Driving on the Left

With barely two hours of sleep during the last twenty-four; with cars and trucks whizzing by us at breakneck speeds; I look at Michael and say, “Now why did we do this? It looks like highways we have been on back home.”

Except for the fact that we are in England traveling down the highway on the wrong side of the road, sitting in the wrong side of the car, driving in the slow lane behind a slower truck because Michael says, “It feels safe.” The hybrid rental car constantly beeps at us every time we stray across the white line at the edge of the road.

Across the Pond

The flight across the pond was painful. Interminable. The money I paid for upgraded seats with extra leg room had a round window barely as big as a silver dollar, they were narrow and confining with no place to store anything—I felt cheated. However, the Singapore Airlines flight was non-stop from Houston to Manchester, the ticket price more than reasonable—$649 round trip (base price w/o the seat upgrade), the airline attendants, garbed in lovely long dresses, were sweet and beautiful and slim beyond belief. They constantly refreshed the restrooms, always cleaning and picking things up, wiping the counters clean.  Hot towels were passed out twice; the food and beverage service was efficient and friendly.  But still, getting here was not much fun—I knew it wouldn’t be—it was a test of endurance we barely passed.

On the Road

I look at the clock on our GPS—the TomTom computer speaks to us with an English accent and we decide to call it Jeeves—it shows the time to be 8 a.m. back home.  The car dashboard clock shows it to be 2 p.m. local time. I’m not sure how we are still upright. My eyelids droop, almost closing all the way. I think of Michael not having a choice and force myself to stay awake.

Suddenly we exit and within seconds we are on roads so narrow, with rock walls so high on each side of us, that I realize we are finally back in the England I remember. This is the type road I search for back home.  The path curls and winds and dips and it seems we are perilously close to touching ivy and stone—we need a white stripe to keep us safe—where is the friendly beep when we really need it? When a car approaches I hold my breath and close my eyes, hoping that Michael is keeping his open.

We pass Merlewood too early to check-in and continue on to Grange-Over-Sands, looking for a supermarket and provisions for breakfast tomorrow morning. We wind up at the train station.  At least it gives us a place to park and get our bearings. Google Maps on my phone tells me where to find a coop grocery.

Grange-Over-Sands

The streets are teeny tiny thin ribbons; the buildings, closely stacked, are charming.  There are too many cars; moving, parking, parked. I can’t help but wonder if we will crash our rental the first day on the road. As we inch carefully forward I long for the trains and taxis and subways of Barcelona.

The Co-operative

Michael always comes through, finding a car park not far from the coop grocery where I wander the aisles like Alice in Wonderland looking for bacon and eggs and bread. Everything is familiar yet foreign. I place homemade country white bread in my basket and find bacon in the shape of a large pork chop with only a narrow band of fat edging one side that is called back bacon—now I know why they call ours “streaky”—it is plopped in my basket too.  The French brand of jam that fills our pantry at home is here, but I opt for something locally made, black currant; the currants left whole and the taste slightly tart. Eggs are elusive.

I look for dishwashing liquid and find Washing Up Liquid. I smile. This is what I love about travel—about staying in an apartment—living here.  I remember Ian telling me that I probably won’t come home.  Maybe he’s right. Suddenly Michael is at my elbow saying, “I found a place for you to shop that you will love.” I pay up—the cashier goes to the back of the store and gets me eggs. I apologize to her for my being obtuse and blind and not seeing them myself. However, neither did Michael. As we leave the store he reminds me to walk on the left, not the right. He heads to the car park with our groceries; I walk in the opposite direction, turning toward the store that I am guaranteed to love.

Higginson’s

Standing in front of the meat pie counter at Higginson’s, a butcher shop and market, I am reminded how well Michael knows me.  This place is heaven.  Even though at the end of the day the meat pie selection at Higginson’s has dwindled, the young man behind the counter starts listing the pies available. I buy two beef with Stilton, two huntsman—a layer of pork and chicken, topped off with sage dressing— and one pork pie for a total of £10.  We now have dinner.  And a snack.  And lunch.

Merlewood

Finally we are on the long winding drive into Merlewood. When I see the aged manor house I immediately fall in love—old stone and multiple chimney stacks and peaked roofs and flowers flowers flowers. Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.

The apartment is clean, spacious and pristine.  I want to hire the housekeeper that wrought such sparkle.  The kitchen is well equipped and I use Google to see if it is possible to buy Charlotte Watson’s Bread Crock for myself.  Amazon says yes.

We arrived this morning to damp and rain and cold. But now, sitting at a table on our balcony looking out over the lovely grounds, the weather is perfect. Sipping a twee bit of wine and munching on the four bite sample of pork pie, I now know why we endured that @#$%&* flight over the Atlantic.  I’m already lamenting the fact that next week Higginson’s meat pies will be just a wonderful savory memory, but at least we will still have six-and-a-half weeks of adventures before us—and maybe more meat pies. But Higginson’s is supposed to be the best in England. I need to go back, buy more.