"We are not going to Wales."
Simple declarative statements work best with drunks. Direct, difficult to misinterpret, even under the influence of several foreign and domestic ales. I am an expert at these statements, having been a sober person my entire life, and having spent much of my late teens and twenties as the only dry anchor in a sea full of friends family, and a future husband with a fondness for drink. While often met with some initial forms of defiance, these gentle, yet firm, phrases have helped keep me from going along with ideas that I knew were not in the best interest of the proposing party, or myself.
Which is why, midway through our trip to England's Warwickshire countryside, I assumed my statement would end talk of such shenanigans, and lead to a relatively early bedtime, as there were castles I was looking forward to exploring in the morning.
"We are not going to Wales."
"But KRIS-ten," Jeff whined, embracing his inner child, "I've never BEEN to Wales".
"And we will go. But not at 6 o'clock, not when it's foggy, and not when you two are too drunk to even remember the trip".
Jeff was sitting on the floor, and Dave was perched on the folded out Murphy bed. We were in a timeshare in the middle of Shakespeare country. From the outside, it resembled an old English castle, all antique stones fringed in moss. When we pulled up, I pictured Jane Austen and horse drawn carriages lining the gravel driveway centuries ago.
Inside, though, it was more Motel 8 than Windsor Castle. The faded green carpet had been matted down by tourists over the years, and the furniture was shellacked particle board. Tired floral patterns covered the comforter and chairs, and the kitchen, with its electric stovetop with the crooked burners, had long since seen its heyday. But for me, my boyfriend Jeff, and his friend Dave, who was visiting for a few days, it was a step up from the accommodations we had experienced on prior trips- which ranged from tents to hostels to the back of an old ambulance with several other people.
"Kris, I would just like to say, I appreciate you taking care of Jeff and me, and looking out for our best interests," Dave intoned, ever the mediator. His shaggy blonde hair smacked his bulbous nose as he nodded his head in agreement with my stance. He was almost 6'5", and his feet were hanging over the edge of the bed while his back rested against the wall.
"Thank you Dave. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go back to read-"
"That said," Dave interrupted, "I do think it would be a spectacular adventure to head west and see what the great home that spawned Princess Diana is all about. And have a drink there." He smiled and leaned his lanky frame back against the wall.
"Really? You really want to drive three hours to find a Welsh Pub? And Diana wasn't spawned by Wales, she married the PRINCE of Wales..." I started to explain before-
"YES!" Jeff interrupted, his eyes shining at the thought of an authentic Welsh pub. He jumped off the floor and extended his hands to the ceiling, drumming on it with his fingers. "We could get Guiness there."
"You can get Guiness at the bar a hundred feet away. "
"But this would be WELSH Guiness"
"Technically, it's all Irish," Dave interjected.
"Whose side are you on?" Jeff asked, turing towards his friend.
Dave paused, contemplating. "See, this is the thing," he said, raising an eyebrow and pointing his index finger at Jeff. "How often do you have the chance to just drive to a completely different country?"
"Any time I want to drive to Canada."
"Yes, but this isn't Canada. This is Wales. They speak Welsh. It's a whole other language," Dave countered.
"They speak English too. And by the way, some Canadians speak French."
"The Quebecois," Jeff chimed in from his spot by the door.
"This is true," Dave's logic was threatening to break through his drunken delirium. "But the Welsh speak English with such a thick accent it ALWAYS sounds like a different language. I can prove it too."
"How?" I asked
"By trying to hold a conversation with someone in Wales," Jeff said, leaning back and trying to give me puppy dog eyes. "Please can we go?"
"I promise, we'll behave," Dave chimed in.
Leaning over towards Dave, Jeff whispered, "I can't make that promise".
I looked at them, knowing this was true. Just a day earlier, I had to drag them out of Warwickshire Castle's "torture chamber" room after they were caught playing with the mail armor and a couble of rusty swords.
"No. Not going to happen. We are not going to Wales."
"Seriously, Kristen." Jeff seemed to sober up for a moment, realizing he had one shot at this. "It's another country. We could even stop off to see those ruins you wanted to see outside of Cardiff. How often do you have the chance to drive to WALES?"
"No. The final answer is no."
"Are we there yet?"
"No".
Giggling emenated from the back seat, and I swore they sounded like a couple of adolescent girls. I'd made them promise we would stop off at the Roman Ampitheatre in Caerleon in the south of Wales before heading into Cardiff to find a bar. The ampitheatre was associated with the story of King Arthur, and I figured if I was driving to Wales to find the boys Guiness, the least they could do was check out the ruins for me.
We pulled into the town a little before nine, and it was dark enough that we couldn't see more than about a hundred feet in front of us. The fog and the drizzle didn't help much either. We parked on a narrow street, lined on one side with stone apartment buildings and on the other with a wrought iron fence. We proceeded to wander about in the glow of the streetlights, our feet making squishing noises at they traipsed up and down the sidewalks. Finally, I spotted a sign in the shape of an arrow, with the words "Roman Ampatheater".
"Down the end of there is the Roman ampitheater". I pointed with my hand while Dave, who had been taking a picture of Jeff standing in front of a very British looking phone booth, turned towards me. "So… so let's go that way."
I shook my head. "We're getting the car first."
"The car?!" Jeff and Dave exchanged a look that two year olds about to throw a tantrum are familiar with.
Dave quickened his pace and turned towards me. "It's not even raining. Must be Thursday."
Dave quickened his pace and turned towards me. "It's not even raining. Must be Thursday."
I frowned and wrinkled my brow. I had no idea what he was talking about. Thursday? This was my own damn fault for bringing two guys that had polished off a number of English brews, as well as
a
$2 fermented cider gallon that had come in a plastic milk carton on the way there.
"'Scuse me. Which way do we go to go to the Roman ampitheater?"
I turned to see Jeff striking up a conversation with a kindly old man who was attempting to get into his ground floor apartment. He had the look of a high school physics professor, small in stature with white hair and wire rimmed spectacles. He seemed rather amused by the question, and the two giants standing over him.
"I believe it's down there. It's very dark now," he said matter of factly, pointing the same way as my arrow sign.
"Yea yea," Jeff agreed, nodding his head and looking like the dark and placement of the ruins were everyday facts he was well aware of. "Is it still open?"
"Yea no, it's still open yes," the gentleman replied, shaking his head.
"Okay"
"Excellent".
It was at that point I wondered which of these men had been drinking more.
"Yea, it's right down there, about hundred yards or so down there," the old man repeated.
Jeff began to ask "Since we're already parked this way, do we have to turn-
"I'm the oldest inhabitant, yea?" The professor had become distracted by Dave who was taking a photo of the interaction with his camera
"Uh.. yes." Dave replied, and the man grinned
A woman of about sixty appeared in the doorway, continuing Jeff's train of thought on parking and driving. "It's a one way system."
"So it's a right, a right and a right?" Jeff responded
"Where are you now?" The old man had turned back to Jeff
"We're uh… right over there."
All four looked towards where I was standing with the car.
"Well, you can walk down there, can't you?"
"Is it- is it walkable?" Jeff asked.
"I think we should walk there, right? We shouldn't drive there." Dave had made up his mind.
"Yea, yea" The glint of the streetlamp bounced off his glasses as the man's head bopped up and down.
"Alright. Alright. We'll get our friend to come walk with us then-" Dave started.
"KRISTEN!" Jeff shouted
Dave joined in, and a chorus of "KRISTEN! We're walking!" bounced around me off the raindrops.
We never found those ruins. Well, we sort of did, but they were closed(there was a large iron gate with that exact message blocking our path after we walked over half a mile in the fog and rain to find it). What we did end up doing was finding Cardiff, and more specifically, a little hole in the wall bar in Cardiff. We spent our time there watching two locals play pool, and conversing (poorly) with the bartender, who probably liked us a lot better after we left and he had his silence, and a generous tip. We also took in a soccer game on the television, and snuggled up with the house English Bulldog, Cleo. I may or may not have agreed to marry one of the pool players.
And on the way back to our place in England, somewhere past a Nottingham sign, I joined Dave in climbing the remains of a random castle to take pictures with the "Please Don't Climb Wall" plaque at the top (I was promised a castle and ruins, and I can at least say they delivered).
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