Synchronicity

Virtually all travel involves compromises: how long, where to go, how long to stay each place, what to see, where to eat, when to eat, when to do laundry, etc. We had planned to spend an afternoon in York doing laundry. But when I asked Tina at reception at the hotel where a laundrette was she said that for a small fee they could do it there. That freed us up to go to the National Railway Museum we would otherwise not have had time for.

Yesterday we wended our way from York to Woodstock where we stayed in a B&B literally less than 50 yards from the entrance to Blenheim Palace. We’re still having difficulty estimating how long it takes to drive from place to place in Britain. The color a given road has on the map doesn’t always translate into a useful estimation value. And of course there is the seasonal road repair sites as well as major construction sites as well as accidents that everyone has to rubber-neck gawk at, and of course the weather has to intrude as well from time to time.

I had looked in to staying in Oxford, but anything that was open was way too dear for our budget. So I looked at surrounding towns and found Woodstock. When we woke up this morning we looked at some guidebooks and decided that we should perhaps visit Blenheim Palace. But two wrinkles appeared that changed our direction. First, the Palace didn’t open until 10:30 a.m., which meant that we would have a later start on the day than we had planned. The second wrinkle was the 17 pounds per person entrance fee. We decided that as wonderful as Winston Churchill had been, we didn’t need to spend 34 pounds to see his birthing bed and palace. So instead we set our sails for Bath where we would see the Roman baths.

Enroute we stopped in Oxford. I had visited Oxford on my only previous trip to England almost thirty years ago. On that visit I had stayed at Pelican House, an Oxford residence where the Blackwell Bookseller organization puts up guests. Shortly prior to that visit I had re-read Nikos Kazantzakis’ “Report to Greco”. One of the influences he mentions in this semi-autobiographical book is Henri Bergson. I had sought an English translation of anything by Bergson in the States and had come up empty-handed. So I went to Blackwell’s store with Bergson on my mind. I went down the stairs to the philosophy section and found a translation of Bergson’s “Mind-Energy”. I still have it.

Today Jane and I walked in to Blackwell’s with a city map of Oxford on our mind. When we went downstairs we came to the landing that I instantly recognized. From there you can survey this incredible room full of incredible books, as far as the eye can see. [note to self: I think that Heaven should somehow involve having an unlimited account at Blackwell’s bookstore] I perused the computer book section and was disappointed that there do not appear to be any specifically English IT books anymore. Thirty years ago they were doing some wonderful, innovative things, but it appears to all be globalized now. I spotted a section on librarianship and decided to see what they had on offer. As I walked over to the shelf I heard a book call for me, I turned my head to the left, and there on the shelf was, really, this really happened this way, there on the shelf at eye-level was a copy of Henri Bergson’s “Creative-Energy”. What are the odds? So I have another book to heft home!

Walking back to the car we came upon an interesting sign. It appears that Jesus has indeed returned to earth and will start his reign playing squash. I’ve not heard of Keble and I don’t know what his record is, but I’m placing my bets on Jesus to win.

Walking along Longwall we saw the location where William Morris developed his first "Morris Garage" (or "MG") car in 1912, an event that pushed Oxford towards becoming an industrial town.

The day was overcast with intermittent showers on the drive to Bath. We totally misunderstood the city. We were expecting a smallish town that would be easy to negotiate. Instead we encountered a sprawling, tourist over-run city that was gnarly to navigate through. We decided to push on for Wells and perhaps come back later to Bath.

The road to Wells was fine, except for a number of single-track sections in particularly small towns. But between road construction site and plain old traffic delays, it took us much longer to get to Wells than we had planned. Thanks to the brilliant work by our trip planner [note to self: pat yourself on the back again for booking a room with a view of the local cathedral, this time directly across the street]. Wells is much smaller than Bath (Wells’ population ~9,500). After reconnoitering Wells for a bit we decided that it was foolhardy to return to Bath, and besides the room we had booked had a bathtub, which meant that Jane could take a nice soak in Wells rather than in Bath.

We had delightful meals in Wells. This evening we went to the Fountain Inn over on St. Thomas Street behind the Cathedral. Jane had an aubergine, red pepper, red onion, and some other things thrown in quiche. I saw a “deviled mackerel” special and ordered it imaging in my mind deviled ham – um, they must take the fish meat and mix it with some seasonings. In the event I was served a plate with three intact fish lying on a plate of greens with some sort of seasoning sauce dolloped over the top of the fish skins. I admit that I am a lazy eater – I don’t like surprises in my food, and fish bones are one of the major causes of food surprises in my life. But I sucked it up and dove in. It was quite good.

The English do have some rather interesting word usages. For instance they offer “pouring cream” which is the kind we would use in coffee in the States. But they also offer “clotted cream” for many dishes. For me “clotted” is a word with baggage, since the only other thing I have experienced, as “clotted” is blood.

This morning after breakfast we are going to the sung communion service at the Wells Cathedral.