On the bus:
The Weekly’s columnist Pat McDermott discovers the charms of England, Scotland and Wales as she heads off the beaten track on tour.
Pat McDermott goes gallivanting in the UK
Fifteen of us are standing together on a rocky outcrop over a Welsh river in full flood. Our normally chatty group is quiet, mesmerised by the torrent and the deafening roar of the water. It thunders down in white sheets, soaring up wildly when it hits the rocks below.
There are signs in Welsh and English warning against climbing over the fence onto the damp, slippery rocks. The English sign says, with predictable calmness, DANGER – DO NOT CLIMB OVER THE FENCE!
The Welsh sign fairly explodes with feeling. “PERYGL PEIDIWCH A DRINGO DROS Y FFENS!” it shouts. It could be a warning about the rocks, a declaration of war or your council rates. Everything sounds more exciting in Welsh.
None of us looks like people who’d be foolish enough to fall off a cliff into a raging Welsh river. We don’t look like people who’d run a red light!
Thirteen of us are tourists from Australia, Canada and the US. Russell, our tour leader, is from England and Padraig, our driver, from Northern Ireland.
We’re in Snowdonia National Park, a few days into a Back-Roads Tour from London to Edinburgh via Wales. Heavy rain in the mountains a week ago meant Welsh rivers are full to bursting. Russell, an outdoorsman with white water experience, suggested a short detour to see this extraordinary sight.
Perhaps it’s this flexibility, when something truly spectacular presents itself, that makes small group tours increasingly popular.
We’re travelling in a compact but zippy Mercedes bus, keeping well away from motorways and highways. We slip down narrow country lanes, hedgerows scraping the windows on both sides. What about the occasional lorry, tractor or mob of sheep coming the other way? “Fine by me,” grins Padraig. “I never reverse.”
Our group met for the first time four days ago in London. Couples and singles, aged 50 to 70-ish, with a few more women than men. Some have “toured” before. Some, like us, are new to the game.
We learn the rules fast.
1. Bags outside your hotel door by 8am. 2. If Padraig’s at the wheel with the engine running, leave the gift shop!
3. If you’re not in the bar at 7pm each evening you’ll need a note from your mother.
4. When the tour leader says it’s time to go, then it is.
Soon we’re off the rocks and in the bus, heading north. Russell has an eclectic collection of music.
The sound of a fine Welsh choir fills the bus, singing Land of My Fathers, a song that makes strong men cry. I blow my nose and look out the window at lush green fields and sheep.
Next on Russell’s party mix tape, it’s Tom Jones singing Green, Green Grass of Home. Amazingly we all know the words, even the bit about, “the sad old padre”. A modest sing-a-long ensues. To Russell’s disappointment, we say no to Delilah.
“Perhaps it’s this flexibility ... that makes small tours popular.”
Wales was the second major stop on this journey. After meeting in London, we went west to Oxford first, before heading north to Wales a few days later.
Say hello to Theo Chevalier. He’s waiting for us at the gates of Trinity College, Oxford, where he studies medicine. He takes tours “on the side” and today he’s taking us. He’s young, bursting with brains and totally irrepressible. How he sits still long enough to study is a mystery. As a member of Trinity College, he’s allowed to bring visitors inside.
We walk across green lawns to the ancient dining room.
Newly hung portraits of women leaders at the College hang over the “top” table. Portraits of older chaps have been relegated to an upper gallery at the back. Surprising for a young man, Theo disapproves of this.
He tells us a wild story about an exclusive Oxford dining club. Its members are well-known graduates, and some are prominent politicians and business leaders. We recognise several names. The club meets for a fine meal from time to time. After last drinks they set about smashing the restaurant china, glassware and even the furniture.
A few days later, the owner receives a fat cheque three or four times the cost of the damages! It’s a curious story and we’d like to know more but Theo races away, his tousled hair blowing in the breeze. There’s general agreement that no patient of
Theo’s will ever die of boredom.
From Oxford we drive north through the Cotswolds, where each village, church and cottage is annoyingly lovelier than the one that went before. The photographers on the bus become frantic. Capture a stunning scene and a more beautiful one pops up around the next corner.
We stop for two nights at Three Ways House Hotel in Gloucestershire, home to “The Pudding Club”, established in
1985 to preserve the tradition of great British puddings.
The MOTH (The Man of the House) and I are sleeping in the “Syrup Sponge Pudding” Room. The recipe is written in full down the outside of the bathroom door. A stuffed lion the colour of golden syrup sits in the middle of an enormous gold bed. There’s a gold canopy and gold china lions on the window ledge.
“I’d like to see what the room down the hall looks like,” says the MOTH. “Why?”
“It’s the Spotted Dick room.”
Now we head north for our white water adventure in Wales. There is an embarrassment of places to go and things to do. We have a schedule that rivals the Queen’s and she’s a busy lady. We visit the Welsh Food Centre, then back into England to take in Chester, York, the extraordinary loveliness of Castle Howard, and the small towns where boredom, poverty and freezing winters produced William Wordsworth, Beatrix Potter and the Brontë sisters. “There are two beds in every room and two people in every bed!” Wordsworth complained of his tiny house. “Sound like our place a few years ago,” whispers the MOTH.
We spend our last night together as a group at Comlongon Castle in
“Each village, church and cottage is lovelier than the one before.”
Ruthwell in the Scottish Borders. We are piped to our places. The piper continues round the table several more times, followed closely by a young man carrying a tray on which sits a Haggis, a pudding both proud and ominous. The pudding is addressed, praised and finally stabbed with a sword. I accept a piece the size of a fingernail. It tastes like pate with crunchy bits. I wash the crunchy bits down with red wine.
Tomorrow morning there will be school photos, hugs and handshakes all round, but now there’s a bathroom the size of a ballroom and a fourposter bed waiting for me upstairs.
We’re away early in the morning. There’s a quick stop at Abbotsford, Sir Walter Scott’s fairytale castle, and the Rosslyn Chapel, made famous by the film, The Da Vinci Code. I approach the handsome chapel cat called William.
“Does he answer to Bill?” I ask a guide. “No.” “William?” “No. He’s a cat, you see. He’ll not be answering to anything.”
It was time to go home.
Pat and Dennis McDermott travelled at their own expense.