The British Invasion: Part III - Stonehenge and Clovelly

[shanmonster]

After the Salisbury Cathedral, my tour group had one more sacred site to visit on Tuesday: Stonehenge.

We drove through fields heavily populated by sheep and what I know as Holstein, but what the English call Friesian cattle. Though it was September, the grass was every bit as green as Canadian lawns in late May. Now this is what I call pastoral. One of the women on the bus calls it bucolic. That works, too.

Hedges great and small lined the narrow roads. Some were only about waist high. Some soared higher than the tour bus (or coach, as it's referred to in England), giving the roads a claustrophobic feel. There were times when our driver Russell would stop and back up a bit to let another coach or lorry through. These country roads don't have shoulders, and there were times when there couldn't have been more than two inches of clearance between us and the passing vehicle. It was often unnerving, but Russell is a fantastic driver, and navigated the enormous bus around as though it were nothing.

The fields are expansive in Salisbury: almost prairie-like, but for the hedges making patchwork quilts of the countryside. There are no trees to slow the wind near Stonehenge, and once I was out of the coach, my hair whipped around every which way, often snapping poor knightky in the face.



Because the view is so uninterrupted, Stonehenge stands out in stark contrast against expansive fields and enormous skies. So old. So huge. It makes me feel completely insignificant: a mere mote, if that. And do you know what? I'm ok with that.





The funny thing is, Stonehenge is tiny compared to the next standing stones I'd see, a few days later....

But first, we drove to a little Devon town named Bideford, where we would stay at the Durrant House Hotel. I do not recommend it. The town is nice enough, but the hotel is old without being charming. The counter staff and bartender are pleasant, but the wait staff in the restaurant were cold and obviously didn't give a shit. The food was unappetizing, and the coffee repugnant. I spit out the one sip I took. However, they did have one good thing going for them which most other hotels did not: free wifi. Huzzah for that!

After being cooped up most of the day with our fellow travellers, Kyle and I decided to go for an evening stroll before turning in for the night. It was the better option, considering the evening's entertainment was a local singer doing oldies and Elvis covers. I'd had my fill of Elvis covers, having just been to an Elvis tribute show the week before. Oy. We meandered down toward the river Torridge, and that's when I did a double-take at someone's yard.

"Uhh..." I said, coming to a dead stop.

"What is it? What's wrong?" asked Kyle.

"Is that a bathyscaphe I see as someone's lawn ornament?"

In retrospect, I realize I was wrong. It wasn't a bathyscaphe, but a bathysphere. Still....

I tried to take a picture, but it was far too dark, and it didn't turn out. Rest assured it looked like this. On someone's lawn. With flowers and stuff growing around it.



Now that's not something I see every day....

We did not linger in Bideford.

The next morning, we drove out to a tiny village called Clovelly. Clovelly is a beautiful place, situated in a sheltered bay and overlooking the Bristol Channel. Thick forests border the village, and it is built on a precipitously steep hillside. The village proper is inaccessible by motor vehicles. It has an uneven cobblestone path made from oval beach stones sticking up on end. I consider myself pretty surefooted, and I was walking with great care. During the course of my visit in England, I walked upon many cobblestone paths/roads. This was the most treacherous.



You can't really tell from this photo, but the hill is roughly a 45-degree grade. I was a little worried for my own footing, let alone that of the more senior members of my tour group. And indeed, somewhere near the bottom of the hill, I saw a woman's knees begin to wobble back and forth like that of a newborn foal while her frail husband tried to support her. I rushed over and helped her to the ground, asking her if there was anything I could do to help. She laughed and said, "Well, unless you have some new knees for me, I suppose not." After assuring me she just needed to rest, I continued exploring the village. (Just outside the village proper, a Land Rover service brings people up and down the hill, so I knew she'd be able to get back to the top of the hill.)

The locals traverse the hill with ease, pulling sledges behind them to transport goods, or using donkeys. I didn't get to see the donkeys, alas, although I went to the stables. I guess they were elsewhere.

This picture gives a better idea of the steepness of the village.



Cats are everywhere in Clovelly, and Kyle and I stopped to give scritches to every one we passed. The cats received this tribute with the royal dignity superior cats are wont to have.

The village is unusual for being privately owned. It's been that way since the 13th century. People who live there rent their homes with the caveat that they live there year-round and don't use it as a vacation spot. The buildings are all very old, and many have inner walls made of mud and straw.

Here are a couple of views from the medieval pier.





You can view more and larger pictures at my annotated Stonehenge and Clovelly gallery.