Beds – Part 1: Paris, a low ceiling

Looking down the stairs from the apartment's landing. The stairs showed signs of years of wear. They were heavily varnished and clean and fascinating if one stopped to think of what stories they would tell. Below, I am standing on the corner of Rue des Lombards and Boulevard de Sebastopol. Everything, even the cobblestones, spoke of history.

The initial planning of a trip centers on two main concerns: the actual movement from place to place and the acquisition of places to sleep before, after, or during the traveling. Food and other amenities can be assessed and gathered after those main issues are secured. During our excursion through France and the UK, Jon and I slept in four very different beds; we also saw beds that were distinctive for who slept in them. Not all of the sleeping facilities deserved the hoopla Shakespeare’s “second-best bed” willed to his wife had earned, but each bed we encountered was important for the comfort it gave.

When Jon Jr. acquired his Manchester apartment, he assured us of a separate bedroom for when we were to visit. He told his sisters and friends that he had a bed for guests, but they had to find their own way across the Atlantic. Cousin Greg had already enjoyed Jr’s hospitality, and we knew the second part of our trip would be with Jr. We did not have to worry about accommodations there, but we had to secure a room for the stay in Paris and then decide how many other places we would stop overnight along the way to Manchester. Jon and I considered other touring possibilities in France, but the more we planned our Paris activities and what we wanted to experience, the clearer it became that a central place in Paris for the week would be best for our plans. It would allow us to move at our own pace.

Our daughter Marian had enjoyed a bike tour in Dordogne few years before and had taken an apartment for a few days in Le Marais neighborhood in Paris. She was so positive about the location, that we selected an apartment for the week which was conveniently located for both walking and the Metro. It did have one concern that the advertisement was very clear about, there was only 4.5 feet of clearance in the sleeping area. In other words, don’t plan on standing next to the bed, and be very careful about sitting up in bed. The price, however, was right. The pictures were positive, and it provided a sleeper-sofa for two nights Jr would join us.

We arrived in Paris on Sunday morning and had specific directions for the key pick-up. Jet-lagged and discombobulated, we secured our keys from a lock-box with various codes and then turned to walk the few blocks to our apartment. It was 9-ish on Sunday morning and the evidence of extensive partying was everywhere. The brasseries were closed, but the trashcans in front were overflowing with bottles and other fragrant items. The streets were practically deserted. We found Rue des Lombards after getting turned around at Les Halles, literally 500 feet away, and located the blue door of our building. It was slightly set into the building and there were more codes to enter the hall, another code for the glass door, and two flights of curving stairs to go up. We had trouble with the lock, but a charming man with an empty shopping bag over his arm helped us. We had to remember, he told us after correcting my French, that the building was over 300 years old. Merci! We were in.

The apartment was very small, but quite sufficient for two tired travelers. Up the stairs to the loft we received exactly the height of the ceiling we were promised. We had to laugh. The bed (I should say mattress) was quite comfortable but was not in a bed frame. That would have taken up too much room. Our 300-year old ceiling had thick irregular beams painted a pristine white. It was not time to sleep, not yet. We had to be sensible and tour the city before we had the chance to settle into the bed.

Stonehenge - a pivotal point in our tour

Much of Stonehenge is a mystery, and we are drawn to the sight by the impressive ability of a people to erect such a monument without the machines and resources we have in our modern era. Taken at dusk 24 June 2013.

The crows flew in, interrupting the stillness of this treeless plain. They were neither ominous nor sinister, but alive.  The only natural movements around the site, aside from the birds and the tourists,  were in the wind and the grass.  They landed atop the larger stones that are about 25 feet in height.

Now that I am back home, time is going to pass even more quickly because the routines and chores of life are layered under what I want to process and write about from the trip. I cannot, yet, think sequentially. The images flood in when I pick up the gifts and souvenirs we bought, and the experience comes back. This is the first of my tour reflections, and I am starting in the middle.

We had planned to tour Stonehenge and Avebury from Bath, but booking availability and time constraints controlled our choices. Jon found a wonderful tour, Scarper Tours, that left Bath in the afternoon. Our only destination was Stonehenge which allowed us more time in Bath and a slower touring pace. There was no reason for us to rush through to another activity since we were on our own time to absorb and enjoy our experiences.

Time had its effect on us. Stonehenge was, generally, in the middle of our touring since Bath was the transition city between Paris and Manchester, our two anchors. This ancient circle of stones let us turn from the rush of the various museums and travel concerns to being grounded by the UK sites and visiting with Jon Jr. So, like the roads that circled our old cities and pivoted out like spokes on a wheel, I will begin my reflections with Stonehenge. We toured the site on June 24th.

We had been touring the city of Bath on foot and met with the tour group at a fountain in front of the Bath Hotel. There was a lovely ice cream shop on the corner and a kiosk on the square with artisan glass trinkets and jewelry items. Across the busy road, the land dropped to a private park and the River Avon. If we were to cross the bridge and go through the right-of-way, we would come to the steps that led to Sydney Buildings, the street our Bed and Breakfast was on. The sun was out (It had drizzled of-and-on during the morning.), and everything was lush. The Georgian buildings brightened, a glow on their creamy surface.

The tour bus had a purple color with brightly patterned interior, a 70s feel. As we travelled, the hills rolled up on the left, with sheep by the road, clusters of buildings in the distance, and hills appearing beyond that. Everything changed and returned with the winding road, the round-a-bouts, and the hills we rode up-and-down. Our attention was called to one of the Wiltshire White Horses that was quite clear on one of the distant hills. And we passed through a small town that still had a prison room on the main road.

Both Jon and I had heard the disappointment from various friends about the Stonehenge site. We were prepared for viewing them from a distance because of the space being cordoned off. We were prepared that the stones might not be as large as we might expect.

The day had clouded over and was darker than it should be on an early evening so close to midsummer. There were glowing patches in the sky where the cloud cover was not as dense, but the day had gone decidedly gray. We saw the stones in their stark solitude on the plain that seemed quite flat. As we approached, we say the evenly shaped mounds like upturned bowls at irregular places around the site.

No, the stones did not tower to the height of Notre Dame's ceiling, but the size was not inconsequential and the starkness of their positioning, not huddling or even seeming to converse with each other, evoked a silence. I was glad that we were only a hundred or so people at the site, and we had it to ourselves. We could stand with the wind wrapping around us as a murder of crows swooped down to coat one of the cross beams. The texture of these weathered megaliths with their gouged sides and the sense of having been aged by more than time and wind drew me in. No, I did not need to be any closer. To touch the stones would have been a different experience, but this was sufficient.

Leaving the site, I noticed the surrounding hills with more of the burial mounds, larger but of the same shape as the smaller ones within the cordoned area. I noted the groove that the audio tour referenced as the parade walk, and I looked at the people scattered around the path and through the fields that were open. I walked back to bus followed by blackbirds, the jackdaws were prevalent as was the strange black-and-white bird magpie that seems to be everywhere.

In spite of warnings from friends, we were not disappointed by our tour. The experience of Stonehenge is something to contemplate. Jon bought a glass paperweight with the image of the standing stones etched within the glass, suspended in space as the site itself seems to be suspended in reality and in time.

It was a pleasant drive back to Bath, and the sun came out. We listened to the peals of the bells from Bath Abby as we ate dinner.