A few weeks ago it was spring break here in sunny (ha) London. Everyone had big holidays planned. Trips to Mauritius, Dubai, Tenerife, the States. And here I was stuck with no plans except to have poison pumped into my veins. Fun times. Cue violin.

I decided that was unacceptable and with two weeks notice ordered my husband to book a suitable Easter vacation for the family within a two-hour radius of London in case I had a serious medical issue while away and had to be whisked back here.

Because he is wonderful (and because I have cancer and he listens to me a lot more now), he didn’t disappoint. He booked us in for a four-night stay in the Cotswolds at a fabulous Jacobean manse that had been a private home for 400 years until it was converted into a family friendly hotel in the late 1980s. It was about a 20-minute drive from Bath.

After deliberating we decided to take the train to Bath, neither of us having driven on the wrong side of the road (it is not the other side; it is the wrong side — deal with it), and rent a car from there to drive the short distance to the hotel. Actually as an aside we learned from our cabbie in Bath that the origin of driving on the left has to do with how people travelled in feudal times. Since most people were right-handed and held their weapons in that hand, it made sense to have one’s weapon on the passing side. Same with jousting and holding your lance in your right hand. Apparently Napoleon, who was left-handed, and thus made his entire army march on the right (poor buggers), was responsible for most of the rest of the world driving on the right. He really had a lot of chutzpah that Napoleon. If this subject interests you check out this link.

But I’m going to return to my story now.

So we packed our suitcases and set off for Paddington Station (yes, like the bear!). I have always enjoyed traveling by train. And this was a decent train with a clean bathroom. Bonus. I read The Hunger Games while the kids looked at books and chatted and then starting pesting until we relented and gave them our smart phones so they could play educational games like Angry Birds and Doodle Jump. What? Those are educational and stuff. Aren’t they?

The ride was painless. We got to the station, found a taxi and drove to the car rental place. We rented a car with a navigation system (key) and Toonces the Driving Cat (we call Bill that because of his tendency to hit stationary objects while driving and well just because he is Toonces, though he has never actually driven off a cliff… yet) took the wheel. I was a little concerned but not enough to kick up a big fuss and take the wheel myself. He did pretty well. I only cringed and shrieked about five times on the way that he was “awfully close to the left! Ahhhhhhhhh!” and needed to overcompensate on the right. He got mad at me for backseat driving even though (a) I was in the front passenger seat and (b) he practically took the driver’s side mirror off a parked lorry (that’s truck US folks) we whizzed past.

But overall he did great, even navigating several roundabouts (Brit speak for rotaries) without incident. I came up with some special driving music for him, which I think was from the Benny Hill Show. I just love Benny — he was such a perv. We reached the hotel. It was beautiful. I breathed in the country air, delighted and amazed that we had pulled off this trip, that we actually got to enjoy a real vacation, albeit brief, during this screwed-up time.

Our rooms were behind the main house on the second floor of a stone cottage. They had just been renovated and we were, in fact, the first guests to stay there since the renovations had been completed. That day. When we got to reception we were informed the rooms weren’t quite ready but that was reasonable because check-in time was three o’clock and it was only about one-thirty. So we left our bags in the car and had lunch in the main dining room. The food was surprisingly good.

At three we climbed up to our rooms. The place was old and there were odd quirks (yeah that is redundant) everywhere. For instance, the key hole to our suite was on the bottom of the door, so that you had to either lie on the ground or be partway down the stairs in order to open it. We nevertheless managed to get in. The rooms were lovely. All pristine and crisp and very British with twin upholstered headboards in the girls’ room and a wrought iron number in our very generous master bedroom. Fancy tub with sparkling stainless fittings. Groovy details like reclaimed wood door on bathroom that looked like it was from an antique barn. Just reeking with charm. And a splendid spring bouquet with an Easter greeting from Granny (that’s my moms) on the chest.

We felt very welcome. And there was a lot to do for everyone. Kids’ house with nice ladies to watch over little blighters crashing into each other with plastic ride-on toys or to assist older (and ah-hem more civilised) children with crafts and drawing. Wendy houses (read: play houses — origin from Peter Pan; house built around Wendy when she is shot by one of the Lost Boys) sprinkled here and there and a chicken coup, gardens, outdoor sports including cricket, football (soccer I mean) and croquet. There was also a spa with treatment rooms and an indoor swimming pool, an outdoor swimming pool (bit too cold for that though, sadly) and loads of gorgeous flowers, shrubberies (“We demand a sacrifice! . . . . We want… a shrubbery!”) and trees, including a marvellous ancient tree in the front that must have been there for at least a hundred years — probably longer. You getting the gist?

The main house was cozy, casual and charming. I felt perfectly at ease strolling into the sitting room, kicking off my clogs, plopping down on a leather sofa and reading my book by the fire. Random dogs abounded, including the resident dog, Peanut, a spaniel of some sort, I think, who had one of those unfortunate doggie tumours she was going to have to have removed (we were thus soul sisters from the get go, me and Peanut). All large tail-wagging guest dogs made a beeline for Bill and slobbered all over him, knowing as dogs do that he didn’t grow up with pets and was thus a desirable target. He was a good sport though, since none of them ate his biscuits.

At first there were only British families with young children. But on turnover day lots of nationalities showed up and I was hearing Italian, German, Portuguese French and Spanish and some Australian and Canadian accents. I think we were the only Yanks over the long weekend. Fine by me. I like to mix it up. Everyone had kids and there were lots of babies and some (very) pregnant ladies. I enjoyed being around the babies, even though it made me a little wistful.

Meals were a hoot. They had a deal where you could accompany your kids to early dinner (children’s “tea”) in the orangery (like a conservatory) and then later eat a civilised grown-ups’ dinner in the main dining room while the little ones watched a movie in the tv room or were monitored in our bedroom by a baby listening service. This was pretty great. Even if the baby listening service mightn’t clue in if the kids were juggling knives or popping my anti-nausea meds (don’t worry they were fine).

On the second evening of our stay Bill and I were having our adults’ meal while the kids watched a film down the hall. Although I had worn a scarf all day, I had decided that dressing for dinner would include Gabriella (see my earlier post, Armpit Wig, if you are stumped, and no, it isn’t what you think if you haven’t read it yet). I wonder if I confused the staff. Now she has hair, now she doesn’t, and vice-versa.  Hmmm. Anyhow, there I was, with my lovely dark bob, in a printed silk blouse and Joseph cigarette trousers (I mustn’t say “pants” bc it means underwear in England, tee hee) and flats, looking pretty normal. We had a romantic table in a prime spot and the moon was enormous that night, glowing through the branches of that great tree. I sipped a glass of champagne. Bill looked handsome in his Nantucket reds and striped shirt, representing for Massachusetts. All at once I noticed that we were not alone. A pleasant lady from reception was bending over our table, something about an issue with the room below us and could they just pop into our room to check the bathroom.

Oh dear. My first thought was that there had to be a water issue. But the woman was very calm and assured us it would be fine. I said yes of course pop away. When we finished dinner, collected the girls and returned to the room, two dudes and the nice lady were still up there checking things out.

Do you know anything about English plumbing? Well the English are not known for it. Sort of like the shortest book ever written being Italian naval victories. The gist was that during the very recent renovations a pipe had been disturbed and our sink was leaking into the floor and dripping into the bathroom below. “So what if you can’t fix it?” I said. “Well then you might not be able to use the sink,” one dude replied. I contemplated brushing my teeth  in the terlette or the bathtub for the next three days and was not amused. But it worked out fine and they said just to try to limit use and they could triage it until after the weekend when they would open the ceiling below and fix it properly. “Happy to oblige,” I assured.

By this time it was late, and well past the girls’ bed time. I was tired, which I always am toward the end of the day, and as much as I like Gabriella, I wanted her the f*ck off my hot itchy bald head. So no sooner did I bid the plumbers adieu and close the door, than I whipped off that wig and threw her on the bed. Twenty seconds later I had yanked off my shirt and trousers and was standing there in what can only be described as a day-glo orange lace bra and matching boy shorts, a recent purchase to make me feel less like a cancer patient and more young and fun and sexy and normal (well, sort of normal as it was fluorescent orange). 

I turned to my husband, and said in a South Boston accent,* “if they come back knockin’ now they’re gonna be in for a fuckin’ surprise.”

*If you’re from Nepal or something and aren’t familiar with that accent, go right out and rent Good Will Hunting and listen to Matt Damon and Ben Affleck (but not Robin Williams — who, although I dig him, did not have a good South Boston accent).

As it turns out they didn’t come back knockin’. But it would have been epic, no?

During our stay, we explored the Roman baths in Bath, drove completely out-of-the-way on nameless roads that stumped the navigation system to a microbrewery (which of course was closed because it was Good Friday). On the way though we saw rolling hills with yellow flowers and scores of spring lambs with their mommies. We visited Castle Combe, a medieval village where lots of movies, such as War Horse, have been filmed. Bill splashed about in the indoor pool with the girls and I got my toes polished since I wasn’t allowed to get in the pool (germs, ew). And we did a lot of chilling in the main house by the fire or in our room, reading, drinking tea and munching on lemon drizzle cake. It was a fabulous trip.

Although poor Bill was distraught when we were packing up the room on our last day, having discovered in the eleventh hour that there had been a ceramic jar filled with home-baked cookies on top of the dresser the whole time we were there.

But we’ll know for next time.  🙂