Shaftsbury, England. I awoke before dawn to the sound of a car driving slowly into the gravel parking lot. The driver got out and walked to the entrance, crunch, crunch, crunch. I was just falling back to sleep when he or she must have gone back out to get luggage. More crunch, crunch, crunch on top of rolling crunchiness. Another car pulled in, more heavy rolling crunchiness.
Lynn exclaimed from the darkness on her side of the room, “Whoever thought it was a good idea to have a gravel driveway in a hotel?!”
“I know! Well at least no invading armies are going to sneak up on us.”
“Right.” she replied drily.
There was no going back to sleep now so we went down to breakfast. I ordered kippers, which I’d had never had, and Lynn had a Full English minus the blood sausage.
Blood sausage is just what it sounds like, sausage made of blood. I think it’s a food that’s traditional and no one really likes it but they keep it on the menu for tradition’s sake. Most Brits I’ve mentioned it to made a horrid face. Is it like lutefisk or gefilte fish? No one likes either one, but people put it out once a year because it’s “tradition.” Blood sausage is on the menu everywhere, so I don’t know, maybe lots of people love it. What do you think?
Me, I love fish, so I was happy with the kippers.
The Daily Mail had this cover in regard to the Grenfell Tower fire:
I think the Queen learned some lessons in the aftermath of Princess Diana’s death, when she was accused of being cold. Maybe she can give Theresa May some pointers about getting down with the people.
We walked into town to Shaftsbury Abbey, or what was left of it.
The abbey had been a regional center of power until Henry VIII had it destroyed along with all the other monasteries in the 16th Century. The piles of stones on either side are where the pillars of the nave were.
A small display inside the visitors’ centre featured a few shattered carvings, remnants of painted sculptures, and a diorama of what the abbey had looked like. It must have been enormous and fantastically beautiful. Henry VIII was known to appreciate beautiful things, so why destroy the abbey, down to the ground? Why not just seize the gold candlesticks and leave the building with its gilded arches and ornate carvings? It was a display of power, of course. He had half a dozen of his own palaces, so a couple hundred monasteries out in the sticks were no loss. He was a red-headed megalomaniac who loved his palaces and couldn’t stand for anyone else to … wait, why does that sound familiar?
Here are the names of some of the abbesses.
It was lunchtime and we picked our way carefully down Gold Hill to find a pub someone had recommended.
I had one of the most memorable meals of the summer at this pub, a fish pie with turmeric.
I tried to replicate it once since I’ve been home but didn’t get it right.
Of course what goes down must come up—no, I didn’t vomit up the fish pie—we had to walk back up the hill.
We walked a few paces, stopped to take photos, then walked some more.
It’s not that we couldn’t have hiked straight up the hill without a break—really. But it is true that a summer of fish pies and pints means I really need to get back to the gym. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week.
Next we visited the historical museum. Shaftsbury was once a center for cottage industries, which just means people sat in their cottages and made things, like buttons. These are the forms and the finished buttons.
In the 17th and 18th Centuries thousands of women and children were employed making “Dorset Buttons.” The button-making machine caused these cottage industries to collapse after 1750, and the gentry “helped the unemployed workers to emigrate to Canada and Australia.” That’s one way to solve your unemployment problem.
FYI, I’m going to DC for work and won’t be blogging for a week or so.