Day 22. The Seedy Underbelly of Bath. August 28th 2010

We spent most of today cycling through the byways of Bath, far outside the tourist zone. If only the public face was as beautiful!

We began in less than lucky fashion and continued in that vein for the rest of the day. We woke from our sleep to the sounds of a familial dispute several tents down. Then, after we began, we were stopped by a ring on Heather's bike breaking down. Fortunately the accident occurred just opposite a bike shop. Actually that’s more than a little suspicious...

Tired already, having hardly gone anywhere, we decided to lunch beside the locks of Bath. Enthralled by the raising and lowering of the boats we decided to take a chance and follow the canals as far as we could. Possibly the best choice we could have made, thought it didn’t take us far, mileage wise. The canals were great. It was such a calm and simple way to travel that it hardly felt like traveling at all. The houses that backed onto the canal, though as plain as the rest of Bath from the front, had taken great pains to beautify their backyards and we passed waterfalls, elaborate stonework and great arches over splendid gardens. There were swans and ducks filling the water and canal boats of vivid colours lining the quays. Even as we left the city the beauty did not stop, instead becoming more tranquil and pastoral. It was wonderful not to have to fight traffic and instead drift along at a leisurely pace that almost matched the boats. But it was not to last.

Eventually we came to a place were the path ended and our poor luck picked up once more. We were told, by a map and a friendly biker, to make our way up a steep hill where we would find a footpath that eventually led back to the canal. The guide, and the map, proved to be wrong. We spent an hour following a path that slowly dwindled to nothing, with no sign of the Canal or another path anywhere. We were forced to double back, where we found that there was small tunnel beneath the canal to a well-defined path on the other side. We biked the last portion of the trail in exhaustion. The canal, while still pretty, had lost its charms and we turned off it at Bradford upon Avon and headed wearily towards our campsite, a small colony of artists between towns. We stopped only to watch the spectacle of a burning barn.

I hope our luck will be better tomorrow.

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Day 21. Bath Once More August 27 2001

You become very aware as you walk the streets of Bath that this is a city for the rich. Everything here screams it, from the massively overdone colonnades and the unhealthy dwelling on the days of Jane Austin and grand galas. The poor and middle class who inhabit the city are merely there to fill in the blank spaces.

We began our tour with a stop at the Museum of Costume, a museum that shows fashions through the ages. Women’s costume I should mention. Men are mentioned at one corridor where a brief glance takes in more than three hundred years of upper class clothing. And that is the way that it should be.

From the costume museum we meandered through the city’s famous landmarks, hearing and reading the name "Beau" Nash thrown about as though anything not approved by the long dead gentleman was too déclassé for words. We toured the assembly rooms where debutants came out and money was thrown about like confetti.

We saw the famous circus and the royal crescent and were less, as I said yesterday, than impressed.

It wasn’t that I object to lavish architecture or to the spending of money, if you’ve got it flaunt it, but what struck me about these places, with the exception of the assembly rooms, was how plain and industrial it all looked. Every column, every apartment seemed stamped from the same mould. Should I ever become rich, god willing, I would like something a little less factory issue. The one outstanding building was the Abbey, a beautiful place with a flavour all it's own.

From our wanderings, and after a brief respite at a fast food restaurant to remind us of home, we traveled to the bath, itself. Here Bath really shines.

At times we truly stepped back to a time when the bath was a mystic centre of power. When we stared into the outflow of water under its arch, in the blast of heat and the red minerals, it is like you are looking into the mouth of hell.

The awe of the Romans and the pagan Celts is palpable.

It becomes shocking to see the decadent use the 18th and 19th centuries put the waters too. All that was holy died as the rich bathed their ills.

We did, as all must, sample waters from the sumptuous fountains in the Pump Room and then retired to our tent, bellies rumbling discontentedly.

Next Entry: The Seedy Underbelly of Bath
Previous Entry: Day 20. Bath

Day 20. Bath August 26 2001

Less than impressed would describe my reaction to this renowned place of leisure. Bath, as a city, seems to be very aware of its international reputation and pricing things accordingly and giving little in return.

We began our day in Bristol, wakened by the loud voiced announcer of a regatta taking place. For the first few waking moments I could have sworn we were about to be crushed by a cruise liner gone astray.

Oxford, hard to port! Hard to Port!! PORT, PORT!!!!

We ventured out to watch the races for a while, delighted by this free amusement provided by Bristol. Then we set off for the Bristol and Bath railway path. This too was delightful, though it had its moments. The path traveled through some very seedy areas that made us very uncomfortable and it had motorcycle barriers that made it almost impossible to to get our own bikes through.
We stopped to purchase food and I had a chance to try my hand at writing. Then we proceeded on only to be confronted be a dark dank tunnel fit for the imagination of H.P. Lovecraft.
We hurried through to emerge in enchantment. The lush green foliage was all we could hope for in southern England and the occasional church spire or crenellations of a great estate made our ride something from a fairy tale. Then we would pass the canals with their long boats plying the waterways and suddenly we were in Britain’s romantic period, fancying ourselves one of the rich, making our Grand Tour of Europe.
Our dream was cut short by our descent into Bath. The path became less maintained until it was mere dirt along the canal. The canal, actually the River Avon, became more and more industrial, a strange scene with tour boats from Bath moving through the tangled pipes as though showing off great antiquities.
Biking to the heart of downtown, a gray place with swarms of people and plain buildings, we asked for information at the train station. They charged for maps that advertised local businesses. Such is their confidence that the tourists will pour in and, unfortunately, they are right, we will.
The nearest tenting pitch was on the outskirts of town, back the way we had come. We traveled through what must have been the industrial centre, even the fast-food restaurant was ugly, to find a campsite that charged more than any other we had seen so far, had less amenities and placed us in a tent city surrounded by hundreds of other campers.
I can only hope my assessment of Bath is biased and will be overturned, as was my view of Bristol. But we arrived here fresh and unhurried, the sun was shinning and still I was unimpressed! Tomorrow should be a day of rest, then we shall see.


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