Tuesday July 7th.
It’s 5.10am, but already it’s daylight and a clear blue sky beckons through the open velux skylight in the sloping roof/wall of our timeless room. One of the loveliest things about waking up in England is the welcoming chorus of the songbirds. Australian birds are fabulously colourful, but for the most part their songs are raucous and squawky, discordant and confronting - much like Australia itself. That’s part of the attraction.
But in England songbirds are just that. They serenade you….thrushes, nightingales, blackbirds create oratorios for your delight. Two blackbirds are sitting on the roof and singing to me like a Lennon/McCartney composition…..and it’s time to get up.
The ONLY thing to complain about in this magical barn in Farleigh Wick is the water pressure in the tiny shower. It trickles out as if afraid of bruising your skin. But I manage to wash my hair ( which has looked like a fuzz ball the whole time in England) and hurry downstairs because I can see a charming table set for breakfast in the garden with its deck, and water feature ponds and big summerhouse filled with slightly Moroccan couches and an old gramophone - the whole scene is like something from a Merchant/Ivory production.
Carol…..our wonderful hostess…has offered a feast of fresh fruit, juices, cereals and a full English breakfast so we stuff ourselves with bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and toast from a little silver toast rack. It’s sublime. We’re so relaxed we want to sleep again. Is it time for bed yet?
There are two exuberant liver and white springer spaniels who are not allowed in the house. They’re hunting dogs for when Peter goes to shoot pheasant or even rabbits I guess. They’re desperate for a game and so I get conned into throwing their tennis ball for them. Dutifully they bring it back, tails wagging furiously. When it is temporarily lost in long grass they bring me a crab apple from the old gnarled tree instead and it bounces just as well as the tennis ball - perhaps a hint for Wimbledon next year!
We head off into the little town of Bradford on Avon. Tony says the patron saint of travellers always watches us. If we’d stayed in Bath itself we would never have known about this stunning little town on the river. But because Bath was full we had to go further afield.
Through winding streets, some of them cobbled, we ooh and aah at everything from Tudor to Georgian buildings, wondrous old pubs, and laneways with names like The Shambles ( Previously saved as a name for my side of the bedroom!) filled with leadlight windowed cottages and shops and geranium filled window boxes. We have morning tea - stilled stuffed from breakfast - in Britain’s oldest tearooms, and also its best - awarded for the last seven years. There are 32 different kinds of tea on the menu - not counting the blends you can request. Bliss.
The afternoon is spent lazing on big leather couches watching the tour de France in REAL time instead of 2 am. Then we head for Bath again - knowing that there is still at least six hours of daylight ahead of us.
Bath tugs at our heart strings even more strongly this time…and I KNOW I could live here happily if it weren’t for the bloody English weather ( the fantastic summer is trying to fool us). We walk through the parks and admire the Georgian and Victorian bandstands and fountains…. Oak and Rowan trees line our paths…and the chestnut are starting to appear on the chestnut trees; and of course there is always a silver birch somewhere in the background. It’s warm…and the breeze is lyrical. We meet up with Rachel and Mike and the kids….such a joy to see them again…. Ben has grown so tall. It’s Graduation day and so most of the restaurants are full but we manage some pizzas and a bottle of BAD Argentinian wine before parting, promising to see each other again…but who knows when.
Then we are off to The Roman baths - splendidly Georgian on the surface, ancient and Roman below….full of secrets and ambiance and ghosts of antiquity. We are seeing it at twilight - 9pm - and the baths are lit by huge open flamed torches. It’s a heart stopping experience. One can almost feel the presence of the Ancient Romans gathering to socialise. The main bath is strangely green and eerie - the hot spring bubbles at it’s source and the water runs through a stone channel cut by its path for over 2,000 years. It’s quite late now and the bath is deserted, so I dip my toe in it and am surprised by just how hot it is. For a moment I half expect a Roman official to order me from the place - but the silence is more eloquent than any roman could be.
I feel quite over-awed as we drive back to the long barn. Tony lived his first forty five years in Britain yet had never been to Bath….though it’s only 60 miles, or 100 kms approx from London. How tragic that we take so much around us for granted. He is as overwhelmed as I am. Back at our wondrous B&B Carol and Peter and their son Zac with his girlfriend Claire are in the summerhouse lit by candles as the last trace of light is finally dying. They’re listening to music and drinking wine and ask us to join them….not something they generally do with guests. We spend a delightful hour sprawled on the big Moroocan couches, laughing, talking, drinking. Forget the poo bah military types….these are the English that made Britain great: adventurous, generous, witty and welcoming. We all speak the same language of the mind and heart. If we lived here, they and Rachel and Mike would be people we would want as friends. Although we both love Australia, there is no-one there except family whom we have connected to in such a way . When we climb the stairs we are truly happy….but also sad that such a special day has come to an end.
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