Outnumbered & Abroad: Bath Abbey, Tea, & Meat Pies (Part 13)

Westminster Abbey (Friday, September 28, 2018) - Walking around Bath, looking for Bath Abbey, I couldn’t help but feel content and satisfied with the heavy swinging of my textbook purchases at the Jane Austen Centre (Part 12). Upon finding the location of the Roman Bath, we decided against going on the tour. The cost was high and, frankly, they seemed a little creepy to me. It was such a beautiful day that the thought of going down into the dark depths of a wet public bathing area sounded AWFUL.

We did view them from the outside corridor, where little musicians played their instruments for the people gathered drinking coffee (probably tea in hindsight) and snacking on baguettes. Our next clue card took us to the oldest house in Bath, which was a restaurant. Clue #9 read, “Food Challenge - Eat a Bath Bunn or a Sally Lunn.” At this location we had our salty Lunn Bunn.

It took a little while for us to get seated, three staircases to the top, and we found ourselves in yet another quaint, unique, old, British location. We ordered a variety of buns based on each of our personalities. Nicole got a plain bun with jam; Randi a cranberry and brie sandwich bun; Warren Clayton a walnut and coffee one; a chocolate butter one for me.

Because the seating was so perfect overlooking all of the busy bustling shoppers on the cobblestones below, I got my first tea in the United Kingdom. It was also the first place that I had seen chai tea on the menu - this was not a coincidence. Nicole and Randi are not tea or coffee drinkers, but were excited that Warren Clayton joined me in ordering tea for the novelty. We sat opposite of each other, on our own little table, where we sipped our tea served with our own individual tea pots (so cute!). I think Warren Clayton judged me as I got cream with my tea as I am legitimately hot beverage ruined by the world of Dutch Bros that I live in.

After eating, I had thought that Nicole’s grumpiness would have gone away, absolved by nourishment. It didn’t. I was acutely aware of it and semi-terrified of her having an episode or a moment in front of the Johnson’s. While it’s only human, it’s never fun to do in around those you aren’t necessarily close too. But maybe this trip has really reconciled us to be that close? I mean we have made jokes that Nicole is mom (as the oldest and trip planner) and Warren Clayton is dad (as the only male, which is humorous with the huge age difference there).

We decided for a quick jaunt around the small market to burn off the desserts before we would head off to find our first hotel where we would be staying the night.

That’s when I found it!

The Johnson’s have always had these really cool British/Scottish/European flat-billed hats. These aren’t flat-bills in the sense of an old school snapback trucker hat like we call them in America, they are what you would picture for the original golf hats or newsboy caps. I have secretly always wanted one but, no matter how many times I have put them on, I always look terrible. In one of the small market stores, I found a different style of flat billed hat and I fell in love!

Nicole and Warren Clayton had gotten newsboy caps in London, but I hadn’t wanted to pay the steep price of 30 pounds for it. This forest green hat made me so unexplainably happy! The old British man I purchased it from was a charmer as well which made the entire experience even better. I may have felt bad about keeping Nicole standing around while she was grumpy, but selfishly I was glad to get my cap.

Driving up the hill out of Bath, we couldn’t find the driveway access for the hostel at first. Nicole’s notes had told her to park out on the street, but even that seemed unlikely. Her temper seemed to be rising and, naturally, I felt like that frustration seemed to turn towards me. As the navigator in the passenger seat, her expectations of me to help find a spot was understandable, but the expectation to summon a parking space out of nowhere was inconceivable.

In our second pass through, our luck changed when someone happened to pull out meaning Nicole had to parallel park, on a hill, in the wrong direction (apparently legal in the UK as showcased by the other cars on the road parked). With limited options, we went for it and, somehow, she managed to do it on the first try with all of us surviving.

The route to the hostel was straight uphill along a narrow, windy road. Trees and small paths went off the trail and I couldn’t help but feel a little jumpy. I was extremely anxious about the quality, cleanliness, and safety the hostel was going to be. My first sight of it… not so good. The whole front was under construction and we had to walk around it to find the entrance.

Nicole said that we weren’t able to check in for quite a while so I went back down the path with Randi as she had forgotten her wallet in the car. When we got back up to the hostel, we realized we were being dumb. The front door was unlocked, all we had to do was push hard - not pull. Not just that, but we didn’t realize it until I thought I had seen some movement and rang the doorbell, bringing up the front desk person. How embarrassing - silly us!

The lady was super nice and even gave us there recommendation of The Raven for dinner for some true, authentic pub food.

Then…

… we …

… saw …

… our …

… rooms!

In the craziest set up ever, we had the coolest rooms I had ever seen - I could never have even imagined this! The only way I can generally describe the room set up was as treehouse bunk rooms!

At the the top of a steep and terrifying long, curving hallway was Nicole & I’s room. A small landing at the foot of another staircase held a small half bath. The steeper staircase led to a shortened ceiling, a small tunnel like door frame and, at the top of the turret, was the Johnson’s room!

Not going to lie, I was a little jealous of the view they had - the lucky ducks!

Nicole and I were exhausted, probably from all of the stress of driving to and in the town. It wasn’t long before we were lights out in a nap.

The Johnson’s, who had been napping in the car ride, were wide awake and headed out on an adventure around the beautiful trails in the autumn daylight that was late. Their creepiness had long since been forsaken by me after seeing that the hostel wasn’t scary. We reconvened a few hours later to go find The Raven pub.

Strolling down the large hill, over the bridge, as the sunlight started to wane, absolutely refreshed, I couldn’t help but inspired once again! Jane Austen herself walked through these parts! Her eyes may have looked upon these waters and threes with the same wonderment as me … or maybe she didn’t even notice them as she was so accustomed to them. Can you believe how amazing this world is?

It was a decent walk until we found The Raven and I was shocked at how bustlingly busy all of the streets were. There was two stories to The Raven, but both were packed. A little intimidated, we retreated back to the streets after no one came to seat us. It seemed we had a lot to learn when it came to pub dining, specifically in regards to ordering etiquette.

We tried a few other pubs and eateries of sorts that were within eyesight, but to no avail. All of them were crowded and no hostess ever appeared.

Standing lost and confused on the corner of the street, we happened to catch the eye of a gentleman who was slightly older than our own father’s.

“Hello, are you as lost as I am?” asked the man.

“Yes and no!” I said jovially as I could, trying to not showcase how wary I really was. My great fear of a pickpocket had immediately gone off in my head. Lauren, our friend in London, had told us that British people, as a rule, are not friendly people so my wariness was piqued at a British person trying to talk to us. It didn’t help that the only knowledge of pickpockets I have is from one of my old Thoroughbred horse racing story collection book.

The story is told from the man who gives a wayward hitchhiker a ride, who also happens to be a pickpocket. The two become friends and the way he describes his friends craft is as indescribable magic.

“How can I help you?” He asked kindly.

“Well, we are looking for food!” Nicole said in her higher-pitched telephone voice.

He proceeded to tell us a number of suggestions nearby, the number one, of course, being The Raven, which was just next door. At that comment, we all laughed in exasperation. I decided to seize the moment: Why not?

“We went there,” I explained, “But we aren’t familiar with pub customs… how do we get food?”

Thankfully the man didn’t do more than smile at us and then gave us some sort of explanation for pub etiquette. “Ask them how long the wait will be, ask for a reservation if need be, or drink at the bar to wait for a table. Then, place your food order at the bar and have your seat - they’ll bring your food to you.”

There was 30 minute wait in the upstairs part of The Raven on our second attempt at the same location for food. It seemed that the nice gentleman neither pickpocketed us nor gave us fake directions on getting food. In order to get a table, we were instructed by the bartender to stand at the bar, have a few drinks, and then grab a table once it emptied.

I see what you did there with that marketing schematic Mr. Bartender.

There was only two issues with his directions. The first, we were all tired and frustrated with each other, mainly led by Nicole’s headache. The second, none of us drink! How were we supposed to stand at the bar, drinking and socializing while we waited to eat when neither of those options felt like a good deal to us?

Taking one for the team, I ordered a Honeymead Apple Cider. Randi followed my lead but raised the ante with straight whiskey. Turning to Warren Clayton, I felt a wicked sense of “oh what fun!”

“Would you like to try this?” I asked him innocently - mind you, he’s 19 where he can’t drink in the U.S..

He shrugged and took a sip. I raised my eyebrows expectantly for his verdict.

“Not bad. Kind of smooth,” he said.

“Would you like one?”

He shrugged.

I bought him one. Triumphantly handing over the beverage, which I almost poured all over Nicole because as I turned with the full drink, she had decided that now was a great time to stand immediately behind me rather that across the walkway (can you tell we were still grumpy?). I felt extremely successful in my completed task of being the first person to buy Warren Clayton a drink in a bar legally!

Standing there waiting for the table, I noticed the bartender kept giving us funny looks. I was quite content to sip my cider and survey the people around me, to notice the make-up and fashion trends, to see how people interacted with each other as well as other comings and goings. Warren Clayton stood, attempted-bodyguard like, in the nook in the hallway while Randi & Nicole played on their phones. When the bartenders accomplice showed up their quick conference on us gave me the answer on what was so strange.

Apparently, they thought we were all mad at each other because we weren’t talking to each other. I mean they weren’t wrong, but it was an interesting comment that the bartender asked me about when he realized I noticed them talking about us.

From that point on, I couldn't help but notice how engaged all of the British people were with each other. Couples were hand in hand, with absolute eye contact. Friends were animated and engrossed in conversation with each other. It was kind of a crazy, unique concept to me, the American. I also want to play Devil’s Advocate and say that we aren’t from here and eating out wasn’t a conscientious choice to meet with friends for dinner but, rather, the only option we had for getting food.

And then, somewhere on my deep reflections on personalities and friend relationships of the British versus the Americans, we had gained a table, ordered our meals and were seated in the back corner where I accidentally pissed Warren Clayton off. Apparently I had sat in the “exact chair” that he had wanted to sit in.

The back corner, it allowed me to keep a survey on the entire room, an option that we both wanted for the same reason. I was surprised as, so far in this entire trip, that was the seat I had taken at every table. I felt like he was just tired and being stubborn at this point or maybe he thought it was his turn to take the burden of watching over everyone else as he and I (by default because no International plan on my phone) were the only ones not on our phones at all times.

However, I resolutely did not give up the seat.

For dinner, Warren Clayton ordered a steak pie, Randi an authentic venison pie, and Nicole & I shared a chicken pie. once you selected the pie, you got to pick the mash (mashed potatoes) or vegetables and one of three sauces and gravies. I was blown away at how amazing the whole combination was! It was absolutely heavenly and much needed as the food had been so bad the entire trip. The good, hearty pub food was exactly what we needed to nourish and replenish our bodies. Little did we know how much of that hearty meal we would use up just to get back to the hostel.

Randi was kind enough to let me sample her pie and I was shocked over the fact that they tasted absolutely different. Everything about our piers were the same except the filling. Crust, gravy, and mash - the same. Randi’s venison must have been cooked in some sort of wine, while mine was sweet and light. Both equally good, but I was thankful I ordered the chicken - I was highly satisfied.

The walk home felt entirely impossible. Straight uphill and slightly creepy; a city infrastructure not like what we have at home with brick and wrought iron.

Our jokes of the “London Diet” were still going strong. Barely eating and walking A TON is going to be slimming all of us down greatly.