We rose at 6am to start our odyssey into the English countryside, something neither of us had done before. First we headed for Paddington Station to catch the train to Oxford. We departed quite early to avoid the rush on the tube and because we thought we might have to queue to get tickets at Paddington. No queues. In fact no ticket windows. There was actually nothing at Paddington except ticket machines and the platforms. There wasn’t even any staff to confirm we were on the right platform. And the tickets were really expensive – no wonder a Britrail pass costs so much. The two one way tickets to Oxford, about a two hour train journey, cost me close to $100. If we’d run down a steep flight of stairs with our packs on (remembering mine was probably close to 20kg by now, we may have made the earlier train. We didn’t and as a result sat on a not moving train. Eventually we were off through the flooded countryside and it was still raining. We arrived in Oxford a couple of hours later, in the pouring rain. The Hertz hire car place was supposed to be at the station. After some not very helpful conversations with station staff and locals, we decided to turn on the roaming data and see if we could locate it. It turns out it was about 3km away in a light industrial area. Not too far to walk with our packs if it wasn’t raining (and if one of them wasn’t 20+kilos). We made the decision to catch a cab which was the right one on two levels a) the rental company reimbursed us for the taxi fare and b) we got to ride in a London cab for the first time. They weren’t plush as I had imagined. They in fact looked like they could be hosed out. They had a seat across the back and then a metal floor with flip down seats facing backwards. What this meant was that you could actually put your luggage in your cab with you.

A short cab ride later and we were at the rental place going through the longest vehicle hire process I’ve ever seen. I swear it took us an hour to get out of there and by this time we were really hungry for breakfast so we headed back into Oxford and managed to drive through a bus only lane in the first five minutes. On the plus side, given Dan still had his international licence, it was possible for him to be insured to drive the car. Unbelievably, despite ordering one and being from Australia, the guy at the hire car company couldn’t understand why we needed a GPS. He thought we were picking up the car and spending two days driving to the ferry terminal at Holyhead. Even so, we’re from Australia – how would we know where the ferry terminal was without some kind of map? We wandered for a while and ended up going back to the first bakery we saw – Dan had a sausage roll and I had a Cornish pastie – grabbed a coffee, coke and water and headed out of town. First stop – Stonehenge.

The car we hired was a 2011 Ford Focus and it was a really great drive. It handled the highways (and the few hills we went up) with ease. We programmed Stonehenge into the GPS and off we went hurtling south along the highway until we reached the roundabout that was just a few miles south of Stonehenge. The popularity of the mythical monument made this junction a roadblock. Presumably the heritage value of the rock circle itself meant that only a single lane highway in each direction was acceptable. Eventually we came upon the entrance suggested by the outdated maps on our GPS but it was closed. That entry took you right up to the stone circle so the walk was only about 50-100 metres or so. In order to protect the surrounds from the marauding invasion of tourists, the British National Trust people had moved the entrance about 5kms down the road, built a large education centre and whacked a $40 charge on entry – which if you had come this far, you were definitely going to pay. There were landrovers and carts to get you to the monument but the line for them was so long we decided it would be quicker to walk. That also gave us the opportunity to take in the typography that surrounds Stonehenge with centuries of different civilization, even before the stones appeared.

There are plenty of theories about how the stone circle at Stonehenge was built from early Myan migration to aliens but one thing is for sure – the vastness of the landscape, the tight circle of the stones and the sun twinkling through was eerie if not spiritual. You really felt a sense of something – if only the reverence to Mother Earth. Our delay in getting here and the time it took to walk up the hill meant that the sun was starting to dive in the sky which gave it extra gravitas. As a normal visitor, you haven’t been able to walk inside the circle of stones nor go anywhere near them for decades. You actually can’t walk all the way around either – probably because there would be no way to capture the stones without the marauding hoards. It is not easy amongst the plethora of selfies and photobombing to stop and reflect on this magnificent place but if you do go I implore you to do so. Just put the camera down, even for a second and experience the sense of place without the aid of technology. You will be the better for it.

Eventually we decided it was time to hit the road but not before a visit to the extensive gift shop, where I found quite the appropriate tacky memorabilia – Stonehenge in a can. You can’t beat that. Unlike Turkey or Germany, the word tourist added a sizeable cost to the souvenirs and the café. We couldn’t help but purchase the former but eschewed the latter for some good old fashioned British crisps from the service station up the road. Then we headed to Glastonbury. (Everybody wants to rule the world – Tears for Fears – on of my first forays into how music can embody hopelessness. Long before I ever discovered the glory of Gothic Tears for Fears, whose musical sensibilities belied their depressing lyrical compositions, were the band for my darker moments.)

Unfortunately I chose the most direct rather than quickest route. The GPs took us down all sorts of country roads – the type you see in British romantic comedies where drivers have a hard time even squeezing the quintessential British car – and old skool mini – through the space between two bluestone walls (Four weddings and a funeral comes to mind) It was starting to get dark and I’ve got to say Dan did a spectacular job in a car he didn’t really know squeezing through the bridges, driving up and down dales and negotiating the tightest corners I have ever seen through villages and countryside alike. Some of the buildings and the bluestone walls, although much, much older reminded me of Kiama in NSW Australia.

After some intense driving we arrived at Glastonbury with the intent of visiting the castle there. Glastonbury Tor. My original understanding was it was high on the hillside just outside of the town. However, it was now quite dark and we, Dan in particular, were tired after our driving ordeal. The centre of town was littered with alternative stores selling hippy trinkets – like time had stood still here since the mid 90s. Or maybe it’s just that the return of the 90s has come with a bigger force than I realised. At any rate, most of the stores looked like they were closed but we weren’t really hungry enough to stop for dinner. We vowed to come back for a driving holiday around the UK and Ireland and put Glastonbury on the itinerary. From here we continued on to our next stop – Bristol, although not our final destination for the night. (Handwasher – You Am I – one of their ballads from the purple sneakers era – reminds me of heady sweaty nights at the ANU bar, largely during winter)

Like everyone else who goes to Bristol – our main focus was Banksy-spotting. I had a list of the locations of at least 4 or 5 Banksy pieces, including the infamous window and sniper. Unfortunately I hadn’t programmed them into the GPS yet so we just headed for the central business district and parked in a decrepit looking carpark. The mall next to the carpark appeared to be closed down so we went out onto the street and stood near any shop that had wi-fi in an attempt to see how far away some of the street art was. It turns out at least four kilometres. We got back in the car, programmed in the first one and drove there – we couldn’t see anything but parked the car in the nearest carpark and went for a walk. Bristol is an incredibly hilly seaside town. You get the sense that the depressed economy has had a marked effect here ion more than one occasion but that there’s a sense of resilience here. It reminded me a bit of Newcastle in Australia but with crappier ocean frontage and cooler buildings. As we wandered around I mused that Bristol should also be added to the returns list.

Bristol contains heaps of examples of Banksy’s work but they are spread out across the city so in any short stroll it’s not like you are going to find an extensive catalogue. But Banksy isn’t the only street artist here. Everywhere you look, you find an impressive array of street art, and largely, unlike the East Side Gallery in Berlin, the artists are respectful and the taggers kept in check. After 10 minutes of walking we came to the spot I had listed for the window piece and there it was in all its glory. Now I am often one to shy away from lengthy waits to see famous paintings in galleries but this is different. A canvas painted by an artist is then bought – the artist wouldn’t usually have any input into where or if it’s hung or even if it is lumbered by an overpowering gilded frame. In contrast the sense of place (if not time) is intrinsic to the work of a street artist. It doesn’t matter if I see a Monet hanging in the Louvre, on a tour of Australia, in someone’s lounge room or arguably in a book. Seeing a photo of Banksy’s window in a magazine, however, gives no sense of place, of where it was painted and how or of the culture that produced such a rich tapestry of street art. While we were standing there admiring it, a couple of other Australian tourists came by and asked if it was a Banksy – one of them musing that all they had done all day was wander around finding Banksys at every turn. From here we wandered back to where the sniper was supposed to be but despite all efforts, we could not find it. It turns out it had been replaced by an image of the Queen around the time of the Jubilee, after the original artwork was vandalized and tagged.

We headed back along the road trying to find a pub that served counter meals – eventually we came across one – I tucked into cod and chips (which was supposed to come with tartare but didn’t and Dan had a snitty and chips. Washed down with a beer, they were just what the doctor ordered and at more realistic prices than the designer pubs in London. It was about then that I realised we were supposed to arrive at our guesthouse accommodation in Bath before 8pm and it was now 7:30pm. Fortunately the GPS told us we were about 25 minutes away

After negotiating the streets of this medieval town, we came upon Oldfields House, the spectacular guest house we had booked to stay in. The two story stone manor surrounded by a stone wall and lush gardens that would probably have been more fun if it wasn’t raining, was just as lush inside. Our hostess for the evening was just on her way out for the evening when we arrived. She showed us to our grand room and we retired for the evening. A huge King Bed and antique furnishings, this was probably the plushest room we had visited yet. And the bathroom (obviously an add in to the original room, didn’t detract from the scale. We curled up for a good night’s rest.

Christmas themed activities – 24 War museums and model shops – 3 Design experiences – 2.5 (because the search for Banksy is probably worth a half)