Shakespeare and Punting

August 4, 2010

Joshua set his alarm for 8 AM this morning, but being the wonderful husband he is, he let me sleep in until 9 while he changed our brake pads (we had completely worn through our first pair) and did some other last minute bike work. When I woke up, I packed my bag and went downstairs to eat a bowl of muesli with berries and Greek yogurt. Ruth and Paul, who had already been hard at work in the office for a couple of hours, took a break to come and chat with me in the living room.

The four of us agreed that we had all enjoyed the past four days immensely, and I think Ruth and I were particularly sad to part ways. Unfortunately, Joshua and I are terrible at goodbyes, and it was nearly noon by the time we managed to convince ourselves to start biking. It's hard to leave the comforts of family and good company, but I consoled myself by thinking of all the fun memories we made and how, if it's possible, I love Ruth and Paul even more now than I did before. Even if saying goodbye feels like a sacrifice, the truth is that I am richer for the experience, and I'm glad to have had it.

On another note - and I hope this isn't too much of a jump for all of you - but I had a thought in response to one of the conversations that I had with Ruth. While I probably don't need to recount the whole conversation (we talk A LOT), the comment that I've been mulling over is about how well people know each other. In the past, I've had family members and acquaintances say things like, "I don't know you (or her, or him) very well," or "you (or he, or she) don't know me." This statement has always sort of bothered me, and I've had a hard time putting my finger on the reason why. It's true that some people know some people better than others, and I would never presume to say that I know everything about each of my family members or even my friends, but it's always made me feel sad when people say that two people who are connected by family or friendship don't know each other. Intellectually, I know that in some cases this must be true, but I think that most of the time, people aren't as unknowable as some people would like to believe. For me, I like to think that everyone has a browny nut center that stays pretty much the same. I'd like to think that family and friends see each other's browny nut centers and pretty much "know" you. Sure, the details change: what you do, what you like, and what you think might even change on a daily basis; the nut might become a vegetarian, get a bunch of tattoos, or go all wrinkly, but it is still the same nut.

I'm willing to believe that I'm naive, and that my nutty philosophy is... Well, nutty, but I'd like to think that we know each other so much better than our doubts. I'd also like to think that we're not as complicated as we think. How much time do you need to spend with me or talk to me or read the things I write to say that you really know me? Some people might crave enigma or separateness, but not me. You may not know everything, but you know enough.

The bike ride out of Long Buckby was a bit more rolling than the days before, but we maintained our average of ten miles per hour comfortably. With days and days of cycling ahead and behind, I feel no need to push it, and we cycle leisurely, taking in the views, exploring back roads, and stopping every once in a while for a drink of water and a picture. Outside of Stanford-on-Avon, we passed Stanford Hall, a huge estate, and between Yelvertoft and Lutterworth, we enjoyed small villages with epic medieval churches. In Lutterworth, we stopped at the Waitrose supermarket to buy snacks for lunch, and on the town green in Bitteswell, we ate our humous, ham, and avocado sandwiches with salt and vinegar chips and almond croissants for desert.

Although the sky looked ominous, we forged on, heading toward Ashby Parva. The next 15 miles passed without mishap (and much the same as the first 15 miles), and in Desford, we stopped to buy food for dinner at the Co-operative. As we were loading up, an elderly woman came up to us, curious about where we were going and where we had come from. We told her that we were going from end to end, and she shared with us that she had gone from coast to coast two years before. Although we've had some trying experiences (in Dartmoor, on A Roads, etc.), we agreed that the National Cycle Routes and the Sustrans routes in Britain make for excellent cycling.

Outside of Desford, we descended into a deep valley and climbed a couple long hills, but ten miles later in Ellistown, I was surprised to find that we had already come nearly 40 miles. It was just about that time when the skies finally opened up and poured. Our last 10 minutes of cycling were wet and cold, but the weather gods decided on beneficence this evening: once we found our campsite, Lower Grange Farm, the clouds moved past, the sun peeked through, and the rain stopped. We set up our tent in the sun, and hung out our rain jackets to dry.

I've just taken a shower, and while I was standing in the steam, Joshua boiled water for tea, generously donated by Ruth and Paul to our most humble cause :) Right now, we're enjoying rooibus, the sun, and the respite after our first day back cycling. For dinner: carrot and coriander soup with cheese and spinach sandwiches. Dessert? (This is what you would ask if you were Joshua) Double Chocolate Brownies.

August 3, 2010

At 8:30 AM, the four of us met in the dining room of the pub for a full English breakfast. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, an English breakfast includes a fried egg, fried bread, hash browns, cooked tomato, sausage, bacon, and baked beans for good measure. Naturally, the meal also includes plenty of tea, and with our breakfast sticking to our insides, we went back to our rooms, packed, and bundled ourselves into the car.

Cambridge forms a triangle with Long Buckby and Stamford, and within an hour and a half, we were driving into the city limits of this famous college town. Parking in a residential area, the four of us walked along the Cam River to find the heart of the city. The setting is completely surreal, with cows grazing in an urban park along a busy waterway. It's both rural and urban all at once, and at one point, we saw a family picnic along the river interrupted by a very large, very curious cow.

In Cambridge, we walked across the bridge and found the Granta Boat Hire. For 16 pounds an hour, you can rent a long, flat-bottomed boat, called a "punt." For the first 45 minutes, Paul handily navigated us down the river, using a heavy 20 ft wooden pole to push us along. (To go "punting" is to pilot your punt with your punting pole.) On either side of the river, the beautiful, ornate buildings of the different Cambridge Colleges came and went, and we passed under a number of famous bridges built by famous people. We know this because most people who ride in a punting boat have thickly muscled punting guides that wax poetic about their surroundings and list many impressive dates and architectural details ("If you'll look to the left, you'll see the bridge built by Sir Isaac Newton himself sometime during the fall of 1317."). These details, of course, vary according to the thickness of the punter's muscle, and on our way back, Joshua began telling us the tale of the Queen's Canadian Geese, their feather pillows, and the King of the River competition which originated in 1892 and involves impaling other punters with punting poles that have been tricked out with spears. Last one standing wins. He had us all laughing, and I think other tourists in passing punting boats thought he was the real deal.

No one mistook me for the real deal. Once again, I proved that my steering capabilities are somewhat lacking, and I had us banging into other boats and the rivers' edge. After I had caught the pole in a willow tree and had a hard enough time detangling it, I handed the steering over to Joshua, who (of course) handled it with ease.

Just in case the English breakfast was starting to wear off, we took a small break to refortify ourselves at a little ice cream stand on Jesus' Green. With cones of chunky, chunky chocolate, we hopped back in the boat and continued on our way. Ruth commented that I was grinning from ear to ear, and it must have been true, because after a couple of hours, my face hurt from smiling so much.

Back at the dock, we handed back our punting boat and pole and headed over to Bella Italia, an Italian restaurant housed in an old mill. For lunch, I ordered the Spaghetti Genovese (chicken and rustic tomatoes doused in pesto), and Joshua had a lasagna (if you want to laugh, ask a Brit how they say lasagna). Paul had pasta in tomato sauce and meatballs, and Ruth had a ham and spinach pizza. For starters, we ordered bruchetta and fried mozzarella balls. It was, as you can imagine, absolutely delicious.

Once again so full that we could barely walk, we ambled through the center of Cambridge in search of a bookstore to purchase maps and a bicycle store to buy new brake pads. I'm glad we had those errands, because walking through the cobblestone streets of Cambridge was a lot of fun, and although there were a ton of tourists, I could understand why Mandy loves to visit. There are a ton of fun shops for window shopping, and the buildings are like golden sculptures.
I passed the drive back to Long Buckby by sleeping heavily, and when we stopped at a pub, I was very groggy (much to Ruth's amusement). Although it might just seem like a poor excuse, we actually had stopped at the pub for a purpose: we needed to play an English game of skittles.

With a round of beers (water for me), we picked up the wooden cheese wheels and tried to knock down the skittles (which look like bowling pins). Although I had beginners luck with my first toss, Ruth and I ultimately took second place which is just a very magnanimous way of saying that we lost. Finding that we were no good at skittles, we moved on to darts. I wasn't much good at darts either, but somehow, Joshua and I won. Actually, I think Joshua won and I happened to be on his team. Ruth and I wiggled to music from the 60s and 70s, and after a couple of beers each, we headed back to the house.

Once we had unpacked our picnic bags (which is no small feat), we sat down to a lighter dinner of salad and new potatoes. Dessert was not so light, and I discovered the completely sinful and soporific pleasures of peaches in double thick cream. After a day like that, I wasn't long for the world of the waking, and we soon found our way to bed.

August 2, 2010

After a couple days of hiking, we woke up late. Actually, I woke up late. Early birds Ruth, Paul, and Joshua pretended to wake up late, but I don't count anything before 9 AM as late. For breakfast, Ruth served me a heaping bowl of Greek yogurt and berries while I iced my knee. I must have looked like a very pitiful invalid indeed, because she also fixed me a cup of rooibus tea with sugar and milk. Every time I suggested that I could fix my own breakfast and tea, Ruth quelled me with a look. Must add "quelling looks" to apprenticeship.

Finished with breakfast, Joshua and I stayed on the couch, reading and writing, and around noon, we began packing an epic picnic for our visit to Telthorpe Theater in Stamford. At first, I thought that Ruth was overdoing it: she baked jacket potatoes, wrapped left over salmon in foil, packed four different kinds of cheeses, sliced and diced a variety of veggies, grilled sausages and bacon, and filled in the gaps with salad, olives, and dressings. The picnic filled three bags, and then she broke out a bottle of champagne, a bottle of white wine, and plastic glasses for every occasion.

When I saw the plastic champagne flutes, the nylon-backed picnic blanket, and the wicker serving plates, I began to suspect that Ruth wasn't overdoing the picnic. In fact, I began to suspect that Ruth knew exactly what she was doing, and she was doing it very, very well. While I participated by chopping and washing, I can claim none of the credit: Ruth is a picnic-tier of the highest caliber, and I have yet another skill to add to my apprenticeship: planning and packing a five-star picnic dinner.

Just in case the anticipation of our fantastic picnic was too much to weather, we ate spinach and cheese tortellini for lunch, and once we had packed our overnight bags (which took up far less space than our food bags), we left for Stamford. The drive from Long Buckby to Stamford takes about an hour and a half, and midway through, we stopped to the longest Roman Aqueduct in England (maybe even Europe). The many arches now support a railway, and the effect is very much like a scene out of Harry Potter.

In South Witham, we found The Blue Cow Inn and Brewery, our lodging for the night. While Ruth took a shower and Paul tested their brew, Joshua and I explored the small (not very interesting) town. Near to five o'clock, we gathered in the parking lot with all of our picnic bags to wait for the taxi. Within a couple of minutes, our swank Mercedes Benz taxi arrived, and we drove the 15 minutes to Telthorpe Theater.

The theater is situated on a hill. Adjacent to the theater, an old, stately home houses a bar and bathrooms, and higher up of the hill, people were already sitting cross-legged on their picnic blankets, eating dinner. We selected a spot in the middle and began unloading our bags. With champagne flutes filled with Brut (expertly popped by Joshua), we posed for photos and began eating. Everything tasted so good, I ate until I could fairly roll into the theater. It was very, very fun.

Just before 8 PM, we repacked our bags and headed towards the theater. While the seats for the audience are covered by a large tarpaulin, the stage is open air, and the set for Othello constituted an arch flanked by two stair cases and an overhead balcony. We settled into our seats and watched as Iago plotted Othello's destruction. At intermission, we headed back to our picnic table and drank tea (which Ruth had thought to bring in a thermos), and all agreed that although the actor for Othello was rubbish, Iago was perfectly conniving, and we were all enjoying ourselves immensely.

The second half of the play was satisfying in its predictability: all of Shakespeare's beloved characters ended up in a dead pile of woe, except for Iago, who was allowed to live in contemplation of the misery he had wrought. As we exited the theater, we felt a bit more sympathetic towards the dead Othello, and agreed that perhaps he wasn't as rubbish as we had originally agreed.

Back in the taxi, we drove back to the inn in the dark, and we all tumbled into our beds, still full of food and Shakespeare.