In 2008, on a warm Monday morning in June, we left Rye (in the south of England), and Grumpy McGrumpy Pants (in the history of England), behind and headed for the town of Burford in an area called the Cotswolds. At the time, I thought McGrumpy Pants was being kind as he helped me guide my hire car through the very narrow arch that led out of the car park through a space that seemed as narrow as the hallways of the Mermaid Inn. Maybe he was just having a couple of bad days, and we had misjudged him. After all, he did fold our outside mirrors in for us before I crept the Skoda through the arch. Thinking about it now, though, I’m confident it had more to do with making sure some stupid American tourist with too many things didn’t bring the ancient Inn crashing down by smashing into the Norman archway holding the place up. “Stupid Yank Destroys Cherished Inn,” the Daily Mail would read, complete with a picture of a dusty McGrumpy standing in the rubble pointing a bony finger at us.
I guess everyone knows most of the world—except the U. K. and some past and present members of the Empire—drives on the wrong side of the road and sits on the wrong side of the car. Until my trip to England, my entire life had been lived in the wrong. Overcoming those bad American driving habits was a challenge, and many English curbs paid the price. Apparently, when your steering wheel is on the right side of the car, there’s a whole other half of your vehicle to your left. Who knew? Lynn would suddenly say in a normal tone of voice, “Curb.” Since the word had to slowly make its way through the tangle of old southern New Jersey driving habits cluttering my brain, her hands would suddenly reach for the dashboard, followed by the ever-increasing crescendo: “Curb! CURB!!” Wrongly raised passengers aren’t immune to these bad habits either, as Lynn often would circle the car looking for the passenger-side door.
A half-day visit to the RHS (Royal Horticultural Society) Wisley Gardens interrupted the road to Burford. Think of it as a Longwood Gardens wannabe. (Apologies to any Brits out there, but you just need to get on the left side of a car and drive to Kennett Square, PA, to see what I mean. Mind the curbs now.) Actually, that is a little harsh. It rivals Longwood in its way. Like Longwood, it began as a private estate and (oh dear, sorry) grew into a well-planned public garden with a focus on education and plant science.
There are categories of roads in England designated by a single first letter. “M” roads are motorways, somewhat like our interstates in America. They’re usually multi-lane with medians and exits. No pedestrians, bikes, or ox carts are allowed, but exceptions are made for American tourists. “A” roads radiate out from London and are carriageways: primary roads like our connecting roads, slower than interstates, with immediate turn-offs rather than exits. Depending on where you are, you can expect “A” roads to be single or double lanes in each direction. “B” roads are also carriageways, but they tend to be smaller and slower (in theory) than “A” roads. “B” roads crisscross between “A” roads, and it’s not unusual for them to be a half lane in each direction. Cars going up a hill have the right of way; not a big deal until you realize that there’s often a hedgerow on either side of the road with nowhere to pull over to let an oncoming car pass. You have to watch for turnouts. The car that doesn’t have the right of way should back up till they come to a turnout to let the oncoming car get past. Yeah, that would work in New Jersey.
Speaking of New Jersey, contrary to popular belief, there are no circles in England: they’re called roundabouts. More on those in a later diary. Oh, and you should always smile as you’re driving in Britain because there are cameras everywhere.
After we visited Wisley (both of us circling our car once to get in the proper English side, no doubt immortalized in traffic cam footage somewhere filed under “Comedy: Stupid American Tourists”), we headed northwest on the M25 to the M40 east of Oxford, then 20 miles west on the A40 to Burford, an ancient wool center on the Windrush River. We checked in at the Lamb Inn, oddly enough on Sheep Street, a short distance off the High Street. At the Lamb Inn, we met Edward Bear, whom you’ll recognize from my profile picture on Facebook.
(Images to follow at a later date.)