England Adventures

It pretty much all started cause I was bored.

Everyone had gone home for break, and I had just recently gotten back from visiting my aunt in Germany (more on that some other time, I just can’t find it in me to write about it now). After the third day in a row going to Oriental Star and hanging out at the O2 Center for no reason, I decided it was time to actually go out and do something.

So, last Thursday, I hopped a train to Canterbury with the promise to myself that I wasn’t coming back for the entire weekend. It wasn’t completely spur of the moment- I had gotten my parents’ ok, I was now in possession of a nice backpack with a laptop sleeve. I had researched costs, gotten a guidebook to Britain, and looked up places to go, mainly through Wikipedia, sure, but accurate nonetheless. I was ready to go it alone, doing the whole backpacking thing, have a test run for when I hopefully am able to do the Euro version in June. This is pretty much what happened:

Thursday
7 AM, my alarm went off. I’m not at all a morning person, but I had been training myself to wake up early for the days beforehand. I didn’t want to ruin my trip by sleeping in until noon every day.

I made my way to St. Pancras (which I still call St. Pancreas in my head after Kim and Mia did the same thing) and promptly missed my train to Canterbury. It was fine, I made another, though I would have to transfer. Little did I know, but I wouldn’t have the chance of a direct train ride for the rest of the trip. I marveled at the green of the English landscape, filled with rolling hills that could just as easily be evidence of an ancient Saxon settlement or Roman fort. From my abnormal amount of reading on crime scenes, I know that no matter what, no matter how careful you are, there’s no way you can set foot inside a room, any room, without leaving a piece of yourself, changing the setting in some miniscule way. I can’t help but realize that this is true of landscape as well, and the marks of our ancestors still mar every path we choose to walk on.

After a couple hours on the train, I made it to Canterbury, with the Cathedral in the distance. I knew instantly I had to see it in person, right away. With my heavy backpack I wandered the streets of Canterbury, eventually finding my way to the massive church. Last semester I took a class on Chaucer, where we had to read some of his most important works, spending over half the term on the Canterbury Tales alone. I wanted to see what the fuss was all about, why all these massively different characters went on a pilgrimage from Southwark, London, to Canterbury to see some dead guy’s bones.

It didn’t disappoint. The cathedral is massive, with ornate carvings and beautiful stonework. I happened to be reading the book “Pillars of the Earth,” by Ken Follett, which is incidentally all about building a cathedral in Medieval times and namechecks three of the places I visited on this weekend. I was beginning to understand the importance of these cathedrals, not just as a tourist attraction and historical landmark, but to the people that built them.

St. Thomas Becket’s shrine was destroyed five hundred years ago, but the space where it stood is still respectfully empty. Where he was brutally murdered by four knights is marked with a cross of swords, and takes the place as a new sort of shrine. The Black Prince, who you might recognize in the not-historically-accurate-at-all Knight’s Tale, is entombed at the Cathedral as well. I was getting ready to leave when an old reverend made his way to the lectern. I recognized this from Westminster Abbey. The tourists milling about still give hope to the religious leaders that they could possibly entice a few to join their flock, and so in every cathedral I’ve been to, they stop several times a day for a moment of silence and a prayer. The old man started a prayer, and invited everyone in the Our Father.

It was then it hit me that 16 years of Catholic school doesn’t just go away.

Out of instinct I made my way to a bench and sat down, habitually joining in, mumbling the familiar words even though they differed slightly from the Catholic version. From St. Mary’s grade school to Catholic Memorial to Fordham, New York’s Jesuit university, I’ve always gone to Catholic school. This semester at King’s College in London, a secular university though with Christian roots, is the first time I’ve gone to a non-Catholic school since preschool in the basement of a Methodist church. I’m not particularly devout. I don’t consider myself Catholic by any means, and don’t go to church unless forced to. I didn’t choose my grade school or high school, and I really chose Fordham mostly cause I wanted to go to a university in New York City, not because I wanted something Catholic. Sure, I have my personal beliefs, but they’re just that: personal. But maybe it was all the cathedrals, maybe it was reading about the super devout who built them, maybe it was a million different things. But I started feeling like maybe God wasn’t so much of an abstract concept anymore.

Religious speech over, I moved on from the cathedral to a museum centered all around the Canterbury Tales. I really don’t 100% get this city’s fascination with them. I mean, I know it has the place name right in the title. I know it depicts the type of people who would make the pilgrimage to Canterbury. But if you read it, you realize- there’s not a whole lot in there on Canterbury. It could just as easily have been referring to any other of the myriad pilgrimage sites in England or even all of Europe. The focus isn’t the destination, but the characters and their individual stories. Don’t tell that to Canterbury, though, which has built up a tourist industry around the stories. The museum was odd- in an old church that actually did date from Chaucer’s time, they gutted the inside and made a semi-interactive exhibit where you listen to animatronic characters tell a few of the tales. It was... eerie, really, more than anything.

After I called up the hostel and booked a room. A woman answered the phone and I made sure to spell my name- people misspell Anne all the time (I’ll never accept Ann as a legitimate spelling) and Wimmer can just end up a mess. After hitting up few other sites, including the Canterbury history museum, I walked out of the walled town and got to the hostel.

The lip-ringed guy who answered the door was almost too-friendly. “Well, if you booked a bed, you’re lucky, cause we’re all out,” he explained as he made his way to the computer. After a pause of him checking the records, he asked me to repeat my name. I did. Another pause. “Just a question,” he started, “Did a Romanian woman take your call, by any chance?” I had no idea. “Just because there’s no Anne Wimmer in the database, but there IS... no way.” He started to laugh. I started to get annoyed with his constant smile and multi-colored lip-ring. I mean, how do you even eat? “Well, there’s an Anemia here... Anne Wimmer, Anemia... I guess that’s you.” Great. I’m a disease. And not even like, an interesting disease either. I’m one that’s characterized mainly by sluggishness. I grinned and nodded along with Mr. Lip-ring and duly followed as he showed me around.

Eventually I was freed, and although I was invited for “pub night,” I wasn’t really interested. By nature I’m kinda an antisocial person, especially around people I know I’m never going to see again. I collapsed in bed, congratulating myself on picking the regular hostel instead of the youth hostel, mainly because it was closer. This pride was short lived, however, when my roommates started to file in. First, there was a random French girl my age who clearly didn’t speak a single word of English. It was still fine, though, and I just shrugged and returned to reading my book, taking a break from my traveling day and getting ready to settle in for an early night. Then a twitchy Asian kid who asked if I wanted to borrow his headphones to watch a movie every single time I opened my laptop, clearly not listening to my reassurances that my computer was on silent, I wasn’t going to interrupt his rapid fire texting, and I was just checking facebook. It still seemed so far so good, until a group of five middle aged men came in, claiming the remaining beds. At least the other two kids where my age. These guys were my parents’ age, and I wondered why they were staying at what was clearly a hostel aimed at people in their twenties. It was a little on the creepy side. I slept in my clothes.

Friday

This what I like to call The Day of Random Michael Jackson Songs, but that’ll become more relevant later. I also like to think of it as The Day Anne Finally Realized She’s An Idiot, alternately The Day Anne Nearly Abandoned The Trip Altogether. It started off fine, really. I left the hostel early, to begin a busy day and to escape the flatulent weird old men in my room. I headed immediately for St. Augustine’s Abbey. I knew it wouldn’t exactly be a massive building or anything, but I wasn’t expecting forking over five pounds (that’s nearly ten bucks, my American friends) to see a bunch of rocks in a vague approximation of an abbey. There was a mini-museum talking about how mighty and awesome the Abbey had apparently once been, and it made much over the fact that along with the Cathedral it was a World Heritage Site. Then I stepped outside to see... stone piles. The Abbey had began in Saxon times, flourished in the Medieval age, took a hit with the Tudors when it was made into a royal palace, and even survived becoming a dwelling to some random rich guy in the Stuart era. Then it fell into disrepair, exacerbated by some enterprising Victorians who got it in their minds to “fix” the Abbey, adding their own flourishes to make it look more “authentic”- of course, making it as inauthentic as possible. Those “repairs” have been demolished, so now when you go see it you see a bunch of rooms outlines in ancient stone, sometimes with a sign saying where you’re standing.

I think I can be pretty decent at visualizing stuff. But it’s sort of difficult to stand in a grassy patch, with a soccer field a couple yards away and cars honking away trying to think to yourself “Ok, this was where the monks ate.” I didn’t spend much time at the Abbey, and gave up on the included-in-the-ticket-price audio tour after about five minutes of some old guy slowly regurgitating all the information I had just read in the museum.

After hitting up the Norman Castle briefly (pretty, but mainly an empty shell of stone in a park) I did what any good tourist would do, and went to the gift shop. I learned A) Cathedrals do, in fact, sell shot glasses and B) the owner of this particular shop apparently favors Michael Jackson, and plays a mix of his songs for any shopped. And not just like, hit songs either, but not as popular ones like “Rock My World.” That was Michael Jackson Randomness number 1.

I hopped a train heading to Winchester, and when I say that I really mean a train going back to London with a transfer there to Clapham Junction and then the Winchester. By the time I arrived, it was already dinnertime, but I thought it was ok since I had a really great guidebook and knew exactly where the youth hostel was supposed to be. And I was sort of right, my guidebook ended up being totally invaluable, but I was cheap and went to the Book Warehouse and got it really cheap, not paying attention to the fact that it was the 2004 edition. Apparently, a lot of things changed in Winchester in the last six years, most notably, they don’t have a youth hostel anymore.

I learned this the hard way. Showing up to the spot where my book claimed was a hostel, I couldn’t find it. Thinking it was possibly me just being an idiot, I kept looking, at one point randomly ringing a doorbell to the supposed address (no one was home). I wandered into a pub that thankfully had internet access, when “The Way You Make Me Feel” came on. Michael Jackson Randomness number 2. Luckily I found a cheap hotel offering rates the same I would’ve paid otherwise, and booked a room online, leaving the pub.

Turns out this hotel was a mile away. Uphill. But I was ok with it, because although I was cursing myself for being stupid, I thought I was still within reach of a bed. I was wrong. The online booking hadn’t gone through, they had no record of me, and didn’t have a single room open for the night. I was out on my own again, with the day slowly turning into night.

I thought, ok, no problem, I’ll find a place. I stopped at two more full hotels before I nearly started to panic. I finally just walked into a random pub and started asking directions. Sensing my impending freak-out, the people were extremely kind and helpful. As they patiently explained the directions to yet another hotel (that later ended up being full), “Thriller” played, followed by “Beat It.” The ringleader, a woman who even offered to walk me to the hotel, was wearing a Michael Jackson’s “Bad” album shirt. Michael Jackson Randomness 3 and 4.

I left the pub, wandering around Winchester in the dark, losing hope. Oh, I think I forgot to mention one little thing: I had absolutely no phone credit. Mine had all ran out, and phone stores apparently close before 5 in this country. I could receive calls, which is how I was able to update my parents every hour or so, but I couldn’t make any, which is why I couldn’t just grab a phonebook and book a hotel that way. Dejected and anxious to get out of the dark, I walked into a McDonald’s, where for the first time ever I actually won something useful in that Monopoly game (ok, it was a sundae, not super useful, but it was better than oatmeal. I always win oatmeal). As I peeled the Monopoly sticker off my meal, I was surprised (and frankly starting to get a little creeped out) when “Black or White” blasted over the intercom. Michael Jackson Randomness number 5.

Finally, around 10 PM though feeling much later, just as I was calculating how possible it was to find a pub or something in Winchester open 24 hours where I could just sit and wait out the night (not very, it’s impossible to find someplace like that in London), I stumbled upon- almost quite literally- on an inn with one open room. Which they were willing to give me for a reduced price. With an included full-out breakfast. And my own bathroom. MY OWN BATHROOM.

I think I almost passed out.

Saturday

I checked out of the hotel and quickly went out for an early lunch. I found out A) people in England start drinking at 11:30 in the morning, and normal people too, since it was a young business woman type ordering a rum and coke and B) the Michael Jackson Randomness had one more thing in store. As I took out my guidebook, excited for the day and glad that everything from the night before was resolved, the jukebox softly played “One Day In Your Life.” I literally can’t think of a Michael Jackson single more obscure. It’s a song from the 70’s, in that weird limbo time in his career when he was no longer with Motown, his voice had changed, but he was still performing with his brothers and hadn’t even recorded “Off the Wall” yet. Michael Jackson Randomness number 6 would be the last, and most random.

Winchester, for all its grief, was actually totally worth it. In Medieval times it was the second most important city after London, and the king had a favorite residence there. His brother was the bishop. Then trade dried up, and Winchester hasn’t really changed, at least the center, much since Medieval times. Which is actually awesome, since that means it’s pretty well preserved, historically.

I saw the Great Hall first, all that remains of the once great palace, and home to the Winchester Round Table. People claimed it was King Arthur’s, but of course the wood dates from Medieval times and the paint, emblazoned with the names of all the Knights and a portrait of Arthur that looks suspiciously like Henry VIII, is Tudor. It’s absolutely massive, hanging above the hall.

Then I went to the Winchester Cathedral. It’s absolutely uggo on the outside, squat and with minimal flourish. But overall, I think it’s one of my favorites. It has the longest nave (which is pretty much the aisle) of any Medieval cathedral in Europe, where Mary Tudor (Mary I) married the Spanish Philip II, and is the final resting place of Jane Austen. She’s just sort of chilling on the side, with an epitaph that pretty much only talks about how she was a nice minister’s daughter with no mention of her books or writing.

After the Cathedral and a few other major sites,I was ready to leave Winchester, and set off for Stratford-Upon-Avon, staying at a hostel I booked the night before. Just to be safe.

Sunday

Ok, I knew Stratford-Upon-Avon was going to be big on the Shakespeare thing. But I didn’t know they went absolutely mental for him. There is literally nothing about Stratford that isn’t some way related to the guy. They have Shakespeare cookies, restaurants, teddy bear shops, and of course, book shops and theaters. Shakespeare statues are everywhere, and nearly every shop has some sort of Shakespeare reference- like a place called “As You Like It- Shakes’ Shakes.” I’m completely serious. It was like Shakespeare Disneyland. They took Shakespeare the man and made him into a fictional character. Instead of commenting on the controversy surrounding his existence and how little we actually know about old Bill, and instead present a lot of conjecture as absolute fact.

I’ve never really been as into Shakespeare. I don’t know why. Maybe because I resented that he’s always been someone we HAVE to read. I’m sure if I kept an open mind and just read his stuff on my own, I’d like it a lot more. But even I visited Stratford because I knew as a good little English major I should.

My first stop was appropriately his birthplace. I did the whole tour thing, and stood in one of the rooms as the tour guide said, “Shakespeare walked this very ground. It’s quite a sobering thought.” Try as I might, I couldn’t envision it. I couldn’t see in my mind’s eye the young man, dreaming of a playwriting career in London, living with actors and other artistic people low on the social scale, bursting with ideas. I failed to envision his young wife, a woman with no idea how much she was going to be left on her own. I saw... nothing. I mean, I’m not talking about this in some weirdo psychic way. I’m referring to, as childish as it sounds, imagination. I know, sounds freakish, right? But I always like to do that at these historical places- try to see the place as it once was, writing mini scenes in my head of what had happened there. At Shakespeare’s house, nothing, and nothing at the other two homes I visited that were owned by himself or his family.

My last stop, also fitting, was his grave. Then I was done with Stratford.
Monday

Lincoln was a day trip. I was ambivalent about it until the night before, when I finally decided that I actually did want to be that geek who visited all of the top 5 medieval cathedrals of England, and Lincoln’s always on that list (with Westminster Abbey, York Minster, Winchester, and Canterbury). So I went to Lincoln and saw the cathedral and the castle, nearly dying while scaling a street appropriately named Steep Hill (which I didn’t actually think would be a mountain, but I was wrong). I was impressed by the cathedral, along with its famous Lincoln Imp, a little carving of a devilish creature.

But I was getting history fatigue. I started finding myself thinking, ok, another cathedral, so similar to all the others, another castle, almost all the original building gone, the stone walls present but that’s about it. Just another old building. I was getting tired, and the thrill was gone. I couldn’t take it anymore, I found myself excited to head for home- London. It was overall exciting and absolutely worth it. I got to see a lot of England I’d want to see. But in the end, I was tired, and knew I needed to take some time off from history in order to enjoy it again, so it would no longer be a chore.