I am sorry to report on my own incompetence, but I am afraid I was no more than twenty four hours upon this island before I got completely lost. Starting out with the best of intentions, I went for a nice long jog down the narrow country lane. I made one simple turn, which took me past storybook cottages and fuzzily cute cows up to an amazing rise. Stopping for the moment, the only noise I could even hear was the birds and the beasts. Nothing but green pasture and copses outlined with hedgerows as far as the eye could see. Growing up on books like the Hobbit and the Wind in the Willows instills a love for the English Countryside that would seem otherwise inexplicable in a Midwestern girl (corn rows and John Deere tractors have no such draw for me, I’m afraid). For a long moment there, my eyes watered with the beauty of it all.
Well, being entranced and knowing where you are constitute two completely different things, n’est ce pas? I jogged back down the path, waved happily at a bicyclist, then quickly wished I had cornered the poor fellow for directions. I had no idea where my friend lived at all, and couldn’t even remember the street name. To make a long story short, I found one of those cute red phone booths, only to discover none of the buttons worked. Where there are phone booths are often people, however, and sure enough a dog obliged me by discovering me and barking. His mistress soon followed, and so did directions to the nearest town, which allegedly had a post office where I might become less lost. Or so the theory worked. Instead, my friends found me limping my way down the “highway” about an hour or so later, in rather poor form I have to admit. I will give Oxbridge credit in refraining from his usual catty comments about a world traveler who gets lost going to the corner store. Well, he may have said something about this behind my back, but I shall try to give him credit where credit is due. (*kick*)
Anyway, the poor lad was still recovering from the cold, so I set him up with some hot tea and a book whilst the rest of us took off for Cheddar. Really, the place where the cheese comes from. Amazingly enough, it is an incredibly steep gorge (this picture is very poor, I’m afraid).
It’s also a major cider production area. Perhaps most interestingly for writer types, it’s where Tolkien spent his honeymoon. The area is festooned with caves where they used to store the cheddar, and allegedly he took much of his inspiration for Moria and the goblin lands of the Hobbit from them. They’re certainly impressive—
One of the local caves which my friend insisted that I go to (see how easily I shift the blame to others?) was a little less than shy about milking the whole Tolkien connection, and had rather cheesy (ok, bad Cheddar pun) plastic elf and goblin figurines about. I freely admit to fantasizing about dragons and whatnot in the earlier cave, but having somebody put a plastic model up for me was a bit much. I prefer to paint with my mind’s eye sometimes.
After that, it was high time to try the local cider, and I had a rather nice half pint of very cloudy stuff, while snacking on cheese. Not cheese and bread, mind you. In Cheddar, pub snacks are bowls of cubed cheese. Great stuff, and I was soon ready to burn it off (this is getting to be a familiar refrain for this trip, isn’t it wink ?)
If the Mines of Moria were inspired by the caves, I have to imagine that the surrounding cliffs provided some inspiration for Tolkien’s mountains. I’d call the terrain unscalable, but there were some climbers putting lie to that
(*sigh* there’s more than a few times I wish I had kept up with climbing. But it’s hard to do that AND play harp professionally)
Anyway, we got enough exercise and views. Here’s the millpond where we started—
And here’s the same pond from the ridgeline an hour later.
It was nice to get above the crowds and somewhat twee-ish shops below. We saw far more goats than people, actually. Btw, I have to admit, as cute as the goats were, they were neither well tempered, nor sweet smelling. I did not have to resist the urge to hug them (as I do with fuzzy cows).
The stupid trail dumped us out a mile or so up the highway.
Unlike goats, however, we had to walk along the slippery roadside, which resulted in a ten foot tumble into a nettle patch for me. I’m writing this a day after, and my hands just started feeling better. I can’t believe the Scots actually will eat nettles (I’m told boiling makes them edible. If you’re a Scotsman).
So, muddy, tired and sore, we trooped back home to find Oxy all better, stir-crazy and raring to go to the local. Cleaning up, we headed out again. My friend actually hadn’t been there yet, and to say they were a colorful bunch there was an understatement. We got to meet the local self-described “piss-artist” (I think he meant he liked to drink. It’s a hobby, I suppose). He actually played tenor recorder and had done some local performances, so my flute playing Oxy was able to steer him onto that subject and off the subject of naturism (aka nudism. I can’t believe that anyone in England could be into that, even with this unseasonably warm summer). Oxy also managed to get hit on by the local tart (who had a nickname I won’t repeat owing to some surgical enhancements of hers). I am proud to say he didn’t even notice, or at least pretended not to. Once these obstacles were overcome and some folks our friend recognized came in, things settled out a bit into more genial conversation about the area. No, I’m not lost; I think the town is beautiful; yes, I’m from California; yes, I surf; oh, why not, I’d be happy to dance. A few waltzes latter, we were all properly bonded and headed home.
All in all, a busy time for our first full day in Southern England.
V.
