Bath-ing

Bath: the plan is to visit Bisley, Gloucestershire, where my great-grandmother’s family lived for three hundred years or so. If there's time, a trip to the Roman Baths in... Bath. It took less time to get from Burnley to Bisley, than expected, which is typical in this country. Distance isn't really distance compared to Australia – that's not an insult, just fact.

Bisley is... a bugger of a place to find, but gorgeous. (How is it my ancestors lived in these fabulous places and then left them for distant shores?) All right, it's small and tightly snuggled into the crook of a valley. And when I say tight, I mean I did a lot of three point turns to get around corners. Really! It's a precious place with an old pub (I wonder if Nathaniel ran it at one time?) and three storey slate and sandstone houses with Beemers, Volvos and Range Rovers parked out the front. Maybe that's why they left: they couldn't afford to live there any more. I didn't find any Tylers in the cemetery, which makes me think someone has set a date and removed old, unstable headstones. Not one was 19th Century.

The Bear Inn - did ancestor Nathaniel run it?

There weren't many places to park either, so I only took a few photos.
Onward, then, to Bath and driving around in circles for a few hours, including through the centre of Bristol. I got a couple of photos of Bristol Cathedral while I waited at a stop light.

I'd always believed there was a youth hostel here in Bath, but I couldn't find it, not even in the Yellow pages. I went from one hotel to the next but they were full. Fortunately, one gentleman, Alastair of the Grasmere Hotel, took pity on me and called The Manor House. Yes, they had a couple of rooms available. And off I went with the directions in my head. I took one too many rights-at-the-roundabout and ended up at The Manor Lodge. The proprietor looked at me, puzzled, then set me right.

Ah, the Manor House, comfy, exotic, and me on the top floor.

The Manor House is 16th century, and I was greeted with enthusiasm by two young, effeminate men. One took my credit card; the other showed me around.

My room came with a Henry VIII sleigh bed with a body conforming mattress (tempera, I think, he said it was) and a 'special' plumbing system that's noisy. 'Don't stick anything that doesn't belong down there. One gentleman plugged the whole system up with an ear bud'. I got the message and admired his politeness. The date on the house says 1547, and I'm not going to argue. I even managed not to get down and fondle the original floor tiles. Yes, it was expensive, but staying in something so historic, something that's over 200 yearsolder than white settlement in Australia? I'll suck up the expense.

The Roman Baths are a must to see for anyone who enjoys Roman history. I do and I'm glad I took the time and made the effort to come here. The only downside to these ancient sites is the amount of disinterested school children. History, of course, is mainly wasted on them. Who wants to look at boring old stuff anyway? The offenders this time were French; talking too loud, expressing disdain, mock-pushing their colleagues toward the waters and basically ignoring the value. Some, though, took photographs; quickly, after a check at the sheet of paper pressed against a clipboard. Me, I took a whole lot of photos – even some without the screaming hordes.

This is one of many inscribed stones found.

Translation: This holy spot, wrecked by insolent hands and cleansed afresh, Gaius Severius Emeritus, centurion in charge of the region, has restored to the Virtue and Deity of the Emperor.

Don'tcha love it? It's as if Gaius has to let everyone know who did the good deed - especially the local citizenry. But then, how else are the gods going to know who's loyal? I have lots of photos and no space to put them here, so this is just an example.

Underfloor heating. A floor rested on these piles of tiles; that allowed the heat through to warm the floors. Nothing like warm toes on a cold British morning. Clever people, those Romans - all the comforts of home.

I can't remember what they're called, but I figure a certain German scholar will let me know... eventually.

On my way back to the car, I picked up some genuine Cornish Pasties – Tiddeogs, my mum calls 'em – for on the way; got the coffee to go too. I had planned to stay in Bath for two nights, but the expense was an eek, so I'll stay two nights in Wales, Cardiff, close to the airport for Thursday. About an hour later, I stopped at a byway and chowed down on the tiddeog (yuh, yuh, yum!).

The bridge over the River Severn is awesome, spectacular, but there was nowhere to pull off so I could take a happy snap. When I put all this together, I'm going to purloin a pickie off the 'net. But the toll. Holy Crap! Five pounds thirty! Or about eleven Australian dollars. I'm so put off by the bloody expense of this country; no wonder two million Brits move abroad every year.

Anyway, yet again, I missed the turnoff, by two on the M4. I stopped, had coffee and the second tiddeog, checked the map and spotted what has been ailing me all through the country: I have not been taking notice of the sections of the highways. Here I was, beyond junction 35 and I needed junction 33. Thus settled in my mind, off I went and found Barry, near the airport. This time I got hold of the information lady before the information centre shut. She tried a number of places, and we settled on the Glendale Hotel in Penarth, further down the coast back toward Cardiff.

And I only got lost once. The hotel room is lovely with two dormer windows – one looking toward a park, the other toward the sea, a corner suite if you will, plenty of coffee, tea, sugar and milk - it's been sadly lacking in other rooms – and plenty of space.

I sat outside in the evening Summer air, drinking Guinness and writing postcards, very relaxing. I'm hoping to take in a Medieval Village tomorrow.