A California Nerd in Contemporary Britain
Travel across the Pond in the Age of Uncertainty
Note: This marks the start of a new section of The 805 Diary called “Side Quests,” which focuses on non-rural travel that is nonetheless historically relevant to our lives and times.
Look for more 805 goodness in subsequent posts, including a visual walking tour of Santa Paula.
The End
You could feel the tension ratchet skyward the moment we stepped off the plane and herded ourselves through the roped-off cattle chutes of U.S. Passport Control. After a two-week adventure, and a 10+ hour flight, Dale, Judy, and I were exhausted, sweaty, pissy, and ready to just be home. We were joining the “unwashed masses” zombie-shuffling toward the exits. The hordes were starting to turn on each other. It looked like Ground Zero for the rise of the undead.
I kept my eyes forward and tuned out the hubbub. Dale, however, was privy to more of the drama unfolding around him. A few individuals were trying to cut in line, unaware that there were shorter lines available to them. A woman was chatting with her friend and gesticulating wildly while holding an empty Pringles can. She wound up whacking a random man upside the head with it. She seemed surprised that he was upset.
Still, the line marched ever forward. After about 20+/- minutes, it was our turn. As U.S. citizens, we were told that we didn’t have to present our passports. Just step forward and let the camera take a photo of you.
Click. “Thank you.” Boom. Done. Off to Baggage Claim.
The tense, me-first! vibe was a stark and disappointing, though not entirely surprising, contrast to what we had experienced in London’s Heathrow Airport. When we landed at Heathrow two weeks ago, citizens of several countries, not just the U.K., were allowed to speed through an expedited passport control. (I think they included the U.S., Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and half a dozen others.) Several hundred travelers were processed in all of about 5 minutes. No haranguing, no line cutting, no one wielding a can of junk food like a Dollar-Store Jedi. Just scan your passport, have your picture taken, and off you pop. We could feel months of stress draining from our shoulders as we stepped into the cool English air.
There
Before we left, nervous friends and family issued dire warnings about international travel: There had been protests, strikes, elevated terror threats, not to mention a janky and faltering U.S. air traffic control system. For us, the twin threats of wildfire season and the potential for civil unrest here at home loomed larger. But above all, we worried about our little Chihuahua mix, Ruby. This would be the longest time we’d spend apart from her. We knew it would be hard on her — she’s suffered separation anxiety from the time we adopted her.
As predicted, we arrived in England just as protests were roiling the streets of London, and rail and Tube workers were striking. Endless construction had torn up several streets around Central London, and Black Cab drivers cursed the constant traffic diversions. (“Couldn’t they have done this while school was out?? They should get five Black Cab drivers together, we could get this construction planned and sorted in no time.”) City busses were packed with those who couldn’t commute by train.
Add to that the president’s visit to Windsor Castle, which in turn stirred up more protests and nearly 24/7 BBC News coverage. (Some of which was accidentally hilarious, delivered in part by a drowsy-eyed older reporter who looked like he was coming off a three-day bender.)
And yet…
Other than the construction nonsense, we were largely unaffected by all the Stürm und Drang. With the rail strike largely resolved, we learned to navigate our local section of the London Tube. We walked most everywhere else. And at each waypoint, England proved herself to be one of the most gracious countries I’ve visited.
The Itinerary
Our schedule was an ambitious one: four nights in London, three in Oxford, two in Stratford-Upon-Avon, four in York, and the last two in London before our flight back to the States. Highlights included:
The Tower of London (our hotel was right on Tower Hill, within walking distance)
The Natural History Museum
The British Museum
The Victoria and Albert Museum
Afternoon tea at the historic St. Ermin’s Hotel
Oxford University and the City of Oxford (with private, 2-hour walking tour)
The Randolph Hotel and the Morse Bar (an homage to the Inspector Morse TV series) in Oxford
Cream tea at Queens Lane Coffee House in Oxford
Punting on the Cherwell
Oxford Botanical Gardens
The whistle stop of Leamington Spa (This was an unexpected treat, one of the nicest train stations I’ve ever seen. They even offered afternoon tea!)
Four-hour private walking tour of Stratford-Upon-Avon
Ploughman’s lunch at The Old Thatch Tavern in Stratford-Upon-Avon
Van tour of the Yorkshire Dales
Van tour of the Yorkshire Moors and Whitby
South Kensington and Kensington Gardens
Banksy Exhibit (happened upon quite by accident)
Cupcakes at Hummingbird Cakes
The Queens Gate Hotel
Science Museum
Pubs
Taverns
Restaurants
Pubs
Pubs
Pubs
Beer
Wine
Beer
Wine
Beer
Wine
Oh, and beer.
If You Go…
If you’re planning to visit England, we would recommend seeing and experiencing any of the above, with a few caveats.
Tour Guides Can Make or Break a Locale
You step off the train, check in to your hotel, and set out for a day of exploring. The city is arrayed in a medieval grid pattern, and many of the buildings date back to the Elizabethan era. Many are even built with the second story overhanging the first. It’s like stepping onto a Hollywood soundstage — nothing feels quite real. And yet, there’s a Boots pharmacy (a pharmacy chain similar to CVS, only nicer) and a TESCO grocery store. Good, good. If you need any sundries, you know where to go. The townsfolk are out and about, many of them walking their dogs — or taking them into restaurants and pubs, where fur babies are often welcomed with chalkboard signs proclaiming “We’re Dog Friendly!”. You have your map. You just hope you have your wits about you. Those medieval grids have a way of shifting on you. What appeared to be situated along the north is actually to the east. What. The. F*ck. And then, unless you see a ticket booth and velvet ropes nearby, you have no idea what you’re looking at.
Such was our experience in Stratford-Upon-Avon, the birthplace of William Shakespeare. We were about to write it off as a loss. The town was beautiful and much more pastoral than the other places we’d visited, but it simply didn’t “spark” for us. It was like walking onto a stage with all its sets and props in place but with the stage lights dimmed. That is, until we met up with our tour guide, Grace, for what was scheduled to be a four-hour private walking tour on our second day there.
She wound up giving us four and a half hours. Without breaking a sweat, stopping for water, or missing a beat. Over the course of the day, we followed the trajectory of Shakespeare’s life, from his birth near the city center to his death and burial in an area of town that apparently most locals aren’t even aware of. Her narrative illuminated the history of both the town and Shakespeare himself. If it hadn’t been for her, our time there would’ve been disappointing at best.
The same could be said for our Yorkshire Dales tour guide, Ben A. For eight — count them, eight! — hours, he entertained and informed and kept us engaged. At our lunch stop at the Wensleydale Creamery, he told us that the struggling creamery had apparently been granted a second life by a casual mention in a Wallace and Gromit animated film.
When we arrived at Bolton Castle, where Mary Queen of Scots had apparently been imprisoned for a time, he knew the falconer’s presentation by heart. He knew that one of the young birds of prey was named Taz because it liked to snuggle with its Tasmanian Devil stuffed toy. He also knew that, with its powerful prey instinct, the Harris hawk was no longer shown to guests. It once treated some gobsmacked schoolchildren to a spontaneous display of hunting prowess by swooping past the falconer and snapping up a hapless bunny from a nearby field. The day we visited, though, the hawk could only stare at us through the slats of its wooden cage. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was plotting murder, such was the mood.
In contrast, our day trip through the Yorkshire Moors rated only a bemused “meh.” The guide spoke too softly and too little. He said nothing about the seaside port town of Whitby until after we’d already left it. Which does a disservice to Whitby, Yorkshire’s “Goth Central,” where Dracula is said to have first landed in England in Bram Stoker’s novel. It’s also the birthplace of Captain James Cook, the legendary explorer who navigated the coastlines of Australia and New Zealand.
It took us a bit of doing to get the hang of Whitby. Divided in half by the River Esk, one side caters mostly to locals. At lunchtime, the pubs are crowded with working-class men and women having a pint and debating, loudly, the finer points of local gossip, how many quid something costs, and gods, did you see how tall that guy was?? (A seven-foot-tall man had just passed our tables, his head grazing the ceiling.)
From the other side of the river, though, the ruins of Whitby Abbey glower over the town. Below its 199 steps, the streets cater to tourists with quirky shops, bookstores stuffed with endless copies of Stoker’s “Dracula,” pubs, tasting rooms, and tea rooms. Like Stratford-Upon-Avon, it felt surreal, like stepping into the pages of a novel, but these pages had come alive and the legends stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you, inviting you to step back in time. We managed to have fun in Whitby, in spite of our tour guide.
The Meaning of “Four-Star Hotel” Depends on Where You Are
In London, “four stars” (generally) means you will enjoy plentiful amenities, a full English (buffet-style) breakfast, maybe even a cozy lounge or rooftop bar. You will be close to area attractions. There’s a Concierge desk. The lifts will be in working order and all floors will be accessible by them. You will be provided with a rubber bathmat so that you don’t slide across the slick-as-shit bathtub. This last proved more relevant than we expected.
Outside of London, the definition of “four star” is itself more slippery. In Stratford-Upon-Avon, breakfast was included with our rooms, but only the cold portion (fruits, cold cuts, pastries, yogurt, etc.) was offered buffet-style. Hot breakfasts had to be ordered off the menu, and the portions were stingy compared to the other meals we had enjoyed elsewhere.
Hotels in Stratford-Upon-Avon and York did have working lifts, but even then, we had to schlep our luggage up and down half-levels of steps. (Thanks, Dale!) The running joke became a sardonic, “Oh good. More stairs.”
Perhaps most importantly, the bathtubs are often too narrow to stand comfortably in, much less soak in, and turning around becomes an object lesson in how much you value your skull. In York, we asked front desk staff for a bathmat — there were little signs in our rooms instructing guests to do so. But after three attempts, staff could not locate any. A little while later, we heard other guests complaining about the absence of what I now call “the crucial length of rubber suction-cupped between you and premature death.”
Each locale will present you with these quirky little “side quests” for various objects: lifts, mats… The bloody meeting spot for tours. (We got turned around I don’t know how many times in York.) And each locale will thus become a story, an anecdote, a deeper understanding of your own inability to follow simple directions.
Don’t Be Afraid to Ask Questions
After our afternoon tea at St. Ermin’s, we took time to explore the historic locale. There was a display in one of the hallways honoring the spies who had once called the place home. Curious, Dale asked a concierge about the hotel’s past. Expecting a quick “Cliff’s Notes” overview, we instead received a spontaneous tour and a detailed narrative. What could’ve ended with Darjeeling tea instead became a glimpse into England’s multifaceted history. As British actor-comedian (Suzy) Eddie Izzard once noted, “We’ve got tons of history, just lyin’ about the place!” She wasn’t wrong.
Listen to Your Body and Don’t Be Afraid to Cancel Plans
We had embarked on a veritable whirlwind tour — and after 10 days, it was taking its toll. We were tired and footsore. Our brains were all but exploding with the 10,000+ years of history we’d already absorbed.
We decided to cancel our planned van tour of Windsor Castle, Bath, and Stonehenge. We hated to miss out, but the tour included a 7:15 AM meet-up time on our last day in London. Add to that the 30-45 minutes it would’ve taken to get to the meet-up location from our hotel. BLURRRRGH.
Our postures lifted and faces brightened at the thought of being able to hit the Snooze button on our last London morning. The schedule change also gave us more time to walk around Kensington, where we happened upon the Banksy exhibit — well worth the price of admission. Judy and I then treated ourselves to red velvet cupcakes (mine gluten free) and gobbled them before we could get them past the bakery’s patio.
By that final afternoon, though, my back decided it had had enough. Between flare-ups of arthritis and herniated discs, I could barely walk. In the middle of a fascinating medical exhibit in the Science Museum, I plopped down on a bench and announced: “I’m done.” I felt like one of those medical oddities propped up behind glass.
We left the museum, grabbed Sunday dinner at a local tavern, and then spent the rest of the afternoon in the hotel lobby/bar, having drinks or sipping tea, reading, and watching the London rain. After unseasonably warm days, many of them bathed in bright sun, it seemed that autumn was arriving at last. Tendrils of fog slipped around the buildings of Consular Row. There was a chill in the air. We were cozy and content. Stonehenge could wait.
Pub Culture
At 5:00 PM each day, pubs and taverns fill with locals and tourists shaking off the stresses of daily life, celebrating graduations or other events, or simply relaxing with friends. We saw far fewer people face-deep in their phones, tuning out the world. Singles were more likely to be caught doomscrolling. Couples and groups, though, eschewed the phone for real-world, face-to-face contact. Between 5:00 PM and 7:00 PM, the walls fairly reverberated with boisterous conversations and banter that’s drier than the gin.
We were asked about American politics only three times, and those exchanges tended to be brief. Brits seemed to view our politics more as a “Punch and Judy” puppet show than something to be taken seriously. Sure, they don’t really feel the effects the way we do. But I have to consider, too, that their history runs deeper and wider, and their culture has survived everything from Norman conquest to King Henry VIII to two World Wars and Benny Hill. They regard politics with a kind of world-weary stoicism, as if their shoulders are fixed in a permanent shrug. In general, locals were more curious about our travels — where we were from, how long we’d been in England, where we were going… Even with so much civil unrest throughout the country, British society felt sturdy and reliable. People still talked to each other and debated books and ideas. Indeed, even if the world were ending, I’m fairly certain that Brits would still go down the pub for a pint, enjoy their Sunday roast, and follow their football teams. So it’s Armageddon. No need to be uncivilized about it.
Of course, if you’re standing in a British pub, you’re mostly likely standing in the middle of all that historical context. Every pub seemed to have a story, and several wall plaques detailed the shenanigans that had taken place there. At Traitors Gate in London, we picked up historical details that weren’t even included in the tours of the Tower of London. The Turf Tavern in Oxford had been visited by both famous writers and politicians such as Bill Clinton. The Guy Fawkes Inn in York detailed the exploits of, well, Guy Fawkes, who (in)famously tried to blow up Parliament and was subsequently imprisoned and tortured in the Tower of London. As one of our tour guides quipped, “Fawkes was the only person to enter Parliament with true intentions.” And yet, during our first visit to the Guy Fawkes Inn, what did we chat about with the British couple sitting near us? American horror movies. Yup. In Britain, as in life, your politics are the least interesting thing about you — and the one thing most likely to get you killed.
I’m pretty well convinced that pub culture is one of the keys to surviving this historical moment. We need to revive our “third places,” where we can get out of our phones, out of our heads, and actually start talking to one another again.
Reasonable and Efficient
Drinks menus are robust — cask ales, traditional taps, pump taps, cocktails, mocktails, and wines from around the world. Beers are usually served as half- or full pints. Wine comes in small/medium or large pours (175 ml or 250 ml), or by the bottle.
And prices, by and large, are reasonable. Depending on what you’ve reached for, expect to pay anywhere from £4.50 (about $6) to £13.99 (almost $19) per glass. (The higher-priced drinks tend to be large pours of specialty wines.) We routinely paid £7 to £8 (about $9 to $11+) for a decent table wine. The most expensive, I think, were the glasses of Sancerre (Sauvignon Blanc from the Loire Valley, France) at £13.99 a pop.
Best of all, the wine lists don’t assume everyone has the palate of a third-grader. We routinely encountered interesting, complex wines from Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, France, Italy, and yes, even California. Perhaps the most surprising was the Romanian Pinot Noir we tried at the Oxford Wine Cellar. It’s not at all what you’re expecting from a Pinot, and it’s damned good. We went back for extra pours. Also common were dessert wines such as Tokaji from Hungary, as well as Sherry and Port. Wine is as much a part of the pub culture as beer, and there’s an unfussy worldliness about it. No snobbery to be found.
Most pubs also employ a “self-service” model that frees their waitstaff to handle multiple customers and orders efficiently. You enter, grab a table, note the table number (usually etched into a corner), go order at the bar and give them your table number, and pay up. Waitstaff will then bring out your food when it’s ready. Once you’re done with your meal, you can simply leave — no dithering over the bill or working out the tip. Many pubs automatically charge an extra service fee that covers, more or less, the cost of employing waitstaff. Tips are not required or expected.
Also of note: The legal drinking age is 18. And you can purchase alcohol at grocery store self-checkouts without needing to show ID. The entire culture around drinking is far less puritanical. Adults are treated as (gasp!) adults.
“Contactless”
English commerce now runs primarily on contactless payment systems. Simply tap your credit or debit card, and off you go. Even the London Tube accepts one-touch card payments at the fare gates. Though there are shops that still accept cash, the only folks who routinely welcome — and prefer — cash are the cabbies. If you’re planning to buy British pounds, you won’t need to buy much. We each ordered £250, and that was sufficient to cover our needs.
And Back Again
As we crossed our threshold, we were greeted by Ruby’s standard warning bark. I could tell she hadn’t yet sussed who it was walking through the door. She tip-toed into the hallway to check. Her bark went shrill and excited: “Where were you????” She was practically vibrating.
We were heartbroken to see that she had lost weight over the course of two weeks. Our pet sitter had struggled to keep her fed. Ruby had apparently gone on a three-day hunger strike, and had eaten little since. Her little hip bones and spine were standing out in sharp relief against her body. She looked weak. The separation had taken its toll. We smothered her with cuddles and kisses and have since been shoveling as much food into her as we can. We were relieved to see her snarf up her kibble that evening. As if she were saying, “You are my sustenance.” In humans, this behavior might be classified as “borderline personality disorder.” In dogs, it’s simply love.
In contrast, Dale and I had returned home a few pounds heavier. We had been well nourished by generous portions and the kindness of strangers. (Not to mention, a metric fuck-ton of Halloumi fries. Hmm…fries.) We were well sated.
We miss the pub culture. And not just the drinks. As a friend notes, you don’t have to be a drinker to enjoy the pubs. Pubs are where you take time to process the day, ruminate on what you’ve seen and done. It’s where you chat up friends and strangers alike, exchange ideas, give each other good-natured ribbings, and remind each other that, indeed, we are each other’s sustenance.