I’ve been been getting acquainted with Tampa for going on 50 years. It’s Sharon’s Home Town. She gets another 25+ .

Between us, you’d think we’d have seen it all. Au contraire.

Only scratching the surface. It’s all in the perspective and framing of the experience. Little did I know of the Mayan connection, Circus Freaks, or Confabulated Pirates.

Sharon’s Mom lived just north of Little Havana. Ybor City was on the family circuit. We’ve been to uptown, and downtown Tampa.

We’ve been South to Sanibel and the Everglades. Inland East to Winter Haven and Orlando, North inland for kayaking on the Hillsborough River and bicycling on the Withlacoochee State Bike Trail.

But we’d never simply gone due West to the Gulf, nor had we explored up the Gulf Coast. Which is what this trip was about. 

Neither of us had ever even seen a Manatee.

If not now, When?

Manatees are curious beasts. Been around for something like 50 million years. Somehow they’ve made it to 21st century Florida. Strip malls, speed boats, coal-fired power plants and all. 

The time to see Manatees is in the winter, when temperatures dip into the 50s. The perfect time to escape Boston is in January, when temperatures drop below freezing.

We chose three hotels, and explored out and around from each: 

• Safety Harbor Resort and Spa put us across the bay from Tampa and within striking distance of St. Petersburg and Clearwater. Manatees sometimes are seen from the docks.

• The Hacienda Hotel in New Port Richey is up the coast from Safety Harbor and close to ground zero for Manatees

• The Epicurean Hotel in Tampa, a favorite of ours. A foodie hotel in an artsy Tampa neighborhood. From the Epicurean, we could revisit old haunts and visit the TECO Manatee Viewing Center. 

And as an added bonus at the Epicurian, we would be in the middle of Tampa’s Gasparilla Day. Tampa’s answer to New Orlean’s Mardi Gras. 

Safety Harbor Resort and Spa

When we landed in Tampa, we knew the drill. We’d done it enough times.

Sharon stayed with the suitcases outside of the baggage claim, while I headed for the car rental, only a short shuttle train ride away. I looped back and we loaded up. 20 minutes later we were pulling up at Safety Harbor Resort and Spa.

I had discovered Safety Harbor bicycling the previous Spring. A semi-moneyed enclave nestled up against the Bay just across the Courtney Campbell Causeway. Known affectionately locally as the Red Neck Riviera:

The Florida Heritage Landmark Sign out front of the Safety Harbor Resort caught my eye.  The Espiritu Santo Springs here were named by the Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto in 1539. He believed he  “had found the legendary Fountain of Youth, somehow missed by Ponce de Leon.” 

Too good to be true? Well, Yes.

For starters, Ponce de Leon wasn’t looking for the fountain of youth. He just wanted $$$. 

The whole fountain of youth thing was made up by a Spanish historian back in the day, who hated Ponce. He figured that such a goofy story would discredit the guy.

In a curious karmic twist, the historian’s machinations cemented Ponce’s name in the history books.

While Hernando de Soto did indeed visit Tampa Bay in 1539, his 900 men + war dogs didn’t wipe out the local Tocobaga people in Safety Harbor. They wiped out their cousins across the bay.

We checked in and headed for our room. I had tried to reserve in the historic wing, but had waited too long. As luck would have it, we ended up there anyway.

We were on the second floor. Tiny elevator. We looked at each other. Would the tandem – once assembled – fit? As it turned out, Yes, with the front wheel off and the bike vertical. Not the first time.

We woke to sunrise over Tampa Bay. 

Bike assembly day. But breakfast first. 

On the way to the coffee shop we hit the historic photos. Pretty great stuff.

The oldest were from the 1910s when the site was a classic Florida roadside attraction. 

“Famous Mineral Water. Cures Rheumatism, Diabetes, Bladder Troubles, Brights Disease, Digestive Disorders”

I particularly like the guy hanging out on the porch and the word “Cures” in extra big letters.

The “Waters” are still a big deal. The spa downstairs is sort-of world famous. 50,000 square feet. Which no doubt includes the swimming pools. All spring fed.

The couple next to us at breakfast in the coffee shop, wanted to know if the water on the table was from the spring.

“No, that would be extra”

We weren’t worried. The cooler outside our room was 100% Espiritu Springs water. It never ran dry. We drank a lot. And our bicycle water bottles just fit for filling. 

Today the Espiritu Springs water is filtered. They say back in the day it had much more character. Sulfur overtones. But it is still pretty great. Clean and clear. 

Did I feel younger? Healthier? Perhaps, for a moment here and there.

We got to know the head maintenance guy. Came from Chicago over 20 years ago. Has been working here ever since. Recently lost a good friend, still in Chicago.

His friend was a cop and was shot in the back of the head, sitting in his patrol car.

Our maintenance guy loves the resort. Knows all the stories and the workings of the place.

I asked him about the spring flow. 

“Millions of gallons/day”

“The spring is artisanal. It just bubbled up. Back in the 1920s, You’d arrive and there was a spring-fed fountain in the middle of the room to greet you.” 

I figure this fountain was roughly where the domed ceiling mural is today, at the beginning of our St. Petersburg bicycle video below. 

Today the spring comes up to the side of the lower Spa entrance and is piped off from there. The featured spring fountain in the lobby is just pretend.

You’d never even know this real deal historic spring was here unless you had a maintenance buddy.

Standing there was a curious 21st century spiritual moment.

St Petersburg

We’d visited St. Pete before, but had never visited the Dali Museum. This was our opportunity. The museum is located on the downtown St Pete waterfront, a short drive south.

“With the exception of the Dali Theater- Museum created by Dalí himself in his hometown of Figueres in Spain, the St. Petersburg Dalí Museum has the world’s largest collections of Dalí’s works.” World class. New, big $$, fancy-pants building too.

The plan was to get a lift via private transport to the museum and then ride back to Safety Harbor via the Pinellas Rail Trail. Which is pretty much how it worked out.

We found our transport through the resort. An airport shuttle just for us. Mr. Tandem just fit. Our driver was from the British West Indies. Not surprisingly, his English was good. We chatted about politics, and fruit trees. 

He dropped us off at the Dali Museum. We locked up our bike and headed in. 

It took Sharon all of about 5 minutes to figure something wasn’t right with Dali. I can’t remember visiting a museum where she didn’t take a photo. On this visit she took none.

Zero. 

Her take on this famous painting, 

“Sick”. 

Probably true, but well done. Evocative and not derivative, like much of his later work.

I took a lot of photos. My favorite piece, Retrospective Bust of a Woman 1933:

Pretty brilliant. 

On the way out we stopped at the Café Gala. “Light Fare with a Spanish Theme.” Named in honor of Salvador Dalí’s wife, Gala.

Had some good food and a fun conversation with the guy behind the counter. He has been wandering the world. Spent a year in Europe following the band Hiatus Kaiyote around. An Australian Jazz Funk Band. He was thinking of heading to Asian next. We talked about Japan and the Shikoku Pilgrimage. 

We didn’t talk about the Café’s namesake, Gala. Boy was she a piece of work. Given her proclivities and personality, it’s curious she has any café named after her.

In retrospect, it’s telling there were no photos of her on the walls.

No one ever referred to Dali’s wife Gala as sweet or light fare. 

A demonic dominatrix, Yes.

Could she have really been as bad as all that. In short, Yes.

As the Paris Review puts it,

“At her best, Gala was difficult and intense. At her worst, she was nothing short of monstrous. She had no friends and maintained a malevolent distance from her family. Described as “cruel, fierce and small” and having “eyes that pierced walls,” she collected stuffed toys but once cooked her own pet rabbit. Her “demonic temper” asserted itself often; if she didn’t like someone’s face, she spat at them, and if she wanted to silence someone, she would stub cigarettes out on their arm. Not surprisingly, she was hugely unpopular.”

The stories go on and on.

“Women particularly disliked her. Gala was sexually voracious and had no respect for other people’s relationships.” 

“The filmmaker Luis Buñuel, who, with Dalí, made the seminal short film “Un chien Andalou”, got so sick of Gala’s insults that he once tried to throttle her.”

Salvador and Gala had an open marriage. He was devoted to her his whole life. Yes, there were some kinks. See his paintings.

Stories have it that his thing was to watch. Worked for both of them. 

That said Gala was his life-long favorite subject. His muse.

At the end of their lives Salvador bought Gala a castle, but had to send a written request to visit. Gala had a harem of male lovers.

Back at the bike, no deflated watches, but we did have a flat tire. We pumped the tire back up and headed back to Safety Harbor via the Pinellas Rail Trail. Pressure held.

Click on this Video Link for our Ride. Don’t miss the weight lifters in slo-mo a short ways in. Very Florida.

We had dinner at the Resort. We went with the Greek appetizers and entrees. Remarkably good. Our waiter explained that the current owners were Greek. Which explained both the quality of the food and the interior aesthetic of the hotel lobby.

Gold and Blue with shiny stone surfaces. Murals with half naked women. 

We knew this schtick. Many moons ago we had Greek neighbors. Same aesthetic. They had topped theirs off with a mirror on the ceiling over their bed. 

Today’s hotel dates back to the 1920s. Florida was booming. The first Florida real estate bubble. Big money and deep-pocketed tourists.

The story goes that folks from New York City moved down to the resort for the winter. They’d even bring their furniture. But didn’t always want to bring it all back home. The choicest still populate the common areas.

In those times Tampa Bay came right up behind the hotel. The waters were shallow and it took a half-mile long pier to get out to where the ferries from Tampa could dock.

Today these shallows have been filled. 

We walked across those wide flat lawns the next day in search of Manatees.

We made our way out onto today’s truncated pier. We had heard Manatees regularly visit. We checked both sides. To and fro. No Manatees.

Then we heading up shore to the Mangrove boardwalk. 

Mangroves

Just up the shore a bit we hit the Safety Harbor [Mangrove] Nature Walk. I never get tired of this stuff. The 2500 foot boardwalk runs through the mangroves and along the edge of Tampa Bay. 

Mangroves are salt tolerant shrubs and trees that are adapted to live in harsh coastal conditions. They contain a complex salt filtration system with wonderfully complex root systems.  

They thrive in the intertidal zones along marine coasts. Salt water/ fresh water mixes are their specialty.

They do not grow on land, and they don’t grow in the oceans. Mangroves only flourish in a narrow fringe of suitable in-between geomorphology, which is Florida’s specialty. Mangrove forests only grow at tropical and subtropical latitudes near the equator because they cannot withstand freezing temperatures.

I always forget that Tampa is the subtropics.

The Everglades is the largest mangrove forest in the Western hemisphere.
The Everglades are only a days’ drive south of Tampa.

50% of Tampa’s Mangroves have been lost, but that still leaves a whole lot. Survivors of days long gone.

Politics

One day last summer we were bicycling outside of Concord MA and struck up a conversation with a gentleman out walking his dog. He and his wife have a second home in Sanibel FL, a lovely town with shell beaches south of Tampa. Feels a bit like Berkeley CA, with hills swapped out for beaches and eucalyptus trees swapped out for mangroves.

“A great town we know well,”  we offered.

He agreed with one qualification, 

“The only thing wrong with Sanibel is that is in Florida.” 

We all laughed … knowingly.

So what’s wrong with Florida? 

You could start with the low-end strip malls which paper the state. Gun shops, pawn shops, strip clubs, churches. All mixed together. Same one story buildings. 

There was a billboard for a plastic surgeon, as you came out of Publix Market in Sharon’s Mom’s neighborhood: Two words with a picture. Not much left to the imagination: 

“Brazilian Butt”

And then there’s the politics. Florida  has become a poster-child for a “Red State.” To my mind, more stereotype than reality. But then again, Tampa is “Blue.” 

Sharon has always said that races mix more easily in Florida than Massachusetts. As a Latina, she should know. Her family came in all shades. A dash of Arab, a drab of Senegal, Benin and Togo. Voilà.

It took me 20 years to appreciate Old Florida. The Florida from before the malls. Usually hiding in plain site. The cigar rolling factory now self storage, or a restaurant from back in the day. 

And it’s taken another 20 years to get a feel for what the area might have been like pre-1800s. Before Westerners rolled over the local native cultures.

This was the world of Mangroves, Manatees and Native American Mounds.

Mangroves are easy and obvious, Manatees and Temple Mounds, not so much. They’re there, but you have to look.

On our way to New Port Richey we stopped by the Temple Mound just up the way a couple of miles from Safety Harbor at Phillipe Park, the largest remaining mound in the Tampa Bay Region.

Great Fung Shui. Views across Tampa Bay. This Temple Mound was built by the Tocobaga peoples. Abandoned in the 1500s after contact with Spanish. Days long gone. Lethal politics long gone.

New Port Richey

Our next stop was New Port Richey, an hour’s drive north.

We picked New Port Richey because it is close to the northern end of the Pinellas Rail Trail. We could bicycle south. It’s also within striking distance for ground zero for Manatees. Crystal Springs and Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park.

Last but not least Sharon’s parents once owned property in New Port Richey, sold many moons ago, but I’ve always been curious. Sharon’s dad Joe grew his little nail long to deal from the bottom of the deck. Not a guy to be trusted. But perhaps a good guy underneath it all.

Joe’s father came from a small town in Sicily, Santo Stefano Quisquina. Sounds like a family roots trip. We shall see.

Our hotel in New Port Richey, The Hacienda, once again, dated from the 1920s. The wild west of Old Florida. Various promoters were pushing New Port Richey as the Hollywood of the East Coast. It didn’t come to pass, but not for want of trying.

Gloria Swanson had a place in town. Rumors of scandalous New Port Richie behavior still linger.  

Today Gloria has a parking lot named after her next to the Hacienda. The ripples are fading out. Kind of like old-time hardcore rock which has become today’s elevator music. 

Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park

Homosassa was one of our slam dunks for Manatees. It didn’t disappoint. 

An hour + north of New Port Richey, today it is owned by the State of Florida and run as a wildlife refuge. Care is provided for Floridian wild critters large and small, who can no longer fend for themselves. 

There is even a Manatee ICU. 

This wildlife refuge had been a famous roadside attraction up to 1989 when the state took over.

Featured were exotic animals, including Hollywood stars. 

The most beloved, last-man-standing, was Lu the Hippo. Lu short for Lucifer was born in 1960, and was moved to Homosassa Springs to join the Ivan Tors Animal Actors. 

Lu starred in Hollywood films, including “Cowboy in Africa” and “Daktari” and the TV shows “Art Linkletter Show” and the “Herb Alpert Special.

In 1989 when the Florida Park Service took over the park, all non-native beasts were moved – out of state. Except for Lu.

The Governor made Lu an honorary Florida citizen. 

And so Lu today is the one and only Florida hippopotamus , and lives on at Homosassa Springs as the oldest hippo in North America.

During our visit, he looked bored and old. So it goes.

On a quick sweep around the boardwalk we saw black bears, red wolf, Key deer, flamingos, whooping cranes, and eagles. The rain was starting to beat down when we arrived at a manatee viewing spot. We had arrived.

Matatees all around. Water was on the murky side.  I looked down and someone was looking back up at me. 

Crystal River River Archeological Park

The next day was Crystal River day. Again, about an hour’s drive north on US Highway 19. Three Sisters’ Springs is famous for Manatees.

In scoping out the area, I noticed an “Archeological Park” nearby, featuring Native American mounds. Curious. We decided to make it our first stop. Easy peasy. Good choice.

Off the strip mall of Highway 19 we turned left just after the Crystal River Church of God next to the Denny’s, and just before the Ford dealership. 4 minutes later we arrived at the Archeological Park, a 61-acre, pre-Columbian site on the the shores of the Crystal River and overlooking an expansive coastal marsh.

Great Fung Shui. No doubt why it was chosen 2500 years ago as a special place. One of the longest continually occupied sites in Florida, believed to have been occupied for 1,600 years.

Perhaps it was this good karma that saved most of the main temple mound from the trailer park next door. In the 1960s, the temple mound ramp and about one half of the temple mound itself was grabbed for fill for trailer park expansion.

Round about then the site was donated to the Park Service. Probably a story there.

In any case a close, close call. 

We pulled into the mostly empty parking lot and headed into the museum, the only access to the site beyond. 

Modest place. Great exhibits. Not in the staging or the objects per se, but in the interpretation. 

Orthodoxy explains the sophistication of the finds here, pottery etc, as dribble down from eastern North America principally the Hopewell Culture located north in the Ohio River area. 

These exhibits hinted at another explanation: Seafaring Mayas. Referred to by some as “the Phoenicians of the New World.” Only now getting the respect they deserve. These Putun Maya of the Gulf lowlands got around.

Which explain the Mayan glyphs on pottery recovered from the mounds.

On Columbus’ fourth voyage, in 1502, journals describe a Mayan canoe measuring 8 ft wide and 50 ft long, propelled by 25 paddlers and carrying both passengers and cargo. 

The Caribbean isn’t all that big. For such a 50 foot long vessel, Cuba was no problem. Nor would Crystal River be.

Curiously Sharon’s Mom’s genome has traces of indigenous Cuban DNA and Central American (Mayan) DNA. Perhaps one her forbearers arrived on one of these oceangoing mega-canoes.

The view from the top of the main temple mound was outstanding. 

Click on this Video Link for Crystal River Archeological Site with the view.

I could see the the ghosts of the big Mayan canoes approaching. 

This is the year, I seem to be turning into something of a ghost myself. They say the average age at which invisibility begins occurring is 52 for women and 64 for men. Sounds about right. Apparently at 73, I can now achieve complete invisibility.  The shock seems to come when I uncloak or re-apparate. It’s an unconscious thing.

It started in the UK at the very end of  the Ridgeway. 

A couple were wild camping out of their van just off the road. I greeted them as we walked by, perhaps 10 feet away. The guy just about jumped out of his skin. I made a joke about how perhaps I was a barrow wight or some such, and had just appeared out of thin air. 

He did laugh, but with a tinge of nervousness as he pulled himself back together.

Then there was the Jamaican delivery guy. I saw him through our front door shades and went out to the front stoop to see if he had something for us. He was photographing a delivery to our next door neighbors. I stood there waiting until he was done. He turned and froze in shock.

In New Port Richey. I went across the street from our hotel for an early coffee. The sky was just lightening up. I opened the door and walked in. The young woman facing me at the counter was fiddling with something. She nearly fainted, when she looked up and found me waiting patiently. First customer of the day. 

And here at the Crystal Archeological site, on our way out, Sharon and I walked up behind a couple of women studying an informational sign. She turned, saw me 2 feet behind her and went white. 

She stammered, “I heard you come up, but there was no shadow, so I figured no one was there” 

Sharon says it’s all my Japanese sneakers, but I’m not so sure. It doesn’t explain the missing shadow.

Eating Manatees

The Crystal River National Wildlife Refuge Visitor’s Center is a bit out of the way, we stumbled in trying to find the official parking lot for the Three Sister’s Springs. 

It was brand spanking new and filled with great Manatee exhibits. And staffed with volunteers.

An earnest, seemingly-sweet, elderly guy comes out from behind the desk and asks if any of us have any questions. So I ask him innocently enough,

“Did the indigenous people hereabouts eat Manatees?”

He blew a gasket. 

“Of course not. Manatees don’t hurt anyone. Why would people kill them? And the meat isn’t any good anyway, there’s no fat. And Manatees have thick skins, they’d be impossible to kill with arrows.”

He turns to his wife,

“Right Dear”

“Right.”  She says shrinking and edging away.

Not knowing when to stop, I add,

“Well I’ve heard that when times get tough indigenous peoples and locals have eaten Manatees to get by.”

“Not true. That’s simply not true. No one eats Manatees. They are sweet creatures.”

I decide it’s time to let this one slide, before he has a heart attack. In the pause, he growls

“I’m here to help the Manatees, not to encourage people to eat them!”

He and his wife wander off, and I make my way to the cash register to buy my Manatee stickers. The woman behind the desk, adds in a low voice,

“They did eat Manatees”

Manatees

Manatees are curious beasts. Their closest living relatives are elephants, and hyraxes. 

50 million years ago their forebears walked on land. Today Manatees spend their whole lives in water, preferring calmer rivers, estuaries, bays and canals. Fresh, saltwater or brackish, no matter. 

They have two forelimbs, called flippers, with three to four nails on each flipper. 

The absence of hind limbs and streamlined bodies are the result of millions of years of adaptation to their watery environment.

Like elephants they have very thick skins and prehensile snouts, which like elephants, allows them to grab things. 

Hyraxes, found in Africa and the Mideast, look a bit like large rabbits but with sensory whiskers mixed with their fur all over. 

Manatees have no fur, but they do have the sensory whiskers – over their entire bodies. Basically they are covered in tiny antennae.

Manatees are big, gray, slow, vegetarian, and oddly have no natural predators. Which seems counterintuitive for a beast the size of a cow which has no way of defending itself. 

Swimming with the alligators, no problem. Apparently manatees are too big, and their hides too thick to bother with. Sharks aren’t an issue as manatees mostly keep to shallow waters 3 to 6 feet deep.

Like other mammals, manatees breathe air. They are champs at holding their breath. Up to 20 minutes.

They are warm-blooded, and as tropical animals, very sensitive to cold, showing signs of cold stress in waters less than 68°F. Florida is about as far north as they come and in winter why they can be found around warm springs and power plant warm water discharge. 

Manatees sleep a lot too. Like 50% of their lives. Manatees sleep underwater. As they sleep they rise to the surface every 2 to 20 minutes to take a breath –  without waking up. Or at least half of their brains don’t wake up. It’s called unihemispheric slow-wave sleep. Dolphins do it too.

They move like a dolphin in slow motion. They can swim upside down, vertically, and can do somersaults and barrel rolls, thanks to their tail fluke.

This round, flattened paddle-shaped tail, is rather mermaid like.

The top half, not so much. 

On January 9, 1493, Christopher Columbus, sailing near what is now the Dominican Republic, saw three manatees. He mistook them for mermaids. And added,

“Not half as beautiful as they are painted.” 

“Not everyone was quite so dismissive. A hundred years later, the English explorer John Smith reported seeing a mermaid, almost certainly a Manatee. It was “by no means unattractive”, he said, but I’m not so sure.

It’s just possible Mr. Smith needed to get out a little more.

Three Sisters Spring

We got our directions to the Spring proper. Not far. Just off US Highway 19. Ticketing was handled in a temporary pop-up space at the end of a dying strip mall.

A bit surprising given the Spring’s world class reputation. But this is Florida, and Manatees weren’t really fashionable until lately.

Three Sisters Spring had it’s own near death experience and not that long ago. 

In 2005 it was purchased by developers who were going to develop the 57-acre property for 300 homes and a water bottling plant. Permits had been pulled. 

Sometime soon thereafter, the lead developer rescued an injured manatee and had a change of heart, “This is not a Disneyland kind of place. It’s the real deal.” And sold to conservationists. 

Supporting infrastructure in still a work in progress, but the springs themselves are pretty much picture perfect. 

No Manatees at the Springs so we continued on. They had congregated at the entrance to the springs waiting for high tide to swim in.  

Click on this Video Link for the Three Sister’s Spring with Manatees.

Tarpon Springs

The town of Tarpon Springs is at the north end of the Pinellas Bike Trail, about 10 miles south of New Port Richey. We drove down, parked in Craig Park, unloaded the bike, waved to the Manatees and rode south on the Bike Trail towards Duneden. 

There’s a lot going on at Craig Park, in a very, very low key kind of way. A lot of history too. 

Today, above water, it’s a modest small community park with grass and a concrete walk at water’s edge around a stub of water off the Anclote River close to the Gulf of Mexico.

This stub of water is known as Spring Bayou. Bayou because it’s slow moving and off the main course of the river. Spring because there is big spring down there. Hence the Manatees. 

This is the Spring that Tarpon Springs was named after. Story goes that Mary Ormond, the daughter of one of the early settlers, named her tiny two-cabin settlement “Tarpon Springs “ after the giant Silver King-Tarpon that jumped and splashed in the bayou. The name stuck.

Today you’d never know the spring was even down there. But down there it is. And a good ways down. Like 125 feet down. I would have guessed depth at 10 to 20 feet, which it is in some parts before the drop off. Not a clue above water of the drama below. 

Except for the Manatees and Dolphins.

Nor clues of the drama of days gone by. First settlers settled here in the late 1800s. Log cabins gave way to mansions in short order. The neighborhood was known as the Golden Crescent. A neighborhood of Tycoons and Artists. 

Shallow-draft steamboats would tie up in Spring Bayou. 

Another mineral health springs/ health resort story:

“On the east shore of Spring Bayou, just below tide water, a mineral spring was discovered. It is not clear what the analysis of this spring was, but those who drank the water seemed to derive great benefits from it. The spring was curbed and housed with a pagoda and became a favorite loitering place for invalids and old veterans, who spent the time reminiscing, telling what they knew–and possible some things they didn’t know. At any rate, Tarpon began to acquire a reputation as a health resort; probably the change of climate and balmy air had much to do with the healing of weak lungs and overworked nerves of some who came from cold climates.” 

I suspect that the pagoda referenced above is the building behind the steamboat in the photo above.  Which is the lead in to my favorite Tarpon Springs story. With a joke and punchline for the ages.

From R. F. PENT’s  1964 “History of Tarpon Springs : In the late 1880s:

“A very tragic affair happened late one afternoon. Major Marks and Mr. Connolly got into an argument in the Tropical Hotel; hot words were exchanged and Connolly ran to get his revolver. Marks made his escape through the door, or window, before Connolly could return. When he did, he ran out on the front porch, looking up and down the street for Marks. It was twilight and visibility was poor. A man by the name of Cork was coming up the street and Connolly, thinking he was Marks, fired, killing him instantly.

My father was present at the inquest. Mr. Connolly, after spending some time in jail, was freed by the courts and given his liberty. Connolly bitterly repented this rash act and later became a minister of the Gospel. 

This is a very strange coincidence you say. Yes, indeed, but “with God all things are possible.” 

Stranger still, a very grim joke grew out of this affair. The saying became current that: 

Tarpon [Springs] was so healthful…, that …

“Someone had to be killed in order to start a cemetery”

In tragic context, black, black humor. The Tarpon leaps.

Duneden

Many say that the ride from Tarpon Springs to Duneden is the most scenic stretch on the Pinellas Bike Path. 

I’m not going to argue. Our Go Pro was acting up, so no video. Maybe next time.

Dunedin is a place I’d like to come back to. I’m not sure we are done with Tarpon Springs either. 

I routed us to Strahan’s Ice Shop in town. It didn’t disappoint.

Dunedin is a popular destination. World class beaches and deep pocketed Europeans will do that. 

We walked our bike back up Main Street to the Bike trail. Lots of tourists and slow traffic. The bike path crosses Main Street in the center of town. See photo below.

We walked the turn onto the Bike Path towards Tarpon Springs and we getting ready to take off, when we struck up a conversation with two guys sitting on a comfortable new bench. About our age. Had lived here forever. Local locals.

They had it figured out. Good town. The world comes to them. Sunshine. Music festivals, Farmer’s markets, Nice restaurants, Microbreweries, and Baseball. 

Dunedin is the Single-A affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays.

Just don’t let you grass grow too long. The town fined one guy $30,000. He had been out of town. $500/day adds up.

Tampa

Our last stop was the Epicurean Hotel in Tampa. We’ve stayed here before. A Foodie hotel. Towards the high end but worth every penny.

We had hoped to visit Burns Steak House across the street. World famous and not easy to get reservations. We had solved that with a Epicurean special package. Unfortunately it wasn’t meant to be. 

We had followed up on a restaurant tip from a fellow we met while watching the Manatees in Spring Bayou. Food poisoning.

The Epicurean is in the Hyde Park neighborhood of Tampa. Only a few blocks from Bayshore Boulevard… and the annual Gasparilla Day festivities. 

Gasparilla Day is Tampa’s Mardi Gras. Curious in its own way. A big deal and a big, 300,000 + [people] draw for Tampa. We had no idea, we would be at ground Zero with front row seats.

Not our kind of thing. But here we were.

South Howard Street out front was closed down early. Our room was on the second floor. Late morning, we peered down as streams of folks headed over to Bayshore for the parade. 

Drinking had started early. The party was well underway. 

Early afternoon we headed over ourselves.

Gasparilla Day is named for the pirate José Gaspar. c. 1756 – 1821. The festival is a re-enactment of a battle between Gaspar and American forces that occurred in Tampa Bay in 1821. Gaspar won the day. And being a Robin Hood sort, spread the treasure. 

Or so it is said.

“Until about the late ’60s or maybe early ’70s, the press [and history books] still operated on the basis that this was a historical event,” says Charles Arnade, distinguished professor of international affairs and history at the University of South Florida.

But it was all a tall tale. Fakelore, if you will. But even Fakelore has a story. 

This one starts with Panther John. The alter ego of José Gaspar, or more properly put, vice versa.

Panther John lived in a shack with his wife on otherwise uninhabited Panther Key, a small spit of land, in the ten thousand islands south of what is Naples today. A nobody in long lost, old Florida world. 

Panther John was an expert hunting and fishing guide. And he relished the tall tale. 

When the census folks could catch up with him, he’d spin one up. One time he was born in the USA in 1828, another time France in 1785, Portugal in 1776 or in Honduras in 1795. And there were supporting back stories.

Often involving his alter ego, Pirate José Gaspar. Sometimes he was the pirate’s cabin boy, another first mate, and closest to the truth, he sometimes dropped hints implying that he was José Gaspar himself living under a false name. Entirely true in confabulated kind of way.

In the early 1900s the Gasparilla Inn Resort in the town of Boca Grande needed a hook for tourists. They ran with one Panther John’s story of José Gaspar and printed it up a brochure.

The rest is history.

As the Boca Grande’s Historical Society puts it,

“Gaspar, the Pirate, an entirely fictional character created for tourists’ sales promotion purposes in the early 1900’s, overcame the best containment efforts of historical research and explication, and like Collodi’s “Pinocchio,” came to life.”

In 1904 officials in Tampa inspired by the brochure, added their tall tale of Jose Gaspar’s Pirate invasion of Tampa. The idea was to juice up their May Day festival. That they did with a new and improved storyline: 

José Gaspar, fought the USA navy in Tampa Bay, prevailed and turned Robin Hood distributing the wealth. 

“Pinocchio” José Gaspar took his first steps towards legitimacy, when history books picked up the story without double checking sources, and listed Gaspar alongside real Florida pirates like Robert Searles, Henry Jennings, and Francis Drake. 

In the meantime, the business elite in Tampa were partying it up. Play-acting the pirate invasion, receiving the key to the city and having an annual parade. Modeled after New Orleans’ Mardi Gras. Beads and all.

The May Day celebration had morphed into a white guys’ pirate themed dress-up frat party.

Some have rightly wondered: “What is it we’re celebrating exactly?”: 

 “Anyone familiar with the history of Tampa will tell you that the city’s story is riddled with its share of seedy, incorrigible characters: corrupt politicians, laughable law enforcement, rapacious businessmen and gangsters. In some cities, the mayor is allowed the small pleasure of giving away the key to the city as a gesture of friendship and appreciation. In Tampa, the elite demand it at gunpoint as a symbol of submission.”

And today the local business guys themselves no longer seem to be driving the bus. Slick Corporate Branding rules. Charm is the remaining rough edges.

It’s no longer simply the Gasparilla Parade, but the “Seminole Hard Rock Gasparilla Pirate Fest”

Title Sponsor: The Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, Tampa. Sponsors: Bud Light, Meridian Apartment Homes, Captain Morgan, City of Tampa, last and perhaps least Ye Mystic Krewe of Gasparilla, the original Frat. 

Kind-of like a Disney World Pirates of the Caribbean wanna-be – with lots and lots of alcohol. 

Standing at the chain-link fence entry to get close to the parade proper, we found a spot. It took a QR code to get by security. QR codes from one sponsor or another – at a price. $100 would get you 20 feet closer – where you could catch the beads thrown from the floats.

On one side were a group of college kids, on theme, dressed as pirates. They’d been drinking from early morning. We were adopted. Kind-of like family mascots to which all kinds of secrets could be told. Break-ups, sexual escapades, no matter. All in good cheer. 

They asked how long we’d been married. 

“46 years.”

And then they wanted to know how you know when you’ve met the right person.

“You’ll know it when it slaps you upside the head. Love at first sight is real deal. 

Crazy off the charts stuff. Buena Suerte. Good luck.”

On our other side was a middle aged guy, also dressed as a pirate, chatting with a pirate guy with a rolling cooler and younger pirate 30’s – ish woman. 

The guy with the cooler would spin a dial. If it went one way, the middle aged pirate would win shots from the cooler, if it went the other way, he’d do push-ups, never missing a beat in his patter with Miss Pirate.

As she made to leave, he pulled out his business card. She pulled out hers. Both Lawyers. 

I’ve wondered what the Godfather of Gasparilla, Panther John, would make of all these 21st Century shenanigans? 

Curiously I think he’d be most entertained. Pretend pirates to the left, pretend pirates to the right. Tall tales begetting tall tales. Right up his alley. What’s not to like. 

The spirit of José Gaspar lives on. 

The next day we drove south to the Manatee Viewing Center at Tampa Bay Electric’s Big Bend Power Station. Around 40 minutes south. TECO was our last slam dunk Manatee viewing site.  

On the way we passed through Gibsonton or Gibtown for those in the know.

Freaks

I doubt anyone who has ever seen the 1932 movie “Freaks” has ever forgotten it. I certainly haven’t. A remarkable film. Either the epitome of exploitation or a compassionate, daring piece of genre cinema. It’s been called both. Put me in the latter category.

Director Tod Browning somehow convinced MGM to make the movie. He himself had runaway from home to join the Circus, so he knew the real deal and cast accordingly.

The stars of the movie were actual working carnival sideshow, or freak show, performers, if you will: Dwarfs, Siamese-Twins, Pin-Heads, a legless and armless fellow, known as the caterpillar and so forth.

Needless to say when this cast of irregular characters showed up on set in Hollywood, the MGM staff were horrified , as were audiences and critics, when the movie was released. 

It took roughly 30 years, for the world to start to catch up with Browning’s vision. A screening at Cannes began the turn-around. Today the film is considered culturally, historically, and aesthetically significant. Rightly so.

The unsettling question posed by the film: Who were the real freaks? The odd looking folks on the outside or the pretty, regular people twisted inside?

So if you are one of the odd looking folks on the outside, where do you live off season, or where do you retire, where you can just be ordinary folks.

That would be Gibtown Florida. Today, just north of the Manatee Viewing Center of the Tampa Bay Electric Company. Quite a number of the Freaks cast ended up here.

The time to visit would have been the 1940s.  Gibtown had an 8 foot tall fire chief married to Jeanie, the postmistress, 2.5 feet tall. Both members in the band above. Jeanie is second over from the bottom right. No legs. Her husband Al is the big guy on the upper right.

Turned out they were a great match and very happy together.

The police chief was a midget. Then there were the  pinheads, tattooed men, bearded ladies, sword-swallowers and snake women. Living ordinary lives. 

Not wanting any attention, Gibtown laid low. Hiding in plain sight.

Today, the so-called odd ones have pretty much died off. 

When we drove through Gibtown, not a ripple flickered, of what it had been. 

The stealth shields are still operational. 

TECO

The crowds were out at TECO’s Manatee viewing center. Regular parking was full up.

We parked in the overflow parking lot and took the shuttle, a glorified articulated golf cart. 

Our driver was pushing 18. He was fast. The Latin Syntho Pop Rap Music was his. He cut the corners close.

In short order we arrived at the Manatee Viewing Center and all piled out. 

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.

The Center itself was a Cheerful Upbeat Disneyland. 

The view from the boardwalk was Mad Max or perhaps Bladerunner. A Dystopian landscape.

The word which sprang to mind: Post-Apocalyptic. 

No crystal clear spring-fed lagoon, edged with mangroves, for these Manatees. 

They bobbed like potatoes in the discharge canal’s warm water. Looming over all was Big Bend Power Station. An rusting coal-fired power plant. 

We didn’t linger. 

Desirée’s Story

My favorite Manatee story comes from Cambridge not Florida.

On hearing that we were going looking for Manatees , one of our favorite Trader Joe folks shared her Manatee story. 

When she was ten or so, Desirée visited St Pete’s on vacation with her family. One morning she wandered off by herself, down to the dock behind the hotel. All was quiet. Then right next to her up popped a Manatee. 

She had no idea what it was. But it was cute, like giant potato-head cute, and friendly. She sat there petting it, like something out of Sesame Street. 

Eventually Mom started calling from a distant balcony,

“Desirée what are you doing?”

“Petting a Sea Monster.”

“Well stop it and come back inside.”

Our Neolithic Megalithic Tandem Adventure

Our plan was to sneak up on Stonehenge. We’d fly into Heathrow. Catch a ride to Goring on the Thames. Ride our tandem down the Ridgeway. Soak in the stones in Avebury.

And then make our way on back roads to Stonehenge, thus avoiding the tour buses. 

And finally kick back in historic Salisbury and relax.

A good plan, but it didn’t entirely account for the Artillery Range,

or the tanks for that matter.

As yet another tank blasted across the road in front of us in a cloud of dust, Sharon was not amused. Particularly not pleased that I had bungled the photo op:

“You had the camera on, Right?”

Me, “No. They’re fast and I’m slow.”

“Jeez”

Followed by a reflective,

“Other people get deer, why do we get tanks?”

Good question.

Inspiration

Lots of inspirations for this one. Stonehenge is kind-of-a-bucket list item, particularly if you’ve been reading lots of UK historical novels. 

Then there was that New York Times article many years ago about the Ridgeway from 2009: “Hiking History: England’s Ancient Ridgeway Trail.”  

It began with this memorable quote: “The Ridgeway is the oldest continuously used road in Europe, dating back to the Stone Age. Situated in southern England, built by our Neolithic ancestors…”

In my mind’s eye, I envisioned the smooth, groomed gravel drives of the BBC’s “Pride and Prejudice” rolling along for miles. We could bike it. Nice fantasy.

And our beloved Ponyhenge was also a nudge. Ponyhenge is a brilliant, ever-evolving, anonymous art installation in a field by the side of the road in Lincoln Massachusetts.

Ponyhenge is where rocking horses are put out to pasture. Many beloved steeds. Many signed, well worn and well loved. Deserves its own post. Maybe someday.

Heathrow

Sharon’s Mom passed this year @ 101. Lived in her house, on her own terms, to the end. A full life. We booked many, many miles to and fro. Cashed them in for our non-stop, overnight flight to Heathrow Airport in the UK.

After careful consideration we had booked our inns, and loaded our bicycle routes in our bicycle computer. We had arranged for luggage transfer and rides from and to Heathrow with Deep.

After flying all night we would arrive in Heathrow Airport early morning. Deep said he would pick us up personally.

A friend asked, “What if he doesn’t show?”. Hmmm. Best not to go there.

Deep did show. 20 minutes late. Just long enough for us to be really really glad to see him.

Deep has been moving folks and stuff around his whole life. A Pakistani and a total character.

A licensed London cabbie. Drives a big, fast BMW.

When our international wire transfer got dodgy, Deep emailed: “No matter, you can pay in cash, when I pick you up. That will save you enough for a couple of pints!”  For cash, he discounted, removing the credit card fee.

At the airport, we had our cash envelope. He counted it –  before taking us to his car.  A world-wise guy.

On our return leg, he had scheduled another of his drivers to pick us up. At the last minute his driver cancelled.

Deep picked us up personally in Salisbury at our hotel at 4 AM in the black of night, with a bum shoulder, in the rain, to drive us back to Heathrow for our flight back to the USA. That kind of guy. Thanks Deep.

Melrose Cottage

Curiously Goring was totally booked when I got serious about making hotel reservations. Except Melrose Cottage. So I grabbed it. Good call. 

Looked like a spare room in a modest house. Which is pretty much what it was. Nothing fancy. What was special was Rose. Truly a gem of a person. 

I emailed her that we would be arriving early and asked if that would be OK and whether there were any breakfast places around. 

She said, No problem and added that she could cook us breakfast if we liked. 

Deep dropped us off before 9 AM and we sat down to a full English breakfast. Rose is that kind of person. 

Rose is a widow. Suspect she had been happily married. No chips on the shoulder. Now a Mom to the world.

I put the bike together in her padded carpeted garage. Cushy.

Goring-on-Thames: Hobbits, George Michael and  Indian Food

We had a day to poke around, just generally hang out and recover from jet lag, So we walked into town. 

We passed the train station. The key to wealth in Goring today. Those who can afford to, can live in Goring and work in London. Only an hour away by train. 

Next up was the Miller of Mansfield Inn, in the center of town. Our first choice of accommodations in Goring. A charming 18th-century coaching inn.

Researching the place, I kept hitting references to George Michael Impersonator shows.

George Michael had been a somewhat infamous Pop Superstar in the 80s and 90s. But that was a long time ago. There had to be a backstory. 

I asked Rose. 

Turns out George lived in Goring. His house backed up to the Inn on the river side. Had his favorite table at the Inn where he ate every week. 

He died in his home in 2016 at age 53, on Christmas Day.

Rose said people came from all over the world to pay their respects. The piles of flowers were so deep  that you couldn’t get down the sidewalk. He was well-liked too. Accepted as a local.

We lingered on the bridge across the river Thames to Streatley. Quaint. Actually over-the-top quaint. Picturesque. 

We laughed about how this was the sort of place Hobbits would live. A small, beautiful and fruitful land, beloved by its inhabitants.

Turns out this is Hobbit country. Tolkien lived hereabouts, in Oxford, only 20 miles up the river. If you know your Tolkien, Goring was more Bree than Hobbiton.

We doubled back for a beer at the The Catherine Wheel, an 18th-century award-winning ale house. Complete with thatched roof. We ventured in. Low ceilings, great beer or should I say ale.

I walked up to the bar and explained to the charming young woman that I was an American.

A knowing laugh. 

I added, “You can tell by the accent. Right?”

A bigger laugh. I reused this line over and over during the trip. Always laughs. After all we do have a funny, most obvious accent.

So, I went on, “I have come all the way from the USA for an English Ale. I’ve never had one, what would you recommend? After some serious back bar discussion, I was handed a pint. 

Tasty, cool, not much head. 

It was great. Which I suppose is to be expected – after all they’ve been serving ales in this establishment for 350 years. 

A real ale like this, is a cask-conditioned artisanal beverage, and as such requires special handling and storage. 

The cask is stored in the cellar and served via tall, hand-pulled pumps. By definition, not a mass market product.

I was reluctant to leave the Catherine Wheel, but we were getting hungry. 

Outside we started chatting with some local folks, who were smoking and vaping. Turns out a couple were sheep farmers. London transplants. We were all in good humor. It turns out Sharon had recently read a book on sheep farming and thus was up to speed. 

News to me, but no shock. Deja Vu. I’ve been through this before with Medieval lit, advanced physics etc etc.

Once at our local liquor store, Sharon was chatting with an MIT post-doc about quarks.

Discovered in 1964, quarks are an elementary particle, and exceedingly weird.

Quarks can have six types of “flavors” or differences in mass and charge. She rattled off the list – “up, charm, down, bottom, top, and strange.” 

Why not the fine points of sheep farming? 

We were both in the mood for Indian Food. “Masooms” had caught Sharon’s eye on the places- to-eat-in-Goring sheet at Rose’s. It turned out to be really really good. As a couple told us on the way out. 

“You chose the right place.”

It’s true, Indian food in the UK is much better than in the USA. 

Our Test Ride

It’s always a good idea to check the bike out, after assembly, before hitting the adventure road. If something is amiss, better to find out sooner than later.

I had a plan. We’d ride over to the neighboring town of Aldworth for a visit to a famous, really-out-of-the-way pub, The Bell. It was only 5 miles away.

When I shared our plan with Rose, she smiled, her eyes twinkled, and said, “There is a bit of climb just out of town.” 

Our first taste of understated British humor. 

At the edge of town we stopped at a traffic light. Across the intersection our road continued straight. I thought it was an optical illusion. On our side a normal road. On the other side  It disappeared straight up into the trees. 

The light turned and we headed up, up and up. No illusion. The legs started burning. Perhaps a 15% grade. I asked myself, 

“How long could this go on?”

As we discovered, too long for us.

Thus we were introduced to Streatley Hill. Home of the 2020 British National Bicycle Hill Climb Championships. 1/2 mile. Average gradient 13% Max gradient 18%. When we got to the top, some hikers cheered. 

No comment from the second seat.

Suitably humbled we rolled into the Aldworth. The Bell wasn’t hard to find. It was the place with all the motorcycles parked out front.

In a curious kind of way, the vibe reminded me of the Westvleteren Brewery in Belgium. A beer destination in the middle of nowhere. No tour buses here though, but certainly a range of vehicles, from Jaguars to working trucks to serious motorcycles.

And all kinds of folks and their dogs, seemed to mix without a second thought. Show dogs or motorcycle leathers, no matter. Maybe it was the excellent beer or maybe the UK attitude towards pubs. Whatever. 

The Bell has been run by the same family for 250 years. It has been named the best in the country two times. It was built in the 15th century or possibly earlier. The ebony ale hand pumps were fitted in 1902.

My favorite Bell Inn Pub story is the Concorde trip of 1978. Concorde, like the plane.

One of the Pub regulars was a Concorde pilot. One thing, led to another and next thing you know the Bell had chartered a Concorde for a day for a whip round trip. All the pub regulars were on board. 

It was an inspired Mach 2 joyride. They buzzed the Bay of Biscay in Spain. Ale fueled. An old guy lost his false teeth. They fell down the side of his seat. He wasn’t worried in the least.

Ridgeway Day 1 – To the WhiteHorse

The time had come to hit the road. We waved goodbye to Rose. Rode past the train station, by the Miller of Mansfield, over the River Thames and took a right at the bottom of Streatley Hill. And from there, we worked our way out of town. To the gravel path where the Ridgeway got real.

Here is a link to the video of our ride to Woolstone (9:46).

Music is Bela Fleck and Edgar Meyer from the CD “Music for Two”

Perhaps my favorite part of the video is Sharon’s “Oh God” on seeing the incline of the gravel path where the Ridgeway for all intents and purposes begins. It goes by quickly. If I had the edit to do again, I’d boost the volume. Most expressive.

As we reached higher ground, we could see the backside of Aldworth off to the left about a mile away. We checked our bike computer. All seemed well. We checked our map/guidebook for points of interest. Mostly Farms and Stables. A large rabbit warren was noted. 

We had left Goring behind. 

The path was reasonable. We rode along. Albeit slowly.  I thought things were looking good for an early afternoon arrival in Woolstone. Which would be nice as rain was forecast 2-3 PM. 

Sharon wasn’t so optimistic, checked her rain gear and wondered whether our front light was charged. 

It wasn’t long before our nice smooth path was looking a bit worse for wear. 

The Ridgeway is multipurpose. A back road for farmers. A bridle path for the horsey set. A dog walk for the locals. And a favorite for off-road 4X4s and motorcycles out for kicks.

Sections had been chewed up pretty badly. Our pace slowed to a crawl.

This quote from the Guardian Newspaper puts it perfectly, 

“Britain’s most famous “green lane”, a track that was 4,000 years old when the Romans came to Britain, now resembles the kind of unpaved and potholed nightmare that travelers in rural Tanzania try to avoid.”

Might be a bit harsh, but then again, on second thought, maybe not. 

Pretty perfect for horses though. And this is horsey country. High end racehorse horsey.

At one point late morning a group of horse folks, moseying along, overtook us as we were taking a break. 

Totally gorgeous beasts. Perhaps 20 with trainers. Many of whom looked like foreign nationals. Perhaps India. 

Curious stirrup set-ups too. High.

After they had passed, we continued plodding along. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them taking off 2 by 2. Racing up a hill. Full speed. High drama. 

I hadn’t understood what the “Gallup” tracks on our map were. I get it now. 

We rode where we could, but the deep ruts were a challenge. As a rule we never fall. This day was the exception. Thankfully we were going slow and the grass was soft, but it’s a shock to go down. 

Lying on our side, on the bike, we were both still clipped into the pedals:

Me, “Are you OK”

Sharon: “Yeah, are you OK?

Me: “Yeah” 

A curious conversation to have with someone, you can’t see,  2 feet behind you, in the middle of nowhere.

We weren’t done yet though. Our last such conversation was on a wide open straight stretch of wet chalk. It turns out that wet chalk is like black ice. Impossibly slick. And hard like concrete.

We were on our side with no warning. In the blink of an eye. 

No harm, no foul, but scary stuff. 

Suitably humbled, we pushed on.

Early afternoon was uneventful and gorgeous. This was why we came. Timeless vistas.

We were on the high ground. Where we could appreciate the panoramic views of the rolling chalk downland below. But the clock was ticking.

Mr. Sun came and went. We could see rain in the distance. The clouds closed in. Darker and darker. 

We could hear rolling thunder. Sharon was walking up ahead and started to count seconds for distance and launched into a mini-lecture, over her shoulder, on what to do on when on a trail in the open in a lighting storm. She’d been reading up. Something about crouching on your tip-toes.

Then the rain hit. We pulled out our jackets. Nothing to do but plod on. No chance of riding. I walked the tandem as best I could. The grass was wet and getting wetter and the ruts were filling with water.

I had thought beforehand about what to do if the Ridgeway was impassible for us. And had routes in the bike computer. We could catch a crossing road and ride on asphalt, down off the Ridgeway to another road paralleling our route. 

We came to the crossroads. Ate snacks in the wet gloom and talked things over.

We both voted Ridgeway. As Sharon put it, “In for a penny, in for a pound” A favorite saying of hers.

As we crossed the road, a murder of crows, perhaps 50 or so, took off from a tree where they had been watching us. Wheeled against the gray and were gone. 

An hour later we were on Whitehorse hill. Next to the Uffington “Castle”  a large Iron Age hill fort. 

Wind was blowing a light rain into swirls. Sheep were grazing and Red Kites (birds) were flying overhead. Absolutely no one around. No surprise there. Who in their right mind would be out here on a day like this? 

Sharon had had enough. My mood was picking up. An Iron Age fort with rain and sheep and Red Kites. Only us. No civilization in sight. Nice.

And I knew it was downhill from here. Not Streatley Hill steep, but close enough.

And we were close to the – paved- road to our Inn. 

Our wet disc brakes were singing, and brake levers bottoming out, as we pulled up to the White Horse Inn around 4:30.  We made our way into the pub. Sharon lit up on reading the blackboard menu. 

The Chef’s Special: Venison Bourgignon was most tasty! And Especially great, after the Thai Style Crab Cakes when washed down with English Ale in dry clothes after a hot soak.

Ridgeway Day 2 – To Avebury

We loved the White Horse Inn. Could have stayed a week. But after a rest/fun day it was time to push on. One more day on the Ridgeway would take us to Avebury.

Here is a link to the video of our ride to Avebury (9:59)

We were off early. Woolstone is charming. And Far more charming when the sun is out. We headed up back from where we’d come.

Once out of town, we stopped at an empty crossroads. I wanted to go left, the alternative being a very steep climb straight up on the opposite side.

We pull out our map. Just when this guy appears out of nowhere. Right behind us. 

“Excuse me. Are you Mark.” Totally upbeat in a heavy heavy British accent. Like a good friend of a friend you might bump into in the middle of day in a familiar haunt. 

Odd to a power of ten.

The follow-up was pretty good too.

“Are you going to Avebury? Ha, Ha. And after that the Dog +Gun” Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha

Odd to a power of a 100.

Ha, Ha, Ha, “I’m Norman.”

To this day, I’m not sure if he was real. Claimed to be delivering our luggage. Have no idea what he was doing hanging out there, then. 

Could have been a barrow wight or some such other. He seemed plenty friendly, a good thing if you’re going meet the mystical at an empty crossroads. 

As we told our story, he kept saying over, “Good for you. Well done.” Ha, Ha, Ha

We asked about Norman at our Inn in Avebury. A local, well-liked. We were sure to leave a nice tip for him in an origami envelop folded by Sharon. An offering of sorts. To a local spirit.

As we parted, Norman pointed up the hill. “That’s the way for you.”

And up we went. First stop the White Horse or more specifically, the Uffington White Horse, the Grandaddy of them all. Just below the Iron Age Uffington Hill Fort and just above Dragon Hill. 

Dragon Hill is where St. George fought the dragon, and the inspiration for Tolkien’s Weathertop where Gandolf fought the Nazgul. Lots of mojo in these parts.

We didn’t linger. Back on the Ridgeway, we picked up where we left off, and shortly arrived, on tandem, at the Wayland’s Smithy, a Neolithic chambered long barrow, 3590 BC. It was believed to have been the home of Wayland, the Saxon god of metal working. 

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Sun was shining. Air was fresh. No sign of Wayland though.  Unless he was one of the two tiny tots teetering on the edge of the entrance to the tomb.

Late morning we hit blessed asphalt and flew as the miles peeled away and then flew right by our unmarked turn adding a few extra miles to the day. Not a problem, I don’t think we are gravel /dirt people.

Back on the dirt we heard what sounded like gun shots. I tried turning the sounds into construction sounds, but couldn’t keep up the illusion. They were gunshots and they were getting louder. 

Nothing like a gun club in the middle of nowhere to set a mood. We wound our way around 10 foot ponds in the dirt road. Still no Ridgeway signs. 

We stopped a bicyclist coming the other way. Thankfully we were OK. We were on the Ridgeway route for vehicles or something like that. 

Soon we arrived at the far side of Barbury Castle, yet another Iron Age Fort. Barbury is thought to have come from the Old English name Bera, after the Saxon chief who controlled the castle around AD 550.

We once again had our Ridgeway signs and we on route without a doubt. Time for sandwiches. Score on for the old man. He passed the test in the AM, when our waitress asked, “would you like sandwiches for the road?”

As we stood munching away. A fellow sauntered up with his bull dog, Boris. Sharon picked up on the joke immediately,

“Far better looking than Boris Johnson” An ex prime minister.

The fellow laughed. Boris drooled.

We chatted about our trip whereupon, he added, 

“As you are headed for Avebury, you’re in luck, it’s all downhill from here” 

True enough, but not all rideable downhill miles, on a road tandem, even with wider tires. An hour or so later I could see what I thought was Avebury off in the distance to the right. 

Sharon was not convinced. There were signs, but they were illegible. I decided I could see “Avebury” with an arrow. And off we went. 

Sometimes even a blind squirrel can find a nut. 

After making our way carefully  around a 50’ lake of a pothole, we rode into town, with Sharon singing,

“Keep your eyes on your driving 

and your hands on the wheel. 

Keep your filthy eyes on the road ahead”

Her point being that I was distracted and riding on the right. Not good in the UK. All -in-all, I did OK, most of the time.  

We passed our first Avebury Circle Sarsen stones. 

The charm of Avebury is that the stone circle is really big, like well over 4 football fields in diameter. Big enough to enclose a post office, gift shops, a pub, and our B&B. The best I can figure is that the two major thoroughfares which divide the circle in quarters, enter and exit where the original way-back-when gates were located.

I’m sure many historical types have spent many hours trying to scheme how to control the site. No luck yet. Anarchy rules. Sheep, cars, tourists, through traffic, all mixed up. A free for all, in a good way.

We pulled up to our B&B or at least I thought so. No signs. Opened the iron gate and pushed our tandem up to the front door. Sharon rang the doorbell and then rang it again. At which point I suggested she ring the doorbell. My suggestion was not appreciated. 

Then we heard a voice. Susan was working in the garden, behind a clump of plants.

“Be with you in a moment.” 

Me, “I think we are arriving.”

We were.

Avebury Lodge was great. It also has a story. There was a great manor in town and this was the hunting lodge. A boys club for drinking, carrying on and I suppose, now and then, a base camp for hunting. 

Located at the crossroads in the center of the Avebury Circle, my first thought was that there was a sensitive Lord who liked to look out over the stones. Wrong, it was located at the crossroads, so the guys could see who was coming.

Avebury

In its day, day 5000 years ago, Avebury Circle must have been quite the spectacle. Largest Stone Circle in Europe at about 1312 feet in diameter. Nearly 100 giant stones in the outer circle, surrounded by a circular earth bank immediately dropping down into a deep ditch. 

Did I mention that this scene was brilliant white. Thanks to the chalk.

Well, the stones weren’t white as they are sarsens, silicified sandstone blocks found fully formed in Southern England on the Salisbury Plain. What makes the sarsens so great is that they are incredibly hard, several times harder than granite, and filled with character. 

Tons of character. Literally. Each a scholars rock. Special rocks prized for uniqueness. 

Here is video of our walk around Avebury Circle (4:05)

Avebury is part of  a huge Neolithic Ritual Landscape with literally hundreds of prehistoric sites within a short walking distance.  Highlights include Avebury Circle, West Kennet Avenue, The Sanctuary, West Kennet Long barrow, and last but not least Silbury Hill.

And then there are other henges, barrows, passage tombs, random stones, avenues, and ritual pits and more scattered about.

And the Stonehenge sites are just down the road. Our next stop. 

No one knows how these sites were used or why they were built. Dating back almost 5000 ± years, we’re talking the dawn of western civilization. And no one left notes. 

Avebury Circle was connected to The Sanctuary 1.5 ± miles away by an avenue marked by 2 parallel rows of towering stones.  Today only a half mile remains.

The Sanctuary was originally the site of a circular wooden building, eventually replaced by two stone circles. Nothing left today but small concrete markers. Often described as “not one of the more memorable relics in the Avebury area”, it’s magic worked for/ and on us. 

First the place itself stopped the mind, then the fung shui kicked in, with views to West Kennet Long barrow, and Silbury Hill. And then I lost my glasses after a wrong turn. 

On retracing my steps I found them. I could hear “The Twilight Zone” music in the back of my mind.

West Kennet Long barrow is on a ridge about a mile from Silbury Hill. It’s one of the largest Neolithic burial mounds in the UK. 1000 years older than Wayland Smithy. And again you can just walk-in. Just bring a flashlight. It’s black dark.

And finally there’s Silbury Hill, the largest artificial hill in Europe. Similar in size and angle to pyramids in Egypt. The base of the hill is circular 548 ft in diameter. The summit is flat-topped and 98 ft in diameter. 

Silbury Hill was originally entirely white due to a chalk exterior, and surrounded by a pool fed from underground springs.

As a green hill today, it’s modest, but as a gleaming white faceted cone in its time. It must have been a showstopper. And a lot of work too. It’s estimated that it took about 4 million man hours and half a million tonnes of material, mostly chalk, to create it.

Avebury is one of those down the rabbit hole places. A wonderland world, you just couldn’t make up. Or if you could, no one would believe you. At least it was for us. 

What’s always curious are the unpredictable and unexpected twists. Both places and people. I suppose they always go together. 

Like our B&B host Andrew, who appeared had in “Red Dwarf,” One of our favorite BBC shows of days gone by. He made his appearance in Season 7 Episode 1 Tikka to Ride. We suspect as one of the policemen in this time traveling yarn about the JFK assassination. 

Or Renata, a douser/healer/producer etc, and Reece, the actor, whom we first saw hugging rocks in West Kennet Avenue. Then met again in Avebury Circle proper. They were carrying their shoes and walking tenderly – Earthing”, Renata told us. 

The last time we saw them was in the Red Lion Pub, two doors down from our abode in center of Avebury Circle.  We shared drinks and a very entertaining conversation, while next to us an elderly couple were just getting up from the Florrie’s well table.

So called because this glass topped table looks down into Florrie’s well. Purportedly 86 feet deep, I’d say you can only see 30 feet down today.

Story goes that Florrie was a bad girl and cheated on her husband. He threw her down the well and she has haunted the Pub ever since. This Red Lion Pub regularly makes the top-ten lists of most-haunted pubs in England. 

And then there was the Czech woman we met in the pitch black in West Kennet Long Barrow. We had brought our bike headlight so we could see in a focussed spotlight. After the first 5 burial niches, we hit the wall closing off the rest of Barrow. Here people left offerings. A dollar bill stuck between rocks. An amulet. We left a piece of Trader Joe’s jerky, when we saw her feet.

Michaela liked ancient, quiet places, as she explained several days later over coffee in Salisbury. 

To the Dog + Gun

Don’t you just love that name? Perfect name for a pub. Pretty perfect pub too. The local pub for Netheravon. Covid wiped out the owner, who was forced to sell. A major supermarket chain made a not-to-be-topped offer, and then a small group of young folks stepped in with a lower counter offer which won the day, but that’s jumping ahead. First we had to get there.

I was worried about the ride. Paranoia I suppose. 100% back on asphalt was a total plus, but what about traffic? On our last morning at Avebury Lodge, Andrew reassured me we were in for a nice ride.

Not only was our ride for the day by and large downhill, but traffic would be light on the backroads where we would be heading.

We saluted the Avebury Stones, and West Kennet Avenue on our way out of town. Passed The Sanctuary, and turned right. We crossed the West Kennet River, rode through West Kennet in the blink of an eye. A very small town.

Sun was shining and the miles were melting away. Out in the fields there was a parking lot on our right so we pulled over. What was this? Parking for Pewsey Downs Nature Preserve, Adams Grave, yet another Neolithic long barrow and The Alton Barnes White Horse. 

We pulled in. Time for a break anyway. 

A couple and their dogs were just arriving. 

“Nice Bike”

“Nice Dogs.”

A familiar conversation. From what we could tell, historic sites, and pathways are very popular in the UK – for walking dogs. And folks hereabouts like bikes. 

This White Horse is relatively new. Dates back to 1812. Designed by one John Thorne, also known as Jack the Painter, who was eventually hung. He took off with the money before the work was completed.

Soon we were down on the flats, riding along the River Avon on the edge of the Salisbury Plain. 

With the rural landscape behind us, clusters of suburban-like houses were appearing. The River Avon was more like a picturesque large stream, complete with swans and fly fishermen.

The Salisbury Plain lurked, but that would be tomorrow.

We arrived early at the Dog + Gun. All was well. Nice room, friendly folks, good ale, good food.

Stonehenge

One of our running jokes leading up to this trip was Salisbury Plain and the artillery range.

It’s always good to have a good paper map. We ordered official ordinance surveys. This stretch was covered by Map 130, Salisbury & Stonehenge which was stunning in detail. 

On review, I noticed that the route google maps liked to Stonehenge, wove in and out of a “Danger Area” in the Salisbury Plain. On closer inspection you could see why. The machine gun practice areas sounded especially real, but first and foremost on the worry list, were large areas marked artillery range. I made up an alternative route.

At breakfast we asked our waiter about the Danger Area. He reassured us that it was plenty safe, as long as the red flags weren’t flying and besides there would be lots of folks around to warn us off if something was up.

So off we went to Salisbury Plain. It was a pleasant sunny day. Though the gravel road left something to be desired. 

Here will be the link to our Stonehenge ride, if and when I edit the footage.

It wasn’t long before we hit this sign. 

A favorite of mine. We laughed and continued on. Next up was a flag pole. No red flag. No problem. Sign said, “If red flag flying, do not enter”

A couple of miles later, there was a red flag. Hmmm. Perhaps they left it up by mistake? The empty landscape was eerily quiet. We talked it over. We could turn around, but that meant many more miles on the day. We forged ahead.

Then another red flag. We convinced ourselves that we weren’t actually entering the artillery range, merely riding along side it. And on we went.

Next up were the military safety police. Nice guys. From Ireland. Big smiles. Happy to have company. Kind of lonely our there.

“You don’t need to worry until this afternoon”

He pointed us down the road to our next turn. Shortly thereafter we passed this tank enclosure topped by razor wire and soon were back on asphalt in the regular neighborhoods of the town of Larkhill. 

At the main backroad to Stonehenge, we made a wrong turn. Perhaps the signed bike-path was too good to pass up. In any case soon we hit a rotary, which are the worst for me. Everyone is going the wrong way around. 

Our bike computer was taking a coffee break so we headed off, “Intuitively.” We were soon pulling up to Woodhenge. A wonderful place. Out of the way. Ambulance drivers hung out there. Waiting for calls from the big brother, Stonehenge up the road or across the field.

In it’s day, Woodhenge must have been splendid. But wood doesn’t last millennia. Today only concrete markers tell the story. Reminded us of The Sanctuary back in Avebury. 

The place had soul. For want of a better word. We struck up a conversation with a woman heading out. She had lived in the area many moons ago and was back paying her respects. She passed along that she was here when the Beatles filmed scenes for their movie “Help” just up the road, on the Salisbury Plain, just passed the tanks with the tall fence and the razor wire on top. 

Now how to get to Stonehenge?

We asked some locals out for a stroll. Well, you could go this way, or you could go that way or you could just cut across this field, by the Cuckoo Stone, out through the gate, and follow the dirt path behind the officers’ barracks and eventually you’ll be there. 

It was the Cuckoo Stone for us. And a good choice too.  

Today the Cuckoo Stone is a modest stone in a field. Doesn’t even rate its own sign.

In days gone by, it could have been a star. Archeologists are working on it. In any case today, it makes a nice seat.

We headed on towards Stonehenge. Closing the gate behind us, the dirt path, aside from some unrideable sections, worked out perfectly. And unrideable wasn’t a problem, after the Ridgeway, we were used to that. 

We emerged from the underbrush to be greeted by a sweeping view to Stonehenge in the distance. It turned out the we at the top of the Stonehenge Cursus, perhaps used as a traditional processional approach to Stonehenge, back in the day.

But that may be backwards as the Stonehenge Cursus predates Stonehenge by hundreds of years. Cursus being a wide path with parallel earthworks. This Stonehenge Cursus is 330 wide and almost 2 miles long, and a nice ride.

Off we went playing tag with a family on mountain bikes. Mr. Dad would hold the gates for us and then off they’d zoom. Kids were 9-10, and far faster than us. Then again we were on grass, and still feeling the cold hard wet chalk when we went down on the Ridgeway.

We came out on a dirt road. Looking back Sharon pointed out a no-bikes-allowed sign. No harm. No foul.

This dirt road wasn’t any dirt road, it was the Drove. A Gravel Byway that runs past Stonehenge. It is a Vehicular right of way and an unofficial wild camping spot with a magnificent view of Stonehenge itself.

The Drove was entertaining. One part Mad Max. One part Hippy Caravan. With a filling of run-of-the mill-camper-vans.

We wove our way around the mega-potholes and shortly arrived at the entrance to Stonehenge. Our English Heritage 7 day pass did it’s magic and we were waved through. This was no Avebury. Huge crowds, paved walk-ways, Closely monitored. One way circulation.

Not a druid in sight. Curiously druids have become associated with Stonehenge, but Stonehenge is far older. Stonehenge as we know it today dates from the late Neolithic period, around 4500 years ago. Then came the Beaker people. And then the Celts with their druids, probably 2500 years ago. 

Then came the Romans, then King Arthur and the Anglo-Saxons, then the Vikings and finally the England of today. 

I was having a good time. Sharon was distracted by all the languages surrounding us. She struck up a conversation with an elderly German fellow, happy to have someone to talk to, in his native language.

In a curious kind-of-way, Stonehenge has become a caricature of itself. It looks, well, exactly like Stonehenge. You can’t walk up and touch the stones, but the path is optimized for selfies, all the way around. Looks a bit like a stage set. Which I suppose it is today.

One of the big differences between Avebury and Stonehenge is that the Avebury stones are natural, silicified sandstone blocks, or sarsens. Found rocks, filled with character.

Stonehenge stones are sarsens as well, but dressed sarsens. All the rough surfaces have been smoothed and shaped. Impressive work, but something lost as well. 

Our next door neighbor back home had warned us that Stonehenge was not all that impressive. In itself, perhaps not up to its reputation. 

As part of a ritual landscape though, it’s totally the real deal. 

A sundial in a ritual garden. 

After a quick stop at the museum complex up the road we headed back to the Dog + Gun. No Salisbury Plain, just fast, smooth asphalt. No shortcuts. No magic. No artillery range. We’d had enough for one day.

To Salisbury

We had a leisurely breakfast the next morning, packed up, and pulled our bike out onto the parking lot, where we had a short chat with a couple of French women, we had met at breakfast. 

We mentioned that we now had a Youtube channel. They asked how many subscribers we had.

“Three”

We all laughed. And then they added, 

“If you send us a link you’ll be up to five.”

Somehow we got to talking about Switzerland, trading anecdotes.

I shared that a back in college, a platinum blond from Phoenix I knew, married Swiss. She dumped me for a good friend in the next room over. I ran into her on the internet decades and decades later.

She told me, that she had named her Swiss son after me. 

Not to be outdone, one of the French women shared that when a good friend’s father was dying, he insisted on telling his daughter how he had lost his virginity. The daughter really didn’t want to hear the story, but Dad was’t hearing “No.”

He had been hiking in Switzerland as a teenager and met a Swiss woman. 

“She was all business, very skilled, very workman-like.” And clearly very memorable.

With that we were off to Salisbury.

With a couple of turns we were once again on back roads, when a tank flashed across the road up ahead. Then another and then another. 

Exciting, but a bit unnerving. Sharon really really wanted a tank video, but someone was out of synch.

We read later that Prince William, Prince of Wales, had visited the Salisbury Plain in our timeframe and taken a spin.

”He said it was his first time in a Warrior and they are always good fun – it’s like a 20-odd tonnes go-kart.” 

He’s right, they’re really fast. 

Maybe it was Prince William on the crossing. Could have been. But sadly, no video.

Hedges along the way were spectacular.

Before Salisbury, we had a stop at Old Sarum.

I was expecting another grassy knoll with defensive berms, a sign or two with pics showing what had once been there.

Old Sarum is so much more and has been for 5000 years. First used by Neolithic builders of Stonehenge and Avebury Circle, then the Celts, followed by the Romans, Anglo-Saxons, and finally the Normans. The remains today are of the Royal Castle of William the Conqueror, the first Norman King of England. 

Approaching Old Sarum was a climb. We were approaching from the backside. We had to ride up and around counterclockwise. 3/4 the way up our road started down. We had missed our turn. No wonder. It was a cowpath with a gate. After a short walk we were back on asphalt and heading up again.

Old Sarum is big and high. 

We rode through the outer berm, got off in the parking lot and pushed the bike up and across the drawbridge through the remains of the gatehouse into the inner Bailey of the the Castle. 

A model of Old Sarum in the 12th century above. The model is housed in the Salisbury Cathedral.

We flashed our English Heritage pass, bought some ice cream, and then some more ice cream and went for a stroll: through ruined shell of the keep, or great tower, the remains of the courtyard house, the kitchen tower, and chapel.

We could see marked out, the Old Sarum Cathedral in the outer keep below. Sun was shining. It was a good day. The freshly inked, Magna Carta had once been stored right there in the old Cathedral.

Then it was up onto the ramparts where we could see Salisbury Cathedral in the distance. 

By the mid-1200s, the church had had enough of Old Sarum. Something about poor relations between priests and castle guards, and taxes. They built themselves a spanking new world class cathedral, and moved.

My Grandmother always claimed that we were descendants of William the Conqueror, and she paid for a family tree to prove it. 

Perhaps. Then again perhaps not. There was one dodgy link, Humphrey Warren, who many thought died in the West Indies in about 1680. But maybe that was another Humphrey Warren, and our Humphrey Warren made it to the USA.

This was important for my grandmother. Say what you will, but she cared most about her family. If we were descended from royalty, so much the better. Here’s to you Cordelia.  

The ride down to Salisbury was a bit of an adventure. We didn’t have far to go, so I never doublechecked the route our bike computer had set up for us. Not that it would have made any difference. 

Something didn’t look right, so we asked a local, it turned out she was from Australia. We missed a turn and ended up in a mobile home park. Then it was along a narrow path through a park and into a tract of suburban homes. 

We walked alongside one of the houses and emerged on a bike path. From there we wove back and forth across the River Avon until we were close to downtown Salisbury. The bike path was blocked and we were kicked back off route. 

We trundled along with homeless guy and soon hit major construction, which is where we met Dan-Dan the gate man directing traffic. We shared our story, and he shared his, along with the story behind the construction.

River Avon was getting a makeover and a little respect. He thought our little adventure was great:

“You’re doing it right.”

Shortly thereafter we were pulling up to our Inn, the Red Lion. Dan-Dan the gate man thought highly of place. He was going to spend 5 days here over Xmas there with his girlfriend. Dan was perhaps early 30s. He was back in school, inspired by English History and respect for the environment. 

The Red Lion

The Red Lion was old old. Perhaps the oldest hotel in England. The original building dates from the late 1200s. Started life as the White Bear Inn to house the draughtsman working on the new Salisbury Cathedral. 

The running joke, probably also many centuries old:

“When the people of Old Sarum realized that there was an excellent hotel in the valley, they moved the Cathedral to be nearer it.” 

In the early 1700s the name was changed to the ‘Red Lion and Cross Keys’ and from there shortened to simply the Red Lion. 

The Red Lion served as the town post office during the 18th and 19th centuries, and was a regular stopping point for coaches traveling to and from London.

You could almost hear the hooves on pavement, cries of the coachmen, and rush of the passengers to get the good seats by the stage coach windows.

On our first night, a large group had booked the whole dining room. Luckily I had dinner reservations in hand and couldn’t be turned away. We were seated in the lounge in a nook table next to a gorgeous medieval (1600±) carved fireplace. Kind of perfect.

Curiously the Red Lion is owned and run today by Best Western. No more local artisanal English Ales in the bar. It’s Corona and Stella Artois all the way down. 

But, it’s probably safe to say that this is the only Best Western with a skeleton clock with case carvings by prisoners of war from the Spanish Armada. 

The skeletons purportedly came out dancing to hurdy gurdy organ music. 

 I asked if it still worked. Expected a flat “no” or a disinterested shrug, but instead, got an enthusiastic, 

“Let’s Try”

We did, but no music. No dancing skeletons.

Salisbury Cathedral

The next morning was Cathedral Day. I figured we’d wander over, check out the big guy, the Magna Carta and an associated museum.

Sharon was far more excited than I.

It was only a ten minute walk away – go up to the corner, take a left on Exeter Street and I figured we’d see the Cathedral across grassy lawns.

Well not exactly.

What I didn’t understand was the concept of a “close.” The entire area surrounding the cathedral is closed off by a wall built in the 15th century. This close is big. The biggest in the UK. 

We missed St. Anne’s gate and then the Bishops gate.

We asked a postman at the Royal Mail Postbox for directions. Friendly enough fellow, but barely understandable. Irish by birth. He’d been in Salisbury for 27 years. A mix of heavy accents. It would have been nice to have subtitles.  

He had had enough.

“Garble, garble… The only thing that changes here are the clothes in the windows… garble, garble, garble…” 

He pointed out the Bishop’s gate, nowadays the entrance to the Cathedral School, which looked to me like an arched opening in the side of  a stone house, and through the wall we passed with a passel of young folks in uniforms.

A short walk later, we had our grassy lawns and cathedral views. We decided to go to the museum first. But where was it? After a short bicker, a kindly soul directed us around to the other side of the cathedral. We were both right. Or at least that’s my story.

The Salisbury Museum was pretty great. World class collections on Stonehenge and Old Sarum. We had our own docent, who must have been a retired professor.  He knew far too much. No regular guy, he. Sharon was most happy. 

As is said, 

“Happy Wife, Happy Life.”

The museum also had stuffed Great Bustards. At 30 lbs, with wings that stretched to 7 feet, the Great Bustard is the heaviest flying bird in the world. Once native to the Salisbury Plain. 

They were too tasty for their own good. A staple of Medieval dinners. 

Here in the USA, we have the Turducken – a chicken stuffed into duck, stuffed into a turkey. That’s three birds. At a Great Bustards’ feast, they could do 15 birds – one inside another and so forth. Like Russian Dolls and baked for a day.

Eaten into extinction in England 170 years ago. Today Bustards, from Russia and Spain, have been reintroduced to the Salisbury Plain.

As a protected species, they no longer need fear the fork, but they are sharing their habitat with artillery, tanks, and long barrows. Fingers crossed.

Next up was the Cathedral. Pretty fantastic too, but it’s hard to top the Great Bustards.

The Cathedral’s main body was completed in 38 years, from 1220 to 1258. The spire was built in 1320. Eventually reaching 404 feet which made it the second tallest spire in England. Only St. Pauls in London was higher.

Then in 1561, Salisbury took over the number one ranking, when lighting hit St. Pauls. The spire caught fire, and crashed through the nave roof. 

Eventually St Pauls was redesigned and rebuilt, though not quite so high. The task fell to Sir Christopher Wren, perhaps the second most important Englishman after Shakespeare.

Wren made a survey of Salisbury Cathedral in 1669 for his friend Seth Ward, Bishop of Salisbury. In his report he noted that the Spire had tilted slightly. To fix it, he recommended adding iron bands to the inside of the Spire. So far so good.

Somewhere along the way, Sir Christopher Wren also left his mark on Stonehenge, carving his name into one of the Stones. Historic graffiti by famous folks. What’s not to like?

Salisbury Cathedral is filled with treasures: The oldest working clock in the world from 1386.

Also plenty of impressive tombs and medieval strong boxes where the church kept its money, and so forth, but most impressive was the Magna Carta.

Yes. The real deal Magna Carta, not a reproduction. Written in cursive Latin, in tiny letters, with closely spaced lines, so all 3500 ± words would fit on one sheepskin. No fancy flourishes. A working document and it looks it.

From then on, even Kings had to play by the rules, or at least some rules.

Some time later, Sharon and I were talking about document. In her inimitable way she volunteered that the scribes had used iron gall ink made from growths on oak trees caused by parasitic wasps. Who has that in their short term memory. Yikes.

Back at the Red Lion, it was time to pack Mr Tandem back into his suitcases. The luggage room was just off the courtyard as would be expected in a stage coach inn.  I pulled everything out and set to work. Pretty much an ideal set-up. Complete with a table to rest my beer.

The courtyard serves as an extended lounge and in good weather like that day, it fills up.

There was a birthday celebration a couple of tables over. Either a member of the staff or a spouse. Lots of folks sidled up and wished well. Sharon commented on the frightening orange color of their drinks.  

Then there was this elderly Irish guy in a sports coat with medals pinned to his chest. Clearly a regular and likely a regular for a long, long time. We chatted in an oblique way. He kept telling me how he’d given up drinking years ago, when clearly he hadn’t. 

His character would have been right at home in back in the 17th century. Outside the hotel ran one of the main watercourses of Salisbury, where there was a “Cage and Ducking Stool” for punishment and public humiliation. 

Story has it that after an entertaining dunking folks would return to the Inn for refreshment.

With the bike packed up, we packed up ourselves. And it was early to bed. 

Deep was picking us up at 4 AM for our 8:30 flight back to Boston out of Heathrow.

At 3:45 AM we headed down to the front desk. It was raining and it was dark, dark, in the courtyard. We stepped outside and were greeted by a black cat who appeared out of nowhere. We gave him a couple of pats and he disappeared. Felt like a local spirit, seeing us off.

We hauled our bags across the courtyard to the high arched covered entrance off the street. There were two giant ancient doors with a bar across both. Then on the left I noticed a door within the door which opened. A bit like time travel.

Outside Deep was waiting in the 21st century..