catching up

My friend Krista once used the expression “running to stand still.” At the time, I had never before heard it, but it made immediate sense. Since then I have come to realize that I am running and running and running, and I may never stand still. That’s okay. I am able to catch my breath from time to time, which suits me fine. But currently I feel as if I will never catch up. Stuff is piling up around me, including a freelance assignment I took because I thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t have some project brewing. I can’t point fingers because we’re all equally responsible, but I’m looking at piles of so many abandoned and neglected things. It’s sad really, and maddening to think this might be the environment in which I dwell.

 

full english breakfast

It seemed really uncivilized to bring my camera to the table first thing in the morning, but now I regret that I don’t have a picture of a full English breakfast. Thank goodness for the internets where I borrowed a photo from www.spinneybedandbreakfast.co.uk.


Where to start with the full English breakfast? I have really fond memories, from 20 years ago, of getting a hot breakfast whenever I stayed in a bed and breakfast. As I made hotel reservations for this trip, I got a little excited by the promise of a cereal “starter” (cornflakes or “bits and pieces,” muesli with dates and nuts), followed by runny eggs, thick bacon rashers (recognizable to Americans as ham), fat English sausages, baked beans, and broiled tomatoes and mushrooms. Toast and preserves? Yes, please.


Even if taking Lipitor, people my age should not eat a full English breakfast every morning, for obvious reasons. But eggs and bacon are so delicious, and I only had five mornings to take advantage of consuming them. The boys loved their full English, especially since they were allowed to drink milk and sugar–laden “wake up” tea, which is what our family calls English breakfast tea. To their credit, a full breakfast tided us over well past the lunch hour, but sometimes they also made us feel like we needed a nap at 10 a.m.

Dartmoor and the tors

Dartmoor National Park has just become my most favorite place on earth. When I think about national parks, the most immediate image is of a forest, such as those I have visited in the U.S.—Rocky Mountains, Acadia, and Yellowstone. Dartmoor, however, was deforested in the 17^th century. The trees served as raw material for England’s ship-builidng industry but were never replenished.  As a result, Dartmoor’s topography is bare and rugged. Its chief geological feature is a series of over 160 tors, large hills with granite outcroppings.

If we'd had an ordnance survey map, finding a specific tor might be easier, but we were navigating by a google map that showed only a few B roads and lacked any meaningful detail. We were trying to find Hound Tor, which, according to glossy travel guide photos, seemed to be pretty significant—a giant outcropping. At some point after spying an imminent left turn, John said, “We’re going to take this road and see where it goes.” A quarter-mile later we spotted a rocky outcropping that seemed worthy of exploration. Lo and behold, the road held a turn-out where we could park the car.

A quick hike up the steep hill, then a pleasant walk across the hill top, followed by a climb on the rock formation and we were rewarded with incomparable views. The sky was clear and an amazing shade of bright blue, providing a crisp contrast to abundant rocks. Stone walls divide fields, creating a verdant patchwork quilt.

Below the tor, nestled at the base of the next hill (Hameldown) was a large stone circle with smaller stone circles inside. I had read about these circles in a travel guide and knew that it was a Bronze age settlement; the smaller stone circles, called “hut circles,” were houses. Some had very obvious entrances, or front doors, while others showed evidence of fireplaces or hearths. Talk about hitting the motherlode.

At some point, John and Simon headed up Hameldown to see what was on the other side, while Winston and I poked around the hut circles, trying to imagine which house would have been ours had we lived in the Bronze Age. Soon two women, who were out walking their dogs, joined us. We shared some chit-chat. Mostly I wanted to know where we were since the site wasn’t signposted. They didn’t know, which struck me as interesting since they were both locals out for a walk, though one of the women identified the circle as the Grimspound. She told me it was the exact spot where A. C. Doyle had set key scenes in The Hound of the Baskervilles and that I should be reading it at that very moment.

Regardless of missed opportunity, Hookney Tor, which we identified on the huge OS map at Lydford House, and the Grimspound were incredible. I feel luck or good fate had been on our side when we stumbled upon the tor. Later that evening, over a bottle of pinot grigio, John and I plotted our return to Dartmoor. I could be very happy renting a house for a month and walking every tor, plus finding the standing stones and clapper bridges we missed this time around. Until then, I have captured Dartmoor’s beauty on a remarkably sunny day, and I have sources, such as Doyle’s long story and websites to sustain my memory.

signs

driving in England

Driving in England merits attention. In a word, the experience is nerve wracking, whether you’re behind the wheel or in the passenger’s seat. If you’re behind the wheel, the brain plugs into the responsibility and safety centers so you don’t have to focus on the fact that you’re on the opposite side of the road.

We wisely rented a car at Heathrow and immediately hopped on the M4, the motorway that delivered us to Oxford. Being on a road equivalent to our interstates or freeways meant that we could go with the flow of traffic to get a feel for all the new variables without needing to negotiate roundabouts or roads that are only two Yugos wide.

So we’re clipping along blithely, and at some point, we realized we had no idea what the traffic signs meant, nor did we know the general rules of the British road. What is a circle with a 50 in it? Is that the speed limit? Is the speed limit in mph or kph? Are we really meant to drive 50 mph on what would be a 25 mph road at home?

Soon we dove right onto those small A and B roads. We gritted our teeth and quickly found strategies for dealing with oncoming traffic (lorries [trucks] barreling at us, often well over the generous speed limit) and bicycle tourists; roundabouts (which spur do we take, to whom do we yield when entering); road signs that occasionally drop a destination, leading us to wonder if we missed an exit; and hedgerows. When I drove, John would tell me when the car veered too close to the left line because the road often had no forgiving shoulder. When John drove, I would remind him to swing out wide for right turns because if you make a right turn as you do at home, i.e., as is hardwired, you’ll end up on the wrong side of the road. And, often, there’s no way to pull a U-turn.

In the end, we turned in our rental car without incident and without any (obvious) extra scratches. I’m glad I had the experience of driving under incredibly unique circumstances.