Looking back now as I write this, I am staggered by the relative oven that southern Europe baked in this year, and concerned for my new friends and acquaintances and all their fellow citizens. On balance, I enjoyed the warmth and clear skies I encountered between May and July, in spite of sweltering days, soaked shirts and fatigued afternoon naps. Of course, I also recall that it was the heat that finally chased me north, where I could relish getting rained on in Bath. As I retreated in the face of 38 degrees Celsius (100 Fahrenheit), those I waved goodbye to persevered, with some measure of comfort (I hope), as by mid-August temperatures neared 48 C (almost 120 F). Heat, drought, fires, service breakdowns: it seems appropriate that Europeans named the heat wave Lucifer.
It is hard for me to conceive of. Even though the areas where I normally live are also encountering more extreme weather in recent years, we do not also contend (as many of the places I visited do) with seriously compromised economic health. Now, when I think about moving to Europe, I think not just of the ways in which it would be enriching or fun for me, but also how I might adjust to new, everyday environmental, economic, even sociopolitical norms. Furthermore, I wonder what I would contribute. My experience this summer was high on receipt and short on delivery. If I were to take part in a community, there would need to be more balance in that equation.
For now, though, back to Bath:
A slight drizzle was on as I exited the station.
I wrapped up in my raincoat and deployed my improvised protective gear: assorted reusable grocery bags. I hoped to find my way to my newest home by walking west along the river Avon, but unfortunately summer construction had other plans. When I saw the temporary chain link fence, I crossed to the south shore of the river and experienced a different, but also lovely, view as I trudged around puddles: the city’s tall, close rows of pale gold, Georgian-style buildings, built from local Bath Stone.
My lucky streak with hosts and homes continued, as I was greeted by a smiling, smart, sedate young woman who split her time between managing real estate, raising a son, and surfing. She took me to my cozy, second-story room, showed me the basement kitchen and dining area (which was comfortable if a little cramped, since I had to duck whenever I stood up in the dining room), and then we began to chat.
In fact, we would chat quite a bit over those three days, because neither my body nor my wallet was particularly inclined to touristy activities. I did quite a bit of nesting, and to her credit, my host was not just accommodating but downright personable about it, several times joining me in the common areas to sit and jaw. It seemed that even after a leisurely week in Oxford and Cardiff, my soul needed more downtime. My host, for her part, appeared to find my openness and candor refreshing, and I am grateful that my tendency to run at the mouth and ask a lot of personal questions of strangers actually benefits some people I meet (I encountered a lot of this type of human as I traveled, which is a big reason I have become so captivated by the travel experience).
This home, this city, and even the drizzling rain that would visit more than once while I was there proved to be the perfect set of conditions to give my spirit the rest it needed before my final sojourn, to London, which I’ll narrate in another post. I did recover enough of my strength and interest to go on a few adventures with a low net cost and a high rate of spiritual return.
One morning, on my host’s enthusiastic suggestion, I hiked up (and up) to Alexandra Park, a small green crown on a tall hill in southern Bath which is surrounded by streets named after literary giants of Great Britain (among them Shakespeare, Longfellow, Milton, Chaucer, Byron...imagine living on Shelley Rd!). The park is largely guarded from view by a ring of trees but at points the green guardians relax their vigil and your eyes are tempted by rich visions of the city far below. Bath flaunts a crowded, central hoard of limestone and dark slate that stretches pale, languid arms across the hills swelling about the Avon River valley. The river itself, invisible from where I stood, winds east-west and north like a necklace draped across the town.
Later I descended and crossed Halfpenny Bridge, emerging near the Bath Spa terminal and continuing past / above Gardens Bath, which was unfortunately pay-to-enter but, fortunately, a sunken garden so that even cheapskates such as myself can view what they have to offer. Numerous, bookish flower sculptures were on display, including at least one commemorating the 200th anniversary of Jane Austen’s death.
Farther north, I lingered to drink in the lovely Pulteney Weir. Flowing water has always grasped me in a state of peace and wonder. Pulteney’s parabolic, concentric levels forms a murmuring, miniature cascade.
Pulteney Weir and south view of Pulteney Bridge
On the other side I encountered Great Pulteney but I did not find it precisely great, not breathtaking anyway, but striking all the same, for the density and uniformity of Bath’s trademark architecture on display. Everything in this city, regardless of its age, seemed somehow fancy to me.
At some point in this chronicle I begin to blend days, which suits my relaxed sense of time there. I wandered Sydney Gardens, and also Henrietta Park. When I ran into some tree-cutting maintenance, I took a detour which led me to a small garden within one of those parks. I stumbled into the grand Circus and made a visual circuit of its huge roundabout. A delightful art installation on St. Lawrence St revealed itself to me: a rainbow of umbrellas hung above the street from end to end, while green turf lined the pavement like carpet. At the east end of the street, a decommissioned red telephone booth exploded with flowers.
Bath Circus
Once I found myself sitting in a small, bustling square behind Bath Abbey, admiring its spires while listening to an amateur guitarist perform Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars.” I felt catharsis and loneliness, serenity and need. Particularly while listening to the singer, I remembered how powerfully I yearn to feel at home, to feel safe and desired and desiring, and also how strongly I recoil from what I experience as (if you’ll please forgive a pile of syllables) relentless judgment, demarcation, exclusion - the “romantic” atomization and alienation with which we freeze and cut the fluid, generous, enlivening human community that could be. Then I returned to just enjoying the sound and scenery.
I do not expect you, reader, to agree or disagree with what I say. I only share my experience. Lay with me, if you will, and have your own experience. Let the music of instruments and automobiles and birds and people wash over you, let the music of your feelings and thoughts course through you. Hum to yourself if you wish, sing out loud if it’s what you need.
Bath Abbey
Let’s postpone our mutual, habitual retreat into pathologies we are familiar with - our definitions and declarations, our segregations, our inclusions and exclusions. With apologies to the songwriters, let’s just lay here and not forget the world, but experience it together - your world, my world, the world beyond either of us, the myriad other worlds that various combinations of you, me, and all other people and things out there bring into reality on a rotating, refreshing, overlapping basis.
Another time, following another of my host’s suggestions, I stalked up to Prior Park Landscape Garden but decided against entering when I saw the ticket price. I hiked right on by to see what I might discover, and at the southwest corner of the Gardens I was rewarded by a delightful little footpath called The Avenue that cuts a brick-shouldered between residential yards. This stretch is one-third of a mile long, perhaps one person wide, and mostly-insulated from the sight, but not the sounds, of the world around it. At the far end of this dry channel I was inspired to search for an even more otherworldly passage, the Combe Down Tunnel.
An excursion into this tunnel was another of my host’s recommendations. Combe Down Tunnel is one half of what is known as the Two Tunnels - the most notable features of a long stretch of unused railway that has become a hiking and biking path. Miles of this passage venture underground, hence the name of the path. While underground one may enjoy classical music that is piped in all day, every day through speakers. I descended a long staircase out of Combe Down proper to find the tunnel which shared its name. I stumbled over increasingly rough and eroded steps, beneath ever-thicker arches of trees, following Horsecombe Brook out of paved civility into a truly immense area of marsh, forest and rivers. The descent alone was grand but alas, I could not find the tunnel that Google Maps said was right below me. After hunting about and venturing onto a path that clearly diverged from the Two Tunnels, I realized that the trail I wanted was probably literally right below me. As inviting as Horsecombe and its paths looked, I had already been on my feet for four hours that day, it looked like it might rain, and I did not have the supplies or phone battery for an extended excursion. I quietly promised Two Tunnels that I would find it again someday, and made my way back to the road.
When it was time to leave for London, the weather was sunny and warm. I arrived at my train station with plenty of time to spare but, in a twist that by now should not have surprised me, chaos entered the equation. It does not bear mentioning, except to note that thirty minutes of panting, sweating, and worrying later I was bound for the capital of England.
Bath street views
St Lawrence Street telephone flower booth
St Lawrence Street whimsical umbrellas
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