Jolly Old England and its sidekick Wales

England and Wales

In this episode, Ryan…

-goes theatrical in London’s West End

-has a religious experience at Westminister’s Abbey

-doesn’t have a clue what anyone is saying in Wales

Jolly Old London

Oh what a joy London was after Paris, not just because I could actually understand the language—occasionally—but indeed I noticed things had returned to a relative degree of overall friendliness. Don’t get me wrong, I met my share of snooty British—the guide at the British Museum for one, and the woman who ran my hostel for another—but overall friendliness seemed to have returned to Central European levels.

Speaking of Central Europeans, I met a German biker chick/tax consultant named Sonja here, whom I hung out with most evenings. Nice girl. Frick’n loves Australia.

We saw a couple of things like English pubs (which still close at 11 pm which still feels strange) and an exhibit on Salvador Dali at the Tate Modern (that’s right, I have now seen the original of that Imaginus poster hanging on your wall), but for me the highlight of London nightlife (if not the fine taste of Lamb’s Navy Rhum, royalty please) was the thriving London theater scene. Someone once told me the top 3 centres for English-language theater in the world are Toronto, New York’s Broadway, and London’s West End, with London being the crème of the crop. This is the place were shows like Les Miserable and anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber were born (and often still running 20 years later), and thus I deemed it rather necessary for me, as a student of culture, to “culture” myself like a true Londoner, and attend a performance that would exemplify British theatrical pedigree and character.

So I went to Monty Python’s Spamalot (which I realize came to Toronto, but I missed it). Having been a fan of Monty Python back in my teens, this one was practically a no-brainer, and while they made substantial departures from the original Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail, I actually found many of the departures to be improvements. For one, they add in importance the character of the Lady of the Lake (surprisingly accurate mythological reference), who acts as the female lead (and perhaps only character save for an effeminate male) and is portrayed as an over-the-top diva. My only disappointments were the lack of a Pump dance (where the knights all stand in a row and move up and down like a pump) and the lack of the bridge of questions three scene (where you must answer 3 questions correctly to cross the bridge, but if you answer incorrectly you are thrown into the canyon. The questions though then to be “What is your name?,” “What is your quest?,” and “What is your favourite colour?” That said, though, there was a lot more to make up for these missing elements—such as a spoof on Phantom of the Opera, a theory questioning Lancelot’s sexual orientation, and of course what musical could go wrong with a holy hand grenade? What indeed.

During the day, I usually rode the tube (ie metro, “subway” refers to pedestrian tunnels under streets) to get around, unless the attraction was within walking distance—which often it was. The name tube is appropriate as it is actually shaped like one at many stations with posters of KT Tunstall and grimacing rugby players circling around. There is absolutely nothing in the way of a garbage can—or a rubbish bin—in the tube though (security risk), and you can expect to spot cameras and see omnipresent quasi-Orwellian “in order to ensure your safety” type messages all around. Guess I can understand why though. Sometimes though I took the bus, which often indeed were double-deckers—though considerably more modern (still red though).

My Grandma—being British—has been telling me about the British Museum since I was old enough to listen, and probably even before. So when I discovered it was just a short walk from my hostel, I made it my first objective. Like my Grandma says, it is a must-see attraction, despite what your ccnscience might feel about the slight colonial exploitation element of some its collection. That and its free. The stars of the place include the Rosetta Stone (which famously allowed modern historians to crack the code of Egyptian hieroglyphics), remnants of Sutton Hoo (the buried ship that proved the sophistication of Dark Age peoples), and an ancient Greek altar called Panthena which probably is the most engaging Greek monument I have seen (you literally feel the goddesses reaching out). Naturally the Greeks want this one back.

Like Samuel Johnson said, “if you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life.” Indeed I found I had far more that I wanted to see than I could reasonably get to see. Still though I managed to make jolly good jabs at the British Parliament (which while still impressive, might actually be smaller than the Canadian one it inspired), the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, London Bridge and the Tower of London.

At Westminster Abbey, I was hoping to just poke my head in and have a look, but the church closed for visitors at that time, but NOT to members of the congregation. Thus I recalled that I was in fact an Anglican, and humbly lined up for the service thinking I could sneak out before it commenced. Instead however, I found myself shuffled by man in a dark robe into the front row and the seat nearest the altar thereby making any attempts at delicate escape that much impossible. Thus I sat in full view of all, in my dirty t-shirt and shorts while everyone else wore suits, and rose and fell as the hymns progressed and service began. About an hour later, the service ended and I emerged dazed and a little holier.

The thing about England (or about any place for that matter) is you should see the sights, sure, but try to get beyond them if you can and reach the beating heart of the populace. In Oxford for example, I was rather disappointed when I initially arrived as the whole place seemed to be a ghost town save for the tourist caravans. Once I got past the main sights like Corpus Christi College and the “Harry Potter” Hall, I found a college at the back called Magdelane (Maudlin) which had far less people (and was far more beautiful), complete with its own ivy-covered courtyards, wooded walkways, canals, and even a herd of deer on the premises. This place was the Oxford I had heard been expecting. A little bit later on, I went into a pub nearby and found a guy who could best described as Bill Gates bastard English son and his cubby, cardigan-wearing, and equally bespectacled buddies, talking all about this and that jerk at Cambridge. I knew this was as close as I was ever getting to Oxford.

So now I leave London, and am riding a train deep into North Wales to a town called Llandudno (don’t ask me how to pronounce that). Virgin rail, yet another company of Richard Branson’s, runs the route apparently, which made the Old Brit in the chair next to me quip “Why’d you want to travel on a virgin? They never go all the way.”

Good ol English humour.

See you in Wales.

Wales

If you want to “go medieval” on someone, Wales is probably a good place to do it. Not only is the whole region represented by a flag of a red dragon, but the place is literally dripping with craggy cliffs and ruined castles (many untouched since the middle ages). . That said, the people are not exactly “feudal.” Far from it. Possibly one of the friendliest regions I have visited, the Welsh go over their top for you. The woman running the B&B I was staying at (I was in a small hostel-less village) was so anxious to please that she was running around like a jack rabbit and speaking so fast and with such an accent that I had no idea what she said but it seemed charming nonetheless. Her and her husband were a talkative and friendly-in-a-small-town-kinda-way bunch, and they’d gab your ear off whether you understood’em or not. On the other hand, they often couldn’t understand my English either as when I asked if they had Wifi. The woman looked at me as if I was speaking Martian, and said “Donna be speaking your double dutch with me, I do me’s email and thatsit.” So I ended up checking my email in a Pub, where the locals were watching a Rugby game where Wales clobbered Canada by 2x its score, though apparently the Welsh told me the Canucks put up a jolly good fight.

The next day, on a mission to find remaining bastions of Welsh culture, I journeyed up into the Snowdonian mountains (more like Canadian shield country than Banff) and a small village called Betswy-Y-Coed. Like the village I was staying—and from what I can tell every village in Wales—the place was picture-esque as hell, with rocky rivers and creeks and mountains and small stone houses and bridges. (The town I was staying in, Llandudno, was bit more developed as a Victorian resort, but still had hills and sea views to rival the Maritimes). A few people here still speak Welsh, called Cymru in their language, and there are many sign postings, courses, and even television channels designed to support the survival of the language—one of the oldest surviving languages in the British Isles and a descendent of ancient Celtic tongues.After having a little fun trying to get the Welsh to say “my dog smells like coconuts” in their language, I hiked up to the Swallow Falls (not exactly Niagara, but impressive all the same.) Then I caught a bus from a mountain fudge factory (why are mountain resorts always selling fudge?) and headed out to Conwy.

Conwy is a coastal village near Llandudno, famous for being one of the most well preserved walled medieval cities in Europe. Indeed, Conway castle still dominates the landscape just as it must have done when Edward the Confessor had it built to tell the Welsh to quit it with that whole rebellion thing. When I think of ruined castles, this is exactly the kind of place that comes to mind. With eroded staircases, moss covered towers, and ravens cawing and flying about, I could have sworn a level of the 1980s vampire killing Nintendo game, Castlevania, was shot here (Of course, video games are rarely shot on scene, especially back in those days.) Because I arrived late in the day, as well, I had the castle mostly to myself, although I had to share the bus to Conwy with a throng of uniformed Welsh school children.

Wales is a surprisingly beautiful place, and is quite a lot like what I dreamed Ireland to be. If Wales can take the cake, than I can only wonder what the Emerald Isle itself has to offer. Either can teach us something about rugby, methinks.

Oh well, I guess I’ll find out soon enough. I’m on way to Belfast as we speak and to the conference I’m presenting at which is ostensibly the reason I’m in Europe in the first place. Tally ho and away we go.