Day 12 Part 1 Places 25-26 : Devon Hills & Taunton

NOTE: this is a re-publish as I do a little editing...

"One effect that still lingered, though, was [Arthur's] joy at being back. Now that the Earth’s atmosphere had closed over his head for good, he thought wrongly, everything within it gave him extraordinary pleasure...There was even, he noticed, a faint rainbow glistening over the Devon hills. He enjoyed that, too."

These may not be Arthur's Devon Hills, but the hills I saw from the train are going to be counted as Place 25. I'm sure the Devon hills were in there somewhere; in Somerset, or the West Country...my UK geography is rubbish. And there's a white horse on these, which is just cool!

When one is in love with the world, it is easy to be in love, period. And I'm a sucker for love stories. Romance. A bit of a challenge to overcome. Followed by bliss:

"...He was wrong in thinking that the atmosphere of the Earth had closed finally and forever above his head. He was wrong to think that it would ever be possible to put behind him the tangled web of irresolutions into which his galactic travels had dragged him. He was wrong to think he could now forget that the big, hard, oily, dirty, rainbow- hung Earth on which he lived was a microscopic dot on a microscopic dot lost in the unimaginable infinity of the Universe. He drove on, humming, being wrong about all these things. The reason he was wrong was standing by the slip road under a small umbrella."

Arthur and Fenchurch "meet" (she is unconscious at the time) as Arthur is hitchhiking home to the West Country, after hitchhiking back to a not-demolished Earth. And then, after obsessing about her, Arthur sees Fenchurch by the side of the road, hitchhiking back to London, and picks her up.

All the hitchhiking happenings probably imply that overall, lots of both good and bad things happened to Douglas Adams - and then Arthur Dent - while moving from one place to another, a passive passenger, carried along for a short while, based on wherever someone else wants to go.

That's all well and good for them, but I hate the sensation of submitting to the whim of the universe. The loss of control, the mandatory flexibility, the roll with the punches...nope, I want to know where I'm going, why I'm headed there, how long it will take, and if possible, who I'll meet that will make the whole thing worthwhile. Or indeed whether HOW I will get there will make it worthwhile:

For example in first class, in my own private coach, like the queen...except wearing a tiara. As you do.

Sometimes that's not possible. But it is fantastic when it happens.

As I write this I am on a train to Place 26: Taunton, which is a critical place in So Long and Thanks For All the Fish:

"“I’d like to go to Taunton,” [Fenchurch] said, “please. If that’s all right. It’s not far. You can drop me at— ”“You live in Taunton?” [Arthur] said, hoping that he’d managed to sound merely curious rather than ecstatic. Taunton was wonderfully close to him. He could … 

“No, London,” she said, “there’s a train in just under an hour.”

Now I'm here, though my train in the other direction, to Bridgewater, didn't leave me time to find a pub:

Tomorrow I will catch Fenchurch's train back to London. Perhaps I will try to find a grubby pub near the station for a cloudy local cider, and a dry sandwich, for the sin of selfishness. Which isn't all that terrible a sin, but does feel like one, when you are really in love with your spouse, feel they make everything better, and yet you decide that you must go off and do fun things completely without them.

"There is, for some reason, something especially grim about pubs near stations, a very particular kind of grubbiness, a special kind of pallor to the pork pies.

Worse than the pork pies, though, are the sandwiches. There is a feeling which persists in England that making a sandwich interesting, attractive, or in any way pleasant to eat is something sinful that only foreigners do.

It is by eating sandwiches in pubs at Saturday lunchtime that the British seek to atone for whatever their national sins have been. They’re not altogether clear what those sins are, and don’t want to know either. Sins are not the sort of things one wants to know about. But whatever sins there are are amply atoned for by the sandwiches they make themselves eat."

Day 11 Part 2 Cambridge - Place (horse) 24 & Bonus Tracks Galore!!

NOTE:

I am republishing the last few blog posts for my 42/42/42 trip as I get back into the swing of things (and find errors). I hope you enjoy!

Day 11 was full of real world places that meant a lot to Douglas Adams. Again, courtesy of the incredibly kind David Haddock, here's a blog bonus track: DNA's Cambridge, in real life!

The place he was born:

 

DNA was born in a Victorian workhouse converted to a maternity hospital. Now it is a home for the elderly.

We walked past the address on DNA's birth certificate, where his parents lived until they moved/divorced. The building had brilliant red doors, but some people were standing and talking in THE ONE door we wanted. Instead of being disruptive, I took a picture of a nearby (representativeh beautiful red door and its curving iron staircase, because the records state that DNAs parents were letting (that is British English for 'renting') the basement floor.

We walked past St. John's College, rightfully listed as #42 on the map of places in Cambridge:

Second court (unverified - sent my tour map home), which was the most likely architectural template for Reg's rooms in Dirk Gently.

The picture below shows the flat DNA shared during school, with a mate who was captain of the rowing team (can't re-check that fact, because I sent my copy of the biography home. I was tired of carrying it around). Supposedly this is it, above a hair salon. In his biography, Douglas recalls that it was a big, fancy flat instead of the usual student diggs, that they frequently had parties, and that the piano it came with was utilized extensively.

We walked by the apartment DNA shared when he wrote the Kamakazi skit that first got him noticed by a BBC producer, and where he may (or may not) have seen the name 'Arthur Dent' on his friend's bookshelf:

We went to pubs he drank in...

...And theaters he performed in. Again, I was originally going to go to Cambridge later in my journey, but David let me know that there was a 'smoker' on for the date of Douglas' would-have-been birthday, March 11. That was reason enough for me to rearrange my travel dates and go to Cambridge earlier.

With David's help, I was lucky to see extremely talented young actors performing both Cabin Pressure, and my favorite thing in the all the world, COMEDY! Especially skit/sketch comedy, and especially, random British skit comedy.

Both Cabin Pressure (which I had never heard of before) and the smoker were great fun. All the young people in the smoker were writer-performers, doing exactly what it was that DNA had gone to Cambridge to do. The bits were incredibly solid in writing and timing. There was, sadly, no program, but my favorite skits included 'Police Interrogation Tecniques,' 'Why call it "crazy" golf,' and 'Whatever you do, Don't ask the Porter for the key.' (Please note: there was no program, so I literally made up those titles based on the bits I remember liking a lot.)

Day 11 also included real world places and fun anecdotes from the filming of The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.

The house used as Arthur Dent's house in the film:

The pub...

...and the house across from the pub, owned by Nicki, the wonderful woman who owns (or manages?) the March Hare tearoom and boutique down the road. When we wandered down to the boutique to kill some time, Nicki shared with us a whole host of fun stories. Like the fact that the entire cast had taken shelter from the rain in her home. And that after doing so, on the next day of shooting, Martin Freeman got out of a big black car and waved. She and her kids quickly turned around to look behind and see who he was waving to and then realized, "Me?! It's ME that Martin Freeman is waving to!" She told us which cast members run funny, and that the neighbor who owned 'Arthur Dent's' house had gotten a whole new kitchen for letting them knock down part of his house.

I bought these pretty, pretty, pretties at the March Hare as UK souvenirs:

David and I had a wonderful drive, then we walked the village. Place 24 was a nice little field, just outside Cambridge:

"The horse walked with a patient, uncomplaining gait. It had long grown used to being wherever it was put, but for once it felt it didn’t mind this. Here, it thought, was a pleasant field. Here was grass. Here was a hedge it could look at. There was enough space that it could go for a trot later on if it felt the urge...It also quite liked the notion of spending half an hour walking alternately a little bit to the left and then a little bit to the right, for no apparent reason. It didn’t know whether the time between two and three would be best spent swishing its tail or mulling things over. Of course, it could always do both, if it so wished, and go for its trot a little later. And it had just spotted what looked like a fine piece of hedge for watching things over, and that would easily while away a pleasant preprandial hour or two."

In addition to telling the long suffering horse to avoid standing under the tree, I inspected some fine chickens, and noticed what turned out to be a lytch gate. We learned about the lytch gate because the chickens actually belong to Nicki and she knew the story.

Local town legend has it that the largish house behind hers belonged to a cardinal. His "housekeeper" (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) built a large memorial after his death, including the Lychgate, or church yard entrance. 

It was beautiful, but in some disrepair. Nicki and her family hope to purchase the land and maintain the area someday, but have had no luck so far.

Day 10 Part 1 Cambridge - Places 22 & 23: St Cedd's and The River Cam

Ten days into the pilgrimage, I left London for Cambridge. DNA was born in Cambridge, returned for college, and left us this Author's note in Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency:

"The physical descriptions of St Cedd’s College in this book, in so far as they are specific at all, owe a little to my memories of St John’s College, Cambridge, although I’ve also borrowed indiscriminately from other colleges as well. 

Sir Isaac Newton was at Trinity College in real life, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge was at Jesus. The point is that St Cedd’s College is a completely fictitious assemblage, and no correspondence is intended between any institutions or characters in this book and any real institutions or people living, dead, or wandering the night in ghostly torment."

I actually spent my first night in Cambridge awake through a night of torment. But not ghostly, more infantile. Well, infant related anyway. There was a baby in the next room. A howling baby that ear plugs could not block out. And the owners liked very much to have an early morning row as they cooked breakfast. Just below my room. At 7am. My Trip Advisor reviews will reflect what I thought of the accommodations. 

I awoke tired and cross, and did not head out until the early afternoon to see the town. As a result of the authors note, I didn't worry too much about nailing down any specific place. I just generally went and had a nice day of exploring. Of course, it turns out that when I do that, I end up in exactly the place that I need to be, Dirk Gently style.

The first college I came across was Jesus. The gates were wide open so I wandered in. And wondered around. And around, and around, and around. Then I followed my own footsteps back out.

It was a nice walk, but a very long one. I had not paid any sort of fee, or been admitted as part of any official tour, so I was very nervous about being caught. I should have learned from this first experience that the colleges keep themselves very carefully separate.

A little ways down the cobblestone streets was St. John's College, which helpfully listed a self guided tour fee. That made me feel much more comfortable, and I set off into the college that DNA attended.

These are the actual doors used to walk into the chapel. The door knobs/handles are fascinating. They look like simple pulls, however, in order to open a door, you have to twist the pull as if it was a knob. The twisting motion lifts an iron bar on the inside...and suddenly you are in an immense medieval chapel. You know, just hanging out in the immense medieval chapel. 

With some dead saint guy's remains.

Because that's how they define "holy" in ye olde England.

I really liked the ceilings and the courts.

Every court has a thick, brilliant green grass patch in it. There are signs everywhere saying do not walk on the grass. Apparently, only Dons can walk on the grass. I saw one do it! (but did not get a picture)

I did get pictures of Second Court and the most likely corner staircase that was the model for Reg's rooms: "Behind the stoutly locked outer door in the corner staircase in the Second Court of St Cedd’s College, where only a millisecond earlier there had been a slight flicker as the inner door departed, there was another slight flicker as the inner door now returned."

The self guided tour is extensive, informative, and peters out between the old and new parts of the college:

"It had been one of those light summery days when the world seems about to burst with pleasure at simply being itself, and Reg had been in an uncharacteristically forthcoming mood as they had walked over the bridge where the River Cam divided the older parts of the college from the newer."

DNA may claim that his memories have been cobbled together to create St. Cedd's, but the fact is that the place described here exists precisely in real life. There are two bridges in St. John's College that go over The River Tam. One is called Cambridge's Bridge of Sighs. The other is just a bridge. The tourists on the self guided tour (me) only get to walk the open one, with no fancy name, but they both divide the older part of the college from the newer part of the college. I'm not complaining. I walked over a beautiful bridge. Just not AS fancy.

On the other side of the bridge is "new college" which includes the world's very first Gothic Revival architecture, and some hideous, modern stone blocks. The kind you would see on a UC campus today.

Technically, BOTH of the buildings in the foreground are "new college" but one is a lot newer...

Having refused to learn my lesson wandering around Jesus college, I followed the tour out one side of St. John's and then let myself in through a gate on the other side. A man was trying to open the gate in order to wheel his elderly mother in a wheelchair out and down the road. Really, I was just lending a hand. I had assumed the giant iron gates were locked, you see. Once I realized that they were open...well, the gardens were so quiet and lovely and tempting. So I went back in and wanted around some more.

This area looked nice. 

So I sat in it.

When it got too cold to sit in one place in the shade, I started to walk in the woods.

The woods surrounded by moats. And gates. And bridges with gates. All locked.

It turned out that the reason I had been able to wander through the gardens as I had was because the gardener was mowing. He left the gates open behind him and close them as he finished. To escape, I had to creep past the caretakers cottage and the enormous, sorted green waste heaps. 

After that, just like at Jesus, I wandered out the way I had come in. This time with warmer, more magical sunset lighting for my pictures.

Video Musings Here:

https://youtu.be/3hY8tu4A1vs