Saturday 25 October 2008
Every journey has its low point and I hope I reached it yesterday. There are so many baffling things when you travel to a new country, even when the locals speak your language. I have renewed respect for the major hurdles our students have to leap. Not that my experience yesterday was as difficult as theirs, but for me it was frightful. I made a few basic errors and found myself in the poo.
Lessons to learn: 1. Always set out early enough to arrive in the new place before dark.
We had had to put off seeing
Tintagel Castle on Thursday because of the weather. It was closed due to danger of death. There was a gale and the sea and rain were strafing the sheer edges and peaks of the island on which the castle stands. Also due to the weather, we hadn’t walked to St Materiana church. It’s on another part of the island, less dangerous to traverse, but not pleasant in a howling gale with lashing rain. And we had not seen Merlin’s Cave, underneath Tintagel Castle. We could hardly leave Tintagel without seeing the sights which had brought us there, so we stayed in town for three hours or so, clambering over rocks and climbing up and down impossibly steep, rocky staircases.
So wonderful! Such hard work! (
See Tintagel Images.)
After our walk, we hopped into the car and drove to
Port Isaac (Port Wenn from “Doc Martin”). We could not leave
Cornwall with going there. And we were so close! So we arrived, parked -- parking is always difficult in England and it always costs -- and walked around with a host of other pilgrims, to view the holy relics of the TV series. Pretty town, with the screams of seagulls and tiny, crooked old houses.
I had my first bona fide Cornish pastie sitting above the little fishing harbour. Wonderful. The examples I’d eaten in Oz before yesterday were not even the same species. The crust was buttery and we tried two kinds of fillings, steak with sweet potato and potato, and cheese and onion, neither of which resembled the grey, gluggy mass that I’ve had on occasions in Australia.
So on to Bath. Took an age. Had wanted to stop at Coleridge’s Cottage on the way, so took the A39, a smaller road than the motorway, only one lane in each direction, most of the way. Joined a slow procession of holiday makers (today begins the half-term break) behind tractors and slow supply trucks. Coleridge’s Cottage closed for the winter, so we made our way to the A4 and headed for Bath. A4 was good. Up to 80 mph a lot of the way, but then we had to turn off and approach Bath through a hundred hundred narrow lanes, lined with hedges and miniscule villages whose single laneways were choked with parked cars.
Finally arrived in Bath after dark. But where was the Youth Hostel?
Lessons to learn 2: Always get clear directions to the accommodation BEFORE you arrive in the place. We drove around and around Bath for an hour before we could park and then ask someone who knew where Bathwick Hill was. Luckily he was going in the same direction so invited us to follow him. Thought our troubles were over. But no. There’s another lesson to learn.
Lessons to learn 3: Make sure your mobile has enough credit to make emergency calls. It’s easy in Australia, I know roughly how long my top-ups will last and it’s always easy to top-up before I run out of calls. But I don’t know the worth of a pound, I don’t know how much each call costs on Mobile-T. I don’t use the phone much; I hadn’t expected that after 5 or 6 calls I’d used 10 pounds worth of credit. Did manage to call the Youth Hostel to get more directions. The Mobile-T voice tells me I have one minute of talking time. Dave at the Youth Hostels says, when you see a bus shelter on your left, our driveway is on the right. Sign outside says YHA. OK. Bus shelter, driveway opposite, sign, got it. (Was there more than one bus shelter? No, lots of bus stops but only one shelter. ) Phone cuts out.
Not enough light to make out a sign. Drive into the driveway opposite bus shelter. Big, spooky old house. No lights. Ring the doorbell, bash the massive knocker against the door. Light upstairs. No one comes to the door. Waiting, waiting, ringing, knocking. Nothing. I suggest to Alex that we walk back down the hill a bit. Perhaps we can see a sign from the footpath.
We meet a couple of walkers and they tell us the youth hostel is just around the next bend. We find it about a kilometer down the hill, opposite another bus shelter. Walk up the steep gradient of the long, black driveway, sit Alex down, check in, then I walk back to get the car, up the dark hill. Some of the characters we’d encountered while asking for directions in town made me think I wasn’t in Port Wenn any more, and I wasn’t very happy as I approached a group of young people walking towards me. Tried to peer through the gloom, hoping not to see shaved heads and hobnailed boots, hoping to see girls among the boys.
But I did make it back to the spooky house where the car was parked, and finally back to the YHA.
Alex very disappointed after the luxury of Avalon to land in the tiny, uncomfortable room. No telly. No fluffy dog to pat. No choc-chip biscuits in the tin on the chest of drawers. I told him it was good experience for his own journeys when he grows up and wants to travel and hasn’t got much money. Not a lot of consolation.
“Mum, have we had dinner?” Kitchen closed by now (8.45 pm). I can’t face a walk down the hill into to town to buy something for him to eat. (Can’t face getting into the car again, for fear of getting lost.) So, he has cereal, eaten in fistfuls from the packet. He has an apple. I discover a junkfood machine. He has nasty crisps, a Kitkat and a bottle of water. Call it dinner. Lets make the bunks and lie down.