Today begins the road trip portion of the loop log.
A crisp and clear British day, we cabbed it out to the Heathrow Enterprise and were rather easily set up with a rental car.
Going back to our Volvo roots, we drove north: Steven at the helm, myself the navigator, while Nancy and David had their heads between their legs in the back seat...
Steven did great: only catching two curbs, drifting less than half the time, and reluctantly accepting new motor vehicle terminology: the twosie-turn; in which two cars turn in the same direction in their own lanes...IN THEIR OWN LANES.
He was cool as a cucumber while my heart was in my throat as many hand signals were made in an effort to navigate and keep the car on the road from the passenger seat.
Curiosity and coffee necessitated a stop in Cambridge to meander and sip.
We wandered through the college town and it was so beautiful it nearly made me want to register for winter term.
In search of the oldest pubs in England, our next stop was in Nottingham at Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. The public house is nestled in the sandstone of Castle Rock, upon which Nottingham Castle is built, and claims to have been established in 1189.
We grabbed four pints and found a seat at a table in a third story cave. It was the room in which they used to store extra arms and I half expected Madmartigan to burst through the doors at any moment!
With 105 miles left until our destination accommodation in Yorkshire, it was my turn to take the wheel.
Overall, I felt pretty good about driving in the UK. There really is something to be said about “going with the flow”, but it is fascinating how your brain has to reprogram itself.
As the sun melted over green pastures lined with hedges, we motored along ancient English backroads spotted with roundabouts every two miles.
I’ll tell you one thing, magic hour lasts twice as long in these parts and I can see why the area has inspired so many amazing painters in its time.
The light really is different.
As darkness fell, we landed at our Airbnb, The Annexe at St. Magnus Lodge, in Bessingby. I tallied three curb-checks (though the first was more like a small ramp and not my fault...), 10 white knuckles, and one bonafide nervous breakdown that I kept to myself.
We freshened up and turned right around to find some food at Bosville Arms, a packed local joint where a two-man band was getting ready to play.
I’m not sure how long we were there, maybe years. No one was in any kind of rush whether it was to take an order, run a card, or deliver bangers and mash...and we were fine with that.
We were blending! Or so we thought...
By the end of the second set, about 50 intoxicated and proud local Englishmen and women of the Midlands were standing up and belting out John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” ... a sing-along that was dedicated to their four new American friends.
No joke; like a scene from a movie...that happened. I’d like to think they were welcoming us to their country, though it may have been just a polite way to tell us to leave...
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