Before Crete There Was England

England was living up to it’s reputation of being wet, cold, and gray ever since I arrived in London a week ago. Heathrow via the tube to Hammersmith and a short walk deposited me at a Holiday Inn for the night. I checked in early, showered, napped, went for a walk, grabbed a sandwich and turned in early. I was exhausted from not only the flight from Houston but the last three months of non stop work and busyness.

The following morning I hopped back on the Picadilly line at Hammersmith and rode the tube to King’s Cross station. At King’s Cross I sat outside and watched people for about an hour before catching the train to Peterborough. A relatively sorted homeless looking fellow discreetly poured rum into a coffee cup before adding Coca Cola. Off to my right a middle aged gentleman with long tan wool overcoat and dreadlocks spun atop his head like a beehive focused attentively to his phone. A young Asian man smoked a cigarette as he stood with girlfriend and luggage. As time neared to catch my train a tight skirt with purple sweater, high heels, and gawdy makeup passed quickly. A deep voice and thin straight body was a dead giveaway. Odd. A turn of my head and I wondered if the undoubtedly fine looking stylish woman was Russian or Eastern European. She definitely did not look British.

When you enter a train station the first thing you do is go to the monitors to determine what platform your train will be departing from. Oftentimes there is a crowd at the monitors and people move out in waves as platforms are announced. My train was on platform 4, a standard coach with assigned seat. I knew during non peak hours an assigned seat doesn’t really matter so I hopped on an empty standard coach and shared it with just a few others. I like facing forward with a table. That way you get a better view and there’s plenty of room to throw the pack on the seats opposite.

My main reason for an English layover was to catch up with my friend Deb. She arrived at the station in Peterborough to pick me up just as I was about to exit the station. From Peterborough it’s a nice and relatively short drive to the traditional country village of King’s Cliffe. Stone built row houses line narrow lanes in a shallow valley with low rolling hills and a creek running through it. Royalty use to hunt in the area and during WW2 Glenn Miller played his last show at the local airbase before disappearing over the English Channel on his was to entertain troops in France.

Deb’s father lives in a nice old two story stone townhouse while Deb resides in the garden out back. She expanded a shed, below a garage, into a rustic cabin. It’s set at the top of a sloping field. A little down and off to the side she’s positioned two caravan trailers at a 90 degree angle with square wood deck and awning. One trailer is homey and set up well for a guest so that is where I stayed. The other trailer has a portion of a wall removed where it faces the deck. It contains a table with bench seat and is meant to be for hanging out. Vines crawl up to the awning and plenty of vegetation surrounds. It’s all very green. A lot of what has been built is from reused wood and rescued scrap. It’s a pretty well done work in progress. Quite lovely when it’s sunny but a bit wet when it’s raining.

Upon arrival Deb showed me to the caravan, fed me a sandwich, and led me in to see her father who I had hadn’t seen in a few years. It was nice to catch up. We all had dinner together at home before Deb and I went to the local social club for a couple of pints.

The next morning I slept in resuming my need to combat jet lag and got a late start on the day. There’s a nice forest next to village with an assortment of paths and trails which are very good for running. Nothing like a good run to re-set the body clock.

When I returned from my run I noticed Deb helping her 87 year old father get into the car. He drove off alone. I was going to say something but didn’t. I assumed it was ok.

I showered, got myself organized, had breakfast and plinked around with a guitar. Awhile later a couple of older South African ladies showed up who had just had coffee with Deb’s father. We sat out back in the garden as the sun was making a short appearance. Deb’s father should have been back a few minutes after the South Africans arrived but instead Deb got a phone call. There had been an accident.

An economy sized Toyota collided, in the village, with a Mini Cooper painted like a Union Jack. So fitting. Deb’s dad was driving the Toyota. His car, a bit older, was totaled. The Union Jack mini? Not so sure. Deb ran off to the scene of the accident. I stayed at the house with the two ladies from South Africa but they eventually felt the need to visit the crash as well. Deb’s friend Mark had dropped by in the morning. I found him napping in his van and woke him to inform him of the incident. I asked if he thought we should go check it out but he gave me a “no” with a what’s the point sort of look. We hung out at the house all day. Waiting for news.

Her father was thoroughly checked over and released from the hospital at 4 am. Deb woke me around 9 am (jet lag) and said her father was all seized up from the crash and needed help getting upright in his chair.

The next few days consumed Deb with tending to a man of sound mind but body that could barely move. I helped with what I could. Her brother and sister in law arrived on the scene for a reality check with Deb and Dad. Calls were made and arrangements made. Her father was picked up by ambulance and transported to a rehab facility. Deb followed and made sure he was sorted.

With a crash on Thursday and Deb being consumed with issues pertaining to the incident while caring for her father it was time for a three pint night on Monday.

This first was a pint at hotel pub in Nassington. With the weather being consistently wet, cold and filthy, a nice fire was going. Not a bad place but Deb thought we could do better. From there we pressed on to Cross Keys in Lawnsford.

The Cross Keys is a bit like stepping back into what felt like a 70’s or 80’s version of a English pub. It’s a small place with a low roof and a variety of nick nacks etc displayed about. The bar is quite small with ale taps up front and whiskey bottles hung upside down mounted to dispensers on the back wall. A fireplace sits in the middle of room and has been fitted with a stove that was pumping out the right amount of heat. The feel was warm and cozy. The proprietor is an Irish woman who bought the pub in the early 90’s and claimed she hadn’t really updated much but the establishment was well maintained. The atmosphere exuded a nice vibe.

Hidden in the back, past the toilets, is a second room. I had no idea it was there until I heard the sound of around 15 people playing ukuleles and singing in unison. They were covering tunes by Buddy Holly, Gerry and Pacemakers, Beach Boys etc. Mainly 50’s and 60’s stuff. Deb and I sat at the bar talking about life, travel, and nothing in particular. It’s what you do in a pub. We intentionally avoided her village social club as we knew the evening would be spent talking about her father and his crash.

So, for the next few nights Deb and I went to pubs, visited her father during the day, and I got in a couple of runs on some very nice forest trails near her village. But the rain continued. Deb was feeling the need to remodel the house while dad was away. I was feeling the need for sun and sea so I bought a ticket to Island of Crete. That was the basic plan anyway. A stop in England to visit Deb then on to somewhere hot and sunny where I could swim in the sea everyday. It totaled up to 11 days in the UK.

Note: The photo above was taken at the foundation of the airbase hanger where Glenn Miller played his last show.