Catastrophic Day One

On the first morning of the Amazing Britain tour there were two big tour groups leaving our hotel (which had a too small lobby for ninety eight confused people).  I guess it took awhile to sort that many pieces of luggage onto the right buses, so we were a half hour late getting on the road.  Our tour director’s name was Frank.  That didn’t really seem foreign sounding enough for my sister, (who remembered Martin Short playing the role of the wedding planner on Father of the Bride, or some such movie), and so we started referring to Frank as “Fronk”.  Not to his face of course.  He was born in Ireland but raised in Liverpool, and his business card shows him wearing a kilt.  One mixed up dude.  Even though we have no one to compare him to, we both think he was an EXCELLENT tour guide.  There seemed to be no end to his knowledge of each place we visited and he very painstakingly gave us instructions about where we were going, the historical significance of each place, how long we would be there, how to get to where we wanted to go, and when to be back on the bus assuming we could find it (so please listen).  He would invariably repeat everything at least twice, usually three times.  And still when we started off we’d all be looking at eachother and asking “what time did he say?  which direction?  what??” Obviously he has dealt with many bus loads of attention deficit disorder tourists.  He was always polite and helpful had a great sense of humor. 

Our driver’s name was Paul and he was from Wales.  I don’t think it makes any difference what part of the UK they come from, they all learn to drive like demented maniacs.  We learned quite quickly that pedestrians do not have the right of way.  Buses can pass eachother going full tilt with only inches between them.  There is no space too small to try to fit a bus in between.  There are round-abouts everywhere just waiting to shoot you off in the wrong direction with dozens of signs pointing every which way.  We started off with seats on the left hand side near the centre of the bus, and every day each pair of us moved ahead and clockwise two seats.  Ann and I were both extremely excited for the day when we would move to the front seat on the right directly behind the driver.  However, when we finally got there, I couldn’t wait for the next move where I could once again be oblivious to oncoming traffic and hairpin turns. 

 After breakfast (at which I scoffed a couple of apples and a soon to be squished muffin for my backpack – road cookies which would soon resemble road kill), we left London and started our drive north through the Cotswold Hills en route to Stratford upon Avon.  It’s lovely that there are so many trees in England,  but not so lovely that they are huge and border all the roads so that the view is mostly blocked.  We saw some hills and some fields and a lot of sheep between the trees.  The couple sitting behind us was from Kentucky.  He looked a bit like Jimmy Carter, and she looked quite a lot like Snow White.  In front of us was a man whose career had been with the Peace Corps, with his wife who had been a nurse.  They met in Africa, of all places.  She was very French, he was very droll, and they now live in Charleston.  There were also people there from New Mexico, Las Vegas, Independence Missouri, and many other places in the States whose names elude me now but will no doubt pop into my brain at odd and inoportune moments.  Suffice it to say the group was predominantly Americans, but there were also people there from Vancouver, Winnipeg, different places in Ontario, Cornwall, and Newfoundland via Fort McMurray.  There were several people from New Zealand, and two young sisters, perhaps in their early twenties, from Australia. 

Our first rest stop or bathroom break was at a little place called Welcome Break, a complex of eating areas and cash machines and restrooms beside a big gift shop.  This is where I used my first traveller’s cheque and decided hauling out my passport as i.d. was going to be a supreme pain.  So one point goes to the people who told me to just use cash.  This is also where Ann struck up a conversation with a guy from Milverton, very close to where she lives!  They figured out some mutal acquaintences, and every time he saw her after that, he would point and say “Ontario, right??” 

Almost immediately after leaving this spot and starting to gain some speed on the highway there was a gut wrenching squeal from somewhere underneath the bus.  Paul was able to slow down and pull over and bring us to a stop on the side of the road.  He and Frank got off to investigate, and very shortly Frank popped back on the bus to inform us that we had had a “catastrophic wheel problem happen”.  He was just completely beside himself, urging us to be patient and not worry, and frantically calling people on his phone, and hopping on and off the bus to continue doing one or the other.  I think because he was so totally distraught it made the rest of us felt quite calm and complacent, which prompted him to tell us many times how much he appreciated our calm acceptance of this “bloody CATASTROPHE”.  Eventually a guy driving by in an empty bus stopped to see if he could help, and Frank had us all gather up our personal belongings and walk single file along the side of the road to board the other bus.   I’m sure he was very relieved that none of us died during this procedure.  The police would not allow the transfer of our suitcases on the highway.  We were driven to another rest stop much like the first one, called Cherwell, and here we had lunch (at a Burger King!) and hung around waiting for our bus to be towed, the new bus to arrive, and our luggage to be transferred. 

So, the good news about that kind of a start is that it’s very unlikely that things will go downhill from there!  Once we were finally on our way again, Frank was adamant that we would miss as little as possible.  He was very appologetic about the fact that we would have to give up on going to the Wedgwood china factory.  Most of us didn’t even know we were slated to go there.  So we went directly to Stratford Upon Avon and Shakespeare’s birthplace.  If we were supposed to see Anne Hathaway’s cottage, I guess I somehow missed it. 

English gardens are delightful.  They’re lush and overgrown and a little bit wild.  This is a little pear tree in front of an apple tree and in amongst a lot of other stuff along a narrow little walkway leading to the house. 

It’s a very tourist saturated spot, and very controlled as to where you can go and what you can do.

This is a picture I took inside the house, after which I was informed that taking pictures inside was not allowed.  Ooops.  After that I lost interest. 

This was, I think,  the town square.  There were so many interesting little shops to visit – one of them was the Nutcracker, nothing but Christmas crafts.  That’s where I saw a man in a walking coma, obediently following his wife around.  There was another shop which sold magical supplies, some kind of Cauldron, although not the Leaky one.  They were all about ALMOST ripping off all things Harry Potter. 

And this is the jester landmark where we had to go left to find the bus.  My penchant for remembering the details and the significance of things astounds me.  We had only an hour and a half to spend here.  Which meant we had no time at all to stop at the Coventry Cathedrals.  Instead, we caught a glimpse of them as we flew by on the bus.  Poor Fronk, trying to make up time, directed the driver to a more major highway with the intent of speeding us along to our next destination, but we soon became part of a major traffic jam.  What are the odds?  I found myself hoping he wouldn’t try to shoot himself.  As soon as we were able to take an exit, we went on yet another detour, this time through Sherwood Forest (where people have cut down almost all of the trees) and past the church where Robin Hood supposedly married maid Marion.  Although no one can prove that this really did happen.  But no one can prove it didn’t, so the church is an attraction no matter what the real story is. 

That first afternoon was supposed to be our walking tour of York, but we didn’t arrive until around 7:30 p.m.  We were taken directly to the Churchill restaurant for a complimentary drink and a wonderful three course meal, and the promise that we would not be skipping our York site seeing – that would happen tomorrow morning.  The bus left to deliver our luggage, and perhaps here Fronk slipped off to hospital to make sure he hadn’t had a coronary.   Originally we were supposed to travel to Harrogate for over night, but we stayed right in York instead.  I really don’t remember a whole lot about our hotel in York, except that the room was small, I had the bed by the open window, and there were some very melodic singing pub crawlers in the street below us who carried on way into the wee hours of the morning.  A perfect end to a catastrophic day.