Back to the Somewhat Familiar

I awake early not by choice, but because in the hotel lobby near my room there are many eager, noisy people.  Resigned to starting my day before I'd wanted, I climb out of bed, dress, and head out of my room and down the stairs to where breakfast is served. I have found the noise-makers: a gaggle of American tourist on the Bath-end of an organized Rick Steves tour. They speak of their previous trips; one woman speaks of her previous husband. Shortly, they are all gone, off to meet their tour guide. Not long later I check out of my room, for the first time in nearly a week having to schlepp my  full burden of luggage as I make my way to the train station. I find a coffee shop and stop for coffee, killing time. 

The train ride back to London is quick; an hour and a half later I check into the final hotel of my stay, the Easy Hotel near Earls Court. The room is small, barely large enough for the double bed, nearly no space for my luggage, for the clothing that no matter how hard I try will get scattered about the room over the next few days. The next day I figure out how to get to Greenwich, where the Prime Meridian is located. You could say that time as we track it starts here. Many years ago in the navy we synchronized our cryptographic gear to Greenwich Mean Time, each day listening to the female voice announced each minute: "At the sound of the tone, the time will be 11:45 Greenwich Mean Time," for example. It was, perhaps, the only female voice I would hear for months at a time when we were at sea.

When I started my Cotswold walk in Painswick, I happened upon a plaque described how sundials work, and how sundial time relates to Greenwhich Mean time. Far above the plaque was a sundial, something that I would see again on the sides of churches in other villages. In Greenwhich, I think about how we define a "long time," and I remember the Long Barrows (ancient burial mounds) I during the walk, sites that were upwards of 6,000 years old. Then, a few days later I am in the British Museum, standing over the hoards of school children enthralled by the mummies, which are also very old. I cannot help but consider the human belief that we are at any time important or significant. These mummies are the preserved remains of people who also considered their lives important, and here they are barely saved from the same dust of those hidden in the Long Barrows.  It's not a pessimistic thought, really--more of a kick-in-the-mouth jolt I need every now and then when I start taking myself too seriously.

I am sad when I leave England, for it seems as though I have just started growing comfortable. I am in an airplane for over 10 hours, landing in SFO late in the afternoon, working my way through the morass that is U.S. Customs and finding the BART station from where I'll travel into San Francisco. I check into my hotel and am tired but also glad to be closer to home. I like the familiarity of my room: how the electrical switches work, how the shower functions, what the TV stations are. My room has a balcony, and I step onto it, sit in one of the chairs, and enjoy fresh air that is so welcome after so many hours of being cooped up. In a few days I am back to work, and at first I spend what seems like a long time staring at my computer screen and wondering what will happen next.

Getting Beyond the Familiar #2: We End Walking

After a restless, largely sleepless night, somewhat spooky night, I lie in bed and feel both sad and happy that this is the last day of walking. The previous days' walking and exploring were exhausting, exhilarating, exciting, and, well, a bunch of other things. Today's distance should be only about 10 miles, a distance that seems short, a minor hop-skip-jump down the path.

Breakfast, alone again, is at a large table; this is my last day of being pampered and served, and my feelings are mixed. As someone who feels guilty at being waited on by servers at restaurants, I've had a bit of difficulty having someone prepare my breakfast each morning. When Monica, my host, greets me, we talk about my day ahead, and we talk about how she's not sure of how much longer she'll be hosting anyone, a quandary brought about in some way by her brother's illness. The table at which I'll eat and the food I will consume look like this:

There is enough food for several people. I eat some of it, wrap the meat in a napkin for lunch. Not much later, I say goodbye to Monica, thank her for taking care of me when she would rather have been taking care of her brother, and I head out the door. I look at the churchyard I passed through yesterday, and I wonder if the time I'd spent roaming the graveyard--and peeking into crevices and crypts--contributed to the previous night's sleeplessness and thinking that someone was in the room with me.

The weather is, once more, superb: sunny, warm. Some of the terrain looks like this:

The walking is fairly easy as my legs legs and lungs have adapted to walking. Along the way I pass through (and even around) the fields where the Battle of Lansdown took place in 1643. The path takes me over a wall, which looks like this:

The flag-markers I encounter for much of the morning delineate the battleground's boundaries, and I am reminded of a trip years ago to Battle, England, where the battle of Hastings was fought in 1066. As I get older and turn into more of a pacifist, I tend to also become more pessimistic about the our species' bent toward self-destruction. Battlefields make me think of these things.

The miles pass easily. From a hill, I see the first traces of Bath in the distance:

I walk through the town of Weston, and I stop at a Tesco Express for a sandwich and a drink, which I consume while sitting on a stone wall just up the road. I have just a couple of miles left, according to the signpost, and I'm torn between hurrying along or simply lingering in Weston for a while longer. I split the difference and walk slowly, easing into the commotion that is Bath. It is not long until I am somewhat lost and disoriented as I find it nearly impossible to find trail markers. In the shade of a large tree near a park, I consult my guidebook and find the note that the trail "signage is small and difficult to spot," which makes me feel better. I am searching for the Bath Abbey, the traditional start/finish of the Cotswold Way, but I finally give up and navigate to my lodging, where I check in, shower, and relax. The room is comfortable and large, as is the bed on which everything I have carried for the last 5 days rests:

I am staying about a mile from the Abbey, so I head back into the city and find the place, which looks like this, outside and inside:

Finally getting here is, predictably, anti-climactic: no trumpets sounding my arrival, no committee of angels to welcome me. Quickly weary of the crowds of tourists (yes, I know I am one of them), I head out again and find the Sacren's Head pub, where Dickens reputedly wrote sections of The Pickwick Papers. The pub even has this:

It is a nice touch, especially because Dickens is one of my favorite authors, and I started this trip to England with a visit to the Dickens' House (a small museum) in London. I order a Guinness from the bartender, find a seat near the window, and let myself sink into relaxation. This adventure is over.

Getting Beyond the Familiar #2: We Begin Walking Part E

Breakfast at the Sodbury House at, again, about 7:30. My legs are tired from the previous day's hike, but the rest of me is anticipating what lies ahead over what should be only 10 miles or so. Imagine: 10 miles seeming like an easy stroll. Before I leave I speak with one of the owners about traveling, how he's a bike rider and recently rode to London in about 6 hours. We talk about bikes. We talk about his travels to Las Vegas and Florida. And then I am out the door. The weather is good.

I retrace some of my steps from the day before and turn right at The Dog Inn, heading down a paved road until I'm once again in the woods, then out of them and walking through fields. I look at some notes in the guidebook: "Extensive views across fields to hills"; "ornamental bridge"; "take care: busy road." And there are several busy roads, it seems--not the country lanes I might expect, but full-blown expressways. Some views I see look like this:

At one point begin hearing the noise of motorcycle engines, a noise so out of place and grating. I look in my guidebook and see the note "motocross track," and for half an hour I hear the engines before, just over a hill to my left, I see an occasional motorcycle in mid-air. Later, I find a sign announcing that I am just 2 miles from Cold Ashton, where I will spend the night. I am happy to be so close, but I am also bordering on despondence because with each step over the past few days I become quite at home with being outside. I think that, if a person planned well enough, he could carry a small tent and backpack and spend the nights outside, as well. Not long later I pass through the small town--really not much of one, really--of Pennsylvania, where I find a fuel station/mini-mart in which I buy a sandwich and drink for dinner. I cross another highway, hike diagonally across a field, and find that the trail cuts through a churchyard, which looks like this:

Because I have arrived in Cold Ashton earlier than I expected, I linger in the churchyard and walk among the headstones. Some are old, some quite new. One thing about death, I guess, is it's always there. I find the Laburnum Cottage, where I will be staying, but rather than check in right away I head up a small country lane. And there, coming toward me, are a woman and her dog. I barely notice the dog. The woman is dressed in shorts and a bikini top, with a wide hat on her head. The woman has the whitest, most pure skin I have ever seen on an adult human being, and I am aware that I look as though I have just left the trail after a long day of hiking. I keep walking. She and the dog keep walking. Moments later I turn around to check into the Cottage, and I see that the woman seems to have more clothes on than she had earlier. She and her dog turn, too, so that they are coming toward me again. The dog, though, suddenly turns left, and the woman follows. In moments I am where they had been, but there is no trace of them.

I meet Monica at the Laburnum Cottage. She is in her seventies, and she tells me to take my shoes before we discuss who I am and what I shall have for breakfast. And then she tells me that she had not been sure that she would be there when I arrived because she'd been at the hospital all day with her sick brother. She says she was not sure of where her loyalties should be placed: with her brother, or with her business. We then discuss the church, and she says that the doors should be open until 6:00, and that I am welcome to go inside. She says that, if the doors are locked, to talk to her because she is a church warden and is happy to let me inside. I am then shown to my room, which has a small sign that reads "Catherine's Room" hanging on the outside. Alone, I shower. I make myself comfortable. My view through the window looks like this:

 Somewhat refreshed, I head outside again. And the church, inside, looks like this:

Back in my room, I eat the sandwich I'd bout in Pennsylvania, and I watch the BBC. I do not sleep much throughout the night, the first time this has happened since I began my trip. My dreams are strange, and more than once in the night I wake up and think I hear someone else breathing, as if sleeping soundly.