Saturday, June 22: Boats, Buses, Picnics & Parks!
Morning
Well, my friends, our idealistic run around the hallowed grounds of academia did not come to pass. Instead, I woke around 9am when Joey began stirring next to me, and found myself feeling approximately ten thousand times better than when I had fallen asleep the night before. I waited patiently while Joey dressed (down to the headband perfectly placed and shoes meticulously laced) and then stumbled down the stairs after her in my PJs (running shorts and a stained t-shirt). Mom and Anne had risen a bit earlier than we and, total champions that they are, had ventured down the street to Costa Coffee to pick up a breakfast spread for the terrace. Ham and cheese sandwiches, danishes, croissants, some-weird-fruit-thing-ugh-I-dont-know, plus a couple of coffees for Anne and me and a tea for 80% British Mom (she’s done 23andme, there’s no doubt) made for a wonderful meal under the sunshine of an Oxford morning. Joey (reference hangriness from last post) even perked up after a couple bites of croissant, because the setting was just too hard to resist.
Breakfast in the Garden in Oxford
Over breakfast we chatted about planning and logistics for the day. We had a reservation at 10:45am for a sightseeing cruise, and knew we had to make our way to Cardiff eventually -- but that was mostly it agenda-wise. We hemmed and hawed about the best timing/driving/car logistics for way longer than necessary because none of it mattered in the end. As soon as I entered that backwards-driving, automatic-everything-except-driving car from hell, ALL TIME SCHEDULES WENT OUT THE WINDOW. But for the moment we were content with our choices, and quickly packed and set out. Goodbye beautiful Oxford Airbnb with the lovely garden; see you another time, perhaps!
GPS says 15 minutes to the cruise drop-off point? Perfect! We have 30 to spare. Our first clue that perhaps this wouldn’t go to plan was dropping the Airbnb keys back in the lock box. Anne couldn’t get the box to close; nor could I. It was a simple box. A few more tries and … yes, yes we got it. Ok, ok… 25 minutes to spare but still some room. Oxford is a beautiful, old city founded in the 8th century and really, as a result, should be pedestrian-only, ok? These streets were not made for driving. Narrow, one-way, two-ways that should be one-ways, confusing twists and turns, etc. My driving was considerably improved with rest, but it still wasn’t easy for god’s sake. Good point: I felt much more confident I wasn’t going to unintentionally kill someone. Bad point: I still felt like I could have a heart attack at any given moment. A point on navigation, too: navigation is not easy on the other side of the road either. Traffic patterns are different, turns are different, signs are different, markers are different and it takes a considerable period of adjustment. Just like I was adjusting, Anne was adjusting too. Needless to say, we fumbled through Oxford and the 25 minutes quickly evaporated. It was 10:42 and GPS says we are 1 minute away, but what is this? Are we on a bridge?? GPS says we have arrived. On a bridge? Maybe we meet in the River Thames? Where are the life jackets? What sort of creatures live in the Thames anyway? There’s no shoulder. Is that someone honking? KEEP GOING. 10:44. Gotta turn left. 3 point turn. Scratch that - 7 point turn. 10:48 and back to the bridge, but stopped at a light. We look around and see a sign in small letters under the sign for The Restaurant Folly: “Oxford River Cruises.” The light is still red -- Joey and Mom could still make it! GET OUT we begin to shout at our mother and 6-year old daughter/niece. GET OUT NOW AND GO OVER THERE. YES GET OUT ON THE BRIDGE QUICKLY THE LIGHT THE LIGHT.. NO MOM NOT ON THE RIGHT SIDE YOU’RE GONNA GET KILLED THEY DRIVE OVER THERE. <mom and Joey confusedly and hastily exit the car.> The light turns green and we peel off the bridge with the image of Mom and Joey holding hands, still confused, but dutifully standing on the side of the bridge as we sped down the street. “It’ll probably be fine,” Anne offers while she buries into the GPS to try to direct me to the car park. An easy 4 times around the same block and I finally made it into the car park, about a 10 minute walk from the bridge. Smooth sailing now, right? We can ditch the car and all is well. Well, well, well. Let me tell you something about me and spatial awareness: we don’t connect. I was a fine algebra student and terrible with geometry. When Rick and I first started dating, he disassembled and then reassembled everything I had tried to put together myself, out of intense fear that every piece of furniture I owned would fall apart at any moment. Both of my children mastered that ubiquitous shape sorter baby toy before I did. The only thing requiring spatial awareness I've somewhat succeeded at is dancing, but you put this dancing body in a larger box and that box is gonna get destroyed while I keep on grooving. This is all to say:
Parking has always been my driving nemesis.
And here we met head-to-head.
The space was small, and my perspective on the left was (still) totally thrown off. I straightened, tried to straighten better, contemplated backing in, and then convinced myself I had angled the car in such a way that there was no way to get out of the space without hitting another car. And this, my friends, is when I had a breakdown. You could have told me my dog died and I would have probably been in a better mental state. I started to panic: Anne, you have to do it. I can’t do it. I can’t do this. Ok, she said -- a testament to her support that she was game to try driving in a car reversed of any car she’s ever driven before for the first time in a difficult parking spot on an incline -- but I really think you’re ok, she coaxed. I got out and looked at the left side. There was plenty of space. That crazy British fox of car was playing tricks on me. My panic started to subside, and suddenly it was all ok. I backed out carefully and straightened out. After this point, I became infinitely more confident in driving. I got you figured out UK (mostly); I can do this.
Oxford Tours
Finally able to ditch the beast, we sped-walk (or maybe it was just normal walk? Joey and Mom I love you but your walking pace seriously altered my idea of what an average pace feels like) toward Oxford to find out what exactly happened to Joey and Mom after we ditched them on the bridge. Tentatively we stepped into the Folly, following reception signs for Oxford River Cruises that were so impossible to see whizzing by in a car. Anne began:
“Hi, so we dropped off our mom and my niece here… an older lady and a little girl… did they get on a boat or what?”
The gentleman behind the counter said with fitting British deadpan humor:
“Yeah, yeah we put them on the 11 o’clock cruise.”
[pause for sighs of relief from Anne and me]
“... Should be back around 3pm.”
JUST KIDDING he added on after our eyes widened. “They’ll be back by 11:50.”
Phew. Mission (half) accomplished: someone got on the cruise. Anne and I had about a half an hour before the cruise returned, so we walked up toward the imposing Christchurch College which was just a 5 minute walk away. We ducked in a cafe for a caffeine boost and ordered relatively straightforward espresso fare: an americano for Anne and a latte for me. Quite possibly the worst espresso drink I’ve ever had. Anne’s fairly certain the clerk just reused the espresso beans that were already in the portafilter. So began a week-long desperate search for decent coffee in a country of tea-drinkers. The Costa coffee we had that morning set the highest bar for coffee we were able to find nearly all trip; if only we had known, we would have savored it a bit longer over breakfast.
Without too much time to daddle, we walked through a set of gardens and then slowly made our way back to the infamous bridge to watch and wave as our sailors came back to port. An odd fact about me: since about 6th grade I’ve had a fascination with Tudor history (and literally no interest in any other part of British history), so on our walk I told a very disinterested Anne about how Christchurch College was founded during the reign of Henry VIII -- a crazy tale involving a cardinal, a fall from grace thanks to Anne Boleyn, and church separations. I think Anne would have rather been back in the car helping me through an emotional breakdown over parking.
Joey and Mom on the Oxford Cruise Up the Thames
Entrance to Christchurch College
We were back to the bridge with plenty of time to wave Joey and Mom in from their cruise (literally everyone else on their cruise waved to us before Mom and Joey noticed us; pro tip -- when you’re trying to get your mom’s attention, yelling MOOOOOOOM over and over again is not specific enough). They reported a lovely trip though Joey was a bit bored towards the end, and after re-grouping we decided to walk back up to Christchurch to take a Hop-on/Hop-off bus tour of Oxford (we would just be hopping on, thanks). Oxford by sea: check. Oxford by land: check. Tickets purchased, we boarded the next big red double-decker bus headed our way and were treated to a beautiful tour of the city. We saw Trinity College, Queen’s College, St. John’s, The Plains, Randolph Hotel, and much more. Joey didn’t like any of that stuff but she did enjoy riding a bus. The open air bus novelty wore off in about 30 minutes though when boredom started to settle in for her, and - luckily for all the other tourists around us - when Joey is bored she usually starts singing out loud. Loudly and without thinking. A little Moana soundtrack with your medieval college tour? You’re welcome! This was my first Hop On Hop Off tour, and I admit it provided a great overview of the city from a nearly eagle eye perspective. Oxford is full of beautiful architecture dotted with canal paths and pocket gardens, and it’s not hard to see why it holds such an esteemed position in British and world history. Despite its small area size you could probably spend hours getting lost in those streets, discovering new haunts around each corner.
We hopped off the bus back at Christchurch College and strolled down to Tesco to pick up some supplies for a picnic at the park with the ridiculously small parking spaces. Three sandwiches, two pastries, yogurt, carrots and hummus, chips, and a round of juice/soda/water drinks for 16 pounds? Tesco meals were our favorite. The park was about ¾ of a mile away, so we started there slowly and paused again for a caffeine boost. Espresso was (probably) not reused this time, but still not great. The park was mostly empty when we arrived, so we staked out a shady spot near the playground and set up our picnic. Joey took off to burn some pent up boat-and-bus-sitting energy in playground bliss while the rest of us alternately joined Joey or relaxed in a calm, sunny day, knowing well this was weather was rare enough to be appreciated in Britain.
I had read before we left something (I’m slightly loathe to admit it may have been Rick Steve’s) that mentioned that traveling with kids was one of the best avenues to immersing yourself in the local scene (er, local family scene at least), because by necessity they’ll drive you to the playgrounds and parks and stores. If given the choice between the Louvre or a twisty slide, kids will likely choose the latter. This was certainly true today; though we were early, the after-lunch crowd of neighborhood families began streaming into the park, and soon Joey was whipping around merry-go-rounds with friends, as though the thousands of miles that separated her from home quietly slipped away. I’ve been fortunate enough to travel quite a bit as a teenager and young adult, and my greatest combat for homesickness or uncertainty was always finding a sort of meditation through the harmony of everyday life that you find (but often miss to note) exploring a new place. It could have been any Saturday afternoon, anywhere in the world; kids still play and families still gather to enjoy a nice day. There’s something deeply comforting knowing how this scene was currently replicated millions of times across the world, and how seamlessly kids slip into it -- unconcerned with the barriers (race, language, culture, income) that otherwise divide us. We are not so different. But the coffee could be better.
Wales or Bust
We spent a couple hours at the park before loading up and taking the requisite bathroom breaks (Hinksey Park Bathroom was rated 1 star on Google Review, and that was half a star too generous) in preparation for our 2 hour car trip to Cardiff. Mom mentioned maybe swinging by a picture of a horse carved into a mountain on the way -- I think that was it? I had barely registered the inquiry before Anne the Navigator found it was 40 minutes out of the way and we’re not trying to staying in the death machine any longer than necessary, ok? Regardless, soon we were on our way; here we come, homeland! As mentioned before, the Parking Incident actually did wonders for my confidence, and we set out in good spirits. Navigation proved tricky though, and the weekend summer closings of several autoroutes didn’t help. We knew we had to get the M4, which mostly crosses Southern Britain, but took a bit of a circuitous route to get there. It would take another day or two before we figured out the puzzle that was entrance and exit lanes to the highways. In one funny moment, I wondered aloud, a bit unsure, “the right lane is the fast lane right?” and then asked my sister to send a WhatsApp message to a few friends, one of which was currently visiting Scotland with her Scottish husband. These friends also received a barrage of texts from the day before about how stressed I felt driving after the flight. “Can you ask Katelyn and by extension Andy if the right lane is the fast lane?” Anne obliged. Katelyn didn’t respond quickly, but another stateside friend did with a simple statement we had all been silently thinking anyway —
Leigh. I’m worried.
— which provided a light-hearted chuckle. Your worry was not misplaced, Natalie.
Still the drive went smoothly, but as we approached Cardiff Joey woke up from her nap and, upon realizing we were still in the car, had a meltdown of epic proportions - on Joey’s scale at least, as someone who came from the womb with a disposition so startlingly even, we could still count on one hand the amount of tantrums she’s thrown since birth. She began sobbing long, tormented wails that you could hear were laced with her pent up travel fatigue, homesickness, and desperation. It was late in the day - close to 5pm - and we were all travel weary. I think every traveler has cycled through the anguish Joey was feeling, but adults learn to bottle it or express it through veiled frustration or anger. Joey needed to sob, and her sobs took us all the way to central Cardiff. As we approached Cardiff, GPS told us we were only 5 minutes away, but we got caught in what Anne and I later named “the traffic circle of death” and managed to stretch that to 15. All four of us felt intense relief once we finally arrived.
Evening in Cardiff
Our Airbnb in Bute Park, Cardiff
Our Airbnb could have been a postcard; a lovely cottage perched on the edge of Bute Park near Central Cardiff, our home was hidden from the city bustle as the end unit of a group of 19th century white washed row-homes, previously used as the servants’ quarters for a nearby Manor house. As soon as we arrived, Joey’s meltdown disappeared, and she burst into the house ready to explore. Access to the expansive park was mere meters from our doorstep, and Cardiff Castle was only a few minutes walk through the grounds. Though car accessibility was (of course) difficult -- the cottages are hidden behind an ambulance yard, so to access it you must drive through a maze of cars and large emergency vehicles, not to mention driving straight through at least two Do Not Enter signs -- the setting was serene. Inside, the owner had done a wonderful job of providing modern upgrades while still preserving historic charm. Old, beautiful hardwood floors and beams framed a bright, white interior. Three good-sized bedrooms and two-bathrooms on the top floor, while the ground floor contained two living/dining spaces and a corner kitchen that overlooked the ambulance yard. The front door opened onto a pretty garden, which was less inviting than our Oxford house, but when you have a park at your doorstep this seems less important.
Made it to Cardiff!
We settled in and unpacked (I have to unpack if I stay anywhere longer than two days… it’s an odd closure/organization tick I have) and quickly decided to walk up to the nearby restaurant, Blackweir Tavern, which was just a quarter of a mile away on the edge of the park grounds. It was so close that after arrival, I was able to run back to the cottage, collect coloring pencils and paper for Joey, and return all in less than 10 minutes. We selected another table outside — turns out we all prefer al fresco dining with the opportunity prevents itself, because Dad hates it, (or more specifically, he hates bugs) so the opportunity rarely prevents itself. Our Oxford picnic lunch was hours behind us, so we were hungry and the menu before us presented standard British pub fare -- that is to say, heavy and satisfying. They had a sort of Tapas-but-for-British-people selection, and we decided on five of those to share: cod fingers, garlic mushrooms, duck pancakes, halloumi fries, and chicken fingers, as well as two orders of fish and chips to set the scene. Upon ordering at the counter (we’re pros now obviously) we were told they were “out of cod” -- so the fish and chips were a no-go (we still got the cod fingers appetizer, but I was too fearful of inquiring what exactly the cod fingers were made of if not cod…). I hastily changed to Steak & Ale pie, and then inadvertently pressured Anne into selecting vegan fish and chips instead. Listen, vegan fish and chips is not something you should ever, ever consider ordering as we later learned. Rubber looked more appetizing. We washed down our meal with wine, an IPA for Anne, and a Guinness for me (I can’t get enough of the black gold) and a Fanta for Joey. Besides water and milk, Joey struggled to find anything to drink in the UK -- the juice was more like cider, and nearly everything else (even lemonade) tended to come carbonated, which she dislikes. We hoped Fanta -- she’s only ever had soda once before so it was certainly a treat -- would be welcomed, but she still hated the carbonation and rejected it. Ah well, freak child who rejects soda, more Fanta for me. Regardless, we left satisfied, except for poor Anne and her fake fish meal.
We returned “home” around 8:30pm, just in time for Mom’s jammie time. Joey, Anne and I decided to explore the park a bit before bedtime. We didn’t make it too far before we stumbled upon a map to study. The following morning we were going to have breakfast in a park cafe before walking over to pick up a bike rental for Joey, so while Anne and I studied the map to find the best route, Joey set about entertaining herself. She started dancing wildly in one of the wide open fields, and caught such a case of the giggles that it radiated out and Anne and I quickly caught it too. As we giggled and danced in the mostly empty field as the sun began its sloooooow descent, we caught wind of a man on a bike locking our gate from the inside. 9pm. Park closing. Curiously, there were several other groups beside ours still inside the park, but that seemed to be the Brit way -- you should know the rules, it’s not our job to remind you of when the park closes. Which is now. See you at dawn when I unlock the gate! But we were in giggly states, remember, so this just fueled our laughing fire. We made our way over to a brick wall (not a tall one, mind you) and scaled our way out. Thank goodness it was jammie time for Mom, because had she accompanied us we would have had to make her a makeshift tent for safe sleeping inside the locked park.
Escape from Bute Park
Upon returning to the house, I re-read over some of the house instructions our host had left and OOOOOOH realized we had parked in the completely wrong place, which was frankly a relief because upon arrival we could only guess where we were supposed to leave the Beast, and in fact we had left it in a spot that somewhat obstructed the ambulances’ path. I alerted my Moral Supporter, Anne, and she and I headed out in the dusk of 9:30pm (helllooo Northern Europe in summer) to move the car to a tiny space between the kitchen and the ambulance yard next door. I pulled off an easy 58-point turn to back into the space and voila, the Beast was in its rightful place. We were all looking forward to finally staying put for a few days, and headed for bed. I let Joey, who rarely naps but did today, stay up a bit in bed to watch her tablet and in a generational role reversal, Joey kissed me on the forehead as I drifted off to sleep next to her.
