| WARWICK DAY
July 2, Saturday
At 9:00 a.m. Arthur's silver taxi backed down the driveway, followed by Jennie's red one, in the rain. We all stood in a row under the eaves of the laundry room, hoods up, daypacks on, ready to tackle a day in Warwick, hang the rain. On the way, we told Jennie about wanting to go to Stratford-upon-Avon the next day.
“Oh,” she says, “You don't have to go into Warwick to get to Stratford. They's a train from Hatton to Stratford. Goes every hour, back and forth. Hatton is nearby your cottages. Me and Arthur can take you there in the morning and meet you at night.”
Bingo! Again. I had already talked to the TIC earlier, on the Saturday we got into town, about getting to Stratford. The info lady gave me convoluted directions to a bus station in town that we would have to take to Stratford. Nary a word did she say about the shuttle train. Thank goodness for the “salt of the earth” people.
Arthur and Jennie dumped us out of their taxis into the rain at the familiar castle park benches. It was only a couple of blocks to the Tourist Information Center. Having solved the Stratford problem, the next hurdle was getting from Warwick to Blenheim Castle, the birthplace of Winston Churchill. We wanted to go there on Thursday. Hopefully the TIC people could get us there.
Wrong. Blenheim was too far away for Warwick bus services. Maybe the Stratford TIC could help us. We regrouped in the TIC entrance hall. Discussion and decision. We would not give up on Blenheim, and would pursue the question when we got to the Stratford TIC.
The rain let up and there was a hint of sunshine as we walked from the TIC across town to the train station to get tickets to Stratford for the following day, Tuesday. We passed two used bookshops on the way. Used books shops are a fatal attraction to this group. We did yield to the temptation briefly. Well, Amy and Craig spent some time in them, to tell the truth. It's just the thought of carrying around heavy books for weeks that keeps the urge to buy books under control. I think we escaped with only two small books bought by Bob and Amy.
When we got back to the town square we did some necessary shopping, then had lunch at Lloyd's No. 1 pub. Most of the crew ordered the burger on a bap (bun), chips, and beer special. I should have. I ordered the same special, but with a veggie burger rather than a hamburger. I had forgotten about British veggie burgers. They are breaded and deep-fried. Ugh. I ate what I could, left the rest-which was most of it. Needing further sustenance, I bought a packaged flapjack slice at a sweets table near the bar. Liked that a lot better. Have I said what a flapjack is? It is oats, butter, and honey stirred up, baked, and cut into rectangles called “slices.” It is very good and you can pretend it is nutritious because it's made of oats.
After lunch we descended en masse on The Collegiate Church of St. Mary, a massive historic church that towered over the town. It boasted several memorial altars, a medieval tower, an ancient Norman crypt undercroft, and a whole room, the Beauchamp Chapel, full of monumental sculptured tombs of the Earls of Warwick for centuries back.
The church is only a block from the walls of Warwick Castle. Leaning and crooked half-timbered Tudor buildings line a narrow lane from the castle to the church. From the front portico of the church you can see the town square. The medieval town plan hasn't changed here. But the weather had. We were back to drizzly mists.
The first permanent place of worship on that site was built in 1123 and it is still there, even though much added to over the centuries. You can climb the medieval tower for a pound. I don't remember how many steps it takes to get to the top. Lots. There wouldn't be much to see from the tower on such a misty, drizzly day, so we didn't climb. I rather wish now I had paid my pound and gone up the tower. I wouldn't care if I didn't make it to the top, might not even try to make it to the top. In retrospect, I just wished I had seen the medieval construction of the stairs and tower. We did spend literally hours exploring the complex Gothic architecture, the history, the sculptural tombs, and reading the gravestones in the floor.
The afternoon was suddenly over. It was time to make the familiar walk to Sainsbury's Super Market and do some grocery shopping. Bob, Lisa, and Josh held down a table at Lloyd's No. 1 No. 1 for a tea while the rest of us forged on to do the shopping.
It rained while we shopped. We came out into wet pavement and dripping trees, but the rain had stopped. Back then to Lloyd's with our orange Sainsbury's bags to gather up Bob, Lisa, and Josh and head for the cottages.
Arthur and Jennie couldn't pick us up that afternoon. They told us about the taxi stand next to Woolworth's. The seven of us set our orange bags on the ground under an awning and waited for a taxi to turn up. It had begun to sprinkle again. While we were waiting, several taxis converged on a pub not far from us. We tried to wave them down, then realized they were answering calls. The pub disgorged cowboys, Indians, and Mexicans in sombreros. They wove around the street a bit, obviously worse for wear, and finally got themselves into taxis. That must have been a heckuva party. British drink/drive laws are very stringent, and people don't take chances, we're told. Those Indians could hardly walk, anyway, much less drive.
A taxi pulled into the stand. Craig and Bob, I think it was, talked to the driver. It was a long conversation, but the upshot was that he would call another cab from his company rather than have half of our group just take the next taxi that pulled up. Arthur had painstakingly written out directions to our farm to give to the taxi driver. I had made copies of those directions while chewing on my veggie burger in Lloyd 1, and so we were prepared for the two taxis.
The second taxi pulled up. The first driver was Eastern, so was the second, and English was definitely not their first language. We climbed in the two taxis and gave them the written directions. They talked on their phones to dispatch; they talked on their phones to each other in a strange language. They thought maybe they knew where they were going. We had hardly a clue. We just climbed into Arthur and Jennie's cars every day, and were whisked to wherever without thinking of the route.
I was in the second taxi. We followed the first taxi, who thought he knew where we lived. The sprinkles turned into a downpour. Those two taxis took that route like the Grand Prix. We sailed around roundabouts and shot down straightaways in blinding rain. I think we went around some roundabouts twice - maybe three times. After we spun off one roundabout and down a road, Craig said from the back seat, “I think we missed our lane.”
The taxis tore onwards. The rains came down. Craig said, “I'm quite sure we take the first right after that last roundabout.” Our driver jabbered on his phone to his buddy. Onward we went.
Then, without warning, the lead taxi swung into a farm lane. “We're turning around,” said our driver.
We did, and sped back along the road. The rain eased. We retraced our route and turned onto Case Lane, the first right turn after the roundabout. Down Case Lane to the farmhouse drive, and we were home. How did we finally get there? Someone in the lead car told the driver that we were not far from the The Case is Altered pub. Aha! That was different! The driver couldn't understand the last part of Arthur's directions, but he knew exactly where the Case pub was.
We checked out the sheep when we came in. The sheep were gone. After an initial panic, they were found in front of the cottage, ruminating in the rain. Six rams lived in a hedge-rowed meadow that surrounded the cottages on three sides. Most of the time they were in the back where we could watch them from our living/dining/kitchen room. We noted where they were eating, when they were ruminating, who butted whom, but stopped short of giving them names.
Lisa and Gordy had a rectangular drop-leaf table in their cottage, so they were the commissary for the crew. Except for some necessities like Coke, beer, wine, pistachio nuts, salt and vinegar Pringles, and Green and Black 80% dark chocolate bars that we kept at Portia, the food was stored at Octavia.
“They were Pakistani and were speaking Punjab,” said Bob.
I reached for another olive. “How do you know?”
“I asked the driver.”
“You mean the flying taxi pilot?” put in one of the others.
“And in the rain, yet.”
“Aye, pass the bread,” answered Bob.
Our suppers at the cottages, except for an occasional bakery Cornish pasty, were olives, cheeses, big crusty loaves of pull-apart bread, salami, and Clementine oranges with wine or tea. It was cozy-ok, crowded-and warm inside the brown plank door of the little cottage that night. The electric teakettle bubbled and boiled. Hot tea tonight we had, after a rainy day in town. The six of us went through a couple of quarts of it.
Everyone stepped on each other trying to help with the wash-up after dinner. That was the social event of the evening. By then everyone was ready to brush the teeth and climb under their warm, fluffy duvet for the night. Tomorrow, Stratford!
Addendum:
July 2 again, Monday
This is an addendum to yesterday, July 2.
After getting into Warwick, as I said, we first found the railroad station and bought tickets to go to Stratford the next day, July 3, Tuesday.
Bob was first in the queue at the ticket window. He asked for two tickets from Hatton to Stratford for the next day, July 3. It was all downhill from there.
“Can I buy tickets from Hatton to Stratford for tomorrow?”
“Yes, you can. Do you want to do it now?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You can do it tomorrow, you know.”
“I'd like to do it now, if you please.”
“Are you sure you want to do it now? You can buy them on the train.”
“I'd like to do it now.”
“All right, if that's what you really want to do.”
The agent reluctantly changed the date on his ticket machine and sold Bob the tickets. When Bob walked back into the station room, he heard fellow in the queue mutter, “Bloody ticket agents…”
STRATFORD-UPON-AVON
July 3, Tuesday
It was July 1 that the flaming car was driven into Glasgow Airport. This right on the heels of two foiled car bomb attempts in London. The news here in Britain was filled with graphic shots of the burning car and the one car occupant in flames himself attacking the police while shouting “Praise Allah.” I suspect the “Praise Allah” bit was a newsman's hype, as we only heard about it once. However, the man was on fire and badly burned, but to this point has survived.
This was paired with the heavy flooding in Yorkshire and other counties of mid-England. People piled their belongings on table tops before evacuating, and the waters rose over the tables. Hundreds lost everything. It is a natural disaster of the scope of a Florida hurricane. I say “is” because I am writing this later in July and there is still more flooding, this time farther south than before in Oxford and nearby areas, including the historic Twikenham Abbey.
We had email from concerned friends and relatives in the U.S. asking if we were all right the week of bombs and floods. Yes, we had avoided it all by being far enough south in England. We were touched by and want to thank again all who wrote us.
The planned trip to London went on as scheduled. If people don't get on with their lives, the terrorists will have accomplished their objective. Everyone bears the burden of defense in this war.
On, then, to more pleasant things, our first day in Stratford-upon-Avon.
Arthur and Jennie picked us up that morning at 7:45 a.m. in glorious sunshine. Not to be fooled, we all stuffed our brollies and waterproofs into our daypacks. We were delivered to the train station at Hatton by 8:00 for the 8:15 train. Arthur and Jennie told us where to walk, what platform to get on, and where the toilets were. When they were sufficiently satisfied that we understood everything, they drove off and left us on our own.
At Hatton Station there is an old station building housing a small waiting room with grey-painted benches along the walls, and the toilets. The platform outside this building is Platform 1. From Platform 1 a covered walkway went up over the tracks to Platform 2, our Platform. We crossed to Platform 2, took some photos, caught our train, and settled in for the twenty-minute trip to Stratford.
Once in Stratford, we again walked first to the Tourist Information Center. Amy was trying to get the trip to Blenheim together, but the agent was not encouraging and the intricate schedules and such she gave Amy were no help. We bought postcards, shelved Blenheim again, and left.
The TIC is conveniently placed in the middle of Stratford, right across the street from the Avon Canal and the River Avon, and the boat basin between. Long, narrow, colorful canal longboats filled the basin. When I say narrow, I mean narrow. These boats are, as a rule, just seven feet wide, but can be as long as sixty feet! Billows of flowers spilled from planters on the top and tiny fore and aft decks of the boats. We strolled along the basin walkway, admired the sleek boats and peeped in the open doors of them. Many of the boats were obviously being lived in, either for the summer or full time.
Some longboats sold ice cream, and one was a floating restaurant. Lisa checked about getting reservations for a family dinner boat trip. They were full for that night, but had tickets for the next night. However, the river was at too high a flood for boating. We could eat on the boat, but it wouldn't leave the dock. We walked away wondering what kind of folk would buy a rather expensive dinner ticket to sit on a boat at the dock. This was the only time the English Floods of '07 would affect our plans. We did notice, after that, boats left the basin by canal, but not by the river.
An old arched bridge spanned the flood at the river end of the basin. We hung over the parapet. Flotillas of swans, Canadian Geese, and ducks floated on the river. As soon as we leaned over, bunches of them swam our way looking for handouts. Josh was delighted. He tried to count them, but they wouldn't stay still.
We strolled from the basin across a small waterside park. Swans waddled up to us when we paused and posed nicely for photos. I don't remember who first saw it, but soon we were all snapping photos at a small bare area under a spreading tree. A mother swan strutted around her four gray fluffy cygnets huddled together on the sparse grass. We were so excited you'd think we'd had the babies. The crew probably ended up with twenty or thirty chick pix all together.
The time had come, our stomachs, said, for lunch. Bob and I put in a plug for the Hathaway Tea Rooms on High Street. We had frequented this tearoom when in Stratford four years ago. The tearoom is above a bakery in a long block of ancient leaning Tudor white half-timber buildings. We studied the bakery window displays. We lingered while passing the showcases of cherry slices, Victoria Cake, chocolate cheesecake, and other sweets on our way to the stairs and tearoom. Any of these goodies could be ordered in the tearoom and no one wanted to miss a potential treat.
Hathaway is a large room with a huge fireplace in one wall. The interior walls are white with black half-timbers and the windows are mullioned. The exterior wall slants noticeably, and a sign tacked to a post warns against the sloping floor. Most of the crew ordered fish and chips. I ordered a cream tea. I nearly always have a cream tea for lunch. What can I say? I like scones with cream and jam a lot more than fish.
They did get fish! The fish fillet hung off the sides of the plates like a deep-fried whole flounder. It wasn't flounder, it was plaice, and they must have been big ones. Add to that a peck of chips and a bit of lettuce salad, and you have a real meal.
My cream tea came not only with a scone (I always get a fruit scone, one with dried currants), but also a second teacake. The waitress came over to me and offered a large tray packed with teacakes of all descriptions, fresh from the bakery downstairs, for my selection. Forks stopped in midair around the table when that arrived. I chose a Bakewell Tart. There was a sigh when the waitress left with the tray, and then forks attacked fish again.
Fortified (read, stuffed) with food for the afternoon, we bought tickets on a big red sightseeing bus to see Shakespeare land. The tour, with a knowledgeable and entertaining guide, rambled around the town and countryside. We got off the bus at Anne Hathaway's Cottage, which is in the village of Shottery, a mile out of Stratford. The path from the admissions gate to the cottage wends through gardens bursting with flowers, many of which would have been there in Shakespeare's time.
You can see, when you step into that garden, the white stucco thatch-roofed cottage rising from the flowers. You've seen the picture. Everyone has seen Anne Hathaway's Cottage some time, somewhere. It is the epitome of English country charm. If you haven't seen it, go to this webpage: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tdcrabb/757192401/ Anne Hathaway was the woman Shakespeare married. He never lived in the cottage, just came there to woo Anne.
After an introductory talk about the cottage, which is really a good-sized farmhouse, we were left to explore the cottage by ourselves-with waves of other tourists. Docents in the various rooms answered questions and gave small lectures if the audience seemed interested. It was at one of these lectures that thunder crashed and hail pelted down. I was standing by a ground-level window. The pea-sized hailstones bounced when they hit the ground practically in front of my nose. The poor woman immediately lost her audience to fascination with the hail raining down outside the window.
When we came out of the cottage, misty sun was shining on the wet walkways. I walked through the small orchard before we left to climb aboard the big red bus again. The big red bus was wet. The seats were wet on the open top deck. We found dry seats that had been under cover and continued the tour with another, but equally interesting, guide.
Our last stop was Shakespeare's birthplace and a very good museum to his life. We spent some time there, I don't know how long. The exit lets you into a lovely garden with benches and a walkway. We rested in the garden and took pictures of yellow roses climbing the wall of Shakespeare's birthplace. William Shakespeare was born in 1564. The house remained in the hands of his descendants until the early 1800s. That's pretty amazing, in itself.
It was supper time. This group travels on its stomach. Bob and I suggested the Old Thatch Tavern at the end of the pedestrian mall. It was another place we had frequented in '03. The Tavern was crowded, but we did manage to commandeer a table near the kitchen and cram ourselves around it. . Once we sat down, we were there. Chairs met back-to-back and every inch of floor was used.
In pubs or taverns, even in hotel bar restaurants, you order at the bar. First, you order your drinks, pay for them, and take them back to the table. Each table has a small brass number plate on one corner. Menus are scattered around the room or piled on the bar, so the next job is to round up menus. Once the food choices are made, you fight your way back to the bar and give the food order and pay for it, and give your table number. The food is delivered hot to the table. Nearly all stoves (called cookers over here) have plate warming ovens or racks. In this chilly climate, hot food is mandatory and it's kept that way by serving on hot plates.
We ordered just baguette sandwiches, after that marathon lunch. They were good, and of course served with chips. (Remember that chips are what we call French fries.) Everything here is served with chips. Lasagna is served with chips. Chili is served with rice, and chips. If you don't want to bother with the main meal, you can just order a bowl of chips.
Fortified again, we walked to the train station, caught the train to Hatton, and fell into the arms and cars of Arthur and Jennie. They faithfully delivered us to the cottages and our cozy duvets for the night.
July 4, Wednesday
The big hurdle with our getting to Blenheim Castle was that the train from Hatton gets into Stratford at 8:40, and the bus to Blenheim area leaves Stratford at 8:40. We finally decided that we'd just take two taxis all the way into Stratford (15 miles) early enough in the morning to catch the bus east.
We talked to Arthur and Jennie on the way home July 3 evening, and they were willing to take us to Stratford, depending on their calendar. When they picked us up on July 4 morning, though, they gave us the news that they were already booked for July 5 morning. However, they were sure a taxi company in Stratford would be happy to come out and pick us up. They recommended the 007 taxis.
When we got off the train in Stratford, we followed the familiar route to the TIC once again. There we got the details of the bus routes and pickup points to Blenheim, bought postcards, picked up brochures.
From the TIC we strolled over to the boat basin and park. It was a gray and misty day. Many of the boats had left the basin. The merry-go-round in the park was shut down and covered. The ice cream longboat was closed. Our pace was leisurely and restful. We chatted with the swans and took the time to look more carefully at the four Shakespeare character sculptures near the basin. Lady Macbeth was wringing her hands to rid herself of the blood; Prince Hal assumed a crown; Hamlet studied the skull of Yorick, and a merry Falstaff beamed down on all comers from his pedestal. Stratford is Shakespeare.
We went into the shopping area of town and identified the bus stand in front of the British Home store for the next day. It was the Fourth of July, hardly a holiday that would be celebrated in Britain. We did see, however, a chalkboard sandwich board in front of a pub that touted a Fourth of July party. They promised popcorn, hot dogs, and American flags.
By then is was lunch time, and back again to Hathaway Tea Rooms we went. Lunchtime in Britain is 1:00, remember. Our strategy was to get into a tearoom or pub by 12:30 or 12:45 at the latest. That way we were all seated at our table for seven by the time the lunch crowd hit the door. We just narrowly made it this time. We were just sitting down at the last large table when another group appeared in the doorway. Whew.
No one ordered fish. It was very good, but it was too much food. Lisa had watched me wallowing in sugar the day before, so she ordered a cream tea for lunch. The rest had various dishes. Craig phoned the 007 taxi company while waiting for our meals, and settled that they would bring two cabs to Whitley Elm and haul us into Stratford the next morning, July 5. Blenheim Castle was within our grasp.
We had a different waitress that day, one that was familiar-looking. Once the business was done, we began chatting with the waitress. Yes, she had been working there eighteen years and yes, she had been working there when we were around four years ago. Yes, she remembered Bob. (It's the mutton chop beard that does it.) We introduced the family to her. Having a chance to talk with her during and after the meal picked up an old thread and gave us a warm feeling. I'm sure she was pleased to be remembered and felt the same.
After lunch we split up and everyone went their own way for the afternoon with the agreement to meet at The Old Thatch Tavern for supper. It's amazing how fast time goes when you're doing nothing in particular. Bob and I strolled some of the residential streets we knew from before, did a bit of shopping, and suddenly it was time to make our way to The Old Thatch.
There was a reason we were all meeting at The Old Thatch Tavern, and the reason was steak and kidney pie. When we had been there the night before and had baguettes, steak and kidney pie was posted on the blackboard that is commonly used in pubs to advertise specials. Baguettes do not hold a candle to steak and kidney pie. Baguettes had been a mistake. We managed, with some chair moving and squeezing in, to get the same table we had had the night before, the one right in front of the kitchen pass-through counter.
Being a large and noisy group and, when we opened our mouths, obviously American, we attracted the attention of a gal who circulated around and waited on tables now and then. She came over to our table, and we chatted. We said we'd come especially for the steak and kidney pie, and that pleased her. “You had baguettes last night,” she said. Were we that obnoxious that she would remember us???
Bob and I told her we had been at the Thatch in '03, and we liked the atmosphere and the food that we had come back. “I know it's a good place,” she laughed. “That's why I bought it.”
The rest of the day was routine. From The Old Thatch Tavern we walked to the train station, caught the train to Hatton, climbed in Arthur and Jennie's cars, and fell thankfully through the doors of Portia and Octavia.
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