The Time I Drove on the Wrong Side of the Road

In the weeks leading up to my trip, I was asked repeatedly if I was scared. Each and every time, just one terrifying thought came to mind: attempting to drive in the UK—manual transmission, navigating unknown roads on the WRONG side of the road. As fate would have it, an automatic became available on the morning I arrived in London, so it was one less thing for my brain to juggle, and I made out just fine once my mind adjusted to sticking to the left. I never did stop going to the wrong side of the car to get in, or figure out which way to look at a crosswalk. Some habits are just too hard to break, I guess.

The worst thing about driving in the UK, it turns out, is simply narrow roadways. It gave me anxiety not knowing the passing etiquette when you’re on a city street with cars parked in both directions on both sides of the street, and there’s not enough room for you and the oncoming car to pass one another. Someone inevitably has to pull off as far to the side as possible—but who is it supposed to be? Furthermore, what is the protocol if there are multiple oncoming cars? And then there’s the country roads, with nary a shoulder to speak of, and vegetation growing right up to the side of the road. It’s downright claustrophobic. And slower going. Invariably, you can’t go as fast on those twisty, narrow roads as you could even on a two-lane highway in North America, so it takes longer to get everywhere (no wonder the Brits looked at me like I was crazy when I told them my route).

Excuse the poor quality... literally had to take a picture of a screenshot... ugh

Day 1: Gatwick-Canterbury-Dover-Southampton

I’m pretty sure I stunk to high heaven by the time I went to pick up the car—36 hours of travel will do that to a person. But I didn’t really know where to go to address the situation so I just hit the road and made for Canterbury, my first stop. Once there I found a public restroom and proceeded to brush my teeth and give myself what might crudely be referred to as a “whore’s bath”, doing my best to ignore the knowing look from the homeless woman washing her hair in the sink next to me.

Oooo-ooh

Feeling mildly refreshed, I explored Jeffrey Chaucer's stomping grounds and took in an animatronics interactive exhibit on his Canterbury Tales before making my way to Dover. There I huffed and puffed my way along the white cliffs, watching the bustling activity of the port below and waved to France, visible in the distance. Then it was off to Southampton, where my friendly host made me and another couchsurfer a delicious Malaysian soup and we joked about the great Maple Syrup heist (which was a real thing).

If the dang Wi-Fi would let me do as I please, I'd give you a pic that's more White Cliffs, less White Chick, but alas, this will have to do...

Day 2: Southampton-Stonehenge-Bath-Bristol

Southampton being the site where the Titanic departed from, I felt it only appropriate to check out the local museum exhibit. Unfortunately, other than some interactive displays that allow you to steer the ship out of the narrow channel near Southampton and shovel coal into the engines, it’s a bit of a dud.

The flaming monster is supposed to be an engine into which I am shoveling coal...

Not a dud: Stonehenge. I mean, the massive crowds of people encircling the neolithic monument take away from its mysterious appeal (and make it darn near impossible to take a photo without half a dozen other people in it), but it’s still quite a sight to behold. I love that while there is continual discovery and progressing theories, there is still so much unknown about how the stone circle was constructed and why. Like a metaphor for the world as a whole.

I went to great lengths to take a photo in which no humans appear... 

It was Jane Austen’s Catherine that first endeared me to Bath. “Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath!” (Northanger Abbey). Truly, it is a beautiful heritage city, which has so convincingly retained the feel of the early 19^th century that it is easy to picture the author and her characters living their lives amongst the honey-coloured limestone. Obviously, I had to make a visit to the Jane Austen Centre, and then followed the suggested walking tour to see the key places, and various homes Austen had lived in during her time in Bath.

Depending upon how I answer the first question (which changes depending on my mood), I am either Catherine Morland or Lizzie Bennet. Boom.

Of course, one cannot very well go to Bath and not visit the Roman baths and thermal springs from which the city derives its name. Perhaps my favorite moment in Bath, though, happened in a square adjacent to the bathhouse, where I sat for a moment to listen to a busker sing Etta James’ “At Last”. The song felt strangely apropos to how I felt finally being back in Europe, after wanting to return for so many years. The line “here we are in heaven” resonated deeply as I looked around at the older couple holding hands on a bench, a middle-aged man reading a paper, little kids licking ice cream cones and pigeons dodging around, all under the brilliant (and rare) English sunshine.

A better photographer would have known how to deal with the lighting issues here...

Day 3: Bristol-Oxford-Stratford-Upon-Avon

Believe it or not, I didn’t really plan my UK trip to have a theme of books and authors, but if you know me, I suppose it’s not surprising that such a theme would emerge. Books were certainly the impetus for my visit to Oxford, where I had two must-sees in mind: The Bodleain library (which many might know better as the library in the Harry Potter movies) and The Kils, C.S. Lewis’s home.

I <3 Oxford

I found Oxford to be absolutely enchanting. The stone facades of the university (oldest in the English speaking world) and central areas, especially, hearken to their medieval founding. Fun fact: We can thank Hitler for saving Oxford. He intended to use it as his capital if he conquered England, which is why it was not bombed during the war.

Thanks, I guess, Hitler

I love to see the homes and workspaces of authors I admire; I love the idiosyncrasies they reveal. Though the books are not there now, I could readily picture stacks of books lining both sides of the narrow winding staircase leading up to the second floor, as the guide told us about how Lewis’ housekeeping skills left something to be desired, and how his collections of books sometimes made movement within the house difficult for his portly frame. Funny story: For a number of years, Lewis had the mother of a friend who had died in the war living with him, and his bedroom was only accessible through her own, so he locked the door permanently and built a staircase down from his own room, so it had a separate entrance. He proceeded to lose the key… years later, after this woman had died, he took her room as his study. But, having lost the key to open the door adjoining to his bedroom, he continued, for years to use the separate entrance. I can just imagine him plodding down the stairs after a late night of writing, putting on his shoes and coat, bracing for the winter cold outside, circling the house and trotting back up another staircase to go to bed—a total of 10 feet from where he was previously working at his desk.

Lewis' working space... though I'm lead to believe it was never this tidy in his lifetime.

Fun Fact: The Oxford University library gets one hard copy of EVERY single book published in the United Kingdom. They straight up have an off-site storage facility with hundreds of miles of shelving space to keep and catalogue these books! Call me whatever you want… I legitimately had tears spring into my eyes and I felt a knot form in my throat when I stepped out of the stone stairwell, into the dim, but expansive Bodleian library at the University of Oxford. The view of the double storey stacks, the pungent musty aroma of thousands of old books—to me, these constitute one of the most marvelous man-made wonders of the world. I was crushed when I heard photography was prohibited, but I decided to be a rebel, but I’m also too much of a rule-follower to blatantly disregard instructions… so I took one shot on the sly. It’s kind of crappy; I was too focused on being stealthy to remember to smile, and the lighting isn’t great in there to begin with, but I got my shot :)

Bookworm Rebel Ch-yeah

Day 4: Stratford-London

Having arrived in Shakespeare's birthplace the night before, I took the morning to explore his past. This included the house in which he was born (yes, still standing, mostly still original), the location of the home he built for his wife and children in Stratford, and the cathedral in which he is buried. You can still walk from one end of the quaint little town to the other in about 15 minutes. 

Shakespeare was born in the upper middle bedroom... and then his family ran the home as an inn for many generations.

To round out my Shakespeare day, I made my way back to London, to the reconstructed Globe Theater, for a showing of Macbeth, which I have never before seen performed live. Reviews herald the choice of a black actor to play Macbeth as "Bold", but he suited the role wonderfully. The witches were also fantastically creepy, dancing with various appendages and fake body parts. Some use of lighting and effects took the play beyond the measures of Shakespeare's own time, but were used sparingly enough to be called simple. Next time, I would definitely like to go back as a groundling (standing room right in front of the stage), where the bulk of the action is.

PINCH. ME.