Fancy a Cup of Tea? (England 2009)

 

SALISBURY

We had an early cross-country train ride from Scotland ahead of us, our first stop: London, England. Somewhere along that long ride, Dad decided it was the perfect time to unload our Scotland photos and videos onto his computer. Big mistake. He managed to save a few, and then—poof—the computer ate the rest. A tragic loss. I buried my grief in my travel journal while Sal sulked. At one stop, Dad got up to use the toilet, and when he returned, a young woman had slid into his seat. “Did I pinch your seat, love?” she asked sweetly. Dad looked around, puzzled, and muttered, “I don’t think so,” taking her question literally. He smiled before awkwardly sitting beside her.

  

Eventually, we rolled into London, where chaos awaited in the form of the Underground. Whoever designed that system clearly had a grudge against tourists. One wrong hop and you’re stranded. Add in the hypnotic chant of “Mind the Gap” echoing at every station, and it felt like some sort of claustrophobic urban fever dream.

Finally, blessedly, we reached Salisbury. A soft English mist hung in the air, greeting us like something out of a gothic novel. Our cab driver, Vic, was as friendly as they come—he offered the cheapest ride, the most practical routes, and a running commentary of local history along the way. First stop: Stonehenge, one of the most anticipated places we had on our whole trip. 

The drizzle hadn’t let up, but that only added to the atmosphere. We passed under a bridge, where murals depicted what Stonehenge may have looked like in its prime, and then the path began to slope upward. Slowly, the giant neolithic stones revealed themselves on the horizon, rising from the earth as though being presented by the gods themselves. It was one of the most amazing sights to behold. My inner dialogue screamed on loop: We are actually here. Sal and I were buzzing with excitement while Dad was preoccupied trying to film something for his YouTube channel. We snapped photos, shot videos, and I even borrowed an audio guide to soak in the myths, theories, and history. Afterward, I grabbed a charm for my necklace and a patch for my travel bag in the gift shop before Vic whisked us to our hostel.

The hostel looked like a Southern plantation house dropped into the English countryside. At the desk, an Aussie greeted us with a thick accent and a story about his family roots. We tossed our bags in the room and went searching for food, eventually landing at “Pizza Express” (or “PitzerExpress” as the locals pronounce it). Barry and Sue from back home had recommended it, so we gave it a shot.

Our waitress was distractingly beautiful—fit, charming, and armed with an accent that could melt stone. I tried to sneak a few pictures, but the food itself demanded attention. The pizza arrived whole, unsliced, and alarmingly bland. The sauce tasted suspiciously like reduced-sodium tomato soup. After drowning it in pepper, I noticed the locals were all eating their pizzas with knives and forks. That explained why the pies weren’t sliced. Meanwhile, I was over there folding mine in half like some uncivilized American barbarian.

After dinner, Starbucks called our names. Sal and I got Americanos while Dad checked emails. Two stunning English girls caught my eye, so I struck up a conversation, asking about local pubs and things to see in town. They recommended Salisbury Cathedral and gave us the kind of insider info only locals know. One even kissed me on the cheek before we parted. Not bad for a Starbucks run.

We wandered the damp streets in search of a good pub but came up empty-handed. Back at the hostel, we made do with the common room and a few (okay, several) pints. That’s where we met a Kiwi I teased for sounding like Peter Jackson, and an Englishman who schooled us in the rules of English pool while a match played on TV. Around my third Guinness, I became fascinated with the way the Aussie barman served it. He had this contraption—pour a little water, set the pint on top, and it would use sonar to build a perfect frothy head. It tasted like it had come straight from a pub tap. Brilliant.

Fueled by stout and wanderlust, we impulsively booked flights to Cork, Ireland. Eire was calling, and we were giddy with excitement. Later, Dad and I found ourselves chatting with a group of German college girls studying geography. They whispered among themselves while sneaking glances at us. I joked to myself about hating to be treated like a piece of meat. After some laughs and a quick video diary back in our room, we finally crashed.

Salisbury Cathedral

The next morning started with a proper English breakfast, courtesy of our Aussie host, with our German acquaintances from the night before scattered across the tables. After a Starbucks stop and a SIM card errand for Sal, dad mailed some things. We rang up Vic again, who drove us to Salisbury Cathedral while dropping more nuggets of historical trivia. He insisted we check out the room holding the original Magna Carta signed by Prince John.

Pulling up, the cathedral dominated the skyline, its spire soaring higher than anything else in the UK. Inside, it was like stepping into another era. Tombs of knights dating back to the 1200s lined the halls, while sunlight danced through stained glass that had been glowing for centuries. The weight of history pressed in on all sides, awe-inspiring and humbling all at once.

We wandered until it was time to head back for our train to Manchester, still buzzing from the sense that Salisbury had offered us a window into both the mystical and the monumental.

MANCHESTER, HANDSFORTH, AND ALDERLEY EDGE

We rolled into London with grand ambitions of squeezing in a little sightseeing. My mood, however, was not exactly tourist-friendly. I was convinced we needed to catch our destined train—not just any one headed vaguely north. Dad wrestled with accents over the phone, Sal returned from the loo, and suddenly we had five minutes to make it across the Underground. Picture three Americans hurtling through tunnels like caffeinated lemmings.

Spoiler: we didn’t make it. To add insult to injury, my luggage staged a mutiny on the escalator. I set it in front of me, only for it to claim its own step and send me tipping backwards onto Sal and Dad. Already irritated, that fiasco was the icing on the soggy British cake.

Thankfully, the ticket agent had mercy and let us onto another train at no charge. When we got to our seats, though, someone was already in them. We tried to politely claim them back, only to realize—oops—we weren’t even on our original train. Cue awkward apologies as we sat in whatever seats were left.

At "The Bull's Head"

We finally reached Handsforth and checked into the Hallmark Hotel, better known as The Old Belfry. At the front desk was Lucy, who instantly won my heart. Blonde, shoulder-length hair, soft brown eyes, and a laugh that could disarm an army—not to mention that irresistible English accent. Easily the highlight of Handsforth hospitality.

We got our things in the room and decided that dinner was the next thing to do. We followed Barry and Sue’s recommendation straight to The Bull’s Head pub. I ordered a pint of John Smith’s (smooth, malty heaven) and fish-n-chips that lived up to the hype. Sal tucked into a meat pie, Dad had… something I can’t remember, but whatever it was, the food was delicious.

 

The next morning’s breakfast introduced me to black pudding for the first time—a rite of passage in itself. Our plan was to catch a train into Manchester, but Dad had to be back by five.  However, we were looking for the rail station that day after browsing the second hand store. While searching for the station, I stopped to ask a man for directions. He turned out to be blind. He pointed us the right way anyway, which Dad later joked about a little too loudly. I reminded him blindness doesn’t equal deafness. Still, the fellow got us sorted.

Across the street, we spotted The Rail Station pub, another Barry-and-Sue-approved stop, complete with a Laurel & Hardy-themed room. Later, Sal and I went hunting for a SIM card. He scored one, exchanged money for pounds, and I stocked up on Guinness cans at Tesco for later.

The next day began with another hearty breakfast before Sal and I decided we needed to tackle laundry. The local launderette was fully booked, so we grabbed a cab to Wilmslow. There we found a few secondhand stores, and a launderette that would prove to be a little inconvenient for us. The driver, juggling his own schedule, suggested he’d “have a word” with the lady back in Handsforth about getting our laundry done. Then, as if auditioning for a sitcom, he asked if we minded him picking up a few mates along the way. We agreed (as if we had a choice). We pulled up to a house and they got in. Suddenly, we were sardined into the back seat with strangers, enduring banter straight out of a Britcom:

Girl Mate: “Where ya from then?”
Sal: “Oklahoma.”
Guy Mate: “Oh, zat right? Whatcha doin’ in Ahnsforf?”
Me: “Just visiting. Looking for a launderette.”
Driver: “Doesn’t your mum do laundry?”
Girl Mate: “She might, but she’s out shoppin’.”
Sal: “We’ll just take it to town. No big deal.”

The Old Belfry

And so it went, back and forth, while we simmered in our laundry-less frustration.

Eventually, the driver muscled us back into the Handsforth launderette, spinning a lie about us leaving in the morning and needing clothes done urgently. Awkward didn’t begin to cover it, but at least our laundry was finally in motion.

Later, we tried to pick it up after 2 p.m.—only to find they closed at 2. Of course. So, the lie the driver gave will not hold up now… 

That night, we’d been invited out by a girl we’d met during lunch at The Bull's Head, but money was tight. So, we decided to go to a Tesco to get Sal a shirt to wear for the event. We decided on the fetch quest that money was a little too tight for us to go to the place the girls were going. Instead of stories from a wild girls’ night, Sal and I ended up drinking tea (and Guinness) in our room while watching British comedy shows. Honestly? Not a bad trade.

Our hidden pee spot

By Sunday, we’d retrieved our laundry, and Dad bribed Sal and me with fifty quid to switch rooms. Dad, his girlfriend, Sal, and I headed into Manchester that evening. We saw Old Trafford—Manchester United’s stadium—and grabbed dinner at a Spanish restaurant that ended up being my least favorite meal of the trip.

Back in Handsforth, we returned to The Bull’s Head for pints. Sal and I flirted with Georgina, chatted with friends from Dad’s seminar, and eventually closed the pub down. A few pints deep, Sal and I staggered through quiet streets, stomachs growling, until salvation appeared in the form of “Kansas Fried Chicken.” The Indian girl behind the counter lit up like she’d been waiting all night for us.

Greasy chicken in hand, we headed back to The Old Belfry. Along the way, I stopped at what I dubbed our “hidden pee spot.” Classy, I know. Moments later, I dropped my last chicken wing onto the pavement. I stared at it, looked at Sal, and said, “What’s that rule again?” Then I picked it up and ate it. The nearby sheep, I swear, were laughing.

Monday brought one last local adventure: Alderley Edge. Dad had heard about it at the bar, and the name alone was too good to pass up. A scenic trail with legends tied to King Arthur—supposedly his resting place until England’s hour of greatest need.

The woods were straight out of folklore. Gnarled trees, mossy paths, and the sense that a knight or outlaw could appear at any moment. Dad filmed for his YouTube while his girlfriend trudged behind us, increasingly sour.

At the end of the trail, an elderly gentleman offered to take our photo. We handed him the camera, and he joked, “Thanks very much,” pretending to walk off with it. Classic English humor.

Lunch was at The Wizard’s Pub, where the sandwiches were enormous and the house ale hit the spot. I saved half my egg salad sandwich for the plane ride to Ireland later. Dad’s girlfriend left early in a huff, but the rest of us waited for our cab to the airport, stomachs full and heads full of legends.

Ireland was next.

The Wizard of Edge Pub