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Live Your Life Newsletter - September 2005
Travel & Hostel Newsletter for Backpackers
Newsletters: September 2005 | All Archives
Catalyst For Adventure: The True Story of Best Friends Travelling Through Europe
This is an exciting feature of the “Live Your Life Newsletter”! Every month we will be featuring an extract of a fantastic new book entitled, “Catalyst for Adventure: The true story of best friends travelling through Europe” by Crystal Stanczak.
At 11:30 p.m., without gas to spare, our wee machine had arrived in Stow-on-the-Wold, a shepherding community in the middle of nowhere. It was fascinating to see how this town kept simple living in tact. The buildings had thatched roofs, window signs were handmade, and nothing was open past 9:00pm. We were truly delighted by Stow-on-the-Wold until we realized that we had come too late to check into a hostel.
Summer suggested, “Well, we do have a car. Why don’t we just sleep in here?”
“Yeah, ok, we’ll save ourselves thirty bucks.” I responded.
That seemed logical enough. After all, it was warm and we were not large girls. Now, sleeping in the car is an economical idea, void of many threats in, say, July. However, this was February. More than that, this was February in England. Not an hour had gone by until every ounce of warm air had been vacuumed right out of the car. Our cozy Euromobile was now a miserable icebox. Summer and I spent the night brainstorming about how to stay warm—we tried extra clothes, periodic car heating, and even cuddling while the emergency break jabbed us. The Cotswolds were uniquely pretty, but we could not fully appreciate them in our homeless state. This lasted into the next day as Summer had poor circulation and couldn’t feel her feet until noon.
In these interrelated towns called “The Cotswolds”, the residents take time each year to walk the grounds between fields in order to keep them in the public domain. It is legal to saunter through someone’s backyard until you reach the next town. Despite our sleepless night, Summer and I had ourselves one of these amazing ten-mile strolls. Landscapes of fields in many hues of green rolled into petit villages where houses boasted golden-gray brick. They didn’t have addresses, and instead were known by their names, such as “Heather Cottage” or “Sussex House”. Little arrows directed us through gates of all kinds and sheep greeted us around each bend.
“Would you ever live in England?” I asked Summer.
“I don’t know. I think I’d miss home too much.” She responded, “I wouldn’t want to live as an absentee aunt.”
“I would live here.” I stated, “The people are so funny and interesting, with that dry sarcastic humor.”
“I could see you living here.” She said, “You’ve already moved more than anyone else I know. How many times have you moved again?”
“Eighteen. Moving is my way of life. My parents are like Gypsies. They change states more often than their socks.” I said.
“I forgot, is your dad in the military or something?” She asked.
“Witness protection program. No I’m just kidding he’s an engineer. Moving is just what my family does. Picking up and going isn’t scary to me, you know?” I said.
“Is sticking in one place scary?” She asked me.
“I don’t know.” I said.
Walking in the country has a way of bringing up important issues. Maybe staying in one place, getting too attached to a group of people or a home did scare me. Our ten miles passed effortlessly, as we hashed out this issue and many others.
“How does your family argue?” I asked Summer.
“That’s a strange question.” She said.
“Well these are the kind of questions you have time to answer on a ten-mile stroll through the English countryside.” I explained, “Anyway, I like to hear how different people argue so that I know how to get along with them.”
“I get it.” Summer said, “My family just says whatever they feel like saying. No one is afraid to share his or her opinion. Like, my sister will say, ‘Summer that color looks horrible on you, you should never wear it again.’”
“Doesn’t that hurt your feelings?” I asked, being sensitive myself.
“I am just used to it.” Summer said, and then a few minutes later, “Actually, yes, it does hurt my feelings.”
Some sheep were eve’s dropping on our conversation—maybe they needed a lesson in conflict too.
The only thing that made our afternoon more English was high tea at a prissy tea room, where we enjoyed corner sandwiches and scones with clotted cream. After such a lunch, I became obsessed with whipping cream, and would continue to work at fluffing my own with a fork during future meals.
England impressed me. The silly social rules, the diverse styles of living, and the way they sang their words, causing even statements to sound like questions.
One young man, Allister, once told me, “I enjoy the American drink called Mountain Dew.”
If I could carry my words so delicately, I would, but the English accent is a piano that I play like a man without fingers. English folks had won a soft spot in my heart, and I knew that leaving for Ireland was not the end of my English experience. For the rest of my life I would enjoy Hugh Grant movies, and return to Heathrow airport whenever I could afford to do so.
Order this book: You can order this book at Amazon.com
Read any other good travel books? Send your recommendations to submissions@st-christophers.co.uk
Newsletters: September 2005 | All Archives
