September 4, 2006
This morning we departed the B&B by 7:30 a.m., making the short drive up into Paineswick proper. There Dad and I enjoyed a delightful meander around the village, stepping back in time to a simpler, quieter era (though the steady stream of morning rush hour traffic through the middle of town brings one quickly back to today). Strolling down quiet lanes and past well-kept homes (several built recently, but with a purposefully old-style look), an abiding appreciation for the English countryside and agrarian way of life only grew in my heart. Ne’er did I dream that the culture described by Herriot in his stories of country veterinarian life would be experienced by me—but they were. Last evening and this morning were worth the entire trip.
During our walk, Dad and I enjoyed two pleasantly surprising treats: a basket of “help yourself” plums, and a basket of “help yourself” apples. Both baskets were encountered in front of residential homes along our route, and both offers were accepted by two hungry Americans. The fruit was appreciated as much for the manner in which we received it as it was for its hunger-appeasing qualities. I have yet to meet a “help yourself” fruit basket on the side of the road in the States, and probably would decline such an invitation if I did.
Returning to the B&B, we prepared for the day and went downstairs for breakfast just before 9:00 a.m. Again we were greeted with a delicious meal of fruit, yogurt, fried eggs on toast, sausage, bacon, and buttered toast. No tomatoes on our plates today, and I skipped the cereal.
Paying for our lodging and bidding our hostess, Sylvia, adieu, Dad and I set off for Warden Way in another part of the Cotswolds (we were detoured by a failed attempt to locate Sylvia’s recommended “vista” of the local Paineswick area, but finally forsook this futile venture in favor of getting on with our planned day). This portion of the Cotswold Ramble was in Upper and Lower Slaughters, and to Upper Slaughters we repaired. Parking off the main road through Upper Slaughter, we picked up Warden Way and commenced our rambling. Truth be told, although quite lovely, this guidebook-raved-about section of Cotswold Ramble couldn’t hold muster compared to last night’s excursion through the pastures and hillsides of Paineswick. However, the trail took us through Lower Slaughter, and we admired the old mill and the lovely river and old inns/homes/etc. located therein.
Eventually we returned to our car and set course for Bleinham Palace, located in Woodstock. After paying the entrance fee to access the palace and grounds, we parked the car and walked up to the visitor’s entrance. Huge golden gates stood in our path, the right gate opening inward. We entered through the gates and into an outer courtyard, making our way past the still-occupied (11h Duke of Marlborough and family) East wing of the palace, and in front of the north—and main—entrance into the palace. What a regal and imposing sight stood before us, ornate and consuming in its grandeur; the “Versailles of England” as it is known. Towers, columns, intricate architecture of all forms combined to hold sway over their audience. Shaped rather like an open horseshoe, the palace’s east and west wings stretched toward us, while its north face sat back in stately splendor to receive palace guests.
Approaching the palace’s main entrance, we passed through two massive oak doors and into the palace’s front hall. A staff member immediately greeted us and cordially set forth the basic rules and layout of the palace. From this kind lady we learned that the two huge doors behind us were constructed using oak trees grown on the estate, and that each door individually weighed one-half ton. Dad and I were both permitted to hold the 3 ½ pound key to this set of doors, and we were duly impressed. That would not be a comfortable key to carry around in one’s pocket. (One interesting note about these doors is that they can only be locked and unlocked from inside the palace.)
After admiring additional items of interest in the front hall, of which there were many (a “hooded”, high-backed chair; a brilliant, 300-year-old fresco covering the hall’s domed ceiling; a wine cooler made completely of silver; original portraits of several historical figures who had resided in the palace; etc.), we set off down the hallway to our right to examine the Winston S. Churchill exhibit presently on display.
Sir Winston Churchill was born, early and unexpectedly, at Bleinham Palace, and spent many days there as a child under the care of his grandmother. Although Blenheim Palace was never the official residence of his parents, Churchill had fond memories of time spent in its rooms and on its grounds, and the fact that he was born there has inseparably linked these two famous pieces of British history (Churchill’s father, Lord Randolph, was not the eldest son of the 7th Duke of Marlborough, and therefore Churchill never assumed possession of the family estate.)
I digress. The palace’s Churchill display was informative and interesting, although not overly extensive. What was much more intriguing was a guided tour of Blenheim Palace. Going from room to room of the palace’s publicly accessible areas, we saw ornate antique furniture; paintings; intricate wall and ceiling décor; the famous Marlborough Tapestries; antique clocks; gold leaf-gilded architecture; busts; statues; Europe’s largest, privately owned organ housed in Britain’s second-longest, privately owned room (a library), a banquet table that seats thirty-six, used once annually for the present duke’s family Christmas dinner, beautiful china, mounted game, etc., etc., etc. Our guide, a spare, stately Brit in his early 80s, was a veritable wealth of information. He provided his audience an excellent overview of Blenheim Palace’s 300-year existence, feeding us fascinating family history anecdotes. We could not have asked for more.
Our tour at an end, Dad and I exited the palace and set off on foot across a picturesque lake via a very old stone bridge, heading toward a monument erected in honor of the first Duke of Marlborough. This imposing column, supported by a wide base and featuring a statue of the duke at its top, rose high above a field directly opposite the palace’s front gate, perhaps a half-mile away. Unbeknownst to us, the field we had to cross contained all manner of animal droppings and was a veritable minefield of “patties” and “chips.” However, our pursuit of the monument outweighed the inconvenient crossing, and we had soon passed through the danger zone and reached the memorialized duke. After reading the monument’s inscriptions and peering up at the duke above, we sought for and found a less hazardous route back to the palace and made our way thence.
Taking one last look at Blenheim Palace and its impressive and far-reaching grounds, Dad and I departed the grand estate and turned our car toward London Gatwick Airport to return our rented Vauxhall. At Gatwick we purchased train tickets to London/Victoria Station, and after a 30-minute train ride we caught a cab outside the station terminal and gave the cab driver our hotel’s name and address. It was apparent that he had never been to the hotel in question, but being a resourceful British cabby, he delivered us there without mishap and correspondingly received his due fare and tip.
The entrance to our hotel was a narrow doorway off the sidewalk, sandwiched between two restaurants. Above the doorway was an illuminated sign reading “Hyde Park Hotel,” a rather unassuming announcer of the building’s name and purpose. Inside the doorway was a short flight of stairs leading to a small landing, a second flight of stairs there reversing course against the first flight and heading up and back toward the street. Once at the top of this second flight we made an immediate left and entered a small reception/front desk room where sat the front desk girl on duty. We waited for a gentleman in front of us to complete his business with the young lady, and then checked into the hotel ourselves.
The hotel had an old-fashioned guest registrar for us to sign. The registrar sat on the front desk counter, accessible to anyone who walked in the room. Dad was checking in for us, and so the girl wanted him to enter his name and address into the registrar, along with his passport number. This seemed a rather fool-hearty stipulation to both Dad and me, and Dad requested to record his passport information elsewhere, to which request the girl returned a puzzled, “Why?” Dad sensibly explained that he didn’t care to have his passport information listed for the inquiring world to see, and he was able to convince the young lady to store this data in a more secure location.
Taking key (a key, not a card) in hand, we repaired to our room. Said room was located at the top of the stairs we had recently ascended, a little to the left and directly outside the reception room. (Not necessarily the ideal spot, but, oh well.) Inserting our single key into the lock, we opened the door and stepped inside. “Cramped” is the best one-word description that comes to mind. Immediately inside the door and on our right was the bathroom. It contained the smallest sink I’ve ever seen, a toilet directly across and about two feet from the sink, and a shower stall a mere 6-8 inches past them both. The entire bathroom was no larger than 6’ deep by 5’ across. Back in the short, narrow “hallway” between the hotel room door and the room’s main “living space” we encountered the bare necessities: a 2’-2 ½’ wide “closet” atop four drawers of the same width (this unusual piece of furniture actually stood an impressive 8’-10’ high); two twin beds measuring not more than 2 ½’ across each (I could literally straddle the bed when sitting up); a 16” x 20” stand between the two beds (no drawer); a 16” deep, 5’ long “desk” along the near wall, holding a 13” color TV, a phone, and coffee/tea utensils and supplies; and a small chair tucked under the desk. Two 4’ x 8” shelves hung over the beds, one above the other, and a tri-frame showcased three drawings of lighthouses above the shelves. (Later we located an air conditioner above the doorway leading into the main living area, a pleasant surprise in London and one much used.) This portion of the hotel room was approximately 9’ x 10’ and provided little space for anything other than sleep.
Depositing our luggage, Dad and I headed downstairs to the busy street below. The sidewalk was teeming with people, foreign languages, all manner of general noise. We commenced searching for a place to eat, as we had eaten nothing since breakfast. Our first attempt was the well-known British eatery, Burger King, but there were no empty tables inside this popular dining establishment. A little Italian restaurant sufficed instead, and Dad and I both ordered margherita pizzas. The restaurant was packed, noisy, and rather dark, but the pizzas assuaged our famished states and we were quite satisfied.
Finishing our meal, we departed the restaurant and headed toward the hotel, stopping en route for a 2-litre water bottle, two 4-packs of chunky Kit-Kat bars, and a 3-prong electricity adapter for my laptop (the one I purchased in the States converted a 3-prong outlet to a 2-prong, something entirely unsuitable for my laptop---argghh, Radio Shack). Back at the hotel we picked up our key at the front desk (hotel policy required us to leave our only key there each time we departed the hotel) and returned to our room. After a shower, a photo download, and a long read of Path Between the Seas, I went to bed.
During our walk, Dad and I enjoyed two pleasantly surprising treats: a basket of “help yourself” plums, and a basket of “help yourself” apples. Both baskets were encountered in front of residential homes along our route, and both offers were accepted by two hungry Americans. The fruit was appreciated as much for the manner in which we received it as it was for its hunger-appeasing qualities. I have yet to meet a “help yourself” fruit basket on the side of the road in the States, and probably would decline such an invitation if I did.
Returning to the B&B, we prepared for the day and went downstairs for breakfast just before 9:00 a.m. Again we were greeted with a delicious meal of fruit, yogurt, fried eggs on toast, sausage, bacon, and buttered toast. No tomatoes on our plates today, and I skipped the cereal.
Paying for our lodging and bidding our hostess, Sylvia, adieu, Dad and I set off for Warden Way in another part of the Cotswolds (we were detoured by a failed attempt to locate Sylvia’s recommended “vista” of the local Paineswick area, but finally forsook this futile venture in favor of getting on with our planned day). This portion of the Cotswold Ramble was in Upper and Lower Slaughters, and to Upper Slaughters we repaired. Parking off the main road through Upper Slaughter, we picked up Warden Way and commenced our rambling. Truth be told, although quite lovely, this guidebook-raved-about section of Cotswold Ramble couldn’t hold muster compared to last night’s excursion through the pastures and hillsides of Paineswick. However, the trail took us through Lower Slaughter, and we admired the old mill and the lovely river and old inns/homes/etc. located therein.
Eventually we returned to our car and set course for Bleinham Palace, located in Woodstock. After paying the entrance fee to access the palace and grounds, we parked the car and walked up to the visitor’s entrance. Huge golden gates stood in our path, the right gate opening inward. We entered through the gates and into an outer courtyard, making our way past the still-occupied (11h Duke of Marlborough and family) East wing of the palace, and in front of the north—and main—entrance into the palace. What a regal and imposing sight stood before us, ornate and consuming in its grandeur; the “Versailles of England” as it is known. Towers, columns, intricate architecture of all forms combined to hold sway over their audience. Shaped rather like an open horseshoe, the palace’s east and west wings stretched toward us, while its north face sat back in stately splendor to receive palace guests.
Approaching the palace’s main entrance, we passed through two massive oak doors and into the palace’s front hall. A staff member immediately greeted us and cordially set forth the basic rules and layout of the palace. From this kind lady we learned that the two huge doors behind us were constructed using oak trees grown on the estate, and that each door individually weighed one-half ton. Dad and I were both permitted to hold the 3 ½ pound key to this set of doors, and we were duly impressed. That would not be a comfortable key to carry around in one’s pocket. (One interesting note about these doors is that they can only be locked and unlocked from inside the palace.)
After admiring additional items of interest in the front hall, of which there were many (a “hooded”, high-backed chair; a brilliant, 300-year-old fresco covering the hall’s domed ceiling; a wine cooler made completely of silver; original portraits of several historical figures who had resided in the palace; etc.), we set off down the hallway to our right to examine the Winston S. Churchill exhibit presently on display.
Sir Winston Churchill was born, early and unexpectedly, at Bleinham Palace, and spent many days there as a child under the care of his grandmother. Although Blenheim Palace was never the official residence of his parents, Churchill had fond memories of time spent in its rooms and on its grounds, and the fact that he was born there has inseparably linked these two famous pieces of British history (Churchill’s father, Lord Randolph, was not the eldest son of the 7th Duke of Marlborough, and therefore Churchill never assumed possession of the family estate.)
I digress. The palace’s Churchill display was informative and interesting, although not overly extensive. What was much more intriguing was a guided tour of Blenheim Palace. Going from room to room of the palace’s publicly accessible areas, we saw ornate antique furniture; paintings; intricate wall and ceiling décor; the famous Marlborough Tapestries; antique clocks; gold leaf-gilded architecture; busts; statues; Europe’s largest, privately owned organ housed in Britain’s second-longest, privately owned room (a library), a banquet table that seats thirty-six, used once annually for the present duke’s family Christmas dinner, beautiful china, mounted game, etc., etc., etc. Our guide, a spare, stately Brit in his early 80s, was a veritable wealth of information. He provided his audience an excellent overview of Blenheim Palace’s 300-year existence, feeding us fascinating family history anecdotes. We could not have asked for more.
Our tour at an end, Dad and I exited the palace and set off on foot across a picturesque lake via a very old stone bridge, heading toward a monument erected in honor of the first Duke of Marlborough. This imposing column, supported by a wide base and featuring a statue of the duke at its top, rose high above a field directly opposite the palace’s front gate, perhaps a half-mile away. Unbeknownst to us, the field we had to cross contained all manner of animal droppings and was a veritable minefield of “patties” and “chips.” However, our pursuit of the monument outweighed the inconvenient crossing, and we had soon passed through the danger zone and reached the memorialized duke. After reading the monument’s inscriptions and peering up at the duke above, we sought for and found a less hazardous route back to the palace and made our way thence.
Taking one last look at Blenheim Palace and its impressive and far-reaching grounds, Dad and I departed the grand estate and turned our car toward London Gatwick Airport to return our rented Vauxhall. At Gatwick we purchased train tickets to London/Victoria Station, and after a 30-minute train ride we caught a cab outside the station terminal and gave the cab driver our hotel’s name and address. It was apparent that he had never been to the hotel in question, but being a resourceful British cabby, he delivered us there without mishap and correspondingly received his due fare and tip.
The entrance to our hotel was a narrow doorway off the sidewalk, sandwiched between two restaurants. Above the doorway was an illuminated sign reading “Hyde Park Hotel,” a rather unassuming announcer of the building’s name and purpose. Inside the doorway was a short flight of stairs leading to a small landing, a second flight of stairs there reversing course against the first flight and heading up and back toward the street. Once at the top of this second flight we made an immediate left and entered a small reception/front desk room where sat the front desk girl on duty. We waited for a gentleman in front of us to complete his business with the young lady, and then checked into the hotel ourselves.
The hotel had an old-fashioned guest registrar for us to sign. The registrar sat on the front desk counter, accessible to anyone who walked in the room. Dad was checking in for us, and so the girl wanted him to enter his name and address into the registrar, along with his passport number. This seemed a rather fool-hearty stipulation to both Dad and me, and Dad requested to record his passport information elsewhere, to which request the girl returned a puzzled, “Why?” Dad sensibly explained that he didn’t care to have his passport information listed for the inquiring world to see, and he was able to convince the young lady to store this data in a more secure location.
Taking key (a key, not a card) in hand, we repaired to our room. Said room was located at the top of the stairs we had recently ascended, a little to the left and directly outside the reception room. (Not necessarily the ideal spot, but, oh well.) Inserting our single key into the lock, we opened the door and stepped inside. “Cramped” is the best one-word description that comes to mind. Immediately inside the door and on our right was the bathroom. It contained the smallest sink I’ve ever seen, a toilet directly across and about two feet from the sink, and a shower stall a mere 6-8 inches past them both. The entire bathroom was no larger than 6’ deep by 5’ across. Back in the short, narrow “hallway” between the hotel room door and the room’s main “living space” we encountered the bare necessities: a 2’-2 ½’ wide “closet” atop four drawers of the same width (this unusual piece of furniture actually stood an impressive 8’-10’ high); two twin beds measuring not more than 2 ½’ across each (I could literally straddle the bed when sitting up); a 16” x 20” stand between the two beds (no drawer); a 16” deep, 5’ long “desk” along the near wall, holding a 13” color TV, a phone, and coffee/tea utensils and supplies; and a small chair tucked under the desk. Two 4’ x 8” shelves hung over the beds, one above the other, and a tri-frame showcased three drawings of lighthouses above the shelves. (Later we located an air conditioner above the doorway leading into the main living area, a pleasant surprise in London and one much used.) This portion of the hotel room was approximately 9’ x 10’ and provided little space for anything other than sleep.
Depositing our luggage, Dad and I headed downstairs to the busy street below. The sidewalk was teeming with people, foreign languages, all manner of general noise. We commenced searching for a place to eat, as we had eaten nothing since breakfast. Our first attempt was the well-known British eatery, Burger King, but there were no empty tables inside this popular dining establishment. A little Italian restaurant sufficed instead, and Dad and I both ordered margherita pizzas. The restaurant was packed, noisy, and rather dark, but the pizzas assuaged our famished states and we were quite satisfied.
Finishing our meal, we departed the restaurant and headed toward the hotel, stopping en route for a 2-litre water bottle, two 4-packs of chunky Kit-Kat bars, and a 3-prong electricity adapter for my laptop (the one I purchased in the States converted a 3-prong outlet to a 2-prong, something entirely unsuitable for my laptop---argghh, Radio Shack). Back at the hotel we picked up our key at the front desk (hotel policy required us to leave our only key there each time we departed the hotel) and returned to our room. After a shower, a photo download, and a long read of Path Between the Seas, I went to bed.
posted by Tim at
9/20/2006 12:04:00 AM
2 Comments:
Great post, Tim! Keep them up. Its great to hear about your trip of a life-time.
By
Mark Stubblefield, At
10:07 AM, September 20, 2006
Thank you so much for the delightful posts of your trip. Your excellent descriptive writing is every bit as enjoyable as the beautiful pictures you took. What a treat! I am going to make sure all my children get a chance to see this as well. Some of the best blogging I have seen!
By
Carol Rugloski, At
3:01 PM, September 20, 2006
Post a Comment
<$I18N$LinksToThisPost>:
Create a Link
<< Home