Well, I am back after 6280 km (3900 miles) of occasionally precarious but glorious driving through your beautiful country. As soon as the ferry approached the white cliffs of Dover, I could see I had come to the fabulous continent of
legend and
poetry.
My mind was so occupied and full of excitement, that the first thing I forgot when I got off the ferry was to drive on the left side. And the cars started honking. I couldn't first understand what the fuzz was all about - leave me alone, I'm busy taking in the beautiful scenery! Luckily there was no meeting traffic on this first section of single direction double-laned road. Then I quickly woke up and adjusted. At the top of the hill I took the wrong road from the roundabout, drove onto the gravel at the side and jumped out. There was a man on the other side of the road, whom I could ask directions from. But my mind being ingrained from childhood to look first left, and then right, before crossing a road, became very confused by all the heavy traffic swishing by. And on this road leading east there was a bend around the bushes so I couldn't see them coming. It was really frightening. Finally I took a chance with the car, hit the gas pedal, and made an awkward U-turn on the road, and figured the road leading west from the roundabout must be the right one.
It took several days to adjust the brain to turn my head to the right first before walking across a road. But I quickly adapted to driving on the left side. Someone had recommended drawing a left pointing arrow on a piece of paper and pasting it on the dashboard, as a life-insurance. But it worked for me to simply lean my head to the left. Eventually cars stopped honking at me, or if they still did they had no business to (except maybe in the roundabouts where I sometimes desperately switched lanes). I actually came to prefer left hand driving to right hand, and with the steering-wheel on the left side I could see more of the landscape. And in case of an emergency, I was always ready to open the door and jump into the ditch. But the haphazard and ambiguous road signs took me a long time to get used to. All in all I probably lost a whole day on wrong turns. And I became really fed up with all wannabe race drivers (it's the same all over Europe) impatiently cueuing up behind me on the small roads. At the same time seeming to think they are lawmen, leaning over their steering wheel horns. What's the hurry, always pushing to the edge of flying off the road? They are only chasing after their own meaningless existence. I was about to paste a sign at the back of my car, saying "I refuse to stress drive, I want to enjoy your beautiful country", but thought better not to since the police might stop me then. The US has a speed limit of 55 mph, at least did when I was there, which I think is sound. And Germany, what is that all about? No speed limit at all, and young reckless men racing against each other at 250 km/h or more. If people want to drive fast, they should do it at a racetrack. I say, remove cars, and go back to horse and carriage.
I managed to find all the places I had initially set out for, but had to discard a few extras to pare down the driving distance. The enormous hills of the Salisbury plain are magnificient, and distort the perspective of a normal horizon. The length of each hill probably has to be measured in parsecs, and I am not sure even Gandalf with Shadowfax would have stamina enough to roll over those hills.
Tolkien's Merton College was grand, and I see how this intricately cultured milieu must have deeply inspired his soaring thoughts. An exclusive setting only for the very greatest among masters.
Garsington Manor, where Walter de la Mare was photographed on the backside at its famous garden, was earlier an opera, but is now privately owned. I only saw the front of the house through the gates, and it was magnificent. Whoever renovated that house did a masterful job; not even the window frames have been replaced with modern ones. Everything looks ancient, like a time capsule.
I was invited inside the fence to Arthur Machen's childhood home above Caerleon, and the hilly landscape there is beautiful. I didn't see any
little people though, for the land is all patched up and fenced in by private owners, which makes strolling the hills very difficult. But I did sense Pan inside a patch of forest where the light trickled through the high and hoary branches onto the flowered ground. The Roman ruins in Caerleon (including and amphitheatre with relics of mysterious architectural compartments not suggesting any function similar to known culture) and in Caerwent were really fascinating.
I climbed the lovely Shropshire hills, and didn't want to go down again. It had a refreshing cool breeze.
The Lake District had a more classical beauty, reminding of Tyrol, and didn't suggest a sense of the weird.
I visited Haworth. My interest was all based on the movie starring Laurence Oliver, not having actually read the Bronte sisters. But a fascinating family fate it is. As I neared the region a light rain began, which only seemed fitting. A very grim and darkly brooding landscape. And who can resist visiting a town looking like this:
Haworth
The Scottish Highlands were the most accessible to exploring. I agree that Torridon, Coigach, and Assynt, each having peculiar characteristics, must be the most likely haunts of the
little people, especially at the latter two. I could well imagine them popping up from the moss by the birch trees and bluebells. But the
little people fever began already down at Trossachs. And I am not talking about fairies or cute elves, but the fleshy and fat pale kind of Arthur Machen, with warped demonic visages, partly Asiatic, and bald, possibly with straggles of residual hair from occiput. I almost hoped one would bumble up by the roadside, so I could hit it with the car. Then disembowel it, stuff it with newspaper or dry grass, and bring it home to hang on the wall by my bookcase of supernatural literature. I didn't actually see any
little people. But I saw sturdy bushes everywhere with yellow-orange polypous-like glowing flower clusters, bobbing over the farmers' roadside fences.
My personal favorite place must be the desolate wastelands above Glencoe before coming down along route A82. Enormous and endlessly stretching perspectives. I arrived there at the perfect time around sunset, the colours saturated in rich dark browns, the air crisp, with trails of clouds licking over the mountain tops. The ancient riverbeds had dug out scars and deep cavities. Here Picts, Celts, and Romans might have marched laboriously and clashed. I wonder if R. E. Howard's writing would have been affected differently and further enriched, had he visited here.
The cathedrals at Ely, Durham, and York, were colossal, and made me breathless. Incomprehensible how stone could be intricately stacked up like that. Not to speak of the mysterious Sillbury Hill near Avebury! How many slaves spent their lives piling that up, and how long did it take? And the strangely shaped stones at Avebury, where did they come from?
Englishmen are very polite, and pleasant to speak to. Thank you Englishmen, Welshmen, and Scotchmen for your guidance and friendliness.
I have visited London two or three times before, but that was over 30 years ago. And I do have some English blood, and feel affinity, although I be mainly of Swedish origin.
Thanks samdawson for the interesting late tips. ... Next time I go. ... .
True, on the (overland) highway there is no speed limit, but there are many local regulations (130, 100, 80 km/h) which you have to look out for. On all other streets there are limits, trucks have to drive slower than the rest, and in cities the limit is 50 km/h. Which increasingly is limited in parts of the city to 30.