Road Trip.
My brother calls it 'Boringstoke', but as we alighted in Basingstoke after the hour-long train ride from London, I would have opted for 'Same Shitty Suburb That Seems To Exist All Over The World, Just Under Different Names'. It looked like Croydon. It also looked like Carrum.
My brother escorted us by bus to his house, which he shared with two pleasant ladies named Jenny and Rachel. They were very accommodating, and for the first time in my life, I ate a meal cooked by my brother. It was passable, certainly, but I really look forward to when he isn't bound by the confines of vegetarianism.
In the morning, we piled into the car my brother had hired and set off on our road trip. Our first destination was Winchester, and after parking the car and climbing a steep hill, we had a view of an idyllic little country town. The abbey stood in the centre of town, and I was really pleased to see that no building was taller than it. It made it all seem somewhat timeless. We visited the cathedral itself, and I read with some interest that the whole thing was sinking into the ground around 1902, and it took one guy in an ancient diving suit to go underneath the abbey itself and prop it up with sacks of cement.
This guy did this everyday, all day, for 4 years or so, and only took a few days off for the death of his son. People worked differently back then.
We left Winchester, and headed towards Bath. I was informed that to build a house in Bath, you must apply to the council, and then wait until they can source enough of the yellow sandstone that every other house is built from until your house can be built. You have to pay for this sandstone as well. It does make for a very picturesque city, especially at night. We stayed at a very pleasant guesthouse, where I had the immeasurable pleasure of farting on my brothers head, something I hadn't done for years.
We had a nice dinner in town, and retired for the night.
Bath wasn't quiet as pretty in the harsh glare of the bright sun, but I didn't mind, as the Roman Baths were our obvious destination. As we entered, they gave us handy Audio guides, which you listen to by punching numbers relative to the guide numbers distributed about the place.
To my utter delight, aside from the standard tour information, there were separate guides by one of my favourite authors, Bill Bryson. I listened to his guide only as we walked through this wonderful slice of history. Did you know that someone found the Baths underneath their house? I find that hilarious. 'I wonder what's under here, then?'
After that, we visited Bath Abbey, which wasn't patch on Westminster or Winchester, but still awesome in it's own right. Packing up our things we drove for an hour or so until we were gliding through the New Forest, a stunning 40 mile stretch of thickly wooded density with towns strewn through it. The highlight, though, was the fact that wild horses are allowed to wander through these towns. There they were, just standing by the road, their foals included.
We headed further out, into the grasslands, where even more horses roamed, and drove on through endless green fields until Stonehenge hove into view. This ancient monument is no doubt slightly more impressive when not swamped by a metric fuckton of tourists, as when we saw it, but I appreciated it's quiet majesty as much as I could.
Sadly, even though this tour had an audio guide, it wasn't presented by Bill Bryson, so we moved on after our short view of the rocks, and made our way towards Oxford.
We arrived after an hour of driving around like dickheads as we were completely lost because my brother forgot to write down directions, but soon enough the Nanford Guest House was in view, and we were warmly greeted by the single fucking scariest hotelier on Earth. His eyes never opened once, even when he was walking up some stairs to show us our room, and he had a head of hair that I swear had woodland creatures living in it.
Even scarier, the 'reception' area was a bomb site, dominated by a fat guy in a recliner who, get this, NEVER blinked. He just sat watching TV, and even when we accidentally got in his line of sight, he just stared right through us.
The room was frankly terrifying, and it was with some relief we departed to take in the sights of Oxford. Sadly, this consisted of majestic Universities closed to the public, 476 million fucking students and 476 homeless people. Seriously, Britain has an alarmingly large amount of homeless people. They are everywhere. We had dinner at a shamelessly tacky Louisiana themed restaurants, where the food was actually quite nice, and then retired to a pub to imbibe enough alcohol so that the hotel room would seem less threatening.
It was with some relief, then, when we left Oxford and headed to Avebury Circle, which is sort of like Stonehenge with a few different variations. Number 1, it's shittier, and Number 2, you can actually touch it. It still has a majestic and ancient presence, it's just diluted by the fact that there's a fucking TOWN in the middle of it. What a money-grubbing cunt you'd have to be to soil a historic landmark just to make a few bucks, not that us Aussies would stoop to that. cough.
We took some amusing photos, which you can see on the Flickr account, and then headed onward to Windsor. The accommodation highlight of the tour, we stayed in the converted loft of a barn, which was self-catered. We cooked our own dinner after shopping at Sainsbury's, and then my brother and I played some soccer with Trigger.
Trigger was a dog that played soccer. No shit. Kick that ball and he'll chase it and dribble it back to you. I have video as proof.
We marveled over that, and then took a walk into the wheat fields. In the last minutes of twilight, it took on an ethereal, otherworldly aura, and I strode out into the middle of a wheat field, safe in the knowledge that Britain has no poisonous creatures, and just stood in the silence, broken occasionally by a large 747 flying overhead. I fell asleep contentedly next to Julie, only to awake in complete blackness, wondering where the fuck I was, stumbling into furniture until figuring out where the door was.
The next day was taken up with Windsor Castle, obviously the home of British royalty and 49 Gift Shops. There were many beautiful rooms with immeasurable history, and the tour was at least interesting and fact-filled. Trying to describe these rooms in words is a little silly, as they are so grand, but whatever you're imagining is probably correct.
That was the last day of the proper Road Trip, as we headed back to my brother's house after that. We stayed the night again and had British Pizza (snigger. It's so shit!) and rose reasonably early the next morning, all so I could take my sunglasses off to apply sunscreen and leave them on the roof of the car.
We then departed, my sunglasses still on the roof of the car, and did a small tour through country Basingstoke. My glasses were forever lost at some point during this trip, but to think that in England these rolling fields and green pastures are just in the backyard is a wondrous thing.
After a few hours we arrived back at my brothers place, and packed our bags for the train trip back to London. This was when we noticed my glasses were missing. So we had a brief look around, as we knew they were on the roof of the car, but no luck.
Then, as we headed towards the train station, we arrived at a massive roundabout, a very prominent feature of British road travel, and I managed to spot my sunglasses lying at the side of the roundabout on the bitumen, just inches shy of busses and trucks thundering by.
My brother did a loop and pulled over, and I leapt through 14 lanes of traffic and a few flaming hoops to rescue what I now call my lucky glasses.
The trip back to London was uneventful, and I headed out that night to drink a rather silly amount of beer with my friend Rowan and my new friend Weijer. I can safely say that I have a great propensity for alcohol, but it failed me this night, as the next morning saw me wake with one serious MOTHERFUCKER of a hangover. I puked in the shower at around midday and felt better, but I tell you, those pints are bastards.
And please, have a few more photos:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27097851@N02/
LOVE YOUSE ALL.
My brother escorted us by bus to his house, which he shared with two pleasant ladies named Jenny and Rachel. They were very accommodating, and for the first time in my life, I ate a meal cooked by my brother. It was passable, certainly, but I really look forward to when he isn't bound by the confines of vegetarianism.
In the morning, we piled into the car my brother had hired and set off on our road trip. Our first destination was Winchester, and after parking the car and climbing a steep hill, we had a view of an idyllic little country town. The abbey stood in the centre of town, and I was really pleased to see that no building was taller than it. It made it all seem somewhat timeless. We visited the cathedral itself, and I read with some interest that the whole thing was sinking into the ground around 1902, and it took one guy in an ancient diving suit to go underneath the abbey itself and prop it up with sacks of cement.
This guy did this everyday, all day, for 4 years or so, and only took a few days off for the death of his son. People worked differently back then.
We left Winchester, and headed towards Bath. I was informed that to build a house in Bath, you must apply to the council, and then wait until they can source enough of the yellow sandstone that every other house is built from until your house can be built. You have to pay for this sandstone as well. It does make for a very picturesque city, especially at night. We stayed at a very pleasant guesthouse, where I had the immeasurable pleasure of farting on my brothers head, something I hadn't done for years.
We had a nice dinner in town, and retired for the night.
Bath wasn't quiet as pretty in the harsh glare of the bright sun, but I didn't mind, as the Roman Baths were our obvious destination. As we entered, they gave us handy Audio guides, which you listen to by punching numbers relative to the guide numbers distributed about the place.
To my utter delight, aside from the standard tour information, there were separate guides by one of my favourite authors, Bill Bryson. I listened to his guide only as we walked through this wonderful slice of history. Did you know that someone found the Baths underneath their house? I find that hilarious. 'I wonder what's under here, then?'
After that, we visited Bath Abbey, which wasn't patch on Westminster or Winchester, but still awesome in it's own right. Packing up our things we drove for an hour or so until we were gliding through the New Forest, a stunning 40 mile stretch of thickly wooded density with towns strewn through it. The highlight, though, was the fact that wild horses are allowed to wander through these towns. There they were, just standing by the road, their foals included.
We headed further out, into the grasslands, where even more horses roamed, and drove on through endless green fields until Stonehenge hove into view. This ancient monument is no doubt slightly more impressive when not swamped by a metric fuckton of tourists, as when we saw it, but I appreciated it's quiet majesty as much as I could.
Sadly, even though this tour had an audio guide, it wasn't presented by Bill Bryson, so we moved on after our short view of the rocks, and made our way towards Oxford.
We arrived after an hour of driving around like dickheads as we were completely lost because my brother forgot to write down directions, but soon enough the Nanford Guest House was in view, and we were warmly greeted by the single fucking scariest hotelier on Earth. His eyes never opened once, even when he was walking up some stairs to show us our room, and he had a head of hair that I swear had woodland creatures living in it.
Even scarier, the 'reception' area was a bomb site, dominated by a fat guy in a recliner who, get this, NEVER blinked. He just sat watching TV, and even when we accidentally got in his line of sight, he just stared right through us.
The room was frankly terrifying, and it was with some relief we departed to take in the sights of Oxford. Sadly, this consisted of majestic Universities closed to the public, 476 million fucking students and 476 homeless people. Seriously, Britain has an alarmingly large amount of homeless people. They are everywhere. We had dinner at a shamelessly tacky Louisiana themed restaurants, where the food was actually quite nice, and then retired to a pub to imbibe enough alcohol so that the hotel room would seem less threatening.
It was with some relief, then, when we left Oxford and headed to Avebury Circle, which is sort of like Stonehenge with a few different variations. Number 1, it's shittier, and Number 2, you can actually touch it. It still has a majestic and ancient presence, it's just diluted by the fact that there's a fucking TOWN in the middle of it. What a money-grubbing cunt you'd have to be to soil a historic landmark just to make a few bucks, not that us Aussies would stoop to that. cough.
We took some amusing photos, which you can see on the Flickr account, and then headed onward to Windsor. The accommodation highlight of the tour, we stayed in the converted loft of a barn, which was self-catered. We cooked our own dinner after shopping at Sainsbury's, and then my brother and I played some soccer with Trigger.
Trigger was a dog that played soccer. No shit. Kick that ball and he'll chase it and dribble it back to you. I have video as proof.
We marveled over that, and then took a walk into the wheat fields. In the last minutes of twilight, it took on an ethereal, otherworldly aura, and I strode out into the middle of a wheat field, safe in the knowledge that Britain has no poisonous creatures, and just stood in the silence, broken occasionally by a large 747 flying overhead. I fell asleep contentedly next to Julie, only to awake in complete blackness, wondering where the fuck I was, stumbling into furniture until figuring out where the door was.
The next day was taken up with Windsor Castle, obviously the home of British royalty and 49 Gift Shops. There were many beautiful rooms with immeasurable history, and the tour was at least interesting and fact-filled. Trying to describe these rooms in words is a little silly, as they are so grand, but whatever you're imagining is probably correct.
That was the last day of the proper Road Trip, as we headed back to my brother's house after that. We stayed the night again and had British Pizza (snigger. It's so shit!) and rose reasonably early the next morning, all so I could take my sunglasses off to apply sunscreen and leave them on the roof of the car.
We then departed, my sunglasses still on the roof of the car, and did a small tour through country Basingstoke. My glasses were forever lost at some point during this trip, but to think that in England these rolling fields and green pastures are just in the backyard is a wondrous thing.
After a few hours we arrived back at my brothers place, and packed our bags for the train trip back to London. This was when we noticed my glasses were missing. So we had a brief look around, as we knew they were on the roof of the car, but no luck.
Then, as we headed towards the train station, we arrived at a massive roundabout, a very prominent feature of British road travel, and I managed to spot my sunglasses lying at the side of the roundabout on the bitumen, just inches shy of busses and trucks thundering by.
My brother did a loop and pulled over, and I leapt through 14 lanes of traffic and a few flaming hoops to rescue what I now call my lucky glasses.
The trip back to London was uneventful, and I headed out that night to drink a rather silly amount of beer with my friend Rowan and my new friend Weijer. I can safely say that I have a great propensity for alcohol, but it failed me this night, as the next morning saw me wake with one serious MOTHERFUCKER of a hangover. I puked in the shower at around midday and felt better, but I tell you, those pints are bastards.
And please, have a few more photos:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27097851@N02/
LOVE YOUSE ALL.
posted by Elfin at 11:29 AM
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