I'm exhausted. I say this, not for your pity, or for admiration but as a simple warning. I'm pretty much writing this on the fly. Grammar won't be checked (has it ever been?) and I may or may not say things that sound just plain (as my host mother would say) contrary. Well, I don't and care. Take it or lave it.
As I've said, time and time again, London is a large, dirty, compressing city full stinky, loud, gawdy things that really overstimulate a person of my *achem* sensitive nature. Previously, I've done quite a bit to relieve myself of the big city by hiding in parks. Well, within these past few weeks I've actually left it for brief stints of time and that's been nice. However, I feel I've done a lot more in these trips aside from recharging my introverted batteries. So, I'll start from where I left off.
On friday, February something or other (I'm too tired to remember) I woke up at 5:45, got dressed, and headed out the door towards Liverpool Street train station. My equipment: 1 wool sweater, 1 rain jacket, leather boots, camera, Lonely Planet great Britain Guide Book, Google maps of Ipswich and Bredfield, Waterbottle, 2 scones, 1 carrot, 2 apples, and an assortment of cheese (non-dairy, of course). My destination: Bredfield, Suffolk, England. Why, you ask? Well, about 2,000 years ago two Americans, a man named Robert Middleton and a woman named Dorinda McKnight, in the airforce stationed in England decided they just might like each other enough to spend the rest of their lives together. There was some sort of archaic ceremony involving appeasing the volcano god (as Suffolk is FULL of Volcanoes) and (here the details get a little vague) they some how got a house in Bredfield. Around this time they also bought a bought a changling baby from Queen Titania for five shillings and a basket of oysters. Why they wanted I'm not sue. It had something to do with a deal they made with a warlord and the rites of primo geniture and so forth. I'm not really an expert on ancient Middletonian customs. But I digress.
Anyway, I wanted to find the house they lived in in Bredfield as, they are, in fact, mis padres. The house even had a name. I say had as I discovered a little later the house no longer exists. But back to the story. So, I took a 9:00 o'clock train from London to Ipswich. The train was lovely. Fast, clean and there was even a woman who pushed a food trolley up and down the aisle. Once I got to Ipswich, I knew vaguely where I needed to go as I had researched the area previously. I knew I needed to find the bus station on Cameron road and take the 12:38pm bus to bredfield. I knew it. Well, apparantly Ipswich didn't know it as the bus station turned out to be a sign next to a pub and casino. Not only that, but it being half term for school children, the bus schedule was all off kilter. So, my plans changed. Instead of 12:38, I would wait for the 2:09 bus. This gave me ample time to roam around Ipswich. Its a very normal, British town. Its not a bustling, cosmopolitan city like London. There was a lovely state home where cardinal Wolsey (head man for Henvry VIII), a nice church and tasty pasties so I enjoyed myself. When the time came I was able to leave Ipswich, on my way to Bredfield. I could not believe I had actually done it. Pride really does not cover how impowered I felt at having succesfully navigated the transportation system on my own without getting lost. It was a great moment in my life.
Now, I feel I should say something about the English roads system. All-in-all, its an excellent system that's been around since the Romans who were darn good planners. However, what has also been around since the days of ox-carts and horsemen is the road size. Seriously. One mini can drive down the road and either side will be touching hedgerow (the bushes that line pretty much all roads). Imagine taking a regular sized city bus down what your imagination has now conjured. Scared? Yeah, so was I. When I wasn't biting in my hand to keep from gasping every time we "passed" another car, I was watching my fellow passengers. There were probably five in all heading outside of Ipswich and not one was under the age of 70. What was really great was that they all seemed to know not only each other but the bus driver who in turn knew exactly where each of his patrons needed to go. He even stopped seemingly in the middle of no where to pick up an old lady and take her to the Tesco (a cheap grocery store) in the next town. One woman even got to talking with Nigel (such was the bus driver's name) about his recent knee surgery and how her cousin Helen was about to get her hip replaced. I liked listening to this particular woman, who was probably in her mid-seventies, had brought along her mother who she always made sure to repeat everything that Nigel said to. Or she'd ask her questions like "i'n't bwight muvah?" When we got to a town that i thought might be my stop I asked her what stop it was. I love how she turned to, as if it was the most absurd question she'd ever heard and said, "why, this is Bwedfild, dawling."
"Bwedfild" or Bredfield as the town sign says, is a small village. Really, you don't get much smaller in England. But its peaceful and quiet and there are tees and fields everywhere. I took my time walking around, tying to find mom and dad's house but I didn't have any luck. Of course, I'm notorious for not finding things so it may very well be there. I really did enjoy the town, but it being small and having no working businesses I didn't really have a reason to stay after I'd finished searching. I was especially eager to get back to Ipswich as it was about 3:30 and would be dark soon. So, I headed back to the bredfield bus stop and waited. and waited. and waited.
About 4:30 I decided I should have planned how I was going to get back better. I had no bus schedule but I was pretty sure one was not coming in the near future. I was also waiting right in front of a house where the mother kept peaking out her window and looking at me like I was some kind of creeper. So, not wanting to be thought a stalker, I decided I had two perfectly good feet and I'd walk somewhere with a better bus service. I had a vague idea that Woodbridge was pretty close and my google map of Bredield had a road that led somewhere that i thought was woodbridge. So I walked. If your remember, the roads are very thin which left me about 5 inches of sod between the road and the hedge to walk on. Sometimes I jumped into a field to keep out of the way of the cars. Eventually I got the the A12 or something like that which is a fairly popular road. This turned out to be a good thing as it had something resembling a sidewalk which took me to by Sutton Hoo (anglo saxon treasure trove), some other towns I don't remember, Melton, and finally Woodbridge.
Now, by this time I was in what I like to call a state. As bold, brave, and brash as I like to think I was, in reality I was an internal wreck. Being lost in the middle of East Anglia is not my idea of a good time. In fact, on the scale of time quality, 10 being a good time and 1 being a bad one I'd say this ranked about a 3 which only got its points because, well, I was lost in ENGLAND which just doesn't happen every day. However, I was good and truly lost without a tube station or friendly face in sight which is kind of nerve racking. I got the point of seriously considering flagging the first bus I saw down and demanding the driver take me where I wanted to go when i saw the familiar sign that meant rail road. I had not planned on taking a train back to Ipswich but as I was, as you can imagine, desperate, I didn't particularly care. When I tried to buy my ticket I discoved that the ticket window was closed and nearly cied. However, a friendly woman in the gift shop told me I could buy my ticket on the train, which would leave at 6:07. This gave me about a half hour to calm myself down. I gave my dad a call, which helped my state of mind quite a bit and finished off my food stuffs which I had been nibbling on for most of my day. When the train finally came, I was tired, a bit shaky but extemley happy. I didnt even have to switch trains at Ipswich to get back to London. I got into London about 8 and decided I wanted a good strong meal to carry me home. That finished, I got on the tube. Then I realized I had a few phone messages from my host family making sure I was, you know, alive, and checked the time which was around 10:30.
The next morning I slept in. I love stating the obvious so I'll indulge myself and say it was very nice. Then I got it into my head that what I really needed to comabt my recent slightly traumatic but very fulfilling experience was another one. So, I invited a few of my new friends Sasha and Annie to Hampton Court- the famous home of cardinal Wolsey, Anne Boleyn and henry VIII as well as other english monarchs.
Like bredfield, i had to take a train from Waterloo station to Hamton Court. Unlike Bredfield it was a rather hoping place with tourists galore. This left a rather sour taste in my mouth- especially all the rubbish in the gift shop. That day i realized that when I go to a castle I don't want dress up Henry and Katherine Parr and newly remodeled state rooms and wax-works in period costume. My imagination doesn't need help getting an idea of what castle life was like nor do I want to see the fifteenth state bedroom decked out in full regalia. I suppose its nice to see the rich fabrics, tapestries and paintings but really, I'd jsut as soon put those in the British museum and see them separately. What I want in a castle is evidence of how time has left it. I don't want carpet I won't worn down stone. I don't want safety rails- I'd just as soone trip down the stairs like Thomas Moore might have. I don't want a cafe or gift shop I want the hollowed out corpses of the royal court apartments. In my mind I think a castle is a kind of tribute to the past in a sad way. They're all gone (when I say they I mean the old kings and queen and nobility) and a castle should kind of leave a haunting impression, like a cemetery. I want to touch the same stone's that two-year old Elizabeth I touched and I want to look out the same windows as Jane Seymour.
Now, in all fairness Hampton Court is a very well preserved depiction of Tudor and Stuart achitecture and for anyone interested in that history I'd recommend seeing it. Its vey beautiful. However, Hampton court lacks something my heart desperately wants- a solid presence of death. That sounds morbid. sorry? I don't mean to be a weirdo but really, I can't put it any other way.
Well, I'm exhausted. I've said that already but its still true. I'm not entirely sure what I just wrote but I have the vague idea that I forgot scotland. well, I'll wirte somethine else on that later. When I've slept and don't have an 8 o'clock train to birmingham the next morning.
good night.
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