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We let ourselves into the unlocked vacant cathedral, which was not due to 'open' for another half-hour. We made a donation (per the instructions hung prominantly on the one metre by one metre instruction sign), and walked around a little and shot a few pictures. The bookstore was due to open in a half-hour or so, as was the adjoining Lincoln castle, so we used our extra time this morning for the grand luxury of a sit down British breakfast! Whatever you do, if you ever travel to England, NEVER sit down to a British breakfast. I am sure that, to a native Brit. what we ate that morning would be some kind of 'comfort food'. I am sure, too, that they would be puzzled by traditional American breakfasts. This aside, we were ill, directly and indirectly for nearly half a day, and were set back over $30 for the priviledge of being served with traditional British hospitality, by which of course I mean none. At each meal on this trip, we took a moment to plan and then ordered 3 seperate and complimenatry dishes. This way, we could each sample three types of food per stop, plus our finicky 11 year old could take his pick of the 3 dishes, lessening the chance of his turning up his nose at dinner then later treating us to adventures in car sickness. But this morning, everything was a loser. The one bowl of porridge (I don't know, how many Goldilock's jokes can one middle aged father make?) was the big hit since it was totally devoid of taste. The cooked 'food', sausages, entrees, etc were unpalatable to American tastebuds and completely disagreed with American digestion. We had heartburn, gas, and worse for the rest of the morning. Well, glad we got an early start! By the way, the pub building itself was delightful, authentically decorated as an olde english pub, and full of atmosphere with a few locals sipping tea and reading their papers.
We were approached by the matronly docent / greeter who reminded us that a donation was appropriate. No amount of our reassurances that we had been through and hour ago (unescorted) and made our donations then would suffice. I used my most authentic American personality to end the discussion that we had honored the "request" for the "donation" previously, and the little scene passed into history. We had some fun in the small bookstore, picking up another small booklet about the details of the building and its history, all to be put aside for the kid when he grows older and can appriciate them. More postcards, more pictures, we're on vacation!
So we viewed the Magna Carta, and walked around the castle, and took a bunch of pictures (of course), and bought more postcards, and posters, and books and booklets. All in all a delightful morning but it was time to get on with it. From the car we headed once around Lincoln, then out of town. We drove off for Nottignham Forest and a day long adventure. We arrived in Nottingham after a little more than an hour driving time. The laptop mapping software listed many "things to see" in and around Nottingham, but they all sounded pretty hokey at this point in the trip. Several kid-oriented amusement parks or 'adventureland' type places themed to Robin Hood and his merry men were kicked around and discard after a minute or two consideration. So we headed into town and straight for the Notts Forest soccer pitch.
Our borrowed star was Trevor Francis, and he came to epitomize the finesse and skill of the European game directly juxtaposed to the brute force and 'Charley Hustle' style of American soccer at that time. He was kept late in Europe one year when Notts Forest played all the way down and eventually won the European cup. We watched the game footage, replayed in Detroit, and I had always wanted to make a 'pilgramage', so to speak, to Nottingham. And there we were.
I was happy to just drive around the block and shoot some pictures from the parking lot and breathe Nottingham Forest air, but Lyn was adamant that we stop in the attached 'Fan store' to buy some souvigners. The stuff in the store was great and we ended up packing an extra suitcase just to bring all the Forest stuff home. We bought shirts and sweaters and socks and scarfs (a little inappropriate for Florida) and stuffed animals and logo soccer balls and on and on. We spent a small fortune, but each treasure was worth its price and all are displayed proudly this very day in our living room. I was again ready to go, but she would have none of it. She insisted, and I eventually demurred, that Jesse and I go into the office and exlain our situation. I told her it would be a silly exercise that would amount to nothing but she ordered us to 'march' while she waited in the car. (and you can guess the rest). A delightful woman greeted us at the counter, and I told her about our decades long fan status due to Trevor Francis. I told her about the long distance traveled and about the sheer delight in just walking around the parking lot and taking some pictures of the building. Would it be too much of a bother, I finally asked, to walk down to the pitch and take a picture or two with the field and empty stands? She was insistant. First she apologized that just one hour previously the team had been here (for summer workouts) but I told her we would not know a single soul on the current team. She looked like Aunt Bea (from Andy Griffith) or Aunt Harriett (from the old Batman TV series) and she summond the young security guard to escort us to the field in the melodic voice you associate with those characters. "Andrew" looked to be 16, with Irish red hair and frekles, looking in his pseudo policeman uniform like he was ready to go out trick-or-treating. I thanked him again and again, told him our story, and he seemed genuinely interested (or certainly pretended to be so). He, too, apologized that we just missed the players and I again explained that we would not have known a soul from the current Notts Forest team.
And during this time and for the next 30 minutes, my son had walked
off from us and was taking pictures while "Andrew" and I
talked soccer and England and growing up and life. We were asked to
not step on the pitch, but it was like being asked to take off you
hat in church. I spotted the "McDonalds Family Section" and
talked about the famous UK "Hooligans" (they're getting
them under control, Andrew assured me). We talked about TV coverage,
and salaries (every player drove a Jag, Mercedes, or better) Andrew walked us both back to the lobby, where I again thanked 'Aunt Bea' and said how kind it was of her to let us live out a little fantasy and how our half-hour was surely going to be the high point of the trip. Suddenly a little grin appeared on her face and a little twinkle appeared in her eye. "Before you lad's go, we have something here that you might just enjoy.....Andrew, do you know what I'm talking about?" "No, Ma'am" "Well stop by the closet in the hallway and see if there isn't something that these two gentlemen might enjoy seeing" Andrew dutifully disappeared, leaving us in the lobby, looking over the lobby counter to our matronly hostess. He reappeared behind the counter (through a different door) lugging TWO huge and heavy silver objects which he set upon the desktop three feet from us. "Its the F.A. cup", she said and added, "I thought you lads might enjoying seeing it".
She scampered out of the car and was reloading the camera (since my hands were actually shaking) and I was staring (is the right word mezmorized?) into the fine engraving and delicate curves and handles of "the cup". It was so strange to look into it, then suddenly see my own reflection in its surface, then see again its silver surface. By now the camera was loaded and we took pictures, first of me, then my son, then both of us, then just the cup. "You can pick it up,if you like" she told me, but I tried to explain that in my world, if I were to do so I would surely shake and mishandle and drop the thing on some table corner. Forever there would be some notch or ding attributed to 'that Yank' that dropped the cup 'that day at Notts Forest". No, I said, I'll just place my hand on it here on the counter and take a dozen pictures.
We got into the van in the parking lot, and I could not start the motor. I sat, and tried to catch my breath and we just kept asking "Do you know what we got to do just now?" and "Do you know how few people get to do that?" and "can you believe it". We tried to drive off, but couldn't. Luckily, a block away, essentially in the outparcel of the stadium was a McDonalds restaurant and we retired there for 10 or so minutes of afterglow. We ordered a coffee and soda and split some fries. I looked around the restaurant and wondered how many people present had got to touch 'the cup' and how many of them would have died to do so? As we were finally over the surprise and exceitement, it was REALLY REALLY time to go and a funny thought crossed my mind. We were in a restaurant, and a city, and a country full of people aware of the honor or maybe even awed by the thought of handling the FA cup, and we were one of the few to do so. But, within a few days, we would turn in our car and board a plane and fly off to a country, one hundred times as large, full of people with no idea, no appreciation, no comprehension of what we had just done. We all laughed out loud to realize that we would be cursed to spend our lives telling the story of our day in Nottingham Forest only to be greeted with blank stares or 'so what?' in response. John Paul Sarte could barely top that one. We drove off north from Nottingham, with York as our destination. We already had booked a Holiday Inn Express room for the night so our arrival time was not a concern. York, too, is an historic city (aren't they all), surrounded by Castle turrents and a defensive wall, and possessing yet another run of the mill spectacular gothic cathedral. It is also located nearby the site of "Stamford Bridge" the last victory of the Saxon King Harold over the invading Vikings. We would arrive by nightfall and do a little sightseeing in the morning. We drove across countryside, stopping to take pictures and just enjoying the drive. We stopped for an early dinner at one of the quasi-pub, quasi-Denny's that we had begun to choose at mealtimes. After a week in England, we were pretty much acclimated to the authentic pubs with authentic Fish and Chips. It was fun to eat at a small place, independently owned and operated, usually by people our own age. In some ways, it was fun to imagine buying and operating a place like that. But for plain old convenience, a 'chain' hit the spot. We would simply NOT eat at a McDonalds or a KFC or anything resembling a US fanchise (except for coffee). However a couple chains of 'family pubs' had begun to dot the English coutryside and respresented a nice compromise. Yes, fish and chips and meat pies and ale from the tap. But also a predictable quality and service level. Of course, the kitchen still closed early, but we were already well acclimated to that quaint British tradition.
We were on the north side of York, with about one hour of daylight left (around 9pm) so I dropped the family off and headed out with GPS and laptop map to do reconnissence for the morning. I headed out of town to Stamford Bridge. This is the location of the last great battle of the Saxon King Harold. You may remember from history class that he was the one that lost the kingdom to the invading Normans in the form "William the Conqueror". I had been only vaguely aware of the details of this story, so we had borrowed videos from the library and read several small books on the subject in the weeks just prior to leaving on this trip. I became fascinated with this period in British history, on poor King Harold and on the first couple hundred years of Norman rule, how Saxon culture and leadership was methodically quashed through the entire island nation while, seemingly, life went on. An incredible story! If you are unaware, King Harold ascended the throne upon the death of King Edward the Confessor. William (then known as William the Bastard) was living in France (the Normandy section) and felt he was promised the British throne. When Harold received it instead, he commenced a two or three year project to take it by force. Harold knew of the obvious plot, and had prepared an army in London to defend himself from such an attack across the channel. Unfortunately (and coincidentally) his Danish cousin also took this time to test the Saxon strength and stage an attack from Denmark, across the North sea coming ashore near York. Harold marched himself and his army up to meet and beat the Danes (culminating with a famous battle at Stamford bridge). It was here, hundreds of miles from London, that he learned of Willam's army coming ashore south of London near Portsmouth, setting up camp, looting and pillaging and causing general mischief. Without rest, Harold marched his army back to London and, without rest again, straight on down to Portsmouth, meeting up with the Normans outside of the city of Hastings. Harold's defeat at the famous 'battle of Hastings' took place nearly within the same week as his stunning victory at the 'battle of Stamford bridge'. We had visited Hastings just five days previous, and were impressed with the presentation, the historical buildings, the diaramas and audio tour reenacters. It was a great experience for all of us and very very very educational.
I also drove once around York, and realized that there was not much that would be of interest to us tomorrow. By now we had enjoyed dozens of historic British towns, so the pure novelty had worn off. We had discovered our likes and dislikes and, while I would enthusiastically recommend a visit to the city of York to any American visitor in the area, I knew instinctively that we would be spending somewhere between 30 and 60 minutes there tomorrow morning, driving by for photos, and driving off to Scotland. With that I checked the GPS and pointed the van toward the Holiday Inn Express. I was there in a few minutes, and was showered and in bed in straight order. It had been a long, fun day. (And I had handled the FA Cup!)
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Originally Written November 1999 |
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For
once, we woke up early and got a jump on the day. I was
quite worried that earthquakes or locusts or tidal waves might
consume the English coutryside. We were out of bed by 7am, checked
out and into the van by 7:30. With the GPS routes marked (and in the
light of day), we easily navigated our way back up the tiny unmarked
sidestreets to the hilltop parking lot adjoinging Lincoln's famous
cathedral and castle.
After
breakfast, the cathedral was legally open (meaning attended) and we
stopped by in case we had missed anything in our unescorted walk
through an hour previous. We had not. The carvings, and inlaid
markers, the art and the statuary were all spectacular, as they were
one hour previously. A magnified mirror had been placed to allow easy
viewing of the cieling paintings and was accompanied by helpful
explanations. What a delight! What a learning experience for our 11
year old!
From
the cathedral, we walked across to the adjoining castle.
Lincoln castle is nice enough and, once again, our newly purchased
Wales Heritage and English Heritage passes did not qualify us for any
discount. We walked about the grounds and were amazed to learn that
we could view an authentic copy of the Magna Carta, on display in
Lincoln. It was delightful to explain to Jesse the history of the
document and its affect on the centuries later Virginia constitution
and Declaration of Independence. Having told him that ahead of time,
imagine my burst of pride when wonderfully executed historamas (in
the hallway leading to the actual document) confirmed for him the
various historical facts I had just laid out. I was surprised to
learn the documents actual history (as so may you). I did not know
that it was drawn up by the king, in general terms, to appease the
various nobels. It was written during an all-England
"summit" meeting in the English Midlands, then 26 exact
duplicates were transcribed and formally signed. Each copy was then
transferred, stored, and displayed in the 26 different regional
capitals (current equivlent of 'county seats'). Of the 26, only 4
remain. The one in Lincoln that we viewed, one in Salisbury, and two
stored in a vault somewhere in London. With some pride I learned
that, during the German bombings of World War II, the four copies
were wisked across the Atlantic and sat out the conflict in the safe
confines of Fort Knox, Kentucky.
As
I said previously, Nottingham Forest was our favorite UK soccer team
since the time, twenty years perviously, that they loaned their star
player to our local US soccer team. We were season ticket holders to
the Detroit Express, a motley mix of mid-level Europeans and hot-shot
US kids that played in the now long defunct NASL. Each team was
'loaned' a star player during the US summer season, the off-season
for European soccer.
The
building, the logo, the office, looked just like the pictures that I
had found on the web prior to leaving the states. The bright red and
white Forest logo was painted on the side of the stands. By the way,
this stadium, by standards one of the best in the UK, would be on a
par of a minor league baseball park in the US. For all the fans and
all the fame, UK soccer stadiums (and we drove by more than a dozen)
were a pretty unimpressive lot by US standards.
Then
we stepped out from the entrance tunnel and the entire stadium
opened about us. I actually gasped to catch my breath. It had the
visual impact of those helicopter shot scenes during the opening
credits from a movie. The colors cannot be described. The grass was
not just green. It was the greenest green that has ever been green in
the history of the color green. The field was as smooth as a pool
table, no smoother, with a perfect arch for drainage that made it
look like a small knoll, suitable for a king to sit atop a horse and
take in his kingdom. And the stands. The seats were red, but the
reddest red in the history of red and the juxtaposition to the green
grass was enough to make you stop and think about your life, your
career, your childhood and your retirement. Sections of the stadium
had white seats intermixed with the red seats and, of course, they
made pictures and messages. "Nottingham" and
"Forest" were spelled out, one letter per section, in seats
whiter than snow or clouds or milk. Other white chairs drew the
Forest logo, a stylized tree on a stylized hill. Each section had a
brightly colored corporate logo, just like in the European soccer
feeds to US television. "Andrew's" uniform of dark blue
trousers, light blue shirt and toy policemans hat offset his red hair
and ocean of freckles and made the picture complete.
and
he told me about recent 'transfer fees' paid by European teams to
purchase the contract of some or other big name player. He was
heartsick about England's previous week elimination from the France
World Cup at the hands of Argentina, but quickly and easily breezed
through a list of his favorite players and what distiguished each
from the next. What a delight, but the cameras were now both empty
and it was time to go.
I
remember my eyes popping wide and my mouth dropping open and, for
just a small second, the room beginning to spin just a little. Our
cameras were empty but I shouted "Just a minute" and ran to
the car and signaled Lyn to return and bring more film. "It's
the FA Cup!" "They've got the FA Cup!" and "BRING
MORE FILM".
She
explained the utter coincidence of the cup's presence in the hall
closet in Notthingham that afternoon. Forest had not won the cup the
previous month but rather finshed, as I recall, somewhere in the
middle of the pack. The cup tours the country each summer, stopping
by various venues and is shown off at various civic meetings. That
morning it was brought to Nottingham to be displayed at a local
Chamber of Commerce meeting and it was to be picked up by somebody
from the league that evening for its next visit. It just happened to
be there and that delightful woman realized that she possessed the
opprotunity to give a lifetime memory to some guy from the states,
and did. When we were done taking pictures, and gushing, and
blushing, and stammering, it was REALLY time to go since we still had
more than a couple hours of driving ahead of us. We thanked her and
thanked "Andrew" and excused ourselves to the car. She was
telling poor Andrew, as we exited the lobby to place it such and so
place and to hand it off to so and so who would be calling to pick it
up at a certain time. What a delight to have been a guest in that
very very special world.
We
followed the GPS and arrived at the main gate of York,
totally unaware of the location of the Holiday Inn Express from town.
Knowing the location ahead of time is by no means rocket science, but
just something we had not bothered to prepare this particular day.
The hotel was reletively new, so it was not listed in our software
package and by now we were well aware that it is reasonably pointless
to ask directions of local people (accent and idioms) and totally
pointless to call and ask directions on the telephone of anybody in
the UK (lack of common reference points). England is a mysterious
land of localized place name, roads that jut off in any direction,
changing heading every mile or so, and changing name often as not.
The melodic accent of British English, compounded with
uncomprehendable idioms and references, makes all such efforts
impossible to succeed. So we followed the over-simplfied directions
in the brouchure we had picked up previously, and wandered aimlessly
until we found it, an exercise requiring slightly less than half an
hour, and actually quite pleasant.
So
you have to imagine my total and complete surprise at carefully
watching my GPS pointer and buzzing by the location of the 'battle of
Stamford Bridge' first once (turn around), then twice (turn around),
then a third time (turn around, park the car, get out and walk on
foot--its around here somwhere). In the middle of tiny Stamford (just
outside York) is a little picnic park and a little petrol station and
a little pub and a little public square type area that is, lets say,
six feet by six feet with a small bench looking for all the world
like an uncovered bus stop. At this little pseudo bus stop area is a
small granite tableu inserted in the tiny brick wall, commemorating
the fact that King Harold's famous victory at 'the battle of Stamford
bridge' took place nearby. Indeed, I might have hosted a barbeque on
this very spot without ever becoming aware of its historic
importance. I was impressed and pondered for the next couple of hours
just how powerful your effect on history is when you WIN the battle.
I am sure that if the Normans had been defeated in Hastings, I would
have sat and admired a 200 foot tall granite obelisk celebrating the
first of two miraculous
victories that centuries previous week. Instead it was poor Harold's
last huzzah and passed without notice for the several hundred years
of Norman management of the British Isles. Too much!
