On Friday morning, just a little later than the morning before, we caught a train to London, this time headed for High Wycombe, about 50 km north of the city. Considering that just about every Harlow information session we’d had leading up to this trip focussed on this excursion, I only had a vague idea where we were headed.
The Hellfire Caves, complete with some creepy mannequins. Big deal.
It was another fantastic, 20+ day in the UK, with a beating sun and summer clothes all across the board. Better than St. John’s most of the summer. After the tubes, a train, and taxis to West Wycombe, we hung out on the stone plaza of the caves for a little while, before climbing up to the Dashwood Mausoleum. The whole area is part of the Chiltern Hills, which (fittingly) were declared an Area of Outstanding Beauty about 50 years ago.
En route, I got a bit more of the story. Francis Dashwood was a bit of a character back in the 18th century – if you were doing a grade ten English character study, you’d probably call him eccentric. A rich politician with some lax morals. The Hellfire Clubs themselves were exclusive, semi-shady organizations across Britain and Ireland, but Dashwood’s was the most infamous. As a make-work project, he had a bunch of caves dug by hand into the depths of the earth, and he and the rest of the crowd (which may or may not have included Ben Franklin) got drunk, had satanic rituals, orgies, and the like in these creepy, narrow chambers. An underground water source in the caves was even called the River Styx, and the place is supposedly haunted.
The Mausoleum he had built in 1765, right alongside a reconstructed, ancient church, and it’s where he’s resting now, overlooking his huge estate at the bottom of the hill. Meanwhile, dig a deep enough hole (or, as I assume, lift the right tile in the church), and you end up in his caves.
After visiting the church, we made our way back down the hill (walking or rolling, depending on who you were) and went from the bright sunlight to the dingy, damp halls of the Hellfire Caves. Mannequins of eighteenth-century clubs members were awkwardly placed in little recesses in the stone walls, intermittent light sources making weird shadows along the way down. It felt like I should have been carrying a torch, and getting ready to fight some dungeon boss in Eye of the Beholder or something.
No sign of any ghost, although there were plenty of stories. There were some branching paths as it got deeper, but it would be unlikely you’d end up lost, what with the maps and illuminated exit signs – still, I wouldn’t have wanted to end up down there alone when the lights went out.
Back in the sunshine, we went down the hill, to the automatic, iron doors of the West Wycombe Estate, which is National Trust property but still inhabited by Dashwood’s descendants (Sir Edward Dashwood Bt., the 12th Premiere Baronet of Great Britain – whoever the hell that is). For the price of having a few tourists come and take pictures, I’d be up for moving in too. Count me in.
The whole setup was exactly how you’d imagine it: the doors opened, and we were in a wooded area with some fallen leaves on the long driveway. As we walked along the road, fields of horses started appearing, and then just open space, a lake (a little low this time of year – just a tiny flaw), arched bridges, and eventually the estate itself, a dominating mansion on the hill, with a clear view of the church and the golden globe atop it. We ended up there after hours – D. Nichol’s string-pulling comes in handy again – so there was no one there but us, with about an hour to explore. It was like stepping back in time to a whole other place, a place that screamed of high society and natural glamour.
Stretched out on a field between the estate and the lake, with long drawn up shadows in front, Julie figured she could even get through Tom Jones here. I wouldn’t go that far, but I know if I lived there I could stay at home for a scatter weekend and not feel like I’m missing out on anything.
The end of our time on the estates roughly coincided with the time that some guy started shooting at birds, or maybe just at the air. I can only assume if we had stayed much longer he would have turned on us, so we made our exit stage left and waited for our cabs (a mini-bus; the Harlovians go on vacation) back on the other sides of the gates.
Indecently, I’m applying to be the 13th Premiere Baronet of Great Britain now, and I hope I can count on your vote.
I had thought about staying in London for the evening, but by the time we made it back to the city I was thoroughly exhausted and committed to going on another trip in the morning (I went to the ticket office at Liverpool Street solely for some information and ended up not being able to say no to a return ticket to Bath for £27). Next best thing: went to the Marquis, another pub in Harlow (and I’m pretty sure most of London were there too) with a live band that clued up around 11 o’clock. Isn’t that when people normally get ready to head out? Jaysus, and last call wasn’t long after that – maybe for the best, since it was calling for another hot day on Saturday and I wanted to get an early start.
Hah, I almost believed that when I read it – went to Chequers down the street until their last call, then called it a night. Cause of the early morning and whatnot.
Four of us – me, Morgan, Lor, and Tash – left Harlow a bit after 10 o’clock yesterday with a vague plan: check out Bath, a city in Somerset, about 150 km outside of London. Lemme contextualize this for you. In 2007, a few days before I turned 18, I stood on the cusp of the River Avon, looking on the Pulteney Bridge, and thought, “Shit, I could die now and be pretty well fulfilled.” Pause, waiting for death. “Ok, cool. Please then, let me come back here and relive this at some point in my life.”
Four years later, on a day that was as pleasant, if not moreso, I was back there again, and it was as spectacular.
Bath is an old city that was built because of a rare anomaly: it’s located right along a natural hot spring. When the Romans settled it nearly 2000 years ago, they couldn’t figure out what was going on, and chalked it up to a blessing from the Gods. And they responded with reverence, building huge temples to house the springs, allowing for public bathing and worship. It crumbled over the ages, but a few hundred years ago the site was excavated and semi-restored. The Roman Baths are a focal point to Bath, for sure, but the city itself, and its character, is the real treat. I thought so when I first went to Bath, and even though a lot has changed since then, that hasn’t.
We got to Bath around 2 o’clock (after minor travelling woes, including underground tube construction and a heater that was turned on on the train out of Harlow Mill) and went. Alongside Bath Abbey, a huge, magnificent cathedral, were the baths themselves. Good starting point. The self-guided tour wasn’t gimmicky, and even though there were relics, the best part was that we were actually in the spot where the ancient site once stood. The turquoise water was lukewarm, just like a bath, and with the roman pillars, statues, and the unrelenting sun, it felt like a pivotal scene from Gladiator, just with a tacky costume department.
I almost lost my capadres to a trip to Stonehenge (been there, done that, it’s just some rocks), but they missed the last train, so we all meandered through Bath some more. I really do think I could have spent another day or two just being in Bath – it’s something like the West Wycombe Estate, where there’s just so much that catches your breath that you don’t want to rush it. My God, if I could afford it, I’d move to Bath in a second. That’s not the way the world works though, so we had to keep moving. Found a cool botanical garden park – Victoria Park – that led up to the Royal Crescent, a sweeping arch of connected houses some 200 years old. There were a bunch of people enjoying the last of the summer sun on the green lawn in front, so we joined them for a spell.
Made our way back in twilight towards the station, stopping at a cool little pizza joint for supper (indecently, they’re hiring . . .maybe this is my ticket to living in Bath).
I’ve once heard that if you can actually sit down in a pizza place, it’s not really a pizza place. This was a squat spot, where they made the whole thing right in front of you – at least, looking in through the outside window, since there was no room to lollygag in there. In order to catch our train we had to bring the pizza with us to the station, and ended up eating it squat on the floor in front of the men’s room at the Bath Spa train station passenger lounge.
Never, since we had delivery pizza during the Scotties at Burton’s Pond, did a pizza vanish so quickly.
By then, it was time to head back to London. The tubes had been packed, disgustingly so, that morning, and the evening was even worse on the train; we had to stand up for about half the return trip, before we snagged a few seats. The London Underground had a few interrupted line changes which made for some special navigating, but we found our way back to Paddington, and then Liverpool Street, and then Harlow, with no problems. Clear night, just past 11 o’clock; just in time to sit out on the lawn and listen to some English dude play guitar.
What a weekend. It doesn’t feel particularly real, looking back over it. Today’s been a lazy Sunday – laundry, a run through the park, wasting time on travel websites – and a great chance to put it all in a bit of perspective. I’ve seen enough shows and movies where everything ends up being a dream or a delusion. If that’s the case . . . well, I think about that part of The Matrix, where the dude is eating the steak. He knows it’s all a façade, but he couldn’t be bothered; ignorance is bliss, after all.
If that’s the case today, I’m fine not knowing the difference too. You can wake me up in December, but not a day earlier. What an undeserving lucky bastard I am.
Cheers,
rb
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