This year I made the rather monumental step of travelling outside the continental US for almost the first time in my life, excepting the 6 months I spent living in Japan, but that’s another story. This exploration dealt with my first time in Europe, specifically England, Wales, and Iceland.
We (my partner and I) began our journey by dropping our dog off at prison, (incidentally, he came back with a tear drop tattoo and what he called a ‘prison b**ch). It’s not as bad as it sounds really, the women’s prison not too far from our home has an excellent dog boarding program, with the added bonus of the knowledge that there is literally no way for your dog to escape, it is a prison after all. After dropping the dog off, tearful goodbyes said on our part, little to no acknowledgement on his, we set off on the first of our flights. A 7.5-hour trip from Seatac airport in Washington brought us to the icy airfield of Reykjavik, Iceland. From there we transferred to another flight that would take us all the way to Gatwick airport, just south of London. In case you’re wondering how in the hell we were able to afford this, our tickets were incredibly cheap, remember to search Google flights frequently for good deals kids.
Our arrival at Gatwick and subsequent travel to Kings Cross station in central London was uneventful other than my seeming inability to navigate the simplest of airport shuttles. In the interest of saving money, we had booked a hostel within walking distance of the station. You see, my partner and I are the kind of people who would rather spend our money on food and drink than on sleeping arrangements. On arrival we found that our room was not yet ready, a disappointment after a long travel day. Thus, we stowed our luggage and wandered out to the closest pub we could find, too tired to do anything else.
A couple of pints and a nap later and we were ready to wander out for dinner. Our choice was a pleasant little Italian restaurant very close to Kings Cross. We sat next to the windows, which were somewhat fogged from the quantity and variety of plants living at their edge, and watched a steady stream of people go by. The sky poured some strange combination of snow and rain, but no one seemed affected by it, they went about their business, whatever that business might have been, while we enjoyed a lovely (and not too expensive) meal. We topped off our first night abroad with another pint in the hostel’s basement bar, retiring relatively late and rising early the next day, fully transformed into American tourists visiting one of the most historic cities in Europe.
The morning brought with it our first true English breakfast; beans and toast, fried mushrooms and a half a tomato, rashers, sausages, and black pudding. I have to confess, the ‘Full English’ breakfast was one of the things I had been most looking forward to on our trip, and even writing about it now my mouth waters and I wish there was a place around the corner where I could go for a proper English brekky. There is truly nothing better than a protein heavy breakfast complete with crispy toast, roast tomato, and sliced mushrooms.
With well filled stomachs we headed out on our first day of sight-seeing, first stop, the Tower of London. My considerable navigational skills were once again demonstrated, but we still somehow managed to arrive at the Tower just as the grounds opened for the day. Being late January and well outside of the busy tourist season, we were nearly the only tourists there, far outnumbered by yeomen, only some of which, disappointingly, wore the prestigious {ridiculous} and historically symbolic {flamboyant} costumes popularly seen in any movie ever that deals with tourists in London.
The Tower has long been at the top of my- ‘places I want to visit before I die, hopefully at a venerable age and in good health, not in some senseless accident during my youth’- bucket list. We walked the outer battlements where small speakers played the sounds of men fighting to defend the tower. Looking down over the edge of those walls, it was easy to imagine just how many times this castle had been defended, whether from enemy powers firing iron arrows, or from very angry peasants throwing…whatever they had at hand (shit, probably. Or perhaps small children?). In several places I touched the very walls that once housed prisoners of Henry the 8th, and I stood in the study of Thomas More, that most famous of men who died for his inability to bend his reason and morals to the demands of a crazed king.
Perhaps the most exceptional thing about seeing the Tower of London, for most visitors, is gazing upon the crown jewels of England. Yes, the actual crown jewels; the scepter, the crowns, that crazy orb thing that may or may not have been gifted to the English monarchy by extraterrestrials. They are heavily guarded, and absolutely no pictures are permitted. As you look at the jewels, a passel of yeomen watch you carefully, as if you may have already done something wrong and you don’t know it yet. Unlike the ceremonial yeomen in the big hats outside though, you get the feeling that these guys would not hesitate to tackle you to the ground in the case of funny business.
Another big draw of the Tower are the ‘Tower Ravens’. There are 7 of them currently living at the Tower, and they all have names and are cared for by the ‘Ravenmaster’ (how does one get a job title like that and where can I sign up?). The ravens offer much more than a tourist draw however, according to long held legend, if the Tower is ever devoid of ravens, it and the entire kingdom of Great Britain will fall. Thus, it is in the kingdom’s best interest to keep ravens at the Tower always, they ensure this by clipping the primary feathers of the resident ravens. No harm in assuring the safety of the kingdom, those pesky ravens.
Our final stop on our Tower of London tour was the final living place of Anne Boleyn. As I am a bit of a history freak, and Anne Boleyn is one of the most fascinating figures of British history, with a tragic end to boot, this was also high on my ‘sites of historical importance upon which I would like to stand’ list. In case you don’t know, Ann Boleyn was the second wife of King Henry the 8th, and the first wife he beheaded. But don’t get me started on the history of Henry and his Wives, oh, what’s that you say? Tell me more Brandi? Maybe another time, for now, let’s get back to the story.
We spent some time wandering the Tower green, befriending the Tower squirrels, which, I must say, were much more interesting and personable than the ravens, before I finally gave in and approached a yeoman for help. He finished the conversation he was having with the squirrel on his shoulder before telling me that Anne Boleyn had indeed been beheaded on the Tower green, but historians could not be sure of the exact location. He pointed me to a large plaque that held her name, thought to be close to the location of her death, and I returned to stand in ‘about the right place’.
One of the great things about Henry the 8th (terrible, but great) is that he did so much in his lifetime. If you look at it one way, without him, and without the Protestant revolution, there would be no America. Instead of English settlers progenating our country on the east coast, we would have some strange mix of Spanish, Dutch, maybe some English, and French peoples populating the early North American landscape. This is not to say that the continent was not already populated, but without dear Henry, we may not even have the enormous nation that we know as America today.
But I digress, what I meant to talk about was Henry’s impact on the churches and monasteries of England. Desperate to fill the royal coffers, Henry voted (it was a vote of one) to defund the great, and small, religious houses of England, taking their land, their riches, and their power and in one fell swoop changing the landscape and culture of Great Britain forever. Once again, you might not know this, but in Henry’s time, the churches of England were the wealthiest (in money and land) institution in the country. And when Henry’s piggy little eyes fell on them, there wasn’t much hope. And so almost all of the great churches and cathedrals of the island fell into ruin, which brings us to Tintern Abbey.
We journeyed to Tintern Abbey after a brief sojourn in southern Wales, repairing to the small town of Chepstow in southwestern England. We spent an interesting (read: possibly haunted by the ghosts of cockroaches past) night lodged in the local pub, where, incidentally, the breakfast was superb, but the rooms were, shall we say, not quite so. They were kind enough to let us store our large backpacks behind the desk, and relatively unencumbered, we set out in the foggy, drizzly weather to board a bus to the famous Abbey.
Tintern Abbey lies in the Wye valley, up what my people would call a canyon, though in Britain the canyons have much gentler slopes and are much more heavily wooded than I am used to. The bus brought us to the tiny, picturesque town of Tintern, and finally we saw Abaty Tyndyrn, as it is called in Welsh. The ruins were silhouetted against a backdrop of fog and damp and we stood in awe for some moments just taking it in, no doubt we looked like slack jawed tourists to anyone passing by (the only difference being that we are secretly lizard people, sshh). After exploring the outer grounds we made our way to the visitor’s center, where an exceedingly friendly woman sold us our tickets and a small guidebook. We were the only visitors to the Abbey at this early hour during the off season and she seemed happy for the chat.
We wandered the ruins, some no more than stones protruding a few inches from the ground, some still standing as tall as they ever did, making an ever-decreasing circle towards the real treasure, the Great Hall of Tintern Abbey. The hall is one of the most picturesque sights in all of Britain (in my opinion), and it couldn’t have been more magnificent with all the fog and damp air covering the valley. As we walked, we imagined what life must have been like for the hundreds of monks that lived here over the 500-year history. A history that, incidentally, was brought to an unpropitious close with the will of King Henry in the 16th century.
The Great Hall of the Abbey was a sight unrivaled by anything else on our journey, not Stonehenge, not Westminster, and certainly not the vast and unsightly warrens of public transit that London calls ‘the tube’. But perhaps this has more to do with the experience as a whole, from the ride up the foggy, forested canyon, to the first glimpse of the Abbey silhouetted against the grey sky, to the utter aloneness we experienced within its walls. But then again, it could just be because we got to see and inspect the very toilets and latrines used by monks some 800 years ago, a truly marvelous sight. After all, what brings a historical place more to reality than remembering that even monks, hundreds of years ago, still had to poop? Who knew.
We returned to the gift shop, bought a nice Welsh tweed coat for our dog, stopped at the pub for pie and mash and a couple of pints (is there any other acceptable way to spend the lunch hour when traveling in Great Britain?) and boarded a train back to Chepstow. From there we returned to London, and soon after flew to Iceland for our first night in the cold country. But that’s another story, for now, adieu, and I hope that you too get to experience the Tower of London, Tintern Abbey, and the London tube one day.