Time to pick up the cars and head into South Wales.
We packed during the early morning, then the Consortium, Jackie, and I got the two cars (escorted part of the way by DaveG, who didn’t end up getting the added driver insurance for our vehicle, because it would have been a big hassle and added expense). Europecar ‘upgraded’ our car to a Mercedes escape pod/minivan hermaphracar that, while certainly roomy for four people to take on a reasonable day trip would certainly not be enough in the way of space to take along all of their luggage — we ended up with about half our luggage in Dave and Margie’s unused back seat when it was all said and done.
Europecar, in case anyone’s interested in car rentals while abroad, is a steaming pile of crap compared to even low-end U.S. agencies (any of them) with which I’ve done (extensive) business. This fact actually worked out to our advantage in this case since, while Jackie and I can usually travel pretty well together, we usually don’t get STARTED on the traveling very well. Let me put that another way: we normally snipe at each other verbally just to play around (which is fun for us and generally stressful for everyone around us and probably not our most endearing trait as a couple), but this morning we’d graduated to being well and truly at one another’s throats — but not after we got to Europecar. Once Dave and Margie finished wrestling with getting their car for an hour (!), we had our turn at the desk and were able to neatly transfer all our frustration and anger over to the Europecar employee who was convinced that failing to get the optional insurance would end Western Civilization as we knew it and guarantee us a seat at the right hand of the Beast come Judgement Day.
It was very helpful of her to do us this service — given that this was the only helpful thing Europecar did for us that day, I infer that it was accidental.
The drive out of London was an education, but not as bad as it could have been. We lost Dave & Margie before really leaving the B&B (since we were trying to figure out why the stereo in the car had a “CD” button AND a CD holder built into the dashboard when there was no FRELLING CD player), but found them again even after giving them that ten-minute headstart (they got turned around badly). It didn’t really matter that we’d caught up to them in any case, since we lost them almost immediately as ***Dave pulled away in his zippy v6 Rover sedan.
There isn’t a lot to say about the drive except to mention Roundabouts (or, as my wife would (and did) say, ‘roundybouts’). Rather than intersections with lights, the Brits usually use roundy-roundys (another Jackie-ism) where roads come together — this works well out in the country, simply because most intersections are NOT nice neat right angle affairs, nor to they involve just two roads — the basic concept is that as you pull near the paved ring where the roads meet, you check to your right; if no one’s coming, you just (in fact, have to) carry on through, swerving around the circle until you get to the exit you want (indicated by your navigator as ‘second exit’ or ‘135 degrees around’ or ‘two o’clock’ or whatever), then you just let centrifugal force throw you out along your chosen path.
It’s not unlike boats using whirlpools to navigate through a congested bay. If that doesn’t sound particularly comforting, there’s a reason.
There are a few rules regarding roundabouts:
1. There’s never one when you want one. Invariably, as soon as you screw up a turn and need a desperate 360 degree loop to get back to the point where you missed an exit, you’ll hit a series of lighted intersections and roads the width of your thumb with no shoulder.
2. There’s always one when you don’t want one. This is a similar situation to the previous except that here, you don’t *know* if you screwed up, or even *where*, but you have a niggling suspicion that you have and you just need a few seconds at a stop light to either confirm or deny. You won’t get it, instead seeing nothing but the same thumb-thick roads as before and roundabouts at every intersection.
We crossed a long toll bridge into Wales (more on that later) caught the A40 up to Abergavenney, and from there to our amazing B&B just short of Crickhowell — Glangrwyney Court, just outside the bump-in-the-road ‘town’ of similar name (with the barely-serviceable Bluebell pub within walking distance (in front of the much-less-servicable Bluebell Restaurant).)
The B&B - was - amazing. There will be pictures, but for now simply imagine a large country mansion filled to the brim (in typical Victorian fashion) with elegant knick-knacks. Add two terriers, 3 black labs, and several fluffy cats and you’ve got a good idea. Here, this might help.
Stonehenge and Avebury
I should have mentioned these sites earlier, since we actually stopped at both before we got to the toll bridge (more on that later). The best part of Stonehenge was the audio tour devices (‘wands’) which you simply held up to one ear, almost phone-like, as you walked around — stuffed chockablock with info on the site. Visiting Stonehenge is stereotypical, sure, but still so very damned impressive and interesting.
Dave, Lori, and I picked up great fleece scarves at this stop, along with English Heritage passes that allowed us to get into all the English Heritage sites we were going to (this would be the only one :) and the Welsh Heritage sites (if we got the full-year pass, which we didn’t :) — as a result, we paid about 45 bucks to see Stonehenge, but as frelling cold as it was I would have paid (perhaps gladly paid) that much just for the damned scarf, so there you have it: we’re tourists, we’re supposed to overspend on SOMEthing, I suppose.
Many curvy roads later, we arrived at ‘mysterious’ Avebury — arguably, the most mysterious part about Avebury is why anyone would decide to build a village in the middle a huge double stone circle pair inside yet another massive circle and something almost like a moat… then get all religiously offended by it on a perenial basis.
We stopped and rested from the frigid weather for a bit in a nearly supply-exhausted tea shop, though we did manage to refortify on the remaining tea and scones. Afterwards, we wandered around the circles a bit and took a few pictures, though most of will probably never make the local tourist brochure, I’m afraid. (Lori even sat in the “Devil’s Seat”, which may be why she got so sick later :)
Right. After that is was over the 4.50 pound toll bridge (more on that later) and thence to the Amazing B&B.
One of the fun things about Wales are the roadsigns, which list the names of EVERY SINGLE TOWN in both English and Welsh when there is any spelling difference at all. This is quite a bit of fun, as you can see in some cases how the English names were derived from mutilated adaptations of the Welsh (Caerdiv to Cardiff) while in others, the English name is obviously a shortening of the original (“Corgywyrddishinllishans” becomes “Cork”). The only strange instances were when the English name was longer than the Welsh, but obviously still somehow related (“Y Fenni” became “Abergavenney”).
We got to the B&B intact, oohed and ahhed a bit, divvied up rooms in order of ‘who got the crappiest room in London’ down to ‘who didn’t’, oohed and ahhed a bit more, petted most of the pets, and got directions to a “fine restaurant, yeh?” called (get this) The Bear, in nearby Crickhowell.
Unfortunately, The Bear in nearby Crickhowell has a parking lot the size of a postage stamp, bounded by stone walls — also it was late enough that the place itself was packed. We went back to the Bluebell Restaurant to eat, since (a) it was close to the B&B and… well there really wasn’t anything else to recommend it. Several of us ended up a touch nauseous the next day, which I’ll attribute to the food, although it might also be that all of the sharp and/or heavy farm implements hanging over one’s head as one ate might upset the stomach unexpectedly.
After supper, we went back to the B&B and planned the next day, then crashed.
