Things of Stonehenge and Bath

Rohan and I consider ourselves to be a certain kind of traveller, which basically means we don't like seeing the conventional stuff and we hate organised tours, preferring to stay in a place and gradually getting to know it by coming to live in it for a couple of days, coming to terms with its rhythms and cadences. Today we broke with tradition and headed off for a coach trip to Stonehenge and Bath.  The problem with these kinds of trips is that they involve other people, and generally, I hate other people. Particularly other people who are strangers. That's like a perfect storm. Nevertheless we headed off full of optimism for the chaos that is Victoria Coach Station at about 8.30 in the morning when busses are coming and going, spewing tourists in and out as they go.

Claiming the upstairs seats at the front of the double decker bus, we discovered that we would be seeing London through the eyes of our Scottish bus driver and our Irish tour guide. The bus rolled out and the cheesy jokes began. Canned laughter filled the bus, and I was conscious that the cheesy jokes made me cringe, how would I survive the day? Luckily I'd selected the 'independent traveller' option which basically meant we were being ferried to our destination, with little need to wander around as a whole group. Our arrival at Stonehenge saw us disembarking and grabbing our audio head sets to discover what we know about the great mysteries of the stones. In the queue tempers were already getting fiery as American tourists asked some other Australians if they'd been to Uluru, when they said no, the Americans replied incredulously 'What? You haven't been?' By this stage the Australian was getting surly, like a crocodile poked with a stick, and he snapped back 'Have you been everywhere in your country? No? No, I bet you haven't'. Two hours in and international relations are getting frosty. As we moved through the entrance gate, the staff told the Americans they needed to hold up their entrance ticket, as they rummaged for it, they said 'the thing we were just given?'. Why yes, the ticket you were just given would be your entrance ticket, amazing as that may be. See? People -they are generally idiots.

The answer about what we know abut Stonehenge turned out to be: Not much. Perhaps if the audio guide had claimed to know more about the 'secrets of Stonehenge' I may have been tempted to buy the book in the gift shop, but there is a flaw in their advertising when they tell you there is so much they don't know, and then advise you to stop in at the gift shop to buy a book about what they know. I have this theory it's like a Seinfeld book, a book about 'nothing at all'. I did enjoy seeing the stones and imagining stories of what may have transpired in this place. Still, tick it off the list, we came, we saw, we listened to the audio headset all the way through. Mark that down as an achievement for it would not happen again on this tour. Back on the bus and there was a distinct scent of alcohol when our tour guide floated past. Surely an Irishman wouldn't be drinking before midday? As long as the bus driver wasn't we should be okay, although the fact that I saw him eating an enormous hot dog for breakfast before we left doesn't bode well for his cardio vascular system. That combined with his sedentary profession, did leave me in some fear that he may end up slumped over the wheel at some stage during our trip.

Next stop was Bath. I'd done a straw poll and everyone had agreed that Bath  was worth seeing and as the bus rolled into town through windy streets the view was quite magical. It was when we got off the bus that the trouble began. Our tour guide was getting us to follow him to the Roman baths, and pouff, up popped an umbrella for us to follow. Oh hang on a minute buddy, I think you had one too many whiskies back at the Stonehenge stop. I don't do this kind of tour. I am definitely not a following an umbrella kind of girl. Still we persevered, if only to get our entrance token ( note American travellers, it's a token not a ticket this time round. Confusing I know, but hopefully you'll work it out). Downstairs to the Roman Bath and there was a man dressed as a Roman in a toga.
Case closed.
The cheese factor has been exceeded for today.
Disappointed with the fact that imagination was not required I gave up on the tour and the audio guide and left. I want my own imagination to take me to the past, to scenes of Romans in gaudy, gilt outfits frolicking and enjoying the healing delights of the water. Don't give me an out of work actor who once appeared on Britain's Got Talent clad in a cheap costume. Damn you Bath -make me work for my history.

We wandered to the Abby, with it's gravity defying arches and intricate stained glass windows. Here was a moment for uninterrupted stillness. Unlike the cathedrals in Brussels there were no gypsies hawking their survey scams within the walls of the church. I came over all biblical in Brussels, ranting about temples and tax payers and whatever other remnants of the parable remained in my brain. Here there was just the stone arches, the ladder of the angels outside, oh and the gift shop in the cloister. Well I guess even the church has to make a living and I offered up some of my cash - stay tuned for your commemorative spoon mum.

Next stop was some ye olde buildings. And then some more ye olde buildings. Then we went into a traditional Cornish pasty shop. The girl asked what we wanted and I said I wanted a traditional miner's pasty, Cornish at one end and apple at the other. 'Oh I don't know why we don't make those', she said, 'that's what they traditionally were you know'. Yes, I do know. That's why I came into your not so aptly named 'traditional Cornish pasty' shop. Back to the Sovereign Hill bakery for me when I get home I guess.

After that incident, henceforth to be known as the  great Bath pasty disappointment, I decided we needed a drink and so we headed to a terrace for a glass of red in the summer sunshine. At the table beside us some British tourists were trying to decide what to eat. It was like they'd been hidden under the Medieval Ruins for the last few hundred years as they asked the waitress what the numbers next to the meals represented. 'That's the price', she replied. She gave them some more time to think and to ponder on this new phenomenon of printing the price next to the item on a menu. 'It's so much easier at McDonalds where I understand what everything is', one of them commented. This alone is definitive proof of why the empire crumbled. After sitting there for another 15 minutes they decided reading the menu in their own language was far too confusing and they headed off somewhere else. Presumably it was too McDonalds. (If you think I'm making this up, then let me reassure you, I couldn't imagine someone so stupid, but thankfully nature delivers us some gems every now and then).

4pm rolled round and Rohan and I were some of the first in line to get on the bus - there was no way I was going to be stuck in Bath with a whole heap of tourists (yes, I am aware I am a tourist). So now I sit here on the bus heading back to the metropolis of London. It's true that Bath is a beautiful looking place and that perhaps history echoes under the buildings and the footpaths. The problem is that going there in July it's hard to hear the whispers of the past through the crass commercialism of the present.





Sent from my iPad