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| Groby allotments |
We have left London behind, but not our adventures with Frank and Carol. A salutatory reminder to all travelling in Great Britain . . . buy petrol (gas) sooner, rather than later!! Garages can be few and far between and do not keep the hours to which, we, as Americans, have become accustomed. Moreover, it is not too unusual for them to run out of fuel. Thank goodness for Frank and the GPS he brought along. You virtually never see the standards (think that is the proper name for the signs at the top of big long poles) for gas stations from the motorways, it is generally a matter of, get off and good luck. Although they do have "services" on the "M" roads they tend to be at least 50 miles apart. The services are often quite extensive, with fast food establishments (McDonalds, KFC), coffee shops (Starbucks, Costa) and grocery outlets (Marks & Spencers, Waitrose) as well as gas and sometimes motels. Funny thing is, despite all these places to shop and spend your money, you cannot access them from anywhere except the motorway.
Anyway, on our way to Potterne and, having failed to get gas near Hampton Court, we are faced with "Services - 48 miles", less than a quarter of tank of fuel and an unfamiliar car. Enter, Super Frank and his handy, dandy, little, hand held, font of all wisdom (his GPS). Speak, oh Oracle, where can we find petrol? "Oh, great and mighty master, take the next exit . . . " Twenty minutes, four or five roundabouts, a series of traffic signals, a trip through the centre of Swindon at rush hour and we find ourselves at a Tesco service station. Didn't I say they were few and far between.
I'm an old fashioned sort of girl and more than that, I like maps, but I'm beginning to appreciate what a sat nav might do for you. While I'm debating if there could possibly be an exit at Wroughton, a voice from the back seat allows as how, we really ought to take the Marlborough Road. Good call, there is no little numbered circle on the map indicating a "slip road" just lines showing where two major roads cross over/under one another but don't actually interconnect. This Marlborough, not Marlboro, refers to a market town in Wiltshire, not a source for cigarettes. It is undoubtedly somehow related to a Duke or Duchess (of Marlborough) but presently it is a delightful little town with a enormous market square, a church presiding at the top and lots of little shops and a real trial to navigate.
We passed through Marlborough, on to Devizes, which has a limerick in its' honor and then to Potterne. I would be remiss if I did not share the limerick, taught me by one Michael Church, oh so many moons ago.
- There was a young woman from Devizes
- Who was had up at the local assizes
- For teaching young boys
- Matrimonial joys
- And giving French letters as prizes.
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- Assizes are/were criminal courts and if you require any further elucidation of the language, it won't be coming from me. Finding Potterne was not difficult, finding Cheyne Cottage on the other hand was something of a feat. I regret not having taken a photograph but even that would not have done it justice. Imagine, you are travelling down a long, narrow, twisty road, where the speed limit is 60. For several miles there has been either a forest of trees on each side, totally enveloping you in a tunnel of mottled green, or stone walls right up to the edge of the road . . . no shoulder worth mentioning. We hit a fairly steep down hill with a long, slow curve to the right. There is a massive rock face on the right side and a 30 or more foot high stone wall leading up to the church on the other, and, do I need to mention, no shoulder. As you have probably guessed, the visibility is limited, the road barely holds two vehicles and we don't know precisely where we are going. So we are in this rock walled canyon and what next, but the road makes a sharp jog to left with a zero sight line and a line of brick building directly in front of us. Not to put too fine a point on it, we are on the left side of the road, going in to the left jog and this is precisely where we need to cross the oncoming traffic, (which we cannot see) toward the row of brick houses, (very ominous) and into a lane that may just accommodate a single car width. Just in case that is not intimidating enough there is another single lane road coming in at an odd angle to the right of the road we want (no street signs for either) and a cottage, (made of stone) that is at that intersection of these two lanes, comes up to the edge of the road. No room for error!!!
- Nothing special to say about our accommodations, two single room deep, two story cottages that had been combined in to a single unit. Although recently refurbished it still had that damp smell of older buildings but there were beds, a fully equipped kitchen and generally all "mod cons" and it's price and location did a lot to recommend it. The local Cost Cutters store has limited supplies so having picked up some milk and bread for morning we opted to have dinner at the local pub, the George and Dragon.
- It's a pretty lousy picture, but that's "our table" second one back on the left, next to the inglenook. It's a thatched roofed place, dating from the 1400's and although the food is nothing to write home about, the landlady fit her part perfectly. A little rude, a little aloof, with a sharp tongue and a biting sense of humour. She warmed to us enough that, she took us downstairs to see the skittles alley. Skittles is a game somewhat akin to bowling. but in this case played in a dark, dank, low ceilinged basement ( aka cellar) with equipment that looked like it might have come from 1400, when the building was first constructed.
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| Stonehenge |
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| Sir Michael Frown a Lot |
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- An early start and we hit the high points, Stonehenge, Woodhenge and Old Sarum; all of them less than an hour from our home away from home. This will be a few days of iron age stone forts and stone circles, Silbury Hill, a man-made hill of enormous proportions, long barrows for burials and white horses carved in the chalk hills.
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| Louis Quatorze? |
- From ancient history we move to a more modern time and stately piles (homes), gardens and cream teas. Avebury is a combination of the two, a stone circle restored by the owner of a stately home, while Lacock Abbey and the Fox Talbot Museum is where some of the scenes from Harry Potter and other BBC series are/were filmed.
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| Lacock Abbey - used in Harry Potter |
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| Avebury |
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| Fox Talbot Home |
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| Lacock Abbey |
It took me three goes to write about London and I am finding it difficult to capture our excursions into the south and west of England. As the pictures demonstrate we wandered round pretty grounds and quaint villages, ate ice cream and cakes, while the guys actually found a beer they wouldn't drink. Fortunately, the landlord, after saying it was perfectly fine, did offer to pull them a pint of something else. The Cottswold villages were on our agenda and although beautiful in there own particular way, they weren't what you would call spectacular. We took ourselves first to Bourton on the Water, anticipating we would continue on to Chipping Camden, only to find that the Olympic flame was headed through there. No way were we going to deal with the crowds that have been following the flame. Bourton is quite lovely, but I guess I would have to admit to being spoiled. We had been there once before, in the Autumn, and the colours had made it absolutely spectacular. A small stream runs through the
village centre with a green down one side and stone bridges crossing the water. There are the requisite shops and tea rooms and some really outstanding ice cream to be had. We took a walk/hike from there to Upper and Lower Slaughter which were much less crowded and equally pleasant.
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| Door knocker |
The thing that is supposed to make the Cottswolds villages so special is the yellow stone that they are built from. Unfortunately, when it is raining and there is no sun in the sky, the yellow gets rather washed out and begins to look more like grey. Not that poor weather would stops us, have rain wear, will travel.
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| Lacock Abbey |
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| Snowhill & yellow stone |
Moreover, all the thatched roofed cottages we were expecting to see seemed sadly lacking. After a wander and lunch in Chipping Camden we determined to go find Snowshill, the home of a tour guide we had chatted with the previous day. He reckoned as how it was one of the more beautiful and unspoiled of the villages since it was pretty much off the tourist track. We found it, after travelling down yet another of those single track roads so common in this area. The village center is built up the side of a hill, looking down on the valley and Snowshill Manor, another stately pile. It is most definitely not someplace you would find if you aren't looking for it. The church was located in the centre with most of the houses forming a triangle around the church yard. You could probably stand at the church gate and watch all your neighbours comings and goings. Not a place for keeping secrets. Don't believe I saw any shops, but at least there was a pub. We tried to get in to the Manor, a National Trust property for which we had passes. Despite the fact we could see gardens and buildings and people wandering around finding an entrance eluded us.
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| Snowshill |
Well, not quite, we did that unheard of thing, we yelled over the wall at the people wandering about and asked where the entrance was. In the end it was rather late in the day, so instead of looking at the house and the eclectic collection of bric-a-brac, we enjoyed a cream tea and a view of a the garden.
A cream tea, if you are so unlucky as to never had the opportunity to enjoy one, is an sinfully lovely taste extravaganza. Start with a freshly brewed pot of English tea, add scones, strawberry jam and clotted cream. Pour yourself a cuppa, with or without sugar, but definitely with milk, your choice. Split the scone in two and slather on a thick layer of clotted cream, top with a sizable dollop of jam and enjoy. For those unfamiliar with true clotted cream, it is thick, rich and indulgent with the consistency of soft butter. Think of it this way, if my understanding is correct milk has 4% butterfat, to be considered clotted cream it has at least 55 per cent butterfat. The really good stuff has a pale yellow colour and little globules of crusty yellow goodness sprinkled through it. HEAVEN.
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| Milk Float |
Speaking of milk, I have been watching for a milk float since arriving here. The one time I saw one in the village I didn't have a camera with me, so have borrowed this image from the Internet. Milk floats are electric vehicles, they were electric vehicles in the 1970's when I lived here. They come by daily (back in the good old days of not having a refrigerator) to deliver milk, cream and if I remember correctly eggs. Milk came in glass bottles, which you returned to the dairy. They came with either a silver or gold paper seal. The silver seal was full fat, none of this 2% or non fat stuff; the gold seal on the other had was Jersey. Just like the clotted cream, with Jersey milk, the cream floated to the top and occupied fully half the bottle with a creamy yellow liquid.
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| Sculptors Doorway |
Having struggled, initially to find something to write about I seem to have done quite well. Saw this rock sculpture outside a stone masons establishment in Chipping Camden. The "two finger salute" is the British equivalent of a single finger at home. Note the fact that the knuckles are facing outward, the other way around it is considered "V for Victory" a la Winston Churchill. As if that weren't enough he also has his finger up his nose. Wonder how much business he gets.
Have you ever sat in an eating establishment and wondered about all the food that goes to waste. Half eaten plates going in to the rubbish bin and all of it perfectly edible. This has been one of Mick's pet peeves for years, he often remarks that there is no need to order a meal, just give him everyone's leftovers. Apparently Frank has occasionally had similar thoughts. Yeah, you guessed it . . . we are sitting in a bakery in some small hamlet in wilds of Wiltshire, having a quiet meat pie for lunch. There are two 30 something ladies at the next table enjoying a cup of tea and a three tiered plate of sandwiches and pastries, afternoon tea. They eat the finger sandwiches but barely touch the top two layers, leaving behind several slices of cake and cherry bread. They leave, we eat and their leftovers sit, no one clears the table for what seems an interminable length of time. We discuss the waste, consider whether they are coming back to claim the remains. The cakes beckons, then quick as a wink Frank, who is admittedly much closer to their table than anyone else, places a slice of cherry cake on our table. Soon a piece of coffee walnut cake follows it. We giggle, then like two naughty school boys they gobble their cake. So, should you ever feel the same way and choose to indulge your fantasy, you are in good company.
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| Bath Cathedral (ABC) |
We finish our time with Carol and Frank with a trip to Bath. The morning was occupied by an architectural tour sponsored by volunteers from the city. Our guide, a retired head master, was a delight. He educated and entertained us, told us stories both make believe and true. In the end he took us on a good old wander round the city center pointing out buildings ascribed to various noted architects, giving us a brief lecture on architectural styles and making a point of showing us the really lovely fronts on some of the building, then taking us around behind to see a ragtag conglomeration of windows doors and staircases behind them.
Enough with history and enough with writing . . . will leave you with this little bit of data. The Roman Baths in Bath date from roughly 60 A.D. but the history of the place pre dates the Roman era. The baths were essentially buried by time, floods and other humanity using the place. They have been restored and are remarkable their Victorian era building above and Roman construction below.
road was so steep you felt as though you couldn't see what was over the
next rise, at other times it followed the contours of the hillside and
you could see it snaking off in to the distance. It was barely a single
car wide, full of potholes, with an axle destroying trough on either
side presumably to carry away rain run off. We were quite literally
travelling across the moors, no fences, no signs, no trees, no shrubs,
just us, a big sky and the occasional sheep or cow grazing along the
verge. We must have travelled 40 to 50 minutes without seeing another
vehicle before we reached the top, where fortunately there was a reader
board proclaiming this to be Bwlch-y-Groes, the Pass of the Cross. 
