United Kingdom Travel

Pageantry and Tradition at Windsor and Eton

By Chris Millikan

Pageantry and tradition await us just thirty-minutes away from Paddington station. During an easy day trip from London, my husband, daughter Jessica and I hop an early train and spend an enjoyable day sightseeing in both Windsor and Eton, two historic English towns.

Windsor is best known for its castle, perched above the town for 900 years. The world’s largest and oldest working castle has served English monarchs ever since William the Conqueror built it there: King John, as he waited to sign the Magna Carta at Runnymede; imprisoning Charles I as he awaited beheading. Queen Bess renovated it; Victoria mourned Albert, her beloved husband who died here in 1861. It even sheltered the Royal family during WWII. Today, Queen Elizabeth’s royal standard flies above its 1,000 rooms when she’s in residence.

Although this remarkable castle has been altered over the years, the defensive Curfew Tower looks just like it did in 1227…but now serves as St. George’s bell tower, chiming out rousing hymns and still providing quick, private exits for the Royals!

Inside Gothic St. George’s, we locate the tombs of Henry VIII, his favourite wife Jane Seymour, Charles I, Edward VII and other notable sovereigns. An enthusiastic docent standing under an array of colorful banners tells us, “Knights of the Royal Garter meet here in these magnificent choir stalls; individual coats of arms above them symbolize their backgrounds.” Undeterred by light drizzle, we watch the ceremonial changing of the guard in the outer courtyard and listen to the regimental band belt out brassy tunes. Both to and from the castle, the Guard marches through this charming Victorian town, an eye-catching sight.

Queen Elizabeth II’s public apartments overflow with wondrous art. Queen Mary’s masterfully crafted Doll House, given as a gift in 1923, especially intrigues us. This lovely miniature palace boasts early electric lighting, five bathrooms with running water and working elevators!

Along cobblestone streets leading away from the castle, we pass many little teashops, as well as antique and silversmith shops. Nell Gwynne, the mistress of Charles II, once lived on Church Street, very close to her Royal lover’s chambers! After taking a look at Christopher Wren’s elegant Guildhall and Crooked House Tea Rooms next door, we stroll the pedestrian bridge across over the picturesque Thames River to Eton’s hallowed grounds.

Just along the High Street we come to Eton College, one of the world’s most exclusive boys schools. Founded by eighteen-year-old Henry VI, this elite public school has educated generations England’s greats since 1440; ancient desks and benches bear the graffiti of hundreds of noted Etonians, including Prime Ministers Walpole, Duke of Wellington and Pitt the Elder; poets Thomas Gray and Percy Bysshe Shelley; writers George Orwell, Aldous Huxley and Ian Fleming; multi-talented actor Hugh Laurie…and Prince William, second in line to the British throne.

Mid-way between Eton College and Windsor Castle, we pop in for a ‘posh’ meal at Gilbey’s bar also on the High Street…and catch one of the many trains travelling this popular route back to London.

Getting There:

Trains from Waterloo or Paddington Station: www.nationalrail.co.uk
Tourist Information: www.windsor.gov.uk

About the Author:
Chris Millikan is a freelance writer/photographer living near Vancouver, BC. As a former teacher and elementary school principal, Chris now presents articles as an inviting ‘curriculum’ depicting the joys of travel. Many BC community newspapers, Open Road Driver Magazine and Senior Living Magazine regularly publish her articles. In-flight Magazines, the Vancouver Sun and Province have also featured her stories. As BC Association of Travel Writers Vice President, she supports colleagues’ aspirations. And traveling off the beaten track with writer/photographer partner and hubby Rick, their published tales reflect great adventures. Their 2009 Kalama Award acknowledged an array of their stories reflecting the rich culture of Maui, Molokai and Lanai.

Climbing The Stairs Of Time in St Paul’s Cathedral

by Jane Cassie

It feels like we’re heaven-bound while trekking up the stone stairwell that spirals from the ground floor of St Paul’s Cathedral to its glittery cupola dome.

And although we’re only halfway there, I’m ready to throw in the towel. Sure, I was forewarned to lace up my Rockports when exploring London’s tourist trail, but I didn’t think to bring along cross trainers.

“Only a hundred more stairs before we reach the Whispering Gallery,” encourages Brent, my Olympian-fit husband, as he jaunts by like a loping gazelle. In spite of my drum-rolling heart beat and burning thighs, I plod onward and upward. After all, doesn’t slow and steady win the race?

The reward is had by all who ascend the two hundred and fifty-nine steps to this pivotal hushed spot.

Immediately after emerging from the claustrophobic staircase, an awestruck “wow” escapes me. At the midpoint of this open rotunda, we have a bird’s eye view of the eighteenth century architectural masterpiece.

The cathedral has been constructed in the shape of a cross, and intersecting the two arms is a bejeweled dome which now hovers over our dizzy heads. Light flows in through leaded panes onto Roman pillars, intricately-etched archways and mosaic murals of theological statues. The scenes depict the life of St Paul and shimmer with gilded glory. It’s truly a sight that humbles to the core.

“I can’t believe this sanctuary was completed way back in 1708,” Brent says, while checking out the pamphlet of our self-guided tour. “And it was designed without the help of any software program!”

We discover that the acclaimed Brit architect, Sir Christopher Wren, is the mastermind behind this Baroque beauty.

Although he was confronted with political pressures along the way, after thirty-five years of sweat and toil, he proudly unveiled his finished product. It still stuns us today! As well as scheduled services the cathedral has been the resplendent venue for many celebrations and funerals.

Farewells to leaders like Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington and Sir Winston Churchill have been integrated with royal birthdays, Golden Jubilees and memorable weddings. I recall the many photos taken of Lady Diana Spencer as her train trailed down the aisle of this enormous nave.

Branching out from both sides beneath the glorious dome are crypts, where over three hundred famous souls have been laid to rest. The cathedral’s creator, Sir Christopher Wren, is one of them. Inscribed on his burial slab is a Latin phrase that translates to, “Reader, if you seek his memorial, look about you.” Isn’t it the truth!

The Whispering Gallery encircles just beneath the dome’s interior, and due to its ingenious construction, a quiet whisper can be audible from the opposite side –hence the name. Embedded seats of stone, allow us to rest a spell and resume our heart rates. It’s here where I also take time to reflect on the incredible surroundings and the man who was at the helm of it all.

Although St Paul’s Cathedral was likely Wren’s pièce de résistance there was certainly no moss growing on this English chap.

As well as designing fifty-one London churches, his creative endeavors were spread far and wide.

On our first day to this vibrant metropolis we had ogled over his work at Hampton Court, a stately palace to a number of past Royalties, most notoriously being Henry VIII. Although this big-bellied fellow with the sketchy nuptial history had long since departed by the time Wren was commissioned, the palatial halls and great Tudor kitchens are certainly reminders of his reign.

Wren was actually hired by William III in 1689, for the purpose of giving the place a total face lift. Unfortunately even Kings have a budget, and the one that Wren presented was a little too steep for His Highness’s britches.

Instead of tackling the entire abode, his work was limited to the King’s and Queen’s apartments –and believe me, they were nothing like the condo of today’s standards! In spite of a few mishaps and a couple of fatalities, all was eventually transformed to the King’s liking.

With headsets crowning our skulls we had listened tentatively to the entire tale, and while meandering from one glitzy room to the next, had gawked like envious scullery maids.

We had also checked out Wren’s similarly embellished décor at Kensington Palace, and strolled by his steeple-like Monument at Fish Street Hill. The fluted column soars upwards to sixty-five meters and commemorates the Great Fire which devastated London in September, 1666. It provides a great panorama if you want to hoof up the three hundred and forty-plus stairs to the pinnacle. Needless to say, I had kept on walking.

“Do you know where the stairwell is that leads to the outdoor observatory?” Brent asks. I’m jarred out of my ‘reflecting Wren mode’ by my husband’s question.

“There are more stairs?” I respond, feeling quite content to remain on duff beneath the glittery dome. “As well as the Stone Gallery,” he explains, “there’s an upper Golden Gallery which offers an awesome city view.”

From out of the corner of my eye, I can see Brent gathering up his camera equipment. He’s preparing for the next two hundred and seventy-one steps that lay ahead. And all I can think is, “legs don’t fail me now!”

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes the freelance writer/photographer team of Jane and Brent Cassie, who live in Surrey, a suburb near Vancouver B.C. on Canada’s West Coast.

Photos by Brent Cassie

1: Trekking the stone staircase.
2: The famous façade of St.Paul’s on a gray London day.
3: Looking down on Ludgate Hill, the street approach to St.Paul’s.

If you go:

Official London Website: https://www.visitlondon.com/
Official Britain website: http://www.visitbritain.com

Where to stay:

MS Tours & Travels LTD
Regent House
24-25 Nutford Place, Marble Arch
London W1H 5YN
Tel No: +44 207 569 3280
Fax: +44 207 569 3282
reservations@mstravels.com
www.mstravels.com

Following a Kilt Through Scotland

by Nell Raun-Linde

Scotland — a land of rivers and lochs, of barren rocky hills and green valleys, of crumbling abbeys and castle-fortresses on crags and sea cliffs.

My first foray into this land north of England started in Glasgow and ended there, twelve days and 1500 miles later. Our group of six writers traveled in a red van with a kilt-wearing driver, Ken Hanley, who recited Robert Burns poetry and Scottish history throughout the journey.

Aside from the weather — a radio broadcast one day called it “dull and wet for the rest of the evening” — Scotland captures its visitors from Day One.

From Glasgow, we followed the sea to Ayrshire, continued through the Borders territory and the Lowlands to Edinburgh. We zigged and zagged our way to Perth and Aberdeen, then traveled through the Highlands to Inverness.

Burns Territory

Ayr, south of Glasgow, became our base for getting acquainted with Scotland’s national poet, Robert Burns. His small birthplace cottage in nearby Alloway shows the tough life of 18th century farming families sharing cramped quarters with the animals. Burns left the farm laborer life to become a published writer by age 27.

Burns had spent leisure time at the Bachelor’s Club in nearby Tarbolton. We toured the two-story, well-appointed National Trust museum. Burns started his debate society and attended Masonic Lodge meetings there, found subscribers for his first book, and moved on to Edinburgh and fame.

Edinburgh For History

Our first full day in Edinburgh began with circling the city’s periphery to view the city of spires and steeples.

Edinburgh Castle and the 12th century Palace of Holyrood, both open to visitors, stand at each end of the historic Royal Mile. Between them, centuries-old buildings with shops and pubs and museums make it a great walk in the old city.

It’s a huff-‘n-puff climb up the volcanic crag topped by Edinburgh Castle. What violent happenings this castle has seen in a millennium. The English and Scots fought here in the 13th and 14th centuries.

Mary, Queen of Scots spent time in Edinburgh Castle in the mid-16th century where she gave birth to James VI of Scotland, later King James I of England.

Scotland’s queen almost since her birth in 1542, she returned from France a widow at age eighteen. A tolerant Catholic queen in the midst of the Reformation, she still lost to Protestant John Knox.

She fled to England to her cousin, Queen Elizabeth, but the queen imprisoned her for twenty years, and then ordered her beheaded. Even now, Mary’s violent death (“and she was a queen, after all”) is considered unforgivable by the Scots.

The Borders Region and Beyond

At Abbottsford, Sir Walter Scott’s impressive mansion, we learned that the honorable lawyer/writer (Rob Roy, Waverly) ruined his health paying off publishing house debts. We wished for more time viewing the countryside and still-magnificent Melrose Abbey ruins.

Headed north for the Trossachs, we stopped along the Firth of Forth to see the century-old marvel, a cantilevered railroad bridge, and the Hawkes Inn, where Robert Louis Stevenson lodged and wrote about in Kidnapped.

In the Trossachs, our red van wound through wooded Queen Elizabeth Forest Park. Back-packing hikers shared the road in this superb walking area, only one hour from Glasgow and Edinburgh.

Again we found historic land — Stirling Castle and bridge, the Wallace Monument, the expansive plain where William Wallace (Brave Heart) defeated the English.

Perth and Aberdeen

We passed through Perth with time for little more than sleeping and eating. Ah, what civilized eating at the vintage Royal George Hotel, ending with coffee and chocolates in the drawing room.

Scottish food in hotels, pubs, tea rooms and museum cafeterias surprised us: the hot-hot soups; fresh scones and fresh fish and flavorful lamb; luscious sticky puddings. And always warm haggis – even for breakfast.

The sixty miles to Aberdeen included stops at James M. Barrie’s (Peter Pan) birthplace, and the 16th century Glamis Castle, birthplace of the present Queen Elizabeth’s grandmother and sister.

And a detour to the edge of the North Sea to walk out to abandoned Dunotter Castle, isolated high on a narrow cliff.

The highland city of Aberdeen, begun in the 1300’s, sparkles when the sun hits its granite buildings. At the Aberdeen Harbor, where the Cutty Sark was built, we heard its Captain McCoy would take only real whisky aboard, hence the saying, “the real McCoy.”

And the real McCoy of what we call Scotch is highland single-malt whisky. We stopped at the Royal Lochinvar distillery for a wee dram.

Inverness and Beyond

The drive to Inverness began with visiting 13th century Elgin Cathedral, still beautiful as ruins, its window fragments framing blue sky.

Inverness invites walking. We dropped bags at the Royal Highland Hotel and set out along the banks of the River Ness, crossing foot bridges, with a stop for refreshment and a rest at the Harlequin pub.

“Order a whisky and a half,” Guide Kenny said. “You’ll get a dram of single-malt highland nectar and a half-pint of the pub’s beer specialty.” Bundled and shivering at the water’s edge, warmed inside by powerful booze, the group morphed into real Scots.

Next, the Culloden Battlefield, a must stop to understand the Scots’ bitterness toward their conquerors, the English. The 1746 battle, the last Jacobite uprising, finished with a massacre of women and children hunting for family after the battle. Take a haunting walk through the battlegrounds where fresh flowers decorate clansmen’s graves.

Great sights crammed into the next two days: the Isle of Skye; the ancient stone circles, the Clava Cairns; Loch Ness, searching for the monster which only surfaced on film.

On the long drive toward Glasgow, as Scottish music resounded throughout the van, we recalled our many encounters with the gorgeous rugged land, its people and history.

Aye, it was a bonnie visit.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Nell Raun-Linde, a free-lance travel writer, and member of NATJ, who lives in historic Benicia, a small California town between San Francisco and Napa Valley.

Photos by Lou Raun-Linde:
1: Our red van makes a pit stop at a Scottish distillery.
2: Our group takes five at the Harlequin Pub.
3: The beautiful ruins of Elgin Cathedral.

The Isle Of Arran – A Wee Scottish Treasure

by Caroline M. Jackson

An eclectic group of passengers at the Ardrossan ferry terminal boarded the top deck of the Caledonian Isles as we prepared to cross the Firth of Clyde to reach the Isle of Arran. Dubbed ‘Scotland in Miniature’, the island is studded with craggy mountains, bracken-clad moors, beautiful beaches, castles and a history as colorful as the kilt.

A chill wind cutting through my woolly sweater, sent me scurrying for cover. Below deck, my husband and I gingerly picked our way through a jumble of golf bags, fishing rods and bulky rucksacks which looked as if they’d been purloined from an army surplus store.

By now, the only vacant seat was beside a weather-beaten shepherd and his pair of nervous collies pacing at the end of a rope.

As our ferry nudged against Brodick pier, I thought back to my childhood holidays when the journey from Glasgow used to be a half-day undertaking complete with flasks of hot tea and enough egg-and-cress rolls to feed a Highland regiment. Today the train and ferry trip from Glasgow Central station takes less than two hours.

A short walk along the grassy esplanade took us to our B&B where we received a warm welcome. Our bedroom window overlooked the brick-red sands of Brodick Bay, so named from the Old Norse word meaning ‘broad bay’.

On the far shore, the sharp summit of the island’s tallest mountain, Goat Fell (874m), was unusually devoid of mist. The hill walkers and mountain bikers would be pleased.

Top of our sightseeing list was a visit to 13th century Brodick Castle which is now owned by the National Trust for Scotland. An elderly volunteer clad in a tartan skirt, nimbly led us up a broad staircase under the watchful eyes of 87 mounted stags’ heads.

Our self-guided tour drew us into a time capsule of Scottish Baronial life and uncovered a veritable treasure house of art, porcelain and silverware. Afterwards we meandered through the 65-acre woodland Country Park and alongside pastures dotted with Highland cattle.

Having completed our loop, we followed the sound of clinking teacups and found ourselves in the castle’s terrace tearoom. Volunteers were doing a brisk business selling fresh scones, shortbread and local ice cream.

Outside, with the castle ramparts sheltering us from the prevailing wind, we basked in the sunshine. Our few crumbs were shared with a robin redbreast which eventually flew off to the adjacent walled garden.

History buffs can happily while away a couple of hours at Brodick’s Heritage Museum which is situated in an 18th century croft farm. To turn the clock back even further, however, we drove inland over the scenic String Road to Machrie on the opposite side of the island.

From here we walked along a track to the Bronze Age stone circles at Machrie Moor which are evocative of Stonehenge. Unfortunately we weren’t the only visitors. Clouds of pesky midges descended upon us and our flailing arms did nothing to keep them at bay.

For a scenic daytrip, visitors can take a bus, drive or cycle round the island’s 100 km of coastline.

Dotted around the perimeter is a necklace of unspoiled seaside villages – perfect spots to enjoy afternoon tea or visit craft stores which display local paintings, pottery, jewelry and wood carvings.

One of my favorite villages is Edwardian-style Lamlash. From its jetty, a small boat transports visitors over to nearby Holy Isle which once Christian, is now a Buddhist spiritual retreat.

There’s also Kildonan with its playful seal colony; the hamlet of Corrie with its white washed cottages and Blackwaterfoot with one of the island’s seven golf courses.

A perfect spot for sunset photography is Lochranza with its 14th century ruined castle made famous by Sir Walter Scott’s epic poem ‘Lord of the Isles’. It was near here that I spotted a herd of magnificent red deer who, having caught my scent ascended to the highest ridge.

My last memory of Arran was watching a row of moving antlers outlined against a dimming sky. It is a sight forever etched in my memory.

About the author:

Travel editor Vic Foster’s guest this week is freelance travel writer Caroline Jackson who lives in North Vancouver.

Scotland Travel Tips:

Attire: good walking shoes and rain gear
Scottish Tourist Board: https://www.visitscotland.com/

About the photos:
1: Brodick Bay, Isle of Arran. Hamish Jackson photo.
2: Afternoon tea at Brodick Castle. Karen Jackson photo.
3: A hill walker on Goat Fell by Nancy Jackson

Bears, Brothels and Bards – London’s Bankside

by David Elliott

I’m standing on a narrow, cobbled street in London, looking up at a blackened corpse hanging in a gibbet.

This guy must have done something pretty diabolical, like steal a loaf of bread, or perhaps he even insulted the Bishop. It was probably the latter, because the Bishop’s palace is just a few hundred yards down the street, not far from his brothels.

After defeating Harold at Hastings, William the Conqueror doled out estates and titles to his friends and relatives.

Equal Opportunities, corruption and nepotism were notions belonging to a future world, and William didn’t think twice about handing confiscated estates to his cronies, turning reckless adventurers into earls and dukes overnight.

It is said that behind every great fortune lies a crime, and the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy (themselves invaders of Celtic lands) must certainly have felt this when their estates in Southwark went to William’s half-brother, Bishop Odo of Bayeux.

After a few decades, some of these devolved on Bishop Gifford of Winchester, including the brothels, in 1107.

I’m on the south bank of the river Thames, between Blackfriars Bridge and Tower Bridge. Now a pleasant and clean riverside walk, until fairly modern times this place was a sink of iniquity, a cesspool of low-life, and a magnet for the worst elements in society.

And because of its colourful history, there is no better introduction to London: this particular day out will take you right to the heart of the city. Geoffrey Chaucer and his fellow pilgrims set off from a pub around here (the long lost Tabard Inn) en route to Canterbury over six hundred years ago, and there’s plenty of walking (and drinking) for us too as we set off on our own secular pilgrimage.

Invaders Ancient and Modern

Southwark started life as a Roman camp at the time of Claudius’ invasion of Britain in AD 43, with the stretch now known as Bankside being occupied by brothels to service the troops.

With such an illustrious origin, the area promised one dynamite future, and it certainly rose to the challenge: taverns, bars, gambling joints, cockpits and bear- and bull-baiting rings were a feature here for centuries, always attracting the lowest elements in society, such as robbers, murderers and actors.

To explore this fascinating area – which you can easily cover in a leisurely day’s stroll – get the tube to London Bridge and walk down the steps past Southwark Cathedral.

Within a couple of minutes you’ll reach a replica of Francis Drake’s 16th century warship the Golden Hinde, on which he sailed around the world and wreaked havoc on Spanish shipping, before returning to England laden with treasures for Elizabeth I.

He actually died of fever in the South Seas, but there is a legend that should England ever face mortal danger again, Sir Francis Drake will return, sailing up the Thames to the rescue, his drum beating as it did on the night he died. Not surprisingly, Drake’s Drum was reported frequently when the Nazis replaced the Spaniards and the Luftwaffe was the new Armada: some dictators just never learn.

Two Samuels – Johnson and Pepys

Next, head along Clink Street to the historic Anchor pub for coffee or something a bit stronger. There has been a tavern on this site for 1,000 years. This magnificent multi-level building is a riot of creaking floorboards, oak tables and leaded casements, and is everything you’d expect of Olde England.

It is where the diarist Samuel Pepys watched the progress of the Great Fire of London in 1666, and where Samuel Johnson met his friends Henry and Hester Thrale. The Thrales owned the nearby Anchor brewery (now demolished), where Johnson had a room in which to write. Dr Johnson drank regularly at the Anchor, and one of the bars is named after him, with a copy of his famous Dictionary on display there.

Shakespeare, Dog-fights and Knives in the Dark

The next stop is the jewel in the crown of modern Bankside: Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre.

The reconstructed theatre is the brainchild of American actor and film-maker Sam Wanamaker, who sadly didn’t live to see its completion. It was reconstructed using original techniques and materials, and has been an enormous success: its summer season of four productions, some in period dress, often sells out well in advance.

The rough and immoral Bankside was the natural site for theatres in Elizabethan times, as the church considered them to be the most sinful places in the whole of Creation.

They were even considered in some quarters to be the cause of plagues, by a curious but compelling ecclesiastical logic. According to Thomas White, preaching in St Paul’s in 1577: ‘The cause of plagues is sin…the cause of sin is plays; therefore the cause of plagues is plays’. I rest my case.

The contemporary theatre-going experience was a world away from today’s luvvies and wine parties. The playwright Christopher Marlowe was involved in a street fight with a man who was killed, and he himself was murdered in a tavern brawl in nearby Deptford. One Bankside theatre-goer was stabbed to death by an usher after questioning the price of admission.

The Globe made its final curtain call with a bang: it burned down in 1613 when real cannon were fired to mark the entry of the king during a performance of Shakespeare’s new play, Henry VIII.

A new theatre called the Hope was built over a former bear-baiting arena nearby. It had a removable stage so that bear-baiting could continue between plays, but two years later it reverted to a bear pit, and its site is now marked by a small street called Bear Gardens.

Bankside’s dog-fights and bear-baiting were eventually banned by the Puritans – not because they brought suffering to the animals, but because they brought pleasure to the spectators.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer David Elliott who lives in England.

Photos by David Elliott:
1: The replica of Drake’s “Golden Hinde.”
2: The Anchor Pub.
3: The George Inn is typical of the architecture of “Olde England.”

If you go:

Anchor Inn
34 Park Street, Southwark, London SE1 9EF
020 7407 1577
Mon-Sat: 11:00-23:00
Sun: 12:00-22:30

Pickfords wharf
Clink Street, SE1 9DG
020 7403 4243
11am – 11pm (Mon-Sat) 12pm – 10.30pm (Sun)

The Clink Prison Museum
1 Clink Street, Bankside, London SE1 9DG
020 7403 0900
www.clink.co.uk
Open daily generally 10.00 to 18.00hrs, but times do vary, so please call to check.

Globe Theatre
The Box Office is located in the main foyer at Shakespeare’s Globe.
Opening Hours:
Monday to Saturday, 10am-6pm (8pm on performance days)
Sundays from May 5 onwards, 10am-5pm (7pm on performance days)
Telephone or Fax
For reservations and credit card bookings contact the Box Office, Monday to Saturday 10am-6pm, Sunday 10am-5pm
Telephone: 020 7401 9919
Fax: 020 7902 1475

A Thoroughly English Day Out in Little Known Norwich

by Anna Bright

Surrounded by hell-bent footsteps and a blur of grey scowls, we ducked onto a suddenly peaceful train, to escape the insanity of rush hour London for an altogether more green and more pleasant part of the land.

I heard a keen rustle of waterproofs as an American couple behind me fished out their Cambridge guidebooks, feeling pleased to be taking my young Polish friend a little further, for a walk around my quietly confident, tourist-free home town, which locals say has “a church for every Sunday and a pub for every day of the year.”

Smart, stately Norwich train station was the perfect starting point for a peaceful afternoon. Turning right along the river Wensum, away from the city’s gentle hustle and bustle, we wandered along a sleepy riverside path, under willow trees sweeping into the slow flowing water.

There was a polite cheer in the distance before we spotted navy and red striped boys from Norwich School playing rugby on the wide green, under strict supervision from the tall, elegant Church of England Cathedral.

We sloped off in their direction down secret seeming Cathedral Close, where waxy trails of ivy creep over a charming cluster of mismatched traditional architecture in crumbly red brick and blue-grey Norfolk flint.

The graceful, sandy coloured spire which towers almost one hundred metres above as you approach the cathedral, gives you a sense of the size and power of the city during the first half of the previous century. Norwich was the second largest and wealthiest settlement in England after London when building began in 1096, at the time of the Norman Conquest.

Before stepping through the dark, heavy west door, we gave a nod to the couple presiding over the building’s façade. The first woman ever to write a book in English; medieval mystic Lady Julian of Norwich, looks serenely out over the close to welcome visitors.

Her writing was a precursor of the city’s thriving literary culture, centred today around the University of East Anglia, which has trained many prominent novelists, including Booker Prize winners Ian McEwan, Anne Enright and Kazuo Ishiguro.

To her left, deep in thought, stands Saint Benedict, the monk who founded the Cathedral priory a thousand years ago.

These modern sculptures are based on people who still live in the city; strangely enough, Saint Benedict was found playing jazz guitar in a restaurant on nearby Saint Benedict’s street. He had just the right Romanesque features to represent the saint, and even agreed to shave his head for the sculptor.

I squinted at my watch in the bright sunlight, as we stepped out of the cool, damp calm of the cloisters, where we had been trying to decipher the biblical messages behind the dozens of brightly coloured carvings of ghoulish green faces and flame red phoenixes on its low ceiling. It was nearly lunchtime, so rubbing our stiff necks, we crunched across the gravel to the nearest pub.

The bricks and beams of the ancient Adam and Eve on Bishopsgate sag knowingly under the weight of a stormy history.

The first customers of the city’s oldest inn, were builders working on the cathedral in the 1200s, who would come here after a days hard graft to be paid in bread and ale.

We washed down hearty plates of bangers and mash in onion gravy with dark pints of Mauldon’s Moletrap bitter, whilst trying to wheedle the truth out of the landlady about the uncanny number of murders centred around the place over the centuries.

We tripped over what seemed like almost every cobble when we finally headed off down Elm Hill, leaning on each other like the lopsided timber-framed houses down this narrow Tudor lane full of eccentric antiquarian booksellers and free art galleries.

Not much needed alteration to create the time warp necessary for the set of fantasy blockbuster Stardust, starring Robert de Niro and Sienna Miller, which was filmed here in 2007.

The cobbled streets got trendier as we headed up towards Pottergate, rifling through a few independent record shops and vintage clothes stores on the way.

I cringed at the smell of patchouli incense as we passed Head in the Clouds, where the nicely brought up children of Norwich are initiated into mild adolescent rebellion with the help of hair dyes, nose rings and rolling papers.

If only their herbal highs had been strong enough to erase my own memories of the outfits I used to put together there in the not so distant past.

Emerging from Upper Goat Lane, with the cheerful, stripy awnings of Norwich market below us, we crossed over towards the Forum; the city’s impressive glass covered Millennium library and media centre.

Sipping hot milky tea by the amphitheatre style steps, with children laughing and skateboards clacking in the background, I remembered my panic at the smoke and flames rising from the old library, which I was heading for to do some last minute revision for exams fourteen years previously.

On the way back to the station, we couldn’t miss exploring Norwich Castle, which has towered over the city since it was built buy the Normans as a royal palace 900 years ago.

Highlights for us were a tour of the dank, cramped maze of dungeons where prisoners were kept festering in the dark, views over Norwich from the ramparts, and the outstanding collection of landscapes by artists from the Norwich School art movement of the early 1800s.

Tired and happy, we flopped into our seats on the train back to the frenzy of London, trying to work out how many more trips we’d have to make to drop into all the other quintessentially English pubs and churches this charming market town keeps tucked away from the crowds.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Anna Bright who lives in Paris, France.

Photos by Syd Harris:
1: Lopsided houses line Elm Street.
2: Overview of the Norwich Market.
3: Norwich Forum

If you go:
Trains run direct to Norwich every half hour from London Liverpool Street ( two cheap single tickets can be bought in advance from www.nationalexpresseastcoast.com ) or via Cambridge from Kings Cross. The journey takes two hours.
www.cathedral.org.uk provides a very informative guide to Norwich Cathedral

Go to www.museums.norfolk.gov.uk for Castle opening times and ticket prices

Visiting Brontë Country: an Exceptional Experience

by Lori Henry

The Brontë sisters have been a fascinating curiosity since publishing their work under the genderless pseudonyms Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell in 1846. Respectively, Charlotte, Emily and Anne went on to write some of the most well loved novels of their time. Emily’s Wuthering Heights smashed purist morals with its rough language and passionate characters; Charlotte’s Jane Eyre ignited independent spirits and disarmed conservative thinkers of the day; and Anne’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall was set around a feminist theme rare for her time.

When it was found out that the authors of these stories were three daughters of a clergyman, interest in their lives was piqued. The early deaths of both Emily and Anne added to the allure of the authors. Tourists began visiting the hometown of the sisters while Charlotte and her father were still alive.

Haworth, Yorkshire, was a small but crowded village sustained by the working poor in the local textile mills, with over one third of the population working in the industry.

Elizabeth Gaskell, Charlotte’s official biographer and acquaintance, described it as a grim place with bleak weather and blustery winds. Health reports from this time inform us that the village suffered from a lack of a drainage system, which contributed to outbreaks of cholera and piles of human and animal waste in the streets.

The vision of Haworth today is a much more romantic one. Settled atop a steep hill in Yorkshire, England, it has attracted more than seven million visitors to its still-quaint streets and Brontë-themed activities.

The Black Bull, King’s Arms and White Lion Inn, all popular in the mid-1800’s, still serve customers today, and Main Street is kept in tidy condition for picture perfect snapshots.

Although the village has been developed and the population grown, the buildings are well preserved and visitors get a real sense of the Brontë’s time from the active work of its citizens and the Brontë Society.

The parsonage where the girls grew up has been carefully converted into the renowned Brontë Parsonage Museum. Each room is filled with furniture and the belongings of the family, creating the atmosphere that most closely resembles what their lifestyle would have been like.

The often described dining room, where the sisters did most of their writing, is laid out just as one would imagine. A wooden table sits in the middle, which the sisters used to walk around in the evenings discussing their work.

Charlotte’s room is the most fascinating because of the display of one of her sombre dresses and shoes, conveying just how petite she was. The kitchen was another important room for the Brontë family, where the fire kept them warm on cold Yorkshire evenings.

During the day, Emily could be found here helping to bake bread while studying German from her propped up book. In the evenings, one of their servants, Tabby Aykroyd, would tell them dark tales about the surrounding moors that no doubt crept into their writing.

The Georgian home is simply furnished and attentively arranged to the smallest detail. The long-case clock that Mr. Brontë used to wind up every night at 9 p.m. stands halfway up the stone staircase.

On display are some of the hand-made books, so exquisitely tiny, a magnifying glass is almost required to read the words. The museum is filled with original manuscripts, authentic furniture, books from the Brontë’s library, and objects that the family used. Walking amongst these treasures and within the parsonage walls gives the closest connection to the sisters themselves than anywhere else in the world.

For the most devoted fans, what is now called Brontë Country spans from Bradford to the Lancashire Pennine moors. This area was explored by the sisters throughout their lives, becoming a large part of their novels. Here are the most celebrated sites that have Brontë associations:

Wuthering Heights
– Top Withens, near Haworth, is typically credited as the inspiration for the Earnshaw’s turbulent home
– Ponden Hall is located on the Pennine Way, near Stanbury, and is thought to be the origin of Thrushcross Grange

Jane Eyre
– Pendle Witch Country contains Wycoller, believed to have been Ferndean Manor
– Cowan Bridge, close to Ingleton, is the controversial village that housed Lowood School
– Norton Conyers, a nearby country house, is said to be the inspiration for Thornfield Hall

Shirley
– In Kirklees, Oakwell Hall resembles Fieldhead and Red House is thought to be taken from Briarmains

Other Related Sites
– Thornton, the birthplace of Charlotte, Branwell, Emily and Anne
– Gawthorpe Hall, near Burnley, was a common visiting place for Charlotte during the latter part of her life, where she stayed with the Kay-Shuttleworths
– Scarborough is the death place of Anne, where her grave still rests
– The Brontë Waterfall is a 2 1/2 hour walk from Haworth’s Main Street, a spot the sisters used to visit often.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Lori Henry, an actress and freelance travel writer who lives in Vancouver. B.C.

If you go:
Bradford Tourism provides detailed information for all travel needs on Haworth and Bronte Country www.visitbradford.com/bronte-country.

About the photos:
1: Haworth main street. Photo courtesy of Bradford Council.
2: The graveyard and parsonage. Lori Henry photo.
3: “Bronte Country,” the Haworth moors. Lori Henry photo.

London’s Favourite Haunts

by Jane Cassie

He’s dressed from head to toe in raven black and melds seamlessly into the pitch-dark night. In one hand is an umbrella that doubles as a cane. In the other, is a flashlight, waiting to come to life. Timing is everything, and when the nearby bell of St Andrews begins to toll, he goes into action. “It’s the bell from Gabrielle, who sends your soul to heaven or hell…” The cue has been perfectly timed with our guide’s performance and following the lyric he sheds light on yet another spooky tale.

Shaughan has led the way on Original London Walks for sixteen years, and we are captivated by his haunting vignettes. The slapstick routine is creatively interspersed with songs, and is more like a Shakespearean play than a ghost hunt.

While weaving around London’s dimly lit alleys, we hear about ruthless royals, cruel slayings, and returning spirits. Men who were boiled alive in 1305, have come back to deal with their executioners. Chained prisoners who were gruesomely disembowelled have been heard clanking over rooftops.

There’s been whistling in bell towers, mysterious cries within walls, and phantom galloping over cobblestones. Throw in a few bodiless heads and headless bodies and you have one haunted heyday!

But in spite of historical reports, it’s all in good fun, and we will snooze well beneath London’s full moon tonight.

Although we have our fill of spooks after this stroll, two evenings later, we’re lured like werewolves to the Richmond district where more eeriness awaits.

Ham House is the perfect place for spectres. The isolated Stuart mansion hugs up to the River Thames, and when nighttime falls, its Tutor silhouette takes on an ominous glow.

John Mills, our burly guide, turns out to be another ghoul guru. We gather in the Grand Hall, once a party place for the royally rich, where he provides a Coles notes version of history. “The house was built in 1610 for Sir Thomas Vavasour,” Mills explains, “and then was gifted to his best friend, William Murray, a.k.a. the Earl of Dysart.”

Generous guy, I’m thinking. But, as we soon discover, money doesn’t always breed nice people. The Earl’s daughter, a spendthrift and an unfriendly gal, inherits the haven. She goes through a couple of husbands, makes some poor financial choices and her entire domain goes belly up.

Ham House becomes an abandoned time capsule after her death in 1698, yet in spite of its vacancy, a few spirits still linger.

We discover that the resident chaplain, Gilbert Spink, was quite enamoured by this gal. “When her apparition returns, dressed in black, the spirit of Spink is close behind,” Mills says, “and so does the resident pooch, a King Charles Spaniel.”

We check out the canine’s skeletal remains, well preserved under glass, and look at the past residents whose images are portrayed on canvas. Sticking close to Mill’s shadow, we mosey through the fine interiors boasting period décor, then head to the chilly outdoors.

Just beyond the arboretum, is the celebrated Cherry Garden, an orangery and the scene of, yes, more ghostly sightings. After hearing about love-crushed servants and returning World War I heroes, we’ve had our fill of phantom fun-at least until the following day.

Further up the Thames is Hampton Court Palace -sixty lush acres, colossal citadel-the whole bastion bit. Initially, the fortress was built for Henry VIII, the big-bellied king who had the reputation for killing off wives.

While being led through his palatial quarters by costumed guides, we’re given the run down of those hapless women who have made a comeback to haunt these halls.

Henry’s third wife, Jane Seymour, has been seen wandering the Clock Court. His fifth fair maiden, Catherine Howard, has been heard shrieking in the Haunted Gallery and his second in line, Anne Boleyn, seems to be here, there and everywhere.

As well as around Hampton Court, we discover that her presence is predominantly felt at the acclaimed Tower of London, another popular hang-out for the incorporeal crowd and London haunt where history literally comes to life!

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes the freelance travel writer/photographer team of Jane and Brent Cassie, who live in South Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C.

Photos by Brent Cassie:
1: Shaughan leads the way on our ghost walk.
2: Hampton Court Palace and home to Henry VIII.
3: Winding staircase to the King’s apartments.

Abbotsford: At Home with Sir Walter Scott

by David Elliott

For anyone who loves Sir Walter Scott, Abbotsford is a place of pilgrimage. I arrived there on a drizzly afternoon in early September, crushing sodden leaves underfoot and tightening my scarf against a gale. The ground was like a sponge, and dark clouds that could have been painted by Constable rolled across the sky. On such a day, in the midst of dense forest, I could easily have been in early Norman England, in the landscape of Ivanhoe.

The Borders – that no-man’s land between Scotland and England – is the best place on earth to encounter the Wizard of the North. It is a wild and rugged landscape, historically lawless and the home to feuding clans loyal only to themselves, with their own dialects and customs.

Walter Scott knew it like the back of his hand, and its uniquely romantic atmosphere and violent associations suffuse his works. It was here that he built his dream home on the proceeds of his fantastically successful career as the first ‘historical novelist’.

He even got to enjoy it for a few years, before a disastrous financial speculation forced him to spend the rest of his life paying off what he regarded as debts of honour – what a guy.

I trudged past the empty tea rooms with mounting excitement and after the next bend in the track found myself before the holy of holies: that splendid Gothic folly that is Abbotsford.

It is not so much a castle as a large manor house decorated with battlements and gargoyles.

It is a place on which much love as well as money was lavished, and the temptation to sneer at the toys and baubles of the rich and famous is held in check by the knowledge that Walter Scott was born without privilege, worked incredibly hard all his life, brought and still brings joy to millions, and was more entitled than most to indulge himself a little.

‘Well, alright then – quite a lot, on this occasion,’ I admitted as I crossed the threshold and found myself slap in the middle of a Gothic fantasy: the Entrance Hall prepares you for what’s to come, with its huge stone fireplace and the helmets, breastplates and coats of arms stacked along the walls. This was clearly the home of a man in love with the past, and with living on a grand scale.

The wonder is that he ever got any work done at all. Surrounded by such luxury and so many distractions I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on my writing for more than ten minutes at a time, let alone churn out the great quantities of books for which Scott is famous.

He wrote the Waverley novels here, and received guests who included the likes of Byron, Wordsworth and Washington Irving.

The study is the sort of room that most writers fantasize about having but know they’d never get any work done in it: the big leather chair behind the solid writing desk (made from pieces of wood from the Spanish Armada); the books lining the wood-panelled walls; the marble fireplace.

Intriguingly, two secret drawers were discovered in the desk in 1937, and in them were 57 letters written between Sir Walter and his wife before and after their marriage. The books themselves are a bibliophile’s dream: there are nine thousand of them, housed in the study and library. Also in the library is Napoleon’s cloak clasp of golden bees, which was found in his carriage after the battle of Waterloo.

But the room that has the most immediate impact is definitely the Armoury. You could kit out a small medieval army with the stuff in here, and most of it is on the walls.

Many of the pieces have historical connections, so consult the guidebook as you crane your neck at the flashing steel. Amongst other manly equipage, there are Sir Walter’s blunderbuss and pistols; Rob Roy’s sporran purse, dirk and broadsword; James VI’s hunting bottle; and the keys of Lochleven Castle, thrown into the loch after the escape of Mary Queen of Scots.

Moving on, as they say, we come to the drawing room. Now, in common with most British stately homes, it is difficult to imagine people actually relaxing in here.

The chairs are stiff and formal, and the Chinese hand-painted wallpaper I’m afraid reminded me of long, boring Sundays at my Gran’s house when I was a child.

This room, in common with the rest of the house, contains gifts presented to Sir Walter by the great and the good: a writing desk given to him by King George IV, an urn presented to him by Byron, a portrait of him by Raeburn. Actually, in this portrait, which hangs over the fireplace, he looks positively fed up:

‘Is this it, then?’ he seems to be asking. One of his dogs is trying to cheer him up, and the other has lost interest.

Scott was a compulsive collector, and filled his house with such objects, which is all very nice for us – but I can’t help thinking that all the snuff boxes, suits of armour, paintings and assorted memorabilia were really just a sort of side-show, and that he felt most alive and fulfilled when he was immersed in the writing of his novels.

With this in mind, I decided to take a final look at the study before leaving. It was here that the books were written, and where Scott’s presence is most tangible. I felt an almost overpowering urge to sit in that famous chair, if only for a moment.

But I managed to resist, out of respect as much as anything else: it would be like leaning against the altar in a church.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes David Elliott, a freelance writer who lives in England.

About the photos:
1: View of the buildings from the River Tweed.
2: The main entrance and the Garden Gate to the left.
3: The main entrance to Abbotsford.

Admissions:
House and grounds
Adult – £5.00 Child – £2.50
Group [including guided tour]
Adult – £3.90 Child – £1.95
Garden only
Adult – £2.00 Child under 12 – free
For further information contact:
Abbotsford
Melrose Roxburghshire
TD6 9BQ

Phone: 01896 752 043
Fax: 01896 752 916
email: enquiries@scottsabbotsford.co.uk
www.scottsabbotsford.co.uk

Facilities:
Car and coach parking
Disabled car parking
Available via the private/staff entrance 200 yards [650m] west of the main car park
Public rooms are all on one level, and can easily be viewed by wheelchair users. Ramps are provided into the garden.
Picnic area in the garden
Tea Room
Gift Shop
Toilets [including disabled]

On the Trail of the Black and Whites

by Cherie Clement

Summer has ended, the nights are drawing in and the majority of tourists are in annual hibernation, so now is the time to enjoy the sensory delights of many parts of the English countryside. My husband likes driving and taking photos whilst I love exploring somewhere new, so it was in total accord that we set off to follow the Black-and-White Village Trail in the north-western part of the county of Herefordshire.

The trail is a roughly circular route covering approximately forty miles between the ancient market towns of Leominster and Kington, taking in most of the picturesque black-and-white villages along the way, each of which having its own distinctive character.

Leominster itself, dating back to the seventh century, is a bustling market town with a wealth of historic and half-timbered buildings amongst its usual high street stores.

We stayed the night at the Talbot Hotel in the centre of the town, where its oak beams, wonky ceilings and creaky floorboards delighted us.

We settled in with a few bedtime drinks in front of the open-log fire in its cozy lounge, before retiring to our comfortable en-suite bedroom where we discovered the disadvantage of staying in the middle of this busy town is that late-night revellers obviously had a good time!

However, we survived and enjoyed a wonderful breakfast that set us up for the day’s exploration, following the well-marked brown and white tourist signs.

The first village we came to was Dilwyn, a small village with an impressive church and a cluster of black-and-white houses surrounding the village green. With the sun shining, this little village is picture-postcard pretty, and we were relieved to see that modern houses were built in the black-and-white style to preserve its beauty.

From Dilwyn, we went on to Weobley. From the moment we approached, past a fascinating ‘pink-and-black’ house, it was obvious that this particular village is something really special.

Practically every house in the main part of the village is black-and-white. Until 1943 Weobley boasted a lot more of these old houses, but several were destroyed in a disastrous fire. Fortunately, there are enough left to be appreciated.

Ye Olde Salutation Inn, with its old beams, welcoming fire and different levels, offers wonderful food and accommodation.

The craft shop just down from the inn has a lovely selection of goods which can considerably lighten your purse, as well as satisfy your hunger with a variety of home-cooked goodies.

It was in this village that, for a mere £450,000, we could have become the proud owners of a fabulous seven-bedroomed property, with three sitting rooms and various outbuildings all set in an acre of gardens, that was a favourite place of King Charles I. If only!

Reluctantly leaving Weobley, we headed to the next main village on the trail, Eardisley. Black-and-white houses line the main street of this village.

There is also a church to visit, with a depiction of an incident that happened to the Baskerville family of the area. It is from a local ghost story of a black hound that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle found the inspiration for the Sherlock Holmes story, The Hound of the Baskervilles.

We stopped for a light lunch in the Tram Inn at the end of the main street. This quaint old pub is typical of those in the area, with wonderful old beams, crooked walls, floors and ceilings.

The décor matches the period perfectly and there is a lovely picture of a witch on the wall alongside the gorgeous log fire. When we asked, we were told that this was the landlady, in costume for her small part in a Harry Potter film!

From the pub carpark, we made a quick detour up the lane towards Woodseaves. About a mile up this lane there is a signpost, Great Oak. Turn in and you are faced with a massive oak tree, approximately 900 years old and said to be the oldest in England. The trunk is so huge that it would probably take ten people linking hands to reach around it!

Back on the main road, we headed to Kington, which is situated on the western side of Offa’s Dyke marking the original boundary between England and Wales over 1200 years ago.

Pembridge is the next main village on the trail. Its main street has clusters of black-and-white buildings throughout its length, many of which are so bent out of shape that it’s a miracle that they’re still standing!

Here again, we saw that sense has prevailed and modern houses are built in the traditional style so as not to spoil the ambience. There are over ninety listed buildings in Pembridge, including the old market hall dating back to 1520.

Behind this is the ironically named New Inn, which used to be the courthouse and actually dates back to the early seventeenth century! The west window of the village church portrays fourteen gospel scenes and once provided a refuge for the villagers during Welsh border raids in the Middle Ages.

The last main village on the trail is Eardisland which, in 2004 was claimed to be the prettiest in Herefordshire. Eardisland is the proud possessor of the only-known pre-war AA box, which is displayed in the centre of the village.

The gorgeous old houses that surround the bridge over the river Arrow at the end of the main street are certainly picture-postcard worthy. There is a recently restored seventeenth-century dovecote providing information about the village.

The beauty of visiting this area is that it is easily traveled on a daytrip, or you can take your time feasting and sleeping in any of the villages. It is easy to relax in the olde worlde charm that prevails.

History surrounds you – after all, some of these dwellings are mentioned in the 1086 Domesday Book!

We are definitely going back!

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Cherie Clement who lives in Abergavenny, South Wales.

Photos by Andy Clement:
1: Leominster, and the The Three Horseshoes Inn
2: “Downtown” Weobley
3: View of Eardisland from the River Arrow