For many people, three weeks anywhere is a very generous holiday. And for many of these many, three weeks solely in England would be more than enough thank you very much. Escape before you get addicted to supermarket meal deals and the BBC weather app. Flee in rapture at a 6/10 coffee.
England really isn’t that big and, prior to that three week Contiki odyssey across 22 European countries, you might just ‘do it’ in a weekend. Start with a selfie under Big Ben, lunch in Oxford, overnight in York, across to Liverpool, south to Bath, and back to London via the A303. See it. Say it. Sorted.
I had two whole weeks in the southwest corner of the country and in a shocking turn of events didn’t even make it to Looe for a pasty. Hence a heavier than usual melancholy upon leaving, a sense of something unfulfilled. And it wasn’t just the pasty lacking, the biggest absence being a rugged hike along the coastline of North Cornwall. Perhaps followed by one additional cream tea.
Oh to turn back the clock as we pass by Shaldon with its bumblebees and bowls and bacon and eggs. The sun is out, the tide is in, but the train doesn’t stop, and we are impelled to drift on through a countryside canvas of villages and fields, of cottages and cows, of silage and sheds.
We make it to Pewsey in Wiltshire, close enough to a must-see attraction for internationalists touring England in a weekend. The mysteries of Stonehenge are celebrated and often weird. Of note are the way it deploys magic powers to slow traffic on the A303, its ability to attract flat-earthers with healing crystals and unemployment benefit, and its successful maintenance of impressive Neolithic potholes. Chuck in some YMCA and it all sounds a little bit Trumpy.
Despite this garbage, in late afternoon hazy sun it is an interesting and attractive proposition standing in a field somewhere in Wiltshire. A steady procession of people saunter along, pause, reflect and construct some kind of comical selfie. But best of all are the sheep, who don’t really give a shit. They’re only here for the grass.
Us humans, or at least us English humans not encamped on a byway off the A303, prefer roast dinners to grass. Situated in a business park on the fringes of Amesbury, the Toby Carvery is hardly an idyllic country pub but who cares when the Yorkshire Puddings are so grand and there are three types of gravy? It does do a decent impression of cosy pub warmth and dingy darkness, meaning you may be liable to leave behind any sunglasses that were atop your head.
Sunglasses or not, the light is fading as we walk it off a little by the River Avon in Durrington. You could spend many happy days following this river, as best you could cutting through brambles to bypass grand estates with exclusive frontage. While the water quality has no doubt been unable to escape the ravages of modern neglect, there is a tranquil timeliness to it all, an inescapable fact of English life and landscape nurtured by water. The veins and arteries keeping a country alive. And the green refuges keeping it sane.
The next river we see is perhaps the most famous of all and – at least here – far from the peaceful meanderings of the Avon. We are waiting on a pontoon bobbing up and down on a wide, brown body of water, boats and barges nipping back and forth. A ferry passes under Tower Bridge – which is not London Bridge – approaching London Bridge. It is burdened with people and we await the next with Americans, Irish, Spanish and Chinese. Seeing England.
To my eyes it is a sad fact that many international visitors’ only experience of England takes place in London. But also what a place to take it all in. Who doesn’t know of the Thames, and Big Ben and some guys in funny hats who can’t crack a smile and the misconception of what is and isn’t London Bridge? With a first-timer tagging along even I am susceptible to a selfie and sense of wonder.
The thing is, it is so easy to get out of London. You can even do a day trip to Ansdell and Fairhaven, way up north in Lancashire. 99% of people in England would think this ludicrous but then they don’t tend to drive a solid two hours just to have fish and chips on the coastline of New South Wales. Everything is so much closer, but also so much more jam-packed. You can see why Portillo can still find content for Season 27 of Great British Journeys with a Seniors Railcard Visiting Shoelace Factories and Unexploded World War 2 Ordnance.
Even places you have visited in the past can be unveiled in a new light. I think it was sunlight, a rare thing in the northwest, that made Preston seem actually not too bad. I had an hour to kill for a train connection and wandered a by-now almost deserted high street, admiring grand edifices of industrial heritage, welcoming civic squares and the meal deal options of Sainsburys Local. Such was my indecision I needed to adopt a brisk pace to reach the train station for the two hour journey back to London.
Remaining days were a combination of Central London highlights and North London reminisces. Under a Travelodge in Finchley, arguably the best coffee of the trip (reflected in the slightly eye-watering price). Around the corner, the reliability and reassurance that is the nearby Tesco, reminding us how we yearn for more supermarket competition down under. Spreading out south, the parks and wooded avenues of Highgate and Hampstead and proper good pub gardens in the sun. And on the doorstep the reasonable functionality of the Northern Line, to take us into this country’s beating heart.
So much to see and so little time to see it. The British Museum is simultaneously bewildering, amazing and tainted. M&Ms World is much the same. Lunch at a Ramsay restaurant comes with a touch of relaxed refinement. If I were being a critic – and isn’t everyone – I would say the Idiot Sandwich was just a bit too greasy, but then it does have American origins after all. We need to walk this off, meandering through Mayfair, past the Palace, along Hyde Park where the Royal Albert Hall seems to be forever on the horizon. Finally it is upon us and I am pleased for a sit down in the shade, in history, in the company of some world class performers. Something I probably wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t had Avery by my side.
She made it, she survived England, we survived and thrived in England, COVID, cool winds, clotted cream and all. And we only just scratched the surface, barely broke the crust. In this mammoth little country, eager to see that little bit more. Many an encore to come.
First up on a perfect day we scaled the heights of 20 Fenchurch Street. By elevator of course, up to the Sky Garden of the building popularly known as the Walkie-Talkie. No bungee jumping, no glass-bottom floor, no zip wire…just astounding views over London, shady ferns, comfy sofas and another predictably poor coffee.
I am wondering if there is any finer place than Kew Gardens on such a beautiful late summer’s day. For not only are there acres of manicured lawn, generous pockets of woodland bursting green, and a profligate array of multihued flowerbeds, but you can also play guess the airline. In the cloudless sky, the parade of jets coming into land at Heathrow provides a distracting guessing game when one finds oneself eating ice cream under the shade of a tree. The funny thing was, we didn’t seem to be the only ones playing it.
But back to earth. We must have walked a fair few miles around the gardens but at regular intervals there was an opportunity to dwell, a chance to linger. A gallery here, a cafe there, a grand house beyond the trees. Sculptures and water features and artworks to do with bees, in which human drones obediently infiltrate the hive out of nothing more than curiosity.
Another surprise in this area was the presence of something called Walthamstow Village. While no thatched cottage idyll in the South Hams of Devon, it possessed that quiet street, classic brickwork, church green feel of a London village, with some similarity to more celebrated haunts such as Highgate and Hampstead. Plus there was somewhere to buy ice cream, relief on another generously warm day.
gbpilgrim 