The Events of Sunday, May 1, 2011

                Our French budget hotel’s thin walls made an early wake-up inevitable. The fact that the showers were communal and down the hall, coupled with the two small hand towels issued to each room, made taking a shower less than desirable. The only bright spot in the morning was the hotel breakfast. During the U.S. portion of our trip, we realized that a hotel’s “complimentary continental breakfast” varied wildly in quantity and quality; from small, packaged Danishes to all-you-can-eat buffets of waffles, scrambled eggs, bacon, and more. We weren’t sure what to expect for our French hotel breakfast. So we were pleasantly surprised to find two types of cereals, a half-dozen fresh baguettes, a variety of jams and Nutella, and applesauce. There were three pots warming on the hot plate burner – coffee, hot water for tea, and hot milk to be poured over a hot chocolate mixture. This was the real treat. In the bottom of our mugs lay dark cocoa and raw sugar crystals, but, with the hot milk, it mixed up to be a real hot chocolate treat, leaning a bit on the dark chocolate side.

                Satiated and satisfied, we packed up the van and headed to the port where we would catch a car ferry to England and our next six weeks in English-speaking (sort of) countries. First, however, we headed for the local Carrefour to pick up some groceries. (Knowing that the hotel did not have a refrigerator in the room, we had tried to minimize the food that needed to be kept cold.) However, being that it was Sunday, the grocery store was closed. Oh well, we could last on bread and cheese for lunch and perhaps pick something up on the ferry.

                Driving on, we arrived at the port city with ample time to spare. We rejoiced when we spied a market; perhaps we could pick up some fresh fruits and vegetables. So, after parking the car, we ventured over to find…a fish market. If circumstances were different, we could have picked up some great deals on crab, mussels, scallops and fish. However, we were headed across the English Channel – not very conducive to carrying smelly fish.

                As we returned to the car, Ben spotted a sign for a French post office, and that reminded Abby that she hadn’t completed her “France letter” to Uncle Scott. They have a deal that Abby is going to send a letter from every country we visit. She has been dutifully adding to her France letter, and now needed to mail it from France, before we left the country. So we hopped into the car and followed the post office signs into town, and there stumbled on another market, this time one that was selling a variety of food, clothing, and other wares, including fresh fruits and vegetables.

                While Jim picked up vegetables and fruit for lunch, Ben spied a vendor selling shirts. The red-checked collared shirt he had packed for this portion of our trip had looked better on the boy that packed it than on the young man he is becoming. Ben’s growth spurt made everything about that shirt look small, so the opportunity to buy two shirts at an affordable price was not to be skipped. Shirts and veggies in tow, we returned to the van and headed over to the car ferry.

                After following a series of arm-waving uniformed traffic directors, we found ourselves at the front of Lane 10. After a bit of a wait, we were waved aboard the Normandie Express and found ourselves taking a turn around the bottom of the boat and ended up in the last row, the first berth to exit. Immediately, we were greeted by an English-speaking stewardess who directed us to disable our car alarm, fix the emergency parking brake, and make our way up two flights of stairs. Once there, we scored seats around tables in the café area of the boat. We had opted to pass on the 19€ per person surcharge for reclining seats, as our ferry ticket was already quite pricey. As we sat, I noticed that several people around us were opening The London Sunday Times, and it hit me. It was Sunday, and I could get a Sunday paper written in ENGLISH, and there was a special edition about the royal wedding. Quickly, I made my way over to the newsstand, and, after watching a few Brits to see which newspaper they selected, made my purchase, and returned, with at least a five-pound paper, to my seat. Immediately, all the girls wanted to read about the Royal Wedding. I put them off until after lunch, as I wanted first crack at this paper. Soon, all of us were engaged – either in reading or blogging.

                Our seats were near the back of the boat, and, slowly, we watched the Normandy coast disappear behind us. Every once in a while, one of us got up to go out and stand on deck and check out the view. After about an hour, we had lunch and then returned to our activities. The water began to get choppy, and the boat really began to rock. First, we could see sky, then water, and then sky again. I gave up on reading, and tried to sleep and forget that, the last time I crossed the English Channel, I tossed my fish and chips. As I sat there with my eyes closed, I began to focus on the conversation at the next table. The little eight-year-old came in from his time on deck with his dad and announced to his six-year-old brother, “I was sick.” Seems he had tossed his cookies on deck, right next to where another unfortunate passenger had tossed something as well. I opened my eyes to try to focus on something else, only to observe another young passenger utilizing a barf bag. Enough. It was time for me to get some fresh air on deck.

                As we approached England, the sea calmed again, and stomachs settled. Before we knew it, we were being directed to our cars. When we arrived, we found our windshield completely encrusted with salt from the ocean spray. Shortly after docking, we were the first car waved off the boat, and desperately tried to clear the windshield, so that Jim could at least see out of it. We were directed from person to person, had our passports checked, rechecked, and stamped and then were directed to pull into a large shed. It must be our French license plate, because all the GBers (Great Britain) were just exiting with a wave from the people in charge. Our passports were checked again, and our itinerary reviewed, again. Then, we were asked if we were bringing goods into the country. Even though we said no, the inspector replied that he would like a “look inside our boot”. It took us a minute to realize he meant the back of the car. Jim opened the door, and the inspector looked in on our crammed back area. Our Renault, (Destiny – named by the kids) can seat seven, but we left the seventh seat in France when we picked it up so that we could fit all of our luggage. The packing system has not changed since the beginning of the trip, and everyone knows precisely where each piece of luggage fits, so the back is full to the brim. So, this poor inspector took one look, and said, “O.K.”, and we were free to go.

                As Jim pulled out of the ferry terminal, a soft refrain began to echo throughout the car, “Keep Left. Keep Left.” It was wild to see signs in English, things we could read. It was so reassuring; the kids, especially Abby, were practically giddy. As we drove, I thought to myself that driving in an English-speaking country should be less stressful than driving in Italy, Spain or France. However, I soon realized that trying to remember to keep left upped the stress level significantly as well.

                Jim had found a quaint English countryside cottage for us in Chipping Camden; however Caitlin had some sightseeing plans for us on the way. Our first stop was Stonehenge. As we pulled into the parking lot, we encountered our first obstacle. We had no sterling, only Euros. Somehow, there had been no ATM between the ferry dock on the outskirts of town and here, in the middle of nowhere, in the beautiful English countryside. The parking attendant assured us that we could purchase our Stonehenge tickets with a credit card and that he was going to waive the parking fee as a welcome to the country. After thanking him, we parked and made our way to the ticket booth. On the way, we discovered signs about an English Heritage Pass, and Jim and Caitlin soon had their heads together over the tour books to decide if this was a good deal for our family. The decision went back and forth, but after getting some more information, they purchased the English Heritage Pass, and we were personally ushered through the gate.

                The purchase of our tickets entitled us to an audio tour of Stonehenge. The audio tour was nicely paced and quite well done. We were directed to various numbered placards, and information was pleasantly disseminated. Stonehenge is impressive by the sheer size of these gigantic stones placed in the middle of nowhere. Ancient as it is, it was quite an engineering feat, utilizing techniques that are still used today. For instance, knobs of stone were carved on the tops of the vertical stones to fit into perfectly shaped holes in the lintels that were placed on top. The lintels were curved, and carved tongue and groove style (mortise and tenon joints), so they neatly fitted into the next one, forming a perfect circle. The alignment of the stone, the type of stone, and its purpose and use were discussed in great detail. However, after every statement about how and why things might be so, a disclaimer was issued, “ We just don’t know.” For an audio tour that “just doesn’t know”, it still managed to fill an hour with a pleasant walk amid a beautiful countryside and lots of speculation.

                Our next stop, according to Caitlin’s plan, was to be the little town of Avebury, known for its stone circle, which is bigger and older than Stonehenge, and free for the wandering. The town is also home to the Red Lion Pub which serves typical English Pub Grub. As we hurtled along winding, narrow country roads, ON THE LEFT SIDE, we realized that the day was slipping away. We’d arrive in Avebury around 7, and the pubs stop serving food around 8, so we decided to make the pub our first stop.            Arriving at the pub, we found a table in the back, and Jim went to get some English money from the ATM. No such luck; the ATM was out of money. But we could pay with our credit card. In this pub, you need to order at the bar and let them know your table number and the food will be brought out to you. However, our table was two tables pushed together with two different numbers, and a third number on the napkin dispenser. So there was a bit of confusion about which number was the actual table number.

                However, soon after our order was placed, a waitress came ‘round and asked if any of us had ordered the “mumble, mumble, mumble”. After several tries to understand, we thought she was saying chicken, and no, we didn’t order chicken. However, as we found out later, she had been saying the name of Lindsey’s order, and we didn’t understand her, even though she was speaking English.

                Soon, all the meals but Lindsey’s had arrived. Caitlin, Abby and I had stuck with the safe choice – fish and chips. Ben had ordered the fried scampi, and Jim the lamb pie, and they were going to share their entrees. Poor Lindsey had no place. A different waitress came over, and asked what Lindsey had ordered. Then she explained the mix-up to us. We could understand her, which was funny because she was from Romania, while the gal we couldn’t understand was a local. So, we truly are in a sort of  English-speaking country. Eventually, a different meal arrived for Lindsey, and then we shared some desserts. Stuffed, we welcomed the walk around the stone circle.

                This stone circle is located in the middle of a sheep pasture, filled with sheep and cute lambs. We were confused, at times, as we saw sheared sheep with horns, and thought perhaps they were goats, but found out later that England boasts a wide variety of sheep. The walk around the circle took about twenty to thirty minutes, and then we were back in the car headed to Croftsbrook, our English countryside cottage. As we drove, the sun sank lower behind the trees, and, by the time, we arrived at Chipping Camden, it was dark. No problem, except the fact that they don’t use house numbers in this town. Instead, every house has a quaint name, painted on an unlit placard, located somewhere on the property. Therefore, our GPS could only get us to the street, and we drove up and down peering through the dark at sign after little sign. No luck. Finally, we parked, and Caitlin and Jim got out and walked up and down the street, knocking on doors. At the third door, they had some luck, and we were directed further down the street.

                Our landlord was awaiting our arrival. He showed Caitlin and Jim the place and explained a few particulars. Soon the unpacking and moving process was completed. This quaint little cottage boasts a sitting room, a dining room, a downstairs bathroom with shower and a well-stocked kitchen. It is full with little signs explaining details and giving instruction. Upstairs is a cozy (read very small) bedroom with a double bed, and two fairly large rooms, each with two twin beds. The upstairs bathroom has  toilet and a tub, but no shower. As it was late, we quickly unpacked only the essentials, and headed to bed. We’d check out more of the house, the backyard, and the countryside in the morning.