A visit to Great Witcombe and Little Witcombe was a must since Witcombe has been my sister's surname for the last 53 years and my brother-in-law's for all his life.
Now here's what sets the English apart from Americans, it's irony and there is no better example of that than Great and Little Witcombe. Great Witcombe with just a church and a post box is anything but great whereas Little Witcombe, though in no way great in the classical sense, boasts about 70 houses, a local hall which it shares with nearby Bentham, a pub, a defunct shop and a post box - but no church.
Bath, yes there is one right in the middle of town and it's the one place we didn't visit because we left our run a little late but never mind, we've all seen the pictures. We wandered by one of Britain's near dozen Avon rivers and when we took both bus tours we discovered why there are so many of them. The Celtic word for river is something approximating avon so when the Romans politely asked the name of the river they were about to chart the locals responded accordingly. Aborigines throughout much of Eastern Australia did something similar but different when asked the names of places. Prefixes like gunda, goono, goonda and so on all refer to places where you go to shit so think about that next time you're in Gunnedah, Goondiwindi or Goonellabah.
I suspect that I saw as much of Bath as I needed to. Too much more would not have left me wanting more. It's a town that does its best to function whilst being swamped by tourism but then that's how it's always been. People have come to Bath for thousands of years for one reason or another. And when they have done so they've invariably exploited others. Beautiful though much of Southern England is, my inner socialist can't help but see both the historic and current social divides of the place.
So let's back things up 5000 years to when life was immeasurably shittier for everyone, even essentially Anglo-Celtic types like myself - yes, I know I look Greek or Italian, perhaps Spanish on a good day but I'm not!
We visited Stonehenge which pre-dates both Celts and Angles but what-the-hell, I'm sure I had people here long before I turned Mediterranean. But back to Stonehenge; this wasn't just any iPhone-bloody-clicking, stay behind the blue nylon rope experience; we went for the complete nude, Mother Earth worshiping, all drumming all chanting, up close and personal sunset tour package and it was fabulous! We were able to romp unimpeded, amongst the stones for a full hour and my chakra is now aligned beyond belief. OK, I'm bullshitting you about the naked romp but I did feel moved to remove my thongs before we entered the Inner Circle which completely perplexed the Americans in our group who were already perplexed by my thongs and shorts, given the temperature.
The place has a certain power which my rationalist self says we give it but my tortured feet felt so much better for the experience. Having said that, I am no believer in miracle cures; an hour of trotting about any damp paddock would have probably achieved the exact same result but I thoroughly enjoyed being there. Stonehenge is an iconic part of my heritage be that Pagan, Minoan or whatever. It was nice just to be there.
Now at this point I must tell you that the Google Earth app on my new iPhone is a troublemaking bitch! Louise (as we have named her because DeDe's sat nav's name is Thelma) has a penchant for complication. She is extremely keen on back roads, goat tracks in fact! Our return journey to Snowshill should have taken less that two hours but took three along some shocking fucking roads. Every time we are about to hit an 'A' road bloody Louise pointed us back towards yet another single-lane track. We finally got back at around midnight and passed out cold till after 10.00am next day.
Hitcote Manor, oh glorious Hidcote Manor! It's now my second favorite English National Trust property after Wallington in Northumberland which is unsurpassable. I don't care about the houses but their gardens are quite special. I was blessed to have had a grandmother who taught me how to see, and not just look, so Hidcote was an extraordinary treat. I now need to grow alliums, tree peonies and Gallery Red lupins which will probably fail me in exactly the same way as fuchsias did when I returned home obsessed with them from Wallington last time.
Today's drive back to London was all good until we stopped for fuel about 20km out from the car rental at Heathrow and had a major Chevy Chase, European Vacation round-about experience trying to get back onto the M40. Well there went an hour - Louise, you sodding bitch!
We are now happily settled in our Airbnb in Bloomsbury which is on the Piccadilly Line close to just about everything we want - and for the money it cost it would bloody-well want to be!
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