King Arthur’s Quest

My travels have sometimes left a child behind to hear of my adventure after the fact. In 1996, I thought to put the dazzle in the eyes of my daughter with her own involvement. As a single parent and with her at eleven years old, I would need a little help. My nephew, her favorite cousin, would give her a companion. Quintessential in my mind was to bring a lady friend to help my daughter to the WC and share a little parenting. One thought was that England would be comforting without language problems and other such confusion. Next, I needed a theme to promote their interest and convince my brother and his wife along with my ex-wife that their children would find security in my good hands. The Legend of King Arthur's theme should encompass that. An initial meeting with the kids drew excitement for the travel but my extended talk about King Arthur lost their attention after a few minutes. None the less, my plan was executed within three weeks and the four of us flew to England.
Oxfordshire was our base and a rental car left us without restrictions. The area was famous for thatch roof houses that numbered 111 by the kid’s count after our second day. We had a small hotel in Faringdon that was close to the massive hill that displayed the Chalk Horse. It was not until Stonehenge that the kids caught on to the marvel of it all. After that came Salisbury Cathedral and the wonderment of Avebury. Bath was a good lesson on Roman occupation with their thermal reservoirs and aqueducts. Their fun was when we returned to get to our car. I had parked within the double yellow lines and it was towed away. An hour to find out what happened and a sixty pound fine gave way to laughter on our way back to the hotel.
Our Quest was about to begin. Glastonbury gave the kids little inspiration as the ruins had little to say. Tintagel was much more magnificent with its seaside setting. To venture on to Land’s End was grandiose in itself but not to our youthful counterparts. Lacking their enthusiasm we returned to our Inn at Faringdon. Dining at the Haunch of Venison, I told the innkeeper we may go to London in the morrow. He said you may find an Englishman there.
None the less, I bought rail tickets for the journey. Neither of the children had been on a train. Upon arrival at the central terminal in London, we sought another first, to take the Underground to Big Bend and hear it chime. From there, “Let’s grab a taxi” for another maiden voyage to Buckingham Palace. There was an assembly of onlookers for an occasion we were not sure of but we could spare a few minutes. Soon passed exiting limos; one was a shielded Princess Margaret but next more regal than any – Nelson Mandela. He sat high and waved pointedly to all in his wake. We were all very touched by his presence, more so than any royal figure before or after him. At that, a Double-decker bus awaited us for a trip to the Tower of London. Given that place at another point in time, Nelson would have been in shackles where the gems of South Africa would bejewel some crown. To further exhaust our day we caught a taxi to Windsor Castle. Beyond those walls and gardens was our distant relative Princess Di. By the time we returned to our Portwell House in Faringdon we had to carry the children and tuck them into bed.
Wales was within our reach and its stretch of the English language seemed like a good lesson for the price of a day. Reaching the Welsh border was a landmark for our tour yet our rental car fizzled on the first curve of a rural road. The contact and rescue cost us a few hours waiting by the side of the road watching dairy cows. It was not such a bad break. Our rescuer, the rental car bloke, got us back to the hotel with an entertaining demure and arranged for a new vehicle to follow.
The next day was slow to get rolling but I had another mission. Years before, maybe twenty or more, my first trip to England led me by Bodiam Castle to the southwest of London. With its fairy tale motif, I thought my daughter would love it. A long day’s journey brought us there with a few hours of daylight remaining. Rushed, I took Katrina to the top of one of the majestic towers above the expansive moat. There I pointed to the ducks swimming below. With a massive twenty pence curled in my index finger, I cut it loose with a wild throw. Quack-quack echoed from below as the victim flapped across the murky water. Katrina swatted at the air between us to shame my deed and our laugh echoed all around.
The day was about to end when I asked the kids if they had enough of all this history and culture. An innocent grin came forth. An area guide showed a beach resort within an hours drive. The yeah’s were very resounding at such a thought. We all needed two days poolside and some beach combing. Given such a choice at eleven, I would have opted to frolic than have a history lesson.