June 22, 2007
After returning the car in Newcastle last Thursday, we saw Leah's parents off at the airport and continued south to Durham, England.
Durham's nearest campground had all the joy that can be experienced by pitching a tent 3 feet from an 8 lane highway. Although the people there were friendly. For example, to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the caravan club, the camp owners invited us, and anyone else who happened to be staying there that night, to sample some hard cheese and wine so sweet I thought I was at a Bar Mitzvah. Our retired neighbors were friendly too. They had us over for tea and cookies, after seeing us struggling to put up our tent in the pouring rain. Leah had a pleasant conversation with Jill and I heard from Brian about all the problems in England: drugs, the EU, the central government, the local government, Labor, immigrants, etc. Leah left happy and I did not. Very early the next morning we started looking for a way to leave Durham county.
Logically, heading south towards our eventual flight from London seemed like a good idea, but no one could explain to us how to get to Yorkshire. When asked, each person's eyes would get wide and they would stop in thought, their head would tilt up, and eventually answer that they didn't know a way to Yorkshire by public transport. In the end, we took a train for 30 minutes and were there.
York was wonderful, if crowded. It put us in mind of Venice, where most people in the city are tourists or natives who rely on tourism almost exclusively. And, the thing is, it was still a great place to be. We visited the small art museum (a large section was closed); walked the medieval walls; ate pasties and pizza; gawked at the minster; and roamed through the streets. We pitched in the village of Naburn, just 15 minutes by bus from the city center. Our tent was at the top of a mowed hill overlooking a low field, and further on a lock on the river Ouse.
Saturday, our first morning in Naburn, the Ouse flooded. Water covered most of the lock machinery and spilled into the neighboring field and far into the low land on the opposite side of the bank. Parts of the campground were also flooded. I spent some time watching trees and other flotsam floating past on the very swollen river. I spoke to the camp owner and found that the river floods often, although mostly in the winter. The water comes from the mountains 40 miles away. Our tent, by the way, wasn't in danger.
An hour and a half north by bus, was the picturesque village of Helmsley with a fully stocked deli, a used book store, post, bank, bakery, co-op, everthing, really, except a campground. The nearest was 2 1/2 miles away, which would would be fine, but with infrequent bus service and unpleasant walking due to a large section of the walk along a main highway with almost no margin, our moblity ended up as an awkward combination of both. Waiting too long for buses, walking part way along the highway and cutting through wet fields of grasses and flowers, we followed the less used public paths. But, finally, we made it to the ruins of the huge Rievaulx Abbey. With electronic audio guides in hand, we wandered the grounds for hours, and all the hassle was worth it.
Yesterday, we bused from camp to the closed Byland Abbey ruins; walked to the tiniest village, Wass; enjoyed lunch at the only commerical structure in Wass; bused to York; took the train to London; and used the Tube and a bus to finally arrive at a campground in London. Yes, it is possible to find an inexpensive accomodation even in the most expensive of European cities. But only by spending a small fortune on transport.
