August 2007

I took the train to Birmingham, where Henry had been residing in Frank’s back garden. When I arrived Frank told me that if he’d been around over the weekend to get my email he’d have told me not to come; he didn’t think it was going to be possible to get Henry going. But we and Mike tinkered a bit that afternoon, working on three problems. The first was solved when Frank discovered that rather than needing to replace the carb he just needed to reinstall the jet that had somehow come unscrewed from its seat and fallen to the bottom of the carburetor (that the bike ran at all without a jet is pretty impressive)--this took about ten minutes to sort out. We discovered that the second problem, that the battery wasn’t charging, could be solved by separating the regulator from the bike (no idea why, but it works)--Frank cut out a piece of rubber and put it under the regulator and then bolted it back onto the bike. Finally, Frank tried sealing the front chaincase with bathroom tile grout after whacking it a few times with a mallet, a solution that worked perfectly for several days. We took a quick trip around the neighbourhood, fixed a few more minor problems, then the next morning took Henry in for its MOT which it passed with flying colours. And so we were off; Frank accompanied me for the first few miles out of town on his Enfield, then waved goodbye and I was on my own.

My first stop was Coventry, only a few miles southeast of Birmingham. People made faces at me when I said I was planning to stop there, from which I understood that there was not much left to see of it, a formerly beautiful medieval city demolished by German bombing. But I had read The Phoenix at Coventry as a teenager, and wanted to see the postwar reconstruction of St. Michael’s Cathedral.

I have to admit that in some ways it was a disappointment, only partly due to the design of the building. For some reason I’d thought that the way it was set up you actually entered the new building through the ruins of the old; in fact, the two buildings are connected by an elegant breezeway which serves as a pedestrian pathway--much more useful, I suppose, but a less powerful statement. And speaking of which, whose bright idea was it to ruin the effect of standing in the ruins of the old building and looking across at the new by corralling the front entrance of the latter with metal barricades? This is really a disgrace, and I can’t imagine it really benefits anyone. The interior of the new building is unacceptably dark--it’s lit from the sides by several long thin stained glass windows which, for metaphorical reasons, can only be seen from the altar, and which don’t let in enough light to relieve the interior’s boxlike feeling. Some of it was, of course, lovely. I particularly liked the angels engraved in the clear glass which makes up the entire west wall--they seem almost barely there, and are so evanescent they seem to flutter and move. Another stunning angel is depicted in mosaic on the back wall of the Gesthemane chapel.

I spent less time in this building than I’d expected to--I realised that cathedrals are typically the work of several hundred hands and brains over hundreds of years, whereas this one was the work of a handful of people over less than a decade, and thus strangely flat and empty. Maybe it’ll feel different in a few generations.

I was eager to put a little more distance in during the rest of the day, so I got Henry going again and soon arrived in Kenilworth. I parked at the castle, which was relatively easy to find, then walked back into town, discovering that I’d missed the tourist information office on the way in because at that point I’d been dodging a car pulling out of a parking space. They found me a place nearby to spend the night, so I was able to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring.

I walked back up to the castle and across the moat into the castle precinct, greeted by the smell of honeysuckle and a group of people doing what looked like tai chi with swords in a depression in the grass which was probably the foundation of a vanished building. A display in the nearby stable building outlined the history of the castle.

The first structure on the site had been built 50 years after the Norman Conquest. It had been the site of a siege in 1266, and was the place that the Dauphin sent Henry V a gift of tennis balls as an insult, thus provoking the Hundred Years' War. Dudley, Earl of Leicester, Queen Elizabeth's favourite, owned it during her reign and during that time she often stayed there. It was a Royalist stronghold in the Civil War; when Cromwell seized it he ordered one wall of the keep demolished to ensure that it would never hold out against him again. As the setting of a novel by Walter Scott, the castle became the destination for romantic tourists as early as the early 19th century. It had been bought in 1937 by Sir John Davenport Siddeley--a name I recognised as the designer of aircraft and of the Siddeley Special, the quintessential ‘villain car’.

I wandered around the ruins and soon found myself inside the beautiful Elizabethan gatehouse, restored to the period when a family lived in it in the 1930s. The top floor has an exhibit about Dudley and Elizabeth, including stories about his attempts to get her to marry him. During a royal visit to Kenilworth in 1575 he arranged as part of the scheduled entertainments a play called Diana and Iris, in which the characters discuss the wisdom of staying a virgin or marrying--it’s said the play was not performed because of bad weather, but perhaps Dudley thought better of it, or was convinced to. This exhibit included something I thought of passing interest--Douglas Sheffield, one of Robert Dudley’s lovers, was a woman.

I drove Henry down the hill (as I drove by a man waved his arms in the air shouting ‘beautiful! beautiful!’—I know better than to think he was talking about me) and around to the B&B where I was greeted by a nervous teenager (I found out from her grandmother the next day that this was the first time she’d ever greeted a guest) who showed me around and helped me find a cozy spot in the backyard for Henry (‘is this bike as hard to drive as it is to push?’); I took my stuff upstairs, changed into walking shoes, and went to have a look around Kenilworth.

New Kenilworth, where I was staying, is separated from Old Kenilworth, near the castle, by the Abbey Fields, the site of a former Augustinian abbey, a few remains of which can still be seen in the park. I walked through the fields along a somber tree-lined path, had an excellent Asian meal and some local beer at the Virgins and Castle, now owned by a Filipino couple, then went back to the B&B for a quiet evening.

The next morning I enjoyed my comfortable east-facing room, getting off to a slow start as we weren’t planning to go more than 10 miles that day; my next destination was Stratford on Avon, Birthplace of Shakespeare, with a stop at Warwick Castle on the way.

Warwick Castle is an almost total contrast to Kenilworth Castle; instead of a set of ruined buildings with a few restorations and exhibits, it is a gigantic complex designed and run line an amusement park. After waiting in line and paying the hefty admission fee, I started with a new exhibit, Dreaming of War, which included a film and several Jorvik-like dioramas of people preparing for the Battle of Barnet of 1471. In one room a waxwork stonemason carved cannonballs (his diameter gauge hanging behind him) and in another sat several scholars wearing spectacles secured to their faces by ribbons tied around their foreheads. Some of these waxworks were very real--I eyed one guard in particular as I walked by, waiting for him to fidget.

In one room a costumed attendant selected three boys with red hair, explaining to them and everyone else that their urine was considered particularly valuable for clothmaking. While this business was going on, I chatted with one of the other reenactors, who clearly loved his job and knew a great deal about the castle (he pointed out a carving on one of the pillars in the room we stood in, of a cross on a stand, claiming that the room had likely been used as a makeshift chapel). He pointed out some of the problems they’ve had setting up exhibits and activities within the castle walls, explaining how they have to work within its spaces and physical constraints. He told me about a few reenactor events I shouldn’t miss, including one in Poland--I’ll see if I can persuade Tysolna to come to that with me.

I then had a look around the 18th century staterooms, which featured a waxwork of Queen Elizabeth II that you could take your picture with, armour you could try on, and a painting of Sir Philip Sydney with a fauxhawk. This exhibit was clearly older than the Dream of War; the signs were handwritten and the rooms contained various out of place artifacts like a rifle on a wooden tripod and a narwhal horn. The portraits ranged from excellent to mediocre...were 18th century people really all that puffy, or was it just the style to paint them that way?

Next I climbed to the top of the castle wall and tower, marvelling again that the general public can and does clamber up these dark, narrow, uneven twisting stairways with no qualms and without breaking their necks. From the top of the tower I could hear medieval music, though I couldn’t spot the performers. On the way back down signs identified and described interesting archaeological finds (like a virtually complete and very rare medieval tile floor) that had been uncovered during excavations in the tower.

After this I wandered off to watch the trebouchet being fired, catching the end of a presentation about medieval archery. The bowman said, ‘how many of you have heard of Robin Hood?’ The crowd responded heartily. ‘How about the evil Sheriff of Nottingham?’ Another cheer. ‘Well he didn’t exist. How about Roger White?’ Silence. The bowman described Roger White’s proficiency with the bow and military career. He then shouted out a few more names, also met with silence, then went on to describe their careers. ‘These are real people, real heroes and real bowmen, and we honour their memory.’ After the archer was through a herd of ducks came up from the river bank and literally climbed into people’s laps to have a go at their lunches.

The trebouchet is awesome. It’s more than 50 feet tall and weighs about 22 metric tons. You pull down the throwing arm using four people (volunteers from the general public, it turns out) who walk in two cylinders like hamster wheels. A narrator explained what it was like to walk in the wheel—sun shining through the moving slats can give you motion sickness (‘which isn’t fun if the floor so soon becomes the ceiling’)—I found it interesting that we were told ‘what it was like’. We also learned that the trebouchet was the original ‘flat pack’ structure—it would be built at home, then parts would be labeled and the structure would be taken apart and shipped to the battlefield to be reconstructed. The narrator explained that the trebouchet could shoot lots of things, including animals—pigs are the best, ‘they’re so aerodynamic’—and rotting carcasses are great ‘germ warfare’.

It was finally primed and loaded, and the trebouchet master pulled the trigger, and the throwing arm lifted in a beautiful slow motion arc. I have no idea where the ball went; I hope the folks on the other end weren’t too surprised. A little while later I had a chat with the trebouchet master, a young man with multiple piercings, who told me they were OK as long as the projectiles didn’t leave the island on which the trebouchet is located. He told me the idea was not to hit a particular target (his best effort so far was to hit a six foot by four foot target, which took him five tries) but rather to hit the same spot over and over. You can aim it, but only in a rudimentary sense; they don’t swivel like you see in the movies. And they’re exclusively for battering walls—they can’t be used on moving targets, ‘otherwise you just dodge it’.

Then I wandered over to the jousting field to see what was going on there. Leeds Armoury treats jousting as a sport; if it is, then Warwick Castle's version is like WWF wrestling. I didn't enjoy it much, and soon left. (Oh and by the way how clever is it to punch someone wearing chain mail?) I walked along the river, and found myself inside the castle's electrical generation station, which had been installed in the early 20th century--it was a weird steampunk-y thing to find there.

The last place I visited before I left was the surprisingly low-key and sensitively presented dungeon. It had in fact been a real dungeon, and the walls are covered with the inscriptions of men who had been imprisoned in this small damp windowless room for years. On that sobering note, I left.

It had already been a long day, and I still didn’t have a place to stay, so I decided to forgo a wander around Warwick town and press on toward Stratford. Stratford is right up there with Bedford for suicidal pedestrians...but when I walked around the town later I discovered that the pedestrian traffic management design is actually very poor, so it's little wonder people cross the street at random. For future consideration: roundabouts are inherently challenging to design pedestrian crossings at or near, as their whole purpose is to maintain an even and nonstopping flow of traffic. Their installation should be discouraged anywhere where there might be a significant number of people trying to cross the street.

After a couple of go-rounds with the tourist office, they finally found a room for me in a small hotel just out of town. I drove out there, unloaded and had a quick nap, then walked back into town to see the Birthplace. I’d been expecting a kitschy exhibit in a kitschy town, but I found Stratford lovely, and the Birthplace exhibit and house well presented (no one now takes the credit for telling me how awful Stratford was, so I have no one to argue with about it). The entry to Shakespeare’s house is via the Shakespeare Centre, a surprisingly subdued ‘60s building adjacent to the small garden in which the house sits. The well-designed exhibit sets Shakespeare into his context—family, city, countryside, colleagues and theatre company. It avoided entirely the controversy about ‘who wrote Shakespeare’ except that I noticed that it made a big deal of the Shakespeare family’s position, stressing that his father was an important and prosperous businessman and town official—the ‘Shakespeare couldn’t have written the plays’ advocates tend, I believe, to argue this because they believe that an unlettered hick who never went to university could not have commanded such an extensive and sophisticated vocabulary, a wide ranging understanding evidenced from his use of metaphors, and a knowledge of aristocratic and court behaviour.

Speaking of metaphors, I’m going to interrupt this narrative for a brief digression on Shakespeare and zero. It was once pointed out to me that during Shakespeare's time calculation using Arabic numbers, known then as 'algorism', was still relatively new--while it is likely that by then very few people in Britain were still using Roman notation and calculation, the ability to handily manipulate numbers without an abacus or other physical or mechanical device was relatively rare, and considered an accomplishment. One of the most significant innovations that came along with the adoption of the Arabic system was of course the use of zero as a placeholder; with his characteristically omnivorous understanding and eye for metaphor, Shakespeare incorporates this somewhat esoteric notion into his plays, e.g.:

O, pardon! since a crooked figure may

Attest in little place a million;

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

(Henry V, I, i)

Goe hence in debt: And therefore, like a Cypher

(Yet standing in rich place) I multiply

With one we thanke you, many thousands moe,

That goe before it.

(Winter's Tale, I, ii)

The exhibit offered little information about the plays themselves, except to provide a list of plays (I hadn’t known that two plays, Cardenio and Love’s Labours Won, are known to have been written but have not survived), a rough chronology (I hadn’t known that two plays, Henry VIII or All is True and The Two Noble Kinsmen, were written after The Tempest--I have, in fact, never heard of either of these plays), and some information on the publication of the plays (which didn’t happen until six years after Shakespeare’s death). 750 First Folios were printed in 1623, of which some 200 survive. I do have to admit that while I thought the exhibit was well put together and well presented, it could have stood some better traffic management, and the fact that it was packed with Chinese children made it difficult for me to really appreciate the work that had gone into it.

Once outside the exhibit, in the garden, I sat on a bench and waited for the kids to cycle through. The garden is pleasantly disheveled and very English, a towering cedar of Lebanon presides over beds of scented flowers like lavender and antique roses, a small herb garden, a fountain made of a millstone, a lovely modern sundial with the motto ‘The sun with one eye vieweth all the world’ (Henry VI part 1), and a bust of Rabindranath Tagore.

The first room in the house describes the evidence for its restoration--written inventories, paintings of similar interiors, surviving furniture, and archaeological finds. I was thus convinced, though a bit surprised at the wild bold patterns on the wallpaper in the house…but I’ve seen similar things before and have no reason to think they weren’t authentic. One of the guides inside told me that the Shakespeare family were closet Catholics, which I hadn't known--I asked if anyone had found hiding places in the house for Catholic objects, and he said not to his knowledge, though such secret places had recently been found in similar houses. I also discovered why the English traditionally eat lunch at 1--lords and ladies ate between 11 and 1, and the rest of us had the leftovers afterward.

Shakespeare's father had been a glover and seller of leather and skins, and half the house had been devoted to his shop. I learned that in this type of shop customers didn't actually enter the house--the front door was kept locked--but interacted with the shopkeepersolely through the shop window; if they wanted to see something that wasn't actually hanging in the window the shopkeeper would hand it out to them. Apparently in addition to sheep and deer, dogskin gloves were quite popular and very expensive. I asked what kinds of dogs they made dogskin gloves out of; the costumed docent wasn't sure, but she thought something like lurchers.

One room in the house contained an exhibit on its history. It is now owned by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, a descendant of the committees formed by concerned citizens to purchase the property in 1847 when a rumour spread that P. T. Barnum was planning to purchase the house and ship it to the USA. The whole Birthplace thing has always been driven by Americans--the first two signatures in the visitors book that was started in 1812 were Americans, and John Adams and Thomas Jefferson had visited the Birthplace together in 1786.

By this time I was starving, so stopped for an early dinner at the Garrick; the beer selection was disappointing but I had an Abbot and a stake and ale pie. Then I walked to the RSC box office to see if I might be able to get a ticket for a play that night--I had the choice of a Shakespeare history or The Penelopiad, written by Margaret Atwood, and chose the latter. While I was waiting I took a stroll along the Avon to watch the passing traffic--tourist launches, motorboats, rowboats, the Stratford Upon Avon BC scull, and a gaggle of pretty disastrous kayakers that I would have bet money were involved in some kind of team-building exercise. There are swans on the Avon, and they are called 'mute swans'--but they are not mute, they grunt and snort like pigs. How elegant is that?

The play turned out to be an excellent choice--partly because it was good, and well acted by an all-female RSC cast, and partly because the Swan Theater is beautifully designed, mimicing the layout of the Globe in London. The visuals and acoustics were excellent, and I particularly appreciated the 'minstrels gallery' for the musicians above the stage, to allow the actors and the audience to get closer to each other.

The next morning before we left I strolled to nearby Shottery to visit Anne Hathaway’s cottage, also owned by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust, which several people had recommended. It sits in a lovely garden and an apple orchard where sculptures that represent Shakespeare's plays are scattered among the trees. A sign mentioned that cider was a Roman import, and its production declined sharply when the Romans left; the Domesday Book only records one orchard.

This building was oddly restored, if it can be said to be restored at all--everything was clean and neatly swept (wouldn't there have been rushes on the floors?), with framed pictures on the walls and knicknacks on the mantelpieces. It felt much more like a modern 'country kitchen' style house than any attempt at recreating what it must have looked like when Shakespeare hung out there. I wondered as I walked around the house whether Elizabethan storerooms had really been that neat. Possibly--they did have less stuff than we do now, so maybe there was in fact less general clutter. On the other hand, it was more necessary to store food to feed your household for a long time, so maybe there were actually more things in houses then. I walked on a floor that Shakespeare walked on; one of the guides said he'd seen some people do some strange things when told that. On my way out I saw in the garden what looked for all the world like rows of apples with feathers stuck into them. I didn’t ask anyone about them, unfortunately.

Another late start, but it was only a few miles to Harvington, where I was to see a play that night. Chats with some of the locals elicited the fact that there was noplace within walking distance that I would be able to stay, and I would have to ride Henry home in the dark after the play, so I moved on to Evesham, where I parked Henry and headed for the tourist office. Evesham is a pleasant busy town with a split personality--in the bustling market square a huge steam organ played, advertising the upcoming steam festival, while not a block away through a medieval abbey gate two churches rest in the peaceful silence of a cemetery.

After the helpful tourist office guy found me a place to stay the night near Bidford, I thought I’d spend the afternoon driving to Chedworth Roman Villa, 'the National Trust's oldest stately home', which I'd just then seen a flyer for. But Henry apparently wasn’t wild about the idea—just after we got started the ball that holds the control end of the choke cable on popped off and the cable went sproing! I pulled over into a side street and called roadside assistance, then wheeled Henry to the market square where we waited in relatively pleasant surroundings until an enormous truck pulled neatly into the square, scooped up Henry, and off we went.

The driver deposited us at Mike Taylor Motorcycles outside the city, where Mike spent the better part of an hour devising a new fastener which looks and works better than the original—and only charged me £10 for it, bless his heart. Thanks Mike—you did a great job and saved my trip. By this time I realised there was no way we’d get to Chedworth and back that day, so I asked for directions for Bidford and headed straight to the farmhouse, where I was welcomed by Christine and Bob the dog, who showed off by dashing three times around the large yard and then planting himself at my feet with a big grin. My accommodation turned out to be a lovely and spacious suite at the end of the farmhouse—I’d be happy to go back and spend more time there.

I unpacked, then napped and read until it was time to go to the play. It was actually disconcerting and surreal to hear some of my stories, and even some of my turns of phrase, coming out of the mouth of a character onstage, and a bit eerie to be played by someone younger, taller and cuter than I am. I was pleased and surprised at how much the author, Richard Povall, had picked up and used from our interview, though it was also interesting to note what he didn’t quite get. He put my opinion that architects get all the credit for buildings at the expense of the engineers who make them possible into the mouth of a historical character, when this is really a modern issue. This character uses the example of Christopher Wren as an architect who gets undeserved credit--I expect he did this because I myself am down on Wren--but Wren was his own engineer, and quite a fine one, so the line doesn’t make sense in that context.

He incorporated my story of a man stopping a meeting to inform the single woman in the group (me) where the ladies’ room was, which I thought worked really well. He used my dictum that to be a surveyor you need to be intelligible at 100 feet and audible at 300 in a funny skit in which a Victorian engineer teaches a Swedish surveyor how to lay a railway. I was pleased to see the ghost of Jessop appear to have a chat with Telford, and the scene where a young and boisterous Brunel capers around waving Telford's Clifton bridge design and shouting 'this is old and tired!' was probably the best in the play.

I thought the best use of one of my stories was the way he’d elaborated a metaphor I’d used--’a man flaps his wings and announces that he’s flying, without acknowledging the women who are holding him up’--into a lovely vignette spoken by Sarah Guppy, which drew a murmur of surprised approval from the audience.

Afterwards I went up to introduce myself to the woman who'd played 'me'--it was a weird and awkward conversation; I'm sure she felt a bit uncomfortable. So I cut it short and headed back to the farmhouse. The trip back in the dark was slightly nervewracking—I’ve been told that my hi-vis vest is very visible at night, but I know Henry’s running lights are not, and other drivers seemed tardy about dropping their headlights. But we knew the way, and drove slowly, and made it back without incident.

I had breakfast the next morning with a young man who raises rare breed fowl in Scotland. He had scratches all up and down his arms; he said it wasn't his cat but rather his fowl--modern fowl are bred for docility, but the older breeds are rather ferocious. He pointed out something to me which I now feel stupid for never noticing before--that there's no difference between white eggs and brown eggs; in fact, there are no native British breeds that lay brown eggs. So, why do people prefer brown eggs? I think the actual answer is the analogy to bread, rice or sugar, in which case the brown version is less processed than the white. But really, with eggs there's no difference. Organic, free-range, yes--but not brown.

Then Ted, Christine's husband, took me out to meet some of the animals. They have two ponies, Bandit (an abandoned Shetland) and Beauty. Beauty is always accompanied by Doris the hen, an escapee from a battery farm. Then we played Bob’s favourite game. Bob isn’t too good at fetch; he doesn’t understand the rules. If you throw him something he herds it into a spot under a bush, then comes back for another. This isn't a terribly effective game with tennis balls, but it works OK with apples off the tree.

I dawdled rather longer than I'd expected to that morning (late starts seemed to be a persistent theme on this trip), but did have a good chunk of riding to do that day, so finally managed to pack up and take off. We hadn't gotten to visit the Roman villa, but we did take the Roman road (now the B4455) 60 miles crosscountry to Lutterworth and then on to Market Harborough, all in one go (i.e. I didn't get lost). Market Harborough is a pleasant and bustling town with a theatre, lots of designer clothing shops, and a medieval market building. The tourist information centre was in the library; the man I talked to said they didn’t do accommodations, but he gave me the phone numbers of two pubs in Desborough (where he lives) and the first one I called had a room available for £25.

I drove straight there and found out that, contrary to what the tourist information man had told me, the Rushton Triangular Lodge was slightly too far to walk to from there, so I unpacked Henry, then started it up and drove out to it. It was a fun way to spend a few hours, exploring the building and pondering the meaning of the emblems. While I was engaged in this activity a man asked me if Henry was mine; when I said yes he said he suspected as much--'you have that Royal Enfield look.' He SAID he meant it as a compliment.

Afterwards I found that I still had some afternoon left, so decided to go look for Rockingham Castle. My lost karma finally caught up with me, and I spent way too much time wandering around the area; I’m sure Corby is a perfectly lovely place, once you get to know it, so please don’t write to tell me so. I finally did make it to Rockingham only to discover that it had been closed for the day, and that I couldn't even see the building from the road. Discouraged, I headed back to Desborough for a quick uneventful walk around the village (I decided that I like Northamptonshire brick much more than Yorkshire brick--the colour is a more mellow orange) and an early evening drinking in the pub.

The next morning I took the backest of back roads to Kilmarsh Hall; I thought I’d arrived early but there were already hundreds of people in line for tickets to the Festival of History. The parking area was grass or gravel, so I kept driving to look for somewhere more secure to leave Henry, finally ending up in the encampment itself; someone yelled ‘are you with one of the groups?’ and I shook my head and turned back. I finally parked Henry on hard-packed dirt in the disabled parking area (when I came out again later to get my water bottle I discovered that it had been joined by a tiny Francis-Barnett, probably older than Henry but with lots of modern modifications).

The site had been laid out roughly by period, with road signs identifying the direction to each century. Naturally I started with the Romans, having a quick look at the encampment of the Ermine Street Guard. Aside from displays of food, armour and tools, they had put up some informational panels about the Roman army and Roman society, from which I learned that there is in fact no evidence for the use of drums in the Roman army (something I'd wondered about at the Varus battle). I also learned about recent archaeology that has enlightened us on the construction and use of the Roman cavalry saddle and which also seems to have proved Lynn White, the archetype and hero of historians of technology, dead wrong.

As it turns out, the horns of the Roman saddle function as well as stirrups to secure the rider to his horse and to allow the rider to put the horse's power behind his weapon--Roman cavalry used light throwing lances, but there are also images of them using spears in a similar way to medieval knights using lances. The Roman I talked to was unfamiliar with Lynn White and his theories, and didn't know enough about Roman harness to tell me whether White was wrong about that too--but I will pursue this with Peter Connolly, the man who has done this archaeological research.

After a quick look around the Roman encampment I went off to watch a presentation entitled Dogs in History ('colour, pageantry, and an awful lot of barking'). It was both informative and unintentionally funny thanks to some of the canine actors. The first of five presentations (there should have been six, but Wellington's hunting dogs couldn't make it) was Elizabethan--the narrator explained that they had both scent hounds (like the now-extinct Talbot hound) and gaze or sight hounds, like the greyhound. Elizabeth I passed a law prohibiting commoners to own dogs over a certain size (that couldn't pass through her stirrup?) which is why whippets were bred. The hounds romped and played, totally uninterested in the stuffed raccoon on a rope that a horseman dragged around the arena.

Next up was Prince Rupert and his hunting poodle, and I began to wonder about period riding styles. Do we have any idea how people in different ages actually rode, aside from the archaeology of their equipment? And did any of the horses in the arena have authentic harness? The bridles all looked pretty modern to me. Next up was a scene from World War I, which was really charming, and some stories about dogs like Prince, who disappeared from his master's house when he was called up for the war and appeared months later in the trenches in France ('you may not believe it, but the story was documented by the RSPCA') and Rin Tin Tin, who had been found in the trenches and later became a movie star. The next presentation described the Dicken Medal, the 'animal VC'--engraved with the words 'we also serve'. Apparently only one cat has ever been awarded it.

After that I went to watch the Romans firing their artillery pieces--the first time I've ever seen a ballista fired with a satisfying fhwap (and discovered that 'yakite!' means 'fire!' in Latin). This was the first time I've ever seen a nervous Roman soldier tugging on his short skirt--hah, how do you like it, dude? Then I went to wander around for a while, looking at the encampments.

Time periods ranged from Bronze Age through World War II, which seemed to have the largest representation, though there also appeared to be a good turnout of Romans, Viking/Dark Age types, ambiguously medieval people, English Civil War people (there were hundreds of soldiers on the field for the Civil War reenactment), and 18th and early 19th century military (i.e. 'Sharpe's Rifles'). One encampment had a Victorian museum of oddities (which I was glad to see but didn't spend much time at since we Californians do that schtick so much better) and I saw this heliograph station at the Boer War encampment, but other than that there wasn't much Victorian in evidence (PW hypothesises that maybe this era is too urban and industrial to be portrayed effectively in an open field). I was particularly impressed by the dedication of the men staffing the Antarctic exploration encampment--they were indeed tricked out in fur coats, goggles and huge mittens, looking very amused and pleased with themselves--I don't know how they managed in the August heat.

There was a lot of cross-era interaction, and it seemed that the fashion accessory of choice for this event was World War I officer's caps worn with both male and female medieval attire. Standards of authenticity certainly varied--I was surprised to hear an allegedly interwar brass band playing a version of 'Any Dream Will Do' from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. I really had to wonder what it was all about...the impression I got was that, aside from it being a huge 'Reenactorcon' party the ostensible idea was to help kids learn that 'history is fun'. But I'm wondering whether if I were a kid at this event I'd come away with a noisy mishmash of costumes, horses, and weapons rather than any sense of actual 'history'. I also wondered, thinking of this and the California Renaissance Faires, what other sorts of things we learn about history from these events:

In history it is always hot and dusty, and always daytime.

In history everyone always shouts in a pretentious voice.

Everyone in history likes Celtic music and designs.

People in history all look like heavy longhaired bearded hippies.

People in history are all helpful and friendly and speak like teachers.

It is funny how different eras draw different types of reenactor...but I think that is another essay for another time.

Continuing to muse on the meaning of the event, I headed off to watch the World War I aerial battle. I have to admit I was a bit surprised to see the row of rickety SE5As leave the ground, but my god they did actually fly. The Germans came from behind the trees and bombed the British encampment, setting one of the tents on fire (not sure if that was supposed to happen), and the Tommies fired up at them. At one point there were 8 planes in the air, including two triplanes. The announcer mentioned after the reenactment that one of the pilots was an 84 year old man who had earned a Distinguished Service Cross flying in World War II.

Then to complete the set I went to visit the World War I trench. I was impressed with the way they had set this up--small groups of people were met by an officer who spoke to us as if we were a group of officers who'd been assigned to take over the position; he briefed us on the situation, then showed us around to familiarise us with the facilities so that we could prepare our people to occupy them. It worked very well, allowing the soldiers to stay in character while providing the information we as time-travelling tourists would need to have (his query 'any questions?' at the end of the tactical briefing went unanswered, even by me). I know the reenactor group spent a great deal of effort getting the details right, and I'm sure the uniforms were perfect if a bit too clean, but it is a bit hard to reproduce a World War I trench on a beautiful dry sunny day. I did mention to JM later that I was surprised that they hadn't laid duckboards down for us to walk on--I'd have thought that would have been a relatively simple addition, and would have added a great deal to the 'authentic' feel of the construction...but what am I talking about, I've never been in a World War I trench in my life, so how the hell do I know what is authentic or not? The ever present question....

All of this second-guessing was wearing me out. It had been a long day, but I wasn't as exhausted as I'd expected to be. We got to Peterborough in reasonable time, only getting lost within a few blocks of JM’s house (and fortuitously finding a detailed map on a nearby bus station when JM’s phone was busy when I called her). I parked Henry, unpacked, then joined JM in her peaceful back garden, drinking ginger beer and petting Jack, the neighbour’s cat, before heading off to forage and sightsee.

We followed a green path along the river Nene to an excellent pub and restaurant (local real ales and Asian fusion food) on a restored canal boat—we went inside to get our provisions, then sat in the last sun by the river eating and drinking. When we were done we walked across a bridge into town, which by then was just about closed for the night. JM doesn’t think much of Peterborough (telling someone who asked her where there might be a good place to eat ‘well, you’re in the wrong town’ and later saying ‘why would the Germans bomb Peterborough? They’d have known they were doing us a favour’), but did point out some lovely buildings even if she didn’t know what they were.

The next morning we got off to another late start, walking back into town to have a look at the Cathedral, which had been closed by the time we got there the night before. Peterborough Cathedral is considered one of the finest in Britain, and amusingly enough apparently one of the ten most photogenic buildings in the UK (along with York Minster). It is certainly stunning and complex; JM and I spent probably a couple of hours there that morning and only scratched the surface. The most surprising thing to me was the number of mysterious symbols and emblems around the building, many of which I recognised as Masonic (I mentioned to JM that if she were bored she could write a bestselling conspiracy novel set there). One plaque, in fact, states that the cornerstone of the northeast pier of the central tower had been laid by Progressed Master the Earl of Carnarvon, 1884. Interestingly, his successor to the title was the man who financed Howard Carter's Egyptian expeditions; his unexpected death was said to have been caused by the 'mummy's curse'. I found it all rather sinister--though I guess it's Catholics that don't get along with Masons; I suppose there's no problem with them and Anglicans.

A couple of the memorials were lovely--the epitaph of Mandell Creighton, DD, DCL, LLD, was 'He tried to write true history', and the memorial celebrating the life rather than mourning the death of George Eric Deacon Alcock MBE was beautiful. The cathedral is the resting place of Katharine of Aragon and the former resting place of Mary Queen of Scots. Exhibits describing both of their lives can be found on either side of the choir; they were both well written and informative, but a bit jarring in a place of worship.

After a while we looked at the time, said 'oh shit,' and headed back to JM's house without either asking the docents all the questions we had about the symbols we'd seen or walking around the grounds. I packed up, let Jack have a go at starting Henry, then finally got on the road, heading toward Grantham.

Every time I've mentioned to someone that I've wanted to visit Grantham, to see the birthplace of the greatest English person who ever lived, the answer would invariably be 'who, Margaret Thatcher?' No, Isaac Newton, who grew up on a farm near the village of Woolsthorpe. Under the crossed bones that are the symbol of the Newton family, an inscription over the door of the manor, now a National Trust property, reads

In this manor house

Sir Isaac Newton K

was born 25 December

AD 1692

The house has been restored to what it may have looked like in Newton's day, with similar and replica furnishings from the V&A. One thing that seems to have lasted since Newton’s time is the drawings on the walls--a bird's head, crisscross symbols, numbers, and a post windmill and large and elaborate drawing of St. Wulframs Church in Grantham; it's likely Isaac himself did these last two as a child. I was thrilled to stand in the small hexagonal room off Newton's study where Newton had made his optical observations.

An outbuilding had been converted into a hands-on museum that illustrates Newton's principles. I was particularly impressed at the one for calculus--the 'hands on' part involves matching a graph of the distance and speed of a moving car and of a bungee jumper. Each exhibit explained the problem that Newton's principles can be used to solve, then said 'Thanks to the father of modern science,' these problems are now solvable. I noticed that information in both the house and the exhibit focused entirely on Newton’s scientific endeavours--there was no mention at all of his later life, or of his other, more obscure and less orthodox, pursuits.

By the time I'd finished looking around the exhibit, and watching the well-made video in another outbuilding, it was pouring rain, so I hung out in the gatehouse until it slacked off a bit. Unfortunately by that time I knew there was no way I was going to make it to the Papplewick pumping station before it closed. So I took off up the A1 past Grantham and along the A52, which turned out to be a bit of a slog, and pulled into a hotel just east of Bingham, figuring I had a better chance to find a place to stay that late in the day at an actual hotel than at a B&B. Nothing in the building looked older than the '60s, but I believe it was actually a poorly-restored older building, based on the labyrinthine plan and randomly varying floor levels. I took a quick stroll around the uninspiring countryside, then went to bed early despite the fact that my last stop on the trip, Newstead Abbey, was only a few miles away and didn't open until noon the next day.

When I got there I expressed reservations about leaving Henry in the dirt carpark, and the rangers mentioned that they’d look the other way if I left it up by the abbey. The house was not yet open, so I wandered around the grounds, running into follies that looked like something from Myst, that offered a great view of the abbey under brooding skies, and finding a waterfall that you can actually stand under.

After more exploring of the different garden areas I went into the house, which turned out to be fascinating. Exhibits detailed the history of the house and its occupants, including African explorer William Frederick Webb, but of course most of it was devoted to Byron. I don't know why I was surprised to find so many of Byron's possessions preserved--in glass cases in one room can be found Byron's boxing gloves, pistols, fencing masks, sword stick, and various other things, including Annabella's wedding ring (apparently it had been Byron's mother's, and was too big for Annabella, who wrapped a black ribbon around it to make it fit; Byron took that as an ominous omen). His bedroom has his bed, with his quilt, and a pistol resting on the bed stairs beside it. The funniest thing, though, was a large four-panel screen set up in one room, on which Byron had pasted pictures of his favourite prizefighters that he'd cut out of magazines (apparently he'd pasted pictures of his favourite actors and actresses on the other side, but you couldn't see it).

Many of the sites I’d visited had rooms with period clothing for children to try on--this one had a room with 'Byronic' clothing; a panel suggested that people try on flowing shirts, capes and tartans (apparently Byron wore the Gordon tartan constantly when travelling overseas) and see if it makes them feel more romantic or heroic. Another room had boxes of Victorian clothes, from the days of the Webbs.

I left Newstead about 1, thinking I should have spent more time in the house, and headed north on the A60. I passed through Mansfield, which must have more stoplights per capita than anyplace else in England, Bawtry, which it would be interesting to stop in next time I come through, and Doncaster, where I got very lost and had some unpleasant driving, then finally on the A19 for York.