Today I decided I’d go to Bath for a couple of hours. I’d never been and everyone seems to think this is a travesty seeing as how I’ve spent so much time in England. Well now I can satisfy those inquisitive people who ask me about Bath and confidently tell them that it is a lovely little town with picturesque architecture, small streets concealing inviting looking cafes and surrounding luscious green hills. Even with the burden of a backpack filled with all my archival resources (i.e. books, notes, computer, pack mule…) and hoards of tourists vying for photos of the famed Roman Baths for which the city is named, I still found the city positively charming. The museum at the Baths winds you around through various displays telling you the history of the Romans, their temples and their baths. Something fairly new (as in the last couple of years) is the “Bryson at the Baths” option on the audio tour. I found this somewhat entertaining as it’s basically just Bill Bryson telling you what he likes and thinks about the various artifacts, maybe not as historical as the traditional option but definitely a bit more entertaining. I was most taken aback by his voice and this is where I diverge a bit from my description of the Baths...
I wasn’t taken aback in a bad sense but reading his books I always kind of made up a voice for him in my head and now I know what he sounds like, an American who has lived in Britain a long time and therefore says certain words with an accent but overall sounds like he’s lost somewhere mid-Atlantic. It must be hard being a public figure like Bryson, an American who has live in England for 20+ years, after that long a time you’re definitely going to pick up a bit of an accent but at the same time everyone knows he’s American so he’s got to hold that side up as well. Don’t worry this makes sense to me if doesn’t to the rest of you. Speaking of accents I ought to share the new label given to my accent by a few of my friends. I now officially speak “Britican.” I have no doubt in my mind that I still sound very American to a stranger on the street but to the people I spend a lot of time with (and therefore may slightly lean towards speech wise) I am more on neutral ground, like Switzerland, and I think it’s just lovely. Yesterday I said the phrase “hella posh,” a perfect juxtaposition oh northern California and Britain. But enough of this, back to Bath…
To be honest the museum was all fine and good but all I really wanted to see was the actual Baths and the Roman ruins tucked beneath today’s street level. I’ve been to Rome and there’s Roman stuff in York (not to mention everywhere else in Europe, it wasn’t called an Empire for nothing) so the winding maze that was the museum just made me feel like I was at the Vatican again where they usher you through 2,536 different rooms before they let you see the Sistine Chapel which, to be honest, is all you really wanted to see anyway. Are you noticing a theme in my writings? Perhaps that I’m not a huge fan of the beaten track, the never ending queues and the throngs of sweating, complaining, pushing tourists? I just can’t help it, I like my space and I find it difficult to commune with the history of a place when there are about a hundred other people within a 20ft radius. I’m sure most of you understand this, and if you don’t you’re probably one of those large sweaty men pushing past me to snap a photo of the world heritage sight because it’s what you do. But that’s neither here nor there. After spending some time walking around the Great Bath and imagining the 21st century tourists as Romans walking nonchalantly through their daily business, I decided I had time to walk to the Royal Crescent which is seen so often in Jane Austen adaptations. The walk was a bit uphill, not that I mind a gradient but the fact that the temperature had steadily risen from the morning and the pack on my back was starting to cause a permanent hunch I thought it would have been nice to have a map. That’s one of the fun things about this little venture to Bath. I hadn’t planned it and therefore only had a rudimentary idea about the city, geographically and historically, so I was at the hands of the tourist committee who decides where and how often to place signs pointing people, like me, in the right direction. Luckily I’m directionally gifted and made my way through the lovely streets of Bath that were bathed, pun intended, in a glorious stream of summer sun, I only wished I had more time to wander and try some of the inviting cafes. I took a few shots of the Royal Crescent and closed my eyes imagining the English aristocrats parading down the street after taking the healing waters at the Pump House before making my way back towards the station and my train to London.
Now let’s backtrack a bit because if you’re at all acquainted with the geography of Britain you will know that Bath is practically at the other end of the country from York and you may be wondering how I ended up there. The purpose for my trip down to Wiltshire was very specific in that I wanted to look at a particular document that is held in the archives at the Wiltshire and Swindon History Centre in Chippenham, about 15 miles east of Bath. I grabbed at my chance in between classes and social events to make my way south for a night and a day in what I now think of as a historical pilgrimage for myself. The document is the Minute Book of Ferguson’s Gang, a group of extraordinary young women who had a mind for doing their bit to preserve rural England. I read about them a little over a year ago in my National Trust magazine and was absolutely enthralled. This led me on a quest to find out as much about them as possible only to encounter the rather frustrating truth that there isn’t that much info out there on this amazing group of women. About two pages in a history of the National Trust book, a handful of Times articles that I tracked down using the UC library and this lovely article that mentioned a particular minute book in which the Gang recorded their meetings along with a few of their adventures. It was in this mindset, of finding out what I could over here, that I wrote a grant proposal to the University of California for which I was awarded a rather generous sum to conduct said research. A few emails, a train ticket and a single room at the New Road Guest House and I found myself standing outside the rather snazzy history centre at 9:30am just as they were unlocking the doors.
I’d never been to a proper archive unless you count the special collections part of the library so I timidly walked up to the counter and stated my position to the nice looking lady sitting there. I was given a visitor’s badge, directed to the lockers where I could store my bags, told where to go in order to collect my item and also notified of the very important sandwich van that would arrive and be announced to the archivists just after noon. Through the tightly secure doors I made my way to the help desk where I presented my reference number and went to wait in the study room where a nice gentlemen deposited a good sized brown box on the table.
Deep breathe.
Calm the fluttering heart.
Place (trembling) hands on lid and slowly open.
Inside I found the minute book, standard size, beige in color with a black leaf imprinted on the cover. There were also a few documents in plastic covering that looked highly inviting and official in their own way. Needless to say I was as excited as a 10 year old on Christmas and tried to soak up every minute of my time with the precious document. It was more like a scrapbook filled with notes, newspaper clippings, photographs and of course the minutes of 15 meetings held by the gang between the years 1932-35. They described the crazy ventures to the National Trust offices in London to drop off a donation and even described the scrumptious sounding lunches and dinners that were eaten. I can’t even describe to you the feelings that raced through me as I flipped through the pages concentrating hard on the slanted writing and trying to imagine the scene that was set when it was all put together. After five and a half hours with a 10 minutes break to visit the sandwich van (another exciting adventure that comes with the archive experience) I found my eyes weary but my mind racing with new and different ideas for papers and more research. It was at this point that I decided Bath really wasn’t that far and I raced to the station to try to catch the next train, after all, it’s not often one can make a spontaneous decision and I smiled as the train pulled into the station.
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