When Canadians do Castles (Canadians Driving in England - Part II)

As noted in my last post, this is not a post about Doha.  It's about Doha expats escaping the summer heat for a little bit of silly summer fun.  It's about finding glory in little bits of normality as we return to the 'familiar'.  It's about appreciating what we miss, and eventually allowing living out of a suitcase to make us appreciate the return to Doha.  So forgive me if you were expecting to find any Doha info in this post ....

Though we’d hoped to see Stonehenge up close, the shuttles ferrying tourists to the towering monument had ceased operating for the day (6:30 p.m. is the last).  So we grabbed a quick sandwich, took a few pictures of poppies and fields with Stonehenge far off in the distance, and headed back on our way, reinvigorated, hydrated and ready to complete our first day’s adventure.

Well, at least we saved on £40 admission fees ...

It's the journey, not the destination ....

We arrived at the inn just minutes before 9:00 p.m., and were let in by the lovely owner Michelle.  We headed up to our third floor room which, although lovely, bore a distinct lingering stench of cat urine (urine if you’re posh, pee if you’re not, wee if you’re travelling through England).  Either way, it wasn’t pleasant.  Exhausted as we were though, we decided that then was not the moment to complain about such trivial matters.  A quick call by our friendly hostess to the local pub 500 m (that’s meters, not miles) down the road meant they would keep the kitchen open long enough for us to grab a quick bite to eat.  

Satiated and bellies full, we climbed into the most comfortable bed ever and collapsed into a deep dreamless sleep, blissfully oblivious to the cat pee pee smell.

We were served up a wonderful breakfast the next morning, and armed with 50 brochures and the advice of both our hostess and the previous evening’s pub patrons, we headed off to discover Fingle Bridge and Castle Drogo.   

Yes, you CAN expect to meet oncoming cars on this 'road'.  If I'm not mistaken, the speed limit was 40 miles per hour ... I was hyperventilating and desperately craving wine by the time we hit the second curve.

As we made our way down single lane country tracks in County Devon, we wondered if perhaps we should have stuck to major highway attractions.  But all our doubts were erased as we arrived at Fingle Bridge, a small stone structure supported for centuries by naught but a keystone over a gurgling river in the middle of a truly majestic forest.  Kiddo was immediately drawn to the river, and headed down to play with the other kids and dogs splashing around in the icy water.  We sat back long enough for refreshments at the pub on the water’s edge, then grabbed our backpacks and camera in preparation for the 45-minute hike along the river to the castle (as in the previous post, the ’45-minute’ guide was nothing more than the Brits once again having a laugh at global perception of time).  

A sight like this, the gurgling in the background, and the warm June sun make all the world's ills fade into the background ...

Cold water on tired feet on a hot day ... who could resist?

We started off along the forest pathway, revelling in the warmth of the day, tempered by the cool breeze coming off the water and the shade of the trees.  Perfection.  

Sometimes you just have to stop and listen ....

Until about 1 hour and 15 minutes into the walk, when we realised the steady uphill climb appeared to be leading nowhere.  Which is the point at which we noticed a family of five jostling and tumbling down a steep incline to our right.  Smilin’ Vic asked the dad where they were coming from and the dad answered ‘Castle Drogo'.  We asked if up the cliff face was the only way there.  He answered that we had the option of going up that incline for about 10 minutes or continuing along our original path for 30.  He clearly stated that coming down the incline was treacherous and that he would most definitely not recommend going UP it.  I heard him clearly.

Advice that Smilin’ Vic and Kiddo chose to blatantly ignore as they set their compasses upwards, tempted by the possibility of an earlier arrival at destination.  And so it is that we set up that 70 degree incline, me in my white pants and cursing all the way up, daring either of them to say One. Single. Word. about how hard this was.

Final destination ... but. HOW. MUCH.  FURTHER. ???????

The climb up took about 15 minutes and four litres (not gallons) of sweat.  But we finally made it, and were well rewarded with the visit.  We became official members of the National Trust, and were given a car decal to prove it.  I must say, if you’re ever in Devon, do take the time to visit this historic site.

One of the walls in the castle.  A memorial to a son lost on the battlefield.

The last castle to be built in England, it is a dichotomy of old and new, with indoor plumbing, central heating, electricity and telephones built into the cinderblock structure.  Although it is undergoing major renovations to the tune of 11,000,000 £, it is still truly impressive and a sight to behold.  If you’re visiting in 2018, you’ll see the structure fully restored to its original glory.  Unfortunately, on our visit most of the furniture had been stored to protect it from ongoing works, many of the windows boarded up to prevent dust from coming in, and the exterior sheeted to protect visitors from construction works and construction works from visitors. 

All we could see of Castle Drogo from the outside ....

Having learned a lesson about British timekeeping, we spotted an Italian tourist and asked him for the quickest route back down the mountain, and were rewarded with a surprisingly accurate indication of a 25-minute route running almost straight down the mountain back to Fingle Bridge.

Where we knew a cold pint would await....

And the Brits actually drive over Fingle Bridge;  this dude's shoulders barely fit through!

And from there, we decided to pursue our haunting of Devon with a jaunt to the East Coast, aka ‘the Riviera of England’ …. (to be continued)

When Right is Wrong ... (Canadians Driving in England - Part I)

The next few posts aren't so much about living in Doha, they're more about some of the inane types of things Doha-ites may do on their travels when they escape the summer heat ... (so to any readers who were hoping for Doha trivia please accept my apologies in advance).

Every June, the very morning after Kiddo’s last day of school, we escape the summer furnace heat in Doha by embarking on an indulgent vacation (read ‘Maldives’) or a long haul trip (classified as a gruelling 12+ hours flight, as in back to Canada, the Far East or Australasia).

This year, for a number of reasons, including restricted leave period and a depleted vacation budget due to my two trips back to Canada this winter, we opted for a 10-day vacation to South England, Wales, and Ireland, neither exotic nor long haul, with no pre-planned itinerary.

We landed in London at noon, already exhausted by the 3:00 a.m. wake-up call and 7-hour sleepless flight, but energised by the thought of work-free leisurely days ahead.  

Though the Customs agent at Passport Control was a little surly at first, he seemed to warm considerably as he enquired into the purpose of our trip (leisure/escape) and our plans for this holiday.

As Smilin’ Vic explained our intention to drive to Exeter that very afternoon, a slightly evil smile masked as British hospitality began to spread across the agent’s face.  ‘Planning on taking the A303 then, are you?’ he asked.  ‘Yes, answered Smilin’ Vic, we’ve booked a room at the Woodleigh Coach House.  How long a drive is it?’

The Woodleigh Coach House, just outside Exeter.

‘Well that would depend on how fast you’re going’, answered the ever-so indulgent evil agent.  ‘Have you driven in England before?’

Smilin’ Vic assured him that he had, about 20 years ago.  The Customs agent’s smile stretched out just that little bit further as he wished us well and said the drive should take about three hours.

We went straight to the car rental booth at Heathrow, paid up, and were given instructions to jump onto the green Enterprise Rental bus that would bring us to the car rental park 20 minutes away.

Neither we nor the driver of the green bus had the wherewithal to note that we carried an ‘Enterprise’ voucher as we boarded the ‘Entourage’ Rental bus.  We were whisked away and dropped off 20 minutes later.  Smilin’ Vic stood in line for 10 minutes waiting to exchange his voucher for a car key before being informed that we were in fact at the wrong rental zone and that he would have to walk 1/2 a mile away to the Enterprise pick-up location.  

Thirty minutes after lugging our bags across the way and finally securing our rental vehicle, we headed off to Exeter.  ‘Left is right’ became our new mantra as we navigated a roundabout going the wrong way no more than 20 meters into our trip.  Smilin’ Vic asked me to remind him to stick to the left shoulder, and I hyperventilated for the next 10 minutes as we repeatedly banged against the left-hand curb like a bumper car gone mad at the local county fair.

Kiddo was in hysterics as I chanted ‘left, left, left, CURRRRRB’ non-stop.  We finally got onto the M3, relieved to have found a stretch of road where all cars were headed in the same direction and there was a soft shoulder we could hug the left fairly safely (which in the UK, by the way, is the ‘slow’ lane).

Finally on the M3, where left is still wrong to a Canadian ...

Finally out of London, about 40 minutes later and what seemed like 100 km (was probably more like 10, and technically not even OUT of London), we decided to stop, rest and grab a bite to eat to calm our nerves in Slough.  Big mistake.  Navigating our way precariously down the town lane, at one point we just naturally navigated to the right … because right is right, right?  

I found myself yearning for the days of Yore as I re-considered our decision to spend the next few weeks driving at breakneck speed down one lane roads with a newfound respect for the expression 'right is right'.

Wrong!  If you’re in England, very, very wrong.  As we realised about 20 seconds into cursing the stupid HUGE white trolley barreling down on us, blaring horns and flashing lights.  Just plain wrong.  Fast forward to a rapid ‘so-close I smelled the oncoming vehicle’s paint job’ sweep to the left and all was again ‘right’ with the world.

We found a local pub quickly after that, relished in the fish n’ chips and relaxed atmosphere, then headed back off, sure we had covered a great distance and probably had no more than 2 hours’ drive ahead of us.

We ordered fish 'n chips; Kiddo ordered Mac 'n Cheese.  Smilin' Vic had warned me about fried toast in England, but never would I have dreamt that it was possible to fry macaroni!!!!!

In reality, we’d probably covered about 1/8 of the distance, and on the best bit of highway to boot.  What we quickly came to realise was that the more numbers the road had, the narrower and more perilous it became, i.e. M3 being 6-lane motorway, A303 being ‘barely there’ dual carriageway.

What became even more evident was that miles in England cannot be calculated using any actual logical estimation.  One mile can in fact stretch far beyond the allotted 1.6 km, extending far beyond human reason.  One mile in England could be infinity.  Or so it seems when you become waylaid on what appears to be an overgrown dirt cornrow but bears a distinctive highway marker sign reading ‘A30345’ followed by ‘Speed Limit 50 mph’ and ‘Bear far left for oncoming vehicles’ (at which point my side of the car would be completely engulfed in the foliage on the left hand side of the road).  Add to the mix a roundabout every 20 feet, and the 1-mile journey becomes a lifetime.

Add to the confusion a Western tendency to embrace the right-hand side of the road and a GPS that insists on leading you back to London, and the 10-mile journey becomes an endless space loop in which you are mercilessly suspended.  Then add in a traffic jam at Stonehenge and the agony becomes unbearable.  This is the point at which you realise the Brits have no concept of distance NOR time.

I now know this is the reason they’ve never converted to the metric system.  To do so would openly expose these failings.

Now 4 hours into our 3-hour journey, we realised we weren’t even halfway to our destination.  For every 2 miles we would drive, the GPS would tag an extra 20 minutes to the trip.  This is the point at which we began to lose hope.  We were on the verge of conceding that we’d probably never arrive at our destination. 

We decided to stop at Stonehenge because that’s what ambling tourists like us do.  As we turned into the lane leading up to the National Trust tourism centre, Smilin’ Vic had a momentary lapse of ‘unreason’, and reverted to the ‘right’ side of the road.  As if in a trance we watched the obvious tourist headed toward us, also hugging her right side of the road.  Then in a flash both we and she realised we were both driving on the wrong side, made a quick switch TO THE LEFT!!!!!!, and barely avoided clipping each other in the process.  It made for some good, nervous laughter, and relief at the pee break (‘wee’ break when in the UK) that a pitstop at Stonehenge would bring …. (to be continued).

Stonehenge ... not a great picture; taken with the i-pad as we were stuck in a traffic jam ....