shutting tight down all the compartments. It was one of those National Express trains where the window pulls down in order to open and close the door and so, though discouraged, you can stick your head out of the train. As the train slowly moved from the platform I watched the fading figures waving me goodbye before taking a more traditional seat in the carriage. After that, the day was only memorable for the tears that I shed at different locations en route to and in the city of London as well as the longest and most expensive cab ride in recorded history. Unfortunately my hotel was in Bayswater, where I always make a point to stay because I know the area, it’s also located on the other side of London from Liverpool Street Station. By the time I got to my hotel, which was well situated near many known sites to me but was otherwise decidedly dull in the small single room I had reserved. While deciding what to do with the rest of the evening I broke down in wracking sobs (don’t feel pity, it’s only natural and it’s sure as hell better than keeping it all in) and found myself ridiculously close to getting back on a train for Suffolk. Of course I didn’t. I struggled through my bought of loneliness and then got my act together by falling back on what always makes me feel inspired and utterly in awe of the big city: a bought a ticket to the theatre. I lucked out really and snagged one of the last tickets to see Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Ernest at the Open Air Theatre in Regent’s Park. I grabbed a quick bite at a pub I’d frequented in the past and then headed to the park. The show was brilliant, the actors were unknown to me but still superb and I even had a glass of Pimm’s to lift my spirit.

(The Gardens at Hampton Court)

Friday was the day I had been looking forward to and planned out a week before. I caught a train from Waterloo to Hampton Court just outside of London and the former country palace of Henry VIII and all subsequent monarchs. It’s one of those tourist sites that I had yet to see in all my time spent in London and I thought it high time I checked it out. Still on that list are Windsor Castle, Somerset House Galleries and Madame Tussauds so I’ll have to remedy those losses at some later date. I obviously hadn’t done my research because I was taken aback by the absolute masses of people on the train and I thought, surely, surely, there can’t be this many hardy tourists even if it was the height of the season. So when I disembarked at Hampton Court Station the crowds were justified by signs advertising the annual RHS (Royal Horticulture Society) flower show. Now that may not sound like the height of amusement to my average American reader but I can assure you that gardens, flowers, and horticulture in general is a sort of British phenomenon that cannot be reasonably explained, so you can imagine how throngs of Britons from all necks of the country were descending upon this tiny town outside. The only lucky thing was that it meant not all of these people were going to tour the palace.

(Hampton Court Interior)

Hampton Court is huge. The core of the building was constructed during the reign of Henry VIII in the 16^th century and then added onto in the following centuries giving each wing or addition a connection to a certain ruler. Relying on this rather handy set up, the directors of the Royal Historic Palaces decided they could make monarchical tours in the different areas of the palace. I managed to take in about three of these Monarch based tours along with another based on the servants and the spiffy kitchens in which they slaved to entertain the king and his many (I’m taking hundreds if not a thousand plus) guests. I ambled through the gardens but declined tackling the famous hedge maze in the fear that I would get lost in its depth while a myriad of small children wound through it easily.

I caught the train back into the city and then walked from Waterloo station to the Imperial War museum that was fairly close and which I’d also never been to. It’s choc-a-block full of tanks, missiles, and other destructive entities from the past and present. It also houses an intense archive that someday I would love to delve into just for the chance to get my hands on some of those documents! I got to go into the recreated WWI trench and experience the Blitz from a bomb shelter and walk through a street devastated by the German bombers. I was there for nearly two hours but only scratched the surface, I can see people like my dad going there as a vacation and spending an entire week visiting the museum every day in order to see as much as they could.

(Imperial War Museum)

I felt that London was far too close to Maidstone and that I would feel horribly if I didn’t see my dear friend Martin once more before, so again I found myself waiting for a train, this time at Victoria Station. If there’s one thing I know in London it’s the various train stations most notably those of Victoria, Paddington and Kings Cross. I was met by a black and blue Martin (an incident involving Martin’s face and a football apparently) where I then was given the grand tour of Maidstone or at least those places I’d missed on my first visit. We wandered through the streets and wound our way through the parks and green spaces. We had a nice little pub lunch; I had my last English fish and chips, and enjoyed each other’s company. Then it was time to leave again, how quickly it went. When I returned to London I gathered up all my belongings in my small hotel room and put the final touches on my luggage. You may be wondering what this means. I mentioned earlier a slight fraying of my big red duffle…well this had turned into an actual hole to the point where I could stick my hand in and feel around inside. To remedy this, I purchased a large role of duct tape and proceeded to use half of it by reinforcing the bottom of the bag with who knows how many layers of tape. Needless to say, my bag made it back to San Francisco Int’l wholly intact.

Once I had gotten my luggage life together I decided to run around the corner to one of the local pubs on Bayswater Rd, The Black Lion, to have my last dinner. I was also awaiting a call from two of my dearest friends from home, Jackie and Heather, who after spending nearly two months trampling around Europe found themselves in the very same city as myself. We’d agreed to meet up for a drink in Notting Hill so I was just waiting for them to spruce up and get a move on. I had a lovely roast, my last one, complete with Yorkshire pudding and heaps of gravy. Around 9 I met Heather, Jackie, and a friend they were staying with at The World’s End near Notting Hill (that’s a pub not a location, by the way!) We had a pint and chatted away before they headed out into the wet London night and I made my way back to Bayswater for my last sleep in England.

(Notting Hill, Portobello Road Market)

Packed and ready I took an, overpriced, cab to Paddington where I caught the Heathrow express and arrived with plenty of time to chat amiably with my fellow travellers in the baggage check queue. I utilized the 15minute/pound Internet to let my worrisome parents that I did indeed make it to the airport and that, yes, they took on all my overweight luggage without complaint (which is more than I can say for some of my friends). Security was fine as usual, I think I’m just good with security people because they always end up smiling at me and I’ll make a joke or pleasant remark. Maybe I’m just a pleasant influence, I’d like to think so. After security is my favorite place: duty free shopping, the reason being my chance to purchase some quality English booze and taking it on the plane with me. My beverage of choice is naturally Pimm’s, the perfect summer drink. I filled my arms (three one litre bottles) before being told I was only legally allowed to have one litre of liquid with me through customs. However, the nice man at the check out told me I’d be able to get away with two, which was rather convenient as they were on a 2 for £20 deal. After settling the most important of affairs I bought a book, some chocolate and water at W.H. Smith’s, had a Starbuck’s fix and a bite to eat in between idle wandering from seat to seat and flicking between various books.

The next thing I knew I was sitting on the plane talking to Ellen, and using my English mobile phone for the last time, saying final goodbyes though it didn’t feel like it. I’m always amazed at how quickly we’re able to travel these days (I say this like I knew what it was like before air travel!) but it boggles my mind to travel 5,000 miles in half a day. So it was with that thought that I gathered my bags (near the end of the conveyer belt which is always a bit stretching on the nerves) and found myself in the same place that I had left ten months before.

What a trip, eh?

Three Ponds

(St Mary's Ruins)

And so on Tuesday morning, the seventh day of July, I woke up for the last time in York. I managed to get up and going fairly early and took a stroll through the city to say goodbye after my hearty English breakfast. I walked down Petergate to stand under the towering west front of the Minster then down Stonegate, through St Helen’s Square and down Lendal to the museum gardens and the ruined abbey of St Mary. The air was crisp with a lingering of the previous night’s rain and few people were out in the streets as I made my personal farewell, gazing at a ruin and sitting on the remains of a thick column that was over 800 years old. Oh, England.

Then I was off and on a mission. I walked briskly back to the Inn and noisily dragged my bags down to the foyer, settled my bill and went outside to wait for my cab to the rail station. The station was only about a 10 minute walk but with those damn bags I reckon it would have taken me about two hours, not to mention the slow deterioration at the bottom of my large red duffle, anyone have some duct tape? I got to the station quite early and when the train arrived I was so flustered trying to arrange my bags in the luggage rack and attempting to get to my seat without hitting the other passengers on the head, (I’m sure I annoyed more than one person), that by the time I got situated in my seat and looked out the window we were already half way to Doncaster! So much for a last glimpse of my beloved English hometown. I encountered a slight hold-up during my change at Peterborough, where I was helped by a nice young man, who I’d noticed also got on at York, and then by a girl who had been in my gospel choir and was going on the same train to visit an aunt in Norwich. After three and a bit hours the train slowed down as we approached Thetford station where I was being collected by my two best British friends, Ellen and Beth. My heart swelled as I saw them waiting on the platform and even though it had only been a few days since we’d parted in York it was absolutely wonderful to jump off the train to two twinly hugs.

(Ellen, Beth and I at Grimes Graves)

With a car full of picnic goodies it was a miracle we managed to fit my three large bags in along with the three of us. I can’t even put into words how lovely it was to be in an atmosphere that was someone’s home life, not a school dormitory or a hostel but in a friend’s car on the way to a warm cozy home. We hit the ground running (well driving) in the direction of Grimes Graves, an old flint mine although we didn’t know that until we got there. The Coombs’ had often seen the sign pointing towards ‘Grimes Graves’ but had never turned down the road nor looked into its function so it was rather an adventure just finding out what it’s purpose. We took our picnic goods and walked through the fields (very cautious as there were warning signs about adders being about) and set up on a disused and covered mine. After quite a bit of deliberation we decided we would be adventurous and head down into the actual mine to see what all the fuss was about. We were forced to wear hard hats, which were very attractive, and climb one at a time down the narrow ladder into the depths of the ground where hundreds, probably thousands, of men used to work just to make a living in the East of England. Flint is a trademark of East Anglia and it was something I picked up quickly as you’ll notice many of the buildings, particularly churches, using the small, hard, glinting mineral for a distinct look. While down in the mine we met another Californian who had turned semi-British. Funnily enough the reason I was found out was because of my pronunciation of a certain word used for the backside of a person and alternatively of a donkey. I said ‘ass’ when I really ought to have said ‘arse’ had I been trying to be truly British. This is one of the finer cultural differences I encountered during my year abroad. After this little adventure we decided to head to Three Ponds, the home of the Coombs’, so that we could deposit my belongings and decide our next plan of action. Also there was a very real chance of the heavens opening up on us and we thought it would be best to be indoors.

To me, Three Ponds is perfect. Not least of all because it’s the home of some of my favorite people, also the fact that the original core was built in 1596 and just breathes Englishness. We were greeted by Mumma Coombs and Tess, the family dog. Soon after taking cover the heavens did open up and let down a weeks worth of rain in the space of about forty minutes, I loved it. I got a grand tour of the house, decided not to try to drag my luggage up the stairs to my room, and caught up with the twins on the few days of our separation. Following much deliberation we sketched out a plan of attack for the next two days and decided that we should head out to the beach that evening as the sky had cleared and it seemed like a good idea. Our destination was Walberswick on the eastern coast of Suffolk.

(Ellen and I looking out at the North Sea)

We packed a disposable barbeque, towels, some snacks and stopped off at a store on the way to get marshmallows for I found it imperative that the twins experience roasting them. We spent a lovely couple hours on the mostly deserted pebbly beach and even went splashing through the waters of the North Sea clad in our undergarments. Surprisingly the water wasn’t terribly cold and we warmed ourselves by our makeshift beach bonfire that Ellen took charge of. We piled back into the car and headed back west in search of a country pub for dinner. We stopped briefly when we passed a ruined flint church that was burning golden in the evening sun. We ended up going to the Magpie Inn in Stowmarket and a well-known haunt of the Coombs for dinner. The biggest appeal was that it was still serving food as the other two country pubs that we stopped at had ceased the feeding of patrons. I had a very scrumptious beef stroganoff that almost made sitting in soaked, sandy jeans bearable. The night ended with the watching of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, classic British entertainment, wouldn’t you say?

(Blickling Hall)

Wednesday, my only full day, was wrought with promise and a plethora of ideas for activity. After a nice lie in and a full breakfast we decided on a plan of action that first took us to the north, more specifically Blickling Hall in Norfolk and the former home of Anne Boleyn. As we arrived the heavens again decided to open their floodgates, I just couldn’t get a break in East Anglia, so instead of braving the elements we decided to grab a bite of lunch in the National Trust café. By the size of the queue we could tell that ours was not a novel idea. I unfortunately sampled a certain stew of which I can’t remember the name but which I would most certainly dissuade you from ever eating. It would have been edible if it weren’t for the distinctly awful aftertaste that deemed it utterly disgusting. We spent a good few minutes watching another woman attempt to eat it only to find that she seemed to enjoy it! Something was obviously very wrong with her. After lunch we toured the house, atypical of the period, which meant very grand indeed. The Boleyn’s did well for themselves, I suppose the headless Anne may not agree in retrospect. I particularly enjoyed the kitchens of the estate along with some other informational exhibits on the lower being of the house, i.e. the servants. Because of the foul weather we didn’t spend nearly enough time in the grounds, which I assume would be lovely for a picnic on a sunny English summer day.

(Sheringham)

The afternoon wasn’t as determined as the morning as we went in search of a particular steam railway running along the north Norfolk coast. We arrived at one end only to be told that we’d missed the last train from that station, I tried to argue but was politely deterred. Apparently there was no way the lovely little American girl could read a timetable better than the railway employee. We then drove on to Sherringham, the other end of the line and a nice little coastal town where we found that we could make the last train. However, after all the effort it just didn’t seem worth it and the call of dinner pressed upon us. Instead we walked down the sloping main street to the shore front promenade where we admired the sea as the sun gave some small acknowledgement of the season and Beth and I ate ice cream (we were at the beach, it only seemed right.) Before heading out we thought a stop at the Robin Hood, a cozy looking pub, was in order. I had local Norfolk ale while the twins went for something a little more appropriate to a cold afternoon: tea. Next thing we knew it was time to head back towards Three Ponds as I’d promised to make a dinner of my famed red wine risotto as payment for the accommodation and entertainment provided by the Coombs family.

(Mine and Beth's Beachy Ice Cream)

The dinner turned out perfectly and the weather began to look up a bit as well. I’d like to think I had something to do with that. We made a perfect pitcher of Pimm’s with all the fixings and laid the table out in the conservatory. I can’t think of a better way to spend my last evening in Suffolk. But it does gets better. Ellen and I strolled through the country lanes to a local pub and even braved a panther (this is debatable) infested cornfield in order to gaze at a monument remembering St Edmund. Beth met us later (she was preoccupied with a certain boy on the phone!) and we enjoyed our drinks before walking home through the crisp night. While we were gone, Mumma Coombs being the lovely lady that she is, had prepared for us an apple crumble that we enjoyed while watching Love Actually before retiring for the night. I could have stayed there forever (though I’m sure both Ellen and Beth would tire of me very soon not to mention Mumma Coombs and Tess!) I loved being with them and felt entirely at home. I also didn’t realize how hard it would be after leaving on a London-bound train, maybe if I had I wouldn’t have gotten on it.