AFPF Travelogue

Jan’s Trip to UK

"If you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined"

Purchasing a ticket for a 2 week trip to Merrie Olde England I sauntered forth to Toronto airport 3hrs. early as requested, checked in and obtained a window seat (I do like to see where I'm going <g>). 

I was taking a walker over for mum, all the kids had clubbed together to buy it for her and it was my job to get it there.  I first tried the courier services and discovered that the cost to ship the thing by air was going to be close to what my ticket would
cost so I practiced using it for a while and took it as my own <g>.

On to do the security thing, all went well until the metal detector rang out loud and clear, oh dear. 

A very pleasant security type came over with his hand unit and scanned me, I was surprised as I'd already put all my keys, coins and other metal things in a tray which went around the detector.  Turns out what had triggered the thing was the foil around the cigarettes in my pocket, oops.
Picking up my keys, coins and other odds and ends,  I now had a couple of hours to kill, so, finding a bar where I could smoke I retired in some comfort and had a couple of rum and cokes while waiting. I had a large book with me to read on
the flight, if anyone's interested it was "Marching as to war" by Pierre Berton, a history of Canada's turbulent years between 1899-1953. Covers the Boer War, WWI, WWII and Korea.

> >  Finally I decided it was time to make my way to the boarding gate and join my fellow travelers.  As I arrived at the plane, I had to leave the walker outside with a stack of others, apparently they go in the cargo hold for the trip.

Making my way up the aisle to my seat I began to realise that I had either grown larger during my advancing years or that the seats had somehow moved closer together. The over-all effect was something like being in a sardine can without the oil. <g>  However the seat next to me was empty, the price was right, and I had a good book so I settled myself down to await the next move.

To digress slightly, let me make it clear that I am not a fan of flying. I am not terrified by the thought of being 5,000ft in the air with no visible means of support and with a life-jacket under my seat and not a parachute, but there are certainly other places I would rather be at that time.  Preferably at sea, but as the Trans-Atlantic shipping lines seem to have all moved to the cruise
business, air travel is what's left.

It was starting to get warm in the cabin when one of the attendants announced that the reason was that the ground supply could not run the air-conditioning and things would cool off once our own engines started up, which  they soon did.
First of all we were shunted backwards out of the loading bay, then, under our own power we trundled around the airport on a sight-seeing trip (well that's what it felt like) until we were lined up on what I hoped was the main runway.
Everything started to vibrate as the pilot wound up, and we began to move, faster and faster, the rumbling ceased and I knew we were clear of mother earth and in the hands of the gods.  As we climbed, the pilot, for some reason best known to himself decided to bank so I was now gazing down on mother earth from an ever increasing height, swallowing, not to relieve any pressure, but rather from a sense of trepidation, I quickly reviewed my life and decided that I hadn't really been that bad after all.  We swept out over Lake Ontario, then turned again and headed for the east coast where it was possible to make out the
general shape of New Brunswick before the light finally faded.

I like to have a window seat because one of the benefits from that vantage point is being able to make sure the wing on my side and any engines stay firmly attached <g>. 

I can also watch the sun rise which is truly beautiful to gradually be able to make out the shape of the wing, then see the light
brighten while all below is in darkness, gradually, oh so gradually, the light begins to penetrate the darkness and shapes below start to appear. Even over the sea the transformation is wonderful, no wonder the ancients worshipped the sun.

On we flew through the night, the engines roaring away with a steady note, I dozed from time to time, woke occasionally for what passes as food with the airlines (not too bad really), had a couple of rum and cokes, read my book, watched parts of the movies though they didn't catch my interest, and dozed again. (What else can one do on a 7hr flight?)

To paraphrase the Victorian writers, "came the dawn".  Lo and behold we were over land and dropping, at last.  With a final rumble we were back on terra firma at Gatwick, time 0630 local time, nearly 24hrs since the last time I saw a bed.
Problem number one started shortly after, the walker had gone missing, I waited at the plane for a while until everyone else was gone, no walker, I made my way to the luggage area where I found the basket which had been attached to the front, plus the rest of my luggage, but of the walker, no sign. 

Enlisting the aid of a person who seemed to be working there, I filed a lost item report, giving them my address while in England and they told me that if it was in Gatwick I'd have it delivered to the address where I was staying (with my
brother).  Sure enough, it arrived two days later.

Clearing customs and immigration, where I was told that as I was traveling on a Canadian passport I could only stay for six months I left the "official" part of the airport and emerged into the public area. 

First things first thought I, so, finding an area where I could have a coffee and cigarette I treated myself. Now, feeling somewhat more human and having some change in a peculiar, to me, currency, on to stage 2. 

I found a place where I could buy a rail ticket for Taunton with one change at Reading.

Having made that purchase I then found a pay-phone and called my brother leaving him the immortal message,

"The eagle has landed, expect to arrive Taunton 12:30, will call you from the station".

Having arranged suitable travel to Taunton via the rail-road system and having done my brotherly duty in calling my sibling I looked at my watch (yes, I had re-set it to UK time <g>) it was, as I recall about 0800 which, as my train didn't leave Gatwick until 0917 left me with an hour and a quarter to kill.

Back to the coffee shop where I whiled away 45 minutes just looking and listening to people around me.  I had now passed the 24hr period without any sleep except for a few dozes on the flight and seemed to have gained my second wind.

Now came my first surprise.  I have read in ng's and newspapers just how bad the Brit rail system is.  From what I witnessed, don't believe it. <g>  I arrived on the platform at Gatwick and gazed in amazement at the indicator board, there was a train scheduled approximately every 5 mins. Seemingly all going to different destinations and from what I saw, the vast majority
arrived and departed on time.  This was not what I expected and if this is bad service, I'll take it.

At 0914 precisely, my train arrived, so I boarded and stowed my luggage in the place where it seemed it should go, then selecting a seat where I could keep an eye on my belongings I relaxed to gaze out of the window at the passing scenery.

We left on time and once again I was amazed at how green everything is, this is something I grew up with, but each time I see it again I have the same feeling of wonder. Arriving at Reading on time, I saw I had to wait a mere 25 minutes for the
train to the south-west. 

Once again I was fascinated by the punctuality of the arriving and departing trains.  The train arrived, I boarded, stowed my
luggage and settled back to enjoy the last part of the trip. I must admit I was looking forward to seeing landmarks that I could recognise which would let me know I was nearing my destination. We rolled onwards, the day was quite sunny and fairly warm so it was a pleasant journey, at last, some signs that I recognised, small stations whose names were familiar, land-marks, a hill here a canal there, then the last one which told me we were about to enter Taunton, so, gathering up my belongings I prepared to disembark once the train stopped. 

Stepping out onto the platform I looked around, wow, I thought, this has changed.  

Then I heard a familiar voice, "What took you so long, I could have walked here in less time",  another surprise, it
was my brother who I thought was working that day.  He explained that as it was his last day he had taken off early as he wanted to get ready for the drive back to Shepton Mallet for his retirement party. 

He agreed that before going home, we'd go out to see Mum, so off we went.  She was in a private room at a location
I can only refer to as a "half-way house", no doubt the Brits among us will know the correct term.  What this is, is a place for people who have been in hospital, the hospital can do nothing further but they are not yet well enough to go home, they still need care.  Mum of course was very pleased to see us, I gave her the artsy thing I'd bought for her which consisted of a
basket-work cornucopia filled with red maple leaves. (Mum had always loved the colours of the leaves in the fall). 

I couldn't give her the walker because Gatwick was still looking for it.  After about an hour’s visit and the promise to
return the next day we left for my brother's place where I grabbed a couple of hours sleep in preparation for the festivities that were to take place that night.

A short word of explanation here.  My brother lives in Taunton but was a prison guard at a place called Shepton Mallet, this is another small Somerset town with an interesting history, which is located about an hours drive from Taunton. 

My brother, knowing that copious quantities of ale would be consumed that night had the fore-sight to rent a couple of rooms at the pub where the celebrations would take place.  This place was called the "Kings Arms" and is about 350 yrs.old, locally it's know as the "Dust hole" because it's where the men working in the local quarry would go after work.    If you are interested, you can view the pub at     http://www.dusthole.co.uk/ it's a very charming place.

As guessed by my brother, over 50 people arrived, one of the guards I knew because he had visited relatives in Canada and had brought some pictures from my brother.  We had met and had lunch so there was one familiar face.

During the evening someone suggested that we should have a game of skittles.  This is different to 5 pin bowling in that the pins and balls are made of wood, the game is played on a concrete alley and someone has to be paid to stick them up again after each turn.  A young lad who was in the bar agreed to be the "sticker-upper" and the game commenced.  I think I held my own although I haven't played skittles in years. 

Food was provided and there was general conversation all round, all in all a really pleasant evening. 

At 11:00pm, time was called, but the land-lord explained that as this was a private party he was prepared to stay open as long as people were prepared to drink!  Mine host was obviously a thinking man.  People started leaving about mid-night and I
heard the next morning that they had continued until about 0200. I called it quits at > about 12:30, at that time I was running on alcohol, nicotine and will-power.  I then realised I had no idea where my room was, even though I'd been to it earlier in the evening, this place was a maze of passages and stairs. The land-lord (so I later discovered) finally showed me the way and I climbed into bed and slept like a log.

The morning after my brother's retirement party I awoke feeling remarkably refreshed at about 0900.
Going for a shower I was baffled, no hot or cold water taps, just this box up on the wall in the shower stall which looked as though it had something to do with a shower as there was a shower-head attached to it.  However, it also looked as though it was connected to the hydro, this made me a little nervous as I certainly don't like anything electrical near me when in the shower, never know when sparks will fly. <g> 

So, passing on the shower for the moment I had a good shave and meandered down to the dining room for breakfast.  I started with coffee as I thought I'd better wait for some of the other revellers to appear. 

While waiting I looked over the menu.  Breakfast: fried bread, fried tomatoes, fried mushrooms, bacon, sausage and a couple of eggs.  This, with toast and marmalade, washed down with copious quantities of coffee should set me to rights for the day thought I, so, settling back with my first coffee and cigarette I waited.
My brother arrived looking somewhat like the ghost of Christmas past. To my friendly greeting, (as befits the elder brother) of "My god, you look awful", he muttered the endearing response of "Sod off, me head hurts".  Fortifying himself with coffee, he grinned blearily and said, "Quite a party wasn't it, I didn't get to bed  until 3 this morning".  His wife then joined us and asked if she should drive home as he didn't look up to it, he agreed willingly so we then ordered breakfast and began to eat.  Slowly some of the other arrived all looking the worse for wear and being remarkably quiet compared to how they had been the previous evening. <g>

 During breakfast I enquired about the shower?, it was explained to me that this was the way most bath-rooms were fitted up, to operate it, one turned a knob trying to judge the temperature from some little blue and red marks on the dial, water then emerged from the shower head, it is advisable to test the temperature prior to committing ones body to the flow.  Retiring to complete my ablutions I played with the dials, test 1 would have frozen me and test 2 would have me looking like
a lobster, finally I reached a temperature which I was sure wouldn't do any physical harm so managed to have my first shower in Merrie Olde England.

Hoping I'm not boring anyone I will digress slightly and talk about Shepton Mallet which was where we were.  As I believe I mentioned in an earlier post, the pub where we partied and stayed was about 350 years old which pales when compared to Shepton Mallet itself.  This small market town, nestling in a fold of the Mendip Hills, along the narrow valley of the River Sheppy has been in existence for at least 3,000 years.  Several years ago (1995), evidence was discovered of a bronze-age settlement on the site, also an iron-age hill-fort.  The Romans left their mark here with the Fosse Way which was the old Roman motorway going from Exeter to the north.  Excavation has also revealed a fairly large Roman industrial town which had grown up here.  Originally named Sceapton or sheep fold it was an Anglo Saxon village at the time of the Domesday Book.

Over the next few centuries it grew into a prosperous market town, its wealth based on sheep and wool.  Most of the town is built of the local grey stone which though it may sound dismal is actually quite charming.  Shepton Mallet Prison (where my brother worked and where the many revellers of the previous evening were employed) is the oldest operational prison in the country, built of the same stone as most of the town, its 20ft high walls are imposing, but seem to blend in with the rest of the town.  It was at one time the "glass-house" or military prison and during WWII it housed the Magna Carta and Domesday Book for protection, but was also used by the American services.  Several were executed by firing-squad at
the prison.  Every Friday morning, as for centuries past, the market comes to life and the market square is filled with the sounds and bustle of the local market. The parish church of St. Peter and St. Paul dates from the 14th century and has the best "waggon" ceiling in the country, with 150 individual panels. 

So much for Shepton Mallet, I could go on but I'm afraid of causing boredom.

We left Shepton Mallet and drove back to Taunton, as there is no motor-way for this stretch, we were back on the English roads I remember so well, my father always insisted that the English roads were laid out by following the tracks of drunken farmers on their way home, he could be right. <g>.
The ride was fascinating for me, we passed through small villages, thatched cottages in evidence and past old pubs which started life as coach stops, all things I grew up with but had forgotten or perhaps had taken for granted.

We reached Taunton and went straight to see Mum for a couple of hours until she started to get tired, she had a good laugh at our antics of the night before and it was a better visit than the day before.

That night we decided to eat out at another local pub (you may think I spent most of my time at pubs, well a fair amount anyway, you know, "When in Rome etc."), this was also the "Kings Arms" and is the one my brother uses as his "local".  There, after a couple of pints of best bitter, we had a most enjoyable meal, I think I had steak, but as I gradually worked my way through the fairly extensive menu on various nights I can't be too sure of that.  Also I claim extenuating circumstances as we had a couple more pints before leaving.

Following our meal, it was home to bed.  I was discovering a strange phenomenon, here, I am quite
happy to stay up until 1 or 2am, there, I was tired out by 10:30, not sure if it was the air or what
but whatever it was I was ready for bed very early compared to my normal hours, and no, it wasn't
the beer, the same thing happened when we didn't go out.

The following section is on the location and a little of the history of Taunton, to add anything that
I did would make the post too long.

 Taunton is located in the county of Somerset and is the market-town for the surrounding area. It is sited on the River Tone, hence its name which derives from the old English meaning "Town on the Tone", the river itself runs through the centre of the town and is crossed by a rather gracious bridge, (at least I think so).

 Its history dates back to Saxon times, and Taunton itself became important when King Ine built an earthen fortress here around AD 700 during his push to overrun eastern Dumnonia.

A monastery was founded here before AD 904. The Bishops of Winchester owned the manor and, in that year, obtained the first charter of his 'men of Taunton,' freeing them from paying both Royal and county tribute. The town became a borough some time before the Domesday Survey of 1086, (anyone interested in history may like to do a search for "Domesday Book"
to discover just what a remarkable achievement this was, a survey of all of England, listing every person and property) and it was granted considerable privileges, and was governed by a portreeve appointed by the Bishop and, later, two members of parliament were returned for Taunton between 1299 and 1885.

Taunton has been involved in one way or another in various rebellions.  King Alfred, he of the burnt cake fame, was reputed to have had his culinary mishap while hiding in the Isle of Athelney, before going out to do battle with the invading Norse-men.
The town came under siege during one of Britains civil wars, as a result, once it was all over, a directive came down from the king of the winning side that the castle had to be destroyed.  It was, but was re-built again at a later date. (Persistent lot)<g>

However, the most famous of these rebellions has to be the Monmouth rebellion of 1685, which was followed by the infamous "Bloody Assize" carried out by Judge Jeffreys some 6 weeks after the final battle.

It was in the Great Hall of the Castle that Judge Jeffreys (also know as the "Hanging Judge" held his "Bloody Assize" trying over 526 cases in 3 days, which resulted in 19 prisoners being hanged, drawn and quartered in the market place with another 139 being sentenced to execution elsewhere.

Most of the rest were transported to the West Indies as slaves, the records for this trial are on view in the Museum.  This was in Taunton alone, other trials took place all over the West Country with similar results. 

As an aside, the Great Hall of Taunton Castle still stands and serves as the County Museum.  It does not take a great deal of imagination to stand in that hall and picture the rebels shuffling in, being sentenced, taken out and hung, there was no appeal in those days.

The main streets of Taunton converge upon a triangular space where there is a market cross. The town's Saturday market dates from before the Norman Conquest. The parish church of St. Mary Magdalene is a fine Perpendicular building, particularly noteworthy for its superb tower. There are remnants of Norman work to be seen in the chancel and Early
English in the north aisles and transepts. Little is left of an Augustinian Priory built by William Giffard, Bishop of Winchester, in the reign of Henry I. However, the castle, built by the same man, is still in good repair and houses the city museum. The local
grammar school is very ancient and was founded by Bishop Richard Fox in 1522.

Taunton has no heavy industry, it was originally made wealthy by the wool trade and by virtue of it being the market town.  It is to-day the home of the Hydrographic Dept. of the Royal Navy where all charts are produced, as such was a target during WWII, however, as it nestles in a valley it was quite hard to find and received little damage. 

There are also a great many shops and stores and a fair bit of light industry.  Tourists to the West Country used to curse the A38 that ran through Taunton as, prior to the motorway, it was a source of congestion.

A very good selection of pictures for the arm-chair traveller. <g>
http://www.tauntoninpictures.btinternet.co.uk/tip_complete.htm

http://www.boliston.com/taunton/  This one is a walk-about tour of Taunton.

A few comments on some of the pictures here as they relate to myself.  The picture labeled "Graffiti", this is located at the end of the street where I grew up.  The bridge, which used to carry gas-pipes to the town from the gas-works was one of our haunts. I have sat in the middle fishing, crossed it on roller skates (scared myself silly), and crossed it via the girders underneath, (isn't that why they build them that way?)
The picture lapelled "French Weir", depicts the area which is located at the end of the street where I grew up, a kids paradise, a river for fishing, canoeing and swimming, a large field for cricket, soccer or rugby and beyond, just country.

http://www.somerset.gov.uk/archives/ These are from the archives and depict life in Taunton from the late 1800's to about 1930, if you have the patience to go through them, you will find that not a great deal has changed other than the shop names. <g>

Bearing in mind that this was not intended to be a holiday trip, most of what I did was fairly mundane.  When not visiting with Mum, I wandered around the town looking at the stores and people.  Very little had changed except the names of the stores.  There was a great increase in what I call "Tacky Touristy" places, but I suppose the stuff sells.

Some of the older pubs had closed and at least one was a chic coffee house.  A couple of new super-markets had opened which from the inside could have been in Canada except that they sold beer, wine and spirits.  I went up the High Street, which has been turned into a pedestrian-only shopping mall, no traffic which was rather pleasant. 

Wandering around the park I noticed that the fountain had been painted.  Wow!, in all my years living there, I do not recall any time that the fountain was anything but white.  Now all the detail was picked out in gold, blue, red etc. on a white background, I had to admit to myself that it looked really impressive.

One evening my brother and sister-in-law took me to the house of one of their friends.
This friend had bought an old cottage (17th century), which was a little run down.  He had done all the renovations himself and had made a really good job of it.  The gate to the front garden was an old "kissing gate".  The main fire-place was of the walk-in variety, where the phrase, "To sit around the fire", meant literally that.  He had cleaned up the old beams that were very much in evidence, the walls were of white plaster and the windows all diamond leaded panes.  All very cosy and snug.  His pride and joy was his front door, he had picked this up at an old abbey that was being demolished and the door (he had the
provenance for it) was 40 years old when Columbus tripped over America, which of course made it several hundred years old.  My brother's comment on hearing this was, "Well, it's about time you got yourself a new one" <g>

I had been due to leave for Canada on May 2nd.  This, as it turned out was the day Queen Elizabeth II was due to visit Taunton as part of the Jubilee celebrations. 

Taunton was dressed in its best finery, bunting and flags all over the place, the shop fronts decorated, even the mail boxes on the route re-painted.  As usual with these events it was all over fairly quickly within a few hours, she arrived by train, drove through the town to the parade, did her thing with the local dignitaries and walked around for a while talking to people.  Then back to the car and off to the next stop.  I have to say that I admire this lady enormously, I'm sure she has a schedule that would leave many young people gasping for breath, but she seems to take it all in stride.

There was hesitation on my part before including the following description of Mum's funeral, then I thought that as it was so different to the funerals I've witnessed in Canada and the States that I would include it.

A little digression is in order here I believe to explain a few things.  In Taunton, and as far as I know  throughout most of the UK, the funeral homes do not have their own chapels. The normal practice seems to be that the body lies at  the funeral home for people to pay their last respects, and is then moved to the church which the deceased had used, for the service.  There is, in Taunton at least, a tradition whereby, when someone in the street dies, to show respect, other house-holds close the drapes in the front-room windows.

One of Mum's last wishes was that she be buried from the house and street where she had lived for so long.  So we arranged for her to be brought from the funeral home to her own home the night before the service.  This was done and all the curtains duly pulled shut. When we left a little later to get something to eat and drink (we were also spending the nights at our old home), as far as I could tell, just about every house in the street had the curtains drawn, this made a big impact on my brother and myself.

The day of the funeral, the hearse arrived at the house and mum was placed inside.  We got into the waiting car and to our surprise, the funeral director instead of getting into the hearse, began to walk in front of it, with us following at a walking pace.  He walked the length of the street, around the corner and on to the next intersection, when he got into the hearse and we picked up speed. 

My brother made the comment that "walking" Mum out of the street was a high honour indeed. 

On this I can't comment, but it seemed to me to add a great deal of dignity to the occasion and I appreciated it.
The mourners, family and friends had made their own way to the church.  My brother and I spent some time outside greeting family members I haven't seen for more than 40yrs. Some I recognised and others had to introduce themselves.  One of the nurses from the nursing home where mum had spent her last days also came, she said that when they had someone as well loved as mum had been, one or more of the nurses always tried to attend the funeral which I thought was really touching. 

The service was very dignified, the vicar, who had known mum for a fair number of years gave a beautiful eulogy, mentioning that in her last years she had knitted over 370 small items for Oxfam.  (She loved knitting, and my own memory of mum is sitting in her chair with the needles clicking away. 

(When we returned to the house later, we found a bag with another 10 little garments ready for delivery to Oxfam, these we delivered to her local contact.) 

We had her favourite hymns, and one of the church deacons who had known mum for years made his own contribution which was welcomed.  Following the service, my brother and I, together with other members of the family went to the grave-site for the interring.  Mum was buried in the family plot which had been purchased by her father in 1914.
We had arranged with the other mourners that we would have a get-together at the King’s Arms (where we had arranged sandwiches) after the funeral, so we met up with everyone there and began the catching-up on what had transpired over the past years.

After seeing the lawyer, all that was left for me to do was to get back to Canada.  Once again, the trains were on time and I arrived back at Gatwick at about 6 a.m.  A few tense hours passed, tense because I was travelling stand-by and didn't know if I'd get a seat until the last minute.  All went well however and I was glad to arrive back home after what had turned out to be a rather grueling 3 weeks or so.