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.
It was a more placid day departing the north, incrementally brightening on my journey towards London and then onward to Salisbury; the very heart of a conceptual south. Perhaps near here, somewhere within the borderlands of Wiltshire sits that romanticised version of England; of thatched cottages and village greens; of tinkling brooks and sun-dappled woods; of church fetes and coffee and walnut cake. Perhaps, indeed.
Praise the Lord for a pint outside in the open air, soaking up the sweetly chirping birds and the smell of the country. And thank the almighty for a gentle downhill totter back to the car, parked beside the marquee on the green next to the church in the contented village of East Knoyle. Everywhere around here is easy to suspect as a secret filming location for Bake Off.
“When I were a wee lad you didn’t see us lot wasting our time with Instagrams of food and posing for selfies,” Dad clearly didn’t say as I took a photo of some coffee and cake and indulged in a selfie. Because this wasn’t Yorkshire and neither was it the 1940s anymore, though you suspect some in Shaftesbury would be pleased to turn back time. At least to the years before that bloody advert sent people flocking to a hill to take Instagrams and selfies.
Back in a more reassuring south, a morning in Salisbury offered increasing photographic opportunities, marvelling at the famous Cathedral with its famous 123-metre spire and its famous clock, a renown reaching as far and wide as Russia. The water meadows glowing under the sunlight, it was briefly warm enough to amble in a T-shirt, a clear signal that things were still on an upward trend. The birds continued to tweet and to chirp and to wade and to pose in such land of growing abundance.
Bluebells really were in profusion across England at this time, evident everywhere during this sojourn in the south and among the storm-laden lands of the north. Spreading across the country like the philosophy of Nigel Farage, only exponentially more unifying and much easier on the eye. They would have been a clear highlight, if it were not for that slab of coffee and walnut cake in Honey Street before catching my train west. A very perfect bookend to this haphazard instalment of North and South. And preparation for the tea and scones still to come.
The reward for all this toil, traipsing through a sunny late summer in England was ice cream in Salisbury. In a land in which tradition appears widely cherished, what better tradition to uphold?
In times of such frightfulness one is best advised to turn to a cup of tea and slice of cake. Sat in a sunny position next to an orchard, sheep mowing the grass and a garden centre just around the corner, there is enough here to soothe the feet, the stomach, and the eyes. I’ve had better cakes but hardly many better contexts in which to eat them.
Reminiscent of Canberra-Sydney flights it was a quick up, get tea trolley out for five minutes and plunge down into Norwich. Views along the south coast of Devon and Dorset disappeared under cloud, only opening up again over the north of London before we descended towards the wind farms of the North Sea. Thankfully we made a few turns and landed in Norwich, where Jill was waiting to pick me up and really excited about the prospect of driving from a new place and avoiding numerous road closures.
It was a placid foray out onto the water; that is until turning and heading for home which took way longer than expected and I’m sure burnt enough energy to justify a pork pie from Roys. Roys of Wroxham is a bit of a thing it seems, possibly boasting a department store, food hall, toy store, hairdresser and funeral directors. Or something like that.
On reflection – trying to occupy my mind while jetlag keeps me wide awake at three in the morning – this day was definitely in my top five 2017 holiday days. Following the morning’s kayaking adventure a little R&R in the very pleasant garden sunshine preceded a top deck bus ride to Norwich and a pint or three by the river. I should have added above that Britain does pubs and beer better than Australia too. So much so that we had dinner in another before retiring at a very age-appropriate hour.
Having explored a little of the Broads (and I daresay the rest looks exactly the same), the next day was spent on the North Norfolk coast. With the tide out there was ample sand to stroll along before this gave way to a rockier shoreline apparently chock full of fossils. There are more fossils here than caravans. Arguably.
Mustn’t grumble…the weather could have been far worse and it offered the perfect conditions for an Edale pub crawl. Walking up to the Old Nags Head, the first ale flowed quickly down as I rested in a pleasingly darkened nook of creaking wood. And back down in the Rambler Inn, where I was staying for the night, a hefty Sunday roast was well-accompanied by a couple of the local brews. I went to bed slightly aggrieved I wasn’t staying longer.
Could I live amongst the gentrified avenues and peering from behind net curtain populace of Ansdell and Fairhaven? Possibly. The promenade fringing the estuary is pleasant on rare days when gales don’t blow off the Irish Sea, the town centre of Lytham is tidy and amenable, there are pubs, and I could even go swinging at the golf club. But most of all there are old friends who are a pleasure to see and spend time with, plus new feline ones who would be quite welcome to stow away in my suitcase.
Wiltshire. A new place to stay with Dad and Sonia and some different parts of the countryside to explore. With names like the Vale of Pewsey, Netheravon, and Honey Street, it could be something straight out of the pages of Tolkien. The comfortable, idyllic bit, with thatched cottages, gardens prospering in shafts of sunlight, cosy pubs and weird looking hobbits. But lurking behind this, the prospect of dark times and conflict as tanks carry out manoeuvres and prepare for the threat of some dark lord thing with a big fiery eye and fondness for Twitter.
With cloud lifting and just a little sun emerging it was a pleasant walk, a pub beside the Kennet and Avon Canal offering some refreshment but little in the way of good cheer. Better refreshment and more cheer, however, at the Honeystreet Cafe in the form of cake and okay coffee. Alas, I have since heard this spot is going to be closing down, which is a shame since it offers delicious fuel for the trudge back up to the car parked up on the ridge.
I was kind of surprised – given the general affluence of the area – to observe people milling about the town included an assorted jumble of yoofs, chavs, oddballs and eccentrics. But I suppose that is also reassuring and, in many ways, comforting to know that Salisbury is not much different to anywhere else (and you too can fit in!). England is still England, kind of functioning in its own little way, peculiar but familiar, simultaneously appalling and utterly incredible. And really blessed with the best berries grown in the best countryside in the world.
gbpilgrim 