Outnumbered & Abroad; Stonehenge (Part 11)

Stonehenge from the road.

Stonehenge (Thursday, September 27, 2018) - At Stonehenge, we learned how they had worked the stones down, making them all the same smoothness and shape. They had brought the stones to the location via logs, pulling them a great distance in order to get them to the perfect location. I can’t imagine spending that much time in those days, doing that. It must have brought them great joy. We may never know the reason for Stonehenge, Nicole believes it was Merlin and the magicians, while the Johnson’s definitely don’t believe that as they don’t believe in magic. Warren Clayton got a book about it so I’ll let you know what the final verdict is at some point.

We also determined that we, as a group, were all WAY too tall to be residents of Stonehenge. What a shame!

No picture of the Scone, but there was a picture of the Jam on my camera roll.

At the little cafe at Stonehenge, I had my first European croissant and it didn’t disappoint! It tasted like absolute heaven! I am not sure if it was by the sole buttery, flaky goodness of the croissant or if it was the result of being absolutely famished after polo.

I am extremely interested and curious about the cattle that we keep seeing here. I called them black Herefords to which the Johnson’s kept teasing me about, but I’m not sure how else to describe them. They are tall, slender, and beautiful, long-legged, jet-black creatures with pearl white bald faces and long white stockings.

Cows complete with tourists.

They have to be some kind of Holstein-Angus cross, maybe to serve a sort of dairy and meat combination need? I wasn’t the only one intrigued by the cows though, it seemed that all the tourists could be seen walking through the pasture as if it was simply a part of the Stonehenge attraction. They were lucky that there was no dairy bull, or any bull for that matter, out in the pasture!

There was also sheep in the neighboring pasture. At one point, the sheep were supposedly just simply grazing in, on and around the monuments, but at the current time, they were appropriately fenced off. Sheep in the countryside seems so fitting in England that Randi and I had to get an exciting photo next to them.

Randi and the lambs!

A short drive later we made it to our hotel for the night. It was exactly what you would picture for a pub and inn: picturesque. Like everything in the UK, when you see a cute building, there is nothing worthy of note about the other buildings around or they are all under construction. The construction and scaffolding always seem to ruin all my best intentioned photos.

I cannot explain the state of exhaustion I seem to succumb to here. Similar to the day in London, when I almost got hit by the car, I was absolutely struggling to keep my eyes open. I was so tired that I wasn’t even able to eat food. I asked Nicole if we could share and she agreed. I asked if the plate was large, so Nicole said she would ask upon ordering.

Ordering the half-roast chicken, she looked at the waitress, who I was already convinced didn’t like us, and goes, “How big is your half-chicken?”

The pub waitress looked at her like she was crazy. “Well… you know a whole chicken?” She asked slowly, her hands spread apart, and she waited for Nicole to nod. “Well… it’s half.”

Randi and Warren Clayton about died of laughter and Nicole was mortified. Later, I felt like I should have some sort of remorse for setting her up with that question, because I wasn’t sure if it was real chicken or a cornish game hen. I had also meant more of the size of the entire plate including sides, not just the chicken itself, which made me laugh.

The reason that I had thought they were mad or tentative about us is because they couldn’t understand our accents. This absolutely blew my mind as we speak so simple and clear that I don’t know how they don’t understand us! I asked if that was where we could order food (at the bar) to which she said, “Half pint or full?”

“Uhh… can we order food?”

“Half pint or full…?” She said again.

“Food. Eat.” I mimed. She got it. We were all uncomfortable.

That entire night I didn’t sleep a wink. Similar to our apartment, our hotel was infested with so much mold you could see it growing in the corner of the shower. I tried to calm my restless mind by journaling, but then my personality wore through and all I could think was that I would never be able to stay awake the next day. I realized that the heater was in the bathroom, blowing the moldy air into the room. I shut the door but was caught off guard by how damn cold it got! I had to open the door, but even just doing that, the warm air that blasted me almost gave me a panic attack, which was my worst nightmare!

I don’t have my allergy inhaler or an inhaler with me peered, but an asthma attack would be pretty lethal without medical assistance. This paranoia led me to be unable to sleep the remainder of the night.

But it wasn’t just the mold or the room temperature that kept me awake. It was the blustery British gents outside my window who had taken it upon themselves to be the radio of music I fell asleep too. To sober ears, they were quite terrible, but I couldn’t help but grin as I laid in bed, thinking of how much fun they were having below.

It’s the unique thing about the UK. People really, truly, hangout with each other and are invested in each other in the time they spend together. You don’t see them on their phones or even taking photos, either of themself or with their friends. It is all attention on the present at all times. I kind of dig it!

I guess you can really say that it is all a part of the British experience, bad pub drinking songs and all!